Leap Into Some Love

I had been researching for an article on Leap Years and Leap Days, when the beauty of the concept struck me. Leap Days are days which exist lesser than the other days. These are days which go unnaccounted for. If you're working today, you're working without pay. If you were born today, you'll have to bank on either 28th February or 1st March as the official day you came into existence. Facebook will have nothing to show you today, unless from a really far off past.

And best of all, if you're forming memories today, you cannot mark an annual anniversary for them. Which makes the nostalgia invisible, or eternal.

Think about it. Today is a day you must obviously try and live more than the others, because, like I said, it will exist lesser than all the other days on the calendar. The scientific reason, of course, is to take care of the anomaly which arises between the calendar year and the solar year, but that reason makes no difference to my life. Despite this adjustment, there is still an error of timing left, which is adjusted by not counting multiples of 100 as Leap Years, unless they are multiples of 400 also. Too many numbers in there, and they still do not guarantee precision. Again, precision makes no difference to my existence, but reasons for forming formless memories do.

If you've seen the (quite disastrous) movie Leap Year, you would be aware of the Irish tradition where women could propose to men on a Leap Day, and fear no refusal. Some say, it is a day when no man is safe, because his denial may cost him a kiss, a silk dress, or a pair of gloves to be given to the lady who popped the question. This latter tradition, arguably, started in 13th century Scotland, when Queen Margaret decreed that on 29th February, a lady may unabashedly propose to any man she fancied. Rest assured, she won't go home empty handed.

It is quite apt, then, that the extra day be added to the month of love. No one really knows for sure why February was left with only 28 days in a calendar where all the other months boast of far more. There are legends, none with a strong grounding though. Leap Day gives this pretty month a chance at equality, just short of it though. And the more I think about this day of fleeting importance, the more its importance becomes apparent to me.

Even though modern existence robs most of us off the luxury of time, I'll still have a plan to utilise this extra day for moments, tasks and conversations which are too important to be archived. February 29th, in the modern idiom, should become the day where we all say out loud those things we've held onto for too long, without the fear of listener's judgement, or retaliation, or condescension. All those three are contemporary malaises, which deserve at least a day's bravery to cure. And if your brave admissions of love or longing (or desire, or any curbed feeling) are met with unpleasant reactions, there is always a kiss, a silk garment, or pile of books to ask for (because gloves really make no sense to our times).

There are times we push hard to make a moment happen, and then we wish it away because it turned out to be too unpleasant for our heart to digest. Congrats, here you have a day which you won't have to wish away, because it will not hit your calendar till it becomes a long lost memory, which, a leap of years later, you would only smile back with fondness over. At least I would. I like prolonging intense moments, by forming calendar memories of them. Today, I won't get to do that. It's my day to be brave, and yours too. If you've withheld a sentiment from me - inbox it right in! I have my most nonchalant self waiting to hear.

I really hope we make a tradition out of it. I would. In the personal utopia I have constructed with some kind people and kinder words. May Queen Margaret's decree be followed - a moment of love, or a bar of Silk, find your happiness either way, and then, if needed, forget the day ever existed :)

Live and let go, I believe, is a lovely motto for our age.

Meet My Family

I spent the day at home. It is a rare occurrence, if you must know. What was special about the day was the fact that despite accomplishing truckloads of work, and putting off another truckload, I slept rather peacefully. That, again is a rare occurrence.

The reason why my closed eyes could breathe easy was the fact that I knew I will make time to finish this blogpost before the day ended. This one is important to me. And it has been pending sometime. I was scared that by the time I get down to writing it, I'll lose the feel of it all, that I will get over the sense of overwhelm that assails me 14 times a week, that I will forget the pieces of memory I am trying so hard to keep together. Today, I knew I will make time to put all these anxieties at rest, because, as of the present day, I have much to be happy, and peaceful about in life.

I have been away from this precious domain for quite sometime, not being able to record all the amazing things my life is blessed with at present. Like, this very moment, when I am sitting next to a window with a mug of tea, with crazy rains outside, and the faces of my beloved kids in my mind. Most of us experience this kind of peace with the memory of a lover, enhanced by the romance of rains and a cuppa with the aroma of shared moments. In my case, the whiff of romance is similar, just that, it is shared with an entire family which loves me more than anyone, anytime, anywhere in the world can. All of them together, all of them individually.

It all began with poetic soiree, almost a year back. A lot strange faces I met were soon going to become my family. The process of coming close has been epic, but more epic are these individuals I seek to write about. Let me talk of the family, I'll talk of the Collective in a later edition, someday. Or not, Poets' Collective is because all of them are. Meet these people who make my heart a mushy place :)

Sumedha
I don't know why I began with her name. It is probably because of a really sweet message she sent my way last night, which ended up making me feel like the luckiest being alive. She has been attending our meets for close to 8 months now, and she never spoke a word - just silently sat their observing the poets recite away to glory. Till the day she gifted me a lovely handmade pen stand, I could not have guessed her levels of affection. Gifts, sometimes, are important. And today, when she has started chattering in front of us, I can distinctly see oodles of love in her eyes for me, and for this little mad family we have all created together. White and pure, these are the words which come to my mind when I think of her. Her talent, I believe, is yet to blossom out in the open - but she is already my young one, literally and figuratively, and I have no doubts in my mind that she will do brilliantly well in life, yet stay humble about it.

Riya
Riya is a rare talent, one that is difficult to control or cage or even channelise. Her thoughts, revolutionary and provocative, will keep flowing over and also singe those who listen to her with an unwelcome ear. She holds in her heart ideas powerful enough to inspire not ours, but a generation of the future. She is someone who is elder for her years, and hence, who humbles me into listening. I have nothing to give her but all the encouragement in the world. She is her own guide, her own flame, and as travellers on a similar journey, I hope she keeps us close. And I miss her. And I think she knows it.

Sharad
I love getting photographed - and that is a world famous fact. What is little known, however, is the fact that I have been fortunate enough to chance upon some genuine behind camera talents, who make me look good, probably better than my own imaginations. Sharad is one such spark of brilliance who has just floored me with his insane levels of warmth and love. He calls me mummy whenever he feels cornered, and the alacrity it fills me with is more than visible on my face. I call him my minion - yellow, funny and happy. I've seen him cry in the middle of a monologue which remains among my most prized moments in life - when this kid admitted to having developed more respect for people around him after having joined the PC gang. In another bit of fond memory, he has learnt to give nice hugs now (and that is something, his girl - now or in future - has me to thank for!)

Divyaksh
He is the funniest brained person I know. His life is discontinuous fragment of satirical observations on the world around, each woven into a metaphor we now understand and associate with. He is a Jaya aunty fan. He has a hold on marketing and mythology logic with the same comfort. He sings bollywood numbers at inappropriate places and comments inadvisable nonsense much to the chagrin of fellow metro passengers. He talks non-stop. He is elder to me, yet gives me the respect of an elder sibling. He says he is a lost soul who feels like he's given direction when he is with us. He loves pink. And as far as I am concerned, he is the one person I feel the safest with.  He can keep me entertained for hours, he can contest my logic, and yet end on a very respectful note. Like everyone else, he is such an important part of my family, and my existence. I hope I can learn from his genius. Also, he is a dinosaur.

Nimisha
I have many sons, but she is the first daughter of my family. I consciously call her my beloved daughter, for she evokes in me a feeling akin to very motherly protectiveness. I feel like taking her in my arms and protecting her from all the ill-tendencies out there in the world. Not once, but many a times has it happened that she hugs me in a restaurant, and before you know it, she falls asleep then and there. And never have I had the heart to rouse her out of the very peaceful slumber reflected on her face. While she is talented and belligerent in her own ways, never has she stepped out of very humble and respectful mannerisms for me. It makes me feel blessed and responsible in equal measures. Till where I can push, I will do so for her. Oh, my only complaint to her - ladki phate kapde pehen ke baahar aa jaati hai. Needs a wardrobe overhaul asap. Rest, she can come to me with all her fears, and they'll be absorbed. Promise!

Anurag
We go back a long way, and I have seen this one go through many lows and highs and yet survive and come out strong. He is again one of those who is elder to me, but manages to give me the respect of didi. Legend has it that I scared him away when I met him the first time, but he managed to be brave enough to return to our kind of poetry, and has kept coming back since. A kind of syntactical distortion lends extreme levels of genius to his poetry, but these distortions exist because he has seen the anomalies and realities of life very closely. What I really want to tell him is that each time he has lived up to his own expectations, he has lived up to mine. And nothing will catch my attention more than his doing well in his own manner, on his own path. I do want to be a happy co-traveller, if possible?

Abhishek
I never call him Abhishek. Never. In public, or private, I love calling him Chintu. And I love it more when he resists this nickname from everyone else, except me. There is no end to how special I feel each time he lays bare his heart and soul in front of me, telling me all little details of things which have shaped him and his sensibilities. He is quite a sensitive and sensible soul, who is capable of taking care of himself, as well as those around him. In our close knit family, he fulfils many functions - a brother to one, a son to the other, a friend to another. The best thing about him? When I am not able to give him my full attention, he does not develop a grudge. He thanks and lauds me for absorbing so many stories of so many of them. I mean, the maturity strikes straight through my heart!

Neha
This girl stuns and surprises me each time. A pretty, sophisticated, ever-smiling girl - I could have never imagined a streak of activism in her, which I am being greeted with since past sometime. Neha is a completely paarivarik girl, who brings along the same values in my family. With her around, I can be sure that no malice and ill-will will enter our world. She expresses less, but when she does, I feel like floating above and beyond the moon. She holds me responsible for much, not realising that had she not been spreading energy around with her infectious smiles, our world would have been a lot less happier. She'll do well, with her smart mind and diligent heart, and she'll always remain a beautiful part of my life because of her almost selfless levels of trust and love for us.

Aniket
Aniket is not among the kids I have spent a lot of time with, but I know in my heart that whenever he finds a zone and opportunity, he comes running to us. For now, what I know is that I quite adore his kurta clad look, and his warm and respectful countenance. He seems to be someone I can trust with many responsibilities, and he will not disappoint me ever. I just want to see him around more, much more.

Shibani
Shibani is the latest entry in our madhouse. The fact that she is a poet-performer-par-excellence is known to all of Delhi. What is not known to all perhaps is that she is mad in equal measures to all of us, and that is why, probably, she feels at home with us. I did not expect to see her around so often, but I guess, she accepted us in her life before we accepted her in ours. With me, I remember feeling super-elated when she gave me a very warm hug post her performance at the last meet. Few things give me greater pleasure than being accepted in the lives of people with such faith. A few conversations later, I am cozy with the knowledge that she identifies with us, our cause, and is honest in her efforts to help us go places. In whatever little manners I can, I am there with her, for her :)

Shiva
She is a stunner. Again, I don't know much about her, but she has much depth and calm to her being. I have not heard many of her compositions, but the one poem I have heard, I keep hearing it daily. Because it calms me down. Because in the mad mayhem of technology, she is a pleasant pause, with old-world values and charm. Because her heart as pure as pure can be and that reflects in her words. Because I know I am not super-close to her, but she is going to be indispensable to our family, real soon.

Prateek
Umm. The caveat here is, anything I say will be saying too less. He began as a creep in my life, and has graduated to becoming an extremely creepy stalker now. I think very few people know me the way he does, because even when I am not letting out much, he is observing and absorbing. Prateek is an incredibly brave child, for he has chosen the difficult path of aspirations in life - but he is holding up. And so long as he is holding up, I am there with him to give the necessary push and guidance. Each time he thanks me for being around, my heart shrinks a little, because I feel I have not done enough for his genius to blossom. But he understands, I am sure he does. He is among the few who understands my affection as much as my irritations. Among my more mature sons, he is probably the one I will remember to call in my old age. To take care of me. Or just to give me a lot of grandchildren to while away my time with. (I will spoil them better than I spoilt you. And you cannot stop me.)

Ambikesh
Can I ever put in words the love we share? Can you do it? Can anyone else do it? You were the useless, pennyless  college student who made me suffer a loss of 500 bucks when you came in the first time. Those 500 rupees are the best investment I have made in life ever. You know Ambikesh, I often end up riling people when I feel they do not reciprocate or do enough for me after we've parted ways. In your case, you are always giving me 2x the love I can. I am already in your debt. I don't speak to anyone as much as I speak to you. I do not go to people to for advice or for sharing my lows as much as I do with you. And you manage to calm me down. Sometimes, you make me cry in confusion, because, when you tell me how much you and the others love me, my mind literally stops functioning because, I mean, how can this much happiness and love be possible. Being the cherophobe that I am, I shut out most of these positive feelings, lest they make me arrogant. But, you all do make me arrogant, you know. This is the best of a family I have experienced, and you're my elder son. It might all change tomorrow, but, you're the focus of my life for now. And even though you do not need it, I know, I'll be protecting you forever.

This is a good season of life. Among the best, but so precious, that I am scared to call it the best. Keep the family together, please?

Unlove

A few days ago, a friend quoted a line out of an earlier blog post, which went like this - "Love should never begin at admiration." This set me thinking on what I must have been thinking when I wrote it. (If you must put it in context, the post is called Anamnesis, which investigates a past love with the prism of today) Was I sad, deluded, angry, moody, troubled - or simply pensive? Or passive? Or subtly aggressive? Well, love can lead you into any of those phases, seamlessly. The awesome surprising bit is, I feel none of the love which I did then. The love which was a living thing inside me is so dead, that death would itself be baffled. The point to take note of here is, whenever something inside you dies, it kills a little pretty part of you. And then, like they say, maturity happens.

My musings today are about where should love begin - if it begins in your life at all. At a younger time, I would have fervently wished that you feel love with all intensity, as early as possible in life. Now, I would be cautious. I have seen far too many hearts shrink in size while growing up in love. Your's did not? You lucky, umm, something! Share the trick, please?

PC - @Elenalanzart

Again, where should love begin? At the first sight, erupting in little tremors all over your skin? Or in tickles, at all the wrong places? Should love be a product of what you imagine your life to be with a certain person? Or should it be a gradual flow alongwith everything that happens in life? Should it be exciting or calming? Or both? Should it give you sleepless nights or dizzying intoxications? Should it be borne out of a habit or a break from habit? Should it be a hope of being empowered, or an urge to beautify someone else's life? Don't say both! We all know about power balances and stuff like that.

I am not seeking answers. If at all I am, it is not from people who have condescendingly satisfying love lives. I want it from people who have been broken by love into a million little pieces they somehow hope to carry along. You guys are brave. But do you know the problem with being brave? No one gives a shit. It's not a distressed statement. It is the absolute truth. Calm, calculated truth. How does it fit with the musings on love? It does, because I would like to know if it necessary to be vulnerable to feel love or evoke love? Or you could be hard as a rock and yet be loved, or be thought of as capable of being loved? Not too complicated, just thinking.

The answer lies in a chaos, perhaps. Our own, unique, concocted chaos. The only underlying solution I would vouch for is that love is a better, more desirable state of life. It is something which will add a sheen to the way the life is getting reflected in your mirror. If what you desire is a partner who can sweep you away, so be it. If you need someone who can make you firmer on your ground, I wish you all luck. I, personally think you need both. Will you get both? Two years back I would have said, 'yes'. Today, I'd say, 'it depends'. And I'll sleep off without a speck of disturbing scruples.

You see, I am waiting for my muse to appear drunk in my dream and kiss me. That.

PC - Neelkamal Pandey

Winter Notebook - Saudade

At times, I feel like cleansing it all. 
All of it. 
The faces. The love.
The simple. The tough. 
The pleasure. The groans.
The kisses. 
The races, against time.
The words, which seldom rhymed.
The bonds. The myths. 
The cuddles. The rifts. 
The playfulness. 
The kicks
I got out of
Knowing I am the special one
For him
And for her. 
You know what they do? 
They shamelessly display glee. 
In tasteless pictures
Clicked in abhorrent corners of the world
Which now they call new zones
Of friendliness. Of love. 
I feel like cleansing it all. 
All if it. 

I'll just hold memories. 
You know, I own them. 
I can kiss them gently 
Or smother them in my imagination. 
They're fine, really. 
These memories I use to torture myself. 

Of moments that will not come back ever, 
Or which perhaps did not exist in the first place. 

Photo by Achint Mathur

I do not have great things to write about, but the irony between the word (shared today on twitter by Tarique Anwer, a dear friend) and my thoughts struck me. This irony was special and ironical, because all the thoughts of 'cleansing' are borne out of a 'yearning'. So, the paradox is actually the essence. Okay. I am losing it. But you get this story, right? At some point, it must have been your story too. Now, it is my story. 

Winter Notebook - December Arrives With A New Theme!

December is a reflection zone for me. This month brings with itself the smell of nostalgia. It does also, usually, carry along the wonder of winter, the comfort of blankets and the thrill of cosy moments with friends, but, well, that, I believe, is a burden of expectations which January will have to bear. I can say this, because I am writing this post sitting on the floor in the drawing room of my house, wearing half sleeves kurta with a thin, cotton salwar, killing mosquitoes as I type. December should not feel like this. I mean, by now, I should have been shivering inside a blanket wrapped around an oversized gharwali jacket. And by now, all mosquitoes should have died of merciless cold. But, aah, well, none of those has happened.

PC - Funnybox.com

The nostalgia is here, definitely. It has got a little to do with winters, which carry along the pleasant lull of thoughtfulness. It has got a little more to do with the timing. Another year is dying, only so it may live with its best and worst moments inside us. A new year starts looming in imagination, with its promises of great things and nervousness of new experiments and performances. Is the prospect of a new year always exciting? I don't know. However, for me, personally, I am glad 2014 is going to be gone.

It was a tough year for me; probably the toughest in my memory. The scratches of bitter moments are still red, and they itch now and then. It was a year in which I saw myself refusing to mature with experience. I found regression comforting. This was a year in which I challenged life, looking right in its eye. Then, I won some, I lost some. Good things happened, of course they did! But somehow, I am looking at December to serve as a grand compensation for all that went wrong. So far, it has behaved, umm, in a lukewarm manner. But it has only just started, and probably great things are in store. Or probably they are not. I don't know. I don't know how welcome is it to think of planting experiences and not allowing them to come on you naturally.

Good, or bad, one thing I am fervently hoping is that December leaves me with experiences I can translate into stories. Oh yes, I am high on writing stories these days.

I am also high on eliminating clutter from my life, a start of which has been made on this blog. I loved the rich red shades of the earlier theme, but I guess it was time I made things cleaner (and leaner?) here. What do you think of the new theme? Not that I am going to change it if you advise, but I would love to know your thoughts.

A wintry smile, from last year.

I'll introduce you to my memories this month. You don't really have to be on this journey with me, but I will be glad if you are. 

A Starry Sky

An hour ago I cried
At the thoughtless thoughts
Of my mindless mind
And incessant buzz
Of crude connections
Wired and wireless
Which firmed up and fractured
Into a dozen cracks
Now visible in creases
Ageing around my eyes.

Eyes, eyes have water
Not tears, but water
Pure, watery water
Flowing in frenzy
Down and out
As if gravity were a better friend
Than I could ever be
As water flowed out
Memories settled in
Calm gathered,
I scribbled a message of hope
And hope sure is sinless sin.

Sin was it.
To love and be loved.
Then tear and be torn
Into a million stars
Which now light the darkness
Of this ephemeral, and eternal
Existence.

Existence is a starry sky
With dark as its cloak
And night as its cradle. 

Pic Credits - @TheWishingChair

An Isolated Incident by Soniah Kamal - A Review

When you see Khaled Hosseini endorse a book right on its cover, the fan in your stops thinking and picks up the book with high hopes and expectations. An Isolated Incident by Soniah Kamal, fell prey to this burden of expectations. One could call it a wrong way to approach a book, or one could hold the endorsement fortunate for it tinges the critical eye with rainbow colours. This novel written by a Pakistan born American author gave me both highs - that of a confused critic eager to verbalise the disenchantment, and that of a fascinated reader, comfortably giving herself over to the deft penmanship of the author. Let us get along to exploring both these aspects of the novel now, shall we?

Uprooting
The narrative begins in Kashmir, which is a land ridden with tensions, but happiness manages to flow in households obsessed with living the daily chores and fulfilling customs and rituals. Zari is the protagonist - a vivacious girl, in a loving family, with a marriage to excitedly prepare and wait for. Conflict strikes at the very beginning when her entire world is ripped apart, and she is uprooted from her native land to be taken to the more liberal and progressive air of the States to heal in the company of her distant relatives. Classic and expected interjection in the plot by an author whom postcolonial theorists would label with hyphenated identity. Diaspora as a literary strain is all too evident here - the distance from culture is what makes the yearning for and awareness of culture prominent - this being further complicated by a tragic heroine mourning the loss of her loved ones and piecing together her identity from a fragmented psyche and erased past.

Memory and History
Writings about lands with complicated conflicts at the very birth of them - a classic example of which is Kashmir - build upon the strains of memory and history to help characters determine answers to the 'Who am I' question. In An Isolated Incident, while Zari deals with the burden of memory and history, her hero, Billy, romanticises both to arrive at a proud and rebellious notion of his identity. His parents deliberately conceal details of his family history which lends him the frustrated feeling of anchorlessness. From conversations of childhood spent in Kashmir that he remembers, he is convinced that he bloodline is made up of great ancestors who fought for the liberation of his homeland. It is in the past that he discerns a destiny and path for future actions. Part of his responsibility towards Kashmir is fulfilled by taking care of Zari, and the other, unfulfilled, burning part is what leads him to the fields of conflict which jeopardise his existence along with that of the family.

Cultural Positioning
I forced a Kashmiri friend to read this novel along with me, for the pleasure of discussion and association. We all like seeing our childhood reminiscences inked as someone else's recollections - and my friend was no different. The novel liberally uses Kashmiri colloquial terms, making conversations rather personal and warm. Cultural identifiers in terms of Kashmiri food, customs, games, greetings are what keep the novel bound together as a unified narrative even as it traverses through vastly different geographic spaces. The keenness to affiliate to your common roots, to draw the source of your existence from there is evident in both the central characters, even as other characters snap or mutilate their past for they see it threatening their future. The political stances taken by the author (through the voice of her characters) is not what Indian audience would be too happy about - but then, if fiction is debated upon within the realm of fiction, then the stances, however jarring, come justified in the fabric of the story.

Characters and Identity

I have a personal proclivity towards novels in which I see characters grow in reaction to the situations around them. What I will laud the author for in her extremely skilled hold over her characters, each of whom had more to it than a mere flat face. The story functions in a non-linear format, and the greater depths of narratives you delve into, a newer shade about the characters are revealed. This applies to the protagonists, as well as all the supporting cast. Also, no character in the story could be called a mere accessory - they all come with a defined purpose, they help further the narrative and each of them make your reflect uniquely in the human condition, the tragedy of never having control over how your life pans out in front of you. I would personally like to congratulate the author for her absolute finesse on creating a pool of characters with unique human identities converging to a common cultural identity.

Narrative and Verdict
Its a good novel. Not exceptional, but an extremely good novel - almost like a rare piece of literary merit that lingers in your head till long after. Soniah Kamal has displayed exemplary sensitivity, sensibility and intelligence while assembling together this beautiful and thought provoking novel on the Kashmir question. In doing so, she has lent a balance to the personal and the political. Her language is leagues above the ordinary, somewhat satiating a literary appetite. The only problem I had with the book was the confusion and fragmentation which surface as the plot jumps between people, perspectives and places. Basically, there were times when the novel refused to hold me together, even thought I was willing to lie submerged in it.  The plot took long to reveal itself to me. For the longest time, I felt that this was Zari's story, but as I put the novel away, I find power in the character and conflict which Billy essays. If that was intended or not, I would not know.

However, no novel has forced me to write a review with such excitement! Since I must stop writing now in order to attend to other chores, let me just give the verdict as 3.5 stars on 5 and a highly recommended label alongside. When you manage to read this one, as you absolutely should, can we get along for a cup of tea and dwell a little on the politics and people of Kashmir, please?

Book Details - 
Author - Soniah Kamal
Genre - Fiction
Publisher - Fingerprint
Published - 2014
Price - Rs. 295
Pages - 379
Source - Review Copy

Water Memory - Guest Post by Anurag Vats

Do You see those drops falling?

Each drop of water that falls on Your skin has tales to tell.

Each swig of the drink You take; taste, or no taste, has moments.

Water retains memories. 

  

Hence each time You see rain falling,

Each time You share a drink,

Each time You drink water, sharing that glass,

You share a part of the memory.

You wouldn't realise. 

But it takes a place in Your head.

Memories of Centuries.

Memories of moments.

Memories of the moments past.

Memories of present.

It is absorbing a part of You as we breathe. 

It’s good that You live here, and we've shared a drink. 

Perhaps that's the reason, a part of You lives in me,

And You wouldn’t realise, a part of mine in Yours. 

It is neutral, it is transparent.

Because it is so opaque, with memories that You won’t be able to see.

They say that a kiss can transfer a bit of You in the other.

Who knows why?

Water memories, watermarks and water colours.

What are waters?

They are eternal. I swear.

Imagine, water goes up and precipitates, for millennia.

Ancient water.

Water sipped an unison, they speak.

Water fallen on the paper. 

Water kissed from the cheeks.

Water absorbed from the other's body.

Watery eyes.

Ever imagined saline water that runs in tears and in oceans.

We are almost water.

So is most of the Earth.

Uncountable memories.

Countable instances.

Memories make Us, most of Us.

Memories lead to love, to procreation and it doesn't end there.

Memories conjure water too and water conjures memories.

Drop by drop.

They fall like drops of You and i.

Drops of us. 

Dropped through Us.

On Us. 

In Us.

Us.

About The Poet

Anurag Vats is among the many young, promising poets I met over the past year, who leaves the listeners of his poetry exhilarated and incredulous with his deft, bordering on fantastical use of language. Anurag, besides creative expression, has the blessing of a mesmerising baritone, and even if my description of his poetic brilliance is going a bit over the top, it is still all justified, you can trust me! The above poem, if just one example, and you can find more, here - http://anurag-vats.blogspot.in/

Image Credits (For the dewy-leafy picture) - Vivek Nambiar (another awesome friend I made over the many gatherings I attend and organize. 

A Little Something On Me

There is a tag going on around at Instagram, where people are asked to state 20 random facts about themselves. I remember a time when such tags were routine in the world of blogs. However, I feel, with the coming up on multiple social networking fora, where the content you write is instantly and easily share-able and tag-able, blogs have sort of gotten relegated to a secondary expression position - laborious, slightly inconvenient.

Anyway, so I wanted to do the same tag here; for old time's sake. Also, for archiving purposes. Here we go.

1. I am in love with the world of written words - I want to own it, play in it, learn with it, carve it, destroy it, reconstruct it and flow with it. 
   
2. Ammi - Letters To A Democratic Mother by Saeed Akhtar Mirza is the book which has influenced me most in life. Following it at a close second spot is a book called The Assassin's Song by M. G. Vassanji. 

   

   Saeed Akhtar Mirza

3. Faiz Ahmed Faiz is the poet who tugs at the cords of my heart most strongly, though I will admit to not being able to comprehend his language completely. 
   
4. I have always been a people's person, but that manner of existence has begun disenchanting me lately. 
5. I am crazily in love with Silver Jewellery - buy me some and be assured I will instantly fall in love with you. I am also slowly opening up to the idea of gold and bling. Dang is my favourite place to pick up gold-funky-accessories from. 
   
6. I discovered Mythology, specifically Mahabharata as a huge ocean with depth as yet waiting discovery, earlier this year. I hence started a club called Maha Varta with a bunch of mythology enthusiasts which has opened my eyes to much which would have otherwise been left elusive. 
   
7. I desire to be married to books and nature, with a cottage all to myself, high up in the hills. 
8. I have been blessed with a friend who remains with me to grant me unconditional love and support even when I am a witch. Such friends, companions, lovers are rare. They are a blessing most of us fail to understand. 
9. This blog has been dearer to me than most journals I have written in moments of intimacy with myself. Each time I see the ticker at the right hand side move, I do a mental jig. 
10. My day job is that of a Content Strategist; but then, so are my night jobs, one  of which is that of the Poetry Editor at a forum called Positivally Cynical (intentionally spelt that way). Here, my boss is someone way younger than me, but this fine young man hides within him an ambitious entrepreneur I love seeing come of age.
    
11. I love experimenting with new flavours of tea. You want to take me out for a date? Sunset and tea, or monsoon and tea work wonders!
    
12. I was a coffee addict at one time. The incident which changed that was when I collapsed due to drinking 12 cups of coffee in a span of 8 hours. Don't ever try that at home!
    
13. I am in love with my voice.
14. If I were to venture out this moment for a holiday, I would pick between - Udaipur, Jaipur and Sattal. 
15. I go to the fanciest of restaurants to savour the fanciest of dishes from the most exotic corners of the world, but my favourite hangout remains Janpath McDonalds', with their breakfast menu served to me on rain-fed or foggy mornings.
    
16. I want to keep exploring arts - all forms of it - throughout life. Right now, playback is the weird ambition I have been day-dreaming after. 
17. I think faith is a tough concept to hang onto and that we all need our Krishna in life - living, breathing, wise entities who have something very humanly admirable about them. My Krishna exists in combination of real and imagined entities. 
18. I love getting clicked. 
    
19. I met poetry last year. It made me happy, but then caused immeasurable pain. I am trying to meet it again now, through a concept called Poets' Collective. I have no clue where it will go - but I do know that I will not try too hard again in life. 
    
20. I am trying to lose weight these days. Extra volume doesn't bother me. Alarmingly low levels of stamina do. 

Bonus - I am obsessed with the idea of becoming the flow, whatever that means. 

I would love it if the following people to repeat the exercise on their respective blogs - Achint Mathur, Manan Kulshreshtha, Neha Menon, Navin Dutta, Sudhanshu Shekhar Tiwari, Neelkamal Pandey, Yogesh Pandey, Aakriti Mallik, Kunal, Archika Poria, Varun Rustagi and anyone else who happens to drop by here. Leave a link to your blog in the comment section below. I would love to visit and know a little more about you. 

Sonnet I - To An Ancient Lover

A series of messes, so dear and rich,

The wonders of love did drench me through,

Our paths were crossed by a river bewitched,

Slicing emotions that were set  to brew.

Your silhouette, tall, dark, confused,

Managed to salvage before it could flee,

I pondered if your visage shaded a recluse,

A self that perhaps could merge with me.

The mirror reflected less than it protected,

A glimpse was ours, a gift in parts,

Locked behind doors, moments perfected,

In parts, we discovered the wholeness of hearts.

Step aside, observe how you dwell in my eye,

Form an image of love, subsuming 'you and I'. 

Picture Credits - Madhurjya Saikia

P. S. - An attempted Sonnet written in a stupor. I have no idea what an 'iambic pentameter' means, so yes, judging me on that count is out of question.

To Moments Which Hold On...

Some days do not require a label for being called a celebration. They just inherently carry a celebratory air. These days need not necessarily be a birthday, an anniversary or anything close. Such days could just be a lingering thought on your mind about some extremely special moments you spent with a loved one. These moments might not be the first of their kind - but by the sheer intensity of what you share, they elevate themselves above all similar times and expressions, and become priceless, to be cherished till whatever is your concept of eternity. One such day is today, when I had a long telephone conversation with a friend, who has alternated between roles of a bestie and that bordering on filial protectiveness. This phone conversation was neither the first, nor the last of its kind - but it was an experience where the world ceased existing except for the phone in my hand and the voice reaching my ears from the other side. This phone call happened around seven years ago, at about three thirty pm in the afternoon - and there was nothing exceptional in the chit-chatting except for the fact that it gave me a sense of finally having arrived at a safe, secure place in life, and of having entered a bond which was meant to last.

My blog, at one point, was a place I honoured the most special people in my life from. I believe in expressions, but they are best left cryptic at times - for meaning to ooze out from pores which have deliberately been poked in a narrative. For the bravest person I know, I scribbled a dozen lines some ten minutes back - and they seemed pretty enough to be shared here. And so I am.

A toast, to moments which don't stop existing even long after they have passed!

To You, and the Awesome Road Ahead

Dear PACH

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

That's you, that's us

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

The 13th invite

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

The enchanting venue

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

Mulaqat-e-Ghalib

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

Same emotions, different expressions. 

Facing our poets, who double up as the audience. 

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

Asif, in full flow

Rana ma'am - adding the feminist touch

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

We were much more than what you see here

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

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

Aastha di and sir

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

The official, first PACH couple

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

The written word

Aunty, with Aafreen!

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

Happy 'half year old' PACH!

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

Happiness and hope

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

Much love.
Saumya. 

All the awesome people!

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

In my happy zone