Aapki deepavali shubh ho, sukhadh ho, mangalmaye ho
Paavan deepon se roshan aapkaa jeevan ho, hridhaya ho
Maryaada Purshottan Raam sa aapki siddhi ho, prasiddhi ho
Ho jeevan mein Sita si sampurna patni, Lakshman se bhai ho
Ishwar aapko gati de, pragati de, aur aapki puran har manokaamna ho,
Aapkay saahas aur prakram se prajit svayam ke vikaar, va sarva assur ho,
Aapkay jeevan ke har din mein, har pal mein diwali si dhoom ho
Aapko deepavali ki mangalkaamnayen, aap sarvada prasann, prafull ho!
Vivek
Nove 01, 2005
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
White cotton clouds!
Yesterday I flew over the white cotton clouds
That rolled and puffed below a blue sky
Were hung up there like my love for you
Pure and white, fluffy and foggy, soaring high
When I looked at the world perched in your thoughts
The cities were below and beyond, little and distant
Your love gave me wings, the dream of the flight
Made me freely surging soul in an instant
In the slowly moving drift of human imagination
I flew far and wide and yet never away
For like a kite I am always threaded to you
In the deft hands of your love, I fly and soar!
Written on a flight
March 2005
That rolled and puffed below a blue sky
Were hung up there like my love for you
Pure and white, fluffy and foggy, soaring high
When I looked at the world perched in your thoughts
The cities were below and beyond, little and distant
Your love gave me wings, the dream of the flight
Made me freely surging soul in an instant
In the slowly moving drift of human imagination
I flew far and wide and yet never away
For like a kite I am always threaded to you
In the deft hands of your love, I fly and soar!
Written on a flight
March 2005
A Poet and a Sanguine Brat!
We share this and that
Daily we meet and chat
We amble and we ramble
A poet and a sanguine brat
I am high on the past
Her future pulls her fast
At present we're "just friends"
Such friendships seldom last!
We are an unlikely company
Bruised bard with bugs bunny
Loud laughters of our together
Sound like a pure symphony!
She'll be gone now or then
I won't know why or when
And left again for that matter
Will be me and my inkpen!
Oh! Butterfly on a wing
She can dance and sing
I am only words, she says
Maybe rhymed, deep, lasting
But I am only words, she says
Yet I am speechless, dumbfound
She is the music of my present
But its nothing as it might sound!
Daily we meet and chat
We amble and we ramble
A poet and a sanguine brat
I am high on the past
Her future pulls her fast
At present we're "just friends"
Such friendships seldom last!
We are an unlikely company
Bruised bard with bugs bunny
Loud laughters of our together
Sound like a pure symphony!
She'll be gone now or then
I won't know why or when
And left again for that matter
Will be me and my inkpen!
Oh! Butterfly on a wing
She can dance and sing
I am only words, she says
Maybe rhymed, deep, lasting
But I am only words, she says
Yet I am speechless, dumbfound
She is the music of my present
But its nothing as it might sound!
Its probably not me!
It is not my day, it is not my style
I haven't been me, not all this while
Forget what I uttered, forgive what was muttered
In this state trust me, was unsaid what mattered
I am usually in control, usually I know my way
I don't know why today, why today I am astray
Maybe in your proximity, modulated by your attraction
I have lost my wits, got bewitched by this distraction
Oh! So much remained unsaid, oh! So much is unsung
But today I err and mistake, today noise rules my lung
Come tomorrow my dearest to see, the real side of me
I am usually funny and charming, ah! This isn't at all me!
*****
The poem was written while attending a lecture; the professor was having a remarkably bad day, as he struggled with derivations, he muttered many sentences, which actually got woven into a poem of a lover who loses his wits in her presence!:)
October, 2005
I haven't been me, not all this while
Forget what I uttered, forgive what was muttered
In this state trust me, was unsaid what mattered
I am usually in control, usually I know my way
I don't know why today, why today I am astray
Maybe in your proximity, modulated by your attraction
I have lost my wits, got bewitched by this distraction
Oh! So much remained unsaid, oh! So much is unsung
But today I err and mistake, today noise rules my lung
Come tomorrow my dearest to see, the real side of me
I am usually funny and charming, ah! This isn't at all me!
*****
The poem was written while attending a lecture; the professor was having a remarkably bad day, as he struggled with derivations, he muttered many sentences, which actually got woven into a poem of a lover who loses his wits in her presence!:)
October, 2005
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Book Rev: The Unbearable Lightness of the Being by Milan Kundera
Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of the Being is a pithy masterpiece. The author captures the essence of the being of four or five chief characters, describing in an achingly beautiful, yet unobstrusive fashion, their thoughts and deeds, what weighs upon their souls, what rescues their selves from onerous existence. The infedilety and philandering of Tomas, the doubts and dreams of Tereza, the artistic idiosyncracies of Sabrina and the intellectual myopia and indulgences of Franz are as engaging as the philosophical and historical notes that flow through the story.
The novel is a deep and defining study of humanity in 20th century, of our hopes and failings, of the moral and material needs and our capacity for being tormented by our pasts and passions. There are paragraphs and paragraphs of poetic beauty, and yet everything is written in the most simple, straightforward sentences. The description of Karenin, the dog owned by Tereza, is brilliant, especially in the final chapter of the book. Another favorite chapter was on "words misunderstood", for in the romance between beings belonging to two different pasts and countries, seemingly same words assume drastically different connotations.
This is a mature novel, meant for readers who can look beyond the surface. On surface this is novel laced with sexual content and contexts, a novel that describes the gimmicks of communist Russia and their stay in Czech country, a novel that spurns philosophical ramblings interweaven with discussion about the "shit being a onerous theological problem". On surface the novel is story of infidelity. But deep down this is a novel that strikes chord with the intelligent reader on so many different levels, be it romance, ethics, interpretion, or our own complexities arising from our own unique pathways of life.
The novel weighed on me, confronted me with many issues, ideas and memories, and then at times, it relased me from my own suffocating and smothering thoughts and experiences. I highly recommend this novel. If you enjoy Lawrence, Joyce and Gibran, be introduced to Kundera, who carries the torch of modernist writing ahead: and in what style!
The novel is a deep and defining study of humanity in 20th century, of our hopes and failings, of the moral and material needs and our capacity for being tormented by our pasts and passions. There are paragraphs and paragraphs of poetic beauty, and yet everything is written in the most simple, straightforward sentences. The description of Karenin, the dog owned by Tereza, is brilliant, especially in the final chapter of the book. Another favorite chapter was on "words misunderstood", for in the romance between beings belonging to two different pasts and countries, seemingly same words assume drastically different connotations.
This is a mature novel, meant for readers who can look beyond the surface. On surface this is novel laced with sexual content and contexts, a novel that describes the gimmicks of communist Russia and their stay in Czech country, a novel that spurns philosophical ramblings interweaven with discussion about the "shit being a onerous theological problem". On surface the novel is story of infidelity. But deep down this is a novel that strikes chord with the intelligent reader on so many different levels, be it romance, ethics, interpretion, or our own complexities arising from our own unique pathways of life.
The novel weighed on me, confronted me with many issues, ideas and memories, and then at times, it relased me from my own suffocating and smothering thoughts and experiences. I highly recommend this novel. If you enjoy Lawrence, Joyce and Gibran, be introduced to Kundera, who carries the torch of modernist writing ahead: and in what style!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Random thoughts of a chaotic being!
What? When? Where? Why? How? Who?
To focus on research without worrying about papers and thesis, to get to thesis and publications without getting lost in endless tangents of ideas, to cultivate ideas that bring freshness and innovation without plunging headlong into the tunnels of inconsequence
To write freely, in verse or prose, as I always loved, but to write to be published, but how to find an agent to review my work, how to find interested publishers to talk them into showing interest in my poetry and unfinished novels, where to begin, where to end, how to do it without affecting my academic pursuits, how to priortize
To know more, must read more, and yet how to avoid becoming a cow that just chews the cud, feeding on the overgrowth coming from past and from feed collected by other hands, and to see to it that I know it all without being driven by the ideas and thoughts of others and yet being driven to think without influences when I know not right from wrong
To wait for the right person, yet spend no time or attention for looking for her, and to love without hurting, and yet yet hurting to love, and then dismissing all emotional stuff as farce and impediment in the pursuit of my goals, and then revising my goals to be utlimate happiness that requires both this and that, and yet it is quite so complicated as it is easy to fall prey into the reasonable and unreasonable demands of mind of body
To wake up and know what lies ahead in the day and to sleep with the knowledge that I accomplished what I planned, and yet to want each day to be a surprize and each day to be a discovery and to have the knowledge at the end of the day that whatever happened what an enriching experience, and yet not be lost in the grammer of experiences and acquiring vocabulary of knowledge to become literate and yet not literary, to become educated though not erudite, and yet requiring all it to happen at the same time in an ideal way
To labor in pursuit for acquiring requisite wealth to comfort aging parents and relieve myself of concerns that haunt my finances, and to have enough to travel across the globe and do so in an unplanned way, to discover humanity in the most unplanned destinations and yet know through my journey that there are no destinations that would be as enjoyable as the wanderings themselves
To progress without reducing myself into a machine set at achieving targets, to write without turning me into a loony scripter of freely selling nonsense, to have the child-like spirit of inquiry with the ability of an aged teacher, to have it all without the greed of anything, and to do it all and yet be detached enough to proceed without letting myself be engulfed by the endless potholes that are imbibed in the tortuities of illiterate self.
To focus on research without worrying about papers and thesis, to get to thesis and publications without getting lost in endless tangents of ideas, to cultivate ideas that bring freshness and innovation without plunging headlong into the tunnels of inconsequence
To write freely, in verse or prose, as I always loved, but to write to be published, but how to find an agent to review my work, how to find interested publishers to talk them into showing interest in my poetry and unfinished novels, where to begin, where to end, how to do it without affecting my academic pursuits, how to priortize
To know more, must read more, and yet how to avoid becoming a cow that just chews the cud, feeding on the overgrowth coming from past and from feed collected by other hands, and to see to it that I know it all without being driven by the ideas and thoughts of others and yet being driven to think without influences when I know not right from wrong
To wait for the right person, yet spend no time or attention for looking for her, and to love without hurting, and yet yet hurting to love, and then dismissing all emotional stuff as farce and impediment in the pursuit of my goals, and then revising my goals to be utlimate happiness that requires both this and that, and yet it is quite so complicated as it is easy to fall prey into the reasonable and unreasonable demands of mind of body
To wake up and know what lies ahead in the day and to sleep with the knowledge that I accomplished what I planned, and yet to want each day to be a surprize and each day to be a discovery and to have the knowledge at the end of the day that whatever happened what an enriching experience, and yet not be lost in the grammer of experiences and acquiring vocabulary of knowledge to become literate and yet not literary, to become educated though not erudite, and yet requiring all it to happen at the same time in an ideal way
To labor in pursuit for acquiring requisite wealth to comfort aging parents and relieve myself of concerns that haunt my finances, and to have enough to travel across the globe and do so in an unplanned way, to discover humanity in the most unplanned destinations and yet know through my journey that there are no destinations that would be as enjoyable as the wanderings themselves
To progress without reducing myself into a machine set at achieving targets, to write without turning me into a loony scripter of freely selling nonsense, to have the child-like spirit of inquiry with the ability of an aged teacher, to have it all without the greed of anything, and to do it all and yet be detached enough to proceed without letting myself be engulfed by the endless potholes that are imbibed in the tortuities of illiterate self.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Book Review: Don Quixote by Cervantes
Don Quixote by Cervantes is often called the first modern novel and many rate it as one of the best novels ever written in any language. That itself stirs enough interest and curiosity for a reader like me, and trust me, reading the novel is a highly rewarding and entertaining experience. The plot and sub-plots are primarily guided by Don Quixote's obsession with knight-errantly, forming acts to chivalry and participating in adventures in a manner he read in such books. Sancho serves as his squire and complements and supplements his master in every possible way. Quixote is kind at heart, his every act is inspired by a good intention, a dreamer trapped in a body that prompts him to be called the "knight of rueful countenance", a loyal lover whose never set eye on her who he so praises and desires in a chaste way! Yet he is so full of imaginary tales and characters that he lives in a make-believe world, where he mistakes windmills for monsters, herds of sheep for armies, and so on, attacks them, defends them, and Cerventes manages to weave a saga of such events in a form that identifies with allegory, fable, epic and comic drama at the same time.
Panza, on the other hand, is a fatso, ever hungry for food, wine and money, full of practical sensibility as well as easily misguided simplicity, and is as entertaining a case study as his master. To complete the cast, are two unlikely prime characters: Rocinante, who is a horse as old and shrivelled as his master and Dapple, Sancho's donkey who Sancho considers more dear to himself than anything in the world.
The novel starts at a slow pace, and with the mention of alll sorts of established names of knight-errantry that must have been vogue in those times, Cerventes builds the stage for the rise of our hero. Since I have never read any of the described references, the first fifty or so pages seemed quite obstruse to me. Like for every classic, I knew I had to read on atleast 200 pages for characters to establish themselves. Thereafter, the various escapades and misadventures described in the two books follow like eagerly waited episodes. Again this is a novel that must be read piecemeal.
Besides the humor, knight-errantry, a quixotic master and a pragmatic but simple squire, Cervantes masterfully creates a plethora of characters and situations where he writes about love, war, God, Moors, government, wife, and every conceivable thing related to man as a social being. In some ways, the book is an elegant discourse on how things are and how they could be. Even the humor laden with satire is a subtle taunt at the way good people eat humble pie when their dreamt adventures are deemed ordinary by plotting evil enchanters.
The book is full of proverbs that Sancho throws into his every sentence, so many of these are hilarious and yet all carry the wisdom of that age saved in one epic saga. Similarly, there must have been a considerable play of words, as Sancho misuses and mispronounces many words, and the translator Smollett tries hard to capture some of these.
Don Quixote, in effect, has the appeal and humor to last the humankind forever, and we bow to thee O Cervantes! for creating such a cornucopia of wisdom and instruction for us humble readers.
Panza, on the other hand, is a fatso, ever hungry for food, wine and money, full of practical sensibility as well as easily misguided simplicity, and is as entertaining a case study as his master. To complete the cast, are two unlikely prime characters: Rocinante, who is a horse as old and shrivelled as his master and Dapple, Sancho's donkey who Sancho considers more dear to himself than anything in the world.
The novel starts at a slow pace, and with the mention of alll sorts of established names of knight-errantry that must have been vogue in those times, Cerventes builds the stage for the rise of our hero. Since I have never read any of the described references, the first fifty or so pages seemed quite obstruse to me. Like for every classic, I knew I had to read on atleast 200 pages for characters to establish themselves. Thereafter, the various escapades and misadventures described in the two books follow like eagerly waited episodes. Again this is a novel that must be read piecemeal.
Besides the humor, knight-errantry, a quixotic master and a pragmatic but simple squire, Cervantes masterfully creates a plethora of characters and situations where he writes about love, war, God, Moors, government, wife, and every conceivable thing related to man as a social being. In some ways, the book is an elegant discourse on how things are and how they could be. Even the humor laden with satire is a subtle taunt at the way good people eat humble pie when their dreamt adventures are deemed ordinary by plotting evil enchanters.
The book is full of proverbs that Sancho throws into his every sentence, so many of these are hilarious and yet all carry the wisdom of that age saved in one epic saga. Similarly, there must have been a considerable play of words, as Sancho misuses and mispronounces many words, and the translator Smollett tries hard to capture some of these.
Don Quixote, in effect, has the appeal and humor to last the humankind forever, and we bow to thee O Cervantes! for creating such a cornucopia of wisdom and instruction for us humble readers.
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