Saket Suryesh's Blog, page 29
April 4, 2013
An Angry Moon
I used to walk
Long distances every evening,
Right across the horizon
Where a tranquil lake
Slept under the caressing skies
And every night the moon
Showered me with
Benign white light,
And the trees would
Bathe in the moonlight
As if snow has just fallen over them
And cherish the love
Which the skies have showered
And in silence,
We sat.
Me and the lake,
We talked many things
And the night understood
Which escaped
The comprehension of the day.
We drank
The emotions and drenched
Our souls,
As the bitter sweet liquid
Of words, of poetry
Moved through the throat,
With a burning sensation.
And then
Suddenly selfish sloth
Crept through
The grass and bit me on the toes,
And in a slumber
I fell,
I slept for something
Like a century,
And when I woke up
In drunk stupor,
Middle aged,
With broken glasses
Of failed idealism,
Around me,
And the benevolent moon
Turned its face away,
Annoyed and disgusted.
I rose
Slowly, with silent submission
As brittle brutal truth
Pierced on the naked feet
In the darkness.
I shook my head and few words
Still lying on the ground
Out of the poetry which fell
On the ground
Lit a path
In the grass,
I stumbled through
The brittle glasses
As the lake slept
Dead, and uninterested
As if it did not know me
And the years of company
Never existed.
Suddenly,
I could hear a match struck
And a candle lit
Which fought a feeble battle
Against the dreadful dark
I rose and tried to find a way
Out of the place
Alphabet by alphabet
Word by word.
I collected all the words
Which fell from
The trees in the night
And lit a bonfire
Besides the lake and waited for
The renewed love of
An angry moon,
To wash the Earth, the lake
And me with its
Kind whiteness,
Once again.
Long distances every evening,
Right across the horizon
Where a tranquil lake
Slept under the caressing skies
And every night the moon
Showered me with
Benign white light,
And the trees would
Bathe in the moonlight
As if snow has just fallen over them
And cherish the love
Which the skies have showered
And in silence,
We sat.
Me and the lake,
We talked many things
And the night understood
Which escaped
The comprehension of the day.
We drank
The emotions and drenched
Our souls,
As the bitter sweet liquid
Of words, of poetry
Moved through the throat,
With a burning sensation.
And then
Suddenly selfish sloth
Crept through
The grass and bit me on the toes,
And in a slumber
I fell,
I slept for something
Like a century,
And when I woke up
In drunk stupor,
Middle aged,
With broken glasses
Of failed idealism,
Around me,
And the benevolent moon
Turned its face away,
Annoyed and disgusted.
I rose
Slowly, with silent submission
As brittle brutal truth
Pierced on the naked feet
In the darkness.
I shook my head and few words
Still lying on the ground
Out of the poetry which fell
On the ground
Lit a path
In the grass,
I stumbled through
The brittle glasses
As the lake slept
Dead, and uninterested
As if it did not know me
And the years of company
Never existed.
Suddenly,
I could hear a match struck
And a candle lit
Which fought a feeble battle
Against the dreadful dark
I rose and tried to find a way
Out of the place
Alphabet by alphabet
Word by word.
I collected all the words
Which fell from
The trees in the night
And lit a bonfire
Besides the lake and waited for
The renewed love of
An angry moon,
To wash the Earth, the lake
And me with its
Kind whiteness,
Once again.
Shimla - The Mountain Queen
Starting late from Delhi, at close to Twelve, pressure mounted regarding when to reach the mountain. Quite unlikely to all other drives we had taken, this one had no plans, no bookings, no destination. Well, no destination in physical sense, only destination sought was the sense of closeness, a rekindled happiness in the shadow of excitement laden, mild uncertainty.
The roads were smooth, welcoming and friendly, as the Sun, settled leisurely on the hammock of blue clouds. The skies were pregnant with the possibility of an impending rain, which showed in layered colours of oranges and blues. Love after years of marriage becomes like an old currency note lying at the corner of wallet, loosing the crispness and fearful of an eventual loss of value. It deems fit that the note be taken out and shown the divine light of sun through sudden outings as this. It is no wonder that in the Indian mythology a board game, claimed to be first in human history was created by Lord Shiva for his wife. Play is an important adhesive, apart from love which keeps the family together. To doctor slightly an old saying, the family which plays together, stays together. It is amusing that the love and care and affection which initiates a relation, looses its sheen in the very security of having establish a relation and thereby threatens it.
Stuffed with the most amazing parathas at Murthal at two, we touched Chandigarh at six and after a quick high tea ( well, it was a tea at a high altitude ) at Timber Trail, right where the mountains begin, we began ascend. As we drove through the mountains, creases of worry emerged as we started knocking on hotels on the way, to be turned away. Eventually, reached Shimla, in the slight chill, by ten at night.
With anticipation, took turn from the easy to miss, slight U, directing to the assembly, and went up to the narrow road leading to the government run, The Peterhoff, an amazing property, thought bereft of shining upkeep of a private run building. The building looking like an old giant, lost in time wrap, kneeling on one knees in anticipated knighthood, towers over the cities numerous hotels, perched over a hillock.
The following morning brings the building to life. The quaint building is huge, with large rooms, which are more like an apartment with huge halls, and high ceilings, complete with its own powder room. It is like a Scottish mansion, with large manicured lawns. I do not know why i suggest so, since I certainly have limited understanding when it comes to define work of art or beauty and find my vocabulary sorely inadequate for the purpose. I call it scottish design since to my mind it resembles my idea of a a Scottish villa, and leave my architect friends to dissect it further for accuracy based on picture I enclose here.
When staying at such places, it is hard for minds not to wander off to the people who would once have resided there, the fun and frolic days. One can not but think of an imaginary past without a slight sense of remorse. Sometimes, you strain your ears to try to hear the sound of children giggling and running through to long galleries, pretty young ladies getting ready in brilliant gowns, for the Ball. Ah, that grand old man, with straight gait and people talking in hushed tones, and suppressed melodious and twinkling laughters of women. I try to hear hard but all I hear is birds chirping in happiness. I sometime think of myself as a medieval knight stuck in today's world.
The windows are large, opening on to the balcony, overlooking the majestic pine trees, standing like a meticulously dressed orchestra, ready to play the symphony. A radio station tower stands like an old stately guard. Nonu is ecstatic, with the chandelier, the carpet and the snuggle in the soft bed. She jumps around in the room. She is like a chained melody released in the happy environs of the mountains. There is something divine in the sight of a child dancing with abandon, and I sat there getting drenched in the divinity of the moment.
We stepped out in the lawns overlooking the valley surrounded by mountains as protective and loving and silent as a father. The sun was bright and we walked to the bird sanctuary claiming to be housing rare birds. The inhabitants which are there primarily are peacocks and some ducks. It is a small walk through an island of birds but fun with kids. This small birds land separated the hillock on which Peterhoff was stationed from the neighbouring hillock on which the President's summer house.
We walked over to the exquisite building and this truly was Scottish architecture and my confidence in claiming so is backed by the official guide which is mandatory to take as you step in for the short tour. This is a lovely building, with lovely designs on its well preserved walls. It carries a great sense of history in its silence, being the site of the finalisation of the partition of India, which continues to bleed both the countries till date. When religion sets the agenda for polity, blood is sure to flow. The building also housed something of a photo museum. We looked at the lovely pictures of Lady Minto and Lord Dufferin, latter credited with building this house.
The guide showed us from outside the erstwhile ballroom, now converted to a library for the students of Indian Institute of Advance Studies, which is now the owner of this establishment. The exchange of the grand and exquisite for the practical and necessary is somehow saddening.
By then we could hear from a distance the rumbles of the thundering wheels of the chariot of rains for a distance. We rushed back to the hotel, before savouring a simple meal ( simple and easy on the pocket) at the cafe next to the President's house. The thundering army reached the mountains and rained for the next couple of hours. There is something very nostalgic about watching the rain, from the balcony, and listening to the tapping sound of the raindrops falling on the roof, nostalgic and rejuvenating. I sat in silence on the balcony with my daughter and we watched the rain in silence. I thought about lonely afternoons in the rain and watching raindrops slowly slipping from the steel bars on the windows, and also thought if Nonu is going to think of this afternoon with the same sense of affection and longing when she grows up.
As we woke from the afternoon siesta , the rain has passed and the Sun was up in defiance. The Earth looked fresh and splendid and greener. On mountains, the rain does leave sadness behind. It passes off with grace and charm and leaves a sense of happiness behind. Nietzsche said we should know when to leave this earth, I posit, we should also know how to leave, which is like the rain in the mountains, which cleanses and brings in something which buoys the souls, which are left behind.
We left next morning to Naldehra, which is 22 kilometres from Shimla and boasts of the highest golf course in India, or was it Asia? am little confused. The road passes through Victory tunnel and takes a by-pass from Dhalli to take the steep rise to Kufri and Naldehra. A slight turn after Dhalli to left takes you to Naldehra. The drive was steep and slight mountain sickness crept in and we had to halt in between. Gave a walk to Nonu and journey continued to Naldehra. The place is hard to notice but for some designated car parkings on the roadside and horses waiting to give tourists a ride. The Himachal tourism Golf Glade is on the right. We took a cottage on the top, right adjacent to the picnic spot, which has shooting point ( on account of movies shot there) on the other side. These two being one of the three spots which the guide who you would find at Dhalli will promise to show you. So as we see, if you stay in the HP tourism place,you would not need a guide. All the places to visit in Naldehra are within the premise of the government run place, staying where also entitles you to the Parking next to the golf course. The golf course is well maintained and picturesque, nestled in the mountains. We learn that it was built in 1880 by Lord Curzon. He loved the place so much that he named his daughter after it. The story stays with me, on account of the protagonists involved.
The princess of Shimla will be a villager kid in the cottage for a day. Evening we had some adventure sport with zip line or something were you slide by the wire. To the appreciation of our daughter, we, both the parents went on the zip. Then we went on the horses, as they went by on the steep mountain path, we held to our nerves. Nonu established a friendship with the horses discovering their names as Neeli and Baadal. We went around the golf course and then retired back to the cottage after Nonu bid goodbye to her new friends with thanks. The next morning began with me and Nonu having Maggi at the tea-stall in picnic point behind the cottage, as the Earth was waking up under the affectionate Sun. Nonu went for a small ride with another horse, with slightly better built and an English name. We started the journey downwards by twelve and bye-passed Shimla. By evening, we touched the planes and by night we were home with worries of a workday the following day. I am back not to work better, having rejuvenated, but to work harder to ear another of such spell of togetherness and tranquility.
PS.. This post was delayed on account of travel and missed the weekend which I target for the postings. But this getting away was much needed to repair the soul and also in a good way to know that I was missed as was pointed out by Soham on twitter, who said he missed the post. It is fulfilling to know that one is being read, it makes all the ordeal of moonlighting as a writer worth it's while.
The roads were smooth, welcoming and friendly, as the Sun, settled leisurely on the hammock of blue clouds. The skies were pregnant with the possibility of an impending rain, which showed in layered colours of oranges and blues. Love after years of marriage becomes like an old currency note lying at the corner of wallet, loosing the crispness and fearful of an eventual loss of value. It deems fit that the note be taken out and shown the divine light of sun through sudden outings as this. It is no wonder that in the Indian mythology a board game, claimed to be first in human history was created by Lord Shiva for his wife. Play is an important adhesive, apart from love which keeps the family together. To doctor slightly an old saying, the family which plays together, stays together. It is amusing that the love and care and affection which initiates a relation, looses its sheen in the very security of having establish a relation and thereby threatens it.
Stuffed with the most amazing parathas at Murthal at two, we touched Chandigarh at six and after a quick high tea ( well, it was a tea at a high altitude ) at Timber Trail, right where the mountains begin, we began ascend. As we drove through the mountains, creases of worry emerged as we started knocking on hotels on the way, to be turned away. Eventually, reached Shimla, in the slight chill, by ten at night.
With anticipation, took turn from the easy to miss, slight U, directing to the assembly, and went up to the narrow road leading to the government run, The Peterhoff, an amazing property, thought bereft of shining upkeep of a private run building. The building looking like an old giant, lost in time wrap, kneeling on one knees in anticipated knighthood, towers over the cities numerous hotels, perched over a hillock.
The following morning brings the building to life. The quaint building is huge, with large rooms, which are more like an apartment with huge halls, and high ceilings, complete with its own powder room. It is like a Scottish mansion, with large manicured lawns. I do not know why i suggest so, since I certainly have limited understanding when it comes to define work of art or beauty and find my vocabulary sorely inadequate for the purpose. I call it scottish design since to my mind it resembles my idea of a a Scottish villa, and leave my architect friends to dissect it further for accuracy based on picture I enclose here.
When staying at such places, it is hard for minds not to wander off to the people who would once have resided there, the fun and frolic days. One can not but think of an imaginary past without a slight sense of remorse. Sometimes, you strain your ears to try to hear the sound of children giggling and running through to long galleries, pretty young ladies getting ready in brilliant gowns, for the Ball. Ah, that grand old man, with straight gait and people talking in hushed tones, and suppressed melodious and twinkling laughters of women. I try to hear hard but all I hear is birds chirping in happiness. I sometime think of myself as a medieval knight stuck in today's world.
The windows are large, opening on to the balcony, overlooking the majestic pine trees, standing like a meticulously dressed orchestra, ready to play the symphony. A radio station tower stands like an old stately guard. Nonu is ecstatic, with the chandelier, the carpet and the snuggle in the soft bed. She jumps around in the room. She is like a chained melody released in the happy environs of the mountains. There is something divine in the sight of a child dancing with abandon, and I sat there getting drenched in the divinity of the moment.
We stepped out in the lawns overlooking the valley surrounded by mountains as protective and loving and silent as a father. The sun was bright and we walked to the bird sanctuary claiming to be housing rare birds. The inhabitants which are there primarily are peacocks and some ducks. It is a small walk through an island of birds but fun with kids. This small birds land separated the hillock on which Peterhoff was stationed from the neighbouring hillock on which the President's summer house.
We walked over to the exquisite building and this truly was Scottish architecture and my confidence in claiming so is backed by the official guide which is mandatory to take as you step in for the short tour. This is a lovely building, with lovely designs on its well preserved walls. It carries a great sense of history in its silence, being the site of the finalisation of the partition of India, which continues to bleed both the countries till date. When religion sets the agenda for polity, blood is sure to flow. The building also housed something of a photo museum. We looked at the lovely pictures of Lady Minto and Lord Dufferin, latter credited with building this house.
The guide showed us from outside the erstwhile ballroom, now converted to a library for the students of Indian Institute of Advance Studies, which is now the owner of this establishment. The exchange of the grand and exquisite for the practical and necessary is somehow saddening.
By then we could hear from a distance the rumbles of the thundering wheels of the chariot of rains for a distance. We rushed back to the hotel, before savouring a simple meal ( simple and easy on the pocket) at the cafe next to the President's house. The thundering army reached the mountains and rained for the next couple of hours. There is something very nostalgic about watching the rain, from the balcony, and listening to the tapping sound of the raindrops falling on the roof, nostalgic and rejuvenating. I sat in silence on the balcony with my daughter and we watched the rain in silence. I thought about lonely afternoons in the rain and watching raindrops slowly slipping from the steel bars on the windows, and also thought if Nonu is going to think of this afternoon with the same sense of affection and longing when she grows up.
As we woke from the afternoon siesta , the rain has passed and the Sun was up in defiance. The Earth looked fresh and splendid and greener. On mountains, the rain does leave sadness behind. It passes off with grace and charm and leaves a sense of happiness behind. Nietzsche said we should know when to leave this earth, I posit, we should also know how to leave, which is like the rain in the mountains, which cleanses and brings in something which buoys the souls, which are left behind.
We left next morning to Naldehra, which is 22 kilometres from Shimla and boasts of the highest golf course in India, or was it Asia? am little confused. The road passes through Victory tunnel and takes a by-pass from Dhalli to take the steep rise to Kufri and Naldehra. A slight turn after Dhalli to left takes you to Naldehra. The drive was steep and slight mountain sickness crept in and we had to halt in between. Gave a walk to Nonu and journey continued to Naldehra. The place is hard to notice but for some designated car parkings on the roadside and horses waiting to give tourists a ride. The Himachal tourism Golf Glade is on the right. We took a cottage on the top, right adjacent to the picnic spot, which has shooting point ( on account of movies shot there) on the other side. These two being one of the three spots which the guide who you would find at Dhalli will promise to show you. So as we see, if you stay in the HP tourism place,you would not need a guide. All the places to visit in Naldehra are within the premise of the government run place, staying where also entitles you to the Parking next to the golf course. The golf course is well maintained and picturesque, nestled in the mountains. We learn that it was built in 1880 by Lord Curzon. He loved the place so much that he named his daughter after it. The story stays with me, on account of the protagonists involved.
The princess of Shimla will be a villager kid in the cottage for a day. Evening we had some adventure sport with zip line or something were you slide by the wire. To the appreciation of our daughter, we, both the parents went on the zip. Then we went on the horses, as they went by on the steep mountain path, we held to our nerves. Nonu established a friendship with the horses discovering their names as Neeli and Baadal. We went around the golf course and then retired back to the cottage after Nonu bid goodbye to her new friends with thanks. The next morning began with me and Nonu having Maggi at the tea-stall in picnic point behind the cottage, as the Earth was waking up under the affectionate Sun. Nonu went for a small ride with another horse, with slightly better built and an English name. We started the journey downwards by twelve and bye-passed Shimla. By evening, we touched the planes and by night we were home with worries of a workday the following day. I am back not to work better, having rejuvenated, but to work harder to ear another of such spell of togetherness and tranquility.
PS.. This post was delayed on account of travel and missed the weekend which I target for the postings. But this getting away was much needed to repair the soul and also in a good way to know that I was missed as was pointed out by Soham on twitter, who said he missed the post. It is fulfilling to know that one is being read, it makes all the ordeal of moonlighting as a writer worth it's while.
Shimla - The Mountain Queen- Travelogue
Starting late from Delhi, at close to Twelve, pressure mounted regarding when to reach the mountain. Quite unlikely to all other drives we had taken, this one had no plans, no bookings, no destination. Well, no destination in physical sense, only destination sought was the sense of closeness, a rekindled happiness in the shadow of excitement laden, mild uncertainty.
The roads were smooth, welcoming and friendly, as the Sun, settled leisurely on the hammock of blue clouds. The skies were pregnant with the possibility of an impending rain, which showed in layered colours of oranges and blues. Love after years of marriage becomes like an old currency note lying at the corner of wallet, loosing the crispness and fearful of an eventual loss of value. It deems fit that the note be taken out and shown the divine light of sun through sudden outings as this. It is no wonder that in the Indian mythology a board game, claimed to be first in human history was created by Lord Shiva for his wife. Play is an important adhesive, apart from love which keeps the family together. To doctor slightly an old saying, the family which plays together, stays together. It is amusing that the love and care and affection which initiates a relation, looses its sheen in the very security of having establish a relation and thereby threatens it.
Stuffed with the most amazing parathas at Murthal at two, we touched Chandigarh at six and after a quick high tea ( well, it was a tea at a high altitude ) at Timber Trail, right where the mountains begin, we began ascend. As we drove through the mountains, creases of worry emerged as we started knocking on hotels on the way, to be turned away. Eventually, reached Shimla, in the slight chill, by ten at night.
The PeterHoff
With anticipation, took turn from the easy to miss, slight U, directing to the assembly, and went up to the narrow road leading to the government run, The Peterhoff, an amazing property, thought bereft of shining upkeep of a private run building. The building looking like an old giant, lost in time wrap, kneeling on one knees in anticipated knighthood, towers over the cities numerous hotels, perched over a hillock.
The following morning brings the building to life. The quaint building is huge, with large rooms, which are more like an apartment with huge halls, and high ceilings, complete with its own powder room. It is like a Scottish mansion, with large manicured lawns. I do not know why i suggest so, since I certainly have limited understanding when it comes to define work of art or beauty and find my vocabulary sorely inadequate for the purpose. I call it scottish design since to my mind, it resembles my idea of a a Scottish villa, and leave my architect friends to dissect it further for accuracy based on picture I enclose here.
When staying at such places, it is hard for minds not to wander off to the people who would once have resided there, the fun and frolic days. One can not but think of an imaginary past without a slight sense of remorse. Sometimes, you strain your ears to try to hear the sound of children giggling and running through to long galleries, pretty young ladies getting ready in brilliant gowns, for the Ball. Ah, that grand old man, with straight gait and people talking in hushed tones, and suppressed melodious and twinkling laughters of women. I try to hear hard but all I hear is birds chirping in happiness. I sometime think of myself as a medieval knight stuck in today's world.
The windows are large, opening on to the balcony, overlooking the majestic pine trees, standing like a meticulously dressed orchestra, ready to play the symphony. A radio station tower stands like an old stately guard. Nonu is ecstatic, with the chandelier, the carpet and the snuggle in the soft bed. She jumps around in the room. She is like a chained melody released in the happy environs of the mountains. There is something divine in the sight of a child dancing with abandon, and I sat there getting drenched in the divinity of the moment.
We stepped out in the lawns overlooking the valley surrounded by mountains as protective and loving and silent as a father. The sun was bright and we walked to the bird sanctuary claiming to be housing rare birds. The inhabitants which are there primarily are peacocks and some ducks. It is a small walk through an island of birds but fun with kids. This small birds land separated the hillock on which Peterhoff was stationed from the neighbouring hillock on which the President's summer house.
We walked over to the exquisite building and this truly was Scottish architecture and my confidence in claiming so is backed by the official guide which is mandatory to take as you step in for the short tour. This is a lovely building, with lovely designs on its well preserved walls. It carries a great sense of history in its silence, being the site of the finalisation of the partition of India, which continues to bleed both the countries till date. When religion sets the agenda for polity, blood is sure to flow. The building also housed something of a photo museum. We looked at the lovely pictures of Lady Minto and Lord Dufferin, latter credited with building this house.
The guide showed us from outside the erstwhile ballroom, now converted to a library for the students of Indian Institute of Advance Studies, which is now the owner of this establishment. The exchange of the grand and exquisite for the practical and necessary is somehow saddening.
By then we could hear from a distance the rumbles of the thundering wheels of the chariot of rains for a distance. We rushed back to the hotel, before savouring a simple meal ( simple and easy on the pocket) at the cafe next to the President's house. The thundering army reached the mountains and rained for the next couple of hours. There is something very nostalgic about watching the rain, from the balcony, and listening to the tapping sound of the raindrops falling on the roof, nostalgic and rejuvenating. I sat in silence on the balcony with my daughter and we watched the rain in silence. I thought about lonely afternoons in the rain and watching raindrops slowly slipping from the steel bars on the windows, and also thought if Nonu is going to think of this afternoon with the same sense of affection and longing when she grows up.
As we woke from the afternoon siesta , the rain has passed and the Sun was up in defiance. The Earth looked fresh and splendid and greener. On mountains, the rain does leave sadness behind. It passes off with grace and charm and leaves a sense of happiness behind. Nietzsche said we should know when to leave this earth, I posit, we should also know how to leave, which is like the rain in the mountains, which cleanses and brings in something which buoys the souls, which are left behind.
We left next morning to Naldehra, which is 22 kilometres from Shimla and boasts of the highest golf course in India, or was it Asia? am little confused. The road passes through Victory tunnel and takes a by-pass from Dhalli to take the steep rise to Kufri and Naldehra. A slight turn after Dhalli to left takes you to Naldehra. The drive was steep and slight mountain sickness crept in and we had to halt in between. Gave a walk to Nonu and journey continued to Naldehra. The place is hard to notice but for some designated car parkings on the roadside and horses waiting to give tourists a ride. The Himachal tourism Golf Glade is on the right. We took a cottage on the top, right adjacent to the picnic spot, which has shooting point ( on account of movies shot there) on the other side. These two being one of the three spots which the guide who you would find at Dhalli will promise to show you. So as we see, if you stay in the HP tourism place,you would not need a guide. All the places to visit in Naldehra are within the premise of the government run place, staying where also entitles you to the Parking next to the golf course. The golf course is well maintained and picturesque, nestled in the mountains. We learn that it was built in 1880 by Lord Curzon. He loved the place so much that he named his daughter after it. The story stays with me, on account of the protagonists involved.
The princess of Shimla will be a villager kid in the cottage for a day. Evening we had some adventure sport with zip line or something were you slide by the wire. To the appreciation of our daughter, we, both the parents went on the zip. Then we went on the horses, as they went by on the steep mountain path, we held to our nerves. Nonu established a friendship with the horses discovering their names as Neeli and Baadal.
We went around the golf course and then retired back to the cottage after Nonu bid goodbye to her new friends with thanks. The next morning began with me and Nonu having Maggi at the tea-stall in picnic point behind the cottage, as the Earth was waking up under the affectionate Sun. Nonu went for a small ride with another horse, with slightly better built and an English name. We started the journey downwards by twelve and bye-passed Shimla. By evening, we touched the planes and by night we were home with worries of a workday the following day. I am back not to work better, having rejuvenated, but to work harder to ear another of such spell of togetherness and tranquility.
PS.. This post was delayed on account of travel and missed the weekend which I target for the postings. But this getting away was much needed to repair the soul and also in a good way to know that I was missed as was pointed out by Soham on twitter, who said he missed the post. It is fulfilling to know that one is being read, it makes all the ordeal of moonlighting as a writer worth it's while.
The roads were smooth, welcoming and friendly, as the Sun, settled leisurely on the hammock of blue clouds. The skies were pregnant with the possibility of an impending rain, which showed in layered colours of oranges and blues. Love after years of marriage becomes like an old currency note lying at the corner of wallet, loosing the crispness and fearful of an eventual loss of value. It deems fit that the note be taken out and shown the divine light of sun through sudden outings as this. It is no wonder that in the Indian mythology a board game, claimed to be first in human history was created by Lord Shiva for his wife. Play is an important adhesive, apart from love which keeps the family together. To doctor slightly an old saying, the family which plays together, stays together. It is amusing that the love and care and affection which initiates a relation, looses its sheen in the very security of having establish a relation and thereby threatens it.
Stuffed with the most amazing parathas at Murthal at two, we touched Chandigarh at six and after a quick high tea ( well, it was a tea at a high altitude ) at Timber Trail, right where the mountains begin, we began ascend. As we drove through the mountains, creases of worry emerged as we started knocking on hotels on the way, to be turned away. Eventually, reached Shimla, in the slight chill, by ten at night.
The PeterHoff
With anticipation, took turn from the easy to miss, slight U, directing to the assembly, and went up to the narrow road leading to the government run, The Peterhoff, an amazing property, thought bereft of shining upkeep of a private run building. The building looking like an old giant, lost in time wrap, kneeling on one knees in anticipated knighthood, towers over the cities numerous hotels, perched over a hillock.
The following morning brings the building to life. The quaint building is huge, with large rooms, which are more like an apartment with huge halls, and high ceilings, complete with its own powder room. It is like a Scottish mansion, with large manicured lawns. I do not know why i suggest so, since I certainly have limited understanding when it comes to define work of art or beauty and find my vocabulary sorely inadequate for the purpose. I call it scottish design since to my mind, it resembles my idea of a a Scottish villa, and leave my architect friends to dissect it further for accuracy based on picture I enclose here.
When staying at such places, it is hard for minds not to wander off to the people who would once have resided there, the fun and frolic days. One can not but think of an imaginary past without a slight sense of remorse. Sometimes, you strain your ears to try to hear the sound of children giggling and running through to long galleries, pretty young ladies getting ready in brilliant gowns, for the Ball. Ah, that grand old man, with straight gait and people talking in hushed tones, and suppressed melodious and twinkling laughters of women. I try to hear hard but all I hear is birds chirping in happiness. I sometime think of myself as a medieval knight stuck in today's world.
The windows are large, opening on to the balcony, overlooking the majestic pine trees, standing like a meticulously dressed orchestra, ready to play the symphony. A radio station tower stands like an old stately guard. Nonu is ecstatic, with the chandelier, the carpet and the snuggle in the soft bed. She jumps around in the room. She is like a chained melody released in the happy environs of the mountains. There is something divine in the sight of a child dancing with abandon, and I sat there getting drenched in the divinity of the moment.
We stepped out in the lawns overlooking the valley surrounded by mountains as protective and loving and silent as a father. The sun was bright and we walked to the bird sanctuary claiming to be housing rare birds. The inhabitants which are there primarily are peacocks and some ducks. It is a small walk through an island of birds but fun with kids. This small birds land separated the hillock on which Peterhoff was stationed from the neighbouring hillock on which the President's summer house.
We walked over to the exquisite building and this truly was Scottish architecture and my confidence in claiming so is backed by the official guide which is mandatory to take as you step in for the short tour. This is a lovely building, with lovely designs on its well preserved walls. It carries a great sense of history in its silence, being the site of the finalisation of the partition of India, which continues to bleed both the countries till date. When religion sets the agenda for polity, blood is sure to flow. The building also housed something of a photo museum. We looked at the lovely pictures of Lady Minto and Lord Dufferin, latter credited with building this house. The guide showed us from outside the erstwhile ballroom, now converted to a library for the students of Indian Institute of Advance Studies, which is now the owner of this establishment. The exchange of the grand and exquisite for the practical and necessary is somehow saddening.
By then we could hear from a distance the rumbles of the thundering wheels of the chariot of rains for a distance. We rushed back to the hotel, before savouring a simple meal ( simple and easy on the pocket) at the cafe next to the President's house. The thundering army reached the mountains and rained for the next couple of hours. There is something very nostalgic about watching the rain, from the balcony, and listening to the tapping sound of the raindrops falling on the roof, nostalgic and rejuvenating. I sat in silence on the balcony with my daughter and we watched the rain in silence. I thought about lonely afternoons in the rain and watching raindrops slowly slipping from the steel bars on the windows, and also thought if Nonu is going to think of this afternoon with the same sense of affection and longing when she grows up.
As we woke from the afternoon siesta , the rain has passed and the Sun was up in defiance. The Earth looked fresh and splendid and greener. On mountains, the rain does leave sadness behind. It passes off with grace and charm and leaves a sense of happiness behind. Nietzsche said we should know when to leave this earth, I posit, we should also know how to leave, which is like the rain in the mountains, which cleanses and brings in something which buoys the souls, which are left behind.
We left next morning to Naldehra, which is 22 kilometres from Shimla and boasts of the highest golf course in India, or was it Asia? am little confused. The road passes through Victory tunnel and takes a by-pass from Dhalli to take the steep rise to Kufri and Naldehra. A slight turn after Dhalli to left takes you to Naldehra. The drive was steep and slight mountain sickness crept in and we had to halt in between. Gave a walk to Nonu and journey continued to Naldehra. The place is hard to notice but for some designated car parkings on the roadside and horses waiting to give tourists a ride. The Himachal tourism Golf Glade is on the right. We took a cottage on the top, right adjacent to the picnic spot, which has shooting point ( on account of movies shot there) on the other side. These two being one of the three spots which the guide who you would find at Dhalli will promise to show you. So as we see, if you stay in the HP tourism place,you would not need a guide. All the places to visit in Naldehra are within the premise of the government run place, staying where also entitles you to the Parking next to the golf course. The golf course is well maintained and picturesque, nestled in the mountains. We learn that it was built in 1880 by Lord Curzon. He loved the place so much that he named his daughter after it. The story stays with me, on account of the protagonists involved. 
The princess of Shimla will be a villager kid in the cottage for a day. Evening we had some adventure sport with zip line or something were you slide by the wire. To the appreciation of our daughter, we, both the parents went on the zip. Then we went on the horses, as they went by on the steep mountain path, we held to our nerves. Nonu established a friendship with the horses discovering their names as Neeli and Baadal. We went around the golf course and then retired back to the cottage after Nonu bid goodbye to her new friends with thanks. The next morning began with me and Nonu having Maggi at the tea-stall in picnic point behind the cottage, as the Earth was waking up under the affectionate Sun. Nonu went for a small ride with another horse, with slightly better built and an English name. We started the journey downwards by twelve and bye-passed Shimla. By evening, we touched the planes and by night we were home with worries of a workday the following day. I am back not to work better, having rejuvenated, but to work harder to ear another of such spell of togetherness and tranquility.
PS.. This post was delayed on account of travel and missed the weekend which I target for the postings. But this getting away was much needed to repair the soul and also in a good way to know that I was missed as was pointed out by Soham on twitter, who said he missed the post. It is fulfilling to know that one is being read, it makes all the ordeal of moonlighting as a writer worth it's while.
March 22, 2013
Being Justice Choudhury Oops..Justice Katju and Sanjay Dutt
Once upon a time,I was very young. Yes, I was, believe you me. At that time a spate of movies, originating from the land of larger than life politicians with great sunglasses, huge fan followings and more than average number of wives, a great many films hit the screen. The movies helped the young grow very fast, encouraging today, after many year for people to reduce the age of consent. One such movie was 'Justice Choudhury'. I have given this explanation to let you know that this piece has no reference to Justice Iftekhar Choudhury of Pakistan, thus prompting their parliament to pass resolution against the post, thereby prompting Indian government to pass a counter resolution and so on and so forth.
So for record, I refer to Justice Choudhury of Jitender Starrer, and I refer to it at this point of time, because Justice ( should I say ex, just like Ex Army Chief whose security cover was taken off, coincidentally at the time he was charged with instigating a riot) Katju to my mind brings the images of Justice Choudhury. He has same sense of self-righteousness, and all-pervasive, self assumed authority of all that is happening in the country. I think of him on account of his latest letter seeking mercy for the Actor Sanjay Dutt. He gives voice to many who stand enamoured by the characters played by the actor and out of sheer love and affection are crying hoarse seeking his sentence, passed by the honerable Supreme Court to be commuted.
I respect him for standing for free speech when girls were jailed for Facebook comments, and I respect him for taking up the cudgels on behalf of Sanju Baba, as the actor is affectionately called. I am however troubled by the fact that the plea for mercy coming from such legal luminary is devoid of correct reasons. Let us look at the reasons he proposes in his blog, Satyam Bruat.
1. His first point is that under Section 25 1A Arms Act, which provisions for a sentence between five and ten years, his sentence has been fixed at the lowest end of the range at five years. He says, on this account, his punishment ought to be commuted under Section 4 of Probation of Offenders Act, 1958. I find this argument a little self-defeating. It implies that he got away with a lighter punishment, and now that he did get a lighter punishment, the same may be used as a reason to exonerate him. Even when laced with grand sounding sections and clauses, I am not able to clearly understand the argument being made.
2. His second point mentions the possibility of granting the pardon is possible under Article 161 of the constitution. He quotes a precedence where in pardon was granted under the Act. Neither the precedence nor the possibility can be used as a reason for granting the pardon. Having put forth the two options for commuting the sentence, the Justice puts forth the reasons for the same. I understand having been handed over lightest sentence possible can not be treated as a reason to commute it, and seemingly so does the Justice as he sets new arguments, which we find are as silly.
A. The event happened 20 years ago. In that duration, as per Katju, he suffered a lot, and couldn't take bank loan and travel abroad without permission of the court. -
It must take a very different sensibility to understand the whole logic. During this period of suffering, Sanjay Dutt went on to make movies, did travel abroad, the need for permission notwithstanding, made money, went into politics and eventually got married, the third time. I am trying to figure out the suffering part of it. How having to take permission to travel abroad is suffering, not being able to afford to travel abroad is, not getting your passport because policeman coming for verification isn't convinced you have stayed in noted residence for more than one year and wants chai pani, is. Not being able to get a bank loan is something which mango men of this country can empathise with, but why on Earth would a successful star need a bank loan? Katju doesn't explain and doesn't care. He heads press council and this is free speech.
B. Sanjay Dutt has already served 18 months in Jail. Well, so did Kasab, why did we hang him.
C. Sanjay Dutt got married and has two children. When the justice was a justice, was that his principle that he would only sentence people, who are yet to get married, and about to have children, or maybe only those unlikely to reach the state of marital engagement or parenthood. The PCI chief has by now already contradicted his first argument.
D. He has not been held to be a terrorist. - Agreed, but he has not been sentenced for that either, as the great man himself has told us, Sanjay Dutt was handed over the lowest punishment possible under the Arms Act. I am still, though not clear, whether Arms act applies with same magnitude, whether the arm in question is country made revolver, a knife, a sophisticated weapon like AK -47 or nuclear arm, or WMD, which George W Bush familiarised us with.
E. His parents were good socially responsible people. Well, so, law is meant to act only on those with parents less than exemplary. Is the Justice talking of treating the offspring of ordinary citizens differently. Are those with great parentage exempt of law of the land? Should they be walking around with hand grenades and drive battle tanks with impunity?
G. In last 20 years, through his movies, in which he acted under the yoke of huge suffering, he revived the memories of Mahatma Gandhi. He also acted as Khalnayak and as Kancha China, should that be used to decide his sentence.
That the Justice is now heading Press Council and matter under question has nothing to do with journalism, writing or press, is of no relevance to him. As an independent citizen, he sure is entitled to his view. Sanjay Dutt made a mistake, but he wasn't a kid when he made that mistake. Regarding the view of Justice Katju that great parentage entitles one to greater mercy, it scares me to think he was taking decisions pertaining to justice not long time back. The letter holds within it an embarrassing dose of cronyism and discrimination based on your parentage. If Katju has such soft position on Sanjay Dutt, who are we to grill DGP BB Mohanti for trying to protect his own blood,whether or not rape convict.
All the great votaries of equality and justice, have taken indefensible position of seeking mercy for the man who is affectionately called baba, even when approaching sixty and who claims to have procured three AK 47, two returned, from those who eventually caused the death of more than 200 people, by mistake.
As a country, we seem to have lost the sense of justice. We are becoming an elitist society, where we are demanding different rules for those we love and those we believe to be of privileged birth. Regarding bank loans, I would like Mr. katju's attention on Farmers committing suicide due to not being able to pay their loans. That Mr. Katju is suffering.
Please be mindful of the expectation the poor of this nation, those who do not have great pedigree like the object of your concern, who died en-masse in blasts in Mumbai, for a mature individual, mature enough to do multi crore movie deals, was kiddish enough to not report of
Sophisticated arms he obtained from those who went on to cause Mumbai blasts. And what did he buy arms for, killing squirrels? And to fellow citizens, justice and love when in contradiction, must find justice winning, that is the pre condition for a society
So for record, I refer to Justice Choudhury of Jitender Starrer, and I refer to it at this point of time, because Justice ( should I say ex, just like Ex Army Chief whose security cover was taken off, coincidentally at the time he was charged with instigating a riot) Katju to my mind brings the images of Justice Choudhury. He has same sense of self-righteousness, and all-pervasive, self assumed authority of all that is happening in the country. I think of him on account of his latest letter seeking mercy for the Actor Sanjay Dutt. He gives voice to many who stand enamoured by the characters played by the actor and out of sheer love and affection are crying hoarse seeking his sentence, passed by the honerable Supreme Court to be commuted.
I respect him for standing for free speech when girls were jailed for Facebook comments, and I respect him for taking up the cudgels on behalf of Sanju Baba, as the actor is affectionately called. I am however troubled by the fact that the plea for mercy coming from such legal luminary is devoid of correct reasons. Let us look at the reasons he proposes in his blog, Satyam Bruat.
1. His first point is that under Section 25 1A Arms Act, which provisions for a sentence between five and ten years, his sentence has been fixed at the lowest end of the range at five years. He says, on this account, his punishment ought to be commuted under Section 4 of Probation of Offenders Act, 1958. I find this argument a little self-defeating. It implies that he got away with a lighter punishment, and now that he did get a lighter punishment, the same may be used as a reason to exonerate him. Even when laced with grand sounding sections and clauses, I am not able to clearly understand the argument being made.
2. His second point mentions the possibility of granting the pardon is possible under Article 161 of the constitution. He quotes a precedence where in pardon was granted under the Act. Neither the precedence nor the possibility can be used as a reason for granting the pardon. Having put forth the two options for commuting the sentence, the Justice puts forth the reasons for the same. I understand having been handed over lightest sentence possible can not be treated as a reason to commute it, and seemingly so does the Justice as he sets new arguments, which we find are as silly.
A. The event happened 20 years ago. In that duration, as per Katju, he suffered a lot, and couldn't take bank loan and travel abroad without permission of the court. -
It must take a very different sensibility to understand the whole logic. During this period of suffering, Sanjay Dutt went on to make movies, did travel abroad, the need for permission notwithstanding, made money, went into politics and eventually got married, the third time. I am trying to figure out the suffering part of it. How having to take permission to travel abroad is suffering, not being able to afford to travel abroad is, not getting your passport because policeman coming for verification isn't convinced you have stayed in noted residence for more than one year and wants chai pani, is. Not being able to get a bank loan is something which mango men of this country can empathise with, but why on Earth would a successful star need a bank loan? Katju doesn't explain and doesn't care. He heads press council and this is free speech.
B. Sanjay Dutt has already served 18 months in Jail. Well, so did Kasab, why did we hang him.
C. Sanjay Dutt got married and has two children. When the justice was a justice, was that his principle that he would only sentence people, who are yet to get married, and about to have children, or maybe only those unlikely to reach the state of marital engagement or parenthood. The PCI chief has by now already contradicted his first argument.
D. He has not been held to be a terrorist. - Agreed, but he has not been sentenced for that either, as the great man himself has told us, Sanjay Dutt was handed over the lowest punishment possible under the Arms Act. I am still, though not clear, whether Arms act applies with same magnitude, whether the arm in question is country made revolver, a knife, a sophisticated weapon like AK -47 or nuclear arm, or WMD, which George W Bush familiarised us with.
E. His parents were good socially responsible people. Well, so, law is meant to act only on those with parents less than exemplary. Is the Justice talking of treating the offspring of ordinary citizens differently. Are those with great parentage exempt of law of the land? Should they be walking around with hand grenades and drive battle tanks with impunity?
G. In last 20 years, through his movies, in which he acted under the yoke of huge suffering, he revived the memories of Mahatma Gandhi. He also acted as Khalnayak and as Kancha China, should that be used to decide his sentence.
That the Justice is now heading Press Council and matter under question has nothing to do with journalism, writing or press, is of no relevance to him. As an independent citizen, he sure is entitled to his view. Sanjay Dutt made a mistake, but he wasn't a kid when he made that mistake. Regarding the view of Justice Katju that great parentage entitles one to greater mercy, it scares me to think he was taking decisions pertaining to justice not long time back. The letter holds within it an embarrassing dose of cronyism and discrimination based on your parentage. If Katju has such soft position on Sanjay Dutt, who are we to grill DGP BB Mohanti for trying to protect his own blood,whether or not rape convict.
All the great votaries of equality and justice, have taken indefensible position of seeking mercy for the man who is affectionately called baba, even when approaching sixty and who claims to have procured three AK 47, two returned, from those who eventually caused the death of more than 200 people, by mistake.
As a country, we seem to have lost the sense of justice. We are becoming an elitist society, where we are demanding different rules for those we love and those we believe to be of privileged birth. Regarding bank loans, I would like Mr. katju's attention on Farmers committing suicide due to not being able to pay their loans. That Mr. Katju is suffering.
Please be mindful of the expectation the poor of this nation, those who do not have great pedigree like the object of your concern, who died en-masse in blasts in Mumbai, for a mature individual, mature enough to do multi crore movie deals, was kiddish enough to not report of
Sophisticated arms he obtained from those who went on to cause Mumbai blasts. And what did he buy arms for, killing squirrels? And to fellow citizens, justice and love when in contradiction, must find justice winning, that is the pre condition for a society
March 16, 2013
A Portrait- District Park in Spring
The sun is out in its glory. It's bright but not unkind and unloving. Light plays patterns on the ground, filtered through the trees. The cluster of tall trees, right next to the lake stand together like village elders discussing some thing, in the sun.
An expat with his son is out to enjoy the Sun. The man should be in his thirties, well built and handsome, and the kid very tiny. The boy wears a blue shirt with shorts of same colour and a cap, which becomes him very much. He wanders around collecting sticks fallen on the ground from the trees from between the fallen leaves, as the father walks with the stroller. Dad must be athletic, wearing Adidas from the top to bottom, the white Tee, blue shorts and shoes. Breeze is calm and refreshing, almost caressing and comforting with its touch. I hope to lose migraine soon, merely by the blessings of this kind weather. A couple settles down in the bench next to me and they laugh, shout and indulge in playful banter.
Flowers are in full bloom, dense creamy ones on the left, contained to one section , thus emphasising their density and youth. Another set is across, in the middle of the green open space, with multitude of colours, but with caged boundaries. The latter one is truly a riot of colours, violets, yellows and red and blues. Another couple is walking in from the far end with dreams in those closely held arms and search for a secluded bench with great view in their eyes. The boy wears a white Tee and jeans and the girl with an interesting kind of top, a kimono kind of dress, long one with horizontal black stripes, ending right below the knees. After minor deliberations, they set themselves up right in front of my bench. It is amusing to watch these kids, and anticipate their future. Today they struggle against the whole world to merge and be one. What will become of them tomorrow? They will get married and then strive to search their own space, and run away from one another for that elusive emancipation, little realising emancipation is such a grand concept that is so hard to capture. The boy sings a song and the girl looks at him encouragingly. Someday, they will be unkind to each other just to show it to themselves that they have won each other in the battle for love and thus lose the battle strenuously won. Will they? Will they hate one another for the very things which they love today? I hope and pray they may not.
Two expat ladies walk in to the sunlit agora, the taller and younger one talking animatedly, and the older one listening calmly. They walk to the caged flowers and watch them briefly before moving on. A group of family arrives, with kids and all and they stop by, under the small group of smaller trees, smaller then the set of elders, who are right now making my roof. All the benches by now are occupied by couples, visibly in love, except mine, which is held quite ungraciously by a middle aged man, writing on his iPad, as a sore aberration to an otherwise lovely visual. The sounds of kids and birds fill they sky, but for some reason, from somewhere, I can feel a melody of love, an undercurrent of romantic orchestra playing as an undercurrent. The couple with kimono girl walks away looking for some better place. I need to vacate this place so some one may use it for some worthier use, which fits into well with the romantic pattern. God bless you all the loving souls, may you find love, welcome it into your abode and then offer it a place of honour and respect which it truly deserves. Never forget there are two essentials for love, respect and forgiveness, and a little bit of adamant madness. Stay loving, kids.
An expat with his son is out to enjoy the Sun. The man should be in his thirties, well built and handsome, and the kid very tiny. The boy wears a blue shirt with shorts of same colour and a cap, which becomes him very much. He wanders around collecting sticks fallen on the ground from the trees from between the fallen leaves, as the father walks with the stroller. Dad must be athletic, wearing Adidas from the top to bottom, the white Tee, blue shorts and shoes. Breeze is calm and refreshing, almost caressing and comforting with its touch. I hope to lose migraine soon, merely by the blessings of this kind weather. A couple settles down in the bench next to me and they laugh, shout and indulge in playful banter.
Flowers are in full bloom, dense creamy ones on the left, contained to one section , thus emphasising their density and youth. Another set is across, in the middle of the green open space, with multitude of colours, but with caged boundaries. The latter one is truly a riot of colours, violets, yellows and red and blues. Another couple is walking in from the far end with dreams in those closely held arms and search for a secluded bench with great view in their eyes. The boy wears a white Tee and jeans and the girl with an interesting kind of top, a kimono kind of dress, long one with horizontal black stripes, ending right below the knees. After minor deliberations, they set themselves up right in front of my bench. It is amusing to watch these kids, and anticipate their future. Today they struggle against the whole world to merge and be one. What will become of them tomorrow? They will get married and then strive to search their own space, and run away from one another for that elusive emancipation, little realising emancipation is such a grand concept that is so hard to capture. The boy sings a song and the girl looks at him encouragingly. Someday, they will be unkind to each other just to show it to themselves that they have won each other in the battle for love and thus lose the battle strenuously won. Will they? Will they hate one another for the very things which they love today? I hope and pray they may not.
Two expat ladies walk in to the sunlit agora, the taller and younger one talking animatedly, and the older one listening calmly. They walk to the caged flowers and watch them briefly before moving on. A group of family arrives, with kids and all and they stop by, under the small group of smaller trees, smaller then the set of elders, who are right now making my roof. All the benches by now are occupied by couples, visibly in love, except mine, which is held quite ungraciously by a middle aged man, writing on his iPad, as a sore aberration to an otherwise lovely visual. The sounds of kids and birds fill they sky, but for some reason, from somewhere, I can feel a melody of love, an undercurrent of romantic orchestra playing as an undercurrent. The couple with kimono girl walks away looking for some better place. I need to vacate this place so some one may use it for some worthier use, which fits into well with the romantic pattern. God bless you all the loving souls, may you find love, welcome it into your abode and then offer it a place of honour and respect which it truly deserves. Never forget there are two essentials for love, respect and forgiveness, and a little bit of adamant madness. Stay loving, kids.
The Solitude of an Only Child
She is kind
And soft and pink
Like the Cinderella, she adores.
Though unlike her
Glass slippers,
She wears a heart of glass,
A transparent, shining
But brittle heart.
The sun spreads out
On the terrace
With slothful arrogance,
As trees
With barren branches
Watch across the window
in melancholy.
I suddenly wake up
From the siesta,
To find her riding
Her bicycle on the terrace,
In circles
On a journey which
Takes her nowhere.
She rides in circles
And talks in riddles,
To herself,
Sometimes pretending to be
A teacher, sometimes a student
Like the princess
In the fable of sleeping princess
Doomed to the sixteen years
Of lonely growing up
In a forlorn fortress,
Albeit without even
The company of three
Loving fairies.
With an confounding
Feeling of affection and gloom
I watch her
As I recollect
The broken glass pieces
Spread randomly
Across the innards
Of my being,
A heart broken
Across the years of my own
Merciless, solitary childhood,
Which I have long since
Pretended never to have happened
But which
Returns to me
With a sadistic, evil smile on its face
And beats on the doors,
With ugly, heavy and hairy arms
As the weak latches
Shakes in the fear
Of impending defeat.
Will I, her father,
be able to transform
My self into one of those
Many coloured fairies,
And be a company to my child
Filling up her days
With companionship
Never leaving an empty, silent moment
In her life
Until she is old enough
For a handsome prince
To gallop across
On a dashing white horse
With grand mane,
To climb up the fortress walls
And kiss her out of a lonely childhood
And walk with her
Into the horizon
Beyond the rainbows;
Where the sounds
Of laughter, of music
And dancing with abandon
Flows agains the banter of friends
And glasses and cutleries clink
With welcome?
This is the question
Which I need to answer today
For her sake and mine.
March 14, 2013
Arrival of The Summer of 2013
The Sun
is loosing the kind touch
like a young romance
struggling the middle age.
Winter, like an old friend
whose visited stretched for months
sometime even causing minor annoyances
on hurried mornings,
when washrooms are needed
is now packing the luggage.
A melancholy hangs
on the tired roofs,
like a spider's web.
The breeze is heavy
and slow with sadness
A sleepy sun
wistfully looks at the world
which it is soon going
to be angry with (and it knows)
It will be coming up at the dawn
sore in mood and
will not find any dew
on the grass to wash its face with
and will spend the day, sullen.
I look at the winter
with longing of a childhood friend
anticipating the loneliness
which his departure will bring about.
I can not bear to be separated
from him
but I can not dare to ask him stay
for my rudeness is afraid
of his calm and nobility
as he reminds me of what I was once.
He packs the hard suitecase
an old design, a cheap
bag of faux leather,
and I turn away
looking out of the window
as the shadows on the street
gets longer by minutes,
soon they will
penetrate my being
dust will welcome the dusk
every day.
Saket Suryesh 14/03/2013
Marta Moran Bishop-Author, Poet- An Interview
Tree Hugging Marta- Picture Stolen from her Blog
Author's Bio:
Marta is a prolific author and a great human being, both her two defining attributes mentioned here, leaning over one another, to further their impact and ambit. Marta has four published books thus far on Amazon, Dinky: The Nurse Mare's Foal, Wee Three: A Child's World (This first came in as Wee Three: A Mother's love in Verse and is adored by my daughter); The Between Times; A Poet's Journey. She lives in with her Husband, cats and horses. I came across Marta, accidentally on the Internet, and she has been a friend and a mentor since. Her range and scope of writing is fairly intimidating, and her adeptness in different genre is confounding. It is not so easy to have written a kid's book like Wee Three, with vivid imagery and colors, so charming for the kids and at the same time to have written something like The Between Times (My Review), which is near philosophical in the feel, with equal ease and eloquence. So with some trepidation, I approached as a cub writer, Marta for this Interview, which She graciously agreed to.
The Interview
I settle on my laptop, under the suitably warm sun, with an imaginary cup of coffee on the imaginary table across which Marta sits with eyes sparkling with smile and put forward the first question.
Saket: Hi Marta, when did you decide that writing is what you want to do?
Marta: First I would like to thank you, Saket, for asking me to join you on your blog. It is a pleasure and honor to have met you.
(I look at my toes which turn blue and I focus so hard on my at a spot near the feet, that I could have made a hole in the floor, if we were in mythical ages, embarrassed at the kindness of her response, and my naive commencement to the interview)
I decided writing is what I wanted to do after publishing my first book. It began with some of my grandmother's small verses, which I expanded and added more of my own to and became Wee Three: A Mother's Love in Verse, later to be renamed and expanded to Wee Three: A Child's World.
Saket: Were you doing some writing when growing up? in school or the college?
Marta:I was a part of the editorial board for the college Journal of the Arts and wrote small pieces for the journal.
Saket: What is your thought on self publishing, fashion or fad?
Marta: I believe self publishing will be around forever, in fact it is not a new phenomenon. Mark Twain amongst other famous authors self published. I do however foresee a day when it is more common for groups of authors to band together and form a small publishing house under a label. Each author receiving their own royalties and paying their own way, but their publishing house is able to help promote and distribute on a wider scale to libraries, book stores and the like because of the change from a total Indie to a Indie house. In fact there are to my knowledge two of these already set up. One was set up by friends of mine and the other is the publishing group I helped form.
Saket: Do you think Internet has lowered the entry barrier so low, that anyone with some background in language and a cheap desktop decides to be a writer? Is the quality suffering on this account or is Internet a boon for young, non- professional authors with stories in them?
(I place the question delicately on the table, and then walk to the window, pretending it was never mine, so as to not to have to face a harsh assessment which a moonlighting writer like me always dread. I disown the question the moment I ask it and act as if it never belonged to me. Marta picks it up and responds)
Marta: Even major publishing houses have their books that are not considered to be great literature or for that matter in some cases even good literature. What I think is that the Internet has allowed writers to have their work seen and read and although a tougher road to becoming a well known author, it still is possible. Many books are available today that would not have been if not for Indie authors. If it is a bad book, that will soon become known.
(I come back, sensing the danger of admonishment gone, and ask another question)
Saket: In general, as a society do you think we are losing the idea of literature, with very few people doing serious reading?
Marta: With the advent of kindle, nook, and other Ebooks I believe we will see more people reading. It may be true that as a society our idea of literature is changing, yet there is a new generation of children growing up and with books like Harry Potter have become avid readers. Though if no books are published that interest them, they may lose the love of reading. It also helps if they are read to as children and their parents hold reading and literature highly.
Saket: What was the first published work of yours? How was the feedback?
Marta: The first published work was Elephant Racing At Midnight. The true story of a midnight race with the clowns after the circus rap party. It was published in Memescapes.
Saket: Do you feel terrible when your work is thrashed in public? Did it ever happen? How did you handle that and continue writing?
Marta: I had a young woman give Wee Three a 1 star review because she stated she was too old to find the child within her. I believe the review was more about her then about Wee Three. As far as it being thrashed in public, it depends on how it is done. If the critic has an honest opinion on why it is not a good book or on what could have been done better it is something to be listened to and will help you grow as an author. If instead it is just done to trash the book, because it wasn't their cup of tea, then it is not constructive and more about them then about the book. So when reading reviews of another book, I always take those things into consideration. There are books I have found extremely enjoyable because of the story line that should have been professionally edited and I will say so. Yet the book itself was enjoyable so I will also say that in a review. All reviews are subjective as all books are. If we as writers want to become better we need to read the review within the context of (helpful or just hurtful) and decide whether it will help us hone our skills.
Saket: Is there a particular room with a particular view at a particular time, where you write?
Marta: I mostly write sitting with the laptop on my lap in a quiet room, however sometimes an idea or thought presents itself and then the world will fade away and I can be anywhere and write.
Saket: Do you keep a journal or notebook to keep tab of unruly, bright thoughts?
Marta: Yes, absolutely. sometimes it contains just a line that sticks in my head like "The Yeti Screams In Pure Delight." Sometimes it is random ideas of where the story/poem need to go or can go. I also will randomly realize a piece of research is missing and will look it up and add it to the journal to be used later in something I am writing.
(I shift in the chair, I am the only writer or wanting to be writer in the history of mankind who does not carry a journal. The juvenile entries which I used to make in my engineering college days does not count.I hope, Marta does not notice this and in this hope, offer another question)
Saket:What is your typical day like? How many hours do you write every day?
(Reminds me what I read somewhere about writing, as the only profession where you can be sitting on the window gazing outside, doing nothing and still be working. Must say it prompted me to try to be a writer, only later did I realise that you need to write some word, some time.)
Marta, unaware of my blasphemous thoughts, responds:
I am nearly always writing at least in my head. Though I usually write seriously at least one hour a day. Though this changes as I have a full time job presently and it sometimes requires up to sixteen hours a day. Those periods it is a note here or there.
Saket: Do you read a lot? Favourite masters of yours?
Marta: I read or listen to books constantly, it expands my awareness of what makes a good story as well as giving me enjoyment.
I don't have just a few favorite writers it depends on what type of reading I am interested in that day. I can usually find something enjoyable in most books or articles. Believe it or not I have even found the oatmeal container to have fascinating information.
Saket: Who was the first kind reviewer of your work that you encountered ever? Am sure, one may forget the later ones, but not the ones you met at the commencement of your voyage. Do you believe good reviews help make more sale?
Marta: I believe it was Beth Hoffman the NY Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt. She reviewed Wee Three: A Mother's Love in Verse.(Beth Hoffman's Magical Review)
I believe all reviews help sales, a bad review will give notoriety sometimes if it is also followed with a good one.
Saket: When you are working on a bigger book or novel, do you also sneak in columns, Op-Ed, reviews, blog on the sly, in between the work day?
Marta: The only time I work on just one thing is at the very end of the project. All other times I am writing poems, blogging, working on other novels or short stories that may become novels.
Women on the Verge, Redroom, Flapjacket, bestsellerbound my own websites and blogs, as well as numerous other locations.
(I look down and smile to myself, I do tweet and update my facebook status sometimes)
Saket: Do you blog? What topics you blog on?
Marta: LOL, I am interested in just about everything so you may find me blogging on everything from history, politics, children, women's issues and the list goes on.(Marta's Blog)
Saket: You do a lot of mentoring to new writers walking in with shaking knees and sweaty palms, knowing from my personal experience. Why do you do that? Isn't that a thankless, exasperating job?
(After all, who wants to waste time with support the bloke who sells computer in the day, talks about cloud computing during the day and tries to walk in clouds writing story at night, why, Marta, why?)
Marta: Thank you Saket, that means a lot to me. I am and was one of those new writers and I know how it feels. It makes me want to help all the more because I remember.If I see someone who is working at writing and becoming better I will with complete honesty give them all the support possible. I do it because I want people to achieve their dreams and if they are working at becoming better it is a delight to help them even if it is only in support.
(Lucky me!)
Saket:Is writing for you a taxing, tiring task, or a liberating activity?
(I wait for the effect, and some applause, such profound question, which I saved for the end of the interview)
Marta: The only part of it that is taxing and tiring is the editing. I am blessed to have found a good one that understands my thought process in my stories. Writing itself is a liberating activity for me.
Thank you Saket for asking me to chat with you on your blog. Your questions are insightful, intelligent, and required much thought.
(I thank her, stand up and look around for the fabled oatmeal box container, which I want to steal, and walk proudly with the generous closure to my first ever interview of a great author and an amazing friend, muttering something like a thank you.)
End of the Interview
To Buy Books by Marta Moran Bishop:
-Wee Three: A Mother's Love in Verses- On Amazon
- A Poet's Journey: Emotions
-The Between Times- On Amazon
- Dinky: The Nurse Mare's Foal
March 12, 2013
Acrobat
Some days are tentative.
They hang in
The uncertain world
Of anticipation.
Between happiness
And despair,
Between hope
And resignation,
Between light and darkness
They stretch like a wide
Trampoline,
Over the expanse of which
I move from
One corner to the other,
Like an amateur acrobat
Not knowing
Which corner
Will my soul loose
A scared grip over the bamboo
And where I will
Fall by the end of the show,
Will it be a happy corner of love
Or dark, solitary corner
Of scorn, to which I will descend
As the applause rises
And the breath stops
Right there
Just for a second..
It is the final fall that I can bear,
It is the tentative anticipation
That kills me.
They hang in
The uncertain world
Of anticipation.
Between happiness
And despair,
Between hope
And resignation,
Between light and darkness
They stretch like a wide
Trampoline,
Over the expanse of which
I move from
One corner to the other,
Like an amateur acrobat
Not knowing
Which corner
Will my soul loose
A scared grip over the bamboo
And where I will
Fall by the end of the show,
Will it be a happy corner of love
Or dark, solitary corner
Of scorn, to which I will descend
As the applause rises
And the breath stops
Right there
Just for a second..
It is the final fall that I can bear,
It is the tentative anticipation
That kills me.
March 8, 2013
Women at Work- On Women's Day
Today is the International Women's Day, just as we had the Father's Day some time back and Friend's day before the day. The marketing machines are in overdrive and the rare days in the year without any significant tag attached to them must be feeling lonely and embarrassed with themselves, Ye Jeena bhi koi Jeena hai, lalloo?
I admit the thought when a man initiated the idea of dedicating a day to a cause or person must have had noble reasons. But that was before, before the marketing guys across the world noticed the happy fun in this exercise, you are dedicating something that does not belong to you and costs you nothing, at the same time which presents money making opportunity. What more can a marketing man (or woman) ask for, when he runs out of idea and has no place to run away from menacingly approaching deadline.
Anyways, I am old and boring enough to be motivated by screaming headlines. This post is not because of Women's day, and not because I wanted to align my forces with the new racism proposed by policy makers with women banks, women bars etc. what drove me to write this was the fact that my wife, a working professional was out on an official tour, and finance minister of India came out with the announcement regarding the setting up of women only banks.
Bars ran free drinks for women yesterday and today's newspaper carried the news of women's only post officer. It was hailed as a great move by the government, something which can be construed to my mind as nothing but initial steps towards gender apartheid. The absurdity of the move is painfully pronounced with another news of a three year child, who is so brutally traumatised that she is scared of fans, since her rape came with the threats of hanging her by the fan. That news mocks and pronounces the absurdity of women only buses and cabs and banks and post offices.
Women are out to work, joining the work force of the nation. Some are driven by lack of choice, some by choices they make. Boisterous statements are made claiming that only through working out of homes do women claim their identity. Which to my mind as erroneous as the belief that you are not a liberated woman till you get to stake claim to that glass of alcohol. Both the thoughts are juvenile and ridiculous. The first bases itself on the premise that working at home and raising a happy and well cared-for family, is something of a secondary profession, or may be a non-profession which no self-respecting woman ought to take. I believe it is based on lack if self-belief and insecurity. It also seems to me based on hero worship of men as a model. You have seen fathers and brothers going out and making the money and you have a notion that you need to take up their profession to be able to stake the claim to a position in society equal to what you perceives to be theirs. With a working wife and a kid to take care of, I believe that is a thought based on wrong premises. The value of a role stems from its significance in the lives of your family, those you love and the society. Just to work in order to find emancipation and respect is as kiddish as putting faux moustache on a kids face and pretend being grown up. Men are often found struggling hard to find work-life balance, the nonsense of identity in work is exposed.
If you need to work to support the family and those you love, by all means do that. But if it is only to support your whims, then I refuse to call it an act of liberation, it is as selfish as any man can be. It is not for the women to be same as men, but to celebrate their difference. If all women were to clone men, all the beauty and calm and happiness will be lost. It is the duty of society to protect, preserve and nourish the women and the duty of woman to do the same for the feminine.
Let us not be gender fanatics getting into us versus them, which has always resulted in votes ad fractured society in different context of caste and religion. Let us understands that the only fault line worth understanding in the society across the world is the one which separates powerful and powerless. A rape or molestation is not an act of love or even lust, it is a tendency to those with power to push the powerless in to subservience. We have long lost the path by abandoning moral education as outdated concept, it is high time to bring it back in. Women is not a uniform society and just as being a man does not makes one a God, being a woman does not make one a goddess beyond reproach. A blind faith cuts both ways and is the seed of fanaticism, which kills free thoughts. Thoughts are always gender neutral.
History had many answers which the questions of future desperately seek. We had Parvati, in Indian mythology, who chose a husband in Shiva and married him, against her father's preference, without worrying about honour killing. And we had Parvati who would be taught Yoga and all the knowledge in the world by her husband, without discrimination, and we had Shiva himself taking the form of Half woman, half man in Ardh-Narishwar. We need to step back and re-learn from the past. I know, with this post, I have possibly bitten more than I can chew, but in stead of responding with digital tomatoes, a term borrowed from Internet, will look forward for thoughts on this. Won't mind tomatoes however, which I could foresee coming.
I admit the thought when a man initiated the idea of dedicating a day to a cause or person must have had noble reasons. But that was before, before the marketing guys across the world noticed the happy fun in this exercise, you are dedicating something that does not belong to you and costs you nothing, at the same time which presents money making opportunity. What more can a marketing man (or woman) ask for, when he runs out of idea and has no place to run away from menacingly approaching deadline.
Anyways, I am old and boring enough to be motivated by screaming headlines. This post is not because of Women's day, and not because I wanted to align my forces with the new racism proposed by policy makers with women banks, women bars etc. what drove me to write this was the fact that my wife, a working professional was out on an official tour, and finance minister of India came out with the announcement regarding the setting up of women only banks.
Bars ran free drinks for women yesterday and today's newspaper carried the news of women's only post officer. It was hailed as a great move by the government, something which can be construed to my mind as nothing but initial steps towards gender apartheid. The absurdity of the move is painfully pronounced with another news of a three year child, who is so brutally traumatised that she is scared of fans, since her rape came with the threats of hanging her by the fan. That news mocks and pronounces the absurdity of women only buses and cabs and banks and post offices.
Women are out to work, joining the work force of the nation. Some are driven by lack of choice, some by choices they make. Boisterous statements are made claiming that only through working out of homes do women claim their identity. Which to my mind as erroneous as the belief that you are not a liberated woman till you get to stake claim to that glass of alcohol. Both the thoughts are juvenile and ridiculous. The first bases itself on the premise that working at home and raising a happy and well cared-for family, is something of a secondary profession, or may be a non-profession which no self-respecting woman ought to take. I believe it is based on lack if self-belief and insecurity. It also seems to me based on hero worship of men as a model. You have seen fathers and brothers going out and making the money and you have a notion that you need to take up their profession to be able to stake the claim to a position in society equal to what you perceives to be theirs. With a working wife and a kid to take care of, I believe that is a thought based on wrong premises. The value of a role stems from its significance in the lives of your family, those you love and the society. Just to work in order to find emancipation and respect is as kiddish as putting faux moustache on a kids face and pretend being grown up. Men are often found struggling hard to find work-life balance, the nonsense of identity in work is exposed.
If you need to work to support the family and those you love, by all means do that. But if it is only to support your whims, then I refuse to call it an act of liberation, it is as selfish as any man can be. It is not for the women to be same as men, but to celebrate their difference. If all women were to clone men, all the beauty and calm and happiness will be lost. It is the duty of society to protect, preserve and nourish the women and the duty of woman to do the same for the feminine.
Let us not be gender fanatics getting into us versus them, which has always resulted in votes ad fractured society in different context of caste and religion. Let us understands that the only fault line worth understanding in the society across the world is the one which separates powerful and powerless. A rape or molestation is not an act of love or even lust, it is a tendency to those with power to push the powerless in to subservience. We have long lost the path by abandoning moral education as outdated concept, it is high time to bring it back in. Women is not a uniform society and just as being a man does not makes one a God, being a woman does not make one a goddess beyond reproach. A blind faith cuts both ways and is the seed of fanaticism, which kills free thoughts. Thoughts are always gender neutral.
History had many answers which the questions of future desperately seek. We had Parvati, in Indian mythology, who chose a husband in Shiva and married him, against her father's preference, without worrying about honour killing. And we had Parvati who would be taught Yoga and all the knowledge in the world by her husband, without discrimination, and we had Shiva himself taking the form of Half woman, half man in Ardh-Narishwar. We need to step back and re-learn from the past. I know, with this post, I have possibly bitten more than I can chew, but in stead of responding with digital tomatoes, a term borrowed from Internet, will look forward for thoughts on this. Won't mind tomatoes however, which I could foresee coming.
