Chapter One
“Kis kis ko batayenge judaa’i ka sabab ham,
Tu mujh se khafa hai toh zamane ke liye aa
Ranjish hi sahi, dil hi dukhane ke liye aa,
Aa phir se mujhe chod ke jaane ke liye aa..”
Loose translation by yours faithfully-
How many people should I justify our distances to?
If not for me, come back for the sake of what the world would say
Let anguish be, come back if only for the sake of tormenting my heart,
Come back, if only for the sake of leaving me again
Mehdi Hassan’s melodius voice crooned in the silence of the night, transfiguring the poignant words of Faraz’s classical ghazal into a musical existence - an anthem of sorts for all broken hearts. The source of melody was not as one would anticipate any antique brass gramaphone, or even the more recent casette player, but in fact an Apple laptop that was perched precariously upon a window sill. With the exception of the light emanating from the lit-up screen and the back-lit keyboard, the room was otherwise submerged in melancholic darkness. She liked to set the mood right when she indulged in poetry. The atmosphere, after all, could make all the difference.
Khushi’s eyes were, however, not on the laptop screen. Instead, her steady gaze followed the fine print of the thin booklet in her hands titled- ‘Best of Faraz- A collection of urdu poetry’. The source of light for the reading exercise flowed from a street light facing her window, flooding muted yellow illumination in her direction- much like the warm luminosity of a candle. She imagined herself in another place and time, seated in a mehfil of forgotten bards, ornate candle holders being passed from one hand to the other, encouragements of “Irshaad! Irshaad!” afloat in the air, as glasses clinked in celebration of love, heartbreak, and life. In that atmosphere, she could imagine Faraz’s words being recited out loud, echoing the ever present fear of loss that came with the blessing of love -
Dil ko teri chaahat pe bharosa bhi bohot hai,
Aur tujh se bichad jane ka darr bhi nahin jata.
(The heart is firm in its faith in your love,
And yet the fear of losing you persists )
She wondered if she would ever feel strongly enough for anyone so as to evoke such soul-stirring emotion. Khushi sometimes felt like she had been born in the wrong generation. She was born into a world where lyrics like “Aaj blue hai pani pani pani pani” [some n number of times], followed by “aur din bhi hai sunny sunny sunny sunny” [again, some n number of times] rocked the music charts (she didn’t really judge Honey Singh fans, she just abysmally failed to relate with them….okay, so maybe she did judge them just a little); born into a world where “dilon ka shooter hai mera scooter” kind of mind numbing idiocy was made viral in a space of a few hours (surely the universe had allowed this one to go viral with the sole purpose of ensuring her complete and absolute disillusionment with her generation?); a world which frowned upon meaningful poetry and songs as being “too sentimental”, “too impractical” or just “too boring”. No - actually she was still turning the leaves in the timeline of Earth’s history to find a space where she could say with confidence that she would have fit. As lovely as the poetry churned out in those long forgotten times of Ghalib, Iqbal, and Meer were, her progressive minded self wouldn’t have possibly survived in an age with bare minimum rights given to women, and suffocatingly restrictive gender roles assigned for them.
Thus was she lost in her own world, when her carefully constructed illusion of an alternate reality was cruelly crashed like brittle glass with the door to the room being flung wide open and a vivacious looking face emerging from behind. The girl standing at the door, was tall, blessed with a handsome figure, and toffee brown hair that tumbled around her shoulders in rippling waves. She was dressed in a black sheath dress, silver colored hoops adorning either ear, and stilettos that clip-clopped as she made her way into the room, fixing Khushi with a chastising glare.
“Khushi Ayeza Khan Gupta! Don’t tell me you are holed up inside this room listening to depressing, ancient music, when the entire college happens to be celebrating the most epic DJ night we have seen in years.”
Khushi smiled sheepishly at her friend. Pausing the ghazal on YooTube, she kept her book aside and looked at Lavanya Kashyap with a resigned sigh “It is not depressing music Lavi, Ranjish Hi Sahi happens to be one of Mehdi Hasan’s most-”
“Yes, yes. I know all about you and your penchant for men straight from the graveyard,” Lavanya said, cutting her friend short. “And usually, I humor it as well. But tonight is not the night to be listening to something as depressing. “Aa phir se mujhe chod ke jaane ke liye aa”? Seriously? Woman, let alone a heartbreak you have never even had a real boyfriend. Who are you even visualizing this on? You know what’s playing downstairs? Chainsmoker’s Closer! Now that is something you should be gyrating that fine body on at this age, instead of holing yourself up in this dimly lit cavern of yours.”
“ “Baby pull me closer on the backseat of your Rover, that I know you can’t afford”? No thank you, Lavanya my darling Kashyap. I think we’ve agreed to disagree on our definitions of romance long back. Also, you know I’m not a DJ’s night person- sweaty people who take too much liberties too soon in the garb of ‘fun’, absolutely no sense of personal space, music so loud that it makes my heart thud like it would fall out of my chest, too much alcohol, people who puke right on your dress like you are some sort of a washroom sink- I could go on. I mean at least that’s what DJ’s nights at our campus are like. And I hear that YBN University guys have also gatecrashed into the fest this year- is that right? If it is, then there is no way in hell that I am leaving my Gulzar, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and Rafi behind for that debauchery.”
Lavanya plonked her sweat clad, breathless body on the bean bag placed near Khushi’s bed. “Stop being a stiff neck, Khushi Ayeza Khan Gupta. Ek toh I will never understand for the life of me why your name is this long. It’s like everything about you has to be romantically dramatic. That’s like, how many letters?” she said, mock counting on her fingers till she elicited a laugh out of Khushi.
“Inter-faith marriage my friend. In their combined claim to the child, each parent wants some bit of their culture peppered onto the baby’s identity. Number of alphabets is a secondary concern. And because you asked, there’s twenty alphabets in my name. Thirteen, if you don’t count reptitions.” she finished with a grin.
“Damn!” Lavanya Kashyap chuckled. “Imagine if you end up with a guy who has an equally dramatic name. I think he should have atleast three break ups in his name - something like Vikramaditya Singh Rathore or something, you know. Oh my God! Imagine if this is indeed his name and you take it up after marriage- and then you are Khushi Ayeza Khan Gupta Singh Rathore. No, actually add ‘Vikramaditya’ also - so basically Khushi Vikramaditya Ayez-”
“Lavanya how many drinks have you had already?” Khushi asked her friend feigning concern, even as she helplessly laughed along at her antics.
“Four more than how many you are about to have with me once I manage to pull you to the party downstairs,” Lavanya drawled back, waving her hand in the air making lazy invisible patterns, as she stared at the ceiling of Khushi’s room.
“Lavu I told you I’m not-”
“Okay listed to me Khush. I have come to you with an offer, that I’m sure you’ll find very hard to turn down. Hear me out before you refuse to give me company downstairs.”
“And what would that be?” Khushi asked, crossing her arms across her chest and arching an eyebrow at her friend.
Lavanya straighted herself on the bean bag and looked at Khushi with a sparkle in her eyes. “So, guess who has discovered the most happening Open Mic Poetry Club that has only just recently opened its doors to this side of Calcutta?”
Lavanya immediately got the reaction she had been anticipating. Khushi’s ears pricked, and she slowly unfolded her hands, a rush of colored excitement flooding across her face. “What? You’re kidding!”
“I am most certainly not,” Lavanya replied, smugly. “I have heard that on Saturdays they even call some of the most reputed shayirs to perform as guests. I don’t know the details of the whole thing yet, but tickets have to be booked at least two weeks in advance, and I was wondering…” her voice trailed away suggestively, and immediately Khushi was scurrying in her direction.
“Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes! Please Lavi, let’s go, you and me together. I’ll book the tickets. Hell, I’ll pay for the both of us. Let’s book the tickets right now, in fact. What kind of stupid rule is this to make people wait for two weeks! Why can’t we go this week? Do you think they have a tie-up with Rekhta? Is it just slam poetry, or do people even read the works of other celebrated poets? What is-”
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Lavanya gestured dramatically with her hands, bringing Khushi’s uncontained excitement to a screeching halt. “Calm down KAKG! Why should I give you company anywhere if you can’t even give me company for half an hour downstairs right now? Dinner stalls have opened and do you know how awkward it is to not have you by my side when I’m stuffing a chicken kathi kebab roll inside my mouth? It almost feels like blasphemy! You paint the picture of what happens on fests so much worse than how it really is.”
Khushi’s face fell in disappointment the next instant, as she mercilessly began to chew on her lower lip trying to come up with a fitting proposal for a bargain. Lavanya, refusing to buy any efforts of emotional blackmailing began pretending to dry invisible nail polish on her hands with puffs of air from her mouth.
“Okay how about this?” Khushi offered at last. “You come with me to the next Open Mic, and I spend two hours downstairs with you right now. But but but there’ll be no drinking, only food. Lots of it. And if someone throws up on either of us, or if a guy tries to hit on me in a drunken stupor, I’m coming back upstairs. Okay?”
Lavanya grinned. “That will do for now, my friend. Also, listen to my conditions. If the whole Open Mic thing turns out to be mind numbingly boring, and if there are no cute guys around, we’re not staying there for more than an hour. Deal?”
“Deal!” Khushi nodded.
“And one more condition-” Lavanya added.
“Lavu! Not fair!” Khushi whined.
“Sorry Khush, I have the upper hand in this situation. The other condition is that you will also have to perform a piece. I’ve been dying to see you recite something on an actual stage.”
Khushi gasped. “No friggin’ way Lavu. You know I would never-”
“Come on, Khush,” Lavanya egged her on, “It doesn’t even have to be your own piece. Recite something written by one of your favorites from the graveyard. Your diction is so perfect that absolutely anything that comes from your mouth sounds dreamy. Arre recite this Ranjish hi sahi whatever if you want-”
“ “Ranjish hi sahi whatever” ? Seriously?” Khushi huffed in offence.
Lavanya blipped her tongue apologetically. “Acha fine, anything you want but this condition is non-negotiable. If I’m being dragged to some Kavi Sammelan, I better get to catch my bestie perform. And now hurry up before all the chicken finishes off at the stalls, and we are left with onion stuffed rolls with sauce. Also, for heaven’s sake step out of these track pants and wear something fancy. Oooh wear that champagne colored dress we bought last week.”
So saying, Lavanya Kashyap was back on her two feet, and pulling Khushi in tow behind her towards the cupboard.
***
As a newbie account, I'm not allowed to post hyperlinks, but do check out the Coke Studio version of Ranjish Hi Sahi at your leisure, if you haven't already. I promise you, you won't regret it. Also, please check the post below for the 'poetry teaser' for the next update.
Poetry teaser for the next update:
sunā hai log use aañkh bhar ke dekhte haiñ
so us ke shahr meñ kuchh din Thahar ke dekhte haiñ
sunā hai dard kī gāhak hai chashm-e-nāz us kī
so ham bhī us kī galī se guzar ke dekhte haiñ
sunā hai us ko bhī hai sher o shā.irī se shaġhaf
so ham bhī mojize apne hunar ke dekhte haiñ
sunā hai bole to bātoñ se phuul jhaḌte haiñ
ye baat hai to chalo baat kar ke dekhte haiñ
- Ahmad Faraz
Just a few ashaars of Faraz's famous piece 'Suna hai log usse'.
And now I call upon all the wonderful poetry and song lovers, to take this mehfil forward.
This ghazal from Mehdi Hassan is my all time favourite n I think no one can do justice to this poetry as he did n now coming to the chapter khushi is very different from her other age group fellows n she is very romantic from her heart n doesn’t like hala gulla at all so a very different personality but strong I think where as Arnav is not.
Khushi Ayeza Khan Gupta has made an entry and what an entry it is. I agree with Khushi on today's song lyrics. Half the time I don't listen to those songs or whatever they call them and other half I don't understand the lyrics at all.
I completely understand if she wants to miss DJ night.
Her dear friend Lavanya has other plans. She would love to be a part of that night and she can't leave her best friend alone. So, She cleverly steered her way in to making Khushi to agree to a deal. (Pshhh, is she ASR's sister in the previous janam?)
The deal was, she will accompany Khushi to a Kavi Sammelan if Khushi goes down stairs to the DJ night right now with her in a Champagne coloured dress.
Now to the teaser speculation:
It looks like both of them have a common interest and Sher and Shayari and most probably Khushi is looking forward to listen to Arnav in the mahfil.
Cheers.....
OMG How didn’t I pay attention to this brilliance??? 😲
You’ve such an intriguing story, judging from the prologue and first chapter. I’m totally hooked. It’s also such a delight to see a fellow coke studio lover, as well as poetry.
Loving it so far! 😳
Lavu laid down a pretty nice condition for Khushi. We will get to see her perform.
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