Dying Young

It was always there in me, this thought of dying young.

The tales of talented youth dying much before

They found no use for  their eager dreams,

Kindled a desire of blazing out like a forest fire.

The ones who had done so were many to count:

Long before they reached the age of thirty-three,

Jesus, Shelley, Keats and my own writerly father

Who left so many manuscripts and diaries.

Now, in my thirties, I wonder what made them tick,

What went in their bodies or minds to make them sick

And no longer afraid of lightning or busy roads,

Fresh cylinders or changing a light bulb all myself.

Sometimes I think I might die of laughter or heart-attack

From reading twisted truths on my students’ answer sheets.

Future

The life of hopes and ambitions is not the life you live,

From the cradle the baby is taught to dream and hope

But when the dark and light of youth decide to fight,

It is often darkness which wins and leaves one lost.

For the ones who have won and moved ahead of others,

Who do not share the burden of your past sorrows,

Who measure you by their own measures of success,

Your dreams are a reason to poke fun and laugh at you.

While you plod against life gathering the missing pieces,

Often having to start again after losing so many times,

The victory that would have tasted sweet in dreams,

Being like a mirage that eludes only you every time.

Yet some day the dark would give way to the dawn,

And if God wills, it will be an everlasting sunshine.

Natural

May be we learnt this silence from nature,

From dormant volcanoes that do not show

Any signs of life; but explode into rages

And passions, creating new terrains,

Blending with the waters of the ocean.

This love hides itself behind a wave of silence,

That sweeps away everything in its path,

But is natural like the merge of streams,

Like the blossoming of flowers in arid deserts,

And the sight of birds in the morning.

It springs natural, magical, dream-like

On the food of silence and nothing else.

For words have no meaning in this love,

And take away the magic of its silence. 

32

32

You remember dear,

I have reached where you were,

When Humpty-Dumpty broke the wall.

All could be seen for a while was pieces

Of your broken shell that hurt my eyes

And bled my heart for you were gone.

It was a lesson, these long years

To know what you lose in a moment-

A king, his horses and his men. 

Female Quixote

You are in your twenties. You do not know what to do- whether to get married or pursue a promising career that exists in your dreams. You are brilliant; at college known for punctuality and studious hardworking nature. You have clear cut opinions on almost everything under the sun, including your future husband.

Secretly inside you live a person who believes in finding love somewhere quite unexpectedly but you don’t want that person to take control. For some strange reason love eludes you when it hits everyone everywhere: in buses, trains, offices, colleges, libraries, churches, hospitals, everywhere. No, its not that you do not go out but you are very serious about whatever you do. You go for work and keep cordial relationships with your male colleagues, who have a hard time understanding you. You go to church and either pray or sleep. You travel in buses full of guys but keep reading the boards everywhere. You visit the library crowded with handsome guys thrice a week but nothing interests you more than what’s new inside the well-vacuumed and orderly kept library.

Finally, when some guy is interested you are not and you don’t want to be either. You become conscious of all this stuff only when you decide to be good-looking on your cousin’s wedding day. You are no beauty but suddenly people take note of you clad in this strange costume and say: “Oh my God! You look beautiful. We’ll be attending your marriage next. May be I will talk to your mother. There are a few guys that I know.” There is laughter and you cannot help blushing. From uneducated relatives there are questions and sneers meant to make you understand that their hardly educated daughters had two kids and a handsome husband during the same period of time that you were working hard to earn a university degree.

Here you go. Suddenly you feel confused. You have dreams about your life though you do not know which route to pursue. These wise old women prescribe marriage for you as if you have become an old maid, as if marriage is the end of all these problems while you try to think about the whole lot of people who have trouble keeping their marriages intact.

Worse than the old women are your friends: school, college and workplace. They wonder when they can attend your marriage as if that was something they have looking forward to their whole life. Unbelievable. The haughty ones turn docile after marriage and speak in a sweet voice to their hubbies in a voice that makes you want to puke. In front of you they act that their life is so perfect and to have a perfect life what they advise you is to get married to someone they know: Do you know that my hubby has a friend named A, who is very good? He’s not that educated as you but he’ll keep you happy!” “Et tu Brute was not written without a reason.

If you are not a female Quixote, may be you are unbelievably blessed, lucky or born out of time in this strange age!

Nissim Ezekiel's "Goodbye Party for Miss Pushpa T.S"

Friends,

our dear sister

is departing for foreign

in two three days,

and

we are meeting today

to wish her bon voyage.


You are all knowing, friends,

What sweetness is in Miss Pushpa.

I don't mean only external sweetness

but internal sweetness.

Miss Pushpa is smiling and smiling

even for no reason but simply because

she is feeling.


Miss Pushpa is coming

from very high family.

Her father was renowned advocate

in Bulsar or Surat,

I am not remembering now which place.


Surat? Ah, yes,

once only I stayed in Surat

with family members

of my uncle's very old friend-

his wife was cooking nicely…

that was long time ago.


Coming back to Miss Pushpa

she is most popular lady

with men also and ladies also.


Whenever I asked her to do anything,

she was saying, 'Just now only

I will do it.' That is showing

good spirit. I am always

appreciating the good spirit.


Pushpa Miss is never saying no.

Whatever I or anybody is asking

she is always saying yes,

and today she is going

to improve her prospect

and we are wishing her bon voyage.

Now I ask other speakers to speak

and afterwards Miss Pushpa

will do summing up.


By Nissim Ezekiel

A decoration

Cat on a cold tin roof

Every picture speaks a story. This photo was snapped through the window on a cold day! I was coming down the stairs and saw that our neighbour's cat was napping on the tin roof, next to a madal (dried cocunut branch). This is the same villain who used to steal into our home and cause a lot of havoc.

The Art of the Perfect Roti

Styles in cooking differ; as many styles are available as there are people. This is one lesson that I learnt once I got married. For many of the food items that I knew how to cook at home were made differently here and held with amusement as well.

It was strange how a simple task like making a chapattis or a roti can be so different. My mother makes it big and wide as big as the tawa at home. It's soft and my comments were always along the lines that all her anger at people she sublimated in the act of making the dough for chapattis.

Here, at the new place, the rotis were small enough to fit the vessel my new mother-in-law (I mean one and the only mother-in-law) had and she could make it round and soft and full, like the ones shown in the advertisement for atta.

First, my trials at making rotis were met with laughter and my husband would remark:" Do these rotis go to the gym everyday?"My father-in-law said: "Kid, I'm past 65 and my teeth are shaky. If I eat these everyday, most probably I wont even have to visit a dentist". True to what he said, three months after I landed, his tooth fell.

Somehow I kept on making rotis and didn’t give up. Finally in a historical moment that witnessed great applause from all, the roti came out perfectly made and soft. More than my years at the college, these few months in the kitchen were the toughest in history.

A writing woman gathers no fat

Every writer needs a space to write, be it a lap-top or a quiet corner in the room, where you can sit and mull over things, real and unreal, present and past, serious and trivial. That idea of a sacred space can be found in the writings of many women writers, especially Virginia Woolf who spoke of the need for having a room of one's own.

For a woman to write, she needs to be free from the guilt of not doing household chores, unless she is well-off and has one or many house-helps. Otherwise, writing is like walking on tight rope- you might fail to balance the work world, the home world and the world of words. But creating balance comes out of setting priorities in day-to-day life.

Writing is a great relief from the world of stress; it can release lots of tension and keep you occupied with the jigsaw of creating good content. The satisfaction that you derive from writing a page can never be compared to that a well-cooked meal or a sparkling floor as each has its own value in life; but a piece of writing has a lasting value in that a meal disappears in a day or two, depending on the artistic talents of the cook and the floors have to be swept again and again.

Recompense

For every word of harshness that you hear,
There is equally a word of love somewhere.
For the darkest hours of the wakeful night,
At the end of which is a beautiful dawn.

For the loss of innocence of childhood,
There is the growing maturity of years.
For the loss of a life near river green,
There is lot more sunshine to equal.

For the trenches that this life fell into
There are the new scales that it climbs.
For the years lost in search of dreams,
There are these words on a virtual page.

Which brings in daily, strange comfort,
For every friend lost, that of strangers.

Barn-owl in the backyard

Cowrie shells

Once we were both wanderers every day.
We looked at each other and the world;
Picked up cowrie shells from the sands
As we roamed the seashores together.

The shells were of many shapes and sizes,
Smooth like porcelain and treasures;
Much like our words and thoughts then
That exuded much love and many dreams.

We spoke of cowrie shells and the seas,
The words began late but never ended,
Who you were I could never know well,
Condemned to be a wanderer after all.

You remain an enigma now; a stranger with
Whom I spoke of dreams and cowrie shells.

The Black cat with green eyes

Shadows

-->

Your words dance across the pages,

They swirl and twirl and laugh.

Mine are like bits of coal before them,

I hide them away in embarrasment.

When I miss you, I seek their laughter,

Your lightness and your fooling around.

Then I remember that though like coal,

You hold them close to your face.

How else can I put a finger on my joy,

That comes to me during saddest hours.

How else can give a reason for your face,

Dark and long for so many dreadful days,

The dark shadows are still on your face,

Though it's been a long long long time.

One last word

In the bright season of May

years ago our paths diverged;

not that I didn't love you,

yes, I did but there wasn't time.

Time, for us to start afresh

with stubbles of old loves,

for you, with your silences

and me with my clowning...

after the tears wore away

and my heart forgot its pain,

nothing remains of the old,

except a few flashes in words.

But now the world forgets not,

even after years of tears

it brings your name to me

in whispers and laughter.

True love it may have been

No longer live but in words.

Butterfly

Boanarges

The years have flown so fast, 

she says, in her soliloquy voice,  

a sign for me to sit up and wait 

for the final dart.
   

When it comes I'm already 

to swallow it down easily  

with a lot of lousy phlegm 

and heavens, plenty of patience. 

Yes, she loved listening to herself.  

You need to do what she did. 

You need to do things exactly  

How she used to do it all along

Hate and love, love and hate,  

She advises all her adversaries.

The poetry of trees

Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky, we fell them down and turn them into paper, that we may record our emptiness. Kahlil Gibran

The Indian Terminator

The world as portrayed by books and movies are fragments of a bigger world, events and people and objects given importance based on one's perspective of life. Jane Austen's world view was influenced by the importance she gave to love and marriage; while George Orwell saw a world that was afflicted by forms of political power; the mainstream commercial movies of Bollywood told love stories, the old wine in many new bottles.


Given the amount of publicity given to the movie, Ra-One was disappointing. The movie is only Bollywood's version of Terminator 2 : Judgment Day though not as good as the orginal. As you start viewing the movie, you are shocked by a kind of comic beginning starring Shah Rukh Khan, Priyanka Chopra and Sanjay Dutt. You feel a surge of disappointment as the movie progresses. The graphics dominate the plot and you feel that may be this movie was made for kids. But the jokes on condoms and poweryoga startle you into realising that it cannot be. As G-One bids farewell to Sonia, you are suddenly reminded of the farewell scene in Terminator 2 : Judgment Day. 


The movie comes alive somewhere in the last 45 minutes and you feel that you have wasted a lot of your valuable weekend time, watching a movie that is badly arranged anyway. The world view of the creator is rather confusing: to defeat a machine you really need another machine. The saving grace is the song "Chamak Challo" that somehow makes up for the entire movie.