You wouldn’t know me least of all recognise
O Himalayas but I do,
For as long as I remember reading through
books written about you,
My un-sharpened lanceolate blades of memory
drew grains of inspiration from you.

I look up through the haze of vagabond clouds
across visible horizons
Where you stand tall
through vicissitudes of primal living
I wonder again, would I live that long.

wrapped in its arms
this early June,
the sky spinner sits
for long hours on a low baluster
and spins the woolen clouds
onto a spindle, tirelessly -
shaping the moist monsoon;

and like a giggling spring rose,
evident in boundless joys of unaccounted
profits; winds up her trade for this season.

This morning, I learnt from one of my friends back in Mumbai, that first rains of the monsoon had arrived. I felt celebratory even though I am thousands of miles away. I don’t know why. And it is almost futile to seek an explanation because there isn’t any available. All I can say is Mumbai Rains are special.

Monsoon in Mumbai is different, say from Calcutta where when it rains, it does so incessantly. Looking at the skies you can predict whether or not it would rain and most of the time your personal forecast would hit the bulls’ eye. Mumbai skies, during monsoon, are almost perennially covered with clouds, which look extremely inviting. You can feel the air that says it can rain anytime. But then she is temperamental. She would dress up, looking like she is on a rampage to kill someone with her drop dead gorgeous looks and then she might just slump in her chair and decide not to go to the party. Sitting in that chair she would look outside the balcony as if she were lost in her present surroundings. 

In Mumbai you can get caught in the rains at most unexpected times. Even when you don’t see any clouds, and the sky is as clear as a plain white paper on a canvas, it would just take minutes to form a cloud formation and then .. it would simply rain. Its unpredictability is its highlight. And unpredictability is non-monotonous. There is a beauty in random, non-routine but there is also a definite rhyme and rhythm to it. When it rains in Mumbai, it rains poetically. And needless to say, I miss the Mumbai Rains.

from the distance that you see the light
will be yours -
from the distance that you dream
will be yours ;

in woodlands where senescent night breeds
and lies awake like cascading lava rills,
on a broad road highway where with wizened eyes
the moon starts gazing with a lover’s sight,
come lets stroll until we stride;

at the end of the liquescent highway lies our path
where the other morning had built a similar structure
but without form and had called us to have a look
in tremulous lights where only heart could sight
and till we see, come lets walk till we stride;

my city will watch as we pass, by the houses beside
in torn clothes and messed hairs but crystalline face
and mutter and whisper tales of our love to their lover,
with blood on our hands we will reach the weir
and till we reach, come lets walk until we meet;

and when at the site our eyes would meet
with shame the dim lake will breathe -
and ablution of our sin will surely concern
the existence of ghoul haunted seer
and till they learn to live, lets walk still;

from the distance that you saw the light
will then be yours -
from the distance that you dreamt
will then be yours;

the heart that had bled yearning
will then be yours - - -

innocence of morning winds
over the ashen skies,
whose leaves withering
and seer of cypress wreathes
and bitter oleander’s pallor
bades adieu to the crescent scene - -

and,

the penultimate fight for each life
even those flickering nights
but must die for death in stillness
will make alive … the dawn’s sight -
whose limbs will feed the brittle day
and blood will wash memories away - -

now -

let us go out over that place, where
lover’s complacence of violet space
has marked the land of erstwhile brave;
and break free shackles of restful peace
look through the prisms of nascent glow
to the second birth of our moral soul.

(click on the picture to enlarge)

but that particular sky’s fealty
and obeisance that I pay,
I stay calm
amidst persistent shrieks -
confident of managing (with)
my resources shoestring;

I stand augured
to allegiance of this sky
and this soil that holds
legends of vassal’s pinions
and their flights
to absolved freedom.

[#] Picture courtesy my friend Amishi

It's one of those gains
When clouds rain -
And unabashedly so;
Who cares for cries of wolf?
Its the life - -
Life that rains -
In no time frame.

Tiers of joy layered
In baskets of several tears;
Happiness counts stratus pebbles
And Bliss is dear;
And Dearer counts -
It’s those moments rather
Sweeter than sour.

Rain … Rain come and breathe
Let me try, if not reach-
Over the spire steep;
If I reach the steeples bell,
Who but me will count -
The scattered drops
Of my fallen sweat.

Besotted still ....

The silence of mahogany bothers me some time
unnecessarily, not but for reasons undefined
my eyes open wide for your surreptitious glance
as my candle burns all night long ........

The echoing cricket, sings your tune
in staccato muteness I listen, endued
your pretentious hide behind curtains white
as my candle burns all in sight ........

The taste of past, not sour any more
watered the tears, for gardens that grew
your frisking laughter still cast their spells
as my candle burns through the morning bells .......

You walked past me in carousal stupor
your scent smelt of rain, beautiful uproar
come back and let me proclaim, for one last time
as my candle burns all that is thine .......

Survival .....

She fell down to the sly glare of the onlookers looking onto her. She heard a stern, almost military crisped words flowing into her ears. Mrs. Nair was screaming from a distant, “What is the matter girls?” Astha burst out laughing. She fell again. Majhil had an apologetic look in her eyes. It wasn’t shame. Just plain apology. She was cursing herself a hundredth time …… thousandth time ……. a millionth time …… the trillionth time till she lost count of all her mathematical numbers and figures. Her heart was racing like an A320 airbus that had lost control of its balance in a thunderstorm, none of the wonderful gadgets that it was equipped with, coming to its rescue and it was heading straight to the mountains for a disaster.

Mrs. Nair came forcing on herself, breaking the group that had gathered itself almost like a band of witches ready for conjuring the fallen prey, calling on their dark lords and offering them their reverence. Mrs. Nair shouted at the girls, “let me look..” Majhil lay as if ready to be swallowed by the universe but could just manage a small burp, quiet inaudible but to her it seemed as if they were chains of atom exploding, somewhere within her. She needed to be rescued. She needed to be rescued immediately. Mrs. Nair plainly added,”let me see your posture girl”. She stood up, a little shaken as the leaves of autumn trying to cling on to their existence just for a moment more. She stood with her arms over head, rising to the sky …. Her palm clasped together reverently … standing on her small two feet ready to be inspected and dissected like small frogs in an undergraduate pathology lab. She could hear Mrs. Nair distinctly now, “hmmm .. I see, the sole of your left leg is not in line with arch with your right … that’s a minor problem girl …. ok lets see …” as she grabbed Majhil’s sole and tried to set it in the correct position with the precision of a car mechanic, going on with his job with full understanding, confidence and exactness. She continued, “move ur left leg first and your right leg should just follow it.”

Mrs. Nair continued for sometime, as she instructed the music to come on. Majhil followed the beat, ardently following the manner that was just taught. Mrs. Nair slowly moved back as Majhil's body was blending with the flow of the music. She had gathered some pace now. She had quickly forgotten Mrs. Nair, Astha and her onlookers. Suddenly nothing seemed to be in between. No fear, no shame, no regret and no sweat. She had forgotten them as quickly as they had entered her life, not bits by bits or piece by piece but by a single shrug of self belief. She just turned and jumped with her left leg folding at ninety degrees and her right leg following it in opposite direction like a straight line on a piece of paper. There were no creases on her face …….. a sublime look in her eyes …….. and peace on her lips as she closed her eyes and came floating down ......

Wah Taj!

Frenzied voting and surreal persuasion. Vote for Taj. Well we have finally managed to regain the status of “The Seven Wonders of the world”.

Guys we have all contributed to the one particular cause. We ensured Taj gets it rightful place. Well it did. Its finally in the list ……….

The new seven wonders of the world are now:
Taj Mahal , India
The Great Wall of China
Petra, Jordan
Christ the Redeemer (statue), Brazil
Machu Picchu, Peru
Chichen Itza, Mexico
Colosseum, Italy
Pyramid of Giza, Eqypt (Declared an honorary candidate)

When your heart says ..... Good morning

Woke up this morning with a feeling of morning temple bells ringing through the under layers of my skin. I was greeted by a calmness that had eluded me for sometime (especially on a Sunday morning) like a peaceful slumber before a soccer world cup dream. Nervous anxiety and pensiveness had been replaced by one cry of Good Morning from within.

It had been raining here for sometime now. The sky crappers outside my window does not allow much viewing for sure like dust in the eyes, obscuring your vision, dizzy lousy sights. But the open sky was too big to be blocked. It was drizzling when I looked. The sky was black, pregnant with watery clouds, waiting impatiently and expectantly. The breathtaking Stratus Nimbus had blotted out the sun completely like a young amateur over-shadowing a professional on a golf course. Gray beautiful day. There was a sense of exuberance like a thousand waves hitting the course all at the same times. I instantly remembered William Wordsworth beautiful lines,
“I wondered lonely as a cloud,
The floats on high over the hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;”

Its amazing how poetry takes form of water in different moods. I remember when I had first read this poem in my school it signified a longing. Today it personified beauty, the beauty of daffodils, all at once in the glory.

I somehow started humming lines penned down by Gulzar. A song that had stayed with me from my college days, “Ek ekala is sehar mein, raat mein aur dopahar mein, abodana doondhta hai, ashiyana doondhta hai, Ek akela is sehar main”. The humming went on to revisiting the song and a loud chorus with my music system. New meanings were found each time for each word, for each line and for each meter.

And as I looked on to the street, there were lesser cars on roads and even fewer people all with their umbrellas. Interestingly all of them were black as if everyone was together in their thoughts like the pearls in the necklace, clinging on together, unified. I went on to make my first coffee of the day.

Just another minute

woke up this morning virtually pulling myself up. the alarm like an unforgettable past would not go off. i chided, screamed and failed. it would not stop. reminding me time and again. and i wanted to forget. sometimes even repress. but it would jump out. preterit night and a faint morning. Elliot comes to pass

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

nothing so inspiring. but reminded me of my unwilling steps to work. just as i wished for some more time, the clock ticked eight. i tucked under the cover for one more minute. but failed conscience had taken over now. so much i wished i had no mind. to just wander through. with no sense and conscience. just to be for some time. and the clock kept ticking away. defiantly. not listening. it had a mind of it's own. unequivocal. unrelated. unsympathetic. artificial but enduring. it will not let me live my last moment.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms

Lata Mangeshkar - The Crusader

There has been so much written about Lata Mangeshkar that there is nothing more to add to her gushing biographies and tributes that are already piled at her feet there is therefore so little left unsaid.

Lata Mangeshkar cannot be sized into letter, because, to write something other than the length of a book that would do justice to a musician, a performer and a talent so prodigious and a body of work so astonishing both in its virtuosity and in its size, is almost an impossibility. What has surprisingly not been covered extensively is her rebellious nature that has benefited the entire generations of musicians in the years to come.

Lata's 'aayega aane wala' was a trend setter in every term of the word. The song capitulated Lata to the status of a diva. Interestingly Lata never featured on the cover of the track. The rage that the song created was evident from the thousands of requests that AIR received for the real singer of the song. This led to Lata's first musical embroiling. She insisted on the artist’s name to appear on the cover. She was against none other than Raj Kapoor who was not willing to ascend to her demands. She practically was on the verge of being refused to sing in Barsat that would go on to make her the biggest singing sensation ever. Finally she sang not only for Nargis but Nimmi as well with the name appearing in the credits.

Her next audacious battle was with Filmfare. There was no category before 1958 that awarded the singers and the lyricists. The only category was for the film’s music. In 1956 when Filmfare requested her to sing ‘Rasik Balma’ she bluntly refused (even to the cajoling of her favorite music director Shankar – Jaikishen) in protest that singers and lyricists were equal contributors to a song’s success. Two years down the line Lata was the first Film Fare awardee for the best female playback singer for her song ‘Aa ja re pardesi’ from the film ‘Madhumati’. This sheer act was representative of how Lata understood her sway over the film music industry and how she knew she should leverage it for the benefits of the musician. Lata went on to insist a category for ‘Best Male Playback singer’ in 1959 as the male singers were still not recognized by Filmfare.

Lata’s biggest fight in the film industry was yet to be undertaken. By 1960’s hindi film music had a database of immensely popular songs and a huge fan following. Music companies (as brilliant as they are in their corporate strategies) began to publish compilations of different songs. Lata’s crusade that was to benefit the entire musician community began here. She insisted that every time a compilation is published royalties should be paid to all the concerned including singers. Mohd Rafi famously quoted as saying, ‘our job is to sing the song. That’s it.’ Lata was fighting a lonely battle. She refused to sing for and with anyone and everyone who did not believe in her. Of all she did not sing with Mohd Rafi for 10 long years. Needless to say Lata won this crusade as well. Looking back all the fame and wealth that musicians take these days for granted would not have existed if Lata did not do what she did and with the conviction that she had even if it meant she was standing all alone.

Besides her ever enduring songs the above are symbols of Lata’s towering presence in the film industry, her understanding of the power and leverage that she drew and how to use that not only to benefit herself but to the entire fraternity of Indian film music industry. Hats off to you Lata.

The story of courage and determination

Just got up after watching a movie on Terry Fox. Fox's story made me realise how an individual is capable of changing not only his life but of entire generations. His story is what legends are made of and truly words seem incapable in describing his courage, determination and heroism.

Terry was a Canadian born on July 28, 1958. He was a brilliant athlete (especially a very good diver & swimmer) in his school days and harbored the dream of being a physical education teacher. But destiny had something else planned from him. He was diagnosed with osteosarcoma (bone - cancer) at the age of 18 resulting in amputation of his right leg, 15 inches above his knee. During his days in hospital the plight of other cancer patients moved him tremendously.

Terry defined his own destiny from there. He decided to run with one prosthetic leg from coast to coast to raise money for cancer research. The run was named "Marathon of Hope" with a dream to raise $1 from every Canadian citizen. The run as usual had very little interest in the beginning but soon people realised what it was worth for. In due course of time he had gathered uncharacteristic public interest and support. The scene where the goons donate the money is the quintessential moment. The sense of helplessness is evident when a 10 yr old suffering from the same fate offers him to teach swimming. He covered 3,339 miles over an 18 yr time span running nearly 23.3 miles a day (against the initial plan of 26.6 miles a day). He raised $ 24 million to fulfill his dream.

Unfortunately life didn’t give him the time to see his dream being realised. He could never finish his marathon. He died of lung cancer just a month before his 23rd birthday. But he left a legacy of courage and self determination that is perhaps unparalleled across the world. The world aptly remembers him every year through The Terry Fox Run across the world to help raise money for cancer research. He was posthumously honoured The Order of Canada.