Mornings and Musings

(Post my childhood) I have never been an early morning person, maybe because I have never been an early night person :-)In my early days in Hyderabad, somehow going to bed was similar to saying goodbye to the day that's past, mostly in a mood of mellow contentment at having achieved something, or because of being absolutely and totally bone-tired. That was rarely my case, and for some reasons, I always seemed to have been dealing with the unfinished, as if there was something I had not told someone, or as if there is a thought still not properly formed in my mind, so....

This of course means that there have been more nights than I can remember -- of not sleeping at all, reading up or talking to someone equally intent on not sleeping, or going for a ride (and waiting for the Irani Chhai to be served at quaintly named Cafes like Taftian, Rising Sun, Rock Sea, Friends Circle or Great India) or writing, or listening to the same songs over and over again.

Like, this one for instance*.

Dheere Dheere Subah Huyi **

This is not to say that I cannot get up early in the mornings or that I have not got up early in the mornings. But getting up that early is not a habit or a routine or a set pattern or whatshallIcallit in my case.

(You probably would be right in saying that I don't have any patterns at all, but then neither of us know me well enough.)

Whatever may be said in favor of sleeping late, getting up early in the morning gives an amazing high. I have been told (by a friend who himself was an early riser) that sleep is bliss and waking up someone who is sleeping is like breaking a magic spell or shattering a wondrous dream but I would say that getting up early in the morning (out of one's own volition and choice) is probably the best way to start a new day.

And I guess, sleep is anyway a big waste of time, all said and done :-)

* In my Kimtee Colony, Tarnaka days, among other things, the Internet wasn't all pervasive then. This is when "The Old Woman of Lalapet" happened.
** From one of my numerous past lives, yes. Please don't send me hate mail in case you don't like Jeetendra. I used to just listen to this song, or you can say, used to trip on it, never "saw" the song before today.

Thus Cycles Time

Here, Silk Cotton
– black, silhouetted
by a bluely summering sky.

Soon,
it will be a bouquet
flowering lush fleshy reds.

I know.

There, Flame of the Forest
– fire flickering in day’s breeze,
a flower treed.

Soon,
this fire will catch wind and water;
even dead rock will simmer heat.

Thus cycles time.

I know.

Books from Pratilipi

While I have been busy with getting out of the brace and getting into this Sandalwood coloured habit, one of my favorite journals, Pratilipi has branched out into publishing books by bringing out 7 titles (3 novels in English, translated from the Swedish; 2 collection of short fiction and 1 biography in Hindi; and a collection of Hindi poetry in English translation) at one go!

This is indeed welcome news and I hope, just the beginning (as far as books are concerned) of the Pratilipi imprint.

Click here to know more about the books and here to take a look at Pratilipi.

Happy reading!

Tripping (on Om Namah Shivaya)

I am into the 5th day of another trip.

You could say I have covered almost one eight of the distance of this trip, since this trip is to be for the duration of 41 days.

There are number of interesting things I am doing on this trip, things which I normally don't. For instance, I get up (mostly) at a time that I would normally call "uncivilized", the time that corresponds to Brahmakaalam to pray. And, in a throwback to my "wild enough to get splayed feet" childhood, I go around barefoot; learning with every step -- to tread slowly and carefully. There are some other interesting things about my daily routine these days, meant to inculcate high-thinking, focus and asceticism and each is a trip in itself...

Yes, I am talking of this Deeksha that I am undertaking. Something that (looking back) I should have undertaken long back; something that (when one considers my peculiar style of tripping) seems almost pre-destined.

Here's why.

For some or the other reason, from the very beginning of my motorcycling days, there has been a Shiva connection to most of my trips. When I started tripping around in the Deccan, Srisailam was my favorite destination and a trip that has taken me on quainter trips, like to Uma Maheswaharam, Alampur, Jatprole and other Shiva temples. It was on the way back from a trip to Srisailam that I had my first major fall -- a miraculous escape it was, all said and done, the only damage to me being a scraped knee and (most importantly) my pillion the rogue Chandra got away totally unscathed!

Srisailam still remains a destination of choice, a trip that I would gladly go on again and again, any number of times.

In 2004 (if my memory serves me right) while returning from Lonar, I left my Bullet and co-riders (they gladly acquiesced) and walked bare-feet to get Darshan at Grihaneswar (the Jyotirlingam near Aurangabad).

In 2005, on the way back from my solo ride to Ladakh, after a number of scary incidents (the Bullet's headlight had conked out, I had innumerable scrapes with trucks / tractors / in-betweens and a bat almost flew into my face) in pitch dark on the mystery stretch between Udhampur and Samba, I was close to losing it and becoming a nervous wreck when I came across a Mata Mansi Devi temple besides the road. What was initially meant as a ten minute stop for my knees to stop shaking led to an hour long stop and I remember praying too; fervently and at length and needless to say, I got my courage back.

In 2009, on the South India (Tirigi Vadamu) ride with the boys, post RM and Ooty, post Coimbatore (with my Bullet misbehaving and not pulling properly) I was praying like never before and totally focused on making it to the Meenakshipuram Temple at Madurai and thereafter to the Jyotirlingam at Rameshwaram. So much so, that on the stretch to Madurai, the white strips of paint on the trees that verge the road looked like the three vibhuti smears on a forehead to me. So much so, that I was continuously reciting Om Namah Shivaya to myself Madurai onwards...

I tripped some more on the journey called Shiva on that ride, spending some amazing moments at Vadakkumnathan temple at Thrissur, Murudeshwar and Gokarna. And considering the fact that all this was done in a chaotic "Bullet ride", it was some tripping indeed!

On my most recent ride (or should I say, half-ride?), I spent the night of my birthday in a dump of a hospital with a broken collar bone and a malfunctioning phone. That I didn't break out of that hospital was largely owing to the pain-killer drugs they had pumped into me. But (though I don't remember it) I am sure it must have also been because of my prayers (to you know Who)...

Thus then, you see, I have always been tripping :-) And though I wear my religion lightly, abhor rituals and all the other baggage that comes being with a Hindu, its nice to trip on Shiva.

Though its one road that I guess I will never completely know in this life.

A.K. Ramanujan

"A translation has to be true to the translator no less than to the originals. Translation is choice, interpretation, an assertion of taste, a betrayal of what answers to one's needs, one's envies."

A.K. Ramanujan -- Translator's Note, "Speaking of Siva"

THE TEMPLE AND THE BODY

The rich
will make temples for Siva.
What shall I,
a poor man,
do?

My legs are pillars,
the body the shrine,
the head a cupola
of gold.

Listen, O lord of the meeting rivers,
things standing shall fall,
but the moving ever shall stay.

-- BASAVANNA

(From "Speaking of Siva", translated by A.K. Ramanujan)

The Past is Prologue

(What was once
-- vaporized
into nothing

then it rained
and rained,
like an endless cascade

out of His matted locks)
"In the beginning
everything was water."

(The past is prologue)

Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham--Ādi Śaṅkarācārya

1) Mano Buddhi Ahankara Chitta Ninaham
Nacha Shrotra Jihve Na Cha Ghrana Netre
Nacha Vyoma Bhoomir Na Tejo Na Vayu
Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham

2) Na Cha Prana Sangyo Na Vai Pancha Vayu
Na Vaa Sapta dhatur Na Vaa Pancha Koshah
Na Vak Pani Padam Na Chopastha Payu
Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham

3) Na Me Dvesha Ragau Na Me Lobha Mohau
Mado Naiva Me Naiva Maatsarya Bhavah
Na Dharmo Na Chartho Na Kamo Na Mokshah
Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham

4) Na Punyam Na Papam Na Saukhyam Na Dukham
Na Mantro Na Teertham Na Veda Na Yajnaha
Aham Bhojanam Naiva Bhojyam Na Bhokta
Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham

5) Na Me Mrityu Shanka Na Me Jati Bhedah
Pita Naiva Me Naiva Mata Na Janma
Na Bandhur Na Mitram Gurur Naiva Shishyah
Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham

6) Aham NirvikaLpo Nirakara Roopo
Vibhut Vaakhya Sarvatra Sarvendriyanam
Na Cha Sangatam Naiva Muktir Na Meyah
Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham

This is the Sanskrit version that was sent to me by S (many thanks) sometime back. Today seems the right time to post it here; as today's the first day of my Shiva Deeksha -- Chidananda Rupa Shivoham Shivoham / I am eternal bliss and awareness, -- I am Siva! I am Siva!

The English version is here

The Shames of March

In what colour
do statues
of poets and saints
bleed?

When spat at
vandalized
dismembered;
these long dead souls

In what colour
do they weep?

Consciousness

In the end,
everything is reduced --
to another speck
of ash
on Your
manifest form;
to another speck
of ash
on skin darker
than all our
lived losses griefs fears nights

In the end,
everything is reduced --
to another speck
of dust
in You
unmanifest;
to another speck
of dust
beginning on
the cosmic journey to know You
called time.

The washerwoman beats the laundry

A lavadeira no tanque
Bate roupa em pedra bem.
Canta porque canta, e é triste
Porque canta porque existe;
Por isso é alegre também.

Ora se eu alguma vez
Pudesse fazer nos versos
O que a essa roupa ela fez,
Eu perderia talvez
Os meus destinos diversos.

Há uma grande unidade
Em, sem pensar nem razão,
E até cantando a metade,
Bater roupa em realidade...
Quem me lava o coração?

~~~~

The washwoman beats the laundry
Against the stone in the tank.
She sings because she sings and is sad
For she sings because she exists:
Thus she is also happy.

If I could do in verses
What she does with laundry,
Perhaps I would lose
My surfeit of fates.

Ah, the tremendous unity
Of beating laundry in reality,
Singing songs in whole or in part
Without any thought or reason!
But who will wash my heart?

By Fernando Pessoa (Tr, Richard Zenith from Fernando Pessoa & Co. – Selected Poems) from Poesia

OXFORDSHIRE

Quero o bem, e quero o mal, e afinal não quero nada.
Estou mal deitado sobre a direita, e mal deitado sobre a esquerda
E mal deitado sobre a consciência de existir.
Estou universalmente mal, metafisicamente mal,
Mas o pior é que me dói a cabeça.
Isso é mais grave que a significação do universo.

Uma vez, ao pé de Oxford, num passeio campestre,
Vi erguer-se, de uma curva da estrada, na distância próxima
A torre-velha de uma igreja acima de casas da aldeia ou vila.
Ficou-me fotográfico esse incidente nulo
Como uma dobra transversal escangalhando o vinco das calças.
Agora vem a propósito…
Da estrada eu previa espiritualidade a essa torre de igreja
Que era a fé de todas as eras, e a eficaz caridade.
Da vila, quando lá cheguei, a torre da igreja era a torre da igreja,
E, ainda por cima, estava ali.

É-se feliz na Austrália, desde que lá se não vá.

~~~~~~


I want the good, I want the bad, and in the end I want nothing.
I toss in bed, uncomfortable on my right side, on my left side,
And on my consciousness of existing.
I’m universally uncomfortable, metaphysically uncomfortable,
But what’s even worse is my headache.
That’s more serious than the meaning of the universe.

Once, while walking in the country around Oxford,
I saw up ahead, beyond a bend in the road,
A church steeple towering above the houses of a hamlet or village.
The photographic image of that non-event has remained with me
Like a horizontal wrinkle marring a trouser’s crease.
Today it seems relevant...
From the road I associated that steeple with spirituality,
The faith of all ages, and practical charity.
When I arrived at the village, the steeple was a steeple
And, what’s more, there it was.

You can be happy in Australia, as long as you don’t go there.

By Fernando Pessoa (Tr, Richard Zenith from A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe: Selected Poems)from Poesia

P.S. -- This is (in a way) via Sandhya D.N. read it on Poetry International Web, here

A Shrug of the Shoulders

We generally give to our ideas about the
unknown the color of our notions about
what we do know: If we call death a sleep
it's because it has the appearance of
sleep; if we call death a new life, it's
because it seems different from life. We
build our beliefs and hopes out of these
small misunderstandings with reality and
live off husks of bread we call cakes, the
way poor children play at being happy.
But that's how all life is; at least
that's how the particular way of life
generally known as civilization is.
Civilization consists in giving an
inappropriate name to something and then
dreaming what results from that. And in
fact the false name and the true dream do
create a new reality. The object really
does become other, because we have made it
so. We manufacture realities. We use the
raw materials we always used but the form
lent it by art effectively prevents it
from remaining the same. A table made out
of pinewood is a pinetree but it is also
a table. We sit down at the table
not at the pinetree. ...

Fernando Pessoa

An excerpt from "The Book of Disquiet," written in the 1920's, first published in 1982 by Atica in Lisbon.

Tear It Down

We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
But going back toward childhood will not help.
The village is not better than Pittsburgh.
Only Pittsburgh is more than Pittsburgh.
Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound
of racoon tongues licking the inside walls
of the garbage tub is more than the stir
of them in the muck of the garbage. Love is not
enough. We die and are put into the earth forever.
We should insist while there is still time. We must
eat through the wildness of her sweet body already
in our bed to reach the body within the body.

By Jack Gilbert from The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992, found on www.poets.org, here

Rain

Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
And the browns gone gray
And yellow
A terrible amber.
In the cold streets
Your warm body.
In whatever room
Your warm body.
Among all the people
Your absence
The people who are always
Not you.


I have been easy with trees
Too long.
Too familiar with mountains.
Joy has been a habit.
Now
Suddenly
This rain.

By Jack Gilbert from Views of Jeopardy via Nabina Das, also found here