Unsurpassed in their importance to every young poet.
Rilke is Rumi, Kabir, Gibran of German language. As a poet, as a seeker, he explored the limits of his knowledge and belief. He translated his solitary thoughts into poetry which has music, meaning and agelessness. What this prose, these letters contain is a faithful, forthright, candid and very modest, searching, guiding voice of Rilke. In these letters, written to a younger poet, who sought Rilke's guidance, Rilke chalks out his whole ideology of what poetry must be, and how a poet must reach above, beyond and deep within himself, to arrive at the inevitable verse, which is both timely and timeless, not only for himself but also for the reader.
As a craft, poetry is full of solitary devotion. The premium and investment in terms of poet's emotional and intellectual effort is seldom rewarded. A poet lives on the edge, and always runs the danger of tipping into the pits of self-pity, destruction and death-like poverty. The world seldom honors a poet in his prime, rather the best of the best poets compose their work in spite of the social, political and economic obligations they need to fulfill, obligations that motivate poetry, as well as impede the writing of it.
Sheer talent is not enough, mere vocabulary does not quite make you one, rhyming words and dedication are mere abilities, knowledge of published works is important, and yet what Rilke strove for, what Rilke achieved and what he advises the readers/poets to seek is a state where all these attributes synchronize to produce a poem that is at once lyrical and philosophical, understated yet powerful, terse yet tactful, and most importantly, honest and heartfelt.
There are very few books that have touched the poet in me thus. Maugham's Of Human Bondage and Tolstoy's War and Peace come to my mind when I think of effectiveness of Rilke's prose. Yet Rilke, like his Russian idols, is bathed in realism, he seeks for life outside cities and savors spirituality that he most probably carried within him. Selected Poems of Rilke translated by Robert Bly is a recommended resource, as is The Book of Hours (new translation is only couple of years old).
I will encourage every writer, who takes his vocation with seriousness to read Rilke. Like Neruda, Shakespeare, Kalidasa, Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley, Goethe, Tagore, Pushkin, Ghalib, Hafez, Basho, Dinkar, Tulsidas, Homer, Milton and Lorca, Rilke is a must read poet for everyone interested in poetry and life. This book is a collection of letters, so is not to be confused with Poetry Handbooks or Guides that are available everywhere. These letters are personal admissions and advice of Rilke to a younger poet. Rilke started writing these when he was in late twenties, and was still groping for his voice, his intention, his ability. The letters are moving and touching. They are like streams of thought that will shape the terrain they flow through, assuage the thirst of ones who arrive at them and if you let yourself go, carry you to the ocean of consciousness.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Sham President Zindabad!
I am extremely happy that Indian National Congress chose Pratibha Patil for the post of president. Finally the oldest political party has realized that it serves the interests of the audience as well as the story-teller to have puppets in place. Puppets are easy to handle. Puppets are better than masks. Be it a Prime Minister who has some authority, or President, who is titular head, having puppets is brilliant showmanship.
When the name was announced, I was disappointed at first. I let my sentimental self wail over the fact that APJ seemed set for second term, and the nation would have loved it. But like Indian cricketers who left world cup in first round itself, like Yash Chopra banner who has taken to producing glamsham, pricey nonsense potboilers, the political parties decide to get out with the most profitable, low effort, low caliber solution. Mr A is too outspoken, Mr B is not acceptable to his own language speaking partymen, Mr C is too much of a politician, Mr D is unacceptable to actress turned politician. By the mere possibility of a virtue or popularity they might encounter, many candidates were taken out of candidature. I felt quite disappointed when I heard that the name selected seems to ring no bell at all. Of course, I am still not smart about politics. That was the idea!! This is woman empowerment spelled out for you. Since Laloo needs to be in jail, Rabri becomes CM. I have started feeling quite at ease with the candidate now, for a fair number of scandals have emerged to make her likable.
When I was young, I was of the opinion that politicians should retire at age of 70, not begin their careers at that age. If you have not accomplished anything in first fifty decades of your adult life, I guess, your ability to lead a nation to disasters is expected. Thankfully, most of our politicians have continued the pre-independence tradition of doing sabbaticals and internships in the prisons of the country. They always have a long list of murders, rapes, pending criminal cases, and so on in their resume. If I was the interviewer for a political position in India, I will simply look for the count of crimes, and scandals associated with it. Every scandal makes you more qualified, more valuable. It is impossible for any indecent man to get the required quantum of crimes under his belt before age of fifty. Then there is a series of local, district and state elections to be rigged, before you get to booth capture your way to the national parliament.
The development of our country is evident in number of facilities these leaders have in the jail. Thanks to cell-phone, color tv, Mujrawaalis (Geishas), and high speed wireless access in AC rooms with the best doctors employed by government to look after your health, and security cover provided by the policemen, Indian Jails have turned into the finest tourist spots in the country. The Oberois Udaipur Palace Hotel might soon face competition from the prison cells (their rank one is under threat). I hear Shantaram was written and inspired in Indian Jail. Well, thats no big deal, Nehru always took time off from regular chores and went to the jail to write. What I think could be an extremely beneficial proposition is allow the poets and writers all over the world a stay in those jails. They will get to understand making of many of India's most powerful men, they will write more bestsellers like the Shantaram and they will surely love the rich language that can be accessed only by living in the Indian jails.
Of course, I am writing a satire. I am painting a funny picture, I am drawing caricatures. I am ignoring moral men, erudite women in the system. If anyone of the politician comes and questions me, I will admit that except him or her, the rest are rotten. I sit on a higher ground and judge. But if you like, I can be with the masses on this:)
We eradicate caste system in India by ensuring that we mention the caste on every form, every forum and we need it to get education, employment, votes, positions and promotion. We improve the situation of women by killing many of them long before they are born. If their population per thousand men drops to the levels of Haryana, we realize that supply being less than demand means, a commodity can be imported and sold for huge profits. The women sell from anywhere between 10,000 to 30,000 rupees ( $500) and if the families are poor, two or three brothers share them. If someone objects to the practice, we cite Draupadi's example from Mahabharata. Similarly the practice of having titular kings comes from the times of Mahabharata, where a blind man, Dhritrastra must rule, so that his sons can make most of his vested powers.
We have answers to all the problems. We increase the seats in institutions of learning without creating classrooms, laboratories, hostels required for them, or better still, we use that money to build houses for half a dozen politicians and bureaucrats. We believe in distribution of wealth on one hand, and on the principle that harder you have to work for your education, more you will value it. We create fake housing societies so that farmers can be displaced from their land, and then we blame dead men, who start living under new identity in a different country, for fooling the masses. Sometimes, we just underpay the peasants so that they commit suicide after giving us their harvests for lowest possible price. We sell the handwoven textiles at 1000% profit. The shawl, the rug, the carpet, the flute, the tabla, the sitar, khadi clothes and accessories, firecrackers are all produced by people who can barely provide their own selves meal a day. They are bought by them who curse the pricetag, and meanwhile the middleman/seller earns just enough for shopping spree in Europe or Singapore. When people want to get their daughters married, the discussion revolves on the value of groom in corruption marker. If he fetches a good price for his actions, he is the man. Some people say that we have problems in India. I look at them suspiciously and explain....But we have answers to all problems. We never state the problems that we cannot brush aside or we don't have answers to. We have answer to all the problems.
I am surprised that our politicians are still looking for a non-political candidate for Vice-President. I assure you that we could have had a blind, deaf, mute as an awesome candidate, a blind, deaf, mute stone statue could be perfect, and serve nearly the same purpose as a puppet president. But then there is an important question of minorities that stops us from attempting that. Firstly the Buddhists might object, for Buddha disliked Idol worship. It is irrelevant if they have built statues of him everywhere. Muslims would see a blind-deaf-mute stone president as a sign of idolatry, and will think of it as India's turning pro-Hindu.
I suspect the best idea could be to make a book the president. Aha! The Constitution of India could work well as the titular head of the country (in spite of nearly 100 amendments, it is still usable, and a position of prominence could make it into a bestseller (like Gita, Tagore and Ulysses, which are always bought and never read). All religions revere their religious texts, and chose to ignore whats inside: the move could in fact create a new religion of leaders in India. Other options are using bathroom chappals of maybe Rajiv Gandhi as the President, just like Bharata did with Ram's khadau (wooden sandals) and ruled for fourteen years.We will let Rahul Wear them as soon as his feet are of right size. We could have a president who reports to some "baba" or "guru", or maybe someone who is even older than Shekhawat. Come on, older means wiser. I assure you my great grandfather is more than a century old and since he can neither see or hear me, he seems to be a great candidate.
We could actually try finding out if anyone alive has the Mughal blood in them. Restore the Mughal Empire. Half of the politicians belong to those royal families anyway, why not have a president who is one of them too? Gosh! I gave out the argument that people think could even defeat Pratibha Patil. If only all Thakurs joined hands. But didn't that Gabbar cut those off a long time back? It is not easy to stand together as Thakurs anymore: a Bandit Queen can come any day and kill kill kill them all.
I got into that roadside Paan shop type raving discussion mode again. We all cannot escape from our habit of hurling abuse and spitting it, red and full of saliva, out like Paan. We are a nation of spitters and even though I never participated in the contests, I think I can do it as well as others. We all know how to make noise. We all know how to whine. We all want to be ruled by them who let us do whatever our craziest fancies can lead us to. We want to look good, we want to show that we have principles. Why, that makes the choice of our leaders perfect! They are our choices. We are our own choices. I am loving it, we are choosing people as bad as us, or worse. This is the zenith of human kindness, forgiveness. We have embraced the sinners, the lowly, the leftovers, and whats incredible is that we have made them the kings our own houses. We deserve the President and political system of India more than it deserves us. Chalta hai, dost! (Anything goes, so its alright my friend)
Sham President Zindabad!!
When the name was announced, I was disappointed at first. I let my sentimental self wail over the fact that APJ seemed set for second term, and the nation would have loved it. But like Indian cricketers who left world cup in first round itself, like Yash Chopra banner who has taken to producing glamsham, pricey nonsense potboilers, the political parties decide to get out with the most profitable, low effort, low caliber solution. Mr A is too outspoken, Mr B is not acceptable to his own language speaking partymen, Mr C is too much of a politician, Mr D is unacceptable to actress turned politician. By the mere possibility of a virtue or popularity they might encounter, many candidates were taken out of candidature. I felt quite disappointed when I heard that the name selected seems to ring no bell at all. Of course, I am still not smart about politics. That was the idea!! This is woman empowerment spelled out for you. Since Laloo needs to be in jail, Rabri becomes CM. I have started feeling quite at ease with the candidate now, for a fair number of scandals have emerged to make her likable.
When I was young, I was of the opinion that politicians should retire at age of 70, not begin their careers at that age. If you have not accomplished anything in first fifty decades of your adult life, I guess, your ability to lead a nation to disasters is expected. Thankfully, most of our politicians have continued the pre-independence tradition of doing sabbaticals and internships in the prisons of the country. They always have a long list of murders, rapes, pending criminal cases, and so on in their resume. If I was the interviewer for a political position in India, I will simply look for the count of crimes, and scandals associated with it. Every scandal makes you more qualified, more valuable. It is impossible for any indecent man to get the required quantum of crimes under his belt before age of fifty. Then there is a series of local, district and state elections to be rigged, before you get to booth capture your way to the national parliament.
The development of our country is evident in number of facilities these leaders have in the jail. Thanks to cell-phone, color tv, Mujrawaalis (Geishas), and high speed wireless access in AC rooms with the best doctors employed by government to look after your health, and security cover provided by the policemen, Indian Jails have turned into the finest tourist spots in the country. The Oberois Udaipur Palace Hotel might soon face competition from the prison cells (their rank one is under threat). I hear Shantaram was written and inspired in Indian Jail. Well, thats no big deal, Nehru always took time off from regular chores and went to the jail to write. What I think could be an extremely beneficial proposition is allow the poets and writers all over the world a stay in those jails. They will get to understand making of many of India's most powerful men, they will write more bestsellers like the Shantaram and they will surely love the rich language that can be accessed only by living in the Indian jails.
Of course, I am writing a satire. I am painting a funny picture, I am drawing caricatures. I am ignoring moral men, erudite women in the system. If anyone of the politician comes and questions me, I will admit that except him or her, the rest are rotten. I sit on a higher ground and judge. But if you like, I can be with the masses on this:)
We eradicate caste system in India by ensuring that we mention the caste on every form, every forum and we need it to get education, employment, votes, positions and promotion. We improve the situation of women by killing many of them long before they are born. If their population per thousand men drops to the levels of Haryana, we realize that supply being less than demand means, a commodity can be imported and sold for huge profits. The women sell from anywhere between 10,000 to 30,000 rupees ( $500) and if the families are poor, two or three brothers share them. If someone objects to the practice, we cite Draupadi's example from Mahabharata. Similarly the practice of having titular kings comes from the times of Mahabharata, where a blind man, Dhritrastra must rule, so that his sons can make most of his vested powers.
We have answers to all the problems. We increase the seats in institutions of learning without creating classrooms, laboratories, hostels required for them, or better still, we use that money to build houses for half a dozen politicians and bureaucrats. We believe in distribution of wealth on one hand, and on the principle that harder you have to work for your education, more you will value it. We create fake housing societies so that farmers can be displaced from their land, and then we blame dead men, who start living under new identity in a different country, for fooling the masses. Sometimes, we just underpay the peasants so that they commit suicide after giving us their harvests for lowest possible price. We sell the handwoven textiles at 1000% profit. The shawl, the rug, the carpet, the flute, the tabla, the sitar, khadi clothes and accessories, firecrackers are all produced by people who can barely provide their own selves meal a day. They are bought by them who curse the pricetag, and meanwhile the middleman/seller earns just enough for shopping spree in Europe or Singapore. When people want to get their daughters married, the discussion revolves on the value of groom in corruption marker. If he fetches a good price for his actions, he is the man. Some people say that we have problems in India. I look at them suspiciously and explain....But we have answers to all problems. We never state the problems that we cannot brush aside or we don't have answers to. We have answer to all the problems.
I am surprised that our politicians are still looking for a non-political candidate for Vice-President. I assure you that we could have had a blind, deaf, mute as an awesome candidate, a blind, deaf, mute stone statue could be perfect, and serve nearly the same purpose as a puppet president. But then there is an important question of minorities that stops us from attempting that. Firstly the Buddhists might object, for Buddha disliked Idol worship. It is irrelevant if they have built statues of him everywhere. Muslims would see a blind-deaf-mute stone president as a sign of idolatry, and will think of it as India's turning pro-Hindu.
I suspect the best idea could be to make a book the president. Aha! The Constitution of India could work well as the titular head of the country (in spite of nearly 100 amendments, it is still usable, and a position of prominence could make it into a bestseller (like Gita, Tagore and Ulysses, which are always bought and never read). All religions revere their religious texts, and chose to ignore whats inside: the move could in fact create a new religion of leaders in India. Other options are using bathroom chappals of maybe Rajiv Gandhi as the President, just like Bharata did with Ram's khadau (wooden sandals) and ruled for fourteen years.We will let Rahul Wear them as soon as his feet are of right size. We could have a president who reports to some "baba" or "guru", or maybe someone who is even older than Shekhawat. Come on, older means wiser. I assure you my great grandfather is more than a century old and since he can neither see or hear me, he seems to be a great candidate.
We could actually try finding out if anyone alive has the Mughal blood in them. Restore the Mughal Empire. Half of the politicians belong to those royal families anyway, why not have a president who is one of them too? Gosh! I gave out the argument that people think could even defeat Pratibha Patil. If only all Thakurs joined hands. But didn't that Gabbar cut those off a long time back? It is not easy to stand together as Thakurs anymore: a Bandit Queen can come any day and kill kill kill them all.
I got into that roadside Paan shop type raving discussion mode again. We all cannot escape from our habit of hurling abuse and spitting it, red and full of saliva, out like Paan. We are a nation of spitters and even though I never participated in the contests, I think I can do it as well as others. We all know how to make noise. We all know how to whine. We all want to be ruled by them who let us do whatever our craziest fancies can lead us to. We want to look good, we want to show that we have principles. Why, that makes the choice of our leaders perfect! They are our choices. We are our own choices. I am loving it, we are choosing people as bad as us, or worse. This is the zenith of human kindness, forgiveness. We have embraced the sinners, the lowly, the leftovers, and whats incredible is that we have made them the kings our own houses. We deserve the President and political system of India more than it deserves us. Chalta hai, dost! (Anything goes, so its alright my friend)
Sham President Zindabad!!
Friday, July 13, 2007
The Razor's Edge by WS Maugham
The Razor's Edge is a tale of one man (Larry) who was born and brought up in US, spend many years in Europe, first flying aircrafts in WW I and later living an idiosyncratic existence where he searched for purpose and ambition through books, languages and labor. He later travels to India, and finds solace in the Hindu philosophy, where he also learns how to medidate and be at peace with oneself and the world. Maugham writes a very accurate and engaging account of Hinduism.
The novel explores the relationship of various people. The author as a part of story travels in and out of the life of Larry and his friends, and through several conversations that occur intermittenly recreates the story of Larry, Isabel, Gray, Elliot and Sophie. Isabel loves Larry, but Larry's insistance on choosing to loaf and search for the meaning of life and his purpose (and hence living a poor life) and marries Gray, the multimillionaire. Without divulging much details of the story, one can say that the author does a good job in making his characters real and interesting, and presents through them an array of human emotions.
The Razor's edge is also a social commentary, and Maugham opens a window into the lifes and times of early twentieth century Upper classes, their constant striving for popularity and for materialistic pleasures, their hopes, and failings. The story is written in a sentiment and style that makes this discussion and critique on classes as invisible score playing somewhere in background.
In modern context of the philosophy of science, as say Capra in his Tao of Physics points out, or read Complexity by Waldrop, Eastern and especially Indian ageold wisdom and philosophy resonantes with the new contexts and paradigms in science. The paradigms of having cycles of existence, of evolution and coevolution, of each and every action of every creature affecting everyone else (Butterfly Effect), of uncertainity and unpredictability. Some sentences about Hinduism are particularly well written, say quoting from the book " Can there be anything more stupendous than the conception that the universe has no beginning and no end, but passes everlastingly from growth to equilibrium, from equilibrium to decline, from decline to dissolution, from dissolution to growth, and so on till eternity?"
Larry's description resonates with the beliefs and ideas I was taught while growing up in India. And since I have stayed in US for three years now, I guess I read into novel the kind of questions that I have faced: choice between materialism and spiritualism, choice between love and ambition, between my own country and the land of opportunity, of religion and beliefs! If you are a wanderer, and faced with such questions of life and reality, maybe you will love this book as much as I did!
It ain't only a love story, does not mean it isn't a good love story. Read it, maybe you will like it too!
Appeared on amazon.com in 2004!
The novel explores the relationship of various people. The author as a part of story travels in and out of the life of Larry and his friends, and through several conversations that occur intermittenly recreates the story of Larry, Isabel, Gray, Elliot and Sophie. Isabel loves Larry, but Larry's insistance on choosing to loaf and search for the meaning of life and his purpose (and hence living a poor life) and marries Gray, the multimillionaire. Without divulging much details of the story, one can say that the author does a good job in making his characters real and interesting, and presents through them an array of human emotions.
The Razor's edge is also a social commentary, and Maugham opens a window into the lifes and times of early twentieth century Upper classes, their constant striving for popularity and for materialistic pleasures, their hopes, and failings. The story is written in a sentiment and style that makes this discussion and critique on classes as invisible score playing somewhere in background.
In modern context of the philosophy of science, as say Capra in his Tao of Physics points out, or read Complexity by Waldrop, Eastern and especially Indian ageold wisdom and philosophy resonantes with the new contexts and paradigms in science. The paradigms of having cycles of existence, of evolution and coevolution, of each and every action of every creature affecting everyone else (Butterfly Effect), of uncertainity and unpredictability. Some sentences about Hinduism are particularly well written, say quoting from the book " Can there be anything more stupendous than the conception that the universe has no beginning and no end, but passes everlastingly from growth to equilibrium, from equilibrium to decline, from decline to dissolution, from dissolution to growth, and so on till eternity?"
Larry's description resonates with the beliefs and ideas I was taught while growing up in India. And since I have stayed in US for three years now, I guess I read into novel the kind of questions that I have faced: choice between materialism and spiritualism, choice between love and ambition, between my own country and the land of opportunity, of religion and beliefs! If you are a wanderer, and faced with such questions of life and reality, maybe you will love this book as much as I did!
It ain't only a love story, does not mean it isn't a good love story. Read it, maybe you will like it too!
Appeared on amazon.com in 2004!
Monday, July 09, 2007
Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh
A story with the backdrop of Indian partition holocaust that displaced 20 million people and killed over a million
Khushwant Singh's Train to Pakistan shall ever be considered one of the most significant chronicles of the horrors that accompanied the partition of India. In this spare and tight narrative, Khushwant Singh selects Mano Majra, a small village near the border, as the place where Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs come to terms with religion based division of a country. To be uprooted from one country, the country that was your home was several hundred years or more, is an extremely painful experience. Khushwant Singh choses to leave the sentimentality to the reader, and just draws a series of sketches of how the events influence his nicely crafted characters.
The characters are closest to the villagers, Policemen and Magistrates I have known in reality. The conversations, the arguments, the brotherhood that extends beyond religion in villages, and the complexity of human nature is all brought out by this pithy masterpiece nicely. Without going into the details of story or characters (which I will let you read and marvel at yourself), I can tell you that the storyline, in spite of the baggage it carries in terms of trains full of dead bodies, forms a reading full of suspense, agony, mystery and things run to a brilliant climax. The novel is more like Life is Beautiful, where holocaust happens elsewhere. It is quite funny at places (Sardars and Sardar humor abound) and the events unfold in a dramatic and cathartic fashion. While I won’t call it a light read, or recommend it for humor, the style and story moves like an accelerating train to a gripping climax.
Why hasn't Khushwant Singh's novel acquired the reputation it deserves in the world literature? I think there are several reasons which primarily are related to how the novel is written. I believe Khushwant Singh could have spent a little more time and text on the history of Sikhism and Islam in India. What happened in 1947 was perhaps a consequence of accumulated hatred of centuries. What happened against the Jews in Europe wasn't the result of Hitler's personal vendetta alone, what happened in India wasn't a result of Jinnah (or you can blame Indian National Congress, if you like Jinnah) alone. We need to look at these in the light of bloodshed that had preceded these events.
Train to Pakistan presents one of the best studies (in English) of Sikhs and villagers of India. Another novel from the same time Maila Anchal (The Soiled Border) by Phanishwer Nath Renu is a complimentary study of villagers in Bihar, as these villagers witness rise of caste based politics and changes in wake of India's freedom. Since the events during partition involved a million deaths, and uncountable inhuman excesses (rapes, slashed breasts, castrations), the novel provides context for very strong emotions. In the dark dance of death and murders, there are occasional glimpses of romance, friendship and kinship.
I would urge every Indian and Pakistani to read this book. It is part of our painful heritage. The book is perhaps not as descriptive as it should be for the taste of non-Indian, non-Pakistani readers, but I am sure it presents the Indian holocaust in a very delicate, refined and understated fashion.
Khushwant Singh's Train to Pakistan shall ever be considered one of the most significant chronicles of the horrors that accompanied the partition of India. In this spare and tight narrative, Khushwant Singh selects Mano Majra, a small village near the border, as the place where Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs come to terms with religion based division of a country. To be uprooted from one country, the country that was your home was several hundred years or more, is an extremely painful experience. Khushwant Singh choses to leave the sentimentality to the reader, and just draws a series of sketches of how the events influence his nicely crafted characters.
The characters are closest to the villagers, Policemen and Magistrates I have known in reality. The conversations, the arguments, the brotherhood that extends beyond religion in villages, and the complexity of human nature is all brought out by this pithy masterpiece nicely. Without going into the details of story or characters (which I will let you read and marvel at yourself), I can tell you that the storyline, in spite of the baggage it carries in terms of trains full of dead bodies, forms a reading full of suspense, agony, mystery and things run to a brilliant climax. The novel is more like Life is Beautiful, where holocaust happens elsewhere. It is quite funny at places (Sardars and Sardar humor abound) and the events unfold in a dramatic and cathartic fashion. While I won’t call it a light read, or recommend it for humor, the style and story moves like an accelerating train to a gripping climax.
Why hasn't Khushwant Singh's novel acquired the reputation it deserves in the world literature? I think there are several reasons which primarily are related to how the novel is written. I believe Khushwant Singh could have spent a little more time and text on the history of Sikhism and Islam in India. What happened in 1947 was perhaps a consequence of accumulated hatred of centuries. What happened against the Jews in Europe wasn't the result of Hitler's personal vendetta alone, what happened in India wasn't a result of Jinnah (or you can blame Indian National Congress, if you like Jinnah) alone. We need to look at these in the light of bloodshed that had preceded these events.
Train to Pakistan presents one of the best studies (in English) of Sikhs and villagers of India. Another novel from the same time Maila Anchal (The Soiled Border) by Phanishwer Nath Renu is a complimentary study of villagers in Bihar, as these villagers witness rise of caste based politics and changes in wake of India's freedom. Since the events during partition involved a million deaths, and uncountable inhuman excesses (rapes, slashed breasts, castrations), the novel provides context for very strong emotions. In the dark dance of death and murders, there are occasional glimpses of romance, friendship and kinship.
I would urge every Indian and Pakistani to read this book. It is part of our painful heritage. The book is perhaps not as descriptive as it should be for the taste of non-Indian, non-Pakistani readers, but I am sure it presents the Indian holocaust in a very delicate, refined and understated fashion.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Reinventing the blogger: from poetry to fiction
In July 2006, I made a conscious decision to post only experimental poems on this blog. In my evolution as a poet, 2006 was the most important year. I benefited immensely from my association with Thomas Lux, poet in residence at Georgia Tech. I also had the opportunity of working with Stuart Dischell at the Sarah Lawrence Summer Seminar for Writers, and Chard DeNiord who was a visiting professor (McEver Chair) in Poetry at Tech. This June I returned to the Sarah Lawrence for another week of poetry, workshops, and had the chance of learning from Stephen Dobyns. (he writes fiction as well as poetry and has the book of essasy Best Words, best order, which is essential read for any poet). All the established poets have drilled similar ideals and ideas into my head: READ Read read Read READ; read good poetry; read good fiction; REVISE, avoid cliches, avoid sentimentality, and so on.
But can you learn how to write a poem? Certainly. If I was a person who had a natural sense of beat and step for dancing, I realize, my teachers trained me or inspired me to pick up the formal style of salsa, balle, tango and so on. My natural talent, with their direction, is hopefully progressing towards an ideal I aspire for. A consequence of this seriousness for the craft is my inability to leave my good work on this blogsite. Once published online, the poems become useless for print media, and so from now on, I will save all my work for submissions, and this means the poetry section of this blog will not be updated much. If at all, I will post some translations, etc. We'll see.
From the beginning of the year, I have tried posting fiction. I think my prose is at a much younger stage of development than my poetry, and hence I will try to post more fiction, as short stories and maybe as short novellas. The experimental nature of the posts now and earlier means I value every criticism that comes my way. The harsher the better.
Book reviews, movie reviews, occasional remarks about social and political issues and random posts about anything that interests me that day will continue.
I have removed some of the old poems. My apologies to anyone who goes to the poems that now say "Under revision." I have more than 100 poems archived online in some way or the other. Hopefully I will make a transition to print media soon. Cheers to new beginnings!
But can you learn how to write a poem? Certainly. If I was a person who had a natural sense of beat and step for dancing, I realize, my teachers trained me or inspired me to pick up the formal style of salsa, balle, tango and so on. My natural talent, with their direction, is hopefully progressing towards an ideal I aspire for. A consequence of this seriousness for the craft is my inability to leave my good work on this blogsite. Once published online, the poems become useless for print media, and so from now on, I will save all my work for submissions, and this means the poetry section of this blog will not be updated much. If at all, I will post some translations, etc. We'll see.
From the beginning of the year, I have tried posting fiction. I think my prose is at a much younger stage of development than my poetry, and hence I will try to post more fiction, as short stories and maybe as short novellas. The experimental nature of the posts now and earlier means I value every criticism that comes my way. The harsher the better.
Book reviews, movie reviews, occasional remarks about social and political issues and random posts about anything that interests me that day will continue.
I have removed some of the old poems. My apologies to anyone who goes to the poems that now say "Under revision." I have more than 100 poems archived online in some way or the other. Hopefully I will make a transition to print media soon. Cheers to new beginnings!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Whose country is US anyway?
I usually say: US started as the country of Indians, and it will end as the country of Indians. Jokes apart, the question is a very precise question, but the answer is quite ambiguous. The reason why I bring it up is because of something I witnessed in a Subway train in New York recently.
I was sitting there reading Train to Pakistan, Khushwant Singh's classic written in 1958. The scene is a village on the Indian border. Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs, who are related to each other by generations of co-existence, are responding to partition and creation of Pakistan, something they really don't understand or approve of. I am immersed in the description of one of the most poignant events in history of mankind, which I always think deserves at least as much press, media coverage, poetry, fictional and non-fictional coverage as the whole Jewish exodus. I was half-hearing the proceedings in the train, the announcements of station, laughter of people, occasionally a sentence or two of traveling conversation. I looked up when I heard an African-American woman cursing.
An anorexic teenager was up against a white American, muscular and bald, and I thought he was quite intimidating to look at. In some ways he resembled Bruce Willis, so lets call him Baldy Bruce. He seemed to be an army veteran and a regular to gyms and pubs. A European guy, age around twenty, blond stubble, blond hair, white skin had walked into the train only a few minutes back. He wasn't like Borat, but looked Polish or Kazakh and lets name him Shy Borat. Shy Borat sat on my bench, and Baldy Bruce sat within us, while the girl was sitting facing us on the opposite side.
"I, no English," he responded to something the Baldy said. The Baldy said, "Then go back to your country." Our African American, say Anorexic Oprah, quipped, "How can you say that?" to Baldy Bruce in a shrill, angry tone, and "Sorry" to Shy Borat.
Baldy Bruce retorted, "I can say that because it is my country." Anorexic Oprah flared up. "How can you say that, Asshole?"
Baldy Bruce sat like a growling dog, and woofed, "We all have one - Asshole!"
Anoresix Oprah: " Thats not what I said you dumb-ass. You smart-ass, this country belongs to none. Neither to you, not to me."
BB: "It is my country. I can say that and you, you are a stupid bitch. Just shut-up!"
AO: "You dumb fuck! You have no education, you asshole." She stood up in great anger while saying this. A Chinese couple next to her looked bewildered and somehow everyone in the vicinity seemed to agree with our own Oprah. "You ignorant fool, you're dumb, look at your stupid dumb face, you fucking ignorant dumb-ass, you go and get some education. You asshole, everyone in this country has come from somewhere. I am nineteen and I know it. You dumb fuck - you look stupid, you act stupid and you are so old. I am nineteen, how old are you? We all came from somewhere, you Asshole!"
BB (with a hint of middle finger projected out of his fist): "I didn't. I was born here, and so were my parents and everyone."
The Anorexic Oprah was trembling with anger. The Baldy Bruce looked grim, his muscles and fists seem tight, and if only she wasn't a women, if only it weren't a subway (his whole being seemed to say), if only it wasn't the Subway, he would have "silenced the bitch." Oprah was just shooting abuse with increasing ferocity: "You fucking dumb fuck, you asshole, you look yourself in mirror. This country was neither mine nor yours. If at all, it belongs to Indians. You fucking retard, you asshole, you need education. Go join some college, you dumb fuck!"
Her voice softened a little, and in someone motherly tone, apologized again to the Shy Borat, who watched the proceedings with a muted awe. It seemed he didn't know what was going on, he seemed to watch their faces like a puppy, trying to comprehend why a couple is shouting at each other, and every so often pointing a finger to him.
The Chinese couple looked amused now. I was clutching my book harder than before, occasionally looking up, pretending to read the lines from the book, where as luck had it, Muslim villagers in the Indian side of border were trying to comprehend, how they turned into non-Indians -- Pakistanis -- overnight. Who caused it, who imposed it? Who was this Jinnah guy? Why were trains and trains of butchered bodies traveling back and forth across the border? Wasn't Gandhi the government now? Meanwhile, like bullets, Oprah was shooting her anger onto someone who didn't care about this tirade against him.
The tension in the room was somewhat stifling. Anorexic Oprah seemed to have realized that she was creating a big scene. We - men, we - foreigners, we - the mass, the public - sat cowardly and muted; nodding our head in agreement; blessing her without raising our hands or voice. For rest of the journey, we all kept quiet and avoided each other's gaze. I wanted to thank her, but wanted to thank her without the Baldy Bruce witnessing it. She slipped into the crowd before I could catch her.
I was sitting there reading Train to Pakistan, Khushwant Singh's classic written in 1958. The scene is a village on the Indian border. Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs, who are related to each other by generations of co-existence, are responding to partition and creation of Pakistan, something they really don't understand or approve of. I am immersed in the description of one of the most poignant events in history of mankind, which I always think deserves at least as much press, media coverage, poetry, fictional and non-fictional coverage as the whole Jewish exodus. I was half-hearing the proceedings in the train, the announcements of station, laughter of people, occasionally a sentence or two of traveling conversation. I looked up when I heard an African-American woman cursing.
An anorexic teenager was up against a white American, muscular and bald, and I thought he was quite intimidating to look at. In some ways he resembled Bruce Willis, so lets call him Baldy Bruce. He seemed to be an army veteran and a regular to gyms and pubs. A European guy, age around twenty, blond stubble, blond hair, white skin had walked into the train only a few minutes back. He wasn't like Borat, but looked Polish or Kazakh and lets name him Shy Borat. Shy Borat sat on my bench, and Baldy Bruce sat within us, while the girl was sitting facing us on the opposite side.
"I, no English," he responded to something the Baldy said. The Baldy said, "Then go back to your country." Our African American, say Anorexic Oprah, quipped, "How can you say that?" to Baldy Bruce in a shrill, angry tone, and "Sorry" to Shy Borat.
Baldy Bruce retorted, "I can say that because it is my country." Anorexic Oprah flared up. "How can you say that, Asshole?"
Baldy Bruce sat like a growling dog, and woofed, "We all have one - Asshole!"
Anoresix Oprah: " Thats not what I said you dumb-ass. You smart-ass, this country belongs to none. Neither to you, not to me."
BB: "It is my country. I can say that and you, you are a stupid bitch. Just shut-up!"
AO: "You dumb fuck! You have no education, you asshole." She stood up in great anger while saying this. A Chinese couple next to her looked bewildered and somehow everyone in the vicinity seemed to agree with our own Oprah. "You ignorant fool, you're dumb, look at your stupid dumb face, you fucking ignorant dumb-ass, you go and get some education. You asshole, everyone in this country has come from somewhere. I am nineteen and I know it. You dumb fuck - you look stupid, you act stupid and you are so old. I am nineteen, how old are you? We all came from somewhere, you Asshole!"
BB (with a hint of middle finger projected out of his fist): "I didn't. I was born here, and so were my parents and everyone."
The Anorexic Oprah was trembling with anger. The Baldy Bruce looked grim, his muscles and fists seem tight, and if only she wasn't a women, if only it weren't a subway (his whole being seemed to say), if only it wasn't the Subway, he would have "silenced the bitch." Oprah was just shooting abuse with increasing ferocity: "You fucking dumb fuck, you asshole, you look yourself in mirror. This country was neither mine nor yours. If at all, it belongs to Indians. You fucking retard, you asshole, you need education. Go join some college, you dumb fuck!"
Her voice softened a little, and in someone motherly tone, apologized again to the Shy Borat, who watched the proceedings with a muted awe. It seemed he didn't know what was going on, he seemed to watch their faces like a puppy, trying to comprehend why a couple is shouting at each other, and every so often pointing a finger to him.
The Chinese couple looked amused now. I was clutching my book harder than before, occasionally looking up, pretending to read the lines from the book, where as luck had it, Muslim villagers in the Indian side of border were trying to comprehend, how they turned into non-Indians -- Pakistanis -- overnight. Who caused it, who imposed it? Who was this Jinnah guy? Why were trains and trains of butchered bodies traveling back and forth across the border? Wasn't Gandhi the government now? Meanwhile, like bullets, Oprah was shooting her anger onto someone who didn't care about this tirade against him.
The tension in the room was somewhat stifling. Anorexic Oprah seemed to have realized that she was creating a big scene. We - men, we - foreigners, we - the mass, the public - sat cowardly and muted; nodding our head in agreement; blessing her without raising our hands or voice. For rest of the journey, we all kept quiet and avoided each other's gaze. I wanted to thank her, but wanted to thank her without the Baldy Bruce witnessing it. She slipped into the crowd before I could catch her.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
1041 B: A house that was home to me
You may think me a sentimental fool, after all it was only a house, but that house was a home to me for four years. I feel like an exile, leaving my abode, an abode it was, in this foreign country. Here is a personal blog, part of it is about people, part of it is about me, most of it is a shrine for memories associated with 1041.
In 2003, I moved into 1041 B a week after turning 24. Emails about quarter life crisis were circulating then (and must be making rounds still). I was starting in the graduate school again, (after getting an MS from Akron, where I had set and left a house, 365 Power street people, raise your hands). I arrived with a car full of stuff, and moved in with three people. One of them was Chinese; when he cooked, we three Indians left the house for few hours. When we cooked, he cursed and choked.
My Indian roommates were a few years older; one had been in same hostel in Delhi, another had taken a sojourn like me before coming to Atlanta. One put three sticks of cinnamon to make food tastier (he was pleasantly surprised when I had him put 1/20th of that amount, and his food tasted less bitter and much better). Other cooked only Malka Masar and Tea. We lived happily ever after. Not quite, but almost. The living room computer served as TV, occasionally I would cook for a dozen people, we had weekly duties (assigned and implemented by the Chinese President).
First my senior left. We had gelled together very well. There were too many interesting evenings we shared with a bunch of other guys who drank and partied hard. There were deep discussions about nothing, and everything under the American sun (and moon). A Bengali, A Rajput, and a Bareilly guy (my neighbor for 8/past 10 years) formed our close circuit. We went to Smokies, to Florida beaches, to Hindi and English movies. The Senior left and the Ping Pong (and Billiards) expert replaced him.
Then the Chinese guy left and the Chinese girl who replaced him talked only to me (first few days), and that too in Sign language. Her hands danced like butterflies, and we all joked around her. She laughed most happily and would try to tell us something, "Hey Vivek, how do you say it, it is not black, it is (her hands are showing its spherical), it cooks, (meaning it can be cooked), how do you say it Vivek" "(Does it have an upturned umbrella on top?) "What was that" (Nothing nothing. Are you talking about eggplant?). Yes it is like egg but not plant (You call it brinjal I suppose)"Thanks. So the brinjal is popular, no no, is brinjal popular in Hindi people?" and so on.
My old roommate and PingPongChamp joined hands to become best chapati makers and sweet specialists in town. I turned into a weekly cook for dozen and a half people. The food was tasty, conversations were laced with laughter. The Chinese girl moved out when her husband made it to US. The first Sardar arrived. Hilarity prospered.
Then PingPongChamp left, I wrote a blog, saying he cannot be replaced. He gave me a legacy of Amitabh Bachcan dialogues ("Tumne Mukhtaar Singh ka naam suna hai?" "Tumhara kya naam hai Basanti?" ) He taught me Ping Pong all over again and later sent me a bat to play with. I really liked the fella, and he stuck to his plan of returning to India. It was two years ago. 2005.
He was succeeded by a Mridangam player. My own music collection had prospered by now, circle of friends had expanded, two dozen people would appear on my cooking turn, and at least half a dozen people (other than our roommates) could be found on most of the other days. Then my oldest roommate also left, promising to come back (we all do that, but hardly anyone comes back). Another Sardar replaced him.
When brother of Sardar 1 arrived, we had Sardar 1, 2 & 3 at our place. I felt as if I was in Punjab, Punjabi became our national tongue, my songs played louder and louder, Jimmy Cash arrived, Banti and Babli came, Swadesh, then came Bob Dylan, Hard Rock, U2, Pink Floyd, Zeppelin, Dil Chahta hai were always there, then Jal, Fuzon, Silk Route, Indian Ocean, then Indian and Western Classical, Hindi Movie classics were always here. Occasionally my flute fluttered (I ensured no one was home at those hours or was it my flute that caused it?)
The oldest roommate left with a promise of coming back. His guitar was still there yesterday as were some of his clothes, cassettes and stuff when we packed that too and moved out. When he left, chapattis fled our house. Sardar 3 made only green daal (moong) sardar 2 only masar, sardar 1 only chole. Mrigandam player made awesome South Indian food that was wasted on us highly noisy and picky North Indians.
Tea-time every night, dinner for twenty-five people every Wednesday (when I cooked), Football on Sunday followed. The circle expanded with several households coming here every so often. Americans, Chinese, Korean, Italian, Slovene, French, German - we welcomed all from Mumbai, (some insisted they were still from Bombay), Delhi, Punjab, Rishikesh, Indore, Bhopal, Lucknow, Chennai, IITs, and Marathi, Marwari, Telugu, Mallu, Bongs, all languages met under the roof. Some people had to be convinced to come (they wanted to invite us in return to every invitation, so felt a twinge for the weeks passed quickly, and my dinners piled up in their records). Same came without guilt every week (and some haven't seen me since the dinners ceased). Some came uninvited, some wanted to be invited. The circle expanded to over three dozen people. The house was full of people standing, sitting, chatting, laughing every week, and people came here to say goodbyes, announce things, meet each other, get bumps, gossip about, introduce their peers or new found loves, and well, what can I say, I cooked and cooked and waited the walls to resound with voices and voices and laughter.
We created a community outside India, we created an India inside US.
In words of Majrooh:
"Main akela hi chala tha, janib-e-manzil magar,
Log saath aate gaye aur caravan banta gaya..."
[I started alone towards my destination, but
People kept coming along, the caravan kept growing]
We all change over time. Love affairs came, went, came again, went again. Heartbreaks were as common as kitchenware breaking (we all were quite careful though). Marriages. Almost marriages. New jobs. Highs. Exams. Illnesses. Football, Ping Pong, Racketball, Frisbee. Cards. Cricket in living room. Beer. More Beer. Bottles and bottles of Beer. Cans of beer. Tea. A cup of tea. Tea for twenty people. Graduation. Graduation for some. Dreams, philosophical questions, religious questions, national and international conflicts, reservation issue, Saurav Ganguly, cricket.
In last few months, we had started moving out. Our lifestyles changed. One got married, one graduated, and one started worrying too much about graduation. That one, me, wanted to leave 1041 B only after finishing PhD, and yet I left - I have few more months to go.
When I moved out yesterday, I realized that I had stayed longer in that room, than any other room in my entire life. Memories, and poems, were scattered in every corner. I found I owned so many things I had forgotten about. I moved about two hundred books out of my room. My room was a regular music and literature/science library. I moved at least 1000 journal articles. I threw memoirs, tokens gathered from my visits to different cities, countries, conferences. I kept poems, handwritten ones from 1995 onwards, Hindi, English, Urdu poems. I wrote several hundred in IIT days. That wasn't even my prolific era. Unfinished and finished poems. Lots and lots of poems.
As I packed stuff, I realized how much I have changed since I moved in. I realized my world now is very different from what I could have ever imagined. I wanted to thank everyone who visited me in that house, and everyone who helped me to feel at home.
As a roll call, I hope 1041 (and I) will remember these people, and they will remember the house that was perhaps home for all of us: Hemabh, Nitesh, Gagan, Ishwar, Bhavdeep, Santosh, Gurpreet, Tian, Hua, Rishi, Rakshita, Matija, Akbar, Farminder, Guru, Sanjoy-Urbi, Amit-Shilpi, Vani-Chirayu, Radhika, Gayatri, Abhinav Saxena, Abhinav Singh, Vikas Tomar, Prateek, Ajay, Pooja, Anne, Vishakha, Vijay, Nivi, Arpan, Ranjith, Gautam, Dominico, Romain, Deepak, Amit, Chotu, Nithya, Smita, Nikhil-Arti, Arun-Sreeja, Harjeet, Abhishek, Gaurav, Geetali, Puneet, Neel, Amin, Navin, Shikha, Pankaj, Rishi, Sukanya, Arun, Shantanu, Sandeep, Rohit, (names not mentioned for reasons, and names that I will remember later), and all you other good people.
The House, as if, lived like a man. It was born in 2003, when I moved in. It was young and restless during first few months and then went through a crazy teenage of chappattis, movies, tea, gossip and mithai, led a joyful and famous life, with Wednesday dinners and plans for all events/trips starting and ending there and in last few months, edged to its death.
We close the chapter of 1041 now. It was a decent place, made worth living by everyone who came into that house, made lively by friendships that will last longer than either houses or people will.
June 21, 2007
The END
अब कहाँ वो शौक़, वो फन, वो मामला
है छूट गया लम्हा, बीत गया,
किस तालाश में फिरते हो जनिब तुम,
बस याद है लम्हा बीत गया !
(Now where's that interest, that talent, that situation
The moment is lost, is past
In what search you wander, o Mister
'Tis only memories, the moment is past!)
In 2003, I moved into 1041 B a week after turning 24. Emails about quarter life crisis were circulating then (and must be making rounds still). I was starting in the graduate school again, (after getting an MS from Akron, where I had set and left a house, 365 Power street people, raise your hands). I arrived with a car full of stuff, and moved in with three people. One of them was Chinese; when he cooked, we three Indians left the house for few hours. When we cooked, he cursed and choked.
My Indian roommates were a few years older; one had been in same hostel in Delhi, another had taken a sojourn like me before coming to Atlanta. One put three sticks of cinnamon to make food tastier (he was pleasantly surprised when I had him put 1/20th of that amount, and his food tasted less bitter and much better). Other cooked only Malka Masar and Tea. We lived happily ever after. Not quite, but almost. The living room computer served as TV, occasionally I would cook for a dozen people, we had weekly duties (assigned and implemented by the Chinese President).
First my senior left. We had gelled together very well. There were too many interesting evenings we shared with a bunch of other guys who drank and partied hard. There were deep discussions about nothing, and everything under the American sun (and moon). A Bengali, A Rajput, and a Bareilly guy (my neighbor for 8/past 10 years) formed our close circuit. We went to Smokies, to Florida beaches, to Hindi and English movies. The Senior left and the Ping Pong (and Billiards) expert replaced him.
Then the Chinese guy left and the Chinese girl who replaced him talked only to me (first few days), and that too in Sign language. Her hands danced like butterflies, and we all joked around her. She laughed most happily and would try to tell us something, "Hey Vivek, how do you say it, it is not black, it is (her hands are showing its spherical), it cooks, (meaning it can be cooked), how do you say it Vivek" "(Does it have an upturned umbrella on top?) "What was that" (Nothing nothing. Are you talking about eggplant?). Yes it is like egg but not plant (You call it brinjal I suppose)"Thanks. So the brinjal is popular, no no, is brinjal popular in Hindi people?" and so on.
My old roommate and PingPongChamp joined hands to become best chapati makers and sweet specialists in town. I turned into a weekly cook for dozen and a half people. The food was tasty, conversations were laced with laughter. The Chinese girl moved out when her husband made it to US. The first Sardar arrived. Hilarity prospered.
Then PingPongChamp left, I wrote a blog, saying he cannot be replaced. He gave me a legacy of Amitabh Bachcan dialogues ("Tumne Mukhtaar Singh ka naam suna hai?" "Tumhara kya naam hai Basanti?" ) He taught me Ping Pong all over again and later sent me a bat to play with. I really liked the fella, and he stuck to his plan of returning to India. It was two years ago. 2005.
He was succeeded by a Mridangam player. My own music collection had prospered by now, circle of friends had expanded, two dozen people would appear on my cooking turn, and at least half a dozen people (other than our roommates) could be found on most of the other days. Then my oldest roommate also left, promising to come back (we all do that, but hardly anyone comes back). Another Sardar replaced him.
When brother of Sardar 1 arrived, we had Sardar 1, 2 & 3 at our place. I felt as if I was in Punjab, Punjabi became our national tongue, my songs played louder and louder, Jimmy Cash arrived, Banti and Babli came, Swadesh, then came Bob Dylan, Hard Rock, U2, Pink Floyd, Zeppelin, Dil Chahta hai were always there, then Jal, Fuzon, Silk Route, Indian Ocean, then Indian and Western Classical, Hindi Movie classics were always here. Occasionally my flute fluttered (I ensured no one was home at those hours or was it my flute that caused it?)
The oldest roommate left with a promise of coming back. His guitar was still there yesterday as were some of his clothes, cassettes and stuff when we packed that too and moved out. When he left, chapattis fled our house. Sardar 3 made only green daal (moong) sardar 2 only masar, sardar 1 only chole. Mrigandam player made awesome South Indian food that was wasted on us highly noisy and picky North Indians.
Tea-time every night, dinner for twenty-five people every Wednesday (when I cooked), Football on Sunday followed. The circle expanded with several households coming here every so often. Americans, Chinese, Korean, Italian, Slovene, French, German - we welcomed all from Mumbai, (some insisted they were still from Bombay), Delhi, Punjab, Rishikesh, Indore, Bhopal, Lucknow, Chennai, IITs, and Marathi, Marwari, Telugu, Mallu, Bongs, all languages met under the roof. Some people had to be convinced to come (they wanted to invite us in return to every invitation, so felt a twinge for the weeks passed quickly, and my dinners piled up in their records). Same came without guilt every week (and some haven't seen me since the dinners ceased). Some came uninvited, some wanted to be invited. The circle expanded to over three dozen people. The house was full of people standing, sitting, chatting, laughing every week, and people came here to say goodbyes, announce things, meet each other, get bumps, gossip about, introduce their peers or new found loves, and well, what can I say, I cooked and cooked and waited the walls to resound with voices and voices and laughter.
We created a community outside India, we created an India inside US.
In words of Majrooh:
"Main akela hi chala tha, janib-e-manzil magar,
Log saath aate gaye aur caravan banta gaya..."
[I started alone towards my destination, but
People kept coming along, the caravan kept growing]
We all change over time. Love affairs came, went, came again, went again. Heartbreaks were as common as kitchenware breaking (we all were quite careful though). Marriages. Almost marriages. New jobs. Highs. Exams. Illnesses. Football, Ping Pong, Racketball, Frisbee. Cards. Cricket in living room. Beer. More Beer. Bottles and bottles of Beer. Cans of beer. Tea. A cup of tea. Tea for twenty people. Graduation. Graduation for some. Dreams, philosophical questions, religious questions, national and international conflicts, reservation issue, Saurav Ganguly, cricket.
In last few months, we had started moving out. Our lifestyles changed. One got married, one graduated, and one started worrying too much about graduation. That one, me, wanted to leave 1041 B only after finishing PhD, and yet I left - I have few more months to go.
When I moved out yesterday, I realized that I had stayed longer in that room, than any other room in my entire life. Memories, and poems, were scattered in every corner. I found I owned so many things I had forgotten about. I moved about two hundred books out of my room. My room was a regular music and literature/science library. I moved at least 1000 journal articles. I threw memoirs, tokens gathered from my visits to different cities, countries, conferences. I kept poems, handwritten ones from 1995 onwards, Hindi, English, Urdu poems. I wrote several hundred in IIT days. That wasn't even my prolific era. Unfinished and finished poems. Lots and lots of poems.
As I packed stuff, I realized how much I have changed since I moved in. I realized my world now is very different from what I could have ever imagined. I wanted to thank everyone who visited me in that house, and everyone who helped me to feel at home.
As a roll call, I hope 1041 (and I) will remember these people, and they will remember the house that was perhaps home for all of us: Hemabh, Nitesh, Gagan, Ishwar, Bhavdeep, Santosh, Gurpreet, Tian, Hua, Rishi, Rakshita, Matija, Akbar, Farminder, Guru, Sanjoy-Urbi, Amit-Shilpi, Vani-Chirayu, Radhika, Gayatri, Abhinav Saxena, Abhinav Singh, Vikas Tomar, Prateek, Ajay, Pooja, Anne, Vishakha, Vijay, Nivi, Arpan, Ranjith, Gautam, Dominico, Romain, Deepak, Amit, Chotu, Nithya, Smita, Nikhil-Arti, Arun-Sreeja, Harjeet, Abhishek, Gaurav, Geetali, Puneet, Neel, Amin, Navin, Shikha, Pankaj, Rishi, Sukanya, Arun, Shantanu, Sandeep, Rohit, (names not mentioned for reasons, and names that I will remember later), and all you other good people.
The House, as if, lived like a man. It was born in 2003, when I moved in. It was young and restless during first few months and then went through a crazy teenage of chappattis, movies, tea, gossip and mithai, led a joyful and famous life, with Wednesday dinners and plans for all events/trips starting and ending there and in last few months, edged to its death.
We close the chapter of 1041 now. It was a decent place, made worth living by everyone who came into that house, made lively by friendships that will last longer than either houses or people will.
June 21, 2007
The END
अब कहाँ वो शौक़, वो फन, वो मामला
है छूट गया लम्हा, बीत गया,
किस तालाश में फिरते हो जनिब तुम,
बस याद है लम्हा बीत गया !
(Now where's that interest, that talent, that situation
The moment is lost, is past
In what search you wander, o Mister
'Tis only memories, the moment is past!)
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