Once, for two years or so, Delhi the capital of India was my abode. I use to live in Safdurjung as a paying guest. One night I dreamed that I am at home and laying in the sun on the terrace. My mother comes and ask me to have lunch. I replied in a little irritated voice that Mother I am writing a poem for you so don't disturb me. She went away and I stood murmuring looking at the sun सूरज की राख .....
I wake up from my dream as an air bubble comes to surface in a fish tank. The words which I was murmuring in my dream were right on my lips. I could not go to sleep again. I lay there repeating these words to myself and thus the following poem was born. It was a trans like situation... the words were just flowing through my mind and I was not aware of what I am writing or whether it make sense or not. when I finished with it, it was about 4 am in the morning, I put the notebook and pen aside and went through the chores of the day. In the evening when I came back to my room, I picked up my notebook, I read what I had written and I was pleased to see that this poem is nothing short of a biography of my mother....
Many a times, I have seen in my dreams, pages of some notebook that I am reading poetry written on it or have found myself writing poem or murmuring words. This is the only occasion when words actually followed me out of the dream.
अपने भीगे पल्ले के छोर से इक गांठ खोल कर
आज धुप में सुखाने डाली है उसने,
कुछ भीगी हुई किरिचे धुप की,
चौके में जो भीग गया था पल्ला उसका
बरसों पहले जब लांघी थी, इस घर की चोखट उसने
एक चुटकी किरिचे धुप की लेकर, देहरी से,
अपने पल्ले में गांठ लगायी थी
सूरज के पल्ले में भी है इक गांठ
मेरी माँ की मिटटी की
कहीं जलकर, राख न हो गई हो, अबतक ,
बरसो आग देती आई है सूरज को , माँ अपनी मिटटी की