Love Lost For A Good Cause!

After a very long time yesterday I felt that once very familiar restlessness that comes when a poem takes shape in your heart... It's been a very long time and I have no idea why this one decided to be written in Hindi - Urdu. Anyhow, here it is...

Un dino jab mohabbat ki mehfilein hua karti thi, kuch shaayari, kuch mosiqi hua karti thi.

Ab tanha si teri koi adaalat lagti hai. Kabhi tere liye takreer, kabhi teri hi vakaalat karte hai.

Intezaar hai ab, kabhi uzr hua karti thi. Ehsaason ka dera hai jahan, aiyaashi hua karti thi.

Buth parasti bhi raas na aayi, ek aisi dahriyat karte hain. Tu tha to khuda ko bhule thay. Furqat mein ab teri ibaadat karte hain.

The Wayside Boy

I am the wayside boy

I see the world go by

I see days turn to night

And nights turn to day

The world goes by

I stay

I have seen love blossom

A thousand times

I have seen births and deaths

And smiles and sighs

The pavement underneath me

Never sprouts weeds

My screaming calmness never dies

Yesterday she was alone

Today he is with her

There are only three today

From that group of five

That lady in the car

Used to take a cab

That guy on the wheelchair

Broke his leg last month

They all have their sorrows and laughter

Quicksilver highway with stone-paved sides

The pavement turns here and joins that way

The world goes by, I stay

Married, By the Way

Yours truly was invited to yet another wedding. And she went. She hogged and she returned, full.

My condition is on the upward slope. Yester-night, I could use the expensive body lotion I have bought. (Before, I was using Vicks, which was not bad. Skin used to feel soft in the morning. In fact, post observing result of the expensive’s use, self almost felt inclined to continue the use of Vicks.)

But that is beside the point.

I was thinking, what’s the big deal about weddings. Let us look at a few undertakings at an average Indian wedding. I personally noticed all of them taking place at the one where I was invited.

• The bride and bride-groom are the least informed about the goings on.


• The guests are inquiring, usually post dinner, where among the premises, are the bride and bride-groom seated.


• The bride’s thick make up, being meant really for the photographer’s ease, makes her look droopier to the naked eye, than she actually might be feeling.


• The misconception about her droopiness makes most female guests lavish her with kisses and smother her with their jeweled sarees, making the makeup look murkier.


• The groom is the only one not drunk.


• The groom is sulking, as a result.


• The groom is pretending to be gay (meaning happy).


• The groom looks gradually minus (neck plus spine), former owning to the sinking in under the weight of the pagdi and latter to the gifts which visitors from both sides usually heap on the groom.


• The bride and bride-groom are eventually left isolated, while the guests are found surrounding the food stalls.


• The bride and bride-groom are seen furtively inquiring from passersby, as to the remnant of the procedures.


• On keen observation, an answering friend or relative may be espied in some nook or cranny, gesturing wildly to communicate to the couple, the remaining number of minutes or hours of their endurance test.

I have concentrated here, on the bride-bridegroom because I feel a natural tenderness for the underprivileged. The reader may, of course, add from the guest position.

However this too is beside the point.

I started this post intending to tell you about weddings at my native place- Bengal. There it is a lengthy process. Starting a week before D Day, the bride and groom are fed constantly, and separately, by all willing members of the society. Much like chickens. The day before the marriage, the specimen are seated, and fed in unison by all members of the society, specially the senior members; separately in their respective homes. Sweets and water are heaped in obscene quantities in front of the cross legged specimen and then the social members take turns to shovel the eatables down their (the specimens) throat, washing it down with enormous quantities of water. Post this the specimens are put to bed (separately, at their mutually distanced abodes) after many short, but significant ceremonies. I have observed the average time of retirement to be around midnight. From here on, I will focus on the female. Readers please be informed that similar proceedings are taking place all along at the male specimen’s residence. There is equality in these matters.

The female specimen is dragged from her bed at about 3 30 am on the morning of the wedding, for a bath. Yes. Bath. Water-bath. After bath she is fed. All conventional food items being barred however, she is fed a random assortment of husk, puffed rice and watered curd among other things. This is her last, I repeat, last intake of food for the following day and night. Then she waits…

In course of time, dawn breaks. Family members assemble. The priest arrives. Auspicious times are discovered, and accordingly the women of the family, and interested and idle inhabitant females of the area proceed to a near-by pond to get a pot full of water. The pot is brought home and kept at a threatening distance from the specimen seated cross legged (as usual). Female members then compete with each other to smear her with a paste of turmeric and water in a ‘no holds barred’ sort of an event. Next, the contents of the pot are dumped on the specimen’s head. She is in this way bathed - twice, in a matter of hours. And then she is sent for a bath. Yes. Bath. Bath again. Water-bath again.

After the third bath, she waits…

By this time it is afternoon and family members and early bird guests have lunch. Some of them, plates full of conventional food items, queue up to meet the specimen. Starving, she pretends to be asleep or lost in thought to avoid them. The make up woman arrives and handles the specimen. By evening the remaining guests arrive making the place look like a bee hive, with guests filling in for the missing bees. The specimen is seated in a certain corner and guests start showering her with gifts and blessings. Let me remind the attentive reader, the last time the specimen ate was at about 4 am, directly after the first of the many baths. It is now about 8 pm. Guests, of course inadvertently, have eatables in their hands. As a result many times during the gift giving session, the bride mistakenly- owing to being lost in thoughts of love -moves towards the food item instead of the gift.

The groom arrives and is seated separately. Reader must have noted by now, that the trend here is to keep the couple separated. No doubt this is to aid them with a ‘we came together despite all odds’ kind of a love story for handing down to posterity. Young girls run to and fro from bride to groom telling each that the other party looks beautiful and jubilant. Both parties know that on the contrary, both must look groggy eyed and dismayed after the infliction upon them, of the above mentioned. The marriage is short and sweet. The groom is seated on a chair. The bride is made to take seven rounds of the groom, while he stares at the ground and she hides her face with beetle leaves (she is led by female members of the family.) Then both specimens stand on opposite sides of a screen and the screen is upped with a shout of joy by society surrounding them. The instinctive jumping retreat on both sides, which is the result of the specimens seeing the other’s unhappy state, is mistaken to be a joyful leap by all present, and the couple is led to the altar for a prayer to the almighty, thanking him and seeking his further blessings. It is by now at least midnight.

The couple is taken to a hawan (nature worship). All seems well to you, reader? It is, except that the groom is now in a loin cloth – one of the many mysteries of life. The invocation begins. The fire is lit and kept alive by means of ghee. Male species of my native place generally being hirsute tend to sweat profusely. Now the tendency takes over given the heat generated by the fire. This results in the female counterpart tending to faint from the odour. The couple makes rounds of the fire, sits, stands, walks and is finally, after a few hours, taken to bed followed by about 150 chaperons. You ask why on earth chaperons? The couple is not to embrace yet. The trend to keep them separate continues. The couple is given leftovers from the wedding dinner to gorge on. Chaperons make merry, crack vulgar jokes accompanied by the ‘poke’ many times into the groom’s ribs. After the fashion, the bride is to look demure and suitably unhappy with the proceedings.

Dawn breaks. Groom and bride take bath, eat (all the while kept awake by gentle nudges from well wishers) then sleep. Family members from both sides take count of the wedding plunder jointly. Evening comes and amidst general grief, the bride and bridegroom leave. On reaching the groom’s residence, the bride is forbidden from looking at him - to ensure that the story for posterity is really long and impressive. They sleep separately. Next day is the day of the reception. Bride and groom are now given leave - in theory - to mingle, but the practical application of this is far from possible with the bee hive now replicating itself at the groom’s residence. More so with some of the bees being the same. The day passes with the groom taking care of the bees and the bride continuing to look demure and suitably unhappy with the proceedings.

After the guests have departed, the couple cleans up and - hold your breath readers -is ushered into the wedding bed-room, minus - wonder of wonders – chaperons. Do they consummate? 100% of my bong acquaintances who have been married say ‘No’. They sleep. But you never know, some people may want to add one more chapter to that posterity story. ‘We did it! That same night!’

So that’s the wedding.

But this is beside the point - which is exactly my point. Nothing in a marriage seems to be 'the point'. The marriage – the coming together, of… hearts – seems to happen by the way.

PS: I must give this some serious thought one day.

Time Enough!

That’s it! I have had enough. I mean, how many times can I hear that we don’t have time! Makes me weary. I am spending my days coughing, currently. I don’t know for sure, but if I die of pneumonia or something, do accept my regards and wishes, and my apologies for not doing my duty by life. I mean I don’t know for sure- didn’t have time to visit a doc- but this wheezing and sniffing bit has been going on for a week now; more than my usual welcoming of the winter season. Reason – I didn’t have time to buy a bed. I mean God in heaven must be thinking I had time enough to make this thankless specimen, and she does not have time to try and live!

I remain positive, however. I can barely speak – maybe that’s why I got back to blogging with a vengeance. The coughing has made my onion warmer. I got thinking yesterday, how come we, in this generation, never have time. If you have read even one post here, you’ll know that most of what goes on in my top story, originates in someone’s mouth. I have heard some TV babas ask at the beginning of their spiritual programs, “How are we any different from, let’s say, the worm or the pig? We are born, we live, eat, drink, clean up, we die. What do we do which is so great, which the worm or the pig does not do?” When people have pondered in silence for a minute or so, baba continues to their immense astonishment, “Then why are we so sad, while worms and pigs live their humble life peacefully?!” This generation’s answer to this poignant question would be simple – we don’t have time to live our lives in peace, while the worms and pigs have.

It confounds me to think how they managed time in the earlier days. Byron had time to write 15000 or so lines of decent poetry, besides being in love, in orgies and in intoxication. Shelly, that great man, died at 30! In 30 years, he married twice, eloped once, survived a couple of wars, was an expatriate, wrote multiple volumes of first class poetry, among other things such as taking care of a depressive wife! While Gandhi had time to fight the war of independence and Nehru had time to build a nation, we don’t have time to read the newspaper! When we meet up, we have time either to guzzle on whiskey or talk. We usually vote for guzzling because talking would require thinking and that would mean making time for two things – talking and thinking.

The other day I was out shopping with a colleague, and we could not hear each other due to the blaring music. Of course we cursed the mall managers. To think back, the noise all around is the result of this same lack of time. We want to be busy. Being busy shopping is not enough. We need to be busy with more, for example, listening to some crap music (most of the malls play that brand). Multitasking is in. Breakfast on the go, mobile news feeds, video conferences, we have an alternative to everything, and still kids are in crèches and old people in old age homes and the all pervasive excuse is – we don’t have time! Being a logical, albeit dumb creature, I can’t help contemplate on the inactivity in our techno-savvy lives. We have an easier alternative for everything and yet we are forever finding simpler ways of doing things. People used to write letters in olden days. We thought that took too much time. To improve interaction, we devised the email. Then we devised the mobile and then the sms. Today the popular tool of communication is the missed call- no interaction! What was that word ‘redundant’ all about? Make some time to look it up, will you.

Sir J. M. Barrie says, ‘You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.’

Guys think. Time alone is timeless. Indulge in it. As we all know, there may not be tomorrow.

I Am Back!

Writing after a long time, this is déjà vu felt backwards. I see myself gingerly clicking here and there, trying to figure out how the blog is made. Being technically imbecilic, it took me almost a fortnight to just type the dreaded url. I wanted to do it alone – why should anyone be witness to my incompetence!

Well, here I am, eight posts in a quick succession and a six month long lull later, once again keyboarding my thoughts. The process started yesterday when I had a discussion with ahem ahem… you know, and we mused upon public and private lives, and opinions. Whether they matter or not and do we lead public or private lives as individuals.

I have said earlier on this blog that we are all voyeurs who love to live in glass houses and very precociously perched ones. Why is the other so important? Why does everything we believe in have to come tumbling down in the face of one stray comment? Somehow I think, this is related to the fact that we are looking for reasons. Every time you think of that third party perpetrated mess up in your life, rethink. How many times have you followed someone’s advice or believed in someone despite yourself. I will bet upon the answer ‘never.’ It is only when we seek that we pick up.

I am carefully dressed each time I go to a boring party while the gang always meets in a pyjama party! The other’s opinion matters only when I am not happy with my own. Then I am on the look out for what others will say, if they wow me, I’ll tell myself, it’s good; if they trash me, then well, I’ll be ready to change till they wow me. Couldn’t care less is the attitude of the confident. I think this is the reason why arrogance is attractive. Real arrogance I’m saying, not the loudness adopted to make oneself heard. Such arrogance is without cause - the result, simply, of being you. The kind Rochesters and Darcys are made up of. My friend once said, “I am here to feel important; whether I deserve it or not, I don’t care.”

Public opinion is like an ocean. One can’t see the rivers. But if each river thought they would anyway be lost to the ocean and so decide against travelling that far, there would never be an ocean. I similarly, have to overflow into the world, otherwise the world might be an ocean, and I would still be empty. The society might be living by the social rules, but each individual action makes up these rules. So let us all do our thing and before we know doing one’s thing will become the new social obligation.

And before you post a comment saying the F word, let me tell you… I am here to write, whether it’s worth reading or not, I DON’T CARE! :D

The World's Cutest Picture

Something in this photo makes me very happy

Roots of Existence

‘Never forget your roots’ is something we have grown up listening to. No matter how high up you reach, always remember where you came from. Humble, down to earth and essentially unquestioning is what the successful man is. I have also heard this time and again; and there was a time I actually believed it. I have always had problems at home. Always, what I said was right, was termed extremely, vulgarly wrong and unthinkable by my parents. I was not a family person and without feelings consequently. As I grew up, I apparently forgot my roots and therefore lost touch with myself.

Myself! What am I? This is the question I asked myself suddenly when I saw this picture- ‘Roots of Existence’, clicked by a dear friend, Sudip Chakraborty. What does it tell us? That roots are all important? No. Not for me at least. When I looked at it, I saw strength and an incompleteness which whispered, 'live'. Then when I walked out and saw a tree, all of a sudden I saw the height which branches reach. Are they connected to their roots, I thought. The branches come from the roots, but they are not connected. Their nourishment is through the roots, but what would happen if the roots don’t let the branches go? We will have only retarded trees growing in on themselves.

I am, what is live in me. And what is live in me is what grows. What grows always grows away from me. Growth backward is redundancy! I would go so far as to say, that the sign of life is the ability to let go. Each point in the branch is live only till the next point is built on it. Then, it is that which is live. I have always been told that the root is what matters. The root is strength for you can cut any amount of the tree, but if the roots are intact, it will survive. No one ever told me that the reason it survives is because it dares to let go- once more. It does not fear the axe, though it knows it exists. That is the strength of the roots. And that is my strength as well. The adaptability which helps me take in new thoughts, new ideas and change.

This is what I am. I am not connected to my roots. I know where I came from, but I don’t hold on to it. I want to let it go. I want to reach out and this does not make me without feelings; on the contrary. Feeling is the desire to reach out. And then I realized why the picture got the first prize; it is because it subtly tells us to dream, to go beyond. The bud would never open if it fears, if it wants to remain humble. The desire to touch the skies is what pushes the tree upward. This is not a down to earth feeling at all- not to me. Trees are proud of themselves that is why they dance; they are confident that is why they grow- they help us with fruit and shade, but in the meanwhile they don’t stop preening.