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.