Lets not fool ourselves
I am asking for reassurance
So are you
And we both know only too well
Its a lost cause
All that we fear is true
Is,in fact, true
And its an unchanging,unyielding truth
Its beautiful how we spar with silence
Look into the mirror with a smile
And hold up our battle scars
To admire
That bright diamond glass
That we have been trying to crack
Will never give
And the other side
Which we see, feel , touch
But can never be on
Will always shine with that intensity
Which dazzled us in the first place
Its an alley of half-truths
We have condemned ourselves to
Hammering on the wall
Of the dead end
Thinking because we saw it move once
It might move for us again
That war weary flame of hope
Which flits between you and me
Lights the way but only so
We see far enough to know
We have to keep going
The end has come and gone
It followed right behind
The beginning
And we missed seeing it
Because the world called
And we answered like fools
Turning away at that very second
Which might have been the
Making of us
The ship that we heard carried
Ingots and sailed round the world
Left behind a wake that we saw
And followed on the pearl pure logic
Of love
We rode high waves but washed up
Like sand on the shore
Not far from where we stared
We walked ahead
Looking back now and then
To see only one set of footprints
Never asking whose they were
Both sure it was theirs
But terrified knowing
Whose pain would be greater
If it wasn't
A rocky road, a hill in distance
Crossing which
We won and lost the world
Because we couldn't decide
Whose claim was greater.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Arctic Chaos
Rough and heavy and still
Its such a cumbersome silence
That sounds like a dirge
And feels like being felled
In the dark.
The stabbing silence
Wounds over and over again
Till the unsaid words bleed
The silence molests
In a red-eyed frenzy
The screams go unheard
Till the weeping words
Sigh and die out
The silence broods
And breeds
Until the all consuming quiet
Takes a damning breath
Killing truth and lie
In the same, silent stroke.
Its such a cumbersome silence
That sounds like a dirge
And feels like being felled
In the dark.
The stabbing silence
Wounds over and over again
Till the unsaid words bleed
The silence molests
In a red-eyed frenzy
The screams go unheard
Till the weeping words
Sigh and die out
The silence broods
And breeds
Until the all consuming quiet
Takes a damning breath
Killing truth and lie
In the same, silent stroke.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Purgatory By-Lane
A storm came and went
While we were sleeping
And when we woke up
There was nothing around us
Just two blind beings staring into space
We tried to see each other
Tried to remember
But memory being tricky
Try as we might
We could not put things back
Exactly as they were
And suddenly that seemed to matter most
To place everything right
We mattered less
And as things fell in place
We fell out
Its me and you
And nothing else
Someone more and no one less
And all the storm took
Was replaced
But us
Now
I keep hoping
For another storm
That takes everything away
And gives us back.
While we were sleeping
And when we woke up
There was nothing around us
Just two blind beings staring into space
We tried to see each other
Tried to remember
But memory being tricky
Try as we might
We could not put things back
Exactly as they were
And suddenly that seemed to matter most
To place everything right
We mattered less
And as things fell in place
We fell out
Its me and you
And nothing else
Someone more and no one less
And all the storm took
Was replaced
But us
Now
I keep hoping
For another storm
That takes everything away
And gives us back.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Lest I Forget
I have a picture
Of us
Lest I forget your face
And that we were joined
In some passing moments
Of togetherness
A diary
Where everything is noted down
Lest I forget
What you said
And why I laughed
When the world asked
I had no answer
Why I felt the way I did
But someday
When memory fails
And I ask myself
I don't want the truth
So I'll take refuge
In this cover
Pictures and words
Mingling to create
A brand new story
Of how we were simply friends
Who met, talked, laughed
And left.
Of us
Lest I forget your face
And that we were joined
In some passing moments
Of togetherness
A diary
Where everything is noted down
Lest I forget
What you said
And why I laughed
When the world asked
I had no answer
Why I felt the way I did
But someday
When memory fails
And I ask myself
I don't want the truth
So I'll take refuge
In this cover
Pictures and words
Mingling to create
A brand new story
Of how we were simply friends
Who met, talked, laughed
And left.
Post-Ifs
Would you mind
If I say I feel iffy
If I say we are as unresolved
As the Irish question
As inexplicable
As the Bermuda Triangle
As meaningless
As colourless green ideas
Would you mind
If I feel like I am not
Like I never was
When with you
If I say
Our words clash and ring
Like clamoring curfews
Making me feel ominous
Ours is a battle
Though we sing it like a duet
We consume each others words
Air, space and memories
Till someday
We'll be reduced to nothing
Reduced to saying
How we might have made a mark
If we hadn't met each other.
If I say I feel iffy
If I say we are as unresolved
As the Irish question
As inexplicable
As the Bermuda Triangle
As meaningless
As colourless green ideas
Would you mind
If I feel like I am not
Like I never was
When with you
If I say
Our words clash and ring
Like clamoring curfews
Making me feel ominous
Ours is a battle
Though we sing it like a duet
We consume each others words
Air, space and memories
Till someday
We'll be reduced to nothing
Reduced to saying
How we might have made a mark
If we hadn't met each other.
Friday, February 4, 2011
A note in February.
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.
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.
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.
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