Of Dreams and Him

I was going through some old pictures and came across this one. There is something about this picture that I think is very deep and meaningful. It takes me to some lines of a beautiful poem I read when I was probably 7 or 8. 

आदमी का स्वप्न ? है वह बुलबुला जल का,

आज उठता और फिर कल फूट जाता है,

किन्तु फिर भी धन्य ठहरा आदमी ही तो,

बुलबुलों से खेलता, कविता बनाता है|

This poem is called 'Chaand Aur Kavi' (The Moon and the Poet) written by one of the most celebrated Hindi poets of the modern era: Ramdhari Singh who wrote by the name 'Dinkar' which means 'The one who brings the day' or the Sun.

The poem talks about the moon talking to a poet, and expressing his exasperation at the tendency of man to create his own problems and then to get entangled in them. What amuses him more is the fact that in all such situations, man decides to stay awake and restless all night, and to weave dreams. In the lines above, the moon says, "What are human dreams but bubbles of water that are born today and gone tomorrow. But man - he incorrigibly plays with these bubbles and creates poetry." The poem goes on with the poet's retaliation which talks of the impossible things dreams and the power of imagination can achieve.

A lot of what I write tends to center around dreams. I think dreams are special. I think they make us more than complete. They make us look forward to the unknown, to go on when things are tough. They are something like the idea of Him, the higher power, that I believe in, not because of reason, but because of faith. Because it feels right to me. It calmed down the monsters of night in my childhood, it brought me home when I was a lost little girl, and it taught me to hope, and to dream for something more in every day of my small but magnificent life.

P.S.        I had once written a story around dreams, interestingly on the same day that this picture was taken. You can read it here.

P.P.S.     Yes, the girl in the picture is me.

The Village of Dance

I am thankful to my friend for directing me to this link. Nrityagram is a word with Sanskrit roots that means 'Dance Village'. I am not a dancer. Yet. But I have always dreamt of being one. And knowing about places like this inspires me immensely. Some day, I'll pack my bags and head for this village, to learn and live dance. Not being able to dance has always felt like a handicap. I wish to be able to express myself in this beautiful form of art that has the ability to transform one to a realm of greater things. I wish to experience the liberation of portraying a story - human, dramatic, real, surreal. I wish to be able to communicate to something deep within me, positively dark and unknown, something glorious and unexplored. I wish to be able to dance some day and forget there is, or ever was, an audience.

Some day.

Toy Story

What is true art but something that evokes emotions - genuine, sharp emotions. While I passed by Channapatna, the land of toys, I stopped by to admire this native and old form of wooden toy making, and I spotted this one (the picture above). While all the other toys will also adorn the house and bring a smile to a child's heart, this one- single piece, lying in a corner, seemed to have a tale of its own. There is sadness, ignorance, experience, and a haunting silence about this toy that makes it a masterpiece in my eyes. The couple shake their spring necks under their loaded heads, and in the attempt to amuse, they screech a muted story of toil, poverty, negligence, burdened love, and of an anonymous artist who sat down in a corner to pour out his stories in his work.

Love

 Love, 

What we share 

is sweet and scented

and dream-like

A story that movies are based on

Just sometimes I wonder

if behind those celluloid smiles

and happy sing song tunes

hides a muffled song

like the one of my soul

that does not fit in verses 

but that plays, without cue

on nights like these when you refuse

to grant me your friendship

and peep into my heart

When you surround yourself

with walls of silence 

and leave me on the other side

solitary and unheard

On these nights my love

I sing silent songs of longing

of a faraway land and a kingdom

and a princess and a prince

that kissed and made up

and lived happily ever after

Linked to One Single Impression. This week's theme was Love :)

P.S. The picture was clicked by me on my trip to Travemunde beach near Lubeck, Germany. Let me know what you think. :)

Polymorphism

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players"

The teacher's voice comes muffled to her ears, mingled with multiple different threads of thoughts. She sees class 8A going to the playground in a queue. Her best friend winks at her from outside the window and mouths 'Games' explaining the cause of her imminent freedom from the classroom. She acknowledges the unsolicited information and turns back, to look at the Lesson board, which announces the Chemistry class topic 'Polymorphism', many forms. She wonders if tonight will be different. Or will something she says get on her mother's nerves again. Last week, she mentioned how funny someone's dad is, and it went really ugly. She had to pick the pieces of the shattered china and give her the blood pressure medicines before she could run to her room and cry her heart out. She deflects the thoughts. Turns it to when her mom wakes her up in the mornings and apologizes with genuine tears. Her throat chokes, and blood gushes at the recollection, its like a craving for something you really really want, something that makes you so happy, it embarrasses you. All she does in those moments is smile. Too much articulation is not a convention in their relationship. Her mind soon roves to that first night, when she saw her, tipsy stepped, smudged make-up, getting down from his car. He helped her in and sat her on the couch, all the time ignoring that there was someone else, wide-eyed, terrified, confused, standing in the room. She hated him, she hated that woman on the couch, laughing the saddest possible laugh, looking at her through the most helpless and disappointed eyes.The next morning, she lay in bed expecting her to come in and try to make up for the night, but she didn't come. Instead, that morning, she was at her best fake happiness, wearing a mask of unshakeable confidence to disguise her haunted conscience. At her polymorphic best. Many forms. "Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation". She wonders what Shakespeare's life would have been like, for him to gain this enviable talent. She envies the ability of expression. She envies the other girls of the class who are always so glib and smooth, and who laugh so easily. She wonders if her hair is frizzy again. She wonders if tonight, she'll again dream of her father, throwing her little self up in the air on a golden afternoon amidst mustard fields. She wonders if this time he will finally be able to catch her back, or if the dream will again end in free fall.

Thanks to Carry On Tuesday for the wonderfully inspiring prompt that made the story happen.

Sometimes

Found this little prompt on Weekend Wordsmith and realized it conveys just what I wish to convey today:

Sometimes, its just me -

the reader and the writer
united in a moment of wordlessness
so that those volatile crystal dreams
are safer 

locked within the airtight boxes
of silence

About Me

Writing happens to me, like love, like the weather. It makes me a million things more, it gives me an adrenaline rush, and at times it induces an enveloping, nurturing calm. Sometimes, I write for myself, and sometimes, just to be read. I love words. Words that are soft and simple and still magnificent in their implication, and the way they are pronounced. I would not be me but for this congenital love for words, and stories. I love everything simple, and everything old and classy. I love the scent of old yellow pages of books, and the scent of the earth satiated by rain. I love beautiful Rajasthani ornaments, Victorian buildings, old, heavy metal boxes that contain secrets, and stories, of lives lived long ago. May be that's why I love all things old, the story part - stories that are hidden in a smile in a black and white picture, in the wrinkles at the back of hands, in the silver of the hair, in large dusty, sound-echoing rooms, in the widespread roots of age-old trees that still stand with enviable dignity; which reminds me, I love trees, and flowers, and mountains, valleys, rivers, deserts, and oceans. They overwhelm me, they whisper to me in the language of the universe,and they love me too, I think. I love having leisure, like now, to sit and write about all things I love, or to stop and smile at a child, to click pictures, to hold an old man's hand and listen to his stories, to stare at the star studded night sky, and relive the fairytales of childhood. I love the distant sound of the namaaz. I laugh, pray and cry a lot. I love being foolish. I love to narrate, if you'll listen.

P.S. The picture was taken by me near the Holsten Gate, Lubeck, Germany.

Gold

He found love in gold

sheer glitter and glory

that made him take risks

and place all he once had

Integrity, Innocence, Identity

in shiny chain-links

until they were all smothered

or sold

Gold, for her

was his curly hair

that she drew circles in

on golden evenings

amidst golden sunflowers and

mustard; when all was fair

like his promise

to grow old

together

He watched them silently

returning from a long day

on the fields

and wiped

the golden beads of sweat

that trickled down his cheek

as his body ached

and children starved

for a few golden grains

of wheat

Inspired by In The Moment. The cue was 'Golden' :)


Linked to Poets United. Visit them and read a lot of inspiring poems. Savour art! :)

You are not all I want

I wish to feel the morning breeze

and taste the morning dew

I wish to smell the lilies

and watch the sunset hue

I want to tread on unknown lands

and form friendships all along

To wake up on a boat

To be the subject of a song

To see the lights of a far off village

that glisten on an evening still

to pour my love in the glass of the universe

until it fills and spills

I wouldn't say you're all I want

for that would be untrue

I am just a gypsy, and life my dance

that I want to share with you


Linked to Poets United. Visit them and read a lot of inspiring poems. Savour art! :) 

She is a child, after all

The smell of cigarettes and shoes, the noise of ‘chai’, and a predominant feeling of dust all over me; I’m drowsy; and I force myself to look out of the train window as someone mentions ‘Bandra’. I get down, uncertain, fast heart-beat, heavy steps; I’m thinking of the orphanage I ran away from, I’m tired of running, my breath is heavy, hot, difficult; its hot, very hot, and suffocating, too many people, there’s sweat, and stink, and shove, and I’m too small; I wish I could be taller, soon. Someone shouts, “You! Boy!” I turn. I see khaki. I run. Again. Fast. Very fast. Till I am far far away. But I keep running. Because I can’t stop. I try to stop. I can’t. Why am I so small? Why am I running? Oh the ditch! I need to stop running!

It was a dream. I need to wake up. I can’t open my eyes. There is still noise. And wailing. Numbers. Lots of numbers.

“What about 143?”

“85% burns. Still unconscious”

“Hmmm, Observe for some more time. We need beds. There’s a fucking queue outside.”

I still can’t open my eyes.

“Glucose!” “We can’t do anything” “No”, Wailing, “Sorry”, “Get the injection!” “Fast!” “Who the fuck left it here” “Burns” “We are out of bandages” “Number 21”

Why can’t I open my eyes? I feel pain. It boils. Overflows. I should sleep. I’m slipping. There’s a thud. In my chest. It’s the scent! Oh God!

I run and run for a long time. I stop there. The chai shop. I run no more. I breathe. Chacha Jaan. The saucepan. Brown masala chai. Ilaichi. Hot. Money. Labor. Tears. The tea boils. Overflows. Like something else that I can’t remember now. It stains the slab. I clean it with the cloth on my shoulder. For a very long time. “Ek chai”. I pour it through the filter. I get tipped. One rupee. Gandhi on the coin. I wonder why.

They order it from the house today. I carry the metal stand. 6 cups. Daddu on the khaat. He smiles. He talks cricket. He talks of his days, years ago. It was a better world. Cheap. Good. He laughs. She laughs. I look at her. She smells of lilac and jasmine oil, or something like that. She runs behind her brother, and laughs. Adjusts her anklet, and laughs. Teases her mother, and laughs. Her eyes water. She smudges all her soorma with her dupatta. I smile. She is a child after all. I feel much taller, stronger. She is a delicate little girl. God bless her.

The scent fills the air. I see nothing else. Just her small feet and her green dupatta tangled in her anklet.

“They are coming!” I see them, coming towards Mohammad Ali Road. I see swords. And sticks. And a lot of saffron. Fire. Shouts. They are at her gate. They are banging. I hide and watch. Jumman comes out, and the other brothers and cousins. The gate is locked quickly. They are fighting. They are hurt. I know one of ‘them’. He plays cricket with Jumman and me. He is not himself. No one is themselves. It makes no sense. My heart will pound out. I need to hide. I am ashamed. Why can’t I fight? But I don’t. I am scared. For life. For her. I can’t run. Anymore. I peep out the back window. She is outside the back door. With the other women of the house. And her small brother. She clutches his hand. She stares back. With her big, black eyes. Will she ever smudge her soorma again? They are already there. I squat. I press my head between my knees and squat. I wait for them. They kick me. “Hindu ya Musalman?” I wish I knew. I can’t speak. The boy I know sprinkles the kerosene oil. They step out. Everything burns. Instantly. For a long time.

“She is critical.”

“Hmmm..We observe for a few minutes”

I inhale her scent. I shut my eyes hard. I won’t try to open them anymore. Give her a chance. She is a child after all.