Be a lotus

Innerchild

There she was,

In the bottom of the well

Drowned she was,

In the chasm of my being

I heard whimpers and giggles

That's how I realised of her existence

Curious I listened

To her chatter and silence

Held out my hand to her

She belonged  here, with me.
 Not in the dark depths!

She wouldn't come

I called. I listened. I fell in love with her.

She trusted me, took my hand, came up.

She was there. On the surface.

Perched on the bank of the dark waters

Now silent, now chatty; a dear friend.

Lost.
I didn't notice her exiting...

She isn't there anymore...

I call to her, she doesn't answer!

My heart is all storms and rains.

Her voice is lost.
"Come back!"  I try to say

My words are lost in the storm

I call to strangers instead.

I don't mean to, baby...
My call is to you alone...

Silence of a messenger bird

As monsoon clouds hang over me like untold words
On the grass still wet and fresh in the rain just faded
I set my writing desk

A stalk of white paper, stand full of pens
and an ensemble of birds
of colorful feathers.

Delightful they stand, eager for work;
To carry little strings of harmless words
To bring back similar ones
a slight smile of my face.

Silent white bird looks up.
A questioning look;
A puzzled look;
a pleading look;

She waits for my unwritten message
To give them wings.
How I long to have it conveyed
She knows.
And she knows she may not fly.


All unspoken words don't get written
All written words don't get read
Read messages may not be received
Received guarantees not reciprocations.

She knows.
She has seen me set my table there
Evening after evening.
She has seen me fill
scroll after scroll
To send them with the colorful birds
Messages that fade
As soon as they touch the ground



03.07.2017 






 

Reign of Corruption

Dream flowers are withering
Smiles are fading
Indoors are suffocating
It's the dawn of corruption.

Hopes are dying
Hungry eyes are staring
Filthy streets are reeking
It's prime season of corruption.

Credits are stolen
Blames are showered, names called
Empathy gets red in cheek
Because of slaps from many hands.
It's the reign of corruption.

Innocence is taking its own life
Love is weeping
Rivers of lies gushing
Kings and queens get drunk
On blood of sacrifice.
It's the world of corruption.

Old poetry in Kannada : On search, wait and longing

ಎದೆಯೊಳಗೆ  ನುಸುಳಿಕೊಂಡ ಮೋಹದ ಮಾಯೆ
ಪ್ರಾಣವಾಯುವಿನೊಂದಿಗೆ ಕಲೆತುಹೋಗಿ
ಒಂದೊಂದು ನಿಶ್ವಾಸಕೂ ಕಂಪಿಸುತಿಹುದು ಈ ಜೀವ.

ಚಿಂತೆಗಳ ಜಾಲದ ಎಳೆಗಳಲ್ಲೊಂದನೂ ಬಿಡದೆ ಕಾಡುವ ಗತಪುರುಷ;
ನಿನ್ನೆಯದು ಇಂದಿಗುಳಿಯದೆ ನೆನಪಾಗಿ ಕಾಡಿಸುವ ಕನಸುಗಳು;
ಜಿಜ್ಞಾಸೆ ಕೇಳುತಿಹುದು:
ಅನಿಕೇತನ, ನಿನ್ನ ಪರಿಚಯ ಹೇಳು.

ದೃಶ್ಯಬಿಂಬಗಳ ಭೇದವಿಲ್ಲದೆ ಮೂಡಿಸಿಕೊಂಬ ಕಣ್ಗಳಿಗೆ
ಅಗೋಚರ ಭಾವವೊಂದನು ಹುಡುಕುವ ತವಕ.
ಕಾಲನ ಸ್ತಬ್ಧನಾಗಿಸಿ, ಭೂಗೋಳವ ಸ್ವರ್ಗವಾಗಿಸಿ,
ಅಮೃತವರ್ಷಿಣಿಯಾಗಿ ತಾನೂ ವರ್ಷಿತಳಾಗುವ ತುಡಿತ.

A Silent Mirror

I am a mirror

Your laugh and love, 
your moods and silence;
I mirror them all.
urgently, intensely, vividly.

Shadows get darker,
Laughs get louder,
silence, heavier.
What's yours become mine.
I own them.

Under the weight of silences
shadows transfix my core.
I wait in suspense, 
Not knowing,
When you will smile and talk again,
when I will get some light
To reflect, to break the jinx.

Silence. Shadows. heavy. transfixed.
That's its essence.
Dark, heavy and unchanging
Beauty in its stillness
A wondrous thing, not to be disturbed.

It embraces my heart, 
encompassing it from all sides
Its quiet inside, dreamy
Nostalgic.
Like a memory before 
I came into existence.

I want to disappear, 
I want to stop existing
Is it a joy or pain
I cannot decide.

In this heart of darkness within
Am I finding my soul?
Or is it clutches of an enemy
I need to escape from?
I know it not.
Are you too drowning, 
in search for your own?
Or are you waiting
for me to emerge?
I know it not.

As a lone sigh wanders off in air,
I reflect.
I reflect that 
I am ready to mirror
Your lights again.
Slightest of lights will do.

No Blues

Some days I need you.

Some days when blues and greens
cloud my vision;
When their cold hands grab me
And pull me into their depths;

Some days when eyes glide
 past things and people,
And refuse to register
The sights of freshness around,
To stare at dark unknown;

Some days when spirit sleeps,
And wouldn't budge to
my feeble attempts to wake her up;
When I feel like I too want to resign,
Shut out lights, sounds and all the fuss;

I need you,

To bring me warmth of vibrant reds and yellows,
To shake me up, to push me ahead;
To coax me into action with
those plain, sensible words -
"Stop all this nonsense, dear.
Get going."

Those days are few and far between,
That doesn't mean they mean any less;
The sparkle of those colors and warmth,
Lasts longer than those days.
Long, until I need you again.

Amnesia in Rangitaranga : When loss of identity makes great stories

What to do when you watch a good movie and get sort of put out by an inaccuracy/ misrepresented fact on which the whole story hangs on? One might say 'who cares, as long as movie was good and people had a good time watching it? After all, movies aren't real'. True. However, I feel the need to write something on it. More so, because it is about a mental disorder that is overly represented in movies when its chance of occurance in real life is nearly zero.

Before I move to Amnesia, a very short review of the movie in question.

Reading Books From Every Country : Aisha's List

Today I came across a treasure while scrolling through my Facebook feed. It is a booklist compiled by Aisha Arif Esbhani, a 13 year old based in Karachi, Pakistan. A rare collection it is. It isn't your usual '100 books you must read in your lifetime' collection, where every book is likely to be authored by a British or American.  Aisha's list brings together some of the best books from about 197 countries around the world, containing both original and translated works. It is a list I want to save, share and, of course, keep revisiting to pick the next book to read.

 Text below is reproduced from my post on Facebook.  Scroll a bit downwards to see the list shared by Aisha on her  Facebook page  Reading Books From Every Country

A 13 year old girl, Aisha, is on a mission : Reading books from every country in the world. She has made a list based on recommendations from people all over the world, and, a wonderful list full of promises it is.

A hot afternoon at a beach

Skies don't weep over fallen stars

You needn't take them if you do not desire;

You cannot keep what you don't deserve.

Gittering starlets fallen from sky,

touched your ground as ashes;

Chaste showers that rains over you,

Turned muddy puddles at your feet.

I get it.

You are better off

Without puddles and ashes.

You do not need

rains and glitters.

Maybe starlets should have stayed

where they were.

Maybe rains shouldn't have showered,

when your land wasn't parched.

Fallen things are lost, if, not owned.

Skies don't weep over fallen stars;

Clouds don't mourn befouled water;

Even if they did,

Shower their gifts, they will.

They won't stop.

You needn't take them if you don't desire;

You cannot keep what you do not deserve.

On Skies and Fallen Stars

'Skies don't weep over fallen stars.'

I had penned down those words in between other lines in a rush of emotions.Why skies and fallen stars? I couldn't see why I had chosen those words. Yet the line felt familiar. As I repeated the words to myself, I remembered. That half -forgotten poem from my 9th standard Hindi textbook. - Jo beeth gayi so baath gayi


Ah. Those lines...

जीवन में एक सितारा था
माना वह बेहद प्यारा था
वह डूब गया तो डूब गया

There was a star in life. Very dear it was. When it fell, it fell...

And then:

कितने इसके तारे टूटे
कितने इसके प्यारे छूटे
जो छूट गए फिर कहाँ मिले
पर बोलो टूटे तारों पर
कब अम्बर शोक मनाता है

How many of its stars have broken... how many loved ones have been lost to it...

What is lost is what it cannot get back

But, does the sky mourn over fallen stars?


The next stanza is equally beautiful :

मधुवन की छाती को देखो
सूखी कितनी इसकी कलियाँ
मुर्झाई कितनी वल्लरियाँ
जो मुर्झाई फिर कहाँ खिली
पर बोलो सूखे फूलों पर
कब मधुवन शोर मचाता है

जो बीत गई सो बात गई


I knew that old poem had created an impression on me in my schooldays. Yet, to have its lines coming back to me when I was writing what I thought something 'original'... It is intriguing and exciting at the same time. Late Shri Bachchan's poetry was about moving on despite the losses one suffers. When I wrote about fallen stars, losses, life or moving on weren't was I was thinking about. My thoughts were on a superficial level, tinged with vanity and annoyance. One thing lead to another, and 'Jo beeth gayee tho baath gayee' dawned on me.


Well. What is done is done. What has happened has happened. There's always more to do, and more things are going to happen. What has been given away doesn't make one poorer, when one's ability to give is not a finite, exhaustible entity.And there you have it : Skies don't weep over fallen stars






जो बीत गई सो बात गई -
हरिवंशराय बच्चन

जो बीत गई सो बात गई
जीवन में एक सितारा था
माना वह बेहद प्यारा था
वह डूब गया तो डूब गया
अम्बर के आनन को देखो
कितने इसके तारे टूटे
कितने इसके प्यारे छूटे
जो छूट गए फिर कहाँ मिले
पर बोलो टूटे तारों पर
कब अम्बर शोक मनाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई 


जीवन में वह था एक कुसुम
थे उसपर नित्य निछावर तुम
वह सूख गया तो सूख गया
मधुवन की छाती को देखो
सूखी कितनी इसकी कलियाँ
मुर्झाई कितनी वल्लरियाँ
जो मुर्झाई फिर कहाँ खिली
पर बोलो सूखे फूलों पर
कब मधुवन शोर मचाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई 


जीवन में मधु का प्याला था
तुमने तन मन दे डाला था
वह टूट गया तो टूट गया
मदिरालय का आँगन देखो
कितने प्याले हिल जाते हैं
गिर मिट्टी में मिल जाते हैं
जो गिरते हैं कब उठतें हैं
पर बोलो टूटे प्यालों पर
कब मदिरालय पछताता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई 


मृदु मिटटी के हैं बने हुए
मधु घट फूटा ही करते हैं
लघु जीवन लेकर आए हैं
प्याले टूटा ही करते हैं
फिर भी मदिरालय के अन्दर
मधु के घट हैं मधु प्याले हैं
जो मादकता के मारे हैं
वे मधु लूटा ही करते हैं
वह कच्चा पीने वाला है
जिसकी ममता घट प्यालों पर
जो सच्चे मधु से जला हुआ
कब रोता है चिल्लाता है
जो बीत गई सो बात गई।।

Lost in Dwarasamudra : Memories, Pictures and Sculptures

Dwarasamudra...   a name rich with history.

A thousand years ago, the mighty Hoysala kings built a capital city. They ruled their subjects from this city; they walked among the sculptures of its temple complexes to worship their gods; they sat in those mantapas with carved pillars, flanked by their court, as they hosted many a dancer and musicians. And a thousand years ago, they lost it. 

Black, White and Pink

Everyone has been writing on demonetization. There have been thousands of posts, articles, tweets, status updates over multitude of online and offline platforms on the same topic. I have developed a sudden liking to the topic now that it is slowly going out of fashion.

Introduction

What opinion I have on demonetization? None I want to propagate.
Do I belong to pro-Modi or anti-Modi group over the topic? Neither.
Do I care at all for the well being of our country? Of course, I do.
Then, how could I be without opinions and allegiances? Not sure.
Well... Is that all I wanted to talk about? Not exactly.
What I am going to do is to summarize all Pro/white and Anti/black theories I have ever heard so far, and then try to reach a conclusion.

A Lonely Pup Outside

 A small dog outside my window is moaning piteously. Sad and full of agony... It is as though it cannot make sense of the situation it finds it self in.

When I hear, I see a picture of happy little pup. Living with her family, cared for, loved, listened to and trusting. Then one fine day, she finds herself in streets. With no one caring, no one feeding, no one listening. Abandoned by those who she believed loved her.

Is she weeping for her family? Is she weeping because they abandoned her? Is she heartbroken that they broke her trust? Is she inconsolable over the cruelty of the world? Or is she asking 'why me? what did I do to deserve this?'

God. It is so distressing.


On happier times,
She would be playful, and would get naughty with her siblings
She would wage her tail lovingly and chase behind kids
She would look up at her family with shining eyes everytime they come before her
She would roll up in dust, bathing in sunline, blissful at the beauty of life.