About me

A mother, wife and civil servant, a conscientious citizen and patriot ----- my abiding love for books has made me try my hand at writing poetry, none of which is anything but the strictly spontaneous outpouring of a mind that prizes truth and harmony, above all else.

Thursday, November 24, 2016

abundance

#APoetAtHeart
awaken at dawn
inhale the melody of bird song
feel the gentle fragrance of
rajnigandha on dew moist skin
reach out to the feathery clouds
lazing in the hazy morn
Life is abundance, cup it
in both hands, let the elixir
quieten your thirst
for more
and ever more.
(priya)

eulogies

what a torrent of words !

words are easy
words come effortlessly
words require no sacrifice
of comfort
words don't demand
lives of perfection
words allow claims of
kinship with icons

imagine a world
where every word
carried the price
of having to live the life
that we now so glibly admire
would the eulogies still be as eloquent ??
(priya)

my mont blanc


#APoetAtHeart
I was gifted a Mont Blanc once
not that I could much differentiate
it from my Reynolds
but I was told it was special
so for years it remained in its box
till I decided the other day
I would begin writing letters
not just to old friends
or lovers or love lost
but to people I have barely begun to know
the hunt for a letter pad took a week
the Mont Blanc then refused to cooperate
either because it had run out of ink
or Zuckerberg had sent a secret mandate
frustrated I scribbled in a hand writing
I was not quite proud of ( Sister
would have tut tutted no end !)
and then the thought struck me
hey, a letter needs a stamped envelope
so the letter remains in my book
of favourite Urdu couplets
till I can make a trip to the antiquated
post office and wait for an interminable
period to buy an unattractive yellow envelope
its addressed to a friend in Kashmir, by the way
it might never reach, because Kasmiri muslims are
not patriots , are they, they cheer for the Pakistani team
as did I always when Imran Khan looked like a God
descended to send pulses racing among gullible young girls
but nobody questioned my loyalty
though my taste in men seemed suspect to many

the world has changed beyond recognition
my Mont Blanc has taught me a valuable lesson
(priya)

a new name


#APoetAtHeart

Its Sunday
a day as good as any other
I think I will adopt a new name today
not my father's
he loved me, but nearly killed me
with his larger than life dreams
not my husband's
he seems to think it grants him unlimited
ownership rights
on my soul heart and body
not my mother's
she lives an insular life, having put behind
her all her aspirations since papa died
I am not much of a patriot and therefor rule
out Bharatiya
Some Punjabi traits are irksome and remind me
of Kiron Kher so
here too a firm NO
Perhaps I should look
to the life I want to live
to fly high to fly solo
above worldly turmoil
amidst rolling clouds
there IS a name for me then,
a name for Life's aficionada
I think I'd like to call myself Priya Garuda
(priya)

the cruelest month


#APoetAtHeart

Eliot was wrong, you know
August, not April , is the cruelest month
if it rains, it floods
and nothing remains behind
as the furious waters carry away
lives and things and dreams.

if the Gods disappoint, farmers hang from the
bare branches of forlorn trees
leaving behind wives and children who look
as if carved in stone
they do not even blame destiny

in torn tarpaulin covers , grains rot or become
rodent feasts while distended bellies
beg for a single wholesome meal
and die or live lives worse than death.

road repairs come to a halt, and house painting jobs
are put on hold , even polishing of dull sofas
in chandelier lit rooms gets postponed
so the breadwinner stops at the theka, and returns home
to beat up the frail wife.

knee deep storm water enters the lowlands
of the slumlords and so does sewage
the tarpaulin roofs leak, and he says, let the rains
pass, I promise you repairs and recompense.

August is particularly depressing for me
it is the month of my father's birthday
whom I lost twenty years ago, at sixty.

I don't know whose sorrow is greater

I do know Eliot was wrong
perhaps he wrote in a different century
in a different country
for a different reader
but if it be so
why do we read Eliot at all
(priya)


in the moment


#APoetAtHeart

its no easy job
making up your mind
whether the purpose of life
is minimising suffering
or maximising happiness
or even whether one is different from the other
perhaps the absence of suffering is happiness
and the absence of happiness is suffering
then there are moments when suffering brings joy
and others when the price of happiness is suffering
so between the two
i stand confused
wondering whether
i should accept
each moment
for what it brings
and let the mind
be simply guided
by its contents
(priya)

surfeit

#APoetAtHeart

It rained last night
The syngonium is gleaming
The madumalti smiles
The sweet basil is fragrance epitomised
Alas , my adeniums are not looking as pleased
The floods , the floods , they piteously cry
As water seeps down to the roots
softly killing them before they can even ask why
So it is with life
Joy is a welcome device
to keep one alive
Except when a surfeit beguiles
(priya )

butterflies

#APoetAtHeart
their white wings still aflutter
they perch awhile on the amaryllis
and are gone in an eyelid's blink
do we thus chase joys
or spread cheer
(priya)

piety

I believe in no God
You believe in The One
I abide by no rules or rituals
laid down in books
Your life is circumscribed by one
I believe I will become the dust from
which I arose
You believe in punishment and reward
and Heaven
We eat and dress differently
Speak different languages when we describe
women's roles and duties
Yet I cannot believe that He who made
you and me
Meant us to wield swords and bricks and daggers
against each other
No, that cannot be His definition of piety.
(priya)
3.10.2015

heart's foe (translation)



barbaadi e dil jabr nahin Faiz kisi ka
vo dushman e jaan hai toh bhula kyon nahin dete
(Faiz)

who can coerce you to break your own heart
if your heart's foe he be, consign him to the past
(trans: priya)

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Following one's heart


It seems like a dream out of an ancient, hoary past that I once wanted to be a lawyer. I thought it'd be the best way of setting right the innumerable ills of the world we live in because what underlies much of the suffering we see round us is injustice.

My parents had other plans and I fell in with those plans and became a civil servant. However, my fascination for the world of lawyers and courts and justice rendered through the magical knowledge and skills of the practitioners of law never quite left me. When my children were old enough to leave me a little time after my duties at home and office were discharged, I returned to writers like John Grisham. Now that I am on a sabbatical and have even more time on my hands, I avidly watch crime and legal thrillers.

Of course, I no longer view the legal profession through the same rose tinted glasses that I once did. I do know that its reality is so much harsher than even my current construct that I may well shrink from it if now given the opportunity to practice law.

That isn't the point of this post, however.

Its the fact that I did not follow my heart where choice of career was concerned-----and I have no regrets.

My children look amused when I tell them that , its very important for them to have the freedom to follow their hearts. All I want them to know is this ----- it isn't what one does that brings one joy so much as how one does what one does ----- anything done with complete involvement of the heart and mind, with no expectation of reward, but only with the desire to do it as well as one possibly can brings joy as surely as a plant well tended bears flowers and fruit.

Music for the soul


It was exactly 10 years ago that I first discovered Mozart, and Western classical music. Hindi film music, ghazals, some Punjabi folk, and a little of Western country and pop music was all that I had heard till that moment. I was on a flight to Singapore and because it was my first international flight ever, I was struggling to get the personal entertainment system into the Hindi movie viewing mode. I failed and settled instead for the Western classical music option and spent the whole flight enthralled by the music, electing not to let even tea ( to which I am addicted) interrupt the smooth flow. I skipped the meal, did not sleep a wink, and by the time we landed in Singapore, I had fallen in love with a music genre that's been my constant companion since. 

I still can barely distinguish between composers, I can't correctly pronounce half the names, I cannot define sonata and andante and adagio and allegro and all the other mysterious sounding titles, but the music touches my soul and that is all I care about!

Over the years, I have discovered Celtic music , contemporary country music, and thanks to my son, a lot of jazz, some opera, and even "thinking" rap. 

Having opened my heart to Western classical music, I have also let in Hindustani classical music and devotional music.

Sometimes, Facebook friends tag me when they upload music and that's been my route to hearing and savouring music I wouldn't have known existed. 

And yet, there is so much music in the world that I have not and never will hear that it makes me marvel at the creative genius of the human mind, and how we dishonour it when we get jingoistic about a particular language or art form or craft ------ all of them are manifestations of the same genius that has brought this amazing, beautiful world into existence.

finding oneself

“Oh, the comfort — the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person — having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.” (Dinah Craik)

In two score years and more, I am yet to find such a person.

Do such persons even exist?

Does one ever completely let slip the mask(s) that one wears except in solitude?

Or even in solitude?

The only place where I feel I can be completely myself is when I am close to Nature ----- because Nature does not need words to communicate, Nature does not judge, Nature does not accept or reject, it simply is and you simply are.

Everywhere else, one is cloaked, masked, revealed, disguised, uncovered, clothed, laid bare, hidden ---- or not ----- by words.

No wonder then that those who seek to find themselves and a Higher Self head towards the mountains and rivers and forests ----- or the simulated getaways we create in ashrams and retreats ----because unless one can be one's self, how can one find one's self?


waiting at the Mall



It's been many days now, or perhaps hours, or months. Have years passed? It began the day I reached early and sat down at the steel bench next to the fountain ( or was it the escalator) to wait for my mother.

I had been in low spirits for many days, not stirring out of the house, spurning food, hearing an ever present buzz that my sons couldn't, wracked by fears I could not define, tears filling up my eyes at the slightest real or imagined slight. Those were terrible days, the worst days of my life, or so I thought. I know better now. 

Mama called to say I ought to make an effort to step out, maybe we could have an aloo tikki chaat at Haldiram's, she suggested. I was loath to move but it was equally difficult to say "No" to Mama so I reluctantly acquiesced. Since hair and make up and clothes aren't really something that interest me, I got ready in a matter of minutes and stepped into the car. How I wish now I had taken the trouble to at least wear something comfortable and to drape a shawl and not scrunch my hair too tight. Regrets, regrets! 

So there I was, sitting with shoulders slumped, holding my red Hidesign bag ( the one I have had for for more than 7 years now) , staring at the floor, wanting to shut out the loud, dissonant music but too listless to even plug my ears with my fingers. I could hear the strident voice of a young woman conducting an inane promotional program and it made me want to retch. Children wailed, cell phones rang ( why must people set the ringtone at LOUD, and why must they download as ringtones songs that do not bear even the remotest resemblance to music) . People called out to each other across large distances, as if it weren't a public space but their living room. The cacophony was unbearable. Would it help if I suddenly stood up and began screaming at the top of my voice? For one, I did not have the energy to sit up straight, far less scream, and then, I'd have to screech like a possessed banshee to be heard and so the thought fled. 

I watched people walking past me -----or to be precise, I watched their footwear, since a bowed head prevents one from looking at faces! I wondered how much longer Mama would take. Should I simply take the escalator and wait at Haldiram's instead? Or should I wait at Costa's, have a coffee, maybe that would clear my head. A myriad possibilities crossed my weary mind, but none could convince me to stir from the bench. Its not even a particularly comfortable bench. For one, there's no back support, and its placed so close to the escalator that shoppers lugging huge shopping bags invariably step on your toes if you aren't careful. 

What if this were Hell, I asked myself? What if I were to be consigned to sit here for the rest of eternity ? What if the Gods of the shopping malls get incensed at my blatant, unremitting ( even if voiceless) disapproval of the mall and visit their wrath upon me? Will it strike me like a bolt of lightning? Will I hear an aakashvani?  

I sat bemused by these random thoughts for a little while, then thought of calling up Mama to ask what was holding her up. I couldn't. I couldn't because I was completely immobilized, or to be more precise, I had metamorphed into a non corporeal entity! 

And thus I remain, slumped on the bench, all the particles in place but desperately needing a re arrangement into a solid form. I wonder if my family has notified me as a missing person. The police ----even if it were to put its best foot forward, which is unlikely ----will not be able to trace me. I alone can help myself . I think I need to do some hard penance, pledge to buy a Gucci every month, or pay a weekly visit to the Thai spa, or pick up solitaires at D'damas ----the possibilities are endless, but my reluctant spirit, for which shopping is anathema, refuses to be pinned down. Or shall I say, its making it difficult for me to set foot on the ground. I am stuck, waiting at the Mall!

what I like best


what I like best when it rains is the fragrance of earth as it soaks in the rain


what i like best when there's a storm is the sight of trees bending in the wind but not breaking


what i like best when its so hot one can't breathe is a glass of iced roohafza


what i like best on warm winter days is to pretend its spring and to sip lassi, not tea


what i like best when its cold enough to make me shiver is to have hot gulab jamuns


what i like best when i am unhappy is to write verses brimming over with self pity


what i like best when i am happy is to write verses that celebrate joy


what i like best on birthdays is a fine dining experience


what i like best when my sons' exams are drawing close is to turn to tarot for reassurance


what i like best about cellphones is that i needn't take the calls i don't wish to

what i like best about lists is that one can keep adding to them

Kai Po Che


Brilliant, extraordinary, magical, scintillating, captivating, spell binding etc etc. We have become rather liberal with the use of superlatives. Scarcely anything that we do or say or eat or travel to or wear is less than fabulous or terrific or awesome. I belong to the old school, which believes in using superlatives rather sparingly, so that when one gets to hear it, it really and truly means the world. Therefore, I will not use these adjectives for AbhishekKapoor's Kai Po Che but I will strongly recommend that you watch it.

It isn't a movie that drags. The pace is quick, even the leisurely first half actually has a lot happening, and if at all one were inclined to make a few editing cuts, one would probably edit out a song, and no more. Its a rather lyrical song, by the way, so one could even let it remain. 

The plot is simple, perhaps a little predictable, but all the better for the fact that one identifies with the unfolding events, prepared to believe that any one of us could find himself in the midst of such life situations. 

The music meshes in , and has the flavour of the land where the story plays out. The lyrics are beautiful in their simplicity, and one looks forward to more such songs from Swanand Kirkire. 

The performances are uniformly competent ---- not a single jarring note, not the protagonists, not even the characters on the periphery of the plot. Yes, Sushant Singh stands out for reason of better screen presence, but the other actors are as convincingly in the skin of the characters they play as Ishaan, the character played by Sushant Singh.

I liked the skillful handling of the Godhra tragedy and the riots that followed. Both sides are effectively presented, and one's heart aches at the suffering of innocent people of both communities, without ascribing any blame.

I liked also the fact that the romantic angle is downplayed, and does not interrupt the flow of the story line. 

Most of all, I liked the movie for the message of hope it sends ----- sanity prevails, good sense prevails, dreams come true, no matter what one aspires for, the day comes when one's heart revels in the cry Kai Po Che!

Watch the movie ------ producers and directors who are beginning to think hat ke deserve all our support.

mothers and sons


She had hated her with an intensity she hadn't known she possessed. She hated her misplaced arrogance, her contempt for the ordinary man, her belief in her own superiority as if it were not God given but self acquired, her endless ambition, her greed for wealth, fame and power, her ever present need to be in control of people and situations and relationships, her sarcasm, her obsessive need to be declared the best in every field, her ceaseless attempts to be always the centre of attention. She tried hard to find common ground, but there was none ------ the significance each attached to family, home and career was in descending order for her and in ascending order for her bete noire. They even differed in their attitude towards men ------ was their weakness for pretty faces/sharp minds to be exploited or ignored ? For decades she had resisted the latter's attempts to control her life and her family's and had paid a heavy price in terms of heated arguments, bitter exchanges with her husband, endless tears, and the eternal question "why me". 

Now, she stood at her bedside and wept as she had never wept before, a flood of tears that would not stop. He bent over the hospital bed, tears in his eyes, and in the tone of a five year old distressed beyond measure , repeatedly tried to elicit a response from her but her eyes remained blank, with not a flicker of recognition. The canula strapped hand moved briefly, but then dropped back. 

To be so struck by sickness as to not recognise one's own child, to be rendered so helpless as to be unable to utter a word of affection or raise one's hand in blessing, to be oblivious to one's most beloved son ------ could there be a fate more terrible? 

She wept at the sight, and she wept till the bitterness of decades was washed away, and there was only forgiveness in her heart, and a prayer : may this fate never be visited upon me and my sons.

We don't need no education


For five years now, perhaps, a little more, I have been trying to convince my son that it isn't a good idea to argue with teachers, flout the rules that are meant to enforce school discipline, condemn the text books, question the rationale of the examination system, scorn peers who do none of the above etc etc ---- in vain. For five years, I have relentlessly urged him to pay some attention to what's happening in class, to complete assignments, to read the prescribed text books, and to answer questions as per the expectations of the examiner ---- in vain. For five years, I have tried to sell him the idea that worldly success may not be all that its trotted out to be but is not to be sneezed at either ----- in vain. 

Even now, when he's preparing for the Entrance Exams that will decide which college he gets to join for his undergraduate studies, he spends innumerable hours convincing me of the weaknesses of the system, how it favours those who slog and cram and aspire to get an engineering degree only as a means to a well paid job in the corporate or worse still, the government sector, and places at a disadvantage those who'd rather NOT memorise formulae and short cuts but focus on comprehending abstract concepts for the simple joy that such comprehension brings. 

All these years, he has pursued his interests with a complete indifference towards the "system". He's learnt to play music, taught himself to compose music, written poetry, spent countless hours engrossed in abstract art, read philosophy, devoured biographies of scientists, read Quantum Physics and Game theory , downloaded thousands of hours of music of every conceivable genre, caused three laptops to crash in 5 years, replaced his wardrobe with clothes that he is comfortable in with no concern for fashion, learnt to cook, driven me crazy with his compulsive emphasis on order and cleanliness etc etc. We engage in discussions on every topic under the sun, whether it be politics or patriotism or poverty or the purpose of life. We have serious differences on charity, population explosion, Islam and how society ought to treat the elderly. 

He's a delightful young man who is educating himself and me every day ----but as far as the education system is concerned, he's a failure because he scored but 80 per cent or so in grade XII and is unlikely to get into an IIT. His plans for the future include teaching, research and writing an opera. It is getting increasingly obvious that he will find it difficult to live his dreams in India, so I'm getting reconciled to sending him abroad, in search of an academic environment conducive to his multifarious interests and passions. 

I wonder often whether I have done him an injustice by not opting for home schooling ----- and urge every parent who's beginning to doubt whether the school system is doing more harm than good to immediately begin looking for home schooling options. Everything my son has learnt is DESPITE his formal education, not because of it ---- or as Mark Twain would have said it, his schooling has interfered with is education. 

The irony is that if he succeeds in his dream of becoming a teacher, he will become a part of the very system he abhors -----unless he sets up a school of his own!!!

Family tales 1


If you recite the Sundarkand every day, your son will be born as strong and valorous as Bajrang bali, exhorted my grand mother- in -law. 

She was tiny and frail, and the spectacles that perched on her elegant nose seemed to dwarf every other feature. Up at the crack of dawn, bathed and dressed in a cotton dhoti, seated in her favourite spot, she would fix her determined gaze upon me as I straggled out of my bedroom , casting frantic glances at the tea pot on the dining table that was almost always empty. Oh no, I would groan to myself, I will have to make tea, the stainless steel saucepan will get scorched, and Anirudh bhaiya will give me the withering look which silently says : these modern girls! 

There is a Tulsi Ramayan in naana's cupboard, why don't you borrow it ----- Amma's voice would break through my reverie. I will, Amma, I would promise and promptly forgot about it. 

Till lunch time , Amma would sit in the reclining chair that was rather strategically placed ----- not a soul could stir without her knowledge. The afternoon would see her resting on her four poster bed, and I would tip toe through the room into mine, praying that she would not ask, Is 2 pm not an unearthly hour to take a bath? 

She invited me to sit beside her one day. There was a sweetbox in her long fingered hand. Do you like ghevar, she asked. Y-yes, I answered cautiously, wishing neither to dampen the enthusiasm in her voice nor let myself in for a not- so - delectable treat. I have hidden it from your mother in law, she whispered conspiratorially, or it will get confiscated. Amma, you ARE diabetic, you know, I replied rather pedantically. Does that mean I should live a joyless life,was her furiously whispered answer. So the box was opened and I had my first taste of the slice of heaven that is called ghevar. 

I ought to return a favour, I told myself , and picked up the Tulsi Ramayan that day from behind the sliding doors of the cupboard that had held most of my grand father -in - law's worldly possessions. That night, my elder son curled besides me, I began reading Sunder Kand. The tale held me captive, so come morning, I plonked myself in the pooja room where my husband's maasi performed her daily Hanuman pooja. The cadence and rhythm were quickly learnt, but the calm and fragrance of the room and the benign look on the Hanuman idol made me feel so restful that I and my elder son began to spend more and more time here. It was at night, when the world had fallen silent, that I would invoke Ram and begin reciting Sundarkand, drifting away into sleep with the Tulsi Ramayan held fast in my hands. 

Mama, asked my son one day, what does kanan kundal kunchit kesa mean ? That was the day that my 2 year old baby and I together began reciting the Hanuman Chalisa. 

Whether it was the food that did the trick, or Amma's exhortation, or the fragrant calm of maasi's pooja room or the mother-and-son chanting of the Hanuman Chalisa ----- my younger son IS strong and valorous , loyal and chivalrous, he CAN move mountains. Amma, are you listening? I bet you have placed your rocking chair close to Heaven's portals, all the better to keep an eye on who is entering and who is being sent past!

Kitchen diaries

(1)
My memories of Mama cooking are so hazy as to be nearly non existent. Food was not something to be made much of a fuss about. The idea----- and I realised this many, many years later when I began cooking for my children -----was to make sure that the healthiest possible food was cooked in the least possible time. Different cuisines? Weekly menus? Desserts? Three course meals ? These were luxuries Mama could not afford, with long hours at college, and three children to bring up, including a son who had decided at a very early age to assume the role of rebel. Very often, she had to walk long distances, or travel hours by bus, or wait by the roadside for a shared auto rickshaw,. How could she have the desire or the energy to then toil in the kitchen?
Nevertheless, the food was always delicious, with chapattis being served straight off the griddle, and the lentils topped with generous globs of snowy white butter.
Sometimes, I would be roped in to pound masalas ---- the mortar was a mottled grey-brown, and I was convinced that Mama possessed superhuman powers to be able to lift it and wash it and place it on the floor, before she handed me the wooden pestle. I would sit cross legged, and pound the onions and garlic and ginger, absorbed in the task, hearing only the pressure cooker's whistle. If she were in a cheerful mood, Mama would hum as she cooked ---- and the songs linger in my memory thirty years later.
Very often, lunch would comprise fruits ---- apples, oranges, bananas, as many as one could gorge on. Those were the days when Mama would return home late, then hurry to the kitchen to make preparations for dinner even as she handed Papa his evening tea -----but never before taking a bath and changing out of her sari. She cooked always at lightning speed, and it remains a mystery to me how she managed to combine speed with robust Punjabi flavours.

A poet is born


#poetatheart
when words flow over the ivory page
along the bevelled edge
down the squat wooden legs , across the mottled marble floor
out of the door
into the street
and i hear them from strangers' lips
i will know -- a
poet is born

A many splendored thing ---Iqbal ( translation)


#PoetAtHeart

tu ne socha hai kabhi, ai deeda-e-ibrat, ke gul
ho ke paida khaak se rangeen qaba kyonkar huya
(Iqbal)
have you, of discerning eye,
ever contemplated the reason why
the flower, that blooms
from dust, many-hued splendor assumes.
(trans---pvks)

Zindagi ---(translation)

#PoetAtHeart

zindagi insaan ki hai maanind-e-murgh-e-khush nawa
shaakh par baitha koi dam, chehchahaaya, ur gaya
(Iqbal)
a joyous bird that alights
on a branch, pauses awhile,
chirps, flies, such is man's life.
(trans----pvks)

thrones ---Sahir ( translation)

#PoetAtHeart

takht kya chiiz hai aur lal- o- jawahar kya hai
ishq waale to khudaayi bhi lutaa dete hain
( Sahir Ludhianvi)
what care they for thrones
or precious stones
those who forsake
the world for love's sake
(priya)

Hope ---(translation)

#PoetAtHeart

dil ko tabeer koi aur gawaara hi na thi
kulfat e zeest to manzoor thi har tawr magar
raahat e marg kisi tawr gawaara hi na thi
(Faiz)
no other philosophy did the heart accept
that life is strife was agreeable , but
it rejected the respite
that death begets
(trans ---pvks)

Grief ---Faiz (translation)

#PoetAtHeart
बहुत मिला, ना मिला , ज़िंदगी से ग़म क्या है
मता ए दर्द बाहम है , तो बेश ओ कम क्या है
( फ़ैज़)
Much I have gained from life
or little, it little matters
The treasure of grief is mine,
much or little, it little matters
( trans ---- pvks)

warriors and mothers ---Faiz (translation)


#PoetAtHeart
sard silon par
zard silon par
taza garm lahu ki soorat
guldaston ke cheetein hain
kitbe sab benaam hain lekin
har ik phool pe naam likha hai
ghafil sone waale ka
yaad mein rone wale ka

apne farz se farigh ho kar
apne lahu ki taane chaadar
saare bete khwaab mein hain
apne ghamon ka haar piro kar
ammaan akeli jag rahi hain

(Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Az Sham e Sheher e Yaaran)

On cold slabs
on pale slabs
as if they were
warm, freshly shed blood
lie bouquets splattered.
Obscure are the epitaphs
but every bloom bears the name
of he who, unaware, sleeps
of those who, in remembrance, weep.

having redeemed their pledges
in their own blood enshrouded
the sons lie and dream.
threading their sorrows into wreaths
the mothers alone remain without sleep.

(Trans ---Priya VKS)

Action ( translation)


#PoetAtHeart

जब मैं कहता हूँ के या अल्लाह मेरा हाल देख
हुक्म होता है कि अपना नामा ए अमाल देख
(अकबर अलाहबादी)

His attention when I call to my piteous state
Review your actions, He commands, before you complain.
(trans ---Priya VKS)

Means ( translation)

#PoetAtHeart
और कुछ भी मुझे दरकार नहीं है लेकिन
मेरी चादर मेरे पैरों के बराबर कर दे
(शाहिद मीर )
Nothing else do I ask of You save this ---
stretch my means so they may my desires fulfil
(Trans--- pvks)

Faiz --- suraag ( translation)

#PoetAtHeart
kahin nahin, kahin bhi nahin hai lahu ka suraagh
na dast o nakhun e qatil, na aasteen pe nishaan
na surkhi e lab e khanjar, na rang e nok e sanan
na khaak par koi dhabba, na baam pe koi daagh
kahin nahin hai, kahin bhi nahin hai, lahu ka suraagh

Pukaarta raha be aasra yateem lahu
kisi ko bahr e samaat na waqt tha na dimaagh
na muddai, na shahaadat, hisaab paak hua
ye khoon e khaak nasheenan tha, rizq e khaak hua.

(Faiz)

nowhere, nowhere at all does a trace of blood remain
not on the nails of the assassin, nor on his sleeves a stain
it does not redden the spear's tip nor the edge of the sword
no blot on the dust, nor a stain on the rooftop
nowhere, nowhere at all does a trace of blood remain

aloud it wailed, orphaned, bereft of aid
none had time or desire to hear the pain
neither witness, nor plaintiff, the case was closed
the blood of humble people, into the dust it flowed
( trans: pvks)

demonetisation

#PoetAtHeart
#Demonetisation

sometimes i get swept away by my words ---
like a monstrous wave were knocking me off my feet 
and dragging me into a dark pool of mindlessness ----
and i begin to believe myself and the promises i make 
and you, who doubt me , and throw facts in my face
and think i will back away , know that i am the master of my destiny and yours and your children's
so pay heed, listen, cheer, get swept away with me
we may yet be redeemed
---- if the darkness turns into oblivion , you ask ---
i have no answer, my head is swollen too large for thoughts

750



Just when I was trying to make up my mind to begin blogging regularly again, I stumbled across a website that encourages one to write 750 words a day. It sounds a lot, but because I was resolved to begin writing more (and watch less TV), I signed up. The first day was difficult, then it became easier , so much so that I am now looking forward to the daily exercise. Do join up if you feel so inclined, and let us share notes! Here is the link :http://750words.com/about.

Here are my most recent 750 words, which took roughly 4 minutes to write.

I rediscovered MUSIC today ---- or to be precise, I discovered a website from which I can pay and download music. I had done that about a year ago, when I had downloaded a lot of music from Flipkart. I failed to save the music on a back up memory device so when the computer crashed, all the music vanished. I was heart broken. OK, that's hyperbole. I was a little upset because a lot of time had gone into searching for the GHAZALS I like and downloading them ----and they vanished in a trice without leaving the merest trace behind, or at least, none that I could discover, not being a very technologically savvy person. For a pretty long time after that disaster, I played bits and pieces of music on You Tube but was inhibited by the cost of downloading the song every time I wanted to hear it.

Today, Facebook threw up an advertisement of the music company SaReGaMa ----and lo and behold, they have, at last, years and years after they should have, introduced the facility of downloading music at the pretty reasonable rate of Rs 9 per song. I have downloaded about 20 songs so far because the Search function is rather tedious and not user friendly at all. I aim to download at least 20 songs every day till I have most of the Bollywood music and ghazals I like. All other music I will ask my son to transfer from his computer to mine. He is a music geek if ever there was one, with so much music that it can play non stop, without repetition, for 365 days !!

I am not so ambitious. I love to hear music from different genres, different ages, different languages, but never get so enamoured of any of it to want to memorise it, recognise it, hum it. Its enough for me to enjoy it for the moment. My logic is simply this ----there is so much music in the world that no one can ever hear all of it, not even in a lifetime so one might as well enjoy what one can momentarily and for the most, focus on more familiar music, perhaps music one has grown up with or music one has fallen in love with as one grew older.

For example, there was a time when I heard a lot of Celtic music, but I remember just one name from that time, The Corrs. I heard all their music via You Tube, I heard Celtic music on radio, I bought a CD of the instrumental music of ---- oh! I have forgotten the name, I will have to google it, but I remember the name of the album which was Divinities. Who was it? It sounded like Louis Armstrong. OK, I just remembered ---it was Ian Andersen. I don't even know whether that was Celtic music, just that it SOUNDED like Celtic music, possibly because it was played on a flute. How is Celtic pronounced, by the way? Is it Celtic as in "cell" or Celtic as in "kill"? I have probably looked up the pronounciation dozens of times but I forget every time. Let me do it one last time and say it aloud 10 times so that I don't forget again. Hmm, its Keltic ---sounds better than Celtic. Wouldn't it have been nice for English to be a logical language and spell Keltic as Keltic and not Celtic? Such difficulties never arise in Hindi or Punjabi, the only other two languages I know.

Come to think of it, I have not heard much Punjabi music. Possibly, it had to do with our middle class upbringing in which Punjabi was considered the poor or vulgar ( depending upon the circumstances) cousin of Hindi. From my youth, I only remember the song "gur naalon ishq miththa" and the Punjabi ghazals Preekshit, my brother, used to play once in a while on the tape recorder. In recent times, I have heard a bit of Shiv Batalvi and a bit of Punjabi folk music but it doesn't add to much. I think I will download some Punjabi music tomorrow, perhaps Tahira Syed whose "jhajar phabdi na " I have long loved and long wished and dreamt I could sing.

Monday, November 21, 2016

UMEED


Naya savera laaya phir se nayi umeed

Mitti par kheenchi kiranon ne nayi lakeer

Kehta hai sooraj ise muthhi mein bhar lo

Aalasya chhodo, jeevan mein khushiyan kuchh jodo

(Priya)

2.10.2015

delusional


the drizzle sent me scurrying
back to the hole I call öffice
it would not do, you see
to walk in the rain
beneath the canopy
of red cotton and kachnar trees
and return with rain drops
dancing on my eye lashes
it would not do to have
a song in the heart
that can't be silenced
we are a sombre lot
we run the nation
it matters little
that most of it
is a delusion
(priya)
5.11.2015

journey


The rain drops are on a
leisurely journey
the tree is tall , you see
when the lowest branches
gleam with speckled dust
I know the journey is complete
(priya)

of sons and daughters


when the Devil within
steps out
and wolves down
a little princess
why does the mother
not seek forgiveness
and hang her head
in shame
why does she ascribe blame
to anything or anyone
except her own son
(priya)
18.10.2015

and?

and on my walk I met
one, a dog sitting contentedly
under the tall amaltas tree
two, a squirrel looking quite
delighted
for reasons unknown to me
three, a thin pretty girl with earphones
that's me, I said to myself ( less twenty kg)
and I turned the next page of the murder mystery

dilemna


Have you been taking
your Vitamin D
I asked my son - - - -
To B or not to B
is the more
important question,
he whatsapped instantly,
which is why I have
both Sartre and turkey
when I eat
(Priya)

you vs me


can you say

with even an iota

of certainty

whether the sunshine

yellow that fills

me with joy

is the same yellow

that you see ?

you are you

and I am I - - -

that alone gives me

the right to live

my life differently

from what you imagine

it ought to be
(priya)

i am


I am weary
of being strong
kind competent
pretty
If I put away
my 24x7 smile
will you still
celebrate me

Suprabhat


Nikhra huya baageecha

Khilta huya baaghbaan

Patton se chhanti dhoop

Titliyon ki masarrat

Chidiyon ki chehchahat

Saba se lipti naye din ki khushboo

(Priya )

sons and daughters

her face lit up
with a thousand sunbeams
she smiled, and raindrops slid down glossy leaves
we embraced and strength flowed into me
daughter, she said,
you look so well
when i look at my son the same joy fills me

air and water


(1)
The lily trembled
The fragrant air stirred, paused
Soundlessly, it dropped

(2)
Through closed eyes I heard
the wind storm furiously
the mind silenced it

ideas

If you have two books
And I have two
I give mine to her and her
You give yours too
Four lives will change
Stories enchant
Ideas germinate
Things don't ever
return to the same

time

Tick tock tick tock tick tock
May I smash the relentless clock
I need no reminder
of the years I have lost
Or the emptiness that beckons
You say
(And i know you
mean to assuage
my melancholy)
NOW is all there is
NOW is all i must cope with
Why then must the clock play its ominous melody

greys

She slips in and out of dreams
Restless edgy
The girl in a wedding dress who holds her hand
Looks tense unhappy
Her jhumkas sway as she gulps down her tears
and get caught in the dupatta's zari
Leaning forward to free the jhumka , she wonders
Is it post facto convergence
Or was there a tinge of darkness
in the fairytale wedding

dawn dialogue

the smooth silent stillness of dawn

speaks to something inside me

that does not return

till next the sun streaks

the early morn

diwali

Diwali approaches

flowing silk saris
embroidered stoles
versace and jimmy choo

kundan meena and pure gold
fresh coats of paint
on faces and walls

candles diyas and urlis
silver ceramic terracota bespoke

red green blue glittering lights
bright cheery sofa fabric and throws

dhoop agarbatti camphor lamps
wind chimes dream catchers new and old

music fire crackers appetizers aperitifs
food laden tables ----- with pride she beholds
the immaculate preparations
while they prepare to sweep roads
the day after
of the debris of celebrations
(priya)
23.10.2015

what matters

After four years and a half
I met my nephew today
he looks just the same
though some would say
he has grown more American
all the years he's been away.
If only I could tell them
that boundaries are neither
drawn by some divinity
nor even cast in stone
by frail leaders of humanity
What matters is not citizenry
but what manner of
human being he grows
up to be
(priya)

martyrs

I awoke from a dream
shivering with dread
it was my son
I had seen
moaning, bloodied,
holding out his hand
for his comrade's help
if mothers decided
the fates of nations
perhaps discoveries and inventions
would be the cause of celebrations
not the laying of wreaths on martyrs'
graves
for that is a travesty worse than the fate
which befalls the brave young men
who die so that we may live
and celebrate their martyrdom !
(priya)

then and now


We slept under the stars
Heads resting on pale pink roses
embroidered on white pillow cases
Dawn brought the raucous cries
of peacocks
A sweetness caressed the sleeping cheeks
the breeze was fragrant with gur laden tea
Spring announced itself by the warm chill
that made me squeeze my eyes harder
as if that which i could not see i would not feel
Now, the drone of the airconditioner
makes the days clones
that I cannot tell apart ---is it spring ?

Father dearest


eighteen years ago
he was taken away
the pain is dull now
the grief is not coal dark
but grey
I no longer rush to the phone
and imagine I will hear him ask
gudiya, are you doing ok
tears don't flood my eyes
when I talk about him
though it is rarely that I do
because the old resentment rears its head
and I ask Him
what did I do
to have my father taken away
just when he was settling
down to live a simple life of
deep content
with his children and grand children
having spent decades getting ready to
I rarely speak of him
and some would suspect that
I have forgotten
but every moment I spent
with my father
is a memory etched in colours
that cannot fade
on my mind's canvas
I am what I am
because that is how he made me
and in joy and grief
in celebration and sorrow
in rare moments of deep peace
I looks heavenwards and ask him.
papa, are you satisfied
with what I have so far made of my life,
the life you gave me
(PVKS)

We


this is the time
when leaves
seem to weep
curled up
drooping shoulders
heaving silently
in the afternoon breeze
when i see them at dusk
glistening, freshly watered
nodding smilingly
i know we have this in common
------ life, and the desire
to overcome adversity

Homes


Home --- 1

watching uncle urfi on black
and white konark tv
papa reciting julius caesar and
relating cordelia's story
picnic lunches amidst pine needles,
resting on scratched knees
securing the books on the rear seat,
cycling to the library
watching the cacophonous tv debate,
i recall many homes from memory

Home---- 2

They grew tall and pretty
sweetpeas that stood in a row
white pink and yellow
It sprang beneath
our tingling naked feet
the grass grew lush and green
We grasped a corner each
and rainbows streaked
in the lazy evening
till ---- dry crisp folded
the dupattas lay in a heap
----- here you go, maasi
Our summer home with naani
lingers fragrant in my memory

Home - 3

hearing me cough and wheeze
you would wake up at 2 am
to bring me comfort and ginger tea

pulses research, national oilseeds mission
you would listen to me reciting facts
on coarse cereals and arid land cultivation

i was twelve when we visited the optician
and you asked, can spectacles conceal a beautiful mind
because I wept to discover my weak vision

you would insist , haathon ki chand lakeeron ka
i would have none of it, youth has strong opinions

you were proud of the prizes i won but prouder still of
what you had taught me : courage integrity and compassion

dearest father, i refresh my memories
when the burden gets too heavy
and straighten my shoulders
as you would have me