Thursday, December 28, 2006

Where is Swadesh Deepak?


In an old mansion, on Ambala's Mall road
He lay in his room, doing nothing, only
speaking to characters. His thoughts went
berserk like cigarette stubs on his ground.

Food was brought to him; he ate it silently
swallowing most of it, and at times,
winking at his image in the glass of water,
spilling it inside, without any sound.

He had stopped going out and didn't care
for what happened outside. Within himself,
much took place, and it went on and on
Like a child in a Fair on a merry-go-round.

As if she would ring the doorbell with a bouquet
of sunflowers in her hands, say, Hello, is he inside?
Her voice came tiptoed, smiled, and said: I am the hunter
What would you like to be: The hare or the hound?

Oh, welcome, Maya, so you have finally arrived
Place a kiss, if you may, on my parched lips
and erase all the lines on my forehead; who asks then:
Where is Swadesh Deepak, and where could he be found?

7 comments:

Anonymous said...

Awesome is the word I can think of when i read this. Mark.

Anonymous said...

Swadesh Deepak has gone very far too soon. Is his passport to hell lying at Ambala ? He got it issued to himself in 1971 and it expired immediaely upon being issued. Never tried to renew it. He knew that self issued fake passports can never be renewed.The methodical destroyer right from his first story Lal Pheete Ka Tukda
published in 1957 at age 15.

Samartha Vashishtha said...

Well, this is a beautiful poems as I told Rahul the other day when I spoke to him. Just that Deepak, as I knew him, was a bit different. He never stopped going out-in fact, his evening and morning walks were something he looked forward to.

But, great poem nevertheless.

Anonymous said...

So, where has he reached by now ? Is Mandu still very far?

Asmita Theatre Group said...

Beautiful poem for a great writer...we are waiting for him...missing him...
hope he wl cm bk sooooooooon...

asmitatheatre@gmail.com

Anonymous said...

Has anyone even bothered to find out where this person has dissapearded? a. It's been over three years, but nobody knows where he is. Some questions worthy of answers:

a. Why hasn't there been any investigation by the Police
b. Why is his family (son, daughter, and wife) so silent?

I really feel sad for him, it's a real pity that neither his family, nor his "so called" fans have done anything to locate him.

Writing poems is one thing, how about finding where the man is?

Puja Upadhyay said...

Was talking to a friend today, who said...I don't want to read any more bloggers, I am afraid, I will fall in love, again. Books keep the writer at a distance. Some bloggers write like a piece of their heart, soul, spirit is left in the words...ready to be soaked in by anyone with a crevice or a crater in the middle of their existence. Do you think people with such lacuna look for words/hunt for words to fill this raging hole...that hurts...right at the centre of existence?

This friend of mine, then sent me a link of your post. I remember, reading you, some time long long ago. I am not sure if this was the piece I read. But I think it was this. There were few bloggers that wrote as far back in time.

I read quite a lot of your posts today. It feels good to come back to writer after ages. Some part of the heart never forgets the lyricism that is their signature.

Swadesh is someone I have fallen in love with...ever since he used to walk quietly behind his characters, a loaded gun in his hand. Or the way he starts his 'Maine maandu nahin dekha' with Nirmal Verma. Or the way Mayavini has a stronghold on him...beyond his mad years.

Thank you, for writing, for making this world, still a beautiful place to live in.