Words

“Then tell me you will live with your fear and your doubt and even so, bring me to light.”

A few weeks back, I finished a collection of short stories given to me by Vir. I was looking for something light to read during my daily travels, as the Red and Black by Stendhal or the shayari of Firak were becoming too heavy to read in transit.

This is my favourite line from the whole book, from the story Naina by Shauna Singh Baldwin. The book being, ‘The HarperCollins Book of New Indian Fiction’ and edited by noted writer, Khushwant Singh.

In the short introduction, Singh says, “The stories in this collection have been judiciously selected and represent the best of Indian writing around the world. Like Indian cuisine, they are as different as idli-sambar of the South is from tandoori chicken of the North, machher jhole from the East coast is from the pao-bhaaji of the West. And yet, they still retain a uniquely Indian flavour.”

I’ll be posting some story excerpts, from this collection on our (me & dee’s) other blog, akshar, which constitutes of the things we’ve encountered in our literary journeys so far.

The novel I mentioned earlier, ‘Red & Black’ by Stendhal is taking too much time to get over, or maybe I’m really short on time these days. It’s a good read, will post something from its pages also.

Apart from that, have been reading ‘Firak’ Gorakhpuri’s self-chosen collection of his best nazms, ghazals, and such titled ‘Bajm-e-Zindagi, Rang-e-Shayari’ published by Gyanpith. Have read so many poets and shayars, but to be true, never read someone like him. Highly recommended from my side, although the Urdu usage is heavy and one must have more than basic acquaintance with this wonderful language to cherish Firaq. My limited knowledge not withstanding, am still going ahead with the collection, and discovering new & new gems of poetry.

Next on my reading list are Sheharyar, Fielding & Marlowe. And oh yes, ‘How to Stop Worrying…’ from Mr. Carnegie too. I hope, I’ll be able to post some of this on akshar, for your pleasure. See you there,

Love,

– adi

p.s. shhhh! October is the enchanted month. lots coming up on dreams and mirages. do keep in touch.

not the resurrection as such, but atleast the questions are back 🙂
here

and our other blog is also updated, with a poem by vikram seth, here.

he has little memories of those days, she has all.

he was uncertain, not knowing what his feelings were, why he kept crossing half of delhi every sunday to meet her, when she was only amongst the many friends he had, and that too keeping the dearest of those friends waiting. she, on the other hand was trying to come out of a relationship which had ended months ago. he doesn’t remember that first touch, the first embrace or the first kiss. (confused during those days and floating above the clouds afterwards.) she remembers the details, each and every one.

the girl-woman knew she was falling in love with this boy-man. he? nothing. but love was to come later. not much, but later.

‘cos when he looks back at the 15th of October, 2006, all he remembers is the dusty stretch of the back road, where they sat and played criss-cross with wooden twigs on ground as the workbook. and yes, with the she-dog for the company. and oh, there were yellow butterflies too, which he didn’t mention last year.

she looks back and remembers the clothes they were wearing; his first touch on her shoulder, which jolted her and conveyed more than a friend’s would; the sudden hug she gave him while leaving & wondering how proper it was and also that why this idiot didn’t reciprocate the gesture & stood like an armyman, stiff in attention!

and, when many more years have flown by, when they again revisit these memories, they’ll again smile their two different smiles; she, still the most resplendent ever and he, his tired, sarcastic smile.

hmmmmm.

Hindi script, courtesy Sameer from Udan Tashtri. his blog is a must, if u can read Hindi.
still, no attempts to translate this though. god knows if anybody will help me.
this is a mother, fatima’s anxiety about her son. the first realisation, when he returns from hostel, not in his elements, lost in thoughts, with eyes searching something far away, he behaves as if he has left something precious back there. she does everything ritually, the greetings, the embrace, the amulet to protect from evil eyes, but still, she feels he is divided somehow.
this is her anxiety, perhaps, he is not mine now. perhaps… he has fallen in love.

the poem emerged from the thoughts about one of dee’s friend who has gone home madly in love but with little hopes of realisation. and also from the anxiety i read in my mother’s eyes when my behaviour had changed appreciably last year, around this very time period. i was meeting dee on a regular basis, still unaware about my feelings, (but ‘ma’ had read it before even i realized) and to counter any of mother’s probing questions, i invented a fictional name for her. ‘fatima’ that is.

can’t translate it. maybe shadows will help or an anonymous who translated ‘woh firak kya, woh visaal kya’ for me.

the idea is of the love i have being equivalent to the moksha (salvation) i’ll achieve on death. if i do, that is 🙂 and both being new, virgin experiences, as in hindu mythology, everything is part of the one god, nothing new, nothing old.

the scene is of a hindu cremation ground, with the words roughly translating to the newness, virginality of it all. that the new earthen urn, in which my ashes are kept is also made of virgin soil. it is covered with a new cloth and tied at the neck with a new thread. the fire that has burned me, is also virgin like the ground on which my pyre was burned. the wind that stroke the fire is also new, as well as the river in which my ashes will be immersed. the beloved is also virgin, as i, his lover am. and the love we share is virgin, as the salvation i’ll achieve will be.

…October begins.

I’m almost a traveler who once undertook a journey around the world, saw new places, met new people, learned new languages, cultures, traditions… and moved on from one place to another till I returned, weary and heart-broken. ‘cos it is the very nature of traveling. You roam, but you return home.

What is home? If I’m the light, then its source. If I’m a soul, then the ‘one’ soul of which we all are a part. Home is the place which makes us feel rooted; which pulls us towards itself strongly, at the oddest of hours in the strangest of places and which leaves a thick taste of desire on our lips, every time we smile. And in this mortal existence of ours, we often equate it with the physical structures, with brick walls and tiled roofs & televisions and computers & with windows that open up to a neighborhood of our choice.

I, who’ve always been dreaming of a house of my own, always, found out that my home was not in any corner of this metropolis called Delhi. Or in the many places I lived throughout life.

It is when I meet her after waiting for a week or even after a few hours, it is when I embrace her finally that I feel, I’ve returned home.

Image: Couple Kissing in Train Station Mary Rae Bingham kisses her boyfriend, Gordon Kiester, in the sunshine from a window at Michigan Central Station in Detroit, December 1944. Kiester is about to return to his duties as a sailor after a Christmas holiday break. Image: © Bettmann/CORBIS Date Photographed: December 28, 1944.