Mindless Ranting!

The appropriation of symbols has long been a bone of contention with me. I am not against symbolism per se but when I was growing up if you were happy you could be gay and gaiety did not equal homosexuality. I'm not sure if the original meanings of the word even exist in a dictionary today. Which brings me to my other bone of contention - homophobia. Due to the sudden outpouring of love for all things GLBT in the media and especially in the movies it is now politically incorrect to make a joke about homosexuality. I understand that sexual orientations vary and I accept it but just because it exists doesnt mean I need to celebrate, dance and sing about it, and worse stii, if I dont go all hoopla about it doesnt automatically make me a homophobe. I mean you may have a different predisposition but that doesnt make you special or worthy of special treatment. It does not make you a symbol of progress of the human races. Which brings me back to my rant against symbols. Like colours for example - why is it when I wear green on independence day I am asked if I am celebrating with the 'neighbours', green is 1/3 rd the colour of 'our' flag too or when my friend buys a blue bike it somehow raises eyebrows of a casteist nature. These are colours, just like saffron is a colour, and they belong to all of us - u, me, him, her, everyone!

The Ballad of Reading Gaol

I have busy been studying (a perennial mistress of a doctor, trust me!) Hence, whatever little sparks of inspiration have flashed have been smothered, hidden or even outright killed!

So I'm borrowing from Oscar Wilde tonight and his Ballad of Reading Gaol!!

Please read the whole poem if you can lay your hands on it. I've been the richer for the experience of doing so!

(Excerpt from) The Ballad of Reading Gaol

                                                                        - Oscar Wilde

.....The man had killed the thing he loved

  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

  By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

  Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

  The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,

  And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

  Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,

  Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

  And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

  Yet each man does not die.......

याद आया एक रंग

उस झील की झिलमिलाती हुई नीली शांति 

एक नाव,एक मांझी और एक महकती कहानी
पानी में खड़ा एक पेड़, जाने क्यों विद्रोही?
और तुम्हारी साँसों की अनकही गवाही।

आज फिर याद आया है वह किनारा मुझे;
एक सुबह जो धुंध में कही खो गई थी;
क़दमों की आहटें  कुछ अनसुनी जो रह गई थी;
और राह में वह जो मोड़ अचानक आया था।

कुछ दूर तुम चले थे एक राह पर।
कुछ दूर मैं चला था दूसरी पर।
कहाँ जाने राहें अनजान हुई थी अपनी?
और कब जाने परिचय हुआ उनसे फिर?

मुडके देखू पीछे तो डरावना अँधेरा है,
एक चीत्कार की गूँज, एक काले जंगल का साया है।
कुछ भूरी टूटी शाखें है, और बिखरे पीले पत्ते है।
कुछ पदचिन्ह भी छूटे है, अधूरे से, फैले हुए लाल धब्बे।

शूल थे या टूटे हुए सपनो के शीशे?
न जाने ऐसे क्यों हमने पैरों को रंगे थे?

हाथ बढ़ाकर आज इस धूसर आईने को 

थोडा पोछा है, थोडा साफ़ किया है,

कुछ टहनियाँ हटाई है, कुछ पत्ते समेटे है
तो रंगों के बीच ओझल एक सच्चाई नज़र आयी है
कि आज भी वही हाथ है, आज भी तुम्हारा साथ है।  

OUR story

Our story, yours and mine

Twice written on the scrolls of time.
Fancy brushfuls of colours and blues,
Splotches of black and graying hues!
First time over, written so fast
The ink didn't dry before the future was past.

Streaks and blurs where teardrops fell,

Tender moments, omitted lines will tell.
And once the gloss was made by veneer
The unfortunate tale went static, I fear.
But time, my love, is an artist true
A painter, a poet and a sculptor too.
So she etched once more with chisel and fire,
Charred the end and smouldered desire,
Washed the soot and dust with tears,
Bore some holes of hope and fears.
The paint, the ink once more they flow
The winds of time since slower they blow.
And as I stand here gazing upon this tale,
I cannot make out the fresh from the stale.

The strokes, the splotches, the colours, the grays,
Have merged and flowed so many ways,
That 'our' story; yours and mine
Cannot be retold even by time!

Love

She was Kashmiri, you could tell! She was as fair as the snow, beautiful and elegant and when she smiled her cheeks turned an apple red just like her nose did when she was angry. Her eyes shimmered like the Dal lake and her beauty stayed with you long after you had left her company. She had to be Kashmiri.

I first saw her sitting at the window of the college bus. She had her face turned away towards her friend and suddenly she threw her head back and laughed turning towards the window. I was left rooted to the ground as the laughter sparkled in her eyes and then spread all along her countenance. It was like watching a flower bloom, captured on film and then sped up so it felt like it was all happening then. The bus sputtered to life and moved away and it was a long while later that I realised that the only movement I had since made was to let my eyes follow the bus as far as they could. I was thunderstruck and willed myself away to the drudges of life that no longer seemed as miserable as a while ago. Believe it or not I would soon forget all about her existence.

The next I saw her was a result of boredom almost six months after lightning had first struck. A friend was going out to meet someone and I in my boredom decided to tag along, an unwelcome tag but I think he went to bed thanking my intrusion. I, on the other hand, still am not sure. It is by now obvious who met that evening but what isn’t obvious is that she too had brought a friend along. Whether that was another instance of intrusion I never came to know but what I know is that it had been a moonless night; until then. As she glided towards me the darkness seemed to vanish, those lakes in her eyes still shimmered and so lost was I in them that I missed her name. I think that was the last time she glanced at me that evening and I spent the next few hours with her friend having quite a fun time I have to admit, but this time I was not to forget her existence.

Actually I saw her almost daily since, initially by coincidence I believe but with time I feel my eyes just found her out. We studied in the same college and so my eyes often found her. Found her as she fussed over her books by the library, found her as she drank at the water cooler, found her while she playfully hit out at the guy hitting on her, found her when she seemed lost in thought, as she twirled that errant lock that had slipped on to her cheek twice before she tucked it back in place. And while my eyes found her, the rest of the world seemed to obliterate, there would be a buzz around but no sound, a sea of shapes but only blurs in my sight, no smell nor taste I could feel. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t stalking her. These 'sightings' were few and far in between and at other times I still continued to be my gregarious, whole-hearted, flirty self.

She, as far as anyone could tell, remembered me as much as the moon on that moonless night. But then slowly something changed, those locks seemed to misbehave a little more than usual and the third twirl of her fingers seemed longer and playful, the smile seemed to linger a little longer and the eyes seemed to flick sideways, fix towards where I stood just for a moment before making their way over to the object of her desire. I knew her name by now and much else that I wasn’t sure if I needed to but I didn’t know if I, myself existed. 

And so I didn’t know for another two years until that last day before vacations started. That day the eyes didn’t flick past me, the errant lock wasn’t tucked away and she smiled straight at me. It was like the sun shining through on a foggy winter morning, it felt like someone had poured warm chocolate straight into my heart and I beamed back at her. I do not know what to make of it but I 'felt' my own smile that day. As I stood there that smile felt like my only existence, like my body wasn’t there, like my heart wasn’t beating and like there were no lips smiling, just a pure bundle of warmth and energy that was beaming. I cannot describe that feeling, that smile, that warmth but I can say I have never felt that way again. I don’t know how long it was that we smiled at each other, time I believe had stopped. I don’t quite remember anything afterwards except that I didn’t see her until almost two months later. 

Two months later when I saw her, it was again as she sat in a bus. This wasn’t a college bus and she had her entire luggage loaded in and there were a lot of people waving goodbye to her. I stood at a distance watching, not sure what expression I was wearing and she had those eyes fixed upon me. Those eyes that shone brilliantly enough to light up the world yet were deep enough to hide you from its glare. From that distance I could see that those shimmering lakes were brimming today yet she was smiling at me, neither a warm smile nor a forlorn one; just a smile. I could tell that for her too at that moment nothing else existed, not the cacophony of the bus engines and horns, neither the smell of freshly brewing tea nor the garish banners of the upcoming festivals; nothing existed but a young man with disheveled hair, a lopsided shoulder and a stupid grin. The bus moved along but neither did her gaze leave me nor did mine. It was a long while later, when my friend placed a cup of tea in my hand, that I realised that the bus was gone and a longer while later that she was too. 

I would be lying if I said I haven’t thought about her since but I have never wondered what it was that transpired between us nor have I ever tried to decipher that parting gaze from her. It was special whatever it was and I still do not know what I should call that feeling I felt when I smiled that day. I have never mentioned her to anyone nor have I any hidden mementos pressed in withered books. I would probably have never even written this down had it not been for the indomitable Gulzar writing

Hamne dekhin hain un aankhon ki mahakti khushboo
Haath se chhoo ke ise rishton kaa ilzaam na do
Sirf ehsaas hai ye rooh se mahsoos karo
Pyaar ko pyaar hi rahne do koyi naam na do

The Rain

The first rains of the monsoon....reminded me of something I wrote more than 8 years ago in the middle of summer, in the middle of the most arid region I have lived in with absolutely no chance of rain anywhere in the near future...

The rain puts up a show

Holding every eye in rapture,

Little boys rise in pleasure

Its beauty to forever capture.

The heavens seem to bulge

Through sheets of blue and gray;

Lines and curves of nature

Lilting imaginations play.

Every boy in playful glee

Looks through enchanted eyes

At laden clouds, so soft

And each of them tries;

To reach out and feel

To touch them with his lips

To hold them in his hand and squeeze

Until the nectar drips.

Oh! The feeling rises up

Coursing through his veins.

The cups of heaven grip his soul

Until the elixir drains.

Such is the beauty of the rain

Getting you all wet.

It’ll make hearts flutter,

Till every sun has set 

Perhaps

Happened to stumble across Pablo Neruda and his poem Perhaps.... the following is heavily inspired by the same...

Perhaps to live a lifetime is to share a moment with you,

To close my eyes so your smell would linger a while longer.

The colour of your eyes, lighting a mellow brown dusk

As the cherry blossoms freeze in the moment, still!

Nothing stirs but a familiar pang in our hearts.

As you walk away the moment is passed but is now forever,

The eyes cannot wash away the taste that binds my lips

And that little bit of your smile that you left behind

Fills and outgrows the void

Because in that moment ‘we’ were

And so ‘we’ will always be

And maybe ‘you’ will live a lifetime longer than ‘me’

But ‘we’ will always live a lifetime together and free.

How long is the night?

I still remember those afternoons under the mango tree.

You’d cut your elbow and I’d scraped my knee.

When school was out and the days were free,

And the fiery 'gulmohar' stood out bright

While I didn’t know how long was the night!

Playing cricket for hours in the park.

To the orchards on secret missions we’d embark

And return home only late after dark

To play some more in the false light.

And I didn’t know how long was the night!

I remember growing up with the guys.

Every girl and our rarely successful tries!

The honesty in those white lies

To try and break up a fight.

But I didn’t know how long was the night!

I still remember the sky and its flaming hues

When you kissed away the blues.

When there was no need nor excuse

To hold each other so tight.

Yet I didn’t know how long was the night!

I still remember when the doctor said what he did.

I can still taste the tears you hid

When that final goodbye we bid.

Though I’m still up for the fight,

Now I know how long is the night!

Deja vu

My mom is a great cook and I know many a satiated stomach that would vouch for it. I remember a time as a kid, when she made vada-pav or pav bhaji or pani puri or samosas at home. My dad would rave about them, compare them with the ones you got in hotels and how these tasted better, were healthier and eventually cheaper too, although he never failed to acknowledge the effort my mother put into making them. I, on the other hand, loved them but somehow always felt that there was something extra to the food we got outside (my father always said the 'extra' was the grime and sweat from the vendor's fingers).

A lot of river has become the sea since and I have spent a lot of that time eating in various places all around the globe. And when the other day my wife and me decided to bake some pizzas at home and then finish off the weekend with some homemade salami and sausage cheeseburgers, I was astounded by my words that accompanied those burgers. My wife smiled as I told her how we should henceforth only eat pizzas and burgers made at home, as they were so much tastier, so much healthier and so so much cheaper. It did take a little bit of effort but it was worth it. My 9 month old kept staring at me as I spoke. I don't figure he was having the same thoughts I used to have all those years ago, but I wonder how long before he will!

प्यार तो प्यार होता है

प्यार तो प्यार होता है 

सच्चा या झूठा नहीं 

दिल हमारा अब भी दिल है 

अच्छा या टूटा नहीं  

राह में कितने हैं हमराही मिलते 

कुछ दूर तो है वह साथ चलते 

कोई सपनो की तरह है आगे बढ़ जाते 

कोई साए की तरह शाम के साथ है ढलते 

तुम भी मिले थे यूँ ही कही 

ख्वाब से थे पल वह सभी  

आज मगर है धुंधले रंग वही 

हाथ बढ़ाकर छू  ना ले अभी 

चंचल यह राह कुछ ऐसे है मुड़े 

ज़िन्दगी से रिश्ते कुछ ऐसे है जुड़े 

कि एहसास है पुराना, शुरुआत नई 

मुस्कान है खिली पर आँसू वही 

रातों में अब रह गयी है बस करवटे

सपनों के चेहरों पर पड़ी है सलवटे 

फिर भी है हवा यह जुल्फों को उडाती 

शायद उम्मीदों की जंजीरों से है छुड़ाती   

क्यों कि 

प्यार तो प्यार होता है 

सच्चा या झूठा नहीं 

दिल हमारा अब भी दिल है 

अच्छा या टूटा नहीं