Woh nazm adhoori hai ab tak

Woh nazm  adhoori hai ab tak
Woh nazm  adhoori hai ab tak

Mulaqat ki pehli sham thi shayad,
Jab tum ne kaha  tha , ek nazm likho
Is maut si khamoshi se pare,
Door kahin traeeki se,

Khush-rang  sehr ke baare mein
Taaer ki sheereen sargoshi liye,
Baang-e-Jaras mein doobi hui,
Sarshaar fiza ke baare mein

Us nazm ki dilkash basti mein
Hasti ka sharara raqsan ho
Mehfil-e- yaraan jamti ho
Bazm-e-chiraghan hota ho

Har harf hawa ka jhonka ho,
Har lafz mein ho ehsaas-e-zyan,
Har sher ummedon ka chashma,
Har band se ho afkaar ayaan

Woh nazm  adhoori hai ab tak

Takmeel-e-nazm ki hasrat mein,
Khwabon ke nagar mein jata hoon
Chun Chun ke harf  ke phoolon ko,
Lafzzon ka mahal banata hoon

Phir din ki dastak hoti hai
Khurshid ke biphre sholon mein
Khwabon ka nagar jal jaata hai
Lafzon ka mahal gir jaata hai

Woh nazm  adhoori hai ab tak
Woh nazm  adhoori hai ab tak

A strange Rendezvous – Visit to Madam Tussad’s Wax Museum

Glowing sun was smiling graciously on the wild blue yonder, overarching the royal city of London. The elated caravan of the races and faces was rolling steadily on the concrete promenades. The big size hat lying comfortably on my upright head ,the camera swinging around my neck and  the curiosity and keenness peeping through my eyes  made me look like an arrogant (arrogance is perhaps a necessary skill) and accomplished photographer on his expedition to search for the unique, unimaginable and immortal masterpiece. I wished to capture the dark images of the miseries masqueraded behind the happy faces, hoped to imprison the young spirit immersed in the layers of wrinkles in my eager lens, desired to seize the images of the powerful dreams floating in the bright eyes of the fellow travelers – perhaps a few things can only be captured on the canvass of imagination. Thankfully, truth descended on me soon–I returned to my usual self requesting the travelers passing by for a nice click. Walking along the Marylebone Road our steps freezed and eyes glued to the beautiful light green dome of the Madam Tussad’s wax museum. It was an elegant and exquisite circular structure with the yellow letters of the name ‘Madam Tussads’s sparkling against the shimmering red stripe encircling the dome.  Maneuvering the Serpentine queue for the tickets, patiently and calmly (without the usual push and shove of ‘Delhi’),I walked  into the dimly lit room shrouded in the sheaths of mystery and mysticism , inhabited by the smiling  and lively wax sculptures of the ravishing beauties, authoritarian rulers, eminent  and illustrious people  from the various walks of life. It was pleasing to see Hitler and Churchill standing together in the silent wax graveyard, where ‘The dead’ are not buried. Every wax idol was telling his compelling story of rise and fall, ecstasy and agony, hits and misses. I was wondering;

Yeh kiya jagah hai doston , yeh kaunsa dayaar hai

The mesmerizing wax sclupture of the master blaster ‘Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar’ raising his helmet and magical cricket bat towards the sky, probably celebrating one of the ‘hundreds of the centuries’ is an inspiring story of glory ,grind and gumption. The high standard of the humility, simplicity and gregarious behaviour exhibited by him during such a long journey is exemplary for many of us living in a socioeconomic environment   where the plebian officers (managers of the corporate world belong to the same group) behave like conceited celebrities after the golden touch of the easy wins. His neighbour in the quiet museum was another gifted cricketer ‘Brian Charles Lara’, known for his long innings and classic drives. He was smartly dressed in a traditional white cricket uniform, resting his bat on his shoulder and spreading the infectious smile and his usual ebullience.

As I moved ahead, my feet stumbled and stopped before the commanding presence of the boxing champion ‘Mohammad Ali’, beautifully crafted and created with the art of wax. He was donning the elegant purple gown, wearing the enraged red boxing gloves he seemed almost ready and raring to knockout the invisible ‘Joe Frazier’. The excitement of his face and spark in the  eyes made  me believe that he would immediately break his silence and address the astound crowd  – ‘Honorable Ladies and Gentlemen, you remember me for  my heroics on the boxing ring but perhaps you have forgotten my  views on the injustice of Vietnam war that transformed my life’ . I nodded my head, confessing candidly, we have indeed forgotten your statement (‘I ain't got no quarrel with them Viet Cong,No Viet Cong ever called me nigger’) against your own callous state. Yours was a powerful voice of dissent that inspired the movement against the Vietnam War and Johnson administration.

Not very far from ‘Mohamad Ali’,the soul of  Tiger Woods chased by the scorned screaming women seemed to have found  the peace and shelter in  wax body. Alas!  He is not aware that the steel mallet firmly gripped  in his hand may not shield him from the prowling ghosts of the past.

The stories of the greats cannot be complete without the pompous manifestation of the glorious and glamorous British Monarchy. Momentarily, the pang of pain gushed over me - Princess Diana in her flowing white gown, standing majestically  in the  solitary dignified  space was looking  gracefully and gallantly at the aristocratic troika of Prince Charles , Camilla Parker Bowles , Prince Harry standing together on a separately erected  rostrum. The poignant song of the separation fell on my ears like the rain drops sprinkling the face in the dark winter night:

Tum mere kitne paas ho             Main tumse kitna door hoon

Aangan mein saanson ke diye  Kamron mein khushboo ke bhanwar

Aankhon  mein mere jism ka     Nannha adhoora aks hai 

Aye mehrban , aye hamsafar    Be-rehm hain sham-o-sehr 

In saa-aton ki daud  ka                Anjam kiya iske  sawa

Tum aur mere paas ho                Main aur tumse door hoon

The spirited and vivacious generation of the go-getters was falling over each other to embrace, touch, cuddle and hug their Hollywood idols and pop sensations. People of all ages were competing vehemently for getting filmed and photographed with the likes of Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Kate Winslet, Bradd Pitt, Nicole Kidman, and Julia Roberts as their adorable and alluring icons have descended on the planet earth from their world of fairytales and will vanish soon forever.

I kept walking along the red carpet –stopped for a moment to have a fleeting glance at the wax sculptures of the Bollywood heartthrobs standing close to each other. The vapid smile of Madhuri Dixit  and  vacuous expression of  Asihawriya Rai  could not hold my eyes for long  and I wandered into the crowded space of the word leaders with the  conflicting beliefs and thoughts coexisting  peacefully as vulnerable creatures of the frozen wax.

Barack Hussein Obama – the first black president of America, the noble laureate and the most powerful person on the planet earth is indeed the peerless political personality cast in wax among the current covey of the leaders running the world affairs The imposing figure of Obama standing in his supposedly Oval office beaming smile and pride was telling the story of the current world order. Just a few easy steps away, the wax sculpture of his hero, the prophet of peace ‘Mohandas karamchand Gandhi’ was magnificently placed beside the noble laureates Nelson Mandela and  Martin Luther .Coincidentally ,I was taken aback to an interesting question  asked  by a school girl in 2009 to Obama “if you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be?” .Obama’s repartee ‘I think that it might be Gandhi, who is a real hero of mine’ provides an insight  about  his views on the Gandhian philosophy even though his action  reflects the otherwise.

Out of the blue, my thoughts got trapped in the time warp, I imagined that ‘Time factor’ would vanish, past and present would merge,Gandhi would walk out of its sculpture and barge into Obama’s Oval office reminding him firmly but gently that 'Gandhian philosophy' and 'Imperialism' are oxymoron. The powerful words of Gandhi kept ringing in the back of my mind;

Be the change you want to see in the world

With the imaginary dramatic conversation playing in my mind, I stopped to pay my homage to two iron ladies of Asia Indira Gandhi and Benazir Bhutto, who were brutally assassinated by the terrorists at different phases of the history. I appreciated the elegant sculpture and walked out of the spellbinding effect of the miraculous ‘House of wax’  thinking about these two women who could not  contribute significantly for the empowerment of the women in their respective countries.