With you, my cup should overflow
its brim with ambrosia
What should I do with all that nectar
it should be sacrilege to spill
Elixir is dangerous for mortals
We should be content with remembrance and hope.
Yet, some day I shall come looking for you
like a lost puppy.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The Weft and the Warp
Snip. Snip. Click. Swish.
A whisking metallic sound
breaks silence with a tone of finality
a scissors cut cleanly through cloth.
Hearts too are torn and ripped
like cloth, mine has frayed edges
jagged threads stick out.
the knit is lost without the purl, the weft
goes in search of the warp.
A new thread can stitch them
into a reworked compromise
Poetry can sew hearts and
my warped lines
woven with doubt, hope and insecurity
the head bent in prayer
ardently long to find
the weft of yours.
A whisking metallic sound
breaks silence with a tone of finality
a scissors cut cleanly through cloth.
Hearts too are torn and ripped
like cloth, mine has frayed edges
jagged threads stick out.
the knit is lost without the purl, the weft
goes in search of the warp.
A new thread can stitch them
into a reworked compromise
Poetry can sew hearts and
my warped lines
woven with doubt, hope and insecurity
the head bent in prayer
ardently long to find
the weft of yours.
February
Purple perfect profusions
and velvety-violets amidst
the dappled green
Dewdrops glitter like jewelled crystals
The marigolds have stolen
the yellow-gold of the sun, the orange
of the narangis. The red poppies
are crimson to the point of wicked sinfulness.
The pristine purity of the white
with their centres of blue-purple
and green-black offsets the rest.
the purple shehtoot is ready to be plucked
The February rain plays hdie and seek
with february wind and february sun
Now that spring is in the air.
On the street, the beggar counts her meagre coins
the hungry eyes of children follow me
A car speeds up, a dog limps across the road.
and velvety-violets amidst
the dappled green
Dewdrops glitter like jewelled crystals
The marigolds have stolen
the yellow-gold of the sun, the orange
of the narangis. The red poppies
are crimson to the point of wicked sinfulness.
The pristine purity of the white
with their centres of blue-purple
and green-black offsets the rest.
the purple shehtoot is ready to be plucked
The February rain plays hdie and seek
with february wind and february sun
Now that spring is in the air.
On the street, the beggar counts her meagre coins
the hungry eyes of children follow me
A car speeds up, a dog limps across the road.
Split-Selves
I was born whole, yes,
but the Fates that decreed me a gemini
split me into twin selves, split selves
The quiet, serious me and
the wicked rebel.
Freud further split me into three
the yearning in me, the stoical
reason in me, and the balancing act
of yearning and reason in me.
I inherited my mother's hair
my father's eyes, my mother's mouth
and nobody's nose. I mean, Nobody knows.
And anybody's height. and whobody's brain?
But my grandma's memory, that's for sure.
This body of mine that now lives in delhi
is part gujju-part tamil, half punjabi and
used to live in Benares. But even that
is history. Places proliferate
and multiply.
Yes, I believe in post-modernism
yes, I believe in pluralities, and liminalities
of Identities.
But sometimes, I yearn
to carve an imaginary
unified Identity.
but the Fates that decreed me a gemini
split me into twin selves, split selves
The quiet, serious me and
the wicked rebel.
Freud further split me into three
the yearning in me, the stoical
reason in me, and the balancing act
of yearning and reason in me.
I inherited my mother's hair
my father's eyes, my mother's mouth
and nobody's nose. I mean, Nobody knows.
And anybody's height. and whobody's brain?
But my grandma's memory, that's for sure.
This body of mine that now lives in delhi
is part gujju-part tamil, half punjabi and
used to live in Benares. But even that
is history. Places proliferate
and multiply.
Yes, I believe in post-modernism
yes, I believe in pluralities, and liminalities
of Identities.
But sometimes, I yearn
to carve an imaginary
unified Identity.
Spirits glide above me, slide
beneath my feet, listen closely
hide in my hair, in my ears
follow at my heels, watching softly.
They try to steal my thoughts.
Are they part of me
or do they belong to you
these ghosts of memory, desire and dreams?
Or do they hang midway
carrying my secrets to you?
Do they mock me, do they
stalk me, or do they guide me
these invisible presences?
They whisper, murmur,haunt
without end, I cannot escape
these voices, you see, are inside of me
Do they know me more
than me, do you know me
like a river's meanders know its boulders?
beneath my feet, listen closely
hide in my hair, in my ears
follow at my heels, watching softly.
They try to steal my thoughts.
Are they part of me
or do they belong to you
these ghosts of memory, desire and dreams?
Or do they hang midway
carrying my secrets to you?
Do they mock me, do they
stalk me, or do they guide me
these invisible presences?
They whisper, murmur,haunt
without end, I cannot escape
these voices, you see, are inside of me
Do they know me more
than me, do you know me
like a river's meanders know its boulders?
Doppelganger
I am an illusion
a ghostly apparition
I embody your mind,
your body and your soul
no, I am not you
no, I am not a clone
I am a doppelganger.
What's that, you ask
a pretender, an imitator
a duplicitous masquerader
a fake identity, a passport stealer?
No, I am a doppelganger.
I have holes in my body
and rings in the holes
fishes hang from my ears, a tree owl
nestles in my hair, midnight black
surrounds my eyes.
I have the slantedness of your
awkward smile, the rigidity
of your aloof body, I can
purple you to perfection.
Oh well, not quite to perfection
I told you I am not you
a spirit bound by you
yet not free from me
I walk the liminal edges of you and me
I observe with delicacy, stalk
with sensitivity, try to enter
your spirit imaginatively
and I doppelganger.
They think I can't be real
They think I am a doppelganger
But I am uncannily real
you cannot get rid of me
I am bound unto you.
I delight in doppelgangerism
it's a fascinating entrancing game.
One day, I shall stamp my body
with your indelible blue black mark
Neither here nor there, belonging nowhere
I wander like a restless spirit of longing
and incomplete desire in the air
I walk the liminal edges of you and me.
a ghostly apparition
I embody your mind,
your body and your soul
no, I am not you
no, I am not a clone
I am a doppelganger.
What's that, you ask
a pretender, an imitator
a duplicitous masquerader
a fake identity, a passport stealer?
No, I am a doppelganger.
I have holes in my body
and rings in the holes
fishes hang from my ears, a tree owl
nestles in my hair, midnight black
surrounds my eyes.
I have the slantedness of your
awkward smile, the rigidity
of your aloof body, I can
purple you to perfection.
Oh well, not quite to perfection
I told you I am not you
a spirit bound by you
yet not free from me
I walk the liminal edges of you and me
I observe with delicacy, stalk
with sensitivity, try to enter
your spirit imaginatively
and I doppelganger.
They think I can't be real
They think I am a doppelganger
But I am uncannily real
you cannot get rid of me
I am bound unto you.
I delight in doppelgangerism
it's a fascinating entrancing game.
One day, I shall stamp my body
with your indelible blue black mark
Neither here nor there, belonging nowhere
I wander like a restless spirit of longing
and incomplete desire in the air
I walk the liminal edges of you and me.
Requiem for a Dream
"Fasola is a sweet girl", the teacher said,
"and she writes lovely poems".
She flashed her a precious smile
Stars rose in her eyes that night and
gave birth to a dream.
Another day, she avoided Fasola's gaze, returned
a poorly marked paper, praised
the stout girl over there.
A sacred dream died its death and
buried itself in the classroom dust.
One day the dream will learn from Sylvia and Lady Lazarus
and rise again.
"and she writes lovely poems".
She flashed her a precious smile
Stars rose in her eyes that night and
gave birth to a dream.
Another day, she avoided Fasola's gaze, returned
a poorly marked paper, praised
the stout girl over there.
A sacred dream died its death and
buried itself in the classroom dust.
One day the dream will learn from Sylvia and Lady Lazarus
and rise again.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
For the Love of Cultures of Peace- Festival of the North East: A report
My report of the North East Fest at Habitat Centre, 28-29th Jan "For the Love of Cultures of Peace" has been published in the Fried Eye Magazine... :-) http://www.friedeye.com/2011/02/15/for-the-love-of-%E2%80%9Ccultures-of-peace%E2%80%9D/
"For the Love of Cultures of Peace”- A Report on the festival of the North East
by – Shruti Sareen (with inputs on the Second day of Events by Rini Barman. )
The India Habitat Centre witnessed revelry of colour, art, poetry and music on 28th and 29th January 2011 in Cultures of Peace, a festival of the North East. It may seem ironical that cultures stereotypically associated with violence were here invoked as Cultures of Peace. This is what the festival tried to bring home, the message that life in the north-east is not one merely of violence, but of peace and love as well, and that focussing on peace and love is the key answer to the violence and terror in the region.
The first of the round table conferences, which as Sanjoy Hazarika pointed out, was actually a long table instead of a round table, was around the theme “Writing Peace, Writing Violence”. Indrani Raimedhi, Arupa Kalita and Pradip Phanjoubam focussed on the implicit violence in the north-east: the drum beats, the gun shots, people dying, the domination by the Assamese of certain surrounding areas of Meghalaya and Nagaland. Temsula Ao, a Nagini who spent her childhood in Assam, spoke of the emotional violence, that crisis of identity and belongingness this creates, and how both Nagas and Assamese people tend to see her as “the other”. Subir Bhaumik chose to focus on peace through the reminiscence of his army training, of generations of his family who had served the Tripura king in the army, and his decision to leave it all. Ananya Guha and Aruni Kashyap spoke in vivid terms about the cultures of the north-east which they do not see as implicitly associated only with violence. Ananya Guha talked about the land and nature, maintaining that spreading peace will inevitably lead to the lessening of violence, whereas Aruni Kashyap chose to show the ordinary experiences of common folk in the north-east, of the people living and not necessarily only the people dying. Nilanjana Roy moderated the session.
The session was followed by a viewing of Uzma Mohsin’s photography exhibition. The exhibit focussed on how girls from the north-east do not feel comfortable in a city like Delhi, where they are constantly seen as “the other” and viewed with suspicion, where people have stereotypical ideas about them based on their dress and so on. There was also an exhibition of paintings on the theme of violence in the north east, showing people breathing through oxygen masks, trying to escape suffocation, as several viewers commented. Red blood and blue faces contrasted and alternated with red flowers and blue skies in these paintings. During this interval the sale of books from the north-east on various aspects like literature, history, activism, mythology, politics and sociology also drew the attention of book lovers and knowledge seekers.
The next round table conference “The Words to Say It” moderated by Preeti Gill saw the participation of Mamang Dai, Mitra Phukan, Bijoya Sawian, Rita Chowdhury, Mona Zote, and Omar Sharif. Various ways of conveying the reality, or rather, realities, from the journalistic, reporting style, to fiction, to Mamang Dai’s style of focussing on myths, legends and folk tales were brought to discussion. The accessibility and democratic nature of blog-culture, e-books and the internet were also mentioned. North-east cultures are traditionally seen as being very rooted cultures and people are seen as having a strong sense of belongingness. Yet in this forum people spoke of Assamese people being deported to China, arrested and confined, and the identity crisis caused thereby. Mona Zote talked about her own atheism, which set her apart and made her feel alienated from the people of her own state, Mizoram, the majority of whom are Christians. She also mentioned that Mizoram does not have a strong culture of its own, quite unlike the Khasis, Arunachal Pradesh and others. Another important question raised here (and explored in more detail in the next session) was whether writers from different states in the north-east are connected to, or isolated from, each other.
The next session “Crossing Borders” had Monalisa Changkija, Uddipana Goswami, Aruni Kashyap, Triveni Mathur, Rajesh Dev, Rupa Chinai, and Dhiren Sadokpam as speakers, with Uma Chakravarti as the moderator. Critical questions like, who is an outsider/insider, and are all “north-east” people insiders, were raised. The session highlighted aspects in which power structures of dominance and hierarchy were recreated through boundaries within north-east and stressed on the need to exercise caution before seeing all ‘insiders’ as heroes and all ‘outsiders’ as villains. The north-east has no one singular culture which gives its inhabitants an “identity”, only several proliferating ones. As Sanjoy Hazarika said in a later session, it is more appropriate to see them as seven step-sisters instead of romanticising them as The Seven Sisters. The Seven Sisters identity is also troubling because it completely leaves out the Sikkim state. Does distance make one nostalgic or more critical? What is the identity of an Assamese who never thought of himself as a “North-Eastern” before he came to Delhi? Where and how is identity constructed? What about the sub-altern tribes within the North-east, such as the Bodo tribes in Assam? When are they written about, and when do they actually speak for themselves? Questions such as these were brought up to ponder upon in this session.
The last of the round table conferences was “Stories from a War Zone”. Subir Bhowmick, Sanjoy Hazarika, Meenakshi Ganguly, Deepti Priya Mehrotra, Utpal Borpujari and Pradip Phanjoubam. Moderated by Urvashi Butalia this session focussed on issues such as the freedom of the artist. Journalists talked of their experiences of being threatened by censor boards and by underground groups when they wrote anything that did not toe the line, thus raising questions of “truth-telling”. Writers voiced an opposite concern, of the publishers’ stereotypical demand that writers from the north-east should only write about violence. Listening to people’s stories in villages was also seen as an important function of the journalist. A direct link was traced between the government’s bid for progress and modernity of urban, metropolitan areas, which leads to, for example, the development of dams in Tripura, dispossessing tribals of their land, and which in turn, makes them become insurgents. Other concerns that were addressed included the effect of violence upon the environment, insurgency and disputes with neighbouring countries like Bangladesh over resources, and emphasised the inter-connectedness of all states and the need to maintain solidarity.
The day ended with a spectacular theatrical performance tracing the life of Irom Sharmila, the bright torch light amidst the darkness, the passionate woman who began by writing poetry from a young age, and became a staunch activist, fighting for the fate of her people, going through hunger strikes to protest against the government, being arrested and jailed on baseless charges, and later, her helpless condition in the hospital where she is force-fed. This powerful performance brought the truth home more sharply and keenly than any of the round table conferences had done throughout the day.
The second day began with the session titled “Confronting the Past, Imagining the Future” with Sanjoy Hazarika and Laxmi Mathur as the eminent speakers. The north-east is a region with enormous linguistic, ethnic and political diversity, and yet with many commonalities of geographies, of resources, of marginalization. What does, or what can, the future hold? This was the basic question opened up by Sanjoy Hazarika while explaining how the north-east is in the periphery but by no means peripheral. He talked about the burning issues of migration, poor infrastructures of the north-east and the failure of the centre and state Governments to resolve the same. He brought forth the problematic plight of the 30 lakh people in the 3 thousand islands of the north-east. Laxmi Mathur talked extensively about the need of justice for establishment of peace. She also agreed with the need of retelling the untold and unheard histories of the northeast particularly of women, without which, the old wounds cannot be healed.
This was followed by book and poetry readings by Mitra Phukan, Mona Zote, Aruni Kashyap, Omar Sharif, Ananya Guha, Nitoo Das, Uddipana Goswami in the session “Expressing the North-East” . Haripriya Soibam’s readings Irom Sharmila’s poetry collection, Fragrance of Peace and Rojio Usham’s performance based on the same carried forward the performances of the previous evening.
The festival ended with music by Imphal talkies speaking to the passions and the senses of a large gathering, leading on to a spectacular concert by Soulmate, the jazz and blues band from Shillong. The festival seems to have been a good blend of the intellectual and the passionate, speaking to both minds and hearts. Hopefully, the Cultures of Peace festival lives on, reverberates, and gives meaning in times to come, and the end turns out to be but a beginning.
"For the Love of Cultures of Peace”- A Report on the festival of the North East
by – Shruti Sareen (with inputs on the Second day of Events by Rini Barman. )
The India Habitat Centre witnessed revelry of colour, art, poetry and music on 28th and 29th January 2011 in Cultures of Peace, a festival of the North East. It may seem ironical that cultures stereotypically associated with violence were here invoked as Cultures of Peace. This is what the festival tried to bring home, the message that life in the north-east is not one merely of violence, but of peace and love as well, and that focussing on peace and love is the key answer to the violence and terror in the region.
The first of the round table conferences, which as Sanjoy Hazarika pointed out, was actually a long table instead of a round table, was around the theme “Writing Peace, Writing Violence”. Indrani Raimedhi, Arupa Kalita and Pradip Phanjoubam focussed on the implicit violence in the north-east: the drum beats, the gun shots, people dying, the domination by the Assamese of certain surrounding areas of Meghalaya and Nagaland. Temsula Ao, a Nagini who spent her childhood in Assam, spoke of the emotional violence, that crisis of identity and belongingness this creates, and how both Nagas and Assamese people tend to see her as “the other”. Subir Bhaumik chose to focus on peace through the reminiscence of his army training, of generations of his family who had served the Tripura king in the army, and his decision to leave it all. Ananya Guha and Aruni Kashyap spoke in vivid terms about the cultures of the north-east which they do not see as implicitly associated only with violence. Ananya Guha talked about the land and nature, maintaining that spreading peace will inevitably lead to the lessening of violence, whereas Aruni Kashyap chose to show the ordinary experiences of common folk in the north-east, of the people living and not necessarily only the people dying. Nilanjana Roy moderated the session.
The session was followed by a viewing of Uzma Mohsin’s photography exhibition. The exhibit focussed on how girls from the north-east do not feel comfortable in a city like Delhi, where they are constantly seen as “the other” and viewed with suspicion, where people have stereotypical ideas about them based on their dress and so on. There was also an exhibition of paintings on the theme of violence in the north east, showing people breathing through oxygen masks, trying to escape suffocation, as several viewers commented. Red blood and blue faces contrasted and alternated with red flowers and blue skies in these paintings. During this interval the sale of books from the north-east on various aspects like literature, history, activism, mythology, politics and sociology also drew the attention of book lovers and knowledge seekers.
The next round table conference “The Words to Say It” moderated by Preeti Gill saw the participation of Mamang Dai, Mitra Phukan, Bijoya Sawian, Rita Chowdhury, Mona Zote, and Omar Sharif. Various ways of conveying the reality, or rather, realities, from the journalistic, reporting style, to fiction, to Mamang Dai’s style of focussing on myths, legends and folk tales were brought to discussion. The accessibility and democratic nature of blog-culture, e-books and the internet were also mentioned. North-east cultures are traditionally seen as being very rooted cultures and people are seen as having a strong sense of belongingness. Yet in this forum people spoke of Assamese people being deported to China, arrested and confined, and the identity crisis caused thereby. Mona Zote talked about her own atheism, which set her apart and made her feel alienated from the people of her own state, Mizoram, the majority of whom are Christians. She also mentioned that Mizoram does not have a strong culture of its own, quite unlike the Khasis, Arunachal Pradesh and others. Another important question raised here (and explored in more detail in the next session) was whether writers from different states in the north-east are connected to, or isolated from, each other.
The next session “Crossing Borders” had Monalisa Changkija, Uddipana Goswami, Aruni Kashyap, Triveni Mathur, Rajesh Dev, Rupa Chinai, and Dhiren Sadokpam as speakers, with Uma Chakravarti as the moderator. Critical questions like, who is an outsider/insider, and are all “north-east” people insiders, were raised. The session highlighted aspects in which power structures of dominance and hierarchy were recreated through boundaries within north-east and stressed on the need to exercise caution before seeing all ‘insiders’ as heroes and all ‘outsiders’ as villains. The north-east has no one singular culture which gives its inhabitants an “identity”, only several proliferating ones. As Sanjoy Hazarika said in a later session, it is more appropriate to see them as seven step-sisters instead of romanticising them as The Seven Sisters. The Seven Sisters identity is also troubling because it completely leaves out the Sikkim state. Does distance make one nostalgic or more critical? What is the identity of an Assamese who never thought of himself as a “North-Eastern” before he came to Delhi? Where and how is identity constructed? What about the sub-altern tribes within the North-east, such as the Bodo tribes in Assam? When are they written about, and when do they actually speak for themselves? Questions such as these were brought up to ponder upon in this session.
The last of the round table conferences was “Stories from a War Zone”. Subir Bhowmick, Sanjoy Hazarika, Meenakshi Ganguly, Deepti Priya Mehrotra, Utpal Borpujari and Pradip Phanjoubam. Moderated by Urvashi Butalia this session focussed on issues such as the freedom of the artist. Journalists talked of their experiences of being threatened by censor boards and by underground groups when they wrote anything that did not toe the line, thus raising questions of “truth-telling”. Writers voiced an opposite concern, of the publishers’ stereotypical demand that writers from the north-east should only write about violence. Listening to people’s stories in villages was also seen as an important function of the journalist. A direct link was traced between the government’s bid for progress and modernity of urban, metropolitan areas, which leads to, for example, the development of dams in Tripura, dispossessing tribals of their land, and which in turn, makes them become insurgents. Other concerns that were addressed included the effect of violence upon the environment, insurgency and disputes with neighbouring countries like Bangladesh over resources, and emphasised the inter-connectedness of all states and the need to maintain solidarity.
The day ended with a spectacular theatrical performance tracing the life of Irom Sharmila, the bright torch light amidst the darkness, the passionate woman who began by writing poetry from a young age, and became a staunch activist, fighting for the fate of her people, going through hunger strikes to protest against the government, being arrested and jailed on baseless charges, and later, her helpless condition in the hospital where she is force-fed. This powerful performance brought the truth home more sharply and keenly than any of the round table conferences had done throughout the day.
The second day began with the session titled “Confronting the Past, Imagining the Future” with Sanjoy Hazarika and Laxmi Mathur as the eminent speakers. The north-east is a region with enormous linguistic, ethnic and political diversity, and yet with many commonalities of geographies, of resources, of marginalization. What does, or what can, the future hold? This was the basic question opened up by Sanjoy Hazarika while explaining how the north-east is in the periphery but by no means peripheral. He talked about the burning issues of migration, poor infrastructures of the north-east and the failure of the centre and state Governments to resolve the same. He brought forth the problematic plight of the 30 lakh people in the 3 thousand islands of the north-east. Laxmi Mathur talked extensively about the need of justice for establishment of peace. She also agreed with the need of retelling the untold and unheard histories of the northeast particularly of women, without which, the old wounds cannot be healed.
This was followed by book and poetry readings by Mitra Phukan, Mona Zote, Aruni Kashyap, Omar Sharif, Ananya Guha, Nitoo Das, Uddipana Goswami in the session “Expressing the North-East” . Haripriya Soibam’s readings Irom Sharmila’s poetry collection, Fragrance of Peace and Rojio Usham’s performance based on the same carried forward the performances of the previous evening.
The festival ended with music by Imphal talkies speaking to the passions and the senses of a large gathering, leading on to a spectacular concert by Soulmate, the jazz and blues band from Shillong. The festival seems to have been a good blend of the intellectual and the passionate, speaking to both minds and hearts. Hopefully, the Cultures of Peace festival lives on, reverberates, and gives meaning in times to come, and the end turns out to be but a beginning.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Elegy for a Broken Vase to be published in Differsense!!
Yay!!! My poem "Elegy for a Broken vase" has been accepted for publishing in the magazine Differsense!! The poem is just two posts below this one. However, in the magazine, it will appear in a slightly edited form, so I am putting up the edited version here right now, as it will appear in print. hope I'm not doing something wrong!!
Okay, tisn't a big deal, doesn't affect the world. It does still tell me though that at least I don't write total crap. My 4th publication, "proper" one... :-)
Wet,malleable,clay
,a potters wheel
and a friend's hand
birthed it.
Our stories dented it
Etching lines like the wrinkles
left by River’s waves on stone.
Mud-coloured, elegant,
it graced a prized corner
as befitsa hand-crafted gift...
Until, one day, it fell,
struck by my careless hand.
Sorrow, distress, and broken earth
delicately curved, now fill the room;
draughts of love, clouded memories,
bittersweet vapours escape
from the empty vase and
search for a new home.
Okay, tisn't a big deal, doesn't affect the world. It does still tell me though that at least I don't write total crap. My 4th publication, "proper" one... :-)
Wet,malleable,clay
,a potters wheel
and a friend's hand
birthed it.
Our stories dented it
Etching lines like the wrinkles
left by River’s waves on stone.
Mud-coloured, elegant,
it graced a prized corner
as befitsa hand-crafted gift...
Until, one day, it fell,
struck by my careless hand.
Sorrow, distress, and broken earth
delicately curved, now fill the room;
draughts of love, clouded memories,
bittersweet vapours escape
from the empty vase and
search for a new home.
Philanthropic/ Misanthropic thoughts on 31/12/2010
Dear people,
Today, as 2010 ends and we move towards what will hopefully be a new beginning, 2011 (the phrase is way too clichéd, but our world desperately needs a new beginning right now) , I grasp this opportunity to say to you what I really, really need to say. Please read this!! But let me not push something on you. If you would rather not think or question, if you would just rather go out and “have a blast” on New Year’s Eve, let me not impose this upon you.
Oh!! By the way… I just got to know that my poem “Elegy for a Broken Vase” has been accepted for publication by the Differsense magazine… yay!! J I hope it is a good ending to 2010 and a hopeful beginning for the new…
Okay, This is the result of an entire month of intense thinking, much angst and agony. I became haunted and obsessed with it. This is to share with you some of that, bcos it’s our world, it’s one world, we need to connect, and bcos I want to learn and be wiser, so I must talk to people,of course!! Thought should always precede action. Okay, so let me be honest. In my usual life, balancing my academic life plus my socializing life plus my day dreaming and personal life, plus all the things I must do as an outstation student in delhi leaves me with absolutely no time for much else. My own worries and my own satisfaction is what I am usually preoccupied with. Of course, I am concerned about the world in a general way. Now, however, I have become obsessed with the violence and inequality in this world. This is what we must address now. Immediately. Our own personal lives are nothing short of heaven. One persistent migraine that refuses to go away, one broken heart that adamantly refuses to mend, and one insurmountable NET stubbornly acting as an obstacle … that’s it!! My only and only “real worries”. Tis nothing at all!! And now.. what do I want to talk about?? I want to talk about the war prisoners, the kidnapped children, the raped women, I want to talk about people like Binayak Sen. And so many such people. And you know what I want to talk about?? Animals. The ones we eat. Sorry, I mean the ones which we kill and eat and then call this barbaric practice a civilized one. This is bcos I am haunted now by the eyes and by the pain of those animals… do try, for once, to put yourself in the place of that animal and experience it… of course we say it’s the natural food chain. But aren’t humans something better than animals? I mean we have intelligence, reasoning, we know self control… don’t you abstain from things you really want to do?? Don’t you use your self control? bcos your mind sees that to do such a thing is morally incorrect, however much you might want to do it. We all do. We are all “broad minded, university educated people”… no, this is not entirely satirical. This mail is sent to you bcos I think you are intelligent and sensitive enough to understand, bcos I respect you, bcos I am glad to know a person like you. Okay, when we have reached a stage now when we can see that violence on the basis of gender is wrong, caste is wrong, religion is wrong, sexuality is wrong, when we have studied and rethought power structures… then why don’t we also think that violence against animals is also wrong?? Do we think that animals don’t feel the way we do?? Or are we slaves to our taste buds? Just imagine yourself in the place of that animal… Okay, at a different level now. We are conditioned, of course. But then we are conditioned into so many things. Literature, delhi, and certain people have made me rethink and question my conditioning so much, and I am so glad and grateful for that. But it must not stop!! That is the whole point. I cannot now become complacent and pat myself on the back that I have become so broad minded and stop there. I must stretch myself, go on with this search, this questioning. Yes, it’ll mean a lot of angst, a lot of thinking, there will be pain. I could choose not to think and question and to just be happy. But I can’t be happy!!! As a citizen of this world, I feel I cannot sit and look at so much violence around me and just look on and do nothing. All violence ultimately arises out of forms of power structures. Men over women, adults over children, teachers over students ( all my apologies to the oh-so-many teachers whom I hope have bothered to read this far), rich over poor, humans over animals, always the strong over the weak, the powerful against the vulnerable, … the law of nature to a certain extent yes, but not beyond that, please. As humans, why are we barbaric enough even in the 21st century to only value physical strength? personally, I value moral, emotional and intellectual strength much more. Gandhiji was one of the greatest leaders and India is lucky to have had him. Bcos he fought violence with non-violence. Peace, love and compassion, the only things that make sense if the world has to change for the better… more peace, love, and compassion, endless and healing love… for everyone, not just for our loved ones. Anyways, I think signature campaigns on the internet are very good, democratic, non-violent and effectual ways to do something. That we already do. But can’t we do something more?? We need to bridge the gap between our progressive ideologies and the actual state of things around. The gap is toooo wide, trying to bridge it a bit is so necessary!!
Okay, I was so haunted and obsessed, I couldn’t even sleep, but then I realized I will do no good to anyone by this. If it would have done good, I am willing to suffer. Now, being happy almost seems like a selfish act, an escapist act, but we need to be happy. Bcos it’s true we can’t change the whole world. We can do our bit, though, and that is only possible by doing our work well, contributing in whatever way we can, learning, creating, sharing, helping… if I think of all those victims, man, woman, child and animal, I’ll be sick and insane… so beyond a point, I must put I away. It is not escapism, it’s what I must do to at least do something for this world. We all have different ways of contributing… I was thinking of concrete stuff… I know lots of us are concerned by say, women, for example, or animals, or whatever. We could at some stage, actually do social work, whether by joining an existing organization, or by creating one of our own. Writing, teaching… well, that is what I can do, at least, (and by teaching I mean something much, much larger than creating answer writing and marks obtaining machines. That is NOT what I am going to spend my life doing.) and I think Nandita (Das) ( are you reading, Nandita?? J ) yeah, so I think Nandita was right when she told me once that whatever our heart is in is what we can do best, and when we have that happiness, then we can spread it the best. So we must all find our ways of contributing… but pls let’s not grow complacent, let’s not lose that urgency, let’s keep questioning and examining ourselves and what we are doing!! What good is art, literature, culture, left wing politics in a world like this?? How does it help?? We need to ask, at least, surely.
People, I really really hope no-one’s going to take this in a wrong sense, it is not meant as a morality lecture, it is not meant as an accusation, it is an attempt to share what was spilling over after having driven me insane. Pls take this as an attempt to learn, to share, and hopefully, to make the seeds for some kind of change, that’s all it is!! I want to live close to the earth, and open to the sky, without all the time thinking of security, protection, fortification!! To take whatever life brings!! Takes courage, yes, though.
Okay, now… Extremely glad, grateful, happy and proud to know all the people I send this to!! Learning, living, loving, fulfilling, satisfying, fruition … I wish you all of that in the new year!!!!!!!! J J
Today, as 2010 ends and we move towards what will hopefully be a new beginning, 2011 (the phrase is way too clichéd, but our world desperately needs a new beginning right now) , I grasp this opportunity to say to you what I really, really need to say. Please read this!! But let me not push something on you. If you would rather not think or question, if you would just rather go out and “have a blast” on New Year’s Eve, let me not impose this upon you.
Oh!! By the way… I just got to know that my poem “Elegy for a Broken Vase” has been accepted for publication by the Differsense magazine… yay!! J I hope it is a good ending to 2010 and a hopeful beginning for the new…
Okay, This is the result of an entire month of intense thinking, much angst and agony. I became haunted and obsessed with it. This is to share with you some of that, bcos it’s our world, it’s one world, we need to connect, and bcos I want to learn and be wiser, so I must talk to people,of course!! Thought should always precede action. Okay, so let me be honest. In my usual life, balancing my academic life plus my socializing life plus my day dreaming and personal life, plus all the things I must do as an outstation student in delhi leaves me with absolutely no time for much else. My own worries and my own satisfaction is what I am usually preoccupied with. Of course, I am concerned about the world in a general way. Now, however, I have become obsessed with the violence and inequality in this world. This is what we must address now. Immediately. Our own personal lives are nothing short of heaven. One persistent migraine that refuses to go away, one broken heart that adamantly refuses to mend, and one insurmountable NET stubbornly acting as an obstacle … that’s it!! My only and only “real worries”. Tis nothing at all!! And now.. what do I want to talk about?? I want to talk about the war prisoners, the kidnapped children, the raped women, I want to talk about people like Binayak Sen. And so many such people. And you know what I want to talk about?? Animals. The ones we eat. Sorry, I mean the ones which we kill and eat and then call this barbaric practice a civilized one. This is bcos I am haunted now by the eyes and by the pain of those animals… do try, for once, to put yourself in the place of that animal and experience it… of course we say it’s the natural food chain. But aren’t humans something better than animals? I mean we have intelligence, reasoning, we know self control… don’t you abstain from things you really want to do?? Don’t you use your self control? bcos your mind sees that to do such a thing is morally incorrect, however much you might want to do it. We all do. We are all “broad minded, university educated people”… no, this is not entirely satirical. This mail is sent to you bcos I think you are intelligent and sensitive enough to understand, bcos I respect you, bcos I am glad to know a person like you. Okay, when we have reached a stage now when we can see that violence on the basis of gender is wrong, caste is wrong, religion is wrong, sexuality is wrong, when we have studied and rethought power structures… then why don’t we also think that violence against animals is also wrong?? Do we think that animals don’t feel the way we do?? Or are we slaves to our taste buds? Just imagine yourself in the place of that animal… Okay, at a different level now. We are conditioned, of course. But then we are conditioned into so many things. Literature, delhi, and certain people have made me rethink and question my conditioning so much, and I am so glad and grateful for that. But it must not stop!! That is the whole point. I cannot now become complacent and pat myself on the back that I have become so broad minded and stop there. I must stretch myself, go on with this search, this questioning. Yes, it’ll mean a lot of angst, a lot of thinking, there will be pain. I could choose not to think and question and to just be happy. But I can’t be happy!!! As a citizen of this world, I feel I cannot sit and look at so much violence around me and just look on and do nothing. All violence ultimately arises out of forms of power structures. Men over women, adults over children, teachers over students ( all my apologies to the oh-so-many teachers whom I hope have bothered to read this far), rich over poor, humans over animals, always the strong over the weak, the powerful against the vulnerable, … the law of nature to a certain extent yes, but not beyond that, please. As humans, why are we barbaric enough even in the 21st century to only value physical strength? personally, I value moral, emotional and intellectual strength much more. Gandhiji was one of the greatest leaders and India is lucky to have had him. Bcos he fought violence with non-violence. Peace, love and compassion, the only things that make sense if the world has to change for the better… more peace, love, and compassion, endless and healing love… for everyone, not just for our loved ones. Anyways, I think signature campaigns on the internet are very good, democratic, non-violent and effectual ways to do something. That we already do. But can’t we do something more?? We need to bridge the gap between our progressive ideologies and the actual state of things around. The gap is toooo wide, trying to bridge it a bit is so necessary!!
Okay, I was so haunted and obsessed, I couldn’t even sleep, but then I realized I will do no good to anyone by this. If it would have done good, I am willing to suffer. Now, being happy almost seems like a selfish act, an escapist act, but we need to be happy. Bcos it’s true we can’t change the whole world. We can do our bit, though, and that is only possible by doing our work well, contributing in whatever way we can, learning, creating, sharing, helping… if I think of all those victims, man, woman, child and animal, I’ll be sick and insane… so beyond a point, I must put I away. It is not escapism, it’s what I must do to at least do something for this world. We all have different ways of contributing… I was thinking of concrete stuff… I know lots of us are concerned by say, women, for example, or animals, or whatever. We could at some stage, actually do social work, whether by joining an existing organization, or by creating one of our own. Writing, teaching… well, that is what I can do, at least, (and by teaching I mean something much, much larger than creating answer writing and marks obtaining machines. That is NOT what I am going to spend my life doing.) and I think Nandita (Das) ( are you reading, Nandita?? J ) yeah, so I think Nandita was right when she told me once that whatever our heart is in is what we can do best, and when we have that happiness, then we can spread it the best. So we must all find our ways of contributing… but pls let’s not grow complacent, let’s not lose that urgency, let’s keep questioning and examining ourselves and what we are doing!! What good is art, literature, culture, left wing politics in a world like this?? How does it help?? We need to ask, at least, surely.
People, I really really hope no-one’s going to take this in a wrong sense, it is not meant as a morality lecture, it is not meant as an accusation, it is an attempt to share what was spilling over after having driven me insane. Pls take this as an attempt to learn, to share, and hopefully, to make the seeds for some kind of change, that’s all it is!! I want to live close to the earth, and open to the sky, without all the time thinking of security, protection, fortification!! To take whatever life brings!! Takes courage, yes, though.
Okay, now… Extremely glad, grateful, happy and proud to know all the people I send this to!! Learning, living, loving, fulfilling, satisfying, fruition … I wish you all of that in the new year!!!!!!!! J J
Friday, October 15, 2010
Elegy for a Broken Vase
The malleability of wet clay
a potter's wheel, and a friend's hand
birthed it. Stories etched into it
as dented lines, like wrinkles
formed by River's waves, on stone.
Mud coloured and elegant, it occupied
a prized position, as befits
a handcrafted gift, with grace.
Until it fell,struck by my careless hand
in dignity, stature, and height.
Sorrow, distress, and broken pieces of earth
delicately curved, now fill the room and
Draughts of love, clouds of memories and
bittersweet vapours escape
from the empty vase and
search for a new home.
An Urn of Ashes
It is an ornate and
heavy urn of bronze
shaped like a lota of water
its handles carved, and arching.
A heap of grey ashes
lies within, sanctified
hallowed remains.
The ashes seem heavy as lead
I lug them on my back
around my neck
everywhere I go.
Nourish them,
cherish them, they are
but metamorphosed forms
of the words you said, the smiles
you looked, and the red flame
of my heart before it was taught to turn to stone.
Waiting, hoping, for the phoenix to rise again
The leaden dread that I wait and carry in vain.
An Ode to Civil Lines, Delhi, October 2010
Dusky darkness steals in softly
tiptoeing, caressing
cradling the white fragrance
of the raat rani, shefali, frangipani.
The moon between the two tall palms
is a boat,the star is a kiss on the sea-sky.
At 7pm in the grounds of IP college
spirits and gods and trees converse, converge
mysteries like flying insects are suspended in mid air.
A silhouette of blue smoke seems strangely kindred
At odd hours, this spirit creeps out to share this tryst.
Six years have made it a translucent omnipresence.
The spirit then glides down the street, smoky
invisible, pervading ,absorbing atmosphere
which mutates into night smells
of ice creams, juices
the red paan, smoke-fags,
the tea,maggi,rolls,momos, chocolates.
Smell jostles against smell, sounds and lights
the shops, autos lined up at the gas station
cars teeming with yellow cat-like eyes
Sights, sounds, memories, smells,feelings
are brewed together, the logic of boundaries
comes undone. The spirit traverses
Into the by-ways of winged hopes,
feathered dreams, nostalgic idylls
of rajpur road, under hill lane, sri ram road
and ram kishore road, that take me across
time and space, desires and sorrows
back to the room of my own I call home.
My five feet four inch fifty kg body
may measure acres, square miles, cities
but a whiff of smoky translucence
will always glide down bylanes of dreams
and memory at 7pm, in the IP grounds
the place that brewed and stewed and cooked
and sprouted me.
Untitled (a response to J M Coetzee's Disgrace)
(a response to J M Coetzee's Disgrace )
Teach me
that ritual, David's daily penance
of carrying dead dogs to the incinerator.
Teach me
Lucy's mysterious wisdom
of accepting guilt without flinching.
But do not try to tell me
that shame precludes desire.
That they cannot coexist.
Desire can be consecrated, pure
as blue fire, it can worship the beloved
yet not touch her with its flame.
Fighting Menka and her fellow apsaras
of desire and temptation
is the agnipariksha remorse must win over
A daily duel with these dancing apsaras
only strengthens my victory
and is my highest offerring of atonement
towards grace.
The twin birds on the tree of the gita are within me
one tempted to eat the fruit, the other watching
even if one succumbs to the fruit, the other redeems.
Passport Sized Photographs
Passport-sized-photographs
A dummy, a mannequin,
a wax work doll. An object
to be stared, commented, laughed at.
A robotic machine. Controlled
by a set of commands.
“Shift your face to the left
your neck is not straight, your face
not level with the ground,madam.”
The holy mantra for photo-production
needs me to wear a plastic smile on demand
of correct length and breadth measurements
The canvas of my life
is replaced by a cheap blue one
Dirty too. I persuade him
to make it grey.
And I wonder how many sittings
and how many, many rehearsals
would capture my flyaway spirit
and inject a whiff of my soul
into this two-inches-of-gloss
this millimetred smile?
Show me how to do it like you
Not a hair
out of place. Not a ruffle
of dress, or of distress.
No clumsy errors
or misdemeanours
Perfect. And
Immaculate.
A story-book heroine
A graceful River flowing easy
is how your life
appears to me.
And I stare ruefully
at my own cobwebs
that need dusting,
removing, rethinking
at the fault-lines
that lead to earthquakes
at the sticky slime
at the acids that corrode
layers of my limestone mind.
Show me how to do it,
Show me how to do it like you.
(The last 2 lines, taken from Stevie Wonder's song, also form the epigraph to Alice Walker's The Color Purple.)
Choices
Frost's road diverged in a yellow wood
But what made him take the one less travelled by?
How do Hamlets decide to be or not to be,
to go, to act, to kill, or to not?
This power to alter our states is terrifying,
Nambisan is right, and I am paralysed
into Alfred Prufrock's doubt and inaction.
Dumbledore said our choices make us
what we are. But how do we make choices?
But let's not get existential. Let's not fall
into this canyon of questions.Let's find
a bottom to this bottomless gorge.
Or make one!
Open Pandora's box! Out with the bees,
the wasps and the hornets with their stings!
rights, wrongs ,goods, bads, reason,
logic, morals, virtues!
Shoo them away! No wreaths of laurel,
no gold medals for me! No awards of virtue!
Who decides, anyway? And when? On the Day
of Judgement on my deathbed?
Shoo them away! Doubts corrode as much
as certainty, after all. We meet in rust. That's
what Arundhathi Subramaniam said.
If you want references. And authorities.
Shoo them away! And let me be.
Let me be happy. Let me be me. Let me live
the life I wanted, the life I dreamt of. Let me
follow my heart.
But a tiny demon stalks me constantly
whispering in my ear
“are you quite sure?”
Saturday, September 4, 2010
4 poems in Muse India!!
Muse India , in their September issue this time, published 4 of my poems!! The basic theme of this issue is tagore, but they have lots of other stuff as well. an my poems aren't even remotely about tagore!! Okay, so the selected 4 are -- The Legend of the Pot, Of Poems Dreams and Reveries, Being Belindas, and, Homeless Home-makers, in that order.
Check them out here-- http://www.museindia.com/regular.asp?id=33
and yes, I am grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire cat!! :))
Check them out here-- http://www.museindia.com/regular.asp?id=33
and yes, I am grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire cat!! :))
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
poem published in The Chay Magazine
"Being Belindas" got published on The Chay Magazine website! The Chay Magazine is a Pakistan-based magazine on issues of gender and sexuality. Yay!! to read the poem, and other interesting stuff, pls do visit www.chaymagazine.org
The poem is elsewhere on the blog, but I am copy-pasting it below again, anyway.
The poem is elsewhere on the blog, but I am copy-pasting it below again, anyway.
Being Belindas (a response to Pope's Rape of the Lock)
The mirror hangs before me
My long face stares back at me
a pointed chin
whose rounding I dread
A tiny forehead
gleaned from the thick mass
of black hair surrounding it.
At the black hair
now streaked with red
I oscillate between
fascination and nostalgia
The hair, mostly helter-skelter
sometimes, precise in a bun
A glazed eyeball
with its bit of plastic-glas lens
A newly pierced nose--
a shade too large
showing off that li'l bit of green
My ears trying to seek attention
with their multiple studs and rings
which I regard as pets
And a moody mouth.
but on the whole, a face
I can live with.
My skin the colour
of burnt caramel
a thin, supple body
I am unashamedly
in love with.
Bottles and vials lined
in an array on the slab beside me
the daily ritual
of cleansing, toning, conditioning
the creams and the perfumes
the chief kohl that lines my eyes
the earrings in their silver box
the cupboard with its
greater assortment of clothes
than i could ever wear
the occupational hazards
of being a young girl.
Oh Pope, and other misogynists!
We love being Belindas
and Belindas we shall remain
with our bottles and our vials
our bibles and our billet doux
and we rebel against rapes
of our locks and otherwise.
our bodies and their vagaries
and tricks we play with them
are ours.
And not playthings or objects
for your phallus
or that inglorious phallic symbol
your pen.
My long face stares back at me
a pointed chin
whose rounding I dread
A tiny forehead
gleaned from the thick mass
of black hair surrounding it.
At the black hair
now streaked with red
I oscillate between
fascination and nostalgia
The hair, mostly helter-skelter
sometimes, precise in a bun
A glazed eyeball
with its bit of plastic-glas lens
A newly pierced nose--
a shade too large
showing off that li'l bit of green
My ears trying to seek attention
with their multiple studs and rings
which I regard as pets
And a moody mouth.
but on the whole, a face
I can live with.
My skin the colour
of burnt caramel
a thin, supple body
I am unashamedly
in love with.
Bottles and vials lined
in an array on the slab beside me
the daily ritual
of cleansing, toning, conditioning
the creams and the perfumes
the chief kohl that lines my eyes
the earrings in their silver box
the cupboard with its
greater assortment of clothes
than i could ever wear
the occupational hazards
of being a young girl.
Oh Pope, and other misogynists!
We love being Belindas
and Belindas we shall remain
with our bottles and our vials
our bibles and our billet doux
and we rebel against rapes
of our locks and otherwise.
our bodies and their vagaries
and tricks we play with them
are ours.
And not playthings or objects
for your phallus
or that inglorious phallic symbol
your pen.
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