maa

comb my curly unruly hair,
wipe my face neat with saree,
black mark on my forehead,
kiss it before you let me go to play.

chide me for being late
from the evening's play,
wash my limbs off the dirt
and lead me to prayer hall.

the full meaning of the words muttered,
whether i understood or not,
that you certainly did, and He heard
i had faith without doubt

surest refuge of all fears
mundane or otherwise
the care of your lap
and the familiarity of it all

your love and purity,
shielded me from all evil
i would myself run towards,
like a blanket in breezy winds

talk

you don't have to look through me.
don't need to think real hard.
no, just don't force yourself
to think i am not even there.

its not easy to be looked at that way
when you expect a smile,
when one meets eyes stoned
where there was always warmth.
its doesn't help in any way,
when people who love to listen and talk
in anger not a word say

i know i don't know all
but sure i know enough
your silence is a price hard to pay
never thought one could hurt
when one never meant so

time is not long for sure
when we take so long to start
and then bond and connect
why waste any more of it on silence
when we could just talk.

our greatest fights

the ones we thought as one with us,
who understand our failings
and see our frailties,
why do they threaten us
with the choicest of weapons ?

at times most desperate,
hoping for empathy and an ear.
why what we get is
misunderstandings unfortunate or
no reaction at all.

when we bleed to victory and otherwise,
fighting the world and the lines of fate.
what we realise after it is lost
is-our greatest fights are against
the ones we love the most.

the mysticism of kabir (great sufi saint and poet of India)

I have been listening to Kabir for quite some time now. You must be wondering listening or reading? well, I had read him during my school days (mostly to get good grades to top the class) and later on, on the internet (as one of the ways to kill some precious office time), but thanks to Beghum Abida Parveen (famous sufi singer from Pakistan) and Gulzaar (lyricist and poet) and Times Music for the wonderful album 'Gulzaar presents Kabir by Abeeda' , The Listening started. As they say if you find a rare jewel, a fountain of joy or something really special the best thing, one might not agree to it immediately, would be to share it with the world. So, here is my effort to do so and since the colloquial Hindi (also called sadhukhadi - a mix of Hindu, Bhojpuri, Braj Bhasha, Awadhi and Rajsthani which became popular during the bhakti and sufi movements in India) may not be commonly understood, a free translation is attempted. Please consider them as an attempt by a tiny earthen lamp to remove darkness to the best of his capacity when the sun has gone down on the western horizon.

sukhiya sab sansaar hai, khaye aur soye
dukhiya das kabir hai, jaage aur roye
look at the joy of the world
that eats, drinks and sleeps in peace
fated but is poor Kabir
stays awake and cries
(very beautiful couplet that shows the differences between the state (days and nights) of the seeker and of non-seekers. Kabir says, these people of the world are lucky, as compared to seekers like him. Guru Nagendranath Bhaduri of Bengal used to say " the people of the world are real renunciants, not me. I have only given up a few stones(property, diamonds etc.), metals(gold, silver), rupee notes and other comforts of the world for everlasting bliss . But these people have renounced the creator of all these things for a few comforts of the world"
Even Buddha wonders at his dissuader, a friend of his " My friend you must be of strong heart: for after seeing all three (old age, disease and death) you still can indulge in the pleasures of the world. My house is on fire (his mind is perturbed), and surely one can not be condemned for running (his act of leaving his kingdom, riches, post and his family in search of the truth) out of the house on fire."

jo kachhu kiya so tum kiya, main kachhu kiya nahin
kaha kahoon jo main kiya, tum hi the mujh mahin
what is done, is by you lord
none by me
if any i claim the otherwise
you only did through me

man laago yaar fakiri mein...( o mind! devote yourself to austerities)
bura bhala sab ko sun lijo
kar gujran garibi mein
रूखा सूखा खायीके ठंडा पानी पीयो |
देख परायी चोपदी मत लाल्चावे जीयो ||
कबीरा सो धन संचीये, जो आगे को होए|
शीश चढाये गठरी, जात न देखा कोए ||
akhir ye tan khaak milega
kyon phirta magroori mein
man laago yaar fakiri mein...

माला कहे है काठ की, तू क्यों फेरे मोहे |
मन का मनका फेर दे, सो तुरत मिला दूँ तोहे ||
कहे कबीर सुनो भाई साधो,
साहिब मिले सबुरी में
मन लागो यार फकीरी में |

kabira ret sindoor, ur kajar diya na jaye
nainan pritam ram raha, duja kahan samaye

karta tha to kyon raha, ab kahe pachtaye
bove ped babol ka, aam kahan se khaye

sahib sun sab hot hai, bande te kachhu nahin
rai te parvat kare, parvat rai mahin

jyon til mahin tel hai, jyon chakmak mein aag
tera sain tujhme base, jaag sake to jaag
like the hidden oil in the oilseed
and the fire in the firestone
the 'kingdom of lord' lies within you
realise this if you can

this is one thing that all regions unequivocally state -
know that the kingdom of God lies within you - Christ in New testament
al haq ( i am that) - bulleh shah, sufi saint
and kabir puts it in his inimitable style

Moko Kahan Dhundhere Bande
Mein To Tere Paas Mein

Na Teerath Mein, Na Moorat Mein
Na Ekant Niwas Mein
Na Mandir Mein, Na Masjid Mein
Na Kabe Kailas Mein
Mein To Tere Paas Mein Bande
Mein To Tere Paas Mein

Na Mein Jap Mein, Na Mein Tap Mein
Na Mein Barat Upaas Mein
Na Mein Kiriya Karm Mein Rehta
Nahin Jog Sanyas Mein
Nahin Pran Mein Nahin Pind Mein
Na Brahmand Akas Mein
Na Mein Prakuti Prawar Gufa Mein
Nahin Swasan Ki Swans Mein

Khoji Hoye Turat Mil Jaoon
Ik Pal Ki Talas Mein
Kahet Kabir Suno Bhai Sadho
Mein To Hun Viswas Mein

ah ! need no explanation...what realisation...what truth !!
nainan(eye) ki kar kothdi, putli(iris) palang(bed) bichaye
palkon(eyelid) ki chit darke, pi(beloved) ko liya rijhaye

nainan antar aao to, nain jhamp tohe lyun
na main dekhun aur ko, na tohe dekhan jyun

mala(rosary) to phire kar(hand) mein, jeebh(toungue) phire mukh maahin
man(mind) bapu chahun(everywhere) dis phire, yeh to sumiran naahin

what kind of prayer is this
with the mind scattered and disturbed?
only the tongue moves in the mouth,
mechanically the rosary is revolved.


mati(clay) kahe kumhaar(potter) se, tu kyon raunden mohe
ek din aisa ayega main raundoongi(grind) tohe

at the inevitability of time-i wonder,
the diligent potter ploughs the clay
of which he is made up of
and would sure return to one day

yeh tan(body) vish(poison) ki belari(creeper), guru amrit(nectar) ki khaan(reservoir)
shish(head) diye guru mile, phir bhi sasti(cheap bargain) jaan(know)

gods be praised
a cheap bargain i made today
traded my being dry and dead
for the elixir of teacher's grace

sab dharti(land) kaagad(paper) karoon, lekhan(quill) sab panraye(trees)
saat samundra(ocean) ki syahi(ink) karun, guru gun (virtues/grace) likha na jaye
the greatness and kindness of a satguru (teacher) is explained here

the greatness of my teacher
mere words can describe not
even if use all landmass as canvass
and all oceans and ink pot

jab lag naata jagat (world) ka, tab lag bhagati (devotion) na hoye
naata (ties) tode hari bhaje, bhagat kahave soye

till the ties of the corporeal tie us
no devotion could percolate our hearts
he only is a devotee true
all ties of delusion who ruthlessly cuts


jab main tha hari nahin, ab hari hai main naahin
jab andhiyara mit gaya, deepak der kamanhi
There is another version of it. I dont know which is correct but both convey beautiful meanings themselves
jab main tha hari nahin, ab hari hai main naahin
prem gali ati saankri, tate do na samahin.

don't be surprised, seeing one pair of footsteps
on the wet sand covered narrow street.
we can not walk side by side here as two;
our beings get merged, what to say of feet

now the Lord has filled up the spaces
where ego used to hide
can they ever co-exist
darkness and light ?

souun (sleep) to sapne milun, jagun to man manhi
lochan ratein sab ghadi, bisurat (separated) kabhun nahi

meet me in my dreams when asleep
within the privacy of my heart when awake.
ever in the range of the inner eye,
let me not for a minute be separate.


साधू कहावत कठीन है , ऊंचा पेड़ खुजूर |
चढ़े तो चाखे प्रेम रस , गीरे तो चकनाचूर ||

to be a saint is no task easy
like the tall palm tree, the path lies
reach the top and taste the fruit,
or fall and shatter into pieces.


sadhoo bhooka bhav(feeling) ka, dhaan (money) ka bhooka nahin
jo dhan ka bhooka (hungry) hoye, wo to sadhoo (saint) nahin

the saint craves not for lucre,
feelings, his only bait.
one who feeds on money,
call him any but saint.


mariye (to die) to mar jayiye choot pade janjal(farce)
aisa marna kya bhala din mein sau(hundred) sau bar

echoes the same spirit as - cowards die many times

'tis better that death be embraced once
and the farce of life be got rid of
than numerous times a day
of fear, humiliation and death thereof.

bhala(good) hua meri matki(pot) phooti re
main to pania(water) bharan se chooti re

kabir talks about death, the routine of life and activities we do to sustain our body in form of allegory of a broken pot.

thank you O Lord! for kindness
that this earthen pitcher is broken.
no more filling it up
no routine guards now and worries none

mali(gardener) awat dekh ke kaliyan(buds) karen pukaar(shout)
phool(flower) phool chun liye, kaal hamari baar (turn)

the tiny buds watch perturbed,
plucking of fully blossomed flowers.
today the gardener chooses them,
tommorrow, it is surely us.

bura(evil) jo dekhan main chala, bura na milya koi
jo dil (heart) khoja apna, ta mujh sa bura na koi

i looked at the world around
an evil one but, could not find,
gazing inwards realized, none worse
than the evil inside my mind.


shabad shabad har koi kahe, shabad(words) ke haath na paon,
ek shabad aoshudh(medicine) kare, ek shabad kir ghaav(wound)

no limbs or armory they have
these words, words all around
some do the anointment,
some inflict wounds profound.

stray flashes

that one line of insolence;
could it stand up against
a whole lifetime of service?

the sheer effort and number
of words of an essay or book,
lighter than a word of recommendation?

could the flowers hold it against
the gardener, being plucked
is he not hurt equally or even more?

could the lumps of clay
accuse the potter, of manipulating
throwing them to the kiln.

is it fair and just,
the tsunamis be charged against
the calm nature of the ocean

is there not a law of averages,
stray incidences of despicable act
balanced by one of nobility

the long pauses between words
say much more than
what precedes and follows.

words and their meanings you
deciphered well, but Alas!
failed at the intentions.

"kal chaudvin ki raat thi.."

har roz yeh sochta hun ki bhool jaun use
har roz yeh hi baat bhool jata hun...

before i forget to record this experience i must type down it.
Place - Kolkata, Time - 5.30 PM, Venue - Nazrul Manch, Southern Avenue
Event - Umeed (A musical journey with Ghulam Ali and Jagjit Singh)

By the time I entered the hall and found a place to sit, Khan Sahab was already on his seat. He had to urge, unfortunately not for the last time, to the audience to settle down in their respective seats. People kept coming and coming noisily and settling down noisily (if you have not already got it - sandals of ladies, good-to-look-at-but-noisy jewelery, shoes, words where hand signals would have done and of course the newest menace-mobile phones). They were bothering my attention. Nevertheless Khan Sahab started. Humility - that is the first thing that would strike you about this colossus of an artist. He never gave any signs of that, he did not talk to audience much but that wonderful but rare quality comes out and you feel embraced by the man himself. My introduction to Khan Sahab is not much, I have had the fortune of listening to his most popular numbers and that is it. But in a live performance I could feel that connection a performer makes with the audience, real, spontaneous and true. He started with couple of ghazals that I had never heard and despite the desperate efforts of the people pouring in noisily I sat in awe of the wonderful poetry of the words and the melodious and soulful rendition. If you are thinking that may be I complain too much, you should have heard the pleading tone of Khan Sahab in the midst of a performance asking the audience to settle down, stop using cameras, mobiles, recorders etc. I was just reminded of a few lines of Auden - "In relation to a writer(or a performer like Khan Sahab), must readers(audience) believe in double standard: they may be unfaithful to the writer(or performer) as often they like, but the writer must never, never be unfaithful to them"
After an hour and half of being treated to pure devotion to the perfection of music/art - you may call it performance he left the stage for another mastero Jagjit Singh. When he came on stage they embraced each other. Someone who has dived tho the nadirs knows what the other diver who does so, is exposed to; how much of practice, how much of patience, single-minded devotion, absolute dedication to perfection, of an disenchantment with ordinary/mediocre and of course humility is required to be where these two titans of their fields have reached can be really appreciated by only these people. We can only write, speak, eulogies vicariously, second hand at best.
That Jagjit was only a perfectionist came forth very soon, tweaking with the base-revv etc etc..asking for volume of one instrument to be increased, other decreased, softening of the overalls. I was wondering whether the show would be more of the preparation for performance rather than performance itself.
"ye inayaten ghazab ki ye bala ki meherbani
meri khariat bhi poochi kisi aur ki zabani
meri bezuban ankhon se gire hen chand katre
wo samaj saken to ansu na samaj saken to pani "
This was his first and for the first time I closed my eyes and got completely absorbed in the performance. Jagjit's voice was so trained, so ready and so on the spot that it was almost natural for you to concentrate without effort and loose yourself to his music. There is not much point in calling a beautiful flower beautiful. All I can say is "Hoshwalon ko khabar kya...bekhudi kya cheez hai"

smells like...

In India and especially in Kolkata you gotta have a very heightened sense of smell or a very poor one, with the former helping you to pick up the faintest of good ones that you might encounter in a day and the latter pretty much keeping you in a spirit of abstainance.

Alighting at Howrah station early this morning after an extended weekend back at home, the first smell that I could distinguish from the melee of smells was that of starched bed sheets that you get in AC berths in trains. It was a smell of comfort and of affordable luxury, this realisation dawned upon as I had almost made up my mind to bear with the smell of train toilets whoose doors are left open because I was careless enough to not to book a ticket when they were available or RACable or TATKALable.

Just near the berth door I bumped into a 'Coolie' and they are not exactly the best brand ambassadors for deodorant advertisements. That was the smell of hard work and toil for livelihood. Why else would you get up at 5 AM in the morning to carry the loads of strangers in a winter morning.

These people greet you even before the TTC at the exit of platforms, bump into you to even suggest the place where you live in (I was always taken to be someone who would go to Salt Lake, even if I yelled at them and said that I live near Highland park. The minimum I can say about these two places is one is North and the other is South Kolkata) and claim to give you the best deals in the world(it costs me 220 ruees from Bhubaneswar to Kolkata, a distance of 440 kms and guess what have I paid on a normal non-bandh, non-fire day to Ajaynagar a distance of 20 kms from Howrah-250 bucks). You really can't have a conversation with them, they smell of burnt tobacco(bidi) or pudia(some white powder like stuff in a distinct steel box). That is the smell of irritation and unwanted, even despised street smartness on their part. Why are you so greedy for extra 50-100 bucks if you gonna buy more tobacco with that and shove it into your system(you know what word i wanted to use here).

If you have passes by Science City(Topsia) or ITC Sonar Kolkata you would ready feel repugnant and pukish. This smell would remind one of Kolkata unmistakably. They say there are some leather tannaries and they burn/process leather and hence the smell etc etc. Frankly my dear I give a damn, the smell is so pathetic and disgusting and to top that all you have the best(people who make the vital choices of investment, policy, people etc) visitors to the city coming and staying there(check ITC's ratings). This is the smell of insulation (from what should be done) an d an unaffectedness until something climbs up on your head and cries to be get done.

My taxi halted just in front of a public pay-and-use toilet, I was looking around and cursing my fate"of all places here, not a yard ahead or behind" when this young chap who probably managed the toilet caught my attention. He still had a brown blanket on him, there was another one under the same blanket of course, fast asleep and oblivious to any other thing. There was absolutely no signs of disgust or hopelessness or anything on his face, just a simple expectation for the first customer of the day. This is the smell of reconciliation, acceptance of your destiny and things around you.
Well, there are other smells as well, the smell of puchka(pani puri), sondesh, rasogolla, cigarette, tea in a kulhad (earthen pot), misti doi, jhaal mudi, ilish maach, mutton jhol, peas kachauri, multitude of rolls, whisky and thousands of other things, but I am little impatient and I don't think there is any point talking about these things, whenever you get a chance just eat them. Bon Apetit.

jai baba bhootnath ki!!

"lali mere laal ki, jith dekhun tith laal,
laali dekhan main gayi, main bhi ho gayi laal"
------Indian sufi poet Kabir
I keep bitching about the absolute absence of temples(physical ones made up of stones etc.) at Salt Lake (the part of Kolkata that I live in). So when I heard that there is a shrine of Lord Shiva in North Kolkata near Launch Ghat, called Baba Bhootnathji Ka Mandir and I had no other plans or shall I say excuses, I was exited about the prospect and started at 11 AM on a Sunday morning.
"Can we have a proper darshan Sir?" asked P, at 12.30 PM, and some distance away from the temple. "I think we can", my voice had less conviction though. We were not aware of the timings of customary resting hours for the dieties called 'Pahada' (in Oriya). The autorickshaw in which we were travelling passed through one of the oldest parts of this City of Joy - Shovabazar, Shayam Bazar etc. Thin lanes full of all modes of communication - Taxis, Buses, Trams, Autorickshaws, Rickshaws, Cycles, Mopeds, Two-wheelers and even those that are pulled by human hands, wholesale shops with racks and racks of ganni bags and one young lad transferring them to one of the man-led trolleys, old men in lungi's sipping tea from an earthen pot, tubewells
swarming with people, either waiting to fill water or taking bath, beggars lying on verandas looking up at the sun, kids gathering up their teams for the morning match, ubiquitous horns and thankfully no humidity. The rare cool wind of Frebruary ensured that we both were not irritated. (it is very easy to be so in a city- just get caught in the traffic, miss the lane you should have taken because of someone else's fault, wait for someone at an uninteresting place, you could expand the list by being just being contemplative). Finally we saw the ghats, people coming out of the water shivering, wrapped in wet clothes with water dripping from them on to the ground and saying some prayers mumbled with their attempts to breathe.
One does stop complaining about something very very wrong if it has been happening for sometime. That is the conclusion I could draw about the people living near those Ghats. I mean the huts or PVC sheets wrapped around big nails on adjacent walls, they were living in, were at best my chest-high,the children ate, defecated, played and even slept within that space of few square meters. No complaints on those faces but, or may be they hide it or even that we cant see it anymore.
We reached the temple, the arhictecture of temples of Bengal is not really impressive except say Dakhineswar's main temple building, so I saw what I was expecting-an unpretentious temple. A few red flags and bells suddenly announced the presence. I took off my shoes and went inside. There was the snake and a really big 'trishul' that you associate with Shiva temples all around, then I saw the 'linga', unlike most of them it was brick red in colour. What i could gather from the activities of the preists was that they were starting the 'abhisheka'or 'shringar' the dressing up of the deity. I sat there cross-legged and said a few hyms and then waited for the shringar to start. I was reminded of the satement "the devotion of the devotees could put life into even stones or for that matter anything". There were the most beautiful of flowers, choicest incense sticks and the floors swept by rosewater, they all filled the main hall in an intoxicating aroma. The head priest maintained his silence, he was instructing his helpers with sign language using his hands and raised eyebrows. Then with all things ready in their respective places, he started the 'shringar' and beautifully decorated the dieties with flowers, grass(duba) garlands, sandalwood(chandan), vermillion(sindoor) and then finally he sprinkled all of it in bhabhooti(the holy ash).
A line here about Shiva and his association with ash. Shiva though the most beloved and adorable among Hindu deities is actually very fearsome and ghastly in his appearance and conduct. He roams around in creamatory with the ash of the place smeared all around his body. Though crematory, ash, snakes, demons, garland of skulls are not conventionally considered asthetic due to their association with Shiva these things become very dear and pious to his devotees.
There was a sadhu with matted hair(jata) and he distributed the holy bhabuti to all of us, unsure of what to do with it, i got a cue from the baba himself, he smeared it all over his body and forehead. I opened the button of my shirt and smeared it all over my chest and then with three fingers slightly separated, ran them through my forehead. There was no mirror to see how I looked like but all that was so spontaneous and instinctive that I had no other thoughts to to think otherwise. Then, the head priest started his daily ablutions and slowly with the aroma of the 'bhabhuti' and incence sticks, the purifying glow of campor, the loud sound of cymbals the holy water being sprinkled all over us the atmosphere had a mystic transformation. From a mere piece of red stone the linga became the object of worship of the entire mass present there. Everyone knelt down to pay obeisance to the Lord and then taking the holy 'Bel leaf' and delicious prasad of 'puri and kheer' took leave. That was the 'dhuup' we were told later. I went back my body smeared in the holy ash.
O Lord, please smear the same over my mind, intellect and soul.

twilight at salk lake

picking up the new book I picked up from the neo-hubs of literature -
Oxford or Crossroads take your pick.
drawing the chair to the front of my unused and algae-rich garage,
i hung up my Sunday feet on the gaps between my gate.
i was getting ready to start the book but held back to look around
the place we refer to as neighborhood.
there was none, not men, not women, not beasts, not ghosts, no one
who was looking at me or being looked at

the trees, green or otherwise were laded with fruits and flowers
but no one to throw stones at them,
to be chased away by sticks and abuses.
the big, splendid uninviting gates were locked to their hinges fast
no one swaying them with one foot from end to end,
drowning the noise of the heeds of elders.
the roads were clean or neat or barren for that matter,
no chocolate wrappers thrown carelessly,
no skeletons of kulfi-sticks devoid of flesh
no one was peeping out of the windows with some GK book in hand
waiting for some signal, to start the great escape,
escaping the watchful eyes of parents.

stray maids walk along the roads in bright colourful sarees,
always absorbed in thoughts of some other place
their own homes of course.
cars and taxis come and go frequently here, briefly disturbing the silence
with the noise of their horns
and that of rubber against concrete
TVs make constant noises too, undistinguished though:
always on, inside these houses,
makes one think who is watched by whom.
workmen gently hammering away at a distance, break my thought
angry at first, i then wondered
what is doing the same to us all the time?

a mid-winter evenings ramblings

it was not totally planned for that day...
the usual sloth and dejection that gets into you after initial failures to find sounding boards to your ideas had crept into me, after my room mates & colleagues (one's company in a city is so restricted to these two sets of people) gave a lukewarm (would be an understatement) response to the idea of watching this play 'A mid summer night's dream ' which was to be staged at Kala Mandir, Kolkata by a renowned troupe (renowned because the ticket prices were 200,300 & 500 bucks).
I was trying to wither away the excitement under the pretext of other engagements and lack of company, being tired of going to theaters alone or blatantly disinterested company.
Then, 45 minutes before the show I am on a yellow taxi (a Kolkata special, will discuss in length in some other posting) and speeding off (between the omnipresent traffic jams i.e) to our destination with my colleague S. What made us act fast was not very clear, an escape from the office (adjectives are superfluous), poking of our theatrical chemicals, just to do something or something else. Tickets were not confirmed and we had to get them at the venue, so we still were backing "sloth" to prevent other theater enthusiasts to arrive at the counter before us. We did manage to get the 300 wala ticket, after little hesitation and common sense prevailing. 500 ones were sold out and S had merit in the point that a movie ticket costs you 200 !!

Queue - you don't mind them especially if there is a beautiful girl wearing a long black skirt, equally matching black blouse with low neckline, long open hair, little extra lip-stick who resembles someone you don't remember, stands just behind you. You think, hesitate, frame the sentences in your mind, decide upon a good opening line, make yourself audible and re-check to place her face again on the google search of your memory, say 'yes' to yourself and turn to her musting courage; she is on the phone. That kills half of your budding enthusiasm, and the rest when she says " Where are you, I have got the tickets, am waiting in the queue now" and they do appear. There were others as well, few foreigners, college kids, young-at-heart old people, cool moms with not-so-cool daughters, tag-wearing, mobile-kissing and over-polite loud volunteers. I paced up and down, hoping to see some confusing sign of 'GENTS'. Then the queue started to move and I joined S back to our not-so coveted place now.
We got in, then there was this scramble for spaces and guess who we almost got into a trouble with, one of the pals of that girl, anyway life is not always fair. We settled for a seat behind them. The play started late, one of the things about most of east india, late is for granted. People don't mind it at all. Things are planned that way. If you want to meet someone at 6, fix up a time around 5, call them up at 5.10 to say something that was not supposed to happen, happened or something that was supposed to happen did not happen, reschedule the whole thing at 5.30 and finally reach the venue at 5.57, yell at the other person and meet him/her at 6.10. Happys Meetings!!
The seats were very comfortable, couple of sliding in & outs later I was settled.
What unfolded in the next 2 and half hours was an absolute visual delight. I could not add audio to the previous sentence because the play was multi-lingual and I did not understand the dialogues in two of the six languages that the actors used (thankfully the rest four were Hindi, English, Marathi and Bengali). When the lights were off and the play started the first actor spoke an accented English (we later realized he was speaking Sinhalese) references to shit, god, someone called damn, etc were common among the audience. The next few actors spoke in English, much to the delight and nerves of the audience. I was left wondering who the audience were, Indians mostly ?
I would truncate the writing for now.....If I continue to write that would be just trying to close the topic rather than writing for authenticity of expression, being true to your observations and feelings. So thats it for now , this incomplete piece will be taken forward...
the bottom line - GO WATCH THE PLAY |A mid summer night's dream| Directed by Tim Supple| presented by British Council & Relienace Comm| - wherever you can and almost whatever it takes...IT IS WORTH IT!!!

different will

Gratitude in the eyes
of those differently willed,
The touch of acceptance
obtained with patience,
The smile mingled plainly
with the tears on the cheek,
tell a story.

Of courage to face each day
that arrives like a hangman,
ready to perform.
Of hope, despair,
their relation and co-existence.
Of a will preserved with determination
like a pearl,
amidst the portent sea.

demons of the self

now don't just turn your face away,
i want to see it - the wry smile or smirk
let me see it clearly without fear or mistake,
dont leave the work unfinished, fight undecided.

i ain't loosing till i can stand up.
till there is blood flowing in my veins,
till i see the filth that you all are,
till you kill me or i crush you to death.

demons of my self "bring it on"
populate the army you have built,
buttress the fortress of inevitability
that you have inflicted on me for long.

why do you hide in those dark alleys?
it's my head that is bloody,
it's my spirit that you almost fed upon,
it's my courage that is shot.

my faith that you have threatened,
blanket of self-doubt you have wrapped me in
and thrown me to the sharks of fear,
a victory you can smell of, seize it or be seized.

let's fight once more, my demons
like all other times before this.
the enemy is familiar, so are his moves
strengths weaknesses all known to you.

stealth may be your best weapon
when my guards are low,
my mind slothful and spirit adrift,
but those were hardly any fights

surrender of senses, may be absolute,
so may be of belief and enthusiasm,
but thats not all that is there to a man;
spirit and hope are yet standing their ground

let's have it out at the battlefield you pick
pits, downhill valleys, graveyards or else
ready or else, right or wrong, just or unjust
I don't give a damn, but fight I must !!

grass is greener

never mind what they have to say
never mind what u read in the papers
never mind what u believe otherwise
always, almost always on the other side
the grass is greener

may be some rumor over coffee
may be something that you could not see
may be a slip of the tounge
may be a joke that went wrong

so small a thing, that u need lenses
so obvious that it blinds your senses
a farce that has become routine
a calm surface that hides everything

peanuts in dark that you searched
in vain, mid-day candles that you burned
red eyes you strained to tears
aching backs that you did nurse

all that you worked for,
all that you asked for.
you will search again alas
is a little greener grass!!

this poem is a tribute to the human spirit which says- Yeh dil maange more!! (yeah, yeah the corporate context is too obvious to state)

Mis-Understood

a lie told honestly
or a truth with intention dissimilar
whether the person
or the words uttered
what matters the most
is what mattered

a dropped trait
picked up from the past
an apparition of apprehension
of a future dark
may be a stray stone
that one could not see
with great care bought but
a gift undelivered may be
what matters the most
is what mattered

are tears always shed in pain
does a laugh envoice the joy in heart
are sighs all the time in vain
or a grin is mockery at the last
not all capital help loans
come with interests attached
neither does silence mean
a blatant refusal
what you say
what you think
and do you what
may be all the same
or way apart but,
what matters the most
is what mattered

Nenikekamen (We were victorious!)

the chains that hold us back
can they never be broken
the marks they leave on our legs
too deep and hard to soften ?
fated are we too like the moth to die
by the cocoons we weave around ourselves
too afraid to swim across the ocean
are we to decay marooned in a swamp island

how many times must we fail
just to gain strength for next,
how many trials must the heart face
to know for sure what is best.
they monkey sure tries to climb up
but slips more on the greased pole,
the waves are but mighty and are more,
enough to keep us fafrom shore.
what stops us to stop, clean all the scum and filth
that nauseates our being and poisons the soul

the treaded paths of habit
must we follow like lambs,
can't we run alone into the jungles
chase, hunt or die in pursuit of the catch
what is so general and acceptable,
in the general lack of sense and direction
cold and distant to all,
we move in extremes of hope and frustration
must the whip lie with the ring master
the lion: deluded as a meek lamb,
keep denying his own reflection

not by mere chance or favour,
no waiting anymore.
we demand our victory by now
our birthright, our nature it is,
either we do or we die by
what we are set to achieve!

Pheidippides must proclaim
"Nenikekamen" after the marathon.
even if he runs to a cul de sac or worse
to a crowd dumb ,
No stops, no option, no rest for him
Run or run, run and run.

worshipping false GODs!!

This was a place where I went for solace, for strength and for hope during one of the darkest periods of my life. Rejected, denounced, mocked, humiliated and even ridiculed I went there without much expectations. Somehow, I had gathered the most of my concentration and sincerity and went with folded hands to pray (as it should be on most cases for nothing). Then I had one of the best experiences I could hope for, the details of which I would omit here as it runs the risk of diluting from the main issue. This was a small open temple of Lord Hanuman (the monkey-god who is an epitome of devotion and service to Lord Rama). There was a huge five faced structure of the Lord, almost 15-20ft high. The structure was matching with the incomparable strength and stature of Hanuman. The sign-board of this place read ashram (small on too-a few sadhus taking shelter along the National Highway).
O! I mentioned it. National Highways, roads on which India will march to economic prosperity and well being for its citizens. This time too I wanted to stop over at the ashram and seek divine intervention for some resolution in my mind. What place could be better than this Panchamukhi mandir where years ago I unknowingly and unsuspectingly had a wonderful and memorable divine experience. Besides this was a place where you could walk into anytime and wont be away from Lord’s sight and vice-versa.
I could not see the imposing stone structure, the benign, kind eyes of the Lord, the majestic Gada, the broad shoulders and the upraised palm of the Lord blessing all and one passing on the great National Highway, or stopping over to read chalisa, or just wandering there. Did I misjudge the location, was I seeking the signs too early or too late?
Sadly neither! I could see the familiar orange color, the strong arms, the weapon felled, the large kind eyes – all lying down on ground. I could not but help myself to ia scene of war, the great warrior conquered and slayed. The ashram was nowhere seen, neither were any priest or sadhus around. I my hands were still, so were my eyes, I did not have the courage to stop and ask what happened. I rode on the golden roads and my eyes were soon filled with tears due to fast driving or otherwise. Strong winds? Tree uprooting etc?
Nah!-This had withstood the super cyclone. I had reached the Kali temple This too had a similar story to offer. It could not be mistaken any more. It was Man.
I drove like crazy hence forth, the speed of my scooter was only matched with the frenzy of my mind. How could they? Who? Why on earth? The roads are wide enough, and there are not that many vehicles. For ___’s sake why?
I could not gather anything else, the road, the people driving besides me, the horns, the stray dog on the road. All around me I could see the felled head of the lord and his benign eyes appearing in flashes. What could man trust now? How could one refer to the Lord as Almighty anymore. What is most important to our lives ? The thoughts were just too many and coming too fast.

The entire structure of faith however rickety was about to collapse under these recent discoveries. We have accused him of being biased, partial, hubristic, of being someone who silently observes all that is wrong in this world and does not do anything about it even though he jolly well can. Now - he can not even help himself. What message are we supposed to get from this. Already there is a huge crisis of faith in this world.

Is faith just a matter of temporary fashion or one of the numerous avenues of spending time. Is it all these images of our faith were meant to convey?
Well be it. We don't need those icons, those idols, those temples, those mosques, those churches, those songs, those hyms; yes we lack sincerity, yes we do a lot of things we do not understand or believe in, but at least we get solace for some moments, we get hope among all the despair and angst around us- at least we pretend. Don't take that away from us. Please not in that manner at least.
We heard that "God helps them who help themselves" well God- you decide where do you stand now.
As for me one can never take away that moment of inspiration, those benign eyes will be ever the same, whether 15ft high , on ground or in my mind.

chahta kya hai??

Chahta kya hai?

Such an important question that we must ask ourselves from time to time. What is that we want from life? If we go down to people and ask them to write it on a paper what is they want, don’t be surprised to get back many empty papers and bullshit scribbled on quite a few others.

When we don’t even know what is that we want from life, what is that we want to do, it is unfair to crib that life has not been fair to us. If you know what it is that you want (two very important words – you and want) then I believe most of the problem is solved.

Let us drill down further; You – Only you. It must be yours, your own, not borrowed, not inspired, not forced, not handed over, not an afterthought but something that has only to do with you. Something that has only one stakeholder (excuse my jargon) – that is you. No one else. Something you would pick out of all other things if given a free choice by GOD (or an equal power).

Want – again very important. Not for a passing moment, not for dabbling, not for fashion, not even for ‘feel good’ for sometime but want. Like we want air to breathe, water to drink and food to eat. Something that it inexorable and not inter changeable with anything else. Can you breathe anything else (perfumed and branded Nitrogen or Argon), can you drink wine/honey instead of water and survive. Want, which you would not or can not compromise.

What is the problem then. Again these two words. People don’t know who is that I. They confuse it with peers, family, society, nation and many others. Everything but not their own selves, not they – stand alone. I don’t want to elaborate you understand (You).

It is very different; this word – want. We may need something and not get it, we may desire for something else and get something else, we may aspire for something and not get close enough but it is not possible that we want something and do not get it or we ask for something and not be given (even Jesus Christ guarantees this – ask and it shall be given). We would cease to exist otherwise. As I said before No compromise.

So, look yourself in the eye and ask – Chahta kya hai?

Buy/Sell - II

Buy/Sell
Agents : M/s Shylock and sychophants
In a Market economy - what can you buy/sell in a market ? everything, everything that is marketable. Goods, Services, stocks, bonds, currencies, options, futures, swaps and other derivatives (look at the audacious definition (wikipedia)- "Derivatives are financial instruments whose price and value derive from the value of assets underlying them"). So virtually anything and everything can be a derivative - just that there should be some value and uncertainty and two fools ready to make the contract. There is an entire industry of doing this and thousands of other fools facilitating this. Excuse My use of the word - Fools. These people are otherwise called traders, brokers, investment bankers, consultants, associates. Boy!! they make millions of Dollars(i heard they have this freedom too-choosing the currency in which they want to be paid) doing something I don't understand, even if they explain with the help of ppts, reports, pdfs (thats the best they know-buggers!)
Now a bit of a economics/management talk but you have to be patient.
Since the emergence of money markets and then subsequently its two very famous derivatives currency and interest rate, and their numerous offspring the world has not been the same place. Not only people, not even organizations but whole nation-economies have been affected by this phenomenon and to an extent that affects millions of people and billions of dollars. Examples - Whatever is happening in Argentina, Indonesia, happened to South Korea and we fear might happen to India (devaluated currency, whole sections of populations going down the $2 line etc)
Will somebody explain what, how and why is this all going on!!
Well then - Is it possible then to sell say, one's past, future or even dreams, aspirations and love.
So fools(and whatever qualifiers you have). Any answers?

Inspiration - Banijyer Bistar (a special performance by special group Blind Opera at EZCC, Salt lake, Kolkata)
Sikandar a poor Bangladeshi man sells off his past (he does not have anything else that is worthy of selling) to Shylock (the owner of Shylock and Sycophants), a man who claims everything and anything can be traded. The price he gets for it - 1 crore INR.
Then he gets greedy and sells his own future, dreams, hope and everything.
Greed consumes him completely- Can I sell the future of my child? He asks.
Yes - comes the answer from the Shylock and Sycophants team.
His child afraid beyond description runs away from his home.

This forced me to think how many people in this world have already done what Sikandar was doing. How many people have sold their past- to memories, to nostalgia, to publishing houses(to make books out of it and give you your share of it). How many more sell their future(please do confuse with the thousands of futures that are traded in the market) everyday. Selling their dreams is understood, how many sell their hopes (what else could the selling of child in India amount to). Selling present -thats easy:I discussed it in Buy/Sell-I (same blog-June); we all are doing it all the time. And what is the price we are paid?
Your fat salaries to begin with, since its a bit financialized - returns people get by investing past savings, price of your stock - present value of future cash flows the list ends with only your imagination.
Please do reflect what prices you do pay for it. It is a trade after all. They are taking something for sure. Ask what? Dreams, learnings, memories, wisdom, possibilities or hopes. Ask yourself now - are you ready to barter? Is that thing important to you. Doest it really matter.Is it a deal yet.
It was a overwhelming and warm experience to learn later (except for two actors who were completely blind, we could never guess even if the name of the team was Blind Opera) at the backstage that all of these splendid (for the lack of a better word) actors were either partially or wholly blind!

good morning!

do you ever sleep, or wake up?
how is that you ideate such wonderful mornings!
Mornings that give such joy and freedom.

freedom to choose the course the day will take
and joy that the night is over
but is it always the same for you-morning or not?

thoughts, worries, anxieties and even angst
we dump them in the ocean of silence during sleep
where do you dump them and how?

every day wipe our minds clean like the sincere maid
only to be smeared later with many hues.
why can it not remain like that ?

and this sky? must be your slate
where you work out your sums, write,
draw, paint and definitely erase but what?

these dew drops i walk on,
are they the sweat of your hard toil,
nothing to gain, lose or prove :still you work?

i may probe and probe, but answer you will
only in the silence of my heart. only thing,
wipe my heart clean, your voice be heard!