It’s a strange thing
To be a woman.
It’s equally strange
To be proud of
Being a woman!
Pride never comes
With the sex,
It comes
With the gender.
It grips a girl,
Still in her teens, and
Senselessly strips her
Off of girlhood
And makes a woman
Out of her;
A woman, who childishly
Flaunts her sex,
In the blind arrogance
Of her gender!
A pitiful loser, who
Celebrates her stains,
Rejoices her ripeness!
Ready for sexual banquets,
She is no longer tempted
To sit in her father’s lap
And tug at his moustache,
For he too is a man after all!
Daughters become women,
Fathers retreat and
So do brothers!
Years later, sleeping with
A strange man, she
Longs for the gentle touch
Of her father,
And silently mourns
For being a girl too late
But a woman too early.
Now Playing:: Tum pukar lo...............Hemant Kumar
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Relishing on Relics
The only way I could ward off my frustrations was by making a long expedition into streets where books are sold. There aren’t many of that kind in the city yet one is sure to find a suitable midnight darling depending upon your age, experience, and most importantly your “mood”, which prefers one writer to the other in different hours of the same day!
The city is not bred with rich literary tastes and the few shops which sell books turn out to be too modest in their collection, even depressing at times. But that is when you’ve a fetish to buy new books only and an intense disrelish for anything used and soiled by too many hands. The city gets absolutely seductive when you are on a hunt for books; old and yellowed with time. There’s some kind of a silly romantic pleasure that walks along with you in these streets and makes you stop at every nondescript shop nay, cabin and forces you to look for books of your interest amidst that eye-relishing heap of volumes.
It is highly likely that you might end up getting your hands on an odd volume of old English authors, or editions that have been long out of print, or anthologies of the finest collected poems, essays and memoirs.
I remember the last summer when I was high on Hardy and how an anxious visit to these streets to find more of him ended in something like a treasure hunt. I was literally hopping from one end of the street to the other as everyone had some other shop to refer to where almost all the English authors are likely to co-exist. Today, I’ve almost all of Hardy’s on my book shelf; a prized possession of meticulous English, which cost me less than a hundred bucks.
But somewhere down the line buying books on the net replaced every other modes of shopping and my visits to these streets became less and less frequent. Much seems to have changed now. Some of the big old shops are still there but the cabins have been removed and they now lie scattered in obscure places of the area. In one word the streets look neat and clean and organized, and the hunt becomes tiring and toiling, but its fun anyway.
Whiling away an evening in these streets, leafing through odd old volumes, I realized how much of priceless and rare antiquity lies unclaimed and neglected in these dingy looking cabins. If only people were novel enough to appreciate antiquity…
Whiffs of evening dust now began to settle on the books and a call from mom reminded me that I had to pick her up from her office. I was about to return with my prized find of The Metaphysical Poets by Helen Gardner, when all of a sudden I remembered that it was the 23rd of April, a date which is held to be sacred by all lovers of English literature.
It couldn’t have occurred to me at a better place, I thought! Shakespeare lay in an extravagant abundance in front of me…
Now Playing:: Jajabara....................Akhaya Mohanty
The city is not bred with rich literary tastes and the few shops which sell books turn out to be too modest in their collection, even depressing at times. But that is when you’ve a fetish to buy new books only and an intense disrelish for anything used and soiled by too many hands. The city gets absolutely seductive when you are on a hunt for books; old and yellowed with time. There’s some kind of a silly romantic pleasure that walks along with you in these streets and makes you stop at every nondescript shop nay, cabin and forces you to look for books of your interest amidst that eye-relishing heap of volumes.
It is highly likely that you might end up getting your hands on an odd volume of old English authors, or editions that have been long out of print, or anthologies of the finest collected poems, essays and memoirs.
I remember the last summer when I was high on Hardy and how an anxious visit to these streets to find more of him ended in something like a treasure hunt. I was literally hopping from one end of the street to the other as everyone had some other shop to refer to where almost all the English authors are likely to co-exist. Today, I’ve almost all of Hardy’s on my book shelf; a prized possession of meticulous English, which cost me less than a hundred bucks.
But somewhere down the line buying books on the net replaced every other modes of shopping and my visits to these streets became less and less frequent. Much seems to have changed now. Some of the big old shops are still there but the cabins have been removed and they now lie scattered in obscure places of the area. In one word the streets look neat and clean and organized, and the hunt becomes tiring and toiling, but its fun anyway.
Whiling away an evening in these streets, leafing through odd old volumes, I realized how much of priceless and rare antiquity lies unclaimed and neglected in these dingy looking cabins. If only people were novel enough to appreciate antiquity…
Whiffs of evening dust now began to settle on the books and a call from mom reminded me that I had to pick her up from her office. I was about to return with my prized find of The Metaphysical Poets by Helen Gardner, when all of a sudden I remembered that it was the 23rd of April, a date which is held to be sacred by all lovers of English literature.
It couldn’t have occurred to me at a better place, I thought! Shakespeare lay in an extravagant abundance in front of me…
Now Playing:: Jajabara....................Akhaya Mohanty
Thursday, April 22, 2010
A Necklace of Skulls
Sprawled on the cool floor on a wild, blazing noon, with A Necklace of Skulls, I wasn’t sure what I was preparing myself for. Things began to unfold in an inert, unhurried, and sedate manner. There were occasional jolts of course, but I was safe. My eyes were getting heavier with every passing second and just when I thought I couldn’t further any longer, it began:
It was never a painful rain of blows, nor lethal enough to draw some blood. It hit me like a whiplash; its even more cruel because it leaves marks, right where they do not belong. But, as I reached the end, writhing and whimpering, I realized, what an ecstatic dance of irony it had been all this while.
Here’s a glimpse of those beatings:
Advice to Women:
Keep cats
If you want to learn to cope with
The otherness of lovers.
Otherness is not always neglect—
Cats return to their litter trays
When they need to.
Don’t cuss out of the window
At their enemies.
That stare of perpetual surprise
In those great green eyes
Will teach you to die alone.
Aesthetic distance from debris.
All I’ve learnt from pain
I always knew,
But could not do.
It was never a painful rain of blows, nor lethal enough to draw some blood. It hit me like a whiplash; its even more cruel because it leaves marks, right where they do not belong. But, as I reached the end, writhing and whimpering, I realized, what an ecstatic dance of irony it had been all this while.
Here’s a glimpse of those beatings:
Advice to Women:
Keep cats
If you want to learn to cope with
The otherness of lovers.
Otherness is not always neglect—
Cats return to their litter trays
When they need to.
Don’t cuss out of the window
At their enemies.
That stare of perpetual surprise
In those great green eyes
Will teach you to die alone.
Another Way to Die
Being eaten by maggots
Is fantasy
The real thing is
To touch the outlines
Of the hands, the hair
To find no body there
In a few hours
Or a few days
The bits reassemble
A breast flies back
A dull pain
Where the heart should be
An ache for a touch
Or a quarrel
For a while again
You are almost
Human.
Aesthetic distance from debris.
All I’ve learnt from pain
I always knew,
But could not do.
Now Playing:: Aaiye meherbaan...........................Asha
Friday, April 16, 2010
Heat
All day long one lies inside the house like a hostage; quiet, lazy, and soaked in the salted dank drops of sweat, doing absolutely “nothing”, for when there is nothing to be done one does nothing!
With the doors and windows shutting the gentle summer sounds without, one is left alone in the silent semi-darkness of the house, too reluctant to turn the lights on, and finding nothing much to do in that state, flops into bed amidst the gyrating noise of the ceiling fan which neither dissipates the heat nor lulls one into a profound afternoon siesta.
Meanwhile, the heat catches up more and more and again and again.
The arrogance of the heat without and the sheen of sweat growing heavier within the depths of hair bring a crowd of ideas and fancies; a wild restlessness that refuses to doze off, keeping one awake for long… too long…
One wakes up from that half-sleep thoroughly drenched in sweat, and finds boredom hanging all around like a landscape in swoon. One might let sleep wash away the ennui but one chooses to pamper it into a ‘tranquil boredom’, squeezing things cool into glasses of glass, taking little doses of the antidote, killing the heat in a pale motion, until what remains are the still traces of the boredom which one no longer wishes to stifle and allows it to hang around like the common cold which, during its stay makes one miserable, but once it leaves, it also makes one crave for that sexy phlegm once again!
One might as well trick the self into the pleasures of reading, but then one is still reluctant to turn the lights on, and the heat continues to catch up more and more.
Eventually, one switches the computer on and lets the music take on a different turn.
One fancies the idea of writing, but then, to unfold writing materials and to put down thoughts systematically and grammatically sounds no great zest in contemplating.
One lingers around for a while; flutters frantically on the keyboard; styling thoughts into ill-formed blog posts before they slip away as vacant daydreams, and the evening with its senseless cooling makes a sacrament of the all vital heat…
Now Playing:: Mora saiyaan mose bolena................Khamaaj
With the doors and windows shutting the gentle summer sounds without, one is left alone in the silent semi-darkness of the house, too reluctant to turn the lights on, and finding nothing much to do in that state, flops into bed amidst the gyrating noise of the ceiling fan which neither dissipates the heat nor lulls one into a profound afternoon siesta.
Meanwhile, the heat catches up more and more and again and again.
The arrogance of the heat without and the sheen of sweat growing heavier within the depths of hair bring a crowd of ideas and fancies; a wild restlessness that refuses to doze off, keeping one awake for long… too long…
One wakes up from that half-sleep thoroughly drenched in sweat, and finds boredom hanging all around like a landscape in swoon. One might let sleep wash away the ennui but one chooses to pamper it into a ‘tranquil boredom’, squeezing things cool into glasses of glass, taking little doses of the antidote, killing the heat in a pale motion, until what remains are the still traces of the boredom which one no longer wishes to stifle and allows it to hang around like the common cold which, during its stay makes one miserable, but once it leaves, it also makes one crave for that sexy phlegm once again!
One might as well trick the self into the pleasures of reading, but then one is still reluctant to turn the lights on, and the heat continues to catch up more and more.
Eventually, one switches the computer on and lets the music take on a different turn.
One fancies the idea of writing, but then, to unfold writing materials and to put down thoughts systematically and grammatically sounds no great zest in contemplating.
One lingers around for a while; flutters frantically on the keyboard; styling thoughts into ill-formed blog posts before they slip away as vacant daydreams, and the evening with its senseless cooling makes a sacrament of the all vital heat…
Now Playing:: Mora saiyaan mose bolena................Khamaaj
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Incredible!
Incredible, perhaps it is
For a woman
To be smitten by one,
To be addicted to another,
To worship yet another,
And to passionately desire
For someone else!
Incredible, perhaps it is
For a woman
To talk about
The animal longings
Of her limbs, and
Never to resist
Parched lips even
When the sun is
Yellow with burning!
Incredible, perhaps it is
For a woman
To be falling in love
Again and again,
Unknown to herself, and
Yet not believing
In its reciprocation
Even for auld times sake!
Now Playing:: Jaiye aap kahan jayenge...................Asha
For a woman
To be smitten by one,
To be addicted to another,
To worship yet another,
And to passionately desire
For someone else!
Incredible, perhaps it is
For a woman
To talk about
The animal longings
Of her limbs, and
Never to resist
Parched lips even
When the sun is
Yellow with burning!
Incredible, perhaps it is
For a woman
To be falling in love
Again and again,
Unknown to herself, and
Yet not believing
In its reciprocation
Even for auld times sake!
Now Playing:: Jaiye aap kahan jayenge...................Asha
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Smitten!
On days when I don’t see, meet or talk to my professor, I realize that my imagination goes sinking and floundering. Nothing excites me readily, not even books, and a chance encounter with his presence in the reading room begins to loom larger. Well this seems to be the classic case of ‘being smitten’ but one wonders as to ‘how much’? Ah! It’s a good deal I feel but it’s a lot less when I sit down to think. There is probably no hypothesis, theory or evidence which can at least guess, what it is that repels or attracts us in our dealings with people. But, as Ms Austen puts it, “silly things do cease to be silly if they’re done by sensible people”, therefore I wouldn’t mind entertaining an equally silly thought of ‘being smitten’!
Now Playing:: Kajra mohabbat wala...............Asha & Shamshad Begum
Now Playing:: Kajra mohabbat wala...............Asha & Shamshad Begum
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
One More
Why do his thoughts, so often
Like geckos on the wall
Out-pace my lassitude?
Why do they keep licking me,
So often, both
Within and without?
Maybe it’s a dream after all,
That shall end in a waking relief,
And make me mock and laugh
At the lust which
I once conceived
For a man,
Who made a sacrament
Of every embrace;
Clinging to me like
Mortals to goddesses,
While all through it was
I, who was worshipping,
Every inch of his frame,
Seeking comfort in
The superiority of his being!
This should be a dream after all,
For I have slept too long, and
Had other dreams as well…
Now Playing:: Jajabara......................Akhaya Mohanty
Like geckos on the wall
Out-pace my lassitude?
Why do they keep licking me,
So often, both
Within and without?
Maybe it’s a dream after all,
That shall end in a waking relief,
And make me mock and laugh
At the lust which
I once conceived
For a man,
Who made a sacrament
Of every embrace;
Clinging to me like
Mortals to goddesses,
While all through it was
I, who was worshipping,
Every inch of his frame,
Seeking comfort in
The superiority of his being!
This should be a dream after all,
For I have slept too long, and
Had other dreams as well…
Now Playing:: Jajabara......................Akhaya Mohanty
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Crumbs
Ever seen the eyes of street
Mongrels, darling?
They are moist.
Moist with hunger.
You feed them once a day,
Maybe even twice,
Yet the hunger stays on!
Look into my eyes,
Don’t feed them
Over and over darling,
They’re street mongrels,
Born to survive on crumbs,
Don’t kill them with
Generosity!
Now Playing:: Yun neend se...............Kishore
Mongrels, darling?
They are moist.
Moist with hunger.
You feed them once a day,
Maybe even twice,
Yet the hunger stays on!
Look into my eyes,
Don’t feed them
Over and over darling,
They’re street mongrels,
Born to survive on crumbs,
Don’t kill them with
Generosity!
Now Playing:: Yun neend se...............Kishore
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
A Rather Dull Post
I remember having a decent childhood; school, sports, music, vacations, doordarshan, summer hair-cuts, numerous family outings &c. Although it was quite an active childhood but I was always lethargic at heart. And no matter how good or bad it sounds but whenever someone says, “oh, childhood is the best phase of one’s life”, it has only made me sick and weak, at the sheer absurdity of that generality. I wonder what do the children have to say regarding childhood? They would obviously say ‘no’ considering the fact that they’ve to sit for exams every year, and therefore would prefer growing up straight into adults rather than be a child and lose brains over education. But exams are only the puerile basis of the argument. When you remove all educational pressures from a child and let it live on like there is no other world apart from the world of the playing field, no child would have qualms staying a child all life. But then, the child knows of no other phases of the human life, so how valid would be a child saying that childhood is the best! That ‘childhood is the best’ is obviously a grown-up’s view of the human life, and certainly a particular kind of grown-up who had a relatively happy, smooth, cosy, and trouble-free childhood, in short one belonging to the Haves! Oh, how much does the human life vary from the haves and the have-nots… so much for the mighty double standards of these generalities! If only people could recognize that nothing’s absolute in this world, everything’s so bloody relative…
Ok I shall clap an extinguisher on all that high sounding stuff especially when I hardly possess the complexion to write on matters of philosophical origins, so let’s politely shift to something lighter, ‘I, Me, Myself’. But I realize that even that may not interest you to the hilt, so you are free to pursue your business elsewhere and the rest… well, could I be any happier!
As a child I never did more than I was told to do, and be it for good or worse it still remains one of my character traits. I hated school but I read my books well. I do not harbor a sense of gratitude or indebtedness for my school, for the simple reason that I hardly learnt anything there apart from the knowledge of alphabets and numbers, and friends are never the reason to say ‘I love school days’ no matter how beautiful and good that sounds to be. Teachers were dull and uninspiring and overtly prejudiced but smart enough to smother your confidence and drive you into well nigh depressive disorders. I guess these were the culprits who planted that seed of mania in me which burst into life three years after school.
But my life in most ways began after school, after tenth to be precise. It wasn’t smooth and gliding, even horrid at times, but it was the real one—there was grit in it. It did breed character. Eleventh and twelfth gave me new perspectives, brought me in contact with new friends, and people who would eventually be responsible for the kind of person I am today. If my school made me hate teachers and their profession then it was college which made me their loyal puppy slaves forever. Today, I cannot imagine myself being anything other than a student and willingly barter all my life for an hour or two spent in the company of my professors. I think I can write a book on them and the mere recollection of their faces and frames makes me giddy with enthusiasm. Ah! All that sweet food of academic life! Boy, I don’t see myself in any field other than academics… what a thrill it is to be a student!
Today when people ask me, “what do you want to do in life or how are you going to face the world with this kind of an attitude”, I wonder what makes those miserable people ask me those questions. Is it their lives which are miserable or is it mine! The fact is I give a damn to what they think about me, I’m sick and tired of explaining. I’m happy and contended in my own skin and I’ve managed to break the shackles of the great expectations and I’m free at least in my mind…
Now Playing:: Lakho hain nigah mein....................Rafi
Ok I shall clap an extinguisher on all that high sounding stuff especially when I hardly possess the complexion to write on matters of philosophical origins, so let’s politely shift to something lighter, ‘I, Me, Myself’. But I realize that even that may not interest you to the hilt, so you are free to pursue your business elsewhere and the rest… well, could I be any happier!
As a child I never did more than I was told to do, and be it for good or worse it still remains one of my character traits. I hated school but I read my books well. I do not harbor a sense of gratitude or indebtedness for my school, for the simple reason that I hardly learnt anything there apart from the knowledge of alphabets and numbers, and friends are never the reason to say ‘I love school days’ no matter how beautiful and good that sounds to be. Teachers were dull and uninspiring and overtly prejudiced but smart enough to smother your confidence and drive you into well nigh depressive disorders. I guess these were the culprits who planted that seed of mania in me which burst into life three years after school.
But my life in most ways began after school, after tenth to be precise. It wasn’t smooth and gliding, even horrid at times, but it was the real one—there was grit in it. It did breed character. Eleventh and twelfth gave me new perspectives, brought me in contact with new friends, and people who would eventually be responsible for the kind of person I am today. If my school made me hate teachers and their profession then it was college which made me their loyal puppy slaves forever. Today, I cannot imagine myself being anything other than a student and willingly barter all my life for an hour or two spent in the company of my professors. I think I can write a book on them and the mere recollection of their faces and frames makes me giddy with enthusiasm. Ah! All that sweet food of academic life! Boy, I don’t see myself in any field other than academics… what a thrill it is to be a student!
Today when people ask me, “what do you want to do in life or how are you going to face the world with this kind of an attitude”, I wonder what makes those miserable people ask me those questions. Is it their lives which are miserable or is it mine! The fact is I give a damn to what they think about me, I’m sick and tired of explaining. I’m happy and contended in my own skin and I’ve managed to break the shackles of the great expectations and I’m free at least in my mind…
Now Playing:: Lakho hain nigah mein....................Rafi
Friday, March 19, 2010
If Only...
They talk, they weep,
They ache, they laugh,
They breathe
In each other
Like shadows of
The male and female,
Tossing and turning
In the beatings of their minds,
Clinging to one another
Like strangers
Caught in a nightmare,
Waiting for a merging
That simply cannot be.
If bound by the soul,
Why do they often
Meet when they’ve
Parceled their bodies
To someone else?
Oh! If only…
Now Playing:: Maine tere liye………………Mukesh
They ache, they laugh,
They breathe
In each other
Like shadows of
The male and female,
Tossing and turning
In the beatings of their minds,
Clinging to one another
Like strangers
Caught in a nightmare,
Waiting for a merging
That simply cannot be.
If bound by the soul,
Why do they often
Meet when they’ve
Parceled their bodies
To someone else?
Oh! If only…
Now Playing:: Maine tere liye………………Mukesh
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Words
I do not have any grand swelling theories
To impress you deeply and thoroughly,
Yet words grow and impinge on me
Like moss on auld, sad, beaten walls
That have lived so long
Against their will
Compelled by a ceaseless doom,
That any prelude of the slightest quake
Makes them judder in their eerie silences.
Yet they live on
To tell their dreary tales
Over and over again…
Now Playing:: Roobaroo..................Rang de basanti
To impress you deeply and thoroughly,
Yet words grow and impinge on me
Like moss on auld, sad, beaten walls
That have lived so long
Against their will
Compelled by a ceaseless doom,
That any prelude of the slightest quake
Makes them judder in their eerie silences.
Yet they live on
To tell their dreary tales
Over and over again…
Now Playing:: Roobaroo..................Rang de basanti
Friday, March 12, 2010
I
This noon he said a silly thing to me:
You are done. You are done as a charmer.
The woman in me slapped his guts,
The bitch in me squirmed harder.
And then he said it again:
You are done. You are done as a charmer.
The woman in me buried her shame in the pillow,
The bitch in me gave a breathless grunt.
Sometime later he said it again:
You are done. You are done as a charmer.
The woman in me felt delightfully liberated,
The bitch in me greedily begged for more.
In the evening the woman and the bitch in me
Became I. While the woman reclined to write a dirge
For the love affair, the bitch remained by her side
To remind her of an auld forgotten banquet!
Now Playing:: Aakhon se jo utri hai dil mein...............Asha
You are done. You are done as a charmer.
The woman in me slapped his guts,
The bitch in me squirmed harder.
And then he said it again:
You are done. You are done as a charmer.
The woman in me buried her shame in the pillow,
The bitch in me gave a breathless grunt.
Sometime later he said it again:
You are done. You are done as a charmer.
The woman in me felt delightfully liberated,
The bitch in me greedily begged for more.
In the evening the woman and the bitch in me
Became I. While the woman reclined to write a dirge
For the love affair, the bitch remained by her side
To remind her of an auld forgotten banquet!
Now Playing:: Aakhon se jo utri hai dil mein...............Asha
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Some Other Time
At best I can write about it. But then, it would be called a confession. And confessions, no matter how imperative they might be, should be intelligent because the confessor has to continue living with himself in spite of those confessions. I realize that even my confessions should be natural in a self pleasing manner because to hear of it after many years upon a chance encounter, when I would have built up my life quite differently, wouldn’t be peculiarly attractive because confessions dear friends, go through a great deal that’s bad. In plain words, it takes muscle and guts to confess, to show the world what you actually are, and have vanity enough to stand by your thoughts once they’re out in the open. At present life’s like a chess board and with every move I realize that there’s no point in being blatantly honest for all the game requires is a stealthy and measured glide like that of a chess player. So confessions can wait…
Now Playing:: Chalte chalte.....................Pakeezah
Now Playing:: Chalte chalte.....................Pakeezah
Monday, March 8, 2010
To The Other Man
Did you see me
When I appeared on his arms?
Didn’t you see how the faces turned
When I curled up later
With the sun burning in my face?
“Enough, Enough” you must have yelled
Deep down!
Haven’t you learnt to believe what
You see?
Oh, how can I pity thee!
Betray me dear, get out of my thoughts.
Leave me alone.
Fling some earth on me,
Make me a street mongrel,
Don’t clean the scabs!
Now Playing:: Saaton baar bole bansi................Asha
When I appeared on his arms?
Didn’t you see how the faces turned
When I curled up later
With the sun burning in my face?
“Enough, Enough” you must have yelled
Deep down!
Haven’t you learnt to believe what
You see?
Oh, how can I pity thee!
Betray me dear, get out of my thoughts.
Leave me alone.
Fling some earth on me,
Make me a street mongrel,
Don’t clean the scabs!
Now Playing:: Saaton baar bole bansi................Asha
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