कोशिश

कुछ अलग है
यह मेरी रोज रोज की रियाज़
कुछ अलग है
इन आखों की फ़ौजी तलाश
शब्दों की सुनी गहराइयों मे
यह अस्तित्व की खोज
कुछ अलग है मेरी हर हार
हर दिन मैं पाता हूँ
एक अकीर्तित जीत,
एक मुट्ठी भर जिंदगी की
कुछ अलग है मेरी मनमानी,
चिड़चिड़ा -- मेरे जुर्म, मेरे साजिश
हक़ीकत से मैं लेता हूँ ब्यान
खोए हुए ख्वाबों की
कुछ अलग हैं मेरे उम्मीदों की शिखरें

कुछ अलग है मेरी कोशिश

(I need to write more often in Hindi. Because every-time I do -- among other gains, it seems worth the Koshish) 

And I will sing to myself again...

Do songs lie? Are they magic spells that make us superhuman (and very romantic / idealistic) heroes far removed from the mortal nature of our ears and fears? And what happens when the spell breaks and all that is left to hear is the silence?

I wouldn't know all that. What I do know is that for almost a year now, I have hummed this song (mostly to myself and the wide expanses that I range across -- birding and to the loneliness of the night) to something akin to distraction. And every time, I trip on a trance-like feeling, a euphoria of joy -- of a deep understanding of the meaning of every word, of an overall feeling of arrival.

In the continuum of my belief, I am still tripping.

That these are Gulzaar Saab's lines and so evocatively poetic probably add to their mystique and appeal to my inner ear. That I heard them and heeded to them, that I hear them and feel blessedly alive (again?) makes them true enough. And then again, how can Gulzaar Saab's lines lie?  

Thodi aur Koshish (akele hi sahi)

Paradoxically -- for someone who has always been afflicted by gravitas, has always been serious and aloof -- I have constantly seen myself as an eternal child, someone who hasn't really grown up.

Now firmly in my forties, with the hair on my head showing more salt than pepper, I feel no older -- maybe because of the more-than-a-decade of motorcycling ingrained in me, or because of the artless (and awestruck) poems that I write, or because of the borderline juvenile obsession with which I photograph birds (and nature).

But its not because of the way I am, or because of what I do that I feel most like a child, it is because of my ears.

Increasingly, across the last 3-4 years, it is when I have persisted in looking for a solution (while dealing with the light-headedness and headaches arising from hearing aid trials and audiology sessions) continuing to battle my aural frustrations, it is when I have been to institutes like AYJNIHH or AURED, that I have felt the maximum import of being Hard of Hearing; felt lost and defenceless (like a child?) and struggled to deal with the utter defeat -- of not knowing an adult way to come to terms with it.

But it is also at these institutes that I have felt like a child in another way, felt a kinship with the 4 and 5 year old kids running pell-mell in the corridors unmindful of the large hearing aids draped over their ears (technically called Behind The Ear instruments) wondering at how their ears can tolerate the din (simplistically speaking, most hearing aids are bad at filtering out noises; unless they are programmed -- but when programmed, they damp speech too). It is here again that I have met the amazing people who teach these children to do something that most of us take for granted.

Teach them to hear.

Teach them to speak.

Teach them that they are special, that they are loved, that they are expected to go out in the world and do wonderful things (like other normal children are taught to).

Teach them with a belief and selflessness that would touch even the most cynical amongst us, with a conviction that belies mainline epithets like "Children of a lesser God" or "differently abled" or even "hearing handicapped".

Teach them to never stop trying, to never give up.

It is because of interacting with teachers like these, because of being touched by their grace that I (in my own frustrated adult way) never stop trying to hear.

It is because of knowing them that I refuse to be deaf.

Happy Teachers' Day to all such teachers out there, to those who devote their lives to making special children's lives special.

Because, though love, life and the road have taught me numerous lessons in turn, it is only you who have inspired me to continue the Koshish, to make the most of the gifts that I have been given.


*First published on Facebook, yesterday -- on Teachers' Day.