Dushman na kare

दुश्मन ना करे दोस्त ने वो काम किया हैं
दुश्मन ना करे दोस्त ने वो काम किया हैं
उम्रभर का गम हमें इनाम दिया हैं
उम्रभर का गम हमें इनाम दिया हैं

तूफां में हम को छोड़ के साहिल पे आ गये
तूफां में हम को छोड़ के साहिल पे आ गये
साहिल पे आ गये
नाखुदा का, नाखुदा का...हम ने जिन्हे नाम दिया हैं
उम्रभर का गम हमें इनाम दिया हैं
दुश्मन ना करे ओ ओ...

पहले तो होश छिन लिये जुल्म-ओ-सितम से
पहले तो होश छिन लिये जुल्म-ओ-सितम से
जुल्म-ओ-सितम से
दीवानगी का......दीवानगी का फिर हमें इल्ज़ाम दिया हैं
उम्रभर का गम हमें इनाम दिया हैं
दुश्मन ना करे ओ ओ...

अपने ही गिराते हैं नशेमन पे बिजलियाँ
अपने ही गिराते हैं नशेमन पे बिजलियाँ
नशेमन पे बिजलियाँ
गैरो ने आ के...
गैरो ने आ के फिर भी उसे थाम लिया हैं
उम्रभर का गम हमें इनाम दिया हैं

दुश्मन ना करे दोस्त ने वो काम किया हैं
उम्रभर का गम हमें इनाम दिया हैं

From Akhir Kyon, 


P.S.

What a fabulously beautiful song this is, no?

And Smita Patil was absolutely ethereal in it! Lovely trip down memory lane in piecing this song together, hopefully perfectly. Do write in, if I have missed something :-)

Why am I blogging this here now? Ha ha let's not get into that, shall we? 

  

An encounter with a Citrine Wagtail

The White-browed Wagtail is an old, old friend. And, a resident at the buffalo wallow (okay, call it a pond if that suits you more, or a lake if you please) barely 200 metres from where I stay, where I do a lot of my birding.

Naturally then, I have any number of absolute stunners of this constantly tail-wagging bird; and it weighs in with a big (or long) poem in Stray Birds too.

But this post is not about the White-browed Wagtail -- rather its about a Citrine Wagtail that I encountered today morning on my traipse around the buffalo wallow. As encounters with birds go, this was long and extended (and since I had the extended reach of a Nikon 14 E II TC aiding me) and also led to quite a few keepers.

Incidentally, this bird is not a resident at the buffalo wallow, but a migrant who -- if I am right (along with the White-faced Wagtail) makes its appearance in end September / early October.

That I got to meet it so late is testimonial to the fact that I have been busy elsewhere, and also to the fact that the buffalo wallow's perimeter (the Wagtail is essentially a bird that is always on a walkabout at the edges of water bodies, a wader so to say) is nowadays heavily overgrown with weeds and grasses.

But meet it I did, and that too when it was bright and light, early in the morning. If White-browed Wagtails are tough to photograph (they will saunter in a zig-zag right at waters edge, through all the the dregs of civilization piled up there -- the plastic bottles, the plastic packets, the quarter and half bottles of cheap alcohol, the coconuts and so on, all the while wagging their tails furiously) but not exactly shy, so waiting up for them works. The Citrine Wagtail however is a different kettle of fish and doesn't take kindly if you come close and also doesn't saunter as nonchalantly as the White-browed Wagtails.

Suffice it to say that I have never managed to take "exceptionally good" photos of this bird, so seeing one of them feet deep in a trickle of water (technically the run-off from a still full buffalo wallow) made me feel that I have struck gold.

Of the 50 or so photos that I could take a lot were truly full-frame; but then not surprisingly a lot of them are useless too -- with such a small bird, DOF is a huge thing...and in most of the photos, the entire bird is not in focus, in quite some of them the eye and bill are certainly not!

But then, I know I will meet this fella again :-)

And I do have a couple of exceptional photographs from this encounter. Especially one which shows the bird facing the camera and looking askance, its tail in the background and out of focus and its yellow breast dappled / lambent / awash with the light reflected by the water from the runoff.

I don't have the right word to describe it -- light bouncing / reflecting from rippling water, itself looking like a ripple; but then its a good problem to have, its a good problem to have...and maybe the word will come to me too, as the bird has -- unbidden.

             

Stray Birds @ Thalam -- an update

The exhibition is still open.

That is to say, it has been extended till this Thursday, the 21st of November.

So if you are in Bangalore (or passing through) do go and say hello to the Stray Birds! 

Must have something to do with the fact that it is seeing a lot of footfalls.

Or that all the birds look serene and peaceful on the walls of Thalam, as if they were on familiar perches, and as such, the Thalam guys are not too inclined to take off the exhibits.

Anyway, I wouldn't know, I am here in Hyderabad and missing out on all the action.

~~

The Bangalore Mirror did a story on the Stray Birds.

Read it here 

The actual story (in the physical -- as opposed to online -- newspaper) has a lot many more birds.

Hopefully, I will get my hands onto a copy of the newspaper.

 

  

Stray Birds in the news, etcetera

The Hindu's Metro Plus Bangalore edition covered Stray Birds today.

No, this was not my doing at all, but rather that of the Thalam guys (from what little I understand about how these things happen). Do take a look, see here. I must say the questions I was asked were pretty thought-provoking (and evidently well thought out).

I would have liked some more questions about the bird poems themselves, but as we all know pictures (or photos) garner far more notice. In fact, I am told that Thalam is seeing a lot of footfalls everyday since the opening of Stray Birds. 

Thank you Harini, thank you  Thalam!

~ ~ ~

In the little bit of boxing that I have done, I have never lost a tooth (thanks to technique, gum guards, etc.) and the damage has been limited to swollen lips and the taste of blood -- which in a very funny way, is heady, almost a mood-upper, in the way it keeps you keyed up.

It was that very taste of blood that kept me going through the bus journeys to B'lore, the pillion-borne flying on a friend's bike and the launch of Stray Birds.

Yet, spending the whole day with your tongue trying to be an eye proffering uneducated diagnoses of your oral well being is no way to be.

So, the tooth had to come out (on Tuesday, some three days ago).

The knockout blows of the painkiller thereafter has been something altogether, even to someone like me.

The morning after grogginess (especially on the first day) was yet another. Luckily for me, I have a Dentist whom I can trust my life with, yet getting a tooth removed is certainly unnerving. But somehow, in some kind of an evolutionary way, I seem to have managed to survive it. 

And yes, pain is good -- if for nothing else, for the fact that it makes one feel alive.

(On an irreverent, very self-depreciating aside -- that leaves me with 30 teeth. Thirty teeth and 2 hearing aids in my 40th year. If I do the math, what exactly is my value in the Marriage Market now?)   

This and that in B'lore -- 1

Typically, 2-3 days after an event like Stray Birds @ Thalam, I should be doing a lot of digital PR.

Here on this blog and in other places like FB, etc.

(Digital PR -- in this specific case -- should involve me posting excerpts of my interview(s) and the links where they can be read at leisure by all and sundry. It should also involve a lot of  photographs of the launch / release, with some specifically showing me hobnobbing with celebrities and a lot of me dazzling the camera with the sparkle of my teeth and dermabrased skin.)      

But as you must have already guessed, I am not doing anything like that.

For one, nothing barely spectacular happened -- the event was low key (and lacked build-up) and even if anything like that happened, I would certainly not blog about it, will I?

And -- in a day and age when the What's App glitterati have elevated the word "selfie" to an altogether stratospheric level -- while I am not bad in the teeth department, far from having dermabrased dazzle, my face is the kind that would probably not even make it into any "dark is beautiful" campaigns, thanks to the liberal growth of blackheads on it (courtesy of more or less a lifetime spent out in the "unforgiving" sun).

So there. No digital PR here, either way.

~

Speaking of dazzling photographs, it sure is a heady feeling to see your work up on the walls of a gallery, with the lighting putting each framed bird under the spotlight. And, whatever it be said for the numerous "likes" bird photographs shared on FB gather, nothing beats displaying a bird in all its "everything in focus" glory in sizes bigger than cellphone (and phablet) screens. Who knows, someday I will also be spendthrift enough to print 20X30 (and even bigger) bird photographs.

~

Some trivia.

The exhibits were 50 in number when I went to get the prints.

One bird went missing somewhere in between the computer and the printer.

That meant there should be 49 birds up on Thalam's walls.

But there are 46, it seems 3 birds went missing somewhere in the flight of the courier packet from Hyderabad to B'lore.

I lugged along another 4 frames (along with some copies of all three of my books). But that's okay, since I am anyway used to lugging weights and expectations.

~

My biggest trepidation was the journey to B'lore (by bus). But since I was sleep-deprived and mentally exhausted (preparing for any public event does that to me -- mostly because I am all alone in dealing with the logistics) and was not carrying along any of my photographic gear, it was easy enough on the way out. The last hour or so into B'lore was in fact as relaxing as the concluding stretches of any of my train journeys -- with a wintry sun dappling a dew soaked bus and the sight of a just-waking-up Hebbal Lake (where I have never managed to go birding, in all my forays in B'lore) with its attendant Black and Brahminy Kites was a welcoming insight of the fact that -- hey, I do know some landmarks in B'lore too!

Coming back was something else, however. The horrors of Majestic (compounded by the traffic snarls all around) meant that is was a scene out of my worst nightmares repeating itself. Thankfully, I had a friend around and he has excellent phone skills.

So, I caught the bus and got back to the Deccan, far lighter than I had set out. And I can say, all's well that ends well.
          

Stray Birds @ Thalam -- A big thank you!

So I bussed it -- to and fro.

"To" was fine, "fro" was crazier than my craziest nightmares and reminiscent of the wild dashes to make it into the Rajdhani -- many a time while it was moving -- from B'lore to Hyderabad (surprisingly) less than a year ago.

Fro, wouldn't have been possible (since I cannot call up Enquiry numbers and bus drivers) if I wasn't lucky enough to have a good Samaritan (and a friend of long standing) along -- to put his baritone and hustling skills to excellent use.

Linking up again with M and getting babysat (yes, I am serious, what do you know) by his 2 year old daughter was in many ways the highlight of this trip (as was the pillion ride to some place where M owns land...).   

Speaking of Thalam itself, it was a cool do, with quite a few chairs filled for the duration of the Book Launch and poetry reading. I was lucky enough to benefit from the erudite expertise of poet and writer, Ms Shikha Malviya -- she introduced me and the book, read some poems from it and then even asked me quite a few thought-provoking questions.

Naturally, she also did me the honour of releasing the book.

I again (after the Goethe event) got the idea that the bird photographs were a big draw and it was heartening to see people inside Thalam and getting close up to the birds long before the exhibition opened.

And I am sure, the photographs will continue to be a draw all through the rest of this week.

Thank you Thalam for a memorable evening (and for giving the Stray Birds the perches of your walls).

Thank you Ms. Shikha Malviya for being the nice and genuine person you are.

Thank you everyone who made it to Thalam for Stray Birds.

   

   
   

Bussing it to Bengaluru

I constantly claim and even mock-celebrate the fact that I have a strong mind. And no, its certainly not because of the fact that I have managed to deal with the heartbreak of bird photography pretty adeptly. After all, when it comes to birds, there is always another chance to score, if not this season then in the next (speaking of which I am more than a bit put off as of now, owing to the fact that I still haven't had a proper encounter with the Chataks or even come across the Red Avadavats or the Eurasian Wrynecks this year).

And hey, I am not referring to the thousand and one rejections that I am collecting (apart from a handful of  "actual" e-mails, they are all automated "rejections" and gathering electronic dust in a specified folder in my GMail inbox) on a certain matrimonial site.

I am referring to how I have managed to stay sane after so many run-ins with the IRCTC website for booking a ticket under the Tatkal scheme.

Primarily, because I am too poor to fly.

And because I hate buses -- especially so as it is well nigh impossible to figure out which one is yours in the chaotic bedlam that is Lakdi-ka-pul, from where most of the higher end buses (allegedly the most comfortable) leave.

Anyway, today's run-in with IRCTC was nightmarish. I am logged in long before the Tatkal hour strikes. Something like 15-20 minutes in advance. And since I don't want to be timed out, I keep "refreshing" the page every minute or so. Yet, with more than 8 or so minutes to go for the Tatkal hour, I see that "Bangalore Rajdhani" is already showing "Regret/CKWL1".

I am like WTF and I am like WTF some more.

But that (or breaking things or pulling out your hair) is of no avail with IRCTC.

Then, (quite naturally for IRCTC) I get kicked out the moment it is 10.00 AM

Even more naturally, by the time I can log back into IRCTC, the show is all over. And the tickets up for grab under the Tatkal quota for every single train (apart from one) are booked out. I keep trying and put my bull-headed nature to the utmost use and try in that one train too. And my ticket which was "Available 35" comes to me as "WL 33".

I then try once again; in the next class and this time (though it was "Available 002" at the time of booking) the ticket just doesn't manage to get ticketed! Even though the transaction goes through.

So anticlimactically enough, its a bus to Bengaluru (and no, its not from the chaotic bedlam of Lakdi-ka-pul, but far closer by and from a real "station") this time around.

This certainly has to rank as a life event for me -- but then, anything for the birds.



          

Stray Birds @ Thalam, Bangalore

As promised, it is happening :-)

In fact, a big number of the Stray Birds have already set out on their way to Bangalore and should be getting up on the walls of Thalam starting today evening.

And some more may travel with me.

If you are in Bangalore, do take this as a personal invite and do please come.

For an evening of poetry and photography.

For an evening of Stray Birds.

A lust for life (and lenses)

Or, since I have already managed to get myself a Nikon 600 mm f/4, what I am lusting for now is an as light as possible tripod (Gitzo series 5?) and as versatile and maneuverable gimball head arrangement (Wimberly? or Jobu Design Black Widow?) so that the lens is supported, stable, etc, etc

As opposed to being a deadweight that cannot be raised to eye level for shooting birds.

Aren't these -- the tripod and gimball head arrangement -- unnecessary accessories that will be put away in some convenient corner and gather dust? After all, that is what happens to most tripods, by virtue of their weight and unwieldy nature, it is not?

Ummm...well, I hate tripods and would rather handhold my lenses all the while. And I have managed pretty well all these while (the Sigma 150-500 is more or less a pygmy in terms of weight when compared to the Nikon 600 mm, but its no featherweight, all said and done). And over the last couple of weekends I have managed to do a lot of shooting with the 600 mm, totally hand-held and also by bracing it here and there (including my knee, etc) but the fact remains that it progressively ends up becoming a deadweight.

To get an idea of what I am saying, think of a scenario from a Hindi film, just after a gunfight in which one of the characters (mostly the villain) has taken a bullet but is still trying to raise his gun, summoning all the remaining vestiges of strength in his body and yet, fails, to either pass out or die. In my case, there are no bullets involved and nor is there any blood, but a bird looking at me with a mischievous glint in its eye while I am straining the sinews of shoulders and biceps and arms to hold the lens steady to squeeze off a shot...

And yes, most of the time I am able to squeeze of the shot as well...but

So, the lust for a carbon fiber tripod and a sufficiently advanced gimball head continues.

*****

Meanwhile, at the buffalo wallow (a buffalo wallow that is as full as it has ever been, in the last 3+ years that I have birded around it) a pair of Darters have taken up residence in addition to the numerous Cormorants (great and small) that are there from morning to evening. As have a pair of Purple Herons, in addition to the the Great Egrets and the Blue Herons that are there from morning to evening. Which means that I see a lot of fish getting caught and I keep missing "capturing" the moment "perfectly" (read full-frame and in absolutely sharp detail) mostly because I am a bit distant or because the bird gobbles the fish too fast or because the light is wrong or so on and so forth...

But catch the moment pretty soon I will, pretty soon...

And hopefully it will be when I will have the lens mounted on the Vanguard Auctus 283 AT that I have recently acquired and hence relatively stable as well! 

Also back at the buffalo wallow (while a reed bed grows) is a Common Kingfisher. I mean I have seen only one as of now (incidentally the lady) but I am sure the other is around as well. And, something tells me it is Lil' Blue which is back.

About time, about time -- it was around now last year that they strayed into my life, to progressively grow more and more familiar and to make me feel accepted. In the process, making me promise that I will bring out Stray Birds in their honour. Would this year mean even closer encounters?   

Speaking of which, I have already had one close encounter with Lady Lil' Blue -- saw her ensconced deep in the shadows of a thorn tree, went to ground as efficiently and soundlessly as a well trained hound and then fired away at something close to minimum focus distance (of around 6 meters) for more or less 10 minutes. I swear, I felt the bird was aware of me. And I would have got a couple of "perfect" shots as well (unimpeded sight of the bird, without any branches or leaves in between and with the bird in the light) by and by, slowly slithering through the dirt and slime, but then a Chatak came and landed on the thorn clump as if it belonged to it and our friend Lady Lil' Blue took off...

******

All this talk of lusting -- for a camera, a lens, a tripod, etc, etc -- is peculiarly not much off the mark considering how obsessively I photograph birds. Its even lesser off the mark when one remembers the madness with which I set out birding in March / April / May of this year; the costly visits to Uttarkhand and Bor, and the almost-daily jaunts all around my place in 45 degree plus temperatures.

But that is how it is, maybe -- sometimes its a madness that keeps you sane.

And yet, by comparison with someone like Van Gogh (his autobiography is titled "A lust for life") how mad can I consider my own obsessive streak to photograph birds? How much of what I capture is art? Yet, there are similarities -- I lug around a lot of gear, in all probability I lug around more weight than he did, in his quest to paint his subjects as seen in natural light, in situ.

And yes, my ears bother me (though I will never cut them off) more than his ever bothered him.  

Meanwhile, I am assailed by sore wrists, thews, biceps, shoulders, lats, back, knees, thighs and (dead) feet. No, I have not joined back a gym or survived a duel with Conan, the barbarian, just lugging around 10 kilos of gear and photographing birds -- over yet another weekend.

But this is a good pain to have, I will say. 

                    

Stray Birds in Bangalore -- Postponed

Just a quick update.

My book launch and photography exhibition at B'lore, Stray Birds has been postponed to November.

The opening (of the exhibition) and the book launch will now be on November 9th.

And the exhibition will be ongoing till November 16th.

More updates to follow.

Why is this event getting postponed, you ask?

Cold feet is one reason -- I have a lot of trepidations about lugging all my photography gear, about Bangalore, etc., etc.

What to exhibit is another reason -- I have too many photographs of too many birds; selecting from a gazillion of these feathered folks is no easy task. Then again, this is art -- and always a Work In Progress.

Work -- yes, that's the primary reason.

November isn't that far away; meanwhile I have canceled a train ticket and Stray Birds has been postponed.       

Stray Birds in Bangalore

This was under consideration for sometime.

I mean the good folks at Thalam have kept an invite open for almost 3 months now.

But as is my wont (as befits someone who uses hearing aids and would rather be behind the camera than in front of it) I have been diffident.

Which is a trifle unfair to the book and the photographs I take -- to the Stray Birds, considering how successful the launch and show at Hyderabad was.

Anyway, here it is now, more details soon, please watch this space.

P.S. -- Photography exhibitions are certainly peculiar animals (logistics wise)...what goes without saying is that this one will be as much of a learning experience for me as the first one was; what doesn't is that I bloody wish I had a car now, a car capacious enough for me to load all the framed prints (read  exhibits) and highway it to Bangalore. Which means I have minimum issues logistics wise and maximum control (artistic, artistic) on what I exhibit.

Oh well, not that I bloody know how to drive.      

Doggerel?

A lot of what I write, what is allegedly poetry, what has gone into three books -- a substantial number of the copies of which have been bought and (even liked) by various people who have become readers and then friends (or the other way round) -- is personal.

It was never meant to be so, I am not someone who is milking an udder here, nor am I flogging a dead horse. In the way that it transpires, my life has been such, I have faced various vicissitudes and I have dealt with them, the way I could best.

Writing poetry has helped and in all probability my books (and the poems in them) are some kind of not-so-ordered-or-chronological chronicle of the life and times of Anand Vishwanadha.

A personal chronicle, mind.

The degree of "personal" doesn't make me any less a poet and doesn't mean I don't slog at writing what I do; a lot goes into my poetry and most of the time I write it the way I want to. So I am happy with it, the way any artist would be with the end result, most of the time at-least.   

So imagine my shock and sense of hurt and anger when (on sharing a poem from Stray Birds) the moderator of a Facebook Group called Indian Poetry replies to my post in more or less the following vein

"The cold is real
 the real is cold...

...I gather in power
whenever I shower.."

I must say two things here itself.

One -- I never joined this group, I was just added to it, one fine day (and yes, as I am rarely active on any of the Facebook Groups, being the recluse that I am, this was incidentally my first post there).

Two -- It would seem this group is moderated by a gent called Philip Nikolayev and is backed by "The internationally renowned Journal of Poetry -- Fulcrum" and has a strict "No doggerel allowed" rule. You post doggerel and you are removed.

Who likes which poem and who dislikes which is subjective; and I for one have never believed in judging anyone's poetry. In all probability if Philip Nikolayev had deleted my post (thinking / considering it to be doggerel), I would have been fine with it, after all it is YOUR group you can run it the way you want to.

But posting the way he did, posting in doggerel was a bit insulting, uncouth and uncalled for, was it not?

So, naturally I asked if he wanted to ban himself.

And as naturally, he removed me from the group.

That wasn't anything earth-shattering either. But what happened thereafter was. Enlightening that is. Because I told Facebook about this incident.

And what happens? Nothing.

Yes, nothing. Which is particularly surprising considering that almost half the people on my Facebook are Indian Poets and these are all pretty active on my Facebook too. Yes, no one (apart from one reader / friend / occasional poet) had anything comforting to say to me; far from showing solidarity with me (I know the very idea is laughable considering how badly I am networked and how artless my poetry is).

What a defeat this is no, this inability to make an ingress into the cliques of Indian Poets?

On the other hand, seriously speaking, this shows how utterly un-Indian Indian Poets of today are; allowing themselves to be "moderated" by a downright rude and borderline boorish Russian who bosses them around on behalf of a prestigious American Journal of Poetry.

Good riddance for me, that I don't belong in any of those cliques, is all I can say.

And yes, up yours Philip Nikolayev, whoever the eff you are!    

    
    

Treebark

Its only when you have written them,
only when you have consigned them to time
like a four or five letter word uttered artlessly
or a spicule of your spit
that the wind blows away into the night
of the road behind your motorcycle

Its only after putting the distance
of your years in between
that you know, your poems were preoccupations
a vain affair with words, even.
The earth has wrinkled, treebark has aged
while you were outgrowing them.

On a different kind of walkabout

At something close to 6 kilos, this is more bazooka (or LMG) than a lens.

But make no mistake about it, a lens it is and a bloody marvelous one at that -- as fine a culmination (and celebration) of physics and optics as is humanly possible.

I am talking of my newly acquired 600 mm f/4, I am talking of this 

So then, how did a poet who was flirting with financial ruin and poverty manage to acquire something as costly as two (or even three) cars?

Mostly because of another loan (like in case of the other 600, the D-600 -- a camera --that I had acquired).

So, in terms of relationships of the financial kind, I now have another EMI to add to my Housing EMI, but yes, it will get paid and it will get paid bloody soon.

Because the Birdman doesn't like owing anyone.

Especially not for a 600mm f/4 beauty.

Now that I have taken that off my chest, a few things about how this is more bazooka (or LMG or Rocket Launcher) than lens. The first day I tried photographing with it, my left bicep gave up on me, swelling up / cramping as if I have arm-wrestled with Hulk Hogan. I got back home within barely a hour, counting the steps back, worried that I will "drop" the deadweight of the monster thing.

The second time was better, the third more so. The morning after, as I write this, my biceps, shoulders and almost all of upper body still feels as if I have just got out of a grueling gym session, but then those are pains any birder can live with.  

Here's looking forward to more such walkabouts with this beautiful marvel of technology that lets me live the gift of my eye.

And as I am already saying again and again, if nothing else, carrying all that weight around will help me lose some. 

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

-- Seamus Heaney

(And by God he stuck to it and kept digging; did he not? For all of forty years. RIP Seamus Heaney!)

For those who teach others to hear :-)

Paradoxically -- for someone who has always been afflicted by gravitas, has always been serious and aloof -- I have constantly seen myself as an eternal child, someone who hasn't really grown up.

Now firmly in my forties, with the hair on my head showing more salt than pepper, I feel no older -- maybe because of the more-than-a-decade of motorcycling ingrained in me, or because of the artless (and awestruck) poems that I write, or because of the borderline juvenile obsession with which I photograph birds (and nature).

But its not because of the way I am, or because of what I do that I feel most like a child, it is because of my ears.

Increasingly, across the last 3-4 years, it is when I have persisted in looking for a solution (while dealing with the light-headedness and headaches arising from hearing aid trials and audiology sessions) continuing to battle my aural frustrations, it is when I have been to institutes like AYJNIHH or AURED, that I have felt the maximum import of being Hard of Hearing; felt lost and defenceless (like a child?) and struggled to deal with the utter defeat -- of not knowing an adult way to come to terms with it.

But it is also at these institutes that I have felt like a child in another way, felt a kinship with the 4 and 5 year old kids running pell-mell in the corridors unmindful of the large hearing aids draped over their ears (technically called Behind The Ear instruments) wondering at how their ears can tolerate the din (simplistically speaking, most hearing aids are bad at filtering out noises; unless they are programmed -- but when programmed, they damp speech too).

It is here again that I have met the amazing people who teach these children to do something that most of us take for granted.

Teach them to hear.

Teach them to speak.

Teach them that they are special, that they are loved, that they are expected to go out in the world and do wonderful things (like other normal children are taught to).

Teach them with a belief and selflessness that would touch even the most cynical amongst us, with a conviction that belies mainline epithets like "Children of a lesser God" or "differently abled" or even "hearing handicapped".

Teach them to never stop trying, to never give up.

It is because of interacting with teachers like these, because of being touched by their grace that I (in my own frustrated adult way) never stop trying to hear.

It is because of knowing them that I refuse to be deaf.

Happy Teachers Day to all such teachers out there, to those who devote their lives to making special children's lives special.

Because, though love, life and the road have taught me numerous lessons in turn, it is only you who have inspired me to continue the koshish, to make the most of the gifts that I have been given.

P.S. -- I have purposefully stayed away from my blog for a bit, this was written on Teachers Day and incidentally after I had been to AURED Mumbai (to look for a Cochlear Implant for myself). This isn't exactly a comprehensive take on my own increasing defeats with the aural element in my life, and I have not been directly "taught" by any of the teachers I refer to, since my interactions with most of them have had to do with getting hold of a better hearing aid for myself...but then, I have still been lucky enough to be touched by their grace. So this tribute. So to say.

And, ummm...hey, this was first published on Facebook!  

मेरा कुछ सामान...

मेरा कुछ सामान तुम्हारे पास पड़ा हैं
सावन के कुछ भीगे भीगे दिन रखे हैं
और मेरे एक ख़त में लिपटी रात पडी हैं
वो रात बुझा दो, मेरा वो सामान लौटा दो

पतझड़ हैं कुछ, हैं ना ...
पतझड़ में कुछ पत्तों के गिरने की आहट
कानों में एक बार पहन के लौटाई थी
पतझड़ की वो शांख अभी तक काँप रही हैं
वो शांख गिरा दो, मेरा वो सामान लौटा दो

एक अकेली छत्री में जब आधे आधे भीग रहे थे
आधे सूखे, आधे गिले, सुखा तो मैं ले आयी थी
गिला मन शायद, बिस्तर के पास पडा हो
वो भिजवा दो, मेरा वो सामान लौटा दो

एक सौ सोलह चाँद की रातें, एक तुम्हारे काँधे का तील
गीली मेहंदी की खुशबू, झूठमूठ के शिकवे कुछ
झूठमूठ के वादे भी, सब याद करा दो
सब भिजवा दो, मेरा वो सामन लौटा दो

एक इजाजत दे दो बस
जब इस को दफ़नाऊँगी
मैं भी वही सो जाऊँगी

From the Hindi movie Izazzat, directed by Gulzaar; the lyrics of this song are also (of course) by him.

Not surprisingly, I haven't seen this movie, and (very very surpisingly) never really heard this song. For me, that means I don't have the good fortune of enjoying its soulful solace by singing it to myself the way I have sung other songs, the way I still sing other songs (which I had heard when I could hear, which tunefully reside in me).

Since I have used words like "soulful" and "tunefully" maybe I need to also clarify that I am leagues away from being a musical virtuoso, but since I largely sing to an audience of two (my ears or my bemused parents) it doesn't really matter much.

Maybe it also doesn't matter that "Samaan" translates to "Baggage" in English; I won't lie to myself to say that I have dropped my baggage and yet, I have this quaint satisfaction (just for the record) of not letting the maudlin nature of my muse run riot.

And yes, I am not sleeping as of yet.        

    

कोशिश

कुछ अलग है
यह मेरी रोज रोज की रियाज़
कुछ अलग है
इन आखों की फ़ौजी तलाश
शब्दों की सुनी गहराइयों मे
यह अस्तित्व की खोज
कुछ अलग है मेरी हर हार
हर दिन मैं पाता हूँ
एक अकीर्तित जीत,
एक मुट्ठी भर जिंदगी की
कुछ अलग है मेरी मनमानी,
चिड़चिड़ा -- मेरे जुर्म, मेरे साजिश
हक़ीकत से मैं लेता हूँ ब्यान
खोए हुए ख्वाबों की
कुछ अलग हैं मेरे उम्मीदों की शिखरें

कुछ अलग है मेरी कोशिश

(I need to write more often in Hindi. Because every-time I do -- among other gains, it seems worth the Koshish) 

And I will sing to myself again...

Do songs lie? Are they magic spells that make us superhuman (and very romantic / idealistic) heroes far removed from the mortal nature of our ears and fears? And what happens when the spell breaks and all that is left to hear is the silence?

I wouldn't know all that. What I do know is that for almost a year now, I have hummed this song (mostly to myself and the wide expanses that I range across -- birding and to the loneliness of the night) to something akin to distraction. And every time, I trip on a trance-like feeling, a euphoria of joy -- of a deep understanding of the meaning of every word, of an overall feeling of arrival.

In the continuum of my belief, I am still tripping.

That these are Gulzaar Saab's lines and so evocatively poetic probably add to their mystique and appeal to my inner ear. That I heard them and heeded to them, that I hear them and feel blessedly alive (again?) makes them true enough. And then again, how can Gulzaar Saab's lines lie?  

Thodi aur Koshish (akele hi sahi)

Paradoxically -- for someone who has always been afflicted by gravitas, has always been serious and aloof -- I have constantly seen myself as an eternal child, someone who hasn't really grown up.

Now firmly in my forties, with the hair on my head showing more salt than pepper, I feel no older -- maybe because of the more-than-a-decade of motorcycling ingrained in me, or because of the artless (and awestruck) poems that I write, or because of the borderline juvenile obsession with which I photograph birds (and nature).

But its not because of the way I am, or because of what I do that I feel most like a child, it is because of my ears.

Increasingly, across the last 3-4 years, it is when I have persisted in looking for a solution (while dealing with the light-headedness and headaches arising from hearing aid trials and audiology sessions) continuing to battle my aural frustrations, it is when I have been to institutes like AYJNIHH or AURED, that I have felt the maximum import of being Hard of Hearing; felt lost and defenceless (like a child?) and struggled to deal with the utter defeat -- of not knowing an adult way to come to terms with it.

But it is also at these institutes that I have felt like a child in another way, felt a kinship with the 4 and 5 year old kids running pell-mell in the corridors unmindful of the large hearing aids draped over their ears (technically called Behind The Ear instruments) wondering at how their ears can tolerate the din (simplistically speaking, most hearing aids are bad at filtering out noises; unless they are programmed -- but when programmed, they damp speech too). It is here again that I have met the amazing people who teach these children to do something that most of us take for granted.

Teach them to hear.

Teach them to speak.

Teach them that they are special, that they are loved, that they are expected to go out in the world and do wonderful things (like other normal children are taught to).

Teach them with a belief and selflessness that would touch even the most cynical amongst us, with a conviction that belies mainline epithets like "Children of a lesser God" or "differently abled" or even "hearing handicapped".

Teach them to never stop trying, to never give up.

It is because of interacting with teachers like these, because of being touched by their grace that I (in my own frustrated adult way) never stop trying to hear.

It is because of knowing them that I refuse to be deaf.

Happy Teachers' Day to all such teachers out there, to those who devote their lives to making special children's lives special.

Because, though love, life and the road have taught me numerous lessons in turn, it is only you who have inspired me to continue the Koshish, to make the most of the gifts that I have been given.


*First published on Facebook, yesterday -- on Teachers' Day.

The Rain's a Requiem Tonight

I have stilled
the frenetic bird flight of my thoughts, of you
into this frozen lifeless spread
this sheet of glass framing

The window of my listless soul. Outside
the rain falls,
in another listlessness
its cloying wetness, a weepy requiem

No ears can hear.

Sightlessly seeing, I stay inside
the familiar embrace of a cold only the rejected know. Outside
from the brimming eyes of a grieving sky,
in a flood the tears roll.

Soon you will be an alien pain.

The lacerations on my soul will heal
into scab I can never touch or peel,
again, I will live.

Till then, the salve
is the play of these flightless words
the poultice of my loneliness,
the silence of another answer-less night.

The Quiet

I have never really thought at length about why I have got used to wandering (not by motorcycle, but the relatively slower way -- on cycle and thereafter afoot) so much, over the last 3 plus years, since when I brought out my first book.

It largely had to do with the need to sit and work on what I had already put together as a first draft; but I can clearly see that it also had to do with a need to relate to the open spaces and the wildernesses around me -- to see art, individualism, identity and even life, in the dirt tracks, the cracked earth, the sunburnt rock (there are a lot of abandoned quarries around my place) and the waters I would go visit, Shameerpet Lake, the puddles of ochre / red rain water and the spirogyra-laced pokhuri like waters collected in the quarries.

Moving On dealt with a lot of those "relatings" in poems that are artless (and to a certain extent boyishly awestruck) in perspective, uninhibited in treatment and "inked" with a minimalism (especially in my pithy choice of words) that can probably be expected from someone to whom words are are kith and kin.

By the time I brought out my second book, I was an addicted walker -- thanks to my close encounters with butterflies and an increasing felicity to relate to birds. By this time, the poetry was almost incidental -- I had started to learn how to deal with my immediacy and also started to learn how to let the poem brew in me. In fact, apart from the poems dealing with butterflies in my second book, most of the others have a contemplatively detached and "quiet" air as if the poems are voiced by the elements, by time, or by a stoic whom nothing can touch.

I still don't know if I am ready (or capable) to look at my third book in a contemplative or objective mien; in many ways it was the toughest of the three, but again there is that sense of quiet in many of the poems in them, even when I am being irreverent in my take on a particular bird; there is an utter lack of anything to do with the aural element of birdwatching in any of the poems. Its another thing that whenever I am ghooming and I come across Francolins (called Teetar in Hindi) and stalk them to get close to them and photograph them properly and they first go to ground and then take off in an "explosive whirrrrrrr" it completely deafens me, almost as if I have a proper pair of ears.

Its also another thing that I can hear and feel the lake breeze and the rain squalls and tree songs (I need to be able to see the tree for this to happen) and I seem to be hearing it even better with the passing years.

And there are times when I am up in the penthouse (which is where I incidentally "wrote" most of the poems of my second and third book) when I am stunned by the clarity of what I can hear -- mostly the silence, sometimes my thoughts and on rare occasions, the bars of some Old Hindi song that I hum to myself.

It is at times like this that I feel the most content, that I feel foolish for having again and again tried to go out of this quiet -- into the clamorously questioning eyes of women -- to search for love.

Surely it would have been better if I had been less of a "moth-being-attracted-to-the-candle-flame" and more of a nature poet?

Kahin door jab din dhal jaaye

कहीं दूर जब दिन ढल जाए
सांझ की दुल्हन बदन चुराए, चुपके से आए

मेरे ख़यालों के आँगन मे
कोई सपनों के दीप जलाए, दीप जलाए

कभी जब यूँ हुई बोझल साँसे
भर आईं बैठे बैठे जब यू ही आँखे

तभी मचल के, प्यार से चल के
छुए कोई मुझे पर नज़र ना आए, नजर ना आए

कहीं दूर जब दिन ढल जाए
सांझ की दुल्हन बदन चुराए, चुप के से आए

कहीं तो ये दिल कभी मिल नही पाते
कहीं से निकल आए जन्मों के नाते

घनी थी उलझन बैरी अपना मन
अपना ही होके सहे दर्द पराए दर्द पराए

कहीं दूर जब दिन ढल जाए
सांझ की दुल्हन बदन चुराए, चुप के से आए

मेरे ख़यालों के आँगन मे
कोई सपनों के दीप जलाए दीप जलाए

दिल जाने मेरे सारे भेद ये गहरे
हो गये कैसे मेरे सपने सुनहरे

ये मेरे सपने, यही तो है अपने
मुझ से जुदा नही होंगे, इनके ये साये, इनके ये साये

कहीं दूर जब दिन ढल जाए
सांझ की दुल्हन बदन चुराए चुपके से आए

Shaadi.com

There are only
three kinds of women in this world.

The first
are neurotic, full
of themselves, adept
have smart phones.

The second are divorced.

(From what?
Don't you dare ask!)

The third will like
everything about you.

Even your ears.

But hey,
this is matrimonial porn.

You will bore them,
they will move on.

Poetry

It has rained all day,
the wetness is a living thing, cold
its clammy touch wispy everywhere air
like the dull dead light
in snake-lidded comatose eyes
an indolent, endless weep.

Far from the dripping panicles
of the all-seeing leaves,
distant from the refuge of trees,
untouched by the soaked skin of earth
my eyes are dry
for whom do these skies, so cry?

In whimsy, why do these words come to me
bedraggled by the damp smelling must of a dogged past,
that no deluge can wash, have I not cried enough,
for loves that were never mine?
What requiem will they write
for this epic defeat of my emptiness?

A Haircut

I am large,
I have multitudes,
but even I need
the barber's ritual touch, 
a scissoring away 
of now mostly salt, 
with a smattering of pepper
of what's always been
so much of dead hair.

Tomorrow,
when I grasp at the meanings
in spoken words, try to survive the day alone
I will know it is okay.

For the light's a scythe 
scissoring the pretensions of everyone's days
and time's a meadow of green grass diminishing 
as Munias feed on it.

I will know it is okay that I lost again
know it with the total weight of every word
felt on the lightness of this haircut head,
hear it said in an echoing epiphany 
in this beautifully desolate, steadfast 
ever growing wilderness of my soul 
where in a passionate deluge of light
unbidden the sky kisses the earth's face
thrill in the triumph of knowing 
that no wanting could touch me 
with the madness 
that teaches hate when love ends.

Eyes

My dervish twin
blithely harlequin
soul is drowned
in the dazzling deluge
it sees. Deaf

It never hears
the clamorous whirl
of other things.

But only, only, only
the refrain
of a silence
a peace of being

Beautiful and growing.

Lessons from Uttarkhand -- II / Living with less

If I remember right, I have probably talked about consumerism, et al on this blog, and as is my wont, I am sure I have probably even repeated myself. That I, an "advertising waalah" and "marketing professional" write like this has to be plain sacrilegious, considering that advertising is all said and done the "hustling" of brands and marketing -- the process of demand creation, or rather the "touting" prior to the hustle; but then we all have consciences don't we?

(Then again, we all have to whore for a living as well, come to think of it.)

I at least think I am in a relatively better position to speak about the ills of consumerism (than all those who have been sharing links that talk about "Living with less" on FB) because of my relatively spartan way of living and because though I have worked at various places in various roles, I have never sold my soul to lucre or Mammon.

Then again, my biggest calling has always been that of "getting close to the unpaved earth", and I will gladly be called a primitivist rather than extol the virtues of so called "development".

And you know, even if I am back in IT (in a way), my soul is still mine and I don't get paid an obscene salary either.

Oh, how I digress!

~~~~~~~~~~~

I am off FB when I write this (you see I can live with less!) and I am sure all the worthies who frothed at the mouth and expressed so much outrage have already forgotten what happened in Uttarkhand. But I do remember some of that outrage. Various people -- various theories.

The first theory is that the blame lies squarely with the pilgrims (the old and infirm) who perished there, because they were foolish enough to venture there. There are echoes of this sick thinking in certain quotes in certain accounts I have read online too. Natural when you consider that most people will blame the old for being old (or the deaf for being deaf, for that matter). In this case, the blame is totally not on the pilgrims (immaterial of their age or degree of firmness, pilgrims are opportunists -- in fact most children are too), it should have been the temple administrations, the priests ( -- I am Brahmin by birth -- who can get worse than the worst tout+hustler+bania) and all the tour operators, who should have learned to live with less long, long back. But then Uttarkhand is no Kashmir, Kedarnath is no Amarnath, naturally a lot of the "tour operators" were old uncles from the South with a smattering of Hindi and a belief in Shiva. If you forget (and forgive) the uncles from the South, wasn't it expected of the others involved in the "tourism promotion activity" to read the portents?    

The second theory is that this happened because of rampant "honeymooning" in the hills. Well, to a certain extent that is where the biggest blame lies. Because it is the youngest lot who are the most consumerist. And I can simply not think of a bigger "market" than this lot -- when it comes to comfortable lodgings, mineral water bottles, "nice" roads and all that jazz. And hey, this isn't about what the "honeymooners" do, its more about what they are willing to pay for -- that's how a "different" and very consumerist economy starts, does it not?

The third theory is, nothing happened. Yes. You read that right. This is the theory that all "pralay" believers ("scientific" people who can DIY everything to do with their Smart Phones, laptops, et al but cannot for a moment think of themselves as a blade of grass, a tree, a bird, a bloodsucker; people who can never understand things from the perspective of a "natural" living) would like to subscribe to. While there are any number of other qualifications to be part of this grand club of blind (and brainless) men and women, the most important (at the media level) are that they be from the Congress (or its long drawn out legacy) or from the other "verticals" in which marketing means selling not only your soul but that of your forefathers as well.

May the same God who received the souls of all who perished in Uttarkhand forgive the idiots and the idiotic theories. After all, that is what the mountain does, always, it doesn't quake.

Om Namaha Shivaya.                 

                  .             

I Long To Hold Some Lady

I long to hold some lady
For my love is far away,
And will not come tomorrow
And was not here today.

There is no flesh so perfect
As on my lady's bone,
And yet it seems so distant
When I am all alone:

As though she were a masterpiece
In some castled town,
That pilgrims come to visit
And priests to copy down.

Alas, I cannot travel
To a love I have so deep
Or sleep too close beside
A love I want to keep.

But I long to hold some lady,
For flesh is warm and sweet.
Cold skeletons go marching
Each night beside my feet.

-- Leonard Cohen (from "The Spice Box of Earth")

Waiting for Marianne

I have lost a telephone
with your smell in it


I am living beside the radio
all the stations at once
but I pick out a Polish lullaby
I pick it out of the static
it fades I wait I keep the beat
it comes back almost asleep

Did you take the telephone
knowing I'd sniff it immoderately
maybe heat up the plastic
to get all the crumbs of your breath

and if you won't come back
how will you phone to say
you won't come back
so that I could at least argue

-- Leonard Cohen (from "Flowers for Hitler")

The Genius

For you
I will be a ghetto jew
and dance
and put white stockings
on my twisted limbs
and poison wells
across the town


For you
I will be an apostate jew
and tell the Spanish priest
of the blood vow
in the Talmud
and where the bones
of the child are hid


For you
I will be a banker jew
and bring to ruin
a proud old hunting king
and end his line


For you
I will be a Broadway jew
and cry in theatres
for my mother
and sell bargain goods
beneath the counter


For you
I will be a doctor jew
and search
in all the garbage cans for foreskins
to sew back again


For you
I will be a Dachau jew
and lie down in lime
with twisted limbs
and bloated pain
no mind can understand

-- Leonard Cohen (from "The Spice-Box of Earth")

Other people, other jobs

"Had I really understood something of war, I wouldn’t have gotten sidetracked trying to write about rebels and loyalists, Sunnis and Shia. Because really the only story to tell in war is how to live without fear. It all could be over in an instant. If I knew that, then I wouldn’t have been so afraid to love, to dare, in my life; instead of being here, now, hugging myself in this dark, rancid corner, desperately regretting all I didn’t do, all I didn’t say. You who tomorrow are still alive, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you love enough? You who have everything, why you are so afraid?"

Read it all, here

Google, gadgets and other going ons...

Its a fascinating thing -- when you think of it -- that time isn't exactly linear and inanimate; I mean have you ever wondered why a microwave (oven) minute takes so long when you want it to be over fast and so short when your attention is elsewhere?

Okay, my observation (or analogy rather) is largely contextual because I have been boiling eggs in my microwave oven.  But the point still holds, no -- hard-boiling eggs in a microwave may be an art and all that, but its something as plebeian as cooking rice in a pressure cooker, and yet (probably because the former is far more hi-tech) the "minute" seems to become a lot more flighty and animate, almost as if it has a mind of its own, no?

Okay, before you think I have finally lost it, try cooking some eggs in your microwave. And TRY cooking them in a way that they are perfectly hard-boiled.

 ~~~~~~~

We (at the homestead) have recently gone wireless.  After having to spend almost half the time I used to be online fighting an iffy / dodgy / half-assed Internet connection (or begging brother for his data card), THIS is something else. Not that I am an "always online or always connected" person (the green light glowing on my GTalk "mostly" all the time, notwithstanding), especially in the "so many birds, so little time" context; yet its a relief to have such connectivity, to sit some 26 feel above the router and still get such stunning speeds...

Maybe I should look at opening a cyber cafe for the birds, butterflies and Bozo, in order to share this bandwidth with them all.

~~~~~~~~

The little man has grown up perceptibly in the last 6-8 months (and lost all his milk teeth). Naturally then (for a civilized, city-bred brat) he is nowadays totally into "video" games. This used to be "sweet" in the beginning when he would straight away ask for my mobile phone (the Nokia I lost in B'lore) immediately after he came home. I am not saying its not "sweet" any more, now that he has discovered that its far more fun to play games on the computer (it started with the venerable "home" Desktop  that still hasn't conked off -- after almost 8 years of use, went on to a "games" exploration of my "birding / writing" laptop -- without any encouragement from me -- and has now also extended to a fine tooth combing of my office laptop -- with my grudging approval) but somehow, its a bit of a pain to see that his interests are more into what's available and happening on the computer rather than outside, in the wide, wide world.

But then (though he still bounces a ball and even asks Amma to play it with him and makes the occasional drawing) he is growing up and at the end of the day he is a civilized, city-bred brat.I do wish, he woke up one fine day and decided that chasing a butterfly is more fun, or go back to wanting to throw stones into the water (I "discovered" most of the quarries around my place for him in the days when riding on the tank of the Bullet used to be his biggest joy).

Wishes can be horses, children should be children.

~~~~~~~~~

Some more ramblings on the little man and the other fascinating character in my life -- my father.

Not so surprisingly both of them know zilch about technology. Its my father's pride and joy to learn how to operate the PC and send e-mails (and since his son is Hard of Hearing, he's pretty good -- if  a bit absent-minded -- at sending SMSes as well) but his bugbear is that he cannot remember where he has saved what.

In case of the Little Man, in the days when he wasn't that "interested" in the computer, it used to be fun to make him sit on my lap and see his little (almost little enough to be a common kingfisher's foot, if I am allowed to take poetic license) hand driving the mouse and trying to click an icon, or to see him try to write something that I would be voicing for him.

I can bet that the Little Man doesn't know any more about how the computer works or how to save files (he is a MS-Paint artist, among other things) than my father. But then, he has a sharper brain and is far more bloody-minded as well.

And oh yes, not so surprisingly, they both use the same term to indicate that they want to get online -- "Google".

~~~~~~~~~~~

As I have already chronicled on this blog, I lost a Nokia in B'lore and I managed to put a Samsung out of commission (it survived a hit-and-run) in Delhi. And though I had contemplated a lot to stay phoneless, even someone of my far from social nature needs to stay connected, hence I read up a lot on "Smart" phones, and almost bought various snazzy smart phones, at various points in time. But, I don't listen to music on phones, I wouldn't play games on it either, and ummm....using the phone for taking photographs would be like riding a Luna with a garage full of vintage British bikes (thanks to the costly and weighty DSLRs that I own).

So.

So.

So.

I am back to my Micromax Q3, the very first QWERTY phone that I ever bought.

Not only does it work commendably (which in my case means, it sends the 3-4 SMSes that I need to send pretty well and is capable of even letting me jot in the odd poem / note) and lately I have also relearned (thanks to the help from an old friend who was a hotshot phone sales entrepreneur in the days of  JT Mobile) how to lock it up safely (after sending garbled SMSes and making "bum" calls to people whom I have never been in touch with -- for more than 3 years).

And hey, the MMX Q3 is a smart phone as well. Now tell me, what does that make me?      



          


        

    

Collected Poems in English -- Arun Kolatkar

Okay, here's the first notable thing about this book.

Its a Bloodaxe.

I know that may not ring a bell in a lot of heads (and not necessarily in the heads of those who don't read poetry -- considering that a lot of people who read poetry, just read it online), so let me clarify.

Bloodaxe is probably the world's most premier publisher of poetry books and if they publish someone's poetry, that someone could consider that he / she has arrived.

I don't know if I am being irreverent here, or if I am being mock irreverent -- in a way what I said above is a fact.

Then again, Bloodaxe probably commissioned this book around the time that they came to know that Arun Kolatkar is leaving (as opposed to having arrived) when he was diagnosed with cancer and counting his days.

Then again, I am not blaming Bloodaxe for this either, Arun being Arun and legendarily famous for not signing contracts, wanting total control on his books, wanting to design them, choose the paper, etc, etc.

All of which is neither here nor there, all of us are mortal and poets are more so -- since they die a thousand deaths even when they live -- what matters is that this book is probably the only such collection of Arun Kolatkar's oeuvre and yes, it has Jejuri in it (try buying it), it has Kala Ghoda Poems in it (try buying it), it has Sarpa Satra in it (TRY buying it) and it has many a poem that you never heard of (even if you are a dyed in wool Arun Kolatkar acolyte) like the poems presented under "Translations" and those presented under "Words for Music", poems that seem totally alien to Arun Kolatkar's laconic and very pithy voice.

But then, this is a collection of all his life's writings and while many a poet struggles to find one voice, someone like Arun could probably manage a lot more :-)

All of which is neither here nor there; I am not reviewing this book here, nor am I asking you to buy it. Or whatever.

As people say on FB, "Arun Kolatkar in the house".

And to think that I have been denying myself this pleasure for more than three years -- years during which I have gifted his books to some "special" others and also introduced some close friends and all and sundry to him.

Yes, to think that I was indulging in social service all this while, instead of enjoying his poetry again and again.

But then, I had promises to keep.

And bring out my own three books of poetry.

Somehow I have the feeling that up there, asking for another Chhai and Bun Maska in the cafe where dead poets sit and while away their time, Arun Kolatkar would chuckle to know that I have his life's work with me. And that I am nonplussed -- unable to decide if a book that weighs half a kg is all that someone as prolific as him leaves behind, unable to decide if that is less or more, for a poet that is.

All of which is neither here nor there... 

Lessons from Uttarkhand -- I

What exactly happened in Uttarkhand (and why) is something that we will never know. The blame game has already run its course (and lost its way in the spin generated by the Congress and the BJP), the indignation and the outrage on FB and Twitter has already died down, the TV channels have already found something equally vicarious to feast on -- courtesy a Terror attack on the Bodh Gaya Temple.

Offline, most armchair experts mouth the word "cloudburst". A word that has gained notoriety since the Mumbai floods and thereafter attained apocalytic weight, after what happened in Ladakh.

And yes, this word is uttered with a gravitas bordering the funereal, its a word that brooks no argument.

To extend this logic further other armchair experts (what else are our ministers and bureaucrats, if not that -- ruling as they do from the comfort of their AC offices or cars/ SUVs) tried to pass it all off as a Himalayan Tsunami. Something against which, there could have been no safeguard, something akin to Shiva's Tandav (conveniently enough -- considering our current Government's secular credentials, its easy to blame it on Shiva, considering that the Char Dham yatra is to places like Kedarnath and Badrinath) against which mere mortals can do squat.

But what God kills his own?

So what happened?

There was a cloudburst and there was a lakeburst as well (a glacial lake on a slope above the Kedarnath temple broke through its moraine barrier) and there were a lot of landslides / mudslides from all the peaks around as well, converging onto the "town".

But was this all God's doing?

No; because that "town" had no business being that big and just the presence of so many people (along with their attendant needs for Tea, Coffee, etc, etc) must have itself been like a burr in the glacier's side.





No; because by all accounts, almost 70% of the "facilities" were illegal / unauthorized and had no right to be there in the first place, even it if was for just the duration of the yatra.

No; because the footfalls of the pilgrims have never been regulated, because the old and infirm have never been "discouraged" from this yatra.

In other words this was a tragedy waiting to happen, its just that "freakish" rainfall added to the magnitude of the toll. This was a tragedy waiting to happen because the pilgrims were golden ducks for everyone involved in the "logistics" side of the yatra -- the tour operators, the palanquin bearers, the mule drivers, the hotel owners, the temple administration board and so on...

Its expected that the Kedarnath Yatra will be closed for two years. Meanwhile, this tragedy will be forgotten, and no lessons will be learned.

Roads

Again
the light wakes me
with a question

That my eyes hear
I smile
seeing new roads, say

I will ride again
for all a man can do
is try.

A Waiting

I have seen
the grasses grow tall
supple, tree straight,

Seen them greenly nod
their purple and russet heads
as the rains thinned

Into dew, wintering
the light turned golden.
my eyes sage

Wells of thirst,
I am full with a sapience
of knowing.

The sickle stab of light
in a tapestry of grass,
is that you, O Time...

I am a waiting
for the coming of words
grey of tongue, to storytell

All that's hard to hear.  

The challenge of building a software products brand

If you follow this blog on any kind of a continuous basis, you would be aware by now that I certainly don't follow any kind of chronology or time frame in the frequency in which I post here, nor that I have any kind of yardstick to decide what to post and what not to post here.

(That philosophy -- or lack of it -- also sums up my approach to writing poetry, so to say).

So here it is -- I am back at work and again at the forefront of dealing with the challenge of building brands (corporate and product). For a company with whom I have had an earlier (rewarding and enlightening) stint.

Yes, an earlier (chuckle) stint (chuckle).


 I was here before Moving On happened. Back then (as at most small "Indie" software product development companies) there was a lot to do here -- and a constant need to innovate and improvise. Surprisingly (or not so surprisingly) there is a lot to do here now as well.

But then, that is the story of building a brand, any brand -- its always a work in progress.

Its good to be back in a familiar milieu -- of products and solutions that I understand pretty well (if anything, they have become better in the intervening four or so years) and be in a mind space where the excellence paradigms and road-maps are also equally familiar ( I am a MBA and advertising and brand communications was the earliest of my "callings").

Its good to be back at work and good to be productive. And since it is the season of deluges, I know the poetry will keep coming too. 

*********

I mostly get along two ink pens to work.

Sometimes they get dry.

Poetry, on such days is bumming ink from someone who has let me bum many a cigarette.

And yes, neither of us now smokes.




 



        

For the Pilgrims of Uttarkhand

The earth flowed,
a river in spate, waters
churned in an inferno.

Death came to you,
sibilant, in a searching
wetness.

Why did my God,
He, the pillar of fire,
do nothing?

You were pilgrims,
utterly His.
Today, they will consign

What remains of you,
putrid and lifeless
to His cleansing embrace.

Consign you to fire,
if the rain wills it, weeping
wetness.

Hindu, I cry too.
And pray. Shiva, Shakti,
Amma, Bhoodevi

Mother nature be kind.

Stray Birds in bookstores

Looking back more than three years, I remember how I had to hustle to place Moving On in the bookstores. And how the so called "big bookstores" repeatedly rebuffed me for being a small publisher (and unknown "author").

Fair enough, books are after all business and if Chetan Bhagat and his ilk sell more, and deserve more shelf space in such bookstores, so be it.

But an achievement of sorts from back then was getting to place Moving On in two lovely, old and quaint and very "bookstorish" bookstores of Hyderabad -- Walden and Akshara.

Largely (of course) due to the intervention, goodwill and help of friends -- my PR sucks.

Ink Dries went a step further and had its launch / release at Akshara Books, largely again (of course) due to the intervention, goodwill and help of friends.      

I will of course, be headed for Akshara and Walden soon with Stray Birds, but speaking of bookstores, Stray Birds is already available at a bookstore in Hyderabad's original shopping district, Abids; a place famous (among the bibliophiles at least) for its second hand books market (where incidentally U saw a copy of Moving On as well!).

At a very "bookstorish" bookstore -- AA Husain, where almost every single inch of the place is laden with books.

I feel very Hyderabadi to say this. And I intend to go to AA Husain soon to see what "out of print" and "impossible to find anywhere else" treasures are roosting there.

BTW, if not for other rare to find books (and Stray Birds), AA Husain deserves a visit for its big collection of bird books and field guides. Because its managed by someone who knows the worth of anything to do with the feathered folks, a fellow birder.

So, do head out there soon!              

How not to beat around the bush

The one thing that writing poetry does to you is, (over a period of time) help you craft a crystal clear mirror -- for your self.

This mirror doesn't lie, it just cannot lie. In fact, its a mirror that is painfully honest to a fault and best not seen into, even glanced into. But poets being poets probably cannot escape getting eye to eye with its "dazzling" visage. The result is poetry that cuts to the bone and shows everything in between (something that a lot people out there would call self-reflexive) especially the wounds that have not healed and the collected scar tissue of the years.

Unless they are professional poets, or poets writing for a cause or something equally safe.

What do I see in the mirror I look into?

A fat middle-aged man with almost no social skills.

A professional for whom work means the hard labour of words.

A pair of bum ears who have never managed to deal with truisms like "what women want".   

A hustler of poetry books.

Hmmm....


*************

Talking of being fat (or well-built and big and lumbering), one thing many people (and not necessarily women or for that matter dainty / waifish women) have wanted to know from me is how I can handle the weight of the Sigma and the Nikon D90 (D600) so well, while not using a tripod*. I guess in an evolutionary sort of way, totally self-taught, I have managed to learn a stance that works for me, and a stance that uses my girth to the best advantage.

Other advantages of this girth are a "full frame" and a shoulder breadth that helps me lug my photography gear for long distances pretty well. Can't say comfortably; even a mule wouldn't like being laden with 5 kilos of weight day in and day out, no?

But how do you hide all that to the cameras? And lately, I gave away my Ray Bans as well...

I know for a fact that birding burns a lot of calories, its just that I haven't done it with much consistency for almost two months now.

The question is -- does writing poetry (and the worries of bringing out a book) put back all those calories? 


**************

Indie.

That's a good, honest and even fashionable word.

And its "indie"cative of someone small and low-budget and someone more concerned about the quality of what is being created -- a film, music, poetry or other art -- rather than the thousand and one associated / supporting / supplementary things.

Also, someone who is broke plying a trade and trying to cut costs to the barest minimum, of course.

I have talked earlier about lugging my books (the full frame and the breadth of the shoulders help, also I am slightly mulish when it comes to weights, I can carry a lot of it) and I must say they weigh a lot, they weigh a lot...a new experience this time was carrying my own bird photographs.

Thankfully, they did not weigh that much (is it because they were of weightless things, birds?) but still, all that bulk and still the fear of all that glass breaking!

Poets, its said live in a world of heartbreak.

Bird photography is more heartbreak than any other genre of photography. Comparatively shooting glamour is like turning up at office and writing code (or clearing files).

But transporting glazed photographs in an Auto wheezing and stuttering its way through the maddening and chaotic traffic of Hyderabad takes the cake (and the Double Ka Meetha) any day.

Or maybe I am just getting old.       


*The credit is not entirely due to me, the Sigma 150-500 has amazing Image Stabilization properties, and this is digital after all...  

 



   

Print runs

What matters
is that the poems we write
survive

(And even find other homes)
like all things mortal
we don't.

The cynicism of faith (and other truths)

I have faith and I want to be good and happy; and yes, at one level, I have always wanted to be a normal person with a normal life, like most others out there.

But instead, here I am -- having just brought out another book of poetry, still dealing with the hustle of placing it here and there.

Lugging books in haversacks and hustling them to people who probably have absolutely no trust in the merits of poetry as a genre or no understanding of the value of the medium.

I mean, I have done this twice before -- lugging books here and there, couriering them to Flipkart, even couriering them to individual buyers, couriering them to some great / established names...

And now, I will be doing all this a third time.

I guess, that's normal for some.



************


A quick look at two lies associated with poetry.

Fame.

Money.

You know of any other?

Do tell.



***********

To end this post on a bright note (so to say).

It has rained quite a lot in Hyderabad in the past week or so. And since I have wandered a bit on my feet all around my place for the past two years as well, I would say, they have arrived almost two weeks earlier than they usually do.

I mean, the buffalo wallow did not dry to a puddle this year, nor some of the quarries through which I had walked, raising dust, in the years past.

I am not saying the heat was any lesser -- for some 2 weeks in end May, it was positively infernal. And that was when (while out in the 40 degree heat in the afternoon, hoping to come across a nightjar) that I saw lapwings belly-wetting and also came across a yellow-wattled lapwing's nest.

There, there...let me not digress, the rains have arrived earlier than usual and like for most, its a relief to me as well.

Yes, its a big relief to see the same earth that seemed as lifeless as a baked brick in summer, grow green -- a green that defies description, and in fact makes you stop and search through all your soul and being for that one word which could express its dazzle and sheen when it catches the sunlight...

And its a bigger relief to know that the poems still come to me.

Maybe it is allowed for poets to hustle. As long as the hustling is of poetry books.

A dog called Bozo

Meet my only and most steadfast companion on my birding rambles (at least around the buffalo wallow near my place) -- Bozo.

I am not being disrespectful when I call him that, in many ways he's much more than a Bozo and then again, I don't know his name either. Not surprisingly, considering how intelligent dogs are -- and how friendly too, a cluck of my tongue is all it takes for him to come around to me, provided he is not away on some ramble already.

I have known Bozo for almost two years now, meeting him first when he was a puppy being pulled around on a rope and shown around as a toy / trophy by some kids who stay near my place (that was when I intervened and told them to not strain him too much as he is still a baby; naturally I also picked Bozo up and nuzzled him and held him for almost thirty minutes, till his heartbeat slowed down and he almost dozed off in my arms). That family ended up giving him to another family and then, again Bozo was given away -- to yet another household.

Naturally, every time I came across him I would pick him up and play with him and nuzzle him close to my chest as well -- as all little puppies deserve to be.

Bozo's current owners are a nice family and they neither ill-treat him nor ignore him, but for some reasons best known to him, he always keeps an eye on me. What this means is that for all purposes I have a dog without the attendant responsibilities. For he will come willingly, play with a boisterous abandon and always thump his tail up and down, even deep in slumber at 3.00 in the morning when from up in my writer's shack (waiting for either a barn owl or an errant poem to come) I would cluck my tongue.

I have never really understood what Bozo thinks of me; there are days when he will just lie in front of our gate, for hours at end, following me with his eyes when I come and go, totally desultory and somnolent. And those when he will follow me to the corner shop wanting me to buy him some buns, frisky as a two months old puppy. On other days he would refuse the same buns but walk inside the gate as if intent on following me into the house. And there would be other extended periods of 15 days and more when all he would do Is to resolutely walk up to me, stand up on his hind legs and plant his forepaws on my chest.

The most peculiar of his behaviour however was introducing his friends to me, approaching me with this or that stringy 5 or 7 month old dog and then standing by me expecting me to probably bend down and shake hands with the newest ( and obviously wary) mutt on the block.

Sometimes, things did not stay that humorous though. Like one night, when I was returning back late, Bozo ran up to me tail wagging and then left me to go and come with a dog I had never seen around before. I have never seen a dog try to speak with its eyes as I have seen Bozo that night, for his friend had a deep cut on his chest and was bleeding. There was a gang of borewell workers (along with their truck) that had been working in the neighbourhood that day who were now eating (and drinking) and if canine eyes can speak, I could see that they had done the dastardly deed. But, though I woke up a couple of neighbours and accosted them (with Bozo right at my heels) they naturally weren't admitting anything and meanwhile, unnerved by all the gesticulating and the chatter, the other dog just walked away somewhere, so there wasn't much in the form of evidence either.

As the cliched saying goes, I could write a book to recount my birding rambles with Bozo. Who knows, I may even recount some of them here.

Bozo got into a fight with some dog a couple of days back and when I met him on Saturday, looked mad enough to go bite an iron pole. And though I clucked my tongue enough for all country hens in this part of Hyderabad to hear, he wasn't interested in coming birding with me. The reason wasn't only mental, he had a very badly injured foreleg.

That day I slipped and fell at the buffalo wallow as if I was a two-legged Bozo.

As I write this both Bozo and I are limping, what a doggone connection, no?

As copies of Stray Birds head to Flipkart...

I have never really known what to say when the topic is my poetry or my books. I mean, I could probably talk a lot about why I write poetry -- talk in a ramble, a walkabout, a meander, a dogleg... -- but talk nonetheless.

I could also say what I have said any number of times, and what is the most basic and truthful part of my poetry, that I write primarily for myself and for release.

But ask me to sound articulate, measured and meaningful and there isn't much I can say.

Maybe I am too inward looking, or then again, I am probably too artless for being measured, etc.

**********

I have signed quite a few copies at Goethe-Zentrum (yes, the turnout was surprising and so was the involvement of the people) and now I have finished signing some more. This lot of the copies are headed for Flipkart, where (I am told) quite a few books have already been bought (on pre-order).

I should be happy.

I am happy.

But then, this is a book of poetry...

************

What exactly does success mean, in terms of writing poetry (and authoring poetry books)?

Who do you use as an yardstick to measure against?

Another "famous" poet whose book sold 100 copies?

Or someone like Amish Tripathi who has bagged a 5 Crores advance for his upcoming series of books?

Well, then again what is a poem that can be called a success? One with which everyone agrees, or one with which everyone disagrees, or one that just "works"?

*************

So a nice guy chases me again and again and finally meets me and asks some questions. That resulted in this 

Do take a look.

************

Another birding ghoom, another fall.

That, just about sums up what happened on Saturday. I slipped and fell / slid on the bund of the buffalo wallow. And have skin that's scraped off -- on my right leg, a bit below the knee and a bit besides the ankle.

I am like, bloody hell -- again the camera and lens survived it all, thank God!

Oh yes, they did not touch terra firma, either. But I did, I did and it burns like anything -- to remind me.