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Monday, July 11, 2011

Bare Feet

Kahin door jab din dhil jaye
Saanjh ki dulhan badan churaye
Chupke se aye”


A Picasso with a saintly halo of thick, pure white hair and unkempt beard walked the wet streets of London in the wee hours of morning. Cloaked in nothing but the mild drizzle and morning mist, he set his footsteps towards the east while clutching a slightly elongated paintbrush in one hand. He journeyed towards home…


He was finally free… free from the chains that bound his body… the chains of controversy, blasphemy and accusations which kept him from his mother; the mother he loved; the mother whose lap and tender arms he yearned for. The same mother whom he so fondly made the inspiration for his masterpieces and the same mother who brought this exile upon him. But now nothing of the past mattered. He was going home…


He passed the reporters and journalists hovering around the Royal Brompton Hospital, desperately trying to gather information to make the morning news. He saw his family, friends and fans, weeping silently, all come to pay homage. But oh how foolish are those who mourn! Do they not know? Even in the face of gloomy death, the candle of the soul still burns brightly. Death always walks with the ever burning, ever shining flame in her hand to allay the fears of her chosen mortals. And though she veils them in her dark, shadowy slumber, she brings with her the inextinguishable flame…her promise of eternal life. And the master walked towards the rising sun, the hope of a new day that showed the way home…


And with the final strokes of the slightly elongated brush, his painted creation came to life. He beheld before him, the magnificent flying steed that he drew so often as a child and now the last of his creation. He mounted it and felt the gust of wind as it spread out its golden brown wings as it galloped off and took to flight. The horse flew along his trodden path, besought with thorns and roses as he relived his memories once again. The colourful canvas of his life slowly faded away from view, outshone by a bright white light that now occupied his vision. And he saw beautiful hues of colour, much brighter than he had ever seen before. He was in heaven…he was home…


And in the blissful presence of the joyous, dancing colours he heard a silent prayer, ‘Husain, may your soul rest in peace….’


“Mere khayalon ke angan mein
Koi  sapno ke deep jalaye
Deep jalaye
Kahin door jab din dhal jaye
Saanjh ki dulhan badan churaye
Chupke se aye”

            - ‘Kahin door jab din dhal jaye’ from the movie, ‘Anand’  

Sunday, July 10, 2011

The Hand He Held










"उदीर्ष्वनार्यभिजीवलोकंगतासुमेतमुपशेषएहि |
हस्तग्राभस्यदिधिषोस्तवेदंपत्युर्जनित्वमभिसम्बभूथ ||"

"Rise, come unto the world of life, O woman — come, he is lifeless by whose side thou liest. Wifehood with this thy husband was thy portion, who took thy hand and wooed thee as a lover."
-       RV 10.18.8



I see the face in the mirror; the beautiful face of a bride in all her finery. The crimson red pallu draped over her head seems to bleed into her sindoor. The round red bindu between the dark eyebrows seems to mar the flawlessness of a beautiful face.

 And too many hands spoil nature’s handiwork with unneeded make-up and tons of jewelry. It was all the jewelry she possessed; it weighed heavy…

They said she would be cursed by the goddess, her husband’s soul would not have a happy afterlife, she would be a bad wife, they said it would be sinful...They said a great many things as they decked her up.

The hands tie a black and gold noose around her neck; ‘mangalsutra’ they call it; it weighed heavy…

She was a strong woman. She knew her purpose; determination a fire in her eye. She wasn’t doing it for society, not for what they said or thought, not as an escape from the torturous widowhood, but for the hand that held hers as she took the seven rounds of the holy fire. She would not leave that hand in the face of death. They would face death together, holding hands, for she knew death was only the passage to the next life. They had seven lives to live together…Saaton janam ka saath…

And many hands adorn her wrists with crimson red, glass bangles; they weighed heavy…



* * *



 She saw the face of her lover; the face death’s icy lips had kissed. Her courage failed her and fear gripped her fragile heart as it pumped crimson red blood at an increasingly fast pace. But she still felt cold and numb and she regretted that day…

 A tear escaped the long lashes and she was slapped because of it. The tears would inhibit the ritual they said. But she couldn’t stop the tears that flowed uncontrollably, washing away the cake of make up to reveal a panic stricken face. Two dilated pupils situated in wide eyes, glistened. They seemed to be the deep dark abyss of unfathomable grief and terror.

She had felt these feelings all those years ago on her wedding day;the fear and apprehension of a new home and the grief of leaving her loved ones behind. But this was much worse and she regretted that day…

 The priest recited the marital rites that she remembered following years ago. But she could not follow them today; not with the hand that allayed her fears all those years ago now lifeless. She needed him now more than ever. But he just lay there still.

 A shove pushed her towards his direction but she seemed to have frozen. Rooted to the spot, she would not budge. The hands grabbed her roughly and dragged her towards the pyre. She, cried, she screamed, she begged mercy; she tried to flee but to no avail. She could not fulfill her vow; she hadn’t the strength to follow it through. She wondered whether he would have wanted this for her…and she regretted that day…

 The orange flames danced before her, as if mocking her efforts to run. They seemed far more intimidating than the fire round which she walked seven times all those years ago, with him holding her hand securely.

Searing pain coursed through her as they forced her into the flames with a long wooden pole. And she lay on the marital bed that was decorated with roses all those years ago; now it was made of hard sticks and thorns as she lay next to her life partner and she regretted that day…

 As the coldness of death soothed away the burning pain of her body, she left the hand beside her. She broke the bond. She hadn’t the strength to hold on any longer…


इमानारीरविधवाःसुपत्नीराञ्जनेनसर्पिषासंविशन्तु |
अनश्रवो.अनमीवाःसुरत्नाआरोहन्तुजनयोयोनिमग्रे ||”

“Let these women, whose husbands are worthy and are living, enter the house with ghee (applied) as collyrium (to their eyes). Let these wives first step into the pyre, tearless without any affliction and well adorned.”
-       RV 10.18.7


* * *


A man saw the black charred bodies of a couple amidst the golden flames. And when it was all over, nothing remained but the ashes and the black and gold mangalsutra that she once wore. It remained intact as a testimony to the binding promise of togetherness…her last sacrifice…


He picked up this last link, filled with the loving memories of his dear bhabi. The broken pieces of red glass bangles crunched under his feet as he walked away…


* * *

“Viceroy, Lord Bentick, passes a law abolishing the practice of sati in Bengal. According to this law any mover or passive witness of the act of sati is considered guilty and can be prosecuted by law.
It is rumoured that the driving force behind this act, Raja Ramohan Roy, was greatly impacted by his sister-in-law’s death, allegedly caused by forced sati.
‘This law will improve the status of a majority of Indian women.’ claim authorities influential in passing the bill, ‘We hope this socially mobilizing law will be accepted by the public and will bring about a healthy change and progress in the country.”
-       The Tribune on 5th May, 1829.

Solitaire

Solitude is bliss
Loneliness is suffering…”

I wish I knew the difference. All alone, encrusted in precious metal, they call me a ‘solitaire’.
My solitude is the claws that bind me to the ring that adorns the slender finger of the young king. But I have no blood or water to shed unlike that very different King who lived a life as lonely as mine. He gave the freedom to His people, the freedom I can never find.
I am the boast of my wearer and sparkle with the bright spirit that is not mine, gaining admirers but no friends. I shine through the cuts of pain, of suffering, but none outside shall see, the dullness concealed within me…

A forlorn jewel
clenched in claws of agony;
While mortals stand around.”
                                  -Pink

* * *


Solitude is bliss
Loneliness is suffering…”

I know the difference. All alone, yet not. Duty, responsibility and expectations, heavy on my shoulders, isolates me from the rest. A hard life being a king, yet I have heard of another, very different King whose life was harder than mine. He gave the freedom to His people, the freedom I can never find, but unlike Him I am only mortal.
I am the boast of my country and appear to be the perfect king with a cheerful face and a bright spirit that is anyone’s but mine. I am never alone, yet lonely, surrounded by those whom I cannot call my friends.
My money and power being subtly proclaimed by the large solitaire on my finger, attracts many. But solitude away from this circus called court is all I crave for, wishing I could be the solitary jewel that sparkles mockingly at the dullness concealed within me…

A solitaire
upon the ring;
Contrasts the wearer.”
                            -Pink


Shadow of a Star

These are what would have been the thought of King Herod from the Bible.

Herod was a ruthless Jewish king obsessed with power. He lived a very dog-eat-dog life. With reports of the birth of the "king of the Jews" (Matthew 2:2) it was entirely natural for his way of thinking to seek to kill the potential rival, including many other innocents in the effort.

In the Bible, it is said that a bright star in the sky guided the three wise men (magi) to the baby Jesus. Herod tried to use them to glean information as to the baby's location to kill him, but failed. Therefore he got rid of all the male babies in that region below two years. "he sent and killed all the male children in Bethlehem and in all that region who were two years old or under, according to the time which he had ascertained from the wise men" (Matthew 2:16 RSV).

He was an observant Jew, most probably what stirred the hatred against this 'king of the Jews'. According to Jewish custom, he too must have worn the symbol of their religion, the Star of David, round his neck.



My memory permanently scarred by the dark shadows of the days done.

The shadow of fear looms over me constantly. Did I get him? Did I get it right? Or will my throne seat another and will I have to bow at his feet?

Who is this child? I do not know. Is he really the son of God as the prophecies foretell? What will my punishment for my unpardonable sin be? If I worship him can I be forgiven?

The shadow of guilt, cradles my heart in its cold tenderness, feeding on my heart’s blood. Guilt; Made into an icy dagger by the star that rest on the flesh of my breast.

The star…it was the cause of all this, and the child whose birth it proclaimed was too.

The shadow of death covers me in its shroud, bringing before my eyes the memory of the dark, horrifying shadows of cruelty that Hades’ own minions had cast, that claimed countless others of innocence.


The innocence betrayed by the star, now worn around my neck, weighing me down and summoning the shadows that smother me in their misery…





Beauty of Promise

(This poem is inspired by the fairy tale, Beauty and the Beast)

The first blush of a red rose
upon a snow white cheek,
bloomed forth in the first light of spring;
a promise to keep.

The last rose that lay crushed and withered
beneath the white snowy frost and sleet,
blossomed once more in the joy of spring;
in the heart of a beast.

Night in Black

 There I was, wading in the warm saline waters which came midthigh. I submerged myself into their inviting warm embrace and let the waves lap gently over my head. I tried to collect my thoughts but it was of no use. The gentle caress of the waves lulled me to sleep. It was comfortable, and I was worn and fatigued. I broke the surface suddenly and inhaled sharply, gasping for breath.

 I knew not where I was or how I landed there. I only knew that these waters were my only friends in this wide, empty world. They soothed me, my pain, and if I hadn’t broken contact, they would have eased the pain forever.

 What the pain was, I do not know. But I knew I had lost something or someone, and I did not succumb to the enticing deep sleep because I was still searching. Searching for that lost someone or something in the wide empty world to fill the emptiness inside.

  I dragged myself away from the water, where the seashells gave way under my feet. They were hard and crumbly, but the ground softened into finer sand which cooled my warm, burning feet. The cool was not welcome everywhere though. A chilly breeze whipped at my face; the biting cold, a stark contrast to the warm ocean.

 I looked around for any sign of life; none. I was alone on a godforsaken beach. I tried to take in my surroundings, but all I saw was nature’s breathtaking painting. It was dull. It was grey. It was beautiful. The pitch black moonless sky blended into an even blacker sea, with a sprinkle of dimly lit stars on that thick blanket which wraps all the emptiness in its shroud. To offset the blackness, the white foam of an occasional wave gave competition to the few white stars as they broke upon the shore. The sand was shades of grey, and I watched as the black waters crept up slowly, covering the grayness bit by bit.

 Suddenly, I felt fear. The fear of losing. Losing to the blackness of death. Just as the sand which I stood on, my strength, was losing itself to the black waters. The water was not my friend anymore. It was a backstabber that devoured my support, my strength, the sand. Fear lapped the shores of my mind as I watched the helpless shore disappear into the blackness.

 Blackness was all I remember. Blackness was all I could see. I raised my hand to my throbbing head and felt…blood. That is when I collapsed on the sand. The wound had taken its toll. Amnesia deepened into eternal sleep. I was unconscious when my friend, death, crept up the shore and washed my lifeless body back into the depths of the warm, saline waters.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Goodbye...



Sobs and sniffles muffled by controversy
strokes of genius will be seen no more
shunned and exiled, a Picasso died
but the paintings shot up in value


And the world cries to mourn the loss of a great painter...


Saying goodbye is always tough
may your soul rest in peace
your legacy will live on forever
in our hearts, through your art


And the souls cry as one, at the loss of a piece of their heart...


Silent tears shall be shed from eyes that see the colours now lost
the tears of sorrow that wash the canvas bare
and it stands on that easel...lonely, forgotten, stark naked
devoid of the colours of life that the Master once filled it with


And the canvas cries at the loss of a friend...


The forlorn umbrella lay in the corner, broken
the horse ceased to neigh
the women were left with no song to sing
the hues lost their vibrancy


And a Mother cries for the loss of her child that they snatched away, while cradling his heart in her tender arms...