not an option...never

(September 10th is the world suicide prevention day)

it's not a question of right or wrong,
doesn't matter - effect or even the cause.
compulsion, revulsion or general angst
nothing justifies this act, persuasion or provocation.

can't you see, things don't change,
neighther do people or problems
what is that you want to change,
a change alas! you wont be around to see.

walk, walk again, stumble, rise, rise again
run, dance, weep, jump, shout, cry,
sleep, wake up, wake up again, do whatever,
it only matters till you are here.

ending life is no course, no option,
any other road is a road taken and taken well.
for a dead man reaches nor carries anyone
to any milestones or destinations.

this life, brutish and ugly, may seem to you,
but surely fills up a zig-saw puzzle
hung on a larger canvass of the world,
which loves you so much.
your life is not just yours alone !

two poems

both the poems are by the Great Mystic poet Kabir (for more on Kabir and his works see on this blog http://maybemay.blogspot.com/2008/02/mysticism-of-kabir-great-sufi-saint-and.html )

first poem
Sadho Ye Murdon Ka Gaon
Peer Mare, Pygambar Mari Hain
Mari Hain Zinda Jogi
Raja Mari Hain, Parja Mari Hain
Mari Hain Baid Aur Rogi

This is the land of the dead !

Saints die, Messengers die,
Even the Yogis die too.
Kings die, Subjects die,
Healers and patients both die too.

Chanda Mari Hain, Suraj Mari Hain
Mari Hain Dharni Akasa
Chaudan Bhuvan Ke Chaudhry Mari Hain
In Hun Ki Ka Asa

The moon and sun both have an end,
Sky and Earth too will some day cease
The caretakers of the fourteen astral levels also die
Why in vain aspire for these.

Nauhun Mari Hain, Dus Hun Mari Hain
Mari Hain Sahaj Athasi
Tethis Koti Devata Mari Hain
Badi Kaal Ki Bazi

.The nines(may be a reference to planets) die, tens too die.
Die easily the eighty eight,
The thirty three crore gods die,
Such the Time's great might

Naam Anam Anant Rehat Hai
Duja Tatva Na Hoi
Kahe Kabir Suno Bhai Sadho
Bhatak Maro Mat Koi

Only the Name of the Lord remains,
Only this is truth: All else is lie.
Listen O Sadhu! says Kabir,
Don't Get lost and Die !!


second poem (makes an excellent reading after the first)

(i am working on the translation)

Sakhiya Wah Ghar Sabse Nyara,
Jaha Puran Purush Humara
Jaha Nahi Sukh Dukh
Sanch Jhuth Nahi
Pap Na Pun Pasara
Nahin Din Reyn Chand Nahi Suraj,
Bina Jyoti Ujyara

O friend ! That house is the dearest
Where dwells the fountainhead of vedas.
No joy, no sorrow there
Truth-unthruth none
Virtues and sins all one
Day and night the same, no moon no sun
Where there is illumination without light !
(what is the need of light from outside, when the inner light illuminates the path)

Nahin Tahan Gyan Dhyan
Nahin Jap Tap
Ved Kiteb Na Bani
Karni Dharni Rehni Gehni,
Yeh Sub Jahan Hirani

No use of knowledge or concerntration
Saying rosary, penitance
Holy book,word all superfluos
Karma, manners, rituals
Any matter of the world not there.

Ghar Nahin Aghar Na Bahar Bhitar,
Pind Brahmand Kachu Nahin
Panch Tatva Gun Tin Nahin Tahan,
Sakhi Shabd Na Tahin

No holy residing place there, nothing inside nor outside
No fire and no spark
Five elements melt, three nature's too
Vanish like the Word.

Mul Na Phul Beli Nahin Bija,
Bina Braksh Phal Sohe,
Oham Soham Ardh Urdh Nahin,
Swasa Lekhan Kou Hai

No flowers, fruits or seed
Where fruits ripe, without tree
Holy Om, Soham, This-that concept non-existant
The breath and its control too gone.

Jahan Purush Tahwan Kachu Nahin,
Kahe Kabir Hum Jana
Humri Sain Lakhe Jo Koi,
Pawe Pad Nirvana

There is none but our dearest
Kabir says I realise this
Who sees my Lord's sign,
Attains the goal of liberation.

two stories

Under pressure to write, been more than a month.
Well the real reason for not writing since so long is not clear. I don't want to waste more time on that too.

Here are two stories - Not original. Recounted from hearing / reading.
Both the stories are allegorical in nature and as regards morale of the story - leave it as comment.

Story 1

This is the story about the monkey and GOD.

Once upon a time (qualifies as a story now), there was monkey. It was very curious and exitable. The monkey lost its tail due to some accident. He was very ashamed to face the other monkeys. A beautfiul and long tail was a matter of pride among the monkeys. Our dear monkey was also very proud of his long tail and used to ridicule other monkeys not so fortunate. Now, loosing his tail was very humiliating for the monkey. He began to think of plan.

He called a meeting of all the monkeys. They all came to the meeting, monkeys with small tails, long tails, hairly tails, bald tails, round tails, straight tails all other kinds of tails. They all took their respective seats in many rows. The social position, needless to say was decided on tails ! After all were seated, our monkey made its appearance. Face illuminated with glow, a beatific smile adorning it, walk to put elephants to shame, demenour unparalleled by any other than the king of the jungle.
"I have found GOD. I can see HIM !". These lines were spoken in such supreme confidence and firmity that there was a moment of absolute silence, followed by even more silence. Then, all the other monkeys looked at the monkey with one question written all over their minds "HOW???".

The monkey looked at all other and with a radiant smile broader than Julia Roberts', turned his back towards the audience. What followed was a silence, indescribable. Awe, Shock, Repulse, Joy all intermingled. "Yes, my children (He was one of the youngest of his folk!). You have to renounce your tails. Cut it off and thou shall see GOD and realise HIM".
"Are you nuts??", "What did you have for supper last night??", "Did you have a break-up??", "What the #@$K??", "You must be out of your mind?", "Dont try to trick us", "Whatever" and "A$$H()!%" were some of the audible reactions.
His smile got even broader. "All great people - Galelio, Socrates, Newton, Archemidics were called these names too. You must be patient, my children(again!!). This is a truth ahead of its time, but you can test it now. Can I have one volunteer?".
"Forget it" said all.
"Not one. Not one who believes in me. Not one who has the courage to see the truth."
Mock silence ruled the scene. "I am ready to experiement", said one monkey from behind. He had one of the tiniest tails in the whole community and was almost ashamed of it. Also, he was too fancied and taken away by the monkey-who-had-seen-GOD.
"Come here. Son" The monkey led the other monkey behind the screen.
" Aww !! Oh GOD! " the scream reverberated across the entire jungle.
"Do you see GOD now??" Asked the monkey after it had completely chopped off the tail of the other.
There was bloody horror on the face of the freshly-cut monkey. "What GOD?? I see no GOD. All I can see is you and the axe and my cut tail ! All this is a lie. A big lie. A farce. I am going to bust you in front of all"
"You dont see any God ? Really ? Well, I dont see any either. But now that you tail is cut and cannot be joined back, you better claim as me that you do see GOD! . "Your tail my son is cut anyway ! " saying this he threw the cut tail to the dustbin and placed the axe on the side.

The other monkey took a hard look at his cut tail lying in the dustbin and then looked through the screen at the huge mass of monkeys whispering in utter confusion, waiting for the verdict of THE EXPERIMENT ! He could see they were very eager, looking for a moment at the closed curtains and at their prized taile at the other. Finally, the curtains parted our moneky came out first followed by the freshly-cut monkey.

"WE CAN SEE GOD !!" both of them proclaimed at the top of their voices.

Story 2
The story of the cat and the sparrow.

There was a sparrow on the banyan tree. A cat lived below it. The cat had made innumerable attempts to catch the sparrow but never succeded. One day though she got lucky. The sparrow had lowered its guard and the cat had grown wiser by the attempts.

The cat was very happy and was whistling and thinking about the various spices and ingredients she would put to the sparrow-dish she was about to devour upon. The sparrow was terrified but not without hope. It was thinking and thinking.
It finally managed to get its head out of the claws of the cat, and speak.

" Are you going to eat me right away?"
"Well, what do you think? It's lunch time anyway !"
"Right now?"
"Ah? Yeah. Why ? Is there any problem?"
" No, no problem"
" Then why do you ask?"
"Well. I was thinking, should you not wash off you claws and mouth before you eat me ?"
" Oh, yeah. What a civilized sparrow ! That would be a MAN-thing to do. Wait for a while here. I will go to the stream and wash my claws and mouth real neat!"

By the time the cat came back (nearly 15 minutes later). It could not see the sparrow. It looked around here and there.
" Hi ! there" said the sparrow from the top of the banyan tree.
" Come down. I have washed my claws and mouth. I am ready to eat now."
"You should have eaten me first and then washed your claws and mouth!!"
"From the next time..." said the cat.

a wave

There was a wave.
In the vastness of the sea, in its depths and in its greatness there was this one wave.
It was not too long, it was not too fat,
it was neither too violent, nor was it too silent.
He was not too tall, neither was it too small,
it was not that noisy, it was not also always busy.
It was little restless, and a little nervous but not unlike any other wave.

It was very curious though; its head full of questions. It kept asking one or the other of these questions, Do you know where you are going? Do you know where am I going? Do you know why?
Why does not the sea speak back to me? Who makes these pictures in the sky? When do I get to touch the red, er.. orange oh no yellow ball, and when do I get to touch the white ball that comes out when I can not see anything. Where am I going? For how long?
It asked the other waves, the big ones, the small ones, it asked the birds that flew across, it asked the ships, it asked the dolphins that jumped across it.
Some of them looked at him strangely, some shooed him away, some fell silent after listening to his questions, some even got angry and some just ignored him.

He recollected, when it was very young and started out from the bosom of the sea, though it did not exactly remember how, and had been moving forward for a long long time, it saw something different. He saw some movements he was not familiar with, he saw things he had not seen before, he saw very very big ships that the people called homes or was it hotels, he saw very tall people with very long hairs that they called trees-were not they normal people, its just that they chose to move only their hair now and then. He saw waves that were ahead of him slowing down and meeting the shore.
More importantly he saw something that was not SEA.

He thought he would get answers to all his questions. This is it. The end. No return from here. Final stop. No more of rising and falling and rising and falling again and again. No more traveling without knowing where. That was what he thought.
He was so wrong. As he touched the shore, he remembered how helplessly he was pulled back to the sea, and a few repetitions of pulling and tussling, he was back finally to what he knew he always was - part of the sea.
Since the, he has visited many shores, seen many beaches, many lands, many times over and learnt much more, but he could never forget the feelings he had when he saw the shore for the first time, the eagerness and the helplessness.

He looked up ahead, he could sense some movements again, he could see the tall ships from a distance, he could see the rocks, people-trees and people. He took and deep breath, one hard look at the sea and it was ready, ready for one more time.

three people and four stanzas

When lost in the ocean of life,
a friend is a beacon of light,
and ensures the shore is never out of sight.

Words: mere carriers of thought
Expressions: just manifestations of thought
But when silence speaks the lot
Your friend is your family long lost.

When wars are fought and battles are lost.
when the days are full of desperate thoughts
and you want a place for your tears to burst;
Remember your friends, and you will never feel lost.

When time and distance cease to matter and
crutches of words not needed to send messages through.
Know that you speak the language of love,
Know that your friendship is true !!

(Well now, this is a joint poem : contributers Narasingh, Chinmay and yours truely.
I am not going to point out which lines were contributed by whom, as it hardly matters to the world which flower in a bouquet sends out what smell, it is the smell in totality that matters. I need not tell how am I related to them, because it is too obvious and I really can not exactly.)

Mumbai Chronicles - I and II

This is my third visit to the city.
The first time I was in Mumbai was in 2004. I was with a group to participate in Mood Indigo, the annual fest of IIT Bombay, arguably the best fest in the country. I was only writing poems then and I did write one called 'Lonavla - An invitation'. I must say the city was love at first sight.
The next time I was off to Mumbai was for my summer internship with BPCL in 2006. Two months. What I realised during this time is that one values leisure the most when one has limited access to it. So, whenever I got an opportunity in Mumbai I wrote. In local trains, at the train reservation counter, at the reception counters, at fuel outlets, at cafe's, near the marine drive and some other places I don't remember. I called these pieces - Mumbai Chronicles. I wrote them all on diary, could never put them on a blog.
But now, since I have a blog which I update at some intervals I present Mumbai Chronicles. They are not exactly meant to give you an idea of the city, not as a tour guide, they might tell you about the culture or the cuisine. what they are going to tell you is what I saw, felt and wrote down.
And a promise here - These writings are two years old, and I would not change the language, style or words. I am going to present them as they were written.

date/not/recorded
The world that she could not see and the enigmatic smile

I was looking for a seat near the window knowing that Andheri is some distance ahead of Bandra, and the sweltering heat of June is going to affect your sense of distance. I was lucky to find one seat in front of this little girl to the window of the local train. She was bright, of fair complexion, neatly dressed and wore a fake jewellery. The best and unusual thing about her was her spontaneous and unbridled smile. Then I noticed something more.
Her eyes were damaged. She was very beautiful otherwise but her eyes betrayed. I paused for a moment and my mind crept back into the realms of deep thought.
It really amazed me that she could smile. No touch, no smell and nothing else that se could sense without the sense of vision, but she could find reason to smile.
A stark contrast to all the people around her, who had one more sense organ than her but could not find enough reasons to laugh or even smile.

Is her world more beautiful than the one we see around us ? Is she able to see something beautiful. Looking at the general turmoil and strife all around, I had to concur that her world would be more beautiful in a different way,
She is spared of all the horror that we are forced to see daily with our eyes. She is spared of the unfriendly glances and frown on the faces of men. She is spared of the look of disappointment and helplessness, the stares filled with lust and carnality, the faces painted green with jealosy and uneasiness, of sugar coated bitter hypocrites, of blandishments and above all of falseness. She doesnt see all this.
She is definitely deprived of the loving glance of a mother, the reassuring sight of a father, but then these are relations that were established even when one did not have the distinction of eye, ears and limbs. These relationships do not need the faculty of sight for their existence or fullness unlike many others that we get into as we grow older in life. The balance tilts in her favor I thought.
How many people do we meet who walk with a jump while returning from or going to work, who smile just at the mere sight of birds, who love the paintings made on the canvass of the sky or just when the first drops of rain fall on their faces.

What does she see with her closed eyes then. What light guides the darkness all around her. I could not imagine. I was lost and moist.
Then she got a new seat near the window. A gush of hair kissed her face, ruffled her hair and that gave birth to a smile on her face that I would never forget. The man sitting right there on the seat a while before her could not get that joy. He did not deserve it. She did. Truely !! Fully !!


date/not/recorded
The nightlife at VT - onto thy hands I commend my life

We were walking out of the VT station ( I am going to call it VT only, sorry Shiva Sena and co. but that place was VT, is VT and would remain VT). It was quite late by our standards, midnight to be exact. We saw a somewhat large group of women sleeping on the footpath. It was quite a large group. I doubt they were probably a bunch of travelers or daily laborers. Their children and husbands were all sleeping there on the footpath tiles. They just managed to put something under their heads, mostly their own hands. I was sad at their plight. Now, as I write this I have put on a T-shirt just because I have had a Butterscotch ice-cream today and am fearful of catching a cold.
But those people! No roof, no cover, no protection.
They were sleeping right there where thousands of people and even beasts walk by. Come on, that is called footpath for god's sake.

Suddenly one woman caught my attention. She had her hands raised in salutation to the Great One. She was just about to sleep and in fact had already lied down. I can say with the hunch of a seeker that that she was not complaining. It was a prayer that in the true sense asked for nothing and thanked for everything.
There she was, sleeping on the footpath alongwith her children having nothing yet she could find enough reason to thank god and offer her prayer dutifully. What about us?
How many time we do that - Asking for nothing and thanking for everything.

I remember my grandma or 'Mama' as I called her, even in those days preceding her death would always say her prayers aloud in the evening. She was just another village woman whom you would dismiss as mundane or worldly. She had a very hard life, details of which I reserve. But the regularity of her prayers, her dev0tion to Lord on a regular time was absolute.
Now, who would do with such regularity and for so long if there isn't any sense in it. Who knows what thoughts she had during those few minutes, what blessings she received, what curses she was saved off, what sins were purged or forgiven by the ever-merciful Lord.

As I passed by - I could hear the voice of the woman "Unto thy hands my Lord, I commend my life".



are two years old, and I would not change the language, style or words
03/04/06
The beach at Juhu and the sea

It so happened that I woke up at 5 AM in the morning at did not get back to sleep.This time there was no shock or awe but the city still amazed me with it's joire' de vivre', its magnanimity, its vastness and its pace. Truely 'Amchi Mumbai' has a charm of its own. I meditated or so to say tried to meditate and bring back the broken and shattered pieces of mind together and then went put to the balcony. There waves were barely visible but the noise was ringing in my ears. The lure was compelling. I put on my denim trousers and ventured out to the sea, my feet unaccustomed now to such morning raunches were not in sync with the mind which was speeding past to the sea faster.
Somebody said the last day that Mumbai beaches are nothing compared to the beaches back home at Puri, Orissa. The beaches they said are small, black in colour, filled with dirt and people and that the entire sewage wastes were left out to the sea without any treatment.
The first thing I saw was the sea , and then the sky above it. Colour of both was greyish. I wondered which of these changed its colour to match the other. There was a ring of red colour surrounding the entire skyline. The sea, the sky, the redness; they are the same everywhere. The beach may look different at different places. God made the things same everywhere. Infinite Justice.
The sun rays are impartial to one and the other. The sea wind soothes one and all. The great god and his nature never differentiates.

Then I saw the people. People young and old, mostly old couples walking hand in hand on most occasions. There were a few people who were there alone but most of them came there in groups. Young college students, middle aged men concerned about their ever-increasing waistline, health and fitness freaks, old men troubled by some chronic problems, all were there. Like death, the sea seemed to be a great leveler. All there were walking across the beach, running, exercising and jogging. I wanted to sit there and be a silent observer to the quintessential observer-the sea. But they were all running around me, so I did the same - strolling past the beach with disinterested steps.

Then again I looked at the sea. It was calm on the surface, there were no high waves but it was dynamic and moving nevertheless. Planes were flying past above at regular intervals.
People say that the sea is calm and I thought the same way, but today I saw the sea as an ever-moving, ever changing fast and dynamic being. Beneath the calm extrior there lies a whole world of activity contrast with the lives of men where you find lot of activity outside but little within.
Truely the sea gives you a new lesson each time you visit it.
Let our lives be like sea. Calm, staid and steady outside but a pool of silent activity within the soul. Beneath the calm mind and sedate body let there be ever speeding current towards God. Let the soul fly away and touch the divine shores everywhere.

The city was gearing up slowly for its daily routine of speeding vehicles, noisy horns, running people, busy malls and offices. The city was stretching itself to activity. The giant has woken up.

दो गज कांक्रीट - एक कब्रिस्तान की कहानी

अभी मुंबई आए हुए जुम्मा-जुम्मा दो ही दीन हुए थे | दो ही दिनों में सात घर , चार एजेंट्स ( क्या यह शब्द ' ब्रोकर' से कुछ ज़्यादा इज्ज़तदार है ? ) और तीन लोकेशंस में अपनी शाम इन्वेस्ट करने के बाद मैंने अपनी ' खोली की खोज ' को एक दीन का युधिव्राम देने का नीर्णय ल्या

guys i tried my best........but this translator in blogger is simply not good enough....
i had written in Hindi after a long long time...and this was about a cemetery in Mumbai and the conversation the graves have among themselves....i started with humor but then the discussion veered to sth serious and then it ends in dark humor again....but but..
i really wanted you to read this ...but look at the attempt above ...disrespect to the national language...
so i stop here..till i get better technology or learn to use existing ones better .....
if you want to still hear the piece of writing... call me up or ask me to !!st

Chronicle of a Death Foretold

It's a pleasure to read a book that is not so well known, not a part of 'new arrivals', not a best seller and perhaps not the best work of an author. Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a name that is synonymous with magic realism, writings from the Carriebean, Buendias(from 100 years of solitude), Love at Times of cholera but 'Chronicle of a death foretold'? Well to begin with those who said said do not judge a book by its cover should take a look at this book if they have read it somewhere else or should read it if they have already seen it.This is a very good looking/reading book!
All that a typical Marquez book has to offer, is offered here - the smell of beer, the glory of the protagonist, the wit and insight into the core of the characters, the beaches, the mystical women, the disheveled linen sheets on beds, the shrouds, the solitude, the the blood and the sweat, the earthiness and rawness of the whole writing.

This book recreates a murder that took place in Colombia in 1951. The character who gets murdered - 'Santiago Nasar' is based on a good friend from Márquez's childhood. The other characters, as with Marquez are too based on people whom Marquez knew during his lifetime; one can find similar shades in his other novels. The plot in the book moves backwards: it starts when a reporter, a native of the same town starts documenting the murder, and tries to recreate everything 27 years later when Santiago was murdered and tells who kills them: the rest of the book moves moves back and tells us why, when and how. The writing style is a delightful mix of journalism, detective story writing and quintessential realism of Marquez. Blatant accounts of the murder have been taken from several people - his friends, casual people on the street and even his murderers. Just like a journalistic account. The book also maintains suspense till the end and keeps the reader on the edge, eagerly waiting for the truth to unfold-as with detective stories.
But where Marquez departs into a class of his own is the interwoven realism of the book where the weaknesses of the characters, their strengths, their one-mindedness and repentances are described with brutal honesty. Their reflections and observations on each other provide clues into the thick of the skin of the people. The analysis of the motive of the murderers, their intentions, their hesitations and derived from them the insights into their deepest characters leaves one sympathizing the murderers as much as Santiago. The forcefulness of events and the destined way in which fate acts is portrayed breathtakingly to the point where the reader is left praying that the murder somehow doesn't happen.
After reading the book though all but one questions that still lurks in mind is - WHO ? (and we already know who is the murderer!) The novel was also adapted into a film by Spanish director Francesco Rossi.

transformation

Transformation: Is it a process of evolution, a strategy to grow, an em-betterment, an improvement on the past ? It could be, but most importantly, it is not a matter of choice, it is something we all have to go through, whether we want it or not, whether we are aware of it or not, whether we are currently ready for it or not, it is a process that happens by itself but sometimes it is even a matter of survival.

There is no option but to shed the scales of past and crawl out of it, no matter how painful or long the process might be, how much unfriendly the environment be, how much the odds be stacked against; into a new beginning. The process eventually opens up new realities and makes newer dreams and brighter hopes possible. Could the caterpillar ever dream of flying in the open air, without the process of transformation without the wonderful wings of a beautiful butterfly?

Transformation is essential, and hence the environment that incubates transformation becomes critical. The whole effort is to create an environment conducive and as helpful as possible for that transformation to take place. To put many signboards that would help the builders, the planners, the observers and anyone willing in any way, to find their respective ways to create such a large pool where thousands of caterpillars would find the right impetus to turn into butterflies and get their rightful wings to soar in the skies, at their own will.

well i had written this poem some time back and posted it too..but it has relevance here...

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.

and blink

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.),

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?

kolkata_nokia_aawargi

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.