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.

I Steal From You (I Steal You)

I steal.
I steal you away from your laptop
Into whose glare you fish
For the strained brightness
And aspired automation of dreams
Only, you understand them wrong
Dreams aren't used to automation.

They are built from the romance

 Of exasperation.

Of figments you inherently know

Are not yours to live and die with.

Dreams are what I have
Which steal shreds of reality
Into a make believe world
Where you're not endlessly staring
Into your painfully flawless machine.
But my eyes.
Just my eyes. 

(My once brown, then golden eyes.)

And then in my being.

I steal.
I steal from you some touches.
Cheap, you'd think.
The problem, my dear, is,
Each time your bump into me
Or your hand brushes my arm
Or you casually tousle my hair
A million tremors assail my skin
And that which lies deep within.
Your innocent touches
Embolden me
To plant deliberate caresses
On whatever of you
I wish to consume.
You might not know
But my head resting on your shoulder
Is the least innocent act
My mind can conjure.

(While I am at it, 

The pain of my thoughts,
Only heaven may endure.)

I steal.
I steal you away to the moon
No less.
And there, I force you
To force me
Into violent, cheesy lovemaking
With six time the passion
And one sixth the weight.
You lie light on my chest
Even as your heavy breathing
Pretends to cover
My uncovered, undiscovered lust..

Did you hear the sonorousness?

Of a heart learning to fly

And cry again? 

The taste of the tears

Is like a jolt into reality

As if salt existed

Only to scratch and wound the stealth

I employ

To gain you. 

I steal. 

I steal to realise

What I stole from you

Belonged not to you

In the first place. 

I steal to erode moments

Off MY limited life span

Placing happy packets

Full of airy airs

In fancy showcases

Of a humongous villa

You and I built

In a stolen moment of intimacy. 

These happy packets

Would burst and cackle

And bring down the villa. 

The only pain of which

Could be felt in my heart

(While you'd continue to stare

And pester for automation of dreams.)

I steal.

I steal but fail to realise.

If I am cheating you,

Or slapping myself a challan

(Calculated in time and heart units)

For yet again jumping

The danger signal

And stepping on the desire path

Through sylvan silks

Leading to the lake

With enough water

To drown me proper. 

In the world of metaphors,

No theft goes unrewarded.

But love does. 

And so, the lover in me

Will continue being a thief,

With loot

Than being a lover

With love cut loose. 

PC - lizkapiloto (etsy)

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

Daastaan... Adhoori si

 Chand nikla nahi tha shayad us raat

Par sitaaron ki chamak saath chal rahi thi

Kya hum ja sakte hain wahaan dobara?

Woh baat sun-ne ko jab dhadkan machal rahi thi?

Chaand keh kar pukara tha tumne mujhe

Tab halki si muskaan mein sharm sama gayi thi

“Pagal” kehkar matha thapthapaya tha mera

Kyun? Kya main woh ehsaas tum mein jaga gayi thi?

Amavas ko dhang se na samajh paaoon

So tumne chand se muqabla kar diya mera

Khush thi ki roshni ban gayi hoon tumhari

Par yeh bhi yaad ki chaand samete hai andhera

Poori qaaynaat par noor chhalkata, phir chhupata

Woh ek raaz, ek aas, ek aarzu, ek gumshuda chehra

Tum padh nahi paaye mere khamosh andhere

Ab dushmani kar baitha hai zindagi se savera

Thake kandhe par sar, haath mein tumhara haath

Main chali ja rahi thi machalti chahat ko dabaye

Sard raat thi, laal shawl ke neeche dil thithur raha tha

Par yaad is kambakht ko tab bhi tumhari saanson ki garmaahat aaye

Tumne hi kaha tha, thandi hawa pyaar ko bhadkaati hai

“Paas raho, ab chhoti si doori bhi sataaye”

Tabse kitni sardiyaan, ya kahoon sadiyaan beet gayi hain

Thandak phir badan ko choom ke gayi, par tum toh na aaye

Saal bhar mein se bas sardiyaan yaad reh jaati hain ab

Aksar tumhari baaton ki chaadar ke peechhe chhup jaati hoon

Na bebas hoon, na badgumaan, na pyaar kam hua hai mera

Main toh mushkil yaadon ki bhi dhun bana, usse gungunaati hoon

Dua ki chaukhat pe baithe dekha hoga tumne mujhe

Andar jhaank ke, main waapas bhaag aati hoon

Sochti hoon ki pyaar maang, tumhe chheen kar le aaoongi

Par wahaan tumhara aks dekh, tumhari khushi ke liye lalchaati hoon

Meri baatein, meri kahaaniyaan yaad hain tumhe?

Sunte-sunte tum aksar thak jaate the

Kabhi hans padte, toh kabhi tok dete, kabhi na samajhte

Baaton ke matlab musalsal, sirf lafz badal jaate the

Suno, azeem lafzon ki riyaasaton ke beech dekhna

Wahin kuchh chhote gaaon hain jinme maayne samaate the

Saath chal rahi, tum kaise meri aankhein padh paate?

Un dono mein hi toh raat ke bewatan kisse timtimaate the.

Woh raat chali nahi wahaan se, waqt mein tham si gayi  hai

Woh daastaan bhi badhi nahi aage, kaali syahi mein jam gayi hai

Waqt jo kilkaariyaan marta, gudgudee karta

Waqt, woh aansu chhupata, siskiyaan dabata

Waqt jo waqt jaisa nahi tha

Waqt, jo par lagaaye khada tha

Jise yaad kar, muskuraate ho tum abhi 

Jise bhool aaye usi raaste, usi raat kahin

Postscript

Aansu behte hain kabhi kabhi

Par muskaan honthon pe tik gayi hai

Tum mujhe apni kahaani toh poori suna gaye

Humaari daastaan magar adhoori reh gayi hai

I could not have found a better artist than Afremov, yet again, to express in pictures what I have attempted to in words. When I recited the above poem in front of my classmates at college, one of them said in a tone of surprise, "Saumya, you are really romantic at heart!", and I was left scratching my head, wondering, how did she miss that! Another friend who heard it said that to have written all this, I MUST have felt an intense amount of love. I prevaricated, but smiled to myself. In my reckoning 'intense amount of love' is a euphemism of sorts. Adding figments of fiction to life is fun, but it also sometimes makes a spark into a conflagration. Building castles of love is not the most advisable thing to do, but hey, its a risk worth taking. I'll end the nonsense here. 

This is my first genuine attempt in Hindi. PACH made me do this. That same crazy, magical PACH. 

Anamnesis

That morning was weird and nice
For then stars sparkled in clear, blue sky
When water ripples resembled smiles
And rushing winds in ecstasy cried

I felt a prickly chill somewhere
Looked and smiled at arms left bare
Palms outstretched still catching rain
Collecting pearls to lose them fain

And then his words echoed and shined
Like lashing on the shores of my mind
The mind left numb to chill of dew
The mind dancing to a gay heart’s cue J

I picked and sifted past night’s memories
Meandering through that bag of stories
I let his laugh ring high and pierce
The morning calm on which I perched

A voice not deep, but rich, and foul
A moment grave, then shrill and loud
But that did cast exquisite spells
By uttering words which made hearts melt

That morning, stars watched me over
Invisible, yet, in sleepy eyes they shimmered
They lay in my lap, I still looked up
I looked up and guessed, I fell in love.

I fell in love sans self or pride
I fell in love with eyes open wide
I fell in love not thinking of gains
I fell in love while shivering in rains

I fell in love with the mirth he gave
I fell in love with the anger I hate
I fell, and fell, sans fear of hurt
I fell in love with him, his words

Postscript

I fell in love, like it’s here to stay
I fell in love, but it’ll go someday 

Postscript 2 – I have come to realize in life, that love should never begin at admiration. However, observe that this caution is coming from a girl who uses dawn as her blanket for dreamy slumber. The idea behind stating this fact is to let you all know that when it comes to emotional adventures, I have always thrown caution to the wind. I wrote this poem under the starriest skies of imagination, only wondering, if true, will I be as giddy and happy? Some things in life are best left confined to the canvass of imagination, for those thoughts are pretty, precious and fragile. Reality is the spoiler always, isn’t it? And so, the Bard, in Midsummer Night’s Dream, has this to say about ‘Love’ –

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,

And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”

The City of Devi by Manil Suri - A Review

I was overjoyed to receive my first overseas mail carrying a book for review by Norton publishers. So far, I was aware of this publishing house's name for the critical content it printed on literary classics, and was pleasantly surprised to see Norton publishing contemporary authors with experimental narratives and genres. Taking up with novel with a slightly odd name - "The City of Devi" - was easy, since credibility was established by the very name and packaging of the courier I received. That Manil Suri was a writer who could churn out an epic with an apocalyptal theme turned out to be a pleasant surprise waiting to be unfurled with the turning of pages of this book.

The City of Devi is an innovative, unique and adventurous novel. It dwells on a love triangle with a twist.

There is a woman, and two men. However, contrary to what you might be already thinking, in this book, a woman, Sarita, and a man, Jazz, are both madly in love with a third person, a man - Karun - who is the mysterious, elusive figure in the book. It is Karun, however, who keep the two alternate strands of narrative, that of Sarita and Jazz, find a common ground to develop cohesively from. The rather tumultuous love saga of these three protagonists is set against the backdrop of an apocalypse waiting to happen - a nuclear strike on Mumbai, ready to wipe out the last trace of life from the island. In a classic tale of cross-border communal conflict, humanity is standing vulnerable and on the verge of being sacrificed for what are assumed to be conflicts of supremacy of divine powers. Mumbai only could be saved by its patron Goddess - Mumba Devi, recently resurrected in a Bollywood incarnation - Super Devi - giving more fillip to the blind adoration of gullible multitudes. And amid all this mayhem, two, no three, lovers are eagerly searching for an opportunity to unite with each other, after eliminating the 'other'.

This novel doggedly follows the quest motif - a rather effective one in stories which deal with the pains and ecstasies of love. Love is, it goes without saying, the underlying theme. In addition to it, theme of communalism, humanism, hypocrisy, apocalypse and homosexuality have been adequately dealt with in the book. With sensibility and gusto. Dystopia, towards which the real world too is fast spiralling, is another prominent theme. The novel is rich with explicit content, and for the shy readers out there, I have to mention, Manil Suri does not believe in using innuendoes. A powerful strain of narrative, in fact, is developed around a pomegranate - a perceived aphrodisiac (about the veracity of which claim I have no clue!), and that pomegranate continues to be an inanimate, silent yet pivotal character in the book. Manil Suri also weaves together myths and memories in the story; especially curious is the way he deals with a rare interpretation of the concept of divine trinity.

The City of Devi is a work of passion, and intelligent story telling. It has elements which enthral a reader and keep drawing him deeper and deeper in the fiction which starts assuming dimensions of reality. An intriguing beginning and an out-of-the-box climax add perfection to an already great scripting. A grand cast of characters does not obfuscate a reader, because the main concern - the protagonists - are so well constructed and foregrounded. Witty dialogues and great use of embellished language make the reading experience rich and satisfying. Love and romance always work for the audience; but when supplanted with an element of impending doom, they acquire a texture of passion and urgency - a fact aptly exploited by the author. I could go on writing reams of material on they way this book influenced me, but for now, I will conclude by awarding it, in all humility, 4 stars on five. It is one great adventure to be a part of.

Book Details -
Author - Manil Suri 
Publisher - Norton
Published - 2013
Book Source - Review Copy
Genre - Fiction/Romance/Dystopia
Price - Rs. 499
Pages -  400

The Age of Hibilisk by Sumukh Naik - A Review

I grew up with a generation which was drunk on the fantasy fiction genre. Quizzes and competitions on Harry Potter were common, and so was the desire of many of my friends to acquire the 'Ring' and get it engraved. I, somehow, steered clear of the popular craze. My only tryst with fantasy-adventure genre was Chrisopher Paolini's Inheritance Trilogy, that too, restricted to first two books - Eragon and Eldest. I have to admit, I remember nothing of the two books. With The Age of Hibilisk, I found the first proper opportunity to read, absorb, and write about a book which falls markedly under this fantasy umbrella, but is different in the sense that it is indigenously produced. I hoped to understand the thought of the writer better, as well as the terrain he traverses. At some points, I feel I succeeded in decoding the messages contained within the text. At other points, well, lets come to that after a synopsis of the storyline.

From what I understood, The Age of Hibilisk, is essentially the adventure tale of Prince William and Princess Sara, through the mystical lands of Pantolis, Hibilisk and Ikra. They, respectively, are the rulers of the Kingdom of Jaguar and the Kingdom of Ivory, both involved in a conflict engineered by some dark force. Their world is beginning to be engulfed by a mysterious evil force, which is turning the once lush forests black and is unleashing inscrutable misfortunes on the hapless inhabitants on the land of Pantolis. This mystical and spiritual place is under the protection of Ten Masters, each to take care of ten directions. There is an Eleventh Master, who sits at the throne above the ten Masters, summoned when they need advice. He manifests as the Sage throughout the narrative, one who guides William and Sara on their voyage towards allaying the dark forces from completely annihilating their beloved land.

There are many reasons for why I stuck with this book till the end despite finding it a little dull towards the initial passages. Author Sumukh Naik did not disappoint me for my perseverance, because the book has few of the brightest and most stimulating episodes towards the end. You should not read this story as a mere fantastic novel, because the script has been set in a rich fabric of thoughts and philosophy. Two philosophies emerge very prominently out of the book. First is the balance between good and evil. Each element around us has both, the forces of good and evil contained in equal measure within in. Humans have been blessed with the faculty of making a choice between them. Second, there is a magic far stronger and more potent than all the magic in the world, and that is the magic of love and compassion, which all human beings are capable of harnessing. These two strains of thought are fundamental to the journey motif exploited expertly by Sumukh in his debut work.

The author has done a fine job in his detailing, which is indispensable for any work belonging to the fantasy fiction genre, since you are attempting to take the reader into a land which does not exist anywhere on the map of the world. Oh, cartographic presentation attached at the end of the book do help, and the illustrations are simple enough to let the reader follow up without hassles or confusions. The pace of the story dips at points, but catches up fast. It takes a little long to set the premise, but once it does that, incidents follow each other at a decent speed. Characters are painted with concrete, identifiable and consistent traits - which is excellent - but they falter at something basic, and that is in their naming. Nomenclature is one field which out author needed to pay more heed to, since names have been drawn from various cultural traditions. This may not have been so much of a problem if all the names chosen were obscure. However, when you have a Samantha, a Philip, a Sara and a William coexisting with a Sharma, it gets problematic, and to be completely honest, tad hilarious even.

I found the book a little repetitive in initial parts, as if the author did not trust his readers enough to follow even his very basic statements in the text. The language is colloquial, understandable, but has editing glitches which could have and should have been taken care of. At a little above 350 pages, the book, for its genre is neither too thin, nor too bulky. I wish some imagination had been spared on the cover of the book as well, which does not look very inviting or promising; quite contrary to the content. All in all, I think this is a two on five star book for me.

Book Details - 
Author - Sumukh Nail
Publisher - APK Publishers
Published - June 2012
Book Source - Review Copy
Genre - Fantasy-Adventure
Price - Rs. 295
Pages - 372