Our Soul Connection

That Poem Called Life

2011-11-20T03:36:00.000-08:00

Poetry is about finding life in the silence of sleepy summer afternoons in Delhi of the past, in murky flashes of lights in dingy pubs reeking of garlic, spices and tobacco, in the simple weaving of a humble weaver, in the gurgles of the bi-cycle tyres as they meander their ways through flooded Mumbai by-lanes....and if it is Gulzar, chances are you will find life in the imagery and visualise yourself as the protagonist sharing a parallel existence, living each moment of the metaphorical literary utopia while his deep throated voice resonates in your ears!

Rich in literary speech yet simplistic to the point of innocence, Gulzar’s musings are a treat to those craving for an intellectual stimulation as well as the ordinary man who yearns to express himself and capture the memories of human realisations in phrases and couplets.

In a 90-minutes poetry session at Singapore’s esteemed Esplanade Concert Hall, the poet and lyricist teams up with Pavan Varma, another literary genius and the Indian Ambassador to Bhutan, and encapsulates the essence of romance...towards life. “Shayeri is about life,” the poet begins his session with the magical statement.

Needless to rationalise, his inspiration from the simple everyday business of life is well reflected in his writings. His metaphors leave the audience enthralled. From that night in the mountains where two waterfalls converse like two long lost rustic friends having suddenly met to finding the elixir of life in the birth of his grandchild, to the thoughts that burnt and continued to live amidst the ashes, his literary acumen emotes perfectly in harmony with the sensitive articulation of a poet, a lover, a father and a friend.

Pavan Varma does a fair job in translating some of Gulzar’s works in English for a wider audience, yet, somewhere between the lines, the beauty of the language is lost. His own sonnets from a collection called Yudhishthir and Draupadi are, however par excellence and take his insightful interpretation of an episode in Mahabharata to a new level. Gulzar’s transliteration of the collection recreates the charm in a new flavour retaining the essence of the original yet adding a personal tint to the analysis.

At the end of the evening, as I have traversed miles in a parallel space with the duo, exploring various facets of human nature, relationships, articulating the innate unsaid feelings, contemporary and in reflection, am left with a mixed sense of contentment and a craving for more....and yes, his last poem “Meghna” does leave me with very moist eyes.

The Three Musketeers

2011-09-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

Yes, those three strong identities that never say die are Me, Myself and I.
Sometimes you really need to fall hard on your face to bleed and realise that life's best lessons leave their signs on the road....yes, literally! I am not here to give went to any venom or seek pathos from onlookers, I am here to tell myself, no matter what, God has created me for me and my association with all else is just a bonus.
To my three musketeers, Shalom again!
Me

Sir

2011-09-25T05:19:00.001-07:00

It is impossible that you could miss him in a crowd. And had Shokhanaath Sikdar ever shared a first-class compartment on a long-distance Kolkata-bound train of the Indian Railways with Ray’s Lal Mohan Ganguly, I am convinced the latter would have definitely wanted to “cultivate” Mr Sikdar. Though almost separated-at-birth-twins with Mr Ganguly, the resemblance further accentuated by accessories such as a brown monkey-cap and a red and blue checked muffler, Mr Sikdar had a distinguished and unique style of his own.

His day started early fighting with the neighbourhood paperboy, he called Khoka. Each daybreak, Khoka would toss the popular morning daily, neatly tied in a roll, and throw it across Mr Sikdar’s coveted south-facing 7x 3 ft verandah adorned with money plants, a pottedtulsi and some kamini flowers. To an onlooker, the blue-walled balcony adjoining the cramped living room was nothing beyond a slice of additional space generously used as a clothesline. Between Mrs Sikdar’s printed cotton nighties and petticoats, there was just enough room for an old cane chair and two low choir stools. In all, the weaving had fallen loose, but it did not bother Mr Sikdar, nor kept him away from his private haven, and he fought to conserve its authenticity as the truly intellectual corner in his middle class suburban home. Khoka and his Olympic style paper tossing was a constant threat to that preservation. Mr Sikdar had repeatedly warned Khoka that it in the past, his rough and uncouth attacks had hurt the kamini buds and snapped a portion of the money plants, both signs that were considered inappropriate, but the boy had paid no heed.

After calling out names, each morning Mr Sikdar would sit down in this blue space, reading the morning newspaper from the first word on the front page, browsing through headline news to classified pages including quack aphrodisiacs and gauging the impacts of planetary movements and their predictions on his less celestial life. Once he had Rahu and Ketu’s orbits sorted, dipping thin-arrowroot biscuits in his tea, he would always attend to the matrimonial, obituaries and all the other components that spiced up an ordinary man’s life in an otherwise monotonous setting.

After retirement from his job as the mathematics teacher of a government higher secondary school, Mr Sikdar’s world had become confined to the blue walls of his modest one-bedroom flat. Mrs Sikdar, childless and ageing had begun to complain of gout, since she stepped into her 50s, and now her days were all spent in cooking a simple meal for the two, a few religious rituals and watching melodramatic soap operas on Bangla television.

From his cane chair on the verandah, Mr Sikdar would watch her getting engrossed in the high-pitched family dramas on the idiot box, often so much that she would emote with the characters on screen. At times, he had even caught her crying with the innocent and cursing the wicked and scheming faces on television. Mr Sikdar, who grew up in an age when television was a rarity and being a couch potato was sinful would wonder how a 50-year-old woman could get so carried away by something so unreal and distant.

Apart from the TV, the blue-walled modest living room had a sofa cum bed. This was meant to be the most decorative and most expensive of furniture the Sikdars had ever bought. It was the pride of the living room. A student’s mother, out of sheer respect for Mr Sikdar’s Mathemagical brilliance had gifted a self-created set of appliqué cushion covers for the sofa cum bed. On occasions when there were guests in the house, and it happened rarely though, this was used as the extra bedding for the special visitor.

But of course, there was a brilliant laminated family photograph of three generations, proudly displayed on the TV top that you couldn’t miss. On a rare moment, when all the three generations of Sikdars had taken a Kundu Special tour to Darjeeling and the entire family of primary school teachers, bank managers and government servicemen had pooled in all the LTC they got, booked company holiday homes and managed to spend a week basking in their own glory in the Himalayan town. The photograph was a memoir of that rare moment one morning, when all the Sikdars, including the young ones Dollar and Sonnet (Mr Sikdar’s youngest brother was a bank manager. His convent educated wife had a fetish for English names and after the twin boys were born, she used her obsession with an overpowering vengeance thereby dismissing all alternate suggestions made by other family members) had arranged themselves proudly in three rows. The men in bright mufflers and hand woven pullovers at the back, the women in wet flowing tresses over cardigans and sarees were seated in between, and the children in road picked Bhutia jackets were kneeling down at the front. The group was facing the sparkling white mountain range with the holiday home as backdrop. Though proud to be framed in a perfect Suraj Barjatiya style family frame, none of them noticed or remarked upon the fact that there would be proof of the mighty Kanchenjunga in the photograph.

Till date, the pride associated with this photograph knew no limits and though neighbours and friends tried to often contest the value of this priceless piece of Sikdars, none were successful so far.Once, Mr Sikdar’s next door neighbour Shambunath Pal, tried to flaunt a photograph that showed his grandson standing below the Eiffel Tower. Now Mr Pal, unlike Mr Sikdar was not a man with many degrees (“uneducated businessman” in Mr Sikdar’s words). He ran a saree shop in one of the bustling districts of the city and had amassed a lot of wealth. A considerable portion of that wealth had gone into sending his only son Babushona to a private engineering college in Bangalore. Babushona, once his engineering degree was earned managed to do an MBA and find a job in a company that was doing a project with a French multinational. Needless to say, Mr Pal, much to the resentment of Mr Sikdar, was extremely proud of the fact that in a family where matriculation was considered sacred, Babushona had added so much glory so as to live in “bilet” or foreign shores out of his own academic steam.

So one day when Mr Pal brought out the picture of the Eiffel Tower and challenged Mr Sikdar on the pricelessness of photographs, Mr Sikdar looked unshaken. Studying the picture with the spectacles right at the tip of his sharp nose, he raised an eyebrow and said, “Hmmm....mane thik e ache, tobe oi amader Howrah Bridge taye beshi loha bodhoi,” (seems ok, but methinks our Howrah Bridge has more iron in it).

It only happened by a sheer conspiracy of fate that I landed up at Mr Sikdar’s door one hot and sultry summer afternoon. Let me explain. Mr Sikdar’s ‘almost umbilical’ ties with a government boys school was destined to weave into my life as soon as I met and fell in love with the brightest and best student the school had ever trained. My fiancé, Sid (Shiddharto to his teachers and all the other trails of his past life) was Mr Sikdar’s favourite student in his entire teaching career. The boy, the first in his school to crack the indomitable IIT entrance exam, as he recalls and narrates to all he knows was the “Braaitest” student he taught.

All that was more than a decade back! And Sid’s life, interim had undergone several changes. From the IIT Campus in Kanpur, he had moved to Rutgers for a Masters and ever since the lure of the greenback and the thrill of international recognition had kept him committed to sharing his bright intellect with the US of A. But he hadn’t forgotten his teacher. “I owe it to him in a way,” he would say.

Since I was travelling to India, Sid insisted I dropped by Mr Sikdar’s residence and paid him a visit. He even bought a shiny Kenneth Cole watch for his teacher and jokingly called it a “delayed but brandedgurudakshina”. I knew the significance of this teacher in shaping the man I adored, so I agreed without further debate.

So on a hot uneventful summer afternoon, I cajoled myself and took a drive down the by-lanes of suburban Kolkata and landed up straight in the blue walled living room of the Sikdar’s.

“Are you also an engineer like him?” Mr Sikdar asked me as he gestured for me to sit on the prized sofa cum bed. He had not even offered me a glass of water as yet! Fearing that my IQ level was at stake and I might be subject to solving brain racking Calculus before my eligibility to sit on the sofa were decided, I sat down quickly and replied “No No, am into literature” then added stupidly enough, “My Math sucks!”

“What?”

“Er, I mean, I am scared of Math.”

“What are you saying? How can you be scared of Math? What is there to be scared? Only the dumb, dull and lazy are scared of Math,” Mr Sikdar almost roared in front of me.

“Aha...why are you scolding her? She is not your student,” Mrs Sikdar came to my rescue with a glass of red liquid.

I folded my hands in greetings and took the glass from her.

“Rooh Afza...I got it from Moni’s dokaan just yesterday. Dekho to kheye kemon? (See how it tastes!)”.

I smiled gratefully at her and sipped into the over sweetened artificial flavoured drink. But on a hot afternoon, it did not taste as bad as I had feared.

Mr Sikdar seemed put off by my presence. He sat on a stool, a little away measuring me up inch by inch. Perhaps even contemplating how his brightest student could even consider a life with a woman who did not enjoy calculus or trigonometry. I realised I had goofed up by touching the most sensitive passions of his life...mathematics! Not really thrilled about being classified in a category of “dumb, dull and lazy” I dug into my purse and took out the gift that Sid had sent to appease Mr Sikdar.

“What is this?” He still seemed unsure if I could be trusted.

“It’s a small gift Sid has sent you.”

“Sid? Who is that? Oh, Shiddhartho!” he said while opening the wrapper and seemed utterly delighted as he saw the gift. “Baah...please say my thanks to him,” he stood up as he spoke clearly indicating that our conversation ended here.
Sensing that I had little reason to linger on, I got up to leave, when Mrs Sikdar stopped me.

“Oki? Where are you going? Ei bhor dupure na kheye chole jabe naki? Ami bhaat boshiye diyechi. Kheye jeo. (how can you leave in this hot afternoon without having lunch? I have started cooking rice for you. You must eat with us).

I thanked her for her hospitality and looked nervously at Mr Sikdar. She perhaps sensed my discomfort and said, “He’s like that. Doesn’t speak much with anyone. Plus, today, they have the Higher Secondary result coming out. He’s tensed.”

“Oh,” I said and smiled with relief. It wasn’t me. The old teacher was anxious because of the board examination results.

She asked me to call her “mashima” and invited me to her little kitchen. I drew a small pidi (a raised wooden platform) and sat watching her chop potatoes and onions on a traditional bothi and marvelled at the finesse of that art. She asked me what I did in America, if I cooked at home, if posto was available in Houston and yes, if I could watch Bangla serials on television. There was something so sweetly simple about this middle-aged lady that I fell at ease immediately and even the ordinary meal of daal-bhaat and alu posto in a shabby oil stained kitchen tasted utterly divine.

Just as I was about to wash my hands after the meal, I heard a loud commotion outside the house. In few minutes, I saw a swarm of young boys rushing into the room, all talking at once and falling at Mr Sikdar’s feet while he shouted excitedly, “Ki holo? Kemon holo?” (What is it? How is it?).

One of the boys, a shy dark lean one in very simple ordinary clothes came forward from the group and touched his feet. “Sir, I got a rank. Not sure if first or second as of now, but I scored the highest in the district.”

Mr Sikdar hugged him to his bosom and said only one word, “Baah...!”

And I could see all the pride, the affection, the support and the intensity of appreciation encapsulated in that little word.

Then, he picked up the watch Sid had so fondly bought for him and asked the boy to stretch his hands.

On his bare wrist, he clipped the watch and said...”This is your prize.”

As I stood at the kitchen door with Mashima, witnessing the simple selfless act of an old teacher, whose only dedication in life was to shape the lives of others, whilst he continued his own modest living, I realised why Sid had such high regards for his man who never claimed his portion of the victory but nobly passed the baton of glory and success from one hand to another through generations.

Raga & Rabindranath

2011-07-28T07:12:00.000-07:00

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the hear of time, love of one for another.

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times...
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.

What better words to describe Rabindranath’s intensity as a philosopher, poet and songwriter than these? And that we remember him to this date as the greatest poet of all times “in life after life, in age after age, forever”?

I can’t remember where I heard the first Rabindrasangeet of my life. It was just about everywhere, in every nook and corner of my parental home and I stumbled upon it at all times....Baba crooningAmar matha noto kore dao hey tomar choronodhular tole.. in the shower, Mamma humming Aaro aaro probhu aaro aaro.. in the kitchen as she moved her ladle in a soft Rabendrik dance motion, and the morning radio that religiously had a slot for threeRabindrasangeet each morning as I struggled with my Bonny Mix and shoe laces and rushed to school.

I did not understand the depth or meaning of these songs as a child, but like nursery rhymes, Abol Tabol and Thakumar Jhuli, they were a part of my growing up. My bed time story was Birpurush, the car-stereo always boomed with Debabrata Biswas; Pochishe Boishakh was as important as my own birthday, and Gitabitan found a place on the bed-side table. Baba was an ardent Gurudeb follower and Mamma’s Viswabharati background built up an ambience that cultivated Tagore in everyday life.

I remember my first solo dance performance on stage. I was barely five then and Kothayo amar hariye jawar nei mana was nothing but a lyrical fairy tale to me. What my innocent mind didn’t understand was that there was a deeper philosophy hidden beneath those seemingly simple words. Only later in life, as I began to discoverTagore’s unrestricted spiritualism in his writings, through his philosophy, did I realize how this was all reflected in the way he composed music.

The words found new meaning; the aestheticism was not lost in translation as alphabets transcended the level of sensory perception and evolved as more profound, sensitive and spiritual realizations. And then an open, boundless, unrestricted, uncorrupt mind that saw no horizon, no boundaries, was revealed to me.

Since then there has been no moment in my modest life, neither in wakefulness nor in dreams that is not influenced or inspired by the poet of all poets. Tagore’s profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful verses have found life in my personal expressions in all human form; making it difficult to sift Puja, Prem from depiction of Prokriti in everyday life sometimes. Beyond the conservative understanding, they all seem to merge in a more metaphysical overlap.

Have I not sat by the window on many afternoons watching a storm rise over the horizon, the low dark nimbus clouds caressing the tips of the rice fields, humming softly to myself...

Tumi Jodi dekha nahi dao koro amaye hyela? Kemon kore kaate amaar emon badol byela?

and revisited my inner self over and over again....?? Was it Puja, Prem or Prokriti?

Does it not lead me to think even deeper? Is there actually a line of demarcation? Isn’t everything around us including ourselves a part of that greater scheme in nature, a piece of that divine design called life? What is not divine then?

Jogoto juure udaar shure anando gaan baaje, shey gaan kobe gobhiro robe bajibe heeya maajhe

Batasho jolo akasho aalo, shobare kobe bashibo bhalo, hridoyo shobha juriya tara boshibe nana saaje

Tagore is not just a poet we read to enrich our literary acumen, he’s not just an artist who saw the world on a canvas different from others, he’s not just a composer who blended his poetry with music in a magical communion; Tagore, to me, is a philosophy, a harbinger of life that teaches us to live, to laugh, to love and above all, to win with pride and battle failures with courage, in life after life, in age after age, forever....

As the world joins hands to celebrate the greatest poet’s 150^th birth anniversary, I shall leave you with these thoughts from Gitanjali....

My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers.

My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.

Philosophically yours

Ananya

All the World's a Stage...

2011-07-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

When the third bell rings and backstage murmurs fade, theatre lights are dimmed and the curtain is raised. In Stage Utopia, the life of an actor begins with conjuring a tale that persuades you to laugh and cry with him in the next few hours, and ends with bringing you on your feet in a rush of applause or sending you home with a lingering thought to ponder upon much after the applauds have faded into silence.

However, in today’s i-centric social context, (and I don’t just mean iPods, iPhones and iPads), the power, impact or success of theatre as a tool of any socio-political revolution is debatable.

“Although the primary purpose of theatre is to engage an audience with their imagination through a shared time and space, once that has been achieved it is possible to draw their attention to pressing
socio-political issues. At that time of performance it is possible to evoke strong feelings among the audience. But once they leave the theatre, how much of what they experienced they will carry forward into their lives is hugely speculative,” Mahesh Dattani, Indian director, actor and playwright, observes.

Mahesh, who has many successful and popular plays like Final Solutions, Dance Like a Man, Bravely Fought the Queen, On a Muggy Night in Mumbai, Tara, and 30 Days in September to his credit also feels that Indian theatre is at a crossroad at the moment. “We are at crossroads with our form-heavily borrowed from western models and yet, self-consciously aware of our roots.”

However, the first playwright in English in the country to be recognised with the Sahitya Akademi Award, quickly adds that he is optimistic about the future of theatre in India and sees a great deal of talent amongst young theatre practitioners.

“I am confident they will create a theatre that is alive and relevant to our times. I find more and more youngsters are aware that theatre gives them training and discipline. They can also do cinema or television which is definitely more paying. Yes, there are thousands and thousands who would love to do cinema or television under the misguided assumption that is more rewarding in outreach and money, but these are the ones who rarely make it. Not on their own steam, at least” Mahesh says.

So where does its future lie in the hands of those who are truly passionate about it? “Theatre eventually would go in smaller spaces as cities get more and more unwieldy, offering an intimacy between the performer and the spectator, and that is where its power will lie,” he predicts.

Mahesh ends our conversation by sharing an interesting anecdote, one of the many rewarding experiences he has had in many years as a playwright: “I remember once after my play Final Solutions on the Hindu-Muslim divide, a young man came up to me and said he was Bobby but his name was Babban. After watching the play he found pride in who he was and was thinking of changing it back to Babban. A character in my play has the same name and issue.”

Mahesh’s personal experience only corroborates my belief that theatre, no matter how “unprofitable” in terms of numbers on a cheque might be, is that powerful instrument of performing arts that can change perceptions, alter lives or provoke you to think what may have escaped your rationale otherwise. Theatre is not about deception. It’s simply about presenting a tale that relates to you and me, the portrayal of a truth that often might go unnoticed in the ordinary business of life.

Heeya

2010-11-23T04:56:00.000-08:00

“With now the rainy month stood close at hand,

To fresh Kutaja blooms he adds his plea
And asks most courteously the cloud bring news
Of welfare to his loved-one — words that she,
Revived to hear of him, will understand...”

She looked up from the pages of the book she was reading. It was titled ‘My Rain Song’, her first novel inspired much by the yearnings of Kalidasa’s Meghdootam. Her kohl-smudged eyes were intense with literary passion and her voice trembled at the chords her soul struck with each verse of the magical narrative. The late afternoon sun sieved its way through the branches and leaves of a tall tree and fell on her beautiful face, leaving little beads of glistening sweat on her forehead. In that mystical tone of light and shade, even in that modest setting, she looked like a poem, he thought. The realisation left a little tug at some of the forgotten emotions deeply buried in his heart. Time hasn’t really changed the way he felt by just looking at her...even if on a television screen from a distance.

He hated weekends like these when he was left alone to fend for himself. On other days, Shankar, his Man Friday since the years of his youth would clean the cars, water the garden, prepare lunch, and do all the household chores. But of late, Shankar had suddenly taken to spiritualism and left him all alone to attend a guru’s religious discourse in another part of the town. In other times, he would have assumed it was some woman or a C-grade X-rated film that kept him off the hook for a whole day, but like him, Shankar too was ageing and perhaps the likelihood of a metaphysical inclination was more than physical hunger, he rationalised.

He looked at the watch, reached for the phone and dialled a number. It was already quite late. The modest restaurant around the corner of the road, the only one in the neighbourhood, served good Chinese food. He ordered a plate of Hakka noodles and Chicken Manchurian. The boy who took the order said he knew the address. He had been delivering take-away parcels for many years.

Beautifully ambushed in a green canopy of tall trees and tucked amidst the dense floral abundance of scarlet-red clusters of the Forest Flame and white orchids, far far away from the pandemonium and speed of urban life was his softly- lit timeless little acre of land—he called it Heeya, the sanctuary of love, as she had wanted. It outlined and encapsulated the soul of the land on it which the colonial-styled house was built. On a little plaque, beside the wooden gate (she hated large iron doors) the name was inscribed and it shone under the light of a yellow lamp carved out of the bark of a tree. The dimly-lit garden lights created an interesting pattern on the dark foliage.

His was the last cottage on this boulevard separated from the national park by a stretch of empty land and a little feral brook. The red brick-walled porch overlooking the garden that rolled down to the forest had been converted into a warm and cozy sitting area, by strategically hanging glass lamps and placing potted palms in ceramic and terracotta basins. This is where he lazed on late winter afternoons such as today, on a huge bean bag sketching, taking a nap or simply observing the activities and movements of the plants and animals.

The delivery boy was not late. To satiate the overwhelming hunger, he slowly walked up to the porch with his plate and sat down. The dying sunlight was playing on the leaves of grass, teasingly hiding behind the swaying branches of the Forest Flames. Evenings fell early in the forests and especially in the winters, the cold mist started to rise from the moist earth, looming like a mysterious dream over the landscape as soon as the sun went down.

His eyes fell on the odd- sized bean bag he had especially ordered for this space. “Why should bean bags be always single-seaters? Can’t two people share a moment of complete careless comfort together?” she had once asked. Biting into the late lunch, he thought of her again. Perhaps if she were here, they would be cuddled up in a warm shawl, eating out of the same plate, watching the slow movements of nature, comprehending the language of the cricket appearing and then disappearing from the bracken ferns and wild rose shrubs. “When our minds are uncluttered, we seek for visions of our own lives by observing others,” she would have said.

They had met by chance at the local tea stall one summer afternoon just after the semester exams were over, when the campus was a little less crowded with enthusiastic freshmen and overwhelming senior students. She was alone, he had noticed; simply dressed in a pair of faded denims and a white cotton shirt, with very little make up and completely oblivious to the attention she commanded. Sitting across an old bench opposite him, she had ordered a glass of tea and opened a book. She must have been a fresher on the campus, yet so much at ease with the surroundings as if she always belonged here. There was something about that selective indifference that attracted him.

Their eyes met when a few of his friends dropped by to exchange pleasantries with him breaking into the trance. From his demeanour and especially that of his comrades, she could gauge he was popular. Probably, a student leader of sort, she thought and dismissed the idea of looking any further.

A few weeks later, he saw her again standing at the library porch, waiting for an untimely drizzle to stop. Her hands were full of thick hard bound books that she clutched close to her breasts, the long and curly auburn locks with droplets of rain stuck on them fell on her anxious face as she looked up at the thunderous clouds.

When the rain didn’t stop for over an hour and both of them stood helplessly looking at the tempestuous sky, a casual conversation began.

“Doesn’t look like it will ever stop,” he said.

“I have been waiting for almost an hour now,” she replied with a smile and added, “had it not been for the books, I would have walked out in the rain.”

“I have a plastic bag here, if that can help,” he took out a sheet of polythene from a pile of art material he was carrying.

They walked a few blocks together, letting the rain wash away the hesitance of unfamiliarity and doubts, and began discovering each other, and from that started an era of love, friendship, comradeship and commitment. He could never see life beyond her.

Geographies, boundaries, relationships, emotions and expectations hadn’t remained the same. Yet, nothing had changed. He still felt her presence in his system, stronger than ever before. To distract his thoughts from the overpowering sense of loneliness, he decided to go out for a long drive.

The road to the town was not peculiarly empty, as was common on winter evenings, especially on weekends. He sped up, slicing through the cold breeze in his high powered jeep. Age has had little restrictions on his intrinsic bohemian nature. He still thought rage and a furious speed could stop the unwanted pain cringing in his heart. He was nearing the city outskirts, and traffic signals began to appear one after the other. As he pulled the brake at the junction, he looked around the growing suburban townships. He could somehow never connect to this new look and feel of his once-favourite city in the world. The peripheral small towns were reeking with self-proclaimed bouts of modernism, the me-too syndrome of mushrooming middle class mufassils,...all of which seemed to only conceal the city’s true identity and blended it with any another metro in the world. This was the primary reason he chose to find his Heeya about 40 kms away from the city din.

05, 04, 03, 02, 01....the traffic light blinked and turned green. His wheels roared and he was just about to press the accelerator when a woman jumped out of a taxi parked on the road side tugging along a heavy trolley suitcase and landed right in front of his speeding jeep. He pulled the handbrakes as quickly and instinctively as he could and managed to halt just in the nick of time.

“Are you blind?” he screamed at her.

Completely shaken and horrified by a near to death experience with her fair face turned white, she managed to hold herself on her feet and looked up.

“Goodness Gracious! Is that how you drive?”

The voice was too familiar to be mistaken; even the overflowing sweetness hidden in the reprimand was way too known. He jumped out of the jeep.

Yes, those large floating eyes with the kohl slightly smudged—the ones that glistened during sunshine and made the imperfect crow’s feet look like a childish error by the divine craftsman, the ones that gleamed when she smiled and lit up his world.

“Hop in, let me give you a life,” he took the suitcase from her and opened the jeep’s door.

“You were killing me a moment ago. Thank you, I’ll take another taxi home.”

“Trust me, I’ll drop you there faster than any other mode of transport. And you won’t find too many taxis plying from here to where you need to go. Why did you leave that one?”

“He had a problem with some driving permission. Not allowed to go beyond the city area or something to that effect,” she replied, settling on the co-driver’s seat.

He rolled up his sleeves, and started the engine. “I saw you on television, looking wise and reading out excerpts from My Rain Song.”

“Thanks, I am flattered,” she smiled.

“Do you want something to drink..ah, if you have time for coffee, maybe?”

“No, thanks. I want to go home. I am tired.” He sensed reluctance in her voice.

“Sure, no worries,” he said and sped up.

There was a nip in the air as they drove through the dark empty highway only intermittently lit by halogen lamps. He turned on his favourite “Buddha Bar” on the car stereo and she looked away at the distant trees flying past them.

“Stop there on the left, you nearly missed the turn. That’s where I stay if you remember.”

“Me too,” he said sheepishly, a little embarrassed at having being inattentive and missed the turn.

He parked the jeep and opened the door for her, pulling down the trolley suitcase from the rear seat.

“Aren’t you coming home?” she looked at him, surprised.

“If you don’t scold me anymore. I am sorry...” he said biting his nails.

“Stop that,” she snapped and broke into a smile immediately. “You can get away with murder with me,” she said looking straight into his eyes.

“Then what is making you stop here in the middle of the road, Mrs Stubborn Blockhead?”

“You, Mr Stubborn Blockhead. Open the door. I left without the keys....”

“Trust you, and I couldn’t find mine since you left home that night...”

“What do you mean? Where’s Shankar? You left home for a drive without locking the door?

“No I found them later under the window pane. “

“What crap! But the door is locked. Now where are the keys?”

“I gave them to you.”

“Liar..when did that happen?”

“Sorry...no! Oh shit, I left them in the jeep and locked the door with the keys inside.”

“Trust you....grrrrrrr. Now help me jump over the gate and wait at the porch for dearest Shankar to return from his spiritual actualisation session. ”

The night was windy and as they stopped at the patio door, the Japanese glass bell swaying over their heads chimed in a rather discordant but sweet jingle. The argument continued, the abuses and accusations followed only to be wrapped up by an overflowing spirit of forgiveness and love, as the two found their place in the odd-shaped bean bag—perhaps the only one in the world that wasn’t created to be a single-seater. It housed their carefree comfort of being imperfect, yet together.

Boomerang

2009-12-14T08:14:00.000-08:00

I love her and I can’t lose her ever, to anyone. She’s mine and she belongs to me; wherever she is, in whatever she does, whoever she is with. It was destined to be that way. And I believe in the power of Maktub. You may call it my obsession or write it off as an idiosyncratic disorder of heightened passion and extreme possessiveness of a maverick. Call it whatever you want to, I don’t care. I hate anyone who tries to come between me and her and I swear to God, I can cheat, steal or kill if I must, to protect my love. I am in love with her like I have never loved another person, and I have a right to destroy anything that stops me from reaching her. Yes, I am an iconoclast. I don’t believe in traditions, nor do I subscribe to the norms of fearing the inevitable wrath of the Supernatural. She’s my God, the divine that I completely submit myself to, the omnipotent, omnipresent remote control of my senses, my intellect and my emotions. And nothing and no one is allowed the liberty to trespass into my territory. Yes, am crazy about her, am insane, you might say. But I can’t refute that woman’s all pervasive power on me, I can’t deny my yielding to that magical charm called love, and I can’t deny us the togetherness that we deserve, come what may.

You may begin to think, why is this eccentric lover illogically rambling about his lady love when he can go and simply utter the vows and take her home? What’s stopping him? One man. I met my lady when she was already married to another man. He is a nice guy, everyone tells me. And he loves her dearly, she confirms. What do I care? I still hate him. I hate him for having time to his advantage and making good use of it. He married my girl. So what if she hadn’t met me or fallen in love with me then? She should have always known that she was the chosen one for me. I sometimes get angry thinking about her impatience, her rush to marry a well settled Mr Nice Guy. I can’t forgive her for not waiting for me. But then, I can never hate her for any of her sins. She was innocently ignorant of my presence whilst he stole her away from me. I hate him for dragging her into this temporary marital arrangement that I do not believe in. One day, am going to get her back to where she belongs... in my arms! And mind you all, protectors of the sacred institution of marriage, it’s not a duel. I am just too smart to let fate play the Russian roulette again. Failure in this matter is not an option anymore. It’s a war, and I will win. Yes, I will do that, and no matter what price I need to pay, I will get my girl back.

I dial a number. The phone’s ringing. Mr Nice Guy picks up the phone and exchanges pleasantries with me. He’s a smart bastard; suave, diplomatic and shrewd to the core. He treats me like he would treat any of his wife’s close friends. I am extremely tempted to tell him that I am more intimate with his wife than he ever can be and see how he reacts! Would he continue to spill such polite social greetings on me if he found out that even his beautiful wife believed in her heart that she belonged to me? Wouldn’t he want to slit my throat? Anyway, why do I care? I want her. Period.

I don’t really want to talk to him but I have to, so I listen while he speaks. She is not at home; pampering herself on a shopping spree with some of her girlfriends, he informs me. “You know the girlie stuff,” he laughs. I almost blurt out and tell him I even know the shade of the last lipstick she picked up half an hour back, but restrict myself. He invites me over for tennis and some chilled beer. I tell him it might be a good idea to follow up with a drive over the hill after a few games. He agrees and I hang up with the most sinister smile on my face. No, I don’t feel like Count Dracula. I am not a crook or a scheming politician. I don’t play games, am also not dishonest. I’m only fighting for my right. There’s a Lucifer in all of us, part angel, part devil. Today’s am the devil’s advocate. It’s a war, you see, and a fair game is only an offshoot of peace.

I drive up to her place in my sports attire, looking as good as I could with a synthetic smile on my mask. Mr Nice Guy greets me in a pair of white shorts and a tennis shirt. He swings his racquet in the air and I’ve half a mind to hit him hard with it to blow his skull, but I tell myself I have better plans. He calls me “mate” and I join in the pseudo camaraderie as if he were my best friend.

The score’s even and we are bored. I want some chilled beer and Mr Nice Guy tells his Man Friday to get some chilled cans. A light snack accompanies the drinks. I want to use the washroom and Mr Nice Guy shows me how to get there.

I splash water on my face, wondering what I am doing here playing and drinking with my biggest enemy. I hate him and I am not going to feel sorry for him. His sin is unforgivable. I walk back to the terrace where Mr Nice Guy has already laid out a fine arrangement of drinks and quick munchies for me. I pick up a can. He hands me over a stylish crystal mug frothing with chilled beer. We raise a toast and I think I see a wicked smile on his face. I am not sure. I don’t see his layers nor understand his astute expressions. And I try to imagine how difficult it must be for my simple and beautifully innocent girl to live with a man so different from her. My anger builds up gradually. I gulp in the beer as quickly as I can and ask him out for a drive to catch the evening sunset over the hill. He agrees and suggests picking up his new DSLR to capture the last rays of the sun setting into the sea. I know he wants to flaunt it to me, just as he shamelessly exhibits my girl by his side to the rest of the world.

I am enjoying the drive as we go uphill. I take him to the far end of a cliff, hinting that would be the best view for a perfect shot. The ride is bumpy, almost like a drive into nowhere but I am liking it. He tells me I am wild. I correct him and say, “Adventurous is a better word.” He laughs a hollow laughter, and secures his feet on the ground facing the sunset. My mind deviates to the gorge below...the thousands of feet of nothingness, the perfect zero error site of my cold blooded plan. His eyes are on the lens and he’s oblivious to my huge frame behind him. I gather all my strength, and give him a push......

It’s easier than I thought. I see him go down...down....down....hitting the rocks, over the trees, till his limp body flies into the deep. I turn around and head to my car. No, I don’t feel sorry for him. Why should I? I had nothing against him but he called for it. He married my girl. I start my car’s engine and my eyes start blurring....a strange numbness begins to overpower the sensations of my body. It is as if I am losing control...fading out into a sense of uncontrollable void, plunging into a fearful darkness I am unfamiliar with. I know something is terribly wrong, but what I don’t know as yet is that the poison in the beer has just begun to show its effects....

Perfect Honeymoon

2009-11-07T06:35:00.000-08:00

“Are you done? How long would you take to shampoo your hair? And I don’t understand why shampoo it now when you know it’s going to get dirty on the drive, anyway?” he was banging impatiently on the washroom door.

“Just shut up, and pass the hair dryer to me, will you?” she yelled back from behind the doors, slightly left ajar.

He could hear the splashing of water and imagined she would take at least another half an hour to dry her hair, wear make-up and doll herself up before they could actually start the journey he had been waiting for all his life. The sudden thought of his newly-wed bride, wet and innocently beautiful in her stark white bathrobe, stepping out of a steam bath filled up his senses. He pushed open the door and before she could say a word, pulled her into his arms.

“What?” she asked him with half-a-smile lighting up her face. Their eyes met and held each other’s glances for a moment. “Not now. We’ll be late,” she whispered softly, blushing and pulling herself out of his arms. “Go down, and start loading the car boot. I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Have you gone through your check list?”

“Nopes. It’s not my job. You ramble on and I’ll match and do one final check,” he replied.

“Okiedokie. Water?”

“Yes.”

“Four bottles?”

No, two. Baby, no one carries so much water from home. We can pick up a whole carton from the store at the gas station.”

“Fine. Camera. Cell phone. Batteries. Chargers.....”

“Yes, yes,.... no.”

“See, I knew you would forget the chargers. Stuff it in the knapsack. Oho...not there with my crèmes. The zip at the front, love,” she said peeping out of the dressing room.

“Ok, done. Next?”

“Cash. Credit cards. ATM cards, Cheque book.”

“Honey, we are not going for shopping! For heaven’s sake, it’s our honeymoon. And it’s deep in the woods, not in some shopping mall. They don’t accept credit cards.”

“Even then, take them along. I might fancy buying a tiger instead of a rock on my fingers! Shove them into your wallet. No arguments, no negotiations.”

“Yes, your highness. What else?”

“Mosquito repellent mats?”

“Nopes. Got Odomos. In that kind of a place as I am told, nothing works better. For all you know we may not have any electricity, my uptown girl.”

“Hmm. Candles. Torch, matchsticks and lighter then,” she suggested picking up her brown leather boots.

“Good. I have them in the car boot with all the other stuff for the tent. What else? Should I carry my laptop?”

“No way, you are not going to work!!!!” She threw a cushion at him.

“Ha..ha! I might write a travelogue while you sleep,” he laughed.

How beautiful she looked in a light beige cotton shirt, tied at the waist and khaki capris, the long and slightly wet hair let loose over her shoulders touching her waist and the sunshades over her head keeping the hair from falling on her face! “I am a lucky man” he confessed to himself looking at the love of his life, his soul mate and now his wife.

Taking a sneak peek at the reflection on the mirror behind her, she observed his tall handsome frame running around her, matching her list to his needs and felt blessed that she belonged to him, and that they were finally together. “Okay, we are done then. Get, set and go......,”she broke into a childish giggle picking up their favourite music CDs for the car stereo.

He was hurrying down the narrow staircase with the baggage, when he looked around and didn’t see her. “Now what? Where are you, baby? We are running late. Remember, we need to touch at least 500 kms today,” his voice rose a bit with a hint of edginess that he regretted immediately. She came out hurriedly looking guilty. Whilst her hands were full with baggage and other things essential for the trip, his guitar was flung over her shoulders. No, she hadn’t forgotten his best friend.

He took the guitar from her with a smile, happy to be in love with his “love absolute” and planted a tiny kiss on her cheek. “Thanks love. What would I do without you?”

“Nothing. You’ll never be without me again,” she said with a smile glued on her face.

The weather was perfect, the setting was perfect. Elvis Presley was crooning “Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can’t help falling in love with you,” as they joined in happy hearted like two little children miserably in love, thrilled that their dreams were all finally falling into place. After everything, they were man and wife, their vows were more sacred than ever now, their commitment more officially eternal than before and they were off to their honeymoon, to that place in their long awaited dreams and fantasies....

En route, occasionally, he stopped for a smoke. Where they crossed a spring, he stopped to pluck unnamed wild yellow flowers for her. Where they spotted a rainbow, she made him halt on the road shoulder, and jumped over a deserted railway track to capture the frame on her camera. “Can you ever touch a rainbow?” she asked him. “Yes, and I can try getting some of it for you,” he said, making a gesture as if he was picking a piece of heaven for her...and they both laughed. He drew her close walking back to the car singing in her ears... “Like a river flows, surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be, Take my hand, take my whole life too, For I can’t help falling in love with you.”

The sun had taken its last bow at the western horizon when they neared a factory area on the borders of a neighbouring state. Heavily loaded trucks were zooming past them, often blinding his vision with the headlights. “When will these rogues learn to use a dipper?” he grumbled and looked sideways for a supporting statement from his wife. She was fast asleep, her head tilted slightly on the headrest, lost in a wayward dream smiling to herself like a baby. Her innocence made him smile in return and he looked back at the dusty highway again. Just a couple of hours and they could spend the night in a lovely hillside resort they had booked in advance for the stopover. The honeymoon suite was already occupied, the manager had regretfully apologized over the phone. But he had been promised a “great view from the balcony” room in the resort.

He was trying hard to concentrate on the road, manoeuvre through the unruly traffic when a huge lorry came head on from nowhere, apparently lost control of the brakes...and before he could swerve, came crashing down on them. Startled from her sleep, she screamed, he shrieked at the impact...their whole world had enveloped in a deafening noise, all he could see was one cannon of light thrown at him, splinters of glass flying into the air..... and then there was nothing!

“Wake up, love! The car’s burning,” she pulled him out of the ravaging fire and enveloping pain.

“Are you okay, honey?” he asked looking up at her. She had a slight cut on the forehead but looked perfectly at peace, more beautiful than ever before, he thought. “Yes, I am fine. Are you alright, baby?” she touched him on his cheek and said, “Come, let’s go.”

He walked slowly, up to a moss coated culvert on the roadside and sat down recapitulating the accident as it occurred, when she pointed out to the distant honking of a lorry. Her eyes lit up and from the wild twinkle in them, he knew what she was thinking.

“Hellooo.....hello...wait..wait...lift,” they flagged down a lorry stacked with poultry driving uphill.

The driver, who looked like an old wise man with a long white beard was hesitant at first but gradually got lured by the money they offered to share space with the birds on his truck. Having found a way to continue their journey, the happy kids instantly forgot their trauma and the sufferings of the accident and hopped into the haystack and bamboo cages singing “Cock a doodle doo...” to the disinterested birds!

Night was falling quickly in the tropics and as the temperature dropped with the moon rise, the two headed off to their destination honeymoon under a brilliantly lit symphony of stars.

It was in the wee hours of dawn that the driver halted his truck and woke the love-struck couple sleeping huddled in a corner of his vehicle.

“We are almost there. The rest of the journey, you’ll have to cover on foot,” he told them.

Between the trees, a little feral brook gurgled alongside them, breaking out in tiny rapids over forgotten moss covered boulders and forming miniature eddies swirling in yellow and brown leaves of grass, frail branches and twigs and remnants of the track it had followed to reach this far into the wilds. The water was sparkling clear and sweet and they decided to soak themselves in its pristine touch. The air was unusually quiet, the ambience was divine in a rather mystical way.

“There’s something about these woods. Do you see that strange bluish light?” he asked her pointing towards a beam of sun emerging out of the green undergrowth.

“Where? I can only see some dark tones weeping in the bushy corners and few bright dots of yellow teasing the leaves,” she said in return. Like two little children mystified in the wilderness, they were trying to read a poetry in green, blue and gold hues conducted in a mysterious riots of colours flaming the early spring landscape of a tropical rainforest.

“Look, they are the same wild yellow flowers you had picked for me along the way. I like this place. But how far is the resort?” she grumbled.

Forest mornings are always very poetic and so naturally blessed with tranquillity, they are almost sacred to an extent. With the light changing colour, the entire ambience had undergone a quiet and deliberate metamorphosis. The air was now heavy with a strong forest smell, and the sound of the wild had shifted from the noise of insects to chirping of birds. Rustling over moist leaves, they came to the end of a trail and looked up at the first sign of artificial lights within the territorial area of a few hundred acres.

“That one. We are here, honey,” he said grabbing her hand and forcing her to keep pace with his excited footsteps.”

The manager, half awake and dewy eyed, signed them in. “One good news, Sir. The guest who had booked the special room cancelled the reservation. You can have the honeymoon suite,” he said grinning.

She noticed a bunch of the same wild yellow flowers at the reception desk and asked him its name.

“Parijaat, Madam. The flower of heaven,” he smiled.

Next to it, one little corner of the morning newspaper read. “Couple die in car crash. Lorry driver missing....”

They picked up the keys and with feet as light as feather, sauntered happily to their desired suite. He was holding her by the waist as she rested her little head on his shoulders, humming close to her ears... “Like a river flows, surely to the sea, Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be. Take my hand, take my whole life too, For I can't help falling in love with you...”

Today, they had no pains, no trauma, nothing to lose, expect or deliver. Not another finishing line in sight. It was their perfect honeymoon...for eternity.

This story is copyrighted. Any reprint or publication elsewhere without permission would violate the copyright act. Ananya Mukherjee

My Little Magazine

2009-10-28T19:35:00.000-07:00

After a few of you suggested, it finally occurred to me that we could all share a platform of common interests and diverse opinions. My Little Magazine (http://mylittlemagazine.blogspot.com/) is thus, a modest dais for all that you think is worth sharing with like-minded people, convincing the "not-my-type" or simply leaving them confused! Writers, wanna-be, amateur or professional, artists, cartoonists,photographers are all invited to contribute your two pence of what you think is a bit more than a two-liner update on your Facebook status! Let's think, and let's think together....
Warm regards, Ananya.

CAUTION READERS!

2009-10-26T08:32:00.000-07:00

THIS IS TO INFORM & WARN YOU THAT MY ORIGINAL WRITING AS ON THIS BLOG HAS BEEN INAPPROPRIATELY REPRESENTED IN PINAKI RAY"S NOTES ON FACEBOOK. THIS IS A VIOLATION OF FACEBOOK APPLICATIONS AS WELL AS THE GOOGLE COPYRIGHT ACT. PLEASE DO NOT BE MISLED INTO THINKING THAT THESE THOUGHTS ARE SOMEBODY ELSE'S, JUST BECAUSE THEY APPEAR ON HIS/HER FACEBOOK ACCOUNT AND HE/SHE CHOOSES TO KEEP SILENT INSTEAD OF CLARIFYING AND WALKS AWAY WITH UNDESERVED CREDIT!
MANY THANKS FOR YOUR SUPPORT
WARM REGARDS
ANANYA

The Bong Connection

2009-09-15T05:05:00.000-07:00

Correct me if I am wrong, but the world to me is primarily divided into two categories of homosapiens—the Bongs (Amra Bangali) and the non-Bongs (Obangali). Ask a Bengali who wasn’t raised in Bengal and he’ll almost immediately give you innumerous accounts of how even he has often been singled out, tagged with a “probashi” status in his own league and reminded that his culture is perhaps “slightly different” from those raised on the soils of Bengal. To the “Amra Bangali” confederation, much as you may beg to differ, you are either a Bong or an alien (oh yes, you may not have a fluorescent green glowing face and two little antenna, but then who cares?). Marxist or Martian..the choice is clear!

That leaves us all with the question—who is a True Blue Bong? The wise men would claim, “One who thinks before the world does.” To which, I would love to humbly add, “…and reacts after everyone else does”. Jokes apart, given the benefit of our intellectual progression, the quintessential Bong is always ahead of his times; he rightfully deserves every bit of the quiet and respite (lyaadh in the campus lingo) that follows once the issue has moved from the mind to execution. He’s an intellectual, you see. His job is to perceive before anyone else. The lesser mortals can then follow up and do the rest. You can go struggle for the Victoria Cross. The Bong with a capital B (and I mean underlined and in shining neons!) is happy to keep his Nobel and Oscar. You don’t believe me? Find me a rickshaw puller who earns less than $5 a day and spends a cent watching a Ray film or reads the newspaper in any other race, and I’ll give you my right arm (Well….that I may have the latent potentials to be ambidextrous is another story we can discuss some other time!).

Undoubtedly, the nectar of our intellectualism seeps deep into our bone marrows and we find its manifestations at rather odd places. Ask a typically “probashi” and he’ll agree. “What do you mean by pujo pujo feel, neel akashe shona shona roddur? It’s just a bright September morning and it’s not raining!” You don’t agree to such “nirosh” weather updates, do you? I certainly do not.

By now, you probably know what I am rambling about and perhaps can identify with a chunk of it too. Simply put, we find great meanings in little things in life and the NASDAQ or gung-ho about an economic downturn doesn’t quite bother us as long as we have one good book to read, one cup of Darjeeling tea every morning, the refrigerator stacked with cleaned and salted maach and mishti, one “must see/must hear” theatre, concert or movie ticket in our pockets and an eight-hour sleep on our own beds. Trust me, ladies and gentleman, no one else in the world happily chooses jhaal muuri and phuchka over any other delectable snack, no one else plans a lavish vacation every year no matter how crunchy the pockets are (we call it deshe phera or bari jawa), nowhere else in the world do people have a hint of what a nirbhejal adda with a slice of gaan, khawadawa, alochona on politics, films, literature, art and topped with harmless PNPCs, could mean. Talk about high altitude, and you'll see a Bong draped in mufflers and monkey cap drinking tea from his flask on the Alps; take a dive deep into the underwaters of Malaysia and you can't miss the shankha pola on your scuba diving partner's thin arms; up in the air on a parachute in Bali...and be sure you can hear someone parasailing by crooning "Emni korei jaaye jodi din jaakna"... the over enthusiastic Bong is everywhere, at least in his dreams.

We select “dokra” and “dosta” over gold and diamonds; we think glittering sequins are passé, dig into our grandmother’s closets and create a rage in design with the simplest of embroidery and call it “kantha”, we prefer ilish to caviar, our homes have at least one terracotta piece, and “Purano shei diner kotha” is our national anthem, whether we are in Singapore, Chicago or Timbuktu. No matter what the color of our passport is, we are… always and everywhere Bongs first!

To that Bong cement that binds us (spirally sometimes) with Krishnakoli, Kaash Phool and Kolkata beyond time, geographies, and societies…..

With love, laughter and sunshine for a wonderful Debipokkhyo,

Ananya

In Quest For Freedom

2009-08-14T20:35:00.001-07:00

There was darkness all over. The wind whispered through the whining willows and the trembling eucalyptus trees. The road lay empty, barren and unpromising like a widow. The moon opened her moisture laden eyes, batted an eyelid and a drop of the ethereal spirit fell on the grass.

My story dates back to a night in the pre-independence era, in the remote Chhindwara district of Madhya Pradesh. Dr Makhan Lal Chaudhury, my maternal great grand father was unable to sleep. In just another few hours, as the morning sun paved its way slicing through the anesthesia of the night, death of another innocent would stealthily creep into the jail quarters. Another brave heart nipped in the bud, another wailing mother, another young girl widowed, another infant orphaned, another spirited patriot to be hanged till death! What disturbed Dr Chaudhury was not the death alone, but the fact that he, a devoted Indian himself was a part of this ruthless killing of innocence and party to a sin, no less heinous than a crime. Dr Chaudhury was the jail doctor. It was his responsibility to see that the prisoner was medically fit for execution. In nights like these, he felt like a traitor!

A soft spoken man himself whose heart bled for others, his job seemed to him akin to a butcher’s! This was not a part of the Hippocratic Oath that he had taken, while graduating from the Medical College in Patna. He had pledged like all others, to save man and serve humanity to the best of his abilities. But now his job, under the colonial rule, demanded that he played this undesired role.Dr Chaudhury’s thoughts wandered from his own experiences with the young prisoners. Some of them were just boys. And none of them were wrong!

This knowledge and its realization perhaps hurt him most. He thought of their names, which he had personally taken an interest to find out, beyond their identities as numbers! A few of them had told him about their homes, their families and even their dreams; some of which would remain unfulfilled after their deaths. Suddenly, he felt guilty of knowing a dying man’s last wish and ashamed of his inability to fulfill it. During the routine medical inspections, he had tried his best to provide the best of services possible under those conditions. He had even made tireless efforts to ensure that the living environment in the cells were more hygienic.Now, he felt happy that he could make life a bit more comfortable for the boys who were facing trial and imprisonment and even death.

An alarm cracked in through the silence of the night! It was time to be up. He left his bed silently walking like a man in a stupor, tightened his jaws and wore his khaki uniform. Quietly, he tiptoed into the Puja Room and said a silent prayer! The jeep was in his driveway and the Gorkha driver in khaki shorts saluted him. No one said a word. Without even exchanging a glance, they drove into the high walled jail quarters.

It was thirty minutes past four when the prisoners were brought for their final medical check up. They were four in all and were in their early twenties. The pundit was reciting lines from the Bhagwat Gita. His deep throated voice echoed in the stillness of the dawn. He was chanting out lines from the divine message of Lord Krishna, and saying that the body of a man was akin to a piece of clothing. When one wore off, the soul tailored itself into another and lived on!

To Dr Chaudhury, it sounded more like a slow, planned and deliberate preparation for death.As the four young boys marched to face the final sentence, they walked like warriors, with their heads held high and their faces gleaming with a strange glow. The radiance on their countenance began to make Dr. Chaudhury nervous. So young, yet so brave! Just as the first rays of dawn sieved in through the dingy cells, Time stopped for a moment! He closed his eyes and said a last prayer, hoping that the souls rested in peace.

With an iron heart and a heavy conscience, Dr Chaudhury trot back to his dreary office chamber. He had another work to finish. The four death certificates had to be signed and sealed with the government stamp. The memory of the four boys came back to him. Their radiant faces that shone like victors even as they faced the dreaded last sentence haunted his mind leaving him with a pang of guilt. It overwhelmed his soul and a numb-ness overcame his body. And at that instant, Dr Chaudhury made a decision!He took out another white sheet of paper and wrote his letter of resignation.

Dr Chaudhury decided to walk back to his bungalow. He left the walled jail campus with a free and happy conscience. The sun was out in its full glory, streaking a crimson luminescent halo against an azure blue eastern sky over the Satpura Ranges, paving way for a new day and a new beginning.

To my great grand father and to the true patriot in his heart,
Yours in pride,
Ananya

Dream! Dream! Dream!

2009-06-10T02:31:00.000-07:00

If dreams are an interpretation of our unconscious thoughts, hidden carefully in our sub conscience, have you ever wondered that they can be more honest than truth itself?
They can also be extremely blunt, unmasked, innocent and candid.
Does it not also lead to another fact that dreams do not need to come true, for they are already a part of truth manifested in our sleeping wakefulness?
Dreams are the narration of our latent thoughts, where our conscience plays not just the role of a protagonist but also that of a story teller.

For some, it acts as a wonderful balance between the crudity of real life and the benevolence of fantasy. It is like giving yourself an opportunity to do what you want or another chance to undo an undesired occurrence, the memories of which continue to torment your conscience.
So, in a nutshell, a dream is often a second thought or a second chance!

Somebody told me the other day that there are times when he feels that he controls the sequences of his dreams. “The remote control is often in my own hands” he admitted. Unlike the unprecedented directions of destiny, in dreams you have the freedom and the opportunity to set your targets. Moreover, you lay the rules and pebble the road with your own imagination.

What do you say? Have you had a dream where you felt you were the mastermind who had the power to shift and change the pattern of your thoughts and translate them into sequences of your choice?

Let’s hear it from you today…

Shadows on Stone

2009-05-31T19:26:00.001-07:00

Sajan Sajan main karu ane sajan hiyen jadit,
Sajan lakhu hamare chundle ane vanchu ghadi ghadi re….
Kesariya baalam aayoni, padhaaroni maare des….

I had been here before, yet I could not recollect when or how. The unsettling thought constantly resonated in my mind as I stepped into the dimly-lit narrow staircase. The diffused light of the late afternoon sun on the antique desert landscape had made curious patterns on the stone walls and on the floor, leaving one to imagine beyond restrictions, the possibility of a fable woven and laid out in a mysterious crisscross of light and shadows.

Having ruled from Amber for seven centuries, the Kachchwahas must have had reams of such untold tales veiled under the folds of dust and sand. Whilst many of the early structures of the fort were dilapidated, those dating from the 16th century, the handiwork of three of the Kingdom’s rulers, Man Singh and Jai Singh I and II were in a remarkable state of preservation, drawing in visitors from all across the world. However, this part of the medieval fortress was usually not thronged by tourists, for it had none of the pompous shimmering glass and mirror embellishments encrusting the walls or replicas of the lofty Rajput-Mughal architectural fusion that the palace was well known for. Instead, this modest and unassuming quarter of the castle was rather quiet and distant from its swarming pavilions and expansive spread of ramparts. And as an inquisitive loner with an infallible love for calm and solitude, I had chosen to ignore Bhup Singh, the local guide, explore this corner and discover layers of the magnificent past all by myself.

But this apparently simple looking stone staircase spiraling towards a dark alley held my attention in a rather mysterious way. My first realization of familiarity in a kingdom of unknown history made me weigh the probabilities of any such presumption. To the best of my conscious knowledge, this was my first trip to Rajasthan, and alike any visitor, I had chosen Jaipur to be my first destination. Although I had seen ample images of the much talked about Amber fort and had done enough spadework for research on the internet before actually touching its soil, it was unusual for me to feel this connection. Yet, the feeling came back to me stronger than any other that I have known, like an echo from the past, a flashback from a sequence in which I had once intensely participated. Needless to say, the uncanny association made me uncomfortable and if I may admit, a bit nervous. There was something peculiar about this place… I just didn’t know what.

A strong desert breeze brushed past me, blowing away the travel brochures and pamphlets in my hand. As I stooped down to pick them up, for a split of a second, I saw the obscure shadow of a human figure on the stone walls. Strange, I didn’t see anyone coming this way nor did I hear any footsteps. To confirm, I looked around, ahead, above and beyond and saw no one. Clearly, there was no sign of any human invasion on my privacy. Yet, I could vouch that I saw something. I could only hear the jingle of my own lac bangles as I started descending the steps, more eager to unravel the mysteries of the surroundings than ever before. Devoid of much ventilation, the alley ahead was dark and sinister in a way. And soon I began to get an eerie instinct that the place had a peculiar air smelling of an untold story. Something ominous screeched and flew over my head; a bat or an owl perhaps and I was left so startled by its presence in this dingy corridor, that I stumbled over the last step and my head hit a solid stone wall. All I saw was an endless deep well of blackness in front of me.

My eyes opened to the sound of rustling silk, scurrying footsteps, suppressed whispers and giggles of young women around me. I woke up with a start to see myself near the same staircase but in a completely different light. Interim my fall and wakefulness, the entire ambience had undergone a metamorphosis, a facelift from the dilapidated present to its original historic grandeur. Burgundy and gold draperies and carpet led to a huge wooden door gilded with brass, an art that was primarily a signature of this region. The girls in silk and muslin ghagras and bandhej dupattas over the heads, beautifully dressed in gold and lac accessories, were moving very swiftly in and out of the door. Surprisingly, all of them seemed to be oblivious to my presence. From the ornate little jharokha on the sidewall next to the door, I could see the interiors of a lavish palatial suite, complete with glass lamps and chandeliers shimmering in the evening light.

The grand chamber seemed unusually familiar. The rich colors used in its décor, the mirror embellishments, the gemstone paintings on the walls, the turquoise blue pottery…everything spoke about a tale I had read before, a déjà vu in its truest sense. It left me bewildered and curious. Then, I saw someone who looked exactly like me, only more beautiful and younger.

Clothed in a bejeweled rich crimson ghagra, head covered in a moss green bandhej dupatta, the other ‘me’ was sitting on a low heavily carved settee, while a group of young women were dressing her up with ornaments and flowers for the night. This image of me was so different from my khadi kurti and denim clad tattooed self, that I couldn’t bring myself to accept the identification, even if I were hallucinating. But I wasn’t seeing an illusion. I was standing in front of a window to my own past. An old woman with an awkward gait walked past me, measuring me up with her wrinkled eyes. She was clearly unhappy to see me spying on her mistress but was in too much for a hurry to spare me much thought. She walked up to my alter ego, the woman on the settee and whispered something closely into the ears. The young woman’s eyes lit up, the radiance of her hand crafted countenance matched with the light of the glowing lamps. She ushered her chamber maids to keep watch and left the room with the old woman. I followed them up the staircase to an open balcony in the moonlight.

The desert moon was shining in its full glory, spreading over the marble top terrace, pouring its silver light over the intricately designed walls of the palace, the pierced screen windows and the hanging balcony, as my past and present selves waited in anticipation for the next sequence. I was not sure if I heard the hooves of a horse, but I saw my alternate self running to the edge of the balcony to greet someone. Keeping myself carefully guarded, I peeked from above and saw a man. He was clothed in a black robe, his long locks flying off in the desert wind like a highwayman in a fairy tale. The moonlight fell on him and I saw a strong and well-built man with chiseled features and a very distinct nose, rise upright in his stirrups; his eyes sparkled in moonshine as his hands reached his lady’s stretched arms and he jumped over the balcony rails. The next frame was a moment of complete bliss as I saw them embrace. Even in my illusive trance, I could see they were lovers. The anxiousness of her waiting, the intensity of that look as he gazed up to see her on the balcony waiting for him, the light in her eyes as he made his way through the trials of the night to reach her…..everything gave away the story that they were passionate lovers, madly in love with each other.

Just then I heard heavy footsteps rushing up from the staircase below and saw a swarm of armed soldiers breaking in through the terrace door, dashing in to where the lovers were. Swords glistened in the moonlight, metals clanked, blades dripping blood spread havoc on the marble tiled balcony; shrill cries broke the silence of the night and from behind the pillars, as I stood horrified by the sight of killing and blood, I saw the brave lover fall…

“Memsahib, memsahib,” a hoarse voice woke me up from my daze. A huge torchlight fell on my face as I looked up. I found myself at the edge of the staircase, with a swollen head and a bad sprain in the ankle surrounded by a few men, Bhup Singh and my driver. “We were so worried. We searched everywhere in the fortress, how did you come here?” Too shocked to recollect the events of the night, I looked around for my alternate self and her secret lover. There was no trace of the grandeur of the suite that I had seen; no chambermaids in silks and muslins, no sign of any of the royal splendor that I had witnessed. The dark alley looked darker than before and I was left to wonder if it was entirely a figment of my own imagination. My discomfort to come to terms with reality must have been obvious for Bhup Singh gave me a meaningful look and asked, “Did you see them?”

“Yes,” I replied eagerly. “Do you know who they were?” I wanted to know the entire story now.

“You must have seen Rukmini, the princess of the king of Mewar. She was very beautiful. The Maharaja was said to have an eye for her and wanted to take her as his youngest queen. He defeated her father in battle and brought her to the palace. They were to get married on the night after the full moon. But Rukmini had a lover, the gallant prince Priyak Singh from Udaipur, who was said to have come back from war to rescue his lady love from the clutches of the Maharaja. Everything worked out as they had planned with the help of the old maid Rukmini had, but someone betrayed them and the Maharaja sent his men to kill Priyak Singh. He fought a valiant battle single handedly and fell to death on the terrace of this palace. Grieve stricken Rukmini committed suicide in the confines of her lavish suite by taking poison on the same night.” He paused. “They say the lovers come back every full moon night.”

The story sounded very familiar, almost like a Bollywood flick; yet, my own identification with it and the soul connection to a vision such as this was overwhelming. My car was waiting outside and as I turned one last time to look at the quiet dark outlines of the palace, the place where history unfolded itself in a rare and obscure tint, where my present came face to face with a truth about my past I hadn’t known ….I remembered the lines of a poem I had read long ago…

And still of a winter night they say, when the wind is in the trees
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor
A highwayman comes riding, riding, riding……

Itiraf (Confession)

2009-03-12T05:12:00.000-07:00

Usne kaha, “Kabhi fursat mein yeh bhi bataana ki tum kya sochti ho…”

Main raat bhar un alfaazon se bejhijak khelti rahi. Kayi soch apnaye, chand sawaalo se lar pari, kuchh ehsaason se to naraaz hokar zindagi bhar baat na karne ki kasam bhi kha li.

Par ziddi sawaal peecha kahan chorte? Saath chalte gaye, chalte gaye…..chaukathh pe pahuchkar tang aakar maine kaha “Thik hai, khamoshi ki zuban nahin samajhte ho to aaj sun hi lo. Bar bar nahin dahoraoongi..
Subah subah aankh khulte hi ek labz aa jata hai hothon par. Tum sochoge naam hi to hai. Tumhe kya pata ki ab mere liye to yehi nazm hai….
Kabhi khayalo mein kabhi khwabo mein yoon kho jaati hoon jaise mera ab duniya se koi vasta hi nahin. Tum kahoge sirf ek adhura khwab hi to hai. Tumhe kya maloom ki ab mere liye to yehi zindagi hai..
Shaam ke dhalte huye sannate ke saath chupke se kuchh anhahi baatein tumse kahe deti hoon. Tum samjhoge chand shabd hi to hai. Tumhe kya khabar ki mere liye to ab yehi mohabbat hai..”
Daheleez par ek sannata sa chaa gaya. Khamosh khare sawaalo ki taraf maine dabi si muskurahat ko chhupate huye poocha…” Ho gayi tasalli? Par tumhe kya laga, yeh sab main nahin batana chahti thhi?”

Humse na jeeta hai na jeetega koi, woh to hum jaanke khaa lete hain maate aksar…

The Zahir

2009-03-08T21:27:00.000-07:00

Mohabbat mein nahin hai farq jeene aur marne ka, usi ko dekhkar jeete hain, jis qafir pe dam nikle…

My mind is restless today and I cannot write. I’ve taken a few attempts to unleash the strong emotional urge that I feel, but perhaps the intellectual vent that facilitates correct interpretation of sentiments and thereby enables a suitable expression isn’t wide enough to hold the gush. Needless to say, it’s spilling all over.
So if you can forgive my cluttered thoughts and worse still, the spillage of disjointed words and phrases like one in a fit of literary delirium, you may go on reading. By now, I may have tickled your curious instincts enough…oh, no…trust me, I am not trying in the least to follow the bandwagon of a Thursday night television soap from Balaji Telefilms…no flashy reverberations building up on ‘kahani ka aglaa twist’…I am merely trying to gauge the intensity of my propelling idiosyncrasies and sieving the clichéd from the novel. Whether I am successful or not, well…that’s another question!
Ironically, my inspiration is also my reason for confusion at this moment and it is called….love… an untamed force that enslaves me every time I try to imprison it. Does it happen to you as well? Love to me, is the omnipotent dream merchant’s biggest sellout! See how we fall in love, we falter, we fail; we console ourselves with “It must have been love but it’s over now…” only to find a new reason to fall in love and you’ll know exactly what I mean. No amount of heartburn is good enough to stop you or me from buying the next dream. Incorrigible romantics, aren’t we?
Before you start assuming that I have turned into a self-accredited love guru, let me tell you a wee bit more about what’s raiding my thoughts. A good friend of mine authored a paperback called that thing called love some years ago. The book hit the bestseller’s list instantly (am told it’s being translated in other languages and will be made into a film soon) and made him quite a star amongst promising young Indian authors. Am I promoting him? No, I am just trying to lead you to the fact that ‘love’ an emotion that is old as time itself, still manages to creep into our so-called seemingly busier-than-ever-lives and steal the heart and soul, and if I may be allowed to add…pockets away. Love sells; and it sells like politics, sex and glamour. We all know about it, live it, love it or hate it, but we buy it nonetheless.
Yet, do we all really know what we know? As I am looking at this paperback, I tell myself, my bible for this particular emotion, is however not this bestseller. It’s a beautiful compilation of thoughts called The Zahir by Paulo Coelho, my holy grail for life's most beautiful yet most painful experiences, one that leaves me fulfilled yet empty at the same time.
You are your best judge, but this thing called love and its unfamiliarity makes me nervous. It is wild and instinctive, with the rawness instantly reminding me of a bleeding cut, one that stares blatantly at your face and tells you..."Be careful here, it hurts". And I strive to fight against that instinct, strangely though hoping against hope that I won't win, until there comes a point when I allow myself to be vanquished by my overpowering enemy, my unconstrained outburst of bottled up emotions.
This thing called love, I don’t like it at all....it collates all the self contradictory weaknesses and strengths, amalgamates them in an illogical cement, and puts up a self promoting placard akin to a popular ad slogan that says....Dare to dream.
And while my battle for rationale continues, another part of me, the less calculative, less scientific, less scheming alter ego, lounges in the tranquility of this upheaval. Sounds paradoxical? Perhaps! Let me elucidate....it's like being in the eye of the storm, letting the eddies form, lash, whip, bellow around you, while you stay inert, untouched....that eye of the tornado is my love absolute, my obsession with the concept of one, its manifestation in life and its interpretation in you, .....that is my Zahir.
While I might go into another maelstorm of oscillating logic and emotions on another day, right now I'll rather cherish this thought and live happily with the truth thus... ruuh ke bandhan khulte nahin hain, daag hai dilke dhuulte nahin hain..
With and within you...

PS: It's raining again...and you know what? I just knew it would...

Timeless Memory

2009-03-07T06:43:00.000-08:00

We connect specific individuals to special pictures in our mind frames. The very thought of a particular person is related to his image in our intellect. The face, the smell, the sensation of that particular touch, the voice of that someone remains etched in our minds.
And memory has no age; it does not grow older with years and the passage of time does not leave a wrinkle on its visage!
As years roll by, walking down those cherished by-lanes of reminiscences, I stumble upon those old images of amassed senses, those warm passionate touches, that glowing countenance, the smell of a half burnt cigarette and the caress of a cold black leather band on a humble white dial HMT watch against my cheeks.
A dark dingy room with old brown curtains and its little holes, through which the first rays of the sun filters in, encompasses my world of memories.
It is a very modest room and speaks reams about its owner. You could write it off as a disorganized and messy bachelor's pad, or if you saw it through my eyes, call it the little heaven of a creator and a poet.
Time has not changed the way I feel about the room, though there have been many significant alterations and amendments in the life of the owner, that now definitely reflect in the modification of its mood and décor! Despite the changes, I see the room as an unpretentious little penthouse of my very private moments and very personal experiences. I still feel that diffident air in the room that smelled of burnt cigarettes and moisture.
Even now, I picture the room in its old image, with half-opened Kafka and Richard Bach, lying on a dusty old mahogany desk, an yellowing letter from an old associate in the drawers, butts of Charminar plain lying in every corner of the tattered rug that was once a red carpet, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd and Traffic booming from an old CD player on a smoky, dusky afternoon., and You!
Starry eyed you, with a thousand dreams in your doe-like almond eyes.
Fiery, passionate you, with that furious Capricorn rage, one that could destroy the world, your relationships and finish you!
Affectionate poetic you, telling me what I looked like when you brought me home from the hospital, three days after I was born.
Creative, talented you, singing "Am I a fighter or a lover?" in my ears.
Romantic doting you, drenched in rains with a rose bud in your hand.
Passionate adorable you, admiring my face in the light of a match stick one midsummer night!
Then I see us!
We sharing a sunset; we reading out pieces from Love Story together; we wishing upon a silver shooting star, we holding hands in a dark theatre watching a gripping Spielberg thriller, we dancing in the terrace on a cold moonlit night to Ian Anderson's magical flute; we hunting for old tattered pieces of wisdom in the pavements of College Street, we cooking up a new recipe out of a stale fish curry; we making love in the rain!
No, I don't see us fighting anymore; I don't even hear you yelling and abusing me either. I don't see my bruises, don't even feel the pain and don't hear myself sobbing in those long lonely difficult nights when our worlds were falling apart.
Thanks to memory, it has a selective vision.
Memory does not age. Its images do not alter, amend or modify with time and relationship.
Is memory infinite with neither form nor definition? Unbound by time, emotions or space?
To all my memories, its images and metaphors, its senses and emotions,
Eternally yours...

PS: This was written in quiet solitude on a rain swept afternoon more than a decade back, when a speck of wisdom fell out of a leaf of grass and left me moist. Never thought I could make a public display of this misty emotion until someone I was speaking to the other day attested my reasoning and agreed...yes, memory has a selective vision and it is untouched by time! Do you agree?

Gosh....am touched!

2009-03-07T03:59:00.000-08:00

Dear onlookers, bystanders and friends,
My! My! Ain't I absolutely bowled by your curiosity, response, support and encouragement?! Much as I always assumed (in a bout of high self esteem..ahem) that my writing wouldn't particularly bore you to death, this overwhelming response to my first posts was simply not anticipated! Am so very grateful to you for having taken time out of your busy schedules on a Friday and giving my page the desired attention.
Thanks so much for all the motivating words and if you know me (as most of you do), I shall try my utmost to keep this page growing (and glowing...in reflected glory)in times to come.
Humbly yours...

Mon khushi emni emni...

2009-03-05T21:14:00.000-08:00

Some years back, somebody I knew asked me a rather strange question one day. Well, it wasn’t just the oddity of the query, but the queer manner in which it was both fashioned and presented.My curious friend took the pains of coming up to me, fixing an appointment to ask me the strangest secret of my life. And he asked rather seriously and critically, “I have seen very few people who remain as cheerful at the end of the day as you do. How do you manage to do that?”For a while, I felt both funny and important. Was it so? Did I really do that? Thank God, people hadn’t seen me cribbing and cursing at the car parking, packing off from office and calling names. Thank heavens, I didn’t yell aloud at the coffee boy, for that syrupy mug; thank God, I said “XXXXX” in an undertone when I walked out of a not-so-favorite colleague’s work station. And not to forget the unpardonable forbidden word that sometimes suffices for punctuations marks in my conversations with myself!! Anyway, my interviewer was adamant. He categorically listed the events and days on which, if I were “any other person” I would have blown my top, and insisted that I had managed to be as chirpy and cheerful as ever, even in times of stress!Now, it was my turn to indulge myself in another bout of high self esteem--importance!!Before Piush, my inquisitive friend asked me, I had never really given it a serious thought. Was I generally a happy person? Did I do it involuntarily or did I have to put an effort to remain happy? Well, that particular friend Piush, ran a stress-management consultancy and for him, more than a friendly colleague, I was an interesting case-study!Chewing on a thought, I told him, smiling again, “I think, I do it with a little effort. Every morning, when I wake up, I give myself two choices—either to be happy or be sad. And deliberately each morning, I opt to be happy.”My one-man audience was positively impressed! He even made vague references to the possibility of "Annie" being a reincarnated Zen monk and noted down my words on his scribble pad!When I walked out of his office, I left him with a smile and a thought for myself.Let me share it with you. All these years, I had believed people only noticed tear-stained faces. Never did I once imagine that one day the world would be so stressed and so bogged down playing catch up, waging an endless war against cut-throat competition and running blind on the fast track that a humble cheerful smile could make them sit up and take note!!
How do I manage to glue that smile on my face? Well, from girl to woman, from woman to wife, and graduating to a mother has been an interesting journey, and in hindsight, seems like a happy repertoire of fun-filled events, wherein lie frames of fleeting moments like snapshots of a celluloid dream.I am an emotional fool, they sometimes tell me. Tears are a part of my very own existence. I cry when I am happy and still smiling; weep when I am upset and still ‘trying to smile’, and howl in grief, hoping to smile again. A miserably confused description, which does not agree with my happy disposition! However, fighting it all, I still will perhaps always consider myself to be a very positive person, the kind who chooses to close her eyes to the dirty dark black world and tries to hunt for the moon even in an eclipse!!! Escapist, one might say. My other word for it? Brave!
I strongly emote to the fact that before and after everything, Noah's Ark or Doomsday, life is worth its smiles. And how do I live on that conviction? Let me share my secret with you today.Think with me. You must have often heard people using words such as pure happiness. What exactly does one mean? Unadulterated, pure, doubly refined (doesn't that sound more like sunflower oil????) pleasure??? Is that how one defines happiness? Or does one put himself on a self assumed measuring scale, weigh it and conclude, “okay I am happy...One TON!”!Just like pain, I think pleasure is very personal and has its own undefined measuring tool. Each one of us has a separate and distinctly designed beam balance for weighing our pains and pleasures. Clearly, one set of Vernier Callipers may not be applicable for another! Pain and pleasure have varied standards, depending on individual scales.No common rules can accommodate personal emotions and sense of judgment!With time, I have understood is that everything in life is momentary and ephemeral! All our lives we speculate and chase the most unidentifiable visage of life called "Future", never realizing for a while, that life spans between two fleeting moments, living only between an inspiration and expiration!I also think life’s charm lies in the fact that happiness is such a transient phase and the comfort of pain lives in the truth that it does not last forever! Thank god, nobody ever heard me cursing and cribbing aloud about life and its idiosyncrasies!! Did you? Shhhhhhhh!!!Just happy, without a rhyme or a reason,
Mon khushi…emni emni..

Music, moonlight and moments....

2009-03-05T20:59:00.000-08:00

"Can you see the light there?" you ask me, pointing towards the dark sleepy hills dominating the landscape across the sparkling Subarnarekha. The river's at her passionate best, shining like quicksilver on a gorgeous moonlit night. "Do you hear the rumbling of the maadol?" I ask in return. Somewhere hidden in those mysterious shades of green, grey and brown jungles, someone is offering a prayer in a language we cannot comprehend, but whose essence we can both construe—musicIt's well-past dinner time; and on another night when there's a nip in the air, we could be happily tucked in bed, sleeping or talking; or perhaps awake and wrapping up the end of a long day doing little things that make us happy. On another night, at this hour, you could be sitting next to the soft lights of the terracotta lamp (yes, the one with those little bells on its rim…the one we picked up after much bargaining from the Poushh Mela that year when you played for the first time in Santiniketan) leafing through some new music reviews, or humming lines from a very old favorite ghazal…maybe Zafar, maybe Momin…or even Ghalib. On another night, I could be reading excerpts from the latest Man Booker winner rocking on my very coveted black Mahogany grandfather's chair (yes, the same one that I fell in love with at an old antique shop on Russell Street. It cost us a fortune but I wouldn't settle for anything else), or perhaps just scribbling over the last few words of the Telegraph crossword, that I didn't get quite right this morning. But on such an ethereally lit winter night as this one, wrapped up in shawls, we are both happy to be awake and to let our souls drown in what we feel happens rarely, and therefore cannot be missed—the milieu of music, moonlight and mystery. As the apartment lights and halogen lamps switch off one by one, and the whole neighborhood plunges into honeyed slumber, we stay awake, straining our ears to hear and absorb the distant reverberation of a rustic Santhali tune, wondering and seeking the origin of a music so secreted, yet so eloquent, untouched by the periphery of urban life or parameters of "civilized understanding". We stay awake in a trance, relishing the music, the forest fires, while the moon moves slowly and deliberately over the hills like a seductress, enveloping and embracing the entire panorama of our vision in a mystical silver veil. We are at a strange crossroad of feelings tonight…assimilating the beauty of the ambience individually, yet together, in a way. Unlike our usual discourses, we leave nature to initiate and lead all the conversation. After all, even sharing a moment of silence with someone who can read your thoughts can be so beautiful. Tonight, let's celebrate this moment of silence, of music, of mystery, of moonlight, of togetherness, of all the little passions in life that bind us beyond time, space and definitions… tonight, let's just celebrate "US".