The world Arin Verma came from had long abandoned the chaos of human emotions. Efficiency, logic, and precision ruled, governed by the Time Keepers—an elite order that monitored and adjusted the flow of time across civilizations. They were the silent architects of history, ensuring that the past remained undisturbed, the future untainted. In their world, there was no space for love, passion, or art—these things were seen as relics of a primitive age, distractions that clouded judgment and disrupted progress.
Arin had always been the perfect Time Keeper. He had trained since childhood, mastering the delicate balance of time manipulation, able to navigate its endless currents with precision. His duty was to archive and preserve significant moments of history, ensuring that time remained untouched by interference. Yet, despite his success, a quiet hollowness had always lingered within him, a sensation he was never able to name.
Then he found the poem.
It had been buried deep within the archives of a dying Earth civilization, an unremarkable entry amid countless historical texts. He should have overlooked it, dismissed it as another meaningless fragment from a world that had long since faded. But something made him pause.
The words were simple, yet they struck him like a wave crashing against stone:
What we yearn to find, does it yearn for us? What we dream of, does it dream of us? What I seek, is it my seeker too? If that is true, will I ever meet you?
The moment he read it, something inside him cracked open. The words pulled at something deep within, something long buried by the rules of his world. It was as though the poet had reached across time itself and touched the very core of his being. For the first time in his existence, Arin felt moved—a sensation foreign to him, yet impossible to ignore.
Who had written these words? Did they understand the ache that now burned within him? He had to know. A search through the archives led him to a name: Astha Mehra. A writer from Jaipur. A poet. A woman from Earth’s past, from an era long before his own. She had lived, breathed, and written those words, never knowing they would find their way to him. The realization struck him like lightning—he had spent his existence preserving the past, but never had he stepped into it for personal reasons.
Until now.
His hands hovered over the time coordinates. The elders would never approve of such a mission, but they had no reason to suspect him. He was one of their best.
For the first time, Arin Verma was about to break the very rules he had sworn to uphold.
And he had no idea what awaited him on the other side.
…To be continued in the next post
This online novel with all its chapters is an original copyrighted work of the author Shailaza Singh. All rights reserved.
She is a Bengali by birth but she loves Jaipur. She sings Rabindra Sangeet, enjoys Durga Puja but is equally at home with the customs of Rajasthan and the urbanity of Delhi. She is an avid traveller and has visited almost all continents of the world. Author, critic and poet Malashri Lal’s life journey has been a symphony of change and she has revelled in all the challenges that have come her way.
Though today she is known across the world as an eminent author, Malashri Lal is still a simple Jaipur girl who loves coming back to her roots every now and then. She loves the city and its people that make her feel right at home. Though Delhi is where her hearth is, Jaipur is where her heart is. Excerpts from a free wheeling tet-e-tat with this Jaipurite:
You studied in Jaipur, then you went to Delhi. What was your experience like? I continue to believe that my home is in Jaipur. Though my blood lineage is Bengali but I identify Jaipur as my home. I have been here since childhood. Even though Delhi has been a happy relocation for personal reasons and work, Jaipur still retains as much of a loved pull, almost like a Maika (parent’s home) despite my parents not having been there for years. The city, the friends, the people all of them being very special for me.
When you moved from Jaipur to Delhi, what was the change like? The first thing I noticed about Delhi was that it was very impersonal space. When I moved to Delhi after my marriage, we were living with my in-laws. So there was no sense of loneliness or non-belonging at home but the city didn’t seem like a friendly place. So, I didn’t know my way around in Delhi so since I was keen to teach, I started looking at jobs in Delhi. This was early 70s so there were jobs a plenty. All the big colleges were advertising, now ofcourse I know them by name but at the time I didn’t know any of these colleges. So to find my way to a place in old Delhi from where we were (my father-in-law was Air Chief Marshal P C Lal, so we were staying at the air house) seems like such a scary thing to do, unknown roads, unknown people, rough language on the roads, auto drivers who drove rashly. I came from a protected environment at home and in a very affectionate social environment of Jaipur, so the contrast of this impersonal, immigrant city, where survival seemed to be the most important ambition in anyone’s life seemed very strange indeed. So, I did go around, I had to deal with it. I was very lucky that I got a job offer from Jesus and Mary College, the day I went there for an interview. I found JMC a remarkably hospitable and warm place. I still remember it was a hot summer afternoon. I had no idea where JMC was (it was in the middle of Chanakyapuri). The auto rickshaw driver also had no idea where JMC was. When I got there, I was late for the interview and I thought I had already ruined it. It was a beautiful building with a lovely garden. I walked up the steps and there was this old nun, dressed in white standing there with a smile. She said, ‘Welcome my dear.’ I apologized and said, ‘sorry sister. I am late.’ She said, ‘it doesn’t matter. You are not late. You are here and that is what matters. She brought me a glass of water. She sat me down and told me to not to get tensed about anything. So I sat there for half an hour till I was called for the interview and enjoyed the sense of warmth and affection even though I didn’t know the people there. And when I went in for the interview, everyone was courteous and gentle. I came out of there saying praying and promising to myself that if they offered me a job, I would take it. Some well known colleges of Delhi University (I don’t want to name them offered me a job and those offers came later also but the day JMC called me that evening or the next morning and asked me if I would be willing to work for them, I said yes. I stayed there for twelve years and I was very happy there. And JMC was a cocoon. Some of my best friends are from JMC even now though I just spent 12 years out of my 45 years of teaching. Then I moved to the main department of English in the post graduate wing. But the contrast was the affectionate, warm, personalized world in which I had grown up in Jaipur and the rather rough impersonal and I would even say brash world of Delhi.
You have seen Jaipur and Delhi changing over the years. How do you find the change in both these cities? I don’t think Delhi has changed very much. It has just become bigger, more impersonal, more brash, more materialistic. I don’t think it has changed at all. It is a city of immigrants and I have understood it better. There are no affections and I believe there is a sense of suspicion of the stranger. So, whether you live in an apartment building or a neighbourhood, people have not friendly because they have no idea who you are and where you come from. Jaipur on the other hand has also grown a lot but my Jaipur is still the Jaipur of my school friends. I meet people through them so I don’t have a sense of strangeness or non-belonging at all. And even physically I have nothing to do with the Jaipur that goes beyond the older areas of Civil Lines or C-Scheme and Bapu Nagar, Tilak Nagar or the University because all my friends and their friends and their children continue to have a long-term relationship.
How was your time in MGD? What were you like as a student? MGD was most wonderful thing that happened to me. When I was very young, I was not a very healthy child. So, I was constantly in and out of school till the age of 7. My paternal grandmother who was a widow and lived with us. She used to teach me at home. Her name was Jyotirmaye Mukherjee. She was a school teacher in Burma. My grandparents had emigrated to Burma which was a part of undivided India at that time. My grandfather was the headmaster of a boy’s school there. My grandmother was one of the first graduates of the Kolkata University. My grandfather passed away quite young at the age of 45. My grandmother decided to bring up my aunt and my father, who were teenagers at the time, on her own and chose not to come back to the family fold in Kolkata. She taught me what has become the core of my feminism that you don’t have to fight obvious battles or be aggressive. She wore white ‘than’, a crisp white sari as Bengali widows do. Though she was a very good-looking woman, she never wore any make up or jewellery. My grandmother and father migrated from Burma to Delhi after the war and bombing of Rangoon (my aunt had already married and moved away by then). They stayed with some relatives in Delhi. My father who was not married by then worked with Delhi Cloth Mills for a couple of years. He then appeared for the Indian Civil Services Examinations (those days there weren’t any written examinations, only interviews) and was instantly selected since he was a brilliant history student. When he was asked if he was okay with being posted in Rajasthan, he said that it didn’t make any difference to him because he didn’t know India at all as he had grown up in Burma. So, in the year 1950 or so, he along with his two Bengali friends and one Sindhi friend were selected in the first batch of IAS and posted to Rajasthan. I was a superbly good student as a result of the foundation provided by my grandmother who taught me all subjects. I was not even fifteen when I graduated from school and was awarded a gold medal. I wasn’t a naughty student at all. I loved all the subjects except the sports period. In fact, the joke was that I would run away from the sports field in the sports period! The head of the school was an English woman named Ms. Luter who had migrated from Burma. She and her secretary Ms. Emma were very fond of my parents. Ms. Emma would occasionally cook Burmese delicacies for my father. They were just very good friends.
Who was your favourite teacher in school? I loved my geography teacher Ms. Meenakshi. She would sit with the globe and show us countries and their photographs. It was then that I developed my love for travel. Fortunately, I married a man who was equally interested in travelling. We have large cupboard which houses souvenir teaspoons from each country that we have visited. There is strict rule in the family that you can only put a souvenir spoon in the cupboard if you have visited the country personally. Now over the years, my son also started collected teaspoons and now the cupboard has 400 teaspoons from different cities which are catalogued extensively. We have travelled to Alaska, most of Europe, Canada, lots of Australia and America, Africa and New Zealand. Except for South America which we have not visited, we have been to every other continent. ….To be Continued
This article by Shailaza Singh appeared in Rashtradoot Newspaper’s Arbit Section on Thursday 25 April 2024
Maybe Some day, you a stranger Will chance upon these lines. Addressed to you. Unknown to the poet You will wonder what is it that it wants to say? All these poems in this address Are moments of the poet’s love, ecstasy even despair. May be when you will read this, the poet may not even be there. But just like we earthlings have been sending messages of hope into the deep space. Hoping to meet someone who understands This poem is on similar lines May be some day tempted by fate or some plan divine You would come here and discover some words That have been spoken but not heard You may be tempted to explore, To perhaps knock at the door Of this rambling house in the wild. Perhaps the creaking, rickety door Will be opened by a gnarled old lady Or a young inquisitive child. Maybe you will be invited in And led by your curiosity You will inquire about these jewels so carelessly strewn And whether you can collect them to shape them into something for the world. It is then the poet would know that all her prayers have been finally heard. -Shailaza
In a world where there is no dearth of words, Where all talks of love seem so made up and absurd, How does one believe when words are so carelessly thrown, How does one trust where stories of betrayal are all well known The cajoling, the gentle persuasion are all so sadly amiss, No longer do people reminisce about their very first kiss. Physical closeness is more in trend these days, But once that aim is achieved love hardly stays. Fear rules, Those hungry beasts love to fool, They seduce, conquer, move on and feel so cool. Transactional reltionships flood the land. No one to actually talk those sweet nothings, No one to understand. Where are those days of sweet, idyllic talks Of the stolen moments and the rambling country walks. Of those scented letters that promised a forever. Unlike the short messages of today that threaten a now or never. Of the romance and the wooing of the lady with ardor and passion. Today, short term or no term encounters are such a rampant fashion. The heart is dismayed The head is bewildered With the animals that abound and the jungle thats grown. In such a world, how does one step into the great unknown? Shailaza Singh
Some old clothes are not to throw away, Some old clothes you should try again one day. To see how much you’ve changed. Some old clothes when you wear again To see the weight loss or gain Some old clothes you wear to remember who you are No matter how cloudy the night, you are still what you once were- a beautiful star. People say you shouldn’t dwell in the past, ‘Cause the days never last. Yes tis’ true that you should keep moving ahead because life is always about the new, But some old clothes help you in making friends with the old ‘you’ Not that you shouldn’t throw away the old.. But some old clothes that show you who you really are or how far you’ve come are just pure gold. – Shailaza Singh
Not knowing is okay too… Not knowing what decision to take.. Not knowing what are the stakes Not knowing what to do… Not knowing is okay too..
Not knowing what is right or wrong.. Not knowing how to be strong.. Not knowing which way to go.. Not knowing the things to know.. Not knowing how to start your life anew Not knowing is okay too…
As the river of time flows, It reveals wave by wave what it knows The hidden secrets are washed on the sandy shore. The destiny reveals what’s in store As these moments meet and bid adieu.. One thing is for sure.. Not knowing is okay too..
The words find the paper They flow like a bubbling stream… The writer writes or so it seems.. But that’s an illusion understood by a few Not knowing is okay too
‘I’ is a festering wound, Open yet covered lightly The moment someone touches the ‘I’ Or even looks at it The pain arises ever so slightly The being writhes in pain For the ‘i’ knows no compassion or mercy but only losses and gains Those who are wounded with the ‘I’ Have only one aim That the other’s ‘I’ shouls hurt just the same. An ‘I’ for an ‘I’ is what the world is after. The ‘I’ looks for its new prey amidst the revelry and laughter. The ‘I’ wants reverence, relevence and fame No wonder on all those secret donations we still have those names The ‘I’ loves pains and fights Planning and plotting it stays up all nights… If the ‘I’ infects the others , it becomes a ‘we’ Then it avenges its hurts…through wars and famine and all that it can be. The ‘I’ tries to trick death by leaving its name even after its passing away. The ‘I’ wants the world to remember it everyday How do I heal the ‘I’ in me? When ‘I’ is the only thing I can see? Or may be I see ‘me’ in everything, everywhere… May be I can heal ‘I’ with a heartfelt gratitude and prayer.. -Shailaza Singh
Is this why Gods came down to Earth, To incarnate in a physical plane? A planet where you can touch the energy And feel the joy, ecstacy and pain? Is this why people mourn for dear ones Despite knowing the immortality of the soul? Because the physical expression of love makes you feel alive and whole? When we someone passes away, we don’t lament their passing But we cry for the loss of expressions in the physical plane. We lament not hearing the person respond When we call out his name. We cry for we will not be able to touch them anymore. We are sad because we will never see them walk out of that door. Yet we know, the person is not gone, his essence is still there. That is why we keep communicating throughout our lives through thoughts and prayers. And the person too communicates through these channels, thoughts and dreams Our loved ones never leave us Even though it may seem. Ye we must let go, so that they can be with us and yet fulfill their new role Love is what binds us, a force greater than time…love is the goal Look beyond the physical form, everything is alive From form to formless that is what our aim is Whether it is about our loved ones or about the power supreme And one day we evolve enough to realize Not all that we see is the truth… The unseen world rules all that is seen. -Shailaza Singh
He doesn’t say anything yet he knows. He watches, he sometimes warns. Of the dangers, of the problems, of the thorns. But his signals and signs like him are like a silent alarm, He tells your heart of the pending storm in an unnatural calm He asks your intuition to walk with him Every day he tells you to savour the present, to each day open his gift, For though he walks in his own speed Yet his judgements are swift. He asks you to treasure the pleasures that are sent your way He asks you to not put off anything till tomorrow Just do what you can today… He tells you to live and love everyday. He is time, the omnipresent God above Gods He has a magical balm that heals wounds, heartbreaks and sorrows and he cuts the ego with a powerful sword He comes quickly when it is time to go, How time flies, we will never know. So be with him, for those who savour his present, Spend time with your loved ones, For when the time comes, you will never know where they went. Have no regrets about the bygones or the past, For this present will also not last. And live a life in all its splendour and glory So make your choice, be with time and write your own story… -Shailaza Singh
We are multi dimensional beings, you and I. Our souls inhabit this body, Just like the clothes our body wears, We discard those clothes when they become old or get a tear.
We are multi dimensional beings, We travel across time and space, We have are missions to fulfill and lessons to learn We are blessed with power and grace.
We are multi dimensional beings, With each birth we evolve and grow, Which chapter will the life book open at? We will never know..
We are multi dimensional beings With each birth, we grow a little in our power, Just like a bud, each time we blossom into a more magnificent flower.
We are multi dimensional beings, The expressions of a powerful universal magic Where everything is about lessons There is nothing bad or tragic
We are multi dimensional beings Don’t be fooled by our skins dark or light, We are the sunrays that power up the moon at night.
We are multi dimemsional beings We are here to experience the theatre of the earth We all have our roles to play, We gracefully exit, shed our costumes and hug the actors back stage We move on to our next assignment, our next phase
We are multi dimensional beings, We forget our true nature So that we can remember again in this divine play. That we are all here to play a role, None of us is here to stay. -Shailaza Singh
तुम और मैं बात करते हैं.. तो दिल हल्का हो जाता है साथ चलते हैं कुछ पल पर न जाने क्या ये नाता है
सुकून भरी बातें, पर उनका कोई काम नहीं , आवाज़ का रिश्ता जिसकी कोई पहचान नहीं कौन हो तुम, क्या करते हो.. क्या पता क्यों इस राह से रोज़ गुज़रते हो पर तुमसे यु गुफ्तगू कर दिल को करार आता है तुम और मैं बात करते हैं.. तो दिल हल्का हो जाता है
हम भी तेरी आवाज़ का इंतज़ार करते हैं तेरे आने की उम्मीद में रोज़ सवरते हैं पर मौसम रोज़ बदलते हैं ये दिल हमको याद दिलाता है पर फिर भी तुम और मैं बात करते हैं.. तो दिल हल्का हो जाता है
ग़मों को दिल में दबाये चलता है कोई ओढ़ नकाब हस्ती आँखों का, निकलता है कोई ढूंढ़ता है राहत , सुकून से भरा एक दामन जहाँ वह भुला दे अपना हर गम पर देखता है की ग़मों की चादर ओढ़े दुनिया है सोई ग़मों को दिल में दबाये चलता है कोई
बेबसी के जूते पहन छालों से पैर छिल जाते हैं खुद के तो गम थे ही… औरों के भी मिल जाते हैं ढूंढ़ता है हमसफ़र की ग़मों को बाँट लें कौन सा कम या ज़्यादा… थोड़ा सा छांट लें पर देखता है की हमनवां ने भी एक माला है पिरोई ग़मों को दिल में दबाये चलता है कोई
झूलास्ति धुप में दर्द से समझौता कर लिया उसने खुद की ही आहों से अपना ज़ख्म भर लिया उसने अब वह मिलता है औरों से और उनके ग़मों की दास्तान सुनता है अब वह खुद के लिए नहीं औरों के लिए राहत के फूल चुनता है पी जाता है खुद के अश्क जो आँख उसकी रोई ग़मों को दिल में दबा कर चलता है कोई
Everything that is fragile, Needs a hard shell, Lest it breaks. There is no guarantee on how much pain it can take.
Sensitivity does not come at a set price, Just a plain plastic cover will not suffice. Don’t think about covering it with cotton or wool. You cannot hide it or disguise it, Its hardly cool.
A live, pulsating heart, Has to be protected by a shell so strong and smart, That it is never hurt beyond repair, That it does fall into the clutches of pain and despair. Yes, some heat is required for forging steel, But you don’t want deep wounds that will never heal. So, as you set out on your quest to explore, Be sure that your heart is wearing an armour before you step out of that door.
Its true that love brings pain, Yet the wise carry an umbrella when it rains.
उम्मीद उम्र देखती तो सुकून की ज़िन्दगी जी पाते, कोई इधर न भटकता और हम भी उस मोड़ पर न जाते.
न सपने देखते न उस दरवाज़े पर लगाते टकटकी, न चलती कोई नज़्म ज़हन में, न आती किसी को मौसिकी, अजनबी ख्वाइशों के सैलाबों में हम न डूब पाते.
उम्मीद उम्र देखती तो सुकून की ज़िन्दगी जी पाते, कोई इधर न भटकता और हम भी उस मोड़ पर न जाते.
आहटों को कह देते की कोई घर में नहीं रहता, रोज़ दर पर ना खेलें , बंद करलेते आरज़ू की आखें. ताकते नहीं यूँ रंगों के मेले, तेरे मिलने की खुद ही खुदा को ऐसी गुहार न लगाते.
उम्मीद उम्र देखती तो सुकून की ज़िन्दगी जी पाते, कोई इधर न भटकता और हम भी उस मोड़ पर न जाते.
रातों में मेहखानों में न लगती दिलजलों की महफ़िलें, न बनते दीवाने, न भूलती मंज़िलें, मेह की आगोश में, यु बेवजह राही नहीं सो जाते,
उम्मीद उम्र देखती तो सुकून की ज़िन्दगी जी पाते, कोई इधर न भटकता और हम भी उस मोड़ पर न जाते.
बचपन में उसको बोला तू लड़का है कमाल का, तेरे आने से मिला हमको जवाब हरसवाल का , तुझ पर कोई ज़ोर नहीं, तू चिराग है, हरतरह से भुजा ले तेरे अंदर जो आग है. वह निकला पहन कर मर्द वाला चोला , उसने न हरकतों को, न बातों को किस्सी तराज़ू में तोला . इतना यकीन था उसको की वह लड़कियों के लिए वरदान है, की लडकियां उसके जादू से अनजान है, पर एक के बाद एक हर लड़की ने उसको आईना दिखाया, क्या हुआ उसके साथ, उसको बिलकुल समझ नहीं आया, काश उसको बचपन में किसी ने लड़कियों के बारे में समझाया होता. थोड़ा समझदारी और प्यार का पाठ पढ़ाया होता. तो नहीं फिरता वह यूं अपना गुस्सा लिए दर बदर. अगर कर लेता थोड़ा लड़कियों की इज़्ज़त और कदर. अब भी वह अकड़ लिए मुँह फुलाए बैठा हुआ है, न जाने कौनसी अकड़ में ऐंठा हुआ है. कोई उसको बताये प्यार से चलती है गाडी. अब तो होश में आजा ऐ अनाडी.
When he was born, People danced with joy, They danced with abandon, Hurrah! It is a boy! He was told he was their brightest star, He was told that he would go very far. He felt he was a blessing to the girls of the land, He felt he would get someone who would understand. The girls who came into his life wanted equality in everything, But he thought he was the only ruler, the ultimate king. He did not understand what women need, They need a man who can actually listen and pay heed, But our little prince charming has yet not figured it out, He still feels he knows everything without any doubt! Yet he is puzzled whats driving the girls away, Someone knock some reason into him I earnestly pray!
कितनी अजीब बात हैं न, कि वह जब तक था .. एक खौफ्फ़ सा रहता था मन में , पर अब उसके जाने के बाद उसकी कमी सी खलती है .. शाम की तन्हाई धीरे धीरे पिघलती है… ये नहीं है की उसके होने से कम थी तन्हाई.. पर उसके जाने से चली गयी रही सही उम्मीद की परछाई .. की अब इन गलियों में खौफ नहीं तो ख़ुशी के फूल भी नहीं मिलते हैं.. उम्र बदलती है पर हालात नहीं बदलते हैं …
याद करते करते उम्र बिता दी पर वह इस राह पर आया नहीं… कोई हमें याद आहें भरे ऐसा मंज़र वक़्त ने बनाया नहीं .. खुदा खैर करे… की याद फरियाद न हो पाए … की फिर रिश्ते जन्मों के हो जाते हैं… यहाँ तो आलम है की एक जनम भी निभ जाएँ तो हम जश्न मनाते हैं .
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