Then & Now

From The Vicar of Wakefield by Oliver Goldsmith

When a lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover
And wring his bosom is to die.


From The Fire Sermon of The Waste Land by T S Eliot

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to
pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

Not far away

Just the night,
That brings with it,
A long and distant sound
From the streets; of lanky frames
Beating the shuttlecock
In careful vengeance:
Pick, pack, pock, puck…


Now Playing::Aanewala pal.........Kishore Kumar

Mood Music

I had posted this one, as my Facebook status, yesterday evening and it continued to play all through the night along with Dil dhoondta hai phir wohi fursat ke raat din. The reserved longing and the subtle tendency of the lyrics, to hark back to the past, in order to clarify present events, is well nigh orgasmic for long winter nights.

I'm in for yet another long night and I know how to flow through it!

Dil na-umeed toh nahi, na-kaam hi toh hai
Lambi hai gham ki shaam, magar shaam hi toh hai!

Sepia

This evening when I fixed my
Hair and draped myself in one
Of mother’s sarees, the circle was
Completed, as mother and daughter
Greeted each other in mutual confusion
And the house later echoed with some
Mild laughter.


Now Playing:: Bhai batur.........Lata

The Prelude

How often,
At this hour of the night,
I’m reminded of a
Private fantasy;
Of being driven mad
With love,
When held
By the length of
My unruly tresses…


Now Playing:: Jajabara........Akhaya Mohanty

Among other things, December

There’s only the distant dream of sleeping too late and rising slowly around this time of the year. While life interrupts in its ever irritating pettiness throughout the year, December, however, is meant to make an unthinking stab at the proceedings, reeling everything back, as you wait for the cold ghost of the sun to swamp all over your body. But then, the lonely, belong to the wretched kind; they ask for too much too soon or for too little when it’s too late. Sometime in this month, a birthday would be remembered, amidst cakes, confetti, and lots of casual greetings, and a party that would stretch itself till January pulls out a new sun.

Winter is a lot less golden for me. It rings of distant bells, mostly that of longing, and a waiting that gets extended and extended. Lying in bed, curled up all afternoon reading an occasional classic, anticipating a phone call until a cold conversation with an imaginary friend begins to blur the lines and the eyes heavy with sleep. No longer the shrill cry of insects or the vexing flutter of the sparrows (if that’s what the brown ones are known by) when I sit by the window trying to see as much as I can, in what I believe are the last few months at a place where, I’ve seen the sun rising and setting, setting and rising for more than eighteen years now.

Nothing’s coming back;
Long walks are inevitable,
But seasons from now on,
Shall render memories,
Coherent.


Now Playing:: Dikhayi diye yun.............Lata