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Have you been home lately?

That place… do you remember?

where winter afternoons were spent 

basking in the golden glow of the sun

as trees danced a shadowy dance.

Where summers were spent in the 

cool recesses of the shade that home provided.

Where every time the skies poured, it felt like 

the clouds too, were party to this bubble of happiness.

You have been, you say?

Isn’t it truly home? Wont you go back soon?

Wouldn’t it be lovely…

and right, to be home at last?

What? You say you’re home?

I am confused now. 

Dont they say, ‘home is where the heart is’?

Isn’t your heart in the past?

Isn’t nostalgia home?

Wajood

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I realise that as a writer I enjoy poetry the most. It’s simple, variable in the readers’ interpretation and spontaneous. So today’s poem is a Hindi / Urdu one which came to me one morning when I just could not sleep. There were just too many thoughts whirring in my brain and I had to write.

I usually do not like explaining the thought behind a poem because I feel it takes away the possibility of differing opinions and perceptions but, this ones different. This one, is about unrequited love or infatuation. Inspired by a sticky situation that a friend has been in off late and from many stories of unrequited love / feelings (maybe, including mine!), I can safely say that love is indeed a beautiful feeling / emotion, especially romantic love. However, love isn’t forced or that, it does not chain one’s heart. From what I understand now that those Bollywood flicks or old school poems were trying to convey, love is a free emotion and can be felt by anyone for anyone or thing, something that makes you become better – though love for things is greater these days! Won’t kill the read now and will stop here. Read on!


Sketch in black Indian ink on ruled paper

Hindi / Urdu

Kaun tha tu?

Kahan hai tu?

Kaun thi woh, jo padhi tere pyaar mein?

Itni besudh hui tere ishq mein

Ki bhool gayi thi apna wajood main.

Jise ishq samjha tha 

Woh to nadaani samjhi tune.

Ik pal mein mera jahan ban gaya tha tu

Arey haan! Thi to bilkul nadaan hi main.

Par tu to samajhdaar tha? 

Tujhe nahi dikh raha tha?

Kyun behlaya tune mujhe fir?

Kyun nahi apna asli chehra dikhlaya?

Khair, aaj mujhe tujhse nahi hai kuch gila 

Na ki thi tab bhi maine koi shiqayat.

Jis pal tune mere jazbaat ko nakara tha 

Jis pal tune apne banaye sach ko jhutlaya tha

Us pal hi maine apna wajood wapis paaya tha

Shayad us samay tabhi mere muh se sivay hasi ke kuch nahi nikla tha.

Mere mann me chhayi ik ajeeb si shanti thi

Jaise bahut ghane toofan ke beech ek chuppi 

Dabe paon meethe meethe sannate mein mujhe gholi ja rahi ho

Jaise ki wo sab aur kuch nahi has ek sapna tha

Aur ab main jag gayi hun.


English Translation 

Who were you?

Where are you?

Who was she, the one who fell for you?

Was so lost in your love 

That I had lost my self.

What I thought was love

You took it to be silly infatuation.

In a moment, you had become my world.

Oh yes, I was indeed silly.

But, weren’t you wiser?

Could you not see?

Why did you lead me on then?

Why couldn’t you say the truth?

I have nothing against you anyway, now.

Nor did I complain then.


The moment you denied my feelings

The moment you broke the truth that you had built

That moment itself, I found my self again.

Maybe that’s why in that moment, all I could respond with was a smile.


There was a strange sort of peace in my heart

As if in the midst of a terrible storm, a silence had

Creeped up and stirred up sweet silence in my heart, in my being.

As if all of it was a dream

And I am awake now.

Little

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Inktober 2016 day 22’s prompt was little. Like always, an image is formed in the mind and this time it was the pinky finger, the little finger. Why I did not draw that is because not only the time spent on it would be too short but, more importantly, the intention with Inktober is to push the wheels of my brain a little to resonate within the mind, what each prompt would mean.

I started off with the traces of a discussion I had had with a friend of mine. We spoke of how the grandness of nature, Athirapally in particular here, makes one feel so insignificant, so little that all one feels is the power of nature and surrenders to it. The last time I had felt like that was when spending time in the Himalayan mountains. The image that flashed in the head was that of the grandness of the snow clad peaks where everything else seemed too small, too little to think about.

But, it has been some time that I have gone back to those places of wonder and sitting afar in this part of the country all that comes to mind when thinking about it is the LOC, the attacks, terrorism, fear, crisis and war. I had, as a kid, honestly assumed that post the second world war, there would be no war at all. I know that was naive and we can safely say that peace and harmony are far away for a LOT of our “brothers and sisters”. I remember in the innocence of childhood when we would sing the national anthem and read about Bankim Chandra Chatterjee and Tagore and Bose, I would be in awe of these figures who contributed to the nationalist movement back in time. But, the reason that I was in awe of them all was not for defending a certain bordered geography against another country. No, that was never it. I respected, honoured and treasured what I read about them, these heroes and heroines, because of their courage to stand up against inhuman treatments meted out to people of this land who were being tortured and made to feel less human owing to their colour and race. These people stood up for their people who were suffering due to racism. If you look at it objectively, like now back then too, the reason for those acts of cruelty were economic and political power and the subsequent tussle.

But, I wonder today, what is this power that still does not seem to let peace prevail in this land. I am an Indian and I see it just as a part of my identity. When I see fellow Indians walking on the streets, I do not think of them as Bengalis or South Indians or Punjabis – honestly, I am pathetic at guessing people’s “native” and also their age – but, I see them just as Indians. So, what is nationalism today? Why is it being looked at as a necessary “Hindu pride” and why is it also being looked at as “something I don’t wish to associate with” on the other hand? Isn’t Indian pride about not being divided based on principles and beliefs and just accepting the differences? When songs of Indian past and pride on it are sung, why do we forget that all nationalist movement happened to defend humanity and not anyone’s ego or greed?

I think I will leave this unfinished at this point and share the poem that I wrote for this doodle:

Little by little

I see it change, this land 

that I call my home.

Little by little,

the snow melts, not into

waters gleaming but, pools of red.

Little by little,

the cracks in doors 

shut in my face as I peer in to say hello.

Little by little,

the cracks in my heart

widen as smiles grow taut.

 

Elixir

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I have taken up the Inktober challenge this year. It is a first for me and I am thoroughly enjoying it. Today’s theme or prompt was wet and this is what I came up with. I call this, ‘The elixir of life’.

It was a mere bud, closed shut against the light,
As I walked past on that warm summer‘s evening.

Rain arrived.
She poured it’s entirety into each crevice
Transforming every nook of the #landscape.

But, I couldn’t see all that.
I grumbled at the dampness that the rain left in my clothes
Then the splash of water from the puddle, 
As I walked #home one evening, did not help my #spirits either.
I could not bear the #sight and #sounds of the downpour now.

And then, 
I saw her. 
The closed little bud had blossomed.
The incessant raindrops didn’t seem to disturb me now 
‘Cause the beauty of the bloom enraptured me.

The same water drops that drove me mad were the same 
Drops that had made the flower wet and transformed her.
The same drops of water now seemed like, the elixir of life

The last one

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The most fun as well as amusing part of having an anon tumblog was the interactions with various poets, writers and readers over questions. Some would share their own tumblogs while the others would be anon, just like me. Why I like it more is because that enables observation and experience of a kind of objectivity in one’s expression, which otherwise is tainted by one bias or the other.

During one such interaction, I received a question from a reader which went as follows:

“Who would you write your last poem to? What would it be?”

When I first read it, I figured that this was a question to be mulled over, brewing thoughts and experiences and then answering. However, it did not take me more than two minutes to come up with this response, as if I was waiting to tell someone, lest I never get the chance.

“Hmm. This is the first time anyone’s asked me this. I wonder will there ever be a last? I may die the day I stop writing or I may stop writing the day I die. I would prefer the latter. 

I am not sure if I have the answer yet however, if I were writing the last right now I would write to this character in my head. Here it goes,

Have we met before?
Did we talk?
I remember your face,
Only vaguely so.

Did you say something?
Why can’t I hear you though?

The flush of your cheeks
and that twinkle in the eye
does give away your secrets.
Stories of joy and sorrow,
Tales of love untold.

Smile a little more for me,
smile a little for
this will be my last memory.”

Audience

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This is one of my favourites from the archives. Written after yet another visual on 20th March, 2015.

IMG_3896

I don’t know what strand is it here

I somehow

Don’t feel the familiar sense of loss and foreboding

That I had associated with them before.

Its almost as if

You’re sitting at a distance

While I know you’re around.

You’re watching me, with a curiosity

Which only I have known myself to possess.

Perhaps, I pretend not to know hence?

Its a semi – dark room after all with you

Sitting in the shadows on that winged armchair 

Is that glow from the lantern behind you?

You sit with a smile, perhaps?

Holding your chin in your left hand.

Me? Where am I?

Am I being watched or

I am the audience?

Who could tell.

No more?

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There’s a strange sense of melancholy that lingers in my heart.

I know I am here and I know I am happy.

No, I am not depressed and no,

I haven’t lost any thing or any one…

I only long.

I only long for that moment to come

When we are together, when we are not two but, one.

I await that moment when we leap with joy,

jumping towards each other such that when our bodies collide, there is no collision.

No, it isn’t you. It is I who take time.

It is I who takes a while to understand.

I have always had questions, don’t you know that?

But, I have answers now. Oh hell, wait now, I am making my way.

Making my way, to the place where we first met.

Yes, yes that same place. Do you not remember?

The one with the bright windows and white curtains?

The one with the vast blue skies spreading all the way into the horizon.

The one with the wind blowing a gentle music piece with your chimes.

Yes, I will come soon.

Until then, wait just a little more, wait for me, for I have nothing here no more.