Words

23 March, 1931

do you know what this date stands for? i guess most of us amongst the Twitter/Facebook generation won’t know. two years ago, i wrote this post, and sadly it still stands true 🙁 when will we learn to respect our past?

can i expect a few thoughts from you?

Who killed Bhagat Singh?

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night / raat

वो आई
और साफ़ कर गयी
आकाश की सतह पर
बिखरे हुए थे
उड़ते से टुकड़े कई
she came
and cleaned up
crumbs
fallen, flying
on the surface of the sky
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India Passion League

For two months now, the biggest film industry in the world will not release any big-budget movie, the biggest soap-operas followed religiously in millions of middle-class households will run only re-runs during the prime time, productivity in offices, grades in schools and friction between government and opposition will reduce drastically; for two months now, nobody will count the number of tigers left in the wild, the number of fake godmen arrested in sex rackets, the number of jawans killed on the border; for two months now, this biggest democracy, number 134 on the UNDP Human Development Index and second most populous country on planet earth will live eat talk walk a sport that generates a collective euphoric amnesia like no other sport has ever done in the history of sport.

The IPL has just begun.

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a father waits

शाम उगते ही
वोह अपने बच्चों के
घर लौटने का इंतज़ार करता है 
बच्चें घर हो 
तो रात डराती नहीं

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as the evening dawns
he waits
for the children to come

night doesn’t stalk those

whose children are at home
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An artist and an exile.

The 95 year old painter, Mr. M. F. Husain is in the news again. This time, for renouncing Indian citizenship in favor of the Middle Eastern kingdom of Qatar.

Many in the educated sections of our society feel that it is a great dishonor to India. And indeed it is. Whether to pursue his artistic freedom or to face the law for hurting religious sentiments, he should have stayed or made to stay in the country of his birth and lifelong work.

In another example, two lives were lost in the recent violent outburst against Ms. Taslima Nasreen’s expressions in her writings. The banning of the book ‘Da Vinci Code’, the fatwa against Mr. Salman Rushdie, are amongst the infamous examples of this curtailment of an artist’s freedom of expression.

This post is not to defend or stand against Mr. Husain, Ms. Nasreen, Mr. Brown or many others from the creative community. It is an attempt to analyze the reason(s) why a creative person becomes the subject of violent treatment, when basically his job is to just express himself.

Let’s start with the definition of an artist. According to the dictionary, an artist is a person whose creative work shows sensitivity and imagination. But for me, it is a category which is much larger than this narrow stream of writers, painters and performers it is used to denote. Any individual who looks at life from a fresh perspective, who expresses himself in his own unique manner and whose work generates emotions in the audience is an artist. From every child learning to grow to my mother and from Galileo to Rama to the Prophet, everyone is or has been an artist in varying degrees of expression.

But then why do some artists get persecuted? Is it because all true artists are natural nonconformists, creating something against the wishes and patterns of the society in which they operate? Or does it happen when an artist crosses the line between creative expression and deliberate transgression? Or perhaps it is a mixture of both.

Coming back to the people in the news, what makes Mr. Husain the subject of persecution from one section of the society is the same thing that makes Ms. Nasreen a criminal from the point of view of another section of the same society. Both, in their course of artistic expression (might) have crossed the line and thus are guilty of hurting religious sentiments of these sections of the society. But then the question that arises is of who draws this line. Who decides what is right and what is wrong and who should be branded a criminal for life? And who manages that one set of these ‘rules’ or ‘laws’ apply to all the ‘wrong-doers’ equally?

Difficult questions to answer. But questions are important. And in the cacophony of reactions and outrage every such ‘creative expression’ generates, it is difficult to maintain an objective outlook.

A true democratic society is one which gives space to these kinds of debates and arrives at a conclusion through dialogue. But in this age of sensational politics and TRP games, is too utopian an idea to take shape.

Till such a public debate space is created, till people stop reacting without thinking or being the puppet of forces with vested interests, till then, the Husains and the Nasreens of this world will continue to be in exile, whether by choice or by force.

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P.S. Some links you might consider going through regarding the current controversy

 Saba Naqvi’s article in Outlook on Muslim Liberals

Chandan Mitra’s editorial piece in The Pioneer on why should Husain stay back in India

Javed Akhtar’s interview by Karan Thapar on the artistic freedom of Mr. Husain and Ms. Nasreen

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updates

if u r wondering where i’m these days, here is the link

http://sublimekhajuraho.blogspot.com/

it is a new blog i’ve created after my recent visit to the temple town of Khajuraho. do check the ‘about this blog’ section when you visit the page. it’ll give you a background of the things 🙂

apart from the khajuraho fever, work is going on nicely. personal life has taken a backseat, a mistake which i hope to correct this weekend.

have a lot to write and share with you. hope i’m able to do all i’ve planned.

have a nice weekend. i sure will have 🙂 keep in touch.

adee

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Feb 16th 2009

Last night, I was going through my old files and found this in my diary. So many things have happened in a year and yet it seems nothing has changed. It seems like a beautiful thought, but perhaps it is not.
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21:57 Monday, February 16, 2009

(I’ve missed writing here, these 10 odd days.) Lots of things swirling in my mind. Just finished Murakami’s ‘Dance Dance Dance’. You gotta dance baby, follow the rhythm, go with the flow, the world will take care of itself. When reading a good writer or a poet, I feel connected to the world. To the soul of the world. This happened with ‘Snow’. With this one too. I was barren without words. And these writer’s, writing about their world, were like silent rain falling on my parched surface. I wanted more, to be drenched, to be alive once more. Perhaps I am. Last night, a poem came to me. And I knew it from heart. Two more, half complete, three more, yet to start.

So, am I back with, amongst words again? Maybe, maybe not. I’m not feeling quite right. Something within, I want to work, but so many things are held up at the office that working seems a distant possibility. We all are just going through the motions. There is a wait lingering in the atmosphere these days. Something is going to happen. But nothing happens. “Nothing never moves”, she says.

All the things are one, all the ones are multiple things.

Don’t know what to write, what to say, what to think.

Yesterday was Sunday. Seems so far off now. Had a very good day with her. We roamed around in Kamla Nagar, did little bit of shopping, had lunch at the new Subway, then I went to see her off near her place. After that, emptiness.

I was standing near the ground level window, beside the Media Mart outlet at the Kashmere Gate metro station. There is a window overlooking a little green patch of turf and then the metro premises boundary cuts off the mayhem of Kashmere Gate bus adda. I could see a whole world of people moving about on the other, far side of the window. Going on with their lives, buses to catch, things to sell, talks to talk, and I, with a cup of coffee in my hand observing them, from behind a window. Closer to me, on the glass surface of the window, another lot of people were going on with their lives. Trains to catch, things to buy, talks to talk. But these were ghosts, moving about on a piece of glass.

Or was I the ghost, standing there between the worlds, one real, one unreal and one very real world behind the unreal. I didn’t matter for anybody. Everybody mattered to me. Only she makes me feel alive. When she is around, nobody matters to me. The world is then, as unreal as a phantasm wandering amongst the many alternate worlds.
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And then, she has to leave again. The cycle continues.

22:19

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an anonymous verse

once i jumped
there was no looking back
now it envelopes me
carries me through
and in a symbiotic way
i’m its vessel too
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on writing and not writing

lately i’ve been complaining to myself why i don’t get to actually writing down what comes to my mind. and as my volume is quite high, many of those around me get to hear these complaints quite clearly. then early morning today, i got some time alone to gather my thoughts and wrote in my diary. now i want to share it with you.

“am sitting in my room, alone in the house. it is quite. i’ve opened this journal after a long time. (well, now it’s more of a scrap book and less of a journal.) i don’t know why i don’t write when it pains me so much not to write. thoughts, words, images start forming within my mind the moment i get up. sometimes even before that. perhaps it’s plain laziness, a disease that has afflicted me all my life. and when you live with something for so long, you start loving it. now i hush me up by putting laziness on a pedestal and sacrificing many idle moments on her altar. moments, minutes, times that could have been better utilized. but i guess, to be guilty is to be human. maybe the only difference between man and animal is the total absence of guilt in the latter’s concious.

perhaps i don’t write because of this guilt. maybe its not laziness, but this fear of unraveling myself in front of me. unraveling not in the sense of removing clothes and being ashamed of the sorry state of this physical body, unraveling in the sense of peeling layer after layer of the pretences i’ve build upon my mental existence.

to write this journal is to know myself, to feel guilty of things i should be doing and am not doing, to feel ashamed at my robot like existence where am human only in the biped, city-living, internet-using, animal-of-a-herd sense. to write is to be the exact opposite of this animal, and still i shy away from it.

maybe, i don’t write ‘cos i’m lazy, maybe i don’t want to come across the human within me.”

tell me, dear reader freind, do you also feel the same?

7 Comments

चाँद

शिव जी के बालों में टंगा
‘हेअर बैंड’ के जैसा चाँद

रात के साँवले गाल के ऊपर
आँसू का एक कतरा चाँद

बच्चों के खेलों का मोहरा
कंचों जैसा कंजा चाँद

बिन बिजली के हर गाँव में
‘लाइट बल्ब’ का सपना चाँद

तनख्वाह वाले रोज की रौनक
ताम्बई सिक्के जैसा चाँद

दिन-भर के भूखे-प्यासे को
रोटी जैसा दिखता चाँद

गर्मी की रातों में अक्सर
छत पर सोता मेरा चाँद

धरती है जो बाँट ली सब ने
बँटा नहीं अभी, अपना चाँद

will try to translate it as i feel it is easier this time 🙂

13 Comments