Writer's Blog
Saturday, October 10, 2009
More of Rafi and Ghalib...
Zikr us pari-vash ka aur phir bayaan apna
Bazeecha-e-atfal hai
Gazab kiya tere waade pe aitebaar kiya
Shauk har rang raqeeb
aey tazaware daane bisate hawaaey dil
Hai bas ke har ek unke ishaare mein nishaan aur Includes a bit of dialogue from the movie Mirza Ghalib.
0 comments
Zikr us pari-vash ka aur phir bayaan apna
Bazeecha-e-atfal hai
Gazab kiya tere waade pe aitebaar kiya
Shauk har rang raqeeb
aey tazaware daane bisate hawaaey dil
Hai bas ke har ek unke ishaare mein nishaan aur Includes a bit of dialogue from the movie Mirza Ghalib.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Rafi and Ghalib: The original combo
On a summer's day more than 8 years ago, I was first properly introduced to Ghalib, through Ghazals in Rafi's voice that someone had stored on the computer I was working on. Now that I have re-discovered those awesome songs on youtube - I realize that I had forgotten how well Rafi had sung them. I am wondering if these are not the best sung Ghalib ghazals that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps what sets Rafi apart from all other talented singers is the humility, the humanity, the emotion he has packed into these Ghazals.
Anyway, here are the links:
Dard minnat-kash-e-dawa na hua
Muddat hui hai yaar ko mehmaan kiye hue
Nuktacheen hai gam-e-dil
Kitni rahat hai dil toot jaane ke baad
The Ghazal in the last link is not by Ghalib, but was one of the Ghazals on that comp. And it is very nice too.
In Muddat hui hai look for that sher made more famous by Gulzar: Ji dhoondata hai phir wahi phursat ke raat din, baithe rahe tassavur-e-jaana kiye hue.
In Nuktacheen hai gam-e-dil look for that immortal sher: Ishq par zor nahin hai yeh woh aatish Ghalib, jo lagaye na lage aur bujhaye na bane.
********************
For, Dard minnat kash-e-dawa na hua , in the absence of any famous shers, I provide here my prose translation :-)
dard minnat_kashe-davaa na huaa
mai.n na achchaa huaa, buraa na huaa
[minnat_kashe-davaa=obliged to medicine]
"It's good that I did'nt get well, at least I am not indebted to the medicine!" Ghalib is consoling himself that it is good that his lady love is not 'alleviating his pain'.
kitane shiirii.n hai.n tere lab ke raqiib
gaaliyaa.N khaake bemazaa na huaa
[shiirii.n=sweet]
"My love, the sweetness of your lips have taken the sting out of the galis that you are hurling at my rival!" Ghalib has convinced himself that his lady love and his rival are not on talking terms, and it is only her sweet lips that are diluting the effect of her harsh words to his rival.
kyaa vo namaruud kii Khudaaii thii
ba.ndagii me.n meraa bhalaa na huaa
[namarud=Nimrod=a king who used to say that he was God]
"My devotion (to God) has'nt done me much good. Was it that Namrud was right in calling only himself God?"
kuchch to pa.Dhiye ki log kahate hai.n
aaj 'Ghalib' Gazal_saraa na huaa
"Just read out something, anything, Ghalib, people are saying that you are not your usual poetic self today"
0 comments
On a summer's day more than 8 years ago, I was first properly introduced to Ghalib, through Ghazals in Rafi's voice that someone had stored on the computer I was working on. Now that I have re-discovered those awesome songs on youtube - I realize that I had forgotten how well Rafi had sung them. I am wondering if these are not the best sung Ghalib ghazals that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps what sets Rafi apart from all other talented singers is the humility, the humanity, the emotion he has packed into these Ghazals.
Anyway, here are the links:
Dard minnat-kash-e-dawa na hua
Muddat hui hai yaar ko mehmaan kiye hue
Nuktacheen hai gam-e-dil
Kitni rahat hai dil toot jaane ke baad
The Ghazal in the last link is not by Ghalib, but was one of the Ghazals on that comp. And it is very nice too.
In Muddat hui hai look for that sher made more famous by Gulzar: Ji dhoondata hai phir wahi phursat ke raat din, baithe rahe tassavur-e-jaana kiye hue.
In Nuktacheen hai gam-e-dil look for that immortal sher: Ishq par zor nahin hai yeh woh aatish Ghalib, jo lagaye na lage aur bujhaye na bane.
********************
For, Dard minnat kash-e-dawa na hua , in the absence of any famous shers, I provide here my prose translation :-)
dard minnat_kashe-davaa na huaa
mai.n na achchaa huaa, buraa na huaa
[minnat_kashe-davaa=obliged to medicine]
"It's good that I did'nt get well, at least I am not indebted to the medicine!" Ghalib is consoling himself that it is good that his lady love is not 'alleviating his pain'.
kitane shiirii.n hai.n tere lab ke raqiib
gaaliyaa.N khaake bemazaa na huaa
[shiirii.n=sweet]
"My love, the sweetness of your lips have taken the sting out of the galis that you are hurling at my rival!" Ghalib has convinced himself that his lady love and his rival are not on talking terms, and it is only her sweet lips that are diluting the effect of her harsh words to his rival.
kyaa vo namaruud kii Khudaaii thii
ba.ndagii me.n meraa bhalaa na huaa
[namarud=Nimrod=a king who used to say that he was God]
"My devotion (to God) has'nt done me much good. Was it that Namrud was right in calling only himself God?"
kuchch to pa.Dhiye ki log kahate hai.n
aaj 'Ghalib' Gazal_saraa na huaa
"Just read out something, anything, Ghalib, people are saying that you are not your usual poetic self today"
Saturday, July 04, 2009
The sequel to watch for
Vikram Seth is writing A Suitable Girl !. It is the first time I have been even a bit excited by the news of an upcoming sequel. But A Suitable Boy will be a tough act to match...
1 comments
Vikram Seth is writing A Suitable Girl !. It is the first time I have been even a bit excited by the news of an upcoming sequel. But A Suitable Boy will be a tough act to match...
Saturday, May 23, 2009
A Mid Summer's Day Dream
Chapter 10
On the way out of the workshop, Chutti looked at his image in a window pane - shyly, self-consciously. One of the many things Chutti liked about workshop days was being in uniform. Khaki shirt and pant and leather shoes. Chutti thought he looked good in uniforms.
His hands and clothes were soiled with fine iron powder. His shirt was wet at the armpits and collar. His forehead was moist; he did not wipe it dry - he also liked his 'workman' look.
Chutti had spent the last two and half hours in 'filing' workshop, filing away at a rectangular piece of iron. The objective (of nearly half the course) was to reduce the the width of the piece to a certain smaller dimension, by (only) filing it. It was strange that such training should also contribute towards an engineering degree. It was hard work, the continuous to and fro movement of the arms, and one had to be careful and file straight, checking often, with a try-square, that the right angles were all still correct. But it was otherwise a no-brainer allowing the mind to drift here and there like a bird. Chutti loved these meditative two and half hours twice weekly.
The rest of his class had already dispersed, having set off on bicycles to different hostels. Chutti now got to his bicycle and started out, with a song in his heart, if not on his lips - feeling a bit like Devanand from some Hindi movie.
He circled the roudabout near the library, and just as he crossed the central lecture hall, as usual, he saw her at the head of a bunch of giggly girls, all his seniors. She looked pretty as usual, fresh, bright and cool - as if they were all at summer vacation on a hill station - not doing college in sultry Chennai. Chutti's workshop day routine was complete.
Chutti had been a reluctant participator in elocution contests while at school, participating only because his teachers expected him to. Something he had once tried from Shakespeare, came back to him now. For the first time there seemed to be more to the words than poetry.
What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think that she is by
And feed upon the shadow of perfection
Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon;
************
Renee, for it was her, was ofcourse not unfamiliar with guys giving her the glad eye. But in Chutti's case her amusement was tinged with sympathy. "Poor kid," she might have thought "I am so out of his league".
2 comments
Chapter 10
On the way out of the workshop, Chutti looked at his image in a window pane - shyly, self-consciously. One of the many things Chutti liked about workshop days was being in uniform. Khaki shirt and pant and leather shoes. Chutti thought he looked good in uniforms.
His hands and clothes were soiled with fine iron powder. His shirt was wet at the armpits and collar. His forehead was moist; he did not wipe it dry - he also liked his 'workman' look.
Chutti had spent the last two and half hours in 'filing' workshop, filing away at a rectangular piece of iron. The objective (of nearly half the course) was to reduce the the width of the piece to a certain smaller dimension, by (only) filing it. It was strange that such training should also contribute towards an engineering degree. It was hard work, the continuous to and fro movement of the arms, and one had to be careful and file straight, checking often, with a try-square, that the right angles were all still correct. But it was otherwise a no-brainer allowing the mind to drift here and there like a bird. Chutti loved these meditative two and half hours twice weekly.
The rest of his class had already dispersed, having set off on bicycles to different hostels. Chutti now got to his bicycle and started out, with a song in his heart, if not on his lips - feeling a bit like Devanand from some Hindi movie.
He circled the roudabout near the library, and just as he crossed the central lecture hall, as usual, he saw her at the head of a bunch of giggly girls, all his seniors. She looked pretty as usual, fresh, bright and cool - as if they were all at summer vacation on a hill station - not doing college in sultry Chennai. Chutti's workshop day routine was complete.
Chutti had been a reluctant participator in elocution contests while at school, participating only because his teachers expected him to. Something he had once tried from Shakespeare, came back to him now. For the first time there seemed to be more to the words than poetry.
What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
Unless it be to think that she is by
And feed upon the shadow of perfection
Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon;
************
Renee, for it was her, was ofcourse not unfamiliar with guys giving her the glad eye. But in Chutti's case her amusement was tinged with sympathy. "Poor kid," she might have thought "I am so out of his league".
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Jai Ho
"Poye Poye, Taamara poye " ("Oh it has gone, Oh it has gone, the lotus has gone").
I remember one holiday afternoon, in Trivandrum, suddenly hearing the above slogan chanting, sitting in the room of our home which faced the main street of P.T.P Nagar. It was the supporters of the CPI(M), I think, going by on a small truck, sarcastically mourning the big defeat of the BJP in some election.
Yesterday, as I watched the election results, the same slogan came to my mind. This was the first election I was keenly, even passionately, following. And the first election where I voted. And I am happy and relieved with the results. I hope this election has dealt a body blow (preferably a slap in the face) to the lotus party. Or at least to it's chief ideas and ways of working. Over the past few years, I have come to dislike most of it's leaders. However, I hope the party learns its lesson, ditches it's irrelevant ideologies and starts from scratch (of the head?) and finds out new ways of providing competition to the Congress. I don't wish that BJP should altogether go away. In some states - like Gujrat and Karnataka - they are probably better than the Congress in terms of administrative competence and leadership. I hope the BJP in those states sobers up and stops direct and indirect pro-Hindutva and anti-minorities activities. That is I hope the Gujrat government says sorry for Godhra, and speeds up compensation to the victims, and the karnataka government stops funding Hindu Matts out of a cash-starved budget (increasingly dependant on tax on booze) and I hope they hit groups like Ram Sene real hard on the head. I also hope the BJP never never dares do a Kandhamal once again. The last implying Mangalore quietens.
Why not BJP? Why Congress? I could see several reasons, and the rest of India apparently saw them too. First. Hindutva and anti-minorities. The ghosts of Gujrat - compensation granted by Central government over a year ago still not reaching Godhra victims. Then Kandhamal. Then Pilibhit. The Ram Sene in Bangalore. The threat of a Hindu Taliban. And not because BJP deep down believes in such strong fundamentalism (I think and hope), but only because they think they could continuously con the Indian people into the indulgence of chauvinism. I for one strongly believe that good governance and administrative provess a la Modi can never excuse exploitation and fascism. Don't we remember Hitler? Second, quality of leadership. Congress: sober, sincere, honest and obviously not greedy, qualified and experienced, plus plenty of leaders including young ones. BJP: Not so experienced, ambitious after power (look at Mr Advani), not so qualified, a few, old leaders. Third: How they behaved in the opposition. I don't remember much of the Congress as opposition five years ago, but I doubt they were as un-constructive and as coarse in their criticism of the government, as the BJP.
I belong to Bangalore North. And I voted for the Congress candidate Jaffer Sharief though I had doubts about his deserving to be MP again. Only because I wanted Congress to come back to power at the centre. Well Jaffer Sharief lost and still Congress is at the centre. So it is win despite a loss for my vote :-)
Other parties? When Mayawati came to power in UP, I was thrilled with her 'social engineering', her inclusive politics, her Dalit-empowerment. But she has since disappointed, fielding criminals, erecting her own statues (That reminds me, not very inappropriately, of something that Sheikh Saadi, a persian Sufi poet, is supposed to have said - It does not become a man to glorify himself, what pleasure does a woman get pressing her own boobs?), building palaces for herself out of government money, hiring/firing/transfering people she does'nt like. The revivial of Congress in UP is good news. AIADMK? Jayalalitha is supposed to be a good leader. But her flip-flop on LTTE was disappointing. Hope she learns her lesson. Lalu? Too bad. I hope he manages to continue in the cabinet. Nitish Kumar. Hope his good work in Bihar in the years that follow affords him the luxury of distancing himself from the BJP, like Naveen Patnaik has managed in Orissa. Deve Gowda? Good riddance. Kumaraswamy? Poor fellow. Did some good work as CM. Hope he makes a wiser come-back. DMK? Hope they shut up about LTTE, now that it is not required, and concentrate on governance. Anyway, they have good competition from Jayalalitha.
Overall. Quite a Jai Ho result.
0 comments
"Poye Poye, Taamara poye " ("Oh it has gone, Oh it has gone, the lotus has gone").
I remember one holiday afternoon, in Trivandrum, suddenly hearing the above slogan chanting, sitting in the room of our home which faced the main street of P.T.P Nagar. It was the supporters of the CPI(M), I think, going by on a small truck, sarcastically mourning the big defeat of the BJP in some election.
Yesterday, as I watched the election results, the same slogan came to my mind. This was the first election I was keenly, even passionately, following. And the first election where I voted. And I am happy and relieved with the results. I hope this election has dealt a body blow (preferably a slap in the face) to the lotus party. Or at least to it's chief ideas and ways of working. Over the past few years, I have come to dislike most of it's leaders. However, I hope the party learns its lesson, ditches it's irrelevant ideologies and starts from scratch (of the head?) and finds out new ways of providing competition to the Congress. I don't wish that BJP should altogether go away. In some states - like Gujrat and Karnataka - they are probably better than the Congress in terms of administrative competence and leadership. I hope the BJP in those states sobers up and stops direct and indirect pro-Hindutva and anti-minorities activities. That is I hope the Gujrat government says sorry for Godhra, and speeds up compensation to the victims, and the karnataka government stops funding Hindu Matts out of a cash-starved budget (increasingly dependant on tax on booze) and I hope they hit groups like Ram Sene real hard on the head. I also hope the BJP never never dares do a Kandhamal once again. The last implying Mangalore quietens.
Why not BJP? Why Congress? I could see several reasons, and the rest of India apparently saw them too. First. Hindutva and anti-minorities. The ghosts of Gujrat - compensation granted by Central government over a year ago still not reaching Godhra victims. Then Kandhamal. Then Pilibhit. The Ram Sene in Bangalore. The threat of a Hindu Taliban. And not because BJP deep down believes in such strong fundamentalism (I think and hope), but only because they think they could continuously con the Indian people into the indulgence of chauvinism. I for one strongly believe that good governance and administrative provess a la Modi can never excuse exploitation and fascism. Don't we remember Hitler? Second, quality of leadership. Congress: sober, sincere, honest and obviously not greedy, qualified and experienced, plus plenty of leaders including young ones. BJP: Not so experienced, ambitious after power (look at Mr Advani), not so qualified, a few, old leaders. Third: How they behaved in the opposition. I don't remember much of the Congress as opposition five years ago, but I doubt they were as un-constructive and as coarse in their criticism of the government, as the BJP.
I belong to Bangalore North. And I voted for the Congress candidate Jaffer Sharief though I had doubts about his deserving to be MP again. Only because I wanted Congress to come back to power at the centre. Well Jaffer Sharief lost and still Congress is at the centre. So it is win despite a loss for my vote :-)
Other parties? When Mayawati came to power in UP, I was thrilled with her 'social engineering', her inclusive politics, her Dalit-empowerment. But she has since disappointed, fielding criminals, erecting her own statues (That reminds me, not very inappropriately, of something that Sheikh Saadi, a persian Sufi poet, is supposed to have said - It does not become a man to glorify himself, what pleasure does a woman get pressing her own boobs?), building palaces for herself out of government money, hiring/firing/transfering people she does'nt like. The revivial of Congress in UP is good news. AIADMK? Jayalalitha is supposed to be a good leader. But her flip-flop on LTTE was disappointing. Hope she learns her lesson. Lalu? Too bad. I hope he manages to continue in the cabinet. Nitish Kumar. Hope his good work in Bihar in the years that follow affords him the luxury of distancing himself from the BJP, like Naveen Patnaik has managed in Orissa. Deve Gowda? Good riddance. Kumaraswamy? Poor fellow. Did some good work as CM. Hope he makes a wiser come-back. DMK? Hope they shut up about LTTE, now that it is not required, and concentrate on governance. Anyway, they have good competition from Jayalalitha.
Overall. Quite a Jai Ho result.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Amber fluid, Amber fluid
A couple of weeks ago, some bee-hustlers (my expression) were invited to our apartment building to take care of some bee-hives. Though I did feel sorry for the bees, smoked out of their homes and lives, poor things, we bought about 3 kilos of honey from the bee-hustlers. Three kilos looked like a lot of honey to buy, but I have since disovered that honey is pretty heavy and three kilos is about one and half litres.
The honey is now sitting in a fine bottle which used to contain another precious amber fluid - Johnny Walker Black Label. My wife has not bothered removing all the labels from the bottle - some food for thought for visiting relatives who like honey with their dosas :-)
Poetic Injustice
Was watching Kaho Na Pyaar Hai for a bit today. There is this guy, the hotel manager, if I remember right, who is trying to quote Ghalib and gives up mid-way: 'Woh aaye ghar mein hamare ...something something ... are chaddo yaar'. Though it was reel-life and all that, I felt like saying 'Hey dude! How can you quote a Ghalib sher incomplete and not apologize? Not make an attempt to recollect it? Not say, 'Oh shit! I have forgotten it. I will look it up and complete it for you next time we meet'?
Adding salt to this wound were insipid lyrics of the songs that followed in the movie including 'Geet ghazal sab hue purane...etc'. Hmph!
1 comments
A couple of weeks ago, some bee-hustlers (my expression) were invited to our apartment building to take care of some bee-hives. Though I did feel sorry for the bees, smoked out of their homes and lives, poor things, we bought about 3 kilos of honey from the bee-hustlers. Three kilos looked like a lot of honey to buy, but I have since disovered that honey is pretty heavy and three kilos is about one and half litres.
The honey is now sitting in a fine bottle which used to contain another precious amber fluid - Johnny Walker Black Label. My wife has not bothered removing all the labels from the bottle - some food for thought for visiting relatives who like honey with their dosas :-)
Poetic Injustice
Was watching Kaho Na Pyaar Hai for a bit today. There is this guy, the hotel manager, if I remember right, who is trying to quote Ghalib and gives up mid-way: 'Woh aaye ghar mein hamare ...something something ... are chaddo yaar'. Though it was reel-life and all that, I felt like saying 'Hey dude! How can you quote a Ghalib sher incomplete and not apologize? Not make an attempt to recollect it? Not say, 'Oh shit! I have forgotten it. I will look it up and complete it for you next time we meet'?
Adding salt to this wound were insipid lyrics of the songs that followed in the movie including 'Geet ghazal sab hue purane...etc'. Hmph!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
DevD
If I am not forgetting some other interesting film in the interim, and not counting full comedies, since these are mostly packed with jokes, and don't need nor contain a strong plot or 'deep' characterization, DevD for me is the best Hindi movie since Omkara. 'Luck by chance' also had a certain something, but that movie unfortunately was 'phony' in parts.
Two thumbs up to director Anurag Kashyap, as the film critic Rajiv Masand would say, for showing (or creating) an interesting facet of Delhi's dark side. The bar to which Chunni (a pimp in this version of Devdas) takes Dev when they first meet has a three-guy dance band. The point made, I suppose, is the audience in the bar is interested in the aesthetics, rather than the sexuality in the dance. This makes the audience self-indulgent (they are drinking and doing drugs) by choice rather than due to a weakness of character. Anyways, that's my interpretation. The dark side of Delhi, a world of alcohol, drugs and prostitutes, is not shown in a sordid light, but in a clean, colourful, Bohemian light. One certainly hopes it is so in reality.
I have always thought that one should be self-indulgent if one can afford it. There are some things to be said about a wasted youth. Especially if you stop wasting your youth while you still young. Like Dev does in this film. And especially if you have large family wealth to start life afresh with. Like Dev has in this film.
In the three hours or so, the passing of six-ten years is successfully conveyed. When towards the end, they show Dev sitting at a spot by a canal where he used to sit with Paro as a young adolescent, this 'much water has flown under the bridge' (there is a bridge near the canal, too, by the way) is hightened. But the fact that Dev is still young and can start a different phase of life afresh, is refreshing for a viewer like me, nearing thirty, who has the habit of thinking sometimes about how life has turned out since college, but still feeling young, fresh, optimistic and eager about new things to come, new things to do.
The film makes one feel happy to be alive. No computers, no offices figure in this movie. Sugarcane fields, marriage parties (with booze served) and lots of pubs and bars. A life richer and more varied than that in an IT city. I loved the scene where they show the closeup of a hen in a poultry farm, and then as they zoom out Dev and Paro are seen trying to start something in the far corner.
The music too is whacky and off the beaten track. Music by people who are serious about music but don't take it seriously. Emotional atyachaar is awesome.
Contrasting this film with Delhi-6, I could not stop myself giving negative points to the latter. While DevD shows a young, determined, willful Paro quarelling loudly with her father when he wants to get her married off to some guy, and then in her anger pumping at a borewell till it looked like it's handle would break, Delhi-6 shows the old sterotype of a tyrant father almost managing to get his daughther (who looks like a film star!) to a pot-bellied, baldish fellow.
0 comments
If I am not forgetting some other interesting film in the interim, and not counting full comedies, since these are mostly packed with jokes, and don't need nor contain a strong plot or 'deep' characterization, DevD for me is the best Hindi movie since Omkara. 'Luck by chance' also had a certain something, but that movie unfortunately was 'phony' in parts.
Two thumbs up to director Anurag Kashyap, as the film critic Rajiv Masand would say, for showing (or creating) an interesting facet of Delhi's dark side. The bar to which Chunni (a pimp in this version of Devdas) takes Dev when they first meet has a three-guy dance band. The point made, I suppose, is the audience in the bar is interested in the aesthetics, rather than the sexuality in the dance. This makes the audience self-indulgent (they are drinking and doing drugs) by choice rather than due to a weakness of character. Anyways, that's my interpretation. The dark side of Delhi, a world of alcohol, drugs and prostitutes, is not shown in a sordid light, but in a clean, colourful, Bohemian light. One certainly hopes it is so in reality.
I have always thought that one should be self-indulgent if one can afford it. There are some things to be said about a wasted youth. Especially if you stop wasting your youth while you still young. Like Dev does in this film. And especially if you have large family wealth to start life afresh with. Like Dev has in this film.
In the three hours or so, the passing of six-ten years is successfully conveyed. When towards the end, they show Dev sitting at a spot by a canal where he used to sit with Paro as a young adolescent, this 'much water has flown under the bridge' (there is a bridge near the canal, too, by the way) is hightened. But the fact that Dev is still young and can start a different phase of life afresh, is refreshing for a viewer like me, nearing thirty, who has the habit of thinking sometimes about how life has turned out since college, but still feeling young, fresh, optimistic and eager about new things to come, new things to do.
The film makes one feel happy to be alive. No computers, no offices figure in this movie. Sugarcane fields, marriage parties (with booze served) and lots of pubs and bars. A life richer and more varied than that in an IT city. I loved the scene where they show the closeup of a hen in a poultry farm, and then as they zoom out Dev and Paro are seen trying to start something in the far corner.
The music too is whacky and off the beaten track. Music by people who are serious about music but don't take it seriously. Emotional atyachaar is awesome.
Contrasting this film with Delhi-6, I could not stop myself giving negative points to the latter. While DevD shows a young, determined, willful Paro quarelling loudly with her father when he wants to get her married off to some guy, and then in her anger pumping at a borewell till it looked like it's handle would break, Delhi-6 shows the old sterotype of a tyrant father almost managing to get his daughther (who looks like a film star!) to a pot-bellied, baldish fellow.
Monday, March 02, 2009
For the love of fish
I am the big bear,
Wet, by the stream side,
Plucking salmon out of thin air,
Stashing them away in his great coat,
Preparing for winter peace again.
I am the first monkey,
That bit into a crunchy sardine,
And found his brain go suddenly tick-tick
And his tail shrink a bit.
I am the marlin,
Tempted by the fisherman's tuna.
I am the tuna,
Tempted by the fisherman's sardine.
I am the grinning shark,
Aftering shoals.
I am Anant,
And I love fish.
1 comments
I am the big bear,
Wet, by the stream side,
Plucking salmon out of thin air,
Stashing them away in his great coat,
Preparing for winter peace again.
I am the first monkey,
That bit into a crunchy sardine,
And found his brain go suddenly tick-tick
And his tail shrink a bit.
I am the marlin,
Tempted by the fisherman's tuna.
I am the tuna,
Tempted by the fisherman's sardine.
I am the grinning shark,
Aftering shoals.
I am Anant,
And I love fish.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
One billion votes?
'One billion votes' is the slogan of the Jaago Re campaign. But are there one billion voters in India? I think not. Given that there are (only) 1.15 billion people in India, of which at least a third are below eighteen, the minimum age for voting.
Poetic license cannot be the excuse of 'One billion votes' - after all they are not making a poem, they are launching a sober, 'awareness' campaign. They end up sounding ignorant and shallow - atleast to me.
I had forgiven Jaago Re so far, though I was irritated everytime I heard/read their slogan, but now they have infected a popular news channel into naming their election show as 'One billion votes'.
Or am I missing something?
Anyway.
Ha ha
One joke that always gets a laugh out of me, however many times I tell it to people I know:
Railway track par hagane baithoge, to, haath se gaand dhone ki bajay, gaand se haath dho baithoge!
1 comments
'One billion votes' is the slogan of the Jaago Re campaign. But are there one billion voters in India? I think not. Given that there are (only) 1.15 billion people in India, of which at least a third are below eighteen, the minimum age for voting.
Poetic license cannot be the excuse of 'One billion votes' - after all they are not making a poem, they are launching a sober, 'awareness' campaign. They end up sounding ignorant and shallow - atleast to me.
I had forgiven Jaago Re so far, though I was irritated everytime I heard/read their slogan, but now they have infected a popular news channel into naming their election show as 'One billion votes'.
Or am I missing something?
Anyway.
Ha ha
One joke that always gets a laugh out of me, however many times I tell it to people I know:
Railway track par hagane baithoge, to, haath se gaand dhone ki bajay, gaand se haath dho baithoge!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
This and That
A month ago, me and my wife went on a trip to Chennai. Why Chennai? Karthik had gotten married in Chennai, some fifteen days before, we had originally planned to attend his wedding and had then cancelled because of bad weather and office work - this was that trip, postponed; I really really wanted to make a train journey again after a long time; I wanted to show my wife my college; and I wanted to see Chola bronze work at the government museum, Chennai. We also made a one day trip to Mahabalipuram from Chennai.
********
The visit to the Museum was the highlight of the trip. Nerdy, no? No. The place has atleast some 100 bronze sculptures, of various sizes, from the Chola age. Well, if I have to go to a museum to see such artisitic wonders, I will. However, because of a kanjoos strain I inherit from my father, I did not opt to pay 200 extra bucks for photography, so I can't put pictures here. We have decided we will make a two day trip to Chennai sometime, just to take pictures in the Bronze gallery of the Government museum.
I will not attempt to describe the beauty, the grace, the inegenuity, the perfection of those figurines. It was a pleasant shock to learn that so much wealth from those 1000 year old times is still with us and in such a well preserved state - not counting the collections of other museums in the country.
The bronze gallery was like a jewellery shop of a kind.
This was the first collections of bronzes I have ever seen. The metallic medium has a definite advantage over stone, adding a 'steely' edge to the austere, holier-than-thou arrogance to the Godly sculptures.
********
Going by the Lonely Planet guide, we visited a section of Mahabalipuram I had never seen in my visits before - the Firang section. Restaurants, souvenier shops, massage centres, 'yoga' shops etc, mostly visited by firangs. We were the only Indian tourists on that street.
We ate at 'The Seaside Restaurant', where we were the only Indian customers. The fare was good - fresh snapper fish, curried and fried. Not expensive, compared to Bangalore prices, but then again the restaurant is right on the beach - so fish must be cheap there.
Don't know why Indian tourists don't go to this firang section - is it that they find it expensive, or is it that they are not welcomed, or is it that they don't know about it? We had, after all, come to know of the place only through the Lonely planet guide - written by (and for?) firangs. Still it was surprising to not find even 'anglecized' Indians there.
The beach too seemed to be segregated somewhat, with one side full of firangs, the other full of Indians. Strange.
0 comments
A month ago, me and my wife went on a trip to Chennai. Why Chennai? Karthik had gotten married in Chennai, some fifteen days before, we had originally planned to attend his wedding and had then cancelled because of bad weather and office work - this was that trip, postponed; I really really wanted to make a train journey again after a long time; I wanted to show my wife my college; and I wanted to see Chola bronze work at the government museum, Chennai. We also made a one day trip to Mahabalipuram from Chennai.
********
The visit to the Museum was the highlight of the trip. Nerdy, no? No. The place has atleast some 100 bronze sculptures, of various sizes, from the Chola age. Well, if I have to go to a museum to see such artisitic wonders, I will. However, because of a kanjoos strain I inherit from my father, I did not opt to pay 200 extra bucks for photography, so I can't put pictures here. We have decided we will make a two day trip to Chennai sometime, just to take pictures in the Bronze gallery of the Government museum.
I will not attempt to describe the beauty, the grace, the inegenuity, the perfection of those figurines. It was a pleasant shock to learn that so much wealth from those 1000 year old times is still with us and in such a well preserved state - not counting the collections of other museums in the country.
The bronze gallery was like a jewellery shop of a kind.
This was the first collections of bronzes I have ever seen. The metallic medium has a definite advantage over stone, adding a 'steely' edge to the austere, holier-than-thou arrogance to the Godly sculptures.
********
Going by the Lonely Planet guide, we visited a section of Mahabalipuram I had never seen in my visits before - the Firang section. Restaurants, souvenier shops, massage centres, 'yoga' shops etc, mostly visited by firangs. We were the only Indian tourists on that street.
We ate at 'The Seaside Restaurant', where we were the only Indian customers. The fare was good - fresh snapper fish, curried and fried. Not expensive, compared to Bangalore prices, but then again the restaurant is right on the beach - so fish must be cheap there.
Don't know why Indian tourists don't go to this firang section - is it that they find it expensive, or is it that they are not welcomed, or is it that they don't know about it? We had, after all, come to know of the place only through the Lonely planet guide - written by (and for?) firangs. Still it was surprising to not find even 'anglecized' Indians there.
The beach too seemed to be segregated somewhat, with one side full of firangs, the other full of Indians. Strange.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
When I first heard this song, in a cassette of old kannada songs, I was quite pleasantly surprised by its quiet melody, its lyrical beauty. But when I stumbled upon this video on youtube, I was even more surprised. Where I expected a picturization quite content with letting the song take centrestage, so to speak, I found the video making its own poetry and telling its own story...
I have often been told, and I have in turn told sceptical friends, that Kannada movie industry was once the leading light of South Indian cinema (it is again making a modest recovery from the abyss of the last couple of decades, by the way). This song is an example of the glorious old days.
I was already impressed with old Kannada film music, and now I am impressed with old Kannada movie direction as well.
******
The 'hero', presumably after a stay abroad, has just awakened to the charms of a local Kannada belle - like I awaken atlast to the charms of Kannada film making after appreciating the movies of other languages.
The seemingly simple, fluid, choreography in this picturaization reminds of bees in a flower garden in spring... the chirps of birds... water bubbling through a stream...the seemingly mindless courtship chases of butterflies. The hero's other girl friends partner him in his wooing of the heroine, perhaps they have to be content with vicarious joy only...
****
Here's a (notsogood) translation of the song - do listen the song first:
Hoovondu bali bandu taakitu enn-edeya
enendu... kelalu... helitu...
helitu jenanta sihi nudiya...
A flower, came and brushed my heart,
When I asked: 'What?'
It spoke in honey-sweet tongue:
kaveri seemeye kanneyu naanu
beluru baaleya pratinidhi naanu
tungeya, bhadreya,
tungeya bhadreya tavrina hoo naanu
I come from the land of Kaveri,
I represent Belur's shapely figurines,
I am the flower from the home of the Tunga, the Bhadra...
sooryana kaanti ya sundari naanu
tingala belakina tangeyu naanu
premada kavyake poojeya hoo naanu
My beauty combines the sun's rays,
The moon's light,
I am the flower, with which to worship Love's Poem...
arashina kumkuma shobhite naanu
vadhuvina sringara bhooshite naanu
mangala sutrava beduva hoo naanu
I am adorned with Kumukum and Turmeric,
I am dressed in a Bride's finery,
I am the flower that invites a mangala sutra...
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Ae jazba-e-dil
Update on the previous post: you can find a video of the ghazal here on youtube.
Especially check out the last sher:
Aata hai jo toofan, aane do, kashti ka khuda khud haafiz hai,
Mushkil to nahi in maujon mein, behata hua saahil aa jaae.
mauj= waves, saahil=shore
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Update on the previous post: you can find a video of the ghazal here on youtube.
Especially check out the last sher:
Aata hai jo toofan, aane do, kashti ka khuda khud haafiz hai,
Mushkil to nahi in maujon mein, behata hua saahil aa jaae.
mauj= waves, saahil=shore
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Traveller
Ae jazba-e-dil, gar main chaahun, har cheez muqaabil aa jaae,
Manzil ke liye do gaam chalun, aur saamane manzil aa jaae.
Muqaabil = in front of, saamne; gaam = steps, kadam
How I wish, if I wanted, everything should be possible,
I should walk but a few steps, and there my manzil should be!
ai rahabar-e-kaamil chalane ko tayyaar to huun par yaad rahe
us vaqt mujhe bhaTakaa denaa jab saamane manzil aa jaaye
Rahbar = guide; Kaamil=accomplished.
Oh you who guide the chosen few, I am ok to be led by you,
But do let me go astray, when The Manzil is but a step away...
- Behzad Lucknawi
A contrast within the same ghazal. The words of one, perhaps, who reaches (intermediate) manzils easily, who does not really care for the manzil , and who, whatsmore, wants to keep travelling, if possible.
1 comments
Ae jazba-e-dil, gar main chaahun, har cheez muqaabil aa jaae,
Manzil ke liye do gaam chalun, aur saamane manzil aa jaae.
Muqaabil = in front of, saamne; gaam = steps, kadam
How I wish, if I wanted, everything should be possible,
I should walk but a few steps, and there my manzil should be!
ai rahabar-e-kaamil chalane ko tayyaar to huun par yaad rahe
us vaqt mujhe bhaTakaa denaa jab saamane manzil aa jaaye
Rahbar = guide; Kaamil=accomplished.
Oh you who guide the chosen few, I am ok to be led by you,
But do let me go astray, when The Manzil is but a step away...
- Behzad Lucknawi
A contrast within the same ghazal. The words of one, perhaps, who reaches (intermediate) manzils easily, who does not really care for the manzil , and who, whatsmore, wants to keep travelling, if possible.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
It's been a while... From now on I'll try and post something at least once a week. As a beginning, here's an excerpt from a story I have entered in the Deccan Herald short story contest:
The Son
...A genius in the family is difficult to suffer. When you realize that a small change in the probabilities of nature, and that genius could have been yours. Or at least, yours too... To watch your own father, who in the right order of things, should have retired into quietude, even as you ascended the golden throne of youth; to watch that father still going strong, more youthful than you, a twinkle in his eye, his white whiskers bristly, his shoulders square, his back erect, head high, his missing tooth shining like a black pearl amongst white ones. To watch the ceaseless ascendancy of such a father, while you yourself slide down into the slimy pits of oblivion. The envy for such a father is no sin. It’s a service to the Gods for playing the fool in their cruel joke...
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The Son
...A genius in the family is difficult to suffer. When you realize that a small change in the probabilities of nature, and that genius could have been yours. Or at least, yours too... To watch your own father, who in the right order of things, should have retired into quietude, even as you ascended the golden throne of youth; to watch that father still going strong, more youthful than you, a twinkle in his eye, his white whiskers bristly, his shoulders square, his back erect, head high, his missing tooth shining like a black pearl amongst white ones. To watch the ceaseless ascendancy of such a father, while you yourself slide down into the slimy pits of oblivion. The envy for such a father is no sin. It’s a service to the Gods for playing the fool in their cruel joke...
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Captain Ahab
A week ago, I got a long-standing (sic) ligament tear in my left knee fixed - two year old football injury. Since I obviously had to spend time in hospital I took "Moby Dick" along, the book I had been reading on and off and had still not finished. After the operation, I realized the conincidence. The one-legged captain Ahab going tock-tock-tock with his ivory leg on the deck of his ship, and me limping with the walker going tock-tock. An omen and a portent, Ishmael would have said. Had I not read the book almost as long as I had had the injury? In any case, with my one leg immobilized and in pain, I did feel more sympathetic towards Ahab than I would have otherwise.
Excerpts:
(Ahab having worn out his ivory leg, is waiting for the ship's carpenter to make him another out of a whale's jaw bone. He soliloquizes)
Oh, Life! Here I am, proud as a Greek god, and yet standing debtor to this blockhead (the carpenter) for a bone to stand on! Cursed be the mortal inter-indebtedness which will not do away with ledgers. I would be free as air; and I'm down in the whole world's books. I am so rich, I could have given bid for bid with the wealthiest Praetorians at the auction of the Roman empire; and yet I owe for the flesh in the tongue I brag with. By heavens! I'll get a crucible, and into it, and dissolve myself down to one small, compendious vertebra. So.
3 comments
A week ago, I got a long-standing (sic) ligament tear in my left knee fixed - two year old football injury. Since I obviously had to spend time in hospital I took "Moby Dick" along, the book I had been reading on and off and had still not finished. After the operation, I realized the conincidence. The one-legged captain Ahab going tock-tock-tock with his ivory leg on the deck of his ship, and me limping with the walker going tock-tock. An omen and a portent, Ishmael would have said. Had I not read the book almost as long as I had had the injury? In any case, with my one leg immobilized and in pain, I did feel more sympathetic towards Ahab than I would have otherwise.
Excerpts:
(Ahab having worn out his ivory leg, is waiting for the ship's carpenter to make him another out of a whale's jaw bone. He soliloquizes)
Oh, Life! Here I am, proud as a Greek god, and yet standing debtor to this blockhead (the carpenter) for a bone to stand on! Cursed be the mortal inter-indebtedness which will not do away with ledgers. I would be free as air; and I'm down in the whole world's books. I am so rich, I could have given bid for bid with the wealthiest Praetorians at the auction of the Roman empire; and yet I owe for the flesh in the tongue I brag with. By heavens! I'll get a crucible, and into it, and dissolve myself down to one small, compendious vertebra. So.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Collage in a CD
Kitne Ghayil hain,
Kitne Bismil hain,
Is khudaii mein,
Ek Tu kya hai...
Aye dil-e-naadan...
Lata Mangeshkar, Ghulam Mohammed, Majrooh Sultanpuri, Kaifi Azmi, Rajkumar, Naushad, Mohammed Rafi, Kaif Bhopali, Parveen Sultana, Kamal Amrohi, Vani Jairam, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Khaiyyaam, Jagjit Kaur, Nida Fazli, Mahendra Kapoor, Bhupinder.
This is the list of artists on the back cover of the Pakeezah and Razia Sultan music CD. Amazing is'nt it. So much talent went just into the music of these two great movies.
And the songs themselves - ek se badhkar ek - Inhi Logon Ne, Chalte Chalte, Nazariya Ki Mari, Chalo Dildar Chalo, Thare Rahiyo, Kaun gali gayo shyaam, Mausam hai Ashikana, Teer-e-Nazar Dekhenge, Aye Dil-e-Naadan, Aayi Zanjeer Ki Jhankaar, Hariyala Banna Aaya re, Jalta Hai Badan, Aye Khuda Shukr Tera..
How did they make each of these songs? Maybe the lyricist re-discoverd some old poem, reshaped it to suit the mood? Maybe the music director drew inspiration from the crickets on a sleepless night? Maybe the singer, the lyricist, the music director, sat together, struggling, on a hot summer afternoon hankering after the muse, or maybe they sat relaxed on a breezy monsoon evening, whisky glasses in hand, knowing she would come to them... For some artist some song would be their best work, work they knew they would not be able to match in a hurry, work they would be remembered by in Hindi film music, for some other artist it would be another easy day at the office...
The common factor in both these movies is of course writer-director Kamal Amrohi, in the case of Pakeezah, also the producer. Hats off to him for so painstakingly collecting the bits and pieces of the musical parts of his two great collages.
0 comments
Kitne Ghayil hain,
Kitne Bismil hain,
Is khudaii mein,
Ek Tu kya hai...
Aye dil-e-naadan...
Lata Mangeshkar, Ghulam Mohammed, Majrooh Sultanpuri, Kaifi Azmi, Rajkumar, Naushad, Mohammed Rafi, Kaif Bhopali, Parveen Sultana, Kamal Amrohi, Vani Jairam, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Khaiyyaam, Jagjit Kaur, Nida Fazli, Mahendra Kapoor, Bhupinder.
This is the list of artists on the back cover of the Pakeezah and Razia Sultan music CD. Amazing is'nt it. So much talent went just into the music of these two great movies.
And the songs themselves - ek se badhkar ek - Inhi Logon Ne, Chalte Chalte, Nazariya Ki Mari, Chalo Dildar Chalo, Thare Rahiyo, Kaun gali gayo shyaam, Mausam hai Ashikana, Teer-e-Nazar Dekhenge, Aye Dil-e-Naadan, Aayi Zanjeer Ki Jhankaar, Hariyala Banna Aaya re, Jalta Hai Badan, Aye Khuda Shukr Tera..
How did they make each of these songs? Maybe the lyricist re-discoverd some old poem, reshaped it to suit the mood? Maybe the music director drew inspiration from the crickets on a sleepless night? Maybe the singer, the lyricist, the music director, sat together, struggling, on a hot summer afternoon hankering after the muse, or maybe they sat relaxed on a breezy monsoon evening, whisky glasses in hand, knowing she would come to them... For some artist some song would be their best work, work they knew they would not be able to match in a hurry, work they would be remembered by in Hindi film music, for some other artist it would be another easy day at the office...
The common factor in both these movies is of course writer-director Kamal Amrohi, in the case of Pakeezah, also the producer. Hats off to him for so painstakingly collecting the bits and pieces of the musical parts of his two great collages.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
I want to write
I want to write. I do so want to write. I am writing this post not so much because I want to say something but because I want to write something. Every day I remind myself that I have'nt written anything in a while. I play back in my mind the delicious thrill of writing a poem - I try to rouse my creativity. But no poems strike me at breakfast these days.
And not writing is making it difficult to read. Can't stand to see those great authors play with words like a child with beach sand. Am making do with re-reading thrillers known more for the plot than for the language. Jealous of appreciating new ideas from another person, while I wait for my own.
1 comments
I want to write. I do so want to write. I am writing this post not so much because I want to say something but because I want to write something. Every day I remind myself that I have'nt written anything in a while. I play back in my mind the delicious thrill of writing a poem - I try to rouse my creativity. But no poems strike me at breakfast these days.
And not writing is making it difficult to read. Can't stand to see those great authors play with words like a child with beach sand. Am making do with re-reading thrillers known more for the plot than for the language. Jealous of appreciating new ideas from another person, while I wait for my own.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Quite an achievement
From SBI's welcome letter:
"Welcome to the State Bank of India - the only bank to figure in the list of 100 top banks of the world."
Now who can beat that!
2 comments
From SBI's welcome letter:
"Welcome to the State Bank of India - the only bank to figure in the list of 100 top banks of the world."
Now who can beat that!
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Lacking Vision
I am a staunch supporter of Doordarshan, though I watch it only rarely these days. I still remember them for the good things that they used to do: tasteful serials, ads in public interest that were also works of art, and excellent news reading - no stuttering, no grammatical mistakes and no obvious 'reading' of the news from the screen in front.
Well, it's kind of sad that Doordarshan is one government company that was very good when there was no private sector competition and is just too pathetic for words now. Tepid soaps shot in gaudy sets, poor video quailty and news readers who read as if they have their mouths full and mispronounce 'rapid' and 'repid' and then stop and correct themselves. Hmmm.
They have probably four or five years or even less before satellite and cable TV gets to even the remote parts of the country. Now is the time to pour money into quality programmes, into adverstizing and to entrench themselves into the hearts of the people while they can.
Doordarshan have got their hearts in the right place - it is probably one of the very few channels where money is'nt everything - who else shows ads on National Integration, Polio programs, AIDS awareness? And it is not like they used to always show crap - remember Byomkesh Bakshi, Flop show, Rangoli, Mr Yogi, Shanti, Mirza Ghalib? Doordarshan can boast of more plusses than most channels I think. Which is all why I hope some miracle-worker will come along (like Lalu for the Railways?) and makes them interesting and popular once again.
5 comments
I am a staunch supporter of Doordarshan, though I watch it only rarely these days. I still remember them for the good things that they used to do: tasteful serials, ads in public interest that were also works of art, and excellent news reading - no stuttering, no grammatical mistakes and no obvious 'reading' of the news from the screen in front.
Well, it's kind of sad that Doordarshan is one government company that was very good when there was no private sector competition and is just too pathetic for words now. Tepid soaps shot in gaudy sets, poor video quailty and news readers who read as if they have their mouths full and mispronounce 'rapid' and 'repid' and then stop and correct themselves. Hmmm.
They have probably four or five years or even less before satellite and cable TV gets to even the remote parts of the country. Now is the time to pour money into quality programmes, into adverstizing and to entrench themselves into the hearts of the people while they can.
Doordarshan have got their hearts in the right place - it is probably one of the very few channels where money is'nt everything - who else shows ads on National Integration, Polio programs, AIDS awareness? And it is not like they used to always show crap - remember Byomkesh Bakshi, Flop show, Rangoli, Mr Yogi, Shanti, Mirza Ghalib? Doordarshan can boast of more plusses than most channels I think. Which is all why I hope some miracle-worker will come along (like Lalu for the Railways?) and makes them interesting and popular once again.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
I wish I had said that
A borrowed kick-restart to the blog. Today Biman, Karthick and I were on the terrace. On one of the lower floors we saw an old, old lady walking with her middle aged son. Biman observed that the lady was wearing both a sweater and a shawl on a hot summer evening. Karthick said with quiet wit "Maybe because she is in the winter of her life".
10 comments
A borrowed kick-restart to the blog. Today Biman, Karthick and I were on the terrace. On one of the lower floors we saw an old, old lady walking with her middle aged son. Biman observed that the lady was wearing both a sweater and a shawl on a hot summer evening. Karthick said with quiet wit "Maybe because she is in the winter of her life".
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Moby Dick again, plus an excellent excerpt
I have again started reading Moby Dick. This time I hope I will be able to finish it. Every time I read it I wonder what made me stop mid-way last time.
All the talk about voyages on the high seas stirs something deep in me; my forefathers for several centuries lived on the west coast, maybe some of them were sea-venturing.
Something else also stirs something deep in me. Ishmael and his cannibal harpooner friend Queequeg eat hearty meat breakfasts - steaks done rare and clam and cod chowders (dictionary says, Chowder: soup or stew made of sea food with pieces of salted pork, tomatoes, onions, potatoes etc). I read mostly in the mornings while the maid is cleaning the house etc, so when I go to the office I am pretty charged up gastronomically. At the office awaits a relatively tame breakfast of cornflakes, idlis or aalu paratha. Well, that is life.
Moby Dick though a prose novel is more like a long poem. That brings me to a question: how does one declare if a well-written novel is poetical or prosaic? I guess it is just the inherent rhythm to the sentences; the numerous commas, the abrupt sentences, the long sentences, the semicolons, the un-written pauses, the re-saying of words, sentences and ideas for effect, the half-music the words evoke, the surreal effect. It's whether the writer wants to keep his feet firmly on the ground and deal with earthly issues or does he want to allow himself to soar the skies like a kite - his connection to the earth a mere string.
Okay, here's an excerpt:
The Lee Shore
Some chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, new-landed mariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn.
When on that shivering winter's night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years' dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs; this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that's kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship's direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights 'gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea's landlessness again; for refuge's sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!
Know ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?
But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God - so better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy ocean-perishing-straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!
6 comments
I have again started reading Moby Dick. This time I hope I will be able to finish it. Every time I read it I wonder what made me stop mid-way last time.
All the talk about voyages on the high seas stirs something deep in me; my forefathers for several centuries lived on the west coast, maybe some of them were sea-venturing.
Something else also stirs something deep in me. Ishmael and his cannibal harpooner friend Queequeg eat hearty meat breakfasts - steaks done rare and clam and cod chowders (dictionary says, Chowder: soup or stew made of sea food with pieces of salted pork, tomatoes, onions, potatoes etc). I read mostly in the mornings while the maid is cleaning the house etc, so when I go to the office I am pretty charged up gastronomically. At the office awaits a relatively tame breakfast of cornflakes, idlis or aalu paratha. Well, that is life.
Moby Dick though a prose novel is more like a long poem. That brings me to a question: how does one declare if a well-written novel is poetical or prosaic? I guess it is just the inherent rhythm to the sentences; the numerous commas, the abrupt sentences, the long sentences, the semicolons, the un-written pauses, the re-saying of words, sentences and ideas for effect, the half-music the words evoke, the surreal effect. It's whether the writer wants to keep his feet firmly on the ground and deal with earthly issues or does he want to allow himself to soar the skies like a kite - his connection to the earth a mere string.
Okay, here's an excerpt:
The Lee Shore
Some chapters back, one Bulkington was spoken of, a tall, new-landed mariner, encountered in New Bedford at the inn.
When on that shivering winter's night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years' dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet. Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs; this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that's kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship's direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights 'gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea's landlessness again; for refuge's sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!
Know ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?
But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God - so better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy ocean-perishing-straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Please note. This story is written in experimentative good humour. All sorts of disclaimers apply.
The earlier scenes can be found by scrolling up and down this page .
Macbeth
Act I Scene III
Scene III
The three witches are discovered in an office cubicle. They have had lunch and are now having coffee/tea, except for the first witch who is having a post-lunch cheese sandwich. The computer screen has a nebulous, galactic kind of pattern floating from one end of the screen to another and back again - screen saver mode.
The witches whisper, lest some one hear them. But they do so with difficulty, bursting as they are with the excitement of their plan.
Third Witch :
Its finally paid off,
Your sharing a cubicle wall with the boss.
Second Witch :
(smirking)
Ja!
Amidst the details of the plumbing job,
The car installment, the kids' diarrhea,
Hide the occasional, careless tidbits,
tit bits (laughs at some thought),
careless tidbits, for the jobless ear.
Third Witch :
Where's the work-under-progress sign?
First Witch :
(with his mouth full)
Here 'tis,
Flinched from the third floor
Second Witch :
Wonder what's keeping the bugger?
By his routine,
His lunch finished by now,
He should be heading to the bogs.
We need the bogs empty for our plan to work,
And for that we need Macbeth back early.
First witch :
(Swallowing the last of the sandiwich)
Hush,
There's a sound,
Here he comes...
Enter Macbeth and Banquo. They head for Macbeth's cubicle which is the cube but next...
Macbeth :
Interesting problem,
Never seen it's like before,
Let me think it over...
Banquo :
Do that.
And meanwhile, here's another I am facing...
Macbeth :
One at a time
Besides I need to go (jerks his head indicating the toilets)
Banquo :
Ok. We talk tomorrow then.
Exit Banquo
Exit Macbeth followed shortly by the witches carrying the work-under-progress sign.
Scene III.1
The Men's room, deserted now, it being mid-lunch hour.
Enter Macbeth and disappears into a closet.
Enter Witches minus the work-under progress sign. Second witch quickly checks that the rest of the toilet is unoccupied. Gives the rest a thumbs-up sign.
First Witch :
(speaking louder than required and as if in mid conversation)
...but I am sure,
When Macbeth takes over,
Things will be ok.
First witch and Second witch head for the piss-pots to take a leak each. Third witch starts to wash his coffee mug at the sink.
Third Witch :
Takes over?
Is that possible you think?
First Witch :
Sure. Its but a matter of time.
He's almost running the show himself,
Duncan is bound to soon give him full charge,
And let Banquo do something else.
Second Witch :
Lucky bastard.
Tha'll be quite a promotion.
And to think he joined with us.
Dudes, methinks we shoulda worked harder,
When we had the chance.
First witch :
Ah I smell jealousy.
Remember brother,
Each one to his fortunes is best suited,
The good and the bad alike.
Do you think you would want to trade places
With the miserable bloke.
Promotion and all included?
Second witch :
Miserable bloke?
Come brother,
You speak as if you have'nt seen his wife...
And perhaps you know not,
Our own cute gorgeous hottie,
Has a crush on him,
That's growing stronger by the day.
Third witch :
No! Not Mona!
I thought she was steady with Banquo!
Second witch :
All female love's fickle, man.
And don't I know it?
When next you are at a team meeting,
Look where Mona's eyes are at.
They are but on Macbeth's face,
Lapping up his every word,
Hanging by his very lips!
First witch :
Wow (Sighs)
Well, it's all Karma,
The fellow musta been a saint in his last life,
But I can't get me to grudge him his multiple fortunes,
He's been a great friend...
The last few lines trail off out of the bathroom, as the third witch has conveniently finished washing his mug and the three troop out, malicious grins on their faces. As the door closes, we see the third witch pick up the work-under progress sign which has been sitting outside the while.
Half a minute passes before we hear sounds resume from behind the closed closet.
A minute later, there's a flush, and Macbeth emerges, er, flushed. His eyes are wide in quiet excitement. The blood gone to his face has made it pink. And there's a barely suppressed grin on his face.
4 comments
The earlier scenes can be found by scrolling up and down this page .
Macbeth
Act I Scene III
Scene III
The three witches are discovered in an office cubicle. They have had lunch and are now having coffee/tea, except for the first witch who is having a post-lunch cheese sandwich. The computer screen has a nebulous, galactic kind of pattern floating from one end of the screen to another and back again - screen saver mode.
The witches whisper, lest some one hear them. But they do so with difficulty, bursting as they are with the excitement of their plan.
Third Witch :
Its finally paid off,
Your sharing a cubicle wall with the boss.
Second Witch :
(smirking)
Ja!
Amidst the details of the plumbing job,
The car installment, the kids' diarrhea,
Hide the occasional, careless tidbits,
tit bits (laughs at some thought),
careless tidbits, for the jobless ear.
Third Witch :
Where's the work-under-progress sign?
First Witch :
(with his mouth full)
Here 'tis,
Flinched from the third floor
Second Witch :
Wonder what's keeping the bugger?
By his routine,
His lunch finished by now,
He should be heading to the bogs.
We need the bogs empty for our plan to work,
And for that we need Macbeth back early.
First witch :
(Swallowing the last of the sandiwich)
Hush,
There's a sound,
Here he comes...
Enter Macbeth and Banquo. They head for Macbeth's cubicle which is the cube but next...
Macbeth :
Interesting problem,
Never seen it's like before,
Let me think it over...
Banquo :
Do that.
And meanwhile, here's another I am facing...
Macbeth :
One at a time
Besides I need to go (jerks his head indicating the toilets)
Banquo :
Ok. We talk tomorrow then.
Exit Banquo
Exit Macbeth followed shortly by the witches carrying the work-under-progress sign.
Scene III.1
The Men's room, deserted now, it being mid-lunch hour.
Enter Macbeth and disappears into a closet.
Enter Witches minus the work-under progress sign. Second witch quickly checks that the rest of the toilet is unoccupied. Gives the rest a thumbs-up sign.
First Witch :
(speaking louder than required and as if in mid conversation)
...but I am sure,
When Macbeth takes over,
Things will be ok.
First witch and Second witch head for the piss-pots to take a leak each. Third witch starts to wash his coffee mug at the sink.
Third Witch :
Takes over?
Is that possible you think?
First Witch :
Sure. Its but a matter of time.
He's almost running the show himself,
Duncan is bound to soon give him full charge,
And let Banquo do something else.
Second Witch :
Lucky bastard.
Tha'll be quite a promotion.
And to think he joined with us.
Dudes, methinks we shoulda worked harder,
When we had the chance.
First witch :
Ah I smell jealousy.
Remember brother,
Each one to his fortunes is best suited,
The good and the bad alike.
Do you think you would want to trade places
With the miserable bloke.
Promotion and all included?
Second witch :
Miserable bloke?
Come brother,
You speak as if you have'nt seen his wife...
And perhaps you know not,
Our own cute gorgeous hottie,
Has a crush on him,
That's growing stronger by the day.
Third witch :
No! Not Mona!
I thought she was steady with Banquo!
Second witch :
All female love's fickle, man.
And don't I know it?
When next you are at a team meeting,
Look where Mona's eyes are at.
They are but on Macbeth's face,
Lapping up his every word,
Hanging by his very lips!
First witch :
Wow (Sighs)
Well, it's all Karma,
The fellow musta been a saint in his last life,
But I can't get me to grudge him his multiple fortunes,
He's been a great friend...
The last few lines trail off out of the bathroom, as the third witch has conveniently finished washing his mug and the three troop out, malicious grins on their faces. As the door closes, we see the third witch pick up the work-under progress sign which has been sitting outside the while.
Half a minute passes before we hear sounds resume from behind the closed closet.
A minute later, there's a flush, and Macbeth emerges, er, flushed. His eyes are wide in quiet excitement. The blood gone to his face has made it pink. And there's a barely suppressed grin on his face.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Bizarre Insecurities of a crazed mind
Psychoanalysis of my dreams (if ever conducted, I mean) will throw up some funny secrets. My typing skills are something I am real proud of - I use all the fingers of both my hands and use the correct finger for the correct letter and all that. Yesterday I dreamt that everyone I knew was taking up typing lessons - I was quite distressed by the imminent threat to my competitive advantage :-)
1 comments
Psychoanalysis of my dreams (if ever conducted, I mean) will throw up some funny secrets. My typing skills are something I am real proud of - I use all the fingers of both my hands and use the correct finger for the correct letter and all that. Yesterday I dreamt that everyone I knew was taking up typing lessons - I was quite distressed by the imminent threat to my competitive advantage :-)
Saturday, October 13, 2007
A Mid Summer's Day Dream
Chapter 9
Chutti stretched slightly, lazily, where he lay on the bed. Doing what he had been doing for the past two hours or so. Nothing.
The ever-present sun streamed into the room. His feet were just in the sun-beam now. The warmth slowly began to make his toes sweat.
His wing-mates sat on the floor, playing cards. Unshaven, unwashed, some shirtless, some in banians, some in old T-shirts. If it was'nt for the harsh sun the room would have been a disease farm.
Chutti read the legend on one of the T-shirts 'Work fascinates me. I can stare at it for hours.' A gut-wrenching longing filled him. Would he ever himself feel the luxury of being able to say that? And with a joyous heart and a free conscience?
Well, at least at present, he could not. He looked at his work desk where the empty pages of the assignment due in less than 20 hours fluttered in the periodic wind of the ceiling fan. Uff.
At that moment he wanted to be a million miles from where he was then. Well maybe not a million, maybe three hundred.
He felt like he felt more and more these days. That life was getting progressively worse. That he could any day trade this his present day for any of the days of his past life.
Nostalgia beckoned him. Like a painful itch invites the scratch. His mind raced to his high school days, those chalk fights, the playing football in the rain and mud and then going back to class, seeing if any of the girls noticed.
And then one itch to the next. The days of boyhood. The wet, red, mud after the rains. The papaya trees. The red and pink sadaphuli flowers. The half covered cat-shit. The jumping compound walls to go from house to house in a never ending game of hide and seek.
And then on to childhood - a relative blur in memory terms. Posing for a photograph for the school i-card. Standing in assemblies. Going in and out of classrooms. Living life in the true spirit of detachment, it seemed to him now, as if you had nothing to do with anything that went on around you.
Outside the sun grew harsher. Everything seemed bleached a glaring white in the heat. Out his window he could see monkeys near their neighbouring hostel.
The cards were being shuffled once more. The pages of the assignment fluttered on. Like they had flutterd untiringly for more than two hours. Flutter on, you stupid pages, you have the advantage over me. You don't have a soul.
0 comments
Chapter 9
Chutti stretched slightly, lazily, where he lay on the bed. Doing what he had been doing for the past two hours or so. Nothing.
The ever-present sun streamed into the room. His feet were just in the sun-beam now. The warmth slowly began to make his toes sweat.
His wing-mates sat on the floor, playing cards. Unshaven, unwashed, some shirtless, some in banians, some in old T-shirts. If it was'nt for the harsh sun the room would have been a disease farm.
Chutti read the legend on one of the T-shirts 'Work fascinates me. I can stare at it for hours.' A gut-wrenching longing filled him. Would he ever himself feel the luxury of being able to say that? And with a joyous heart and a free conscience?
Well, at least at present, he could not. He looked at his work desk where the empty pages of the assignment due in less than 20 hours fluttered in the periodic wind of the ceiling fan. Uff.
At that moment he wanted to be a million miles from where he was then. Well maybe not a million, maybe three hundred.
He felt like he felt more and more these days. That life was getting progressively worse. That he could any day trade this his present day for any of the days of his past life.
Nostalgia beckoned him. Like a painful itch invites the scratch. His mind raced to his high school days, those chalk fights, the playing football in the rain and mud and then going back to class, seeing if any of the girls noticed.
And then one itch to the next. The days of boyhood. The wet, red, mud after the rains. The papaya trees. The red and pink sadaphuli flowers. The half covered cat-shit. The jumping compound walls to go from house to house in a never ending game of hide and seek.
And then on to childhood - a relative blur in memory terms. Posing for a photograph for the school i-card. Standing in assemblies. Going in and out of classrooms. Living life in the true spirit of detachment, it seemed to him now, as if you had nothing to do with anything that went on around you.
Outside the sun grew harsher. Everything seemed bleached a glaring white in the heat. Out his window he could see monkeys near their neighbouring hostel.
The cards were being shuffled once more. The pages of the assignment fluttered on. Like they had flutterd untiringly for more than two hours. Flutter on, you stupid pages, you have the advantage over me. You don't have a soul.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Back to Urdu
Kuch to de ae falak-e-na_insaaf,
Aah-o-fariyaad ki rukhsat hi sahi.
- Ghalib
falak=sky, na_insaaf=injustice, Aah=sigh, fariyaad=appeal, rukhsat=leave, permission
Give me something, you scorching heavens of injustice,
At least leave to protest, to sigh, to complain.
0 comments
Kuch to de ae falak-e-na_insaaf,
Aah-o-fariyaad ki rukhsat hi sahi.
- Ghalib
falak=sky, na_insaaf=injustice, Aah=sigh, fariyaad=appeal, rukhsat=leave, permission
Give me something, you scorching heavens of injustice,
At least leave to protest, to sigh, to complain.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Dirty Minds
I have a friend who pronounces 'last' as 'lust' - though not on purpose. Naturally, everytime he does it we have a laugh. The last (lust) time was when he was reading a random billboard on the road and read about this 'Ever-lusting ply'. Man! I never thought I could identify with a sheet of wood.
****
One of the lifts in our appartment carries this scratching-graffiti of a long-limbed, high-breasted, faceless beauty - standing with arms and legs spread out. Here and there are scribbled 'SEX' 'FUC' etc. It's very tempting to scratch below 'Sigmund Freud was here.'
****
And, to close, let me re-tell of this friend of a friend, who whenever he was bored in Chennai used to go to the bitch.
He meant beach ofcourse.
4 comments
I have a friend who pronounces 'last' as 'lust' - though not on purpose. Naturally, everytime he does it we have a laugh. The last (lust) time was when he was reading a random billboard on the road and read about this 'Ever-lusting ply'. Man! I never thought I could identify with a sheet of wood.
****
One of the lifts in our appartment carries this scratching-graffiti of a long-limbed, high-breasted, faceless beauty - standing with arms and legs spread out. Here and there are scribbled 'SEX' 'FUC' etc. It's very tempting to scratch below 'Sigmund Freud was here.'
****
And, to close, let me re-tell of this friend of a friend, who whenever he was bored in Chennai used to go to the bitch.
He meant beach ofcourse.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Divine Intervention
This post on the Cholas was'nt going to happen, except for a kind of divine intervention which I will write about later.
But first the Cholas. They were mighty kings of the south, who ruled around a thousand years ago. At its zenith, the influence of the Chola empire stretched all over India's east coast right up to Bihar and Bengal in the north. Besides whole of Sri Lanka and large part of south east Asia were under their control (They had a powerfull Navy). Though most of this conquering was done by Rajendra Chola, the foundations of this empire were laid by his father, Raja Raja Chola or Raja Raja the great.
But their military achievements do not impress me. I am impressed by the temples they built and more so by the exquisite bronze sculpture that, er, took shape under their reign. I have never actually seen the Brihadeshwara temple at Tanjavur (built by Raja Raja). But I was recently watching a discovery channel program ( while in Agartala, attending a friend's wedding reception - it seemed strange sitting in the north-east and watching a program about a temple which is comparatively next door to Bangalore) and they explained why it was such an architectural marvel. Built of solid granite transported from far, the 90m tall structure has two 36 ton granite blocks at the very top. No one knows for certain how those massive pieces of stone were transported so far up, but it is guessed that they built a miles long 6 degree incline and pulled/pushed the granite blocks up the slope using elephants.
While I was impressed by the huge temple structure, and the huger temple complex, the images the channel showed of the bronze sculptures of the Chola age simply took my breath away. Such perfection! One of those thank-god-i-am-alive-to-see-this experiences (even though only on TV). There was one image of Shiva and Parvati standing side by side, Shiva holding Parvati's hand, and their fingers intertwined. Uff! Just too beautiful for words.
I searched on the net for more images of Chola bronzes. The two pictures in my second post but last are examples. Some more are to be found here . The image of Shiva and Parvati together is there in the link, but it is'nt the one I saw on TV. (Also it is not as polished and shiny and nor is it a close up shot - don't blame me if you are not impressed). Also check out this beautiful image of Krishna dancing on Kaliya.
Sometimes I feel the Mughals hog too much of the historical, architectural and cultural-history scene in India.
And the Divine Intervention? It was a play I saw yesterday. "Flame of the Forest". It was about the 6th century Pallava king Mahendra Pallava. But about that, maybe some other day.
0 comments
This post on the Cholas was'nt going to happen, except for a kind of divine intervention which I will write about later.
But first the Cholas. They were mighty kings of the south, who ruled around a thousand years ago. At its zenith, the influence of the Chola empire stretched all over India's east coast right up to Bihar and Bengal in the north. Besides whole of Sri Lanka and large part of south east Asia were under their control (They had a powerfull Navy). Though most of this conquering was done by Rajendra Chola, the foundations of this empire were laid by his father, Raja Raja Chola or Raja Raja the great.
But their military achievements do not impress me. I am impressed by the temples they built and more so by the exquisite bronze sculpture that, er, took shape under their reign. I have never actually seen the Brihadeshwara temple at Tanjavur (built by Raja Raja). But I was recently watching a discovery channel program ( while in Agartala, attending a friend's wedding reception - it seemed strange sitting in the north-east and watching a program about a temple which is comparatively next door to Bangalore) and they explained why it was such an architectural marvel. Built of solid granite transported from far, the 90m tall structure has two 36 ton granite blocks at the very top. No one knows for certain how those massive pieces of stone were transported so far up, but it is guessed that they built a miles long 6 degree incline and pulled/pushed the granite blocks up the slope using elephants.
While I was impressed by the huge temple structure, and the huger temple complex, the images the channel showed of the bronze sculptures of the Chola age simply took my breath away. Such perfection! One of those thank-god-i-am-alive-to-see-this experiences (even though only on TV). There was one image of Shiva and Parvati standing side by side, Shiva holding Parvati's hand, and their fingers intertwined. Uff! Just too beautiful for words.
I searched on the net for more images of Chola bronzes. The two pictures in my second post but last are examples. Some more are to be found here . The image of Shiva and Parvati together is there in the link, but it is'nt the one I saw on TV. (Also it is not as polished and shiny and nor is it a close up shot - don't blame me if you are not impressed). Also check out this beautiful image of Krishna dancing on Kaliya.
Sometimes I feel the Mughals hog too much of the historical, architectural and cultural-history scene in India.
And the Divine Intervention? It was a play I saw yesterday. "Flame of the Forest". It was about the 6th century Pallava king Mahendra Pallava. But about that, maybe some other day.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
The promised lyrics
If you have a spare half an hour (or two), may I suggest you spend it in the most rewarding fashion by studying the below lyrics of the song linked in the previous post. The translations are by S.Karthick (fondly called SKu). The trenchant comments in bold, both linguistic and otherwise, are mine. Its amazing how different, languages are and yet how similar! You might want to keep the song playing in your earphones, on and off, for quick cross reference.
Coming up next on this blog: A brief write-up on the Chola kings. With special focus on the exploits of the great Raja Raja Chola who inspired this song and also my poem in the post but last.
Raja Raja Chozhan Naan
raja raja chozhan naan, enai aalum kaathal desam neethaan,
raja raja chozhan, I am, the love land ruling me is you (only),
I love the way 'Chozhan' is pronounced
poove! kaathal theeve.
flower! love island.
Compare Theev, Tamil with Dwipam, Sanskrit and Dwip, Hindi
man meethu, sorgam vanthu - pennaaga aanathe,
On land, heaven came - became woman,
ullaasa boomi, inggu undaanathe.
happy earth, here got created.
(raja)
kannodu, kangal yetrum, kartpoora theebame
on eyes, eyes light (verb), camphor deepam,
kai theendum pothu, paayum minsaarame
when hands touch/seek, flowing/flows current
ullaasa medai mele, orangga naadagam
on pleasure stage (theatre), one anga drama [anga=body]
A pun on one-act play?
inbanggal paadam, sollum en thaayagam,
pleasures lesson, saying/teaching my womankind [thaayagam=mother-type]
Compare paadam, Tamil with Paath, Hindi
ingganggu, oonjalaaga, naan pogiren,
here-there, like cradle, I am going,
Comparare oonjale, Tamil, Uyyale, Kannada and Jhuula, Hindi
angganggu, aasai theevil, naan vegiren
there-there, in aasai island, I am burning [aasai=want/need of heart]
un raaga moganam, en kaathal vaaganam
your raaga moganam, my love vehicle [raaga=same as in hindi; moganam=mohan
Mohanam is a raaga in Carnatic music
senthaamarai, senthaen mazhai, en aavi neeye devi.
red-lotus, red-honey rain, my soul you are(only) devi.
I love the sounds of this last line
(raja)
kalloora, paarkum paarvai, ulloora paayume
stone-melting, seeing, gaze, inside dives/flows [(your)
stone-melting-gaze, dives/flows inside (me)]
thullaamal, thullum ullam sallaabame
without-jumping jumps, heart sallaabame [s= i dont know]
villodu, ambu rendu, kollaamal kolluthe
with bow, arrows 2, without-killing kills,
Compare vill, Tamil with Billu, Kannada and Bill, American
penpaavai kangal endru poi solluthe
(and) "lady-bird's eyes I am": lies (as in tells a lie) so
munthaanai-moodum rani selvaakkile
pallu-covering rani, selvakkile [selvakkile=in power / in influence,
in richness]
en kaathal kangal pogum, pallaakkile
my love-eyes go, in pallaku [pallaku=palanquine/valley - 2 meanings]
thaenodai orame, neeraadum nerame
on the side of honey-cover, bathing time, [odai=cover/dress; while i
bathe on the side of h-c]
pullangguzhal thallaadume, ponmaeni kaelaai rani
flute thallaadume, golden-body, hear o! queen. [thalladume=will be
unstable drugged / unable to stay balanced]
Could guzhal have become Kolalu, Kannada?
Check out those last few lines!
2 comments
If you have a spare half an hour (or two), may I suggest you spend it in the most rewarding fashion by studying the below lyrics of the song linked in the previous post. The translations are by S.Karthick (fondly called SKu). The trenchant comments in bold, both linguistic and otherwise, are mine. Its amazing how different, languages are and yet how similar! You might want to keep the song playing in your earphones, on and off, for quick cross reference.
Coming up next on this blog: A brief write-up on the Chola kings. With special focus on the exploits of the great Raja Raja Chola who inspired this song and also my poem in the post but last.
Raja Raja Chozhan Naan
raja raja chozhan naan, enai aalum kaathal desam neethaan,
raja raja chozhan, I am, the love land ruling me is you (only),
I love the way 'Chozhan' is pronounced
poove! kaathal theeve.
flower! love island.
Compare Theev, Tamil with Dwipam, Sanskrit and Dwip, Hindi
man meethu, sorgam vanthu - pennaaga aanathe,
On land, heaven came - became woman,
ullaasa boomi, inggu undaanathe.
happy earth, here got created.
(raja)
kannodu, kangal yetrum, kartpoora theebame
on eyes, eyes light (verb), camphor deepam,
kai theendum pothu, paayum minsaarame
when hands touch/seek, flowing/flows current
ullaasa medai mele, orangga naadagam
on pleasure stage (theatre), one anga drama [anga=body]
A pun on one-act play?
inbanggal paadam, sollum en thaayagam,
pleasures lesson, saying/teaching my womankind [thaayagam=mother-type]
Compare paadam, Tamil with Paath, Hindi
ingganggu, oonjalaaga, naan pogiren,
here-there, like cradle, I am going,
Comparare oonjale, Tamil, Uyyale, Kannada and Jhuula, Hindi
angganggu, aasai theevil, naan vegiren
there-there, in aasai island, I am burning [aasai=want/need of heart]
un raaga moganam, en kaathal vaaganam
your raaga moganam, my love vehicle [raaga=same as in hindi; moganam=mohan
Mohanam is a raaga in Carnatic music
senthaamarai, senthaen mazhai, en aavi neeye devi.
red-lotus, red-honey rain, my soul you are(only) devi.
I love the sounds of this last line
(raja)
kalloora, paarkum paarvai, ulloora paayume
stone-melting, seeing, gaze, inside dives/flows [(your)
stone-melting-gaze, dives/flows inside (me)]
thullaamal, thullum ullam sallaabame
without-jumping jumps, heart sallaabame [s= i dont know]
villodu, ambu rendu, kollaamal kolluthe
with bow, arrows 2, without-killing kills,
Compare vill, Tamil with Billu, Kannada and Bill, American
penpaavai kangal endru poi solluthe
(and) "lady-bird's eyes I am": lies (as in tells a lie) so
munthaanai-moodum rani selvaakkile
pallu-covering rani, selvakkile [selvakkile=in power / in influence,
in richness]
en kaathal kangal pogum, pallaakkile
my love-eyes go, in pallaku [pallaku=palanquine/valley - 2 meanings]
thaenodai orame, neeraadum nerame
on the side of honey-cover, bathing time, [odai=cover/dress; while i
bathe on the side of h-c]
pullangguzhal thallaadume, ponmaeni kaelaai rani
flute thallaadume, golden-body, hear o! queen. [thalladume=will be
unstable drugged / unable to stay balanced]
Could guzhal have become Kolalu, Kannada?
Check out those last few lines!
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Raja Raja Cholan
Just had to share this wonderful song.
I know I am diluting the value of 'DO NOT MISS THIS' by saying it too often. But then, YOU JUST CAN'T MISS THIS!!!
I'll post the lyrics with meanings (courtesy a friend) shortly, not knowing the lyrics should not stop you from enjoying the wonderful melody, the alliterative poetry, the rhyme and rhythm, the sensuous picturization, great singing by Yesudas and ofcourse great music by Illayaraja. Check out the free falling accelaration of the antaras as they eagerly rush to meet the mukhdas - cloud bursts of water hurtling to the earth.
This song brings back a lot of memories. It was a great favourite among the Chennai college singing bands which used to come to the IIT campus to compete during our cultural festival. I can still picture those days of January sunshine, sitting in the grass/sand and gazing up on stage at bands as they belted out one Illayaraja song after another.
While the rest of the lyrics are as amazing the opening lines go like this:
Raja Raja Cholan naan,
Enai aalum kaadal desam needaan...
(Raja Raja Cholan is me only,
The loving, beloved land that rules me, is you only)
Enjoy!
0 comments
Just had to share this wonderful song.
I know I am diluting the value of 'DO NOT MISS THIS' by saying it too often. But then, YOU JUST CAN'T MISS THIS!!!
I'll post the lyrics with meanings (courtesy a friend) shortly, not knowing the lyrics should not stop you from enjoying the wonderful melody, the alliterative poetry, the rhyme and rhythm, the sensuous picturization, great singing by Yesudas and ofcourse great music by Illayaraja. Check out the free falling accelaration of the antaras as they eagerly rush to meet the mukhdas - cloud bursts of water hurtling to the earth.
This song brings back a lot of memories. It was a great favourite among the Chennai college singing bands which used to come to the IIT campus to compete during our cultural festival. I can still picture those days of January sunshine, sitting in the grass/sand and gazing up on stage at bands as they belted out one Illayaraja song after another.
While the rest of the lyrics are as amazing the opening lines go like this:
Raja Raja Cholan naan,
Enai aalum kaadal desam needaan...
(Raja Raja Cholan is me only,
The loving, beloved land that rules me, is you only)
Enjoy!
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Chak De India
If you swallow some swallowable cliches and a couple of funny but ham-handed, 'that's not cricket' kind of takes at cricket, Chak De India is a great movie. Great direction, slick production, amazing casting, good acting, no unnecessary romantic angles, songs or item numbers.
At last a game that India were once undisputed champions at, gets some big-screen publicity. There's quite a good chance the movie will get a lot of people interested in playing, watching and sponsoring hockey.
The movie also scores in giving some heart-warming messages on National Integration, India's diversity and Woman power.
The movie shows the Indian women's team under Shahrukh's coach-hood win the hockey world cup (This is no spoiler, you will know as much from the trailers). This was a slightly sore point because that's a feat that the actual Indian women's team have'nt achieved yet (google search). But they have won the commonwealth hockey gold once, so I guess a bit of exaggeration is ok.
Overall the best new Hindi movie since Omkara. A definite must-see.
2 comments
If you swallow some swallowable cliches and a couple of funny but ham-handed, 'that's not cricket' kind of takes at cricket, Chak De India is a great movie. Great direction, slick production, amazing casting, good acting, no unnecessary romantic angles, songs or item numbers.
At last a game that India were once undisputed champions at, gets some big-screen publicity. There's quite a good chance the movie will get a lot of people interested in playing, watching and sponsoring hockey.
The movie also scores in giving some heart-warming messages on National Integration, India's diversity and Woman power.
The movie shows the Indian women's team under Shahrukh's coach-hood win the hockey world cup (This is no spoiler, you will know as much from the trailers). This was a slightly sore point because that's a feat that the actual Indian women's team have'nt achieved yet (google search). But they have won the commonwealth hockey gold once, so I guess a bit of exaggeration is ok.
Overall the best new Hindi movie since Omkara. A definite must-see.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
A 'There is a God', 'Mind over matter' kind of thing happened yesterday. I was listening to Aap Ki Farmaish on Vividh Bharati. After the presenter had, with time and effort, listed the names of all the people who had requested the first song (....Pinky, Rinky, Richa, Ravi aur unka saara parivaar...), the song finally came up. Lata Mangeshkar and Mahendra Kapoor, the presenter said (hope stirred). Badaltey Rishtey, the presenter said (could it be?). And what song should be the first song of yesterday's Aap Ki Farmaish, but,
Meri Saanson Ko Jo Meheka rahi hai,
Ye Pehale Pyaar Ki Khusbhoo,
Teri Saanson Se Shaayad Aa Rahi Hai...
And "Howzzat?" said God.
1 comments
Meri Saanson Ko Jo Meheka rahi hai,
Ye Pehale Pyaar Ki Khusbhoo,
Teri Saanson Se Shaayad Aa Rahi Hai...
And "Howzzat?" said God.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Pehale Pyaar Ki Khushboo
Meri Saanson Ko Jo Mehaka Rahi Hai,
Ye Pehale Pyaar Ki Khusbhoo,
Teri Saanson Se Shaayad Aa Rahi Hai...
I have been hunting for this song at least five years now - Music stores and countless, varied and regular google searches. Finally a good samaritan has put it on the internet here . Do download and check it out. Besides the great lyrics and music, Lata Mangeshkar's voice is like a coffee shot (or maybe something stronger) coursing a thrill from head to foot. DO NOT MISS THIS.
(note esnips.com might ask you (if you are a first time user) for a quick registration and you might have to upload something. Upload anything - lyrics of some songs, anything)
The song is in Raag Puriya Dhaneshri, which I learnt from my music teacher is a 'senior' raag. So probably I am years away from learning it :-) But I am willing to wait. Just like I waited for the song.
In my lucky day for music searches, I found two more songs I have been looking for: Sehgal's 'Main kya janu kya jadu hai' and Rafi's 'Tumhari Zulf Ke saye mein shyaam kar loonga'. These songs are also to be found on esnips. A quick search on the site should throw them up.
0 comments
Meri Saanson Ko Jo Mehaka Rahi Hai,
Ye Pehale Pyaar Ki Khusbhoo,
Teri Saanson Se Shaayad Aa Rahi Hai...
I have been hunting for this song at least five years now - Music stores and countless, varied and regular google searches. Finally a good samaritan has put it on the internet here . Do download and check it out. Besides the great lyrics and music, Lata Mangeshkar's voice is like a coffee shot (or maybe something stronger) coursing a thrill from head to foot. DO NOT MISS THIS.
(note esnips.com might ask you (if you are a first time user) for a quick registration and you might have to upload something. Upload anything - lyrics of some songs, anything)
The song is in Raag Puriya Dhaneshri, which I learnt from my music teacher is a 'senior' raag. So probably I am years away from learning it :-) But I am willing to wait. Just like I waited for the song.
In my lucky day for music searches, I found two more songs I have been looking for: Sehgal's 'Main kya janu kya jadu hai' and Rafi's 'Tumhari Zulf Ke saye mein shyaam kar loonga'. These songs are also to be found on esnips. A quick search on the site should throw them up.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Excerpts
Here is a wonderful excerpt from a book I am reading. The Unpossessed by Tess Slesinger. A celebrated book according to the blurb. I had never heard of it. I bought it second hand sometime ago (the dust from it is probably giving me an allergy) because this is what the blurb says about the book: '... devastating portrait of that uniquely disinherited class, the self-deceiving and disillusioned intellectuals of the Thirties. The Unpossessed, cheated of their ideas and frustrated in their loves, strike tragic and comic poses. Vehement, acerbic and heart-breaking...'.
I found The Unpossessed difficult to read at first. Its a serious novel and not easy reading (don't go by the passage below, I have picked it for its sheer literary and romantic beauty) - the kind of book I usually avoid. But I am glad I have put in the effort - might help me read technical books with more patience.
Ok. Without further ado, here's a passage from The Unpossessed:
It was like trembling before God and finding God sweet and genial.
It was like a God damned honeymoon, Miles thought.
It took strength to face, to bear, such joy; it took room inside him to receive it. Some golden touch had fallen over everything; his breakfast coffee tasted like no coffee in the world; the sunshine filtering on their wall was a personal, bewildering gift, exclusive decoration for their home; and Margaret deftly sliding toast was a being that caught and held his eyes as though her slightest move were marvelous. She moved with a new vigor; a purpose as though there were some back-bone now to her soft balminess. And then - withdrawing her hands from the toaster and clasping them on the table, her eyes floated into space above his head, beyond his ken, with a curious and complacent languor. What is it, he thought of saying to her, what is it that makes everything one's lover does appear so apt, so perfect, so proper, so fortunate, in the other lover's eyes? Do you ever feel this way about me, he thought of saying to her. Is there anything else in the world that matters, he wanted to say. Can you keep us forever on this light-filled island, he almost cried. Aloud he said, with difficulty, "We'll both be late as hell, my dear. Look out, you'll burn the toast."
She started and smiled; moved her strong fingers about the toaster. "What do we care'" she said. her eyes were luminous above the percolator. "Mr. Pidgeon and Mr. Adolph Worthington - let them wait; let them whistle; let them write their own silly letters."
And let Bruno fall in love with manifestoes; let Jeffrey flirt with Magazines, with meetings, with the whole Left Wing; Miles - his fences down, his shell forgotten - was engaged in a passionate love affair with his wife. "I see by the morning papers," he dutifully began - and stopped; dropped the paper to the floor; took the coffee she held out to him; "hello Margaret," he said weakly; and felft himself smiling like a fool.
"Hello," she said back and smiled. They sipped from their cups and flirted over the rims. "I love mornings!" she cried and stretched her arms and grew like a tree across the table from him.
"And afternoons- don't you love afternoons," he said; "you balmy wench, don't leave out the afternoons, they'll be hurt - and you love evenings, don't you, and rainy days and sunny days and nights with moons and nights without moons..."
"I love everything," she said. "The whole blooming works." She had grown careless about her dress; it was shabby- he remembered it when it was new, fine wine-coloured wool, fiting closely to her shoulders. It was much more beautiful now, faintly worn, slightly darkened under the arms; the collar limp about her neck. It looked like her.
"I love that dress," he said.
"This old rag, " She laughed. "I love it too." her eyes floated again, that absent look shining brightly in their depths. "And no new ones this year, " she said in a ringing voice.
"Maggie, I forget: are you supposed to be a beautiful girl? I can't seem to tell any more. You've got such a great big light where your face used to be."
"Idiot, balmy idiot." she said.
****
(And it goes on beautifully some more. And later on in the book there is an equally amazing and complementary chapter: Margaret and Her Husband)
4 comments
Here is a wonderful excerpt from a book I am reading. The Unpossessed by Tess Slesinger. A celebrated book according to the blurb. I had never heard of it. I bought it second hand sometime ago (the dust from it is probably giving me an allergy) because this is what the blurb says about the book: '... devastating portrait of that uniquely disinherited class, the self-deceiving and disillusioned intellectuals of the Thirties. The Unpossessed, cheated of their ideas and frustrated in their loves, strike tragic and comic poses. Vehement, acerbic and heart-breaking...'.
I found The Unpossessed difficult to read at first. Its a serious novel and not easy reading (don't go by the passage below, I have picked it for its sheer literary and romantic beauty) - the kind of book I usually avoid. But I am glad I have put in the effort - might help me read technical books with more patience.
Ok. Without further ado, here's a passage from The Unpossessed:
Miles and His Wife
It was like bending to lift the customary stones and finding them lighter than air in the hands.
It was like peering down the difficult road and seeing it miraculously straighten before him; wide and smooth and simple.It was like trembling before God and finding God sweet and genial.
It was like a God damned honeymoon, Miles thought.
It took strength to face, to bear, such joy; it took room inside him to receive it. Some golden touch had fallen over everything; his breakfast coffee tasted like no coffee in the world; the sunshine filtering on their wall was a personal, bewildering gift, exclusive decoration for their home; and Margaret deftly sliding toast was a being that caught and held his eyes as though her slightest move were marvelous. She moved with a new vigor; a purpose as though there were some back-bone now to her soft balminess. And then - withdrawing her hands from the toaster and clasping them on the table, her eyes floated into space above his head, beyond his ken, with a curious and complacent languor. What is it, he thought of saying to her, what is it that makes everything one's lover does appear so apt, so perfect, so proper, so fortunate, in the other lover's eyes? Do you ever feel this way about me, he thought of saying to her. Is there anything else in the world that matters, he wanted to say. Can you keep us forever on this light-filled island, he almost cried. Aloud he said, with difficulty, "We'll both be late as hell, my dear. Look out, you'll burn the toast."
She started and smiled; moved her strong fingers about the toaster. "What do we care'" she said. her eyes were luminous above the percolator. "Mr. Pidgeon and Mr. Adolph Worthington - let them wait; let them whistle; let them write their own silly letters."
And let Bruno fall in love with manifestoes; let Jeffrey flirt with Magazines, with meetings, with the whole Left Wing; Miles - his fences down, his shell forgotten - was engaged in a passionate love affair with his wife. "I see by the morning papers," he dutifully began - and stopped; dropped the paper to the floor; took the coffee she held out to him; "hello Margaret," he said weakly; and felft himself smiling like a fool.
"Hello," she said back and smiled. They sipped from their cups and flirted over the rims. "I love mornings!" she cried and stretched her arms and grew like a tree across the table from him.
"And afternoons- don't you love afternoons," he said; "you balmy wench, don't leave out the afternoons, they'll be hurt - and you love evenings, don't you, and rainy days and sunny days and nights with moons and nights without moons..."
"I love everything," she said. "The whole blooming works." She had grown careless about her dress; it was shabby- he remembered it when it was new, fine wine-coloured wool, fiting closely to her shoulders. It was much more beautiful now, faintly worn, slightly darkened under the arms; the collar limp about her neck. It looked like her.
"I love that dress," he said.
"This old rag, " She laughed. "I love it too." her eyes floated again, that absent look shining brightly in their depths. "And no new ones this year, " she said in a ringing voice.
"Maggie, I forget: are you supposed to be a beautiful girl? I can't seem to tell any more. You've got such a great big light where your face used to be."
"Idiot, balmy idiot." she said.
****
(And it goes on beautifully some more. And later on in the book there is an equally amazing and complementary chapter: Margaret and Her Husband)
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Those good old days
The other day, some train of thought or other led me to think of my school days. When every day, every test, every exam, just about everything was a cakewalk (except maybe Physics lab where one could never get the readings right). All I had to do was enjoy myself, study a bit, play a lot and still top the class. While the others worked hard, agonized and went to dreadful tuitions. I think those days I did'nt realize how lucky I was to be in the middle of an education system where nerds like me have it easy! I was feeling so thankful for those wonder years that day - more so because it's not obvious to me what I had done to have such a good time.
The concept of Karma is needed to explain such good fortune.
College onwards it was and has been real life, so to speak. And does it suck! Tough competition all around. The raised bars. Suddenly things being not so much of a cakewalk anymore.
And of course many of those I used to leave behind in studies in school are more successful than me today. Socially, Emotionally, Financially.... I am not complaining against them. But look how screwed up our education system is. That nerds get to feel like Kings for twelve whole years.
But perhaps things have changed today. Afterall its been quite some time since I went to school.
Wonder why I am ranting like this. Perhaps I just miss blogging.
0 comments
The other day, some train of thought or other led me to think of my school days. When every day, every test, every exam, just about everything was a cakewalk (except maybe Physics lab where one could never get the readings right). All I had to do was enjoy myself, study a bit, play a lot and still top the class. While the others worked hard, agonized and went to dreadful tuitions. I think those days I did'nt realize how lucky I was to be in the middle of an education system where nerds like me have it easy! I was feeling so thankful for those wonder years that day - more so because it's not obvious to me what I had done to have such a good time.
The concept of Karma is needed to explain such good fortune.
College onwards it was and has been real life, so to speak. And does it suck! Tough competition all around. The raised bars. Suddenly things being not so much of a cakewalk anymore.
And of course many of those I used to leave behind in studies in school are more successful than me today. Socially, Emotionally, Financially.... I am not complaining against them. But look how screwed up our education system is. That nerds get to feel like Kings for twelve whole years.
But perhaps things have changed today. Afterall its been quite some time since I went to school.
Wonder why I am ranting like this. Perhaps I just miss blogging.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
While I am quoting...
- the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--
- Macbeth
********
Madhosh hamesha rahata hoon,
Khamosh hoon kab kuch kahata hoon,
Koi kya jaane, seene mein mere,
Hai bijli ka bhi angaara...
Itna na mujh se tu pyaar badha,
Ke main ek baadal aawaara....
-Rajinder Krishan, Talat Mahmood, Salil Chowdhury
********
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?
- Hamlet
2 comments
- the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast,--
- Macbeth
********
Madhosh hamesha rahata hoon,
Khamosh hoon kab kuch kahata hoon,
Koi kya jaane, seene mein mere,
Hai bijli ka bhi angaara...
Itna na mujh se tu pyaar badha,
Ke main ek baadal aawaara....
-Rajinder Krishan, Talat Mahmood, Salil Chowdhury
********
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?
- Hamlet
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Here's something to keep this blog alive:
Is mehfil-e-kaif-o-masti mein, is anjuman-e-irfani mein,
Sab jaam-ba-kaf baithe hi rahe, ham pii bhi gaye, chalka bhi gaye.
- Majaz Lucknowi
kaif=joy; anjuman=gathering; irfan=knowledge, wisdom;
jaam-ba-kaf=holding the wine-glass in the hand
(At this happy party, at this joyful, eminent gathering,
While the others merely held their glasses, I drank a lot, and I spilled some too...)
Though I have'nt ever had occasion to feel quite like the poet feels above, I like the sher very much. I almost smirk with vicarious smugness whenever I think of it. Quite a wit, what?
0 comments
Is mehfil-e-kaif-o-masti mein, is anjuman-e-irfani mein,
Sab jaam-ba-kaf baithe hi rahe, ham pii bhi gaye, chalka bhi gaye.
- Majaz Lucknowi
kaif=joy; anjuman=gathering; irfan=knowledge, wisdom;
jaam-ba-kaf=holding the wine-glass in the hand
(At this happy party, at this joyful, eminent gathering,
While the others merely held their glasses, I drank a lot, and I spilled some too...)
Though I have'nt ever had occasion to feel quite like the poet feels above, I like the sher very much. I almost smirk with vicarious smugness whenever I think of it. Quite a wit, what?
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Renaissance man
(Must be careful never to misspell the word. Also 'connoisseur'. And 'subtle'. Can't think of anything funnier than a person who tries to use 'fancy' words and misspells them.)
I feel sorry for people who never fritter away their time (and to some extent money). I fritter away entire days sometimes. But I have yet to learn to do it without guilt. That will come with practice, I guess.
First of May. Holiday. I had promised myself that I would get a lot of work done that day. That had been the excuse for putting off some of the previous day's work.
The day began slowly with the maid not arriving at her right time and then not arriving at all. I guess she deserved the holiday more than I did. While I waited, I read Garcia Marquez's 'Love in the time of cholera' ('Elamur en los tiempos del colera' - how musical!). As I kept reading, and it became 8.30, and the maid had still not turned up, I had some sort of a premonition that I would be doing no work that day.
It was 9.00, still no maid. It was time to go for breakfast. But before that I must do what I usually do after the maid has come and gone. Practise some singing. I lost myself in the komal swaras of Raag Jaunpuri - the komal gandhar, the komal daivat and the komal nishadh. The komal swaras have quite a distinct personality compared to the shuddh and teevr swaras. I am yet to figure out why. You might think that the reason was obvious. But how is it that the komal ga sounds komal-er than than the shuddh Re, even though the shuddh Re has the lower frequency?
Anyway. Owing to not being able to sing the swaras just right, and also due to the fact that I did not yet want to start my day, I practised till 10.00. Then I went for breakfast. If I delayed further I would not be able to enjoy my lunch. Uttam Saagar was crowded as usual and I indulged myself and went to the service section. Singing gives you quite an appetite and I relished every morsel of the Masala Dosa.
By time I returned around 10.45, I was thinking - how good life is. I could identify with one of Wodehouse's characters who felt the milk of human kindness sloshing against his back teeth. Except in my case it was not the milk of human kindness. More like the thrill of human achievement. The sheer joy of being part of that superb species, Homo sapiens sapiens. That perfectly aged wine!
I don't think I had seriously thought before that Man was superiour to Nature. But he is. Perhaps in creating sheer physical beauty, Nature has the advantage - having played around with proabilistic colours over millions of years. But consider thought and ideas and poetry and literature. And the sheer genius of the invention of music (the komal swaras) and cooking and language. Man has left nature far behind in these areas. What a lot man has achieved in so relatively little time.
I returned to the Marquez. A book quite different from 'One Hundred Years...' (I had expected, somehow, more of the same thing, and so was pleasantly surprised) yet similarly full of joy. Comics and funny books are prescribed for mood elevation. They should try prescribing poetry too. Even sad poetry would do I think.
At 12.00 or so I called up Prasenjit and asked him if he was going to keep his promise and cook mutton. But he said no, but I still invited myself over to his house for beer. And took the Marquez along, only later realizing that there was a copy in Prasenjit's house too. It was quite hot outside. All the better for the beer.
I drank the beer faster than usual. The beer and the Marquez made a heady combination. The word 'love' appears hundreds of times in the books without once sounding repetitive. A definite must read.
For lunch we went to the Hyderabadi Biryani House. First tandoori chicken and then spicy mutton biryani. Followed by fresh mango juice.
I am often happy, but I admit it rarely. Cribbing is my style. But that afternoon, after a great morning, when we were about to drive to M.G.Road in the sun, I could not help saying out aloud, 'I feel so great today'.
1 comments
(Must be careful never to misspell the word. Also 'connoisseur'. And 'subtle'. Can't think of anything funnier than a person who tries to use 'fancy' words and misspells them.)
I feel sorry for people who never fritter away their time (and to some extent money). I fritter away entire days sometimes. But I have yet to learn to do it without guilt. That will come with practice, I guess.
First of May. Holiday. I had promised myself that I would get a lot of work done that day. That had been the excuse for putting off some of the previous day's work.
The day began slowly with the maid not arriving at her right time and then not arriving at all. I guess she deserved the holiday more than I did. While I waited, I read Garcia Marquez's 'Love in the time of cholera' ('Elamur en los tiempos del colera' - how musical!). As I kept reading, and it became 8.30, and the maid had still not turned up, I had some sort of a premonition that I would be doing no work that day.
It was 9.00, still no maid. It was time to go for breakfast. But before that I must do what I usually do after the maid has come and gone. Practise some singing. I lost myself in the komal swaras of Raag Jaunpuri - the komal gandhar, the komal daivat and the komal nishadh. The komal swaras have quite a distinct personality compared to the shuddh and teevr swaras. I am yet to figure out why. You might think that the reason was obvious. But how is it that the komal ga sounds komal-er than than the shuddh Re, even though the shuddh Re has the lower frequency?
Anyway. Owing to not being able to sing the swaras just right, and also due to the fact that I did not yet want to start my day, I practised till 10.00. Then I went for breakfast. If I delayed further I would not be able to enjoy my lunch. Uttam Saagar was crowded as usual and I indulged myself and went to the service section. Singing gives you quite an appetite and I relished every morsel of the Masala Dosa.
By time I returned around 10.45, I was thinking - how good life is. I could identify with one of Wodehouse's characters who felt the milk of human kindness sloshing against his back teeth. Except in my case it was not the milk of human kindness. More like the thrill of human achievement. The sheer joy of being part of that superb species, Homo sapiens sapiens. That perfectly aged wine!
I don't think I had seriously thought before that Man was superiour to Nature. But he is. Perhaps in creating sheer physical beauty, Nature has the advantage - having played around with proabilistic colours over millions of years. But consider thought and ideas and poetry and literature. And the sheer genius of the invention of music (the komal swaras) and cooking and language. Man has left nature far behind in these areas. What a lot man has achieved in so relatively little time.
I returned to the Marquez. A book quite different from 'One Hundred Years...' (I had expected, somehow, more of the same thing, and so was pleasantly surprised) yet similarly full of joy. Comics and funny books are prescribed for mood elevation. They should try prescribing poetry too. Even sad poetry would do I think.
At 12.00 or so I called up Prasenjit and asked him if he was going to keep his promise and cook mutton. But he said no, but I still invited myself over to his house for beer. And took the Marquez along, only later realizing that there was a copy in Prasenjit's house too. It was quite hot outside. All the better for the beer.
I drank the beer faster than usual. The beer and the Marquez made a heady combination. The word 'love' appears hundreds of times in the books without once sounding repetitive. A definite must read.
For lunch we went to the Hyderabadi Biryani House. First tandoori chicken and then spicy mutton biryani. Followed by fresh mango juice.
I am often happy, but I admit it rarely. Cribbing is my style. But that afternoon, after a great morning, when we were about to drive to M.G.Road in the sun, I could not help saying out aloud, 'I feel so great today'.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Murder most foul
I had once read Richard Gordon describe detective stories as tales of ' chaps killing other chaps by highly complicated means.'
I used to be a big fan of mystery books once. I used to love Agatha Christie. Hercule Poirot with his 'mademoiselle's and 'mon ami's and 'eh bien's. In the blurb of some book I had read that 'The murder of Roger Ackroyd' and 'The Mousetrap' were her La Christie's most famous book and play respectively. And then I had had no peace till I tracked these masterpieces and read them and found them disappointing. Then I had once laughed my insides out at Georgette Heyer's 'Envious Casca'. It was a mystery book and I had guessed the ending but the sharp tongues of all the characters made the book a worth read. Impressed with Heyer I bought several more of her books. Looks like Envious Casca was her best work. The others were not only not funny, they had the same dreary plots - for eg some disguised cousin from Australia who bumps of a lot of people because she's next in line for the legacy.
I am through with detective books. Give me another English party replete with Great grandmothers, granduncles, cousins, wives, business partners, butlers, parlor maids, housemaids, gardners and cooks, with a couple of murders thrown in and I think I'll puke. (What the English aristocracy did to deserve a living, I'd like to know!)
What shocks me is how dispensable human life seems to be in the hands of these authors. They kill people as if it were nobody's business. Do real life murders happen with a fuse planted to go off at a certain time so that it sounds like a gun shot and gives the actual murderer an alibi since he used a silencer? And the author's laborious efforts to create false clues. Phoo. Don't get me started on that. Pathetic half hearted attempts!
And the total unconcern with which all the characters seem to treat the murder, as if it were an ordinary death, not the result of the workings of a crazed, demented mind, having toast and marmalade in their midst! And the dead man/woman is forgotten the next day. No wailing, no tears, no nothing. Don't Englishmen know how to mourn!
Murder in cold blood is not impossible, though quite rare going by newspaper reports, but I think it is impossible in a situation where the murderer knows that he is definitely going to be one of the suspects interviewed by the detective inspector in the blue room. Cold blooded murderers would be more likely to commit the murder on some deserted highway and catch the next plane out of the country.
Really, I should think a murder story would require a lot of emotional investment on the part of the author. If they are unwilling to put the effort they would be better off writing about the theft of the maharaja's precious diamond or something. But then again, if it is not murder it is not 'serious' enough a crime. What an irony. I remember while browsing in second hand stores, not able to judge from the cover what the book was about, I used to scan the pages looking hopefully for the word 'murder'.
3 comments
I had once read Richard Gordon describe detective stories as tales of ' chaps killing other chaps by highly complicated means.'
I used to be a big fan of mystery books once. I used to love Agatha Christie. Hercule Poirot with his 'mademoiselle's and 'mon ami's and 'eh bien's. In the blurb of some book I had read that 'The murder of Roger Ackroyd' and 'The Mousetrap' were her La Christie's most famous book and play respectively. And then I had had no peace till I tracked these masterpieces and read them and found them disappointing. Then I had once laughed my insides out at Georgette Heyer's 'Envious Casca'. It was a mystery book and I had guessed the ending but the sharp tongues of all the characters made the book a worth read. Impressed with Heyer I bought several more of her books. Looks like Envious Casca was her best work. The others were not only not funny, they had the same dreary plots - for eg some disguised cousin from Australia who bumps of a lot of people because she's next in line for the legacy.
I am through with detective books. Give me another English party replete with Great grandmothers, granduncles, cousins, wives, business partners, butlers, parlor maids, housemaids, gardners and cooks, with a couple of murders thrown in and I think I'll puke. (What the English aristocracy did to deserve a living, I'd like to know!)
What shocks me is how dispensable human life seems to be in the hands of these authors. They kill people as if it were nobody's business. Do real life murders happen with a fuse planted to go off at a certain time so that it sounds like a gun shot and gives the actual murderer an alibi since he used a silencer? And the author's laborious efforts to create false clues. Phoo. Don't get me started on that. Pathetic half hearted attempts!
And the total unconcern with which all the characters seem to treat the murder, as if it were an ordinary death, not the result of the workings of a crazed, demented mind, having toast and marmalade in their midst! And the dead man/woman is forgotten the next day. No wailing, no tears, no nothing. Don't Englishmen know how to mourn!
Murder in cold blood is not impossible, though quite rare going by newspaper reports, but I think it is impossible in a situation where the murderer knows that he is definitely going to be one of the suspects interviewed by the detective inspector in the blue room. Cold blooded murderers would be more likely to commit the murder on some deserted highway and catch the next plane out of the country.
Really, I should think a murder story would require a lot of emotional investment on the part of the author. If they are unwilling to put the effort they would be better off writing about the theft of the maharaja's precious diamond or something. But then again, if it is not murder it is not 'serious' enough a crime. What an irony. I remember while browsing in second hand stores, not able to judge from the cover what the book was about, I used to scan the pages looking hopefully for the word 'murder'.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
My Bachelorhood, on it's last legs
Now that my bachelorhood is on it's last legs, for it is, my whole bachelor life keeps flashing before my eyes every once in a while. The late parties, the solitary evenings listening to a good book with some neat Whisky providing the occasional counterpoint, the appreciative looking at all womanhood, with mischievous, uncertain hope, the independance of doing what I wanted when I wanted (well, almost)...there are such days left, but not many. So long poetry, come soaps!
3 comments
Now that my bachelorhood is on it's last legs, for it is, my whole bachelor life keeps flashing before my eyes every once in a while. The late parties, the solitary evenings listening to a good book with some neat Whisky providing the occasional counterpoint, the appreciative looking at all womanhood, with mischievous, uncertain hope, the independance of doing what I wanted when I wanted (well, almost)...there are such days left, but not many. So long poetry, come soaps!
Monday, April 23, 2007
Viva la Orient
Did you know? H. H. Munro, the renowned author of such delightful stories as Tobermory and Mrs. Packeltide's Tiger, adopted the pen-name (pseudonym is such a pseudo word) Saki, from the Persian/Urdu word for wine-pourer, bar-man, inspired from the last verse of Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat?
(Before he adopted this pen-name, Munro wrote his only serious work, 'The rise of the Russian Empire.')
Though I write this in English, Orient Zindabad!
On a less chauvinistic, but related, note,
How greatly would mankind benefit,
If those two He-men,Bush and Ahmedinejad,
Dunces in their own right,
Gave up their respective 'right ways',
And took to common wine instead...
2 comments
Did you know? H. H. Munro, the renowned author of such delightful stories as Tobermory and Mrs. Packeltide's Tiger, adopted the pen-name (pseudonym is such a pseudo word) Saki, from the Persian/Urdu word for wine-pourer, bar-man, inspired from the last verse of Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat?
(Before he adopted this pen-name, Munro wrote his only serious work, 'The rise of the Russian Empire.')
Though I write this in English, Orient Zindabad!
On a less chauvinistic, but related, note,
How greatly would mankind benefit,
If those two He-men,Bush and Ahmedinejad,
Dunces in their own right,
Gave up their respective 'right ways',
And took to common wine instead...
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Bad publicity for Blogextra.com
Have finally moved to Blogger comments. Blogextra.com comments gave me a lot of trouble. Here today, gone tomorrow. Now you see them, now you don't. Etc. Don't ever use commenting from blogextra.com.
0 comments
Have finally moved to Blogger comments. Blogextra.com comments gave me a lot of trouble. Here today, gone tomorrow. Now you see them, now you don't. Etc. Don't ever use commenting from blogextra.com.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Hum ne sanam ko khat likha ...
Found this song in an 80's collection - I had heard it before, but only in snatches, and not carefully. Reminded me of the once I had written to an uncertain address. Enjoy!
Lyricist: Anand Bakshi
( Hame bas ye pata hai woh, bahut hi khoobsoorat hai,
Lifafe ke liye lekin, pate ki bhi zaroorat hai...)
Ham ne sanam ko khat likha,
Khat mein likha...
Ae Dilruba,
Dil-ki-gali,
Shehr-e-wafa.
Pahunche ye khat jaane kahan,
Jaane bane kya daastaan (2)
Us par rakibon ka yeh dar,
Lag jaaye unke haath gar.
Kitna bura anjaam ho,
Dil muft mein badnaam ho.
Aisa na ho, aisa na ho!
Apne khuda se, raat din,
Maanga kiye ham ye dua.
Peepal ka ye patta nahin,
Kaagaz ka ye tukda nahin (2)
Is dil ka yeh armaan hai,
Is mein hamaari jaan hai.
Aisa gazab ho jaaye na,
Raste mein ye kho jaaye na.
Hum ne badi taakeer ki,
Dala ise jab daak mein,
Yeh daak baabu se kaha.
****
Barson jawaab-e-yaar ka,
Dekha kiye ham raasata (2)
Ik din woh khat waapas mila,
Aur daakiye ne ye kaha:
Is daak khane mein nahin,
Saare zamaane mein nahin,
Koi sanam is naam ka,
Koi gali is naam ki,
Koi shehar is naam ka.
0 comments
Found this song in an 80's collection - I had heard it before, but only in snatches, and not carefully. Reminded me of the once I had written to an uncertain address. Enjoy!
Lyricist: Anand Bakshi
( Hame bas ye pata hai woh, bahut hi khoobsoorat hai,
Lifafe ke liye lekin, pate ki bhi zaroorat hai...)
Ham ne sanam ko khat likha,
Khat mein likha...
Ae Dilruba,
Dil-ki-gali,
Shehr-e-wafa.
Pahunche ye khat jaane kahan,
Jaane bane kya daastaan (2)
Us par rakibon ka yeh dar,
Lag jaaye unke haath gar.
Kitna bura anjaam ho,
Dil muft mein badnaam ho.
Aisa na ho, aisa na ho!
Apne khuda se, raat din,
Maanga kiye ham ye dua.
Peepal ka ye patta nahin,
Kaagaz ka ye tukda nahin (2)
Is dil ka yeh armaan hai,
Is mein hamaari jaan hai.
Aisa gazab ho jaaye na,
Raste mein ye kho jaaye na.
Hum ne badi taakeer ki,
Dala ise jab daak mein,
Yeh daak baabu se kaha.
****
Barson jawaab-e-yaar ka,
Dekha kiye ham raasata (2)
Ik din woh khat waapas mila,
Aur daakiye ne ye kaha:
Is daak khane mein nahin,
Saare zamaane mein nahin,
Koi sanam is naam ka,
Koi gali is naam ki,
Koi shehar is naam ka.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Comment please
How is it that I get no comments for the posts I most want comments for? For eg, someone say something about how well you liked 'Spring' or... I'll have to think up another poem again this week ;-) Pardon the extortion.
By the way, these days I am paranoid about whether all the stuff I write are my own original thought, or ideas borrowed from what I read. For example in 'The Play' I was wondering if the North Indian bridegroom's analogy was really what I thought up. In 'Spring', ofcourse, 'Young man's fancy turns lightly to thoughts of love' has been intentionally copied from Tennyson.
Anyway, while I accept responsibility for the bad stuff, I request the readers' indulgence if they find that any of the good stuff reminds them of something they have read before.
0 comments
How is it that I get no comments for the posts I most want comments for? For eg, someone say something about how well you liked 'Spring' or... I'll have to think up another poem again this week ;-) Pardon the extortion.
By the way, these days I am paranoid about whether all the stuff I write are my own original thought, or ideas borrowed from what I read. For example in 'The Play' I was wondering if the North Indian bridegroom's analogy was really what I thought up. In 'Spring', ofcourse, 'Young man's fancy turns lightly to thoughts of love' has been intentionally copied from Tennyson.
Anyway, while I accept responsibility for the bad stuff, I request the readers' indulgence if they find that any of the good stuff reminds them of something they have read before.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
If I were a ...
In my four years of engineering, not a single lecture so filled me with wonder, so fired my imagination, as to make me rush to the library after class. On the other hand, whenever I watch 'Shakespeare in Love' I feel like re-reading Romeo and Juliet and Twelfth Night.
As they say, stupid education system.
0 comments
In my four years of engineering, not a single lecture so filled me with wonder, so fired my imagination, as to make me rush to the library after class. On the other hand, whenever I watch 'Shakespeare in Love' I feel like re-reading Romeo and Juliet and Twelfth Night.
As they say, stupid education system.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Describe a breakfast scene in your own words...
Part I
She sat at the edge of the seat, erect. Young, dark, er, well stacked. With the chin thrust up, determined. Sacred ash on her forehead. A dark green sari, a darker green blouse. A round face. Full lips. Large, wide eyes. A mole on her left cheek. The long hair left loose in the mallu style with a couple of strands from the left and right tied in a knot at the back.
With the vada in her hand she looked like Kannagi (as I remember her from the DD serial, Upasana) about to break her anklet and show it full of rubies, not pearls.
(Except ofcourse that she was not livid and that an inconsequential Kovalan was still by her side.)
0 comments
Part I
She sat at the edge of the seat, erect. Young, dark, er, well stacked. With the chin thrust up, determined. Sacred ash on her forehead. A dark green sari, a darker green blouse. A round face. Full lips. Large, wide eyes. A mole on her left cheek. The long hair left loose in the mallu style with a couple of strands from the left and right tied in a knot at the back.
With the vada in her hand she looked like Kannagi (as I remember her from the DD serial, Upasana) about to break her anklet and show it full of rubies, not pearls.
(Except ofcourse that she was not livid and that an inconsequential Kovalan was still by her side.)
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Thought I would add a bit of colour (and substance) to my blog by posting this painting by Picasso. Stunning, is'nt it?
I am finally beginning to 'get' Picasso, if I may say so without sounding like the astute connoisseur. He's versatile, adventurous and full of surprises. Checkout more here .
Saturday, March 17, 2007
An Evening To Remember
I often think of the wonderful times I have had, drunk. At some point I was even considering chronicling all these wonderful times in this blog. But then I realized that there were too many wonderful times to chronicle, since it has been a good three years or so since I started drinking, and every time has left behind its own fond memories, is specially special for some reason or the other, except for that once when I was too drunk to notice all the fish disappear down one co-party-er's oesophagus, too drunk to hold the drink in, the only time I have ever puked after drinking...
In any case, here's a memoir from one of those wonderful evenings.
It was the world cup of football, 2006. I was supporting Brazil. Spoiling my eyes watching the late matches on my computer with the help of a TV tuner card. Laughing my head off at 'Duniya Gol Hai' (I loved that show, though everyone else I know found it silly).
As the semi-finals approached, a friend of mine got gifted free passes to an HSBC evening of 'drinks, cocktails, Kababs and football'. I remember having replied to my friend's 'Who wants to go?' mail in seconds.
It was an invitation to watch the Portugal-England semi-final. Though it would have been better if it were for the Brazil-France one. But Brazil-France was the later match, too late in the night.
My friend, I, another friend and his wife landed up. Invitees had been encouraged to wear the colours of the team. My friend was wearing Portuguese maroon. I had gone looking for found a Brazil jersey - consumeristic I know, but Brazil are going to be around next world cup too, and the next and the next!
Fosters is a wonderful beer even when you have to pay for it. When it is free, and when there is a chap who is opening bottle after bottle at your asking, it becomes the best beer in the world. Imagine for a few hours, the world pays for your existence. It's even better than being King-emperor.
An enthusiastic, optimistic, compere was trying to distract us from the beer, the seek kababs and the pre-match analysis by doing arbit things like separating, geographically, the Portuguese fans from the England fans. We did his bidding, joined the Portugal camp, and drowned the rest of his prattlings in more beer.
I may be speaking lightly, even condescendingly, of our master of ceremonies, but really, I have the greatest respect for him. He did some interesting things, like conduct a quiz on football. And to hold your own, to speak even, when the audience wants you to stand somewhere where you don't block the TV, speaks of extreme will-power and self confidence. I would have chickened out at the mere thought.
Getting drunk on beer is nice. Getting drunk on whiskey makes you sober, philosophical, creative and in the mood for blogging. Getting drunk on beer, especially good, free beer, makes you extremely cheerful, jovial, reckless and good naturedly rebellious.
So when the compere encouraged people to shout 'Portugal! Portual!' or 'England! England!' (imagine!), I, out of contempt for him and for the tame contest on-going, cheered 'babe-max! babe-max!' in honour of a pretty Indian girl sitting with an undeserving Firang close by.
It was a tame contest, as I said, and got the finish it deserved. A penalty shootout! At least Portugal won.
On our way out, another drunk, Brazil supporter, generally came, yelled 'Brazil!' or something like that and hugged me!
What degenerate debauchery you might think of the above account. Obviously, my friend, you have'nt had a sip yet.
0 comments
I often think of the wonderful times I have had, drunk. At some point I was even considering chronicling all these wonderful times in this blog. But then I realized that there were too many wonderful times to chronicle, since it has been a good three years or so since I started drinking, and every time has left behind its own fond memories, is specially special for some reason or the other, except for that once when I was too drunk to notice all the fish disappear down one co-party-er's oesophagus, too drunk to hold the drink in, the only time I have ever puked after drinking...
In any case, here's a memoir from one of those wonderful evenings.
It was the world cup of football, 2006. I was supporting Brazil. Spoiling my eyes watching the late matches on my computer with the help of a TV tuner card. Laughing my head off at 'Duniya Gol Hai' (I loved that show, though everyone else I know found it silly).
As the semi-finals approached, a friend of mine got gifted free passes to an HSBC evening of 'drinks, cocktails, Kababs and football'. I remember having replied to my friend's 'Who wants to go?' mail in seconds.
It was an invitation to watch the Portugal-England semi-final. Though it would have been better if it were for the Brazil-France one. But Brazil-France was the later match, too late in the night.
My friend, I, another friend and his wife landed up. Invitees had been encouraged to wear the colours of the team. My friend was wearing Portuguese maroon. I had gone looking for found a Brazil jersey - consumeristic I know, but Brazil are going to be around next world cup too, and the next and the next!
Fosters is a wonderful beer even when you have to pay for it. When it is free, and when there is a chap who is opening bottle after bottle at your asking, it becomes the best beer in the world. Imagine for a few hours, the world pays for your existence. It's even better than being King-emperor.
An enthusiastic, optimistic, compere was trying to distract us from the beer, the seek kababs and the pre-match analysis by doing arbit things like separating, geographically, the Portuguese fans from the England fans. We did his bidding, joined the Portugal camp, and drowned the rest of his prattlings in more beer.
I may be speaking lightly, even condescendingly, of our master of ceremonies, but really, I have the greatest respect for him. He did some interesting things, like conduct a quiz on football. And to hold your own, to speak even, when the audience wants you to stand somewhere where you don't block the TV, speaks of extreme will-power and self confidence. I would have chickened out at the mere thought.
Getting drunk on beer is nice. Getting drunk on whiskey makes you sober, philosophical, creative and in the mood for blogging. Getting drunk on beer, especially good, free beer, makes you extremely cheerful, jovial, reckless and good naturedly rebellious.
So when the compere encouraged people to shout 'Portugal! Portual!' or 'England! England!' (imagine!), I, out of contempt for him and for the tame contest on-going, cheered 'babe-max! babe-max!' in honour of a pretty Indian girl sitting with an undeserving Firang close by.
It was a tame contest, as I said, and got the finish it deserved. A penalty shootout! At least Portugal won.
On our way out, another drunk, Brazil supporter, generally came, yelled 'Brazil!' or something like that and hugged me!
What degenerate debauchery you might think of the above account. Obviously, my friend, you have'nt had a sip yet.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Forrest Gump
Today morning as I approached the bus-stop from a distance I saw the bus arriving. I ran, tentatively at first, since I have been nursing an injured knee, and then, in desperation, full speed. The joy of running! Especially at your max speed, when your body can't but settle into that perfect rhythm. I missed the bus by about ten seconds, but I felt like Forrest Gump as he broke his braces.
I was thinking about that when I remembered a scene from The Godfather III (the spoof). The would-be Don Corleone is a little kid with leg-braces, selling flowers. He gets into trouble with some goons and has to run for his life. Guess what his little girl-friend says to him in encouragement. 'Run, florist, run!'.
0 comments
Today morning as I approached the bus-stop from a distance I saw the bus arriving. I ran, tentatively at first, since I have been nursing an injured knee, and then, in desperation, full speed. The joy of running! Especially at your max speed, when your body can't but settle into that perfect rhythm. I missed the bus by about ten seconds, but I felt like Forrest Gump as he broke his braces.
I was thinking about that when I remembered a scene from The Godfather III (the spoof). The would-be Don Corleone is a little kid with leg-braces, selling flowers. He gets into trouble with some goons and has to run for his life. Guess what his little girl-friend says to him in encouragement. 'Run, florist, run!'.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
The Play
The first thing that came to my mind, when I had finished speaking over the phone, was that I aught to plan better. Stop thinking all the time that God was on my side looking out for me. I aught to think ahead, I aught to plan. Not take life as it came and not let chance decide what and who and with who I was when I was 40, 60 or 90. Otherwise, "Tera kuch nahin hoga, Kalia!"
If not all these thoughts, at least a deep disappointment with myself, that I had not forseen the likelihood of such an event happening, filled me. "All tickets for today sold out. Only a few remaining for tomorrow, won't last more than an hour. And we don't have an afternoon show tomorrow".
I had been looking forward, all week, to this new play from Girish Karnad, "Flowers". Last time I had tried watching it, my car had broken down on the way. God knows when the play might come to Bangalore again. But then, it was pointless travelling 20 kms or so only to be told that the tickests for tomorrow were sold out too. Afterall, it was just another play. A monologue at that. Not my kind of play at all. Why should I bother.
After wasting more than fifteen minutes dallying, I decided I would go afterall. There could be someone looking to sell their extra ticket. Or atleast I could get a ticket for tomorrow. Or atleast it would be fun to drive this wonderful spring evening.
So I drove. The spring evening was quite warm, and the pollution made me close the windows. My feet began to sweat (rubber sandals, bad investment). I had to take off my sandals and direct the fan outlets of the car to my feet.
The traffic was better than weekdays, but worse than on Sundays, and cyclists and scooterists kept cutting me. I honked, uncharacteristically, but not vehemently. I had given up all hope, actually. A Girish Karnad play in Blore. No chance! I had reconciled myself to having a tea and buying a Wodehouse at the bookstore at Rangashankara. But still I was optimistic. Only the week before last was I selling an extra ticket myself. There are often too many people who want to sell extra single tickets than there are takers, I told myself. A result of relatively cheap tickets at Ranga Shankara.
I seemed to be getting stuck in traffic at the non-usual places. Which irritated me. Afterall, had I not squeezed past all the orange signals. Then why all this first-gearing? But still I was calm, practising some new-learned raag, wondering if the komal gandhar was ok (I am showing off here), for ultimately I did not expect much from this evening. Stoicism is a wonderful thing.
The traffic inched forward and presently I could see more and more pretty girls on the sidewalk, which means I was in Jaynagar and close to Rangashankara. But I kept my eyes on the road. And my feet on the accelerator - well atleast as far as the traffic allowed me to.
The first thing I did was to buy a ticket for Sunday. Today's tickets were indeed sold out, but they still had wads of tickets for tomorrow. And it had been more than 1.5 hrs since I had made that call. These guys are shrewd liars.
The second thing I did was to get myself a tea. Then I settled myself near the ticket counter and waited for my quarry. The tiger in the forest. A picture of alert nonchalance. I wanted to watch the play today if I could. I didnt want to travel 20 kms again tomorrow, if I could help it.
I was looking for people who would be rushing to the counter, tickets in hand, anxious about not wasting the hundred bucks. But all I found were people rushing to the counter empty handed, or with money in their hands, getting disappointed and returning with tickets for tomorrow.
But I drank my tea in peace. I'll watch the play tomorrow, I thought. A backup option is a wonderful thing.
There were a couple of girls looking for tickets too. They spoke bong. One of them was displaying the classical courtship gesture-clusters described in the body language book which I had been reading at friend's house. But I had excuse for inaction. More than one ticket would be impossible to secure.
I don't know what people thought of me. I was scrutinizing everyone with a desperate, searching eye. As if I was Mowgli seeing other people for the first time in my life.
I should have seen her, for she was the kind of person I was looking for. Tickets in hand and money on the mind. But she was too fast for me. In a moment her extra ticket was taken. Some girl at the ticket counter had bagged it. Drat!
It was 7.15, and they opened the auditorium. The crowd rushed inside. Now I would have an easier time. Only the interested parties and the late comers would be left behind. Easier to scan. The rest would take their places inside. And, hopefully, the hopes of delayed friends turning up would finally be given up and there would be more extra-tickets in the market.
There was competition for me too, mind you. But this was from couples or bigger groups. I had the advantage over them. I needed just one ticket.
The outside of the auditorium began to fill with fragrant smoke, dhuup . I guessed it was part of the play's setting. I had noticed handfuls of jasmine in the toilet. The producers wanted to offer a complete experience, it appeared. It would be too bad to miss it.
The smoke must have caused distress to some honey bees somewhere, however. They started gathering at a light next to where I was sitting. I am used to honeybees. They are generally harmless. But one fellow in his hunt for clean air started buzzing near my ears. I had to get up, move away and shed some of my nonchalance.
Meanwhile, I struck a deal with a girl. She had one ticket, wanted one for her boyfriend. She agreed to sell me her ticket if she did'nt get one herself. This was something, but still I had to be wary. She capturing any available single ticket would be disaster for me. This girl went around charming people, asking all and sundry if they had an extra ticket. I found my hopes diminishing in the presence of such aggressive shopping. But what the hell, I had tomorrow's ticket as backup afterall.
It was 7.25 and I felt the urge to gently counsel the girl that it was too late and she better part with her ticket. At this time I spied a slightly overweight chap, clutching a ticket and rushing towards the counter, with the desperation of a North Indian bridegroom who was late for his own wedding because his mare had bolted. Hmm. I pounced on him like the anxious father of the bride.
You have an extra ticket?
Almost before he had said yes, I had snatched it from him, taken out my wallet, handed him a hundred ruppee note. And said, here you go. "You are welcome" he said.
The girl's boy friend had seen this interchange in shock. I left him bemoaning (perhaps) the vagaries of fortune as I rushed to return my tea glass and enter the auditorium as the second bell rang.
****
The hall was thick with dhuup . Rajat Kapoor sat with his back to the audience on an elevated pedestal. The effect of him standing above the audience would have been grand, but I only got a seat in the back row. From there he was at eye-level.
I inhaled the fragrant smoke in grateful nosefuls. I wondered briefly whether the girl and her boyfriend would find another ticket.
Violet beams of light had lit up the stage. There was a huge heap of jasmine (I am sure the jasmine only covered something huge) and a big, shallow copper vessel, representing the temple tank. This was a play about perversion, well, in a way. And I, unlike Freud, am sympathetic to perversion. I looked forward to the next ninety minutes.
Amdist silence, and with a long pause, the play, the monologue, began....
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The first thing that came to my mind, when I had finished speaking over the phone, was that I aught to plan better. Stop thinking all the time that God was on my side looking out for me. I aught to think ahead, I aught to plan. Not take life as it came and not let chance decide what and who and with who I was when I was 40, 60 or 90. Otherwise, "Tera kuch nahin hoga, Kalia!"
If not all these thoughts, at least a deep disappointment with myself, that I had not forseen the likelihood of such an event happening, filled me. "All tickets for today sold out. Only a few remaining for tomorrow, won't last more than an hour. And we don't have an afternoon show tomorrow".
I had been looking forward, all week, to this new play from Girish Karnad, "Flowers". Last time I had tried watching it, my car had broken down on the way. God knows when the play might come to Bangalore again. But then, it was pointless travelling 20 kms or so only to be told that the tickests for tomorrow were sold out too. Afterall, it was just another play. A monologue at that. Not my kind of play at all. Why should I bother.
After wasting more than fifteen minutes dallying, I decided I would go afterall. There could be someone looking to sell their extra ticket. Or atleast I could get a ticket for tomorrow. Or atleast it would be fun to drive this wonderful spring evening.
So I drove. The spring evening was quite warm, and the pollution made me close the windows. My feet began to sweat (rubber sandals, bad investment). I had to take off my sandals and direct the fan outlets of the car to my feet.
The traffic was better than weekdays, but worse than on Sundays, and cyclists and scooterists kept cutting me. I honked, uncharacteristically, but not vehemently. I had given up all hope, actually. A Girish Karnad play in Blore. No chance! I had reconciled myself to having a tea and buying a Wodehouse at the bookstore at Rangashankara. But still I was optimistic. Only the week before last was I selling an extra ticket myself. There are often too many people who want to sell extra single tickets than there are takers, I told myself. A result of relatively cheap tickets at Ranga Shankara.
I seemed to be getting stuck in traffic at the non-usual places. Which irritated me. Afterall, had I not squeezed past all the orange signals. Then why all this first-gearing? But still I was calm, practising some new-learned raag, wondering if the komal gandhar was ok (I am showing off here), for ultimately I did not expect much from this evening. Stoicism is a wonderful thing.
The traffic inched forward and presently I could see more and more pretty girls on the sidewalk, which means I was in Jaynagar and close to Rangashankara. But I kept my eyes on the road. And my feet on the accelerator - well atleast as far as the traffic allowed me to.
The first thing I did was to buy a ticket for Sunday. Today's tickets were indeed sold out, but they still had wads of tickets for tomorrow. And it had been more than 1.5 hrs since I had made that call. These guys are shrewd liars.
The second thing I did was to get myself a tea. Then I settled myself near the ticket counter and waited for my quarry. The tiger in the forest. A picture of alert nonchalance. I wanted to watch the play today if I could. I didnt want to travel 20 kms again tomorrow, if I could help it.
I was looking for people who would be rushing to the counter, tickets in hand, anxious about not wasting the hundred bucks. But all I found were people rushing to the counter empty handed, or with money in their hands, getting disappointed and returning with tickets for tomorrow.
But I drank my tea in peace. I'll watch the play tomorrow, I thought. A backup option is a wonderful thing.
There were a couple of girls looking for tickets too. They spoke bong. One of them was displaying the classical courtship gesture-clusters described in the body language book which I had been reading at friend's house. But I had excuse for inaction. More than one ticket would be impossible to secure.
I don't know what people thought of me. I was scrutinizing everyone with a desperate, searching eye. As if I was Mowgli seeing other people for the first time in my life.
I should have seen her, for she was the kind of person I was looking for. Tickets in hand and money on the mind. But she was too fast for me. In a moment her extra ticket was taken. Some girl at the ticket counter had bagged it. Drat!
It was 7.15, and they opened the auditorium. The crowd rushed inside. Now I would have an easier time. Only the interested parties and the late comers would be left behind. Easier to scan. The rest would take their places inside. And, hopefully, the hopes of delayed friends turning up would finally be given up and there would be more extra-tickets in the market.
There was competition for me too, mind you. But this was from couples or bigger groups. I had the advantage over them. I needed just one ticket.
The outside of the auditorium began to fill with fragrant smoke, dhuup . I guessed it was part of the play's setting. I had noticed handfuls of jasmine in the toilet. The producers wanted to offer a complete experience, it appeared. It would be too bad to miss it.
The smoke must have caused distress to some honey bees somewhere, however. They started gathering at a light next to where I was sitting. I am used to honeybees. They are generally harmless. But one fellow in his hunt for clean air started buzzing near my ears. I had to get up, move away and shed some of my nonchalance.
Meanwhile, I struck a deal with a girl. She had one ticket, wanted one for her boyfriend. She agreed to sell me her ticket if she did'nt get one herself. This was something, but still I had to be wary. She capturing any available single ticket would be disaster for me. This girl went around charming people, asking all and sundry if they had an extra ticket. I found my hopes diminishing in the presence of such aggressive shopping. But what the hell, I had tomorrow's ticket as backup afterall.
It was 7.25 and I felt the urge to gently counsel the girl that it was too late and she better part with her ticket. At this time I spied a slightly overweight chap, clutching a ticket and rushing towards the counter, with the desperation of a North Indian bridegroom who was late for his own wedding because his mare had bolted. Hmm. I pounced on him like the anxious father of the bride.
You have an extra ticket?
Almost before he had said yes, I had snatched it from him, taken out my wallet, handed him a hundred ruppee note. And said, here you go. "You are welcome" he said.
The girl's boy friend had seen this interchange in shock. I left him bemoaning (perhaps) the vagaries of fortune as I rushed to return my tea glass and enter the auditorium as the second bell rang.
****
The hall was thick with dhuup . Rajat Kapoor sat with his back to the audience on an elevated pedestal. The effect of him standing above the audience would have been grand, but I only got a seat in the back row. From there he was at eye-level.
I inhaled the fragrant smoke in grateful nosefuls. I wondered briefly whether the girl and her boyfriend would find another ticket.
Violet beams of light had lit up the stage. There was a huge heap of jasmine (I am sure the jasmine only covered something huge) and a big, shallow copper vessel, representing the temple tank. This was a play about perversion, well, in a way. And I, unlike Freud, am sympathetic to perversion. I looked forward to the next ninety minutes.
Amdist silence, and with a long pause, the play, the monologue, began....
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Likhne waale tera jawaab nahi
A nazm by Shakeel Badayuni sung by Rafi. A new addition to my list of favourite old hindi songs:
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin,
Koyi Tujh Sa Nahin Hazaaron Mein,
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin,
Tu Hai Aisi Kali Jo Gulshan Mein,
Saath Apne Bahaar Laayi Ho,
Tu Hai Aisi Kiran Jo Raat Dhale,
Chandni Mein Naahaake Aayi Ho,
Yeh Tera Noor Yeh Tere Jalwe,
Jis Tarah Chand Ho Sitaaron Mein..
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin...
Teri Aankhon Mein Aisi Masti Hai,
Jaise Chalke Huve Hon Paimaane,
Tere Honton pe voh Khumoshi Hai,
Jaise Bikhre Huve Hon Afsane,
Teri Zulfon Ki Aisi Rangath Hai,
Jaise Kaali Ghata Baharon Mein,,
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin..
Teri Surat Jo Dekhle Shair,
Apne Sheron Mein Taazagi Bhar Le,
Ik Musaphir Jo Tujh Ko Paa Jaaye,
Apne Khwabon Mein Zindagi Bhar Le,
Nagmagar Dhundle Agar Tujh Ko,
Dard Bharle Voh Dil Ke Taaron Mein..
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin,
Koyi Tujh Sa Nahin Hazaaron Mein,
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin...
You can listen to it or download it here . They might make you register - won't take long. There's also a Sonu Nigam version on the same site. Make sure you listen to the Rafi version.
0 comments
A nazm by Shakeel Badayuni sung by Rafi. A new addition to my list of favourite old hindi songs:
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin,
Koyi Tujh Sa Nahin Hazaaron Mein,
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin,
Tu Hai Aisi Kali Jo Gulshan Mein,
Saath Apne Bahaar Laayi Ho,
Tu Hai Aisi Kiran Jo Raat Dhale,
Chandni Mein Naahaake Aayi Ho,
Yeh Tera Noor Yeh Tere Jalwe,
Jis Tarah Chand Ho Sitaaron Mein..
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin...
Teri Aankhon Mein Aisi Masti Hai,
Jaise Chalke Huve Hon Paimaane,
Tere Honton pe voh Khumoshi Hai,
Jaise Bikhre Huve Hon Afsane,
Teri Zulfon Ki Aisi Rangath Hai,
Jaise Kaali Ghata Baharon Mein,,
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin..
Teri Surat Jo Dekhle Shair,
Apne Sheron Mein Taazagi Bhar Le,
Ik Musaphir Jo Tujh Ko Paa Jaaye,
Apne Khwabon Mein Zindagi Bhar Le,
Nagmagar Dhundle Agar Tujh Ko,
Dard Bharle Voh Dil Ke Taaron Mein..
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin,
Koyi Tujh Sa Nahin Hazaaron Mein,
Husn Wale Tera Jawaab Nahin...
You can listen to it or download it here . They might make you register - won't take long. There's also a Sonu Nigam version on the same site. Make sure you listen to the Rafi version.
Friday, January 26, 2007
A Mid Summer's Day Dream
Chapter 8
Chutti woke up in anguish. He had had a bad night - tormented by unplaceable, unfathomable demons, mysteriously malicious, mysteriously unrememberable. As he tried to understand what had transpired during the night, the fact that it was all a dream was an inadequate recompense.
A habitual glance at his wrist watch (he wore it almost all the time) and the anguish quickly turned to panic. In a quick head jerk he looked at where the chorome-cased alarm clock, sitting on the floor next to his bed, showed a dis-interested 9 O' clock! Had he forgotten to wind it up? Or had he banged it quiet when it had attempted to wake him up at six? He glared at the un-saying alarm clock; It ticked on in scornful disdain.
This new crisis had brushed aside the trauma of the nightmare. His palms went cold and his mouth went dry, as blood rushed to his legs in a survival reaction. He grabbed his soap and toothbrush and paste and ran to the bathroom...
----
Ten minutes later, as he stood in the long queue, Chutti subjected himself to the severest reproaches. How could he have let this happen? Oh yes, the movie of the previous night. The film that everyone had been so excited about, but the film that no one seemed to want to watch till the end...One by one, they had all left the common room, after subtle and un-subtle excuses, delivered with sheepish grins or poker faces. Only Chutti had seen the movie till the end, following diligently the threadbare story line. Hmm. But the movie could not have been the reason he had overslept. Perhaps it was the physics lab classes; they had been particularly tortuous and tiring that week...
The 'chushshsh' sound of the great hot rectangular tava getting washed for the next round, signalled the arrival of more rava dosas on the counter, and the line slowly moved forward. And no sooner had it begun moving, than it stopped again. Chutti could only move forward a few steps, so tightly packed was the queue.
Chutti's heart filled with anxiety and distress. It was past 9'O clock, and the counter could close any moment - there was no telling how much dosa-dough was left now. There were several people behind Chutti too, but that was no cause for joy. The rava dosas of the hostel were hot favourites. The early risers would have two and even three of them, and the dough might run out before even half the hostel was fed. And to top this uncertainity, the never ending wait in the queue! O misery! Not to wake up at six on Saturdays!
Slowly, painfully, the next round of dosas roasted on the tava. The rava dosas took ages to roast (almost three times as long as the masala dosas that were served on Sundays) but they were more than worth the wait. The people at the front of the queue got restless and agitated. They could see their dosas roast inside. Having waited at least three quarters of an hour they were impatient to get at their meal. But they were also anxious that the cook spend enough time on their particular dosas so that they were roasted to the right crispiness. They watched him now, as he sprinkled oil on the top surface with his stiff broom.
The people in the queue stood on. Though Chutti was silent and spoke to no one, sections of the queue carried on simulatenous conversations on this and that - the football or hockey matches, the latest antics of some professor, the upcoming hostel day functions...Except for a couple of boys who had taken the time to bathe and visit the temples, and whose faces bloomed like fresh flowers, they were all dirty and unwashed. Some had not even brushed their teeth in their hurry to get to the mess, and one had to be careful to avoid the occasional breath-blast of onion from last night's dinner. They were people of all years. Some lounged in nearby chairs having reserved their positions in the queue. Chutti looked at every new comer with suspicion especially if he was from the senior years and might misuse his seniority to break into the queue, out of turn. WHATEVER HAPPENS, he told himself in capitals, I'LL NEVER EVER WAKE UP LATE ON SATURDAYS AGAIN.
The Chennai summer sun streamed into the mess hall warming up the water in the steel jars on the mess tables. People who had just got their dosas, sat aloof, engrossed in their dosas, and jealous of them - like newly married husbands with their wives. People who had finished eating, sat relaxed, smiling and joking over their coffee-tea, like contented pensioners. Chutti tried not to look where Mannu, Dilli, Chammo and TV sat discussing something with languid vigour. Thankfully they paid no attention to him.
----
It was past ten when Chutti reached the front of the queue. The mess hall was almost empty now. People behind him had either given up hopes on breakfast and left, or had compromised their consciences and artfully broken into the queue out of turn. Chutti had watched as the quality of dosas plummeted. The cook having tired of standing hours, and eager to finish the job, had started taking dosas pre-maturely off the tava.
Chutti choked with silent tears as he eyed the soggy half cooked dosas, one of which would be his. When his turn finally came they were told that they were out of chutney now. After such a long wait, it was too unfair a blow, and a tear forced itself out of Chutti's left eye. How could he eat rava dosa without the chutney, that sweet-sour combo of onion and coconut and tamarind and tomato and other, unknown, ingredients, that divine concoction which helped make stay in this lousy place bearable, that...
Hey what was that on the pile of used plates! Some bastard had left the chutney untouched on his plate. O the injustice of it all...
After he had walked reluctantly past the pile of used plates, Chutti suddenly stopped, firmed by a new resolve. With a quick look around he took a few steps back.Taking a deep breath, and with a quick movement, he grabbed the delectable blob of chutney off the undeserving plate and onto his own. Then he walked to a nearby table, somewhat pacified.
0 comments
Chapter 8
Chutti woke up in anguish. He had had a bad night - tormented by unplaceable, unfathomable demons, mysteriously malicious, mysteriously unrememberable. As he tried to understand what had transpired during the night, the fact that it was all a dream was an inadequate recompense.
A habitual glance at his wrist watch (he wore it almost all the time) and the anguish quickly turned to panic. In a quick head jerk he looked at where the chorome-cased alarm clock, sitting on the floor next to his bed, showed a dis-interested 9 O' clock! Had he forgotten to wind it up? Or had he banged it quiet when it had attempted to wake him up at six? He glared at the un-saying alarm clock; It ticked on in scornful disdain.
This new crisis had brushed aside the trauma of the nightmare. His palms went cold and his mouth went dry, as blood rushed to his legs in a survival reaction. He grabbed his soap and toothbrush and paste and ran to the bathroom...
----
Ten minutes later, as he stood in the long queue, Chutti subjected himself to the severest reproaches. How could he have let this happen? Oh yes, the movie of the previous night. The film that everyone had been so excited about, but the film that no one seemed to want to watch till the end...One by one, they had all left the common room, after subtle and un-subtle excuses, delivered with sheepish grins or poker faces. Only Chutti had seen the movie till the end, following diligently the threadbare story line. Hmm. But the movie could not have been the reason he had overslept. Perhaps it was the physics lab classes; they had been particularly tortuous and tiring that week...
The 'chushshsh' sound of the great hot rectangular tava getting washed for the next round, signalled the arrival of more rava dosas on the counter, and the line slowly moved forward. And no sooner had it begun moving, than it stopped again. Chutti could only move forward a few steps, so tightly packed was the queue.
Chutti's heart filled with anxiety and distress. It was past 9'O clock, and the counter could close any moment - there was no telling how much dosa-dough was left now. There were several people behind Chutti too, but that was no cause for joy. The rava dosas of the hostel were hot favourites. The early risers would have two and even three of them, and the dough might run out before even half the hostel was fed. And to top this uncertainity, the never ending wait in the queue! O misery! Not to wake up at six on Saturdays!
Slowly, painfully, the next round of dosas roasted on the tava. The rava dosas took ages to roast (almost three times as long as the masala dosas that were served on Sundays) but they were more than worth the wait. The people at the front of the queue got restless and agitated. They could see their dosas roast inside. Having waited at least three quarters of an hour they were impatient to get at their meal. But they were also anxious that the cook spend enough time on their particular dosas so that they were roasted to the right crispiness. They watched him now, as he sprinkled oil on the top surface with his stiff broom.
The people in the queue stood on. Though Chutti was silent and spoke to no one, sections of the queue carried on simulatenous conversations on this and that - the football or hockey matches, the latest antics of some professor, the upcoming hostel day functions...Except for a couple of boys who had taken the time to bathe and visit the temples, and whose faces bloomed like fresh flowers, they were all dirty and unwashed. Some had not even brushed their teeth in their hurry to get to the mess, and one had to be careful to avoid the occasional breath-blast of onion from last night's dinner. They were people of all years. Some lounged in nearby chairs having reserved their positions in the queue. Chutti looked at every new comer with suspicion especially if he was from the senior years and might misuse his seniority to break into the queue, out of turn. WHATEVER HAPPENS, he told himself in capitals, I'LL NEVER EVER WAKE UP LATE ON SATURDAYS AGAIN.
The Chennai summer sun streamed into the mess hall warming up the water in the steel jars on the mess tables. People who had just got their dosas, sat aloof, engrossed in their dosas, and jealous of them - like newly married husbands with their wives. People who had finished eating, sat relaxed, smiling and joking over their coffee-tea, like contented pensioners. Chutti tried not to look where Mannu, Dilli, Chammo and TV sat discussing something with languid vigour. Thankfully they paid no attention to him.
----
It was past ten when Chutti reached the front of the queue. The mess hall was almost empty now. People behind him had either given up hopes on breakfast and left, or had compromised their consciences and artfully broken into the queue out of turn. Chutti had watched as the quality of dosas plummeted. The cook having tired of standing hours, and eager to finish the job, had started taking dosas pre-maturely off the tava.
Chutti choked with silent tears as he eyed the soggy half cooked dosas, one of which would be his. When his turn finally came they were told that they were out of chutney now. After such a long wait, it was too unfair a blow, and a tear forced itself out of Chutti's left eye. How could he eat rava dosa without the chutney, that sweet-sour combo of onion and coconut and tamarind and tomato and other, unknown, ingredients, that divine concoction which helped make stay in this lousy place bearable, that...
Hey what was that on the pile of used plates! Some bastard had left the chutney untouched on his plate. O the injustice of it all...
After he had walked reluctantly past the pile of used plates, Chutti suddenly stopped, firmed by a new resolve. With a quick look around he took a few steps back.Taking a deep breath, and with a quick movement, he grabbed the delectable blob of chutney off the undeserving plate and onto his own. Then he walked to a nearby table, somewhat pacified.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Winter Sunset
Going to the seashore has become a regualr feature of my visits home - though the sea shore is some distance off from where I live. The coast line is quite long, sand for some distance, easily climbable rock for some distance, beach sand again, rock again etc. Some day I am going to keep on trekking along the coast to see how far I can go. Too bad I did'nt grow up here, in my hometown. This time around I found a fishing hamlet of sorts tucked away not too far from the main beach but completely hidden away by a thickish woods and a the rising topography. They have a nice private beach for themselves where they play cricket and volley ball quite undisturbed by townsfolk.
Watching the clear winter sunsets this time was a queer sort of experience. It felt so unreal for some unknown reason. Ofcourse, watching a sunset is a not an everyday experience for an IT professional - but it was'nt just that. Perhaps it was the one-dimensional nature of it that was so un-settling. There was not a speck of cloud, it was difficult to judge distance, the whole sky was like big blue flat canvas. And on it the sun, a proper circle, not a sphere, looking as if a kid had cut it out of an orange cardboard and pasted it up there. Not at like the diffuse sun we see during the day or during a cloudy sunset. And ofcourse the stillness of it all, not just temporal but spatial, if you know what I mean :-). There was no change to the picture in time, though of course the sun finally did set, but there was no change to the picture from here to there, the same huge, wide, flat light-blue sky with an orange hole in it...
0 comments
Going to the seashore has become a regualr feature of my visits home - though the sea shore is some distance off from where I live. The coast line is quite long, sand for some distance, easily climbable rock for some distance, beach sand again, rock again etc. Some day I am going to keep on trekking along the coast to see how far I can go. Too bad I did'nt grow up here, in my hometown. This time around I found a fishing hamlet of sorts tucked away not too far from the main beach but completely hidden away by a thickish woods and a the rising topography. They have a nice private beach for themselves where they play cricket and volley ball quite undisturbed by townsfolk.
Watching the clear winter sunsets this time was a queer sort of experience. It felt so unreal for some unknown reason. Ofcourse, watching a sunset is a not an everyday experience for an IT professional - but it was'nt just that. Perhaps it was the one-dimensional nature of it that was so un-settling. There was not a speck of cloud, it was difficult to judge distance, the whole sky was like big blue flat canvas. And on it the sun, a proper circle, not a sphere, looking as if a kid had cut it out of an orange cardboard and pasted it up there. Not at like the diffuse sun we see during the day or during a cloudy sunset. And ofcourse the stillness of it all, not just temporal but spatial, if you know what I mean :-). There was no change to the picture in time, though of course the sun finally did set, but there was no change to the picture from here to there, the same huge, wide, flat light-blue sky with an orange hole in it...
Labels: sunset
Friday, December 22, 2006
Going Home
Going Home. That seems like a good enough answer to the title of the previous post. Whither goes thou? Home.
Looking forward to a good ten days of sun and sea, fish and fishmarkets, the lazy watching of test cricket (what could be a lazier activity!) and the chewy perusal of Moby Dick.
0 comments
Going Home. That seems like a good enough answer to the title of the previous post. Whither goes thou? Home.
Looking forward to a good ten days of sun and sea, fish and fishmarkets, the lazy watching of test cricket (what could be a lazier activity!) and the chewy perusal of Moby Dick.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Quo Vadis
Yesterday I had occasion to visit the Information Technology Park here in Bangalore during lunch hours. It was the first time I was visiting a big tech campus other than the one I work in. Seeing so many techies at one place gave me quite an identity crisis (or maybe only served as a reminder). It was as if an ant from one colony wandered into a different ant hill and suddenly saw things from a different perspective...
To be contd...
0 comments
Yesterday I had occasion to visit the Information Technology Park here in Bangalore during lunch hours. It was the first time I was visiting a big tech campus other than the one I work in. Seeing so many techies at one place gave me quite an identity crisis (or maybe only served as a reminder). It was as if an ant from one colony wandered into a different ant hill and suddenly saw things from a different perspective...
To be contd...
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Zikr Us Parivash Ka...
Have hit the block after which this blog is punnily named. Nothing seems good enough to be written. Ideas die before they are born. The sanguine confidence (same thing?) which caused several good and bad posts to be posted, has disappeared down a side-street, bored with the inactivity, looking for excitement elsewhere. Memories, thoughts, desires and emotions clog the brain, all waiting in the queue, for days, hoping for expression. There is a dullness, similar to that which results from lack of physical excercise...
Anyway, here's a ghazal from Ghalib. Ghalib seems to have written a lot of these witty shers. Perhaps not to be sung out in a melancholy song but to be told at parties, like jokes.
Zikr us parivash ka, aur phir bayaan apna,
ban gaya raqib aakhir, tha jo raazdaan apna.
parivash: fairy like; raqib: rival; raazdaan: confidant
Praises of that nymph, and sung in my style,
He who was my confidant was swayed to become my rival.
Deh woh jis kadar zillat, ham hansi mein taalenge,
Baare aashnaa nikla, un ka paasbaan apna.
zillat: disgrace; baare: by chance, in the end; aashnaa: friend; paasbaan: guard
Let her heap insults on me, I'll laugh them off,
Her door-man is watching, but afterall he's my friend now.
Dard-e-dil likhun kab tak, jaaun un ko dikhla doon,
Ungliyaan figaar apni, khaama khunchukaan apna,
figaar: wounded, khunchukaan: dripping blood
How long shall I write of the anguish of my heart,
Why not instead I go and show her, my wounded fingers, my bloody pen.
Hum kahaan ke Daana the, kis hunar men yakta the,
be-sabab hua Ghalib, dushman aasmaan apna
Daana: wise man; yakta: expert; be-sabab: needlessly
You are no wise man, Ghalib, nor do you have any special talent,
Then why is it that the heavens, have so turned against you?
0 comments
Have hit the block after which this blog is punnily named. Nothing seems good enough to be written. Ideas die before they are born. The sanguine confidence (same thing?) which caused several good and bad posts to be posted, has disappeared down a side-street, bored with the inactivity, looking for excitement elsewhere. Memories, thoughts, desires and emotions clog the brain, all waiting in the queue, for days, hoping for expression. There is a dullness, similar to that which results from lack of physical excercise...
Anyway, here's a ghazal from Ghalib. Ghalib seems to have written a lot of these witty shers. Perhaps not to be sung out in a melancholy song but to be told at parties, like jokes.
Zikr us parivash ka, aur phir bayaan apna,
ban gaya raqib aakhir, tha jo raazdaan apna.
parivash: fairy like; raqib: rival; raazdaan: confidant
Praises of that nymph, and sung in my style,
He who was my confidant was swayed to become my rival.
Deh woh jis kadar zillat, ham hansi mein taalenge,
Baare aashnaa nikla, un ka paasbaan apna.
zillat: disgrace; baare: by chance, in the end; aashnaa: friend; paasbaan: guard
Let her heap insults on me, I'll laugh them off,
Her door-man is watching, but afterall he's my friend now.
Dard-e-dil likhun kab tak, jaaun un ko dikhla doon,
Ungliyaan figaar apni, khaama khunchukaan apna,
figaar: wounded, khunchukaan: dripping blood
How long shall I write of the anguish of my heart,
Why not instead I go and show her, my wounded fingers, my bloody pen.
Hum kahaan ke Daana the, kis hunar men yakta the,
be-sabab hua Ghalib, dushman aasmaan apna
Daana: wise man; yakta: expert; be-sabab: needlessly
You are no wise man, Ghalib, nor do you have any special talent,
Then why is it that the heavens, have so turned against you?
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
After playing the wretched loser for more than twenty five years of comics life, Garfield's pet human, Jon, finally has a girlfriend. At last his creator, Jim Davis, has had a change of heart!
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Saturday, September 30, 2006
SEZ
I don't know why there is a law that allows the government to buy land below it's market value. I think they should be paying 50% higher than the market price. That way people might not so feel so bad about their land being aquired, they might even feel good about it.
0 comments
I don't know why there is a law that allows the government to buy land below it's market value. I think they should be paying 50% higher than the market price. That way people might not so feel so bad about their land being aquired, they might even feel good about it.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Snippets from my Trip to the South of France - (and Frankfurt airport, he he)
I was going to type the heading of this post in part French part German. But some ideas seem really hot only when you first think of them...
So I went to Cannes, last week, for a customer meeting, and also visited Nice and Monte Carlo in the free time. They, my company, had put me up in a swanky hotel right on the marine drive - boulevard de la croisette. Sumptuous breakfasts, lunches and dinners at the hotel, lazy walks in the sun, and sweet girls saying bon jour monsieur made me feel quite like Dr. Grimsdyke whooping it up on the French riviera at Lord Nutbeam's expense in Richard Gordon's 'Doctor in Clover'.
My room was, ofcourse, very good. But the best part was a framed photograph of Van Gough's 'Nature Morte aux oignons' which surely translates to 'Still life with Onions' - characterstic Van Gough yellow, still life with a book, a knife, a candle, a kettle and of course some onions. I get these nice surprises once in a while, that's when I feel 'ah! Nice move, God, you have won me over again.'
There was another painting, by Kandinsky, some improvisation or other. That was a nice painting too.
One of the highlights of the trip, for me, was a grand dinner at the hotel for everyone attending the review meeting - there were lots of people. Sunlight at seven in the evening, walking on to the terrace with a view to the sea and a chappie (as Dr Grimsdyke might say) saying 'Champagne, monsieur?' 'Yes please, thank you', should have said, Oui! Merci!'. One or two nice dress to take the occasional peep at/into... Two glasses of champagne and you are ready to sit at a table and they serve white wine with the first course: scallops with mango chutney. The white wine was'nt such a hit, the mango chutney was good, the scallops were indiffernt (I have yet to develop refined tastes). Next course, beef steak and spinach and onion cake of some sort with red wine - the beef well done please. Excellent red wine, good spinach cake, good beef but I am not a great fan. Desserts - totally don't remember what was for dessert. Coffee? No thank you. And then surprise of surprise they bring another drink. It is smoky like whisky but tastes sweet like brandy. Cognac, someone says helpfully. Ah, cognac. So this is cognac. It is fruity and sweet, almost like dessert. In the meantime I have been discussing languages in India - English the lingua Franca - and European economy, why England is not switching and how did the prices behave when France changed to the Euro; I really enjoy discussing such topics when I am drunk, can hardly stand them when I am sober. I am still sipping my cognac when the fireworks start over the Mediterranean - they spend quite some money on these customer meetings. One kind of firecracker after another in a seemingly un-ending sequence. Hmm...good life.
I will keep the Nice and the Monte Carlo for some other time. Let me write about the flight back. I had decided not to get drunk in the afternoon. But you know how it is with free booze. But I had only red wine and ofcourse some cognac in the end. Again, I am having my last sips of Cognac, hoping they play the English movie first - the Pink Panther, and not the Hindi movie - don't remember the name of but it had Kareena and Shahid Kapoor with Himesh Reshmia singing all the songs, that's when out of the blue (?) they start playing Mickey Mouse. Oh, thank you God. Donald duck with his bum stuck in a gold fish bowl and his nose in something else, making all those hilarious noises. Just could not stop laughing. And then they brought on the Pink Panther. That was another laugh riot. Don't know if it was the alcohol, but I was laughing blisfully, continuously, uncontrollably and quite quite gratefully. A nice ending to a nice trip.
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I was going to type the heading of this post in part French part German. But some ideas seem really hot only when you first think of them...
So I went to Cannes, last week, for a customer meeting, and also visited Nice and Monte Carlo in the free time. They, my company, had put me up in a swanky hotel right on the marine drive - boulevard de la croisette. Sumptuous breakfasts, lunches and dinners at the hotel, lazy walks in the sun, and sweet girls saying bon jour monsieur made me feel quite like Dr. Grimsdyke whooping it up on the French riviera at Lord Nutbeam's expense in Richard Gordon's 'Doctor in Clover'.
My room was, ofcourse, very good. But the best part was a framed photograph of Van Gough's 'Nature Morte aux oignons' which surely translates to 'Still life with Onions' - characterstic Van Gough yellow, still life with a book, a knife, a candle, a kettle and of course some onions. I get these nice surprises once in a while, that's when I feel 'ah! Nice move, God, you have won me over again.'
There was another painting, by Kandinsky, some improvisation or other. That was a nice painting too.
One of the highlights of the trip, for me, was a grand dinner at the hotel for everyone attending the review meeting - there were lots of people. Sunlight at seven in the evening, walking on to the terrace with a view to the sea and a chappie (as Dr Grimsdyke might say) saying 'Champagne, monsieur?' 'Yes please, thank you', should have said, Oui! Merci!'. One or two nice dress to take the occasional peep at/into... Two glasses of champagne and you are ready to sit at a table and they serve white wine with the first course: scallops with mango chutney. The white wine was'nt such a hit, the mango chutney was good, the scallops were indiffernt (I have yet to develop refined tastes). Next course, beef steak and spinach and onion cake of some sort with red wine - the beef well done please. Excellent red wine, good spinach cake, good beef but I am not a great fan. Desserts - totally don't remember what was for dessert. Coffee? No thank you. And then surprise of surprise they bring another drink. It is smoky like whisky but tastes sweet like brandy. Cognac, someone says helpfully. Ah, cognac. So this is cognac. It is fruity and sweet, almost like dessert. In the meantime I have been discussing languages in India - English the lingua Franca - and European economy, why England is not switching and how did the prices behave when France changed to the Euro; I really enjoy discussing such topics when I am drunk, can hardly stand them when I am sober. I am still sipping my cognac when the fireworks start over the Mediterranean - they spend quite some money on these customer meetings. One kind of firecracker after another in a seemingly un-ending sequence. Hmm...good life.
I will keep the Nice and the Monte Carlo for some other time. Let me write about the flight back. I had decided not to get drunk in the afternoon. But you know how it is with free booze. But I had only red wine and ofcourse some cognac in the end. Again, I am having my last sips of Cognac, hoping they play the English movie first - the Pink Panther, and not the Hindi movie - don't remember the name of but it had Kareena and Shahid Kapoor with Himesh Reshmia singing all the songs, that's when out of the blue (?) they start playing Mickey Mouse. Oh, thank you God. Donald duck with his bum stuck in a gold fish bowl and his nose in something else, making all those hilarious noises. Just could not stop laughing. And then they brought on the Pink Panther. That was another laugh riot. Don't know if it was the alcohol, but I was laughing blisfully, continuously, uncontrollably and quite quite gratefully. A nice ending to a nice trip.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
The Prodigal Returns
This Sunday, I went to the Mallu Mess (actually, Kerala Spice) after a long time. I had been slightly peeved at their apparently charging me more and more for the fish, and I had found another Mallu restaurant which served better food and was at-least a kilometer nearer home. But this Sunday, the other Mallu restaurant was serving Onam special lunches and all tables were booked in advanced.
So back I went to the Mallu mess for my weekly dose of Sear Fish.
I was treated like the prodigal son when he came back home. As I walked up one of the waiters smiled a large smile at me from the upstairs window. I started to feel guilty already. The owner beamed from behind the cash counter. Then another guy who I had gotten quite friendly with came rushing to where I sat, shook hands and said 'Enda saare, njangale marnjo? Kerala spice ne maranjo? Njangale maranjalum bhakshanam maranjo?' What sir, did you forget us, did you forget Kerala spice? Or even if you did, did you forget about food?
At that moment my scanty mallu failed me. I broke into English. 'I was not in town' I lied. A perplexed expression appeared on the waiter's face. 'Saar malayali alle?' Sir, you are not a Mallu? I had never pretended to be more than what I was - a non-mallu who knew some mallu, but the fact that he had taken me for a mallu, for so long, was quite gratifying. Apparently the other waiter had assumed the same thing too, I gathered from their conversation later. So what mallu I knew, I knew it well :-). And I also knew how to enjoy my red rice. So anyway, this waiter knows Kannada and we chatted and I told him what I tell all mallus I meet - that I have lived in Trivandrum for four years. He reminded me about the Onam sadya (a special feast for Onam) they were having on Monday and Tuesday and asked me if I would come.
About the prodigal son part. They did'nt lead any fattened calf into the kitchen, but they did give me quite a large cross-section of Sear Fish.
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This Sunday, I went to the Mallu Mess (actually, Kerala Spice) after a long time. I had been slightly peeved at their apparently charging me more and more for the fish, and I had found another Mallu restaurant which served better food and was at-least a kilometer nearer home. But this Sunday, the other Mallu restaurant was serving Onam special lunches and all tables were booked in advanced.
So back I went to the Mallu mess for my weekly dose of Sear Fish.
I was treated like the prodigal son when he came back home. As I walked up one of the waiters smiled a large smile at me from the upstairs window. I started to feel guilty already. The owner beamed from behind the cash counter. Then another guy who I had gotten quite friendly with came rushing to where I sat, shook hands and said 'Enda saare, njangale marnjo? Kerala spice ne maranjo? Njangale maranjalum bhakshanam maranjo?' What sir, did you forget us, did you forget Kerala spice? Or even if you did, did you forget about food?
At that moment my scanty mallu failed me. I broke into English. 'I was not in town' I lied. A perplexed expression appeared on the waiter's face. 'Saar malayali alle?' Sir, you are not a Mallu? I had never pretended to be more than what I was - a non-mallu who knew some mallu, but the fact that he had taken me for a mallu, for so long, was quite gratifying. Apparently the other waiter had assumed the same thing too, I gathered from their conversation later. So what mallu I knew, I knew it well :-). And I also knew how to enjoy my red rice. So anyway, this waiter knows Kannada and we chatted and I told him what I tell all mallus I meet - that I have lived in Trivandrum for four years. He reminded me about the Onam sadya (a special feast for Onam) they were having on Monday and Tuesday and asked me if I would come.
About the prodigal son part. They did'nt lead any fattened calf into the kitchen, but they did give me quite a large cross-section of Sear Fish.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
In the desert of my loneliness
A nazm by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, an edited cut-paste from the net, plus my own, inadequate, translation. The translation is non-literal; refer to it to get the general drift of the poem, only if you need to ofcourse.
dasht-e-tanhaaii men ae jaan-e-jahaaN larzaaN hain
terii aavaaz ke saaye tere honThon ke saraab
dasht-e-tanhaaii men duurii ke Khas-o-Khaak tale
khil rahe hain tere pahaluu ke saman aur gulaab
(Dasht=desert,wasteland, larzaan hai = are shimmering; saraab=mirages; khas-o-khaak= the leaves and gen debris to be found under trees in the woods; pahalu=thought; saman=flowers)
In the wasteland deserts of my loneliness, are shimmering,
the echoes of your voice, the mirages of your lips...
And, under the rubble and dirt of our separation,
Thoughts and memories of you cause fresh flowers to bloom
uTh rahii hai kahiin, qurbat se, terii saaNs kii aaNch
apanii Khushbuu men sulagatii huii, madham, madham
duur ufaq-paar chamakatii huii, qataraa, qataraa
gir rahii hai terii dildaar nazar kii shabanam
(qurbat se= from close by; aanch=warmth; sulagatii hui= simmering; ufaq-paar=beyond the horizon; qatraa, qatraa=drop by drop; dildaar=generous; shabanam=dew)
The warmth of your breath seems to rise from close-by
slowly simmering in its own fragrance.
The shining mist that covers the horizon,
seems like a hundred dew-drops of your loving glance.
is qadar pyaar se, ae jaan-e-jahaaN rakkhaa hai
dil ke ruKhsaar pe is vaqt terii yaad ne haath
yuuN gumaaN hotaa hai garche hai abhii subah-e-firaaq
Dhal gayaa hijr kaa din aa bhii gaii vasl kii raat
(rukhsaar=cheek; gumaan=illusion; subah-e-firaaq = the morning (beginning) of separation; hijr=separation; vasl=meeting, union)
The loving hand of a thousand memories
so seems to caress the cheek of my soul,
that I forget it is only just the beginning of our separation,
and it seems the night of our union draws near again.
In the deserted wastelands of my loneliness are shimmering...
Iqbal Bano has done a great job of singing this song. It is probably one of her popular ones too, considering it appears in several of her albums. Each stanza is sung twice and adds to the effect...like a second shave...And she sings it so lovingly. It's as if the poet's sweetheart were herself singing the poem written after her...you can imagine the effect...hmmm. One can almost feel the 'warmth of the breath' and 'the loving caress on the cheek of the soul.'
Listening to the song one feels lucky to be alive. I am not exaggerating, but I guess hearing is believing.
Over the tens of times I have listened to this song, it has become my favourite Faiz poem, and maybe my favourite love song too.
Other Faiz favourites are: 'Tere gham ko jaan ki talaash thi', a song of reconciled disillusionment, a song that says 'its too late now sweetheart' and 'Hum Dekhenge, Woh din ke jis ka waada hai' a song of resilience, of revolt, of hope. The former can be found on www.urdupoetry.com, under Faiz.
Ghalib and Shakespeare are masters of flourish, of cleverness and wit, of brilliance, of good humour. Mir writes with a diffident pride and a diffident arrogance. Daag is characterized by sheer simplicity, and Omar Khayyam (who I have just started reading) by pragmatism and worldly wisdom.
Faiz seems to write with a depth of emotion. From the heart, and with great feeling. The ego of the poet is missing or unperceptible in Faiz's poems. This perhaps distinguishes him from the other great poets.
1 comments
A nazm by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, an edited cut-paste from the net, plus my own, inadequate, translation. The translation is non-literal; refer to it to get the general drift of the poem, only if you need to ofcourse.
dasht-e-tanhaaii men ae jaan-e-jahaaN larzaaN hain
terii aavaaz ke saaye tere honThon ke saraab
dasht-e-tanhaaii men duurii ke Khas-o-Khaak tale
khil rahe hain tere pahaluu ke saman aur gulaab
(Dasht=desert,wasteland, larzaan hai = are shimmering; saraab=mirages; khas-o-khaak= the leaves and gen debris to be found under trees in the woods; pahalu=thought; saman=flowers)
In the wasteland deserts of my loneliness, are shimmering,
the echoes of your voice, the mirages of your lips...
And, under the rubble and dirt of our separation,
Thoughts and memories of you cause fresh flowers to bloom
uTh rahii hai kahiin, qurbat se, terii saaNs kii aaNch
apanii Khushbuu men sulagatii huii, madham, madham
duur ufaq-paar chamakatii huii, qataraa, qataraa
gir rahii hai terii dildaar nazar kii shabanam
(qurbat se= from close by; aanch=warmth; sulagatii hui= simmering; ufaq-paar=beyond the horizon; qatraa, qatraa=drop by drop; dildaar=generous; shabanam=dew)
The warmth of your breath seems to rise from close-by
slowly simmering in its own fragrance.
The shining mist that covers the horizon,
seems like a hundred dew-drops of your loving glance.
is qadar pyaar se, ae jaan-e-jahaaN rakkhaa hai
dil ke ruKhsaar pe is vaqt terii yaad ne haath
yuuN gumaaN hotaa hai garche hai abhii subah-e-firaaq
Dhal gayaa hijr kaa din aa bhii gaii vasl kii raat
(rukhsaar=cheek; gumaan=illusion; subah-e-firaaq = the morning (beginning) of separation; hijr=separation; vasl=meeting, union)
The loving hand of a thousand memories
so seems to caress the cheek of my soul,
that I forget it is only just the beginning of our separation,
and it seems the night of our union draws near again.
In the deserted wastelands of my loneliness are shimmering...
Iqbal Bano has done a great job of singing this song. It is probably one of her popular ones too, considering it appears in several of her albums. Each stanza is sung twice and adds to the effect...like a second shave...And she sings it so lovingly. It's as if the poet's sweetheart were herself singing the poem written after her...you can imagine the effect...hmmm. One can almost feel the 'warmth of the breath' and 'the loving caress on the cheek of the soul.'
Listening to the song one feels lucky to be alive. I am not exaggerating, but I guess hearing is believing.
Over the tens of times I have listened to this song, it has become my favourite Faiz poem, and maybe my favourite love song too.
Other Faiz favourites are: 'Tere gham ko jaan ki talaash thi', a song of reconciled disillusionment, a song that says 'its too late now sweetheart' and 'Hum Dekhenge, Woh din ke jis ka waada hai' a song of resilience, of revolt, of hope. The former can be found on www.urdupoetry.com, under Faiz.
Ghalib and Shakespeare are masters of flourish, of cleverness and wit, of brilliance, of good humour. Mir writes with a diffident pride and a diffident arrogance. Daag is characterized by sheer simplicity, and Omar Khayyam (who I have just started reading) by pragmatism and worldly wisdom.
Faiz seems to write with a depth of emotion. From the heart, and with great feeling. The ego of the poet is missing or unperceptible in Faiz's poems. This perhaps distinguishes him from the other great poets.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Thinking
How funny it is. Most of us are professional thinkers. Get to the office, start thinking. Take a break, start thinking again. Go for lunch, and if you are unlucky think then also. Come back from lunch think some more. Discuss something with someone. Let them think a bit for you. You think a bit for them. Get back to your desk and continue with your thinking. Back home, again, if you are unlucky, think while you watch TV or have dinner. If you are really in the middle of the thinking season (I am not saying I am right now, but have been there before), think as you go to sleep. And then wake-up in the middle of the night because your thinking entered your dreams. Then while thinking prevents you from going to sleep, think! There is no taking long breaks from thinking. Because that's your full-time job.
If you try to think (he he) of the number of people who wake up in the morning, get to their desks and start thinking, its mind-boggling and kind of weird.
It was different for the people of old. After a hard day's work they probably thought casually about this and that. Or if something caught their fancy, they made a mental note of it, and after dinner as they smoked, they probably thought about it. Out of curiosity. And if they felt like it. Or after one too many at the liquour shop, perhaps the artistic ones thought about what lay beyond the moon...
Man's thought was perhaps once a refuge from the rigours of life, a retreat, a means of distraction, of relaxation, a special gift for amusement. Today it is itself the rigours of life. Hmmm. Saawan jo aag lagaaey, usey kaun bujhaaey .
Ok, I know I have written a lot of junk. Don't think too much about it.
0 comments
How funny it is. Most of us are professional thinkers. Get to the office, start thinking. Take a break, start thinking again. Go for lunch, and if you are unlucky think then also. Come back from lunch think some more. Discuss something with someone. Let them think a bit for you. You think a bit for them. Get back to your desk and continue with your thinking. Back home, again, if you are unlucky, think while you watch TV or have dinner. If you are really in the middle of the thinking season (I am not saying I am right now, but have been there before), think as you go to sleep. And then wake-up in the middle of the night because your thinking entered your dreams. Then while thinking prevents you from going to sleep, think! There is no taking long breaks from thinking. Because that's your full-time job.
If you try to think (he he) of the number of people who wake up in the morning, get to their desks and start thinking, its mind-boggling and kind of weird.
It was different for the people of old. After a hard day's work they probably thought casually about this and that. Or if something caught their fancy, they made a mental note of it, and after dinner as they smoked, they probably thought about it. Out of curiosity. And if they felt like it. Or after one too many at the liquour shop, perhaps the artistic ones thought about what lay beyond the moon...
Man's thought was perhaps once a refuge from the rigours of life, a retreat, a means of distraction, of relaxation, a special gift for amusement. Today it is itself the rigours of life. Hmmm. Saawan jo aag lagaaey, usey kaun bujhaaey .
Ok, I know I have written a lot of junk. Don't think too much about it.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
On the other side, of twenty five
In the last one month, more people have called me 'poet' than in the past twenty six years and eleven months of my existence. Though there is a charming rhyming two liner in Konkani which my parents ascribe to me as a kid (Keed maam, keed maam tu ashi kashi? Amgele ghara tu ailo kashi. The English translation, though not doing justice to the original, he he, goes like this: Insect uncle, insect uncle, you are like this, but how? You did come to our house, but came you how? ), that solitary piece of brilliance had been more or less ascribed to fluke.
So, being called a poet can quite get to your head. For instance I was tempted to write a poem, today, beginning 'Its quite lonely, on the other side, of twenty five'. Quite silly. Firstly, I have been on the other side the whole of last year. And then, its not lonely. There are a few people, among my friends, who are older than me - and I thank them for that.
I have never liked birthdays. I hate the attention. In school they made you wear colour dress and go and stand up there with the prayer-gang in front of the whole assembly - I love the anonymity of the uniform. And now, people come to my cubicle, discuss my white hair (yeah there are a few) and my singleton status. Don't get me wrong here. I really appreciate the consideration shown to me, but I would rather it were spaced out a bit. For instance, one could say in July, 'Hey Anant, your birthday is a month from now, happy birthday in advance, so when are you getting married?' and treat my actual birthday as a normal day. Someone else could say the same thing in September. The rest could use the months October through June. But spare August the 22nd please.
I wish I was born on 29th February. Though I quite like the personality traits that astrology ascribes to people belonging to the Leo-Virgo cusp.
He he.
But what the hell, happy birthday to me!
0 comments
In the last one month, more people have called me 'poet' than in the past twenty six years and eleven months of my existence. Though there is a charming rhyming two liner in Konkani which my parents ascribe to me as a kid (Keed maam, keed maam tu ashi kashi? Amgele ghara tu ailo kashi. The English translation, though not doing justice to the original, he he, goes like this: Insect uncle, insect uncle, you are like this, but how? You did come to our house, but came you how? ), that solitary piece of brilliance had been more or less ascribed to fluke.
So, being called a poet can quite get to your head. For instance I was tempted to write a poem, today, beginning 'Its quite lonely, on the other side, of twenty five'. Quite silly. Firstly, I have been on the other side the whole of last year. And then, its not lonely. There are a few people, among my friends, who are older than me - and I thank them for that.
I have never liked birthdays. I hate the attention. In school they made you wear colour dress and go and stand up there with the prayer-gang in front of the whole assembly - I love the anonymity of the uniform. And now, people come to my cubicle, discuss my white hair (yeah there are a few) and my singleton status. Don't get me wrong here. I really appreciate the consideration shown to me, but I would rather it were spaced out a bit. For instance, one could say in July, 'Hey Anant, your birthday is a month from now, happy birthday in advance, so when are you getting married?' and treat my actual birthday as a normal day. Someone else could say the same thing in September. The rest could use the months October through June. But spare August the 22nd please.
I wish I was born on 29th February. Though I quite like the personality traits that astrology ascribes to people belonging to the Leo-Virgo cusp.
He he.
But what the hell, happy birthday to me!
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Look at this Picture !!!
Van Gough's La Sieste
...but not in the office (no, nothing offensive), and not after a good lunch. Look at that sunlight on the piled up hay. Does it not make you think that you were out doors yourself, sitting under some shady tree? Does'nt the warmth of that sunlight seep thorough your comp screen and challenge your air-conditioning?
And look at that expression on the woman's face, sleeping like a baby!
All those who say Dali is the better painter (this is for you, Sarkar ) find me a Dali that can beat this one. Let's have a contest! :-)
P.S. You might want to download the picture and view it full-screen.
0 comments
Van Gough's La Sieste
...but not in the office (no, nothing offensive), and not after a good lunch. Look at that sunlight on the piled up hay. Does it not make you think that you were out doors yourself, sitting under some shady tree? Does'nt the warmth of that sunlight seep thorough your comp screen and challenge your air-conditioning?
And look at that expression on the woman's face, sleeping like a baby!
All those who say Dali is the better painter (this is for you, Sarkar ) find me a Dali that can beat this one. Let's have a contest! :-)
P.S. You might want to download the picture and view it full-screen.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Omkara
Before all is said and done, Omkara does justice to Othello, as best as a movie can and without the support of Shakespeare's language. Fine acting and great drama. Ajay Devgan and Kareena Kapoor bring out the stark colour difference between Desdemona and Othello, though it could have been starker. Saif Ali Khan is a credible Iago, though minus his monologues - his thoughts in several situations are left to the audience's imagination, and only mildly come out when he speaks - his evil is diluted a bit. Vivek Oberoi is the likable, honest Cassio; he's likeable enough though not so credible as a worthy second-in-command of Othello.
Some of Shakespeare's tricks have been adopted successfully including animal imagery in speech.
I really missed my favourite sections from Othello: Cassio's speech when he is drunk and his tirade against the evil in drinking later, when his drinking has cost him Othello's regard and he has gotten sober again. Here's a cut-paste from the latter.
IAGO
What, are you hurt, lieutenant?
CASSIO
Ay, past all surgery.
IAGO
Marry, heaven forbid!
CASSIO
Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost
my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of
myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation,
Iago, my reputation!
IAGO
As I am an honest man, I thought you had received
some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than
in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false
imposition: oft got without merit, and lost without
deserving: you have lost no reputation at all,
unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man!
there are ways to recover the general again: you
are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in
policy than in malice, even so as one would beat his
offenceless dog to affright an imperious lion: sue
to him again, and he's yours.
CASSIO
I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so
good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so
indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot?
and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse
fustian with one's own shadow? O thou invisible
spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by,
let us call thee devil!
IAGO
What was he that you followed with your sword? What
had he done to you?
CASSIO
I know not.
IAGO
Is't possible?
CASSIO
I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly;
a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men
should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away
their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance
revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!
IAGO
Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus
recovered?
CASSIO
It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place
to the devil wrath; one unperfectness shows me
another, to make me frankly despise myself.
IAGO
Come, you are too severe a moraler: as the time,
the place, and the condition of this country
stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen;
but, since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.
CASSIO
I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me
I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra,
such an answer would stop them all. To be now a
sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a
beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is
unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.
IAGO
Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature,
if it be well used: exclaim no more against it.
And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you.
CASSIO
I have well approved it, sir. I drunk!
0 comments
Before all is said and done, Omkara does justice to Othello, as best as a movie can and without the support of Shakespeare's language. Fine acting and great drama. Ajay Devgan and Kareena Kapoor bring out the stark colour difference between Desdemona and Othello, though it could have been starker. Saif Ali Khan is a credible Iago, though minus his monologues - his thoughts in several situations are left to the audience's imagination, and only mildly come out when he speaks - his evil is diluted a bit. Vivek Oberoi is the likable, honest Cassio; he's likeable enough though not so credible as a worthy second-in-command of Othello.
Some of Shakespeare's tricks have been adopted successfully including animal imagery in speech.
I really missed my favourite sections from Othello: Cassio's speech when he is drunk and his tirade against the evil in drinking later, when his drinking has cost him Othello's regard and he has gotten sober again. Here's a cut-paste from the latter.
IAGO
What, are you hurt, lieutenant?
CASSIO
Ay, past all surgery.
IAGO
Marry, heaven forbid!
CASSIO
Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost
my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of
myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation,
Iago, my reputation!
IAGO
As I am an honest man, I thought you had received
some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than
in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false
imposition: oft got without merit, and lost without
deserving: you have lost no reputation at all,
unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man!
there are ways to recover the general again: you
are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in
policy than in malice, even so as one would beat his
offenceless dog to affright an imperious lion: sue
to him again, and he's yours.
CASSIO
I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so
good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so
indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot?
and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse
fustian with one's own shadow? O thou invisible
spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by,
let us call thee devil!
IAGO
What was he that you followed with your sword? What
had he done to you?
CASSIO
I know not.
IAGO
Is't possible?
CASSIO
I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly;
a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men
should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away
their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance
revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!
IAGO
Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus
recovered?
CASSIO
It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place
to the devil wrath; one unperfectness shows me
another, to make me frankly despise myself.
IAGO
Come, you are too severe a moraler: as the time,
the place, and the condition of this country
stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen;
but, since it is as it is, mend it for your own good.
CASSIO
I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me
I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra,
such an answer would stop them all. To be now a
sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a
beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is
unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.
IAGO
Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature,
if it be well used: exclaim no more against it.
And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you.
CASSIO
I have well approved it, sir. I drunk!
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Bangalore's still alive!
I have always maintained that Bangaloreans are a nice lot, though occasionally strange things do happen here. And the city's much-maligned autowallas are a good lot too. I don't remember having met a nasty auto-walla in the city, though all my friends seem to keep bumping into them.
Several times I get into conversation with auto-wallas, though I am not the talkitive type. And I get fundaes from the plusses and minuses of diving Trucks vs. plying autos, to, why not to marry a girl from the city.
Yesterday, I met another zinda-dil autowall. After parking on MG road, we were trying to walk to Purple Haze. Took a wrong right turn, kept walking, and then ultimately had to catch an auto (Though I have been to the place a couple of times I still don't know exactly where it is). 'Purple Haze? Come' said the auto-walla, I had asked him hesistantly, not knowing if he would know where it was. 'Why are you going today, go Saturday evening' he advised me. 'Don't get a place to sit on Saturdays' I said. I like to sit and listen to music, especially music I don't understand. 'People who want to sit should'nt be going there' he said. I have heard that before from friends. Then he gave me further advise. He told me to go to Zero-g on Saturday nights (though I think he called it Zero-B), and he told me of some another new place just opened.
****
A couple of weeks back I had to catch a bus from next to a place called Giria's.
"Ee Giria's yell baratte?" I asked at a paan shop "Where does this Giria's come?"
"Ad yellu baralla saar, neeve hog beku" he said with a straight face, continuing to make a paan, "hogi, hogi." "It does'nt come anywhere sir, you only have to go. Go, go" We had a good laugh. He seemed pretty thrilled with his wit.
0 comments
I have always maintained that Bangaloreans are a nice lot, though occasionally strange things do happen here. And the city's much-maligned autowallas are a good lot too. I don't remember having met a nasty auto-walla in the city, though all my friends seem to keep bumping into them.
Several times I get into conversation with auto-wallas, though I am not the talkitive type. And I get fundaes from the plusses and minuses of diving Trucks vs. plying autos, to, why not to marry a girl from the city.
Yesterday, I met another zinda-dil autowall. After parking on MG road, we were trying to walk to Purple Haze. Took a wrong right turn, kept walking, and then ultimately had to catch an auto (Though I have been to the place a couple of times I still don't know exactly where it is). 'Purple Haze? Come' said the auto-walla, I had asked him hesistantly, not knowing if he would know where it was. 'Why are you going today, go Saturday evening' he advised me. 'Don't get a place to sit on Saturdays' I said. I like to sit and listen to music, especially music I don't understand. 'People who want to sit should'nt be going there' he said. I have heard that before from friends. Then he gave me further advise. He told me to go to Zero-g on Saturday nights (though I think he called it Zero-B), and he told me of some another new place just opened.
****
A couple of weeks back I had to catch a bus from next to a place called Giria's.
"Ee Giria's yell baratte?" I asked at a paan shop "Where does this Giria's come?"
"Ad yellu baralla saar, neeve hog beku" he said with a straight face, continuing to make a paan, "hogi, hogi." "It does'nt come anywhere sir, you only have to go. Go, go" We had a good laugh. He seemed pretty thrilled with his wit.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Though the Times of India is a bad paper overall, its comics setion beats the comics sections of most papers. Beau Peep, Calvin and Hobbes, Between Friends, Wizard of Id, Garfield, Animal Crackers, Peanuts have all been my favourites some time or the other. Dennis the Menace is fairly ok. Only Archies is down right bad.
Anyway that was one paragraph of useless information.
What I wanted to post was this Peanuts Joke I read in Yesterday's paper.
Frame 1: Snoopy is sitting on top of his dog-house typing away on his cute little typewriter in his inimitable style: "It was a dark and stormy night"
Frame 2: The dark haired little girl (I know the names of only three peanuts characters: Snoopy, Charlie Brown and Woodchuck the birdling, wish I knew the names of the rest) takes a look at Snoopy's literary effort and says in her own inimatable style, a look of likeable scepticism on her face, "How can you be so sure?"
Frame 3: Snoopy corrects his opening line "If I remember correctly, it was a dark and stormy night".
Ha ha. How terribly cool!
0 comments
Anyway that was one paragraph of useless information.
What I wanted to post was this Peanuts Joke I read in Yesterday's paper.
Frame 1: Snoopy is sitting on top of his dog-house typing away on his cute little typewriter in his inimitable style: "It was a dark and stormy night"
Frame 2: The dark haired little girl (I know the names of only three peanuts characters: Snoopy, Charlie Brown and Woodchuck the birdling, wish I knew the names of the rest) takes a look at Snoopy's literary effort and says in her own inimatable style, a look of likeable scepticism on her face, "How can you be so sure?"
Frame 3: Snoopy corrects his opening line "If I remember correctly, it was a dark and stormy night".
Ha ha. How terribly cool!
Sunday, July 30, 2006
The world needs many more Gandhijis
Whatever is happening in Lebanon is enough to make a cheerful person cynical, and if you were cynical to start with...
I wish each side (especially one side in the present situation) would remember how they have suffered in the past and think before inflicting pain on the other.
Makes me think of the genius, and courage, of Gandhiji's non-violent satyagraha.
Cynicism can probably be only beaten by kindness. Aggression can only make things worse.
0 comments
Whatever is happening in Lebanon is enough to make a cheerful person cynical, and if you were cynical to start with...
I wish each side (especially one side in the present situation) would remember how they have suffered in the past and think before inflicting pain on the other.
Makes me think of the genius, and courage, of Gandhiji's non-violent satyagraha.
Cynicism can probably be only beaten by kindness. Aggression can only make things worse.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Select jokes from a forward I got sometime ago.
Ha ha!
Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused his dentist's anaesthesia during root canal work? He wanted to transcend dental medication!
A ship carrying blue paint collided with a ship carrying red paint. The crew are believed to be marooned.
There was a man who entered a local paper's pun contest. He sent in ten different puns, in the hope that at least one of the puns would win. Unfortunately, no pun in ten did.
What do you call a boomerang that doesn't work? A stick.
A cement mixer collided with a prison van on the highway. Motorists are asked to be on the lookout for sixteen hardened criminals.
A skeleton walked into a bar and asked for a beer and a mop.
Adam met Eve and turned over a new leaf (Hee hee hee. I really like this one).
All those who believe in psychokinesis, raise my hand.
Elvis is dead, Mozart is dead, Einstein is dead, and I'm not feeling so great myself.
0 comments
Ha ha!
Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused his dentist's anaesthesia during root canal work? He wanted to transcend dental medication!
A ship carrying blue paint collided with a ship carrying red paint. The crew are believed to be marooned.
There was a man who entered a local paper's pun contest. He sent in ten different puns, in the hope that at least one of the puns would win. Unfortunately, no pun in ten did.
What do you call a boomerang that doesn't work? A stick.
A cement mixer collided with a prison van on the highway. Motorists are asked to be on the lookout for sixteen hardened criminals.
A skeleton walked into a bar and asked for a beer and a mop.
Adam met Eve and turned over a new leaf (Hee hee hee. I really like this one).
All those who believe in psychokinesis, raise my hand.
Elvis is dead, Mozart is dead, Einstein is dead, and I'm not feeling so great myself.
Monday, July 03, 2006
How painful it is to tear my thoughts away from Shakuntala
My body moves forward
My restless heart rushes back
Like the silken pennon on the chariot's standard
Borne against the wind.
-From a translation of Kalidas' Abhijnanashakuntalam
Do poets actually feel the emotions about which they write? Or just make them up, simulate them, think of themselves in situations and create (with the aid of a natural artistic temperament) the most aesthetic reaction to the situation? I rather think the latter. The poet is more concerned with his poem, rather than the person, situation or feelings he is describing.
In the old Hindi song, "Maine Shaayad tumhe pehale bhi kahin Dekha hai", the poet praises his sweetheart saying, "Mere sheron se bhi tum mujhko haseen lagati ho." A compliment reeking of self-importance at first glance, but quite an honest, flattering compliment if one thinks again.
0 comments
My body moves forward
My restless heart rushes back
Like the silken pennon on the chariot's standard
Borne against the wind.
-From a translation of Kalidas' Abhijnanashakuntalam
Do poets actually feel the emotions about which they write? Or just make them up, simulate them, think of themselves in situations and create (with the aid of a natural artistic temperament) the most aesthetic reaction to the situation? I rather think the latter. The poet is more concerned with his poem, rather than the person, situation or feelings he is describing.
In the old Hindi song, "Maine Shaayad tumhe pehale bhi kahin Dekha hai", the poet praises his sweetheart saying, "Mere sheron se bhi tum mujhko haseen lagati ho." A compliment reeking of self-importance at first glance, but quite an honest, flattering compliment if one thinks again.
Monday, June 12, 2006
0 comments
Saturday, June 03, 2006
I like to make everyone's day a little more surreal - Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes)
Surreal: Having the intense irrational reality of a dream
I don't think I fully understand the meaning of the word surreal, which is perhaps why I misuse it a lot. But, mostly near project deadlines, under pressure (applied or imagined), with n things calling for attention, and nothing going the way it should, I do feel my life approaching that critical state of uncontrol which I guess could be called surreality. Sometime ago, on a particularly hectic day, a colleague was standing in my cubicle explaining why a circuit was not meeting specification, and suddenly, I, not quite as interested as I aught to have been, suddenly burst into a song from Awaara: 'Hayya Teri Mazdhaar..., hoshiyaar, hoshiyaar.' If you have seen the picturization of that song, boatmen on the river, hanging by the mast, singing to the chorus, you will know how difficult it is to work with that song playing in the back of your mind. It was like Nawab Wajid Ali Shah distractedly holding court (in Shatranj Ke Khiladi) and un-willfully composing a song while some loyal subject of his was presenting his case.
And Fate too has a role to play. A year and half ago, towards the end of project, my bike got stolen. And then followed numerous trips to the police station, insurance people and what not. This year, it is my unwanted pets. What do you do if, after a tiring day, you come home and find a huge beehive suddenly sprung up in your balcony. And next morning when you go downstairs to see if someone will help you burn the beehive down, you see a dog and a bitch at it on the road, the bitch whining intermittently, the dog, nonchalant, as if he were a patient commuter waiting for the bus. And all the workers and the security guards watching the pair with undivided attention...
And to top it all the monsoons. Dark rains in the afternoons, and everything looking so irresistibly beautiful...
0 comments
Surreal: Having the intense irrational reality of a dream
I don't think I fully understand the meaning of the word surreal, which is perhaps why I misuse it a lot. But, mostly near project deadlines, under pressure (applied or imagined), with n things calling for attention, and nothing going the way it should, I do feel my life approaching that critical state of uncontrol which I guess could be called surreality. Sometime ago, on a particularly hectic day, a colleague was standing in my cubicle explaining why a circuit was not meeting specification, and suddenly, I, not quite as interested as I aught to have been, suddenly burst into a song from Awaara: 'Hayya Teri Mazdhaar..., hoshiyaar, hoshiyaar.' If you have seen the picturization of that song, boatmen on the river, hanging by the mast, singing to the chorus, you will know how difficult it is to work with that song playing in the back of your mind. It was like Nawab Wajid Ali Shah distractedly holding court (in Shatranj Ke Khiladi) and un-willfully composing a song while some loyal subject of his was presenting his case.
And Fate too has a role to play. A year and half ago, towards the end of project, my bike got stolen. And then followed numerous trips to the police station, insurance people and what not. This year, it is my unwanted pets. What do you do if, after a tiring day, you come home and find a huge beehive suddenly sprung up in your balcony. And next morning when you go downstairs to see if someone will help you burn the beehive down, you see a dog and a bitch at it on the road, the bitch whining intermittently, the dog, nonchalant, as if he were a patient commuter waiting for the bus. And all the workers and the security guards watching the pair with undivided attention...
And to top it all the monsoons. Dark rains in the afternoons, and everything looking so irresistibly beautiful...
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Garajata barasata saawan aayo re,
Laayo na sang mein hamare bichade balamawa...
- From Barasaat Ki Raat
The rains have started!
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Mallu Mess in the news
The Mallu Mess, which I have, with my own eyes, seen grow from a mess on a narrow street in HAL 2nd stage to a restaurant called 'Kerala Spice' on Airport road, was recently in The Hindu.
I can't help but unilaterally share into some of their pride. Our association has lasted close to three years now, I think. Together we have converted Kilograms of fish into my food. Not to mention all the red rice, the tomatoes, the potatoes, raw mangoes, raw bananas, bitter gourds, beans, lady's fingers, pumpkins, other nameless vegetables, pulses...
On this occasion, I forgive them that they charge me more for the fish (I suspect) because I am their regular customer. I also forgive them the fact that the plates and glasses are never as shiny when I eat there as they were in the picture taken for The Hindu.
Two bitter-sweet past posts on the Mallu Mess are to be found in the archives on this page and this .
Long live the Mallu Mess. My life in Bangalore would never have been so fun without them.
0 comments
The Mallu Mess, which I have, with my own eyes, seen grow from a mess on a narrow street in HAL 2nd stage to a restaurant called 'Kerala Spice' on Airport road, was recently in The Hindu.
I can't help but unilaterally share into some of their pride. Our association has lasted close to three years now, I think. Together we have converted Kilograms of fish into my food. Not to mention all the red rice, the tomatoes, the potatoes, raw mangoes, raw bananas, bitter gourds, beans, lady's fingers, pumpkins, other nameless vegetables, pulses...
On this occasion, I forgive them that they charge me more for the fish (I suspect) because I am their regular customer. I also forgive them the fact that the plates and glasses are never as shiny when I eat there as they were in the picture taken for The Hindu.
Two bitter-sweet past posts on the Mallu Mess are to be found in the archives on this page and this .
Long live the Mallu Mess. My life in Bangalore would never have been so fun without them.
Sujoy
Sujoy Chakravarty has started blogging here . One more poet who can rhyme - one more poet to envy on that account. Nothing like rhyme to set apart verse from prose.
Now I think all Bengalis can rhyme. Som can. Sujoy does. And so does Vikram Seth.
Apart from the poetic streak, which till now I did'nt know he possessed, Sujoy takes great pictures, cooks excellent prawn pulao, plays good football, likes good Whiskey, has a sense of humour, and drives a hard bargain when it comes to design schedules :-) His blog should be fun!
0 comments
Sujoy Chakravarty has started blogging here . One more poet who can rhyme - one more poet to envy on that account. Nothing like rhyme to set apart verse from prose.
Now I think all Bengalis can rhyme. Som can. Sujoy does. And so does Vikram Seth.
Apart from the poetic streak, which till now I did'nt know he possessed, Sujoy takes great pictures, cooks excellent prawn pulao, plays good football, likes good Whiskey, has a sense of humour, and drives a hard bargain when it comes to design schedules :-) His blog should be fun!
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Macbeth
Act I Scene II
Scene II : A relaxed pub in bangalore. Sprawled out, amidst cigarette smoke, on comfortable chairs/sofas, in a quiet corner, are Duncan and Banquo. Banquo is smoking. Whiskey glasses on the table.
(The play's constumes, a suggestion: Instead of modern day work clothes, why not have the same kind of clothes that people in the original Macbeth would have worn - maybe just for the principal characters. Present day setting, present day conversation, present day computers, cell-phones, whiskey glasses, cigarettes, but old day clothes. How about that?)
The scene opens in the middle of a conversation. The conversation has the relaxed deliberation of drunken conversation. Banquo's more so than Duncan's.
Duncan : So you admit you are jealous of Macbeth?
Banquo :
Jealousy's a natural feeling.
God created it along with love, hate, fear, creativity, ambition.
What's wrong with jealousy?
I would rather a friend who was jealous of me,
than a friend that was proud of me.
I would know I was superior.
Jealousy's a form of flattery.
And jealousy if used correctly,
Can lead to introspection, improvement,
For either party.
Jealousy is the first step to competition,
And to hard work, spirit, and human development.
Jealousy's a virtue!
Duncan (who's been chuckling through Banquo's speech): You are drunk! But seriously, I hope you are not jealous of Macbeth.
Banquo :
Duncan, my friend, my boss.
Don't worry.
There won't be ill feeling in your group.
Even if you take Macbeth
from being my report
and make him my equal,
And it's clear that's what you'll do.
I won't crib. I won't be bitter.
And I won't go looking for another job.
And seriously,
I am not jealous of Macbeth.
Though it would help if his wife were not so sexy,
Or if he dressed laughably or kept a funny moustache,
Or had pockmarks on his face,
Was shy of girls,
Or made shabby schematics,
Or if he had not saved my ass and neck,
So obviously, in the project gone by.
Duncan (laughing): Bloody. It's difficult to say when you are serious and when you are joking. But I'll take you at your word. (pause) And let's be Frank he'll do much more good for the group -
Banquo : And hence you...
Duncan - and hence me - if he were given a lot more responsibility. It's time he moved out of your illustrious shadow.
Banquo : No verbal appeasement please. Whiskey will do. (To a waiter): Excuse me! Boss!
Curtain.
0 comments
Act I Scene II
Scene II : A relaxed pub in bangalore. Sprawled out, amidst cigarette smoke, on comfortable chairs/sofas, in a quiet corner, are Duncan and Banquo. Banquo is smoking. Whiskey glasses on the table.
(The play's constumes, a suggestion: Instead of modern day work clothes, why not have the same kind of clothes that people in the original Macbeth would have worn - maybe just for the principal characters. Present day setting, present day conversation, present day computers, cell-phones, whiskey glasses, cigarettes, but old day clothes. How about that?)
The scene opens in the middle of a conversation. The conversation has the relaxed deliberation of drunken conversation. Banquo's more so than Duncan's.
Duncan : So you admit you are jealous of Macbeth?
Banquo :
Jealousy's a natural feeling.
God created it along with love, hate, fear, creativity, ambition.
What's wrong with jealousy?
I would rather a friend who was jealous of me,
than a friend that was proud of me.
I would know I was superior.
Jealousy's a form of flattery.
And jealousy if used correctly,
Can lead to introspection, improvement,
For either party.
Jealousy is the first step to competition,
And to hard work, spirit, and human development.
Jealousy's a virtue!
Duncan (who's been chuckling through Banquo's speech): You are drunk! But seriously, I hope you are not jealous of Macbeth.
Banquo :
Duncan, my friend, my boss.
Don't worry.
There won't be ill feeling in your group.
Even if you take Macbeth
from being my report
and make him my equal,
And it's clear that's what you'll do.
I won't crib. I won't be bitter.
And I won't go looking for another job.
And seriously,
I am not jealous of Macbeth.
Though it would help if his wife were not so sexy,
Or if he dressed laughably or kept a funny moustache,
Or had pockmarks on his face,
Was shy of girls,
Or made shabby schematics,
Or if he had not saved my ass and neck,
So obviously, in the project gone by.
Duncan (laughing): Bloody. It's difficult to say when you are serious and when you are joking. But I'll take you at your word. (pause) And let's be Frank he'll do much more good for the group -
Banquo : And hence you...
Duncan - and hence me - if he were given a lot more responsibility. It's time he moved out of your illustrious shadow.
Banquo : No verbal appeasement please. Whiskey will do. (To a waiter): Excuse me! Boss!
Curtain.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Sa Re Ga Pa Dha Sa
Yesterday afternoon was pleasantly spent. After beer and lunch, Me and Amlendu were watching Shatranj Ke Khiladi at Amlendu's place. I have written about what an excellent movie it is - amazing cast, amazing story, screenplay and narration, amazing direction, amazing costumes, amazing decor, amazing music and dance - especially the Kathak performance played out for Wajid Ali Shah (Amzad Khan) - Kaanha main tose haari, chodo Hari - I think one can watch that movie for that performance alone.
Amlendu was pretty pissed with the way the Nawab and the other nobility of Lucknow, through their languid inaction, allowed the British to usurp Avadh. But I could sympathize with the blokes - all the good food, the good music and the general good life must have had their lulling effect. We ourselves, drunk and well fed, sleepily partaking of the Nawabi lifestyle through the computer screen were hardly the picture of action ourselves.
It was evening, in the movie, and in reality too. The sun was setting on the Nawabi rule in Lucknow and on Vars Notting Hill in Banaswadi, Bangalore. Four or Five Shehnai players sitting under a dome against the red sky were playing - Sa Re Ga Pa Dha Sa , Sa Dha Pa Ga Re Sa - Sa Re Ga Pa Dha Sa , Sa Dha Pa Ga Re Sa. I was thrilled to be able to identify (rightly I hope) the notes of raag Bhopali, last time I saw Satranj ke khiladi the same might have sounded like some complicated tune. Raag Bhopali is an evening raag, and my, did it hit the spot at that moment!
The movie was over soon afterwards, and I came back to my home - just about a flight of stairs away from Amlendu's - hurried to the one room where most of my stuff is, fetched my flute from inside a bag, went out onto the balcony and played out, slowly, Sa Re Ga Pa Dha Sa, Sa Dha Pa Ga Re Sa - over and over again till I was pretty convinced that it was the same tune I had heard in the movie. The dogs of the neighbourhood started started barking but I went on undeterred: Sa Re Ga Pa Dha Sa, Sa Dha Pa Ga Re Sa. Then I played a carnatic varnam in Mohana ragam (Bhopali is called Mohanam in the carnatic style) but the effect was not very pleasing. Would have started on the harmonium and started singing but I had sung myslef hoarse in the morning before lunch. I have Bismilla Khan's raag Bhopali on a casette. Got that out and played it on the tape player.
Lay down in the balcony and enjoyed the music. This was the first time I have been able to identify a Raag being played. Hmm. Life is headed in the right direction.
0 comments
Yesterday afternoon was pleasantly spent. After beer and lunch, Me and Amlendu were watching Shatranj Ke Khiladi at Amlendu's place. I have written about what an excellent movie it is - amazing cast, amazing story, screenplay and narration, amazing direction, amazing costumes, amazing decor, amazing music and dance - especially the Kathak performance played out for Wajid Ali Shah (Amzad Khan) - Kaanha main tose haari, chodo Hari - I think one can watch that movie for that performance alone.
Amlendu was pretty pissed with the way the Nawab and the other nobility of Lucknow, through their languid inaction, allowed the British to usurp Avadh. But I could sympathize with the blokes - all the good food, the good music and the general good life must have had their lulling effect. We ourselves, drunk and well fed, sleepily partaking of the Nawabi lifestyle through the computer screen were hardly the picture of action ourselves.
It was evening, in the movie, and in reality too. The sun was setting on the Nawabi rule in Lucknow and on Vars Notting Hill in Banaswadi, Bangalore. Four or Five Shehnai players sitting under a dome against the red sky were playing - Sa Re Ga Pa Dha Sa , Sa Dha Pa Ga Re Sa - Sa Re Ga Pa Dha Sa , Sa Dha Pa Ga Re Sa. I was thrilled to be able to identify (rightly I hope) the notes of raag Bhopali, last time I saw Satranj ke khiladi the same might have sounded like some complicated tune. Raag Bhopali is an evening raag, and my, did it hit the spot at that moment!
The movie was over soon afterwards, and I came back to my home - just about a flight of stairs away from Amlendu's - hurried to the one room where most of my stuff is, fetched my flute from inside a bag, went out onto the balcony and played out, slowly, Sa Re Ga Pa Dha Sa, Sa Dha Pa Ga Re Sa - over and over again till I was pretty convinced that it was the same tune I had heard in the movie. The dogs of the neighbourhood started started barking but I went on undeterred: Sa Re Ga Pa Dha Sa, Sa Dha Pa Ga Re Sa. Then I played a carnatic varnam in Mohana ragam (Bhopali is called Mohanam in the carnatic style) but the effect was not very pleasing. Would have started on the harmonium and started singing but I had sung myslef hoarse in the morning before lunch. I have Bismilla Khan's raag Bhopali on a casette. Got that out and played it on the tape player.
Lay down in the balcony and enjoyed the music. This was the first time I have been able to identify a Raag being played. Hmm. Life is headed in the right direction.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Macbeth
A play in Five Acts - gross in parts
Warning: This play is the result of indulging a perverse imagination. Indulgence is requested from the reader too.
Dramatis personae (to start with) :
Three male witches - not quite wizards - employees of an IT company.
Macbeth - successful member of the same IT company.
Lady Macbeth - Macbeth's wife.
Banquo - Macbeth's colleague and friend.
Ross - Macbeth's immediate boss.
Mona - hot female member of the same IT company.
Several leaders - senior members of the same IT company.
Duncan - the big boss, the manager of Macbeth's group.
Act I Scene I
Scene I : A break area in the IT company, well past mandatory working hours.
Enter three witches. First witch has a coffee cup in his hand, the second witch has a can of Diet Coke, third witch has an empty water bottle and a bag of potato chips. The witches have a general negative air about them - mostly malice, some envy, some resentment - even if they smile (pleasnatly or otherwise) and crack jokes ( good ones or otherwise). This negativity - as if, despite the ac, it is a humid summer inside their shirts - is to be indicated by body language, costume design and makeup. Some of it, ofcourse, comes out in the dialogue. The break area, quite a cheerful place in the mornings, is dull and dismal at this time of the night, perhaps because of wrong choice of wall colours or unduly bright lighting, and perhaps becuase of careless use by tens of employees during the day.
Third Witch :
Its quite late and the buses are gone,
One is left to the mercy of autos.
Unless of course, y'all like me,
Have well prepared and booked your cabs
First Witch and Second Witch :
Ofcourse we have
Ofcourse we have
Third Witch :
I could hve gone home an hour earlier,
But the prospect of bad food is so repelling,
If I have to eat it I will,
But 'tleast will avoid smelling it cooking,
And till that time will stuff myself,
With these potao chips
First Witch :
And me too, but then I think,
Let me have a few cups more of coffee,
Afore I call't a night,
For at home,
coffee does'nt come
out at the press of a simple button,
And may not be so strong as I like it.
Second Witch :
I like to stick out here and drink my beer,
Though, ofcourse, there's beer at home too,
But beer is more fun in a coke can,
Amidst pleasant company
(the last line said with semi-cordial contempt)
Hey! I mean you!
(pause)
Third Witch : Life's good eh guys?
First Witch : Ofcourse, free coffee.
Second Witch : Okay types money for ill-done work.
Third Witch : Fast internet, though the better ones be blocked.
First Witch : Good toilets kept clean...
Second Witch :...by underpaid blokes who don't know better.
Third Witch : the firing sword hangs on a slim thread though...
(dismal pause)
First Witch :
So what of it?
There's free coffee
In other companies too.
Second Witch (without feeling): I'll miss drinking coke with you guys.
(pause)
Third Witch : Hey! Life's good guys?
First Witch : Ofcourse, free coffee.
Second Witch (sighing with real sadness): But some people have free coffee and more.
Third Witch and First Witch (with gossipy eagerness): Who do you mean? Who do you mean?
Seond Witch: You know!
Third Witch and First Witch (with gossipy eagerness): But still do tell!
Second Witch : Macbeth.
First Witch : Ya, lucky dog.
Third Witch : Stinking rich, lucky dog.
Second Witch :
Just married to a virgin bombshell,
And her father owns half of Bangalore,
Maybe not half, but at-least one percent,
All that money is his,
If only he'd ask.
First Witch :
But apparently he does'nt want any,
He wants only his own money,
Which ofcourse he's making pots of,
In a couple of years they'll make him VP.
Third Witch :
Ha. VP. That's a good one.
Bugger knows his job though.
Second Witch :
And his boss's and maybe his boss's boss's
Not to speak of mine and yours'
Third Witch :
Not to speak of mine and yours'?
Ha. I am sure he takes pains to point that out,
Subtully, as they say it,
To people that matters.
First Witch :
To people that matters.
Ha. To think he joined with us!
Second Witch :
To think he joined with us!
Ha. I am sure he's laughing in his head,
the once-a-while we sit at lunch
together.
(pause)
(pause pause)
Second Witch :
We'll fix the bugger for laughing at us.
Third Witch :
Nah. He's too big now.
What's your plan?
First Witch :
N'thing risky I hope.
Second Witch :
N'thing risky I hope
(Mimicking with contempt)
Na not risky.
But we have'nt much to lose,
Which of us will make it through
Next to next month's performance r'view
Is anybody's guess, anyway.
Third Witch :
So tell it.
Second Witch :
No not tonite.
It's but an idea now.
Let me think it over a couple of beers,
Sitting in the comfort of my sweet-smelling room,
(sweet-smelling said too sweetly - sarcastically)
And it'll be a plan tomorrow.
Have your wits abt you,
And we'll speak of this anon.
(Gets up, stretches. The other follow suit. Exeunt.)
0 comments
A play in Five Acts - gross in parts
Warning: This play is the result of indulging a perverse imagination. Indulgence is requested from the reader too.
Dramatis personae (to start with) :
Three male witches - not quite wizards - employees of an IT company.
Macbeth - successful member of the same IT company.
Lady Macbeth - Macbeth's wife.
Banquo - Macbeth's colleague and friend.
Ross - Macbeth's immediate boss.
Mona - hot female member of the same IT company.
Several leaders - senior members of the same IT company.
Duncan - the big boss, the manager of Macbeth's group.
Act I Scene I
Scene I : A break area in the IT company, well past mandatory working hours.
Enter three witches. First witch has a coffee cup in his hand, the second witch has a can of Diet Coke, third witch has an empty water bottle and a bag of potato chips. The witches have a general negative air about them - mostly malice, some envy, some resentment - even if they smile (pleasnatly or otherwise) and crack jokes ( good ones or otherwise). This negativity - as if, despite the ac, it is a humid summer inside their shirts - is to be indicated by body language, costume design and makeup. Some of it, ofcourse, comes out in the dialogue. The break area, quite a cheerful place in the mornings, is dull and dismal at this time of the night, perhaps because of wrong choice of wall colours or unduly bright lighting, and perhaps becuase of careless use by tens of employees during the day.
Third Witch :
Its quite late and the buses are gone,
One is left to the mercy of autos.
Unless of course, y'all like me,
Have well prepared and booked your cabs
First Witch and Second Witch :
Ofcourse we have
Ofcourse we have
Third Witch :
I could hve gone home an hour earlier,
But the prospect of bad food is so repelling,
If I have to eat it I will,
But 'tleast will avoid smelling it cooking,
And till that time will stuff myself,
With these potao chips
First Witch :
And me too, but then I think,
Let me have a few cups more of coffee,
Afore I call't a night,
For at home,
coffee does'nt come
out at the press of a simple button,
And may not be so strong as I like it.
Second Witch :
I like to stick out here and drink my beer,
Though, ofcourse, there's beer at home too,
But beer is more fun in a coke can,
Amidst pleasant company
(the last line said with semi-cordial contempt)
Hey! I mean you!
(pause)
Third Witch : Life's good eh guys?
First Witch : Ofcourse, free coffee.
Second Witch : Okay types money for ill-done work.
Third Witch : Fast internet, though the better ones be blocked.
First Witch : Good toilets kept clean...
Second Witch :...by underpaid blokes who don't know better.
Third Witch : the firing sword hangs on a slim thread though...
(dismal pause)
First Witch :
So what of it?
There's free coffee
In other companies too.
Second Witch (without feeling): I'll miss drinking coke with you guys.
(pause)
Third Witch : Hey! Life's good guys?
First Witch : Ofcourse, free coffee.
Second Witch (sighing with real sadness): But some people have free coffee and more.
Third Witch and First Witch (with gossipy eagerness): Who do you mean? Who do you mean?
Seond Witch: You know!
Third Witch and First Witch (with gossipy eagerness): But still do tell!
Second Witch : Macbeth.
First Witch : Ya, lucky dog.
Third Witch : Stinking rich, lucky dog.
Second Witch :
Just married to a virgin bombshell,
And her father owns half of Bangalore,
Maybe not half, but at-least one percent,
All that money is his,
If only he'd ask.
First Witch :
But apparently he does'nt want any,
He wants only his own money,
Which ofcourse he's making pots of,
In a couple of years they'll make him VP.
Third Witch :
Ha. VP. That's a good one.
Bugger knows his job though.
Second Witch :
And his boss's and maybe his boss's boss's
Not to speak of mine and yours'
Third Witch :
Not to speak of mine and yours'?
Ha. I am sure he takes pains to point that out,
Subtully, as they say it,
To people that matters.
First Witch :
To people that matters.
Ha. To think he joined with us!
Second Witch :
To think he joined with us!
Ha. I am sure he's laughing in his head,
the once-a-while we sit at lunch
together.
(pause)
(pause pause)
Second Witch :
We'll fix the bugger for laughing at us.
Third Witch :
Nah. He's too big now.
What's your plan?
First Witch :
N'thing risky I hope.
Second Witch :
N'thing risky I hope
(Mimicking with contempt)
Na not risky.
But we have'nt much to lose,
Which of us will make it through
Next to next month's performance r'view
Is anybody's guess, anyway.
Third Witch :
So tell it.
Second Witch :
No not tonite.
It's but an idea now.
Let me think it over a couple of beers,
Sitting in the comfort of my sweet-smelling room,
(sweet-smelling said too sweetly - sarcastically)
And it'll be a plan tomorrow.
Have your wits abt you,
And we'll speak of this anon.
(Gets up, stretches. The other follow suit. Exeunt.)
Saturday, April 01, 2006
A Tiger for the occasion
A sher by Allama Iqbal which often comes to my mind when I stray into introspection.
Shauq ki deewanagee tai kar gai kitne makaam
Akl jis manzil pe thi, ab tak usi manzil mein hai
The madness of fancy (fantasy?) has crossed all barriers
Wisdom (good sense?) has not made much progress still
A sprouting wisdom tooth has made useless the left part of my mouth - not enjoying my food as much as might have. And everytime I think of the 'wisdom' tooth that is coming I think of the sher again.
0 comments
A sher by Allama Iqbal which often comes to my mind when I stray into introspection.
Shauq ki deewanagee tai kar gai kitne makaam
Akl jis manzil pe thi, ab tak usi manzil mein hai
The madness of fancy (fantasy?) has crossed all barriers
Wisdom (good sense?) has not made much progress still
A sprouting wisdom tooth has made useless the left part of my mouth - not enjoying my food as much as might have. And everytime I think of the 'wisdom' tooth that is coming I think of the sher again.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Rejection Slip - Part I
Dear Mr Kamath,
Thank you for sending me the stories 'The Abandoned House' and 'Hide and Seek' for publication in Tinkle. The stories have been written well, but they do not suit our editorial requirements. I would like you to send me stories that can be scripted in the comics' format and which children would enjoy.
With best wishes,
Editor
Hide and Seek
Clarification: This story was written and submitted in Oct 2004, more than a year and a half ago.
It was 10 O' Clock on a Summer Day. The breakfasts had been eaten. The milk had been drunk. There was nothing else to do but to set out to Harish's house to play Hide and Seek.
When Anil and Gayu got to 'the adda' (the filmi nick name of Harish's house), the rest of their 'Hide and Seek' gang was already there. There were Smita and Rohan and Shashi and Amit and Ramya. There was Harish, whose house it was, his sister Jayu and his very little brother Santhosh.
Anil and Gayu made some space and sat down. Anil had to shift yesterday's paper from the chair onto the teapoy and Gayu had to readjust some laundry on the sofa.
Harish's house was a mess. Clothes, newspapers, toys, plastic covers lay haphazardly about. Everything smelled unclean. The dining table which lay on the far side of the drawing room was covered with the remnants of that morning's breakfast. The whirring overhead fan, set at '5', made matters worse by scattering the lighter things about.
Harish's parents both worked and this shabby state was the result of a frenzied 'getting ready' in the morning. The shabby state would remain till the maid came after noon to fix it.
The kids, of course, could not mind the mess less. They were thankful for a adult-free house, however shabby,to noisily play their hide-and-seek in.
An active discussion was now going on. Rohan calimed he was bored with hide-and-seek and wanted to play cricket instead. Ramya wanted to bring her new carom-board and play carom. All the rest, however, wanted to continue playing hide-and-seek. They were, in a way, getting addicted to it. They had been playing the game, daily, for over a fortnight now. Most of them usually came prepared, with a well-thought out game-plan and a mental list of the best hiding places.
The deadlock continued for a long time.
Gayu sought to strike a compromise. "Why don't we do this?" she said, "Let us play Hide and Seek today since the majority wants it and since that was the orignial plan, but the minority should not be made to suffer just because they are the minority so tomorrow we can play cricket, and carrom the day after." This made sense. All Ramya and Rohan wanted was a break in the Hide and Seek tradition. They didn't mind waiting another day or two.
So the game began. The toss followed the usual method. Palms of right hands came together, left in Rohan's case, rested on top of each other for a half second, then were quickly thrown into the air, then came back down again in the middle with each palm facing up or down according to the owner's random choice. Whichever side, up or down, was in majority, was considered 'vicotrious' and the minority contested in the next round. If only two people remained in the end, a dummy palm was borrowed from someone who had already won.
Amit became 'It'. Anyone else would have been sad to start out as 'It' but Amit did not mind. He knew he could find everyone out easily. His strategy was to count softy and listen as he counted. Creating hiding places was sometimes a noisy business and these noises gave peple away. Like when Anil had climbed on to the kitchen loft, and used the kitchen tap for a foothold, he had turned the tap on slightly so it dripped. Amit had found Anil out in no time at all. Amit usually even calculated and anticipated his way out of being 'It' during the toss. But today somehow his calculations seemed to have gone wrong, even backfired perhaps.
"96..97..98..99..100! I am coming" shouted Amit striking terror amongst the hiding hearts. His booming voice made them squirm in their hiding places and give themselves away. "Ah the laundry pile seems to move a bit. Let me see who's inside. Shashi out. Anil under the sofa. Out. Santhosh are you playing or not? Out. Someone is behind the door there (He pressed the door gently eliciting a reluctant, recognizable, 'ouch') Rohan Out. Harish under the bed out. Jayu behind suicase. Out. Ramya out. I saw your yellow dupatta. Too late to change hiding places. Smita clever comouflage among the quilts. Out. Steel drum. Gayu out. Who's left? No one. Good."
Amit had systematically moved from the hall to the bathroom, clearing the places closest to the hall first. For he wanted to eliminate all danger closer to the 'It-place' which was in the hall, under the switchboard, where he had counted till hundred earler. If someone made it to the 'It-place' before he was found out, then the 'It' continued to be 'It' for one more round.
Not only did he catch everyone he also caught them in their hiding places and shouted these out for everyone's benefit making their reuse difficult. Smita was chafing. She had especially chosen the blue churidar for use as camouflage. It was risky choosing your best hiding places against Amit, but if anyone was worth using the best hiding place against, it was he.
Shashi, who had been found out first, had to be 'It' now. He walked sadly to the switchboard. He was a terrible 'It'. The game continued. Shashi was 'It' three times. In the third he decided that enough was enough. He refused to venture too far from the switchboard. Everyone was frustrated into taking risks and hence getting themselves out. Ramya, Rohan, Harish, Smita, Gayu all became 'It' eventually. Anil never was caught first, because he always lay low before at least one other person had been found out. Then he made bold, often successful attacks on the 'It-place'. In the end when Shashi became It one more time, he became rather sad. His eyes welled up and he was on the verge of breaking down. They decided to stop.
There was another reason for stopping. Harish's neighbour, Mrs D'Souza's, all-white, furry cat, Casper had appeared at the door. Everyone took turns at petting her.
"Why not hide Casper and include her in our hide-and-seek" said Smita with sudden, evil, inspiration. "Mrs D'Souza feeds him at noon everyday and she'll wonder where he is gone"
Mrs D'Souza was not very sociable. She did not speak much to any children in the colony, nor did any children speak much to her. She wore spectacles and always seemed to look at the children with a contemptuos smirk which seemed to dare one and all to cross paths with her.
Amit took up Smita's suggestion immediately. "What a great idea" he said, "A new kind of hide and seek. Mrs D'Souza can be 'It for life' - atleast for as long as the game lasts. I am sure Shashi will like that, won't you Shashi?"
Sashi did not say anything. Though he was not so sad now.
"But where will you hide her?" asked Ramya who liked this new Hide-and-Seek too. "She hardly sits still for a while. And she keeps mewing all the time."
Rohan had an inspiration. "Let's go on a quick picnic and take Casper along. Near the old jail, in the Nilgiri grove"
"What a great idea" Amit said again. He decided quickly, "Harish check if there is any stuff in your fridge?"
There was. A lot of leftover pudeena chutney - which makes for great sandwiches. The problem was solved. There were tomatoes and cucumber and ketchup but no bread.
"I will go and get some from Ganeshpur" said Harish who had a cycle, "You guys start walking, I will join you."
The tomatoes, and cucumbers and chutney packed, spoons, knives, water bottles ready, they set out. Casper was being a trouble and wouldn't let anyone pick her up, she kept squirming and mewing and she was quite heavy too. They had to entice her to walk along using a bit of leftover fish from the fridge (Anil's brilliant idea). They didn't give it to her but carried it along in a plastic cover. She followed easily.
It was unbearably hot outside and they were all sweating in five minutes. But it would be cooler once they got amongst the Nilgiri trees. Harish did not join them until they had almost reached the old jail. He was sweating copiously and drank up half a water bottle.
The Nilgiri farm had been densly planted and it was quite cool there. A light breeze had started. The smell of Niligiri was soothing too. They all sat down on a big bedsheet that had been brought from Harish's house. Harish's mom would be mad, but chances were that she would never find out. They were all enjoying their cucumber-pudeena sandwiches and Casper was chewing contentedly on her hard-earned fish when Santhosh's absence was suddenly noticed.
Harish immediately panicked since Santhosh was his responsibility. Someone suggested that Santhosh might have atlast got the drift of hide-and-seek and must be hiding around somewhere. A frantic search was undertaken, but no Santhosh. Harish got mad at Jayu who had to, naturally, take care of Santhosh when Harish himself was not around. Jayu's calm made him even angrier.
Ramya suggested that perhaps Santhosh had never come on the picnic. He might still be in the colony. This seemed plausible - no one seemed to remember Santhosh walking with them.
The picnic was wound up quickly and everyone started for home. Harish zipped back ahead on his cycle.
AS he neared his house at full speed, he was relieved to see Santhosh with Mrs D'Souza in her Veranda. He hurriedly parked his back, forgot his inhibitions and walked straight through the gate. "We were looking for him" he said to Mrs D'Souza "We had gone on a picnic". He was panting.
"He must have forgotten to go with you" said Mrs D'Souza with a rare smile, a chuckle almost. "He was hungry so I gave him some milk. Have you seen Casper anywhere, my Cat?"
Harish went red in the face. "In fact I did Aunty" he said "She came with us on the picnic." He wondered if there was anyway Mrs D'Souza would find out that Casper had had illicit fish. He was relieved that when Casper came back with the other children, she did not have a bone or two in her mouth.
Mrs D'Souza invited them all inside. Harish drank another half-bottle of water. Then Mrs D'Souza made chocolate milk shake for them all. After that they decided that she was quite nice.
0 comments
Dear Mr Kamath,
Thank you for sending me the stories 'The Abandoned House' and 'Hide and Seek' for publication in Tinkle. The stories have been written well, but they do not suit our editorial requirements. I would like you to send me stories that can be scripted in the comics' format and which children would enjoy.
With best wishes,
Editor
Hide and Seek
Clarification: This story was written and submitted in Oct 2004, more than a year and a half ago.
It was 10 O' Clock on a Summer Day. The breakfasts had been eaten. The milk had been drunk. There was nothing else to do but to set out to Harish's house to play Hide and Seek.
When Anil and Gayu got to 'the adda' (the filmi nick name of Harish's house), the rest of their 'Hide and Seek' gang was already there. There were Smita and Rohan and Shashi and Amit and Ramya. There was Harish, whose house it was, his sister Jayu and his very little brother Santhosh.
Anil and Gayu made some space and sat down. Anil had to shift yesterday's paper from the chair onto the teapoy and Gayu had to readjust some laundry on the sofa.
Harish's house was a mess. Clothes, newspapers, toys, plastic covers lay haphazardly about. Everything smelled unclean. The dining table which lay on the far side of the drawing room was covered with the remnants of that morning's breakfast. The whirring overhead fan, set at '5', made matters worse by scattering the lighter things about.
Harish's parents both worked and this shabby state was the result of a frenzied 'getting ready' in the morning. The shabby state would remain till the maid came after noon to fix it.
The kids, of course, could not mind the mess less. They were thankful for a adult-free house, however shabby,to noisily play their hide-and-seek in.
An active discussion was now going on. Rohan calimed he was bored with hide-and-seek and wanted to play cricket instead. Ramya wanted to bring her new carom-board and play carom. All the rest, however, wanted to continue playing hide-and-seek. They were, in a way, getting addicted to it. They had been playing the game, daily, for over a fortnight now. Most of them usually came prepared, with a well-thought out game-plan and a mental list of the best hiding places.
The deadlock continued for a long time.
Gayu sought to strike a compromise. "Why don't we do this?" she said, "Let us play Hide and Seek today since the majority wants it and since that was the orignial plan, but the minority should not be made to suffer just because they are the minority so tomorrow we can play cricket, and carrom the day after." This made sense. All Ramya and Rohan wanted was a break in the Hide and Seek tradition. They didn't mind waiting another day or two.
So the game began. The toss followed the usual method. Palms of right hands came together, left in Rohan's case, rested on top of each other for a half second, then were quickly thrown into the air, then came back down again in the middle with each palm facing up or down according to the owner's random choice. Whichever side, up or down, was in majority, was considered 'vicotrious' and the minority contested in the next round. If only two people remained in the end, a dummy palm was borrowed from someone who had already won.
Amit became 'It'. Anyone else would have been sad to start out as 'It' but Amit did not mind. He knew he could find everyone out easily. His strategy was to count softy and listen as he counted. Creating hiding places was sometimes a noisy business and these noises gave peple away. Like when Anil had climbed on to the kitchen loft, and used the kitchen tap for a foothold, he had turned the tap on slightly so it dripped. Amit had found Anil out in no time at all. Amit usually even calculated and anticipated his way out of being 'It' during the toss. But today somehow his calculations seemed to have gone wrong, even backfired perhaps.
"96..97..98..99..100! I am coming" shouted Amit striking terror amongst the hiding hearts. His booming voice made them squirm in their hiding places and give themselves away. "Ah the laundry pile seems to move a bit. Let me see who's inside. Shashi out. Anil under the sofa. Out. Santhosh are you playing or not? Out. Someone is behind the door there (He pressed the door gently eliciting a reluctant, recognizable, 'ouch') Rohan Out. Harish under the bed out. Jayu behind suicase. Out. Ramya out. I saw your yellow dupatta. Too late to change hiding places. Smita clever comouflage among the quilts. Out. Steel drum. Gayu out. Who's left? No one. Good."
Amit had systematically moved from the hall to the bathroom, clearing the places closest to the hall first. For he wanted to eliminate all danger closer to the 'It-place' which was in the hall, under the switchboard, where he had counted till hundred earler. If someone made it to the 'It-place' before he was found out, then the 'It' continued to be 'It' for one more round.
Not only did he catch everyone he also caught them in their hiding places and shouted these out for everyone's benefit making their reuse difficult. Smita was chafing. She had especially chosen the blue churidar for use as camouflage. It was risky choosing your best hiding places against Amit, but if anyone was worth using the best hiding place against, it was he.
Shashi, who had been found out first, had to be 'It' now. He walked sadly to the switchboard. He was a terrible 'It'. The game continued. Shashi was 'It' three times. In the third he decided that enough was enough. He refused to venture too far from the switchboard. Everyone was frustrated into taking risks and hence getting themselves out. Ramya, Rohan, Harish, Smita, Gayu all became 'It' eventually. Anil never was caught first, because he always lay low before at least one other person had been found out. Then he made bold, often successful attacks on the 'It-place'. In the end when Shashi became It one more time, he became rather sad. His eyes welled up and he was on the verge of breaking down. They decided to stop.
There was another reason for stopping. Harish's neighbour, Mrs D'Souza's, all-white, furry cat, Casper had appeared at the door. Everyone took turns at petting her.
"Why not hide Casper and include her in our hide-and-seek" said Smita with sudden, evil, inspiration. "Mrs D'Souza feeds him at noon everyday and she'll wonder where he is gone"
Mrs D'Souza was not very sociable. She did not speak much to any children in the colony, nor did any children speak much to her. She wore spectacles and always seemed to look at the children with a contemptuos smirk which seemed to dare one and all to cross paths with her.
Amit took up Smita's suggestion immediately. "What a great idea" he said, "A new kind of hide and seek. Mrs D'Souza can be 'It for life' - atleast for as long as the game lasts. I am sure Shashi will like that, won't you Shashi?"
Sashi did not say anything. Though he was not so sad now.
"But where will you hide her?" asked Ramya who liked this new Hide-and-Seek too. "She hardly sits still for a while. And she keeps mewing all the time."
Rohan had an inspiration. "Let's go on a quick picnic and take Casper along. Near the old jail, in the Nilgiri grove"
"What a great idea" Amit said again. He decided quickly, "Harish check if there is any stuff in your fridge?"
There was. A lot of leftover pudeena chutney - which makes for great sandwiches. The problem was solved. There were tomatoes and cucumber and ketchup but no bread.
"I will go and get some from Ganeshpur" said Harish who had a cycle, "You guys start walking, I will join you."
The tomatoes, and cucumbers and chutney packed, spoons, knives, water bottles ready, they set out. Casper was being a trouble and wouldn't let anyone pick her up, she kept squirming and mewing and she was quite heavy too. They had to entice her to walk along using a bit of leftover fish from the fridge (Anil's brilliant idea). They didn't give it to her but carried it along in a plastic cover. She followed easily.
It was unbearably hot outside and they were all sweating in five minutes. But it would be cooler once they got amongst the Nilgiri trees. Harish did not join them until they had almost reached the old jail. He was sweating copiously and drank up half a water bottle.
The Nilgiri farm had been densly planted and it was quite cool there. A light breeze had started. The smell of Niligiri was soothing too. They all sat down on a big bedsheet that had been brought from Harish's house. Harish's mom would be mad, but chances were that she would never find out. They were all enjoying their cucumber-pudeena sandwiches and Casper was chewing contentedly on her hard-earned fish when Santhosh's absence was suddenly noticed.
Harish immediately panicked since Santhosh was his responsibility. Someone suggested that Santhosh might have atlast got the drift of hide-and-seek and must be hiding around somewhere. A frantic search was undertaken, but no Santhosh. Harish got mad at Jayu who had to, naturally, take care of Santhosh when Harish himself was not around. Jayu's calm made him even angrier.
Ramya suggested that perhaps Santhosh had never come on the picnic. He might still be in the colony. This seemed plausible - no one seemed to remember Santhosh walking with them.
The picnic was wound up quickly and everyone started for home. Harish zipped back ahead on his cycle.
AS he neared his house at full speed, he was relieved to see Santhosh with Mrs D'Souza in her Veranda. He hurriedly parked his back, forgot his inhibitions and walked straight through the gate. "We were looking for him" he said to Mrs D'Souza "We had gone on a picnic". He was panting.
"He must have forgotten to go with you" said Mrs D'Souza with a rare smile, a chuckle almost. "He was hungry so I gave him some milk. Have you seen Casper anywhere, my Cat?"
Harish went red in the face. "In fact I did Aunty" he said "She came with us on the picnic." He wondered if there was anyway Mrs D'Souza would find out that Casper had had illicit fish. He was relieved that when Casper came back with the other children, she did not have a bone or two in her mouth.
Mrs D'Souza invited them all inside. Harish drank another half-bottle of water. Then Mrs D'Souza made chocolate milk shake for them all. After that they decided that she was quite nice.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Robbery in Bank Colony
The illustrated version (courtesy TINKLE) of the story I had posted some months ago -on 27th April 2005 to be precise.
When I had gone to Kolatta in December - to Som's wedding reception - on the way back, at the airport we were timepass browsing in the bookstall when I picked up a TINKLE and lo! it had my story in it. Felt really good. Needless to say bought the book on the spot. And two other issues of TINKLE for good measure.
Later when I went home my sister was telling me that when she went to the beauty parlour she saw a kid reading my story - my sister proudly told the kid that her brother had written the story.
Its a nice feeling knowing that thousands of kids (and maybe some adults) all over India and the world are reading something I wrote. I have yet to receive any fan mail though :-)
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The illustrated version (courtesy TINKLE) of the story I had posted some months ago -on 27th April 2005 to be precise.
When I had gone to Kolatta in December - to Som's wedding reception - on the way back, at the airport we were timepass browsing in the bookstall when I picked up a TINKLE and lo! it had my story in it. Felt really good. Needless to say bought the book on the spot. And two other issues of TINKLE for good measure.
Later when I went home my sister was telling me that when she went to the beauty parlour she saw a kid reading my story - my sister proudly told the kid that her brother had written the story.
Its a nice feeling knowing that thousands of kids (and maybe some adults) all over India and the world are reading something I wrote. I have yet to receive any fan mail though :-)
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
There is nothing death-like about dead fish. Maybe because they don't have arms or legs or feathers or fur, their bodies are so continuous , so firm, so compact, like fruits or vegetables. Maybe because they don't have a tongue to stick out. Oh yes, and probably because they don't shut their eyes in death. And maybe because of their stainless-steel gleam, the glossy exterior - not to be seen in birds or animals - caused by millions of years of continuous washing.
Even dried fish look so aesthetic, they look as if someone crafted them out of porous, flaky wood. Not at all like mummified dead bodies. And the eyes just don't die.
These days whenever I go home I make it a point to visit the fish market, and there see these basketfuls of fish gleaming silver in the sun. Fish of all shapes and sizes and some with such exotic patterns on them that you wonder what need of natural camouflage might have necessiated that evolution. Nothing thrills me so much as the sight of a Pompfret and not just because I might be able to eat it.
Anyways here's the painting that inspired this post: Van Gough's Still Life With Mackerels, Lemons and Tomatoes . One of the two fish does look a bit dead, I admit, because Van Gough has placed it upside down and put its mouth open.
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Even dried fish look so aesthetic, they look as if someone crafted them out of porous, flaky wood. Not at all like mummified dead bodies. And the eyes just don't die.
These days whenever I go home I make it a point to visit the fish market, and there see these basketfuls of fish gleaming silver in the sun. Fish of all shapes and sizes and some with such exotic patterns on them that you wonder what need of natural camouflage might have necessiated that evolution. Nothing thrills me so much as the sight of a Pompfret and not just because I might be able to eat it.
Anyways here's the painting that inspired this post: Van Gough's Still Life With Mackerels, Lemons and Tomatoes . One of the two fish does look a bit dead, I admit, because Van Gough has placed it upside down and put its mouth open.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Made my morning
LOOKING FOR FLAT MATE semi-screams an ad on the notice board on our floor. An innocent title at first glance but then Hey! What was that again !??
What a difference a hyphen can make.
0 comments
LOOKING FOR FLAT MATE semi-screams an ad on the notice board on our floor. An innocent title at first glance but then Hey! What was that again !??
What a difference a hyphen can make.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Jahan tera naqsh-e-kadam dekhate hain
khayabaan, khayabaan iram, dekhate hain
To be sung to an UrduFarsi-knowing sweetheart on the beach - Whereever, I see your footprints, sweetheart, I see but the gardens of heaven.
Tamasha! Ke ai mahaw-e-aainadaari
Tujhe kis tamanna se ham dekhate hain
This one's a gem. If even you look at yourself so much in the mirror, sweetheart, imagine how much (with what desire) I should feel like looking at you.
Banakar fakiiron ka ham-vesh 'Ghalib'
Tamasha-e-ahl-e-karam dekhate hain
I go about like a beggar (of love?) O Ghalib, just so I can see the odd ways of the 'kind-hearted'.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
The Sun God is Under-rated...
Maybe because he will do whatever he does whether you ask him or not. Or maybe because he is so impartial and you can't get him to do any differential good or bad. We have all taken him, quite reasonably, for granted. Thankfully he is too large-hearted to mind. But just imagine, all activity - right from the growing of food to the fabrication of semiconductors, music to motor sports, kuchi-koos to heartbreaks, booker winners to idle blog entries - evvvvverything - all activity on earth (and on Mars too) being root caused by, prime moved by, one big, fat, yellow ball of gas. What an amazing cause and effect relationship. And this all powerful God, obviously more powerful than that phony God-of-gods Indra, condescends to look like a small red coin above the water, or like the profile eye of a bird with conjunctivitis, every evening all along the west coast so that you can look him, as it were, in the eye. What a nice God.
One of the (non-woman) things on my long term to-do (wish-)list is a set of Surya-namaskars to the rising sun. If only the sun rose from the west once in a while.
Please don't mind the hurt to your sensibilities arising out of the reading of any part of this post. It's all meant in good humour and in good faith.
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Maybe because he will do whatever he does whether you ask him or not. Or maybe because he is so impartial and you can't get him to do any differential good or bad. We have all taken him, quite reasonably, for granted. Thankfully he is too large-hearted to mind. But just imagine, all activity - right from the growing of food to the fabrication of semiconductors, music to motor sports, kuchi-koos to heartbreaks, booker winners to idle blog entries - evvvvverything - all activity on earth (and on Mars too) being root caused by, prime moved by, one big, fat, yellow ball of gas. What an amazing cause and effect relationship. And this all powerful God, obviously more powerful than that phony God-of-gods Indra, condescends to look like a small red coin above the water, or like the profile eye of a bird with conjunctivitis, every evening all along the west coast so that you can look him, as it were, in the eye. What a nice God.
One of the (non-woman) things on my long term to-do (wish-)list is a set of Surya-namaskars to the rising sun. If only the sun rose from the west once in a while.
Please don't mind the hurt to your sensibilities arising out of the reading of any part of this post. It's all meant in good humour and in good faith.
Monday, December 05, 2005
One less book to write
Found a pleasant surprise at Crossword yesterday. Love Sonnets of Ghalib by Dr. Sarfarz K Niazi, Rupa publishers. It has quite a lot of Ghalib's ghazals - all of them, if I am lucky - first in the Urdu script, then the English transliteration, then the meanings of difficult words, then an English translation and then a paragraph of explanation and annotation. Exactly the kind of book I was going to write :-).
Found two Ghazals by Ghalib whose lyrics I had been hunting for: Sad jalwa ru-ba-ru hai joh and Naqsh Fariyaadi hai kiski shauki-e-teharir ka . When I first saw the book (and saw the price) I decided that if Sad jalwa was in it then I was going to buy it.
Expect lot more Ghalib ghazals on this blog. Though the translations will still be mine :-)
0 comments
Found a pleasant surprise at Crossword yesterday. Love Sonnets of Ghalib by Dr. Sarfarz K Niazi, Rupa publishers. It has quite a lot of Ghalib's ghazals - all of them, if I am lucky - first in the Urdu script, then the English transliteration, then the meanings of difficult words, then an English translation and then a paragraph of explanation and annotation. Exactly the kind of book I was going to write :-).
Found two Ghazals by Ghalib whose lyrics I had been hunting for: Sad jalwa ru-ba-ru hai joh and Naqsh Fariyaadi hai kiski shauki-e-teharir ka . When I first saw the book (and saw the price) I decided that if Sad jalwa was in it then I was going to buy it.
Expect lot more Ghalib ghazals on this blog. Though the translations will still be mine :-)
Sunday, November 20, 2005
From Silsila
In the movie Silsila, right after the Holi song 'Rang barase...', Amitabh is washing off the 'rang' in the bathtub when Jaya chides him for his mindless behaviour during the song etc. That is when Amitabh recites this wonderful sher about 'aql' and 'dil':
Acha hai dil ke saath rahe paasbaan-e-aql
Lekin kabhi kabhi ise tanha bhi chod de
paasbaan = guard, sentinel
I have been trying to recall this sher for quite some time now. Infinite Google searches went in vain, till a sudden memory reminded me that the sher ended with 'tanha bhi chod de' and not with 'akela bhi chod de'. I had been searching with the wrong key words.
Perhaps akela (alone) in the sher would have done too. But tanha (lonely) is better. It adds another dimension to the sher, mocking the presumptuousness of aql in assuming that dil, in its loneliness, would want aql's company.
1 comments
In the movie Silsila, right after the Holi song 'Rang barase...', Amitabh is washing off the 'rang' in the bathtub when Jaya chides him for his mindless behaviour during the song etc. That is when Amitabh recites this wonderful sher about 'aql' and 'dil':
Acha hai dil ke saath rahe paasbaan-e-aql
Lekin kabhi kabhi ise tanha bhi chod de
paasbaan = guard, sentinel
I have been trying to recall this sher for quite some time now. Infinite Google searches went in vain, till a sudden memory reminded me that the sher ended with 'tanha bhi chod de' and not with 'akela bhi chod de'. I had been searching with the wrong key words.
Perhaps akela (alone) in the sher would have done too. But tanha (lonely) is better. It adds another dimension to the sher, mocking the presumptuousness of aql in assuming that dil, in its loneliness, would want aql's company.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Om Namah Shivaya
A couple of posts ago, I had talked about a scanned image of a photograph of a batik painting of Lord Shiva. Here it is.
It is a from a picture postcard purchased at the Aurobindo ashram in Pondichery. At the back it says, "'A Timeless Light is in his hidden eyes' - Sri Aurobindo, Savitri " . You might have to maximize your browser window so that the image does'nt overlap with the list of archives on the right.
Saw an excellent play yesterday: 'Seema Paar' by National School of Drama performed at Ranga Shankara, Bangalore. It had all the ingredients that, I feel, are necessary to make a good play: drama, humour, wit, aesthetics (especially literary) and music. The play was centered around Bharatendu Harishchandra, who, I learnt, was a great 19th century Hindi playright and poet. Snatches of Bharatendu's work were used in the play and to great effect. If a play about Bharatendu can be so good, how good his own plays be?
There were innummerable references to Shiva throughout the play (hence the scanned image with this post). The fact that the play was set in Kasi itself implied that every other sentence involved Bholenath, Vishwanath, Nataraj etc...And then there was a drama troupe (within the play) which, under Bharatendu's supervision was staging a festival of his (Bharatendu's) plays. During their practice and preparations there were atleast two invocations to Lord Shiva. It reminded me of the invocations to Shiva in Kalidasa's plays (see Jan 19th,2005 post below). Plus the fact that the play was being staged at Ranga 'Shankara'. Shiva and drama do go well with each other. After all, he is Nataraja, the king of the performing arts.
0 comments
A couple of posts ago, I had talked about a scanned image of a photograph of a batik painting of Lord Shiva. Here it is.
It is a from a picture postcard purchased at the Aurobindo ashram in Pondichery. At the back it says, "'A Timeless Light is in his hidden eyes' - Sri Aurobindo, Savitri " . You might have to maximize your browser window so that the image does'nt overlap with the list of archives on the right.
Saw an excellent play yesterday: 'Seema Paar' by National School of Drama performed at Ranga Shankara, Bangalore. It had all the ingredients that, I feel, are necessary to make a good play: drama, humour, wit, aesthetics (especially literary) and music. The play was centered around Bharatendu Harishchandra, who, I learnt, was a great 19th century Hindi playright and poet. Snatches of Bharatendu's work were used in the play and to great effect. If a play about Bharatendu can be so good, how good his own plays be?
There were innummerable references to Shiva throughout the play (hence the scanned image with this post). The fact that the play was set in Kasi itself implied that every other sentence involved Bholenath, Vishwanath, Nataraj etc...And then there was a drama troupe (within the play) which, under Bharatendu's supervision was staging a festival of his (Bharatendu's) plays. During their practice and preparations there were atleast two invocations to Lord Shiva. It reminded me of the invocations to Shiva in Kalidasa's plays (see Jan 19th,2005 post below). Plus the fact that the play was being staged at Ranga 'Shankara'. Shiva and drama do go well with each other. After all, he is Nataraja, the king of the performing arts.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Picture Postcards
Words speak better than pictures.
One.
This happened the last time I went home which was less than two weeks back. I was sitting at my recently discovered favourite place, by the railway tracks. There was the sound of tracks being shunted. A train. An unexpected surprise. (Why unexpected you might ask, after all its a railway track you are sitting next to! Well ask!) I waited for the familiar passenger train with affectedly interested looking passengers. You were a strange unknown person to them if they saw you. They were strange unknown people to you if you saw them. (When they taught us relative-speed in school by giving examples of an observer inside and outside a train, you know, they could have made a much more profound job of it.) So I waited for a passenger train.
I saw the engine emerge, then next I seemed to see a truck. Before my mind could compute that this was perhaps a Goods train, I saw another truck. Before I could capture that both the first truck and this one were loaded with goods - tarpaulin, ropes and all - I saw the third truck. (I am not particularly slow-headed but one must remember it was a moving train). By the time I saw the fourth, fifth and sixth trucks I had realized that these were just trucks being ferried across a short distance by Konkan Rail - in order to avoid the time, distance and cost of negotiating the western ghats. I also observed that the drivers were sitting in the drivers' seats (respectively).
More trucks came and went. The whole thing resolved in my mind, I was able to relax, watch, and smile at the rest of the sight without any further thinking.
Two.
I was going to office early. It had rained before and all the roads were freshly washed (away). There was a semi-mist around and the air was fresh. As I prepared to go around the circle, I saw the Ambassador parked on the side. The bonnet was up and smoke/steam was coming out of it. Someone had his head inside the bonnet and was trying to fix whatever had gone wrong.
On the glass behind (the peeche-wala windshield, don't know what it is called) was painted 'Pleasant Travels'.
Three.
The self-service x-Sagar restaurant was crowded. I bought a coupon for tea and went there at the service window/counter and thrust my hand through trying, to shove the coupon below the nose of one of those guys on the other side. Lots of other people were trying to do similar things with their coupons. There were others who had already handed in their coupons and were waiting to get their food. Once in a while a plate of idli-wada or set-dosa appeared and a satisfied hand and mouth went away from the counter. There was shouting, muttering, urging, threatening and cajoling in various tongues and various accents as hungry people tried impatiently to get at their breakfasts. The combined sound was not very different from 'kaw-kaw-kaw'. It reminded me of a bird's nest where the young, impatient, desperate bird-lings were being impartially fed by the patient father or mother.
0 comments
Words speak better than pictures.
One.
This happened the last time I went home which was less than two weeks back. I was sitting at my recently discovered favourite place, by the railway tracks. There was the sound of tracks being shunted. A train. An unexpected surprise. (Why unexpected you might ask, after all its a railway track you are sitting next to! Well ask!) I waited for the familiar passenger train with affectedly interested looking passengers. You were a strange unknown person to them if they saw you. They were strange unknown people to you if you saw them. (When they taught us relative-speed in school by giving examples of an observer inside and outside a train, you know, they could have made a much more profound job of it.) So I waited for a passenger train.
I saw the engine emerge, then next I seemed to see a truck. Before my mind could compute that this was perhaps a Goods train, I saw another truck. Before I could capture that both the first truck and this one were loaded with goods - tarpaulin, ropes and all - I saw the third truck. (I am not particularly slow-headed but one must remember it was a moving train). By the time I saw the fourth, fifth and sixth trucks I had realized that these were just trucks being ferried across a short distance by Konkan Rail - in order to avoid the time, distance and cost of negotiating the western ghats. I also observed that the drivers were sitting in the drivers' seats (respectively).
More trucks came and went. The whole thing resolved in my mind, I was able to relax, watch, and smile at the rest of the sight without any further thinking.
Two.
I was going to office early. It had rained before and all the roads were freshly washed (away). There was a semi-mist around and the air was fresh. As I prepared to go around the circle, I saw the Ambassador parked on the side. The bonnet was up and smoke/steam was coming out of it. Someone had his head inside the bonnet and was trying to fix whatever had gone wrong.
On the glass behind (the peeche-wala windshield, don't know what it is called) was painted 'Pleasant Travels'.
Three.
The self-service x-Sagar restaurant was crowded. I bought a coupon for tea and went there at the service window/counter and thrust my hand through trying, to shove the coupon below the nose of one of those guys on the other side. Lots of other people were trying to do similar things with their coupons. There were others who had already handed in their coupons and were waiting to get their food. Once in a while a plate of idli-wada or set-dosa appeared and a satisfied hand and mouth went away from the counter. There was shouting, muttering, urging, threatening and cajoling in various tongues and various accents as hungry people tried impatiently to get at their breakfasts. The combined sound was not very different from 'kaw-kaw-kaw'. It reminded me of a bird's nest where the young, impatient, desperate bird-lings were being impartially fed by the patient father or mother.
Friday, October 21, 2005
They have given some of us new IBM computers with sleek ThinkVision(TM) monitors. The monitor is really cool - all black, flatscreen, for the most part only around 2cms thick and with only a 1cm border around the screen. It sits on two black slanted stilts of adjustable height.
The point is, if you put a nice background on it and if you have no windows open, the background would look like a framed picture sitting on your desk. Which is enough motivation to choose a nice background.
The first thing I put was a scanned image of a photograph of a batik painting of Lord Shiva - more on this painting and the picture itself as soon as I have uploaded it on flickr.
Then suddenly one day inspiration struck and I thought of searching up Van Gough's paintings on the net and found this website. At the moment Starry Night is sitting on my desktop looking absolutely amazing. I have downloaded Vincent's Chair , Cafe Terrace at Night and Sunflowers one and two and I keep switching my background once in a while. I like the first sunflowers the best but the downloaded image doesnt fill the whole desktop like Starry Night does.
The problem with having a great desktop is there is a big temptation to stop whatever you are doing, close all the windows and sit admiring the great painting. I just can't get my eyes off the Sunflowers when I put them up.
The link has other painters too, but I like Van Gough best. Nicely surreal and not at all abstract. Most painters seem to have made (more than one) self-portraits - the first picture on every artist's home page is a self-portrait - and it is interesting to see how they all looked.
0 comments
The point is, if you put a nice background on it and if you have no windows open, the background would look like a framed picture sitting on your desk. Which is enough motivation to choose a nice background.
The first thing I put was a scanned image of a photograph of a batik painting of Lord Shiva - more on this painting and the picture itself as soon as I have uploaded it on flickr.
Then suddenly one day inspiration struck and I thought of searching up Van Gough's paintings on the net and found this website. At the moment Starry Night is sitting on my desktop looking absolutely amazing. I have downloaded Vincent's Chair , Cafe Terrace at Night and Sunflowers one and two and I keep switching my background once in a while. I like the first sunflowers the best but the downloaded image doesnt fill the whole desktop like Starry Night does.
The problem with having a great desktop is there is a big temptation to stop whatever you are doing, close all the windows and sit admiring the great painting. I just can't get my eyes off the Sunflowers when I put them up.
The link has other painters too, but I like Van Gough best. Nicely surreal and not at all abstract. Most painters seem to have made (more than one) self-portraits - the first picture on every artist's home page is a self-portrait - and it is interesting to see how they all looked.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
News. For the want of anything else...
The good news is I have achieved my ambition of don't-know-how-many-years by joining singing lessons. The bad news, for the ones in my neighbourhood with (discerning) ears, is that I have bought a harmonium to help me practise. More on this as (if) I make progress.
Meanwhile this is the song that at the moment I would most like to sing with proper sur and taal, and if possible to accompaniment:
A nazm by Faiz Ahmed Faiz. An edited copy-paste from the net. A concentrated lesson in the figures of speech (metaphor, personification, transferred epithet...what not!).
dasht-e-tanhaa_ii me.n ae jaan-e-jahaa.N larzaa.N hai
terii aavaaz ke saaye tere ho.nTho.n ke saraab
dasht-e-tanhaa_ii me.n duurii ke Khas-o-Khaak tale
khil rahe hai.n tere pahaluu ke saman aur gulaab
(Dasht=desert, larzaan hai = are shimmering; saraab=mirages; khas-o-khaak= the leaves and gen debris to be found under trees in the woods; pahalu=thought; saman=flowers)
uTh rahii hai kahii.n, qurbat se, terii saa.Ns kii aa.Nch
apanii Khushbuu me.n sulagatii hu_ii, madham, madham
duur ufaq-paar chamakatii hu_ii, qatraa, qatraa
gir rahii hai terii dildaar nazar kii shabanam
(qurbat se= from close by; aanch=warmth; sulagatii hui= simmering; ufaq-paar=beyond the horizon; qatraa, qatraa=drop by drop; dildaar=generous; shabanam=dew)
is qadar pyaar se, ae jaan-e-jahaa.N rakkhaa hai
dil ke ruKhsaar pe is vaqt terii yaad ne haath
yuu.N gumaa.N hotaa hai garche hai abhii subah-e-firaaq
Dhal gayaa hijr kaa din aa bhii ga_ii vasl kii raat
(rukhsaar=cheek; gumaan=illusion; subah-e-firaaq = the morning (beginning) of separation; hijr=separation; vasl=meeting, union)
0 comments
The good news is I have achieved my ambition of don't-know-how-many-years by joining singing lessons. The bad news, for the ones in my neighbourhood with (discerning) ears, is that I have bought a harmonium to help me practise. More on this as (if) I make progress.
Meanwhile this is the song that at the moment I would most like to sing with proper sur and taal, and if possible to accompaniment:
A nazm by Faiz Ahmed Faiz. An edited copy-paste from the net. A concentrated lesson in the figures of speech (metaphor, personification, transferred epithet...what not!).
dasht-e-tanhaa_ii me.n ae jaan-e-jahaa.N larzaa.N hai
terii aavaaz ke saaye tere ho.nTho.n ke saraab
dasht-e-tanhaa_ii me.n duurii ke Khas-o-Khaak tale
khil rahe hai.n tere pahaluu ke saman aur gulaab
(Dasht=desert, larzaan hai = are shimmering; saraab=mirages; khas-o-khaak= the leaves and gen debris to be found under trees in the woods; pahalu=thought; saman=flowers)
uTh rahii hai kahii.n, qurbat se, terii saa.Ns kii aa.Nch
apanii Khushbuu me.n sulagatii hu_ii, madham, madham
duur ufaq-paar chamakatii hu_ii, qatraa, qatraa
gir rahii hai terii dildaar nazar kii shabanam
(qurbat se= from close by; aanch=warmth; sulagatii hui= simmering; ufaq-paar=beyond the horizon; qatraa, qatraa=drop by drop; dildaar=generous; shabanam=dew)
is qadar pyaar se, ae jaan-e-jahaa.N rakkhaa hai
dil ke ruKhsaar pe is vaqt terii yaad ne haath
yuu.N gumaa.N hotaa hai garche hai abhii subah-e-firaaq
Dhal gayaa hijr kaa din aa bhii ga_ii vasl kii raat
(rukhsaar=cheek; gumaan=illusion; subah-e-firaaq = the morning (beginning) of separation; hijr=separation; vasl=meeting, union)
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
I am feeling Lucky
I had decided to take a long walk along the railway line but when I passed the station I saw a small crowd of people waiting for the train. Okay. If the train is going to come I will sit and wait for it. Let me watch it go past and then I will continue with my walk. I cross the station and then cross over to the other side where there is a small hillock/mound of porous rock. There is no one around here except for a few cattle grazing further up the hillock. And from here I will be able to see the train when it comes. I choose a rock to sit on. It is wet and mossy. I spread my kerchief to protect my jeans. There is silence everywhere. Except for the jingling of bells around the necks of the grazing cattle and the occasional motor bike/ rickety bicycle on the dirt road beyond the railway line. In the distance there are the western ghats. Mostly rock, now green with arbit small-time plants - upstarts encouraged by the monsoons. There is a patch of lush green to the left but it is not a meadow where I can go and sleep - it is a paddy field. I don't think there are any meadows in India. Paddy is more profitable than grass. All around me I can hear a murmuring sound which I am guessing is the water seeping down the porous rock. It had been raining just ten minutes ago. The sun is shining now but it can start to rain again any moment. I have an umbrella. Somehwere to the left is a brick buiding, looks like a factory of some kind.
Heaven knows how long I will have to wait for the train. But it is nice to know that I can stop waiting anytime and walk away. And it is nice to know that it is Monday morning and a good percentage of the world is working, while here I am, vacationing. In silence. And at peace.
Shortly I hear some clack-clang noise and realize that is the railway tracks being adjusted to let the train onto the right track - what is the technical term for this? Shortly I hear the horn-whistle and the engine sounds in the distance. But there is no train. Only an engine comes and goes. What is the fun in that? Hmm. Will have to wait some more.
Occasional arbit creatures are crawling on the rocky surface around me. Small green catterpillars. Colourful spider-like insects. Ants. A huge bee, 2 to 3 cm cubed, hovers around sucking nectar from a 10mm squared flower growing on a 3cm long plant. Only sometime ago I was thinking about the 4 billion or so people on this planet and feeling insignifcant. Remembering Gandhiji's words and trying to reconcile myself to them - Nothing that you do is really important but it is very important that you do it - or something like that. And now there are these multi-coloured insects living in their own parallel universe - perhaps unknown to even those humans whose job it is to study animal life - living in spite of humankind.
This whole life on earth thing is so stupefyingly mind-boggling that no one can continue thinking about it for long - atleast I can't. Its overwhelming. There is this huge huge ball of hydrogen with all the hydrogen atoms being so damn restless so as to colide with each other and generate indecent amounts of energy some of which is being used up to incite further unrest. Where did the hydrogen come in the first place? What started the first hydrogen-hydrogen collision? And there are billions and billions of such gas-balls all afire. Wow. What a set-up .
And there is this convenient little planet. There is lots of water. A decent amount of atmosphere. All the useful minerals - iron, silicon, uranium, gold too, to make the girls look all pretty. And lots of good things to eat including fish and garlic. Thank God there is fish and garlic. And reserves of oil and coal and natural gas...
Okay. Time out. This is getting a bit boring. But that day when I sat there in the sun I felt so umimaginably lucky to be part of this horribly complex, yet, elegant "set-up" that I thought it would be interesting to write it all in a post. Which is why this post is named as it is. I also felt lucky for how human society had adjusted itself - to its amazing inventions not to forget culinary accomplishments. But perhaps its more than just luck after all...
On a slightly related note, here's a Calvin and Hobbes joke I read the day before yesterday:
Calvin: I don't understand this business about death
Hobbes:
Calvin: If we are all going to die what is the point in living
Hobbes:
Calvin:
Hobbes:
Hobbes:Well, there is seafood.
Calvin: I don't know why I even talk to you before dinner.
0 comments
I had decided to take a long walk along the railway line but when I passed the station I saw a small crowd of people waiting for the train. Okay. If the train is going to come I will sit and wait for it. Let me watch it go past and then I will continue with my walk. I cross the station and then cross over to the other side where there is a small hillock/mound of porous rock. There is no one around here except for a few cattle grazing further up the hillock. And from here I will be able to see the train when it comes. I choose a rock to sit on. It is wet and mossy. I spread my kerchief to protect my jeans. There is silence everywhere. Except for the jingling of bells around the necks of the grazing cattle and the occasional motor bike/ rickety bicycle on the dirt road beyond the railway line. In the distance there are the western ghats. Mostly rock, now green with arbit small-time plants - upstarts encouraged by the monsoons. There is a patch of lush green to the left but it is not a meadow where I can go and sleep - it is a paddy field. I don't think there are any meadows in India. Paddy is more profitable than grass. All around me I can hear a murmuring sound which I am guessing is the water seeping down the porous rock. It had been raining just ten minutes ago. The sun is shining now but it can start to rain again any moment. I have an umbrella. Somehwere to the left is a brick buiding, looks like a factory of some kind.
Heaven knows how long I will have to wait for the train. But it is nice to know that I can stop waiting anytime and walk away. And it is nice to know that it is Monday morning and a good percentage of the world is working, while here I am, vacationing. In silence. And at peace.
Shortly I hear some clack-clang noise and realize that is the railway tracks being adjusted to let the train onto the right track - what is the technical term for this? Shortly I hear the horn-whistle and the engine sounds in the distance. But there is no train. Only an engine comes and goes. What is the fun in that? Hmm. Will have to wait some more.
Occasional arbit creatures are crawling on the rocky surface around me. Small green catterpillars. Colourful spider-like insects. Ants. A huge bee, 2 to 3 cm cubed, hovers around sucking nectar from a 10mm squared flower growing on a 3cm long plant. Only sometime ago I was thinking about the 4 billion or so people on this planet and feeling insignifcant. Remembering Gandhiji's words and trying to reconcile myself to them - Nothing that you do is really important but it is very important that you do it - or something like that. And now there are these multi-coloured insects living in their own parallel universe - perhaps unknown to even those humans whose job it is to study animal life - living in spite of humankind.
This whole life on earth thing is so stupefyingly mind-boggling that no one can continue thinking about it for long - atleast I can't. Its overwhelming. There is this huge huge ball of hydrogen with all the hydrogen atoms being so damn restless so as to colide with each other and generate indecent amounts of energy some of which is being used up to incite further unrest. Where did the hydrogen come in the first place? What started the first hydrogen-hydrogen collision? And there are billions and billions of such gas-balls all afire. Wow. What a set-up .
And there is this convenient little planet. There is lots of water. A decent amount of atmosphere. All the useful minerals - iron, silicon, uranium, gold too, to make the girls look all pretty. And lots of good things to eat including fish and garlic. Thank God there is fish and garlic. And reserves of oil and coal and natural gas...
Okay. Time out. This is getting a bit boring. But that day when I sat there in the sun I felt so umimaginably lucky to be part of this horribly complex, yet, elegant "set-up" that I thought it would be interesting to write it all in a post. Which is why this post is named as it is. I also felt lucky for how human society had adjusted itself - to its amazing inventions not to forget culinary accomplishments. But perhaps its more than just luck after all...
On a slightly related note, here's a Calvin and Hobbes joke I read the day before yesterday:
Calvin: I don't understand this business about death
Hobbes:
Calvin: If we are all going to die what is the point in living
Hobbes:
Calvin:
Hobbes:
Hobbes:Well, there is seafood.
Calvin: I don't know why I even talk to you before dinner.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
"Apnapan", the almost-annual cultural get-together of TI-India happened yesterday, 2nd September. It was the best Apnapan I have ever seen. The highlight for me was the two old Hindi duets - Maang ke Saath Tumhara and Ankhon-hi-ankhon Mein sung by a guy and a girl from the same team. There were two Tamil duets too but I was only vaguely familiar with those songs.
Ah! Duets. The fantasy of every bathroom-singer... More on that later, maybe.
At Apnapan there were these artists who were doing caricatures of people. I have always suspected that I have a caricature-able face. So I decided to get mine made. After sitting for some five-ten minutes with people coming, looking at me, looking at the sketch and smiling-sniggering, the artist finally handed me his efforts. The sketch, though quite flattering :-), did'nt much look like me. Disappointed, I decided that I will attempt a self-portrait/ self-caricature in the immediate future.
That has'nt happened yet but another pending sketching attempt was completed this morning with reasonable success. The below is a sketch of Ghalib from his painting on the cover of a cassette album called 'Bazm-e-Ghalib'. See the original here . I have inscribed my favourite Ghazal from this album: 'Hui Taakhiir to'. Sumeet , you are going to like it. The Urdu transcription is my own so there might be lots of mistakes. The original sketch was with a blue-reynolds on bond paper. The dirty-orange backdrop (similar to the one on the cassette) is due to 'Image Magick' - quite a handy tool.
The English transcription and translations (mine) are at the end.
Hui taakhiir to kuch baais-e-taakhiir bhi tha,
Aap aate the magar koi anaagiir bhi tha.
Taakhiir=delay; baais-e-taakhiir = cause for delay; anaagiir=a person who controls the reins of a horse.
You are late, but has not someone caused your delay?
You do come, but has not someone dropped you here?
Tum se bezaa hai mujhe apni tabaahi ka gila,
Is mein kuch shaaib-e-khubhi-e-taqdeer bhi tha.
bezaa=without reason, gila=complaint, shaaib=hint
Sweetie, you are not entirely at fault for my downfall
Worthy Fate had a charming role to play too
Tu mujhe bhool gaya ho to pata batlaa-doon,
Kabhi fitraaq mein tere koi nakhcheer bhi tha.
fitraaq=hunter's bag; nakcheer=captured prey;
If you have forgotten me darling then let me remind you once more
Of the captured prey that once was in your hunter's bag
Rekhate ke tumhi ustaad nahi ho 'Ghalib',
Kehate hain agale zamaane mein koi 'Meer' bhi tha.
Rekhta=another name for Urdu
Oh 'Ghalib' you are not the only one who has a way with words
Have'nt you heard of the 'Meer' that once lived?
Ghalib's understated tribute to Meer Taqi Meer.
An example of a maqta which has nothing to do with the rest of the Ghazal.
0 comments
Ah! Duets. The fantasy of every bathroom-singer... More on that later, maybe.
At Apnapan there were these artists who were doing caricatures of people. I have always suspected that I have a caricature-able face. So I decided to get mine made. After sitting for some five-ten minutes with people coming, looking at me, looking at the sketch and smiling-sniggering, the artist finally handed me his efforts. The sketch, though quite flattering :-), did'nt much look like me. Disappointed, I decided that I will attempt a self-portrait/ self-caricature in the immediate future.
That has'nt happened yet but another pending sketching attempt was completed this morning with reasonable success. The below is a sketch of Ghalib from his painting on the cover of a cassette album called 'Bazm-e-Ghalib'. See the original here . I have inscribed my favourite Ghazal from this album: 'Hui Taakhiir to'. Sumeet , you are going to like it. The Urdu transcription is my own so there might be lots of mistakes. The original sketch was with a blue-reynolds on bond paper. The dirty-orange backdrop (similar to the one on the cassette) is due to 'Image Magick' - quite a handy tool.
The English transcription and translations (mine) are at the end.
Hui taakhiir to kuch baais-e-taakhiir bhi tha,
Aap aate the magar koi anaagiir bhi tha.
Taakhiir=delay; baais-e-taakhiir = cause for delay; anaagiir=a person who controls the reins of a horse.
You are late, but has not someone caused your delay?
You do come, but has not someone dropped you here?
Tum se bezaa hai mujhe apni tabaahi ka gila,
Is mein kuch shaaib-e-khubhi-e-taqdeer bhi tha.
bezaa=without reason, gila=complaint, shaaib=hint
Sweetie, you are not entirely at fault for my downfall
Worthy Fate had a charming role to play too
Tu mujhe bhool gaya ho to pata batlaa-doon,
Kabhi fitraaq mein tere koi nakhcheer bhi tha.
fitraaq=hunter's bag; nakcheer=captured prey;
If you have forgotten me darling then let me remind you once more
Of the captured prey that once was in your hunter's bag
Rekhate ke tumhi ustaad nahi ho 'Ghalib',
Kehate hain agale zamaane mein koi 'Meer' bhi tha.
Rekhta=another name for Urdu
Oh 'Ghalib' you are not the only one who has a way with words
Have'nt you heard of the 'Meer' that once lived?
Ghalib's understated tribute to Meer Taqi Meer.
An example of a maqta which has nothing to do with the rest of the Ghazal.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Daag Dehlvi
My introduction to Daag Dehlvi was through Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy, in which 'Daag' is the affectionate nickname of one of the more likable characters. The book is peppered with translations of Daag's shers and ghazals. After I read the book I was on the look-out for ghazal albums featuring Daag's work. I was quite excited when I found one Ghazal by Daag in Abida Parveen's Ghazal ka Safar album:
Le chala jaan meri rooth ke jaana tera
Aise jaane se to beheter tha na aana tera
Tu khuda to nahi ae naaseh-naadan mera, (naaseh: adviser)
Kya khata kii jo kaha maine na maana tera
'Daag' ko yuun vo mitate hain, yeh farmaate hain,
Tu badal daal hua naam puraana tera.
Don't leave me quite like this sweetheart,
Do you want me to wish that you had rather not come?
You are not God, O naive adviser of mine,
But my mistake. When you spoke I should have listened.
She wipes 'Daag' away like she would wipe away a stain,
'Change your name' She says, 'I will soon be bored with you'
Daag's USP seems to be his simplicity. Not much wit, no mystique, no bitterness, no complaint, no cleverness, no irony, no sarcasm. Just simplicity. Daag's ghazals ooze a placid contentment - the kind you would feel if you lay with your face to the sun on a mild winter morning (Or, like I used to in college, in the only-way-out incandescent warmth of a 100 watt bulb on a chill rainy night).
Ghalib's shers might make you sit up and listen to each word and in the end rush a sharp thrill run up your spine or bring goose-bumps to your forearms; Daag's shers will make you sway your head to the gentle melody and in the end might make you nod your head in approval or bring a smile to your lips.
Here's another super amazing Ghazal I found in an album by Iqbal Bano (If you find two ghazals too much to take in one day, read this tomorrow, but do read it.):
Na ravaa kahiye na sazaa kahiye
kahiye kahiye mujhe bura kahiye
(Can't figure out meaning of the first line though the intent of the sher seems clear)
Vo mujhe katl kar ke kahate hain
Maanata hi na thaa ye kya kahiye
She sighs after she has done killing me,
"Bugger never listened, what can I do!"
Aagayi aap ko masihaa-ii,
Marne waalon ko marhaba kahiye ("Marhaba!" = "Well done!")
Hosh udane lage rakibon ke (rakib = rival)
'Daag' ko aur bewafa kahiye
0 comments
My introduction to Daag Dehlvi was through Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy, in which 'Daag' is the affectionate nickname of one of the more likable characters. The book is peppered with translations of Daag's shers and ghazals. After I read the book I was on the look-out for ghazal albums featuring Daag's work. I was quite excited when I found one Ghazal by Daag in Abida Parveen's Ghazal ka Safar album:
Le chala jaan meri rooth ke jaana tera
Aise jaane se to beheter tha na aana tera
Tu khuda to nahi ae naaseh-naadan mera, (naaseh: adviser)
Kya khata kii jo kaha maine na maana tera
'Daag' ko yuun vo mitate hain, yeh farmaate hain,
Tu badal daal hua naam puraana tera.
Don't leave me quite like this sweetheart,
Do you want me to wish that you had rather not come?
You are not God, O naive adviser of mine,
But my mistake. When you spoke I should have listened.
She wipes 'Daag' away like she would wipe away a stain,
'Change your name' She says, 'I will soon be bored with you'
Daag's USP seems to be his simplicity. Not much wit, no mystique, no bitterness, no complaint, no cleverness, no irony, no sarcasm. Just simplicity. Daag's ghazals ooze a placid contentment - the kind you would feel if you lay with your face to the sun on a mild winter morning (Or, like I used to in college, in the only-way-out incandescent warmth of a 100 watt bulb on a chill rainy night).
Ghalib's shers might make you sit up and listen to each word and in the end rush a sharp thrill run up your spine or bring goose-bumps to your forearms; Daag's shers will make you sway your head to the gentle melody and in the end might make you nod your head in approval or bring a smile to your lips.
Here's another super amazing Ghazal I found in an album by Iqbal Bano (If you find two ghazals too much to take in one day, read this tomorrow, but do read it.):
Na ravaa kahiye na sazaa kahiye
kahiye kahiye mujhe bura kahiye
(Can't figure out meaning of the first line though the intent of the sher seems clear)
Vo mujhe katl kar ke kahate hain
Maanata hi na thaa ye kya kahiye
She sighs after she has done killing me,
"Bugger never listened, what can I do!"
Aagayi aap ko masihaa-ii,
Marne waalon ko marhaba kahiye ("Marhaba!" = "Well done!")
Hosh udane lage rakibon ke (rakib = rival)
'Daag' ko aur bewafa kahiye
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Remake-Vemake
Its difficult to make a remake and make it appeal to people who have seen the original. I liked the Shahrukh Khan 'Devdas' perhaps because I had not seen the Saigal one or the Dilip Kumar one. Though I liked 'Sarkar' I found it quite insubstantial compared to the original 'Godfather'.
I read in the paper that J.P.Datta is remaking Umrao Jaan. With Aishwarya Rai in the title role and Anu Mallick giving the music. And Abhishek Bacchan is going to play Farooq Sheikh's role. Bad casting and bad music plus a director not world-famous for subtlety. Bana chuke yeh mahashay Umrao Jaan. If you recall the picturisation of the song "Zindagi jab bhi teri bazm mein laati hai hame" - Farooq Sheikh and Rekha in some misty, earthy environs and the understated, melodious voice of Talat Aziz - you will know what I am talking about.
0 comments
Its difficult to make a remake and make it appeal to people who have seen the original. I liked the Shahrukh Khan 'Devdas' perhaps because I had not seen the Saigal one or the Dilip Kumar one. Though I liked 'Sarkar' I found it quite insubstantial compared to the original 'Godfather'.
I read in the paper that J.P.Datta is remaking Umrao Jaan. With Aishwarya Rai in the title role and Anu Mallick giving the music. And Abhishek Bacchan is going to play Farooq Sheikh's role. Bad casting and bad music plus a director not world-famous for subtlety. Bana chuke yeh mahashay Umrao Jaan. If you recall the picturisation of the song "Zindagi jab bhi teri bazm mein laati hai hame" - Farooq Sheikh and Rekha in some misty, earthy environs and the understated, melodious voice of Talat Aziz - you will know what I am talking about.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
A Mid Summer's Day Dream
Chapter 6
The earnest freshie mischieviously called Chutti (see Chapter 2) lay on his cot, alone in his room, wasting his free slot before lunch, agonizing about the falling water level in his fifteen litre can of mineral water. Again the trip to the shopping complex, again balancing the heavy can on the behind-carrier of his cycle, again the slow ride back to the hostel lest the can fell off onto the road. Hmm. Again the hauling of the can up the three flights of stairs. Again the frequent, shameless, demands by seniors, room-mates, wing-mates. Again the trip to the shopping complex, again the balancing. Again. Again. Again.
How was it back home? The large earthern pot-drum with the steel tap. With the steel tumbler placed on the lid above. Anytime you wanted you went and drank a glassful of that pure elixir - that's how ordinary water looked like to him now - without having to worry about who would replenish the store and when. Towards the evening when a humid, inadequate dusk fell and he got restless and irritable, "Go drink a glass of water," his dad would say.
And here he was, in this Godforsaken place, having to fetch water from a distance and carry it like some village woman. He flinched at this self-description.
How were they at home? How were his sisters? How was his elder sister's little kid - his nephew? He had never thought that he would only think as rarely of them as he did these days. Over phone, his mother had mentioned pre-monsoon showers but he had not paid attention. The monsoons were hardly a month or so away. Thankfully the exams would be over by then and he would be able to go back home and enjoy the rains. The breeze-less heavy downpour that fell in an orderly file, like some determined regiment, washing the dirt off the coconut and the mango trees, making the small drain-stream next to their house gurgle full with water. The lightly-dark colouring when the clouds gathered in the middle of the afternoon.
He got up and emptied the water-can into his bisleri-bottle and then hid the bisleri bottle behind the clothes on his rack.
He wore his slippers and got out of the room into the corridor. He found the The Hindu on the wing cot and sought out the weather column. The satellite picture showed no clouds anywhere in the vicinity of Madras. Mostly clear and dry. Should have thought so, he said to himself, looking at the fierce sun beating on to the quadrangle. He remembered how following the newspaper-course of the monsoon had been a favourite passtime - especially in the years when the monsoon had been thought weak, he had taken a personal interest in knowing whether the entire country had received her annual share.
Still fifteen minutes to lunch. Should he go to the shopping complex now? It was too hot out...
He needed to invent some technique to make the carrying of the can easier. A collapsible trolley? A pulley and a rope hanging from the second floor to the quadrangle. No. Something simpler. How about two leather straps that you could fasten on to the can with buckles? Hmm. That seemed promising. You could carry the can behind your back like a school-bag. Your shoulders carried the weight, your hands would be free. And you could walk, with a proud stride, swinging your arms. Chutti got suddenly excited. Now, where would he find good leather straps? Maybe at the tailor's at the shopping complex. He decided to give it a try that evening.
Another thought struck him. There had been rumours that the Engineering Design course would have a final project - one had to identify a problem and propose an inventive solution. If that rumour were proved right, he, Chutti, would have his invention all ready. He started thinking about how he would arrange his presentation, how he would describe the problem and the solution, how he would show brusised fingers and pained faces. And then in the end he would have an actual implementation ready for a demo. Then, the highest grade would be his.
Sitting still on the wing cot Chutti thought feverishly happy thoughts for the next ten minutes. A malicious-looking grin broke out on his face. His palms became all sweaty. Then suddenly he got up and went down for lunch.
0 comments
Chapter 6
The earnest freshie mischieviously called Chutti (see Chapter 2) lay on his cot, alone in his room, wasting his free slot before lunch, agonizing about the falling water level in his fifteen litre can of mineral water. Again the trip to the shopping complex, again balancing the heavy can on the behind-carrier of his cycle, again the slow ride back to the hostel lest the can fell off onto the road. Hmm. Again the hauling of the can up the three flights of stairs. Again the frequent, shameless, demands by seniors, room-mates, wing-mates. Again the trip to the shopping complex, again the balancing. Again. Again. Again.
How was it back home? The large earthern pot-drum with the steel tap. With the steel tumbler placed on the lid above. Anytime you wanted you went and drank a glassful of that pure elixir - that's how ordinary water looked like to him now - without having to worry about who would replenish the store and when. Towards the evening when a humid, inadequate dusk fell and he got restless and irritable, "Go drink a glass of water," his dad would say.
And here he was, in this Godforsaken place, having to fetch water from a distance and carry it like some village woman. He flinched at this self-description.
How were they at home? How were his sisters? How was his elder sister's little kid - his nephew? He had never thought that he would only think as rarely of them as he did these days. Over phone, his mother had mentioned pre-monsoon showers but he had not paid attention. The monsoons were hardly a month or so away. Thankfully the exams would be over by then and he would be able to go back home and enjoy the rains. The breeze-less heavy downpour that fell in an orderly file, like some determined regiment, washing the dirt off the coconut and the mango trees, making the small drain-stream next to their house gurgle full with water. The lightly-dark colouring when the clouds gathered in the middle of the afternoon.
He got up and emptied the water-can into his bisleri-bottle and then hid the bisleri bottle behind the clothes on his rack.
He wore his slippers and got out of the room into the corridor. He found the The Hindu on the wing cot and sought out the weather column. The satellite picture showed no clouds anywhere in the vicinity of Madras. Mostly clear and dry. Should have thought so, he said to himself, looking at the fierce sun beating on to the quadrangle. He remembered how following the newspaper-course of the monsoon had been a favourite passtime - especially in the years when the monsoon had been thought weak, he had taken a personal interest in knowing whether the entire country had received her annual share.
Still fifteen minutes to lunch. Should he go to the shopping complex now? It was too hot out...
He needed to invent some technique to make the carrying of the can easier. A collapsible trolley? A pulley and a rope hanging from the second floor to the quadrangle. No. Something simpler. How about two leather straps that you could fasten on to the can with buckles? Hmm. That seemed promising. You could carry the can behind your back like a school-bag. Your shoulders carried the weight, your hands would be free. And you could walk, with a proud stride, swinging your arms. Chutti got suddenly excited. Now, where would he find good leather straps? Maybe at the tailor's at the shopping complex. He decided to give it a try that evening.
Another thought struck him. There had been rumours that the Engineering Design course would have a final project - one had to identify a problem and propose an inventive solution. If that rumour were proved right, he, Chutti, would have his invention all ready. He started thinking about how he would arrange his presentation, how he would describe the problem and the solution, how he would show brusised fingers and pained faces. And then in the end he would have an actual implementation ready for a demo. Then, the highest grade would be his.
Sitting still on the wing cot Chutti thought feverishly happy thoughts for the next ten minutes. A malicious-looking grin broke out on his face. His palms became all sweaty. Then suddenly he got up and went down for lunch.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Gair len mehfil mein bosey jaam ke,
ham rahen yuun tashnaalab paigaam ke
(bosey=kisses, tashnaalab=thirsty)
My rivals kiss the wineglass in your mehfil,
While here I thirst for mere word from you
khat likhenge garche matalab kuch na ho,
ham to aashiq hain tumhare naam ke
(garche=if, even if)
I will write to you even if I have nothing to say,
I just love to write your name
Ishq ne 'Ghalib' nikamma kar diya
varna ham bhi aadmi the kaam ke
Love has ruined you O Ghalib,
Otherwise even you might have become something
0 comments
ham rahen yuun tashnaalab paigaam ke
(bosey=kisses, tashnaalab=thirsty)
My rivals kiss the wineglass in your mehfil,
While here I thirst for mere word from you
khat likhenge garche matalab kuch na ho,
ham to aashiq hain tumhare naam ke
(garche=if, even if)
I will write to you even if I have nothing to say,
I just love to write your name
Ishq ne 'Ghalib' nikamma kar diya
varna ham bhi aadmi the kaam ke
Love has ruined you O Ghalib,
Otherwise even you might have become something
Thursday, August 04, 2005
I am writing a lot these days. But none of it can appear on my blog. Not yet, atleast. Because it is all technical stuff and it is all going into a paper I am writing for TI-India's internal technical conference. Like all 'defined-output' writing projects I take up I did not at all enjoy writing the paper. Writing was laborious, a chore, a burden. But now that I have almost finished it feels like it was worth it. I am enjoying the writing in retrospect. Besides, all the writing was done using LATEX - that precision document creator which can even make junk look like Godspeak - with figures and diagrams which look as if they are only there for aesthetic value.
I hope someday ieee will agree to accept a paper from me and then I will be able to scan it and put it on my blog.
0 comments
I hope someday ieee will agree to accept a paper from me and then I will be able to scan it and put it on my blog.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Breathing out into a police-walla's face and other stories
When my bike got stolen around this time last year, one of the things I said to myself in consolation, over the next few months, was that perhaps God wanted me to buy a car and learn how to drive properly. Cycling home on some rainy evenings, soaking wet, I promised myself many times over the last one year that by the next monsoon I would have a car. I kept pushing the car buying decision till the very end and then only the late arrival of the monsoons in Bangalore has helped me keep that promise. It rains almost every evening now [this was written last Sunday -ed] and I go home snug and dry in a nicely washed car.
Don't worry, everyone has to start from scratch ...
...a witty senior at TI is said to have said about anxious new-car owners. In my case it was not a scratch but a splinter. I broke the left parking light in a parking skirmish with some rugged steel part of Som's (stationary) bike. But since my car is only a second hand Maruti I don't care too much about a few bruises here and there. Besides, I have since found out that scratches on a white maruti don't stand out so much. Since then, I have, shall we say, taken liberties. There have been no more accidents with Som's bike and now I sometimes find it difficult to park if Som's bike is not there.
Releasing the clutch...
...was not so much of a trouble since I had learnt some driving in Manipal, but there were things to learn, such as remembering to release the handbrake before starting to drive. Som would say of my driving that it would be sometime before he could sit, relaxed in my car. I said it would be even more time before I sat in my car and relaxed. Every time I started I would take a deep breath and mutter "here goes..." I would slow down to a crawl if there were female pedestrians around. I will never be able forgive myself if I reduced that half of the population.
Breathing out into a police-walla's face
This was Som's adventure with my car and I grudge him that. We were going home after dropping off Prasenjit. Som was driving, and suddenly there is this police barricade asking us to slow down and stop. Som drives better than me, which is not saying much, and he manages to halt without accident. He has only a Dallas driving license. It is 11 in the night and I think we are in trouble.
"Drinks?" asks the policeman. "No No." we say confidently. Though we should have said, "Actually...a little. Maybe. Yes." "Ok breathe out," says the policeman and brings his face next to Som's. I think he makes quite some money out of the bribes for him to be so fearless. Som breathes out. "Ok go."
We go. And breathe. Luckily we had both had had spearmints, not as a precaution, just like that. I think it is a good omen for my car - not the spearmints, but this whole police episode.
But where are those garlic breaths when one needs them, I ask you?
Bangalore Public is nice (and I hope all this IT money does'nt ruin it one day)
There are more people who don't honk, than those that do. And motorists on the spot advise you patiently about how to get out of tricky jams. And general lookers-on take an interest on whether or not you navigate that bump or ditch.
0 comments
When my bike got stolen around this time last year, one of the things I said to myself in consolation, over the next few months, was that perhaps God wanted me to buy a car and learn how to drive properly. Cycling home on some rainy evenings, soaking wet, I promised myself many times over the last one year that by the next monsoon I would have a car. I kept pushing the car buying decision till the very end and then only the late arrival of the monsoons in Bangalore has helped me keep that promise. It rains almost every evening now [this was written last Sunday -ed] and I go home snug and dry in a nicely washed car.
Don't worry, everyone has to start from scratch ...
...a witty senior at TI is said to have said about anxious new-car owners. In my case it was not a scratch but a splinter. I broke the left parking light in a parking skirmish with some rugged steel part of Som's (stationary) bike. But since my car is only a second hand Maruti I don't care too much about a few bruises here and there. Besides, I have since found out that scratches on a white maruti don't stand out so much. Since then, I have, shall we say, taken liberties. There have been no more accidents with Som's bike and now I sometimes find it difficult to park if Som's bike is not there.
Releasing the clutch...
...was not so much of a trouble since I had learnt some driving in Manipal, but there were things to learn, such as remembering to release the handbrake before starting to drive. Som would say of my driving that it would be sometime before he could sit, relaxed in my car. I said it would be even more time before I sat in my car and relaxed. Every time I started I would take a deep breath and mutter "here goes..." I would slow down to a crawl if there were female pedestrians around. I will never be able forgive myself if I reduced that half of the population.
Breathing out into a police-walla's face
This was Som's adventure with my car and I grudge him that. We were going home after dropping off Prasenjit. Som was driving, and suddenly there is this police barricade asking us to slow down and stop. Som drives better than me, which is not saying much, and he manages to halt without accident. He has only a Dallas driving license. It is 11 in the night and I think we are in trouble.
"Drinks?" asks the policeman. "No No." we say confidently. Though we should have said, "Actually...a little. Maybe. Yes." "Ok breathe out," says the policeman and brings his face next to Som's. I think he makes quite some money out of the bribes for him to be so fearless. Som breathes out. "Ok go."
We go. And breathe. Luckily we had both had had spearmints, not as a precaution, just like that. I think it is a good omen for my car - not the spearmints, but this whole police episode.
But where are those garlic breaths when one needs them, I ask you?
Bangalore Public is nice (and I hope all this IT money does'nt ruin it one day)
There are more people who don't honk, than those that do. And motorists on the spot advise you patiently about how to get out of tricky jams. And general lookers-on take an interest on whether or not you navigate that bump or ditch.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Language Joke
A joke I am particularly proud of having once made - dont' know if I am not repeating it here on the blog:
We were going to Coorg I think, all of us in a Tata Sumo/Safari, maybe Qualis, and Sumeet and I were sitting up front. Som says to me from the back, "Anant, talk to the driver na, find out what all languages he can speak (so that we can communicate with him properly)"
I say, in the general direction of the driver, not loudly, semi-laughing in expectation, "Parlez vous Francais?"
0 comments
A joke I am particularly proud of having once made - dont' know if I am not repeating it here on the blog:
We were going to Coorg I think, all of us in a Tata Sumo/Safari, maybe Qualis, and Sumeet and I were sitting up front. Som says to me from the back, "Anant, talk to the driver na, find out what all languages he can speak (so that we can communicate with him properly)"
I say, in the general direction of the driver, not loudly, semi-laughing in expectation, "Parlez vous Francais?"
Ishh...Gotta learn this language
"Onont-babu, ami Cinnamon thake bolcchi" was what the peson said if I remember right, I am transcribing right and am not exaggerating. For a split second I thought of saying "Hein" and letting him continue talking to me in the language. "Sorry. Can you speak in English. I don't understand Bengali."
Gotta learn Bengali. A good part of TI and of Bangalore is Bengali and learning the language would complete my access to other people's cafeteria/restaurant-conversations.
And Onont-babu sounds a good deal better than Mr Anant.
0 comments
"Onont-babu, ami Cinnamon thake bolcchi" was what the peson said if I remember right, I am transcribing right and am not exaggerating. For a split second I thought of saying "Hein" and letting him continue talking to me in the language. "Sorry. Can you speak in English. I don't understand Bengali."
Gotta learn Bengali. A good part of TI and of Bangalore is Bengali and learning the language would complete my access to other people's cafeteria/restaurant-conversations.
And Onont-babu sounds a good deal better than Mr Anant.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Another nice clip/quote from The Times of India:
"Clouds come floating into my life,
no longer to carry rain or to usher storm,
but to add colour to my sunset sky"
- Tagore
How soothingly serene!
0 comments
"Clouds come floating into my life,
no longer to carry rain or to usher storm,
but to add colour to my sunset sky"
- Tagore
How soothingly serene!
Sunday, July 10, 2005
A long hard day's Work Ahead...
...in the office, on a Sunday too. Maybe some Ghalib will gear me up for it.
The following Ghazal was among the first Ghalib ghazals I heard - my very fortuitous introduction to Ghalib, in fact. Sitting in a lab in college, working on my summer training project and listening to a playlist someone had compiled on the comp I was working on I suddenly hear these magical sounds in Rafi's voice that seem to stand apart. I can't make out some of the lyrics but I can still feel the fine finish of the poetry. Then in the end the Maqta comes up "Ghalib, hame na ched ke, phir josh-e-ashk se, Baithen hain ham tahayya-e-toofaan kiye hue" and I think "Ah...So this is Ghalib"
That was four years ago. Since then I have heard this Ghazal sung by different singers in different albums - the latest being Iqbal Bano. It's a long Ghazal and each singer sings different sets of shers.
Hindi movie song buffs might find the second last sher a nice surprise. But don't look now, let the suspense build...
Muddat hui hai yaar ko mehmaan kiye hue
Josh-e-qadah se bazm charagaan kiye hue
[qadah: wine-glass]
Long time since my love was my guest
Long time since the warmth of the wineglass filled the sitting-room
(There you go! I am a terrible translator. Sitting-room? sheesh)
Phir vazaa-e-ehtiyaat se rukne lagaa hai dam,
Barson huen hai chaak girebaan kiye hue
[vazaa: conduct, behaviour; ehtiyaat:care; chaak: torn; girebaan: collar]
All this painful etiquette is really killing me,
How I long for the days when even torn shirts were ok.
Phir pursish-e-jaraahat-e-dil ko chala hai ishq,
saaman-e-sadh-hazaar namak-daan kiye hue.
[pursish: enquiry; jaraahat: operation(fixing); namak-daan: salt container; saaman-e-sad-hazaar: facing hundreds of thousands]
My defeated love sets out to enquire if someone will fix my bleeding heart
But where ever I see I find them waiting to rub salt in my wounds.
Phir jii mein hai ke dar pe kisi ke pade rahen
Sar zer-baar-e-minnat-e-darbaan kiye hue
[sar zer baar: bowed head]
Once again I want to lie at my beloved's door step
With a bowed head, pleading the doorman to let me in.
Jii dhoondta hai phir wahi phursat ke raat-din,
Baithen rahen tasavvur-e-jaana kiye hue.
[tasavvur: thought, khayaal]
Where are those leisurely days and nights gone,
When hours were (generally) spent in thoughts of my beloved...
Ghalib hamen na cheda ke phir josh-e-ashq se
Baithen hain ham tahayya-e-toofaan kiye hue
[tahayya: determination]
Ghalib, you better not disturb me now, for egged by tearful passion
I now sit with a dangerous, reckless, stormy, determination.
1 comments
...in the office, on a Sunday too. Maybe some Ghalib will gear me up for it.
The following Ghazal was among the first Ghalib ghazals I heard - my very fortuitous introduction to Ghalib, in fact. Sitting in a lab in college, working on my summer training project and listening to a playlist someone had compiled on the comp I was working on I suddenly hear these magical sounds in Rafi's voice that seem to stand apart. I can't make out some of the lyrics but I can still feel the fine finish of the poetry. Then in the end the Maqta comes up "Ghalib, hame na ched ke, phir josh-e-ashk se, Baithen hain ham tahayya-e-toofaan kiye hue" and I think "Ah...So this is Ghalib"
That was four years ago. Since then I have heard this Ghazal sung by different singers in different albums - the latest being Iqbal Bano. It's a long Ghazal and each singer sings different sets of shers.
Hindi movie song buffs might find the second last sher a nice surprise. But don't look now, let the suspense build...
Muddat hui hai yaar ko mehmaan kiye hue
Josh-e-qadah se bazm charagaan kiye hue
[qadah: wine-glass]
Long time since my love was my guest
Long time since the warmth of the wineglass filled the sitting-room
(There you go! I am a terrible translator. Sitting-room? sheesh)
Phir vazaa-e-ehtiyaat se rukne lagaa hai dam,
Barson huen hai chaak girebaan kiye hue
[vazaa: conduct, behaviour; ehtiyaat:care; chaak: torn; girebaan: collar]
All this painful etiquette is really killing me,
How I long for the days when even torn shirts were ok.
Phir pursish-e-jaraahat-e-dil ko chala hai ishq,
saaman-e-sadh-hazaar namak-daan kiye hue.
[pursish: enquiry; jaraahat: operation(fixing); namak-daan: salt container; saaman-e-sad-hazaar: facing hundreds of thousands]
My defeated love sets out to enquire if someone will fix my bleeding heart
But where ever I see I find them waiting to rub salt in my wounds.
Phir jii mein hai ke dar pe kisi ke pade rahen
Sar zer-baar-e-minnat-e-darbaan kiye hue
[sar zer baar: bowed head]
Once again I want to lie at my beloved's door step
With a bowed head, pleading the doorman to let me in.
Jii dhoondta hai phir wahi phursat ke raat-din,
Baithen rahen tasavvur-e-jaana kiye hue.
[tasavvur: thought, khayaal]
Where are those leisurely days and nights gone,
When hours were (generally) spent in thoughts of my beloved...
Ghalib hamen na cheda ke phir josh-e-ashq se
Baithen hain ham tahayya-e-toofaan kiye hue
[tahayya: determination]
Ghalib, you better not disturb me now, for egged by tearful passion
I now sit with a dangerous, reckless, stormy, determination.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
TagWag
When I first read about it on Sumeet's blog , I did'nt quite understand what this meme business was all about. Last I heard (from Biman) was that a meme was an intellectual gene - just as the biological genes fight amongst themselves to survive and thrive amongst creatures, memes - ideas of culture, morality etc. - are supposed to joust with each other to see which held sway in human society.
Anyways, I was going to follow the links on Sumeet's blog to find out more but before that Som honoured Sumeet's 'tag' and his prelude to his reply threw light on what was going on.
As Som puts it, a meme is a chain-mail equivalent in the blog world. You write about a certain topic and then 'tag' your friends in the blogworld. The tagged people are supposed to then write about the same topic(s) and in turn tag more people, thus causing the chain to grow.
-----
Number of Books I Own
As a rough estimate, about two hundred. Including scores of Tinkles, Chandamamas (most in English, some in Kannada, a couple in Hindi and I think one in Marathi), Archies, Richie Rich, school textbooks with favourite short stories, second hand books that I keep buying, several pirated copies, a few new books. Most of my books are back at home in Kumta, in cardboard cartons. Books I have in Bangalore are books I haven't yet read or am planning to read again. The novels I have are an arbit collection. No consistent authors except Agatha Christie who I once liked but now can't stand. Not more than four or five thrillers max - can't stand thrillers either. Some poetry. A big book of Van Gough's Paintings.
Last Book I read
The last book I read, if you discount The Hitchiker's Guide Omnibus that I am re-reading now and Khushwant Singh's Delhi which I re-read a few chapters of before that, was Shakespeare's Macbeth. It's difficult to fully explain what I liked about it. Phrases like 'struck an inner chord' seem inadequate. After Macbeth, I am ready to get hooked on to Shakespeare and it was with great difficulty that I postponed buying two thug collections Shakespeare's "Three Tragedies" and "Three Comedies" at Gungaram's.
Here's a cut-paste about what I wrote about Shakespeare some posts back. I might sound conceited 'quoting' myself but do try and see it some other way.
"Among other things, read Macbeth at leisure. It gave me a big kick. Though I had read Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar before, neither of them had hit me so hard as did Macbeth. Suddenly the much ado (again a Shakespearean phrase?) there is about Shakespeare seemed to make sense. And then, Shakespeare is drama written as verse and is much lighter, more enjoyable reading (if the book you are reading from comes with annotations) than Novels.
And Shakespeare has written hazaar hazaar plays. I now look forward to reading King Lear, Hamlet, Twelfth Night, Antony and Cleopatra - all of which I knew existed but only they have all suddenly turned extremely desirable. It's like someone who has a fridge stocked full of chocolates (or candy or ice-cream) and who one fine day suddenly finds out that he likes chocolates (or candy or ice-cream) much more than he thought he did."
The last book(s) I bought...
...were the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Omnibus by Douglas Adams and Khushwant Singh's celebrated Train to Pakistan. The latter is a much thinner volume than I had expected it would be and I checked to see several times to see if it was the same book I thought it was. I haven't read it yet though. Before that, on a trip to Mysore I had bought some 15-20 second hand books including Moby Dick, The Story of My Experiments with Truth, The Island of Circe (Mulk Raj Anand I think), Ancient Indian Stories About Women (with a very evocative cover illustration. wink wink) and Fitzgerald's famous translation of Omar Khayyam's Rubbaiyat (with a even more evocative cover illustration. Sly Grin).
Books that Mean(t) a lot to Me
(not in any order and not at all exhaustive)
Ayn Rand's Fountainhead - A very heady book. Gives you a high. Propounds hard work, perfection and a passion for one's work which is a good thing. But is mercilessly unkind to people who some how did not manage to work hard, be perfect or have a passion for their work which may not be such a good thing. Written extremely well. Unputdownable.
Hemingway's Old Man And The Sea.
Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy - detailed, funny, non-judgemental, sunny, kind depictions of the lives of some forty-fifty people. The book is so big that at no stage do you really bother about the plot - what's going to happen to whom etc - it is almost like living another life with so many new friends and relatives. Vikram Seth probably wrote the novel like Amit Chatterjee, a writer-poet, one of the characters in the story is descrbed to be writing his big novel. In Amit's words "Like a Banyan Tree the story keeps dropping fresh branches to the ground. Some of these take root and become trees themselves others just fade away". A Suitable Boy has several firsts which I will not list here for you are going to read it yourself sometime.
A translation of Bilhana's Chaurapanchasika (Fifty Verses from a (love) Thief) - Written by the Kashmiri poet this collection consists of fifty erotic verses each beginning with Yadyapi Taan - Even Now...and describe the love between the poet and the King's daughter.
Translation of Kalidasa's Work - My favourite is a section from Ritusamharam (the coming together of the seasons) where the Summer is described to be having a queer effect on the food chain - the frog is shelters under the cobra's hood but the cobra does nothing, the snake shelters under the peacocks' tail but the peacock does nothing...When I read these translations I know that I have no choice but to learn Sanskrit some day and go exploring into the as yet unaccessible (to me) realms of Sanskrit literature.
The Catcher in the Rye - I used to use it, like Sumeet, as a pick me up of some sort. Don't like it now so much.
Upamanyu Chatterjee's English, August. I found striking, scary, similarities between me and the protagonist, Agastya Sen - not just in thoughts and attitudes but in actions as well. Which is why the book makes me feel reassured and really really good.
The Strange Case of Billy Bisaws by Arun Joshi and Distant Drum by Manohar Malgaonkar - both books bought 'by instinct' at second hand stores. Lesser celebrated of the Indian English Authors but just as good if not better.
Books I Wish I had Finished
Joseph Heller's Catch 22 - I found it very funny in the beginning but very boring very soon. People say that the book gets really pacy and drastic and profound towards the end. I will find out some day.
Melville's Moby Dick - Couldn't sustain interest till the I reached the supposedly really good parts. I had a very good copy which I have lent someone (if that someone is reading this please return my book). Now I have a front cover-less second hand copy and next time I start I am going to read till the end.
Three Men In a Boat - Jerome K Jerome. Hilarious Max. But couldn't read through the (semi-serious) descriptions of the history and geography of all those places in England. Maybe some other time...
People I Tag
Gans , Piyush , Sylvia
My tag list is small because most people I would want to tag have already been tagged by Som and Sumeet.
0 comments
When I first read about it on Sumeet's blog , I did'nt quite understand what this meme business was all about. Last I heard (from Biman) was that a meme was an intellectual gene - just as the biological genes fight amongst themselves to survive and thrive amongst creatures, memes - ideas of culture, morality etc. - are supposed to joust with each other to see which held sway in human society.
Anyways, I was going to follow the links on Sumeet's blog to find out more but before that Som honoured Sumeet's 'tag' and his prelude to his reply threw light on what was going on.
As Som puts it, a meme is a chain-mail equivalent in the blog world. You write about a certain topic and then 'tag' your friends in the blogworld. The tagged people are supposed to then write about the same topic(s) and in turn tag more people, thus causing the chain to grow.
-----
Number of Books I Own
As a rough estimate, about two hundred. Including scores of Tinkles, Chandamamas (most in English, some in Kannada, a couple in Hindi and I think one in Marathi), Archies, Richie Rich, school textbooks with favourite short stories, second hand books that I keep buying, several pirated copies, a few new books. Most of my books are back at home in Kumta, in cardboard cartons. Books I have in Bangalore are books I haven't yet read or am planning to read again. The novels I have are an arbit collection. No consistent authors except Agatha Christie who I once liked but now can't stand. Not more than four or five thrillers max - can't stand thrillers either. Some poetry. A big book of Van Gough's Paintings.
Last Book I read
The last book I read, if you discount The Hitchiker's Guide Omnibus that I am re-reading now and Khushwant Singh's Delhi which I re-read a few chapters of before that, was Shakespeare's Macbeth. It's difficult to fully explain what I liked about it. Phrases like 'struck an inner chord' seem inadequate. After Macbeth, I am ready to get hooked on to Shakespeare and it was with great difficulty that I postponed buying two thug collections Shakespeare's "Three Tragedies" and "Three Comedies" at Gungaram's.
Here's a cut-paste about what I wrote about Shakespeare some posts back. I might sound conceited 'quoting' myself but do try and see it some other way.
"Among other things, read Macbeth at leisure. It gave me a big kick. Though I had read Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar before, neither of them had hit me so hard as did Macbeth. Suddenly the much ado (again a Shakespearean phrase?) there is about Shakespeare seemed to make sense. And then, Shakespeare is drama written as verse and is much lighter, more enjoyable reading (if the book you are reading from comes with annotations) than Novels.
And Shakespeare has written hazaar hazaar plays. I now look forward to reading King Lear, Hamlet, Twelfth Night, Antony and Cleopatra - all of which I knew existed but only they have all suddenly turned extremely desirable. It's like someone who has a fridge stocked full of chocolates (or candy or ice-cream) and who one fine day suddenly finds out that he likes chocolates (or candy or ice-cream) much more than he thought he did."
The last book(s) I bought...
...were the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Omnibus by Douglas Adams and Khushwant Singh's celebrated Train to Pakistan. The latter is a much thinner volume than I had expected it would be and I checked to see several times to see if it was the same book I thought it was. I haven't read it yet though. Before that, on a trip to Mysore I had bought some 15-20 second hand books including Moby Dick, The Story of My Experiments with Truth, The Island of Circe (Mulk Raj Anand I think), Ancient Indian Stories About Women (with a very evocative cover illustration. wink wink) and Fitzgerald's famous translation of Omar Khayyam's Rubbaiyat (with a even more evocative cover illustration. Sly Grin).
Books that Mean(t) a lot to Me
(not in any order and not at all exhaustive)
Ayn Rand's Fountainhead - A very heady book. Gives you a high. Propounds hard work, perfection and a passion for one's work which is a good thing. But is mercilessly unkind to people who some how did not manage to work hard, be perfect or have a passion for their work which may not be such a good thing. Written extremely well. Unputdownable.
Hemingway's Old Man And The Sea.
Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy - detailed, funny, non-judgemental, sunny, kind depictions of the lives of some forty-fifty people. The book is so big that at no stage do you really bother about the plot - what's going to happen to whom etc - it is almost like living another life with so many new friends and relatives. Vikram Seth probably wrote the novel like Amit Chatterjee, a writer-poet, one of the characters in the story is descrbed to be writing his big novel. In Amit's words "Like a Banyan Tree the story keeps dropping fresh branches to the ground. Some of these take root and become trees themselves others just fade away". A Suitable Boy has several firsts which I will not list here for you are going to read it yourself sometime.
A translation of Bilhana's Chaurapanchasika (Fifty Verses from a (love) Thief) - Written by the Kashmiri poet this collection consists of fifty erotic verses each beginning with Yadyapi Taan - Even Now...and describe the love between the poet and the King's daughter.
Translation of Kalidasa's Work - My favourite is a section from Ritusamharam (the coming together of the seasons) where the Summer is described to be having a queer effect on the food chain - the frog is shelters under the cobra's hood but the cobra does nothing, the snake shelters under the peacocks' tail but the peacock does nothing...When I read these translations I know that I have no choice but to learn Sanskrit some day and go exploring into the as yet unaccessible (to me) realms of Sanskrit literature.
The Catcher in the Rye - I used to use it, like Sumeet, as a pick me up of some sort. Don't like it now so much.
Upamanyu Chatterjee's English, August. I found striking, scary, similarities between me and the protagonist, Agastya Sen - not just in thoughts and attitudes but in actions as well. Which is why the book makes me feel reassured and really really good.
The Strange Case of Billy Bisaws by Arun Joshi and Distant Drum by Manohar Malgaonkar - both books bought 'by instinct' at second hand stores. Lesser celebrated of the Indian English Authors but just as good if not better.
Books I Wish I had Finished
Joseph Heller's Catch 22 - I found it very funny in the beginning but very boring very soon. People say that the book gets really pacy and drastic and profound towards the end. I will find out some day.
Melville's Moby Dick - Couldn't sustain interest till the I reached the supposedly really good parts. I had a very good copy which I have lent someone (if that someone is reading this please return my book). Now I have a front cover-less second hand copy and next time I start I am going to read till the end.
Three Men In a Boat - Jerome K Jerome. Hilarious Max. But couldn't read through the (semi-serious) descriptions of the history and geography of all those places in England. Maybe some other time...
People I Tag
Gans , Piyush , Sylvia
My tag list is small because most people I would want to tag have already been tagged by Som and Sumeet.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
One of the many funny quotes that Bangalore Times has been publishing on a one-a-day basis:
"I don't want to achieve immortality through my work, I want to achieve it through not dying" - Woody Allen
0 comments
"I don't want to achieve immortality through my work, I want to achieve it through not dying" - Woody Allen
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Flamboyance
Flamboyance.
I hate flamboyance. I hate flamboyant people. Can't stand them. Give me a get-together with a flamboyant once-aquantainance and you have ruined my evening. He narrates his escapades in this mountain, that valley the other forest, tells stories of boogying into the night, of partying non-stop. He seems to be re-living each moment - while I listen apologetically, having done nothing daring, at least nothing I can discuss. I end up telling him that I write stories for magazines, comics and give him the address of my blog. Normally I would'nt, but I have to show something for having lived so many years since we last knew each other. Pretty sad.
I am totally intimidated by flamboyance. It puts me off. It puts me down. It takes the wind out of me. Give me the quietly talented guys, I say. Let them be Picassos and Mozarts but let them be quiet. Then I'll like them.
But who is quiet these days?
The flamboyant guy always looks conspicuously at the obese kid, waves at it, makes funny faces, and completely ignores the gorgeous mother - showing off his sexual security. While you take your eyes guiltily off the mother thinking, how pathetic am I?
What do I do when I am faced with patronizing flamboyance. Crumple up and look for sympathy. Or be my true self. Which is? My true self might be the quiet, sensitive, romantic, clever, intelligent guy - slightly shy, sometimes funny. A bit thoughtless, tolerably selfish. But where is the place for this in a flamboyant world.
I can't meet flamboyance on an equal footing. This makes me feel bad.
I keep thinking I need to something famous. So everyone will be by default impressed with me - even the flamboyant guys - and I won't have to do much. I can be quiet through meetings and get-togethers. My seeming introvertishness will be taken as a charming idiosyncrasy and not a miserable patheticness. My not having a girlfriend will be forgiven. Hmm. I should do something famous.
There is an alternate choice. And that is serenity. Meditation. Yoga. Karate and self control. Inner Bliss.
But I think I like the 'do something famous' option better.
0 comments
Flamboyance.
I hate flamboyance. I hate flamboyant people. Can't stand them. Give me a get-together with a flamboyant once-aquantainance and you have ruined my evening. He narrates his escapades in this mountain, that valley the other forest, tells stories of boogying into the night, of partying non-stop. He seems to be re-living each moment - while I listen apologetically, having done nothing daring, at least nothing I can discuss. I end up telling him that I write stories for magazines, comics and give him the address of my blog. Normally I would'nt, but I have to show something for having lived so many years since we last knew each other. Pretty sad.
I am totally intimidated by flamboyance. It puts me off. It puts me down. It takes the wind out of me. Give me the quietly talented guys, I say. Let them be Picassos and Mozarts but let them be quiet. Then I'll like them.
But who is quiet these days?
The flamboyant guy always looks conspicuously at the obese kid, waves at it, makes funny faces, and completely ignores the gorgeous mother - showing off his sexual security. While you take your eyes guiltily off the mother thinking, how pathetic am I?
What do I do when I am faced with patronizing flamboyance. Crumple up and look for sympathy. Or be my true self. Which is? My true self might be the quiet, sensitive, romantic, clever, intelligent guy - slightly shy, sometimes funny. A bit thoughtless, tolerably selfish. But where is the place for this in a flamboyant world.
I can't meet flamboyance on an equal footing. This makes me feel bad.
I keep thinking I need to something famous. So everyone will be by default impressed with me - even the flamboyant guys - and I won't have to do much. I can be quiet through meetings and get-togethers. My seeming introvertishness will be taken as a charming idiosyncrasy and not a miserable patheticness. My not having a girlfriend will be forgiven. Hmm. I should do something famous.
There is an alternate choice. And that is serenity. Meditation. Yoga. Karate and self control. Inner Bliss.
But I think I like the 'do something famous' option better.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Two Restaurants
The proverbial white sheet is replaced by the white terminal in Notepad. And I write something, for the sake of writing, looking for that music which made the great poet say, "Ghalib, the scratching of the pen on paper is the sound of angels".
But as another poet Akbar Allahabadi said "How can Akbar make poetry when the pen is in his hands and the ink elsewhere", so seems the case with me. Except in my case the ink is in several different places, all distant and unreachable, by degrees unknown.
A whole weekend of could-be inspirations has been wasted on me.
The differently similar coziness of two restaurants. The red hued Chinese place - Mandarin. With the tinkling of bells and the clinks of knives and forks. The now on, now off drizzle outside. The multi-reflections of light flashes on my plate...The girl sitting on the next table - a muddy brown complexion which is used to represent Indians in cartoon strips and English movies - neither here nor there - neither fair nor dark; with two larger front teeth and eyes which flash in sync with the parting of her lips and the gurgle of her laughter...The drawing room comfort of the India Coffee House. The posters which say "Indian Coffee - a glorious tradition " "Coffee the anytime drink. Kaafee jab chahen tab peeyen". The wood panneled walls, the liveried waiters. The framed picture of Gandhiji. The sober, mixed crowd. The large mirror on the wall. The excellent coffee.
The Sunday morning walk through a poor, leisurely neighbourhood. The loose tape from a broken casette that so slithers on the road like a swift snake in the gentle breeze that you pull your foot away. The amazing lighting of the mild sun that lends charm to the narrow gullies that seem dismal at night. There seems enough light to contrast hazaar shades and colours. How does one capture the glossy finish of a morning spectacle...everyone is out of their cramped houses keeping themselves busy one way or the other. There's so much crowd and so much time-pass chitchat. One or two people trying to fly kites without too much success - Bangloreans seem to be pathetic kite-fliers...Only the white clouds hurry around with un-Sunday-ish speed egged on by the manager-like wind...
So far so bad.
As a last ditch effort I play Silsila on my tape-player. Even that does not help. The beautiful words on my blog still have to be others':
Neela aasmaan so gaya,
neela aasmaan so gaya,
la la laa laa la...
Os barase raat bhige hont tharrayen
Dhadkane kuch kahana chahen keha nahi paayen
Hawa ka geet maddham hai,
Samay ki chaal bhi kam hai..
Aansuon mein chand dooba raat murjhaayi,
Zindagi mein door tak phaili hai tanhaayi,
Jo guzare ham pe woh kam hai,
Tumhare gam ka mausam hai.
Pyar ki vaadi mein gunje beethe afsaane,
Hamsafar jo kal the ab thehare woh begaane,
mohabbat aaj pyaasi hai,
badi gehari udaasi hai.
Neela aasmaan...
0 comments
The proverbial white sheet is replaced by the white terminal in Notepad. And I write something, for the sake of writing, looking for that music which made the great poet say, "Ghalib, the scratching of the pen on paper is the sound of angels".
But as another poet Akbar Allahabadi said "How can Akbar make poetry when the pen is in his hands and the ink elsewhere", so seems the case with me. Except in my case the ink is in several different places, all distant and unreachable, by degrees unknown.
A whole weekend of could-be inspirations has been wasted on me.
The differently similar coziness of two restaurants. The red hued Chinese place - Mandarin. With the tinkling of bells and the clinks of knives and forks. The now on, now off drizzle outside. The multi-reflections of light flashes on my plate...The girl sitting on the next table - a muddy brown complexion which is used to represent Indians in cartoon strips and English movies - neither here nor there - neither fair nor dark; with two larger front teeth and eyes which flash in sync with the parting of her lips and the gurgle of her laughter...The drawing room comfort of the India Coffee House. The posters which say "Indian Coffee - a glorious tradition " "Coffee the anytime drink. Kaafee jab chahen tab peeyen". The wood panneled walls, the liveried waiters. The framed picture of Gandhiji. The sober, mixed crowd. The large mirror on the wall. The excellent coffee.
The Sunday morning walk through a poor, leisurely neighbourhood. The loose tape from a broken casette that so slithers on the road like a swift snake in the gentle breeze that you pull your foot away. The amazing lighting of the mild sun that lends charm to the narrow gullies that seem dismal at night. There seems enough light to contrast hazaar shades and colours. How does one capture the glossy finish of a morning spectacle...everyone is out of their cramped houses keeping themselves busy one way or the other. There's so much crowd and so much time-pass chitchat. One or two people trying to fly kites without too much success - Bangloreans seem to be pathetic kite-fliers...Only the white clouds hurry around with un-Sunday-ish speed egged on by the manager-like wind...
So far so bad.
As a last ditch effort I play Silsila on my tape-player. Even that does not help. The beautiful words on my blog still have to be others':
Neela aasmaan so gaya,
neela aasmaan so gaya,
la la laa laa la...
Os barase raat bhige hont tharrayen
Dhadkane kuch kahana chahen keha nahi paayen
Hawa ka geet maddham hai,
Samay ki chaal bhi kam hai..
Aansuon mein chand dooba raat murjhaayi,
Zindagi mein door tak phaili hai tanhaayi,
Jo guzare ham pe woh kam hai,
Tumhare gam ka mausam hai.
Pyar ki vaadi mein gunje beethe afsaane,
Hamsafar jo kal the ab thehare woh begaane,
mohabbat aaj pyaasi hai,
badi gehari udaasi hai.
Neela aasmaan...
Monday, May 30, 2005
The Ghazal - Part IV
The last few episodes of this series were supposed to contain 'case studies' of select Ghazals. But I realized that there are no 'select' Ghazals. Most Ghazals are good. And there are lots and lots of good Ghazals. This made me lose enthu in this series a bit. But I have revived my enthu because I simply have to post this particular Ghazal by Ghalib.
This Ghazal appears in the voice of Chitra Singh in the serial Mirza Ghalib by Gulzar. It is sung at a very slow, leisurely pace sometimes to the accompaniment of soulful saarangi and sometimes without any music at all. There are long gaps between shers (actually screenplay and dialogue) and this makes it sound even more leisurely and slow-paced. It's an ideal Ghazal to sing when you are taking a walk or fixing your room - long periods of silence and then you say, ok let me sing the next sher now. And since the Ghazal is sung to a slow pace, there is scope for packing in a lot of emotion if you can and want to.
Like I have said before, each Ghazal is made special by only one or two really really good shers. The rest are so-so shers, there to add bulk and consistency. The very good sher in this Ghazal is the second one: 'Qafas mein mujh se...'. I started liking this Ghazals only when I had looked up the meanings of 'Qafas' and 'Rudaad' in an online urdu dictionary.
The last sher, the Maqta, is omitted in the TV serial. This is unfortunate since a Ghazal is heavily incomplete without the Maqta.
---
Kisi ko deke dil koi nawasanj-e-fugaan kyon ho,
Na ho jab dil hi seene mein, to phir mooh mein zabaan kyon ho
[nawasanj-e-fugaan : loud noise]
I am still trying to get a hang of these opening lines. Any help around?
Qafas mein mujh se rudaad-e-chaman kahate na dar hamdam,
Giri hai jis pe kal bijli, woh mera aasheyan kyon ho
[Qafas: jail ; Rudaad: news]
Go ahead, tell me the news of home, my friend, when you visit me in jail,
Relax now, The house you say where lightning struck yesterday, why should we suppose it's mine?
Yahi hai aazmaana to, sataana kis ko kehate hain,
Adu ke holiye jab tum, to mera intehaan kyon ho
[aazmaana: trying; sataana: paining; Adu: rival]
I can't take your trials, my dear, they are now on the verge of being irritatingly painful,
by-the-by since you are already committed to my rival, what is the point of these trials anyways?
Wafa kaisi kahan ka ishq jab sar phodana thehera,
To phir aey sang-dil tera hi sang-e-aastaan kyon ho
[sang: stone; aastaan:home; sang-e-aastaan (perhaps): doorstep made of stone]
All love is the same, it boils down to breaking one's head
So why then, o stone-hearted one, should I choose your door-step for this purpose (I'll go someplace more sympathetic)
Nikaala chahata hai kaam kya taanon se tu Ghalib,
Tere be-meher kehane se, woh tujh pe meherabaan kyon ho
[meher: mercy; taana maarna: nag]
Oh Ghalib, you try in vain to get your way through nagging
Will she be merciful to you just coz you call her merciless?
Apologies for the translations having turned out light-hearted and un-serious. I am sure the Ghazals sounds best when sung with heart-wrenching melancholy. But I am feeling quite cheerful at the moment. Writing has that effect on me. Meanwhile might I suggest you set your hands on Mirza Ghalib, the serial. Video CDs if possible (Neena Gupta sings this Ghazal while she is getting her hair done for the evening). Music CDs/cassettes otherwise. And listen to this Ghazal. It will be worth the trouble. And you will like it much better, now that you know what 'Qafas' and 'Rudaad' mean.
2 comments
The last few episodes of this series were supposed to contain 'case studies' of select Ghazals. But I realized that there are no 'select' Ghazals. Most Ghazals are good. And there are lots and lots of good Ghazals. This made me lose enthu in this series a bit. But I have revived my enthu because I simply have to post this particular Ghazal by Ghalib.
This Ghazal appears in the voice of Chitra Singh in the serial Mirza Ghalib by Gulzar. It is sung at a very slow, leisurely pace sometimes to the accompaniment of soulful saarangi and sometimes without any music at all. There are long gaps between shers (actually screenplay and dialogue) and this makes it sound even more leisurely and slow-paced. It's an ideal Ghazal to sing when you are taking a walk or fixing your room - long periods of silence and then you say, ok let me sing the next sher now. And since the Ghazal is sung to a slow pace, there is scope for packing in a lot of emotion if you can and want to.
Like I have said before, each Ghazal is made special by only one or two really really good shers. The rest are so-so shers, there to add bulk and consistency. The very good sher in this Ghazal is the second one: 'Qafas mein mujh se...'. I started liking this Ghazals only when I had looked up the meanings of 'Qafas' and 'Rudaad' in an online urdu dictionary.
The last sher, the Maqta, is omitted in the TV serial. This is unfortunate since a Ghazal is heavily incomplete without the Maqta.
---
Kisi ko deke dil koi nawasanj-e-fugaan kyon ho,
Na ho jab dil hi seene mein, to phir mooh mein zabaan kyon ho
[nawasanj-e-fugaan : loud noise]
I am still trying to get a hang of these opening lines. Any help around?
Qafas mein mujh se rudaad-e-chaman kahate na dar hamdam,
Giri hai jis pe kal bijli, woh mera aasheyan kyon ho
[Qafas: jail ; Rudaad: news]
Go ahead, tell me the news of home, my friend, when you visit me in jail,
Relax now, The house you say where lightning struck yesterday, why should we suppose it's mine?
Yahi hai aazmaana to, sataana kis ko kehate hain,
Adu ke holiye jab tum, to mera intehaan kyon ho
[aazmaana: trying; sataana: paining; Adu: rival]
I can't take your trials, my dear, they are now on the verge of being irritatingly painful,
by-the-by since you are already committed to my rival, what is the point of these trials anyways?
Wafa kaisi kahan ka ishq jab sar phodana thehera,
To phir aey sang-dil tera hi sang-e-aastaan kyon ho
[sang: stone; aastaan:home; sang-e-aastaan (perhaps): doorstep made of stone]
All love is the same, it boils down to breaking one's head
So why then, o stone-hearted one, should I choose your door-step for this purpose (I'll go someplace more sympathetic)
Nikaala chahata hai kaam kya taanon se tu Ghalib,
Tere be-meher kehane se, woh tujh pe meherabaan kyon ho
[meher: mercy; taana maarna: nag]
Oh Ghalib, you try in vain to get your way through nagging
Will she be merciful to you just coz you call her merciless?
Apologies for the translations having turned out light-hearted and un-serious. I am sure the Ghazals sounds best when sung with heart-wrenching melancholy. But I am feeling quite cheerful at the moment. Writing has that effect on me. Meanwhile might I suggest you set your hands on Mirza Ghalib, the serial. Video CDs if possible (Neena Gupta sings this Ghazal while she is getting her hair done for the evening). Music CDs/cassettes otherwise. And listen to this Ghazal. It will be worth the trouble. And you will like it much better, now that you know what 'Qafas' and 'Rudaad' mean.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
A Mid Summer's Day Dream (contd from two previous posts to be found, one each, in the Dec'04 and Jan'05 archives)
potboiler: noun a usually inferior work (as of art or literature) produced chiefly for profit.
Chapter 5
Sitting on the very last bench, Mannu was attempting to make a sketch of Professor X. The two pages of notebook that he was writing on, now contained six and half semi-likenesses of Professor X. None of the first six came very close to resembling the original and the way things were going neither would the seventh.
But one could not blame Mannu for trying. Professor X was the most sketchable Professor in the college. He wore a thick beard and moustache and dark-rimmed spectacles. If you could draw these somewhat then you were almost there.
Professor X's teaching method was amongst the most un-interesting. He kept filling the large blackboard (which was actually green in colour) with layers and layers of equations. His nasal, staccato, whiny, painfully earnest delivery combined with his speech-habit of inserting innumerable youknow-s in his sentences killed any life there was in his lecturing. Besides, whatever he taught was easily readable from the prescribed text book. Unfortunately, that thousand-page tome was also quite unimaginative in its style of instruction and X's classes were attended to avoid, if possible, having to read the book.
Once you were in X's class, however, you succumbed, like Mannu had, to the temptation of trying to sketch him. Quite early in the lecture the thread was lost and while you were still trying to find it, X had completed half a complicated sweater on the board. With a sigh, you gave up hopes of a warm winter.
The pen then moved, as though on its own, and quickly there formed another pair of spectacles, another set of whiskers and you were half way into your eighth attempt at drawing X.
----
With Chammo, however, the story was slightly different. For Chammo was a master artist. Sitting somewhere in the middle of the class ("last bench sey saaf dikhta nahi hai, Bandhu") he was putting the final touches on a full two-page, one-attempt portrait of X. His notebook for X's course was full of drawings of X - some caricatures, some portraits, some even paintings with crayons. "X", Mannu said like some hot-shot famous painter would, "fascinates me".
Today's X carried X's typical expression. A reluctant, laboured smile-grin and eyes that reflected a singular lack of humour through the spectacle glass. The beard was not one big black mass; the individual hairs could be made out. The touch of grey in the beard was also drawn in (Chammo came to class with pencils and an eraser). As a special effect today's X was drawn against a backdrop of mathematical equations. Integrals, Summation signs, superscripts, subscripts, braces and brackets, revered Greek letters and rank English ones - all actual expressions copied from the blackboard - travelled from left to right across the page. Some disappeared in one of the professor's ears and emerged from the other. Others lost their way hopelessely in the thick forest of the professor's facial hair. Some formed a light noose around his neck. It was an extremely clever piece of work. It looked, at the same time, both a portrait and a caricature.
Some six students sitting around Chammo were kept on a steady high of amusement as they watched him work briskly, effortlessly, lovingly.
----
With Dilli, again, the story was slightly different. Dilli sat in the very first bench and tried successfully to understand. If you kept your focus, the incremental effort was not at all large, he had found out. They were approaching the the end of the semester and he felt in full command. The subject was actually interesting - mathematical, complete within itself and entirely well defined - delightfully objective.
Dilli came to class equipped with photocopies of pages from the prescribed textbook. That way he did not have to take down many notes and could concentrate his efforts on understanding.
Sitting right under the teacher's nose, with all intentions of listening to the lecture, Dilli still could'nt help drawing a small picture of X in the top right corner on one of sheets of his zerox copy.
Everyone sketched Professor X. Everyone.
----
Meanwhile, TV was being spared the travails of heavy maths and denied the opportunity to sketch professor X by virtue of his belonging to a different department than Mannu, Chammo and Dilli.
Very coincidentally, however, he was sketching someone too. That someone was Vaidehi and she was up there on the dias presenting her term paper. The term paper was a fortunate opportunity. He could steadily look at her without her being offended, or even noticing. All he had to do was blink once in a while and keep nodding his head as if he was listening to her.
The sketch was'nt coming out too well though. Maybe someday Chammo could come to class and make a sketch...
(Sumeet, I resented a bit when you called this series a 'potboiler' sometime ago, but the more I write it, the more the story seems to fit that description.)
0 comments
potboiler: noun a usually inferior work (as of art or literature) produced chiefly for profit.
Chapter 5
Sitting on the very last bench, Mannu was attempting to make a sketch of Professor X. The two pages of notebook that he was writing on, now contained six and half semi-likenesses of Professor X. None of the first six came very close to resembling the original and the way things were going neither would the seventh.
But one could not blame Mannu for trying. Professor X was the most sketchable Professor in the college. He wore a thick beard and moustache and dark-rimmed spectacles. If you could draw these somewhat then you were almost there.
Professor X's teaching method was amongst the most un-interesting. He kept filling the large blackboard (which was actually green in colour) with layers and layers of equations. His nasal, staccato, whiny, painfully earnest delivery combined with his speech-habit of inserting innumerable youknow-s in his sentences killed any life there was in his lecturing. Besides, whatever he taught was easily readable from the prescribed text book. Unfortunately, that thousand-page tome was also quite unimaginative in its style of instruction and X's classes were attended to avoid, if possible, having to read the book.
Once you were in X's class, however, you succumbed, like Mannu had, to the temptation of trying to sketch him. Quite early in the lecture the thread was lost and while you were still trying to find it, X had completed half a complicated sweater on the board. With a sigh, you gave up hopes of a warm winter.
The pen then moved, as though on its own, and quickly there formed another pair of spectacles, another set of whiskers and you were half way into your eighth attempt at drawing X.
----
With Chammo, however, the story was slightly different. For Chammo was a master artist. Sitting somewhere in the middle of the class ("last bench sey saaf dikhta nahi hai, Bandhu") he was putting the final touches on a full two-page, one-attempt portrait of X. His notebook for X's course was full of drawings of X - some caricatures, some portraits, some even paintings with crayons. "X", Mannu said like some hot-shot famous painter would, "fascinates me".
Today's X carried X's typical expression. A reluctant, laboured smile-grin and eyes that reflected a singular lack of humour through the spectacle glass. The beard was not one big black mass; the individual hairs could be made out. The touch of grey in the beard was also drawn in (Chammo came to class with pencils and an eraser). As a special effect today's X was drawn against a backdrop of mathematical equations. Integrals, Summation signs, superscripts, subscripts, braces and brackets, revered Greek letters and rank English ones - all actual expressions copied from the blackboard - travelled from left to right across the page. Some disappeared in one of the professor's ears and emerged from the other. Others lost their way hopelessely in the thick forest of the professor's facial hair. Some formed a light noose around his neck. It was an extremely clever piece of work. It looked, at the same time, both a portrait and a caricature.
Some six students sitting around Chammo were kept on a steady high of amusement as they watched him work briskly, effortlessly, lovingly.
----
With Dilli, again, the story was slightly different. Dilli sat in the very first bench and tried successfully to understand. If you kept your focus, the incremental effort was not at all large, he had found out. They were approaching the the end of the semester and he felt in full command. The subject was actually interesting - mathematical, complete within itself and entirely well defined - delightfully objective.
Dilli came to class equipped with photocopies of pages from the prescribed textbook. That way he did not have to take down many notes and could concentrate his efforts on understanding.
Sitting right under the teacher's nose, with all intentions of listening to the lecture, Dilli still could'nt help drawing a small picture of X in the top right corner on one of sheets of his zerox copy.
Everyone sketched Professor X. Everyone.
----
Meanwhile, TV was being spared the travails of heavy maths and denied the opportunity to sketch professor X by virtue of his belonging to a different department than Mannu, Chammo and Dilli.
Very coincidentally, however, he was sketching someone too. That someone was Vaidehi and she was up there on the dias presenting her term paper. The term paper was a fortunate opportunity. He could steadily look at her without her being offended, or even noticing. All he had to do was blink once in a while and keep nodding his head as if he was listening to her.
The sketch was'nt coming out too well though. Maybe someday Chammo could come to class and make a sketch...
(Sumeet, I resented a bit when you called this series a 'potboiler' sometime ago, but the more I write it, the more the story seems to fit that description.)
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Sorry. Another long post.
Another request to read at leisure. Don't read if you don't have time. Its not too well written anyway.
Manipal Days
What's written here may not be accurate. For I tend to make the weather more pleasant, (to use Sumeet's expression, modified) the grass greener and the girls prettier, whenever I am putting down memories. And yes, the food tastier. But I don't do it on purpose and I believe what I am writing to be true. So I guess it is ok. But half my readership has shared the Manipal experience with me and they are free to create an 'errata/addendum' section down there in the comments. Also, I tend to lose enthu abruptly while writing long memoirs and hence this below account may not be comprehensive. Lastly, I am reading the 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' from a Douglas Adams Omnibus (which Som , you will be happy to know I have purchased - the last of the Gangaram Coupons which those guys let me use one month after the expiry date, following which I have forgiven them for remaining closed on holidays), and, if I am lucky, some of Douglas Adams' whacky style might rub off on me. (Dear reader, do let me know when you are really, truly, sick of my 'influenced style' disclaimers. I am getting sick of them myself, which maybe good news.)
Som and Sumt have both written about the Manipal Days on their blogs. I could'nt find the posts on their blogs though. Guys, put the links in the comments section so I can insert them in this post.
I begin with Douglas Adams. I remember Som, Koushik and I had gone to Sumeet's appartment. The outside was freshly rain-washed (which is how most of Manipal was during those three months). We were sitting in Sumt's room and the only topic of conversation I seem to remember was to do with mosquitoes and mosquito nets on the windows. When we were leaving I borrowed Sumt's Hitchiker omnibus (the same kind of copy as I now have) and he semi-sternly instructed me not to fold corners and always to leave the book face down when I take a break from reading. Reading the book once more now, I have just met the charmingly-depressed Marvin and can't wait to get to the place where they have the lifts with personality.
The rumours that we might be sent away for training began some 20 days before we got actually sent. I didnt believe them at first. We hadn't heard of anyone in Manipal who could train us better than the seniors at TI. Anyways as the rumours increasingly became a reality I became more and more happy at dropping whatever I was doing (which wasn't much) and starting something totally fresh. It's always very nice to drop whatever work you are doing mid-way and to start something new. Its somewhat like a rebirth, a fresh start. I know I am scandalizing the more conscientious among my readers. I don't know about Som and Sumt though. Those guys had just successfully inserted a couple of buffers in the next PG of a cable-chip and were pretty thrilled about it (Come on guys, admit you were thrilled and I'll admit I was jealous :-)
Vivek Pawar(the biggest boss as far as I could see) told us at a special meeting that the training was a huge thing for us. We were to make full use of the expertise our trainer in Manipal had (By then we had realized that our guide in Manipal was a hot-shot Guru who had co-founded Mixed Signal Design at TI before starting his own company in Manipal). We learnt that TI was paying a hefty fee for the training - didnt exactly know the figure. The Onus to make full use of that payment was on us. I never like it when the Onus is on me. What is Onus, by the way? We were to send in weekly, monthly updates back to Bangalore (which we thankfully, didnt have to after all). It was to be an all-serious thing actually.
At a preparation meeting, we were told it would be raining cats and dogs in Manipal ( We went sometime in August) and we were to carry warm clothes, water-proof chappals and umbrellas. Somehow the prospect of rain sounded grim that time. Little did I know. Leaders amongst us were appointed, were they? To send in the weeklies. I remember raising only one concern. Who will wash our clothes there? I had washed clothes for four years in college and now I was sick of it. In the two months in Bangalore so far, we had a maid. So what would happen in Manipal?
The departure from Bangalore happened quite casually. Maybe because there wasn't anyone to depart from. Post-dated cheques were given to the landlord (a criminal waste of house rent for we were to be away 3 months, but there was nothing we could do). Before we left I introduced Som to Vishal's where we ate egg/chicken biryani before getting on to a Sugama Travels Bus to Manipal.
Up on waking the next morning I could see rain-drenched landscape everywhere. We got off the bus and onto a Tata Sumo or Safari (still can't tell which is which). Som and I were the first to get off the Tata Sumo/Safari. We were to be roommates in Manipal too. What a fortunate coincidence. Still can't figure out how it came about to be so. Our appartment was oldish (Our host company, Karmic, had rented appartments for us and furnished then with basic amenities). But the toilet on our floor was big and nice and tiled.
Mahant Sir, the boss of Karmic and our tutor for the three months, came to meet each of us in our different appartments. We were to go have tea in the mess.
The food in Manipal was great, though vegetarian. For me it was home food. Nice idlis, Nice vadas, nice dosas coastal style, nice chutney, nice sambar, uppittu, banans, papaya, pohe. For lunch and dinner rice and daal and various vegetables. There was high-tea at five too. Pohe or some bajji or other. And at 11.00am and at 3.00pm, as we sat in the classroom listening to a lecture, a guy from the mess would come and abruptly announce 'Tea' and we would have an always-welcome five minute break. Basically full, proper food. Som didnt fancy the food much. He didnt like the style of cooking (Now that I am familiar somewhat with Bengali cuisine, I can see why not). Som was to lose weight in those three months and become the fittest anyone in TI has ever seen him. As for me Mahant Sir never saw me in Bangalore for a year after that without telling me that I had wasted down since Manipal.
The Onus, which was on us, was never taken - I can speak for the group, yeah? The weekly reports became monthlies. We kept our participation strictly to the 9.00 to 5.00 classes (hardly even that) and didnt put more than the normal enthu in the two projects we were to do. Sometimes my conscience opened the Razavi Book on Analog Design but without much progress. Sir would often leave for to Bangalore on business leaving our training in the hands of his lieutenants in Karmic. Though these lieutenants did try and do a job of it, we never really worked hard in Sir's absence. What to do? Human beings.
Every weekend or so seniors from TI would come to talk to us on technical subjects and we and the engineers at Karmic would sit and listen, rapt. Their wives (the TI seniors') would come with them to Manipal too. We sneaked a look at them and cheerlessly noted how TIers wives tend to look. The fortunes seem to have changed with our batch, though (wink, wink).
I remember borrowing Fountainhead from someone and having experienced the un-putdownable feeling when I was reading it. I remember finding the full collection of the Feynman's lectures and trying in vain to stick to a daily-routine and to try and finish them all. But they were pretty well written.
Karmic was obsessed with Volleyball. Every evening after tea they had ritual volleyball. Something Mahant sir had possibly introduced to foster team spirit. Anyway. I played only one day, I think. That day Basu (from Karmic) borrowed my hawai chappals when he went off to fetch the ball in the thick bushes on the other side of the compound wall, promptly broke one of them (the toe-hold sort of thing came off) and with shocking discourtesy did not even offer to fix it. I am a decent volleyball player. I can play in the back row and pick the low balls and supply a decent supply. But volleyball doesnt interest me for too long. And after the chappal incident I had had it with volleyball.
Fortunately there was a football and a few enthu people so we started playing football. A game I love and which I had hardly played in the four years of college. Though it was not always possible to have enough people for a game and I remember having to start lobbying for football right from the beginning of high tea. Som didn't have the enthu for football that he now does or I would have been completely spared the trouble. Often football lost people to volleyball and I had to go back to the house and read Fountainhead. But the days when we did play it was fun. The sloping, half-grass, half-deadly-pebble, ground and the fresh air and the blue/cloudy sky. And kicking the ball around. I often played on the right wing, on the downward slope. More often than not, the ground proved too small for Ashish's long, deep passes and I had to run after the ball to prevent it from rolling down the slope too far, too fast.
Sometimes we played lagori, the seven-tile-pile, hit with the ball, avoid getting hit by the other team when you try to reassemble your tile-pile game. Subhash would insist, with smilingly innocent malice, that we play simple, primeval, pittu. Just hit whoever you can with the ball and do away with all this tile-wile thing.
One day, just one day, me and Koushik went jogging to whatever circle it was. I forget the name.
Sir's second wife. Tasneem. I read somewhere that it means a fountain in paradise. Some ten-twenty years Sir's junior. She is a painter who took classes for us on 'Work culture'. She read out to us all these articles from Self-help books and business magazines. You know how those are. They sound like absolute god-speak when someone is reading them out to you. And there are so many clever sentences. But you have always forgotten the previous line before you have finished hearing this one. In some of those clever, poignant-sounding sentences Tasneem used to pack in Emotion, drama and philosophical melancholy like only an artist can.
She once told me, in class, that I have the flexible face of a clown (I tried to take as a compliment; the rest of the class didn't) that I could make people laugh. She once told Subhash that she felt like calling him Madhav. And lo! Subhash's brother's name turned out to be Madhav. These artists have instint, I tell you.
I had gone to their house to see her paintings. There were several of them and most very aesthetic. You felt like looking at them.
Karmic has a policy that whoever it recruits as trainees gets a monthly stipend of 3k and gets free training to drive a car and gets free driving license for car and bike. We too were came under the trainee category and these benefits were extended to us too. That was too much. Here we were, fresh from college, only getting used to a steadily rising bank account, almost without expenses in Manipal (except for the grudgingly paid rent in B'lore) and on top of that 30, 100 buck notes in our hands every month (the feel currency is something. 30 hundred buck notes give more satisfaction than six 500 buck notes or only three 1000 buck notes) God what punya did I do my in my past life to deserve this?
And there were the car driving lessons. I am yet to put what I learnt there to any real test. The license test at the end was a bribed breeze. But the car driving classes were fun. After a few days of being comfortable with us, Murthy, our instructor started to tell us half-x to 1.5x jokes. He used to call them 'family' jokes for some reason. No wait I know the reason. All jokes began with There was one father one mother and one small child. And went on to the father humping the mother and the child getting curious etc. Don't remember any of them. They weren't particularly funny. But he told them in a funny way. And KK used to repeat them to everyone (many knew driving already and didnt take the lessons, or some were in the same car-learning batch as Rashmi, the trainee from Belgaum engineering college in whose presence no family jokes could be told) with Murthy's style on the mess table. Murthy was all contempt for the people from North Karnataka (most Karmic engineers are from north karnataka) with their rustic, uncultured-sounding Kannada and he found in us TIIers people he could share jokes with atlast. The hilarious part was when he (and later KK) inserted 'clutch-clutch' 'break', 'third-gear' at unexpected places in the midst of the earnestly funny family story.
I remember all of us lying on the clean, tiled floor in Koushik's appartment and trying to watch Austin Powers out of a bad CD with Santhosh and Vivek - who were and still are our footballing mates. Koushik had got a brand-new house with a brand new TV (unlike the unpredictable black and white in our appartment).
Manipal is a college town. There is one popular medical college and one popular engineering college. Lots of young people. And quite a density of girls. There is a restaurant called Dollops where we went to eat Roti, Naan (Som used to pronounce Naan as Nun. We always had a laugh when Som ordered 3 butter Nuns. Sorry Som, this is a reveal all. Do feel free to make use of the comments section to sling mud back) and butter chicken, murg do piyaaza and chicken masala. We ordered and we thulped as though in a contest. Not Ashish though. He usually ate one chicken burger.
Then there was a barbecue place called Shack Point where we went to eat Barbecue chicken and mashed potatoes. On one trip to Shack point, in an auto, I stole a glance at a couple stealing a kiss in the shadows of some bush which is the only live kiss I have seen in my life.
I remember a mad unchained dog that barked its head off, got onto the compound wall and threatened to spill over to the road and get at us whenever we went to Koushik's house by the road that ran next to the pond which dried up in the summer and was used as a cricket ground.
I went with Batani (Venktesh) to his college KREC Suratkal where he applied for some duplicate mark sheet or something. After his work was done we went to the KREC beach which is just across the highway from the college.
Then there was the trip to Belgaum where Sir tried to get a local Technical conference going. Som gave a talk there and impressed everybody. I was excited to go back to Belgaum, where I had once studied years ago. I had grand plans of visiting my school which never materialized (the plans didn't materialize) owing to my extreme laziness. The food wasnt that great though. Most lacklustre North-Karnataka cuisine I have ever eaten. We took the train to Belgaum. Sir had arranged it so that we could see an amazing waterfall which falls on the way (sic)(forget the name of the waterfalls). After we had seen the falls and gone through low clouds the train stoped at a station which I can still picture but dont remember the name of. A station in the hills. Mist and cold. For me South India has always meant Sun and Rain and Sea. That station was like some magic Harry Potter parallel world kind of thing.
There was a cultural programme of folk songs which were pretty good.
Okay. Its late in the night now. And I am losing enthu in all this writing. There are lots more things to be said. The dial up internet connection that made ping ping ping ping ping sound as it dialed up. The fight for the internet. The farewell at Sir's place where Tasneem made us snacks. The dinner at Sir's brother's place in Belgaum. The mess walla's buxom wife and how they kuchi-cooed on the stairs near the tap where we went to wash hands and our plates after grub. The whole day power cuts which conveniently made work impossible (there is unfortunately power back up in TI in Bangalore). The Pizzas at some place whose name I forget. The trip to Agumbe Sringeri, the food at the temple, the indifferent sunset we put much fight to see. The movies in the mini-theatre (whose name I forget, naturally) watched for 25 bucks. The graduation ceremony - speech making, classical music and heavily contributing negatively to KK's attempt to get our group to sing Chalata Musafir Pinjade walli muniya. Loki earning the nickname of Lokarson with his dancing prowess. The peer review where we suggested improvements in our peers - where I opened my mouth too much and too arbitrarily - one of the sins which I will pay for in my next janmam. The hunt for the discotheque. The various opportunities to drink which were wasted on me cos I didnt drink then. Ankur Saboo losing his temper. Ankur Saboo giving us fundas on life the universe and everything about the stock market. Learning to drive the bike on Raghya's RX135. Bhaskey totally not understanding Hindi conversation. The precocious school girl that passed the mess whenever we were having our high tea at five. Sir telling me that I should smile more often, which only made me more morose in his presence. Washing my own clothes :-( What else? I am sure I am forgetting the most interesting things and if they strike me, I will add an update. Oh yes. The Udupi temple and the most adorable idol of Baby-Krishna.
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Another request to read at leisure. Don't read if you don't have time. Its not too well written anyway.
Manipal Days
What's written here may not be accurate. For I tend to make the weather more pleasant, (to use Sumeet's expression, modified) the grass greener and the girls prettier, whenever I am putting down memories. And yes, the food tastier. But I don't do it on purpose and I believe what I am writing to be true. So I guess it is ok. But half my readership has shared the Manipal experience with me and they are free to create an 'errata/addendum' section down there in the comments. Also, I tend to lose enthu abruptly while writing long memoirs and hence this below account may not be comprehensive. Lastly, I am reading the 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' from a Douglas Adams Omnibus (which Som , you will be happy to know I have purchased - the last of the Gangaram Coupons which those guys let me use one month after the expiry date, following which I have forgiven them for remaining closed on holidays), and, if I am lucky, some of Douglas Adams' whacky style might rub off on me. (Dear reader, do let me know when you are really, truly, sick of my 'influenced style' disclaimers. I am getting sick of them myself, which maybe good news.)
Som and Sumt have both written about the Manipal Days on their blogs. I could'nt find the posts on their blogs though. Guys, put the links in the comments section so I can insert them in this post.
I begin with Douglas Adams. I remember Som, Koushik and I had gone to Sumeet's appartment. The outside was freshly rain-washed (which is how most of Manipal was during those three months). We were sitting in Sumt's room and the only topic of conversation I seem to remember was to do with mosquitoes and mosquito nets on the windows. When we were leaving I borrowed Sumt's Hitchiker omnibus (the same kind of copy as I now have) and he semi-sternly instructed me not to fold corners and always to leave the book face down when I take a break from reading. Reading the book once more now, I have just met the charmingly-depressed Marvin and can't wait to get to the place where they have the lifts with personality.
The rumours that we might be sent away for training began some 20 days before we got actually sent. I didnt believe them at first. We hadn't heard of anyone in Manipal who could train us better than the seniors at TI. Anyways as the rumours increasingly became a reality I became more and more happy at dropping whatever I was doing (which wasn't much) and starting something totally fresh. It's always very nice to drop whatever work you are doing mid-way and to start something new. Its somewhat like a rebirth, a fresh start. I know I am scandalizing the more conscientious among my readers. I don't know about Som and Sumt though. Those guys had just successfully inserted a couple of buffers in the next PG of a cable-chip and were pretty thrilled about it (Come on guys, admit you were thrilled and I'll admit I was jealous :-)
Vivek Pawar(the biggest boss as far as I could see) told us at a special meeting that the training was a huge thing for us. We were to make full use of the expertise our trainer in Manipal had (By then we had realized that our guide in Manipal was a hot-shot Guru who had co-founded Mixed Signal Design at TI before starting his own company in Manipal). We learnt that TI was paying a hefty fee for the training - didnt exactly know the figure. The Onus to make full use of that payment was on us. I never like it when the Onus is on me. What is Onus, by the way? We were to send in weekly, monthly updates back to Bangalore (which we thankfully, didnt have to after all). It was to be an all-serious thing actually.
At a preparation meeting, we were told it would be raining cats and dogs in Manipal ( We went sometime in August) and we were to carry warm clothes, water-proof chappals and umbrellas. Somehow the prospect of rain sounded grim that time. Little did I know. Leaders amongst us were appointed, were they? To send in the weeklies. I remember raising only one concern. Who will wash our clothes there? I had washed clothes for four years in college and now I was sick of it. In the two months in Bangalore so far, we had a maid. So what would happen in Manipal?
The departure from Bangalore happened quite casually. Maybe because there wasn't anyone to depart from. Post-dated cheques were given to the landlord (a criminal waste of house rent for we were to be away 3 months, but there was nothing we could do). Before we left I introduced Som to Vishal's where we ate egg/chicken biryani before getting on to a Sugama Travels Bus to Manipal.
Up on waking the next morning I could see rain-drenched landscape everywhere. We got off the bus and onto a Tata Sumo or Safari (still can't tell which is which). Som and I were the first to get off the Tata Sumo/Safari. We were to be roommates in Manipal too. What a fortunate coincidence. Still can't figure out how it came about to be so. Our appartment was oldish (Our host company, Karmic, had rented appartments for us and furnished then with basic amenities). But the toilet on our floor was big and nice and tiled.
Mahant Sir, the boss of Karmic and our tutor for the three months, came to meet each of us in our different appartments. We were to go have tea in the mess.
The food in Manipal was great, though vegetarian. For me it was home food. Nice idlis, Nice vadas, nice dosas coastal style, nice chutney, nice sambar, uppittu, banans, papaya, pohe. For lunch and dinner rice and daal and various vegetables. There was high-tea at five too. Pohe or some bajji or other. And at 11.00am and at 3.00pm, as we sat in the classroom listening to a lecture, a guy from the mess would come and abruptly announce 'Tea' and we would have an always-welcome five minute break. Basically full, proper food. Som didnt fancy the food much. He didnt like the style of cooking (Now that I am familiar somewhat with Bengali cuisine, I can see why not). Som was to lose weight in those three months and become the fittest anyone in TI has ever seen him. As for me Mahant Sir never saw me in Bangalore for a year after that without telling me that I had wasted down since Manipal.
The Onus, which was on us, was never taken - I can speak for the group, yeah? The weekly reports became monthlies. We kept our participation strictly to the 9.00 to 5.00 classes (hardly even that) and didnt put more than the normal enthu in the two projects we were to do. Sometimes my conscience opened the Razavi Book on Analog Design but without much progress. Sir would often leave for to Bangalore on business leaving our training in the hands of his lieutenants in Karmic. Though these lieutenants did try and do a job of it, we never really worked hard in Sir's absence. What to do? Human beings.
Every weekend or so seniors from TI would come to talk to us on technical subjects and we and the engineers at Karmic would sit and listen, rapt. Their wives (the TI seniors') would come with them to Manipal too. We sneaked a look at them and cheerlessly noted how TIers wives tend to look. The fortunes seem to have changed with our batch, though (wink, wink).
I remember borrowing Fountainhead from someone and having experienced the un-putdownable feeling when I was reading it. I remember finding the full collection of the Feynman's lectures and trying in vain to stick to a daily-routine and to try and finish them all. But they were pretty well written.
Karmic was obsessed with Volleyball. Every evening after tea they had ritual volleyball. Something Mahant sir had possibly introduced to foster team spirit. Anyway. I played only one day, I think. That day Basu (from Karmic) borrowed my hawai chappals when he went off to fetch the ball in the thick bushes on the other side of the compound wall, promptly broke one of them (the toe-hold sort of thing came off) and with shocking discourtesy did not even offer to fix it. I am a decent volleyball player. I can play in the back row and pick the low balls and supply a decent supply. But volleyball doesnt interest me for too long. And after the chappal incident I had had it with volleyball.
Fortunately there was a football and a few enthu people so we started playing football. A game I love and which I had hardly played in the four years of college. Though it was not always possible to have enough people for a game and I remember having to start lobbying for football right from the beginning of high tea. Som didn't have the enthu for football that he now does or I would have been completely spared the trouble. Often football lost people to volleyball and I had to go back to the house and read Fountainhead. But the days when we did play it was fun. The sloping, half-grass, half-deadly-pebble, ground and the fresh air and the blue/cloudy sky. And kicking the ball around. I often played on the right wing, on the downward slope. More often than not, the ground proved too small for Ashish's long, deep passes and I had to run after the ball to prevent it from rolling down the slope too far, too fast.
Sometimes we played lagori, the seven-tile-pile, hit with the ball, avoid getting hit by the other team when you try to reassemble your tile-pile game. Subhash would insist, with smilingly innocent malice, that we play simple, primeval, pittu. Just hit whoever you can with the ball and do away with all this tile-wile thing.
One day, just one day, me and Koushik went jogging to whatever circle it was. I forget the name.
Sir's second wife. Tasneem. I read somewhere that it means a fountain in paradise. Some ten-twenty years Sir's junior. She is a painter who took classes for us on 'Work culture'. She read out to us all these articles from Self-help books and business magazines. You know how those are. They sound like absolute god-speak when someone is reading them out to you. And there are so many clever sentences. But you have always forgotten the previous line before you have finished hearing this one. In some of those clever, poignant-sounding sentences Tasneem used to pack in Emotion, drama and philosophical melancholy like only an artist can.
She once told me, in class, that I have the flexible face of a clown (I tried to take as a compliment; the rest of the class didn't) that I could make people laugh. She once told Subhash that she felt like calling him Madhav. And lo! Subhash's brother's name turned out to be Madhav. These artists have instint, I tell you.
I had gone to their house to see her paintings. There were several of them and most very aesthetic. You felt like looking at them.
Karmic has a policy that whoever it recruits as trainees gets a monthly stipend of 3k and gets free training to drive a car and gets free driving license for car and bike. We too were came under the trainee category and these benefits were extended to us too. That was too much. Here we were, fresh from college, only getting used to a steadily rising bank account, almost without expenses in Manipal (except for the grudgingly paid rent in B'lore) and on top of that 30, 100 buck notes in our hands every month (the feel currency is something. 30 hundred buck notes give more satisfaction than six 500 buck notes or only three 1000 buck notes) God what punya did I do my in my past life to deserve this?
And there were the car driving lessons. I am yet to put what I learnt there to any real test. The license test at the end was a bribed breeze. But the car driving classes were fun. After a few days of being comfortable with us, Murthy, our instructor started to tell us half-x to 1.5x jokes. He used to call them 'family' jokes for some reason. No wait I know the reason. All jokes began with There was one father one mother and one small child. And went on to the father humping the mother and the child getting curious etc. Don't remember any of them. They weren't particularly funny. But he told them in a funny way. And KK used to repeat them to everyone (many knew driving already and didnt take the lessons, or some were in the same car-learning batch as Rashmi, the trainee from Belgaum engineering college in whose presence no family jokes could be told) with Murthy's style on the mess table. Murthy was all contempt for the people from North Karnataka (most Karmic engineers are from north karnataka) with their rustic, uncultured-sounding Kannada and he found in us TIIers people he could share jokes with atlast. The hilarious part was when he (and later KK) inserted 'clutch-clutch' 'break', 'third-gear' at unexpected places in the midst of the earnestly funny family story.
I remember all of us lying on the clean, tiled floor in Koushik's appartment and trying to watch Austin Powers out of a bad CD with Santhosh and Vivek - who were and still are our footballing mates. Koushik had got a brand-new house with a brand new TV (unlike the unpredictable black and white in our appartment).
Manipal is a college town. There is one popular medical college and one popular engineering college. Lots of young people. And quite a density of girls. There is a restaurant called Dollops where we went to eat Roti, Naan (Som used to pronounce Naan as Nun. We always had a laugh when Som ordered 3 butter Nuns. Sorry Som, this is a reveal all. Do feel free to make use of the comments section to sling mud back) and butter chicken, murg do piyaaza and chicken masala. We ordered and we thulped as though in a contest. Not Ashish though. He usually ate one chicken burger.
Then there was a barbecue place called Shack Point where we went to eat Barbecue chicken and mashed potatoes. On one trip to Shack point, in an auto, I stole a glance at a couple stealing a kiss in the shadows of some bush which is the only live kiss I have seen in my life.
I remember a mad unchained dog that barked its head off, got onto the compound wall and threatened to spill over to the road and get at us whenever we went to Koushik's house by the road that ran next to the pond which dried up in the summer and was used as a cricket ground.
I went with Batani (Venktesh) to his college KREC Suratkal where he applied for some duplicate mark sheet or something. After his work was done we went to the KREC beach which is just across the highway from the college.
Then there was the trip to Belgaum where Sir tried to get a local Technical conference going. Som gave a talk there and impressed everybody. I was excited to go back to Belgaum, where I had once studied years ago. I had grand plans of visiting my school which never materialized (the plans didn't materialize) owing to my extreme laziness. The food wasnt that great though. Most lacklustre North-Karnataka cuisine I have ever eaten. We took the train to Belgaum. Sir had arranged it so that we could see an amazing waterfall which falls on the way (sic)(forget the name of the waterfalls). After we had seen the falls and gone through low clouds the train stoped at a station which I can still picture but dont remember the name of. A station in the hills. Mist and cold. For me South India has always meant Sun and Rain and Sea. That station was like some magic Harry Potter parallel world kind of thing.
There was a cultural programme of folk songs which were pretty good.
Okay. Its late in the night now. And I am losing enthu in all this writing. There are lots more things to be said. The dial up internet connection that made ping ping ping ping ping sound as it dialed up. The fight for the internet. The farewell at Sir's place where Tasneem made us snacks. The dinner at Sir's brother's place in Belgaum. The mess walla's buxom wife and how they kuchi-cooed on the stairs near the tap where we went to wash hands and our plates after grub. The whole day power cuts which conveniently made work impossible (there is unfortunately power back up in TI in Bangalore). The Pizzas at some place whose name I forget. The trip to Agumbe Sringeri, the food at the temple, the indifferent sunset we put much fight to see. The movies in the mini-theatre (whose name I forget, naturally) watched for 25 bucks. The graduation ceremony - speech making, classical music and heavily contributing negatively to KK's attempt to get our group to sing Chalata Musafir Pinjade walli muniya. Loki earning the nickname of Lokarson with his dancing prowess. The peer review where we suggested improvements in our peers - where I opened my mouth too much and too arbitrarily - one of the sins which I will pay for in my next janmam. The hunt for the discotheque. The various opportunities to drink which were wasted on me cos I didnt drink then. Ankur Saboo losing his temper. Ankur Saboo giving us fundas on life the universe and everything about the stock market. Learning to drive the bike on Raghya's RX135. Bhaskey totally not understanding Hindi conversation. The precocious school girl that passed the mess whenever we were having our high tea at five. Sir telling me that I should smile more often, which only made me more morose in his presence. Washing my own clothes :-( What else? I am sure I am forgetting the most interesting things and if they strike me, I will add an update. Oh yes. The Udupi temple and the most adorable idol of Baby-Krishna.
Monday, May 16, 2005
I completed the Bangalore Half-Marathon
I completed the Bangalore Half-Marathon (yesterday) in 2 hours and 14 mins. A distance of 21.1 kms. To put things out of perspective, it is a distance of 2.11e10 microns or equivalently 3.01e11 mininum length transistors in c021.m lined end to end (ofcourse, there will be DRC errors).
It was my first half-marathon and a lot of fun.
Loki completed too. I don't know what timing he wants to quote ;-)
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I completed the Bangalore Half-Marathon (yesterday) in 2 hours and 14 mins. A distance of 21.1 kms. To put things out of perspective, it is a distance of 2.11e10 microns or equivalently 3.01e11 mininum length transistors in c021.m lined end to end (ofcourse, there will be DRC errors).
It was my first half-marathon and a lot of fun.
Loki completed too. I don't know what timing he wants to quote ;-)
Friday, May 06, 2005
Here's a joke my sister made up and I fine tuned:
A guy goes to the loans department of a bank and says "Please mujhe loan de dijiye main hamesha hamesha aapka wrini rahoonga"
Had a very nice, very well timed, 5 day vacation at home. Well timed because the weather is pretty pleasant in Kumta right now and it is the season for Mangoes, Jackfruit and fish - all of which I ate loads of. Also my sister's college (she's lectures to BSc Students) is closed for summer vacation, so she was at home too.
Among other things, read Macbeth at leisure. It gave me a big kick. Though I had read Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar before, neither of them had hit me so hard as did Macbeth. Suddenly the much ado (again a Shakespearean phrase?) there is about Shakespeare seemed to make sense. And then, Shakespeare is drama written as verse and is much lighter, more enjoyable reading (if the book you are reading from comes with annotations) than Novels.
And Shakespeare has written hazaar hazaar plays. I now look forward to reading King Lear, Hamlet, Twelfth Night, Antony and Cleopatra - all of which I knew existed but only they have all suddenly turned extremely desirable. It's like someone who has a fridge stocked full of chocolates (or candy or ice-cream) and who one fine day suddenly finds out that he likes chocolates (or candy or ice-cream) much more than he thought he did.
After being so impressed with Macbeth I dug out my sister's book of college poems and read for the first time all the (deservedly) famous pieces: Alexander Selkirk, Ode to a Grecian Urn, An Essay on Man...I have brought the book back with me. English Poetry, here I come!
I think I will have one crib with Shakespearean Drama or English poetry and that would be that it is not very conducive to mugging up (unlike Ghazals). Though Macbeth had several stunning lines these are the only ones I could remember with some fight. They are the words of a murderer whom Macbeth has employed:
I am one, my liege,
Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world
Have so incens'd that I am reckless what
I do to spite the world
0 comments
A guy goes to the loans department of a bank and says "Please mujhe loan de dijiye main hamesha hamesha aapka wrini rahoonga"
Had a very nice, very well timed, 5 day vacation at home. Well timed because the weather is pretty pleasant in Kumta right now and it is the season for Mangoes, Jackfruit and fish - all of which I ate loads of. Also my sister's college (she's lectures to BSc Students) is closed for summer vacation, so she was at home too.
Among other things, read Macbeth at leisure. It gave me a big kick. Though I had read Romeo and Juliet and Julius Caesar before, neither of them had hit me so hard as did Macbeth. Suddenly the much ado (again a Shakespearean phrase?) there is about Shakespeare seemed to make sense. And then, Shakespeare is drama written as verse and is much lighter, more enjoyable reading (if the book you are reading from comes with annotations) than Novels.
And Shakespeare has written hazaar hazaar plays. I now look forward to reading King Lear, Hamlet, Twelfth Night, Antony and Cleopatra - all of which I knew existed but only they have all suddenly turned extremely desirable. It's like someone who has a fridge stocked full of chocolates (or candy or ice-cream) and who one fine day suddenly finds out that he likes chocolates (or candy or ice-cream) much more than he thought he did.
After being so impressed with Macbeth I dug out my sister's book of college poems and read for the first time all the (deservedly) famous pieces: Alexander Selkirk, Ode to a Grecian Urn, An Essay on Man...I have brought the book back with me. English Poetry, here I come!
I think I will have one crib with Shakespearean Drama or English poetry and that would be that it is not very conducive to mugging up (unlike Ghazals). Though Macbeth had several stunning lines these are the only ones I could remember with some fight. They are the words of a murderer whom Macbeth has employed:
I am one, my liege,
Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world
Have so incens'd that I am reckless what
I do to spite the world
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
The following story, which I wrote in Jan this year, has been accepted by TINKLE and will be published soon :-)
Read at leisure.
Robbery in Bank Colony
Anil and Gayu were enjoying Sunday Rangoli with their parents. The weather was pleasant after the previous night's rain. The windows on either side of the sitting room were open and so were the two doors. It was almost as if the sitting room had only two walls. The breeze was cool but was not very strong; the smell of the morning tea they were drinking lingered in the air.
Everybody was enjoying a slow, melodious, song featuring Dharmendra, Tanuja and Mala Sinha, when a timid voice behind them said, "Anil."
Their very shy neighbour, little Shashi, was peeping in at the door. Only his head, the fingers of his two hands and a bit of his right foot were visible to the people inside the house.
An unspoken protocol demanded that Anil and Gayu come out and meet him immediately. They did.
Shashi was not so shy when there were no adults watching, and he very quickly and very simply told his story. Vivek's house had been robbed. Vivek and his mom were in Bombay on holiday and Vivek's dad had been away too, on some business errand. The lock had been broken and the house had been ransacked. The antique and precious Grandfather clock, which belonged to Vivek’s mother, was gone, along with some carelessly placed cash and God Knows What Else. The police were going to come shortly and Amit had summoned everyone to his house (which was the opposite house but one to Vivek's) for a conference. He, Shashi, had finished telling the news to almost everyone and would be going to Rohan's house next.
Anil and Gayu showed enough excitement to somewhat compensate Shashi for his efforts. Amit, the not so oppressive bully of the colony, who had brusquely requisitioned Shashi's messengerial services - this is a story of the times when telephones were not so widespread as they are today - would later complete the compensation by buying Shashi a Cadbury chocolate.
Anil and Gayu went back in, hurriedly told their parents the news, wore their sandals and set out for Amit's house. They didn’t even wait to see the shocked expressions on their parents' faces.
The rain had made the mud-and-stone road a bit slushy but the weather was pleasantly chilly. It took them only a couple of minutes to reach Amit's house - their colony was not very big.
The Who's Who of the colony was already there. Amit, Ramya, Smita, Harish, Jayu and little Santhosh...Rohan and Shashi would join them shortly. They were all standing in front of Amit's gate watching and listening to an Adult Conference dominated entirely by Mrs Kini whose big house was opposite Vivek's and next to Amit's. Vivek's large and round father was there too. He must have arrived in the morning. He was standing with a funnily sad expression on his large, round, face.
Almost everyone in the colony spoke Konkani and this was the language of Mrs Kini's discourse. "I heard the hammering on the lock" she was saying "I heard it again and again inspite of the noise of the rain. But everytime I decided to get up and have a look, the hammering stopped. I thought I was having one of those dreams of mine. I keep having these disturbing dreams whenever we make radish for dinner. But finally I could bear it no longer and went out to check. Everything was quiet except for the rain and the occasional thunder. I was not wearing my glasses and had no idea where to look for the noise otherwise I would have definitely seen 'him'."
Neither Vivek's other adultly neighbours nor Mrs Kini's own grown up daughters corroborated Mrs Kini's evidence of persistent hammering. Perhaps it was the radish after all.
"It is definitely the Dombaris" Mrs Kini said, switching lanes, accusing the slum dwellers who lived across the main road to the Bank colony. Most of the housemaids in the colony came from the Dombarwadi and Mrs Kini's own maid was cleaning her front yard. She was comfortably within earshot and very likely understood every word of Konkani. Konkani is very similar to Marathi, which is the local tongue in Belgaum. This did not bother Mrs Kini "It is definitely them. They know who is in the house who is not, what things are valuable, where they are kept. And they have all the tools. All these water pumps getting stolen is definitely their doing too. I have called the Police. I will make them teach these Dombaris a lesson."
The adults were listening to her with a mixture of respect, amusement and attention. Her allegations were not entirely baseless. The Dombaris were not famous for their scruples.
Mrs Kini changed lanes once more. Some new adult had joined the convention and had asked of the general public what had happened. Mrs Kini was tireless spokesperson for the general public. "Poor Venktesh" she said referring to Vivek's father, "Poor Venktesh. He comes back from this tour this morning and what does he see? The lock is smashed, the house is ransacked, his wife's precious Grandfather clock is gone, some cash is missing... He quickly checks around the house. Thankfully the jewels are safe in the almirah. The TV, Music System are all safe. The thief didn't want to carry too much. The Grandfather clock was heavy enough. But what will he (Poor Venktesh) say to his wife? Poor woman, she liked that clock so much. It was her family heirloom. Poor Venktesh. What will he say to his wife?"
Every time Mrs Kini said 'Poor Venktesh', Vivek's father's round face became sadder and funnier. Vivek's mother's family heirloom, the huge Grandfather clock, was famous in the Colony. Some time ago an art collector friend of Vivek's father's had come visiting and seen the clock sitting in the drawing room. He had instantly recognized it as an antique from British times and on the spot offered thirty thousand rupees for it. But Vivek's mother wouldn’t bring herself to part with the gift from her late uncle's - the only thing that anyone had ever left her. The art collector raised his offer to fifty thousand rupees but only succeeded in making Vivek's mother even more unwilling to sell. He had finally returned disappointed. The news spread quickly through the colony and everybody thronged to see the great clock; many who had seen it before noticed it now for the first time. An ordinary looking clock, they thought, but one could never really tell, could one? Vivek's mother gladly made the clock chime again and again for everybody's benefit.
Vivek's father's present grief was therefore felt justified. His wife had just lost her claim to fame in the colony. There would be no peace in the house for a long time to come.
Amit was now asking for suggestions. What should be the first move from the their side? Should they wait and watch or try and sneak into Vivek's house from the other side of the compound and take a quick look before the clue-spoiling Police came? Everyone wanted to take the second approach. And then they could start making suspect-lists and launch interrogations. Between them, they had read at least a hundred adventure stories. This experience could at last be put to use. Nevertheless, it was decided that it was prudent to wait till the Police had come and gone. Especially since someone mentioned that the Police themselves lost control over their fierce Alsatians.
The police duly came. And so did the police dogs. They made a thorough search in the house and then they left. Before leaving they took Vivek's father's statement in private. Shashi with foolish courage wandered innocuously around where Vivek's dad stood surrounded by policemen and picked out the single single sentence "...nothing of much value is missing." This sentence mystified him and when he repeated it to Amit and the gang, it mystified them too. Perhaps the complete sentence had been "Other than the clock, nothing of much value is missing."
***
It was five in the evening. They were all sitting on the terrace of Anil's house, discussing the-day-so-far. Inspite of Rohan's almost violent protests, the daily-evening football had been abandoned in favour of the more exciting game of finding Vivek's mom's grandfather clock.
They had had a useful morning. And a restful afternoon.
Before the police left, Vivek's dad had obtained permission to set right his house. The police did not mind; they had finished their search, they said.
The children, having heard of this through Shashi's subtle espionage, quickly offered Vivek's dad their full-strength help. Vivek's dad looked as if he was sure the children would be more in the way than anything else. However he was too nice to tell them so, and resorted instead to obvious hints. These the children ignored.
For more than two hours the kids had a run of the house, smearing spilt ink, further scattering scattered papers, pulling out drawers that hadn’t been pulled out - the general opposite of restoring order. They were so many of them, several in each room, giggling, talking, running, screaming across the hall. Vivek's dad had no chance. His increasingly morose face evinced no mercy.
At last, when various calls to lunch had dwindled the child population in his house to two or three, Vivek's dad was able to manually rid his house of the kid menace, saying he was going for lunch.
Those riotous two hours had been extremely productive for the children, however. Several clues had been casually picked up. Sitting on Anil's terrace these clues were now discussed.
The TV's remote control had been found to have only one battery. The thief had obviously taken the missing one, but why?
Vivek's water gun, from which he was inseparable, and with which he regularly perpetrated malicious damage, was found hidden behind a stack of Vivek's dad's ironed clothes (now ruined). What was the significance of this?
A thin yet ominous, extremely potent-looking bamboo cane was found in the kitchen, with some stain, which, many agreed, may have been blood. Was Vivek's mom a cold tyrant? If so, were they not morally obliged to abandon the search for her grandfather clock? In either case, poor Vivek. Everyone felt Ramya and Gayu had done the right thing in smuggling the deadly cane out of the house and into safer hands.
The one clue that probably influenced further developments much more than the rest had been found by Anil. The big Godrej pad-lock on the front door, which the thief(s) had broken to enter, was in a bad shape. It looked like it had been smashed by a huge blow, from a big stone or a heavy hammer.
The wooden door on which it had hung, however, bore not a scratch on its polish.
A skillful thief? Anil thought not. The lock had not been on the door when it was broken, he alleged. The robbery had been staged. Vivek's dad himself was the thief! Hmmm, there was more to Vivek's dad's innocent face than met the eye.
Slowly the rest of the company fell in with this line of thought. Anil's was the only explanation.
There was slight disappointment, however, that Anil's theory did not explain the remote control battery or the hidden water-gun.
-----
What was to be done next?
They could approach Vivek's dad, explain Anil's theory to him and threaten to reveal-all to the elders of the colony. Vivek's dad had looked pretty stricken in their company this morning. Another dose of child and he might just break.
But there was a risk to this approach. Vivek's dad might panic and hide the lock, or put scratches on his door, or get another lock and force it appropriately. And then where would they be? Who would buy their story? No one believed children anyway.
Besides, Vivek's dad was pretty powerful. In the morning, his sudden movement in trying to save the sofa from the coffee had sent a heavy clay smiling Buddha sailing to the wall, smashing it to smithereens. Yes sir. Things might get ugly if Vivek's dad got the wind up.
The old fashioned approach of catching the thief with the loot was thought best. If Vivek's dad had removed the grandfather clock, he must be hiding it somewhere. His next move would be to try and sell it. Then was their chance.
"Rohan," said Amit authoritatively, "go get your camera. We have work to do."
Rohan was peeved at Amit's tone. "I am not Shashi" he snapped at Amit, looking him right in the eye "You can't boss me around."
Amit quickly made peace. "Okkay baba. It's just my way of saying things. Pleeease get your camera, okay?"
-----
When, at around 9.30 in the night, Vivek's father left the bank colony on his Bajaj scooter, he was followed, on his way out, by eight pairs of eyes - little Santhosh had long before gone to bed. Eight pairs of legs descended rapidly down the stairs from Amit's terrace where they had been 'rehearsing for the new-year skit'. Vivek's house stood on the very edge of the colony and Vivek's dad was on to the main road in no time. A cloud of children in careful camouflage ('Wear the darkest colour you can find' Amit had ordered) followed him to the main road. They had never considered the possibility of his leaving on a motored vehicle.
Fortunately the main road next to the colony is uphill in the direction Vivek's dad took - towards Ganeshpur. Standing there, just outside the colony, they were able to see Vivek's dad's scooter go about a kilometer and take a right near the new Grocery store. Then it disappeared behind houses and shops.
The outskirts of Belgaum are quite deserted at 9.30 - the parenthood of the colony would have had a collective fit had they got wind of what the kids were up to. Still a few people crossed the little procession as it walked the main road. The sober among them might have wondered at the sight the procession presented. Eight kids, all in black, variously carrying torches, catapults, tape-recorders, bamboo-canes, binoculars, walking sticks, toy-guns.
The side-lane into which Vivek's dad had disappeared was completely, totally, deserted. Not a soul in sight. The children could not decide whether this was for the good or bad. Some of them, especially little Shashi, were beginning to be afraid. The crickets' cries which sound so familiar when one is safely inside one's home, now seemed steadily menacing. Every polythene cover rustled by the breeze brought on the goose bumps. The cat's meow seemed to announce their arrival to the demons of the night.
But somehow they rallied behind Amit's leadership.
They did not have to go far. They found Vivek's dad's scooter parked just next to the first fork in the road. Harish suggested that they deflate the scooter's tyres, for good measure. This suggestion was carried out forthwith.
----
The house in front of which the scooter was parked was a modest single-storied structure, needy of cleaning and paint. The lights were on in the drawing room. A faint murmur of voices could be heard within.
The drawing room was well windowed. The three sets of windows were all open, covered with mosquito nets. Silently, the children positioned themselves under the windows and tried to peep inside. Amit immediately started taking pictures though Rohan warned him that none of them would come out well in such bad light. They could not, of course, use the flash.
There were five people inside including Vivek's father. They were all standing and talking. Two of them were younger than the rest, wiry and strong. They stood aside, not part of the conversation. They could have been labourers or bodyguards.
The murmurs carried outside made no sense to the children. In any case, the conversation seemed to be coming to a close. One of the two men Vivek's dad had been talking to, a grey haired old man, took some money out of his pant-pocket, counted it and handed it to Vivek's dad. Vivek's dad counted it, nodded, put it in his own pocket.
Amit was clicking away, in a frenzy.
The old man signaled to the two young men who had been standing apart. These two now made a move to the side of the room. Together, they lifted some heavy object, wrapped in a gunny bag and began to carry it out of the house.
The grandfather clock! They were taking the grandfather clock away!
----
It was time to act.
Amit did not hesitate. Letting the camera hang by the strap from around his neck, he grabbed the catapult from Harish, loaded it with a big marble and stepped into the doorway.
"Get back!" he said loudly and clearly.
The two men carrying the Grandfather clock were stunned. They had never ever faced such a situation before. They could not really have been afraid. Perhaps they were only confused.
Amit slowly stepped into the hall. The two men slowly receded. Harish took up position behind Amit. The rest followed suit, cane, toy guns, walking sticks all poised.
There was a moment of silence. It was like a still shot from a movie or a play.
Vivek's dad stepped forward. They had never seen him so anguished. They assumed he was really angry.
Amit spoke. "Venktesh uncle" he said, "We know you are selling the grandfather clock and that you staged the robbery on your own house. We will not let you get away with this. Please ask these guys to take the grandfather clock back to your house and come with us and confess to Kini aunty."
The two young men had meanwhile had put the grandfather clock down.
Vivek's father clenched his fists in anger and frustration. His eyes closed as if in thought. Amit did not flinch.
Vivek's father opened his eyes. He seemed to have made his mind. Moving surprisingly fast he grabbed Amit's catapult and threw it to the ground. Then he grabbed Amit and Harish in either hand and pushed them roughly to the sofa. The roughness of the push broke Amit's and Harish's spirits. They lay on the sofa while the two young men pinned them down with their stares. Meanwhile, Vivek's dad had quickly disarmed the rest and was pushing them two at a time, sometimes three, onto the sofa. It was all over in a jiffy.
At a signal from Vivek's father the two young men lifted the clock once more and moved out of the door. The old man who had apparently bought the clock followed them out.
There was silence again. The children all lay on the sofa. They were too afraid to speak.
----
Vivek's dad looked at them for sometime. His face had become calmer. Even as they looked, he took their cassette out of the tape recorder, broke it into two and threw it into the dustbin. Then he opened Rohan's camera and exposed the film.
He then sat down on a chair facing them.
"I don't know how you came to know that I had staged the robbery," he said thoughtfully, almost amusedly, "You are clever children. I don't want to hurt you. Maybe you all and I can come to an understanding."
----
"It is a long story," Vivek's dad said, "My wife's grandfather clock has always been there in our house. I even remember liking it in the past. But two years ago, it suddenly started bothering me. The movement of its gears, the seconds-hand going 'tik, tik, tik' would not let me sleep at night. And then every half hour it would go 'bong'. It was torture. After a couple of sleepless months I told my wife about the problem and suggested that we could get rid of the clock. But she is stubborn. She refused. She asked me to put cotton in my ears."
Vivek's dad sighed deeply. "No amount of cotton is sufficient for the sound that clock makes. Then a simple, ingenuous idea struck me. I know a man from college whose hobby is theatre. I invited him home, asked him to pretend to be an art collector and he offered to buy the clock for fifty thousand rupees"
"You mean the clock isn't worth that much?" Smita asked, curiosity getting the better of fear.
Vivek's dad smiled. "I was able to get only five-hundred rupees from the old man who just left. The clock is worthless. It is not even thirty years old and it has termites, besides." He pulled out both his trouser pockets and produced the money the old man had given him. It was easy to see that it was not fifty thousand rupees.
"And your wife refused to sell the clock?" Rohan asked.
"She is very stubborn. She has become more attached to it now that she and the rest of the colony thinks it is worth fifty thousand. I can't even tell her that it is only thirty years old, she won't believe me."
"So you staged this robbery?" asked Amit, "Risky wasn't it? See how easily we found out? The police might have too."
Vivek's dad sighed again. "The police were not supposed to come. My theatre friend was supposed to land up with his troupe dressed as policemen. But your helpful Kini aunty went and invited the real ones. I have had no end of trouble getting the real police off the case." Here he wiped his forehead.
"Look here." he continued, pleadingly. "I mean no harm to anyone. I don't want to hurt my wife's feelings. She'll get over a robbery more easily than she'll get over treachery from her husband. And I am hoping to restore my sleep somewhat. I haven't slept well in two years..." He looked really sad, though it was quite futile to try and depict the trauma of sleeplessness to young kids who slept, fitfully, ten hours a day. "You children of today are very smart. I am sure you understand. Will you keep this a secret for me?"
Amit was easily influenced by reason and he was always quick to act. "Don't worry, Venktesh uncle." he declared gallantly, "We will keep quiet. I will take care of it". Rohan was again exasperated at Amit's speaking for all of them. But since he agreed with Amit, he decided not to say anything. He would take this up tomorrow.
-----
Vivek's father took the deflated tyres pretty well.
At around 10 pm, the gang and Vivek's father (pushing his scooter) returned to their homes and to well deserved sleep.
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Read at leisure.
Robbery in Bank Colony
Anil and Gayu were enjoying Sunday Rangoli with their parents. The weather was pleasant after the previous night's rain. The windows on either side of the sitting room were open and so were the two doors. It was almost as if the sitting room had only two walls. The breeze was cool but was not very strong; the smell of the morning tea they were drinking lingered in the air.
Everybody was enjoying a slow, melodious, song featuring Dharmendra, Tanuja and Mala Sinha, when a timid voice behind them said, "Anil."
Their very shy neighbour, little Shashi, was peeping in at the door. Only his head, the fingers of his two hands and a bit of his right foot were visible to the people inside the house.
An unspoken protocol demanded that Anil and Gayu come out and meet him immediately. They did.
Shashi was not so shy when there were no adults watching, and he very quickly and very simply told his story. Vivek's house had been robbed. Vivek and his mom were in Bombay on holiday and Vivek's dad had been away too, on some business errand. The lock had been broken and the house had been ransacked. The antique and precious Grandfather clock, which belonged to Vivek’s mother, was gone, along with some carelessly placed cash and God Knows What Else. The police were going to come shortly and Amit had summoned everyone to his house (which was the opposite house but one to Vivek's) for a conference. He, Shashi, had finished telling the news to almost everyone and would be going to Rohan's house next.
Anil and Gayu showed enough excitement to somewhat compensate Shashi for his efforts. Amit, the not so oppressive bully of the colony, who had brusquely requisitioned Shashi's messengerial services - this is a story of the times when telephones were not so widespread as they are today - would later complete the compensation by buying Shashi a Cadbury chocolate.
Anil and Gayu went back in, hurriedly told their parents the news, wore their sandals and set out for Amit's house. They didn’t even wait to see the shocked expressions on their parents' faces.
The rain had made the mud-and-stone road a bit slushy but the weather was pleasantly chilly. It took them only a couple of minutes to reach Amit's house - their colony was not very big.
The Who's Who of the colony was already there. Amit, Ramya, Smita, Harish, Jayu and little Santhosh...Rohan and Shashi would join them shortly. They were all standing in front of Amit's gate watching and listening to an Adult Conference dominated entirely by Mrs Kini whose big house was opposite Vivek's and next to Amit's. Vivek's large and round father was there too. He must have arrived in the morning. He was standing with a funnily sad expression on his large, round, face.
Almost everyone in the colony spoke Konkani and this was the language of Mrs Kini's discourse. "I heard the hammering on the lock" she was saying "I heard it again and again inspite of the noise of the rain. But everytime I decided to get up and have a look, the hammering stopped. I thought I was having one of those dreams of mine. I keep having these disturbing dreams whenever we make radish for dinner. But finally I could bear it no longer and went out to check. Everything was quiet except for the rain and the occasional thunder. I was not wearing my glasses and had no idea where to look for the noise otherwise I would have definitely seen 'him'."
Neither Vivek's other adultly neighbours nor Mrs Kini's own grown up daughters corroborated Mrs Kini's evidence of persistent hammering. Perhaps it was the radish after all.
"It is definitely the Dombaris" Mrs Kini said, switching lanes, accusing the slum dwellers who lived across the main road to the Bank colony. Most of the housemaids in the colony came from the Dombarwadi and Mrs Kini's own maid was cleaning her front yard. She was comfortably within earshot and very likely understood every word of Konkani. Konkani is very similar to Marathi, which is the local tongue in Belgaum. This did not bother Mrs Kini "It is definitely them. They know who is in the house who is not, what things are valuable, where they are kept. And they have all the tools. All these water pumps getting stolen is definitely their doing too. I have called the Police. I will make them teach these Dombaris a lesson."
The adults were listening to her with a mixture of respect, amusement and attention. Her allegations were not entirely baseless. The Dombaris were not famous for their scruples.
Mrs Kini changed lanes once more. Some new adult had joined the convention and had asked of the general public what had happened. Mrs Kini was tireless spokesperson for the general public. "Poor Venktesh" she said referring to Vivek's father, "Poor Venktesh. He comes back from this tour this morning and what does he see? The lock is smashed, the house is ransacked, his wife's precious Grandfather clock is gone, some cash is missing... He quickly checks around the house. Thankfully the jewels are safe in the almirah. The TV, Music System are all safe. The thief didn't want to carry too much. The Grandfather clock was heavy enough. But what will he (Poor Venktesh) say to his wife? Poor woman, she liked that clock so much. It was her family heirloom. Poor Venktesh. What will he say to his wife?"
Every time Mrs Kini said 'Poor Venktesh', Vivek's father's round face became sadder and funnier. Vivek's mother's family heirloom, the huge Grandfather clock, was famous in the Colony. Some time ago an art collector friend of Vivek's father's had come visiting and seen the clock sitting in the drawing room. He had instantly recognized it as an antique from British times and on the spot offered thirty thousand rupees for it. But Vivek's mother wouldn’t bring herself to part with the gift from her late uncle's - the only thing that anyone had ever left her. The art collector raised his offer to fifty thousand rupees but only succeeded in making Vivek's mother even more unwilling to sell. He had finally returned disappointed. The news spread quickly through the colony and everybody thronged to see the great clock; many who had seen it before noticed it now for the first time. An ordinary looking clock, they thought, but one could never really tell, could one? Vivek's mother gladly made the clock chime again and again for everybody's benefit.
Vivek's father's present grief was therefore felt justified. His wife had just lost her claim to fame in the colony. There would be no peace in the house for a long time to come.
Amit was now asking for suggestions. What should be the first move from the their side? Should they wait and watch or try and sneak into Vivek's house from the other side of the compound and take a quick look before the clue-spoiling Police came? Everyone wanted to take the second approach. And then they could start making suspect-lists and launch interrogations. Between them, they had read at least a hundred adventure stories. This experience could at last be put to use. Nevertheless, it was decided that it was prudent to wait till the Police had come and gone. Especially since someone mentioned that the Police themselves lost control over their fierce Alsatians.
The police duly came. And so did the police dogs. They made a thorough search in the house and then they left. Before leaving they took Vivek's father's statement in private. Shashi with foolish courage wandered innocuously around where Vivek's dad stood surrounded by policemen and picked out the single single sentence "...nothing of much value is missing." This sentence mystified him and when he repeated it to Amit and the gang, it mystified them too. Perhaps the complete sentence had been "Other than the clock, nothing of much value is missing."
***
It was five in the evening. They were all sitting on the terrace of Anil's house, discussing the-day-so-far. Inspite of Rohan's almost violent protests, the daily-evening football had been abandoned in favour of the more exciting game of finding Vivek's mom's grandfather clock.
They had had a useful morning. And a restful afternoon.
Before the police left, Vivek's dad had obtained permission to set right his house. The police did not mind; they had finished their search, they said.
The children, having heard of this through Shashi's subtle espionage, quickly offered Vivek's dad their full-strength help. Vivek's dad looked as if he was sure the children would be more in the way than anything else. However he was too nice to tell them so, and resorted instead to obvious hints. These the children ignored.
For more than two hours the kids had a run of the house, smearing spilt ink, further scattering scattered papers, pulling out drawers that hadn’t been pulled out - the general opposite of restoring order. They were so many of them, several in each room, giggling, talking, running, screaming across the hall. Vivek's dad had no chance. His increasingly morose face evinced no mercy.
At last, when various calls to lunch had dwindled the child population in his house to two or three, Vivek's dad was able to manually rid his house of the kid menace, saying he was going for lunch.
Those riotous two hours had been extremely productive for the children, however. Several clues had been casually picked up. Sitting on Anil's terrace these clues were now discussed.
The TV's remote control had been found to have only one battery. The thief had obviously taken the missing one, but why?
Vivek's water gun, from which he was inseparable, and with which he regularly perpetrated malicious damage, was found hidden behind a stack of Vivek's dad's ironed clothes (now ruined). What was the significance of this?
A thin yet ominous, extremely potent-looking bamboo cane was found in the kitchen, with some stain, which, many agreed, may have been blood. Was Vivek's mom a cold tyrant? If so, were they not morally obliged to abandon the search for her grandfather clock? In either case, poor Vivek. Everyone felt Ramya and Gayu had done the right thing in smuggling the deadly cane out of the house and into safer hands.
The one clue that probably influenced further developments much more than the rest had been found by Anil. The big Godrej pad-lock on the front door, which the thief(s) had broken to enter, was in a bad shape. It looked like it had been smashed by a huge blow, from a big stone or a heavy hammer.
The wooden door on which it had hung, however, bore not a scratch on its polish.
A skillful thief? Anil thought not. The lock had not been on the door when it was broken, he alleged. The robbery had been staged. Vivek's dad himself was the thief! Hmmm, there was more to Vivek's dad's innocent face than met the eye.
Slowly the rest of the company fell in with this line of thought. Anil's was the only explanation.
There was slight disappointment, however, that Anil's theory did not explain the remote control battery or the hidden water-gun.
-----
What was to be done next?
They could approach Vivek's dad, explain Anil's theory to him and threaten to reveal-all to the elders of the colony. Vivek's dad had looked pretty stricken in their company this morning. Another dose of child and he might just break.
But there was a risk to this approach. Vivek's dad might panic and hide the lock, or put scratches on his door, or get another lock and force it appropriately. And then where would they be? Who would buy their story? No one believed children anyway.
Besides, Vivek's dad was pretty powerful. In the morning, his sudden movement in trying to save the sofa from the coffee had sent a heavy clay smiling Buddha sailing to the wall, smashing it to smithereens. Yes sir. Things might get ugly if Vivek's dad got the wind up.
The old fashioned approach of catching the thief with the loot was thought best. If Vivek's dad had removed the grandfather clock, he must be hiding it somewhere. His next move would be to try and sell it. Then was their chance.
"Rohan," said Amit authoritatively, "go get your camera. We have work to do."
Rohan was peeved at Amit's tone. "I am not Shashi" he snapped at Amit, looking him right in the eye "You can't boss me around."
Amit quickly made peace. "Okkay baba. It's just my way of saying things. Pleeease get your camera, okay?"
-----
When, at around 9.30 in the night, Vivek's father left the bank colony on his Bajaj scooter, he was followed, on his way out, by eight pairs of eyes - little Santhosh had long before gone to bed. Eight pairs of legs descended rapidly down the stairs from Amit's terrace where they had been 'rehearsing for the new-year skit'. Vivek's house stood on the very edge of the colony and Vivek's dad was on to the main road in no time. A cloud of children in careful camouflage ('Wear the darkest colour you can find' Amit had ordered) followed him to the main road. They had never considered the possibility of his leaving on a motored vehicle.
Fortunately the main road next to the colony is uphill in the direction Vivek's dad took - towards Ganeshpur. Standing there, just outside the colony, they were able to see Vivek's dad's scooter go about a kilometer and take a right near the new Grocery store. Then it disappeared behind houses and shops.
The outskirts of Belgaum are quite deserted at 9.30 - the parenthood of the colony would have had a collective fit had they got wind of what the kids were up to. Still a few people crossed the little procession as it walked the main road. The sober among them might have wondered at the sight the procession presented. Eight kids, all in black, variously carrying torches, catapults, tape-recorders, bamboo-canes, binoculars, walking sticks, toy-guns.
The side-lane into which Vivek's dad had disappeared was completely, totally, deserted. Not a soul in sight. The children could not decide whether this was for the good or bad. Some of them, especially little Shashi, were beginning to be afraid. The crickets' cries which sound so familiar when one is safely inside one's home, now seemed steadily menacing. Every polythene cover rustled by the breeze brought on the goose bumps. The cat's meow seemed to announce their arrival to the demons of the night.
But somehow they rallied behind Amit's leadership.
They did not have to go far. They found Vivek's dad's scooter parked just next to the first fork in the road. Harish suggested that they deflate the scooter's tyres, for good measure. This suggestion was carried out forthwith.
----
The house in front of which the scooter was parked was a modest single-storied structure, needy of cleaning and paint. The lights were on in the drawing room. A faint murmur of voices could be heard within.
The drawing room was well windowed. The three sets of windows were all open, covered with mosquito nets. Silently, the children positioned themselves under the windows and tried to peep inside. Amit immediately started taking pictures though Rohan warned him that none of them would come out well in such bad light. They could not, of course, use the flash.
There were five people inside including Vivek's father. They were all standing and talking. Two of them were younger than the rest, wiry and strong. They stood aside, not part of the conversation. They could have been labourers or bodyguards.
The murmurs carried outside made no sense to the children. In any case, the conversation seemed to be coming to a close. One of the two men Vivek's dad had been talking to, a grey haired old man, took some money out of his pant-pocket, counted it and handed it to Vivek's dad. Vivek's dad counted it, nodded, put it in his own pocket.
Amit was clicking away, in a frenzy.
The old man signaled to the two young men who had been standing apart. These two now made a move to the side of the room. Together, they lifted some heavy object, wrapped in a gunny bag and began to carry it out of the house.
The grandfather clock! They were taking the grandfather clock away!
----
It was time to act.
Amit did not hesitate. Letting the camera hang by the strap from around his neck, he grabbed the catapult from Harish, loaded it with a big marble and stepped into the doorway.
"Get back!" he said loudly and clearly.
The two men carrying the Grandfather clock were stunned. They had never ever faced such a situation before. They could not really have been afraid. Perhaps they were only confused.
Amit slowly stepped into the hall. The two men slowly receded. Harish took up position behind Amit. The rest followed suit, cane, toy guns, walking sticks all poised.
There was a moment of silence. It was like a still shot from a movie or a play.
Vivek's dad stepped forward. They had never seen him so anguished. They assumed he was really angry.
Amit spoke. "Venktesh uncle" he said, "We know you are selling the grandfather clock and that you staged the robbery on your own house. We will not let you get away with this. Please ask these guys to take the grandfather clock back to your house and come with us and confess to Kini aunty."
The two young men had meanwhile had put the grandfather clock down.
Vivek's father clenched his fists in anger and frustration. His eyes closed as if in thought. Amit did not flinch.
Vivek's father opened his eyes. He seemed to have made his mind. Moving surprisingly fast he grabbed Amit's catapult and threw it to the ground. Then he grabbed Amit and Harish in either hand and pushed them roughly to the sofa. The roughness of the push broke Amit's and Harish's spirits. They lay on the sofa while the two young men pinned them down with their stares. Meanwhile, Vivek's dad had quickly disarmed the rest and was pushing them two at a time, sometimes three, onto the sofa. It was all over in a jiffy.
At a signal from Vivek's father the two young men lifted the clock once more and moved out of the door. The old man who had apparently bought the clock followed them out.
There was silence again. The children all lay on the sofa. They were too afraid to speak.
----
Vivek's dad looked at them for sometime. His face had become calmer. Even as they looked, he took their cassette out of the tape recorder, broke it into two and threw it into the dustbin. Then he opened Rohan's camera and exposed the film.
He then sat down on a chair facing them.
"I don't know how you came to know that I had staged the robbery," he said thoughtfully, almost amusedly, "You are clever children. I don't want to hurt you. Maybe you all and I can come to an understanding."
----
"It is a long story," Vivek's dad said, "My wife's grandfather clock has always been there in our house. I even remember liking it in the past. But two years ago, it suddenly started bothering me. The movement of its gears, the seconds-hand going 'tik, tik, tik' would not let me sleep at night. And then every half hour it would go 'bong'. It was torture. After a couple of sleepless months I told my wife about the problem and suggested that we could get rid of the clock. But she is stubborn. She refused. She asked me to put cotton in my ears."
Vivek's dad sighed deeply. "No amount of cotton is sufficient for the sound that clock makes. Then a simple, ingenuous idea struck me. I know a man from college whose hobby is theatre. I invited him home, asked him to pretend to be an art collector and he offered to buy the clock for fifty thousand rupees"
"You mean the clock isn't worth that much?" Smita asked, curiosity getting the better of fear.
Vivek's dad smiled. "I was able to get only five-hundred rupees from the old man who just left. The clock is worthless. It is not even thirty years old and it has termites, besides." He pulled out both his trouser pockets and produced the money the old man had given him. It was easy to see that it was not fifty thousand rupees.
"And your wife refused to sell the clock?" Rohan asked.
"She is very stubborn. She has become more attached to it now that she and the rest of the colony thinks it is worth fifty thousand. I can't even tell her that it is only thirty years old, she won't believe me."
"So you staged this robbery?" asked Amit, "Risky wasn't it? See how easily we found out? The police might have too."
Vivek's dad sighed again. "The police were not supposed to come. My theatre friend was supposed to land up with his troupe dressed as policemen. But your helpful Kini aunty went and invited the real ones. I have had no end of trouble getting the real police off the case." Here he wiped his forehead.
"Look here." he continued, pleadingly. "I mean no harm to anyone. I don't want to hurt my wife's feelings. She'll get over a robbery more easily than she'll get over treachery from her husband. And I am hoping to restore my sleep somewhat. I haven't slept well in two years..." He looked really sad, though it was quite futile to try and depict the trauma of sleeplessness to young kids who slept, fitfully, ten hours a day. "You children of today are very smart. I am sure you understand. Will you keep this a secret for me?"
Amit was easily influenced by reason and he was always quick to act. "Don't worry, Venktesh uncle." he declared gallantly, "We will keep quiet. I will take care of it". Rohan was again exasperated at Amit's speaking for all of them. But since he agreed with Amit, he decided not to say anything. He would take this up tomorrow.
-----
Vivek's father took the deflated tyres pretty well.
At around 10 pm, the gang and Vivek's father (pushing his scooter) returned to their homes and to well deserved sleep.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Adios Amigos
Best song of 'celebratory' farewell that I can think of:
abhee alawidaa mat kaho dosato
n jaane kahaa fir mulaakaat ho
beete huye lamahon kee kasak saath to hogee
khwaabon hee mein ho chaahe, mulaakaat to hogee
ye pyaar mein doobee huyee rangeen fajaayen
ye chehare, ye najare, ye jawaan rut ye hawaayen
hum jaaye kahee in kee mahak saath to hogee
foolon kee tarah dil mein basaaye huye rakhanaa
yaadon ke charaagon ko jalaaye huye rakhanaa
lanbaa hain safar is mein kahee raat to hogee
ye saath gujaare huye, lamahaata kee daulat
jajabaat kee daulat ye khayaalaat kee daulat
kuchh paas naa ho paas ye saugaat to hogee
(from the film Nikaah; cut paste from geetmanjusha.com so pardon the spelling)
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Best song of 'celebratory' farewell that I can think of:
abhee alawidaa mat kaho dosato
n jaane kahaa fir mulaakaat ho
beete huye lamahon kee kasak saath to hogee
khwaabon hee mein ho chaahe, mulaakaat to hogee
ye pyaar mein doobee huyee rangeen fajaayen
ye chehare, ye najare, ye jawaan rut ye hawaayen
hum jaaye kahee in kee mahak saath to hogee
foolon kee tarah dil mein basaaye huye rakhanaa
yaadon ke charaagon ko jalaaye huye rakhanaa
lanbaa hain safar is mein kahee raat to hogee
ye saath gujaare huye, lamahaata kee daulat
jajabaat kee daulat ye khayaalaat kee daulat
kuchh paas naa ho paas ye saugaat to hogee
(from the film Nikaah; cut paste from geetmanjusha.com so pardon the spelling)
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Contemptoraries: People I find hard to respect but who unfortunately live in the same time frame as me.
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Saturday, April 16, 2005
ShutMeUp or Anand's blog
Visit Anand's blog for some full-blooded, hard hitting, outspoken writing. Anand and I have been friends, colleagues (almost ex-colleagues now), co-footballers and co-amateur-once-a-bluemoon-actually-just-the-once-theatrepersons for close to three years now. I like his taste in books, music, movies... Especially since it is similar to mine ;-) I am sure his enthusiastic, grab-the-day, no-nonsense attitude will rub-off on his writing as well.
Welcome Anand.
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Visit Anand's blog for some full-blooded, hard hitting, outspoken writing. Anand and I have been friends, colleagues (almost ex-colleagues now), co-footballers and co-amateur-once-a-bluemoon-actually-just-the-once-theatrepersons for close to three years now. I like his taste in books, music, movies... Especially since it is similar to mine ;-) I am sure his enthusiastic, grab-the-day, no-nonsense attitude will rub-off on his writing as well.
Welcome Anand.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Bangalore is getting increasingly unsafe. Yesterday I saw a cow attacking a woman with groceries and making away with what looked like two musambis before a couple of bystanders intervened.
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Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Buses and the Private Eye - Part II
Belgaum contd...
Once inside the bus I generally tried to make my way to the front, for there was always space for children in the driver's area - on the box which covered the engine, on the rods which were used to separate the driver's area from the rest of the bus, or on the widow sil equivalent for the windshield on the left where you could sit if you did not obstruct the driver's view of the left rear-view mirror. I even remember, on a particularly crowdy day, standing just behind the driver's chair. That was something! These front seats were real fun. Given the undulating roads, it was like taking the front seats on a mild roller-coaster. Plus there was the added pleasure of watching lowly pedestrians, cyclists, autos and chicken shuffle hurriedly as the ST haughtily stormed its way through.
But let me not make a romance out of traveling in crowded buses. Uncrowded buses are uncrowded buses! Nothing can beat short trips on an uncrowded bus. Often on rainy days when the dombaris got lazy and the farmers had no work in town, we got to go to school in an uncrowded bus. Or when on some holiday I made a trip to the town library in the afternoon.
The sun pouring in through the windows at just the right angle, the wind like a million natural fans in your face, spacious seats which no one wanted to share with you, the scenery through the windows, the 'ghada ghada ghada' sounds as all the nuts and bolts in the seats shook with no passenger weight to hold them down, the other bus sounds - window panes rattling in their frames, the squeaks of the breaks, the groans of the gearbox, the sounding of the horn - it is a mini orchestra, no less. Generally in an uncrowded bus, no one speaks. Perhaps everybody is as comfortable and happy as I am. In an uncrowed bus one doesnt care if the journey ends or not.
----
By the way the title of this series of posts should have actually been 'The Public Buses and I' but I have taken some ThompsonAndThompson-esque liberties with it to make this series sound more interesting than it is. What the heck, its my blog.
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Belgaum contd...
Once inside the bus I generally tried to make my way to the front, for there was always space for children in the driver's area - on the box which covered the engine, on the rods which were used to separate the driver's area from the rest of the bus, or on the widow sil equivalent for the windshield on the left where you could sit if you did not obstruct the driver's view of the left rear-view mirror. I even remember, on a particularly crowdy day, standing just behind the driver's chair. That was something! These front seats were real fun. Given the undulating roads, it was like taking the front seats on a mild roller-coaster. Plus there was the added pleasure of watching lowly pedestrians, cyclists, autos and chicken shuffle hurriedly as the ST haughtily stormed its way through.
But let me not make a romance out of traveling in crowded buses. Uncrowded buses are uncrowded buses! Nothing can beat short trips on an uncrowded bus. Often on rainy days when the dombaris got lazy and the farmers had no work in town, we got to go to school in an uncrowded bus. Or when on some holiday I made a trip to the town library in the afternoon.
The sun pouring in through the windows at just the right angle, the wind like a million natural fans in your face, spacious seats which no one wanted to share with you, the scenery through the windows, the 'ghada ghada ghada' sounds as all the nuts and bolts in the seats shook with no passenger weight to hold them down, the other bus sounds - window panes rattling in their frames, the squeaks of the breaks, the groans of the gearbox, the sounding of the horn - it is a mini orchestra, no less. Generally in an uncrowded bus, no one speaks. Perhaps everybody is as comfortable and happy as I am. In an uncrowed bus one doesnt care if the journey ends or not.
----
By the way the title of this series of posts should have actually been 'The Public Buses and I' but I have taken some ThompsonAndThompson-esque liberties with it to make this series sound more interesting than it is. What the heck, its my blog.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Buses and the Private Eye - Part I
Belgaum:
In Belgaum, after a year of going to school in a crowded shchool-auto, my parents decided to allow me to go to school by Bus.
Belgaum was my first proper public-bus experience. Me and my sister used to go and stand at the bus-stop just outside the colony waiting for the bus to come. Waiting along with us were a lot many other people, mostly Dombari women who lived across the main road. Dombaris were traditionally travelling performers of folk acrobatics (walking on the rope, somersaults etc). Now they lived in a semi-slum and earned a livelyhood from this job and that - domestic service, agricultural labour, stealing. They were a pretty unclean lot and smelt a lot. But we were very young ( 6th or 7th standard) and somehow didnt mind being squeezed in a bus with them. By a tacit understanding the Dombaris generally occupied the back of the bus and everyone else was in the front, which helped matters a lot.
After the Dombaris, the next big chunk of the bus populace were the farmers of nearby villages. For the bus to the city came from villages far and near.
The closest village was Bennali. Any bus starting there was usually uncrowded, but buses coming from other villages were pretty packed and we had to squeeze in with difficulty.
But there was no telling which bus was coming when or if there were any buses coming at all. So we looked anxiously down the road, right to the point where it took a bend and disappeared, and waited to catch a glimpse of Bus. The speed of the bus as it took that bend would easily tell us how crowed it was. Sometimes one heard the bus come in the distance before one actually saw it. As soon as the bus was heard or seen the dombari women would let out a cry of 'Estee Aaali' ( Estee was ST, State Transport) to alert their sisters. Within minutes the population of would-be travellers doubled as more women (and some of their men) trickled in from the hutments across the street.
Sometimes two buses came one after the other, the second one totally empty, which warmed hearts all around.
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Belgaum:
In Belgaum, after a year of going to school in a crowded shchool-auto, my parents decided to allow me to go to school by Bus.
Belgaum was my first proper public-bus experience. Me and my sister used to go and stand at the bus-stop just outside the colony waiting for the bus to come. Waiting along with us were a lot many other people, mostly Dombari women who lived across the main road. Dombaris were traditionally travelling performers of folk acrobatics (walking on the rope, somersaults etc). Now they lived in a semi-slum and earned a livelyhood from this job and that - domestic service, agricultural labour, stealing. They were a pretty unclean lot and smelt a lot. But we were very young ( 6th or 7th standard) and somehow didnt mind being squeezed in a bus with them. By a tacit understanding the Dombaris generally occupied the back of the bus and everyone else was in the front, which helped matters a lot.
After the Dombaris, the next big chunk of the bus populace were the farmers of nearby villages. For the bus to the city came from villages far and near.
The closest village was Bennali. Any bus starting there was usually uncrowded, but buses coming from other villages were pretty packed and we had to squeeze in with difficulty.
But there was no telling which bus was coming when or if there were any buses coming at all. So we looked anxiously down the road, right to the point where it took a bend and disappeared, and waited to catch a glimpse of Bus. The speed of the bus as it took that bend would easily tell us how crowed it was. Sometimes one heard the bus come in the distance before one actually saw it. As soon as the bus was heard or seen the dombari women would let out a cry of 'Estee Aaali' ( Estee was ST, State Transport) to alert their sisters. Within minutes the population of would-be travellers doubled as more women (and some of their men) trickled in from the hutments across the street.
Sometimes two buses came one after the other, the second one totally empty, which warmed hearts all around.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
No issue
A popluar phrase out of our office-speak is 'No-issue'. It is used in technical discussions to mean anything from 'no-problem' to 'that's pretty cool'. I dislike that phrase along with several other phrases of office-speak. Often the phrase is used in non-technical conversation where it is especially jarring.
At the breakfast table, a colleague was explaining how marriage rules are changing in his community.
"Me and my wife belong to different sub-castes" he siad, "And my sister and her husband belong to different sub-castes, too"
"No issue, uh?" said another colleague conversationally.
I smiled happily and my eyes widened in pleasurable surprise but no one else seemed to have noticed the beautiful(ly), unintentional pun.
0 comments
A popluar phrase out of our office-speak is 'No-issue'. It is used in technical discussions to mean anything from 'no-problem' to 'that's pretty cool'. I dislike that phrase along with several other phrases of office-speak. Often the phrase is used in non-technical conversation where it is especially jarring.
At the breakfast table, a colleague was explaining how marriage rules are changing in his community.
"Me and my wife belong to different sub-castes" he siad, "And my sister and her husband belong to different sub-castes, too"
"No issue, uh?" said another colleague conversationally.
I smiled happily and my eyes widened in pleasurable surprise but no one else seemed to have noticed the beautiful(ly), unintentional pun.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Music Transports Me
Apologies in advance.
Music shows and music shows. Everywhere the same songs. Summer of '69. Hotel California. Pehla nasha. Jaan-e-jaan. Don't people get tired of singing the same songs over and over again. I sure get tired of listening to them. Heck! There's no dearth of good but rarely heard songs. Go dig them up. Surprise us!
I am listening to the second stanza of dum-maro-dum and I am transported i.e distracted. I wonder if some amount of Nasha or some 'dum' would make listening to this song for the N! th time more interesting. Then I think of what songs I would like to sing or atleast hear in a cultural gathering. I think of the Tam melody ' Raja Raja Cholan naan - na aalum kaadal bhoomi nee-tdhaan' (Raja Raja Chola is me only! And the loved-and-loving land I rule is you only!) but perhaps this song is cliche in Tam circles - I don't know. Then I think of the Guru Dutt-Mala Sinha conversational duet - 'Hum Aap ki aankhon mein is dil ko basa len to?' or of 'Gun guna rahen hain bhanvare..."
But then a friend explains that some songs are easier to play than others. And I guess it is important that you play a song well. And perhaps, if everyone in a six-member band has to be comfortable with a song, I guess it narrows down the choice quite a bit. But frankly, I don't care if a song is not well played as long as it is well-picked.
I think it an unpardonable offence to keep singing Papa Kehte Hain every time you are asked to sing (and only delicacy prevents me from insisting that people who play Hotel California be hung). First, there is a good chance your audience has heard you several times before :-( And second, come man, experiment. Why do you want to stop with just a few songs.
Sorry for being so critical but I think it's for everybody's good.
0 comments
Apologies in advance.
Music shows and music shows. Everywhere the same songs. Summer of '69. Hotel California. Pehla nasha. Jaan-e-jaan. Don't people get tired of singing the same songs over and over again. I sure get tired of listening to them. Heck! There's no dearth of good but rarely heard songs. Go dig them up. Surprise us!
I am listening to the second stanza of dum-maro-dum and I am transported i.e distracted. I wonder if some amount of Nasha or some 'dum' would make listening to this song for the N! th time more interesting. Then I think of what songs I would like to sing or atleast hear in a cultural gathering. I think of the Tam melody ' Raja Raja Cholan naan - na aalum kaadal bhoomi nee-tdhaan' (Raja Raja Chola is me only! And the loved-and-loving land I rule is you only!) but perhaps this song is cliche in Tam circles - I don't know. Then I think of the Guru Dutt-Mala Sinha conversational duet - 'Hum Aap ki aankhon mein is dil ko basa len to?' or of 'Gun guna rahen hain bhanvare..."
But then a friend explains that some songs are easier to play than others. And I guess it is important that you play a song well. And perhaps, if everyone in a six-member band has to be comfortable with a song, I guess it narrows down the choice quite a bit. But frankly, I don't care if a song is not well played as long as it is well-picked.
I think it an unpardonable offence to keep singing Papa Kehte Hain every time you are asked to sing (and only delicacy prevents me from insisting that people who play Hotel California be hung). First, there is a good chance your audience has heard you several times before :-( And second, come man, experiment. Why do you want to stop with just a few songs.
Sorry for being so critical but I think it's for everybody's good.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Google-y
Of all the google search referrals to my blog, the latest, "fatten your husband up to death and collect the life insurance", takes the cake (and feeds it to it's husband).
The lady-google-searcher has my full moral support. I hope my blog has helped her a little in her endeavours.
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Of all the google search referrals to my blog, the latest, "fatten your husband up to death and collect the life insurance", takes the cake (and feeds it to it's husband).
The lady-google-searcher has my full moral support. I hope my blog has helped her a little in her endeavours.
Friday, February 11, 2005
MainNasheMeinHoon
Drink does stuff to you and not all of this stuff is bad. The falling of barriers, the removal of pretences, the shedding of inhibitions, the general cheerfulness, the straight-forwardness, the open-ness of the heart, the open-ness of the mind. These are not bad! The bekhudi is important. Bekhudi. Being without yourself, going beyond yourself, surmounting the most difficult obstacle in your path, as they say - yourself. Losing your worst detractor. Be-khud-i.
I am not at all sure drinking is not a spiritual experience. No, no pun was designed for. Honest.
The drinkers sat around the table in an inner circle. The non-drinkers sat on the parapet in an outer circle. Some people had sung something and some other people were being coaxed into singing something.
Suddenly I decided to sing. It was'nt all that sudden. I had been drunk for sometime and me and another guy had pleasurably exchanged several favourite shers. Fairly good shers, I might add. Not the run-of-the-mill kind and not at all (and heaven forbid) the babbar-sher kind. In my drunken slowness I had been trying hard to recollect the first lines of my favourite Mir Ghazal. Pat it struck, and pat I decided.
"Guys, I want to sing a song" I said.
There was a bit of cautious cheering and I began shakily.
"Yaaron, mujhe muaaf rakho main nashe mein hoon"
(Friends do forgive me, for I a little drunk)
The appropriate-ness of the Ghazal struck everyone at once and there was immediate cheering and shouting. In sober circumstances this would have made me flush deeply, become concious and to immediately start screwing up the rest of the Ghazal. All I remember doing, however, is half-smiling, nonchalantly ignoring the wah-wah-ey (like Mir himself might have) and continuing without skipping a beat (the musical beat, not the cardiac one) to the next line which is:
"Ab Do to jaam khaali hi do, main nashe mein hoon"
(If you do pass me a booze-glass make sure its empty (or rather, fill it with water) for I am a little drunk)
"Yaaron mujhe muaaf rakho main nashe mein hoon,
Yaaron..."
Not bad. Not bad at all. The rhythm and timing, the taal , seemed actually good. I was surprised at myself.
"Masti se darhami hai meri, guftagoo ke beech...
Masti se darhami hai meri, guftagoo ke beech...
Jo chaho tum bhi mujh ko kaho main nashe mein hoon,
yaaron..."
(If,excited, I seem a little rude to you,
Go ahead, you call me names too, for I am a little drunk)
I actually seemed to be keeping an involuantary beat between shers. Timing the intermediate silence, something I have never achieved in sober life. I steal a look around. Someone seemed to be saying that I have a superb voice. Is this believable!!!
"Ya haaton-haath lo mujhe maanind-e-jaam-e-mai
Ya thodi door saath chalo, main nashe mein hoon,
yaaron.."
(So Hold me like you hold your wine-glass
Or at least walk with me a while, for I am a little drunk)
This one was not that good. In my excitement of keeping the beat I was jerking my whole body to the rhythm. The poise was gone, the reserved arrogance was lost a bit. People behind were keeping the beat with their clapping. Don't think I wanted them to.
As I began singing the maqta, the last two lines, I felt a deep thrill. My first, concious, public performance, in recent times. And singing the maqta with the my second-favourite poet's name in it - a great pleasure, a great honour and a great responsibility. More so since I was drunk. My glass hand trembled a bit...
"Naazuk mizaaj,aap kayamat hai 'Mir'ji
Naazuk mizaaj,aap kayamat hai 'Mir'ji
Jon shisha mere mooh na lago, main nashe mein hoon"
(The delicate tempered Mir is not un-dangerous.
Like glass, so Don't mess with me, for I am a little drunk)
In the end I was described as one of the talents of the group. Not bad, I say.
1 comments
Drink does stuff to you and not all of this stuff is bad. The falling of barriers, the removal of pretences, the shedding of inhibitions, the general cheerfulness, the straight-forwardness, the open-ness of the heart, the open-ness of the mind. These are not bad! The bekhudi is important. Bekhudi. Being without yourself, going beyond yourself, surmounting the most difficult obstacle in your path, as they say - yourself. Losing your worst detractor. Be-khud-i.
I am not at all sure drinking is not a spiritual experience. No, no pun was designed for. Honest.
The drinkers sat around the table in an inner circle. The non-drinkers sat on the parapet in an outer circle. Some people had sung something and some other people were being coaxed into singing something.
Suddenly I decided to sing. It was'nt all that sudden. I had been drunk for sometime and me and another guy had pleasurably exchanged several favourite shers. Fairly good shers, I might add. Not the run-of-the-mill kind and not at all (and heaven forbid) the babbar-sher kind. In my drunken slowness I had been trying hard to recollect the first lines of my favourite Mir Ghazal. Pat it struck, and pat I decided.
"Guys, I want to sing a song" I said.
There was a bit of cautious cheering and I began shakily.
"Yaaron, mujhe muaaf rakho main nashe mein hoon"
(Friends do forgive me, for I a little drunk)
The appropriate-ness of the Ghazal struck everyone at once and there was immediate cheering and shouting. In sober circumstances this would have made me flush deeply, become concious and to immediately start screwing up the rest of the Ghazal. All I remember doing, however, is half-smiling, nonchalantly ignoring the wah-wah-ey (like Mir himself might have) and continuing without skipping a beat (the musical beat, not the cardiac one) to the next line which is:
"Ab Do to jaam khaali hi do, main nashe mein hoon"
(If you do pass me a booze-glass make sure its empty (or rather, fill it with water) for I am a little drunk)
"Yaaron mujhe muaaf rakho main nashe mein hoon,
Yaaron..."
Not bad. Not bad at all. The rhythm and timing, the taal , seemed actually good. I was surprised at myself.
"Masti se darhami hai meri, guftagoo ke beech...
Masti se darhami hai meri, guftagoo ke beech...
Jo chaho tum bhi mujh ko kaho main nashe mein hoon,
yaaron..."
(If,excited, I seem a little rude to you,
Go ahead, you call me names too, for I am a little drunk)
I actually seemed to be keeping an involuantary beat between shers. Timing the intermediate silence, something I have never achieved in sober life. I steal a look around. Someone seemed to be saying that I have a superb voice. Is this believable!!!
"Ya haaton-haath lo mujhe maanind-e-jaam-e-mai
Ya thodi door saath chalo, main nashe mein hoon,
yaaron.."
(So Hold me like you hold your wine-glass
Or at least walk with me a while, for I am a little drunk)
This one was not that good. In my excitement of keeping the beat I was jerking my whole body to the rhythm. The poise was gone, the reserved arrogance was lost a bit. People behind were keeping the beat with their clapping. Don't think I wanted them to.
As I began singing the maqta, the last two lines, I felt a deep thrill. My first, concious, public performance, in recent times. And singing the maqta with the my second-favourite poet's name in it - a great pleasure, a great honour and a great responsibility. More so since I was drunk. My glass hand trembled a bit...
"Naazuk mizaaj,aap kayamat hai 'Mir'ji
Naazuk mizaaj,aap kayamat hai 'Mir'ji
Jon shisha mere mooh na lago, main nashe mein hoon"
(The delicate tempered Mir is not un-dangerous.
Like glass, so Don't mess with me, for I am a little drunk)
In the end I was described as one of the talents of the group. Not bad, I say.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
Mr and Mrs Kamath
Mr and Mrs Kamath. How nice that sounds.
Those of you who have quickly jumped to the conclusion that I am getting married please climb back up. I am not getting married. I am not even sure I would like to be married. I haven't thought all those things through. But some train of thought led to Mr and Mrs Iyer and I suddenly thought why not Mr and Mrs Kamath. How nice that sounds.
Mr and Mrs Kamath. Ah! How nice that sounds. Though Dr and Mrs Kamath would sound nicer and Mr and Dr Mrs Kamath would sound nicer still. But back to Mr and Mrs Kamath. How nice that sounds.
The winter-spring transition is glorious in Bangalore. The sun is just right. The lighting is just bright. Walking about in the toasty sunshine all you want to do is stretch and smile happily. I was telling Vivek today how lucky he was, in this weather, to be married.
There are lots of things to this Mr and Mrs thing. It means breakfast together and newspapers and lots of kids and walks in the evening. It also means lots of other things which I am not thinking about right now. No no, not those things. Those things I am thinking about. But those other things, those other things are what I am not thinking about.
Mr and Mrs Kamath. Ah! How nice that sounds.
0 comments
Mr and Mrs Kamath. How nice that sounds.
Those of you who have quickly jumped to the conclusion that I am getting married please climb back up. I am not getting married. I am not even sure I would like to be married. I haven't thought all those things through. But some train of thought led to Mr and Mrs Iyer and I suddenly thought why not Mr and Mrs Kamath. How nice that sounds.
Mr and Mrs Kamath. Ah! How nice that sounds. Though Dr and Mrs Kamath would sound nicer and Mr and Dr Mrs Kamath would sound nicer still. But back to Mr and Mrs Kamath. How nice that sounds.
The winter-spring transition is glorious in Bangalore. The sun is just right. The lighting is just bright. Walking about in the toasty sunshine all you want to do is stretch and smile happily. I was telling Vivek today how lucky he was, in this weather, to be married.
There are lots of things to this Mr and Mrs thing. It means breakfast together and newspapers and lots of kids and walks in the evening. It also means lots of other things which I am not thinking about right now. No no, not those things. Those things I am thinking about. But those other things, those other things are what I am not thinking about.
Mr and Mrs Kamath. Ah! How nice that sounds.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
One of my favourite movie songs:
I like to start with Anthras, because there is some kind of an ending of a suspense, a homecoming of a sort, when the Mukhda turns up after the Anthra...
Sharma ke mooh na pher nazar ke sawal par..
Laati hai is makaam par kismat kabhie kabhiee.
Hoti hai dilbaron ki inayat kabhie kabhiee..
Milti hai zindagi mein mohabbat kabhie kabhiee.
Tanha na kat sakenge jawaani ke raaste..
Pesh aayegi kisi ki zaroorat kabhie kabhiee.
khulte nahi hain roz dareeche bahar ke... (dareeche=windows, dar=door)
aati hai jaan-e-man ye qayaamat kabhie kbhiee.
phir kho na jaayein ham duniya ki bheed mein..
milti hai paas aane ki mohalat kabhie kabhiee..
Milti hai zindagi mein mohabbat kabhie kabhiee..
Hoti hai dilbaron ki inayat kabhie kabhiee..
0 comments
I like to start with Anthras, because there is some kind of an ending of a suspense, a homecoming of a sort, when the Mukhda turns up after the Anthra...
Sharma ke mooh na pher nazar ke sawal par..
Laati hai is makaam par kismat kabhie kabhiee.
Hoti hai dilbaron ki inayat kabhie kabhiee..
Milti hai zindagi mein mohabbat kabhie kabhiee.
Tanha na kat sakenge jawaani ke raaste..
Pesh aayegi kisi ki zaroorat kabhie kabhiee.
khulte nahi hain roz dareeche bahar ke... (dareeche=windows, dar=door)
aati hai jaan-e-man ye qayaamat kabhie kbhiee.
phir kho na jaayein ham duniya ki bheed mein..
milti hai paas aane ki mohalat kabhie kabhiee..
Milti hai zindagi mein mohabbat kabhie kabhiee..
Hoti hai dilbaron ki inayat kabhie kabhiee..
Sunday, January 23, 2005
The Ghazal
Part Three.
...Which is why writing about your favourite ghazal is so much more convenient. You can almost point an arrow, as if to a diagram, and say, "Hey! Is'nt this clever?"...
Still, reading a Ghazal is not the same thing as listening to it. The sense of rhythm and balance that goes into a good sher may not always be apparent when you read it. One needs some kind of a musical toe-hold on every Ghazal. Listen to a Ghazal first and you'll like it much more when you read it.
The Ghazal is in general a conversation, of a kind. Between the poet and himself, between the poet and God, between the poet and society in general, between the poet and his lover, between the poet and the person he loves, between the poet and the (imaginary) person he would like to love...In each case the poet contributes to the character and personality of his addressee too. So the conversation is between the poet and the God and the poet , between the poet and his lover and the poet and so on. The intelligence and sophistication of the poet and the object of his Ghazal make for an interesting study. No not study, for this is not a studious essay. They make for interesting casual observations. For example the poet could be talking about someone very sweet and pretty and adolescent or about someone very intelligent and mature. He might resort to charm through words or to resigned admonitions. The poets (resilient) ego is prominent in most Ghazals.
0 comments
Part Three.
...Which is why writing about your favourite ghazal is so much more convenient. You can almost point an arrow, as if to a diagram, and say, "Hey! Is'nt this clever?"...
Still, reading a Ghazal is not the same thing as listening to it. The sense of rhythm and balance that goes into a good sher may not always be apparent when you read it. One needs some kind of a musical toe-hold on every Ghazal. Listen to a Ghazal first and you'll like it much more when you read it.
The Ghazal is in general a conversation, of a kind. Between the poet and himself, between the poet and God, between the poet and society in general, between the poet and his lover, between the poet and the person he loves, between the poet and the (imaginary) person he would like to love...In each case the poet contributes to the character and personality of his addressee too. So the conversation is between the poet and the God and the poet , between the poet and his lover and the poet and so on. The intelligence and sophistication of the poet and the object of his Ghazal make for an interesting study. No not study, for this is not a studious essay. They make for interesting casual observations. For example the poet could be talking about someone very sweet and pretty and adolescent or about someone very intelligent and mature. He might resort to charm through words or to resigned admonitions. The poets (resilient) ego is prominent in most Ghazals.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
The Ghazal
Part Two.
....There are good shers and not-so-great shers in a ghazal. The good shers are the ones that make you sing, memorize, or listen to the ghazal. The not-so-great shers are there to add bulk and consistency to the Ghazal. To give you the general drift of what is going on in the Ghazal. The good shers and the not-so-great shers have a symbiotic relationship. The good shers climb on top of the not-so-great shers in the word-ly pyramid and the not-so-great shers aquire meaning and radiance in the reflected glow of the good shers. Sometimes you will like a Ghazal and it's not-so-great shers even for half a good sher, more likely the second half....
Often you are trying to show off your favourite Ghazals to others. You might play it to them from a cassette or recite it or (heaven forbid) sing it out aloud. In any case it is somewhat difficult to pass through the not-so-great shers when your audience gives you the 'what's-so-great about this not-so-great sher' look. You want to say, "Wait. wait. The best part is yet to come. Wait, wait, you'll like it yet. Wait." When the ghazal is playing on the music system, as the good shers arrive and waft past, you sit still, and almost stop breathing. And you hope your audience will stop chattering for those few seconds and listen!
Which is why writing about your favourite ghazal is so much more convenient. You can almost point an arrow, as if to a diagram, and say, "Hey! Is'nt this clever?"
0 comments
Part Two.
....There are good shers and not-so-great shers in a ghazal. The good shers are the ones that make you sing, memorize, or listen to the ghazal. The not-so-great shers are there to add bulk and consistency to the Ghazal. To give you the general drift of what is going on in the Ghazal. The good shers and the not-so-great shers have a symbiotic relationship. The good shers climb on top of the not-so-great shers in the word-ly pyramid and the not-so-great shers aquire meaning and radiance in the reflected glow of the good shers. Sometimes you will like a Ghazal and it's not-so-great shers even for half a good sher, more likely the second half....
Often you are trying to show off your favourite Ghazals to others. You might play it to them from a cassette or recite it or (heaven forbid) sing it out aloud. In any case it is somewhat difficult to pass through the not-so-great shers when your audience gives you the 'what's-so-great about this not-so-great sher' look. You want to say, "Wait. wait. The best part is yet to come. Wait, wait, you'll like it yet. Wait." When the ghazal is playing on the music system, as the good shers arrive and waft past, you sit still, and almost stop breathing. And you hope your audience will stop chattering for those few seconds and listen!
Which is why writing about your favourite ghazal is so much more convenient. You can almost point an arrow, as if to a diagram, and say, "Hey! Is'nt this clever?"
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
ADDENDUM:
The Raghuvamsam and Abhijnanashakuntalam translations are from 'Kalidasa: The loom of Time' by Dr. Chandra Rajan. The Malavikagnimitram translation is from a textbook whose author's name I have forgotten. Will mention it again sometime.
Some time ago, actually quite some time ago, I had posted invocations from two of Kalidasa's plays. Here's one from a third. It is small and simple but full of mysticism, and romance of a kind. It is from the play, Raghuvamsham.
Kalidasa says:
May the Parents of the Universe,
Parvati and the Supreme Lord,
Eternally conjoined as Word and Meaning,
Grant Fittest Utterance to my Thoughts,
Here are the other two for completeness:
From Abhijnanashakuntalam
That First Creation of the Creator *;
That Bearer of Oblations offered with Holy Rites;
That One who utters the Holy Chants;
Those two that order Time;
That which extends, World-Pervading in which sound flows impinging on the ear;
That which is proclaimed the Universal Womb of Seeds;
That which fills all forms that breathe with the Breath of Life.
May the Supreme Lord of the Universe who stands revealed in these eight forms perceptible preserve you.
(*respectively Water, Fire, Priest, Sun and Moon, Space, Earth and Air)
From Malavikagnimitram
May the Lord who,
Though enjoying obsolute sovereignty
From which result many blessings to his votaries,
Yet himself wears an elephant hide;
Who although united in body with his beloved,
Yet excels the ascetics whose minds are free from (pleasures of) sense;
In whom there is no pride,
Although with his eight-fold forms he sustains the universe
- may He remove your state of ignorance
That you may behold the right way.
0 comments
The Raghuvamsam and Abhijnanashakuntalam translations are from 'Kalidasa: The loom of Time' by Dr. Chandra Rajan. The Malavikagnimitram translation is from a textbook whose author's name I have forgotten. Will mention it again sometime.
Some time ago, actually quite some time ago, I had posted invocations from two of Kalidasa's plays. Here's one from a third. It is small and simple but full of mysticism, and romance of a kind. It is from the play, Raghuvamsham.
Kalidasa says:
May the Parents of the Universe,
Parvati and the Supreme Lord,
Eternally conjoined as Word and Meaning,
Grant Fittest Utterance to my Thoughts,
Here are the other two for completeness:
From Abhijnanashakuntalam
That First Creation of the Creator *;
That Bearer of Oblations offered with Holy Rites;
That One who utters the Holy Chants;
Those two that order Time;
That which extends, World-Pervading in which sound flows impinging on the ear;
That which is proclaimed the Universal Womb of Seeds;
That which fills all forms that breathe with the Breath of Life.
May the Supreme Lord of the Universe who stands revealed in these eight forms perceptible preserve you.
(*respectively Water, Fire, Priest, Sun and Moon, Space, Earth and Air)
From Malavikagnimitram
May the Lord who,
Though enjoying obsolute sovereignty
From which result many blessings to his votaries,
Yet himself wears an elephant hide;
Who although united in body with his beloved,
Yet excels the ascetics whose minds are free from (pleasures of) sense;
In whom there is no pride,
Although with his eight-fold forms he sustains the universe
- may He remove your state of ignorance
That you may behold the right way.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
The Ghazal - An essay through observation (as opposed to through research) in three or more parts
Part One.
The physical structure of the Ghazal is perhaps well known to the reader. It consists of several sub divisions called 'shers' similar to the dohas - two liners - of Sufi and Bhakti poetry. The shers of a Ghazal share the common property of having the same last few 'punch'-words in the second line - except for the first sher which has the punch words at the end of the first as well as the second line . The last sher is called the 'maqta' and contains the poet's name in it.
There are no definite lines/flows of thought in a Ghazal. The shers of a ghazal might convey the same mood or tone but sometimes even that does'nt happen. The shers of a ghazal are separate witticisms, independant creative entities bound together only by the slender ties of the same last few sounds. Further the same punch words may carry different meanings in different shers - puns of some kind. Tied at but one point, the different shers flutter about in differnet directions. The more varied and unlikely the directions of the flutter, the greater is glory of the ghazal, the more is the enjoyment of the reader/listener.
The maqta. The last sher. I am cutting and pasting here my thoughts about the maqta as they stood a couple of months ago:
...If I gave up trying to remember the missing sher and did sing the last verse and then remembered the verse that I had forgotten, it wouldn't be any good to sing it. It would be like eating the misplaced roti after dessert.
The last verse, I don't know if there is a technical term for it, is the ultimate thing in the Ghazal. It's the dessert, it's the climax, it's the summing up, the signature, it is so many things. To a singer, rather, to the person who is singing, it gives the maximum pleasure. One can almost feel the near orgasmic, unabashedly Freudian pleasure with which the poet had forged his name amongst beautiful words. Sometimes I don't like poetry when the Poet does not put his name in it....
Though I still agree with most of the above two paragraphs, I no longer think that the maqta is any kind of summing up. For sometime I wondered if it could serve as some kind of a counterpoint, posing an idea different in meaning and tone to the rest of the Ghazal. Now I think it is any random sher with the poet's name in it. But it has to be a special sher, a clever sher, a sher worthy enough to have the poet's name in it. But it need not be apropos to what has been said before in the Ghazal. The maqta perhaps talks more about the poet than about the rest of his Ghazal.
The structure of the Ghazal is ingenious and quite different from the other styles of writing - normal poetry, short story or the Novel (quite an obvious observation, what?). After all what does a literary creator want to do? He wants to display his command over the language, his wit, his sensitivity of thought, his understanding of human nature, his good/bad humour, his powers of observation, his empathy with his fellowmen, his depth of personality. He wants to appeal to be understood, to explain himself, to make himself lovable, prove himself worthy, to communicate. He wants besides to create something unique and artful and aesthetic.
The Ghazal allows the creator to do all these things without also creating a whole lot of supporting structure - characters and settings and plots and descriptions and dates and names and flow of thought. There is supporting structure in Ghazal too, as we will see later, but what I am saying is that the concentration of literary niceties is very high in a Ghazal.
Similarly, for a reader/listener, the Ghazal is more rewarding. One might remember by heart several whole Ghazals by Ghalib but what remains in the memory of Oliver Twist is just a few lines "...If that's what the law thinks, then the law is an ass, a fool." The simple structure of the Ghazal and the high concentration of niceties makes for memorization and for enjoyment.
While the Ghazal poet has his task cut out (I am not sure what 'task cut out' exactly means. If you know the text book meaning of the idom please tell me also), while he has to only create one sher at a time and not bother about incidentalitites, his job is by no means an easy one. Writing shers demands an absolute command over the language and a lot of ingenuity. The barrier to entry is pretty high. For the averagely intelligent person, it is easier to start writing stories and novels but much more difficult to start writing shers and Ghazals. Try both and you will know :-). In Ghazal writing, I am beginning to think, you either have it or you don't, but I hope this is not true.
There are good shers and not-so-great shers in a ghazal. The good shers are the ones that make you sing, memorize, or listen to the ghazal. The not-so-great shers are there to add bulk and consistency to the Ghazal. To give you the general drift of what is going on in the Ghazal. The good shers and the not-so-great shers have a symbiotic relationship. The good shers climb on top of the not-so-great shers in the word-ly pyramid and the not-so-great shers aquire meaning and radiance in the reflected glow of the good shers. Sometimes you will like a Ghazal and it's not-so-great shers even for half a good sher, more likely the second half.
0 comments
Part One.
The physical structure of the Ghazal is perhaps well known to the reader. It consists of several sub divisions called 'shers' similar to the dohas - two liners - of Sufi and Bhakti poetry. The shers of a Ghazal share the common property of having the same last few 'punch'-words in the second line - except for the first sher which has the punch words at the end of the first as well as the second line . The last sher is called the 'maqta' and contains the poet's name in it.
There are no definite lines/flows of thought in a Ghazal. The shers of a ghazal might convey the same mood or tone but sometimes even that does'nt happen. The shers of a ghazal are separate witticisms, independant creative entities bound together only by the slender ties of the same last few sounds. Further the same punch words may carry different meanings in different shers - puns of some kind. Tied at but one point, the different shers flutter about in differnet directions. The more varied and unlikely the directions of the flutter, the greater is glory of the ghazal, the more is the enjoyment of the reader/listener.
The maqta. The last sher. I am cutting and pasting here my thoughts about the maqta as they stood a couple of months ago:
...If I gave up trying to remember the missing sher and did sing the last verse and then remembered the verse that I had forgotten, it wouldn't be any good to sing it. It would be like eating the misplaced roti after dessert.
The last verse, I don't know if there is a technical term for it, is the ultimate thing in the Ghazal. It's the dessert, it's the climax, it's the summing up, the signature, it is so many things. To a singer, rather, to the person who is singing, it gives the maximum pleasure. One can almost feel the near orgasmic, unabashedly Freudian pleasure with which the poet had forged his name amongst beautiful words. Sometimes I don't like poetry when the Poet does not put his name in it....
Though I still agree with most of the above two paragraphs, I no longer think that the maqta is any kind of summing up. For sometime I wondered if it could serve as some kind of a counterpoint, posing an idea different in meaning and tone to the rest of the Ghazal. Now I think it is any random sher with the poet's name in it. But it has to be a special sher, a clever sher, a sher worthy enough to have the poet's name in it. But it need not be apropos to what has been said before in the Ghazal. The maqta perhaps talks more about the poet than about the rest of his Ghazal.
The structure of the Ghazal is ingenious and quite different from the other styles of writing - normal poetry, short story or the Novel (quite an obvious observation, what?). After all what does a literary creator want to do? He wants to display his command over the language, his wit, his sensitivity of thought, his understanding of human nature, his good/bad humour, his powers of observation, his empathy with his fellowmen, his depth of personality. He wants to appeal to be understood, to explain himself, to make himself lovable, prove himself worthy, to communicate. He wants besides to create something unique and artful and aesthetic.
The Ghazal allows the creator to do all these things without also creating a whole lot of supporting structure - characters and settings and plots and descriptions and dates and names and flow of thought. There is supporting structure in Ghazal too, as we will see later, but what I am saying is that the concentration of literary niceties is very high in a Ghazal.
Similarly, for a reader/listener, the Ghazal is more rewarding. One might remember by heart several whole Ghazals by Ghalib but what remains in the memory of Oliver Twist is just a few lines "...If that's what the law thinks, then the law is an ass, a fool." The simple structure of the Ghazal and the high concentration of niceties makes for memorization and for enjoyment.
While the Ghazal poet has his task cut out (I am not sure what 'task cut out' exactly means. If you know the text book meaning of the idom please tell me also), while he has to only create one sher at a time and not bother about incidentalitites, his job is by no means an easy one. Writing shers demands an absolute command over the language and a lot of ingenuity. The barrier to entry is pretty high. For the averagely intelligent person, it is easier to start writing stories and novels but much more difficult to start writing shers and Ghazals. Try both and you will know :-). In Ghazal writing, I am beginning to think, you either have it or you don't, but I hope this is not true.
There are good shers and not-so-great shers in a ghazal. The good shers are the ones that make you sing, memorize, or listen to the ghazal. The not-so-great shers are there to add bulk and consistency to the Ghazal. To give you the general drift of what is going on in the Ghazal. The good shers and the not-so-great shers have a symbiotic relationship. The good shers climb on top of the not-so-great shers in the word-ly pyramid and the not-so-great shers aquire meaning and radiance in the reflected glow of the good shers. Sometimes you will like a Ghazal and it's not-so-great shers even for half a good sher, more likely the second half.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
The post before last is a scanned version of one of my stories published in TINKLE about 3-4 years back. I zeroxed the original and scanned the zerox. Didn't want to bring the original to Bangalore - there's a scanning machine at office - from my native place. Orignials of my published work are some of the few things I am really really attached to and I don't cart them around.
I have published some seven stories in TINKLE all more or less of the same quality ;-) as the 'LUCK PLAYS DETECTIVE'. Besides I have published two funny stories in the Women's Era (Don't judge me, I don't know any other magazine that publish longish stories almost unedited), two stories in a children's monthly called Gokulam, one story in The Hindu's Children's section and one in the Youth Express. I propose to put the scans of these one by one on my blog. Or maybe I will create a link where I'll put all my published stuff. Some time ago, I found one of my stories in a TINKLE in a second hand shop. I have that book here in Bangalore. That one story I will scan in colour.
When you send a story to TINKLE, they script it to their own needs. So not more than of your orignial words or dialogues come out in print, which is a bit disheartening. The illustrations are interesting though. Its nice to see the characters you imagined in your mind suddenly come out in colour. The fact that someone else took your work and gave it some kind of flesh and blood is really exciting. Maybe its how a playright feels when someone produces his play. But the playright has more control, ofcourse: the characters say the same things that he writes. Perhaps its more like a movie being made out of a book.
0 comments
I have published some seven stories in TINKLE all more or less of the same quality ;-) as the 'LUCK PLAYS DETECTIVE'. Besides I have published two funny stories in the Women's Era (Don't judge me, I don't know any other magazine that publish longish stories almost unedited), two stories in a children's monthly called Gokulam, one story in The Hindu's Children's section and one in the Youth Express. I propose to put the scans of these one by one on my blog. Or maybe I will create a link where I'll put all my published stuff. Some time ago, I found one of my stories in a TINKLE in a second hand shop. I have that book here in Bangalore. That one story I will scan in colour.
When you send a story to TINKLE, they script it to their own needs. So not more than of your orignial words or dialogues come out in print, which is a bit disheartening. The illustrations are interesting though. Its nice to see the characters you imagined in your mind suddenly come out in colour. The fact that someone else took your work and gave it some kind of flesh and blood is really exciting. Maybe its how a playright feels when someone produces his play. But the playright has more control, ofcourse: the characters say the same things that he writes. Perhaps its more like a movie being made out of a book.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
A Mid-Summer's Day Dream (contd...)
Chapter 3
The secret meeting convened. In TV's room, under the clandestine light of a forty watt bulb. Three glasses were poured. The falling booze-level in the bottle of Scotch borrowed from Dilli's dad was commented upon with regret. The glasses were raised and quickly emptied. "Best before 60 seconds" was inscribed on each glass, the enthusiastic effort of a Saturday some time ago.
They would have liked to linger over the whisky of course, on the familiar wing cot or under the terrace moonlight. But that risk could not be taken. Everywhere, in the shadows, thirsty throats lurked.
----
TV looked unenthusiastically at his plate - bland cholas with oily, 'unbreakable' bhaturas. More to come were sickly sambaar and boring buttermilk, if you excluded the rainy rasam.
Sitting with him making chompingly sloshy noises, however, were Mannu and Chammo.
Mannu was tearing away at his bhaturas enthusiastically, dipping them gingerly in his chicken gravy. He pinched away stingily from his chicken, wanting the one leg piece to last the entire meal - longer if that were somehow possible.
Chammo had made a nice, big, white, heap of hot, steaming rice. At the summit of this mount perched his chicken leg. Hot, thick, gravy trickled down the slopes. A snow covered volcano had just thrown up a plate of masala-chicken. Chammo dug in carefully and sighed his satisfaction with every mouthful.
TV longed for a nice gult meal with pickle, papad, dal-powder, thick dal-fry, curd and three kinds of vegetables each having taste. This dream meal was just a few minutes walk away, in the gult mess just outside campus, where they would have all gone if today were'nt Thursday.
TV wondered at how the mess cooks screwed up everything in sight. Yet, presumably, they cooked excellent chicken.
----
They sat drinking on the terrace. This time cheaper stuff and paid for out of their own pockets.
Mannu drank faster than the other two. So he was the least sober.
Chammo winked mischievously at TV. TV winked mischievously back.
"Eh TV! Sometimes Rani looks sexy, right?" Chammo asked TV conversationally. Rani was one of the sweepers employed in the hostel. TV smiled and did not say anything. The question was not meant for him.
"All the time man. All the time" Mannu said. It was easy to get Mannu to talk when he was drunk. "What a complexion, man. What a complexion. Purest Black. Purest Black. The naturally curling hair that she ties in a plait as thick as my arm...as thick as my arm. And those large gold-plated jhumkas of hers. Oh God. She wears them all the time. I don't know why all those posh ladies are not following her fashion example. And the paayal, too. God. And she goes around with that intense unyieldingly belligerent look complete with that dark lipped pout! That dark lipped pout. Can you imagine how it would be to try and seduce her. Can you imagine..."
He took a large gulp and fell silent.
"And her..er..bust..." TV prompted, using the word that Mannu liked to use.
"Her bust. Her bust. The shape her bust makes her dupatta take..." Mannu stopped suddenly. Another train of thought had arrived at his Junction. "I know what you guys are thinking," he said stoically, " Mannu spills everything when he's drunk. Not true. Not true. The drink is only an excuse. I say what I say because I want to - I need to say it...I say it to you because I need to say it to someone "
Chammo was stunned, escpecially at the tones of the 'you' and the 'someone'. His face showed his hurt. TV chuckled good naturedly and took another sip.
----
Chapter 4
Dilli was lying on the swing in the garden, under the shade of the Mango trees, approaching the end of The Fountainhead with increasing pleasure and relief. He could see no way the book was going to change his life, or for that matter Chammo's even.
When only fifteen pages were remaining, a steady honking started at the gate. Dilli had read a couple of pages inspite of the din when the honking suddenly stopped, the front gate was thrown open and a very attractive girl walked in straight to Dilli.
"Are you deaf as well as heartless?" she asked Dilli. Dilli was sorry and mildly irritated at the same time. "Shhh..I have only thirteen pages left. Sit down, let me finish and then we can talk the whole day."
He had not even looked up from his book though they were meeting after two months. Divya, for that was her name (changed, ofcourse, for confidentiality:-), sat down on the lawn. For the next ten minutes she caused vicious damage to the grass with her right heel.
At last Dilli put the book down, looked at her, smiled, "Okay. I am done. Where do you want to go?"
"Shopping. I need the services of your excellent taste"
"Sure. Anytime. If I am not close to finishing a book that is."
They went out. Dilli got into the passenger seat.
"When are going to learn to drive?" Divya asked "I am dying to have you drive me around."
"Last time I tried there was disaster. The trauma of that accident has'nt worn out yet."
"What trauma. It was just a fracture. Be a man!"
"It is'nt the hurt. I could'nt play for a month. That means a lot to me." He regretted saying it even as he said it. He preferred not to say serious things when something frivolous would do just as well, or better. But what were these 'regrets' he was feeling these days? He was'nt used to regrets. What is happening to me!
"Besides," he said, as if to compensate for the seriousness, "I like being driven around by a girl. There is some kind of hen-peckedness to it that I really enjoy."
"Ha ha ha" Divya half-pretended to laugh, "Hen-pecked? you? Ha ha ha."
They joined the main road.
"Lots of new releases" Dilli said as they passed a cinema hall.
"All crap" Divya said.
"I am glad you think so." Dilli said. He really was glad. He thought they were crap too. He noticed that his approval had made Divya's lips twist in slight smile of pleasure.
"I heard that Chennai girls are ugly" Divya said suddenly with feeling. The traffic light had just gone from red to green, waving some flag, as it were, in Divya's subconscious.
Dilli wondered at this malicious turn to the conversation. "That is not true," he said lightly, "Besides I don't care for looks. Or I would'nt have gone around with you." He always managed to say smooth stuff without sounding too smooth.
Divya laughed.
They arrived shortly but Divya announced she did'nt feel like shopping anymore. "Lets have coffee first."
Divya unendingly stirred her coffee, not looking up from her cup. Dilli became aware of the stirring of strong sentiments.
At last the words were out. "I heard you have a girlfriend in college. Yeah. I found out. Never mind how." It was Dilli's turn at the coffee stirring "I know Sandy (Dilli's original name is Sandeep) that I am not..not worthy of you..whatever that means. I am not as clever as you and I don't even care if I never finish the books I read. I have spent my life doing nothing but having a good time...But I lo..like you Sandy. I have liked you for three years. I just wanted to remind you...to tell you that.
"I am going now. I would have left the car behind for you, but you don't know how to drive."
0 comments
Chapter 3
The secret meeting convened. In TV's room, under the clandestine light of a forty watt bulb. Three glasses were poured. The falling booze-level in the bottle of Scotch borrowed from Dilli's dad was commented upon with regret. The glasses were raised and quickly emptied. "Best before 60 seconds" was inscribed on each glass, the enthusiastic effort of a Saturday some time ago.
They would have liked to linger over the whisky of course, on the familiar wing cot or under the terrace moonlight. But that risk could not be taken. Everywhere, in the shadows, thirsty throats lurked.
----
TV looked unenthusiastically at his plate - bland cholas with oily, 'unbreakable' bhaturas. More to come were sickly sambaar and boring buttermilk, if you excluded the rainy rasam.
Sitting with him making chompingly sloshy noises, however, were Mannu and Chammo.
Mannu was tearing away at his bhaturas enthusiastically, dipping them gingerly in his chicken gravy. He pinched away stingily from his chicken, wanting the one leg piece to last the entire meal - longer if that were somehow possible.
Chammo had made a nice, big, white, heap of hot, steaming rice. At the summit of this mount perched his chicken leg. Hot, thick, gravy trickled down the slopes. A snow covered volcano had just thrown up a plate of masala-chicken. Chammo dug in carefully and sighed his satisfaction with every mouthful.
TV longed for a nice gult meal with pickle, papad, dal-powder, thick dal-fry, curd and three kinds of vegetables each having taste. This dream meal was just a few minutes walk away, in the gult mess just outside campus, where they would have all gone if today were'nt Thursday.
TV wondered at how the mess cooks screwed up everything in sight. Yet, presumably, they cooked excellent chicken.
----
They sat drinking on the terrace. This time cheaper stuff and paid for out of their own pockets.
Mannu drank faster than the other two. So he was the least sober.
Chammo winked mischievously at TV. TV winked mischievously back.
"Eh TV! Sometimes Rani looks sexy, right?" Chammo asked TV conversationally. Rani was one of the sweepers employed in the hostel. TV smiled and did not say anything. The question was not meant for him.
"All the time man. All the time" Mannu said. It was easy to get Mannu to talk when he was drunk. "What a complexion, man. What a complexion. Purest Black. Purest Black. The naturally curling hair that she ties in a plait as thick as my arm...as thick as my arm. And those large gold-plated jhumkas of hers. Oh God. She wears them all the time. I don't know why all those posh ladies are not following her fashion example. And the paayal, too. God. And she goes around with that intense unyieldingly belligerent look complete with that dark lipped pout! That dark lipped pout. Can you imagine how it would be to try and seduce her. Can you imagine..."
He took a large gulp and fell silent.
"And her..er..bust..." TV prompted, using the word that Mannu liked to use.
"Her bust. Her bust. The shape her bust makes her dupatta take..." Mannu stopped suddenly. Another train of thought had arrived at his Junction. "I know what you guys are thinking," he said stoically, " Mannu spills everything when he's drunk. Not true. Not true. The drink is only an excuse. I say what I say because I want to - I need to say it...I say it to you because I need to say it to someone "
Chammo was stunned, escpecially at the tones of the 'you' and the 'someone'. His face showed his hurt. TV chuckled good naturedly and took another sip.
----
Chapter 4
Dilli was lying on the swing in the garden, under the shade of the Mango trees, approaching the end of The Fountainhead with increasing pleasure and relief. He could see no way the book was going to change his life, or for that matter Chammo's even.
When only fifteen pages were remaining, a steady honking started at the gate. Dilli had read a couple of pages inspite of the din when the honking suddenly stopped, the front gate was thrown open and a very attractive girl walked in straight to Dilli.
"Are you deaf as well as heartless?" she asked Dilli. Dilli was sorry and mildly irritated at the same time. "Shhh..I have only thirteen pages left. Sit down, let me finish and then we can talk the whole day."
He had not even looked up from his book though they were meeting after two months. Divya, for that was her name (changed, ofcourse, for confidentiality:-), sat down on the lawn. For the next ten minutes she caused vicious damage to the grass with her right heel.
At last Dilli put the book down, looked at her, smiled, "Okay. I am done. Where do you want to go?"
"Shopping. I need the services of your excellent taste"
"Sure. Anytime. If I am not close to finishing a book that is."
They went out. Dilli got into the passenger seat.
"When are going to learn to drive?" Divya asked "I am dying to have you drive me around."
"Last time I tried there was disaster. The trauma of that accident has'nt worn out yet."
"What trauma. It was just a fracture. Be a man!"
"It is'nt the hurt. I could'nt play for a month. That means a lot to me." He regretted saying it even as he said it. He preferred not to say serious things when something frivolous would do just as well, or better. But what were these 'regrets' he was feeling these days? He was'nt used to regrets. What is happening to me!
"Besides," he said, as if to compensate for the seriousness, "I like being driven around by a girl. There is some kind of hen-peckedness to it that I really enjoy."
"Ha ha ha" Divya half-pretended to laugh, "Hen-pecked? you? Ha ha ha."
They joined the main road.
"Lots of new releases" Dilli said as they passed a cinema hall.
"All crap" Divya said.
"I am glad you think so." Dilli said. He really was glad. He thought they were crap too. He noticed that his approval had made Divya's lips twist in slight smile of pleasure.
"I heard that Chennai girls are ugly" Divya said suddenly with feeling. The traffic light had just gone from red to green, waving some flag, as it were, in Divya's subconscious.
Dilli wondered at this malicious turn to the conversation. "That is not true," he said lightly, "Besides I don't care for looks. Or I would'nt have gone around with you." He always managed to say smooth stuff without sounding too smooth.
Divya laughed.
They arrived shortly but Divya announced she did'nt feel like shopping anymore. "Lets have coffee first."
Divya unendingly stirred her coffee, not looking up from her cup. Dilli became aware of the stirring of strong sentiments.
At last the words were out. "I heard you have a girlfriend in college. Yeah. I found out. Never mind how." It was Dilli's turn at the coffee stirring "I know Sandy (Dilli's original name is Sandeep) that I am not..not worthy of you..whatever that means. I am not as clever as you and I don't even care if I never finish the books I read. I have spent my life doing nothing but having a good time...But I lo..like you Sandy. I have liked you for three years. I just wanted to remind you...to tell you that.
"I am going now. I would have left the car behind for you, but you don't know how to drive."
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Luck Plays Detective
(best viewed with my Netscape Settings ;-)
(Courtesy : TINKLE, India Book House, Mumbai)
0 comments
(best viewed with my Netscape Settings ;-)
(Courtesy : TINKLE, India Book House, Mumbai)
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
I hope I have readers left after this long break.
The style of the below is probably influenced by the style of the authors I have been reading, even, I am afraid, by Dan Brown.
Chapter 1
The sultry Chennai afternoon of the first of May 2002 cannot be described. It can hardly even be imagined. What follows is non-fiction more out of necessity than out of choice.
The sparse traffic along the Adyar road is rushing at break-neck speed - metaphorically, one hopes - either crazed by the summer or quite sane and hurrying to escape from it.
There is no escape, however. The heat seeps in through the doors, the windows, the ventillators. A fixed percentage of the atmosphere as it were, along with Nitrogen and Oxygen.
Even among the moneyed, the ones with Airconditioners in their bedrooms, the brokered cool is short-lived. Today is the day of the cumpulsory power-cut.
Lying on the wing-cot in the wing's common area near the stairs, TV, Chammo and Mannu - all nicknames changed for confidentiality, here and henceforth - wonder musingly if they will make it to the evening. Could they have known better than to joke?
No one in the wing has any water left. The trudge down the three floors and the several feet to the mess hall seems almost un-do-able. What really rules out an attempt is the likelihood of having to return empty-handed.
Several kilometers away their usually jigri friend and wingmate, Dilli, is sitting in the useless shade of a platform on Chennai Central. Usually jigri. No relationships withstand such oppressing heat and humidity.
Dilli had quickly packed his bags to head home for the three day weekend. Home is the relatively paradisical Bangalore. Socially careless, he has not invited TV, Chammo and Mannu to share his respite with him.
Why, he has hardly even spared a thought for Renee, who is pretty, comes from Shimla and takes the Chennai summers really hard.
To each his own.
In the hostel kitchen yard, potatoes are being peeled, cauliflowers sliced and onions chopped - dinner preparations. Dark, rotund, hairy bodies belonging to bad-tempered mess workers glisten with sweat that refuses to evapourate.
A monkey gang drinks off a leaky pipe in the far corner - making an audacious amount of noise. Babies, old ones, females, alpha, beta, gamma males - the whole lot. They are not shoo-ed off.
In the girls hostel, the traditional khus curtains have made a comeback. Pretty - nickname - the celebrated soc-sec or social secretary - and by the way she was pretty social even before the elctions - has procured them from her home in UP. Miraculously water is not a problem in the girls hostel - Water Works never failed the ladies. The water soaked curtains have made the common room into a temporary oasis of sorts. Chilled buttermilk is being passed around.
Sipping from her glass, Renee rolls the cool drink around in her mouth. The sharp sourness is tantalizing. The proposal for Antaakshari is being voted (and vetoed) down with vehement boredom. Finally a singing session is consensus-ed. Tabbu begins singing with a soulful, nasal voice, reminiscent of Salma Aga.
Aawaz de...
Aawaz de kahan hai
Duniya meri jawan hai
Abaad mere dil mein
Ummid ka jahan hai
Duniya meri jawan hai
Aawaz de kahan hai...
Renee smiles superiorly, distantly, even condescendingly though no one is looking at her. 'Aawaz de kahan hai' she wants to join in, melodramatically of course, for she knows exactly where he is. Waiting for his stupid train on Chennai Central.
Aa raat ja rahi hai yon
jaise chandni ki baarat ja rahi hai...
Aa raat ja rahi hai yon
jaise chandni ki baarat ja rahi hai
Chalne ko ab falak se
taaron ka caravan hai
Aise mein tu kahan hai
Duniya meri jawan hai
Aawaz de kahan hai...
She has been technically been 'ditched'. But she does not think of it that way. She takes it as dispassionately as Pacino in The Godfather - business not personal. Besides, Dilli's apparent callousness is endearing to her. Everything sticks to you like a wet shirt in the Summer. It is nice to have a boyfriend that gives you space.
Kismat pe cha rahi hai kyon
Raat ki siyahi
(Tabu has deepened her voice to sing the guy's stanza)
Kismat pe chaa.a rahi hai kyon
Raat ki siyahi
Viraan hai meri neenden
Taron se le gawahi
Barbad main yahan hoon,
Aabad tu kahan hai,
Bedard Aaasaman hai,
Duniya meri Jawah hai
Aawaz de...
Sententatiously draining her glass, Renee wonders lazily why sadness and parting inspire so much more poetry than happiness and union.
------
Chapter 2
The earnest freshie mischieviously called Chutti carries his fifteen litre can of mineral water on his shoulder like a village-woman (He'll cringe if you tell him the analogy).
To get to his room he has to pass through the sixth wing-cot. Chutti's attitutde is that of the princess' caravan passing through a desert known for its dacoits.
Sure enough, on the wing cot lurk TV, Chammo and Mannu.
"Eh Freshie!" It hurts Chutti that they still called him 'Freshie'. It is almost the end of the second semester!
For more reason than one pretends not to hear, tries to slip past, scraping the wall.
They are wise to him.
"Chutti pass some water da." Mannu atleast is not un-nice. Reluctantly, Chutti sets the can on to the wing cot and looks away in an amusingly melodramatic way - I cannot look!
They bear down on the can like a pack of hungry wolves. The cover is opened. The seal broken. The can raised to the lips and drunk messily from. When they have had their fill, they carelessly put the can down with a thump.
Chutti makes a grim estimate. Two litres.
"Thanks da." Mannu again. He had drunk last.
Ensconed in his second-ac compartment, after a solid, stoic hour's wait for his train, Dilli finally feels the sweat begin to dry. Ah! AC. Now that the train is here, he does'nt really care when it leaves, or if it leaves at all.
He has a wash and then sits down to read the Fountainhead. He is not the literary type but Chammo has insisted that this book 'will change your life'.
A couple of pages and he begins asking himself, again, the question which he first asked a couple of hundred pages or so back. Nothing to do with the Ayn Rand's principal philosophy as he sees it. A question brought about by the book nevertheless.
What does Renee like about him?
He is rich, rather his father is, but it is the same thing. He is good looking. Several people have told him that - directly and through obivous hints. He plays all the games. With a steady cold-blooded effort, he is among the toppers in his class. But he is not at all like the sensitive, spirited, moody and talented Renee. He sometimes thinks of himself like an extremely efficient machine - and he likes efficient machines. He can't think of any reason why someone will be liked for meerly topping the class and being rich. Perhaps he has some endearing qualities without himself knowing so. Or perhaps, he is reminded of the sudden spurts of charming BubblyStream-iness that Renee is subject to, Opposites do Attract.
This last premise does not hold much conviction for him but with some effort he manages to drop the subject for now. He has a book to finish.
As dusk reluctantly settles, trouble is brewing in the Mess Kitchen. Selvam is livid. Someone has stolen the mess worker's share of chicken, which today, is Selvam's turn to have. Selvam has a good idea who the culprit is. Murugan - his half-brother and co-worker. Selvam looks all around, blind with rage, in the three kitchen rooms, in the kitchen yard and upstairs in the Worker's quarters. Murugan is no where to be seen. He has probaly slipped out somewhere and is enjoying Chicken and Rice. And will later, no doubt, come and burp right in Selvam's face. The other mess workers follow on Selvam's heels. If one big man finds the other there will be free bull fight to watch.
But Murugan is not to be found. Frustrated Selvam goes to talk to the Mess Manager. Selvam has always managed to get himself free chicken every week. He cannot do without Chicken on Thursdays. After 20 years of mess-service, it has become a habit. Today too, he will manage to get a piece somehow. But what is the use? The rogue Murugan has deprived him of a rare chance to give his conscience a rest.
As he walks to the Mess Manager's office he wonders if his story of pilferage by monkeys will hold water.
In the cool twilight, the music in the common room has reached its high point. The three best signers of the hostel have come together in a tacit understanding and are reeling out choice songs one after another, singing alternate songs, singing alternate verses - sadly happy songs, happily sad songs - melancholy songs.
Ek Roz main tadap kar, is dil ko thaam loonga,
Mere hasin kaatil, main tera naam loonga,
Main tera naam loonga...
Main tera naam loonga...
---
Huzuoor-e-wala jo ho ijazat
To hum yeh saare jahan se kaha dein.
Tumhari adaaon pe marate hain hum
Yeh kis ne kaha hai ke darte hain hum
Huzoor e wala....
The songs create a longing in Renee's heart. But what longing she could possibly be feeling, she cannot imagine.
0 comments
The style of the below is probably influenced by the style of the authors I have been reading, even, I am afraid, by Dan Brown.
A Mid-Summer's Day Dream
or
I Have Started but I May Not Finish
or
Moreover, There's no Plot Yet
Chapter 1
The sultry Chennai afternoon of the first of May 2002 cannot be described. It can hardly even be imagined. What follows is non-fiction more out of necessity than out of choice.
The sparse traffic along the Adyar road is rushing at break-neck speed - metaphorically, one hopes - either crazed by the summer or quite sane and hurrying to escape from it.
There is no escape, however. The heat seeps in through the doors, the windows, the ventillators. A fixed percentage of the atmosphere as it were, along with Nitrogen and Oxygen.
Even among the moneyed, the ones with Airconditioners in their bedrooms, the brokered cool is short-lived. Today is the day of the cumpulsory power-cut.
Lying on the wing-cot in the wing's common area near the stairs, TV, Chammo and Mannu - all nicknames changed for confidentiality, here and henceforth - wonder musingly if they will make it to the evening. Could they have known better than to joke?
No one in the wing has any water left. The trudge down the three floors and the several feet to the mess hall seems almost un-do-able. What really rules out an attempt is the likelihood of having to return empty-handed.
Several kilometers away their usually jigri friend and wingmate, Dilli, is sitting in the useless shade of a platform on Chennai Central. Usually jigri. No relationships withstand such oppressing heat and humidity.
Dilli had quickly packed his bags to head home for the three day weekend. Home is the relatively paradisical Bangalore. Socially careless, he has not invited TV, Chammo and Mannu to share his respite with him.
Why, he has hardly even spared a thought for Renee, who is pretty, comes from Shimla and takes the Chennai summers really hard.
To each his own.
In the hostel kitchen yard, potatoes are being peeled, cauliflowers sliced and onions chopped - dinner preparations. Dark, rotund, hairy bodies belonging to bad-tempered mess workers glisten with sweat that refuses to evapourate.
A monkey gang drinks off a leaky pipe in the far corner - making an audacious amount of noise. Babies, old ones, females, alpha, beta, gamma males - the whole lot. They are not shoo-ed off.
In the girls hostel, the traditional khus curtains have made a comeback. Pretty - nickname - the celebrated soc-sec or social secretary - and by the way she was pretty social even before the elctions - has procured them from her home in UP. Miraculously water is not a problem in the girls hostel - Water Works never failed the ladies. The water soaked curtains have made the common room into a temporary oasis of sorts. Chilled buttermilk is being passed around.
Sipping from her glass, Renee rolls the cool drink around in her mouth. The sharp sourness is tantalizing. The proposal for Antaakshari is being voted (and vetoed) down with vehement boredom. Finally a singing session is consensus-ed. Tabbu begins singing with a soulful, nasal voice, reminiscent of Salma Aga.
Aawaz de...
Aawaz de kahan hai
Duniya meri jawan hai
Abaad mere dil mein
Ummid ka jahan hai
Duniya meri jawan hai
Aawaz de kahan hai...
Renee smiles superiorly, distantly, even condescendingly though no one is looking at her. 'Aawaz de kahan hai' she wants to join in, melodramatically of course, for she knows exactly where he is. Waiting for his stupid train on Chennai Central.
Aa raat ja rahi hai yon
jaise chandni ki baarat ja rahi hai...
Aa raat ja rahi hai yon
jaise chandni ki baarat ja rahi hai
Chalne ko ab falak se
taaron ka caravan hai
Aise mein tu kahan hai
Duniya meri jawan hai
Aawaz de kahan hai...
She has been technically been 'ditched'. But she does not think of it that way. She takes it as dispassionately as Pacino in The Godfather - business not personal. Besides, Dilli's apparent callousness is endearing to her. Everything sticks to you like a wet shirt in the Summer. It is nice to have a boyfriend that gives you space.
Kismat pe cha rahi hai kyon
Raat ki siyahi
(Tabu has deepened her voice to sing the guy's stanza)
Kismat pe chaa.a rahi hai kyon
Raat ki siyahi
Viraan hai meri neenden
Taron se le gawahi
Barbad main yahan hoon,
Aabad tu kahan hai,
Bedard Aaasaman hai,
Duniya meri Jawah hai
Aawaz de...
Sententatiously draining her glass, Renee wonders lazily why sadness and parting inspire so much more poetry than happiness and union.
------
Chapter 2
The earnest freshie mischieviously called Chutti carries his fifteen litre can of mineral water on his shoulder like a village-woman (He'll cringe if you tell him the analogy).
To get to his room he has to pass through the sixth wing-cot. Chutti's attitutde is that of the princess' caravan passing through a desert known for its dacoits.
Sure enough, on the wing cot lurk TV, Chammo and Mannu.
"Eh Freshie!" It hurts Chutti that they still called him 'Freshie'. It is almost the end of the second semester!
For more reason than one pretends not to hear, tries to slip past, scraping the wall.
They are wise to him.
"Chutti pass some water da." Mannu atleast is not un-nice. Reluctantly, Chutti sets the can on to the wing cot and looks away in an amusingly melodramatic way - I cannot look!
They bear down on the can like a pack of hungry wolves. The cover is opened. The seal broken. The can raised to the lips and drunk messily from. When they have had their fill, they carelessly put the can down with a thump.
Chutti makes a grim estimate. Two litres.
"Thanks da." Mannu again. He had drunk last.
Ensconed in his second-ac compartment, after a solid, stoic hour's wait for his train, Dilli finally feels the sweat begin to dry. Ah! AC. Now that the train is here, he does'nt really care when it leaves, or if it leaves at all.
He has a wash and then sits down to read the Fountainhead. He is not the literary type but Chammo has insisted that this book 'will change your life'.
A couple of pages and he begins asking himself, again, the question which he first asked a couple of hundred pages or so back. Nothing to do with the Ayn Rand's principal philosophy as he sees it. A question brought about by the book nevertheless.
What does Renee like about him?
He is rich, rather his father is, but it is the same thing. He is good looking. Several people have told him that - directly and through obivous hints. He plays all the games. With a steady cold-blooded effort, he is among the toppers in his class. But he is not at all like the sensitive, spirited, moody and talented Renee. He sometimes thinks of himself like an extremely efficient machine - and he likes efficient machines. He can't think of any reason why someone will be liked for meerly topping the class and being rich. Perhaps he has some endearing qualities without himself knowing so. Or perhaps, he is reminded of the sudden spurts of charming BubblyStream-iness that Renee is subject to, Opposites do Attract.
This last premise does not hold much conviction for him but with some effort he manages to drop the subject for now. He has a book to finish.
As dusk reluctantly settles, trouble is brewing in the Mess Kitchen. Selvam is livid. Someone has stolen the mess worker's share of chicken, which today, is Selvam's turn to have. Selvam has a good idea who the culprit is. Murugan - his half-brother and co-worker. Selvam looks all around, blind with rage, in the three kitchen rooms, in the kitchen yard and upstairs in the Worker's quarters. Murugan is no where to be seen. He has probaly slipped out somewhere and is enjoying Chicken and Rice. And will later, no doubt, come and burp right in Selvam's face. The other mess workers follow on Selvam's heels. If one big man finds the other there will be free bull fight to watch.
But Murugan is not to be found. Frustrated Selvam goes to talk to the Mess Manager. Selvam has always managed to get himself free chicken every week. He cannot do without Chicken on Thursdays. After 20 years of mess-service, it has become a habit. Today too, he will manage to get a piece somehow. But what is the use? The rogue Murugan has deprived him of a rare chance to give his conscience a rest.
As he walks to the Mess Manager's office he wonders if his story of pilferage by monkeys will hold water.
In the cool twilight, the music in the common room has reached its high point. The three best signers of the hostel have come together in a tacit understanding and are reeling out choice songs one after another, singing alternate songs, singing alternate verses - sadly happy songs, happily sad songs - melancholy songs.
Ek Roz main tadap kar, is dil ko thaam loonga,
Mere hasin kaatil, main tera naam loonga,
Main tera naam loonga...
Main tera naam loonga...
---
Huzuoor-e-wala jo ho ijazat
To hum yeh saare jahan se kaha dein.
Tumhari adaaon pe marate hain hum
Yeh kis ne kaha hai ke darte hain hum
Huzoor e wala....
The songs create a longing in Renee's heart. But what longing she could possibly be feeling, she cannot imagine.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
The Writer's Blog is Dead; Long Live the Writer's Blog or something like that.
So I am back to blogging.
Laugh a bit if you want. Smile. Smirk. Grin. Chuckle. Snigger.
Decisions of far greater moment than the future of a blog have been taken and retracted without apparent loss of face. I take cover behind precedence.
I have reconciled with my conscience w.r.t. the unabashed pampering of my ego in public, which it (my conscience) accused me of indulging in, and my next post will bear testimony to this reconciliation.
0 comments
So I am back to blogging.
Laugh a bit if you want. Smile. Smirk. Grin. Chuckle. Snigger.
Decisions of far greater moment than the future of a blog have been taken and retracted without apparent loss of face. I take cover behind precedence.
I have reconciled with my conscience w.r.t. the unabashed pampering of my ego in public, which it (my conscience) accused me of indulging in, and my next post will bear testimony to this reconciliation.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
This blog is now closed.
I would have left it at that but there was a danger of it being conceived as pompous understatement. I am quitting blogging becuase I have, all on a sudden, lost enthu for writing on the net. Don't quite know all the reasons why but have a vague idea.
Here's my profile which I have been wanting to put in the fourth quadrant of the blog-screen for over six months now:
Anant S Kamath
Male
Bangalore
25 years old Aanlog Design Engineer
Likes: Writing, Reading, Music and Poetry, Football and Swimming and Yoga and such like, Languages and Good Food (might have missed out a few ;-)
Wishes he could: sing and paint and dance (might get there yet)
Is going to miss slightly : Being Clever on the net.
0 comments
I would have left it at that but there was a danger of it being conceived as pompous understatement. I am quitting blogging becuase I have, all on a sudden, lost enthu for writing on the net. Don't quite know all the reasons why but have a vague idea.
Here's my profile which I have been wanting to put in the fourth quadrant of the blog-screen for over six months now:
Anant S Kamath
Male
Bangalore
25 years old Aanlog Design Engineer
Likes: Writing, Reading, Music and Poetry, Football and Swimming and Yoga and such like, Languages and Good Food (might have missed out a few ;-)
Wishes he could: sing and paint and dance (might get there yet)
Is going to miss slightly : Being Clever on the net.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Who said time travel was not possible
Some time ago I had said that as soon as they invented the time machine, among other things, I would peep in at one of Ghalib's mehfils. I don't think they (the time machine wallas) have succeeded yet, but I have, now, some sort of a preview of how my journey along the negative time axis will be.
Mirza Ghalib, the teleserial, is now available in a 6 CD pack. It comes in a nice pack with small booklets containing the Ghazals in English and Urdu. The packaging is itself 'Customer Delight' and the serial? Even if you overexpect from Gulzar he will exceed your expectations.
The serial is for me time travel in two ways. Its being in a world of thick, embroidered, texturous clothes, of shoes that make churp-churp sounds, of houses with a quadrangle in the middle, of quaint lamps, of horses ...I was pleasantly surprised to find songs by Mir (Patta Patta) and Kabir sung by Fakirs/Sadhus on the streets - surprised because these don't figure in the audio casettes. And Momin and Zauq are also active (vocal) participants in the story. It is nice to recognize the Ghazals they present here and there. Ghalib was apparently more 'dildar' than I could guess from his er grouchy looking portraints on the net. The story also seems to also put some of the Ghazals from the audio cassette into context - though it must be difficult to say if they were the same contexts in which the Ghazals got written. Ghalib is full of witticisms. 'Miya Mitthu' he says to his parrot, 'Tumhare ghar na joru, na bacche, tum kyon muh latkaye ho?'. And on being asked 'Badsah ne to taaj hi utha ke rakh diya hoga (aapke) sar par' says, 'Haan woh to rakh hi dete, humne apni topi nahi utaarne di bas'. Try and imagine Naseeruddin Shah's voice when you read the lines.
The second way of time travel is because I used to watch, on and off, the serial with my mom when it was aired on Doordarshan. I didnt understand much then or pay attention, but I now know why my mom liked it so much.
Neena Gupta was a surprise too - I didn't know she was in the serial.
The serial is too good. One thing is to be said about Indians. They might not be professional and hard working and disciplined and may like to take things easy, but if they take a liking to their work they sure can produce masterpieces.
Addendum:
The way Ghalib is shown to have composed the sher 'Unke dekhe se jo aa-jati hai muh par raunak, woh samajhte hain ke beemar ka haal accha hai' is very charming.
0 comments
Some time ago I had said that as soon as they invented the time machine, among other things, I would peep in at one of Ghalib's mehfils. I don't think they (the time machine wallas) have succeeded yet, but I have, now, some sort of a preview of how my journey along the negative time axis will be.
Mirza Ghalib, the teleserial, is now available in a 6 CD pack. It comes in a nice pack with small booklets containing the Ghazals in English and Urdu. The packaging is itself 'Customer Delight' and the serial? Even if you overexpect from Gulzar he will exceed your expectations.
The serial is for me time travel in two ways. Its being in a world of thick, embroidered, texturous clothes, of shoes that make churp-churp sounds, of houses with a quadrangle in the middle, of quaint lamps, of horses ...I was pleasantly surprised to find songs by Mir (Patta Patta) and Kabir sung by Fakirs/Sadhus on the streets - surprised because these don't figure in the audio casettes. And Momin and Zauq are also active (vocal) participants in the story. It is nice to recognize the Ghazals they present here and there. Ghalib was apparently more 'dildar' than I could guess from his er grouchy looking portraints on the net. The story also seems to also put some of the Ghazals from the audio cassette into context - though it must be difficult to say if they were the same contexts in which the Ghazals got written. Ghalib is full of witticisms. 'Miya Mitthu' he says to his parrot, 'Tumhare ghar na joru, na bacche, tum kyon muh latkaye ho?'. And on being asked 'Badsah ne to taaj hi utha ke rakh diya hoga (aapke) sar par' says, 'Haan woh to rakh hi dete, humne apni topi nahi utaarne di bas'. Try and imagine Naseeruddin Shah's voice when you read the lines.
The second way of time travel is because I used to watch, on and off, the serial with my mom when it was aired on Doordarshan. I didnt understand much then or pay attention, but I now know why my mom liked it so much.
Neena Gupta was a surprise too - I didn't know she was in the serial.
The serial is too good. One thing is to be said about Indians. They might not be professional and hard working and disciplined and may like to take things easy, but if they take a liking to their work they sure can produce masterpieces.
Addendum:
The way Ghalib is shown to have composed the sher 'Unke dekhe se jo aa-jati hai muh par raunak, woh samajhte hain ke beemar ka haal accha hai' is very charming.
Unsolicited Advice is Seldom Welcome
This musical moral of the story, one of course 'by-hearted' it musically, is all I can remember from a second standard lesson possibly involving monkeys. Too bad I forget the moral once in a while. I am not sure they would put 'unsolicited' in a second standard textbook, but if they did, well, a little bit of ambition is not that bad.
I must admit that the post before last was meant as much as advice (unsolicited) to some of my friends as a means for my own introspection. Perhaps mecahnically eliminating sorrow is not all that easy or desirable. Sorrow is required to make joy, when it comes, even more enjoyable. But let me not start again.
0 comments
This musical moral of the story, one of course 'by-hearted' it musically, is all I can remember from a second standard lesson possibly involving monkeys. Too bad I forget the moral once in a while. I am not sure they would put 'unsolicited' in a second standard textbook, but if they did, well, a little bit of ambition is not that bad.
I must admit that the post before last was meant as much as advice (unsolicited) to some of my friends as a means for my own introspection. Perhaps mecahnically eliminating sorrow is not all that easy or desirable. Sorrow is required to make joy, when it comes, even more enjoyable. But let me not start again.
Monday, November 01, 2004
The dark idol of Ganesha was dressed so simply - in just a fine off-white dhoti - that my devotion multiplied several times. The sligthly popping eyes gave the impression fo mock reproach, of avuncular, reluctant strictness. I folded my palms, bent my head and made the usual request. Siddhi and Buddhi. Accomplishment and Wisdom. A tough to achieve combo but very rewarding. Om Sri Ganeshaya Namah.
I have specific things to ask of every God, which is probably how it was meant to be, and it gives me something to do in temples. And something to say to myself when I have folded my palms, bent my head and closed my eyes. From Goddess Saraswati I ask for a thirst for knowledge and learning that is continuously quenched but continuously unquenched, from Lakshmi that I may have slightly more than I want, and considerably more than I need, from Siva strength with forbearance, greatness with simplicity, from Krishna worldly wisdom, joy and the affections of many women (at times some particular woman). I ask for Generosity from all Gods and I don't know which God to ask to humility for I figure I must need that too. And there are Gods who I don't know what to ask from.
I don't do anything particular to propitiate any God but I assure them all, all support from my side should they decide to help me.
0 comments
I have specific things to ask of every God, which is probably how it was meant to be, and it gives me something to do in temples. And something to say to myself when I have folded my palms, bent my head and closed my eyes. From Goddess Saraswati I ask for a thirst for knowledge and learning that is continuously quenched but continuously unquenched, from Lakshmi that I may have slightly more than I want, and considerably more than I need, from Siva strength with forbearance, greatness with simplicity, from Krishna worldly wisdom, joy and the affections of many women (at times some particular woman). I ask for Generosity from all Gods and I don't know which God to ask to humility for I figure I must need that too. And there are Gods who I don't know what to ask from.
I don't do anything particular to propitiate any God but I assure them all, all support from my side should they decide to help me.
Kasya Sukham na karoti Viragaha
(How will you not get happiness from detachment)
A couple of weeks back a college-mate died in a road accident. I was not very close to him, but I felt really sad that day. I was especially sad for his parents and how they must feel. I began to think again of life and its purpose and so on and so forth. But this time atleast I seem to have found some sort of an answer or at least I seem have made some progress. Atleast I have an impression of certainity, however temporary.
All sorrow comes out of attachment. This is no new discovery. Wise men have said this several times. And it is very true. People are attached to money, position, way of life, to themselves, their own capabilities and successes, and of course, to other people. In some people this attachment is scary, so scary one wonders how these people will be able to cope if for some reason they were to lose the object of their love.
But it is not easy to rid oneself of attachement. Most of us are not made - by God or Evolution, as you please - that way. We need some means of humouring ourselves through life. From there springs attachment.
Perhaps the viable solution lies not in renunciation. Be attached if it makes you happy, for you are meant to be happy but always keep it in mind that the source of your happiness might disappear suddenly and you might have to find new sources of happiness. The faster you find new sources the lesser you will waste your time, your energy and your self, the happier you will be. So happiness perhaps lies in always being prepared to lose anything - anything. It also helps you to put all your energy very quickly into finding another, similar source of happiness. So you can continue your life as if almost nothing changed. Maybe a journey in this direction would lead to the implausible state of detachment in action.
Not wasting your time grieving is a probably a doulbe saving, because it helps prevent future regret that you wasted your time grieving and the further wastage of time involved.
There is a Anton Chekhov story called 'The Boor'. Its about a lady who has been mourning for months over her dead husband and what happens when her husbands creditor, a boorish but rich farmer, comes to her house to collect his dues.
There is a kind of duplicity to this, some kind of self conning. But this is a ok price to pay it seems.
Perhaps a tool towards a joint preparedess towards losing 'anything' is Insurance - health insurace, life insurance, general insurance. Money cannot replace everything but you cannot deny that it empowers. And it can definitely help distract you into happiness. Take the money, spend it, use it to travel, to learn something you always wanted to, to take a break from work. Insurance companies are as valuable to human kind as doctors perhaps. Make sure that the objects of your attachment are insured.
And another tool is to put your eggs in many baskets - spread your attachment energy among several objects. The one child norm, for example, might not be for everyone.
This semi-detachment is not for society or for betterment of mankind etc. its for our own future happiness. Its perhaps like investment, forgoing some happiness now so that we will continue to be happy in the future. I am not talking propriety here; just good sense.
0 comments
(How will you not get happiness from detachment)
A couple of weeks back a college-mate died in a road accident. I was not very close to him, but I felt really sad that day. I was especially sad for his parents and how they must feel. I began to think again of life and its purpose and so on and so forth. But this time atleast I seem to have found some sort of an answer or at least I seem have made some progress. Atleast I have an impression of certainity, however temporary.
All sorrow comes out of attachment. This is no new discovery. Wise men have said this several times. And it is very true. People are attached to money, position, way of life, to themselves, their own capabilities and successes, and of course, to other people. In some people this attachment is scary, so scary one wonders how these people will be able to cope if for some reason they were to lose the object of their love.
But it is not easy to rid oneself of attachement. Most of us are not made - by God or Evolution, as you please - that way. We need some means of humouring ourselves through life. From there springs attachment.
Perhaps the viable solution lies not in renunciation. Be attached if it makes you happy, for you are meant to be happy but always keep it in mind that the source of your happiness might disappear suddenly and you might have to find new sources of happiness. The faster you find new sources the lesser you will waste your time, your energy and your self, the happier you will be. So happiness perhaps lies in always being prepared to lose anything - anything. It also helps you to put all your energy very quickly into finding another, similar source of happiness. So you can continue your life as if almost nothing changed. Maybe a journey in this direction would lead to the implausible state of detachment in action.
Not wasting your time grieving is a probably a doulbe saving, because it helps prevent future regret that you wasted your time grieving and the further wastage of time involved.
There is a Anton Chekhov story called 'The Boor'. Its about a lady who has been mourning for months over her dead husband and what happens when her husbands creditor, a boorish but rich farmer, comes to her house to collect his dues.
There is a kind of duplicity to this, some kind of self conning. But this is a ok price to pay it seems.
Perhaps a tool towards a joint preparedess towards losing 'anything' is Insurance - health insurace, life insurance, general insurance. Money cannot replace everything but you cannot deny that it empowers. And it can definitely help distract you into happiness. Take the money, spend it, use it to travel, to learn something you always wanted to, to take a break from work. Insurance companies are as valuable to human kind as doctors perhaps. Make sure that the objects of your attachment are insured.
And another tool is to put your eggs in many baskets - spread your attachment energy among several objects. The one child norm, for example, might not be for everyone.
This semi-detachment is not for society or for betterment of mankind etc. its for our own future happiness. Its perhaps like investment, forgoing some happiness now so that we will continue to be happy in the future. I am not talking propriety here; just good sense.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
It's no good, is it?
I have suddenly picked up the 'is it' habit. I now use 'is it?' exclusively for all my question tag requirements. I have been conciously trying to kick it for a couple of days but in vain.
b.t.w lots of good posts coming as soon as I get sometime, and no poetry for sometime too :-), so keep visiting.
0 comments
I have suddenly picked up the 'is it' habit. I now use 'is it?' exclusively for all my question tag requirements. I have been conciously trying to kick it for a couple of days but in vain.
b.t.w lots of good posts coming as soon as I get sometime, and no poetry for sometime too :-), so keep visiting.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Memorable Last Words
This was supposed to be the previous post, but then I digressed.
The other day I was walking back from office singing, "Woh Kabhi Mil Jaayen to kya keejiye...raat din surat woh dekha keejiyee". As I sang I could not recollect one verse and I kept racking my brains for it. That sher was even more important because I could not sing the last verse, the one with the poet's name in it, without singing all the others. If I gave up trying to remember the missing sher and did sing the last verse and then remembered the verse that I had forgotten, it wouldn't be any good to sing it. It would be like eating the misplaced roti after dessert.
The last verse, I don't know if there is a technical term for it, is the ultimate thing in the Ghazal. It's the dessert, it's the climax, it's the summing up, the signature, it is so many things. To a singer, rather, to the person who is singing, it gives the maximum pleasure. One can almost feel the near organismic, unabashedly Freudian pleasure with which the poet had forged his name amongst beautiful words. Sometimes I don't like poetry when the Poet does not put his name in it.
Not just Ghazal, Bhakti poetry and Carnatic songs have this putting the name funda. "Kehet Kabir.." "Tuka mhane..." and "Purandhara Vitthala" and "Tyagaraja vinutha...". I only follow half of what follows "Tuka Mhane" but I enjoy the last words most all the same.
Okay, here follows some of my favourite last words of Ghazals, those that I can recollect now. I will give two or three verses from each Ghazal. One or two as a representation of the rest of the ghazal and then the last one. Believe me writing them down one after another is going to be a major self-indulgence. To start with "Woh Kabhi..."
---
Woh Kabhi Mil Jaayein to Kya Keejiye
Raat Din Surat woh dekha keejiye
Waada tha unke raat ke aanekaa ae 'Qamar'
Ab Chand Chup gaya unhe aajaana chaahiye
----
Qasid ke aate aate khat ek aur likh rakhoon (Qasid=messenger)
Main jaanata hoon woh joh likenge jawaab mein
Mujh tak na unki basm mein aata tha daur-e-jaam (basm=mehfil ; daur = turn)
Saakhi ne kuch mila na diya ho sharaab mein
'Ghalib' chuti sharaab, par abhi kabhi kabhi
Peeta hoon roj-e-abr o shab-e-mahatab mein (roj = day;abr=cloud; roj-e-abr=cloudy day; shab=night; mahatab=moon; shab-e-mahatab=moony night)
----
Na nigaah, nay payaam, nay vaada
naam ko ham bhi yaar rakhate hain
Phir bhi karate hain 'Meer' sahab ishq
hain jawaan ikhtiyaar rakhate hain
----
Ek ajnabi jhonke ne jab poocha mere gam ka sabab,
Sehera ki bhigi ret pe maine likha awaaragi (Sehara=desert)
Kal raat tanaha chand ko dekha tha maine khwaab mein,
'Mohsin' mujhe raas aayegi shaayad sada awaaragi
----
Kaisi chali hai ab ke hawa, tere shehar mein,
Bande bhi ho gayeein hain khuda, tere shehar mein,
Shayad unhe pata tha ke 'Khatir' hai ajnabi,
logon ne us ko loot liya, tere shehar mein.
----
Ji Dhoondata hai phir wohi fursat ke raat din,
baithen rahein tasavvur-e-jaana kiye hue,
'Ghalib' hamein na ched ke phir josh-e-ashk se
baithen hain ham tahayaa-e-toofan kiye hue (tahayya = determination)
----
Hai bas ke har ek unke ishare mein nishaan aur,
Karate hain mohabbat to guzarata hai gumaan aur ( gumaan= doubt, apprehension)
Ya Rab! Na woh samjhein hain na samjhenge meri baat,
De aur dil un ko jo na dein mujh ko zubaan aur,
Hain Aur bhi Duniya mein, sukhanvar bahut acche, (sukhanvar = poet)
Kehate hain ke 'Ghalib' ka hai andaaz-e-bayaan aur,
----
0 comments
This was supposed to be the previous post, but then I digressed.
The other day I was walking back from office singing, "Woh Kabhi Mil Jaayen to kya keejiye...raat din surat woh dekha keejiyee". As I sang I could not recollect one verse and I kept racking my brains for it. That sher was even more important because I could not sing the last verse, the one with the poet's name in it, without singing all the others. If I gave up trying to remember the missing sher and did sing the last verse and then remembered the verse that I had forgotten, it wouldn't be any good to sing it. It would be like eating the misplaced roti after dessert.
The last verse, I don't know if there is a technical term for it, is the ultimate thing in the Ghazal. It's the dessert, it's the climax, it's the summing up, the signature, it is so many things. To a singer, rather, to the person who is singing, it gives the maximum pleasure. One can almost feel the near organismic, unabashedly Freudian pleasure with which the poet had forged his name amongst beautiful words. Sometimes I don't like poetry when the Poet does not put his name in it.
Not just Ghazal, Bhakti poetry and Carnatic songs have this putting the name funda. "Kehet Kabir.." "Tuka mhane..." and "Purandhara Vitthala" and "Tyagaraja vinutha...". I only follow half of what follows "Tuka Mhane" but I enjoy the last words most all the same.
Okay, here follows some of my favourite last words of Ghazals, those that I can recollect now. I will give two or three verses from each Ghazal. One or two as a representation of the rest of the ghazal and then the last one. Believe me writing them down one after another is going to be a major self-indulgence. To start with "Woh Kabhi..."
---
Woh Kabhi Mil Jaayein to Kya Keejiye
Raat Din Surat woh dekha keejiye
Waada tha unke raat ke aanekaa ae 'Qamar'
Ab Chand Chup gaya unhe aajaana chaahiye
----
Qasid ke aate aate khat ek aur likh rakhoon (Qasid=messenger)
Main jaanata hoon woh joh likenge jawaab mein
Mujh tak na unki basm mein aata tha daur-e-jaam (basm=mehfil ; daur = turn)
Saakhi ne kuch mila na diya ho sharaab mein
'Ghalib' chuti sharaab, par abhi kabhi kabhi
Peeta hoon roj-e-abr o shab-e-mahatab mein (roj = day;abr=cloud; roj-e-abr=cloudy day; shab=night; mahatab=moon; shab-e-mahatab=moony night)
----
Na nigaah, nay payaam, nay vaada
naam ko ham bhi yaar rakhate hain
Phir bhi karate hain 'Meer' sahab ishq
hain jawaan ikhtiyaar rakhate hain
----
Ek ajnabi jhonke ne jab poocha mere gam ka sabab,
Sehera ki bhigi ret pe maine likha awaaragi (Sehara=desert)
Kal raat tanaha chand ko dekha tha maine khwaab mein,
'Mohsin' mujhe raas aayegi shaayad sada awaaragi
----
Kaisi chali hai ab ke hawa, tere shehar mein,
Bande bhi ho gayeein hain khuda, tere shehar mein,
Shayad unhe pata tha ke 'Khatir' hai ajnabi,
logon ne us ko loot liya, tere shehar mein.
----
Ji Dhoondata hai phir wohi fursat ke raat din,
baithen rahein tasavvur-e-jaana kiye hue,
'Ghalib' hamein na ched ke phir josh-e-ashk se
baithen hain ham tahayaa-e-toofan kiye hue (tahayya = determination)
----
Hai bas ke har ek unke ishare mein nishaan aur,
Karate hain mohabbat to guzarata hai gumaan aur ( gumaan= doubt, apprehension)
Ya Rab! Na woh samjhein hain na samjhenge meri baat,
De aur dil un ko jo na dein mujh ko zubaan aur,
Hain Aur bhi Duniya mein, sukhanvar bahut acche, (sukhanvar = poet)
Kehate hain ke 'Ghalib' ka hai andaaz-e-bayaan aur,
----
Ekla Chalo
I like to go for solitary walks sometimes and on these walks sometimes I sing. One day, I walked from Home to our old office, GVH, till CABS. On the way there I was singing -- all the songs that I like to listen, even some which sound good sometimes but I don't really care for. So there was this jogger who overtook me while I was singing, pretty loudly, "Yeh Doulat bhi le lo, yeh shohorat bhi lelo" (This is one of the songs I really don't care too much for, because it doesn't sound too believable - bachpan ke din and all is fine but I for one am not willing to part with what little Daulat and Shohorat I have) So this jogger crossed me and jogged all the way to CABS and on his way back he was walking and we crossed again. This time he was singing something. I was convinced that my singing had inspired him and I got a kick.
0 comments
I like to go for solitary walks sometimes and on these walks sometimes I sing. One day, I walked from Home to our old office, GVH, till CABS. On the way there I was singing -- all the songs that I like to listen, even some which sound good sometimes but I don't really care for. So there was this jogger who overtook me while I was singing, pretty loudly, "Yeh Doulat bhi le lo, yeh shohorat bhi lelo" (This is one of the songs I really don't care too much for, because it doesn't sound too believable - bachpan ke din and all is fine but I for one am not willing to part with what little Daulat and Shohorat I have) So this jogger crossed me and jogged all the way to CABS and on his way back he was walking and we crossed again. This time he was singing something. I was convinced that my singing had inspired him and I got a kick.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Drinking Gives Me A High
I meant Writing, not Drinking. Drinking does too. But Writing does. I said Drinking in the heading just for kicks. See? I am high already.
0 comments
I meant Writing, not Drinking. Drinking does too. But Writing does. I said Drinking in the heading just for kicks. See? I am high already.
Sense and Sensuality
Yesterday and day before there were pictures of the Tam actress Shalini in the Bangalore times. She is dark, has thick long hair and large, drunk (I don't mean nasha-inducing, but actually drunk) eyes. She was so sensuous in Alaipayuthey, in that song 'Snehitane Snehitane'(many of you had to remain content with the not so sensuous, if at all, Rani Mukherjee in the Hindi remake -Saathiya).
Sensuous. Dark women are more sensuous. Fair women are more likely to be pretty, cute, beautiful - their appeal is in the sweetness, like kulfi. The appeal of dark women is more substantial, like kababs.
0 comments
Yesterday and day before there were pictures of the Tam actress Shalini in the Bangalore times. She is dark, has thick long hair and large, drunk (I don't mean nasha-inducing, but actually drunk) eyes. She was so sensuous in Alaipayuthey, in that song 'Snehitane Snehitane'(many of you had to remain content with the not so sensuous, if at all, Rani Mukherjee in the Hindi remake -Saathiya).
Sensuous. Dark women are more sensuous. Fair women are more likely to be pretty, cute, beautiful - their appeal is in the sweetness, like kulfi. The appeal of dark women is more substantial, like kababs.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Ecstacy
Badly written but do read till the end.
:-) Those of my friends who 'hate linguistic people' are requested (but not really) to skip this post. I don't want them to like me less (-:
It gives me great pleasure to announce that my study of the Urdu script has crossed a few significant milestones. I have just finished reading three thrilling short stories, "Aalsi Naukar" "Andhe ka chiraag" and "Jhagade ka nateeja" and the next time I pass through Bhatkal on the bus home, I will read up all the signs from 'Best Mutton Shop' to 'the new Fashion Tailors' in Urdu.
I can write too. But not that well yet. I am still struggling to find out which s's z's and ta's to use where. I can't identify the gutturals because I am not used to saying them or writing them in Hindi. But I will get there. The writing doesn't look as neat as in the 'Learn Urdu in 30 days-national integration series book'. Of course those were printed with a special pen and I am using reynolds. But I will not give that as an excuse.
I have always wanted to learn the Urdu script, but I don't remember why. Ten years ago in school, it might have been because of my stamp and coin collection with all those stamps and coins from the middle east. It might have been from the entirely differnt look that Urdu has compared to the other Indian languages.(My mom went to Bhendi Bazaar,I think it was, in Belgaum and got me a thin book on learning Urdu. It was a difficult book to learn from and I had given up hope. Last year on a sudden inspiration I thought of the National Integration Series). Oflate it has been because of my fancy (I want to use a stronger word here but dont want to say obsession -somewhere between fancy and obsession) for Urdu poetry. The other day I got a major kick out of reading 'Mirza Ghalib -Peshkash-e-Gulzar' on the cover of the casesste I have. I remember in college of being jealous of one of my mallu friends (Rap, if you are reading this) who went to school in Quwait and was taught arabic. I remember a scene in a recent movie with Vinod Khanna and Dimple Kapadia and Deepti Naval in it (the movie was the name of a woman, can't remember which) where Vinod Khanna, a famous poet, is writing to Dimple Kapadia a beautiful letter in Urdu and his pen making those beautiful marks on paper. I remember among the first few scenes of the partition movie 'Pinjar' (based on Amrita Preetam's book) and a screen full of Urdu billboards with pamphlets in Urdu flying around in the dust. I remember wondering why Bollywood have stopped announcing Film Names in Urdu.
The day before, I was in my cubicle, intermittently getting away from the comp screen to write something in Urdu, sometimes in my notebook, sometimes in the air : 'Kaisi chali hai ab ke hawa tere sheher mein' 'we suurat-e-ilahi jis des bastiyaan hain' 'jaane ab tujhse mulakaat kabhi ho ke na ho'. (I am suspicious about the 'ho' I have written; have to look it up. Urdu is not a modular script; there are many more rules to remember and I suspect sometimes that some rules might be bent in the interest of calligraphy. I also suspect that the 'i' ke maatra and the 'u' ki maatra are sometimes dropped when obvious. You wouldnt do that in Hindi.) Then I thought of one of my fovourite half-verses 'Ghalib sariir-e-khama navaa-e-sarosh hai' (Ghalib the scratch of the pen is the sound of angels) and I wrote it down.
Sometime ago we had received a email marriage invitation by a colleague who is called Kamran. That time I had stopped learning Urdu after a small start. I read his full name on the invitation 'Kamran-nabi-khan'. Couldnt read his wife's though. Now maybe I can.
In school I had made my dad get me a book on shorthand (If not typing atleast shorthand was my illogic). I did not persist till the end where it got to the pages where they invented a compressed symbol for almost any word. But in the beginning it was a script like any other with easy to write letters. I used to think that Pittman seemed to have borrowed heavily from Hindi or any other Indian script ( Short hand is a phonetic script with a letter/symbol for every consonant or vowel sounds - a dot here means 'i', a darker dot means 'ii' a tick here means 'a' etc). Now I know that he had been inspired by the Urdu script. P,B,th,ta come one after the other in both Urdu and short-hand. Letters are hammered into shortforms when they appear in words in both)
Mir Ki Ghazal kahun tujhe main, ya kahun khayyam ki Rubaayi Someday I will learn the Persian tongue and Read Omar Khayyam in the original. Now I will read Mir.
The other day I made a near perfect TI logo. I had never been able to control my drawing like this before. I am convinced it is the effect of practising all the 'meems' and the 'kaafs'.
While writing from right to left, the question mark symbol is also flipped about the Y axis. Ha!
Next stop Sanskrit: the other National Integration Book I bought the same day - a kind of good omen I think. Then I will consolidate my Mallu script and language, then Bengali, then German, then French....Mallu and Tam becos. I already know a bit. Bengali because I want to read Tagore and Bankim Chandra. German and French maybe,maybe not. All is in God's hands.
0 comments
Badly written but do read till the end.
:-) Those of my friends who 'hate linguistic people' are requested (but not really) to skip this post. I don't want them to like me less (-:
It gives me great pleasure to announce that my study of the Urdu script has crossed a few significant milestones. I have just finished reading three thrilling short stories, "Aalsi Naukar" "Andhe ka chiraag" and "Jhagade ka nateeja" and the next time I pass through Bhatkal on the bus home, I will read up all the signs from 'Best Mutton Shop' to 'the new Fashion Tailors' in Urdu.
I can write too. But not that well yet. I am still struggling to find out which s's z's and ta's to use where. I can't identify the gutturals because I am not used to saying them or writing them in Hindi. But I will get there. The writing doesn't look as neat as in the 'Learn Urdu in 30 days-national integration series book'. Of course those were printed with a special pen and I am using reynolds. But I will not give that as an excuse.
I have always wanted to learn the Urdu script, but I don't remember why. Ten years ago in school, it might have been because of my stamp and coin collection with all those stamps and coins from the middle east. It might have been from the entirely differnt look that Urdu has compared to the other Indian languages.(My mom went to Bhendi Bazaar,I think it was, in Belgaum and got me a thin book on learning Urdu. It was a difficult book to learn from and I had given up hope. Last year on a sudden inspiration I thought of the National Integration Series). Oflate it has been because of my fancy (I want to use a stronger word here but dont want to say obsession -somewhere between fancy and obsession) for Urdu poetry. The other day I got a major kick out of reading 'Mirza Ghalib -Peshkash-e-Gulzar' on the cover of the casesste I have. I remember in college of being jealous of one of my mallu friends (Rap, if you are reading this) who went to school in Quwait and was taught arabic. I remember a scene in a recent movie with Vinod Khanna and Dimple Kapadia and Deepti Naval in it (the movie was the name of a woman, can't remember which) where Vinod Khanna, a famous poet, is writing to Dimple Kapadia a beautiful letter in Urdu and his pen making those beautiful marks on paper. I remember among the first few scenes of the partition movie 'Pinjar' (based on Amrita Preetam's book) and a screen full of Urdu billboards with pamphlets in Urdu flying around in the dust. I remember wondering why Bollywood have stopped announcing Film Names in Urdu.
The day before, I was in my cubicle, intermittently getting away from the comp screen to write something in Urdu, sometimes in my notebook, sometimes in the air : 'Kaisi chali hai ab ke hawa tere sheher mein' 'we suurat-e-ilahi jis des bastiyaan hain' 'jaane ab tujhse mulakaat kabhi ho ke na ho'. (I am suspicious about the 'ho' I have written; have to look it up. Urdu is not a modular script; there are many more rules to remember and I suspect sometimes that some rules might be bent in the interest of calligraphy. I also suspect that the 'i' ke maatra and the 'u' ki maatra are sometimes dropped when obvious. You wouldnt do that in Hindi.) Then I thought of one of my fovourite half-verses 'Ghalib sariir-e-khama navaa-e-sarosh hai' (Ghalib the scratch of the pen is the sound of angels) and I wrote it down.
Sometime ago we had received a email marriage invitation by a colleague who is called Kamran. That time I had stopped learning Urdu after a small start. I read his full name on the invitation 'Kamran-nabi-khan'. Couldnt read his wife's though. Now maybe I can.
In school I had made my dad get me a book on shorthand (If not typing atleast shorthand was my illogic). I did not persist till the end where it got to the pages where they invented a compressed symbol for almost any word. But in the beginning it was a script like any other with easy to write letters. I used to think that Pittman seemed to have borrowed heavily from Hindi or any other Indian script ( Short hand is a phonetic script with a letter/symbol for every consonant or vowel sounds - a dot here means 'i', a darker dot means 'ii' a tick here means 'a' etc). Now I know that he had been inspired by the Urdu script. P,B,th,ta come one after the other in both Urdu and short-hand. Letters are hammered into shortforms when they appear in words in both)
Mir Ki Ghazal kahun tujhe main, ya kahun khayyam ki Rubaayi Someday I will learn the Persian tongue and Read Omar Khayyam in the original. Now I will read Mir.
The other day I made a near perfect TI logo. I had never been able to control my drawing like this before. I am convinced it is the effect of practising all the 'meems' and the 'kaafs'.
While writing from right to left, the question mark symbol is also flipped about the Y axis. Ha!
Next stop Sanskrit: the other National Integration Book I bought the same day - a kind of good omen I think. Then I will consolidate my Mallu script and language, then Bengali, then German, then French....Mallu and Tam becos. I already know a bit. Bengali because I want to read Tagore and Bankim Chandra. German and French maybe,maybe not. All is in God's hands.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Introspection Guaranteed
I have written about Calvin demanding that the 'purspose of life' issue be first resolved before he learnt any arithmetic.
It is one of those days for me. On most days I am happy, contented, cycling, doing yoga, listening to music, eating Palak Paneer, joking, singing, even thinking about celebrating 'the return of the scientific temperament (in me)' on my blog. Then suddenly I come across a sentence or a thought, like I did yesterday evening, while I was plastic covering my second hand copy of the 'Strange Case of Billy Biswas', about which I have also blogged, and the first two paragraphs of which I was going to enter on that web-page openings.com
When asked by the narrator about why he loves anthropology, Billy says, "I dont know old chap, but why does one like anything anyway"
Not too grand a sentence and not too profound a thought you might think, but to someone like me, in whom this thought always lurks in the background and who has nevertheless kept himself amused and occupied in pleasurable, absorbing activities, to that person it might be a rude push out of his complacency.
I always want to know why I like or dislike things, whether I ought to do what I am doing, is there a right to things, if so why, if not why not. If we are just bio-molecules isn't it downright pathetic to con ourselves into keeping ourselves occupied?
The other day after a first few pages of Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy I was struggling to find out why I was liking that book. It was with an effort that I could start reading again. It seemed to me that there was nothing but good story telling in it, and a lot of kindness on the author's part. Then I thought of the other books I had read in the past and thought about why I liked them. With 'The Strange case of Billy Biswas' it is easy to say: a very well written book and it's hero seemed to have a decided philosopy, atleast a strong instinct, which drove his life.
But Billy Biswas is fictional. So is the Fountainhead. Are unambiguous callings for real?
Even as I write this I am wondering why and if I am not being a fool in doing so. Are my thoughts irrelevent trifles? Does my suspecting that they are make them less trivial? Crap. Crap?
They are lots of things I am doing with deliberation, for example learning the Urdu script about which is going to be one of my next few posts, or looking for a music teacher, or trying to write. But as far as my career goes, the thing I spend 8 hours on, that seems adrift and without purpose. I cant say I am not enjoying it in general, but I don't know if I should or want for more.
Lots of people around me seem to have without any external hint of the troubles inside, if any. But people say that discontent is there in everyone and it is healthy.
In a rhetoric class in college I had read some scholar saying that "Life and Work cannot be seperated" You have to live your life through your work. This makes a lot of sad sense to me. If I can I will try and disprove this since I want to do and learn a lot of things and not all of them can be my work. And my work though, I dont seem to like it, atleast on some days, as much as everything else, it might be my best bet to earn a comfortable living, to get fast net connection and to think about these things.
Recording my life in my blog seems to make it less diffuse. My life not my blog hehe. Things seem orderly and organized and controlled. I think this is an illusion, a cure of the symptom.
When I read Shakeel's blogs (meltingglass.blogspot), dont know why, I wonder I think enough or if I think superficially and just think that I think enough.
The other day I was thinking: if some Music guru, by some accident, found some singing talent in me and offered to whisk me to his gurukul for a few years, I thought I would go. But then again I started thinking about all the stuff I would miss and the things I would desire.
I can get unusually curious when I find happy, contended people, people who seem to know what they want.
When I find me a girlfriend ofcourse all these things will cease to matter for sometime. Meanwhile on somedays I shall go about with a look of unplaceable sadness on my face and smile with difficulty. If I was born two generations earlier they would have found me a wife by now.
0 comments
I have written about Calvin demanding that the 'purspose of life' issue be first resolved before he learnt any arithmetic.
It is one of those days for me. On most days I am happy, contented, cycling, doing yoga, listening to music, eating Palak Paneer, joking, singing, even thinking about celebrating 'the return of the scientific temperament (in me)' on my blog. Then suddenly I come across a sentence or a thought, like I did yesterday evening, while I was plastic covering my second hand copy of the 'Strange Case of Billy Biswas', about which I have also blogged, and the first two paragraphs of which I was going to enter on that web-page openings.com
When asked by the narrator about why he loves anthropology, Billy says, "I dont know old chap, but why does one like anything anyway"
Not too grand a sentence and not too profound a thought you might think, but to someone like me, in whom this thought always lurks in the background and who has nevertheless kept himself amused and occupied in pleasurable, absorbing activities, to that person it might be a rude push out of his complacency.
I always want to know why I like or dislike things, whether I ought to do what I am doing, is there a right to things, if so why, if not why not. If we are just bio-molecules isn't it downright pathetic to con ourselves into keeping ourselves occupied?
The other day after a first few pages of Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy I was struggling to find out why I was liking that book. It was with an effort that I could start reading again. It seemed to me that there was nothing but good story telling in it, and a lot of kindness on the author's part. Then I thought of the other books I had read in the past and thought about why I liked them. With 'The Strange case of Billy Biswas' it is easy to say: a very well written book and it's hero seemed to have a decided philosopy, atleast a strong instinct, which drove his life.
But Billy Biswas is fictional. So is the Fountainhead. Are unambiguous callings for real?
Even as I write this I am wondering why and if I am not being a fool in doing so. Are my thoughts irrelevent trifles? Does my suspecting that they are make them less trivial? Crap. Crap?
They are lots of things I am doing with deliberation, for example learning the Urdu script about which is going to be one of my next few posts, or looking for a music teacher, or trying to write. But as far as my career goes, the thing I spend 8 hours on, that seems adrift and without purpose. I cant say I am not enjoying it in general, but I don't know if I should or want for more.
Lots of people around me seem to have without any external hint of the troubles inside, if any. But people say that discontent is there in everyone and it is healthy.
In a rhetoric class in college I had read some scholar saying that "Life and Work cannot be seperated" You have to live your life through your work. This makes a lot of sad sense to me. If I can I will try and disprove this since I want to do and learn a lot of things and not all of them can be my work. And my work though, I dont seem to like it, atleast on some days, as much as everything else, it might be my best bet to earn a comfortable living, to get fast net connection and to think about these things.
Recording my life in my blog seems to make it less diffuse. My life not my blog hehe. Things seem orderly and organized and controlled. I think this is an illusion, a cure of the symptom.
When I read Shakeel's blogs (meltingglass.blogspot), dont know why, I wonder I think enough or if I think superficially and just think that I think enough.
The other day I was thinking: if some Music guru, by some accident, found some singing talent in me and offered to whisk me to his gurukul for a few years, I thought I would go. But then again I started thinking about all the stuff I would miss and the things I would desire.
I can get unusually curious when I find happy, contended people, people who seem to know what they want.
When I find me a girlfriend ofcourse all these things will cease to matter for sometime. Meanwhile on somedays I shall go about with a look of unplaceable sadness on my face and smile with difficulty. If I was born two generations earlier they would have found me a wife by now.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
The Death of the Mallu Mess
I own a passable command over the Mallu language. If I am stuck in a forest full of Mallu cannibals, I might not be able to persuade them not to eat me up but if they want to fatten me up before dinner (their's) and so ask me what I would like to have for dinner(mine) I would be able to request for 'Oru Choru, oru Aila fry'- my standard order at the Mallu mess.
Which reminds me, the mallu mess is dead.
It's almost as if someone up there does not like my ambitions vis-a-vis good food. First it was the dabba-delivery-Sardar's minions who became convinced that I hate Palak Paneer, which I don't, and now my favourite eatery in the whole of Bangalore (pl.note, overstatement) is dead.
At least it is not really dead. It is kind of worse than death, if you don't know what I mean.
After shifting from the quiet murmurs of the 18th main to the hustle bustle of Airport road, Mallu mess is not a mess anymore, it is a restaurant.
They have bought new tables and chairs (The tables are so high I feel like Calvin sitting at them, with just about my neck and head above the mean-table-level). There are now pink tissue papers instead of the old newspaper cuttings (can't say this is an unwelcome change, but I will miss having all the news on my fingertips). The meals are now served in multi-compartment plates unlike the good old solid thali. The whole place is big, empty and impersonal.
The thug morsels of par-boiled red rice haven't changed nor has the turmeric-rich Aila fry, but somehow it's not the same any more.
Earlier the sambar and the tadka-buttermilk were kept in bowl and jug respectively on each table. I was able to take out as many veggies as I wanted out of the sambar. Now Sambar and buttermilk are served out of buckets by the mallu-waiter-boys. I would be reluctant to tell them to 'fish all the veggies out of that samabar and put them, here, on my plate' even if I knew how.
'Change is the only thing that is constant' they say. Quite an unnecessary and pompous and melodramatic statement but true.
P.S. By coincidence, the last post on this page now is my other post on the Mallu Mess.
0 comments
I own a passable command over the Mallu language. If I am stuck in a forest full of Mallu cannibals, I might not be able to persuade them not to eat me up but if they want to fatten me up before dinner (their's) and so ask me what I would like to have for dinner(mine) I would be able to request for 'Oru Choru, oru Aila fry'- my standard order at the Mallu mess.
Which reminds me, the mallu mess is dead.
It's almost as if someone up there does not like my ambitions vis-a-vis good food. First it was the dabba-delivery-Sardar's minions who became convinced that I hate Palak Paneer, which I don't, and now my favourite eatery in the whole of Bangalore (pl.note, overstatement) is dead.
At least it is not really dead. It is kind of worse than death, if you don't know what I mean.
After shifting from the quiet murmurs of the 18th main to the hustle bustle of Airport road, Mallu mess is not a mess anymore, it is a restaurant.
They have bought new tables and chairs (The tables are so high I feel like Calvin sitting at them, with just about my neck and head above the mean-table-level). There are now pink tissue papers instead of the old newspaper cuttings (can't say this is an unwelcome change, but I will miss having all the news on my fingertips). The meals are now served in multi-compartment plates unlike the good old solid thali. The whole place is big, empty and impersonal.
The thug morsels of par-boiled red rice haven't changed nor has the turmeric-rich Aila fry, but somehow it's not the same any more.
Earlier the sambar and the tadka-buttermilk were kept in bowl and jug respectively on each table. I was able to take out as many veggies as I wanted out of the sambar. Now Sambar and buttermilk are served out of buckets by the mallu-waiter-boys. I would be reluctant to tell them to 'fish all the veggies out of that samabar and put them, here, on my plate' even if I knew how.
'Change is the only thing that is constant' they say. Quite an unnecessary and pompous and melodramatic statement but true.
P.S. By coincidence, the last post on this page now is my other post on the Mallu Mess.
Friday, September 17, 2004
There are four shots in me; one is Lead the other three are Bourbon - Calvin the Private Eye
Yesterday had my first three, large, pegs of ChevasRegal whiskey, of any whiskey for that matter. Stayed up a good part of the night and among other things, wrote this below poem. If anyone can translate it to Hindi/Urdu, they are welcome to knock my nickname off the last verse and put their own.
Got Drunk
That killing look of yours,
Wanted to drink, got drunk
On a moonlitnight, thinking of you,
Wanted to drink, got drunk
O pills! This love stuff is not for you, you
Wanted to drink, got drunk
There is/was one more verse, but I am ditching it. The translator is free to add more if he/she wants.
And, of course, if you think the poem is silly stuff, you can always tell me.
---
Sometime in the morning I was reminded of the Umbrella Man who used to steal umbrellas and sell them for Whiskey, every year, in 9th standard textbooks.
0 comments
Yesterday had my first three, large, pegs of ChevasRegal whiskey, of any whiskey for that matter. Stayed up a good part of the night and among other things, wrote this below poem. If anyone can translate it to Hindi/Urdu, they are welcome to knock my nickname off the last verse and put their own.
Got Drunk
That killing look of yours,
Wanted to drink, got drunk
On a moonlitnight, thinking of you,
Wanted to drink, got drunk
O pills! This love stuff is not for you, you
Wanted to drink, got drunk
There is/was one more verse, but I am ditching it. The translator is free to add more if he/she wants.
And, of course, if you think the poem is silly stuff, you can always tell me.
---
Sometime in the morning I was reminded of the Umbrella Man who used to steal umbrellas and sell them for Whiskey, every year, in 9th standard textbooks.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
0 comments
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Coming home to Palak Paneer
This is the end. All is lost. That rich buttery combination of Palak, methi, tomato, garlic, ginger and the blue-moon-ey paneer, that ultimate testimony to Human Genius they famously call Palak Paneer, that amrit that made Tuesday my favourite working-day, that balm to wounded hearts is off limits to me because my Sardar-dabba-delivery-walla's henchmen ALWAYS SCREWUP!!!
If this doesn't occasion the 'dard' in the shaayari what will?
0 comments
This is the end. All is lost. That rich buttery combination of Palak, methi, tomato, garlic, ginger and the blue-moon-ey paneer, that ultimate testimony to Human Genius they famously call Palak Paneer, that amrit that made Tuesday my favourite working-day, that balm to wounded hearts is off limits to me because my Sardar-dabba-delivery-walla's henchmen ALWAYS SCREWUP!!!
If this doesn't occasion the 'dard' in the shaayari what will?
Monday, September 06, 2004
A touch of Melodrama
Once in a while I become extremely melodramatic. For eg, I was going to name this post, 'Melodrama, thy name is Anant', before better sense prevailed.
Some time ago, we were having this team meeting, where no one was agreeing with the point I was making. I pleaded with the team, like a tragic hero to 'give me one last chance to try' and convince them. I remember actually having gotten all worked up and senti.
Then the other day, we had this one day communication workshop, and there was a lot of play acting and stuff, which I quite enjoyed. Towards the end there were to be 3 minute short talks and I was among the 4 who voluenteered. My topic was 'whem my bike was stolen' I had structured the talk to go from the material to the philosophical. And towards the end, when I started talking about the philosophy of loss, my eyes got a little moist and I actually felt a little sorry for myself for having lost my bike. The middle aged lady who was conducting the workshop was nodding sympathetically while I was making statements like 'You don't know how much you own something till you lose it', 'Loss is actually a gain' etc. - heavily borrowed thoughts, I must admit - and I felt all the more like some Devdas.
Of course even when I get senti, there is some sense in what I am saying, in the arguements I make. However those have to be reached at after filtering out loadfuls of crap. And then sometimes, the best arguements are omitted in favour of silly sentimentality.
In school I used to write silly poetry. The poetry I wrote was silly, I mean. There was no real 'dard' in it, you know. A friend of mine, Inaz, was convinced that I was writing all this in honour of some estranged flame. And he said so. The mere suggestion, I remember, got me pretty senti and Devdas like. I avoided his direct gaze and made a feeble (tragic) attempt to change the topic.
(Sigh) Melodrama, thy name is Anant!
0 comments
Once in a while I become extremely melodramatic. For eg, I was going to name this post, 'Melodrama, thy name is Anant', before better sense prevailed.
Some time ago, we were having this team meeting, where no one was agreeing with the point I was making. I pleaded with the team, like a tragic hero to 'give me one last chance to try' and convince them. I remember actually having gotten all worked up and senti.
Then the other day, we had this one day communication workshop, and there was a lot of play acting and stuff, which I quite enjoyed. Towards the end there were to be 3 minute short talks and I was among the 4 who voluenteered. My topic was 'whem my bike was stolen' I had structured the talk to go from the material to the philosophical. And towards the end, when I started talking about the philosophy of loss, my eyes got a little moist and I actually felt a little sorry for myself for having lost my bike. The middle aged lady who was conducting the workshop was nodding sympathetically while I was making statements like 'You don't know how much you own something till you lose it', 'Loss is actually a gain' etc. - heavily borrowed thoughts, I must admit - and I felt all the more like some Devdas.
Of course even when I get senti, there is some sense in what I am saying, in the arguements I make. However those have to be reached at after filtering out loadfuls of crap. And then sometimes, the best arguements are omitted in favour of silly sentimentality.
In school I used to write silly poetry. The poetry I wrote was silly, I mean. There was no real 'dard' in it, you know. A friend of mine, Inaz, was convinced that I was writing all this in honour of some estranged flame. And he said so. The mere suggestion, I remember, got me pretty senti and Devdas like. I avoided his direct gaze and made a feeble (tragic) attempt to change the topic.
(Sigh) Melodrama, thy name is Anant!
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Aur bhi gum hain zamaane mein mohobbat ke siva
These days I am on the brink, in a sort of unstable in-equillibrium. Things seem distant. Life is surreal. I am not doing things with 'intent'. Its my super-sub-conscious, somewhere between the conscious and the sub-conscious, that is doing the doing. Its as if I have been caught in the flow of a strong riverand I have given up swimming. All I am doing is putting fight to float.
I am succeeding to convince myself that nothing maajorly is wrong with me. It's just continous work and too-much self imposed pressure and expectation, less sleep, running around filing police and insurance cases about my lost bike, no excercise and less blogging which is causing all this. A week or so and I should be normal again.
But this sort of thing is happening too often.
0 comments
These days I am on the brink, in a sort of unstable in-equillibrium. Things seem distant. Life is surreal. I am not doing things with 'intent'. Its my super-sub-conscious, somewhere between the conscious and the sub-conscious, that is doing the doing. Its as if I have been caught in the flow of a strong riverand I have given up swimming. All I am doing is putting fight to float.
I am succeeding to convince myself that nothing maajorly is wrong with me. It's just continous work and too-much self imposed pressure and expectation, less sleep, running around filing police and insurance cases about my lost bike, no excercise and less blogging which is causing all this. A week or so and I should be normal again.
But this sort of thing is happening too often.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Celebrating Mediocrity
A few days ago I was reading an article in Reader's Digest. It was about a photo-journalist who took and preserved forbidden photographs during Mao Zedong's Cultural revolution in China. The Cultural Revolution was some kind of movement where students and youth ridiculed their teachers and elders, where creative initiative was crushed and 'children were encoouraged to inform on their parents and did'. The photographs show people being humiliated in public, people facing firing squads etc. etc. Mao Zedong did something that Hitler had done before him : encouraged mass mediocrity, baseness, savagery and animalitude to consolidate his political power. Like every other mass movement the motto was 'if you are not with us, you are against us'. Conformity or death.
Similar mass savagery was there in the French Revolution and perhaps even in the Russian Revolution. Perhaps it is there in the Bihar of today.
Several questions arise. To what extent is this savage animal-ness present in human beings : how many of us are susceptible to it, to what extent is any person susceptible. What kind of people are susceptible? Will such a thing be possible in India, say if Laloo becomes PM? Has a history of elitism got something to do with such mass movement (China, France, Russia each were (I think) previously prosperous but elitistic civilzations. So was Bihar.) Given that some sort of elitism is required for Civilzation and Growth, can societies achieve subtle elitism, where social tensions, jealousy etc are avoided and the so-called masses do not feel alienated. It would be an interesting study.
How safe is Democracy? Who should get to vote? Is Dynastic Leadership within Democracy such a bad thing?
Coming back to Laloo. He is a very sharp man. He is a very successful man and like somebody said, 'one cannot argue with success'. His ways no doubt are very beneficial to him, but I am scared to death that he may not have the good sense not to encourage mediocrity. Sometime ago he seemed to have said something like 'we in Bihar don't want this IT-computer stuff etc.' What if he becomes the PM and starts this wave of 'anti-academic, anti-creative, anti-IT' feeling, where the suppressed jealousies of the people to whom India's economic rise has'nt benifitted much are brought to the fore, where the mass does not struggle towards prosperity in the changing economic scenario but lazily banks on the fact that it is with the majority. The possibilities of such a thing happening are pretty s
I don't think I have thought any of the above through. Just thinking aloud. Just tranisent thoughts.
0 comments
A few days ago I was reading an article in Reader's Digest. It was about a photo-journalist who took and preserved forbidden photographs during Mao Zedong's Cultural revolution in China. The Cultural Revolution was some kind of movement where students and youth ridiculed their teachers and elders, where creative initiative was crushed and 'children were encoouraged to inform on their parents and did'. The photographs show people being humiliated in public, people facing firing squads etc. etc. Mao Zedong did something that Hitler had done before him : encouraged mass mediocrity, baseness, savagery and animalitude to consolidate his political power. Like every other mass movement the motto was 'if you are not with us, you are against us'. Conformity or death.
Similar mass savagery was there in the French Revolution and perhaps even in the Russian Revolution. Perhaps it is there in the Bihar of today.
Several questions arise. To what extent is this savage animal-ness present in human beings : how many of us are susceptible to it, to what extent is any person susceptible. What kind of people are susceptible? Will such a thing be possible in India, say if Laloo becomes PM? Has a history of elitism got something to do with such mass movement (China, France, Russia each were (I think) previously prosperous but elitistic civilzations. So was Bihar.) Given that some sort of elitism is required for Civilzation and Growth, can societies achieve subtle elitism, where social tensions, jealousy etc are avoided and the so-called masses do not feel alienated. It would be an interesting study.
How safe is Democracy? Who should get to vote? Is Dynastic Leadership within Democracy such a bad thing?
Coming back to Laloo. He is a very sharp man. He is a very successful man and like somebody said, 'one cannot argue with success'. His ways no doubt are very beneficial to him, but I am scared to death that he may not have the good sense not to encourage mediocrity. Sometime ago he seemed to have said something like 'we in Bihar don't want this IT-computer stuff etc.' What if he becomes the PM and starts this wave of 'anti-academic, anti-creative, anti-IT' feeling, where the suppressed jealousies of the people to whom India's economic rise has'nt benifitted much are brought to the fore, where the mass does not struggle towards prosperity in the changing economic scenario but lazily banks on the fact that it is with the majority. The possibilities of such a thing happening are pretty s
I don't think I have thought any of the above through. Just thinking aloud. Just tranisent thoughts.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
"Main ek din bus mein jaa raha tha. Bahut bhid thi aur mere daaein pair pe kisi ka paaun tha. Maine socha ke ye janaab kabhi to apna pair hataayenge. Bade intezaar ke baad aakhir maine un se keh hi diya: 'Janaab, aap apne pairon pe khada hona kab seekhenge?'"
Long time ago, on TV (Doordarshan), there used to be a serial called 'Farmaan' based on a novel 'Alampanah' set against the backdrop of post-Nizam Hyderabad. The sound track of that serial was also a radio-play on Vividh Bharati. The above joke is from that serial.
Friday, June 18, 2004
Some people can be so nasty, so mean, so boring, so cheap, so loud, so banal, so devoid of common courtesy, so thoughtless,so gossipy, so uncouth, such jerks, so uncultured, all at once all the time , that my time tested, Calvin-and-Hobbes nurturned cynicism breaks down and dark depression and despair are left behind. And no, I have not just put together all the English 'bad-words' that I know (and don't know). I am just trying to make a faithful description of these people. And I am literally choking for words.
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Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Oh. And I wanted to say something more about 'Nigaahein milaane ko...'. Towards the end of the song when the chorus starts 'Nigaahein milaane ko...', one would expect all the voices in the chorus to start togehter. But no. There is one solitary voice starting just a taxi-second before the rest.
I think it is a nice little touch. A Natural, Authentic Defect in an otherwise perfect entity. Like Moushmi Chatterjee's extra half-tooth which adds a Zillion Dollars to her otherwise Million-dollar smile.
I wish I knew how much of these Filmi Quwwalis was 'practised' stuff and how much was spontaneous.
0 comments
I think it is a nice little touch. A Natural, Authentic Defect in an otherwise perfect entity. Like Moushmi Chatterjee's extra half-tooth which adds a Zillion Dollars to her otherwise Million-dollar smile.
I wish I knew how much of these Filmi Quwwalis was 'practised' stuff and how much was spontaneous.
Monday, June 14, 2004
Kisike manane mein woh lazzat jo paayi,
Kisike manane mein woh lazzat jo paayi,
Kisike-manane-mein-woh-lazzat-jo-paayi,
Ke phir rooth jaane ko jii chahata hai,
Ke phir rooth jaane ko jii chahata hai,
Ke phir rooth jaane ko jii chahata hai,
Nigaahein milaane ko jii chahata hai,
It's a Quwwali! What more shall I say. What I would'nt give to go for a proper live Quwwali organized in Ambedkar Bhavan or Chowdaiah memorial. (More than 500 bucks, that's what). If my singer friends decided to practice and put together a show of Quwwalis I would be more than willing to cough up a ticket.
I wish there was some sort of a colloquial musical lingo by which one could communicate tunes, tones and pitch. For though I have written the same line twice or thrice, above, each of them, ofcourse, is sung in a different way and to a different effect. There is a lot of this 'mischief' kind of stuff in a Quwwali which is brought about my musical variations and I wish language could communicate it all. Sigh! Human civilization has miles to go ahead still, and what's more its in reverse gear.
Ok. Like some constipated bugger's large intestine, let me cut out the crap.
Nigaahein milaane ko jii chahata hai,
Nigaahein milaane ko jii chahata hai,
Dil-o-jaan luta ne ko jii chahata hai,
Woh Tohamat jise ishq kehati hai duniya,
Woh Tohamat jise ishq kehati hai duniya,
Woh Tohamat jise ishq kehati hai duniya,
Woh Tohamat uthaane ko jii chahata hai,
Woh Tohamat uthaane ko jii chahata hai.
Nigaahein milaane ko jii chahata hai.
0 comments
Kisike manane mein woh lazzat jo paayi,
Kisike-manane-mein-woh-lazzat-jo-paayi,
Ke phir rooth jaane ko jii chahata hai,
Ke phir rooth jaane ko jii chahata hai,
Ke phir rooth jaane ko jii chahata hai,
Nigaahein milaane ko jii chahata hai,
It's a Quwwali! What more shall I say. What I would'nt give to go for a proper live Quwwali organized in Ambedkar Bhavan or Chowdaiah memorial. (More than 500 bucks, that's what). If my singer friends decided to practice and put together a show of Quwwalis I would be more than willing to cough up a ticket.
I wish there was some sort of a colloquial musical lingo by which one could communicate tunes, tones and pitch. For though I have written the same line twice or thrice, above, each of them, ofcourse, is sung in a different way and to a different effect. There is a lot of this 'mischief' kind of stuff in a Quwwali which is brought about my musical variations and I wish language could communicate it all. Sigh! Human civilization has miles to go ahead still, and what's more its in reverse gear.
Ok. Like some constipated bugger's large intestine, let me cut out the crap.
Nigaahein milaane ko jii chahata hai,
Nigaahein milaane ko jii chahata hai,
Dil-o-jaan luta ne ko jii chahata hai,
Woh Tohamat jise ishq kehati hai duniya,
Woh Tohamat jise ishq kehati hai duniya,
Woh Tohamat jise ishq kehati hai duniya,
Woh Tohamat uthaane ko jii chahata hai,
Woh Tohamat uthaane ko jii chahata hai.
Nigaahein milaane ko jii chahata hai.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Whatever be the other pluses and minuses of being a female from the North-East, there is one definite advantage. If you go to Lalitha's for lunch, you get a mile's start ahead of the rest when it comes to getting service (Is it a mile's start or a meal's start, ek meel ki badhat ?).
(I know the above paragraph is confusing/misleading and I ought to rewrite it, but, hey, what the heck!)
So I went to Lalitha's for Lunch on Saturday and there was this group of four girls from the North-east sitting two tables away from me.And these NorthE waiters at Lalitha's kept chatting them up, getting them extra rice, or extra 'sobji',or extra 'cord', even when the girls were protesting 'enough, enough' or something to that effect. They all but put the food in their mouths (Though it bothers me, I am not going to resolve the 'they/their' syntactical conflict in this sentence). And here I was franctically waving my slip of paper, on which was written 'Meal: 1 Nos', like a Firang waving a white flag in the middle of some African tribal war, and hardly even getting a nod of reassurance.
The girls themselves? They were pretty. One of them had thick dark hair, the other large expressive eyes, the third a close-up smile and the fourth, Uf! don't even ask...Together they would have made up any man's dreamboat.
I was going to give the close-up smile, the look, but I didn't want to get into trouble with the Annadaata-waiter-maaibaaps and delay my lunch more than it already was.
0 comments
(I know the above paragraph is confusing/misleading and I ought to rewrite it, but, hey, what the heck!)
So I went to Lalitha's for Lunch on Saturday and there was this group of four girls from the North-east sitting two tables away from me.And these NorthE waiters at Lalitha's kept chatting them up, getting them extra rice, or extra 'sobji',or extra 'cord', even when the girls were protesting 'enough, enough' or something to that effect. They all but put the food in their mouths (Though it bothers me, I am not going to resolve the 'they/their' syntactical conflict in this sentence). And here I was franctically waving my slip of paper, on which was written 'Meal: 1 Nos', like a Firang waving a white flag in the middle of some African tribal war, and hardly even getting a nod of reassurance.
The girls themselves? They were pretty. One of them had thick dark hair, the other large expressive eyes, the third a close-up smile and the fourth, Uf! don't even ask...Together they would have made up any man's dreamboat.
I was going to give the close-up smile, the look, but I didn't want to get into trouble with the Annadaata-waiter-maaibaaps and delay my lunch more than it already was.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
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Sunday, June 06, 2004
The Adventures of Little Anant
Starting today, a series of posts, now and then, chronicling my quietly exciting childhood.
Somewhere around my 7th standard, I was a major stamp and coin collection buff. My whole class was and maybe the whole school too. Lunch breaks and free periods were spent in furious trading and several pesos, liras, drachmas, centimes, rials, roubles worth of stamps, coins and exchanged hands. I had (I still have) a huge collection of stamps and an ok types collection of coins. I don't know how I began. I think I started with my mom buying my sister and me a stamp book and an envelope each of postal stamps. From there I expanded my empire to include tens of countries and hundreds of stamps - mostly at the expense of my more naive classmates. My coin collection began by collecting Indian coins with different embossments on them - Nehru, Patel, Indira Gandhi, Jantar Mantar, Family planning symbol etc.. My photographer uncle gave me some rare coins, among them a 'one chuckram' from Travancore and a huge, old, 'Uma Rupiah' currency note from Portugese Goa. Once or twice I got lucky and found a foreign coin in a shopkeeper's change.
None of us knew too much about stamps, but I like to think I knew slightly more than the rest. We all went by the size of the stamp, the larger the better. And fancy stamps were in great demand: triangles, parallelograms, diamond stamps, stamps with 3-D on them. Even 'court stamps' were in. Infact anything with 'stamp like' sides was in the market
Prasad, my chief rival in academics from the other section was the favourite of Judy teacher, who taught English, and she gave him all the stamps from the letters her husband sent her from the US.
I was totally crazy about stamps and coins those days. To 'understand' the coins from the middle east I learnt up the Arabic numberals. The Russian Alphabet was described at the back of our Oxford Dictionary. From that I found out that 'CCCP' on Russian stamps was to be read 'SSSR'. I read up that 'Magyar Posta' was a Hungarian stamp and that Indian coins could be traced to mints in foreign countries by the small '.'s and '*'s embossed just below the date.
Once, I put together all my coins and with some 'monetary' support from my neighbour across the street, won a consolation prize in the junior section of some numismatics contest in our town. Our principal - we all called her Prabha Tai- heard of my triumph and called me to her house and gave me a large part of her collection of old first day covers. I remember my extreme nervousness when I went to her bunglow near Bogarways. She was a stern old spinster (no, not the cricketing kind) and lived in a huge bunglow overgrown with vines and stuff. Pretty much a bhoot bangla. In her office I had readily nodded my head and said 'I will come next week', but I kept postponing the going thing, till my guilty conscience pricked and philatelic greed pushed.
Eventually, I found that I liked all the stamps I had and could'nt trade stamps any further. So I decided to make stamps. I tried to paint them and stuff but the thing never worked out. If only I had had half the skill of Leonardo di Abignale...
I had more luck with coins though. In Bombay, if you walk towards Gate Way of India you find these pavement sellers who sell old coins - These are thick heavy, bronze coins, with something scrawled acorss which no one can read. I have made my dad buy me those once or twice. So I thought why not make similar coins, but out of baked clay.
I was a major fire buff too, I liked making fires. I used to make small earthern pots and bake them in hot fires and make them strong.
So I made flat round clay coins with something in Arabic carved or embossed on them. There used to be a serial about an Old Muslim Woman on TV then. There used to be something in Arabic written on a green cloth on the wall in her hut. I copied it on to my best coin. Now that I have learnt a good bit of Urdu script ( Vive La systematic Boasting. Learning fast, am I not, Sumeet?) I think it probably read as 'Allah'.
So I made this coin and took it to class and showed it to my friends. I told them I had found it near an old ruin, I didn't say where exactly. Sunil one of my good friends fell for the trick. We agreed that I would show him 'the place' and help him find more coins in exchange for a Chinese coin of his I had taken a fancy for. So the deal was struck.
That Sunday, after breakfast, Sunil came to my house. Together we set out towards the old ruin, which was an old bunglow rumored to belong to some royal family from somewhere close by (Sangli? I don't remember). The bunglow itself was protected by barbed wire and dogs but I told Sunil I found the coins near it somewhere.
It was a rain washed morning, and the sun had come out. We walked together on a mud path. The koel cooed in the trees. The bees buzzed. We arrived. I told Sunil, Ok let's look around. So we looked around. And while Sunil's back was turned I took another, similar coin out of my pocket, put it in the grass at my feet, gave an exclamation of delight, and picked up the coin and held it out triumphantly to Sunil.
Cold blooded **. That was me.
Sunil was reasonably satisfied. We looked a bit more, but no more old mud coins lay conveniently in the wet grass. We went back.
At school Sunil talked about sending the coin to 'Surabhi', that culture serial on TV. Poor fellow. But I think in a couple of weeks he realized that he had been had. Especially when the coin broke. But I kept up my end of the story till the end.
Sunil, if you are reading this, I think I am sorry. Please forgive me, for I am a changed man now. If you really feel badly when you read this, tell me and I will return your Chinese coin.
0 comments
Starting today, a series of posts, now and then, chronicling my quietly exciting childhood.
Somewhere around my 7th standard, I was a major stamp and coin collection buff. My whole class was and maybe the whole school too. Lunch breaks and free periods were spent in furious trading and several pesos, liras, drachmas, centimes, rials, roubles worth of stamps, coins and exchanged hands. I had (I still have) a huge collection of stamps and an ok types collection of coins. I don't know how I began. I think I started with my mom buying my sister and me a stamp book and an envelope each of postal stamps. From there I expanded my empire to include tens of countries and hundreds of stamps - mostly at the expense of my more naive classmates. My coin collection began by collecting Indian coins with different embossments on them - Nehru, Patel, Indira Gandhi, Jantar Mantar, Family planning symbol etc.. My photographer uncle gave me some rare coins, among them a 'one chuckram' from Travancore and a huge, old, 'Uma Rupiah' currency note from Portugese Goa. Once or twice I got lucky and found a foreign coin in a shopkeeper's change.
None of us knew too much about stamps, but I like to think I knew slightly more than the rest. We all went by the size of the stamp, the larger the better. And fancy stamps were in great demand: triangles, parallelograms, diamond stamps, stamps with 3-D on them. Even 'court stamps' were in. Infact anything with 'stamp like' sides was in the market
Prasad, my chief rival in academics from the other section was the favourite of Judy teacher, who taught English, and she gave him all the stamps from the letters her husband sent her from the US.
I was totally crazy about stamps and coins those days. To 'understand' the coins from the middle east I learnt up the Arabic numberals. The Russian Alphabet was described at the back of our Oxford Dictionary. From that I found out that 'CCCP' on Russian stamps was to be read 'SSSR'. I read up that 'Magyar Posta' was a Hungarian stamp and that Indian coins could be traced to mints in foreign countries by the small '.'s and '*'s embossed just below the date.
Once, I put together all my coins and with some 'monetary' support from my neighbour across the street, won a consolation prize in the junior section of some numismatics contest in our town. Our principal - we all called her Prabha Tai- heard of my triumph and called me to her house and gave me a large part of her collection of old first day covers. I remember my extreme nervousness when I went to her bunglow near Bogarways. She was a stern old spinster (no, not the cricketing kind) and lived in a huge bunglow overgrown with vines and stuff. Pretty much a bhoot bangla. In her office I had readily nodded my head and said 'I will come next week', but I kept postponing the going thing, till my guilty conscience pricked and philatelic greed pushed.
Eventually, I found that I liked all the stamps I had and could'nt trade stamps any further. So I decided to make stamps. I tried to paint them and stuff but the thing never worked out. If only I had had half the skill of Leonardo di Abignale...
I had more luck with coins though. In Bombay, if you walk towards Gate Way of India you find these pavement sellers who sell old coins - These are thick heavy, bronze coins, with something scrawled acorss which no one can read. I have made my dad buy me those once or twice. So I thought why not make similar coins, but out of baked clay.
I was a major fire buff too, I liked making fires. I used to make small earthern pots and bake them in hot fires and make them strong.
So I made flat round clay coins with something in Arabic carved or embossed on them. There used to be a serial about an Old Muslim Woman on TV then. There used to be something in Arabic written on a green cloth on the wall in her hut. I copied it on to my best coin. Now that I have learnt a good bit of Urdu script ( Vive La systematic Boasting. Learning fast, am I not, Sumeet?) I think it probably read as 'Allah'.
So I made this coin and took it to class and showed it to my friends. I told them I had found it near an old ruin, I didn't say where exactly. Sunil one of my good friends fell for the trick. We agreed that I would show him 'the place' and help him find more coins in exchange for a Chinese coin of his I had taken a fancy for. So the deal was struck.
That Sunday, after breakfast, Sunil came to my house. Together we set out towards the old ruin, which was an old bunglow rumored to belong to some royal family from somewhere close by (Sangli? I don't remember). The bunglow itself was protected by barbed wire and dogs but I told Sunil I found the coins near it somewhere.
It was a rain washed morning, and the sun had come out. We walked together on a mud path. The koel cooed in the trees. The bees buzzed. We arrived. I told Sunil, Ok let's look around. So we looked around. And while Sunil's back was turned I took another, similar coin out of my pocket, put it in the grass at my feet, gave an exclamation of delight, and picked up the coin and held it out triumphantly to Sunil.
Cold blooded **. That was me.
Sunil was reasonably satisfied. We looked a bit more, but no more old mud coins lay conveniently in the wet grass. We went back.
At school Sunil talked about sending the coin to 'Surabhi', that culture serial on TV. Poor fellow. But I think in a couple of weeks he realized that he had been had. Especially when the coin broke. But I kept up my end of the story till the end.
Sunil, if you are reading this, I think I am sorry. Please forgive me, for I am a changed man now. If you really feel badly when you read this, tell me and I will return your Chinese coin.
Friday, May 28, 2004
Mere Na-muraad Junoon ka....
Mere Na-muraad Junoon ka,
Hai Ilaaj koi to maut hai,
Jo dawa ke naam pe zeher de..
Jo dawa ke naam pe zeher de,
Us Chaaragar ki talaash hai...
Na to caravaan ki talaash hai,
Na to hamsafar ki talaash hai..
0 comments
Mere Na-muraad Junoon ka,
Hai Ilaaj koi to maut hai,
Jo dawa ke naam pe zeher de..
Jo dawa ke naam pe zeher de,
Us Chaaragar ki talaash hai...
Na to caravaan ki talaash hai,
Na to hamsafar ki talaash hai..
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
You are better off skipping this post.
I hate fans in lifts. They make too much noise. They whip up too much dust. And they make me cold. And there is no way I can get them switched off.
I mean, if one gets into a non-empty lift with the fan on, one doesn't just switch off the fan, does one? Then what right does a person have to get into a lift in which I am and without asking switch on the fan. The problem is redefined as follows: A person who wants the fan on can easily switch it on. A person who does not want the fan has no choice. Its a disgrace!
There aught to be an electronic system which takes a quick vote whenever one gets on to a lift. Just push one more button along with the button for your floor. And then may the majority win!
0 comments
I hate fans in lifts. They make too much noise. They whip up too much dust. And they make me cold. And there is no way I can get them switched off.
I mean, if one gets into a non-empty lift with the fan on, one doesn't just switch off the fan, does one? Then what right does a person have to get into a lift in which I am and without asking switch on the fan. The problem is redefined as follows: A person who wants the fan on can easily switch it on. A person who does not want the fan has no choice. Its a disgrace!
There aught to be an electronic system which takes a quick vote whenever one gets on to a lift. Just push one more button along with the button for your floor. And then may the majority win!
Monday, May 24, 2004
Sometimes I wonder about the various facets of my personality, my varied interests, my multiple talents, my several successes. That is when I feel that I need someone who I can open out to, someone I can boast with, someone I can lose my modesty to ;-)
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Friday, May 21, 2004
I was taking a walk with Biman today on the Windtunnel Road, along the airport walls, towards DRDO's CABS (Centre for AirBorne Systems). Now Biman likes to power walk while I like to stroll. Midway through the walk, as always, I got tired of keeping up with Biman's brisk pace. So I told him to go on till CABS at his fast pace and we would meet on his way back from there.
As he continued to power walk and I continued to stroll, I found that the distance between us was'nt increasing as fast as I thought it would. Then I realized it was the law of diminishing returns again. Every increase in speed beyond a point takes exponentially more effort. And because of the effort we put in we 'think' we are walking really fast, but in reality we are only walking slightly faster. Basic Facts of Life? I know.
I guess marathon runners would be well advised to cajole themselves into running slightly slower than their comfort level. Just in case their comfort zone is slightly slower than they think it is. Hmm.
When I met Biman he had walked about only about 200 metres more than I had. We'll walk back slowly now, I said.
"If we walk fast the mosquitoes don't bite" he said. (At night there's a thick mosquitoesphere, just below the atmosphere, on that damned road. The jets make effective use of it during takeoff. The lungs have to filter it out)
"If we walk slow, we can walk slow" I replied. One of those witty remarks which I later can't decide if they really are my own.
*****
Today during a conference call I got to hear a real-life Brit speak. They speak exactly like Emily (Ross's wife) does. It was fun to hear, tough to listen.
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As he continued to power walk and I continued to stroll, I found that the distance between us was'nt increasing as fast as I thought it would. Then I realized it was the law of diminishing returns again. Every increase in speed beyond a point takes exponentially more effort. And because of the effort we put in we 'think' we are walking really fast, but in reality we are only walking slightly faster. Basic Facts of Life? I know.
I guess marathon runners would be well advised to cajole themselves into running slightly slower than their comfort level. Just in case their comfort zone is slightly slower than they think it is. Hmm.
When I met Biman he had walked about only about 200 metres more than I had. We'll walk back slowly now, I said.
"If we walk fast the mosquitoes don't bite" he said. (At night there's a thick mosquitoesphere, just below the atmosphere, on that damned road. The jets make effective use of it during takeoff. The lungs have to filter it out)
"If we walk slow, we can walk slow" I replied. One of those witty remarks which I later can't decide if they really are my own.
*****
Today during a conference call I got to hear a real-life Brit speak. They speak exactly like Emily (Ross's wife) does. It was fun to hear, tough to listen.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Ok. Here are, without rhyme or reason (explained), the invocations/prologues from two of Kalidasa's plays. I have been wanting to post this post for sometime now.
From Abhijnanashakuntalam
That First Creation of the Creator *;
That Bearer of Oblations offered with Holy Rites;
That One who utters the Holy Chants;
Those two that order Time;
That which extends, World-Pervading in which sound flows impinging on the ear;
That which is proclaimed the Universal Womb of Seeds;
That which fills all forms that breathe with the Breath of Life.
May the Supreme Lord of the Universe who stands revealed in these eight forms perceptible preserve you.
(*respectively Water, Fire, Priest, Sun and Moon, Space, Earth and Air)
From Malavikagnimitram
May the Lord who, though enjoying obsolute soereignty from which result many blessings to his votaries, yet himself wears an elephant hide; who although united in body with his beloved, yet excels the ascetics whose minds are free from (pleasures of) sense; in whom there is no pride, although with his eight-fold forms he sustains the universe - may he remove your state of ignorance that you may behold the right way.
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From Abhijnanashakuntalam
That First Creation of the Creator *;
That Bearer of Oblations offered with Holy Rites;
That One who utters the Holy Chants;
Those two that order Time;
That which extends, World-Pervading in which sound flows impinging on the ear;
That which is proclaimed the Universal Womb of Seeds;
That which fills all forms that breathe with the Breath of Life.
May the Supreme Lord of the Universe who stands revealed in these eight forms perceptible preserve you.
(*respectively Water, Fire, Priest, Sun and Moon, Space, Earth and Air)
From Malavikagnimitram
May the Lord who, though enjoying obsolute soereignty from which result many blessings to his votaries, yet himself wears an elephant hide; who although united in body with his beloved, yet excels the ascetics whose minds are free from (pleasures of) sense; in whom there is no pride, although with his eight-fold forms he sustains the universe - may he remove your state of ignorance that you may behold the right way.
Monday, May 10, 2004
Gar Firdaus bar ru-e-zaminast, haminasto haminasto haminast
If there is a heaven on the face of the earth, it is here, it is here, it is here
I have been eating the namak , so to speak, of the Mallu Mess on 18th Main, HAL 2nd Stage, every weekend, for so long now that the least I could do for them, apart from, ofcourse, paying for my food, is to write about them in my blog.
The Mess is called 'Kerala Spice' and the owner is a Mallu Christian. There is a garlanded picture of Jesus on the side-wall. On the front-wall there is a garlanded picture of a youth in his twenties who was probably the owner's brother. Hmmm...
The chairs are plastic ones which you see in marriages and public gatherings. The tables are covered by a thick synthetic table-cloth. There are no tissue papers. Instead a steel tumbler of newspaper pieces is kept at the cash-table. No fancy stuff. Both you and the establishment can concentrate on the food.
You sit at the chair. Take a steel tumbler amongst a few neatly arranged on a plate and pour yourself either warm jeera-water or tadka-buttermilk from their respective jugs. And then you order.
I usually order a 'meal' and a fish fry. The meal consists of steaming, aromatic par-boiled (red) rice, two curries (beetroot, moong, bittergourd, beans, cabbage, anything...can't predict) a fried-chilli and a pickle. Then there is a bowl of some sort of a dal-sambar cross. And the veggies in that! My God. They put anything in that dal-sambar. And several at once too. Potatoes, pumpkin, drumsticks, beans, bhindi, brinjal, tomato, Tendul (that small, round thing after which Tendulkar is named (sic), which has green and white stripes and which is called Tendle in Konkani and Dondekaayi in Kannada), raw banana, jackfruit seeds ( commonly eaten in the coast), bamboo stem. Anything. Once I found a large chunk of beet-root in it. I love those veggies. Especially the ones which get all squishy-squashy: tomato, brinjal, bhindi, pumpkin. After I have eaten enough rice with this dal-sambar-stew, I eat more rice with the tadka-buttermilk, the pickle and the fried chilli. Let it be known that my mouth is watering as I write this.
The fish fry, I usually order bangda (saradine) which is, er, the bread and butter back at home. Sometimes I order Sear Fish.
The place has other things to offer as well. Fish/mutton/chicken/beef/prawn biryani, curries, roasts and fries. I haven't tried any of those out, though. Since I go there only on weekends I don't experiment much.
0 comments
If there is a heaven on the face of the earth, it is here, it is here, it is here
I have been eating the namak , so to speak, of the Mallu Mess on 18th Main, HAL 2nd Stage, every weekend, for so long now that the least I could do for them, apart from, ofcourse, paying for my food, is to write about them in my blog.
The Mess is called 'Kerala Spice' and the owner is a Mallu Christian. There is a garlanded picture of Jesus on the side-wall. On the front-wall there is a garlanded picture of a youth in his twenties who was probably the owner's brother. Hmmm...
The chairs are plastic ones which you see in marriages and public gatherings. The tables are covered by a thick synthetic table-cloth. There are no tissue papers. Instead a steel tumbler of newspaper pieces is kept at the cash-table. No fancy stuff. Both you and the establishment can concentrate on the food.
You sit at the chair. Take a steel tumbler amongst a few neatly arranged on a plate and pour yourself either warm jeera-water or tadka-buttermilk from their respective jugs. And then you order.
I usually order a 'meal' and a fish fry. The meal consists of steaming, aromatic par-boiled (red) rice, two curries (beetroot, moong, bittergourd, beans, cabbage, anything...can't predict) a fried-chilli and a pickle. Then there is a bowl of some sort of a dal-sambar cross. And the veggies in that! My God. They put anything in that dal-sambar. And several at once too. Potatoes, pumpkin, drumsticks, beans, bhindi, brinjal, tomato, Tendul (that small, round thing after which Tendulkar is named (sic), which has green and white stripes and which is called Tendle in Konkani and Dondekaayi in Kannada), raw banana, jackfruit seeds ( commonly eaten in the coast), bamboo stem. Anything. Once I found a large chunk of beet-root in it. I love those veggies. Especially the ones which get all squishy-squashy: tomato, brinjal, bhindi, pumpkin. After I have eaten enough rice with this dal-sambar-stew, I eat more rice with the tadka-buttermilk, the pickle and the fried chilli. Let it be known that my mouth is watering as I write this.
The fish fry, I usually order bangda (saradine) which is, er, the bread and butter back at home. Sometimes I order Sear Fish.
The place has other things to offer as well. Fish/mutton/chicken/beef/prawn biryani, curries, roasts and fries. I haven't tried any of those out, though. Since I go there only on weekends I don't experiment much.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Lage hain Shamma par pehre, Zamane ki nigaahon ke,
Jinhe jalane ki hasrat ho, vo parvane kahan jaaein...
Teri duniya mein akhir dil ko samajhaane kahan jaaein..
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Jinhe jalane ki hasrat ho, vo parvane kahan jaaein...
Teri duniya mein akhir dil ko samajhaane kahan jaaein..
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
The 'Laila Majnu' casettee came in a pathetic cardboard case, like the one you get playing cards in. It was priced at 28 bucks and I bought it only to make a threesome and get a 30% discount in Music World. But turns out it has an extremely good good-song density. Featured good-songs are:
'Husn Hazir Hai' 'Hoke Mayus Tere Dar Se' 'Is Reshmi Paazeb ki Jhankar' 'Ab Agar hamse khudai bhi khafa ho jaaye' 'Tere Dar Pe Aaya hoon' 'Barabad-e-Mohabbat ki Dua Saath liye ja' and the Quwwali which has given me one of the bigger kicks in recent times, 'Deewane Ki Zid', parts of which make up my previous post.
I have this habit of playing some casette before going to bed (I have written about this before). Often I fall asleep midway through. So I am often very familiar with the first two songs on each side, but hardly listen carefully to the songs towards the end. So some Saturday when I laze about in bed, without being sleepy, I get pleasant surprises on discovering some extremely beautiful song in one of my casettes.
I discovered the fast paced, high pitched, single-voiced, Rafi Quawwali, 'Tere Deewane ki Zid' this Saturday and I am still pretty kicked about it and want to sing it (ahem!) all the time. Besides the good music and the fundoo singing it has an overdose of lyrical improvisations (in this case pre-planned, ofcourse; it's a film song) which make Quwwali such an adrenalin-pumping, ecstacy-inducing genre of music.
The other song I really love on the casette is 'Barbad-e-mohabbat ki Dua Saath liye ja'. I will leave that for another day.
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'Husn Hazir Hai' 'Hoke Mayus Tere Dar Se' 'Is Reshmi Paazeb ki Jhankar' 'Ab Agar hamse khudai bhi khafa ho jaaye' 'Tere Dar Pe Aaya hoon' 'Barabad-e-Mohabbat ki Dua Saath liye ja' and the Quwwali which has given me one of the bigger kicks in recent times, 'Deewane Ki Zid', parts of which make up my previous post.
I have this habit of playing some casette before going to bed (I have written about this before). Often I fall asleep midway through. So I am often very familiar with the first two songs on each side, but hardly listen carefully to the songs towards the end. So some Saturday when I laze about in bed, without being sleepy, I get pleasant surprises on discovering some extremely beautiful song in one of my casettes.
I discovered the fast paced, high pitched, single-voiced, Rafi Quawwali, 'Tere Deewane ki Zid' this Saturday and I am still pretty kicked about it and want to sing it (ahem!) all the time. Besides the good music and the fundoo singing it has an overdose of lyrical improvisations (in this case pre-planned, ofcourse; it's a film song) which make Quwwali such an adrenalin-pumping, ecstacy-inducing genre of music.
The other song I really love on the casette is 'Barbad-e-mohabbat ki Dua Saath liye ja'. I will leave that for another day.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Faza Zalim sahi yeh Zulm woh bhi kar nahi sakti,
Jahan mein Kaiz Zinda hai to Laila mar nahi sakti,
Yeh daava aaj, yeh daava aaj,
Yeh daava aaj duniya bhar se manavane ki khatir aa,
Yeh daava aaj duniya bhar se manavane ki khatir aa,
Yeh daava aaj duniya bhar se manavane ki khatir aa,
Yeh deewaane ki zid hai,
Zid hai, Deewane ki Zid,
yeh Deewaane ki Zid hai, apane deewane ki khatir aa,
yeh Deewaane ki Zid hai, apane deewane ki khatir aa,
Meri Diwangi...
Meri Diwangi ki, meri Veheshat ki kasam tujhko,
Meri Diwangi ki, meri Veheshat ki kasam tujhko,
Gurur-e-ishq ki, Naaz-e-mohabbat ki kasam tujhko,
Gurur-e-ishq ki, Naaz-e-mohabbat ki kasam tujhko,
Zamane ko...
Zamane ko...
Zamane ko Wafa ki shaan dikhlane ki khatir aa,
Zamane ko Wafa ki shaan dikhlane ki khatir aa,
yeh Deewane ki Zid hai,
Zid hai Zid hai Zid hai Zid hai Zid,
yeh Deewane ki Zid hai apane deewane ki khatir aa...
Thursday, April 22, 2004
The other day a couple of friends and I went to Zak's, the Arabic restaurant in Fraser Town. It was a day of goof-ups on the part of the waiters there.
First they gave my Chicken roll to DD and his Veg roll to me. We both started enthusiastically on them. Fortunately DD is a Non-Veggie who is on a Veg-spell. Then, they brought Chicken Biryani, where we had asked for Grilled Chicken with rice. We cribbed, and the extra grilled chicken was brought to us in the end. Also brought in the end was some sort of a masala to go with the Chicken Biryani.
Vineet, my ITC friend, was getting pretty excited about the whole thing and cribbing a lot and we pulled his leg for being only used to Five Star Hotels.
The best part came in the end, when a steaming bar of sweet-dish in hot syrup was placed before us. I thought it was a complimentary thing, their compensation for the goofups of the day, and immediately put my fingers to it. It was too hot and I could only take a kutti piece off. Then the waiter came. There had been another goof-up. He took that sweet-dish off our table and on to the next!
The girl on the next table had seen all that had happened. But she was kind hearted, and did not ask for a fresh plate.
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First they gave my Chicken roll to DD and his Veg roll to me. We both started enthusiastically on them. Fortunately DD is a Non-Veggie who is on a Veg-spell. Then, they brought Chicken Biryani, where we had asked for Grilled Chicken with rice. We cribbed, and the extra grilled chicken was brought to us in the end. Also brought in the end was some sort of a masala to go with the Chicken Biryani.
Vineet, my ITC friend, was getting pretty excited about the whole thing and cribbing a lot and we pulled his leg for being only used to Five Star Hotels.
The best part came in the end, when a steaming bar of sweet-dish in hot syrup was placed before us. I thought it was a complimentary thing, their compensation for the goofups of the day, and immediately put my fingers to it. It was too hot and I could only take a kutti piece off. Then the waiter came. There had been another goof-up. He took that sweet-dish off our table and on to the next!
The girl on the next table had seen all that had happened. But she was kind hearted, and did not ask for a fresh plate.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Went home over the weekend.
The West-coast is sweltering at the moment. Hazaar hot. Hazaar humid. But all the birds are chirping, somehow. I don't know if it is the Hangover of Spring or the Impatience for the Monsoons.
Can't say I am not happy to be back in 'cool' Bangalore. But the a.c in my workplace is extremely hard-working, and I wish they could find someway of letting in some of the wonderful summer into my cubicle. So when I went home I walked about through our town, looking at the sights, letting the Summer soak me.
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The West-coast is sweltering at the moment. Hazaar hot. Hazaar humid. But all the birds are chirping, somehow. I don't know if it is the Hangover of Spring or the Impatience for the Monsoons.
Can't say I am not happy to be back in 'cool' Bangalore. But the a.c in my workplace is extremely hard-working, and I wish they could find someway of letting in some of the wonderful summer into my cubicle. So when I went home I walked about through our town, looking at the sights, letting the Summer soak me.
Monday, April 05, 2004
'My brain is trying to kill me' - Calvin
A totally strange thing happened this Saturday.
Before that a little background. Last Friday (a week ago) I left home at night, leaving the Geyser on by mistake. It overheated, the thing burst, sprang a leak and water started leaking from it onto the floor below (our Geyser is outside the toilet). When I came back home there was no electricity (shorted and tripped) and there was ankle deep water in the hall (Splosh! Splosh!). I had come home ready to drop into bed but now this! These things are sent to test us, as some stern Inspector said in Agatha Christie's 'Towards Zero'. After a initial few moments of panic, I turned off the Geyser switch and then I rushed to the terrace and turned off the water to the building (water was still leaking from the Geyser). Our landlords were away celebrating the Friday night and the end of their son's final exams. The circuit breakers are all kept under lock and they had the key. So I would have to do whatever I had to do in candle light.
Hmm. What followed was a pain. I couldn't leave all that water on the floor (and let the maid handle it in the morning), though I sleep on a cot, it would irritate me and get on my nerves. So I took a bucket and a plate from the Kitchen and started scooping water from the floor into the bucket. Later I used a moping towel and still later a bedsheet and much later a broom. I had to be careful because some of the rooms in the house were bone dry (Som's room for example where the comp is ) and had I used the broom in the beginning water would flow in there! So I mopped up around 5 bucketfuls of water (that's quite a lot, let me tell you) before the landlords came. In the middle I had started chanting 'Om Namah Shivaya' with every scoop into the bucket - for motivation, for concentration, for timepass and for any incidental Punya . When the lights came on I had the satisfaction of seeing an almost dry floor. The fans would dry up what little was left. These things are sent to test us. They build character as Calvin's dad would say.
Saturday was spent running after an electrician and overseeing the repairs. Phew!
So back to the story I started out with. A strange thing happened this Saturday. As I sat in the office, around 12.30, I suddenly could not remember having turned the Geyser off! Panic! PANIC! I could picture the whole painful routine again! I rushed home. And then, so occupied was my mind was with the Geyser, that as I neared home I got off my bike, like I get off my cycle, before it had come to a halt! The engine was running and I had not put the sidestand on. Luckily my bike is not heavy or I would have fallen with it. I looked around to see if anyone had seen my acrobatics. One of the houswives, buying vegetables, had. Well, no harm done.
Another surprise. My house was locked with our landlord's main key. There was a note from them to call them when I came home. I understood what had happened at once - I had forgotten to lock the door when I left home in the morning. But that later. First I rushed to the window of my room. Peeked inside and sighed with relief to see the Geyser switch at 'OFF'.
I called up our landlords and they told me where they had put the main key in one of their windows. Hmm. Some adventure.
I guess all this 'background processing' that our brain, in its wisdom, performs, can be pretty dangerous. I decided to make a constant effort, from then on, not to be absent minded and to apply consious thought to what I was doing. As I drove to Mallu mess for lunch, I decided to consiously think about which gear I was in. But I found that I kept thinking about this post instead.
0 comments
A totally strange thing happened this Saturday.
Before that a little background. Last Friday (a week ago) I left home at night, leaving the Geyser on by mistake. It overheated, the thing burst, sprang a leak and water started leaking from it onto the floor below (our Geyser is outside the toilet). When I came back home there was no electricity (shorted and tripped) and there was ankle deep water in the hall (Splosh! Splosh!). I had come home ready to drop into bed but now this! These things are sent to test us, as some stern Inspector said in Agatha Christie's 'Towards Zero'. After a initial few moments of panic, I turned off the Geyser switch and then I rushed to the terrace and turned off the water to the building (water was still leaking from the Geyser). Our landlords were away celebrating the Friday night and the end of their son's final exams. The circuit breakers are all kept under lock and they had the key. So I would have to do whatever I had to do in candle light.
Hmm. What followed was a pain. I couldn't leave all that water on the floor (and let the maid handle it in the morning), though I sleep on a cot, it would irritate me and get on my nerves. So I took a bucket and a plate from the Kitchen and started scooping water from the floor into the bucket. Later I used a moping towel and still later a bedsheet and much later a broom. I had to be careful because some of the rooms in the house were bone dry (Som's room for example where the comp is ) and had I used the broom in the beginning water would flow in there! So I mopped up around 5 bucketfuls of water (that's quite a lot, let me tell you) before the landlords came. In the middle I had started chanting 'Om Namah Shivaya' with every scoop into the bucket - for motivation, for concentration, for timepass and for any incidental Punya . When the lights came on I had the satisfaction of seeing an almost dry floor. The fans would dry up what little was left. These things are sent to test us. They build character as Calvin's dad would say.
Saturday was spent running after an electrician and overseeing the repairs. Phew!
So back to the story I started out with. A strange thing happened this Saturday. As I sat in the office, around 12.30, I suddenly could not remember having turned the Geyser off! Panic! PANIC! I could picture the whole painful routine again! I rushed home. And then, so occupied was my mind was with the Geyser, that as I neared home I got off my bike, like I get off my cycle, before it had come to a halt! The engine was running and I had not put the sidestand on. Luckily my bike is not heavy or I would have fallen with it. I looked around to see if anyone had seen my acrobatics. One of the houswives, buying vegetables, had. Well, no harm done.
Another surprise. My house was locked with our landlord's main key. There was a note from them to call them when I came home. I understood what had happened at once - I had forgotten to lock the door when I left home in the morning. But that later. First I rushed to the window of my room. Peeked inside and sighed with relief to see the Geyser switch at 'OFF'.
I called up our landlords and they told me where they had put the main key in one of their windows. Hmm. Some adventure.
I guess all this 'background processing' that our brain, in its wisdom, performs, can be pretty dangerous. I decided to make a constant effort, from then on, not to be absent minded and to apply consious thought to what I was doing. As I drove to Mallu mess for lunch, I decided to consiously think about which gear I was in. But I found that I kept thinking about this post instead.
Friday, April 02, 2004
Rain rain
I decide to go home early. The weather outside is pleasant. Too pleasant. Its going to rain.
I rush. The traffic is OK.
Rain drops start to fall. A big one crashes on my Helmetvvisor ( German style combo)
I rush some more. I take a short cut. Muddy road. After the rain it will be a mess. Old man and his grandchildren. I don't like to sound horn. But it's going to rain.
Chicken crossing road. Lots of chicken actually. I look at them and think: BHMB.
Back on Tar road. Kids are playing cricket. Its really starting to rain. They don't know whether to run for shelter. Or run for the ball. They run for the ball.But they are in my way. And I am in a hurry. Because it's going to rain.
I get home. I park my bike in the open. It needs a wash. Then I rush to the terrace. The maid has taken pity, and washed clothes today. I rescue her efforts.
0 comments
I decide to go home early. The weather outside is pleasant. Too pleasant. Its going to rain.
I rush. The traffic is OK.
Rain drops start to fall. A big one crashes on my Helmetvvisor ( German style combo)
I rush some more. I take a short cut. Muddy road. After the rain it will be a mess. Old man and his grandchildren. I don't like to sound horn. But it's going to rain.
Chicken crossing road. Lots of chicken actually. I look at them and think: BHMB.
Back on Tar road. Kids are playing cricket. Its really starting to rain. They don't know whether to run for shelter. Or run for the ball. They run for the ball.But they are in my way. And I am in a hurry. Because it's going to rain.
I get home. I park my bike in the open. It needs a wash. Then I rush to the terrace. The maid has taken pity, and washed clothes today. I rescue her efforts.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Long Time. For those of you, who, after visting ucomics.com and dilbert.com and after reading all the interesting blogs on the net, came to anant-pills.blogspot.com in a last ditch attempt at Time-Pass, and, finding nothing new here, had to return to work, disappointed, to all those, my apologies.
Yes. That's all I had to say. And that I will update my blog more regularly from now on.
0 comments
Yes. That's all I had to say. And that I will update my blog more regularly from now on.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
A Little Kindness
When someone around you is in an embarassing sort of spot - like he has just zipped his open fly (on the fly, as it were) or dropped a whole plate of lunch on the floor - then the kind thing to do is to pretend not to notice. Even kinder thing to do would be to divert junta's attention by starting some interesting conversation or pointing to a pretty girl. The worst would be to loudly offer help or sympathy.
In Khushwant Singh's 'Delhi' there is a small chapter on 'Farting'. Actually its not as corny as it sounds - the chapter I mean. There were a couple of urdu couplets, if I remember right. But the most interesting bit was this story about an old Kind-Hearted Gentleman talking to this old-lady. Suddenly this old lady farts. Not only does this old-gentleman pretend not to notice, he also decides to embellish his not-noticing by pretending to be hard of hearing. Not just that, the old-man continues to pretend to be hard of hearing for the rest of his life !
I remember an incident when a friend of mine was describing to me about how aother friend of mine had farted in public. The first friend found the whole thing extremely amusing and was laughing his head off. I was pretending to laugh, for what do you know, I myself was, at that very moment, feeling the urge. But laugh I did and the pressure was too much and a little 'poink' escaped me. The first friend ke amusement ka koi thikana nahi raha. I am sure he will tell the story to his grand-children.
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When someone around you is in an embarassing sort of spot - like he has just zipped his open fly (on the fly, as it were) or dropped a whole plate of lunch on the floor - then the kind thing to do is to pretend not to notice. Even kinder thing to do would be to divert junta's attention by starting some interesting conversation or pointing to a pretty girl. The worst would be to loudly offer help or sympathy.
In Khushwant Singh's 'Delhi' there is a small chapter on 'Farting'. Actually its not as corny as it sounds - the chapter I mean. There were a couple of urdu couplets, if I remember right. But the most interesting bit was this story about an old Kind-Hearted Gentleman talking to this old-lady. Suddenly this old lady farts. Not only does this old-gentleman pretend not to notice, he also decides to embellish his not-noticing by pretending to be hard of hearing. Not just that, the old-man continues to pretend to be hard of hearing for the rest of his life !
I remember an incident when a friend of mine was describing to me about how aother friend of mine had farted in public. The first friend found the whole thing extremely amusing and was laughing his head off. I was pretending to laugh, for what do you know, I myself was, at that very moment, feeling the urge. But laugh I did and the pressure was too much and a little 'poink' escaped me. The first friend ke amusement ka koi thikana nahi raha. I am sure he will tell the story to his grand-children.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Bus Journey
The Dharwad bus arrived a full hour behind schedule. It was crowded even as it entered the bus-stop. I pulled my bag over my shoulder and prepared for the struggle.
It was a cold, dark, wet night. For most commuters it was the end of a long day at work. The persistent rain had dampened everyone's spirits. The Goa bus which was due two hours ago had never turned up. There had been some talk of a puncture or breakdown.
The Dharwad bus had probably been delayed because of the rain in the Ghats. Which meant all subsequent buses were going to be delayed as well. Though my stop was just an hour's distance away, there was no telling when the next bus going there would come.
I managed to squeeze into the bus and prepared for a slow, rain hampered, standing-journey through the ghats. The good thing was that this was an express bus, and there were to be no more halts till my stop.
Ten minutes later the bus started. Packed to the last square inch. No one was going to miss this bus. As it is, they had waited more than two hours. Many of them were daily up-downers who worked in towns away from home and made the daily journey to and from office.
The movement of the bus brought some breeze and reduced some of the stuffiness, but it was still pretty uncomfortable. The man behind me was breathing on my neck. There was a smell of alcohol coming from someone close by. Then a baby started to cry.
A baby crying is the last straw in an overcrowded bus. And this baby was sitting in its mother's lap two seats away from me and bawling its heart out. The harassed mother was trying without success to quiet it.
She was from the city. Gold chains and gold bangles and earrings and makeup. Probably from Bangalore. Her husband was standing next to her. I had seen them on the Bhatkal busstop before, waiting for the bus with me. How had she managed to get a seat? Probably someone had taken pity on her condition - she looked tired and weak, and had a baby to console.
At that time, the Konkan railway hadn't been built, and there were no hordes of private bus operators as there are today. The only way to get to Karnataka's coastal towns was by KSTRC bus. This couple had made a long and uncomfortable journey and they looked tired and harassed.
The baby meanwhile kept bawling intermittently and soon the husband and wife started having words. The wife said it was all his fault for not getting a reservation on a proper bus, and the husband said that he was tired of family life. All this was in Kannada, the local language. But all the other passengers pretended not to hear. Not that the people were too tired to bother about other people's business, but that there are some tacit protocols of non-interference on bus journeys which everyone follows. Everyone has his moments of weakness on a bus journey. This is understood, and all is forgiven. Except for a few suggestions on how to quiet the baby no one said anything.
The real trouble began when the conductor came asking for tickets and the man from the city discovered that his pocket had been picked. He spent a full fifteen minutes checking his three pockets again and again and still found no purse. The conductor meanwhile was calmly issuing tickets to people. Conductors learn not to pay too much attention to passengers. The man from the city, perhaps expecting someone to ask him, in a kind tone, if anything was the matter, only became more agitated when no one did.
The man from the city finally asked his wife to check in her purse for money. There were some more exchanges in Kannada before the wife told him that she had none.
The man from the city broke out into copious sweat. The situation was clearly strange to him. he had probably spent the last five years going about in a car in Bangalore. He got quite red about the ears.
I sympathized with him. A man with a wife and small kid, in a stuffed bus on a wet night with no money. What could be worse fate?
In a hoarse voice he asked his wife to check her purse again. The wife stared at him for some time, muttered something, and made a pretence of checking her bag again.
Just then the conductore tapped the man on the shoulder. 'Tickets'. The man from the city turned red and lost control of his voice. He shouted at his wife, in a voice full of agony, to check the purse again . It was probably the loudest he had ever spoken to his wife in his life. The result was unpleasant. The wife started too. And then the baby, which had been resting for some time, joined in. Some of the the simple folk who had watched silently for so long, started smiling and saying tut tut.
At the start of the day, Bus Conductors are generally jovial and friendly chaps, but at ten in the night, one can't blame them for being a little gruff, and perhaps a bit sadistic. I was hoping our particular conductor would show some mercy and say something to bring solace to the man from the city, but he did not. He stood there, looking at the man from the city, waiting for the money, looking like a money-lender's hired goon.
I was clearing my throat to speak to the conductor. But before I could speak something else happened.
A girl of about 14 had pushed her way through the crowd. In one hand she carried a nylon-basket of flowers, in the other hand she carried a rich purse. She tapped the man from the city on his arm. 'This yours?' she asked in Kannada. 'It was fallen under the seat over there.' she pointed towards the rear of the bus.
It was his. A beautiful, fat, leather purse. It must have carried a lot of money. The surge of relief on the face of the man was obvious. The will to live came back to him. With a trembling hand he took out a few ten ruppee notes and gave them to the girl. The girl seemed reasonably pleased. She pushed again through the crowd, to the back of the bus, where, perhaps, her friends or relations were.
I had seen the girl back at the bus stop too, trying to sell her flowers. What was she doing on the bus now? Did flower girls travel to sell their ware?
In some time, my stop arrived. As the bus pulled in to the bus stop, I took a final look at the man from the city. His face bore a stunned expression - he had come back from the dead. I couldn't wait to get home and tell the story.
The rain had stopped and air outside was cool and clean. I was stretching myself, when I saw that the flower girl had gotten off before me. She was walking ahead of me but did not head out of the bus-stop. Instead she was walking back towards the platform for buses going back towards Bhatkal. I was curious; I followed her. A bus was starting for Mangalore, towards Bhatkal. She hurried and got in. I watched the bus slowly leave the stop.
I was dumbstruck. She was going back again?
Then the sudden spark of realization came. The audacity of it all brought goose bumps on my flesh. I swore my favourite swear word.
By the time I got home I was smiling broadly. I had forgiven the flower girl. In fact, I even hoped she had taken some money out, before she returned the purse that she had stolen.
&nbThe Dharwad bus arrived a full hour behind schedule. It was crowded even as it entered the bus-stop. I pulled my bag over my shoulder and prepared for the struggle.
It was a cold, dark, wet night. For most commuters it was the end of a long day at work. The persistent rain had dampened everyone's spirits. The Goa bus which was due two hours ago had never turned up. There had been some talk of a puncture or breakdown.
The Dharwad bus had probably been delayed because of the rain in the Ghats. Which meant all subsequent buses were going to be delayed as well. Though my stop was just an hour's distance away, there was no telling when the next bus going there would come.
I managed to squeeze into the bus and prepared for a slow, rain hampered, standing-journey through the ghats. The good thing was that this was an express bus, and there were to be no more halts till my stop.
Ten minutes later the bus started. Packed to the last square inch. No one was going to miss this bus. As it is, they had waited more than two hours. Many of them were daily up-downers who worked in towns away from home and made the daily journey to and from office.
The movement of the bus brought some breeze and reduced some of the stuffiness, but it was still pretty uncomfortable. The man behind me was breathing on my neck. There was a smell of alcohol coming from someone close by. Then a baby started to cry.
A baby crying is the last straw in an overcrowded bus. And this baby was sitting in its mother's lap two seats away from me and bawling its heart out. The harassed mother was trying without success to quiet it.
She was from the city. Gold chains and gold bangles and earrings and makeup. Probably from Bangalore. Her husband was standing next to her. I had seen them on the Bhatkal busstop before, waiting for the bus with me. How had she managed to get a seat? Probably someone had taken pity on her condition - she looked tired and weak, and had a baby to console.
At that time, the Konkan railway hadn't been built, and there were no hordes of private bus operators as there are today. The only way to get to Karnataka's coastal towns was by KSTRC bus. This couple had made a long and uncomfortable journey and they looked tired and harassed.
The baby meanwhile kept bawling intermittently and soon the husband and wife started having words. The wife said it was all his fault for not getting a reservation on a proper bus, and the husband said that he was tired of family life. All this was in Kannada, the local language. But all the other passengers pretended not to hear. Not that the people were too tired to bother about other people's business, but that there are some tacit protocols of non-interference on bus journeys which everyone follows. Everyone has his moments of weakness on a bus journey. This is understood, and all is forgiven. Except for a few suggestions on how to quiet the baby no one said anything.
The real trouble began when the conductor came asking for tickets and the man from the city discovered that his pocket had been picked. He spent a full fifteen minutes checking his three pockets again and again and still found no purse. The conductor meanwhile was calmly issuing tickets to people. Conductors learn not to pay too much attention to passengers. The man from the city, perhaps expecting someone to ask him, in a kind tone, if anything was the matter, only became more agitated when no one did.
The man from the city finally asked his wife to check in her purse for money. There were some more exchanges in Kannada before the wife told him that she had none.
The man from the city broke out into copious sweat. The situation was clearly strange to him. he had probably spent the last five years going about in a car in Bangalore. He got quite red about the ears.
I sympathized with him. A man with a wife and small kid, in a stuffed bus on a wet night with no money. What could be worse fate?
In a hoarse voice he asked his wife to check her purse again. The wife stared at him for some time, muttered something, and made a pretence of checking her bag again.
Just then the conductore tapped the man on the shoulder. 'Tickets'. The man from the city turned red and lost control of his voice. He shouted at his wife, in a voice full of agony, to check the purse again . It was probably the loudest he had ever spoken to his wife in his life. The result was unpleasant. The wife started too. And then the baby, which had been resting for some time, joined in. Some of the the simple folk who had watched silently for so long, started smiling and saying tut tut.
At the start of the day, Bus Conductors are generally jovial and friendly chaps, but at ten in the night, one can't blame them for being a little gruff, and perhaps a bit sadistic. I was hoping our particular conductor would show some mercy and say something to bring solace to the man from the city, but he did not. He stood there, looking at the man from the city, waiting for the money, looking like a money-lender's hired goon.
I was clearing my throat to speak to the conductor. But before I could speak something else happened.
A girl of about 14 had pushed her way through the crowd. In one hand she carried a nylon-basket of flowers, in the other hand she carried a rich purse. She tapped the man from the city on his arm. 'This yours?' she asked in Kannada. 'It was fallen under the seat over there.' she pointed towards the rear of the bus.
It was his. A beautiful, fat, leather purse. It must have carried a lot of money. The surge of relief on the face of the man was obvious. The will to live came back to him. With a trembling hand he took out a few ten ruppee notes and gave them to the girl. The girl seemed reasonably pleased. She pushed again through the crowd, to the back of the bus, where, perhaps, her friends or relations were.
I had seen the girl back at the bus stop too, trying to sell her flowers. What was she doing on the bus now? Did flower girls travel to sell their ware?
In some time, my stop arrived. As the bus pulled in to the bus stop, I took a final look at the man from the city. His face bore a stunned expression - he had come back from the dead. I couldn't wait to get home and tell the story.
The rain had stopped and air outside was cool and clean. I was stretching myself, when I saw that the flower girl had gotten off before me. She was walking ahead of me but did not head out of the bus-stop. Instead she was walking back towards the platform for buses going back towards Bhatkal. I was curious; I followed her. A bus was starting for Mangalore, towards Bhatkal. She hurried and got in. I watched the bus slowly leave the stop.
I was dumbstruck. She was going back again?
Then the sudden spark of realization came. The audacity of it all brought goose bumps on my flesh. I swore my favourite swear word.
By the time I got home I was smiling broadly. I had forgiven the flower girl. In fact, I even hoped she had taken some money out, before she returned the purse that she had stolen.