He liked to see her face the first thing in the morning, her eyes mostly. They gave him a strange sense of excitement, a reminder that all playfulness is not lost, an invitation to see past them, a tickle to his curiosity.
He only had to seek them, and they would respond. Sometimes there was nothing to be said, but only an assurance to be sought, a presence to be felt. Sometimes their eyes started the conversation, their words filled in wherever required and again let the two pairs continue. Sometimes, they shied away from each other, a fear of being caught too long on a hope maybe.
Sometimes he sought them earnestly, when he said something not readily acceptable to a patterned thinking, his thoughts-not easily digestible to a conditioned appetite, his values-too old for an atrophying morality.
He wanted her to feel, what he felt on the top of that mountain, with clouds close to his feet, and sky almost within his fist. He wanted her to hear what the wind whispered to him that night.
He wanted her to see those things, which moved him to tears and laughter but none around him noticed.
He wanted to tell her tales by the night lamp, with their feet cuddled up in blanket in the winters. He wanted her to look at the smile of the little boy at being offered a chewing gum, look at the wrinkles of the old woman who served him hot tea and momos , see the sweat on the brow of the old potter making tea cups.
He wanted her to run on the beach; free, without care and inhibition.
He thought they had time for all of these : she blinked.
Perhaps he wanted too much.
Monday, 26 May 2008
Monday, 19 May 2008
the orange rain
It rained the whole night. And he kept staring at it through the half-open window of his room.
He could not see much due to the darkness of the night and the mango tree that acted as an unwanted umbrella shielding the moonlight.
The sound of the falling raindrops, the noise of the moist, cool wind jostling with wet, washed, shy leaves (were they scrambling for cover or enjoying the flirtatious breeze's advancements?), the occasional croak of frogs and intermittent guffaws of thunder made him constantly remember the rain though. He crept out of his bed, opened the lock of his gate slowly so as not to disturb the sleep of other people in the house, pushed it open with care to reduce the noise of steel against steel. He was out, staring at the duly washed roads: neat, as if someone had just cleaned them with Her own hands for ablution, shining black and wet, reflecting the stray moon-rays that had found their way through the spaces between the jasmine tree branches, like attraction finding way through prejudices. All of the day's dust had been washed away.
Was it utterly necessary to envoice all that he had in mind, did he really mean all that he said or did she ? All his choices directed by reason and reason alone ? No pride, no temptation, no revenge, no desire hidden ? Were his motives all noble ? Did he not know the answer to all his questions ? Did all her words have sincerity behind them; no flippancy, no mock? Was not that a moment's nay many more moment's weakness, a slip-up, an attempt to be something he really did not want to rather was not prepared to be, a hope to see, to find something when that was not there. He knew it, but still he hoped for things to improve. Time, he thought would teach the best. It did, but it was he who was the student.
A lot of dust had settled in. He waited for one more shower of rain.
He could not see much due to the darkness of the night and the mango tree that acted as an unwanted umbrella shielding the moonlight.
The sound of the falling raindrops, the noise of the moist, cool wind jostling with wet, washed, shy leaves (were they scrambling for cover or enjoying the flirtatious breeze's advancements?), the occasional croak of frogs and intermittent guffaws of thunder made him constantly remember the rain though. He crept out of his bed, opened the lock of his gate slowly so as not to disturb the sleep of other people in the house, pushed it open with care to reduce the noise of steel against steel. He was out, staring at the duly washed roads: neat, as if someone had just cleaned them with Her own hands for ablution, shining black and wet, reflecting the stray moon-rays that had found their way through the spaces between the jasmine tree branches, like attraction finding way through prejudices. All of the day's dust had been washed away.
Was it utterly necessary to envoice all that he had in mind, did he really mean all that he said or did she ? All his choices directed by reason and reason alone ? No pride, no temptation, no revenge, no desire hidden ? Were his motives all noble ? Did he not know the answer to all his questions ? Did all her words have sincerity behind them; no flippancy, no mock? Was not that a moment's nay many more moment's weakness, a slip-up, an attempt to be something he really did not want to rather was not prepared to be, a hope to see, to find something when that was not there. He knew it, but still he hoped for things to improve. Time, he thought would teach the best. It did, but it was he who was the student.
A lot of dust had settled in. He waited for one more shower of rain.
Thursday, 15 May 2008
spilt
He lied to her. And often so.
She saw the milk she was boiling for her lonely cup of tea in the evening, spill over. As an involuntary reaction, she caught the handle of the container to lift it up and allow the violent bubbles of milk to settle down to the bottom. She had thrown caution to the window and forgot to use a cloth, in hurry, in misplaced trust, in inconvenient familiarity or in self-belief. Burnt her palm in the act. She had to drop that container back on the burner and spilled more milk.
The gas was still on, the fire still raging . By the time she grabbed her hand with the other, and put her mouth into it to reduce the pain, some more milk spilt.
She finally put out the burner knob.
Ice ! She dashed towards the refrigerator. Her stray elbow dashed against the fateful handle, and some more split.
Few minutes later when she was pouring out the tea out to the cup, the phone rang. It was his phone - she had assigned a different ringtone to his number. She turned around to look.
A lot of milk had been split this evening.
She saw the milk she was boiling for her lonely cup of tea in the evening, spill over. As an involuntary reaction, she caught the handle of the container to lift it up and allow the violent bubbles of milk to settle down to the bottom. She had thrown caution to the window and forgot to use a cloth, in hurry, in misplaced trust, in inconvenient familiarity or in self-belief. Burnt her palm in the act. She had to drop that container back on the burner and spilled more milk.
The gas was still on, the fire still raging . By the time she grabbed her hand with the other, and put her mouth into it to reduce the pain, some more milk spilt.
She finally put out the burner knob.
Ice ! She dashed towards the refrigerator. Her stray elbow dashed against the fateful handle, and some more split.
Few minutes later when she was pouring out the tea out to the cup, the phone rang. It was his phone - she had assigned a different ringtone to his number. She turned around to look.
A lot of milk had been split this evening.
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
understood silence
He was looking out of the bus window, out of no particular desire of his, but to avoid wearing a few fake smiles he no longer wanted to after a long day at office. He wanted to breathe out all the general angst and lack of warmth he had come to identify his office and his colleagues with. A familiar scent of deo disturbed him, a familiar change in the temperature; he looked around, a very familiar face. She paused for a moment and after exchanging hushed greetings took the seat besides him.
Last time he talked to her over phone, she was curt - "yeah" "hmm" "maybe" "i would not know" "nothing" "hmmmm" "everything's OK". It was as if she was struggling to say and few words and really struggling to hold back a few more. Silence, one realizes is the most palatable form of communication. Words, voice only complicate things with and without our permission. They exchanged civilities, asked a few questions that had the answers in them, replied with few more questions and deviations. The silence in between, his raised eyebrows, her downcast eyelids, his rubbing of palms, her looking at her the torn sheet cover, his strange smile, her shifting in the seat and the pauses between their sentences conveyed so much more that what they actually uttered.
Sometimes too much understanding becomes a problem. Then no questions are asked, no anger is expressed, no explanations are given, no excuses necessary. It all becomes so redundant. Nobody is blamed, not even the time, nor the circumstances; everyone is sympathized, understood. Hopes burnt, are seen as clothes that we could do without, dreams crashed are negated as 'mere' dreams, possibility is deemed as inevitability and action or inaction as fate.
Last time he talked to her over phone, she was curt - "yeah" "hmm" "maybe" "i would not know" "nothing" "hmmmm" "everything's OK". It was as if she was struggling to say and few words and really struggling to hold back a few more. Silence, one realizes is the most palatable form of communication. Words, voice only complicate things with and without our permission. They exchanged civilities, asked a few questions that had the answers in them, replied with few more questions and deviations. The silence in between, his raised eyebrows, her downcast eyelids, his rubbing of palms, her looking at her the torn sheet cover, his strange smile, her shifting in the seat and the pauses between their sentences conveyed so much more that what they actually uttered.
Sometimes too much understanding becomes a problem. Then no questions are asked, no anger is expressed, no explanations are given, no excuses necessary. It all becomes so redundant. Nobody is blamed, not even the time, nor the circumstances; everyone is sympathized, understood. Hopes burnt, are seen as clothes that we could do without, dreams crashed are negated as 'mere' dreams, possibility is deemed as inevitability and action or inaction as fate.
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
another day at the office ??
The grand trunk road, the Imambada of hooghly, the church of our Lady of Bandel and Chandanangore Strand were a few things on my mind other than of course my work i.e visiting the Hooghly district hospital at Chinsura for a citizen stakeholder workshop meeting when I started for Chinsura from Kolkata. I could not help but feel being a part of history as my vehicle, an ambassador set on the G.T. road.
Well, the road would have not been the same as it was made by the great Sher Shah Suri, but you could feel the stones, the dust, the old Banyan tress on the wayside looking at you with a warm lively smile on their faces. I read about this road in 'Kim' by Rudyard Kipling and the one thing the small hero 'Kim' felt all the way on this very road was 'the hustle and the bustle of life'. 100 years later lot of things must have changed, except this one. It was still full of life and activity and other than people like me, people there were all busy with life - the young butcher by the road-side playing with the unsure chick, the cycle-repair shop guy with a million holes on his undershirt (ganjee), the fat grocery shop owner by the road side with a thick pair of glasses covered with thick layer of dirt, the improvised (a trolley attached to the back of a very powerful motorcyle of yesteryears - Yezdi) pick-up vehicles carrying ganni bags, the dark woman ducking the smoke out of the chulha while brewing tea on a stained kettle, the youth with finely combed hair and denim with all the time but none of the care in the world, the school girls returning home with umbrella and books in their hands pushing each other, giggling and throwing a short-shy glance at passers-by, the housewives wiping the sweat on their faces with their sarees and haggling with the vegetable vendors over the right price and the price at which they bought the same items last time, the old, bearded rickshaw puller ( who should have been at home and taken care of) waiting for a passenger or something else.
The hot Indian Sun - which made everything so clear and so real and in so your face, on the road forced me to hide from those very things and get into my own cocooned A.C. world in my car. I was trying to hide from a part of myself that told me that I belonged to all this. All this that I saw - the sweat, the toil, the noise, the crowd, the smartness, the folly, the silent understanding, the go-getting of all that.
I reached the District hospital of Hooghly. Got an express entry to the Medical Superintendent's chamber because of my regular calls and my voice. The surprise on his face and more so on the face of a very garrulous lady doctor on the mismatch of their mental picture of myself derived from my voice on phone and my actual appearance with respect to my age was momentary but certain. The Super's room was at the heart of the emergency ward or should I say 'War'. It was a stress test to stand there and keep your sanity - the policemen looking through the corners of their eyes, the nurses crying hoarse among themselves to be heard, the patients, their relatives and unrelated relatives, the group D staff, the 'middlemen' and the 'aam janta'. The noise levels were deafening. During the first few minutes no one knew who was a part of it, who was not, who is speaking, about what and what is the issue. Then the Super asked again (the first time he did that he forgot that he had asked a question and was supposed to listen , yes LISTEN to an answer) - What is the purpose again ? I had to stand up and deliver the same speech I have been delivering at other hospitals - two minutes flat. Silence. Silence again. Then I had to look into the eyes of that garrulous doctor and beseech for a response. She more than obliged me. Then thanks to Super and his Super advices and recommendations and my one-to-one conversations within the noise, the meeting was conducted and I got mostly what I expected. Then thanking everyone two, three times - the first one is always lost to the noise and phone rings! I left for a Ward visit accompanied by the Nursing Superintendent.
They took me to two sample wards - two extremes they said. One was free male ward. I have never seen a war-hospital , neither a disaster health centre but having 120 patients another 200 patient party with patients being kept on ground at spaces between beds, all within a space of a two cricket pitches and only 4 nurses to handle all this, is dear reader 'a disaster'. Disasters we have chosen to ignore, consider normal, call inevitable and even think as unalterable. Yes I had the lenses of the nurses. I saw these young, middle aged and old women, working 8 hours non-stop, without 'coffee' breaks, without a proper place to sit, doing things they are not supposed to do, not being able to do things they ought to do, being physically assaulted, crying hoarse to be heard, without canteen and without safe drinking water facilities available. How could they serve (not work mind you) in such adverse conditions ? I have heard an answer to this question of mine - Money. That was in relation to the army jawans posted at inhuman conditions in Arunachal Pradesh, Saila Pass, Bomla Pass (Indo-China border) and they will or motivation they generate to get on with all this and take all this every single day. I still don't totally agree to it.
She then took me to her room, all white uniformed ladies, shy at first to a stranger, looking with curiosity to this guy from big town (Kolkata). I wanted to tell them how much I was reminded of Anand's(rajesh Khanna in a film by same name) dialogue "why do they call you sister - you should be called mother" , I struggled for words, for expressions to tell them that. Few inquiries, (as a consultant and as a man) later I took their leave. I asked one question in full earnest - I am hungry, where could I get good food here ? The response was the best thing of that visit - their arguments with each other about what would be the best place, which of them would be open now, where could I go fastest, where I should not go. That response was not the kind they would have had for a consultant, for someone from the head office : that was for some other reason. Bannerjee Cabin was the one they settled for and detailed instructions later I was sitting at the place and having my delayed but satiating lunch. It was a most filling and savory one though the taste was not exactly only those of the spices, oil or the physical ingredients.
The rest -
Imambada of hooghly - (pics & video),
Bandel - could not go :(
Note - (from wiki - The Grand Trunk Road (commonly abbreviated to GT Road) is one of South Asia's oldest and longest major roads. For several centuries, it has linked the eastern and western regions of the Indian subcontinent, running from Bengal, across north India, into Peshawar in Pakistan.Today, the Grand Trunk Road remains a continuum that covers a distance of over 2,500 km. From its origin at Sonargaon in the Narayanganj district of central Bangladesh, it reaches India, passing through Kolkata, Bardhaman, Durgapur, Asansol, Amritsar, Varanasi, Allahabad, Kanpur, Agra,JALANDHAR, Delhi, Kurukshetra and Ambala. Within India, the major portion of the road – the stretch between Kanpur and Kolkata – is known as NH-2 (National Highway - 2), the stretch between Kanpur and Delhi is called NH-91 (National Highway - 91), and that between Delhi and Wagah, at the border with Pakistan, is known as NH-1.
From the Pakistan border the Grand Trunk Road continues north through Lahore via Gujranwala, Gujrat, Jhelum, Rawalpindi, Attock District and Nowshera before it finally reaches Peshawar.),
Monday, 28 April 2008
what makes us US?
In relation to men and women, what both don't realise sometimes in their incessant efforts to get better or get different is that, the core of their beings is almost unchangeable/unalterable and what they may do at best is manage an impression of it and that too for a very short interval of time. It would also be very ordinary and foolish on their parts to seek regard and care of the other for anything other than that core. Change, if any is to be measured by the magnitude of it and with respect to the core of that person. Again, we have to guard against the perception of change (for the concerned person and for concerned observers) as against real change - look for the actions rather than the words, look for behaviour rather than the claims, look for results rather than the intent.
The best features or rather the main features that makes a man him(what he is) and makes a woman her(what she is), other than of course his/her actions could be many and vary according to taste but that they would be of something of more static and permanent of nature is beyond debate.
With respect to a woman :
the light in her eyes
the liveliness of spirit
the tenderness in her touch
the perseverance in her breath
the depth of her forbearance
the strength of her soul
With respect to a man :
the sincerity in his eyes
the intensity of his brows
the trust on his forehead
the truth in his voice
the assurance pronounced by the sound of his footsteps
the strength of his character
Now how much can one do about one or some of these things. If we reflect upon the way we spend our days and things we do to make a change, to ourselves and to what we want to project of ourselves, we would realise that we hardly scratch the surface of those core areas. Even if we realise that these are the things we should do something about, how much can we actually do; say with only our volition?
The best features or rather the main features that makes a man him(what he is) and makes a woman her(what she is), other than of course his/her actions could be many and vary according to taste but that they would be of something of more static and permanent of nature is beyond debate.
With respect to a woman :
the light in her eyes
the liveliness of spirit
the tenderness in her touch
the perseverance in her breath
the depth of her forbearance
the strength of her soul
With respect to a man :
the sincerity in his eyes
the intensity of his brows
the trust on his forehead
the truth in his voice
the assurance pronounced by the sound of his footsteps
the strength of his character
Now how much can one do about one or some of these things. If we reflect upon the way we spend our days and things we do to make a change, to ourselves and to what we want to project of ourselves, we would realise that we hardly scratch the surface of those core areas. Even if we realise that these are the things we should do something about, how much can we actually do; say with only our volition?
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
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
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
Friday, 28 March 2008
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.
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.
Monday, 17 March 2008
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.
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.
Friday, 29 February 2008
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.
Monday, 25 February 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 19 February 2008
"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"
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"
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
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.
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.
Monday, 4 February 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
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?
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?
Thursday, 17 January 2008
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!!!
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!!!
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
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 !!
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 !!
Tuesday, 27 November 2007
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