The Perfect Winter Read

"There is a legend about a bird which sings just once in its life, more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves the nest it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then, singing among the savage branches, it impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And, dying, it rises above its own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price."

- Colleen McCullough

(The Thord Birds, Page 422, 30th Anniversary Edition)

What are your expectations from winters? Mine are rather simple. Warmth. Whether it comes via a fond conversation over drinks, or through mid-morning strolls in the beautiful monuments of Delhi. Or through a book which makes you forget all else as you plunge nose-deep into it's world of romance. Along with a steaming cup of Earl Grey as you lie limp wrapped in a blanket. 

While the first two expectations I am still working on, the last got fulfilled through the most gorgeous read which was literally thrust into my hands by the very sweet librarian at Shiv Nadar School, Gurgaon. Titled 'The Thorn Birds', I had no idea it was every bit the literary classic I had wanted to lay my hands on since long. It just looked thick, and good enough to hide behind the pages off for a while. And so, I grabbed it and began turning pages at the solemn pace the story demands out of a reader. 

It is not a page turner - a book like this never can be. It is a tale which makes you shut the covers once in a while to reflect, not necessarily on the contents of the story, but perhaps on the universal condition and experience of humans and humanity. It doesn't make you feel wretched; but it makes you realise how equal a participant you are in the inescapable suffering and pain which comes packaged with life. It makes you belong to this world, in its tribulations, if not the triumphs. 

But this is not all why I enjoyed reading the book. I loved it because it churned the ordinary into grand. To call it a love-story between Meggie Cleary and Ralph de Bricassart would be too less. It is a life story extending to three generations, taking the reader painstakingly through every detail, every season, every loss, and every minute of maturing which the characters undergo. It contains characters who are not shy of evolving or altering. These characters - people - respond not to their impulsive vows bound in time and situations, but to life itself. They respond to fears, tragedies, prospects and desires just like we would. It is fabulous to see how at the end, you can actually pin-point all incidents which led to the complex layers that have evolved within each character. That, dear friends, is very, very fine writing. 

A tall, imposing presence in the text is that of Drogheda - the land on which most of the story is based. Even when the tale ventures beyond the land and sea, Drogheda remains conspicuous by its absence. What is profound about this spatial dimension is that just when you are led into believing that there is a permanence which we all must return to, you're made to realise that such permanence can never be earthly. It has to be divine. It has to be of the realm beyond. 

The author - Collen McCullough - who died aged 77 last year.

And finally, the one reason the book will stay with me is because it taught me to see fulfilment in tragedies. It makes you believe that you may begin with a love story, and end up with another. It showed me how answers come to those who believe, not to those who doubt. And also because it, unerringly, and non-judgmentally, brought up the beautiful discrepancies as they exist between genders - through the upbringing, conditioning and also, intuitively perceiving the world. 

Like I said, calling this a love story would be too less. It is a story of lives - many lives, lived and lost. Most certainly recommended to all looking for something replete with grand ordinariness, and ordinary grandeur. 

Love, Language, Literature

Her words
The ones she had borrowed
From love
Life
And literature
Left my palms aglow
As I rubbed them softly
Between my hands
Firmly pressing them into
The meandering lines of destiny
Filling up the cracks
Caused by an undone future.

The haste of chronicling
Her unbridled, scattered utterances
Dried up all ink I carried
But the nib continued scratching
Invisible letters
I later caressed
And comforted with my fingers
Sans comprehension.

Am I supposed to get meanings,
Or intents?
Am I to follow language,
Or expression?
Am I to catch words,
Or flow with the flow?
Am I to find myself whole,
Or scattered in fragments of her story?

The language of love
And of literature
Often leaves a true student illiterate.

Image Source - http://gihsphoto2.weebly.com/assignment-9-book-photography.html

A Heady Brew - Love Cracks You Open

Love cracks you open.

This dawned in a dilapidated nook of SDA market, where I sat with a listener and seeker, a few weeks ago. Silent nooks fascinate me. I look out for deserted and underutilised spaces, which allow themselves to be owned. Habitation and laughter are fond companions, for those who can afford them, including inanimate spaces. And who is to say that the lifeless do not dream of life and laughter? I mean, what if the same nook now dreamt of being in the company of some lively youngsters each day, who hug like its their last meeting, and who laugh like they are the rulers of the world? Dreams, alas, are creatures of discomfort and desires. I don't plan  on going back to the nook anytime soon.

Source- hdwgo.com

But I do plan on going back to the 'cracking' phenomenon of love, rather hastily. You see, this post is one of the more oxymoronic and moronic in general, the way it is forming inside my head. Like a heady brew, if ever any was fermented in my mind. I love taking risks which are emotional in nature, but at a detached distance. Is it even possible, you ask. Well, in a strange, convoluted way, it is. I am not entirely capable of explaining this, but this whole life is going to be a series of trial and error episodes. Let this one be no different.

Safety is inconsequential and antithetical to love. I believe. Love is the greatest of risks, most potent of shocks and the ghastliest of desires. Initially, of course. As you grow in love, and as love grows inside you, you keep getting fragile - ready to act, react, respond, retract on the expectations of who you deem the centre of your Universe. The problem, my dear, is that there can only be one centre of the Universe - either you, or him/her. Yes, there are instances of two stars revolving around each other - but the gravity of one is always greater than the other.

We have no yet evolved to become such stars who have learnt to revolve around themselves. So, when love makes you fragile, and when hurts caused in love crack you open, you suddenly are lost and livid, and you have no idea what to do, except to curse the notion of love in full and plenty. And some more. As love ebbs in your system, because other, antithetical emotions are brewing stronger, you become constrained and passive, and you assume that to be a permanent state. Because you do not want to crack anymore. Because you think that any further cracks are going to be the death of you. Because you assume you are that brittle.

Only, my dear, you are not.

I am not.

I hate saying these confident sentences out loud, because somehow, the Universe always assumes that I am challenging it. It them employs rose-tinted trickeries to crack me a little more, but now, I am beyond the point of fear. Yes, when I will love too much, I will fear enough to be on the verge of breaking apart - but hey, has there been devised any other way to love intensely than to be attached to the point of mayhem? Can you truly be in love without walking long enough to forget the road which brings you home? And will you not give any and everything for even shreds of those dream sequences which bind your ordinary life to almost surreal heights of pleasure?

The point is, simply put, that love cracks you open. And while doing that, it brings you the closest to yourself. When it has to, let love enter you from all crevices, because, let me tell you, it won't last. This intensity which makes you ride to the point of brittleness, it won't last. The memory and nostalgia of it will - and that will kill you. Try and forbid that from happening, and you are good to go. You possess love, even when you don't possess the object of your love.

I reiterate.

You possess love, even when you do not posses your beloved.

Well, then, enjoy the cracking up!

Source - rhymeswithmagicart.blogspot.com

From The Other Side

I have been a great fan of my teachers. For a child struggling with many tussles inside her heart, mind and the manner in which they related with the very judgemental world, it was my teachers who came to my rescue in ways which cannot be contained inside any text book. This weekend, I took out some time to relive the fantastic college and school times, where teachers formed the pivot around which my life revolved. They were more of my friends than any peer. And I am not exaggerating one bit.

This Teachers' Day, however, I was greeted with another pretty revelation. In a manner uniquely subtle and unconventional, I had stepped over to the other side. It's been a year I have been working with Shiv Nadar School (as a Content Strategist, and not as a teacher), but I have had the privilege of sharing my knowledge of literature and creative writing with the lovely kids there. These few interactions were enough for the students to deem me a teacher, and gift me some love in the form of fond hugs and heartfelt wishes. 

My moment of extreme pride came when I was informed by the Principal herself that students at the school had been wanting me to visit more often, to teach and interact with them. The way my heart swelled and my eyes welled-up is inexplicable in words. What greater joy can greet a person who has made it her life's aim to hear people out and share whatever shreds of knowledge she has managed to amass during her stay on this planet?

I have a special bond with everyone at Shiv Nadar School, right from the teachers, to students to the management, and probably the space of this blog is too scarce to express even a fraction of it. In a relationship spanning more than a year, I have enjoyed the trust of many, and appreciation of the kind that leaves me humbled. What is truly humbling, however, is the scope of learning that the school precincts provide me. I have a genuine belief that the teachers which Shiv Nadar School has chosen to carry its philosophies forward are a unique breed. The value system of the school, as well as the very innate desire to curate learning experiences brims over in a kind of infectious energy which greets me each time I visit. I rue not being able to visit them more often, but, ah, the perils of distances and a crumbling human body. 

The lady, who has left a profound impact on me in that jolly world of learning, as is public knowledge, is Ms. Monica Sagar. It is difficult for me to figure out completely why Monica ma'am appeals to me the way she does. It has probably got something to do with her absolutely down-to-earth and nonchalant demeanour, even on the most glamorous of days. And all this, when she is an exceptional leader. To my mind, she has somehow mastered the art of shepherding her herd while giving them a lead to locate their own paths. After being such a busy woman, she manages to be ready with a hug and smile to greet you at all times. She doesn't exactly teach me, but I end up learning much from her. Always. 

I have written glorious paeans for my school and college teachers, but this Teachers' Day post is an apt time to thank Vaibhav and Karan for being the guides in the professional world, where I still exist as a strong-headed, moment-inspired writer. They manage to keep me going, happy and proud of my work. 

To end, I think a good teacher rises out of exceptional students. Here are a few words from Drishti's blog, which she wrote for her favourite teachers. I am fortunate I fall in that category of favourites for her. 

What The Stars Know And I Don't - Part II

The Chamber

Jasmine spread its shy aroma
On my bosom,
Lying like a snake
Coiling around my heaving chest
Strangulating my breath
As his faced appeared
Piercing the translucence
Of curtains
Preserving my dignity
To be shattered like glass
The moment he set foot in my chamber.

Like ambers,
My heart burnt.
He carried the promise of vermillion
A splash of red on my forehead,
Inked my life
Made me his wife
To love, honour, consume and destroy.

I stood trembling,
As his fingers traced the contours of my body.
I was titillated, in places I knew not existed
On the uneven topography of my body.
Is this how the Earth feels each day the Sun kisses it with golden rays?
Is this how a lone tree feels when under the influence of wild winds it sways?
Is this how tremors of joy erupt in on silent terrains?
Is this the experience which makes a woman turn vain?

Like Shakuntala basking in Dushyanta’s gaze,
Like Sita glowing through Rama’s face
Like Vasavadatta conjured in Udayan’s dream
I lay fulfilled in my lover’s embrace.

I looked outside the window, as the sky turned a shade darker, and stars turned a touch brighter. Tell me, o stars, can I continue this love-play till eternity?

Painting by George Astametakis

Part one of the post can be read here.

The Lore of Dungri-Garasiya Bhils

Marija Sres was a name I was not familiar with till about three days ago. Today, three days later, it is a name which has begun commanding decent amounts of respect from me. A religious sister, she came to work with the rural population of India and succeeded in impacting not just the spiritual and economic lifestyles of people by understanding their core problems; but also left an indelible mark on the literary landscape of Gujarat. The doyens of Gujarati literature have themselves acknowledged her genius and genuineness - she carried to the literary domains the legends of tribals and outcastes, about whom, even Gandhian activists shied away from writing. Literature, after all, was an elite, and puritanical domain. However, Marija Sres put in the effort of not only learning Gujarati, but also finding a subject of writing which won her the prime regional literary award.

At a discount fair organized by Zubaan, I came upon this really interesting title - "First Their Was A Woman, and other stories". Slightly subversive, or dreamily assertive - I could not decide. Centuries of religious instruction would have ingrained in us the secondary-ness of a woman's origin. God first created Man, isn't it? The lore of Dungri Garasiya Bhils would differ. The unique ring of this narrative does not end here. Not only did their existence begin with a woman - the procreation and continuation happened without the presence of man. In fact, in the legends, wherever a man is mentioned, he is shown to be deceptive, or silly, or incapable of taking valorous decisions, unless prodded by the female. Such powerful depiction, that even the simplistic manner of writing jolted me completely. 

The all encompassing entity in the tribal culture is Kudrat, who is said to have created Pruthvi first - a female entity. Upon Pruthvi, Kudrat placed a lot of elements to beautify it. The first human to find its way to Pruthvi was a woman, painstakingly created by Kudrat as a Murti out of earth, carved and shaped unto perfection. She was called Sati (root word - Sat - meaning truth). The intrigue in this myth does not end here. When Sati found herself alone, while there were more of other kinds of species, she had an urge to procreate - and this she did with the help of Sapsi - a serpent, and not by desiring a male partner. The Pruthvi, thus, was a woman's kingdom. 

Stories which form a part of tribal orature are not mere instruments of amusement. In them lie explanations for historical changes and sociological connections. In the story of Kava and Kavi, I understood how the naturally more vivacious and energetic female was slowed down using the treachery of beautiful garments and accessories, while she was caught unaware in the web of deceit concocted by male ego. The eternal nature of a woman's love was reinforced in the stories, and adequate light was also thrown on instances where a woman becomes a woman's worst enemy. This, as per my understanding, happens due to the rivalry that economic and social dependence on man bring about between females. 

Because the tribal culture of Dungri Bhils, like most others, was animist since its ancient beginnings, a lot of supernatural instances find their way into the stories. People are gifted with the power of understanding the tongue of animals, and the source of vitality for humans resides in natural elements too. I have a feeling that the hierarchical structure, if any, in these societies would be - Kudrat (Invisible entity), Nature (Visible power), Woman, Man, and rest of the creatures. In a story about crows, the Queen is shown to be assertive and cunning enough to guide her King towards a right decision. In the only story where a King is the Supreme, he is shown to be unreasonable and silly. Snakes and Cobras have been depicted as benevolent and protecting species. 

My favourite stories in the book are two - 

1. Bhaliya and Priya - a love story, which talks of oppression by the King, and then dark, covert revenge by the lovers. Love is the vital force which oppression cannot mess with for long. 

2. Alkhi and Dhulki - a story of sister love, which presents an alternate version to the beginnings of Sati. 

India is a land of such diverse and glorious folk-tales! The more one delves deeper, the more is he surprised with the kind of degeneration that has affected our morality and belief systems. Harking back to animist and tribal traditions is always enriching and endearing in a shocking sort of way. And sometimes, it needs the eye of an outsider to locate stories in a patch of ourselves we forget to acknowledge and appreciate. 

Marija Sres' book is an easy 4 on 5 stars. Thanks to Zubaan for bringing forward this wonderful book to an urban audience.

A Philosopher on the Wrong Side of 40!

Hello!

Some books convince you on the unique nature of everything that constitutes you. Such books carve a very permanent niche in your heart and make you trust the author to an extent that you feel an acute urge to exhaust his/her entire literary corpus. The book I am referring to here is Fault In Our Stars written by the genius wordsmith, John Green. It wasn't a book which shook the earth for me - but it was definitely one which made me want to know more about the thought process of the writer. And yes, it lent me some very fascinating perspectives on this short life we lead.

I had jotted down my spontaneous reflections on the book about 5 months ago, and revisited them this morning while trying to positivise some persistent negativities. A very senior person called me a 'philosopher on the wrong side of 40' for those reflections, and when I remembered that, I caught myself smiling. And just like that, the day acquired a vibrant hue, along with the still persisting cynicism. Who says cynicism and vibrance can't coexist? Look at me and you'll know - I am wearing pink with a black-&-white top.

Here. My thoughts on Fault In Our Stars

"I have read the book and seen the movie, in that order. Quite obviously, I enjoyed the former more, since it left so much scope for me to think beyond the obvious tale of love between two protagonists whose love affair with life was about to end.

The Fault In Our Stars is so much more than the story of Hazel and Augustus - it is the tale of entire humanity struggling to come to terms with the nature of existence. Are we all tiny, ephemeral specks on the grandness that is the Universe, or are we all, in our own ways, altering the Universe in a manner that leaves a permanent impact?

By changing our perception on the disease called cancer, John Green succeeds in changing so much about the way we view struggles in life. Like cancer is a necessary evil on the road to evolution (arrived at through mutation of cells, few of which mutate to malignancy), struggles are a necessary force to makes us grow, to chisel us to perfection. In his lens, cancer is actually evolution, or progress/growth.

That our prism is biased towards pity is also brought out handsomely in the text. I will give away the plot if I say anymore here - read on to find out. But, we sympathise too easily to visible distresses. Not the best idea perhaps.

Let us live, breathe, and smile at the bounties which life gives us. Probably only he can live life unabashedly from whose existence the fear of death is eliminated. Iconic quotes are found by dozens in the book - I have a lot many scribbled in my journal.

The movie is good to the eyes, but fails the book completely in the sense of the sorrow it evokes in us, against a sense of triumph for having lived a life which NOONE else in the entire history of humanity is going to get an opportunity to live."

So, hmm. Life is a fair deal that God has given you. As John Green says "What makes life precious is that it ends."

P.S. - The next book I am picking up is An Abundance of Katherines. Do you want to tell me something about that one?

Weekend Review - Cafune by Archana Kumar

This is the first book I am reviewing this year, and generally in a long time. It goes without saying that the first book which compelled me to come out and resume writing reviews is a really special one. Why is it special has factors both, textual and contextual. However, let me assure you, that it is more because of textual wonders that I hold the current book in a very high stead. The fact that it is written by a dear friend, fellow poet and wonderful human being, named Archana Kumar, does not rob me off the objectivity that as a reader-reviewer I attach to each book.

So, the name of the book is 'Cafune'. Rather strange, isn't it? Well that is because this word has been drawn from Portuguese lexicon. The magic of the book begins at the meaning of the word 'cafune' - the repeated running of fingers through someone's hair in a delicate manner. Paints quite a picture, doesn't it?

Well, Cafune is a collection of poems by Archana Kumar, a poet based in Delhi, the depth and expanse of whose expression has genuinely stunned me. Her poems are wrapped under the aura of a very, may I say, romantic title - and they do carve out a story of love which one gets, begets, forgets, and probably regrets. Her verses, even thought profoundly drawn from the nuances of romance, are not limited to just this one theme. They are a very subtle, yet effective comment on the strange experiences of modern existence, the pervasive uncertainty which dots all our relationship experiences, the tussle between attachment and objectivity and the pining for the essence which makes life comprehensible. Heavy? No. Her verses make all these sound easy and reachable.

While having broadly talked of the theme, I find it extremely relevant to comment on her poetic grammar and syntax. Upon the reading of her third poem, I was keen to know if Archana had been inspired by the writings of the great 20th century poet - e e cummings. No, I have not forgotten my punctuations, but cummings preferred not adhering to any bit of lingual colonization of minds. He would break castles of grammar and punctuation routinely, thus being a fierce face of the avant garde art movement. Even more curious is the fact that cummings would mostly be writing in traditional styles, but his innovative syntax would completely stun you out of your comfort zone.

I located cummings in one of Archana's poems, and was glad to know I am not completely off-guard. Her poems are a visual delight, besides being rich in symbolism and in-between meanings. She has challenged the capitalization of 'I' in her verses, broken free from sentence grammar and even visually represented her poems to make words and images function in tandem. An example is her poem Cancer, which is shaped like an hourglass to portend the running out time/life. The endings of her poems are sometimes constructed to throw the reader off-guard. Modern-day slangs find elegant integration in her storified-poems. The collection has a mix of pleas, reminiscences, nostalgia, bitterness, equanimity, contradictions and even gratitude statements. You will also find some Haikus in the book, which are as effective as her other compositions. Most of the poems are short, but even the longer ones manage to hold a reader's attention with skill.

A great deal of editorial finesse has probably gone behind making this book so good. It was my metro companion for two days, which made me sigh, gasp and get transported to thought realms while jostling with huge volumes of crowd. It is not that the book is perfect, but close to it. My only problem with the verses was, perhaps, an element of repetition. This repetitiveness manifested in themes, and sometimes in metaphors as well. I also found pop-notional representation replete in her text. For example, her poem Hey There read like the famous song Hey Jude. And I am not saying it is good or bad. At the end of the day, it left me a satiated reader.

This is a four on five star book for me. And those who read my reviews would know that fours in my ratings are hard to come by.

Before closing the review, I would like to congratulate Archana on her fine debut effort. I would also like to point out my quintet of favourites from this anthology.

1. Matter and Flesh
2. Gods
3. Dream
4. Trigger
5. Proximity

Contradiction and Intimacy of Distance form a close runners-up to my quintet. 

The Poet, in one of her finest candid avatars.

Chutzpah in Tragedy

And then, while you were lying low, engulfed with the inertia of penlessness, comes a piece of artistic grandeur which cajoles you into putting words together and shooting them out in the world. I witnessed today the sublimity of darkness, and the pure art that emanates from there. Never have I been impacted with the dark as I was today. Thrill hid inside each minute which unfolded to reveal a darker shade of human emotions, and all this, before I had arrived at a complete understanding of the plotline.

I have not read Hamlet, and I knew little about it before watching Haider. Dragging my reluctant body for the first day, first show of the film seemed like a torture - also because I am not one of those who loads her head with tragic tales shown in screechingly over-blown proportions on the screen. And Haider was supposed to be that. It was an adaptation of the darkest and the most tragic of Shakespearean dramas, promising depressiveness; but it turned out to be a perfectly chiselled product of extremely high class cinematic thought, a courageous combination of beauty and annihilation.

The plotline of Hamlet is famous - let us fit some Kashmiri names into it. Haider returns to his Kashmiri homeland to avenge the death of his father, Dr. Hilal Meer. Upon his return, he finds his widowed mother, Ghazala sharing some banter with his father brother, Khurram Meer. Khurram, who also harbours political ambitions is also Hilal's murderer - as is revealed to Haider by Roohdaar - a ghost, or spirit identity in the story. The ghost urges Haider to avenge his father's murder, and thereafter events unfold to grow towards the greatest tragic end that Bollywood has ever seen.

The characterisations are pitch-perfect, and I was bowled over by performances by Tabu and Shahid. For me, probably, they served as the lead pair, with clear sexual tension marking their relationship. Tabu played Haider's mother, and the existence of Oedipal undertones was pointed out to me by Neha - a core thread of the story which became all too apparent by the end. Shahid has outdone himself, especially in his portrayal of obsessive behaviour bordering on delusion and dementia. There is a scene in which Shahid delivers a mono-act speech on a Chowk  - and I am still in disbelief about the superlative theatre skills he put on display. This man managed to match up to Tabu in each scene - no mean feet there!

How Vishal Bhardwaj wove the geographical and cultural topography of Kashmir into the literary stream of a Victorian play is something I am still at odds to understand. Needlessly said, it appears, as thought the central narrative of the tragedy was crafted for a Kashmiri setting exclusively. The songs, background, depiction, attires, art, characters - all give you a very authentic taste of the land, which encases not just natural beauty, but a very distinctive culture of its own. Culture, and devastation - Vishal Bhardwaj is the genius who probably knows how to find beautiful ways of depicting the same. The whole movie, itself, could be called devastatingly beautiful. When you hear the word 'Chutzpah' being used to explain AFSPA, you know you are being exposed to subtle, dark humour.

There is so much from the film which refuses to leave my mind! The white attire of Irrfan Khan, alluding to his ghost-like interjection in the plot. The dilemmas faces by each character, and how tragic fate overtakes their minds. The many shades of Tabu's countenance - her struggle to be the woman who could control situations, but fails upon trying too hard. The hauntingly beautiful music! The theatrical performance put together by Shahid to recreate the tail of his father's death in the song Bismil.

And, to top it all, there was Faiz's poetry. So much about the story, the human condition, and the human conflict can be understood by listening to and absorbing Gulon Mein Rang Bhare and Hum Dekhenge. If Shakespeare lived in Kashmir, probably he would not have been able to put together this intense, dark melody, painfully beautiful to the eyes and soul. I have never reviewed a movie earlier, but if I were to review this one, 5 on 5 stars for me, and standing ovation to go with it.

PS - If you have not, listen to 'Aaj Ke Naam' sung by Rakha Bhardwaj on priority. Like, now. 

Winds of Hastinapur - A Review

This year brought with itself the love of Mahabharata. I had always been fascinated by the epic and its various stories, eloquently presented through different classical texts in Sanskrit and other Indian languages. It is specifically the numerous stories prior to the war which I adore delving deep into, but the curious little fact is - out of the 18 Parvas in Mahabharata, the story from the beginning of Kuru race till the point Pandavas and Kauravas come to being enemies is told in just the first Parva.

Now, for a story monger like me, that is too less! Each little story, in fact, feels like an independent little book - and then, authors like Sharath Komarraju come along to present just the literary treat I had been yearning for.

Winds of Hastinapur came my way earlier this year - an interesting blue coloured novel, which I had no clue what to expect from. The title assured me that the story in some way is plotted around Mahabharata - but how, I could not be sure. The epic has a scope which runs over generations. Was this book going to be another of those brief retellings, I wondered. Thankfully, it was not just a recapitulation of the events of the Mahabharata, but a well thought out, well researched and well written narrative, focussed within a particular time frame.

Very briefly put, Winds of Hastinapur is the story of the Ganga and Satyavati, the two strong ladies who appear the very beginning of Mahabharata - women who were responsible for thoughts and actions influencing the later generations of Kuru dynasty in a profound manner. There are two distinct narratives to the book, one themed around Ganga - the River Maiden/Lady, and the other around Satyavati (also called Matsyagandha and Kali) - the Fisher Girl.

The story begins in the Meru Hills, where lived the divine beings, drinking divine fluids to enhance their youth and longevity. Ganga has to descend on the Earth as a result of an unfortunate curse. She then meets King Shantanu and gives birth to the longest living character in the Mahabharata - Devavrata, better known as Bhishma. Interestingly, Bhishma himself is born on Earth as the result of a curse incurred by stealing of a cow - he was a Vasu during his life on Mount Meru (taken to be equivalent of Swarga, the dwelling of elemental deities and other celestial beings).

The other part of the book is the story of Satyavati, born of a fish as 'Kali' and ever surrounded by a foul fish smell. It was upon being seduced by Rishi Parashara that she found an antidote to her stink, and hence was able to attract King Shantanu of Hastinapur towards herself. Devavrata takes the vow of celibacy due to the condition Satyavati placed upon her marriage with Shantanu, thus earning the sobriquet of Bhishma (the one with a terrible vow). Rest of the story, well, many of us would know that.

The wonderful thing about this book is its female-centric narrative. Is it a feminist retelling of the tale? I could certainly see it in that prism. Women are portrayed in this book as rather strong characters, with a mind of their own. While Ganga, I saw, as a woman bound in complex set of obligations, Satyavati comes across as a woman with an agenda, ever-ready to manipulate and dictate to allow smooth fruition of her desires. In the popular renditions of the epic, seldom is such limelight granted to female characters except for Draupadi - hailed and condemned simultaneously, sympathised and castigated for the role she played in supposedly causing the DharmaYuddha at Kurukshetra. For etching out such fine female characters, conscious of and playing with their sexuality as well, full marks to the author! The empowered portrayal of the characters also perhaps insinuates towards the author's conviction of the elevated stature of women in the social codes of ancient times.

Compared to these two leading ladies, the other characters lack shape and lustre. A possible exception to this is Devavrata, but he too is not depicted as the invincible, strong, valorous warrior as seen popularly (remeber Mukesh Khanna from B. R. Chopra's television adaptation?), but rather emasculated.  Brilliant, skillful, but emasculated. His description, in fact, left me a little uncomfortable, for Sharath's sketching of the character was in sharp contrast to how I imagined him.

The book reads like a fantasy sometimes, and like a history at others. If you are not a know-it-all of Mahabharata, Winds of Hastinapur can give you many new perspectives to dwell upon. The language is not archaic, hence easy to follow, and the flow of the book is maintained throughout.

I only hope this is the first in a long list of books that Sharath writes on the Mahabharata, revealing story after story, from points of view of lesser understood and explored characters.

Its a 3.5 stars on 5 book for me. A writing job well done!

Book Details -

Author - Sharath Komarraju

Publisher - Harper Collins

Source - Review Copy provided by the author (Sorry for the delay in writing Sharath!)

Genre - Mythological Fiction

Price - Rs. 299

Pages - 320

Looking Through Glass by Mukul Kesavan

They say, fiction triumphs where history and historiography meet failure. True enough. Through imagination and innovation, fiction tries to recreate those stories which are of little concern to historians - for history is not much but a political chronology, or a tale written about civilizations lost to time, or a record of battle won and lost. However, fiction is different. Fiction  seeks to carve out stories where to a non-curious, non-keen eye exist none. Even better is the experience when you see the confluence of a historian and fiction writer of great merit, as I happened to notice in Looking Through Glass by Mukul Kesavan. Mr. Kesavan is a professor in the Department of History in my university itself, though I never have had the good fortune of meeting him. I know it clear in my head what I have to say upon coming face to face with him - a simple thank you for giving me the best magical ride through the devastating annuls of Indian pre-independence history, from a post-independence vantage point.

Looking Through Glass is a novel that looks to recreate history, though not in a manner as simple as you would deem. The narrator, on a journey to Benaras to immerse his deceased grandmother's ashes in the holy Ganges, finds himself fall off a bridge into another time zone. He falls into the year 1942 from India of the 1980s and begins an amusing, but revealing tale of inevitabilities that were taking place in that period of struggle, where divisive tendencies had not only taken firm root, but were also raising their heads at ugly junctures in public and private life. The narrator, a Hindu, stays with a Muslim family - with a story and history of its own - passing off as an amnesiac. He almost acquires the role of the man of the house, till he starts on his way to Benaras, joining an anti-British rebellion en route. His travails in Benaras include meeting and dealing with a aspiring porn-film-maker, and rescuing an unwed, pregnant girl, Parwana - all this while being under the tutelage of a local wrestler giving regular sermons on the importance of celibacy for conserving strength. His journey continues to Delhi, Simla and perhaps back to Delhi (has been long since I read this beautiful work of fiction) - spanning the most crucial years of political wrangling regarding cartographic surgery of India and on ground violence devouring the peace of entire communities to forever leave them embittered. All this, being seen through the surreal lens of a photographer, who is an anachronistic observer in the setting.

This novel makes use of the technique of magic realism in a rather sudden way, at the very beginning. Its is not a very simple narrative, for it is a fusion of genres of fantasy and historical fiction. The novel is rich with rhetorical ploys where the author, in essence a historian, is conveying his hardened perspective on India's historical development to his audience, perhaps focussing on giving voice to the one community whose collective opinions had been drowned under the persuasive influence of its leader toeing a rigid separatist line. These tendencies of the author are distinctly noticeable in the way he creates his rather strong characters, ordinary citizens, supporting ideas which are in contravention of what was historically ascribed to them.

Mukul Kesavan

This novel doesn't stop at being a fantastical lesson on history. Besides telling you plainly that independence as partition were affairs larger than the exchange between Congress and the Muslim League, it also encompasses other interesting sub-plots, one of which is crude kind of sexual comedy. This is made visible in the section about Gyanendra, a film-maker aspiring to remake Kama Sutra, victimizing a woman, who can also be looked at as a victimizer in a way. One can, of course, not forget the fact that sexual violence was inextricably linked to the physical violence in the years leading up to Partition. By evoking lesser known streams of ideological thoughts on the idea of India and its various communities, the novel also makes a sincere attempt at political rewriting of historical facts. For throwing light on all this, the narrator has made use of flashback as well as flashforward. He has both, the retrospective and the prospective tools of analysis in his hands, because he picks up a nameless protagonist who has fallen into the lanes of history from a very contemporary reality. This narrator is in a position to see people struggle, but by the virtue of his temporal vantage point, sees how futile these struggles are because he knows precisely what turn history will take.

Lastly, the novel is so dearly loved by me because of the lightness of tone with which the author is able to convey the seriousness of matter. It is a thoroughly entertaining and enjoyable novel, which does not leave you sombre or depressed. And this is not to say that it is not hard hitting, or that it does not send its message home. 4.5 stars from me, and absolutely, highly recommended!

Book Details -
Author - Mukul Kesavan
Publisher - Penguin India and Ravi Dayal Publishers
Published - 1995
Book Source - Part of a course on 'Literatures of the Indian Sub-continent', Department of English, JMI
Genre - Historical Fiction/Fantasy Fiction
Price - Rs. 325
Pages - 378

Let's Grow Up Together

Dear PACH,

Can we call it the best group picture, like ever?

You're growing up into a terribly demanding kid. Kid, yes. You're that insistent, even nagging, and you cannot, just cannot stand any lack of attention from those who nurture you. I am a case in point. At the conclusion of your tenth edition, I had made a promise to myself, that for about a month and a half, I will maintain a safe, sane distance from you. But then, you crept into my dream, as a definite vision of what could a perfect incarnation of yours look like, and I jumped right back in. You see, I like holding your hand and leading you there, there where we all imagine you should be. I am privileged you grip my hand right back, and trust me. And then we travel together, in a caravan, of course, of a growing urban tribe of poets, and arrive at surreal junctions like the one which just went by. Lets talk a little about it to each other, shall we?

I was talking about you to Navin ji the other day, and one thing we concluded was that your setting this time was impeccable. Karan Bhola and Cheistha Kochhar need to be thanked for allowing us to meet you in the amazing, pristine, beautiful Sri Aurobindo Centre for Arts and Communication, which also serves as the Young India Fellowship Programme campus. It was green, and of course, that made our already hyper, young environmentalist, Aavika, chirp even louder with glee. We expected it, of course. That is one of the cooler things about you PACH. Your family has members who are known by their distinctive traits, distinctive preoccupations, distinctive inspirations and styles and perspectives on life - but they all seamlessly blend together to make you into the vibrant tapestry of gem-like thoughts. Hell yes, you're studded with all precious, not semi-precious, ideas, which are brought to table by people who dwell on comics, superheroes, first crushes, unrequited love experiences, nature, creatures, languages, family, bonds, individualism, devotion and innumerable other incongruous, yet complimentary motivations. You, its all you PACH. 

When we invited you to take it all out, and how you obliged us! 

Do you know the best thing about being where we were? The fact that we were under an open sky, not bound by any space. I could, for once, see poets relax, find their own comfort zones, walk around, freshen up their thoughts, loosen up their bodies and drink in both the chill and the sun with equal alacrity. May be you should always call us to places like this - which are free, so our thoughts could travel free. Well, poetry is a medium of travelling, to distant lands, to hearts of people - and this, of course, I learnt from Ekanksha, in an exquisitely worded introduction. Oh, introductions are the special things about you. People like talking about themselves, we love hearing about them - it all just adds up perfectly. PACH, perfection is boring. Don't be perfect - just always be better than what you were the day before. It has kind of been the trend so far, so, lets not pressurize you in that direction. 

The beautiful amphitheatre of SACAC

Three huge paragraphs, and I have not even arrived at the point, the pivot, the peak, the prime reason why this PACH was a touch above from the others. Actually, leaps and bounds ahead of all previous ones. This reason is a name - Ashok Chakradhar. A poet who is an institution in himself. While anticipating his arrival, we were hoping to meet a celebrity, one who would enamour us, meeting whom was what our collective dreams were made of. However, the actual tryst with him proved to be astonishing and humbling, both at once. In him, we met a listener, a poet and a teacher - not a celebrity. He came, he became a part of you PACH - and he took keen interest in both, knowing you and commenting on you. All good comments, goes without saying. 

Chakradhar sir was eager to listen, laugh and appreciate. Whether it was Govind narrating his love story in broken Hindi, or Dipalie finding solace and silence in her beloved's grace; whether it was Mago's poem which tickled Newton and Einstein, or Anup's ingenious, rhythmic verses giving brief lessons on living - Ashok ji heard them all with interest and enthusiasm. Aditya's ghazal needs no commenting upon anymore. Aavika, our little environmentalist, impressed Ashok ji with her naughty Sunday song, dedicated to an imagined lover. I had a short vain moment when Ashok ji appreciated Daastaan, the poem closest to my heart after 'A Thousand Times Over'. He mentioned something about having tears in his eyes after my recitation, but I will let that pass, lest I not be able to control this pride knocking so firmly on my door. The true show-stealer, however, was this poet who calls himself 'Umar'. His poetic dimension was so well hidden from me, that to this day I marvel and sense disbelief in my heart regarding it. While Ashok ji, but obviously, was mighty impressed with his compositions, I could only let my tears lose in response. His words were filling me up so much, that I actually wanted him to stop! Now that, PACH, is something new I experienced. 

This capture is amazing for the smiles spread all around, especially on 'Umar' sahab's face

Ashok ji himself couldn't hold back, and he recited something in front of us which the world as yet does not know about. I'll keep the specifics of the composition to myself, since all my letters to you PACH are sort of a public affair, but what I will let out is that in my view, his poem was a PACH epic. It was long, but it only kept getting better with each succeeding part. The tone, the rhythm, the vocabulary and the recitation - each was a lesson, each leaving us absolutely bewildered. I felt certain emotions the dictionary has no terms for - and I know for a fact that I share this bewilderment with you PACH. There is no way you do not understand this feeling. Sir was full of grace, humility and the lasting image I will carry of his will be that of a teacher sitting in the midst of 35 odd students, teaching them about Abhida, Lakshana and Vyanjana...

In hindsight, I cannot believe sir gave me a high five for a naive comment during his recitation :)

And the shawl! Looked so perfect on him. You do very well know how much more I want to talk about Ashok sir, but then, there are other poets I MUST make a mention of. 

Dipalie said something very intriguing and remarkable about you PACH. She said, if the air around and within you is canned and carried to different places, will creative genies cast their spells on everyone they come in contact with? Essentially, she was giving voice to the shock and awe I experience when first time poets, or people who are still nascent in this realm of writing churn out completely incredible, top level verses. I mean, so many have come to your gatherings admitting that they never write, of if they write they don't write in a particular language, and that they don't share their creations with anyone or in public. Now, how many of those very people have gifted you surreal words and expressions you want to neatly and carefully compile together in a treasure trove of poems which will undoubtedly leave the world stunned? The number is too good to be true. 

Iti, Ekanksha and Mago - three outstanding poets PACH is blessed with

When we last met you PACH, people shared too much. Right from the beginning, where Ekanksha put our day long journey on the perfect track, till the very end, by those melodies stolen from Rafi sahab and Jagjit ji's corpus, each moment you breathed, I lived a little more. The Elephant in the Room, by Vaishali, left a giant impact on each heart. Navin ji's reflections on truth, which went from lived experiences, to philosophical abstractions to realistic deconstructions was akin to a compilation drawn from our collective childhood. Jyoti and Anup's duet was soft, lyrical, lilting. Anurag's composition reflected mature thoughts and word usage. Neha's poem, read in absentia, was rich with genuine devotion expressed in unforgettable phrases. Mansi always adds that spontaneity and ebullience to the group. Ghosts of Neha Bawa's past still haunt my heart. Iti, demure and dignified, touched each soul with her ode to the most special, umbilical bond which life grants us. 

In his smart winter attire, the writer par excellence

And, even though I feel out of breath recollecting such vast list of poem, each uniquely special and remembered by me, I cannot help but make a distinct mention of Kamal, whose poem was so amazing, that I cannot even begin to describe it in words. "Hum Aapki Kyun Karein?" is a simple question, but demands some understandably difficult answers. I want a larger world to read that poem, PACH - it had so many echoes which have so far only reverberated within the walls of heart. I invited him as the next guest blogger on Nascent Emissions - I think he will agree. 

The photographer-painter-poet

All these, each one of these, make you so special. PACH, you cannot be a lifeless concept. You are growing, one meet at a time. The pace of your growth has been scary, but hey, some crazy magic works here, remember?

I want all this love, disbelief and fondness to grow, as you grow. I want myself to grow, as you grow. You keep acquiring newer meanings for me, dear PACH. Its an enormously satisfying, calming feeling I am blessed with in time present. 

Winters are here. Let's promise each other some warmth and some awesome balmy days we spend holding each other's hands. 

With love and bright hopes for future, 

Saumya 

PS - I have to admit, that at times, so much happens during a single PACH meet, that I find myself incapable to registering and processing it all. It is for this reason that writing these letters is so important for me. This is where it all sinks in. This is all like being in love. For so many of us.

In the subtle glow of setting sun...

That Chocolaty After-taste

Dear PACH,

You have completely taken over my blog. Which should be fine, because in essence, you have actually taken over my life. You're grand, so grand that I am scared of sending a lot of letters to you. What if they get lost in your fan-mail? Are you promising me to hold them special, each word I write to you? Thanks. And I know you make the same promise to each name which associates itself with you. For all this warmth you show to a growing tribe of urban poets, I am proud of you. So proud.

The PACH #8 Invited - crafted by Aastha di and Sidhant Mago. 

A level up, each time. I am not even going to ask you now how you manage it. Lets both take it as a given. Lets also be clear that all this love that we have towards each other will stay, will grow and will spread to more hearts. Yes, more of those loving hearts connected with us last time - in manners so unique and new and pristine. Who would've known that PACH family would expand to over 50 members, all so soon! Its so incredible its crazy. But then, you're bored of this adjective, aren't you? Positively insane, lets adopt this for today.

Thats not all of us, but most of us. 

You're growing rich with all these emotions, dear PACH. Can you tell me how to handle them all at once? I mean, how do you react when a little, vivacious girl opens her heart to romance and its naughtiness with an understanding of relationships which leaves us flabbergasted? It was a Sunday she dedicated romance to, and it was a Sunday she made special for all of us staring at her with an open mouth, refusing to come out of the influence of those coveted love-filled moments. Mago said there are some poems you hear, and immediately wish you had written them. That silly little girl, Aavika, precisely turned out such a gem. At her age, how? And this 'how' will remain.

That cute, little show-stealer.

My twin came along a little late this time, to recite the verses which were her first. Do you remember PACH, this was the same girl who had gone on record saying that she cannot at all compose a poem, and hence even tried to stay away from you. But you, you managed to permeate to her creative inside, in which resided a poet who could give expression to both, love and angst. She shared them both with you, PACH. In that sense, you are lucky.

She is pretty, she is my twin, and the chain goes on...

Our latest tryst with you happened at the most pleasing and apt spot - the Kunzum Travel Cafe, that fabled place in Delhi which allows you to pay as much as you like for the lovely coffee, cookies and aromas they serve. Lets both admit, you and me, that Kunzum has been one of the best places we have met each other, and a host of other poets. Some things about you don't change, which are definitively looked forward to. One such thing is Mago's humour, which manifested in a poem we managed to sing along. His understanding and insight into feminine preoccupations is so perfect, that it leaves us in splits. Another such regular feature with you is a certain duet poetry performance, which leaves some hearts amazed, and yet more craving. These are the masters of poetry-dom. They rule over it with verses which are impossible to concoct, but effortless to connect with.

At the lovely Kunzum Travel Cafe - thankful to them for entertaining us at such short notice and tolerating us for such long hours. 

And then, there were these innumerable moments which I am living, reliving and enjoying each time I picture them on my memory-scape. Who do I share them with, if not you? Do you remember that song, 'Happiness'? Its one of those PACH moments I  which I tug onto with full force lest the melody and the message desert me. Lets not comment on the philosophy and ecstasy of Abhishek sir's contribution to PACH. Lets just gently savour the fact that a certain new addition has been made to the way you go about, and lets both fervently hope this guitar tradition continues. Talking of additions, how can you miss out on Aastha di's dialogue with God, which began at your seventh instalment, and attained culmination in the eighth. Her nervous excitement, and the care with which words tumbled out of her lips - don't you feel ridiculously special when people share such intimate, new aspects of their life with you? You must. Feel special, and stay innocent. Pretty please, always.

"Lay's ka packet hai, Happiness!"

Aastha di, with all her nervous excitement

Poets with round-rimmed glasses come and share their farewell musings with you and start crying on their own verses as well as those of others. I am, of course, talking of Sudhanshu. I have to admit, that his mention has an ulterior motive - it is to let you know a certain compliment he gave you behind your back. In his words, PACH, you are that which scratches old wounds, but then, you also heal them, you cause such tears to flow which carry negativity out, which purge some and comfort others. You don't just make us share tears and painful pasts, you also encourage dialogues on forms of poetry, 'Ghazals' being the subject of discussion the last time around. Aditya and Rohini shared some wonderful ghazals, and I was unfortunate to have missed out the latter's recitation. I also missed experimentation with Bangla poetry, but I am not sad. I know you will help me make up for it. Oh, by the way, you still have fan-poets like Nabila and Mukul who had you as their muse. Blushing, or growing vain? The former, I know.

Getting ready for a masterpiece to come our way. 

When we listen to those amazing lines. 

Among those many that thank you for reviving the creative spirit in them, I think Navin ji stands right in the front. Not only does he write the most amazing lines, but the way he recites them makes each listener's heart grow fonder. He said something about being unimaginably busy and yet wanting to share useless details with that one good friend, that loving presence. You know, this is a routine I follow, which he set in such beautiful words. For you, PACH, Navin ji does one more fabulous thing. He creates doodles as finely crafted memories from each session. You're lucky people spend time after you - drawing sketches, making posters, editing pictures - all because they want to do it, not because you ask them to. Again, when did you become so special to all of them? Kamal, Aaqib, Gaurav - they all are the fabulous people who help preserve your most special moments in exquisite frames. They should be given a nice chocolate next time, what say? Not out of my quota, of course!

The PACH #8 doodle. 

From realization of eradication of small pox, to a man traversing through life; from thirteen dimensions bestowed on a pillow to fascination with unrequited love; from meeting old familiar faces, to entertaining complete strangers for an entire day; from remembering Shail Chaturvedi to encouraging some unbelievable creative spirits; from verses written by ailing dads to poems sent by members living overseas - aren't you perplexed by the amount and the diversity you are able to subsume within yourself and yet be ready for more? I mean, you're still dreaming of those dizzying peaks which we all have to ascend to, right? I'll be there with you throughout, its a promise I don't even need to be consciously aware of. Meeting you was like falling in love. As days go by, I feel I am growing in love and also growing up in love - don't you feel the same?

Dobara, Chal Gayi!

Do you remember, I had claimed once that I already have my favourite PACH decided, while you were still in your nascent days? Well, that just changed. This one became very special. Not just for what I witnessed, but for the way I participated too. Rahul said that you can know more about a person through his poetry than anything else. I think I agree. You help me connect with myself too, in moments when I write those stoic paeans of love, or those dirges of what has remained in place of what could have been. You allow me to share all that heavy load with so many beautiful people. Few become pensive, few others shed tears. I maintain, shedding tears is good, it lets out so much of negativity. And then, the best thing, the realization that we share with each other because we trust each other. We love each other, of course, but trust - more important, for me. Not only during, but also before and after your six-hour-long stay, I had moments I am keeping with myself. Looking forward to you, and looking back at you. There is all this love I feel, that just stays. 

All set to recite.

Warmth. As the first signs of winters start raising their shy heads in our city, I am feeling this splendid glow from inside, this warmth, which refuses to go. It all seems normal, natural now. But I will never forget how if I step back and see it all, it seems like magic. People are going crazy after you just by hearing about you. Lets hope they all come to meet you the next time. Lets hope they too become a part of this magic you are casting on sleepy poets of the world. 

The colours I am gifted with. The moods too. 

I did not eat any chocolate this time while you were on, but I can feel the satisfaction of having gobbled up an entire Bournville, Cranberry flavoured, alone, which I earned, of course!

Just outside your nascent days.
Still revelling in your magical ways.
Living your memories like a sweet, chocolaty after-taste.

PS - What is also astonishing are all these bonds which have formed between all of us. I found a comforting elder sister here. Many others call PACH their family. And a family celebrates the happiness of its members. We celebrated the birthday of Aaqib and Pratibha this time, trying to make them feel special by some mad, last minute efforts. PACH, and all those who make it send them their best. We're all going to grow up together, right?