Showing posts with label dedication. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dedication. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Ammi - Letters to a Democratic Mother by Saeed Akhtar Mirza


That is why I came down to your bed that night and began to massage your feet. Do you remember? ‘That’s very nice of you Saddu … very nice,’ you had said as I kneaded your feet and ankles. I know you were surprised by my action but what I didn’t tell you was that I was hedging my bets. You had once told me that it was written in the Quran that heaven lay at the feet of all mothers. As I massaged your feet furiously, I was hoping God was watching and taking down notes. (Page 66, Ammi- Letters To A Democratic Mothers, Saeed Mirza)

The concept of motherhood is perhaps the simplest to understand. It is universal. No man can eschew its influence, both, in the presence and absence of a mother. Despite being simple and universal, the intricacies of motherhood are complex to the observer’s eyes; unfathomable too. Thoughts, theories and eulogies exist aplenty about it all - the most apt perhaps being the one which equates mother to God- the Creator. The divinity, the unquestionable haloed status of a mother arises from the fact that she is the channel through which new, nascent life forms set foot in the world. She seamlessly glides into the role of a Preserver too, as she nurtures and protects her infant, and oversees his/her growth into an able, and healthy adult. Truly has been said about this unsung hero who decorates each child’s life with beauty and comfort that she is not someone to be understood from the outside. Only a mother can understand the dynamics of a mother’s heart. She is the most powerful influence in the early stages of a man’s life, but not always understood by the very objects of her love. The time when she is, is sometimes too late.


On the surface, the debut novel of Saeed Akhtar Mirza, seems to be building on this lamentation associated with motherhood. Below the surface, the same novel derives heavily from a psychedelic mix of unrelated concepts, thoughts, ideas and people to form a narrative which is engaging and unconventional. Ammi- Letters to a Democratic Mother is a unique book. At its core lies a son’s awe, admiration and reverence for his mother. However, the book seeks to investigate more than just the relationship between a child and his mother. This book is a journey across time and space, events and people which influenced a young mind. This book is also a sensitive, yet not sentimentally, written ode of a child to his mother, posthumously.

Saeed Akhtar Mirza – the name may be new to the world of contemporary Indian literature, but it is very popular among art cinema aficionados. After a decade of bollywood inspired by the angry young man in whom the discontent of the middle class found voice, 1980s were a decade of creative degeneration, as is rued in polemical accounts by cinema critics. The 1980s, also called the ‘disco’ decade, were also the decade in which the Indian art cinema scene came of age. Serious in content and keenly intent upon telling realistic stories inspired from sociopolitical climate of the times, this wave of cinema was endorsed and led by acclaimed film-makers foremost among whom was Saeed Akhtar Mirza. By making and presenting films like Naseem, Mohan Joshi Hazir Ho, Saleem Langde Pe Mat Ro and Albert Pinto Ko Gussa Kyun Aata Hai to an audience blinded by the glitz and glamour of mainstream cinema, Mirza had long established himself as a master storyteller. This time around too, he comes out to tell a story, story within stories, only using a slightly different medium. He holds a pen in his hand instead of a camera, and churns out a novel which delights with its understanding of important concepts and world events.

Mirza’s mother passed away in 1990. Despite being in the same city, Mirza could not meet his mother before her death due to a mundane act of procrastination. This novel was penned around 2007 in the form of a long, continuous letter written posthumously by Mirza to his mother. Despite this lucid proclamation, this novel is cannot be categorized under the routine epistolary form of writing. In his narrative, Mirza mixes together more than half a dozen literary forms to aid the narrative as and when required. Ranging from critical reporting of global and domestic events, parables, poetries (Urdu and English), short stories, historical accounts, travelogue, to satires and plain sharing of memories- this novel keeps changing the landscape a reader journeys on while reading it. Quite remarkably, experimenting with different literary genres does not, even for once, compromise upon the continuity and comprehensibility of the broad storyline. The essence remains constant; it is aided by scores of vignettes inserted at appropriate places to make the narrative engaging and entertaining.
The author - Saeed Akhtar Mirza

It is quite difficult to succinctly put into words the basic storyline, or what one would call the essence  of this novel. It has many stories to tell, many events to discuss and many discourses to give. However, broadly, in the form of a single letter, Mirza relates to the reader the domestic affairs of an ordinary Indian family. He begins with salutations to his mother and then goes onto build her personality, one that was formidable and inspirational from where he saw the world. He begins her story from the time of her marriage, and with sensitivity and sensibility, tracks her growth into a mature woman, who despite having begun her life in a cocoon, stands up as the moral, spiritual and even financial pillar for her family. A character analysis, albeit interesting, will take up a lot of space here, but suffice to say that it is a bildungsroman of a kind, in which many characters grow, and mature around the central, pervasive figure of the mother. At the end of the main narrative, the script of a film comes attached - which merits an entire review and analysis for itself. The magic of the book has many manifestaions - insight on love and relationship, history and politics, society and culture, individual and family - and so much more! 

That said, I have to emphasize that this book is compilation of rare beauties, which kept me enamoured from the first word. The most beautiful and believable love story unlocked itself in the pages of this book, almost like a fable of coming together, and staying together. It is a book I hold dear, very dear. It made me smile internally, it prompted me to think and reflect, it also motivated me to investigate into incidents and people mentioned. What more can a literary creation aspire for? Certain pieces of beauty should not be rated, but if I could, I would give it five stars on five, and perhaps some more.


Book Details
Author - Saeed Mirza
Publisher - Tranquebar
Published - 2008
Genre - Fiction
Pages - 385
Price - Rs. 295 (Paperback)

Monday, March 24, 2014

If I Were To Have A Siamese Twin

With your smile
I travel a mile
Into the realm of magic
And golden dreams.
You shush and subdue
The nasty screams
Which burst my calm.
You hold my arm
And infuse strength
Across the length
Of my tiny world
Which now feels desolate
When you don't appear
And sit down near
My shivering being
And love me like
A current of affection
A caring stream.
A crystal heart
With radiant beams
You light my life
Give it direction.
In the depth of your eyes
I locate my reflection.
I feel less mad
Or a little more glad
For the madness I am.
You're the key
To an unwritten puzzle,
An angry exam
Which I confront
Using your pencil I hunt
Answers to irony
Arriving at junctures
That plain seem funny
But you make sense
Even in nonsense dense
And I get closer
To the idea of a bond
Fragile, pure, and fond.
I can write a story,
With no beginnings on ends
For that is how the strands
Of our beings entwine
Into a chaos of order.
You remain a wonder
Which I choose to adore
And not decode. 
The world knows you
In another skin
To my world of poetry
You're a Siamese twin!




I had written this poem on the occasion of the International Women's Day, and had wanted to dedicate it two the four awesome women in my life, and tell them that in ways different, and important, they mean so much to me. 

Cheistha - If you are wondering why am I up so late and writing this thing, stop wondering, and just see this as something really important to me, as something which had to be done at this very moment. I am random this way. And whenever this randomness increases, you're the one who scare me, because you are the one who has to keep me in check. Enough people admire you; allow me to be a tiny mention on that list, always. 
To just smile with you - works like elixir. 

Jyoti Di - There is not enough length of acquaintance that I could boast of, but there is something about you which is enormously assuring, despite the distances which have put us at two opposite sides of the globe. You are a glorious woman Jyoti di, an entire story in yourself, and I am glad for the way in which you unravel in front of me. I think you are among the very few people alive who can convey warmth through the simplest of words. I still wish you could make it to Delhi on my birthday. 
This is the picture of a promise. Which you kept. 

Aastha di - You are the greatest gift life has given me in a rather long time. To even try to sum you up in words is a gross injustice to this bond I have developed with you. You are a personification of much that I hold sacred in life - and I love you, with all my heart, and with all your eccentricities. I am here to stay, you try and stick around too, please?
I felt incredibly loved, pampered this day. 

Neha - I love you, okay? You're that darling pampering whom is a necessity for me in life to survive. The role that you play in my life, mind you, no one has, and no one can. The rich reserve of potential you carry, I hope it goes all the way to arrive at its most deserved juncture. You, my dear, are blessed - and it is only you who can make the most of your blessings. Stay close.
Nice and pink. Suits you, us.

I suddenly have too many women in my life. Something must be grossly wrong with me.
Sigh. 

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Chalo Ab So Jaao

Jab aankhein moondein let jaati hogi tum,
Toh pariyaan thoda kam mehsoos karti hongi khud ko, 
Pariyon ki duniya ki shehzaadi lagti hogi na tum,
Aankhein band kiye, ek muskaan chehre par liye,
Apna ana ko tumse bachaane ki koshish mein,
Yeh neend liye baithi hain tumhaari
Chhed rahi hain laakh khayaal
Tumhe dekh jal rahi hain baari baari


Par meri baat suno,
Inhe jeetne mat do,
Subah intezaar kar rahi hai tumhara
Aankhein moondo
Dil ko shaant karo

Aur chalo, ab so jaao...


Tuesday, November 26, 2013

That's Not The Point!

Baat yeh nahi hai ki tum sundar ho.
Kyunki tumhe tumhaare bare mein bataane baithe,
Toh yeh baat bahut chhoti hai
Kya dhang se tumhe shabdon mein bayaan kar paayenge
Is soch pe shanka bhi hoti hai
Par ab baat karne ki thaan li hai
Der se sahi, waqt ne bhi yeh khwaahish jaan li hai
Kuchh lakeeron ko andekha kardoon
Toh is bhool ko andekha tum kar dena
Kuchh sawaal main khade kar doon, 
Toh unhe jawaabon ki roshni se tum bhar dena


Ab baat yeh nahi nahi ki tum jawaab likh deti ho
Baat toh yeh hai phir bhi kitne sawaal
Hal kiye hain tumne
Kitne hi pareshaan, neeras kono mein
Rang bhare hain tumne
Yeh toh jeevan ke us pehlu jaisa hai
Jo khali bhi, aur dukhdaayi bhi tha
Par jiske bare mein main jaanti nahi thi
Jab tak tumne usko bhar na diya
Dekhi apni achchhai?
Mere jeevan mein ek dukh ko aane se pehle tok diya


Ab baat yeh bhi nahi hai ki tum achchhi ho
Par tum yeh zaroor sikha deti ho
Ki achchhai kya hoti hai
Koi aankhein padh paaye tumhari toh jaane
Ki sachchai kya hoti hai
Par yeh jo aankhein hain tumhari,
Yeh jheel ke khamosh paani jaisi hain
Jinki gehraai maapi nahi ja sakti
Jinki kahaani aanki nahi ja sakti
Kabhi kabhi, khud se hi bhar
Chhalak jaati hain, kuchh kehna ho jaise
Tab darr lagta hai, aur mann kehta hai
Yeh moti sab khud mein sametoon main kaise?


Baat yeh nahi hai ki tum ek kahaani ho
Baat toh yeh hai ki tum mein kisse baste hain
Jeevan ke jo mool hai, who unhi kisso mein toh sajte hain
Ek ek seekh, sabak, ek ek kissa, 
Kitni khubsurti se piroya tumne 
Us mala mein, jo kuchh bhaari zaroor hai
Par amulya bhi, anubhav aur gyaan ratn se
Jiski chamak adrishya zaroor hai
Par jo roshni phailaati hai seedhe antar man se
Kuchh roshni ke kan tumne mujhe bhi diye
Un pyaare palon mein jo tumhare saath jiye


Baat yeh nahi hai ki tum mujhe pyaari ho
Baat yeh hai ki shayad tum khud pyaar ho
Jiska pehla hissa jab mujhe mila tha
Toh samajhne mein thodi der lagi thi
Vishwaas nahi kar pa rahi thi na, 
Jisse dhoondha bhi nahi, woh apneaap dikhi thi
Par ab, tum jitna bhi do
Woh pyaar poora, par kam padta hai
Aur miloon, dekhoon, seekhoon aur jaanoo
Yeh lagaav (jo tumse hai), ab tang karta hai
Mujhe pata hai, tum aisi hi rahogi
Par mere aas paas se kabhi gaayab mat hona
Ek rishta mila hai maayoos sadiyon ke baad
Jaayaz se thoda darna, aur tumse yeh darkhwaast karna
Ki chahe jis raste zindagi le jaaye,
Theek lage, toh mujhe saath le chalna


Akhir mein, baat yeh nahi hai ki tum Aastha ho
Matlab, Aastha toh tum ho hi, 
Par us se kitni zyada ho, yeh batana ab mumkin nahi hoga
Kabhi aur uthayenge phir kalam
Yeh baatein khud tak rakh pana jab aasaan nahi hoga 





This poem came to me on one inspired morning, when I walked out of the warm quilt to tap away on the keyboard my understanding of perhaps the most precious, unexpected gift life sent my way, in her. I wish calling her beautiful, or good, or awesome, or amazing, or even phenomenal was enough. But it is not. Beauty resides so deep within her being, that it makes her glow with a kind of radiance I have not observed in men or women around me. She is different, and rich, and a personification of most manifestations of goodness one can perhaps conceive or conjure. But that's not really the point. I mean, anything I say about her will never be sufficient either to describe what she is like, or to describe what I feel for her. I only, time and again, wish that she, Aastha didi, remains around me always for those doses of inspiration, and those reassuring words of understanding which have come to mean so much to my daily existence. Loving her is a privilege I hope to keep for life. 

Wish you the warmest winters Aastha didi. You've learnt to give the perfect hugs at the perfect time! 

One of those rare times when she is not camera-shy :) 

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

"Ek Baar Phir" - Guest Post by Sidhant Mago

Ek bench.. park mein bench
Hari ghaans, khadi ghaans
Aage sadak..thodi kadak
Sakht sa waqt
Thandi hawa
Khayalon ki umas ki dawa
Kaise bhool gaya, kohra bhi tha
Ya nahi tha..
Ya mujhe laga ki..tha
Kyun main bench par
Paer ghaans par
Aur hawa ke sahaare
Us dhundhle kohre ke beech se
Meri or ek chehra...
NAHI aaya


Ek ghar..furnished ghar
Rocking chair...aage peechhe
Ek carbon paper
Khamoshiyon ke neeche
Chhapa bhi kya, ehsaas?
Ghadi theek thi, samay par
Khidki par os thi
Ya nahi thi
Ya mujhe laga ki...thi
Kyunki main chair par jhoolta
Chair ghadi ke pendulum si jhoolti
Aur us carbon paper ko hataane
Us khidki se os ko mitaane
Achanak se ek haath...
NAHI aaya


Sewaiyaan thi... mannatein thi
Jannatein thi... namaaz thi
Kuchh haath soch hi rahe thi
Aur kuchh already mil chuke the
Kuchh gale jhuk hi rahe the
Aur kuchh already mil chuke the
Ek masjid... jo door thi
Par yaad hai?
Woh rota hua bachcha?
Woh paas tha
Ya nahi tha
Ya tha
Ya mujhe laga ki...tha
Toh maine bhi wahi kiya
Hasa diya
Par phir un sewaiyon ke saath
Woh gala aur woh haath
Us bachche ko hasaate
Eid aayi... par mera yaar
NAHI aaya



About the author
Sidhant Mago is known to the world as Shanky, and to me, he is known as one of the best persons to
have ever stepped on this planet. And I mean it. He is one of those people whose company guarantees unlimited laughter, for humour is his forte. More often than not, you'll be taken by surprise at the kind of wit his very general comments contain. However, the thing about him which impresses me most are his perspectives - on life, on love, on friends, on society - and on every other conceivable thing. Within him is contained an inexhaustible reservoir of creativity, which has many, varied manifestations  - mostly funny, non-serious stuff, or what he proudly calls 'cheap humour'. But then, there is this side to Shanky's creativity too, reproduced here with his permission. And what better day than today to share this poem, which takes one to the melancholy behind a celebratory day.

To all reading this, Eid Mubarak!

And special wishes for Aaqib Raza Khan, whose beautiful photographs have adorned my blog-posts time and again. 
This one falls among my favourite of ARK clicks.


Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Oh, Your Magical Ways...

Dear PACH,

This is my second letter to you, in a series of many more to come, God willing. But this time, I write to you with a very heavy heart. Not sad, just a heavy heart. If I understand you right, you endorse words as a therapy for setting ease to all aches. Isn't that precisely what you demonstrated yesterday? You did, and I trust you, each day a little more. So words, aah, not that they are easy to find. But I will try. For you, for all who make you, and for myself. By the way, did you hear, they called you a 'healer' from behind foggy eyes yesterday? You're too grand to register it sometimes, I thought I will tell you once.

Aastha's art  and Aaqib's artistry 


They then called you magical. It did not seem enough. So they simply began calling you magic. You know I agree with them, and you know what I think about you. I think you are crazy. You are doing crazy stuff which my mortal experiences put in doubt. How, no tell me, how can you have an entire gamut of people come together from distant corners of human diversity and share details of love and life which are feared, which are locked, and which are seldom retrieved from those painful musty corners? Do you believe what happened? I have to, you see, because I was present there, and was listening and absorbing and hugging and absorbing a bit more. Please don't laugh at me when I tell you this, but I think, I have absorbed a fragment of each heart which beats for you. I honestly, genuinely feel so. And carrying those many hearts in my heart, it makes me heavy. It makes me float for a while, too, but it leaves me full, and pleasant, and heavy, all at once.

As I said, literally and figuratively, leaning on each other. 


Tell me, do you know magic? You have to, you are just too mean and too smart to give it away. Or you're just secretive, in a nice way. You keep your magic under wraps, you make me nervous before each meet, you put my excitement to test, but you do it so I may never have any idea what kind of spells your wand will cast on those many hearts looking at you in innocent anticipation. Oh, you playful thing. You make it rain too, which pushes me to assure others while I am shivering with panic deep within. But now I know - you did it to take us to the place where we began. And of course, you take us there to help us realise how far we have come in how little time. We did dwell on it - from a cosy group of nine, we became a cosier group of some forty odd people, all taken together. So cosy in fact, that the warmth drew in people from other tables, stopped some more in their paths to other destinations. Was it because our coffee smelt better than their coffee? Okay, now I am being crazy. It was our mad laughter, our visible happiness, our lovely verses and then, this unmistakable love and trust we shared. That invited them. That invited everyone. That is also what keeps us together. Trust, before love. 


It was another of those days when people cried, and I again, could not. I never cried in your midst, did you notice? You know why? Because I was taught to carry hearts with care. I was also taught to care for emotions laid bare. And there, in that gathering spreading out person by person on the floor, all veils had been voluntarily abandoned, as I looked around in absolute disbelief. Only pure and honest expressions came out, some via exquisite pens, some via gleaming eyes. You did this. I do not even understand what you are made of, or how did you become a living, breathing entity, but I do know you did this. You don't just know magic. You are magic. 
That is what my last letter to you looked like - In Your Nascent Days 



There is this little girl among us, who called you a gift. The best she has gotten in her life. You crazy PACH, I hope you realize you are just two months old, and here are your admirers, calling you a gift and a blessing in the same breath. I am sorry, I should not call them admirers. If I call you a living, breathing entity, it is they who infuse life and breaths in you. They are a part of you. They lean on each other, they lean on you. It is positively insane the way you make them come up with pristine thoughts, gem-like words and majestic verses. You took us on a journey from Agha Shahid Ali, to squirrels and suicides, to schizophrenic delusions, pausing for sometime at Eliot too - all the while perched high on the wings of love, being flapped gently by that demure, yet vivacious girl. You taught us of hope and hopelessness, of love and its silences, of strangers exchanging mute glances, of inhibitions and their overcoming, of bantering in love, of break-ups and break-up humour, and of poetry and its essence. Pardon my extra-liberal usage of the word 'love' in these musings, but, excuse me, is it really my fault?!


Aastha di's creativity - oh, she gave life to the Panda!
Mist. In my eyes. Has to be, right? You are crazy, PACH. I maintain. Last time I spoke to you publicly (for personally, I seldom stop chattering away with you), I was apprehensive about you losing the innocence with which you were born. Today, I have to tell you, that if it were possible in the world to gain in innocence with time, you have accomplished that impossible feat with grace. You're growing, alright, but you're still the toddler whose chuckles give life to the despairing. People are exposing their softest sides, flowing with you in gay abandon, and while you might get used to all this unbelievable attachment, I will still look at you with goofy disbelief. 

You wash away my cynicism, you filter me off all the bad energies I acquire on the way to meet you, and leave me nascent and beaming to face a new week. Trust me when I say this, I feel a little newer after each tryst with you. It is akin to how finding love makes you feel new. This, you already know - finding you was like finding love, in more ways than one. 

You're poetry. You're stories. You're trust. You're love. You're magic. You're enough. 

Talking about you is not, but then, there are tales still waiting to be woven into the regal velvet of your fabric. I will wait for the tapestry to develop a little more before I get down to describing it again. 

You're now called PACH and more. 
All this, still, in your nascent days. 
All this, in your inimitable magical ways. 

PS - I now have one. Aditya Mani Jha, our master storyteller, left me a message which touched me beyond imaginations. He sent us blessings, exquisitely worded. And while reading it, all I could think of was the person where it all began - Anup. However much PACH grows and branches out, it will remain on the first page of our fact book that he gave birth to this idea which is has now acquired a life of its own. Each day PACH makes me happy, I never forget to thank him for it all. I call him the superboss, as do many now, and he is the nicest one could ask for. A genius poet, an outstanding human being, he merits an entire, lengthy post, but that, later. For now, I just want to thank him for being bored in life, because in that boredom lay the seeds of PACH, and of a grand vision for poets and poetry. PACH looks up to him, as do all those who are a part of it. 

Oh, and for PACH to be this crazy, Anup has to be crazier, which he conveniently is. 

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Despair of Life

This, I can feel.
The dented love, eyes with steel
Parched lips, unable to speak
It will take sometime to heal

This, I admit
It ate you up, bit by bit
So long, so true, so pure, so mad
It now seems gross, a tad unfit.

I know, how you felt
Your smoky eyes, your skin velvet
The gentleness which you gently yearned
Your flaring nose when I’d forget.

I know you really tried
Held my arm despite the fright
First to notice signs of cracks
You pushed, you prayed night after night

Not you, I gave up first
I lowered myself to the settling dust
Purposeless, unhinged, unseen
Now consumed by love’s undying thirst

You see, I realized
Sans your presence, each moment despised
Searching love in darkened corners
Not my eyes, but my soul cried

I know, I made you sad
Pulled you down, drove you mad
With each fight your trust bled
You wondered, was it despair you wed.

But now, I am honest
I don’t seek the pain in your chest
I pain, I pine, I feel lost too
Can we overcome dejection’s tests?

You’re broken, and so am I
Let’s hold our hearts before they fly
Don’t you feel united in angst?
Won’t you, like me, without it, die?

Trust me, I will strive
To resuscitate, to make you alive
Through crazy fights and lonely nights
I learnt lessons powerful and concise
There can be no love as wise,
Nurtured without despair of life. 

Photo credits: Madhurjya Saikia, one of the finest photographers I have the fortune of knowing

The above poem was inspired by a friend, and his experiences with love. I have no idea where life will take him, but for now, he is hanging on. He is choosing to believe in love. He is waking up to the fact that essentially, love is all that there is. He is fighting for love - but the deal is, no one can win with love. One could only feel love after having lost everything to it, after having submitted to it. For this feeling and for him, I have the nicest wishes in my heart. 

May you all triumph in life
May you all lose to love. 

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Mere Piya Gaye Rangoon...


A lot of us remember Deepal Shaw gyrating her hips in an insult of a school uniform skirt, thrusting her bosom into the camera and making all sorts of raunchy gestures to the beat of ‘Kabhi aar kabhi paar’. A lot of us will also remember the entire lyrics of the peppy ‘Saiyaan dil mein aana re’, made extremely popular in its remix avatar, and at all parties, we would’ve have chorused its ‘Chham chhama chham chham’ beat. Some of us might even remember Kajol trying her best to sing ‘Kahin pe nigaahein kahin pe nishana’ in the iconic Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, when Shahrukh Khan eases his hand on top of Mandira Bedi’s shy fingers, assuming her to be his lady love. This song then, I feel, became an idiom to tease every person whose targets skipped away from in front of his eyes. Oh, and it is a staple at all wedding antakshari contests too!

Why these songs? Well, that’s because they are united by a voice full of life, which, ironically is being remembered at the time when it has transcended the mortal world. It is even more ironic that while we remember each word of these very hummable songs, only a minority of us will be able to recall the name behind the voice which gave character to these songs. I am talking of the inimitable Shamshad Begum, whose singing was not made up of the velvety, soft, soothing or sugary voice we so admire in our modern day singers. Her voice was husky, unconventional, bold, full of zest and conveyed a sort of mischief, which could be found in each of her renditions. Yesterday, at the age of 94, and much after she left an indelible mark on the Indian music industry, she passed away at her Mumbai residence.

Shamshad Begum forms an important part of my childhood memories. Summer vacations were spent at my maternal grandmother’s house, where, all of her six children (my mother included) were great fans of old Indian music. By old, I do not mean the R. D. Burman numbers, which are as far back as the younger generation’s imagination goes when we utter the word ‘retro’. My family was keen to dig out retro from its very roots, from before the time giants like Mohd. Rafi or Lata Mangeshkar marked their presence. I used to sulk and make faces at the ancient melodies which came out the tape recorder, and it was not until much later that I could briefly remember names of Noorjehan, Uma Devi, Zohra Bai Ambalewali, and then, Shamshad Begum.

It was my eldest mamaji, who left for his heavenly abode last year in a heartbreakingly unexpected manner, who was instrumental in making me develop a taste for old, golden music. This taste has flowered to such an extent that today, I have lyrics of an endless number of classic melodies at the tip of my tongue, and a noticeable share of those melodies belong to Shamshad Begum’s corpus. She was one of the earliest female singers to have become a part of Indian music industry, and was its reigning queen for quite long, well into the fifties, when O. P. Nayyar made her sing immortal melodies in Aar Paar and CID. Along with Geeta Dutt, she is among my favourite singers of all time. What was strikingly unique about her was that in a period where classical values were staunchly adhered to even in film music, her voice brought a rustic and folk touch, which was fresh and lively. Try listening to her songs. They will make you happy, and induce a springy feeling inside you. I do not know which was the first of her songs I heard, but one of the first which caught on my tongue was ‘Mere Piya Gaye Rangoon’. I might not have understood the meaning of the lyrics, but the song seemed funny and entertaining enough to make me enjoy singing it. Simple, with no complicated musical notes, I think songs like these are a triumph on the part of the composer, singer and the lyricists, because they so easily appeal to the audience and in some time, become a part of their culture.

Yes, Shamshad Begum’s songs are a part of our culture now. I have kept saying that she had a lively touch to her voice, but this does not mean she shied away from singing poignant melodies, one of the most memorable being ‘Chhod Babul Ka Ghar’, composed by Naushad. She was born in Amritsar in 1919, and her contributions to Punjabi music are also immense. She has sung romantic songs, wedding songs, bidaai songs, folk songs, solos, duets – there is nothing that can be said enough to effectively eulogise her music career. It can, however, be safely stated that her songs are a touchstone to judge good music. She spent her last days living with her daughter in Mumbai, and as a very delayed recognition of her talent and contributions, was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 2009 by the Government of India. Khayyam, in an interview quoted on her official website, had stated about “Her voice was one of its kind and her enunciation was wonderfully clear. She commanded a lot of respect both at the personal and professional level.”


I know many of you would not have ever heard her songs, or at least, not in her voice. It is a little different, or unconventional, from the kind of music all of us are used to hearing. But if you can find some time, here are five recommendations from me to gain an introduction to her world. These are my favourites – songs I can hear over and over again, throughout my life.

Boojh mera kya naam re from CID
Meri neendon mein tum from Naya Andaaz, a duet with Kishore Kumar
Kajra Muhabbat Wala from Kismet, a very entertaining duet with Asha Bhonsle
Yeh duniya roop ki chor from Shabnam, a cute, funny and bubbly song
Saiyaan dil mein aana re from Bahaar – I could not have left out this song at all!

A statistic states, that 70 per cent of remixed songs had originally been sung by Shamshad Begum. That says something about the kind of appeal her melodies have till date.

Another star has set on Indian music industry. May her soul rest in peace. 

(Originally written for and published on Scroll 360)

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Picture Perfect - December


I know its a little early for this post, but the above picture left me so excited, that I had to share it on my blog, as soon as I could. This was taken on a chilly Delhi afternoon in Aurobindo Market areas, where the flower vendor was still putting his shop together, and was kind enough to let two mad women get themselves clicked in the company of his beautiful flowers. The other mad woman is my friend Neha, who has been complicit in most of my crazy plans in the past few months. You will find her picture below.

There is another reason why for me to have put this picture up. A dear friend of mine, Gopan, found this picture inspirational enough to convert it into a Christmas gift for me. In a beautifully crafted mini-story, called "Memory of a Winter Morning", he has inserted this picture to add a visual glow. And, to be honest, with the story about a girl who sold flowers running in the background, I think this frame looks a lot prettier. A heartfelt thank you to him. 

To all readers of my blog, a Merry Christmas! You all deserve a special thank you for being with me on this journey upto a lakh views. I usually give you all flowers when I need to express gratitude. This time is no different. Roses, gladiola, lilies, carnations - look to my left and take your pick. Thanks for dropping by and leaving your valuable feedback. It feels nice to know that whatever I write is not for nothing, that there will be people who will read it, and also, perhaps, get back to me on it. You make me want to continue writing. Thank you all so much. 

And here is my pretty friend, with more flowers - Neha!


Saturday, November 17, 2012

A Portrait Of His Love


Shiver,
And my fists tighten.
Whisper,
And his grip strengthens.
Music,
My moans to his ears.
Playing,
His love with my fears.
Touch,
He withdraws and I crave.
Coy,
To his love, an eager slave.
Closer,
His breath, his sly grin.
Heat,
His skin on my skin.
Persistent,
His burning gaze.
Abashed,
Tender body, vulnerable face.
Deep,
In passion we fall.
Bliss,
Two bodies, one soul.

Afremov, on my blog after long.
His colors lend the best effect to my words, I feel.
Note - This poem has earlier been published in The Viewspaper, as an entry to Ode to Keats campaign.