This isn't for you
Just like all those
Meaningless
Incoherent
Attempts at words weren't
Like that
Starry
Blurry
Eyed girl
Wasn't
She wrote it for
No one
Because she
Loved no one
She only liked
Watching the world play
The fool
And you play the world
Laughing your candyfloss laugh
I don't know why
I remembered her suddenly
Why I can't let her go
Of her words
Which weren't for you.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Bengalese
Vir Sanghvi comes a somewhat close to describing a bit of Calcutta and Bengalese
Most modern Indian cities strive to rise above ethnicity. Tell anybody who lives in Bombay that he lives in a Maharashtrian city and (unless of course, you are speaking to Bal Thackeray) he will take immediate offence. We are cosmopolitan, he will say indigenously. Tell a Delhiwalla that his is a Punjabi city (which, in many ways, it is) and he will respond with much self-righteous nonsense about being the nation's capital, about the international composition of the city's elite etc. And tell a Bangalorean that he lives in a Kannadiga city and you'll get lots of techno-gaff about the internet revolution and about how Bangalore is even more cosmopolitan than Bombay.
But, the only way to understand what Calcutta is about, is to recognize that the city is essentially Bengali. What's more, no Bengali minds you saying that. Rather, he is proud of the fact. Calcutta's strengths and weaknesses mirror those of the Bengali character. It has the drawbacks: the sudden passions, the cheerful chaos, the utter contempt for mere commerce, the fiery response to the smallest provocation. And it has the strengths (actually, I think of the drawbacks as strengths in their own way). Calcutta embodies the Bengali love of culture; the triumph of intellectualism over greed; the complete transparency of all emotions, the disdain with which hypocrisy and insincerity are treated; the warmth of genuine humanity; and the supremacy of emotion over all other aspects of human existence.
That's why Calcutta is not for everyone. You want your cities clean and green; stick to Delhi. You want your cities, rich and impersonal, go to Bombay. You want them high-tech and full of draught beer, Bangalore's your place. But if you want a city with a soul, come to Calcutta.
When I look back on the years I've spent in Calcutta - and I come back so many times each year that I often feel I've never been away - I don't remember the things that people remember about cities. When I think of London, I think of the vast open spaces of Hyde Park. When I think of New York, I think of the frenzy of Times Square. When I think of Tokyo, I think of the bright lights of Shinjiku. And when I think of Paris, I think of the Champs Elysee. But when I think of Calcutta, I never think of any one place. I don't focus on the greenery of the maidan, the beauty of the Victoria Memorial, the bustle of Burra Bazar or the splendour of the new Howrah 'Bridge'. I think of people. Because, finally, a city is more than bricks and mortars, street lights and tarred roads. A city is the sum of its people. And who can ever forget -or replicate - the people of Calcutta?
When I first came to live here, I was told that the city would grow on me. What nobody told me was that the city would change my life. It was in Calcutta that I learnt about true warmth; about simple human decency; about love and friendship; about emotions and caring; about truth and honesty. I learnt other things too. Coming from Bombay as I did, it was a revelation to live in a city where people judged each other on the things that really mattered; where they recognized that being rich did not make you a better person - in fact, it might have the opposite effect. I learnt also that if life is about more than just money, it is about the things that other cities ignore; about culture, about ideas, about art, and about passion. In Bombay, a man with a relatively low income will salt some of it away for the day when he gets a stock market tip. In Calcutta, a man with exactly the same income will not know the difference between a debenture and a dividend. But he will spend his money on the things that matter. Each morning, he will read at least two newspapers and develop sharply etched views on the state of the world. Each evening, there will be fresh (ideally, fresh-water or river) fish on his table. His children will be encouraged to learn to dance or sing. His family will appreciate the power of poetry. And for him, religion and culture will be in inextricably bound together.
Ah religion! Tell outsiders about the importance of Puja in Calcutta and they'll scoff. Don't be silly, they'll say. Puja is a religious festival. And Bengal has voted for the CPM since 1977. How can godless Bengal be so hung up on a religions festival? I never know how to explain them that to a Bengali, religion consists of much more than shouting Jai Shri Ram or pulling down somebody's mosque. It has little to do with meaningless ritual orsinister political activity.The essence of Puja is that all the passions of Bengal converge: emotion, culture, the love of life, the warmth of being together, the joy of celebration, the pride inartistic ex-pression and yes, the cult of the goddess.
It may be about religion. But is about much more than just worship. In which other part of India would small, not particularly well-off localities, vie with each other to produce the best pandals? Where else could puja pandals go beyond religion to draw inspiration from everything else? In the years I lived in Calcutta, the pandals featured Amitabh Bachchan, Princes Diana and even Saddam Hussain! Where else would children cry with the sheer emotional power of Dashimi, upset that the Goddess had left their homes? Where else would the whole city gooseflesh when the dhakis first begin to beat their drums? Which other Indian festival - in any part of the country - is so much about food, about going from one roadside stall to another, following your nose as it trails the smells of cooking?
To understand Puja, you must understand Calcutta. And to understand Calcutta , you must understand the Bengali. It's not easy. Certainly, you can't do it till you come and live here, till you let Calcutta suffuse your being, invade your bloodstream and steal your soul. But once you have, you'll love Calcutta forever. Wherever you go,a bit of Calcutta will go with you. I know, because it's happened to me. And every Puja, I am overcome by the magic of Bengal. It's a feeling that'll never go away.
Most modern Indian cities strive to rise above ethnicity. Tell anybody who lives in Bombay that he lives in a Maharashtrian city and (unless of course, you are speaking to Bal Thackeray) he will take immediate offence. We are cosmopolitan, he will say indigenously. Tell a Delhiwalla that his is a Punjabi city (which, in many ways, it is) and he will respond with much self-righteous nonsense about being the nation's capital, about the international composition of the city's elite etc. And tell a Bangalorean that he lives in a Kannadiga city and you'll get lots of techno-gaff about the internet revolution and about how Bangalore is even more cosmopolitan than Bombay.
But, the only way to understand what Calcutta is about, is to recognize that the city is essentially Bengali. What's more, no Bengali minds you saying that. Rather, he is proud of the fact. Calcutta's strengths and weaknesses mirror those of the Bengali character. It has the drawbacks: the sudden passions, the cheerful chaos, the utter contempt for mere commerce, the fiery response to the smallest provocation. And it has the strengths (actually, I think of the drawbacks as strengths in their own way). Calcutta embodies the Bengali love of culture; the triumph of intellectualism over greed; the complete transparency of all emotions, the disdain with which hypocrisy and insincerity are treated; the warmth of genuine humanity; and the supremacy of emotion over all other aspects of human existence.
That's why Calcutta is not for everyone. You want your cities clean and green; stick to Delhi. You want your cities, rich and impersonal, go to Bombay. You want them high-tech and full of draught beer, Bangalore's your place. But if you want a city with a soul, come to Calcutta.
When I look back on the years I've spent in Calcutta - and I come back so many times each year that I often feel I've never been away - I don't remember the things that people remember about cities. When I think of London, I think of the vast open spaces of Hyde Park. When I think of New York, I think of the frenzy of Times Square. When I think of Tokyo, I think of the bright lights of Shinjiku. And when I think of Paris, I think of the Champs Elysee. But when I think of Calcutta, I never think of any one place. I don't focus on the greenery of the maidan, the beauty of the Victoria Memorial, the bustle of Burra Bazar or the splendour of the new Howrah 'Bridge'. I think of people. Because, finally, a city is more than bricks and mortars, street lights and tarred roads. A city is the sum of its people. And who can ever forget -or replicate - the people of Calcutta?
When I first came to live here, I was told that the city would grow on me. What nobody told me was that the city would change my life. It was in Calcutta that I learnt about true warmth; about simple human decency; about love and friendship; about emotions and caring; about truth and honesty. I learnt other things too. Coming from Bombay as I did, it was a revelation to live in a city where people judged each other on the things that really mattered; where they recognized that being rich did not make you a better person - in fact, it might have the opposite effect. I learnt also that if life is about more than just money, it is about the things that other cities ignore; about culture, about ideas, about art, and about passion. In Bombay, a man with a relatively low income will salt some of it away for the day when he gets a stock market tip. In Calcutta, a man with exactly the same income will not know the difference between a debenture and a dividend. But he will spend his money on the things that matter. Each morning, he will read at least two newspapers and develop sharply etched views on the state of the world. Each evening, there will be fresh (ideally, fresh-water or river) fish on his table. His children will be encouraged to learn to dance or sing. His family will appreciate the power of poetry. And for him, religion and culture will be in inextricably bound together.
Ah religion! Tell outsiders about the importance of Puja in Calcutta and they'll scoff. Don't be silly, they'll say. Puja is a religious festival. And Bengal has voted for the CPM since 1977. How can godless Bengal be so hung up on a religions festival? I never know how to explain them that to a Bengali, religion consists of much more than shouting Jai Shri Ram or pulling down somebody's mosque. It has little to do with meaningless ritual orsinister political activity.The essence of Puja is that all the passions of Bengal converge: emotion, culture, the love of life, the warmth of being together, the joy of celebration, the pride inartistic ex-pression and yes, the cult of the goddess.
It may be about religion. But is about much more than just worship. In which other part of India would small, not particularly well-off localities, vie with each other to produce the best pandals? Where else could puja pandals go beyond religion to draw inspiration from everything else? In the years I lived in Calcutta, the pandals featured Amitabh Bachchan, Princes Diana and even Saddam Hussain! Where else would children cry with the sheer emotional power of Dashimi, upset that the Goddess had left their homes? Where else would the whole city gooseflesh when the dhakis first begin to beat their drums? Which other Indian festival - in any part of the country - is so much about food, about going from one roadside stall to another, following your nose as it trails the smells of cooking?
To understand Puja, you must understand Calcutta. And to understand Calcutta , you must understand the Bengali. It's not easy. Certainly, you can't do it till you come and live here, till you let Calcutta suffuse your being, invade your bloodstream and steal your soul. But once you have, you'll love Calcutta forever. Wherever you go,a bit of Calcutta will go with you. I know, because it's happened to me. And every Puja, I am overcome by the magic of Bengal. It's a feeling that'll never go away.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
August Rush
Its been a mad mad couple of weeks...In fact I've stopped writing on my other blog....the one where I actually speak..(as some of you well know)...and since its a new day and a new life and I am feeling damn good....I think I'll celebrate by starting a new blog....and what better way to do that than by going back to my old,barely used one...Its just been waiting for something other than obscure poetry....speaking of poetry, I discovered Al Purdy at JNU....someone left 'Poems For All the Annettes' on the desk in the cubicle which I happened to occupy (in the cyber library which I entered completely unofficially)....and I wished, wished, wished I had been born around 1920 and that my name was Eurithe...This bloody Canadian has got me so in love with him that I stopped writing poetry...well till today that is...I only stop writing when I can't stop thinking and well I've had a lot to think about since...well that's another story....Delhi has managed to capture part of my imagination and Delhiites...the delights that they are have managed to decompose the rest of it so things balance out well...Being back at Calcutta even if its for a short period is like breathing in space without the oxygen tank...The roads, the people are darling in their familiarity...Going back to College Street...the well-known voices calling out-Ki lagbe ..ekbar bole toh dekhun...the whiff of old books...books that have some of the most wonderful inscriptions on them....that belonged to some remarkable people...And the old professors ..the old friends...the new ones...Yes would be a nice life if I could figure out what it is that I want exactly....A Splinter in The Heart, A Handful Of Earth or Love in a Burning Building...maybe I'll settle for a sundance at dusk...till then Emu,Remember!
Wonderwell
Those lies whose web I spin
To keep you out and keep me in
Turn from undergrowth to forests
From sparks to wildfires
Of green anger, of black rage
Of despair which you try to cage
Your yes begging me to change
To live, to give, to love
I try to laugh but cry instead
Can the dead mourn for the dead?
Your command is my demand
My wish is your want
If you are right and I am wrong
Why did it have to take so long
To know black holes may meet
But never form a star.
To keep you out and keep me in
Turn from undergrowth to forests
From sparks to wildfires
Of green anger, of black rage
Of despair which you try to cage
Your yes begging me to change
To live, to give, to love
I try to laugh but cry instead
Can the dead mourn for the dead?
Your command is my demand
My wish is your want
If you are right and I am wrong
Why did it have to take so long
To know black holes may meet
But never form a star.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
How do I fall asleep with you in my head?
Your voice echoing like the ending of Moonlight Sonata
Your voice shouting like crazy fans demanding encores
Your voice singing Here Without You
Your voice like silk stars between night covers
Your voice like warm toast and honey
Your voice like yellow buttercups
Your voice like dew on a cold cold grass tip
Your voice like that gust of grey wind before the storm
Your voice talking of dinner and stock prices
Your voice describing Love In the Time of Cholera
Your voice when you are laughing and can’t stop
Your voice speaking that one Italian phrase you know
Your voice when you came up and said hello
Your voice when you carelessly deny you care
Your voice exclaiming Tch when the guitar string snaps
Your voice when you remember Lennon or Trotsky
Your voice humming that irritating tune you have memorized
Your voice smiling that secret smile and being silent
Perhaps tonight I'll exorcise that phantom voice
Perhaps tonight I’ll get some of that elusive sleep.
Your voice echoing like the ending of Moonlight Sonata
Your voice shouting like crazy fans demanding encores
Your voice singing Here Without You
Your voice like silk stars between night covers
Your voice like warm toast and honey
Your voice like yellow buttercups
Your voice like dew on a cold cold grass tip
Your voice like that gust of grey wind before the storm
Your voice talking of dinner and stock prices
Your voice describing Love In the Time of Cholera
Your voice when you are laughing and can’t stop
Your voice speaking that one Italian phrase you know
Your voice when you came up and said hello
Your voice when you carelessly deny you care
Your voice exclaiming Tch when the guitar string snaps
Your voice when you remember Lennon or Trotsky
Your voice humming that irritating tune you have memorized
Your voice smiling that secret smile and being silent
Perhaps tonight I'll exorcise that phantom voice
Perhaps tonight I’ll get some of that elusive sleep.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Mahogany lane, cream feather cloud
White picket fence, no dogs allowed
A turnstile green, a kissing gate
Red columbines, a cat called Cate
A walk to the river,a seat of rushes
One-legged swallow, a nest of thrushes
Baby's breath, Love in the mist
A blaring foghorn, nautical twist
A seashore prance, merperson she
Rocks riding waves, a storm-spent sea
Two ships sailing in the night
A distant call, one out of sight
A letter faded, a long lost scroll
A heart which gave, a body who stole
A dance forgotten by all but her
Evening of glitter, night of blur
Eyes of stars which stopped seeing
Time moved, life sang save one being
Saturday, December 12, 2009
I wasn’t thinking of you
Particularly
The sun reminded me
While ending a cold winter day
Steeped in twilight
I remembered you called this
Our moment
That uncanny minute when
Word is obliviated from beings
When silence and shadows
Walk the aisle
Towards a transient union
The minute which I called Death
The minute which you called love.
Today I still found that moment eerie
Silence and shadows seemed
To dance to sinuous death
The gloom, unlightened by your breath
Seemed to separate me from life.
The minute passed but
I waited for the sun to die again
Now you call the minute death
I’ll know it by no name but love
Now.
Particularly
The sun reminded me
While ending a cold winter day
Steeped in twilight
I remembered you called this
Our moment
That uncanny minute when
Word is obliviated from beings
When silence and shadows
Walk the aisle
Towards a transient union
The minute which I called Death
The minute which you called love.
Today I still found that moment eerie
Silence and shadows seemed
To dance to sinuous death
The gloom, unlightened by your breath
Seemed to separate me from life.
The minute passed but
I waited for the sun to die again
Now you call the minute death
I’ll know it by no name but love
Now.
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