The calendar dictates my days,

The clock my time.

I snooze between alarms,

And dream through the commute.

Blinded by my false sense of self worth,

The beauty of the newly blossomed gulmohar

On the path I rush through, escapes me.

The mornings are maniacally hurried,

And the evenings pass in a daze.

Of the afternoons I remember nothing;

The nights are long and silent.

I like to believe that within me,

Lie the depths of the ocean.

There are oysters with hidden pearls.

I don’t have the luxury of deep diving,

I console myself, and then I sigh in relief;

This fear of searching within, only to

Stumble upon the silence of the hollow years.

The lack of profound sorrow and

The absence of any exhilarating joy

Am I blessed or just plain cold?

At the shore, my heart aches for the

Electrifying currents that run deep;

And the sinking ship, in the middle of

The blue, envies my sanctuary at the coast!

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The piquant sacchariferous reek of jasmine flowers

The clamor of the vegetable hawkers and the fruit sellers

The dogs and human beings competing for the same stretch of space

The rush of the sea of commuters rising and ebbing in waves

The undecipherable announcements on the screechy microphone

The shriek of the siren and the halting breaks

The cacophony of women exchanging notes on food and family

The drooping backs under the heavily loaded school bags

The grey ash smeared foreheads

The long never ending queues at dirty windows

The red, yellow, black and blue lunch satchels

The hand-bags clutched close to the bodies

The constant elbowing to find one’s way

The stepping on the other’s toe without an apology

The stinking perspiration of the Indian summer heat

The family of four tip-toeing on the lesser used distant tracks

The wannabe heroes hanging on the foot boards

The wandering flirtatious glance of the guy with the ID tag

The indulgent smile by the salt and pepper haired gentleman

The neighbor’s humming to the latest hit on his ipod

The low-toned mushy romantic tête-à-tête on cell phones

The dexterously fast-paced texting fingers

The assembly of the men with white walking sticks

The folded creases of the morning newspaper

The rattling of the bowls for alms

The wind in your hair, the dust in your face, the urgency in your step…

…The seven most crowded and happening minutes!

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A broken butterfly wing

A creaking old swing

A moth half alive

A smoked bee-hive

A dirty lazy snail

A sluggish wet trail

A slippery chameleon

A stray dog so forlorn

A new-born birdie’s chirping

A temple bell’s tinkling

A pair of laces tied wrong

A melodious old song

A whiff of fresh air

A pervert’s creepy stare

A love struck couple

A graying man’s mumble

A lady offering prayers to god

A bright pink ipod

A beautiful virgin morning

And these my companions when I’m walking.

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An exquisite pearl nestled on
the delicate bend of
a verdant olive blade;

That gentle venerate breeze
was just beginning to attempt
to court the demure divine bead;

When that sullen dark sky
bellowed in distraught,
and let out its fury.

The deluge that followed
washed away the traces
of what might have been
a wonderfully romantic morning.

(P.S. Please indulge me, I am trying to find my way back.)

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A moment on the edge of time

A sigh on parched lips

A bubble balanced on the tip of a sword

A shrieking echo in vacuumed space

A promise of permanence in changing times

A curse of hollow years from empty palms

A sinking ship in the beautiful ocean

A dream on partially open lids

A drop of dew in the morning sun

A green leaf just before the onset of fall

And so, my life lies in the crevices

Of the worlds that have not fallen

There must have been a reason

Or then maybe none at all

I will not ask the question again

I know there is no answer

It was never meant to be

Anything but a coincidence

This talk of a mission and goal

The pilgrimage to resurrection

When waiting for the final annihilation

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She wakes up to the din of the dawn

(Whoever painted the serene morning star,

Did not have a lousy spouse and kids to feed)

She works amidst the mass of chaotic humanity

(Brotherly love and knightly charm are

Superfluous verses on scraps of paper)

The heat, and the gray sky opaque with dust

Struggle to offer her hope and joy

(Those who talk of the beauty of summer

Must try taking her place, she thinks again)

Shared smiles and cursed exchanges

Are the highlights of her day

She dreads the walk back home

The night is neither dark nor quiet

Awaits is the cacophony of the

Evening chores and the kitchen fire

(Calm and warmth that dusk brings

Is a privilege of the mighty rich, she knows)

She wades through the needs of the house

And the demands of mutual habitation

(Familial love and celebration is welcome

Only when the stomachs are full)

Into the four walls and the closed doors

She finally makes one desperate attempt

To seek peace and solace

(She still wonders whether she feels

Relief or fear when he does not return)

Sleep eludes her, so does life

Her heart dips, that sinking feeling

The night will not end her woes

It will not drown the aching pain

It will not promise a new morning

She must get up tomorrow

To roll the stone uphill, once more

This game must be His favorite to watch

She muses,

No wonder He makes us play it again and again.

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My thoughts on Women's Day are here: It's a woman's world after all. The only update is that now they have an International Men's Day too! It's all about equality, is it?

A dear friend shared the following poem a while back, and I had been waiting for it to be 8th of March to post it on my blog. It's one of those poems, as M points out, "that you read sometimes (the nth time), & again you wish like hell you wrote it. then you pin it up on your wall..."

Here goes:

Phenomenal Woman - Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

the palm of my hand,

The need of my care,

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

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Noughts and crosses
Fights and kisses
Weddings and funerals
Hatred and love
Beauty and the beast
Curses and blessings
Dawn and dusk
Despair and hope
Smiles and tears
Nightmares and dreams
Friends and enemies
Success and failure
Poverty and opulence
Oasis and barren lands
Nihilism and faith
Zeniths and nadirs
Open ends and new beginnings
Relativity and absolutes
Decadence and morality
Progress and deadlocks
Heads and tails…

Always one and the other
So brace yourself
It’s a world of paradoxes
That harmoniously fit in
To form a balanced reality

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The state of sorrow is much complex;

Vivid, vibrant, and enigmatic,

Multi-layered, acute and profound;

If anything can be absolute,

It is anguish, distress and sadness.

Joy pales in comparison;

A superficial moment captured

With an agitated vulnerability;

Happiness is ephemeral, destructible.

Despair is eternal;

It enhances the charm

Of the subject it affects;

Adding strength to the character,

Are the tears held back

And not the smiles flashed.

No poet can do justice

To human emotion if he

Does not talk of

Aching hearts and bruised souls.

There is more to talk about

Dead winters and falling leaves

Than green summers and delightful springs.

What worth is the life that has not

Cried for love, nor lost a dear possession;

If you have not fallen off a swing,

Or been hurt by someone near;

If you have not failed a test that mattered

Nor cherished an unfulfilled dream

You still have miles to go…

In a perverse way, that joy does not,

Sorrow completes our existence.

It consummates the cycle of life -

Satiating the deep gorges

That beatitude leaves behind…

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A nagging desire for light

The night has been black, evil almost
The fear of the unknown
Intensifying in the obscurity
Haunting shadows, now apparitions

The promise of the morning beacon
Offers little consolation
If it is not now
It doesn’t really matter when

The question of survival
Lasts only as long as
The darkest vertex
And once that is endured
The shimmer of the break of dawn
No longer warms the soul

The blinding blaze and the
Beaming glow, the piercing
Ebony and the deafening silence
Concatenates into a nebulous halo
Enveloping the consciousness
Of the being that once
Yearned for eternal illumination

The nagging desire for light
Replaced by the strength to
Bear nadirs and zeniths alike

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वोह हो कर भी नहीं थे
और नहीं होकर भी नहीं हैं
आवाज़ क्यूँ हर दम मेरी तरफ से ही आये
हम इस इंतज़ार में हैं की कभी
वोह भी हमें पुकार ले

यूँ तो ज़िन्दगी में
कोई गम कोई तकल्लुफ नहीं
लेकिन ऐसे भी तो
कोई कल की आरजू या उमंग नहीं

अल्फाजों में एक सन्नाटा सा है
खामोशी भी बातें नहीं करती
इस रिश्ते की एहमियत यही है
की हमको अभी इसकी समझ ही नहीं

जो इस वक़्त लम्हा गुज़र रहा है
वोह एक रेट के टीले को
अपने संग लिए जा रहा है

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Forgotten promises
Broken wings
Stifled aspirations
Disappointed joy
Wasted beauty
Sickening heights
Heartening sorrow
Tumultuous depths
Futile wins
Enriching failures
Abandoned plans
Hasty decisions
Anchorless home
Inviting shores
Painful learning
Saccharine hurt
Bitter bond
Unknown acquaintance
Forgiven ties
Continuous darkness
Luminous halo
Critical steps
Steep climb
Illusive destination

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I do not understand the meaning of freedom completely.

I do not know what freedom means to me. Not completely. Am I free? Free of what?

I do not beleive in absolutes and that is not the only impediment in my attempt to comprehend the concept that is "freedom". I tie myself in knots everytime I try to explore the essence of the word.

Language deceives. We have simple terms to denote complex emotions.

However, a long time ago I read Kahlil Gibran. And continue to read him again and again. He talks about freedom - a sense of freedom that I relate to, and that provides a more panoramic view of the perception that is 'freedom'.

"At the city gate and by your fireside I have seen you prostrate yourself and worship your own freedom,

Even as slaves humble themselves before a tyrant and praise
him though he slays them.

Ay, in the grove of the temple and in the shadow of the citadel
I have seen the freest among you wear their freedom as a yoke
and a handcuff.

And my heart bled within me; for you can only be free when even
the desire of seeking freedom becomes a harness to you, and when
you cease to speak of freedom as a goal and a fulfillment.

You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care
nor your nights without a want and a grief,

But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above
them naked and unbound.

And how shall you rise beyond your days and nights unless you
break the chains which you at the dawn of your understanding
have fastened around your noon hour?

In truth that which you call freedom is the strongest of these chains,
though its links glitter in the sun and dazzle the eyes.

And what is it but fragments of your own self you would discard
that you may become free?

If it is an unjust law you would abolish, that law was written with
your own hand upon your own forehead.

You cannot erase it by burning your law books nor by washing the
foreheads of your judges, though you pour the sea upon them.

And if it is a despot you would dethrone, see first that his throne
erected within you is destroyed.

For how can a tyrant rule the free and the proud, but for a tyranny
in their own freedom and a shame in their own pride?

And if it is a care you would cast off, that care has been chosen
by you rather than imposed upon you.

And if it is a fear you would dispel, the seat of that fear is in your heart
and not in the hand of the feared.

Verily all things move within your being in constant half embrace,
the desired and the dreaded, the repugnant and the cherished, the
pursued and that which you would escape.

These things move within you as lights and shadows in pairs that cling.

And when the shadow fades and is no more, the light that lingers
becomes a shadow to another light.

And thus your freedom when it loses its fetters becomes itself the fetter
of a greater freedom".

- Kahlil Gibran

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There’s hope in my heart and
Hesitation in my mind
A firm determination in my will
And a weakening tremor in my movement
My soul is pure
My desire tainted
Mornings burn in flames
And evenings turn crimson cinder
Creativity has ceased to be innovative
Invention is just a discovery
A goal I know not
The road is often traversed
I weave realities
Dreams happen
I cannot recognize
The image that is me
My being continues to be
Powerful in its resonance
Contradictions no longer exist
Nor do choices
There is no either or
No place for if and but
Life’s a series of commas, semi colons, and ampersands
It is this and that
A flavor on top of the other
All colors flow into each other
The canvas can no longer contain
The musings of a wanderer.

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I have been snooping around the house a bit and happened to chance upon my sister-in-law's stash. Thanks Aps! I was able to lay my hands on quite a few good books and have displaced these from their intended location to my room, I promise I'll put them back :).

Have been fond of poetry for a long long time now and so I picked the Collected Poems by Dom Moraes first. I must admit that I have not read the poet before and don't even recall his name as being even remotely familiar. And since Vish had atleast heard of the poet (he couldn't recall the poems, thank god!), I had to swallow his snide remark that expressed his concern on the kind of literature I have been into. Hmmm. Okay. Everyone has their moments of enlightenment. I owe him one now :)

Back to Dom Moraes. Born in Bombay, educated in Oxford, Moraes is one of the select few celebrated English poets that India has ever produced. This particular collection comprises select verses from his large body of work over a period of almost five decades. I read through almost all in no particular order (obviously can't read poetry like a novel - beginning to end).

Maybe I didn't give him too much time and thought but my first reaction was wow, the poems are technically sound, beautifully crafted, characterized with apt and unique imagery and interconnection of themes, but very few poems left the deep impression a good composition leaves on you. Some poems, especially, used loud images rather than subtle cues, the focus seemed on the physical power and enthrallment rather than on discerning emotional involvement. Maybe, I am being a little hasty in writing him off and I need to read him atleast once more and with greater care. After all, everybody deserves a second chance.

However, like I said, Moraes does come across as an elegant craftsman, an experienced artist who commands the readers' interest. Here are some verses that I particularly liked:

Aspects of a City
On a defensible hill, by a river,
The foot rested, the bronze hammer
Tested for the fault in the rock.
Tapped up by one concise stroke,
Shape detached itself, visible,
Chisels scraped, details clarified.
Brushes made colours separate.
The blind man, an unnecessary lamp
Raised, commanded the camp to see.
Women's whispers, imprints of war,
Deathmasks, the prescience of blood.
In the living rock, the first shape.
From the first shape the final form.
In the storm's eye the city stood.

All languages is its own history,
Scarred with eponymous heroes,
Heartsick dictators, martyred tribes,
Gods desecrated on their altars.
The sound of an ancient trumpet,
Summons to war, in the vowels.
The clashed consonants echo
Hammer on rock, blade on blade.
All language is its own landscape.
Where single cities can be made.
If it is reductible to a word,
Each one must find his own.
It is the destiny of a dynasty
To form a language from a language.

Once
It happens to you once and only once.
You stare into yourself for many years,
a childhood habit, followed ever since,
and then by accident the face appears
you recognize but have not ever known.

Delicate features of an ancient race,
a classic beauty chiselled from dark stone,
call back the memory of another place
you were acquainted with in other times.

From your exhausted mind the memory climbs
as after a thrown stone the water clears:
the world made flesh, her body of deep bronze
held in your arms after too many years.
It happens to you once and only once.

Typed with One Finger
Travel with me on the long road
into loneliness, where the hours
offer pardons to those still afraid.
Bursts of white and blue flowers
will surprise you in summer, with
denials of what is called death.
When I am not there in the maze
where the long road ends, think
of the clumsy stutter of my limp
behind you always, hindering you,
trying to help you all my days.

Every word that I wrote was true
this way or that, meant to praise
whatever was worth it on earth.
When my thumb, slowly flexed,
erased vexed lines from your brow,
it did more than my typing finger
achieved in those seasons, for that,
over the endless miles of paper,
scratched in marks like crowfeet.
As so there were always reasons
how are lives became complete.
For me the main one was I loved you.

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A vital chord, once upon a time dearer than life itself,

That was strained yet hopeful,

Twang … it snapped as I watched aghast today

The reason so simple, recurrent, so obvious

The doer blissfully oblivious.

I don’t know if the two broken pieces

Will ever come together like they once did.

But even if the ends are tied

The knot shall ever remain.

And this day shall mark the end

Of an era well loved and lived

Well fought and defended

Ill fated and cursed.

Thus shall begin a new period of

Mutual exclusion and the search

For inner peace and self respect.

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The immortality and the relevance of Ghalib (18th Century) even after so many years, generation after generation, are almost supernatural. His verses, also often referred to as sonnets, though written in Urdu (in the Persian script) speak a language that cut across all barriers. The meaning they convey appeals to the emotions and touches the lives of many, across all barriers of culture and linguistics.

“Hazaaron khwahishen aisi ki har khwahish pe dum nikle,
Bahot nikle mere armaan, lekin phir bhi kam nikle.”

Bollywood introduced me to Ghalib at a very young age;

“Woh aaye ghar mein humaare khuda ki qudrat hai
Kabhi hum unko kabhi apne ghar ko dekhte hain”

But, that time, such shaayari only meant a fanciful set of urdu words put together to romanticize a seemingly mundane circumstance. I also associated Ghalib’s shaayari with lovers. A true lover should recite beautifully sounding couplets. (Though years later, when I did marry, the guy did not recite any such ghazals, and I did not remember that he had to!)

“Zindagi yun bhi guzar hi jati
Kyon tera rahguzar yad aya”

My first formal rendezvous with Ghalib happened in college, quite accidentally I must say. Searching for reference material on Chaucer in the college library, I chanced upon this old book with English translations of Ghalib’s selected ghazals. I soon found myself devouring each page. Each word so evocative, suddenly I could almost associate with the passion with which Ghalib had written.

“Khaamoshi mein nihaan khun gashta(h) laakhon arzuen hain
Chiragh-e murda(h) hun main be zaban, gor-e ghariban ka”
(Hidden in the silence are millions of desires that have been bled out;
I am just a silent, snuffed out lamp at the grave of a stranger)

In the fast paced tracks of studies, career and marital bliss, though Ghalib was pushed to the margins, he continued to dwell in a very special corner of my life.

“Meherbaan ho ke bulaa lo mujhe, chaaho jis waqt
Main gaya waqt nahin hun kih phir aa bhi na(h) sakun”

And Ghalib did return, where I would have expected the least. A fantastic library in Schaumburg, IL, chiseled wood shelves, second floor section on literary criticism and the book, “Love Sonnets of Ghalib: the first complete English translation, explication, lexicon, and transliteration of Ghalibs’s sonnets” by Dr. Sarfaraz K. Niazi. I was thrilled. Three weeks I spent immersed in his work. Each couplet so exquisitely crafted and drenched with varied sentiments that come alive in you as you read. Not a pro at Urdu, the English translation provided me with the tools to appreciate the poetry of Ghalib in much greater detail.

“Gardish-e rang-e tarab se dar hai
Gham-e mahrum’i javed nahin”
(I am afraid of the changing state of joy,
No fear there is for the despair of life)

The mystery and magic of his two line couplets remains unequaled as they range from spontaneous expression to extremely complex and convoluted poetic renderings. The nuances, the similes, the traps, archaic constructions, extrapolation of the humdrum of life to momentous events, the subtlety of expression and the profundity of thought make Ghalib one of the most fascinating and interesting poets of all ages.

“Us falak ke teer ka kya nishana tha
Jahan thee meri manzil wahin mera aashiyana tha
Bas pahunch hi rahi thi kashti saahil pe
Is toofan ko bhi abhi hi aana tha”

I could go on about Ghalib, but the fact is that the uniqueness and the sheer ingenuity of his creations leave a firm imprint in the heart and mind of his readers. Much has been written and said about his personal life as well which provides a sort of context for his writings but with or without context, Ghalib appeals to me in a way no other poet does. He remains an unsurpassed virtuoso who has enriched the world of literature immensely...his own couplet as a tribute to him…

“Jan di, di hui usi ki thi
Haq to yun hai kih haq adaa na(h) hua”

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