I battle within,
fight an irresistable urge
to
shake-
break-
make
a life arise
from ruins of mediocrity
of habits deep
comfort and charm
of medium happiness
to recreate and watch
a universe unfold,
germinate
from my self
deep.
----------------------------------
On Bus
My soul is lecherous
for him in yellow shirt
dark skin and kohl eyes
curve of the biceps that steer the bus
power of youth, and
that reckless smile,
my soul is lecherous
with memory of that age,
when I desired such desires.
----------------------------------
Aman
My son
his head in clouds
wings bearing him
heavenwards
till star sparks
twinkle from his eyes
raining on us mortals
glimpses of his land.
----------------------------------
Avani
My daughter
gentlest sweet flower
earth born,earth cared
carries in her womb
earth plight,earth pain
reponsibilities
larger than her small frame
can contain.
----------------------------------
Speed
Dawn
Another day of persecution,
excecution of
progress,
development,
ghettos on wheels,
transporting to fate
bleak,
despairing,
hopeless,
resigned,
Mumbai's suburban trains.
----------------------------------
Yesterday
a meteor missed me
cyclone changed its course
earth quaked another ground
a Tsunami spared me.
So, I could log on
and sell
me,my people,my land,
in bits and pieces
to the multinationals
and thus
contribute
to global development
and world economy.
----------------------------------
They said
aim high,
for the skies,
hone your skills
in a colonial language
fashion your clothes,
'cos appearances matter-
aim high for those
imperial controllers of our lives
so they may buy you
a car, bunglow,sushi,wine
while,you piss
on faces of those
that hold you,
aloft,high,
laying roads for your cars,
building your homes ,
growing your crops,
constructing
english medium schools,
so your priviledged progeny
may enjoy your priviledges.
----------------------------------
Monday, October 29, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Moods of Ragas
I have often been sold on the idea of man as a natural animal-to live in stark simplicity, in balance with and provided by nature, where music is the rustle of breeze, gurgling of streams, paintings are grandly enormous and real landscapes. And then, all it takes is a single evening of a really good classical concert and I am transported-- to an intense awareness of the richness of human genius in artistic endevours through ages; where the sensual pleasure in sound is capable of levitating one to a higher plane of existence, and joy is this journey with the artist riding high on waves and crashing into troughs of spells created by the sound spectrum-the moods of ragas.
This evening's concert started with a recital on Rudra veena - supposedly the oldest Indian string instrument, the sacred instrument of Saraswati-the goddess of arts and learning. The style of recital was in Dhrupad -again the oldest surviving musical form within the Indian classical system, predating a north-south divide into Hindustani and Carnatic music respectively. The Raga of choice was Marwa, an early evening Raga-serious, sombre, introspective, reflective, meditative, with a touch of sorrow on realisation- all is Maya-illusion. This followed a tragic Sohini- a raga of separation, loss before ending with Miya Malhar - a monsoon raga of Miya Tansen -the court musician during Akbar's reign - who added his signature of sweetness and longing to the majestic Megh Malhar of rolling thunder, crackling lightening and monsoon downpours. The tabla accompanyment was primal, echoing the beats of a dancing Shiva - mad, innocent, destructive - destroying carefully structured worlds,notions, fortress.
The next artist was a vocalist of enormous proficiency, brilliance. Her voice was molten, golden, honey, pouring in, gliding into innermost recesses, leading into a journey of her world, her creativity. She set about changing the course of our evening/night with a very slow, langorous Bhimpalas- a raga for the afternoon-plaintively calling out on 'viraha' or parting - till her longing became our exquisite pain. And, just when one could take no more, she moved to a faster, lighter composition on being 'coloured by melodies of love'. Her next composition was in raga Behag-asking the lover to 'love slowly, slowly' and finally a piece which requested the lover to 'fix her hair-'cos her hands were henna covered'- no coyness in Behag, no coyness in the singer- just a playful assurance, energy, verve -was it the singer, or her music-were both the same?
This evening's concert started with a recital on Rudra veena - supposedly the oldest Indian string instrument, the sacred instrument of Saraswati-the goddess of arts and learning. The style of recital was in Dhrupad -again the oldest surviving musical form within the Indian classical system, predating a north-south divide into Hindustani and Carnatic music respectively. The Raga of choice was Marwa, an early evening Raga-serious, sombre, introspective, reflective, meditative, with a touch of sorrow on realisation- all is Maya-illusion. This followed a tragic Sohini- a raga of separation, loss before ending with Miya Malhar - a monsoon raga of Miya Tansen -the court musician during Akbar's reign - who added his signature of sweetness and longing to the majestic Megh Malhar of rolling thunder, crackling lightening and monsoon downpours. The tabla accompanyment was primal, echoing the beats of a dancing Shiva - mad, innocent, destructive - destroying carefully structured worlds,notions, fortress.
The next artist was a vocalist of enormous proficiency, brilliance. Her voice was molten, golden, honey, pouring in, gliding into innermost recesses, leading into a journey of her world, her creativity. She set about changing the course of our evening/night with a very slow, langorous Bhimpalas- a raga for the afternoon-plaintively calling out on 'viraha' or parting - till her longing became our exquisite pain. And, just when one could take no more, she moved to a faster, lighter composition on being 'coloured by melodies of love'. Her next composition was in raga Behag-asking the lover to 'love slowly, slowly' and finally a piece which requested the lover to 'fix her hair-'cos her hands were henna covered'- no coyness in Behag, no coyness in the singer- just a playful assurance, energy, verve -was it the singer, or her music-were both the same?
Friday, October 26, 2007
Modi Maddness Revealed
For those of you who still had doubts about Narendra Modi's orchestration of communal violence in Gujarat, check out the following Tehelka probe:
www.khabrein.info/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=7626&Itemid=88
www.khabrein.info/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=7626&Itemid=88
Small Island Lure-Neil Island
I am partial to small islands-particularly tiny ones. The smallest island I've visited was a miniscule flotsam a few hundred meters across in the Maldives.One could take a leisurely stroll around this island in under 15 minutes. The island's smallness was neither confining nor imprisoning- infact, the experience was deeply liberating afloat on that tiny land on an infinite blue green ocean-akin to experiencing earth's journey through space.
This trip to Maldives was extravagant in all respects -beauty, costs, lifestyle. It was therfore also unreal, artificial, superficial.
I have since found the island of my dreams in the Andamans-a "real" island, where communities live, work, sustain generations, cultures. I discovered Neil Island in search for food options outside of the fish and rice culture practiced over most of Andamans. A guide book described Neil island as the food-bowl for the northern Andamans-a place that was supported by agriculture economy and exported fruits and vegetables to other islands. Being vegetarians, it was with relish that we looked forward to visiting Neil Island.
Our approach by ferry from Port Blair showed white sandy beaches,tall timber trees of emerald, transparent turquoise to jade waters deepening to ink blue and a picture perfect jetty-with a quickening heart I realised that this was the one-the one I had dreamt about!
Neil island is still small by most standards-7km by a couple km across. I never managed to circumnavigate the whole island in my month's stay there. I was too busy swimming, loitering, eating. That summer, the trees were overladen with ripe mangoes, jackfruits-that we climbed, plucked, gorged on, coconuts waiting to be enjoyed, and gardens brimming with vegetables and greens that were cooked for us in bengali and tamil preparations in tiny home restraunts around the island.
The paradise was perfect with a small but well stocked library, an energetic government school, a grassy football field,and friendly families eager to make friends with those from the distant 'mainland'. We spent hours learning to make crafts from coconut shells-polished to a shiny marbled finish in coffee, burnt yellow, cream. Kids rowed on the open sea in tiny dingy, standing, perfectly poised-a sense of peace filled my heart-nothing left to ask for-nothing left to desire.
This trip to Maldives was extravagant in all respects -beauty, costs, lifestyle. It was therfore also unreal, artificial, superficial.
I have since found the island of my dreams in the Andamans-a "real" island, where communities live, work, sustain generations, cultures. I discovered Neil Island in search for food options outside of the fish and rice culture practiced over most of Andamans. A guide book described Neil island as the food-bowl for the northern Andamans-a place that was supported by agriculture economy and exported fruits and vegetables to other islands. Being vegetarians, it was with relish that we looked forward to visiting Neil Island.
Our approach by ferry from Port Blair showed white sandy beaches,tall timber trees of emerald, transparent turquoise to jade waters deepening to ink blue and a picture perfect jetty-with a quickening heart I realised that this was the one-the one I had dreamt about!
Neil island is still small by most standards-7km by a couple km across. I never managed to circumnavigate the whole island in my month's stay there. I was too busy swimming, loitering, eating. That summer, the trees were overladen with ripe mangoes, jackfruits-that we climbed, plucked, gorged on, coconuts waiting to be enjoyed, and gardens brimming with vegetables and greens that were cooked for us in bengali and tamil preparations in tiny home restraunts around the island.
The paradise was perfect with a small but well stocked library, an energetic government school, a grassy football field,and friendly families eager to make friends with those from the distant 'mainland'. We spent hours learning to make crafts from coconut shells-polished to a shiny marbled finish in coffee, burnt yellow, cream. Kids rowed on the open sea in tiny dingy, standing, perfectly poised-a sense of peace filled my heart-nothing left to ask for-nothing left to desire.
A Bus Ride To Vardhenahalli
There are ways and ways of experiencing "the world go by". Some of you have probably romanticised about outdoor cafes in pleasant European cities, say Paris, Florence, with affluent,and beautiful people walking by while you sip on your expresso. And then, there is a bus ride one can take to Vardhenhalli-at the other end of the experiential spectrum. This ride is neither for the romantic, nor for the faint hearted.
Vardhenahalli lies on Magadi road that leads only to Magadi- a small, bustling, inconsequential town. The route from Bangalore gets increasingly provincial to rural-as in mud roads, mud homes, increasingly pleasant and untouched landscapes-fewer vehicles, higher hills,curvy roads, dams, bridges,boulders and the great Savandurga dominating the landscape-like a sleeping elephant.
This is the road a bus takes. And in this bus one encounters a different world-more tangible,cacophonous,garrish,entirely human-too much so-too much physical, emotional. A seat that can take two is occupied by three adults, two children, luggage-never mind whose children, whose luggage. If then one makes the mistake of meeting a gaze, there's always that sweet, entreating smile with "Solpa Adjust Madi" (some,adjust,make)-i.e.make space for a little more. A request thats difficult to refuse. And then, when you are sure that the bus can hold no more, it still makes a stop for a large pedalled sewing machine, a diesel generator, a couple carrying bundled, sqwaking hens like some upside down bouquets, and many more passengers.Its also perfectly normal for passengers to reach over people, stick their heads out of the window, to spit, throw up, and dispose of various bodily and other non-wantables.
On such a bus, a smallest disagreement leads to open warfare-to the enthusiastic, and encouraging support from spectators.The winner is always the one who can garner most support-never mind who is right. And all this happens as the bus hurtles at a neck breaking speed, clanging through potholes, speed breakers, near misses of cows, goats, pedestrians, road side market stalls, taking U-turns, slippery downhills, to finally volley you out -dazed, giddy, with your luggage at your destination-Vardhenahalli. And all this, only for twelve rupees??
Vardhenahalli lies on Magadi road that leads only to Magadi- a small, bustling, inconsequential town. The route from Bangalore gets increasingly provincial to rural-as in mud roads, mud homes, increasingly pleasant and untouched landscapes-fewer vehicles, higher hills,curvy roads, dams, bridges,boulders and the great Savandurga dominating the landscape-like a sleeping elephant.
This is the road a bus takes. And in this bus one encounters a different world-more tangible,cacophonous,garrish,entirely human-too much so-too much physical, emotional. A seat that can take two is occupied by three adults, two children, luggage-never mind whose children, whose luggage. If then one makes the mistake of meeting a gaze, there's always that sweet, entreating smile with "Solpa Adjust Madi" (some,adjust,make)-i.e.make space for a little more. A request thats difficult to refuse. And then, when you are sure that the bus can hold no more, it still makes a stop for a large pedalled sewing machine, a diesel generator, a couple carrying bundled, sqwaking hens like some upside down bouquets, and many more passengers.Its also perfectly normal for passengers to reach over people, stick their heads out of the window, to spit, throw up, and dispose of various bodily and other non-wantables.
On such a bus, a smallest disagreement leads to open warfare-to the enthusiastic, and encouraging support from spectators.The winner is always the one who can garner most support-never mind who is right. And all this happens as the bus hurtles at a neck breaking speed, clanging through potholes, speed breakers, near misses of cows, goats, pedestrians, road side market stalls, taking U-turns, slippery downhills, to finally volley you out -dazed, giddy, with your luggage at your destination-Vardhenahalli. And all this, only for twelve rupees??
Monday, October 22, 2007
A Decade of Decadence
Its been a decade since I made a honest living-or, for that matter, any living at all. I have been supported by my partner - in all respects, financially and otherwise-through adventures, mis-adventures, enterprise, endeavor, strife, frustrations and falls. Very soon into this 'retirment' I resolved not to 'earn' a living and thereby earn back a life - and the possibility of the 'unknown'.
Now, a decade later, I understand that the unexpected can only happen if allowed to happen, that the uncharted course is immensely fulfilling, and no goals is a reasonable choice for a life goal. The course is meandering, slowed and savouring-the choices more free, and momentuous, and the results more often surprising. I have learnt that this suits me - I like surprises.
Yet, a part of me still sometimes ponders - am I living off society? Definitely, even if I were earning, because I sit at the upper edge of a social pyramid where the contributions of the countless less financially abled to poor, sustain my lifestyle, my freedoms of choice, my consumption of more than my fair share of natural resources. My making a living has nothing to do with how I whittle away at all dwindling resources. I would probably "consume" much more had I earned a livelihood. So I swing wildly between attempts to practice a no-currency economy with ragi and saru, on my farm, to indulging in urban decadence, with gin-and-tonic and Japanese movies, in the city.
So while no-goal is still the goal, a desire to tread in balance remains-is that itself a goal? To tread, not just in balance, but to also tread lightly, carefully,
and consciously of my great priviledge - freedom to chart my own course.
Now, a decade later, I understand that the unexpected can only happen if allowed to happen, that the uncharted course is immensely fulfilling, and no goals is a reasonable choice for a life goal. The course is meandering, slowed and savouring-the choices more free, and momentuous, and the results more often surprising. I have learnt that this suits me - I like surprises.
Yet, a part of me still sometimes ponders - am I living off society? Definitely, even if I were earning, because I sit at the upper edge of a social pyramid where the contributions of the countless less financially abled to poor, sustain my lifestyle, my freedoms of choice, my consumption of more than my fair share of natural resources. My making a living has nothing to do with how I whittle away at all dwindling resources. I would probably "consume" much more had I earned a livelihood. So I swing wildly between attempts to practice a no-currency economy with ragi and saru, on my farm, to indulging in urban decadence, with gin-and-tonic and Japanese movies, in the city.
So while no-goal is still the goal, a desire to tread in balance remains-is that itself a goal? To tread, not just in balance, but to also tread lightly, carefully,
and consciously of my great priviledge - freedom to chart my own course.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Dancing to a Female God
This happens every year. Not just to me, but to all Gujaratis in the country and around the world. Monsoons end and we all get itchy feet. We carry around beats of garba-raas in our heads and try not to clap, leap, swirl in middle of a mundane conversation-we then know, Goddess is sure to arrive.With subdued excitement we get out our mirrored costumes and "dandiyas".Families play garba music and mothers train children in the ways to welcome the goddess-with lots of music, lots of dance.
Then follow, Navratri, "Nine nights" of dancing in circles, circles of many hundreds, thousand, one inside another all the way to the goddess herself, sitting on her tiger, and watching us with an indulgent smile. Clap, swirl, forward, backward, non-tiringly to an ever quickening beat till only the most proficient and hardy remain to a heady crescendo while most watch on in admiration and awe. And then, the dancing begins again, all over again, the Raas this time- a partner dance again in circles-the celestial dance of Krishna with Gopis-the same dance to welcome the daughter goddess home to her earthly abode. Hands hurt, legs ache, bare feet blister with the constant pounding on the earthern floors-yet the heart laughs and people shout "let the dancing continue".
Then follow, Navratri, "Nine nights" of dancing in circles, circles of many hundreds, thousand, one inside another all the way to the goddess herself, sitting on her tiger, and watching us with an indulgent smile. Clap, swirl, forward, backward, non-tiringly to an ever quickening beat till only the most proficient and hardy remain to a heady crescendo while most watch on in admiration and awe. And then, the dancing begins again, all over again, the Raas this time- a partner dance again in circles-the celestial dance of Krishna with Gopis-the same dance to welcome the daughter goddess home to her earthly abode. Hands hurt, legs ache, bare feet blister with the constant pounding on the earthern floors-yet the heart laughs and people shout "let the dancing continue".
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