Mis

Growing as stoutely and desperately
As the scraping of a dry dead leaf
Clawing

While the birdie flits around
Staring happily
Her world
Her sky
Hers

Net piracy

Upset to see a recently discovered cute - uplifting - imaginative blog having to go off air in terms of total change in format, because others have blatantly copied the images without acknowledgement and permission. Shame on them! And what a pity that Mila's Daydreams are now off limits to all because of those copyright infringements :(

Good luck to Mila and her mommy for creative outings through their forthcoming book.

To get an idea of what you missed, see: Mila's Daydreams

Khusro

This Sunday has been spent soaking-in the stunning beauty of Khusro's kalaams. Some which I particularly like are the renditions by Abida Parveen of Man Kunto Maula, Chaap Tilak and Mosey Boolo Na. Lucky enough to hear her in person about six years ago at the Jahan-E-Khusro festival in the amazing setting of the Humayun's Tomb, I remember the powerful voice reverberating like thunder and swirling in a big vortex of fire. Whew.

Below are some stanzas from Man Kunto Maula:

Aaflak se laayi jaati hai
Seenon mein chupaaye jaati hai
Tauheed ki mein saagar se nahin
Aankhon se pilaayee jaati hai

Ishi talaasho tajasus mein
Kho gaya hoon main
Jo main nahin hoon to kyon hoon
Jo hoon to kya hoon main

Ishq kya shay hai
Kisi taamil se pucha chaahiye
Kis tarha jaata hai diL
Be dil se poocha chaahiye

Saaki tujhe kasam hai
jaanabe amir ki
behti phire sharab mein
kasti fakir ki

Yaar ab phir ek baar
fakiron pe marham rakh de
muddat hui hai
jyaarate insan kiye hue

Ab tumko bhool jaane ki koshish kareinge hum
Tumse bhi ho sake to na aana khayal mein

An afternoon in the tropics

a glide
a chirp
the french manicured plume
of the white breasted
little bird
in the Burmese Days
of a sleepy mid afternoon
amid tea shops in Myaungmya
fluttering on its way to
finding Grorge Orwell in Burma

Dreams on the wall

An old grainy yellowing paper
In the hand
Tired and comforting
Like a hard pillow
And dreams on the wall
Bright, psychedelic
And desperately holy
In trying conversations
With everything around
While the shadows
Oh the shadows
Wait patiently
For those dreams
On the wall

SO TELL ME TELL ME TELL ME, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH YOUR ONE WILD AND PRECIOUS LIFE?

I've been screaming this message inside my head ever since I cam across it.
Each time I feel sad, I scream.
Each time, I feel angry I scream.
Each time I feel upset, I scream.
Each day.
Every day.

Yes, JUST - ONE - WILD - AND - PRECIOUS - LIFE.

Puts things in perspective.

So, tell me.

Tell me.

Tell me.

Skyline

Feeling like the charcoal grey skyline of any and every city.

Acceptance and identity

A friend mentioned this to me a while ago, and it has stuck in my head and all too often I find myself repeating it to put situations in context.

'Some situations are neither good nor bad. They just - are. And you have to simply accept them as such.'

In a similar vein, here is a sentence I came across today and wanted to share.

'I AM, is the true identity of our real self.'

"Wrong triumphs over right, as much as right over wrong."

"The summer of 1947 was not like other Indian summers. Even the weather had a different feel in India that year."

Almost every page has a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph, which I have read and re-read, pleasuring myself with it. The title is from the end pages and the line above, the first sentence, on the first page.

"Mano Majra has always been known for its railway station. This...gives its staff a somewhat exaggerated sense of importance. Actually the station master himself sells tickets through the pigeonholein his office, collects them at the exit beside the door, and sends and receives messages over the telegraph ticker on his table. When there are people to notice him, he comes out on the platform and waves a green flag for trains which do not stop.

Not many trains stop at Mano Majra...All this has made Mano Majra very conscious of trains.

Before daybreak the mail train rushes through on its way to Lahore..In an instant, all Mano Majra comes awake. As the midday express goes by, Mano Majra stops to rest...When the evening goods train steams in, they say to each other, "There is the goods train." It is like saying Goodnight.

Then life in Mano Majra is stilled, save for the dogs barking at the trains that pass in the night.

It had always been so, until the summer of 1947."

My earliest memories of Khushwant Singh are associated with his voice. At least I think it was his voice. Although, a quick search on Google today didn't get me a positive link. This was in the early 80s I think. We were in Delhi. Doordarshan had a documentary on the history of the majestic ruins of the Tughlaqabad Fort. And Kushwant Singh provided the background narration. Its one of those voices which stays with you, deep baritone. Couple this with his obvious command over English and more than twenty year's later, I can still hear it.

The author, eminently readable, definitely opinionated, humorous and honest. The Mark of Vishnu was the first story authored by Singh, that I read. It was in school, in the syallabus for 'English Literature'. I forget in which grade. The children, the tin can and Gangaram. I vaguely recall it. And I remember even at that age tucking him gently in the list of authors I liked. With Malice Towards One And All, The Company of Women and several short stories later, I finally reached Mano Majra today through the Train to Pakistan.

Long on my list of reads and falling snugly into my current phase of literary jottings around partition, having started and finished the book, I am still struggling to emerge from the small bylanes of Mano Majra.

Not that I want to in a hurry.

Lessons: technology hic..s

Lesson of the day (Wednesday, 20 July 2010):

After consumption of 1 Beer + 2 Vodca-n-Cokes + 4 glasses of Red Wine, is not the best of times to send an email. Any email.

whateva

read loads
finished: a Justine Hardy
started: an Andrew Whitehead

more reading lists

food: oh all kinds - Indian, Mexican, French
and then all three: fusion?
furniture and small furnishings
coffee - hot and cold: latter for some strange reason
coffee - instant and Balinese: neither helped
mangosteen vs mangoes: oh puhleese, the latter clearly
strange Chinese dessert vs Vietnames sweets: former very weird

phone calls, skypes, gtalks, emails

sleepless nights
sleepy days

Got lost in the same place on Sat
and then again on Sun

lectured
and
berated

self

not for getting lost
not in this way

relaxed a bit
cried a bit
stressed a bit

Desiderata
If
After a while

quick visits to familiar old blogs
Shimla Gallimaufry
I've noticed that I visit you during certain similar periods in life
Life Aint That Bad
and where did you disappear?

sat out
sat in

formed lots of opinions

and resolves

even prayed

sigh. and yet the bloody thing is just not getting written.

damn.

and nope, don't feel like sentence casing either.

Freaky freaky freaky

Fifty minutes of a freakish roller coaster adventure. Pacific. Tonga. A missing laptop. Old colleagues. New colleagues. In the mind. Family. The only one. Emotions. Irritation. Dread. Chase. Men. Mobs. Cobbled walkways which existed. And those which did not. Huts. Closed doorways. Asking assistance. Dreading discovery. Photographs. The hyperactive mind. Not quite asleep. The hyperactive mind. Wide awake typing away.

Deja Vu. Almost.

Papers. Pacific. Fiji. Subordinates. Insubordination. Struggle. Not, Walking away. Does that count? Repeat conversations. And avoiding repeat conversations. Whats another word for avoiding unpleasant encounters. Hope - less? Or hope - full? Stupidity? Foolishness? And yet.

Yes. And yet.

For Eeeenglish Pleez Plezz Nine

Seen on the website of an apartment house in Bangkok, Thailand:

-The number of people who can live in each room are not over 3 persons.

-Do not bring the illegal thing, every kind of animal, inflammable thing and fuel into the building.

-Do not play gambling and prohibit the outsider to congregate within the room.

-This building is for resident only. The hirer cannot make other business.

And

-Do not change and destroy the permanent attached thing with inspiring strength.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Love Letter - the handicraft shop in Yangon, Myanmar, lives up to its name with the following lovely words:

Welcome to Myanmar

We assort a handicraft in Myanmar and are waiting for everybody's crossing.

We sell the item of the owner careful selection such as the shell work, the shellfish picture, the rattan, the sandal, the pearl, the woodcraft.

Your Myanmar is surely found out.

Hmm..your guess dear reader, is as good as mine :)

Sounds

Running a finger over the metal tubes of a windchime on a misty afternoon. The anticipation of the touch. Ears buzzing with the soft sound which plays. Much before it acually does.

Simple pleasures of materialism.

A daze and a doze on a winter afternoon

On the verge of dozing off in the warm sunshine on a winter afternoon amidst the flowers, the trees and the green green grass. A recurring cacophany of sounds from the main road prevents deep sleep in the lawn. Just as well. Still have the energy to open one eye slightly, each time an interesting sound catches the attention. A moment ago it was the ghungroos tied around the legs of a running camel. The perfect blend of tiny metal balls striking against the little brass buds. The eager pace of the camel showing off happily. If it had a voice, I can almost imagine it hum a tune as it runs.

A bus braked with a very jarring screech and we all looked at each other and almost laughed at the ugly sound. How would the poor camel brake I wondered, just before closing the eyes again. Our own Ghunghroo meantime is hiding from the sun. Maybe thanking his stars for the neem tree which hides the rays of the setting sun. The poor tree. So large and dense with its own particular brand of dark green. Shrugs its pod laden shoulders gently in the breeze - 'can't please everyone', it thinks, as it turns some of the leaves to savour the sun. And we all doze off once again. Us, the flowers, the trees and the green green grass. On this winter afternoon.