Friday 7 December 2012

Mulaqat-e-Gulzar

Today at the Bangalore Literature Festival, I got to listen to God read out poetry in Gulzar's sonorous voice. I later had the privilege of meeting the master of imagery and came away with this...

Dastkhat-e-Gulzar

He asked me my name in his baritone, scribbled a word in Urdu, and seeing me smile asked me if I could read the language. I said yes, indeed I could and guessed that he had written my name. He scrawled something below the first word and again asked me if I could read. I laughingly admitted that I couldn't! Turns out there are two different ways in which to write the syllable k in Urdu. :)

Sunday 25 November 2012

The man on the Hill

When the storm did break,
why didn't you stop?
You left me all alone.

The way, Abhishek!
to make the top
is to make your own.

You're here, said she,
the past doesn't matter!
Come, enjoy the view.

Oh, not for the valley,
I threw my arms at her,
I've come up to see you.

Saturday 10 November 2012

At the Eleventh Hour

[A quatrain I wrote for a friend on his 23rd birthday. Isn't it funny how some people have lists of things to do before they turn xx? I used to be one of those people.]

If one year were one hour then
A year in the day is left;
So toil hard this hour past eleven,
And party after the twelfth.!


Sunday 30 September 2012

Stepmothers

My folks at home do speak Kanarese,
Cameras command me to say only "Cheese!"
Teachers expounded the British version-
The American I picked up from hours of television.

Curricula and cartoonists coached me Marathi,
Garbas and grocers bespoke Gujarati;
Hindi I imbued from common vocals,
And Bambaiyya argot was trained on the locals.

School days began with Rabindranath's Bong,
Sunidhi sings Punj now in every other song;
I rote-learnt Shakira's español Objection,
And Gita instructs in the sacred diction.

Konkani wafts in from the neighbours' lingo,
Tamizh was instilled by collegial jingo;
Travelling revealed to me a number of patois,
And shayaries taught me the jargon of fatwas.

Accuse me of doublespeak, of polyglottony,
Call me a snake with many a prong-
Oh but woe! and behold the irony:
Words fail me in my own mother tongue.


[*My mother tongue is Tulu, which I speak as well as I do the Zulu;]

Monday 17 September 2012

In Con-verse-ation with Gieve

Over the weekend, I attended a poetry workshop facilitated by Gieve Patel at the British Council, Bangalore. It was an absolute pleasure interacting with the poet, painter, playwright and physician- to listen to him marvel at Shakespeare and revel in Seth, and to read out some of my poems to Gieve and a cheering crowd made up of lit and media students, engineering grads and a navigator for the Indian Navy.

Who better to learn the nuances of a craft than from the masters themselves? It is remarkable the kind of insights you can gain by casually chatting with a seasoned practitioner of art. Here I reproduce bits and bursts- in no particular sequence or chronology- of my two daylong conversation with aapro Gieve (pronounced with a G for Gandhi.. "Most people call me Jeev. I like Jeev too.")





Me : When did you first write poetry?

Gieve : I started writing poetry in school. Back then, it was to see my name featured in the school magazine.. that felt good.

Me : I was schooled at St. Xavier's too. (palpable excitement in my voice)

Gieve : We missed each other by a few years!

Me : Few equals fifty! I think the kind of poems we are exposed to in school, and the way poetry is treated vis-à-vis prose lessons governs our interest in the form. I was lucky to have teachers who did not accord step-motherly treatment to poetry! I fondly remember reading your poem 'On Killing a Tree' [read here] in eighth grade and wanting to meet you. When did you write that?

Gieve : I wrote it at 21.

Me : Wow! I thought you'd say you wrote it 21 years back! In the early days, whom did you show your poems to for evaluation? Whom should a young poet turn to for opinions?

Gieve : Show them to someone you respect. I used to show them to my friends. There were times when a person would criticise a piece a lot and I would go into fifteen days of depression. But slowly, I reached a place where if I loved one of my poems, I wouldn't worry if the world hated it.

Me : It would be interesting to know who your favourite poets are..

Gieve : My favourites kept changing with age. In my twenties, I liked the free verse of D. H. Lawrence; Arun Kolatkar and A. K. Ramanujan in the thirties. I read a lot of Wordsworth in my forties, and Shakespeare throughout. Tolstoy and Tagore are two of my favourite writers. I also like Nissim Ezekiel's work.

Me : Nissim Ezekiel published your first collection of poems..

Gieve : Yes. I used to meet him regularly, and one day, when I was 25 he said, 'Gieve, you have a good number of poems now. You should bring out a book.' I was studying at Grant Medical College then. I exclaimed, 'But I have exams coming up!' Ezekiel said with a laugh, 'Oh exams are for life.'

Me : You have been a practising physician all your adult life. How did you juggle your occupation and your art?

Gieve : It was difficult initially. After ten years of practice, I stopped working on Sundays. Gradually, I came to consult only weekday evenings. Mornings were dedicated to painting and poetry.

Me : What prompts you to write poetry?

Gieve : Ignorance about the world leads to art. Through curiosity, an artist tries to learn about the subject by painting it or penning it. He goes from ignorance to knowledge in the process of creating the piece.

Me : Do you compose poetry when the urge strikes you? Or do you spend a considerable amount of time composing each piece?

Gieve : Very rarely do poets compose their poems in one go. You have to chisel and carve it till it reaches a point where it should not be touched any more, lest you spoil it. Mandelstam is the only poet I know of who wrote on impulse, and never revised what he wrote. He would wake up in the morning with the feeling that a poem was coming to him. He would pace around the house and dictate his lines to his wife, saying 'Write so-and-so as the third word of the second line of this stanza!' Such genius is hard to find. I am never happy with my first draft. Often people visiting my place lay their eyes on an unfinished painting and say, 'Just leave it like that! It's perfect! Don't touch it any more.' But of course, I'm going to touch it.. (smiles)

Me : I stay very close to your clinic. (Gieve stays at Colaba, but had a clinic near Bombay Central station.) Do you still have that?

Gieve : No, I've retired. It's been seven years.

Me : How much do you feel has your professional life as a doctor shaped you as an artist?

Gieve : One's experiences do make their way into one's art. For instance, my series of paintings depicting accident victims stemmed from my visits to morgues or accident sites. It was my way of coming to terms with what I saw. I believe encounters with suffering are important to artists.

Me : Poetry, or even writing for that matter is not a lucrative career option. What is your advice to young poets? At what stage in their lives should they try to get their work out in the public domain?

Gieve : It's impoverishing! Poetry is poverty! My advice would be: If you love doing something, continue doing it. Think of what matters to you in life and pursue it. Publication will come from reading and writing for at least five years.

Me : I understand. I want to know your thoughts on whether travelling or learning a new language help in growing as a poet?

Gieve : It all depends on the individual's need. The need arises from within. Once you know what you want to write about, you'll know what you need to write it. Follow your knows.

Me : Haha.. that's a nice way to put it! But would you recommend taking up literature fellowships where someone pays you to work on a book devotedly for a year or two?

Gieve : It wouldn't work for everybody. There was this case of an English poet - I forget his name- he was offered a scholarship to write, and they would sponsor his travel around the world for a year. But he declined the offer, simply because he hated travelling! Of course, it's always good to learn a new language.

Me : What do you think of poetry prizes, and poets who have won awards before? Are awards important?

Gieve : Longevity is the sole deciding factor of the beauty of any art form. Look at the Literature Nobel winners of the 2000s. You don't hear of them even ten years since they were awarded the prize. I'd love to win an award though! (chuckles heartily)

Me : You spoke of the impact that Tolstoy and Tagore had on you. But would you not say getting influenced by other writers curbs one's own originality and style?

Gieve : No! There have been so many great writers over the ages, and have produced works of breathtaking artistry. We must read extensively, absorb and admire the beauty that has preceded us. And one's voice as a writer must not be so feeble as to be gagged by the works you read.

Me : That's true. Which poets then, do you suggest a youngster interested in writing poetry read? Should she read more of Indian poets writing in English, considering she will publish it in the Indian sphere?

Gieve : There is no specific set of poets that you should or should not read. Go by your liking. Pick up an anthology and read through it. Then read more of the poets you like.

Me : Have you read any poetry by some of the younger generation of Indian poets? How did you find them?

Gieve : Frankly, at my age, people tend to spend their time revisiting classics or reading what concerns them. I haven't been able to read much of the younger poets.

Me : Do you think poetry as an art must have an underlying meaning or a motive? Or should it suffice to be emotive?

Gieve : I don't think every poem has a moral or a motive. Many poems are written for the enjoyment of it.

Me : Yes, they are indeed. May I ask what you are working on currently?

Gieve : I recently finished a poem on the legend of Orpheus and Eurydice written from the perspective of Hermes. (He later read this out to thunderous applause.) I'm also trying to translate some Gujarati poets with the help of some of my Gujarati friends.


Friday 31 August 2012

Parrot Eyes Lost

[I'm on my own.. This bird has flown.]

'सलाखों में देख जो प्राणी है
लाखों में एक इसकी वाणी है!'
"कितने में दिया?" 'हुज़ूर एक हज़ार!'
I met her at the Sunday bazaar.

I brought her home and opened the cage,
Yet stayed shut her colourful plumage:
Feathers were fettered not because she choosed to-
She shackled herself to what she was used to.

'राग भैरव यह जब गाती है
आग की हर लौ जल आती है!'
My days were filled with her wondrous song,
Still- I knew something was wrong.

A bird so rare, a parrot so pretty
Must not die in a cage in a city;
Soar she must, her voice should fly
And mingle with charms of the Farm’s blue sky!

I flung her cage lo! from my balcony,
Mid-air, she spread her wings all falcony;
‘fore she fell, she emerged from the prison,
And soar she did, till she merged with Horizon.

My dear Parrot Eyes flew so far,
The dazzling sun became a star,
And ever since she's taken to flight,
She only comes and sings in the night.


Wednesday 15 August 2012

Black

[Out of sight, yet...]

It's true I cannot behold you:
You're in a foreign land-
But if e'er I want to hold you,
I just outstretch my hands.

With my hands, I read your letters,
I feel your smiles and frowns,
Like the weft of knitted sweaters,
I feel your ups and downs.

The air does fetch your heartbeat thumps
Like whispers in my ear;
And when my hair goes up in bumps,
I know you're drawing near.

I love it when we're speaking slow-
You're talking in my tongue;
And your fragrant breath does go
In-out-into my lungs.

No! I love you not through lenses-
Your beauty's in my mind;
I love you more through other senses,
Thank God that love is blind.

Tuesday 31 July 2012

Contrails

When all is said and done,
what's left are not my thoughts:
Your tear-beads make my ink run
and leave me a string of blots.

When the race is ran and won
and you take a look aback,
All you see's the broken ribbon
and footprints on the track.

When an aeroplane does fly,
the jet tails fade at once;
But your contrails in the sky-
they have been here for months.

You knew I couldn't win the race-
I could not overtake you;
Yet you left behind a trace
For me to come and take you?

Wednesday 6 June 2012

The Rain of First Love

[The only city I love more than Bombay is Bombay-in-the-rains.
                                                            I shower my paeans.]

Oh, I smell the rain of first love!
When the first drop drops from the skies above
And hits the beautiful face of Mumbai,
It goes to my head and gives me a high!
Bringing cheer to each chawl and gully
And pilgrims to tears at Dargah Haji Ali.

And at our very own Marine Drive,
The rocks and the breeze and the seas come alive!
The scent of the mud at Shivaji Park
Mingles with the clap of thunder in the dark;
Of excitement, the city has a fresh burst now-
Oh, when I smell the rain of first love!

Janta escape a tad early from their jobs,
Just to have warm corn-on-the-cobs
On rain-soaked roads of aamchi Mumbai,
With a steaming cup of cutting chai,
And a spicy plate of kanda bhajiyas,
As a passing car flies our pants' dhajjiyas.

Locals wait for halted trains,
Or stay at home to watch the rains.
Urchins play on every street
When earth and rain for the first time meet;
No throat shall run dry, being rid of thirst now-
Oh, when I smell the rain of first love!

Birds sing a beautiful shehnai tune
To welcome this bride that is Mumbai's monsoon;
To hearken newer and better beginnings,
Concealed from sight, the koyal bird sings.
Stormwater washes off the city's dirt,
And wipes away its sorrows and hurt.

Lovers' hearts and dancers' feet
Sway to the rhythm of the raindrops' beat.
Mumbai erupts in a mighty chorus!
Our tears are hidden as God cries for us.
But when I smell the rain of first love,
A thing of the past is the very worst now.


Wednesday 30 May 2012

When it's time to shed

1.

A tree does drop its fruit ascatter
Not because it's grown
Heavy, but so it may shatter
And grow into a tree of its own.

2.

The leaves in autumn fall
From the tree without a sound;
But in the end, they all
Again meet upon the ground.



Friday 18 May 2012

Jigsaw falling into pieces


The bits of a puzzle once fell from the pack
And scattered all over the floor:
No hands came to help or to put them back
Together like they were before

The pieces were put in some other jigsaws
And fitted to them like a glove;
But what was most puzzling about this was
The pieces didn't pine for their love


Sunday 13 May 2012

शीशे का सपना

[I wrote this song specially for http://www.ruvethefilm.com/.
The director figured the Hindi was too shuddha for his movie.]

देखा मैंने था एक ख्वाब-ए-तहलका,
रेगिस्तान के बीच शीश महल का;
रेत से उभारकर मैंने चित्र बनाया,
रंगों से भरकर चरित्र बनाया |

जब जाग उठे वे शीशों के स्तूप,
जकड़ गई उनमें सूरज की धूप;
कैद रोशनी ने रात दिन सा बनाया -
सूरज उस निशा सो नहीं पाया |

महल मेरा यूँ हीरों सा चमका,
सूरज की शोभा पर वोह आ धमका,
शीश के मेरे इस सपने पे गुस्साया,
जलता हुआ सूरज पृथ्वी पर आया..

गर्मी से महल में तबाही मचाई,
छोड़ गया वोह रेत सिर्फ जो सब थी रचाई:
कैनवस को मेरे वोह राख कर गया
और ख़्वाबों को मेरे वोह ख़ाक कर गया |

Monday 30 April 2012

Instant Karma - the prelude

[I'm hardly a stickler for statutes when it comes to sonnets. Bill would kill me.]

I write this to bring to your notice, O God,
I think your system of Karma is flawed:
You permit my conscience to commit a crime,
And save retribution for a later time-
I remain immoral this human birth,
But reincarnate as a worm in the earth.
God, O kindly ponder this clause,
Consider amendment to Karmic laws!

God, give me one death, one birth:
Punish me now for what I am worth;
For thoughts and words and deeds amiss,
Chastise me with any weapon but this
Guilt, which saws my soul away
And deals me a dozen deaths each day.

Saturday 21 April 2012

Paint the Silence

[Thing to remember is if we're all alone, we're all together in that too.]

If you could paint the silence,
What colour would you paint it?
Would you paint it black
Like the night and taint it?

Or grey like the rubble

After a tempest clears?
Or white like your troubled
Eyes in tears?

Would you paint it yellow

Like a great oak on fire?
Or purple like smoke billowing
Higher and higher?

Or red like a jawan

With an arrow to his heart?
Or blue like an
Unused saxophones art?

Would you paint it brown

To resemble old buildings
In a tumbledown town
Where love is unyielding?

Enough of this disquieting quiet I think -

I pick up some paper and a bottle of ink
And scream out loud in a language so coloured
I paint the silence in hues it's never heard

Sunday 25 March 2012

Two poems for March

RATHER...

So many places I'd rather be,
and so many faces I'd rather see;
So many pages I'd rather turn,
and so many bridges I'd rather burn;
So many things I'd rather buy,
and so many wings I'd rather fly-

But I can't, and so I stop this blather,
and stand alone and fight this Rather.


...ACCEPT

I pursued my Future fast:
Past clung onto my back-
I held on tightly to my Past:
My Future lost her track.

I know those two will never be mine,
But lurking 'round the bend;
So I put my arm around my Present-
My only faithful friend.


The Wait

[Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field.
I will meet you there.
#Rumi ]

She will wait for me
under the Gulmohur tree.
She will wait, alone

when the fire turns chrome
and leaves are falling all around,
closing chapters for autumn.

Wait she will
though her hands turn numb
in the -embers of the chill,

and the Gulmohur is covered with snow.
She will bear, I know
the summer heat:

She will be sitting there
by the Gulmohur's feet,
waiting for me to come soon.

And I shall come there one day in June,
when the air has a slight haze of rain,
and the old Flame shall blaze again.

Sunday 26 February 2012

The Follower

[Tweeting birds are bound to bring some peeping Tom-cats.]

I followed you through all my days,
I followed you each night;
At times when life seemed like a maze,
You were my beacon light.

I read the books that you have read,
I eat where you have dined,
And all the poems that you have writ
Are stored up in my mind.

I partook in your every sorrow,
I revelled in your fun:
I stalked you right to San Francisco,
And your studio in the Mission.


But last I saw, your lover'd left you;
Now you have disappeared.
I cannot live bereft of you!
This is what I have feared -

You've slit your wrist-veins for your lover!
Or, God! Have you stopped eating?
Too concerned is your follower,
Oh, why have you stopped tweeting?


Saturday 28 January 2012

The Panacea

[if ever there existed one.]

A disastrous, hideous haircut
A hole down the front of my favourite shirt

Spilt milk and burnt toast
A simple breakfast gone to roast

No liquid in the flush-tank
and nil liquidity in the bank

A poor, help-less, broken heart
A broken bike with a broken kick-start

A hectic, demanding job schedule
Working nine-to-nine like a mule

The impossible choice between one's career
and the one who is near-and-dear

Re-tiredness of the wretched rat-race
Can all be cured by a smile on the face.