A most rewarding evening

"How many times can I tell you, that it's 'trunk' maa..not ta-dunk"

Although I misquote from a prize-winning book here, it set me thinking about the disdain and contempt that is often acquired by some upon learning of the English language. The borrowed superiority clearly visible that evening in the swishing silk sarees and eyebrows permanently raised above noses looking down upon lesser mortals, and these were just the women. The men in the audience disguised their contempt in carefully tousled hair and well worn silk or in mothballed tweed, reading glasses poised in hands, their fingertips stained by tell-tale cigarette tar. Everyone in that gathering wandered the lobby of the Nehru Center with that knowing air that storks appear to have when stepping through the bulrushes, that need to be recognized as superior to say, the fish in the waters. Here, I was the outsider. Though suitably camouflaged, I was guilty of knowing that I did not belong.

'women come and go, talking of Michelangelo...'

A chocolate-coated pair of lips exhale at my side. The perfume must be expensive, for it begins choking the living daylights out of me. "Haven't seen you after the vee-dee-yaah que-and-eh?" The accent reminds me of apple-pie laced with arsenic. I am tempted to speak my mind, but the silver around my neck allows me to mutter but a faint 'oh' and leave it at that. Fortunately she is distracted by another, and she leaves me to read the SMS that offers respite. There would be faces in whose familiarity I would find shelter. Reading books is such a solitary occupation, and I am one of those who is happiest when alone in their company. Then why would I be seeking familiarity in a gathering that was about to celebrate authorship? I have plenty of time to think about this as my rabid punctuality has left me plenty of minutes before the sandglass is overturned and seats are offered, turning readers into audience.

Maybe I am over-reacting, but the air seems to have a bite to it, venomous, not cold. The publishers as well as the published are here. Rubbing shoulders with the desirous...What am I doing here?

I find amusement as people struggle to seek seats in the 'reserved for invitees' rows, and when two nosy ladies (who offer me more reason for suppressed laughter as the evening progresses) sitting next to me, rather unforgivably and impolitely ask, why I look familiar, I give in to the temptation and in my sexiest sibilant hiss, lie happily, "not famous enough, I'm afraid, but if it helps, I was one of the nominees a couple of years ago"... They sigh, happy to have spotted a writer. I hate myself.

But then the lights dim and transport me into a world of words where the gods are invoked and invited to the gathering by Aruna Sairam. Her voice is definitely soaked in orange honey and chocolate. And I know the pleas work because the harpies sitting beside me are silenced and I forget to brush away the crumbs of a chocolate covered shortbread bar that I have sneaked in the folds of my saree, past the ushers who had raucously reminded as we made our way to the seats just a while ago, 'no food and drink inside'.

'I'm nobody, who are you?'

I lick the chocolate off my fingers in the quiet absence of lights as I take in the readings of recently translated works from regional languages. A minor break between the readings allows those two cooing pigeon-chested women sitting next to me make remarks about everything from the 'need to wear' black for a reading to why it was pure hoity-toityness when the compere insisted on pronouncing the name of the author as the Bengali 'rotho' and not the simple 'rath' as spelt in the Queen's own. But who cared when one was tasting that slice of life at a police station in Calcutta?

'the minstrel of far-away climes'

Baul is the street philosopher, his feet caked from the shifting tides of the Ganga, his words at once simple, at once profound, whipped the few nodding heads awake, and made my evening so much brighter. The songs of Lalan Fakir put a salve to my irritation with the section of the audience I found myself in. How we get identified by the threads we wear and the rosaries we carry said the baul in song...and I detached myself happily from my neighbors, transported into an 'appreciate' mode. There are more readings, this time from the novels written in English. I have never been a fan of audio books, but this time I close my eyes and feel the anger and get irritated with the policeman who boarded the boat with a gun...

'its time we allowed Jane Austen to retire from our curriculum'

For someone who has spent girlhood sighing over Darcy and dreaming of the rough and ready Heathcliff, words to this effect by none other than U.R Anantha Murthy would automatically produce a snort of utter disbelief. But that would be on some other day. Now, I was clapping my hands with the rest simply because of the context in which they were said. I suppose the time has come for a boy from Kashmir to read novels set in Orissa and for someone deep down South to read Manipuri short stories. I sighed and snuggled deeper in my chair. I had my favorites marked out from the shortlist, and the awards were soon to be announced. I admit freely that I had read only 'The Brain fever Bird' and 'Moving On' from the English short-list, and 'Waiting for Rain' and 'Yantrarudha' from the 'translated into English' section, but still hoped that one of the books I had read would win.

The grace and the dignity of the authors and the selectors overwhelmed me, and I knew then that it did not matter whether the huge checks (literally) reminded me a bit of a cricket man-of-the-match presentation (from the distance I think the awardees themselves felt a bit foolish posing with them for the cameras), it did not matter whether the audience was in silks or sackcloth, that somewhere I had hated the idea that literature needed sponsors, nothing mattered. It was fitting homage to words, and a tribute to men and women who could string them together for the rest of us who would be so mesmerised by their art that we would then proceed to forget dinners, forget tending to offspring, forget to water the geraniums, feed the cat...

Clutching the book of excerpts, savoring the happy noise of the literati feeding under the fairy lights after the ceremony, I come face to face with the man who is no more just a name who recommends books at Crossword, he is the amazing self-confessed omnivore of words: R.Sriram, the force behind these awards. I thank him but I know how inadequate and inarticulate I feel. I come back home, the cool January breeze whipping my hitherto ruly hair into their usual frenzy dreaming about being a part of the Hutch-Crossword-Caferati Poetry Awards someday, completely humbled by my experience of the evening.

The Hutch Crossword Book Awards for the Year 2004, were announced that evening. Amitav Ghosh won the English Fiction category for his book The Hungry Tide, and Astride The Wheel Yantrarudha by Chandrasekhar Rath/J Nayak won the Indian Language Fiction Translation Category.

The shortlisted books include: 'If You Are Afraid Of Heights' by Raj Kamal Jha, 'Moving On' by Shashi Deshpande, 'The Brainfever Bird' by I. Allen Sealy; 'Bait' by Mahasweta Devi/Sumanta Banerjee, 'In The Name Of The Mother' by Mahasweta Devi/Radha Chakravarty, 'The Birth Of The Maitreya' by Bani Basu/Sipra Bhattacharya, 'The Outcaste Akkarmashi' by Sharankumar Limbale/Santosh Bhoomkar and 'Waiting For Rain' by Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay/Nilanjan Bhattacharya.

(references to 'trunk not ta-dunk', the 'slice of life at the police station', 'the boarding of the boat by a policeman with a gun', etc. were part of readings from the shortlisted books)

Promises

I do.
I lie.
You too.
And we both wonder
Why fairytales
Don't come true.

Dusk Haiku

It’s that time of the evening:
Past sunset, past deadlines.
And you’re not here.

Siesta

What dreams are these
that puzzle so,
dreams that tease
and refuse to go…

What dreams that haunt
but shy from sense,
dreams that want
temporal tense…

What faces these
that flit like flies
through an hour’s ease,
and tantalise?

Some afternoon I’ll know
I’ve dreamt my last,
when this pageant will show
my place in its cast.

***

Meeting the Shadow

I meet his shadow
making magic with the light,
and I lean against the comfort
of it's vast spread
over the bedroom wall.
And just as I get
comfortable and secure,
It turns and sharpens
into a blade-thin cold grey line,
deserting the morning sun-ray
and disappearing into
an invisible pin-point.

I shiver.
What would I do with the real man?
This was only the shadow.

Infused with music

It is ten to midnight and I am sitting in an ocean of black heads
listening to Amjad Khan playing Rag Rageshri. In the glow of light
spreading from the stage I look over the audience - I estimate it to
be about 200 in an average row, and nearly 80 rows - so about 15,000
people under this huge tent structure. Three musicians are sitting on
the large stage, elaborately and tastefully done up with large motifs
of tablas and veenas and an esraj punctuating a batik texture in cream
and green. A sign proclaims "The Dover Lane Music Conference - 52nd
ssssion."

The concert will go on through the night, and so will this audience -
a phenomenon possible only in Kolkata. This Music Conference is held
every year from 22nd to 26th January, with whole night programs on the
22nd and 25th, because 23d and 26th are always holidays in Kolkata.
Much of this crowd has waited for this event all year, and jostled for
tickets, and will tell the story the rest of the year. Tonight itself
we have Amjad, followed by Jasraj and then Hariprasad Chaurasia will
be coming in just before dawn, and then the lesser known rising stars
will continue through the day.

The sound system is excellent, and works magnificiently even here
almost at the very back where I am sitting, laptop illuminating my
face as I type. No one's mobiles going off - but there were some
heated tempers in the back a few minutes ago - an unseemly altercation
had begun and the volume kept going up until the musicians paused,
looking in this direction and the crowd started shouting, even more
loudly - "DadA - bAire jAn..." (Please leave!). So much for mobile
phones - a woman two seats from me has her shawl over her head and is
talking to someone in sotto voce - "if there are problems call me," I
can hear her saying of some domestic crisis.

Amjad has moved into the gat, after playing an almost non-existent
AlAp. The rising star in today's billing is the tabla player,
Aniruddha Chatterjee, who is doing a fabulous job - he has the showy
looks of Zakir Hussain, fair under a thick crop of dark black hair,
which he swings around vehemently as he produces one drumroll after
another. The lady next to me informs me he is the son of Anindo
Chatterjee - so he has a good lineage - I wonder is it mostly the
training that makes a musician specialize into a particular instrument
- I mean, the genes are surely not that varied across instruments
... But then beyond a point, music is about ideas, which is why
someone like Ravi Shankar can be guru to flautists and guitar players.
Amjad himself is of course, quite the showman, his sarod glistening
under his silver hair - and this piece is off to a great start. The
third man on stage is playing the small drone instrument that is
increasingly replacing tanpuras everywhere.

Amjad is in full flow and the tabla is pulsating along and I can see
heads nodding among this sleepless mass - and looking again at this
ocean of black heads I wonder how the same music can electrify all
these thousands of brains, can keep them from sleep ... now Amjad is
speaking some bols into the mike - in sync with what the tabla is
playing, it is part of his attempt to draw the audience into the
performance...

I remember those snow-bound Rochester winters when I first heard about
the Dover Lane Music conference from the passionate guitar-playing
Debashis, who would tell me of how they would be there at 5 in the
morning, listening to the master's from the very front. But for me,
this is the first Dover Lane I have been in. Tickets are hard to come
by, but Didi with her usual connectedness has managed to wrangle a
ticket for me from a friend, with the warning that "it's not a VIP
seat, you may be sitting next to her tabalchi," - which tells the
world how much we think of the non-stellar musicians...

Now the music has reached a stage where Amjad is playing small
phrases, not quite a sawaal jabab - that is no doubt coming - but
something more like broken up fragments reaching a som after three,
five or six refrains.

The tabla man, the young Chatterjee, is no doubt very well
trained,.. his basic skills on the tabla are on display as Amjad plays
a slow rhythm, letting him go into a flurry and sprinkling the
drumroll patter with amazingly sharp notes - as striking as blue
flowers in the yellow of a mustard field - and one listens to him -
actually in a live performance such as this, one also revels in seeing
him - and one wonders what one must do to get one's fingers to be
capable of such extraordinary feats - somehow it seems that the class
of musicians coming up today - certainly the tabla players - are well
ahead of the previous generation, in sheer virtuosity if not in the
maturity of their temperament, which of course I am not connoisseur
enough to plumb... Now Amjad is playing a refrain and the tabla has
gone into ecstasies again - at the end of this phase the crowd bursts
out clapping... and I wonder how insulted a western orchestra would
feel if the audience were to clap at a crescendo...

The couple in front of me have their binoculars out and for once,
I wish I had one - so many times I have lugged one around from place
to place without it ever coming into use ... again the tabla is in his
staccato roll punctuated with these very clear "ta"s and "na"s - what
is amazing is that all these beats are coming from the same right hand
- both the roll and these sharp notes in between - actually now that I
look at the stage backdrop it seems almost like the tabla roll - a
dense texture of greens and cream, with these large promintent blocks
standing out with their musical instruments. ... In some sense all
art is about contrast - you weave what is considered a neutral,
pleasing tapestry, and on it you throw in a contrast - you draw the
eye of the viewer into the frame, and then surprise him; at the end of
a story, you challenge the expectations of the reader in some
unexpected way. And the surprises have to keep changing with the
times - what was a great "twist" to Victor Hugo, is today mere
melodrama.

This is perhaps something the young Anirudh Chatterjee understands
very well, for he has plenty of surprises up his sleeve. This piece
in particular, Amjad is also giving him a lot of leeway. Now both the
sarod and the tabla are going such hammer and tongs - and it sounds
like that almost literally - and of course, such high levels of energy
cannot sustain and the piece comes to an end amid a thunderous
applause.

Once the music finishes, we realize how tense we have been with the
rising tempo, how anxious our minds have made our bodies. This is
perhaps why music is so primitive, so ingrained in us. This is why
how music predates language. Even the most spastic child who responds
to nothing else, responds to music.

Once the silence sinks in, the crowd relaxes mind and bocy, and
stretches languorously as it waits to see what will come next. It is
quarter to one, and people are looking askance at me and my laptop,
and anyway the battery is running down so I shut it down.

----
This year's Dover Lane Conference ended today, 26th Jan.

cause and effect

it was an ordinary
everyday conversation
routine almost
between two friends.
until you forgot your
extraordinary,
everyday, reliable restraint,
and called me sweetheart.

i was simply walking,
listening to you
gloat over conquests
of the female kind,
of the workplace kind,
when you changed
the equation between us,
and called me sweetheart.

an innocuous looking,
boring old telephone
pole, was listening in.
it was taken aback
unhappy, unwilling
to take this sudden change.
it took one surprised step,
and tapped me on my forehead.

My House

I live in a big house
The biggest you’ll ever see,
It’s so big, you might need
A map to find me.

It’s airy, my big house
‘Cross ventilation’ they say.
If all windows are open,
I’ll get blown away.

And light streams in
From really big windows.
Floors are polished clean,
So no spots, no shadows.

One large leather sofa
That smells of old money,
And a really big tv,
Keep me company.

With fencing on one side,
The sea on the other three,
I have no need for visitors,
They have no need for me.

A little blue bird stopped
To check me out one day,
‘Who and what keeps you in’
Cocked its head to say.

Not waiting for answers,
I wasn’t ready to give anyway.
I wondered about the question
Long after it flew away.

I’m a little scared of crowds
Not ready to face the sun.
But now the sofa offers no rest,
The tv no distraction.

My really big house
Is empty, I’m alone in it,
I’ll send you a map
If you promise to come visit.

Dead Music

My music, my music
Where is my music?
Did I in a fit of despair
Throw them in the dark somewhere?
Now all chords hang
From the branches of trees
Entangled, Absalom-like.

It seems meaningless to play
DC al Fine
DC al Fine,
And transpose
Notes
From strings to branches
And watch them break and die.

Caferati at the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival - 1

Caferati swept the top three prizes at the Orange-Crossword SMS Poetry Competition we linked to here. Perhaps, as Manisha says, it's because we had prior experience? :) Anyway, here are the winning entries:

tis d wkend;wot plans?
nt sayn d nyt's alpyn
& wintr rustls twixt d sheets.
nt sayn d windO stares insomnac,@ d hiway.
nt sayin i w8,dd u 4get?
only askn-
tis d wkend;wot plans?

© Annie Zaidi



Cud v b like that *ship
Boldly c-king cvlizashuns
So v don't disturb
Old ways of life?
Let's just love and leave

© manisha lakhe



cellular creature
now part of my D.N.A.
gladden my heart: beep.

© Peter Griffin

Those men in their own land

The edges of their dreams
are tarnished by
gunpowder soot
The hopes covered by layers
of blood and grime
Naughty-boy school shoes
trampled by army boots.

The spires of their temples
have toppled even
as their God lives on
feebly in their hearts.
The light in their women's eyes
has dulled to an ash-grey.

Did they want war?
Much has happened.
But the world will still say
they were not men enough
to just keep their children safe
and bring home the cattle
every evening.

The Dance

Its how well you can dance, my son.
Do you know how to do the two-step?
Know when to take
two steps forward when he moves back?
two steps back when she comes closer?
Perhaps twirl out sideways to stay sane,
Swirl in tighter for comfort.

Waltz on your dreams,
And stay in a Foxtrot box by day.
Salsa to feel your freedom,
Jive with Joy.
Just dance.

Remember, it takes two to Tango
And sway slowly through the tough times –
the music will change.
Its easy, my boy.
It’s only about how well you can dance
while you listen to
Life’s music.

Untitled

Here comes the next potential buyer.

He wants a shell
Pretty enough
To adorn his drawing room,
Show-case or bedroom, or
Wherever he wants
(and not too expensive).

With luck
He won't
Bring it close to his ear,
Else he will
Hear your waves
Swirling inside me.

Haze..

Silvery slivers and silent silhouettes
days blurring into a smoky haze
gazing at distant shapes
crushed cigarette butts
smouldering spiralling
downwards in a daze
ashy thrashy tips
of left-over lovers
and a cappucino
in bed.

You and I : Questions Forever

You and I : Questions Forever

When words fail to define
When pictures fail to potray
When thoughts fail to reflect
When smiles fail to brighten
When answers fail to solve
Its what a day What a day
when question fail to ask
Questions with no words
Just memories of you and I
We, Us and All.
Here, There and Everywhere.
Today , Tomorrow and Forever.

The Guilt

A guilt immeasurable,
Born from knowing,
My life remains immutable;
Unchanged at your coming.

Your momentous entrance,
Into this world unforgiving,
Mere ripple on the surface,
Not an upheaval - shattering.

Your glowing visage, momentarily
Soothes my burdened soul,
Still I cling to the dreary baggage,
Of every unrealizable goal.

Self-absorption continues,
Unabated in intensity,
Motherly sacrifices don’t imbue,
My profligate propensity.

Tears fail to rend my calm,
Pleadings don’t beseech,
Wracking sobs don’t twist my arm,
And for the door I reach.

Muttering sweet nothings with a kiss,
Saying I'll soon be back,
Knowing you'll forget all this,
Confident you'll bounce back.

Only the burden on my soul;
This guilt immeasurable,
Will never let me feel whole;
Just incomplete, quite incapable.

Transition

"...but that was in another country,
And besides, the wench is dead."
The Jew of Malta

Sitting by windows thus, I've seen
lush and lustrous green
metamorphose to a desert's arid shapes.

I've seen subtly-scented spring
turn astringent under summer's searing scythe,
and attain in desiccated death
a grotesque, foetid flowering.

I've seen, I've seen...love's luscious fruit
unflesh to bone, to skeletons
bleached smooth by pitiless suns...
I've smelt carrion long ere decay took root

on this deceptive pilgrim trail.
Expert now, I gauge each evanescent season
to within a trice of treason.
There's no allure left now in your smiling veil.
***

I Am 5000 Years Old - A Rant

I Am 5000 Years Old - A Rant
thoughts that came to me as i watched Amu

I perpetrate the most inhuman atrocities on my own.
I try to kill myself, I plunder my own house, I burn one part of it,
and in the other part I throw a party.
My left hand tries to cut my right,
the right meanwhile is busy fighting with my legs.
My eyes dont trust my ears and my mouth I use only to bite.

I rape my own women,
and deny my daughters and sisters even basic rights
then go out and talk about how evil my neighbour is.
My children roam on the streets, naked, hungry,
while I spend millions on lifeless stones, and inarticulate wooden objects.
And for these again, I fight tooth and nail. I call these mother and father,
while the mother earth I plunder, strip her naked and spit on her.

My house is full of grain, that rots while my brothers and sisters starve.
I am careful not to feed them for I do not trust them to be my own.
I rather let the grain rot.
My tanks are full of water, and my neighbour dies with thirst
I take precaution lest even a drop escape my tanks, and he live by that.

I betray my brother and sell my sister
I stand by and watch as they come and beat my father
As long as my skin is untouched I bother not.
I scheme with them for my neighbours downfall. Or standby and watch
And then one day they come to enslave me and I am helpless.

I realise my mistake. But it is too late.
I have no ears, no eyes, no arms and no legs to fight.
No kith and kin alive, no neighbour around
the earth has abandoned me. And I am alone.

I see that 5000 years of history has repeated once again
and its time I died to be reborn, like a phoenix.
But as I die, a question haunts me.
Why do i have to be a phoenix?
Why cant I remember the lessons?
Even though I am 5000 years old.

Rant - Music contests, a sham?

A girl fainted, a boy violently smashed his cell phone to the ground, a girl cajoled, and groveled with the judge and said she loved him, and above all, the judge, Adnan Sami wept. A mother tearfully says her daughter visited all temples to ask God to intervene and have her selected. She lost.

What is all this tamasha? You may ask. It is Channel V’s Super Singer music contest sponsored by Samsung. Read carefully the last three words, “Sponsored by Samsung,” the most important part of the contest, I guess.

From the roller coaster emotions, the frustration one sees on screen, one would tend to weep along with them, or, sit back and call it a sham.

Yes I am calling it a sham. Because why is there only one big prize when there are so many aspirants? Why aren’t there ten prizes for the best? Why is there only one judge when there should have been more? Why? Why? A lot of questions arise.

I think the youth of India is being misled by these contests. Consider the very basis of these questionable events. A jobless youth thinks he has singing talent (like we all do) and enters this contest. He/she waits in queue, he/she is nervous, he/she practices endlessly and ultimately rejected. He/she is distraught. His grief is endless because he/she had seen himself winning the jackpot and enjoying all the wealth and now he/she faces defeat.

How will he/she show his face to his friends, relatives, all those who know that he/she has entered the contest. He/she has been captured on television, crying, a loser, a loser they all would say. Imagine the frustration, the unspeakable torment in his/her mind.

The companies that sponsor these jamborees – Samsung in this case – do get the exposure in the media, the popularity. The channels get their television rating points. The celebrity judges – they were there for the publicity in the first place – get their place in the sun and exposure for their glamorous persona.

But what do those who faced defeat get? Frustration, anger, disillusionment, and just plain old defeat. I guess I will stop now because I have said enough.

I Go Alone

I go alone,
Alone on distant shores,
Far far away from home,
Closer and closer to a future,
Of dreams and desires.
A beacon of Truth,
I go alone,
Spreading hope with my smiles,
Holding hands with those,
Brave to live,
In dreams and desires.

Invincible

I sit at my desk, hard at work
but a feeling - invincible mad -
has come over me. In all I do
in my nerve center there is a ringing glad
that just won't stop. The sun
is shining, the sky is blue:
all's well with the world...    It's
been like this other days too -
then why this warm orange glow,
this vermilion hue?
     And its not as if
I am even thinking of you.

Cat

eyes shut
i make room
for desires,
and snuggle
into your warmth.
stretching slowly
against you,
settling into
a purr ball.
i exhale.
your shirt
smells of rest.
you kiss my head.
my eyes
are still shut.
but my insides,
are lit up in smiles.

when you laugh

when you laugh
it is like rain on parched soil
long after you leave
I waft in the aroma

Blue & Silver kite

BLUE

Standing by the blue lights
Looking over a mass of heads
I find her at the concert

I run
I stumble
I squash a few toes

A smile, a giggle
My stomach churns
That beautiful knotty empty feeling

The smell of her nape
The warmth of the hug
The lights dim down

Pagan Baul courts us
A gateway lights up
She fills my senses

A boat with fairy lights
Goes past
Shaking us in its wake

She gets up and walks
Away
A bit
Slowly
My phone beeps
“Lovely evening na…”

A connection made
The music plays
In our hearts

Standing by the blue lights
Looking over a mass of heads
I lose her at the concert


© Arjun Chandramohan Bali. 2005




SILVER KITE

“Left of the blue lights”
The message beeps
My head turns
I smile
He is here!

I hope I look alright
I run
No! I walk
To the left of the blue lights

Should I hug him?
Kiss him?
Or just shake hands?

My heart races
My skin tingles
There he is

Ohhh! he smells nice
A heartbeat
A hand squeeze
Smiles exchanged

Why do I see you so less?
You look older from the year gone by
The Baul sings about his home

We sit
We listen

Our hearts meet
And feet

You dance
I sway

A happy moment in time
A silver kite glides in the night sky

My dream breaks
My heart aches
I get up to go away

I walk
A bit slowly
And turn
Left Of the blue lights

© Arjun Chandramohan Bali. 2005

Experiment*

*Long ago someone had asked me if I could write pornography; this was my tentative essay in that genre by way of reply. Later, I was told that it belonged more in the realm of erotica.

Those are honey sacs your lips,
perennially sprung:
opiate drips
for my tongue.

In your breasts’ ambrosial streams
my mouth slakes
the thirst of parched dreams,
as my body wakes

to life – or woos sweet death
in the final flood,
my final breath
expended in your luscious bud.

***

Riff

under orion's shadow
and a waxing moon,
fate did sprinkle
a handful of stardust
on you and me last evening.

"give in, give in," said the stars.
but you, determined to be difficult,
let me drown my desires
in the capuccino swirls,
and the last few crumbs
of unholy dark chocolate
sticking to the lazy curves
of a silver spoon called need.

Listless

i lie here
silent, quiet,
waitingfor what?

i sit here
solitary, pensive, relaxed????
but why?

i wander
here and there, everywhere
in search of?

a shrivelled seed of torpor,
a blob of lifelessness clothed in

a shell of humming activity
and vivacious energy...

run, you madman, run...
race the treadmill to death

stretch your undersized limbs
and expand your man-brain to see

that all is silent
all is dead
all is not what it seems

so where was i?
oh, yes, i remember

i sit here
lifeless, hungry, obese
shamed before the world,
hiding in plain sight..

and laughter..
sometimes mocking, sometimes garruluous
sometimes intimidating, sometimes unnerving

and ridicule...
always deriding, always scornful
always derogatory,
never helpful.

so i slide
and slide
further and further
into the abyss... YIPPEE

and i try to dance
but both my feet are turning left
and nothing is right...
anymore.

utekkare,

pranay

One Look

I saw you.
Until then
I thought
Christ cruel
To assign adultery
And its judgement
To a glance.
I saw you,
And knew
Christ was
Dead right.

Revenge of the Goddess

For baba, because he told me the legend when I was a kid
And for Anila Di, because she asked WHY

The Legend

In the medieval fort of Amer, home to ten generations of Kacchwaha rulers of Jaipur, stands the temple of Goddess Kali – known here as Sila Devi. The statue is carved out of a single rock of marble, jet black in color. From generations, the priests of the temple of Sila Devi are Bengalis, an absurdity, in the heart of Rajputana, hundreds of miles away from Bengal. Legend has it that the statue itself belonged to the Bara Bhuiyas (Bara – 12; Bhu –land; iya –owner) of Bengal.

There are many myths about how the statue of Sila Devi came to Amer from Bengal. The most popular one runs thus. After his successful campaigns in Deccan and Afghanistan, Raja Man Singh was commissioned by Akbar to expand the Mughal Empire eastwards. After overrunning Bihar and Orissa, the Mughal advance was halted at Bengal.

Bengal at that time was split into small fiefdoms, which were ruled by 12 Bhuiyas. These 12 Bhuiyas were not ordinary landowners, but small kings with armies of their own. Under the leadership of Isa Khan, the routed general of Orissa, they united and challenged the might of the Mughal Empire. 17 battles were fought, and the Moguls lost each time.

Then one day, the goddess Sila Devi, appeared in the dreams of Raja Man Singh and told him that as long as she sits in Bengal, he would never conquer it. According to the story, the goddess asked Man Singh to steal her statue from the temple in Bengal and install it in Amer.

The 17th attack of the Mughal army on Bengal, which happened after Man Singh, had stolen the statue, led to the fall of the Bhuiyas and Isa Khan. Mughal rule was extended over the entire East. After the conquest of Bengal, Man Singh had the statue of the goddess transported to Amer, where it sits till date, a silent witness to the turbulent events of history.


The Fiction

Man Singh watched the sun disappear behind the fort on the hill. The pale red walls of the fort seemed to glow mysteriously, the sun’s red light adding color to them. From the small window of his tent, he could see the river, meandering on its course, disappearing into the distant horizon. Thick mango and bamboo jungles covered the opposite bank and stretched up to the hill. And he could see the fort of Bikramgarh on top of that hill. Impregnable, unconquered and defiant.

The greenery of the place hurt his senses, which were used to the dry, arid, brown lands of Rajputana. Bengal defied his martial understanding in more ways than one. Man Singh was puzzled and worried.

Inside the tent, Man Singh’s council of war stood in a semi-circle, waiting for their leader to speak, or command them to speak. Bound by the ropes of respect and tradition, they would not breathe if their leader willed them not to. Five men, brave warriors, able generals, mighty soldiers, each of them, stood like school children in front of Raja Man Singh, Commander in chief of the Mughal forces attacking Bengal.

Outside could be heard the myriad noises that are part of an army 50,000 strong. Neighing of horses, trumpeting of elephants, distant shouts of men on the watch, horses’ hoofs – messengers leaving and returning to the camp, clinking of metal as men removed their armors, an occasional laugh, a retort, a shout, groans, whispers – distinct yet miscellaneous. But this noise, combined in strength found itself weak and incapable of intruding upon the ominous silence within the tent. It just hung around at the edge of the tent, like a playful child that wants to make its elders aware of its presence and yet is afraid of the consequences.

Finally Man Singh spoke, his voice heavier than the sword he held, more powerful than his arms. “Twelve times Zorawar Singh. Twelve times we have been defeated by Isa khan and the Bhuiyas. The Mughal name is being laughed at across the world. Rajput valour is being doubted. In Delhi, the Jahanpanah grows impatient. The morale of our men is broken. We have more men, we have more cavalry and yet victory remains elusive to us. What magic or witchcraft is this? What erroneous strategy of war makes us fall every time?”

Zorawar Singh, trusted lieutenant, veteran of many battles, with more wound marks on his body than hair on his head, chose to remain silent. He had no answer to his master’s questions. No one in the room had any answer.

Six months ago, Emperor Akbar had decided to expand the Mughal Empire into the East. Mughal rule was at the height of glory, extending far into Afghanistan in the west and up to Sri Lanka in the south. The east however still remained out of reach and the province of Bengal, queen of the east, a land rich and fertile would be a key conquest. Man Singh was put in charge of the army, with some of the bravest Mughal and Rajput generals under his command.

But the campaign had proved to be an ill-fated one till now. The fort of Bikramgarh, which stood at the gate of the road to Bengal, proved to be impregnable. Battle after battle was lost to the united forces of Bengal’s 12 Bhuiyas and Isa Khan the Afghan general. The Mughal army, though battle hardened, was unused to the ruthless, wily, guerrilla tactics of the Afghans and Bhuiyas.

Man Singh recalled the last battle that they fought. Where victory had eluded them so narrowly and he had lost his son Durjansingh. The Mughal army, under Durjan’s command, had crossed the river and was attacking in full strength. They encountered the Afghans at the base of the hill. Durjan’s strategies allowed the Mughals to out-maneuver the Afghans. They fought with skill and bravery, avoiding previous mistakes.

The Mughals had managed to break the enemy formation, destroy its right and left flanks and were driving the center back to the gates of Bikramgarh. The battle had been pitched and fierce. The ground had become slippery with blood, and men were stepping on the bodies of their fallen comrades, killing, stabbing, and cutting without mercy. The Afghan army was bound to fall that day, and the Mughal flag would have flown on the fort. Durjan, the brave general was standing in the middle of the bloodbath, where the fighting was thickest, directing his men, cutting down the enemy like grass.

And then suddenly, an arrow, perhaps in a fluke, pierced straight through Durjan's left eye and passed into his brain. Durjan Singh died on the spot. Seeing their commander fall, the Mughals lost nerve and in an instant the tide of the battle was turned. The Afghan’s seized the moment, and attacked the Mughals with a renewed vigour. And now the victor became the victim, the slayers were being slain; the pushers were being pushed back. By evening, the last of the Mughal soldiers had scurried back across the river and the twelfth battle for Bikramgarh was lost.

“Something must be done to break the alliance of the Bhuiyas and Afghans. Bikramgarh must fall at all cost. Mughal prestige and Rajput honor is at stake” Man Singh’s voice, tempered with the turbulence within, shook the entire tent. He now had a personal agenda. The death of his son must be avenged. Rajput blood could not go vain. How would he return to his subjects in Jaipur if he could not win the fort for which their beloved prince had laid his life?

“Hukum, the goddess protects Bikramgarh. The fort will not fall as long as the goddess Sila Devi remains on her seat in the temple. That is the legend.” It was Himmatsingh, the younger brother of Durjan.

“Then we will fulfill the legend. The goddess will leave her abode. Bikramgarh must fall to us at any cost.” Man Singh was talking to himself. Then he fell abruptly silent. His generals, used to read their leader’s every move and motion, understood that he wanted solitude. They bowed and left his tent quietly.

Alone in his tent, he went and stood near his window, watching the silhouette of Bikramgarh with wishful eyes. “We must fulfill the legend. But how?”, and Raja Man Singh, farzand-i-akbari, lord of Amer fort, leader of the bravest warriors of Hindustan, had no answer to his own question.

Meanwhile, inside the fort of Bikramgarh, beyond the heavily guarded gates, past the massive watch towers, far from the encampments of the Bengal and Afghan armies, and the palaces of Isa khan and the 12 Bhuiyas, at the farthest corner of the fort, where the walls overlooked the sheer precipice of the hill, in an area so desolate and unapproachable that it was left unmanned, two figures could be seen silently approaching in the darkness from two different directions.

In the dark it was difficult to see their faces, but from their figures and their gait it was evident that one was a woman and the other a man.

“Good evening my Princess. How are you doing today?” as they met, the man bowed and said, his tone respectful yet amorous. And then