My People, My Wishes

Writing demands coffee and solitude, together. I have had a lot of the former, and hardly any of the latter ever since the year began. And hence such a delay in the start-of-the-year post. I had a lot to write, a lot to plan, a lot to recollect and a lot to wish for. Clearly, 2015 is going to be the year of expectations for me. A little birdie warns me of a major overhaul in the coming year. Either that, or I'll be fighting hard to make the strewn away pieces of life gather back together and make a picture which makes more sense than abstract art. Hey, life, yes, I am talking to you. Okay? Heed it, this time.

However, more than an expectation post, I want this to be a gratitude post. I have a few people to thank from last year, whose presence continues to comfort me till date. Now, the fluidity of human behaviour which I have observed (and accepted) necessitates that I thank you all now, because I have no clue if time will permit our relation to remain amicable, or to remain at all. So, whatever needs to be said, is best said right away.

Thank You cookies from theartofthecookie.com

Here. Meet my precious people.

Asif Khan Dehlvi
Or, as I call him, Asif. He is a gem, and I am sure, the whole of Delhi knows that. However, why I need to thank him is because he tried to heal the kindred hurt he found in me. Asif and I have been through similar kind of life-changing lows, at different times in life. The only difference is, I wasn't there to comfort him, while he was there to make sure my injury did not permanently cripple me.
For 2015 - I wish our lessons on Delhi become big. Let me show you my Dilli, while you make me travel through yours. 

Dehlvi Sahab - In his favourite avataar.

Neelkamal Pandey
Or, simply Kamal. It must have been in an extremely blessed moment that he entered my life, because, ever since, he has treated me with an exceptionally special kind of love. When all strands of faith in humanity were drowning into an abyss I understood little about, this wonderful human being stood up and told me, come what may, he will never leave my side. Do you know what that kind of assurance does? It gives you confidence to stand up the next morning and say, 'jo hoga, dekha jayega'.
For 2015 - I wish we collaborate on some artwork. I don't know how, or when, but let's grab the opportunity when it comes. 

In his favourite colour. 

Aaqib Raza Khan
Rare. People of his kind, they are rare. I saw very little of him in 2014. Very, excruciatingly little. However, he did not have to be physically around me to assure me of his love and company. Each time I followed up his digital footprints, I either laughed, or was touched, or I simply felt happy and proud about knowing him. We've always had a sort of mutual-admiration thing going on, since years (right?), and selfishly enough, I'd say, I hope it keeps going on. It makes breathing less laboured, and mind pollution-free, I can assure you.
For 2015 - I hope we meet. For some reason, I am hoping the World Book Fair will be a good time to do this. 

From his birthday celebrations, 2013.

Achint Mathur
Or Sameer bhaiya. He has been the source of some fantastic memories I had towards the end of 2014, which, unfortunately, cannot be stated publicly. What can be stated publicly is the fact that he is one of those people in life who are fearless friends, whom you can blindly trust on, who will go till the end of horizon to make sure their loved ones are safe. Fiercely individualistic, yet surprisingly sensitive.
For 2015 - Let us read a book together? And, umm, you've to get down to Delhi and we have to meet, and hang out at a real good place. Okay?

From the wedding!

Manan Kulshreshtha
Ranu bhaiya! He got married, and in the process, he gifted me a shopping carnival which worked as a therapy and an unapologetic route to splurge on things I would otherwise only gawk at and drool. Bhaiya's wedding was also the one event which kept my spirits up each time they'd dwindle. Plus, the kind of love I felt in his company on my last Jaipur visit, well, that's what stops me from cribbing about the lack of warmth in the world.
For 2015 - I hope we talk more. Whenever possible, but I hope for this. 

From his engagement, earlier in 2014.

Mohit Tyagi
Too young in acquaintance, but having sat beside him enough in the office, I know this guy is one of the finest human beings I will ever come across. He has been the greatest calming, disciplining influence on me in life. He seems to me like a kindred soul, one which reassures my belief in the very personalized form of madness I often find myself at odds to understand. Oh, and he introduced me to fab Punjabi poetry. How can I ever thank him enough for that?
For 2015 - I hope for much. I hope for a lot of poetry particularly. 

When winter was stepping in.

Neha, Mujeeb, Akshat and Niyati are few other people I have to thank. But I am not going to. I don't care to pen down the reasons. Basically, sleep takes over now.

Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part III

Woh yaad hai,
Aur woh yaad bhi hai.
Yehi toh ruyon se jhagadta purana sweater bol raha hai
Woh kuchh toh afwaah hai
Aur kuchh raaz hai
Laut-ti sardiyaan aas-paas phusphusa rahi hain.
Sard raatein maano ki yaadon ka kaarvaan hai
Phir chai ke pheekepan ki bhi toh apni zubaan hai
Jo gehri-kaali pyali se jhaank kar
Subah ki kirno par ankhein moond leti hai
Kitaabon par gaadhi syahi bhi ab
Dhundhle lafzon mein yaad sikod leti hain
Aaya toh tha na?
Aake gaya bhi tha na?
Ya is aane jaane ke khel mein
Kuchh toote-bichhde se mel mein
Bas ik chhalava tha?
Pyaar ka dikhava tha?
Kuchh toota dil
Kuchh tooti main bhi
Ek raasta woh dhoondhne aage badh gaya
Ek raasta main takte peechhe chhoot gayi

Picture by Aaqib Raza Khan

PS - This is the third in the series of a 4 part poem. You may read the first and second part on the links mentioned below.

Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part I

Kitaabon Sa Rishta - Part II

Erased

Part I - Unwritten

Part II - Rewritten

Part III - Erased

It rained today. It rained all over my story today.

It rained with ferocity. I witnessed the mad love making of rain and wind cast gloom and bliss together in the city. I had a crazy schedule and a dozen tasks to finish in remote corners of the city, but I knew to which centre my day would converge. By six, I had to be where I was yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The first two days I spent beside the green water of a still lake, located within a bubbling hub of urban jabberwocky, were what enticing aromas of Earl Grey were made of, or what the smoky seduction of his piercing gaze was made of. The third day made the Earl Grey go undrinkably cold. It also made smoke smell like the irritation that smoke is.

I had first met him at this secluded, pretty spot beside the lake, flipping the pages of his little green diary, throwing down velvet caressed words as impalpable ripples on unbelievably still and lifeless water. His words were what he was made of. His expressions - casual, yet precise - were his weapons of choice to illuminate a moment by voicing them, or sadden the climate by withholding them. I loved listening to him - to whatever he said. So, when the next day, he was reticent (but charming as hell), even the usually garrulous girl in me felt it pressurizing to be the one talking. I could clearly not think myself saying anything half as worthy as the lamest thing that came out of his lips. I would have loved to speak the language of silence with him, but he did not know I had already been doing that since the first hour we spent together, and I did not know how to actually make this language known to him.  I was with him in my mind, and, I had a feeling, he was with himself, in his own.

I walked back to the same spot beside the lake yesterday, but he was not there. It felt odd. I walked on, sat down there, opened my diary, and scribbled whatever I remembered of the earthy countenance of his. Amicable, and inscrutable dwelt beautifully within the features which now seemed distant. I had his number, hesitantly yes, but I called. No answer. And so became the trend for my next eleven calls made over several diurnal and nocturnal hours. I slept with the trepidation that he has disappeared on me - my chance at poetry had disappeared on me. Today, amid a hectic schedule of dry powerpoints and dull meetings, I managed to find time to be fearful and indignant at the same time. How could he disappear on me?

Braving rains now threatening to be violent, I reached the same spot today as well - but he was not here. How could he be - it was raining, right? But then again, he was not here, or anywhere around. Drenched, I smiled helplessly, and leaned across to the same place where his hands had caressed mine. His fingers, rather boldly, had then curled around in a firm grip - the embrace of gestures ever so natural that I had failed to notice it till I actually did. I did not feel coy, I just lived.

Today, I felt raindrops run in a ticklish path down my neck - and I sat down, wishing, if that tickle could have been caused by him, his words that touch. He could not have been here in this downpour - I was mad to think that. But I was here in this downpour - mad enough to do that.

He was glorious, sure, but undecipherable still. He was beguiling, yes, but unwritten still. He gave names to feelings I had not felt since ages, but he demanded to be erased now. He was my chance at poetry, but probably I was not his. At some core, insistent, crying part of ours, we all want to be written, but while I was writing him, probably he was sketching someone else. To think again, I was writing him, and I was sure he was writing himself. And it hurt. Hurt enough to make me calm.

I walked away, drenched. I will probably come back here tomorrow, when the sun would be up there, winking at the lake. However, I will not forget him not being here when it rained, and when it was dark, and when I was alone, searching for even the tiniest reflection of his. He will probably be back here, but he will not be back here.

As I said, it rained today. It rained all over my story today.

Clicked by Aaqib Raza Khan

10 Things You All Must Know About My Birthday

Long story short - I had an epic birthday. Well, an odd way to begin a post about the most special day which greets me in an entire year, but that is it. Epic could well be an understatement. Crazy is more like an apt word, and I mean the highest degree of crazy at that. Birthdays, or any celebrate-able occasions have always been kind of big affairs for me. My dear, dear friends, this time around, proved how affairs could be made bigger and grander and unforgettable. The celebrations began four days early, went on for about a week (if you could include all the pleasant hangover) and left me exhausted, but with a happy smile on my face. I cannot name and thank everyone involved here, in this post - because open display of affection and honest admissions have their pitfalls, and because all content is not for everyone - but I will still whisper gratitude to all those awesome people who inhabit my world, and who make life a brilliant journey to travel through.

That's how it began at Jamia

There are a few things I would like to tell you all about my birthday though. I am not sure, but I think I will go and name this post as 10 Things You All Must Know About My Birthday. So, here, the ten things which will always make me remember turning 24. I am not just promising cheese and flowers, but salt and lemon too. Let's begin.

#1 The Birthday Poster

Now, did you ever have a poster proclaiming your birthday has arrived? Well, I had not one, not two, but three of those posters promptly made and displayed by two of the most awesome, creative, innovative artists I know! These posters were pretty and funny and so endearing, that I ended up believing my birthday this time was going to overshadow all the previous 23 ones put together. When it begins at gorgeous, it ends at gorgeous. Mostly, yes.

Aastha di and Neha - thank you for this one! 

#2 A Day Out With Mamma

This was new, and special, and fun. I like using 'and' a lot. It projects a chain for me, which could keep subsuming experiences, and thoughts, and words in an unbroken connect. Having 'and's' is kind of cosy - you can have it all, and have it at one place. And with Mamma, and my sister, and two of my dearest friends, I had the first of its kind shopping day out, which was topped by a quiet lunch of tea, pasta and sandwiches, and which got rounded off by some more shopping off the Janpath flea market. I've made a mental note of making more such days happen!

On our way out, for shopping!

#3 The Afremov Connect

Now, people just know that it was Leonid Afremov who made me fall in love with colours. And so, two of the most awesome painters in the world got down to task to paint me some breathtakingly gorgeous Afremov-like paintings! I am keeping them safe and closed. On the most appropriate day, they shall come out and decorate a space which is an extension of all that I stand for.

Some colours and some light - all wrapped as perfect gifts!

#4 The Twitter Chaos

Some fantastic brains adept at handling social media were employed to run a 'tweetathon' two nights before my birthday to just talk sweet things about me. Honestly, it was embarrassing - but it was super fun too! There was a guy on twitter who called it an ego massage. It could well have been that, but for me, it was also a positive reinforcement my life had been severely lacking. Thanks twitterati!

Very creative invite for the Tweetathon!

#5 More Social Media Chaos

They all wanted to make me feel like a celebrity, and the first step in that direction, which my extremely loving and irritatingly creative friends took was to develop social media profiles in my name. So, there was (is) a functioning twitter handle, a Facebook page, and an e-mail id created to keep me flooded with electronic updates loaded with excitement of anticipation. This is, veritably crazy stuff. Crazily crazy.

#6 The Kids

There are too many to name. And they are always around, to show their love and also to ask for love. They are all a gift God has given me to feel special, and to be privileged enough to make them feel special too. The paint, draw, ask for longer hugs, want to take me out on dates, or for bowling; they let me in on their secret conversations, they even cry with me when times are rough - and they basically love me as much as I love them. And this, my dear friends, is a gift. To love, and to be loved back.

#7 Mr. Ashok Chakradhar

How awesome could it feel when a bunch of friends conspire to invite your favourite poet as a surprise for your birthday? Ashok Chakradhar ji has been a favourite since I first saw him on television in a show called Wah Wah! I could meet him only for a little while, but cutting the cake with him, hearing him recite his poems and being gifted a heart-breakingly pretty crystal lotus by him are sweet bits of memory I shall always savour!

#8 Bhagwan Das Ji and Cultural Extravaganza

No part of my body was not enjoying when Bhagwan Das Ji, the legendary puppeteer, singer, poet, performer came down to perform specially for my birthday! He is a repository of dying traditions and cultural practices, facing his own share of apathy from those authorities which have a reputation of being insensitive when it comes to their own interests. However, personal hardships aside, he sang like a true performer - filling us all with Rajasthani and Sufi melodies. Kailash bhaiya, his second in command, took over to then put up some fine showmanship, which included puppet dances which were breathtaking and unbelievable. An artist who knows his craft can breathe life into the lifeless.

#9 Mr. Harivansh Rai Bachchan

He could definitely not have come down for my birthday, but I invoked him for some solid life advice. We're all transient, and dispensable - and if to this truth we do not awaken, we're being plain unjust to ourselves and the world around us. Leaving behind things which are dear is never easy - but sometimes, moving on, even if with tears, is the only option. One of the greatest poets of our country taught that in a perfect poem his scribbled ages back. The beautiful consolation was that his son, Mr. Amitabh Bachchan, sent me an autograph scribbled on my portrait, along with four other famous names - Gulzar sahab, Shaan, Hariharan ji and Mr. Manmohan Singh. How do my friends even make these things happen is crazy.

#10 The Magicians

And there are so many of them. They're also known as friends, but for now, I shall call them magicians. I can never say enough about them, so let's leave it there. Over past few months, I've lost some, gained some, reconnected with some and fallen madly in love with some. My cup is full, so full, that it continues to brim over in a smile or in a fond tear.

These are only two of the many faces which make my world special

Such celebrations should happen only once in life. To all the gorgeous people who were a part of my day, I'd just say - stay close, you're all valued. And my life makes sense and has meaning because of all of you.

On that note, the day ended. 

Hurriedly Scribbled #2

This one is a little late, but since my blog crossed 8,00,000 views a few hours back, today's countdown post is very much in order.

So, if someone were to ask you, what was the one thing you discovered in the year of life which just went by, what would you say? Really - its a question to which you must write an answer in the comment box below. What I want to see is if you can actually stop at scribbling one thing down. In an entire year, one could discover so much about himself, about life, about people. Can there actually be that one, overpowering thing which towers above all the other experiences of life, establishing itself in a position of dominance, from where it stands a chance of influencing and shaping your life?

As is apparent, I asked this question to myself. I often do, but I wake up to different answers. As of today, my answer would be, that the 24th year of my life was significant because it was in this time period that I discovered feminism. I am not sure if my discovery was related to unearthing a mini-feminist sitting crouched somewhere inside me, but I have definitely become more sensitive to the misogynistic strains which permeate the air we unconsciously breathe. Honestly put, its troublesome, to see how stereotypes relating to gender and sexuality are just accepted without challenge, and to find yourself become sensitive and reactive to them. Its an honest admission. I reckon I was better off when I could laugh at those of my ilk when others chose to make a joke out of them. This day, I cannot. I don't get messed up with anger, but rightfully indignant I do become when I see biological limitations becoming a curse, and social conditioning getting more regressive by the day. Try as hard as I might, I cannot laugh at what Kapil Sharma puts up as humour. It was funny for the initial bit, but to make a trend of laughing at women, servant class, and obese people - no, it just doesn't work any more. I did hear someone call Kapil the Shekhar Suman of our times, and with whatever little I remember of Movers & Shakers, I tend to disagree. Lets leave the rants at that.

A magazine I edited while heading the Women Studies and Development Cell, back in JMC

I don't like cooking. I don't want to cook. I always knew it was a difficult position to assert, but the fact that I would have to negotiate with not just individuals, rather entire communities to have this fact understood was not known to me. Ask Neha, please, how I routinely burn my eggs even in the simplest of recipes, or how I almost always end up adding extra salt in my maggi, sometimes even twice the amount of that extra salt, and you would know what kind of a culinary cripple I am talking off here. A few years back, I had even heard of a phenomenon called 'Mageirocophobia', which is the fear of cooking, and had conveniently adopted the label, till it was shrugged off by the dust of sookha aata on the chappati I was learning to flatten with a rolling pin. I can finally get them nice and round, but its only as enjoyable as a once-a-fortnight craft activity for me. I would enjoy painting the kitchen walls with vegetable dyes in an equal proportion. Unfortunately for many around me, this was the year I discovered Rokeya Sakhawat Hossain, Simone de Beauvoir and Parveen Shakir. I discovered Virginia Woolf and via the might of her quill, I understood the possibilities which would have been snatched from the hands of a certain, fictional Judith Shakespeare. (Among many of my professors, Dr. Baran Farooqi I specifically need to thank here). I learnt how economics influences the social, and how soon the personal starts becoming political. Vague? Well, yet again, a coffee invite is open. By the way, do you have any theories about the origin of the concept of incest? Try researching, some awesome nonsense might raise its ugly head in front of your eyes then.

The above is only a minute fraction of what has been festering inside me since long. It was the most pleasant journey of my life which probably ended up turning me into a feminist. Probably. And no, it is not because of some harsh experiences related to my body or sexuality. Yes, those are avenues of study for anyone wanting to delve into the politics of gender, but this is not the trigger for me. My problems started surfacing with something much more basic, perhaps even trivial to the world - emotions. Caught teary-eyed in certain situations, I realized that my valid concerns were being overlooked, undermined, just because tears, or sentimentality have come to acquire gendered connotations. I was not always PMSing while I was trying to make the world understand what part of me was hurting and why. In case of conflicts, primarily with the other sex, it was always expected of me to see reason, logic, and abandon emotions as they stifle fruitful outcomes. I failed to find logic in situations which had feelings attached at the very core of them. If I cry, I am emotional. If they show temper, they are not. Its sort of baffling, and ridiculous. And this did not end till one day I decided I will not go down to the level of logic till they decided to rise to the level of emotions. The process of othering, which I always found ludicrous, is the only refuge my expressions in this case have come to adopt.

Aaqib Raza Khan and his magic lens, yet again

I have a paper on gender, two days from now. You can see I am decently prepared. Superficially yes, but I'll conquer my syllabus soon.

The 24th year of my life was also the one where I discovered poetry and mythology. And some fantastic relationships. I'll pen them down soon too. For now, 6 days to go!
(This post is an hour late, hence I quote the figure 6)

Rewriting Delhi - Part I

Around December last year, I began assisting Asif Khan Dehlvi in his endeavour named Delhi Karavan, which is a concept traversing through time and space to serve the best of Delhi in front of those who are in love with the city, and are eager to explore it. In my journey with Delhi Karavan, I realized the truth in the oft quoted line - To have travelled is to have arrived. I am more of a ghostly presence there, seldom manifesting in actual events, but lurking somewhere behind the online face of it. The freedom which Asif grants me to explore my city, my way, is what makes even this virtual journey so liberating, and in keeping with the same spirit, I started drafting for Delhi Karavan mini Facebook columns called 'Rewriting Delhi' sometime back. These columns were about how I saw my city, and what is it that fascinated me about it. In the form of stale quintets, I decided to share these columns with you as well, also to know what is it about this rich, ravaged, reconstructed city that you happen to admire.

Here is the first quintet, the first five posts written under #RewritingDelhi 

#1

"Meri muhabbat pe shaq na kar ae sheher mere
Par teri dewaaron par laparwaah si kabhi sachchai bhi dikh jaati hai"

Armed with a new phone in hand, with awesome camera specification, I was eager to click the best visuals from my city - and this is the first that caught my eye in a fast food outlet in Connaught Place. It amused me, yes, but also shook up some funny memories of misogynistic encounters I have had while travelling through the deemed safest areas of Delhi. I love this place I live in, and this is where I want to die - but our city has to go a long way in becoming a safer haven for women. Or so I think.

Some people, I reckon, need to read the writing on the wall.

Spotted inside McDonald's, somewhere in CP

#2

"Panno mein uljhe chehron ko dekha hai kya kabhi?
Tujhmein hi ae sheher yeh apna khwaab sajaate hain"

This lane has a distinctive importance of its own - if you ask me, then more so. This is where the dreams of many an aspirants for the highest jobs in India come to seek salvation. Not just that, this is where an entirely different kind of crowd scurries in as well - and that is the foodie crowd. If you are a chaat-deewaana, it can't be that you have not heard of the Shri Prabhu Chaat Bhandaar in Delhi. Just in case you have not, you must rush here to see the confluence of some serious aspirations with some tangy flavours.

Right beside Dholpur House, the destination for many aspirations

#3

The excitement of devouring these lovely, fried pieces of potato was such that I could not avoid getting the click blurred. But then, that is what #DelhiChaat does to you. Invariably, in all corners of the city, around the next bend, at short distances from each other, you will find jazzy chaat stalls inviting you with all their might to taste the sweet and tangy flavours they have to offer. Golgappas, Tikki, Lachchha Tokri and a spread of some other delectable quick-foods is irresistible. For me, however, these fried potatoes - called Aaloo Chaat - work best. Is it the same for you too?

This is proper Delhi fast food, which no number of Americanised joints can push out. And thats what I will keep believing.

Aloo Chat!

#4

“Kya manzil ki tak mein zindagi basar karoon
Ya is safar ko hi apni manzil maan loon?"

Have you ever felt like taking a taxi to nowhere, to travel for the sheer pleasure of travelling? This picture, by my dear friend, Aaqib Raza Khan gives me dreams, it makes me want to become an explorer. A taxi to nowhere could also be a taxi to everywhere, or so I think.

I don't see many taxis around in the city, except now for those fancy call-cabs, each an advertisement hoarding in itself. But then, this is also how my city is changing, evolving, becoming new.

Aaqib Raza Khan's lens clicks these beauties!

#5

"Ae sheher tu razdaar bhi, dildaar bhi, fankaar bhi
Jo panaah de, na sawaal kare, woh humsafar, woh yaar bhi"

You did not think this city opens its arms only for you, is it? When you head out to capture interesting moments, you find them being played out between creatures of all colours and sizes. Like here. These were spotted lurking on top of a shed in some corner of Dargah Nizamuddin Auliya, caught deftly by the all observing camera of Aaqib.

Are they growling, or romancing? That is where my thoughts end, still wondering.

Inside Dargah Nizamuddin Aulia, again clicked by Aaqib

PS - If you liked what you got to read here, more will come your way, soon!

Meanwhile, why don't you follow @DelhiKaravan on Twitter, or hop onto their Facebook page by clicking here.

The Path of Desires

"PACH zindagi mein pyaar leke aaya hai" 
- Many people, over time.

Dear PACH, 

I like the concept of a Desire Path. Do you know what it is? It is that path which is created through jungles as a consequences of repeated foot traffic. This path takes its own sweet time to come into existence, aided by collective instincts of people over a prolonged period. Isn't it a nice thought that people who are completely unknown to each other are actually indulging in a benevolent activity to aid the travels and explorations of those who follow them. I always like to think of the point at which such a path began. How do so many people travel down the same route enough times so as to create a route which is sometimes the only resort for directions in non-negotiable wilderness? I know all of this sounds random, but I am trying my hand at developing a metaphor for you. You are a Desire Path. You came into existence out of nothing. For your coming into existence in such a glorious form, a lot of us had to travel down the same road together. Our thoughts did not shape you as much as you shaped our thoughts. I am actually confused at times - did we make you, or did you make us? 

You are, as I said, a Desire Path. You know, you are also a 'Desired' Path, which so many of us journey on together, each alternate Sunday, not knowing the kind of beauties we might encounter on the way. We are also completely unaware of the kind of difficulties, or difficult moments which greet us down this road, but then, whistling through the woods, we manage to find music in all your facets somehow. So yes, you are a Desired Path. You know what else, you are also a Path of Desires - to you come linked so many wishes, dreams and hopes; and how all of them manage to remain selfish and innocent, I am yet to understand. You're growing up big and fast, and hence your Desires from us have also increased, rather disproportionately, if I may admit. We're trying to keep up, but really, you make us run. You make us want to become better than we already were. You're involving more and more people so that your growing up needs/desires can be catered to. And yes, again I will say, we're trying. All of us together. This will culminate into something beautiful, this path of desires, and much else. You know what the best, our fate lies in the journey here. There is not really a destination we're moving towards. Its the journey, in which lies your beauty. Thanks for sparing us the mad rush for a destination. 

I am sorry I took a long while to get back to you which my words of awe and gratitude. It was not as much your loss as it was mine. I miss talking to you, you know. Talking to you was among the biggest motivations of my life. And so, today I will rant, irrespective of how tedious or verbose this letter becomes. I will also throw editing/omitting caution to the wind and just write. Write for you. To whisper to you. To shout at you. To communicate to you how much you mean to my life, even with all your demands. You're happiness. Will you please always remember that? No pressures or anything, but try and bear that in mind. 

I could have divided this letter into three parts, but I will divide it into three 'Epistles'. Yes, its a fancier term, and hence I like it. Also, it makes each of the three smaller letters independent letters in themselves, which they are, except that they are united by this acute urge of mine to cuddle you to death tonight. Metaphorically, of course, lest you make that funny face and shirk me, playfully, of course. But I will still put my disclaimers in place. 

Here. Three Epistles. For three awesome dates I had with you. Yes, you. 

EPISTLE I

I love history, I love Delhi. I love the fact that Delhi discloses itself to keen eyes by the many manifestations of historical heritage strewn across its length and breadth. I also love the fact that in the PACH pot (Yeah, smirk. I have been led down to this understanding of PACH now) on 12th January fused poetry and heritage together. In the verdant gardens of the Lodhi era majesty we met and spread so many hues of poetry around. The kind of coming together of people I saw that day is rare, and PACH, you were the one to make it happen. Our own gang was reciting poems at their glorious best, but a lot of idle wanderers, or vagrants pursuing words to find meaning in life, met us at various junctures in the session. They seamlessly blended together, like they had known us for ages. I know it sounds odd (and vain?) coming from my mouth, but I have not seen cozy-couch-like-comfort being found so easily in life. You inspire trust, PACH. You inspire. Enough said.. 

But no, talking to you can never be enough. The repository of the written words you are building silently is bulging with wonders. And for that, there is a team of inspired and enthusiastic PACH sweethearts who need to be thanked. These people work behind you, and are adding so much richness to your texture. I know you wanted me to, and hence I thanked them profusely, after allotting some more work, goes without saying. 

Your amazing opening was marked by Sudhanshu's mad attempt to decorate you into words. Fourteen quatrains, all designed as acrostics to spell PACH, and all PACH members included in that beautiful narration. This chap is mad. For you, of course. Our tryst with heritage got stronger when Vikram sir sang the portion of an epic he is writing on Delhi's history. There were ghazals sung and recited. There were old, yellowing letters which were opened up again.

There, then, was the show-stealer, Navin ji, who was trying to take a satirical dig at the marketing industry which can sell sand to an Arab. That he could mimic so well, I had no clue. Now that I have heard accents from the Middle East to Australia, I have a fair, irritated idea. And yes, his biggest contribution was adding "Khabeez ka Bachcha" to an already profound vocabulary of the PACH youngsters. Makes me chuckle, but its one performance I will remember. 

Abhinav took us on a journey, again, of love and stuff. Aaqib travelled back to Muzaffarnagar and the tales of horror which had marred the land found vents in his poetry. Neha (meri twin) recited about a friendship which is valuable to her (of course I am talking about myself). Anup hailed professors, and their contribution into the construction of a civilized society. Of course I am kidding. Dipalie spoke of geysers, morning ablutions and nocturnal conversations. Oh, a poem on me just added so much to my glee! There were tales of love, old and greying. There was Kamal, with his ode to individual members of PACH (and yes, this kid inspires me each time he opens his mouth). 

Then there were all of us, singing away popular melodies while I secretly revelled in the fact that the chorus of PACH has come alive, and it gave me a strange kind of comfort, assurance. I like to see you bring people together, PACH. Keep doing that please. Keep touching lives. Keep making poets out of people who did not think they could write. 

EPISTLE II

It was a winter morning where I was dead. That all that fatigue making me dead would be short-lived was completely known to me. I, after all, had a date with you. However, here, I need to apologise. Nothing can explain the fact that I was two and half hours late for a date which is one of the most important things to me in life. You were, however, safely ensconced in Ekansha's care, hence I could breathe easy through all those last minute haste. PACH, you must know you are special. So very special. And I am glad we now have more people who treat you the same and who make you come to life even when Anup or I are not around for sometime. But we like to be there, as much as we can push ourselves. 

A decently chilly morning, and PACH bazm on Ekansha's terrace, with flowers, and cushions and quilts and caps. It was one of those meets where I had a cute feeling about myself. I did not have anything to recite, but that was good. There were so many furious quills and curious eyes waiting to metamorphose into verbal expression in front of an understanding and endearing audience. Poetry over chai and pizza - the hosts made sure that PACH #15 is an experience no one forgets.

 

We read out your Preamble that day. Do you remember those tired, outstretched hands, and the amused words just pouring out? I remember, because it was a particularly funny and proud moment for me. We had mouths opened wide with AMJ's recitation of a sestina, the shock of the genius of which still assails me. This format is worth being a challenge. Rini's poem on an author's obsessive search for correct words seemed indecipherable at first, but later felt like a revelation. Amrit Raj commented on his inability to compliment. Deeksha came up with awesome Gibberish. Ekansha's Urdu and her sensitivity to social issues baffled me. Kamal made apt remarks on the hypocrisy which has now been institutionalised in religion. Govind took the off-beat track by writing a poem in English - just as hilarious as his Hindi one. Abhinav talked of slumber, and inspirations and romance. Do you see the diversity you are blessed with, PACH? Pure awesomeness. And magic. And I can never say much.

If I were to point out one person to whom the day belonged, it was Kamal. Yes, he recited awesome poems and clicked awesome photos, but he also had a lot of PACH love smeared on him by Sudhanshu and Rohit. The former went senti (his usual style), and the latter tied his friend in the rhythm of a rap. There is this adorable Venky gang which has completely dedicated itself to you PACH. Hugging all of these ultra-emotional friends together was an incredibly warm moment. 

As the sky darkened, I found myself shivering, bowing down to the chicaneries of Delhi weather. The familiar PACH comfort took over then. When the warmth inside me was waning, a caring embrace made me confident with the fact that everything is well in the world, and PACH is still what it was always supposed to be - a place where not just poetry is set free, but where dying spirits are uplifted. Mine were. We had the gathering pulsating with energy because of the numerous toddlers making it their business to distract us and then stare at us with those unbelievably cute eyes. 

The day began with a "Roadies Salute" (now a regular feature) and ended with the knowledge that PACH had again done those wonders it was so used to performing, yet it held them special and yearned for their repetition. I want to be with you each time you are performing those miracles PACH. I like it so much when new faces walk up to me and tell me that you have been among the most satisfying of their experiences in life. Our flock is expanding. I write this with a huge smile on my face. And some hints of perturbations too. 

EPISTLE III

And then came the Grand. PACH, you carved a niche in a gathering of literary excellence. I couldn't believe that a my toddler had now grown enough to climb up on to the stage of Delhi Literature Festival and enthral an audience which was way larger than the number we had entertained at our prime. It was our shortest outing, but perhaps left the largest impact. 

Our nervous, hesitant poets became star performers. It was enchanting to see Vivek recite his poem in front of the poetry of his life. Kamal and Sudhanshu abandoned mics and faced the audience without the slightest hint of performance anxiety on their face. Aavika, the little packet of poetic brilliance, pushed Anup and me off the stage, to regale the crowd with her Sunday song again. Govind lavished praises to his Saree bond. Aaqib talked of love and betrayal, in a completely non-serious, Yo Yo style. Neha bowed to Krsna through her verses. Anurag's love story between a Goblet and Candle was a life-boat to those lost in the alleys of love. Aastha di's recitation was my personal moment of pride. Leher, Arpan and Pratima stepped onto the PACH stage for the first time. Dipalie recited like the beloved I could easily marry. Navin ji bombed the audience with his prose piece again. We also have a PACH song now, on which we went a little crazy dancing and babbling nonsense. 

Oh, and wait - how could I not mention the awesome note on which the PACH show began? That poem, narrating the journey of a poem, was like a dream performance. I had always admired the writer/poet in Anup so much that to stand and share the stage with him is a privilege I can go on being happy about. In the morning, I had carried some special overseas wishes from Jyoti di in a warm, furry satchel with me. Those wishes worked wonders. We got back home that day absolutely content, and positive about your future PACH, down that path of desires. Rather, up that path of desires. And love. And magic. And warmth. And motivation. And inspiration. And happiness. 

I maintain, like always. You are all of the above, and so much more. Even before I finish this letter, the draft of another nocturnal epistolary tryst with you is getting framed in my head. 

I love you, with deep attachment and pure intentions. I have dreams, you know, of being with you, and with all those people who make you awesome. You're demanding, yes, but I know your demand are justified, and natural. 

I am sleepy. Dead. Gone. But I have to say - You, PACH, are the most beautiful story of my life. I write you, and you write me.

On that note, I kiss you Good Night. 

Love,
Saumya

Mera blog, meri photo :)

To You, and the Awesome Road Ahead

Dear PACH

To the basic first - you are awesome. Okay. You're more. You're a redefinition of awesomeness. People could call it vanity on my part, but then, between you and me, I can always say these things. You know its not vanity as much as disbelief, fondness, and then, some legitimate parental pride. With those love-filled, keen eyes, I am witnessing your growth - and when we last met, you left me speechless with all the grandeur. 

That's you, that's us

It had been long since you and I met. While writing this, I realized something funny, and strange. In your world, the serious can coexist with funny, the dull can coexist with bright, the silence can coexist with noise. Basically, you permit it all. And so, the funny thing I realized is, you feel like a kid, and a beloved, all at the same time. And you can, you totally can coexist in my head as both those entities. Its fun to see you grow each time we meet. Its fun to see me fall for you all those times, over and over again. You're plain awesome. Oh, but I already told you that. 

The 13th invite

Among the new things that I have to tell you, there is none. Except the fact that in our thirteenth tryst, you overshadowed all your previous manifestations. That's something you do. This time, however, was slightly different, for you led us to a time warp, within walls which echoed the most personal and priceless sentiments of a human heart. We met in a place where the bustle of city comes to rest, where the walls entice you to detach yourself from ordinary, hectic life,  and spends moments of intimacy with yourself. For me, personally, Ugrasen Ki Baoli is a place where I have seen melodies of life and relationships play out. In that sense, and in every other, this was a perfect venue for our rendezvous. 

The enchanting venue

When we arrived here, I and this other person who is equally fascinated and proud of you, but doesn't say it that often,  had already spent a beautiful morning in the company of Delhi's own genius poet, Mirza Ghalib. Having traversed the winding alleyways of Ballimaran and Kucha Pati Ram Gali, our poetic day began with the most traditional flavours greeting and refreshing us. Heritage and poetry often hold hands while walking. That morning, in a green-tinged haveli, I understood why. Urdu poetry, penned by the mighty quill of Ghalib himself, being read out in the space which was originally his, was an absolute treat for the senses. In the tiny metro ride from Chawdi Bazar to Rajiv Chowk, I mumbled this to myself - "Ragon mein daudte phirne ke hum nahi kaayal/ Jab aankh hi se na gira toh phir lahu kya hai". Essentially, I was carrying a little bit of Ghalib with myself, PACH - and so glad am I that he and his stories came to meet you too. 

Mulaqat-e-Ghalib

Our start was slow, remember? It was like a perfect winter morning waiting to come to life, but fighting to retain the lazy romance which is its ultimate marker of beauty. In no time, however, you attracted enough people to leave my forehead slightly creased. I remember exchanging that amused - not worried - glance with Anup, where we were basically puzzled to see so many of them climbing down the stairs of the stepwell to us, some perched on bliss, others on curiosity. It was a flock coming together, or what Neha Bawa prefers to call her tribe. 

Same emotions, different expressions. 

Facing our poets, who double up as the audience. 

She was one of the earlier ones to open up, with two poems letting out stifled emotions. I was moved enough to share my own. Somewhere in this rush of poetic energy, a few new, yet recognizable faces greeted us - and they added a greater hue of grandeur to our last poetic tryst. A short introduction to Parveen Shakir and to feminism in Urdu poetry was given to us by Rana Safvi - a shayra herself. In her tone, she carried authority as well as the affection of an elder. I could've gone on listening to her. Asif Khan Dehlvi, the master storyteller from Delhi Karavan, was waiting in the wings, to regale the gathering with anecdotes about Zauq and Ghalib's rivalry. Vikramjit sir's presence, coupled with DJ's much awaited entry to the PACH scene - it all added up beautifully to kickstart the last mehfil of 2013. 

Asif, in full flow

Rana ma'am - adding the feminist touch

Six paragraphs down, I am still at the kickstarting phase. We're both crazy when we talk to each other, and I am crazy about the craziness you are. Each new face which came in went back feeling they've known us for long. There were rockstar performance by Anup and Kamal - their poems having become a part of the very fabric of PACH. Vaibhav combined Chemistry and Poetry into a product where each couplet led to applauses. Rohit developed a single innuendo to persuasively propose to you, PACH - because for him (as for me) meeting you was akin to falling in love. Amrit left us a little stunned when he recited and recounted numbers in his poem written over a train journey. Aaqib's shayari worked backwards, but still found the perfect route to enter our hearts. Himadri's nervousness made her endearing, but I kept wondering why would a poet as sensitive and sensible as her would be scared to share her creations with us. Taru recollected a painful friendship; so did Vaishali. Anirudh, the videshi-chhora, came back to take us through realizations which hit a person in the process of growing up, or becoming a man. Sonalika di spoke for womanhood, spoke for compassion. Archana asked for Neha's voice to express what was personal and sacred, and painful too. Nabila, Rudra, Dipali, Karan, Shiva, Varun, Akhil - so many names and faces shared so much with us that it is impossible to recollect it all here. Still, PACH, do you know why I take out time to share it all, minute by minute, feel by feel with you? Well, its my way of prolonging the best time life sends my way. I am that kind of a romantic, you see. 

We were much more than what you see here

Someone called us the convenors of all this madness. We're a little mad ourselves, you see. 

My favourite moment from the last meet was when sir (whom we know as Aastha di's sir) took out time to introduce us to God and his mysterious ways, which are incomprehensible to a mortal's brain. He also, then, introduced us to the magic that Aastha di herself is. I did tell you I love her, right? And also that she is the most precious gift PACH, you, have brought for me? Well, after the poem I wrote and recited for her, you would know! She knows, but its the kind of love which I wanted the world to know of. Again, thats precisely the kind of romantic I am, you see. You're grand, that you let me be. 

Aastha di and sir

Lines just rhyme these days. Music is what you hear in Yogesh ji's poetry, which chugs amidst the mundane faces found in a metro. Melody is what is encased in Pratibha's poetry - who decorates you with words which cause my heart to well up. A marriage of music and melody is what it is like to see Pratibha and Yogesh descend the stairs with gorgeous smiles on their faces. Music, which is soft and lilting, is what you are, PACH. Harmony is when all the diverse voice which make you come together to celebrate poetry, and to celebrate life.  

The official, first PACH couple

Having told you this much, I am far from being done. We paused for a bit, bidding adieu to the beauty that had hosted us, only to huddle on the roadside to lend our ears to the remaining poets. Huddling and cuddling were on our agenda the entire wintry afternoon, if you remember. It was happyfying to hear an elated Sudhanshu, admitting to have found inspiration in his own verses. A cute Aavika, with usual reluctance, poured love in our hearts with her soft lyrics. Shruti, more than anything, left me flabbergasted with her vocabulary, and the dexterity with which she juggles words. Navin ji, the master performer, displayed yet again why he is multiple leagues above us all. Anurag, hmm, is a kid who overwhelms me so much that I often forget his words - thats just my connect with him. Ekansha chose Faiz above her own words - and I was glad that after Parveen Shakir and Mirza Ghalib, another Urdu poet became a part of our gathering. My own, personal, favourite surprise was when Supriya (whom I like calling #DilliKiBilli) decided to share an old piece of poetry with us. More prized, however, were her reactions to the other poets, which are what led to multiple, enthusiastic discussions about you in Kunzum. You, PACH, are just hitting it off big with people. Take my word. 

The written word

Aunty, with Aafreen!

In the most comfortable embrace, I recited and ended our journey through 2013, with sparkling hopes in my heart to see 2014 become an even more liberating, surprising, elevating celebration of poetry and life. Did I already say that earlier? Well, again, it fits. You, and I, have come to a happy place. You, and I, and all of us together. You are among the most satisfying of my experiences. You infuse pride, sure, but then, you're humbling too. When I look back at this one-day-over-half-a-year we've spent together, nurturing and caring for each other, I feel a certain amount of nostalgia. Why nostalgia? Because you are the best thing to have happened to me in a long time. Years and years hence, I shall be talking about you to my grandchildren, with sketchy details, perhaps, but all the correct emotions. You are a toddler, whose pace of growth, honestly, is a little scary. But then, we're in it, together. I'm writing to you, but will you mind terribly if through this letter, I also thank each single person who has ever supported us in the smallest of manners? You're grand, and innocent. I think you would want to be with me in thanking them all. 

Happy 'half year old' PACH!

Its a flood of fond emotions, but its just the beginning. And when I mention beginning, I instinctively thank Anup. He conceived you, you know - so you technically began in his head. But about these endless words of gratitude, he knows much now. 

Happiness and hope

And so, dear PACH, I wish you a happy, fulfilling and thrilling New Year. You flow in my head right now like a mesmerizing background melody. You set me free. In your own, unique, magical way. As a last confession - you've made me grow fonder of myself - and this, I value, beyond everything else associated with you. 

Much love.
Saumya. 

All the awesome people!

PS - I am so full of you, and you're coming back, so soon? Oh, PACH. You just know how I like being loved best :) We meet again, Sunday, 12th January.

In my happy zone