Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 30

By The Lake This Morning.

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The birds chirped abundantly, and aloud

Around the soft ripples of the wood’s lake,

As I sat viewing, on its moss-green cascade –

The defined silhouettes of trees overhead.

 

A cool breeze caressed my just-woken face

As did shadows of birds the water’s surface

Swathed in soft sun’s rays entwined in haze:

Sending shivers up my spine – without bane.

 

Yellow-beaked white birds hopped moodily

On the grassy mud banks – as if an audience

Tap dancing in the gallery of a pool-stadium:

Where tender floating leaves danced a ballet.

 

With a bluebird flying overhead in red-yellow,  

Awakening, enticing the leaves rhythmic sense –  

As a band in a synchronized-swimming recital:

They provided a solitary, spiritual experience.

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Photo Courtesy: Shuvashree Chowdhury

 

Chennai entraps me, and how!

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Chennai entraps me, and how – literally and figuratively: The pictures are of my traditional breakfast at 8am today. It’s been a tradition I follow, to eat at a local restaurant like Sangeetha, Murugan or other, every time I leave Chennai for a while. As I miss the awesome sambhar and chutneys which are rather different here, even if the idli, vada and dosa are abundantly available everywhere in the country, if not the world. I do make idli and dosa at home too, but you cannot replicate the signature sambhars or chutneys of the Murugan’s or the other reputed chains.

Just after my solitary meal, as I walked out of the restaurant near home, I received a call from Indigo – that my 1855hr flight is cancelled due to bad weather in Bangalore – as contrived as it sounded, considering the sunny sky there – I verified on Google. But then, not so surprising after all – if you’re aware of the high profile Chennaite – Sasikala (ref  my previous post and the link below), who is on her way there today and perhaps reason why I am destined to leave Chennai only after the culmination of this political drama, that has kept me rooted here. But I’ve had a lot of this drama for now – so I’ve made fresh reservations even at 4 times the cost of my ticket today – to leave tomorrow for my spiritual break.

But I’m reminded now – of lunch a few days back with a top-ranking cop (IPS) friend and an industrialist, both long timers here and high-profile citizens. The discussion over cocktails at the hotels private lounge – was as expected – the very interesting current political debacle. I was, much to the two men’s surprise, able to match their discourse thought for thought. The cop, a few years older than me, even supported my views over our much older friend’s – on a number of instances – till he could not hold his curiosity and asked me: “How do you know so much about Tamil Nadu and the socio-economic-political situation?”

So I smiled and replied after justifying in a few brief sentences – ending with – “I am a keenly analytic observer of humanity – just completing a novel set in contemporary Chennai – but seeing me – who the hell wants to believe in its authenticity!”

Now you tell me – Do I need to dress, eat and speak a certain way to understand the local culture and people! Moreover, how do you know what I feed my minds eye with?

With my novel Across Borders too, many of my friends, even teachers had stated – “It’s just not you, Shree! How do you know so much about rural and traditional Bengali culture and life?”

It’s true, I didn’t study Bengali – let alone Tamil literature. Nor do I need to personally experience everything I write about – because I have a vividly active imagination over my keen observation.

Why must we judge a writer or creative process by the creators personality? Isn’t creativity about the ability to get outside your mind and heart and think from the perspective of others not like yourself? Why does everything I write about have to be my personal life and experience! I feel debilitatingly, creatively entrapped – by my personal and corporate experiences and resultant personality.

Sasikala:http://www.news18.com/news/politics/sasikala-qaidi-no-9235-will-make-candles-in-bangalore-jail-1349546.html

The Baton Of Power

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I lived in her charismatic shadow all my life –

Guarding her halo of beauty, fame, and power;

I’ve bided my time to step on the political stage

Coaching myself under a pretentious cover.

 

The greenroom provided a great view of the drama,

Lending me ample light to nurture my own exposure –

As if my life’s film I was developing in the dark room,

I came to public light when her life’s show was over.

 

My dreams and ambitions I kept tightly wrapped

In a thick blanket – of a stoic, silent demeanor:

Even as I fanned my families lofty aspirations

With resolute determination sans a nervous tremor.

 

The loyal hearts of Tamil Nadu scorned at me

For scheming against their beloved CM – Amma Jayalalitha;

But they didn’t know I, Sasikala, was her shadow,

So someday my fame and face might precede her in posters.

 

People, why didn’t someone tell me – ambition, grit, willpower

Aren’t enough, in this murderous race for power:

If education, experience and wisdom are not your teachers –

A solid baton of trust is binding to run a race you’ve hankered.

 

 

Please refer to the links below for the socio-political context of my poem…

http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-38965726

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/how-sasikala-emerged-from-jayalalithaas-shadow/articleshow/56990708.cms

 

 

My Possessive Pride

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It’s my culture, it’s my pride,

Don’t deny me my right –

To upkeep what for generations

Has been my birthright!

In my need to assert my identity

I must fight all conceivable might –

That in my sentiment does not alight.

 

What of the creatures I malign –

In my firm belief it is justly their plight!

For am I not rewarding them with a mate for

Their uncharacteristic defensive run,

Even if trampling my own kin, splashing blood!

Don’t I love creatures I garland and my kin, alike?

As I love ‘My’ wife – so what if I crush her profile;

‘My’ son – must he not follow in my chosen stride –

Failing which from my inheritance I will him deprive!

‘The’ daughter better not wed, hurting my pride

Or I would rather kill her if I must – before she is a bride.

‘My’ husband – all of his breathing time is all mine!

Then how can my pet dog crave beef or pork

Banned by my religion, or at least chicken

That’s his natural and instinctive preference:

For I his lord and master – am vegan, ain’t I?

 

So people, allow me to upkeep my pride,

Or I will scurry up a revolution:

It’s peaceful – so justified!

With which you will be forced

To bend to the Cause of my brittle pride –

Even if it turns violent overnight.

For which, my exemplary law abiding homeland –

What If the world with indignity renames – Volatile!

 

‘My’ God – don’t challenge my solemnity

Or devout behavior and pious style:

He’s apprised of my need to protect my pride

That you threaten to rob me of from time to time!

Ownership of those I love and worship –

Whether man or beast, is my birthright:

So don’t question my intentions – its sublime!

 

This poem, is inspired by my thoughts – in silently viewing the proceedings of the last week, here in Chennai, on the Jallikattu uprising: especially after the violence and lawlessness yersterday, that made the city risky for anyone and everyone on the roads…

The details are in the link:  http://www.timesnow.tv/india/article/all-you-need-to-know-about-the-jallikattu-uprising/54396

 

For detailed understanding, you may watch the video in the link here: http://www.timesnow.tv/india/video/tamil-makkal-movement-the-fight-for-tamil-pride/54510

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The End Of The Road

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“Then I said goodnight and tucked you away inside a place called Nostalgia, where you’ll always remain unspoiled, somewhere between my lungs that used to breathe ocean air, and my belly that fluttered with hope.” – Victoria Erickson.

 

Lonely I strode the woods this morning,

Drawn by the urgent chirping of birds;

The sun was still not up in full strength –

Though the sky lay out its lighted hearse.

 

Through the clouds there emanated a chill,

That ran down swathing the bristling leaves;

It wrapped my soul as cotton gauze so tight –

Bandaging firmly my bleeding mind and heart.

 

Insulated, I walked back in time to when we met

Over dinner after a copious amount of red wine:

To when I first looked into your eyes, searching

In their loneliness – a home for my wary heart.

 

Wasn’t it pain that really connected us inexplicably

Over our mutual attraction through amorous smiles?

Even though we had first come together over words

I splurged in abundance, while you used one a dime!

 

Over years now we’ve loved over distance and time,

Connecting hearts over continents, sometimes miles:

As what we kept hand in glove was our soaring minds –

That made love intimately, with a connection divine.

 

Till one day on my visit to a museum, a message arrives –

Your love for a blue eyed doe you’ve zealously revived:

To whom you’ve dedicated my sincerest potions of love –

The ones I wrote for you scratching my dedicated heart.

 

How now am I going to withdraw from you, the deep love 

That I’ve showered – with my heartfelt words for so long?

When I’ve learned a shallow pond but were those words –

Submerged in which you remained in love over its shores! 

 

So now carrying the ashes of my love in my minds urn –

I stroll between pews of trees – in an aisle of pine wood,

Treading softly as in a church – through a choir of birds,

To the altar – past this one-way road of unrequited love.

 

Where I’ll place you in a vault at the altar of my heart,

The key to which I will securely carry with me lifelong:

For this key will only open the door to my locked heart,

Allow someone else to find me ready at the altar of love.   

 

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The Other Woman

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This story/prose poem that I’ve attempted to tell/show you, is inspired by the Hindi movie “Dear Zindagi” …trailer is in the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXFraVlOutA  and not the Cameron Diaz Hollywood movie the name is derived from.  

Touching Base With My Roots

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A lovely, cozy, nostalgic last evening, over a variety of Bangali crumb-fried fish snacks, followed by awesome homemade dinner of chilli fish, deemer (egg) aar dhokar dalna and peas pulao and ruti – with my childhood best friend and nextdoor neighbour (since my birth when she was 4) Rinku-di’s family. We chatted animatedly even as her husband and son – an engineering student, watched indulgently, about our growing years – of the games we played like ‘snakes and ladders’ and ‘ludo’ or ‘chor-police’ along with our respective sisters (hers 9yrs elder to her and mine a year younger than me) while practically living in each others apartments during our vacations back home from boarding school.

Ma learnt so much of our secret lives then, only last evening – as the fun ensued after she had left for her college (where she taught) and was wrapped up well in time for her return as we were all scared of her.

Reminiscences

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TIME has a beautiful way

of gradually absorbing

from our hearts the pain of loss,

as cotton gauge

applied over a wound.

 

Even as the dull ache ebbs away

with more application

 of the time balm –

the scar leaves behind

 it’s mark and essence:

Converting gently into a slide show

or at times – random frozen shots

 of cherished memories,

which become more alive

 than the wound was.

 

You then transcend into

a new life of warm, beautiful

 memories that nothing

 but your death can rob you of:

It’s as if you’re floating

as a new-born

on a large leaf – on the pond

of everlasting memories. 

 

Lying on the bed I woke up in

this very day – 5th January, 2005 –

the day I lost my father:

I’m searching for the pain

I had lived with

for long in my soul.

 

But twelve years hence –  

there’s not even a residue of it

to dilute my memories of him.

I’m finally free of the ache –

to relish my reminiscences.

 

PS: I took all these pictures on a stroll early this morning, just after I wrote these lines. Nature is where I feel the true essence of God and also Baba’s presence – over any temple, church, mosque or gurudwara…All of which are one to me! Nature speaks to me over any wall, dome or stone idols.

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Magnetic Allure

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  I drove an hour to visit you –

The evening you arrived,

With a bottle

Of Australian red wine;

But to our disappointment

There were guests who arrived –

So we sat grappling

Oral drawstrings

 Of our purse of desires.

 

We laughed animatedly

Over whisky you ordered

With corn and chicken fritters,

Saving the wine for us:

But all I was intoxicated by

 Was your beaming face

And throaty voice  

Steeped in the headiness

Of our belated meet-up.

 

Sitting alongside, every time

 You looked at me intensely,

 I was drawn as a reckless kite

Into the whirlwind

of our magnetic allure –

That grew with vibes we emanate

Into weaving a spider’s web,

In which our withheld affections

As a trapped house fly –

 Was struggling to surrender.

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This poem is my Christmas gift – Of A Bottle Of Red Wine – to all my friends…Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Across Borders

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With reference to the Vijay Diwas celebrations that I attended on the 16th of December, the pictures of which are in the link below, I thought it might be worthwhile to share an excerpt from my novel Across Borders – that gives a peek into the circumstances surrounding the liberation of Bangladesh in 1971 – incidentally also the year I was born.

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10154871208309974.1073742086.614624973&type=3

 

Across Borders

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*****

After Partition of British India in August 1947, two new states

were formed. One was the secular state of India and the

other the Islamic one of Pakistan, made of two culturally

and geographically separate areas to the east and west of

India. The western zone was officially termed West Pakistan

and the eastern one called East Bengal. It later came to be

known as East Pakistan, which is the current day Bangladesh.

Though there was not much difference in the population of

the two zones, political power came to be concentrated in

West Pakistan. This led to many grievances with the

perception that East Pakistan was being exploited. In March

1971, the rising political and cultural discontentment in East

Pakistan was met by a fierce suppressive force from the

ruling elite of West Pakistan.

This brutal crackdown by the West Pakistani forces led to

East Pakistan declaring its independence and the beginning

of a civil war. It resulted in the cessation of East Pakistan, to

form the independent nation of Bangladesh. This war led to

a vast number of refugees flooding the eastern part of India.

Faced with a rising humanitarian and economic crisis, India

started organizing and aiding the Bangladeshi resistance army,

known as the Mukti Bahini or the Liberation Army. The Mukti

Bahini was made up of Bengali military, paramilitary and civilians,

using guerrilla warfare tactics to fight the West Pakistan

army. The war broke out in March, 1971. The

Bangladesh Liberation War was an armed conflict between

East Pakistan aided by India versus West Pakistan.

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The army units directed by West Pakistan launched a military

operation in East Pakistan. It was directed against

Bengali civilians, students, intellectuals and armed personnel,

who were demanding the separation of the East from

the West of Pakistan. India aided the Mukti Bahini by providing

economic, military and diplomatic support, leading

Pakistan to launch an attack on the western border of India,

thereby starting the Indo-Pakistan War of 1971. In December

1971, the Indian army and the Mukti Bahini defeated

the West Pakistani forces deployed in the east. The surrender

resulted in the largest number of prisoners of war since

World War II. During this war, there were widespread killings

and violation of human rights and atrocities by the Pakistani

Army.

The intellectual community was murdered on the instruction

of the Pakistani army who picked up physicians, professors,

writers and engineers in and around Dacca. They murdered

and left the bodies in mass graves. There are many

such mass graves in Bangladesh and many more are discovered

continually. Many women were tortured, raped and killed

during this war, giving rise to a large number of war babies.

The Pakistani Army also kept numerous Bengali women as

sex-slaves inside Dacca cantonment, mostly captured from

Dacca University and private homes. There was also violence

perpetrated by the Bengali nationalists against non-

Bengali minorities like the Biharis. A large number of people

fled East Pakistan to seek refuge in India during the time.

The Death of My Hero

Across Borders

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It was the first week of May 1971, at the peak of the killings

of noted civilians and intellectuals during the Bangladesh

Liberation War. Late one evening, a Pakistan Army jeep

loaded with soldiers arrived at Ronjit uncle’s office-cumresidential

premises at Vishnuganj in East Pakistan. After a

loud knock on the main door of his office where he also

slept on most days, Ronjit uncle came out. The armed soldiers,

with guns pointing in every direction, asked him to get

into the jeep. Under the circumstances, not wanting them to

know there were other family members inside, including

women and children, he complied with their wishes. He left

in his night-suit and robe, without informing anyone that he

was leaving. However the next day he returned home, after

a night with members of the Pakistani Army.

Two days later, the Pakistani army, with the obvious help of

their local collaborators, once again abducted Ronjit uncle

from his residence. This time on the way out at gun-point,

he called out softly to his younger son Romit, who was

working late with him in the office, to say he was leaving.

Little did he know that this leave-taking would cost him dear?

The armed soldiers directed his son to get into the jeep as

well, leaving behind his young bride and a year-old son.

Luckily no other members of the family, above all the women,

stepped out then, or who knows what might have been done

to them. After the night of their leaving home, no one ever

saw Ronjit uncle or his son Romit again. They were officially

declared missing, though presumably murdered shortly

after their abduction.

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However, there is no evidence to date of their murder, as

the bodies were never found. Their surviving widows continued

to dress as married women for the next twelve years,

as is the Hindu custom, in the hope their husbands may return

someday. I was lecturer at a college in Delhi University,

married by then and pregnant with my first child. I read of

Ronjit uncle’s abduction along with two other men of repute,

in an international newspaper at the college library.

The news in bold letters, making me intuitively certain Ronjit

uncle had been killed, brought tears spurting out of my eyes.

I called the Red Cross Society in Delhi to verify the news,

but could get no further information. It was alone in my room

that evening, with vivid images of my life with Ronjit uncle

since leaving my childhood home that I bitterly wept for the

death of my hero.

 

If you’d like to read more, it’s available in the link:

https://www.amazon.in/ACROSS-BORDERS-SHUVASHREE-GHOSH-ebook/dp/B00J7Y5IJI

The media reviews and event updates are all in the link below: 

https://shuvashreeghosh.wordpress.com/2013/09/13/the-telegraph-reviews-my-book-across-borders/