Lessons from the Zahir- I

 

The mist sprirals as she walks. She feels the damp freshness of it as she drops her jacket to the mossy ground and looks at the path ahead. Still, as the life in her. Dark, as her empty soul. 

She walks on silently, her eyes passing over every stone and every leaf. This was where she had dreamt while she walked. Of love and laughter, of wanting and being wanted, of little mittens and cosy fires. This was where she had laughed without a care, and felt the joy of hearing His baritone. This was where she had wanted to be, warped in those precious moments forever, her past dissolved in the mist, her future out of her hands, her very being for a purpose higher and nobler than she could be in seven lifetimes. 

She runs her hands through her hair and looks down.. brown, blue..the same attire as she had worn when she called to the birds to sing to them. She wonders if she is as unrecognisable as it was desired of her to be, she almost wishes it were so. But stops herself. Wishes are for the sane, the sane who believe that butterflies are not winged faeries.

Twilight turns into darkened hue. As it had then. She had welcomed the darkness and its gentle embrace, welcomed it so heartily that He had laughed out aloud at her childishness. That was what she was when with Him- a child. His child. Who needed nothing more than to snuggle in His lap for ever more. Who needed nothing more than to surrender. 

She starts running at the thought..of what she should have been, and what she is. She had disapointed Him heavily, a low moan escaped her lips as she runs. 

Runs..

    but why give it all up?

                          ..runs..

                                 why distance from her elixir of survival?

                                                                          ..runs..

                                                                                  why want to be?

…runs…

            because…

                      she gasped, running.. 

                                                 madness is contagious. 

                                                                               Silence. 

Her desperate footsteps were heard no more. 

A scream replaced it. As she floated down the ravine, her last words reached the trees under which she had loved and lost… 

 

  

 The mist sprirals as she walks. She feels the damp freshness of it as she drops her jacket to the mossy ground and looks at the path ahead. Still, as the life in her. Dark, as the space within. 

She walks on silently, her eyes passing over every stone and every leaf. This was where she had dreamt while she walked. Of love and laughter, of wanting and being wanted, of little mittens and cosy fires. This was where she had laughed without a care, and felt the joy of hearing her Soul’s baritone. This was where she had wanted to be, warped in those precious moments forever, her past dissolved in the mist, her future out of her hands, her very being for a purpose higher and nobler than she could be in seven lifetimes. 

She runs her hands through her hair and looks down.. brown, blue..the same attire as she had worn when she called to the birds to sing to them. She wonders if she is as unrecognisable as it was desired of her to be, she almost wishes it were so. But stops herself. Wishes are for the sane, the sane who believe that butterflies are not winged faeries.

Twilight turns into darkened hue. As it had then. She had welcomed the darkness and its gentle embrace, welcomed it so heartily that her Soul had laughed out aloud at her childishness. That was what she was when with her Soul- a child.  His child. Who needed nothing more than to snuggle in His lap for ever more. Who needed nothing more than to surrender. 

She starts running at the thought..of what she should have been, and what she is. She had disapointed Him heavily, a low moan escapes her lips as she runs.. 

Runs..

    But why give it all up?

                                         ..runs..

                                                         Why distance from her elixir of survival?

                                           ..runs..

                                                           Why want to be?

                                           …runs…

                                                              because…

                                      she gasps, running.. 

                                                

                                       Madness is irreparable

                                         Madness is contagious

                                            Madness is my shadow. 

 

                                                                               Silence. 

                                                                          Her footsteps are heard no more. 

                                                    A scream replaces it.

                        

                                                   The trees under which she loved, lived, lost and lingered hear her last word

…………………………………….Yours…………………………………………………….

 

Re-new.

A quill, weary, wonton, finally comes to rest… 

And the saga unfolds anew.

 

 Loving the Faith that Peace will prevail…

 

Holi Hai!

The very title conjures up images of color dispersed like radiant mist, wet clothes and a fiery spirit bidding adieu to cold nights and welcoming the jashn of Spring… 

Once upon a distant age, the colors of Holi were crafted to ward off change-of-season infections by incorporating ingredients like Neem and Haldi (Margosa leaves and Turmeric). Present-day Holi colors also have a medical relation-with the equation reversed! From the now-common allergies and asthma to the possibilities of skin cancer, synthetic gulaal is definately no longer safe. 

How about Holi the Vrindavan way?! Phoolon wali Holi! 

Or organic colors? Here is a ToI article detailing some quick methods to make them at home! 

Speaking of Gulaal, Anurag Kashyap’s movie by the same name has some hummable songs. Here is a review of sorts of the music. I like the looks of Aarambh hai Prachand and Aisi Saza. 

I have not played Holi for more than ten years running, and I miss it sorely. As I type, kids in the colony are screaming to their hearts’ content, and I hear colored water being sprayed in joy with giant pichkaris. In Laloo-land, Laloo-Bholu pichkaris seem to be in vogue! 

Holi the rose way, anyone?! 

 

Edited to add:

I finally joined Flickr! Here is a link to my Photosteam! See you there!

 

Why Recession hurts..

I knew having a microscope at home was a good idea...!

 

And why it doesn’t..

 

Eternal beauty...

 

Maula Magic- I

I relate so much to Arziyan, A. R. Rahman and Prasoon Joshi’s offering in Delhi-6.. here is a humble attempt to translate the song to facilitate the English world’s dip into the magic of Sufism. 

 

Arziyan saari main

Chehre pe likh ke laya hoon

I have come to You with all my yearnings writ large on my face

Tum se kya mangu main

Tum khud hi samajh lo

I do not know what to ask You

Why don’t You understand yourself?

Ya Maula, maula, maula mere maula

Oh Lord, my lord…

Mere maula..maula…
Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula maula,
Maula maula maula maula,

Dararen, dararen hain maathe pe Maula

Creases of worry line my forehead, Lord

Murammath muqaddar ki kar do maula

Repair my fate, Lord

Mere Maula

Tere darr pe jhuka hoon, mita hoon, bana hoon

I surrender to You, in this surrender does my past die, from this surrender do I emerge anew

Murammath muqaddar ki kar do maula

Murammath muqaddar ki kar do maula

 

Jo bhi tere darr aaya, jhukne jo sar aaya

Whoever came to Your door to bow their heads in surrender to You

Mastiyan piye sabko jhoomta nazar aaya

Was seen in a trance, dancing with happiness, by everyone

Pyaas leke aaya tha, dariya woh ghar laya

He came to You with a thirst, went back home with a river

Noor ki baarish mein bheegta sa tarr aaya

Drenched in showers of light and joy, he swam out

 Noor ki baarish mein bheegta sa tarr aaya

Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula maula,
Maula maula maula maula,

Dararen, dararen hain maathe pe Maula

Murammath muqaddar ki kar do maula

Mere maula

(jo bhi tere..) 2

 

Ho….ek khushbu aati thi

A fragrance emanated from somewhere

Ek khusbhu aati thi

Main bhatakta jaata tha

I wandered lost in its search

Reshmi si maya thi

It was a beautiful epiphany of illusions

Aur main takta jaata tha

As I discovered to my disappointed astonishment

Jab teri gali aaya

Sach tabhi nazar aaya

It was only when I came to Your street, Your path, that the truth dawned upon me

Jab teri gali aaya

Sach tabhi nazar aaya

Mujhme hi who khusbu thi

Jisse tune milvaya

The fragnance was but within me, and it was You who introduced me to it  

Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula maula,
Maula maula maula maula,

Dararen, dararen hain maathe pe Maula

Murammath muqaddar ki kar do maula

Mere maula

 

Toot ke bhikharna mujhko zaroor aata

I certainly know how to break into pieces and scatter

Par na ibadat wala shahur aata hai

But I do not know how to pray to You to protect me

Sajde mein rehne do, ab kahin na jaaunga

Let me remain in Your prayer, I will not wander anywhere hereafter

Sajde mein rehne do, ab kahin na jaaunga

Ab jo tune thukraya toh savar na paaunga

If You reject me now, I will not be able to gather myself

Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula maula,
Maula maula maula maula,

Dararen, dararen hain maathe pe Maula

Murammath muqaddar ki kar do maula

Mere maula

 

Sar utake maine toh kitni khwaishen ki thi

I dared to proudly chart out my aspirations

Kitne khwab dekhe the, kitni koshishen ki thi

I dreamt innumerable dreams and tried to fulfill them all

Jab tu roobaroo aaya

Jab tu roobaroo aaya, nazren na mila paaya

But when You came face-to-face with me, I could not meet Your eyes

Sar jhukake ek pal…hooo

Sar jhukake ek pal mein maine kya nahi paaya

In bowing my head in surrender to You, I received everything in just a moment

Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula mere maula,
Maula maula maula maula,
Maula maula maula maula,

Mere maula..mere maula….

Mora piya ghar aaya, mora piya ghar aaya..

My Beloved, my Lord, has finally returned home to me…

Edit (May 02): Thanks to Meenal for enlightening me on line ‘Par na ibadaat..’  

 

Lessons from The Zahir- Prequel

She looked up from her book just in time to see a dainty butterfly clad in silky Lemon Chiffon fly in from the balcony. Pushing her chair behind on the marble floor, she turned to the wind chimes- would the beautiful creature be attracted by another creator of wonder? Ah, there it was. Hovering over the bookshelf as she followed its joyful dance with her sunken eyes. It finally came to rest on a black book, like a trigger-happy tourist, satisfied to have found his muse. 

A gush of wind from the still-open doors of the balcony caused the butterfly to rise up and flutter some more, but her eyes refused to leave the glossy cover of the book. Was it really glossy, or were her misty eyes the culprit? The book never left her side since it came to her that fateful July day two monsoons ago, and yet, when the butterfly rested on it, she felt a queer sense of belonging, a feeling she thought she had lost forever when… 

It was when she was eight, was it not, that she read that if a butterfly flutters to you and sits near you, somebody somewhere in the universe is remembering you and sending you the magic of love..  

How symbolic, she thought, that it must perch on that very book which she prized far beyond any other material possession.. simply because it held an image of her Soul. Or was it the image of whom she was but a small part instead? 

She turned back and sank into the ornate wooden chair, while the chimes tinkled with the comforting wind as she held the black book in her lap and The Zahir in her hands..

..there is nothing worse than the feeling that no one cares whether we exist or not, that no one is interested in what we have to say about life, and that the world can continue turning without our awkward presence..

 

Dreams on Fire- The Lone Wolf

A sense of disquiet, a gust of wind.

A star twinkling demurely beneath the moon.

A lone wolf. 

A need left unfulfilled.

A mind on the brink of insanity. 

A song of passion.. like no other. 

You are my ocean waves 

You are my thought each day 

You are the laughter from childhood games 

You are the spark of dawn 

You are where I belong 

You are the ache I feel in every song 

Dreams on fire 

Higher n higher 

Passions burning 

Right on the pyre 

Once for, forever yours 

In me 

All your heart 

Dreams on fire 

Higher n higher 

 

Dead Leaves

 

Dead leaves lay along my way
Bashful in green a distant day
Will you, like me, I ask
For stillness be taken to task?

Dead leaves lay along my way
Crisply roasted in the heat of May
Luscious, resilient in a bygone age
Now brown and brittle- an Indus page

Dead leaves lay along my way
Then clinging to the gushing spray
Scattered hither-thither, playing pek-a-boo
 With the wind, the breeze, with the air too 

Dead leaves lay along my way
Nestling now in earthy fray
Six feet below the old trunk, their cradle
Certain to be chopped to chisel a dreidel 

Dead leaves lay along my way
No friends of fiery blaze, now or ever, nay 
Then why swirl, float to golden clutches
Halt! Kibosh! Fly before you it touches!

Dead leaves once lay along my way
Shredded and sooty, they flew away
From air to green to brown to black to air
Life is plenum after all, neither delirious not unfair

 

Indigo-induced Introspection

It seemed a normal Sunday. Went downtown, studied, waved to Dad who was off on a trip to Delhi, and fell asleep reading Vikram Seth.

Then suddenly, it was anything but a normal Sunday. Dad called at around 1900hrs and very coolly remarked that although he was fine, the flight he was in (Indigo Flight# 334, Goa-Delhi) had been hijacked and had made an emergency landing. My first sleepy impulse was to ask whether he was joking. My next impulse: shock and a mingled feeling of helplessness and determination to do something. Anything. 

Hijacks, terrorists, shooting, trauma- words that reverberate through every living room in the world. Mine too. The closest I would have got to the terror of terrorists is through my wild imagination. One of my childhood nightmares was the thought that someday, we might have to call one of those railway helpline numbers which would flash on Doordarshan and scrouge for information. Blasts in Delhi, Hyderabad, Bangalore, Mumbai, Kashmir would glue me to the television, phone and email and wrench my insides as the entire country watched real-life tragedies unwind on air.

But that was it. Not more. Slowly, as many others in the blogosphere have pointed out, we as a people are perhaps becoming immune to bad news. But I am sure that there are still people around the country whose blood boils every time they hear of such incidents, but are unsure of what they can do to help. 

Help. That is what I wanted to do. Desperately. Sitting in Goa. With my father in a supposedly hijacked plane surrounded by NSG commandoes in an isolated bay in Delhi. 

I think that is when the reality of what is happening around the world struck me. It is one thing to watch and read about terrorism and conflict situations, another to be a part of the entire situation. There is an excess of anticipation, where each cell is tuned to every syllable of information that can be gleaned from NDTV and CNN-IBN and family in Delhi and elsewhere. There is fear, of course. But overriding everything is that rush of adernaline, which made me want to do something. Anything. Co-coordinating folks in Delhi on the phone is one thing, being below the aircraft strategizing to capture the ‘unruly element’ and delivering the passengers and crew to safety is another. 

Yes, there are better people handling the situation, and everything is under ‘control’. As I write, Dad is waiting for his baggage in the airport complex. The passenger who threatened to blow up/hijacked/traipsed drunk/______ (insert random reason) has been detained by NSG Commandos and the Delhi Police is also on field. And oh, his 1730 hrs text message ‘reached dilli’ just arrived (Jai BSNL). My brother is anxiously waiting for him to come out, although less anxiously than we all have been for almost five hours now. 

Everything seems fine, the ordeal or the ‘mid air drama’ as the news puts it, seems to be over. 

But somewhere, deep down, there is a fire which has blown out of proportion. A fire which will only be strengthened by news coming in about the grit of the pilot, passengers and security forces in Delhi. A fire which even days, months, years after this incident will not be doused.

I have read, thought, wrote for what seems like a previous age -that we are one country. Terrorism or activities mimicking the infliction of trauma is a problem which could affect any of us, that the victims never asked for anything they got. 

There..my first lesson in 2009. 

It could be any of us. Anytime. Anywhere. 

There is no amount to the planning we can put in, precautions we can take. People I know avoided flying over the UAE in the nineties for fear of disruption, a friend visiting Delhi was prohibited to shop at the markets bombed last year. But there is a need, an inherent need to have systems in place. Which Delhi has handled really, really well. I shudder to think what would be the plight of the passengers if the route was Delhi-Goa, for I somehow cannot see such an effective response mechanism being activated at the earliest in this susegad land. 

Kudos… and grateful appreciation. 

More on this soon. 

 

Of Nupitals and Nests

This is Us. 

Crunchy on the outside, warm and fuzzy within…

Nutty inside-out!

Happy Anniversary, mes-amours! 

xoxo