About another Gandalf :)

Sometimes, when the wanderer in me takes over, I find myself in one of those frames of mind where I'm more than willing to leave the entire world behind and take a trip on my own, even if all of it is inside my head. If I could take only one thing from this world on these jaunts, though, it would have to be Gulzar's poetry. And if a benevolent genie materialised before my eyes and asked me to name a wish, I would ask to be given a mind like Gulzar's.

I have talked about my love for his poetry, and where it comes from, before. The love of words runs in the family, but in being completely besotted with Gulzar's poetry, I take after my father. Sometimes, it takes my breath away to see how simply he states the most convoluted truths, how perfect his poetry is. And then I wonder just how intelligent, original, eccentric, sensitive, quirky, perceptive, playful, innocently irreverent, whimsical, imaginative and, above all, free, must the mind be that yields those words. Everything just right, never more, never less. Gulzar's poetry is like the river - it has a mind and life of its own; it will be only itself and nothing else, and it will do so measuredly, only in amounts it deems fit. It makes me smile, forces me to think, keeps me going, makes me believe. And that is why I consider his poetry a religion greater than any sort of institutionalized entity.

Gulzar is always in his element, no matter what the subject. Wry humour, melancholic rumination, searing sadness, sprightly cheeriness, unbridled lunacy, haunting recollections, passionate love...there is no emotion he isn't capable of handling, no shade he is unfamiliar with.  It makes you wonder how deep his feelings must run, and how astute his knowledge of human nature is. This man is an artist: he effortlessly paints whole murals and tapestries in your head. The words flow with an ease that belies the all-encompassing imagination and originality fuelling his poetry. The best part of it all is the utter magic he can work with words. Regular, everyday words start talking, building landscapes, creating people. His poetry, as simple as it is rich, could be a self-contained course in Urdu or Punjabi literature. In an interview that I read years ago, he talked about an imaginary childhood friend of his. There weren't too many children in his village, he said, so he simply made up a little boy called Tunna, and talked to him constantly, worrying his parents into believing he needed help. Once he created Tunna, he said, he was never lonely again. Apparently, every time Gulzar needs inspiration, Tunna comes calling. No wonder there is a touch of the other-worldly in Gulzar's lyrics...that imaginary little guy must be quite an influence!

So here, in no particular order, are excerpts from some of the songs Gulzar has written. I have no idea how many I am going to list...but I do know that I couldn't enumerate all of them if I sat all night. Here's some sheer beauty:

Jal gaye jo dhoop mein toh, saaya ho gaye

Aasmaa ka koi kona odha, so gaye

Jo guzar jaati hai bas, usmein guzar karte hain...

Aaina dekhkar tasalli hui

Humko is ghar mein jaanta hai koi...

Nainon ki mat maniyo re, naino ki mat suniyo, naina thug lenge...

Nainon ki zubaan pe bharosa nahin aata, likhat-padhat na raseed na khaata...

Jiska bhi chehra dekha, andar se aur nikla,

Masoom sa kabootar, naacha to mor nikla...

Yaad hai, peepul ke jiske ghaney saaye thhey,

Humne gilehri ke jhoothe matar khaaye thhey,

Ye barkat un hazrat ki hai...

Hawaa chale, sar pe liye

Ambar ki thandi phulkariyaan

Hum hi zameen, hum aasmaan,

Khasmaanokhaaye baaki jahaan...

Jitne bhi taye karte gaye, badhte gaye ye faasle

Meelon se din chhod aaye, saalon si raat leke chale...

Hazaar raahein, mudke dekhi,

Kahin se koi sadaa na aayi

Badi vafaa se nibhayi tumne

Hamaari thodi-si bewafayi...

And, of course, the theme that Indian childhood has consistently identified with for the last 25 years...

Jungle-jungle baat chali hai, pata chala hai... :)

We have any number of people in the world who'll tell us that life is beautiful. Gulzar proves it. It's that simple, really. :)

Breaking Spells

When the veil has fallen
and the mists have cleared
there's nothing but disbelief;
endless, incredulous laughs.

Another new experience,
a new lesson learnt
another long recollection
for vacant, querulous hours.

Incompleteness

A series of fractions will sum it up the easiest.
Question marks, half-measures
and the odd, half-bright spark.

A systematic sequence of etcs and et als;
one ellipsis after another,
everything in an untiring loop.

Like a mathematical derivation gone awry midway
and refusing to make sense
in spite of covert adjustments.

Or an essay that winds its tedious way around the point,
or along it, or beyond, or close
without ever really getting to it.

One picks up the threads easily enough, doesn't one?
But before they can be woven in
they usually tend to run out.

Slow & Sudden

You take a while
getting accustomed to.
Strange,
As familiar

As you are new.
Teasing. Throwing challenges
My way.
Daring me, gently

To get used to you.
I meet your eye;
Wonder
If I chose you, or

The converse is true.
Like black coffee,
Bitter chocolate,
And ungodly hours.

Tentativeness that
Melts into habit
Halfway
To eternal addiction.

Damned if I let you
Grow on me
Unfettered.
Damned if I don't.

Before I know it, you are
An acquired taste.

Conversations with Me

Why the dolour, Murphy asks.
I'm hard at work on a million tasks.
Try some more, he says, just focus,
while I perform some hocus pocus.

Your mumbo jumbo, I tell him
and all your crazy vigour and vim,
and all the ideas with which you're toying
are a waste of time, and quite annoying.

He takes offence, walks away in a huff;
pouts, looks mournful, tries acting tough.
Then he yields helplessly to habit -
starts loping around like a li'l jackrabbit.

You waste time yourself, he says with a smirk.
At least I never ignore my work.
My laws, they're sensible and terse -
and look at you, writing rubbish verse!

Your antics, I say, with increasing asperity
are nothing but heirlooms for lame posterity.
You have such a way of goofing up -
causing unwarranted slips 'twixt lip and cup.

And your prose, he goes on, unheeding;
now, that's hardly worth any reading.
Beg pard'n- he twirls daintily on his toes -
you're boring, stupid and verbose.

That'll be all. And I firmly rise.
He looks up with innocent eyes -
Did I do somethin' to tick you off?
Oh yes, I say, I've had enough.

You'll miss me, he insists, as I shove him out.
Oh no I won't, I hear me shout.
Why don't you get lost in the wilderness ,
and spare me all the extra stress?

I return to spinning random tales,
but the Muses elude me. When all else fails,
I stare in dismay at my efforts...
he's right - and this is rubbish verse.

I hear a chuckle, and an illusion crack.
Dear old Murphy is, obviously, back.
Go write tosh. He's warm, indulgent.
I'll render the rambling redundant.

All I Ask

I'll believe with all my heart

till I break it believing;

and then I'll believe some more.

I'll keep all the faith

I can keep, and then some -

I'll keep it like never before.

I'll give it all I have

and do all I can,

and fulfil every arduous task...

I'll walk as far as it takes -

sunshine and rain don't matter

So long as I know where I'm headed.

I'll fight all the fears;

be as brave as I can

and face every demon I've dreaded.

I don't mind waiting

forever and for always.

A promise is all I ask.

Button-eyed Profundity

So I'm in a brown study
over some things gone by;
a little green, a little blue
And I do, I do try

to see a little less red
(it helps you remain in the pink);
better crimson than yellow
is what I like to think.

I rack my grey cells over
the black, in-between, and white.
Then I sit and write some poetry
Arbitrary and trite :)

Schoolgirl Poetry I : November Rain

Deadlines, in all their urgency
loom large and menacing over me
I smile and gaze out,
blissfully.


Memories, ever rushing by -
restless, like a school of fry
From the present,
my alibi...


Tomorrows playing peekaboo -
promising. Foreboding, too.
I love them golden
and in blue.


Winter chill beneath my feet,
wind and rain and hail and sleet
Where the elements part
and meet.


Silly grins for no real reason,
brought on by mysterious treason
wrought suddenly by
the season.


I'm free, I'm flying north again
I'm wandering down memory lane
Blame it on
November rain.

Discovery

Inadequacy
Raises questions, and
I am at a loss for
Replies...


Face to face
With weaknesses I have
Been too proud - or weak -
To own.


Eventually
They catch up
And then they reveal
Surprises.

The fibre
Is strongest
Where I thought it
Most fragile.

Musing without the Muses

I know I want to pen it down
But it eludes me
Like the top of a dandelion blossom
Floating tantalisingly out of reach
And I ruefully smile away a frown.

There's so much, there is no lack
Of inspiration...no reason
For the Muses to elude me, but
I have no way of making trips
To Milton's warm south and back.

No blushful Hippocrene for me
No sudden inspiration
Nothing that inspires thought
Enough for it to flow uninhibited
Unfettered, feckless, carefree.

So I wonder if I should
Make a virtue of necessity
Let lack of inspiration
Inspire some random poetry
That may or may not be good.

Here's to the sheer absence
Of the Muses, then.
To a mind thoroughly empty
Of any inspiration... or to
Poesy, the slightest pretence.

--- written one exceedingly boring, lazy Sunday morning, while the sun is still in two minds about making an appearance, and I contemplate the fate of cold toast.

Flyleaf

Blank now,
But concealing
Mysteries untold.

A promise,
A gentle hint, a clue

Does the blankness
Disappoint you?

For some time now,
I have allowed

Mysteries to take me
Into their fold.

Blank, but hiding
All that's to come
By and by.

Protecting
What's within.

Promising yarns
Yet unwritten.

Thoughts that come
Oft, unbidden.

Every smile you smile,
Every tear I cry.

It is only blank
What use is it?
I hear you say...

Wait, I breathe
For the story

For the chapters
As they come,

Telling all
Asking some...

A brief note to you
Before
I go away.

Latching one door after another

running my hands over wood panelling

I pause to think.

Gazing at holes bored into the walls

where photographs have always hung.

No more.

It's a circular room - no corners.

Three windows, all closed.

I step out.

And then back in.

Inside is safer.

Safely cocooned in here.

Away from every possible

Danger.

A risk worth taking?

Win some, lose some?

I think not.

Tired, I let my gaze

run over the panelling again.

That, and the doors.

Shall I?

No. Not yet, at least.

Alliterating with Abandon

Alliteration is always an attempt to address

the many maddening molehills my meandering mind meets

I try till I'm tired and terribly tormented

but I'm no Shakespeare or Wordsworth or Keats!

Fear of failing to fashion fine verse

Inhibits ideas imbalanced, immature.

"Priya and perfect poetry? Please!"

- a voice in my head, unhelpful, insecure.

Doodle or die, I determinedly decide

Sense and symmetry can surely be seived

from the folds of my feelings, fraught with fragility...

Tougher tasks I have, with more success, achieved!

So I sit and scribble in studious silence

putting planks of poetry into place,

building bridges between the bees in my bonnet

and the (saner) rest of the human race.

:) :)

Best left unnamed

I wonder, every now and then, if you knew all along,

I wonder if you felt the same;

if the laughter and the talking were part of something larger

or simply the culmination of a game

of hide and seek, or peekaboo,

or a tentative, hesitant enquiring

into reasons and effects, opinions and dreams...

taking apart of emotional wiring!

Sometimes I wonder if you had guessed

why things happened like they did.

If, like me, you sought silence

when you were contentedly amid

tens of faces, a multitude of voices,

looking, every minute, every hour

for something you didn't quite know how to name,

endearingly elusive, so far.

I wonder if there'll be a second time,

I wonder if it will be the same.

No.

Some things are best left untouched, untarnished;

some things are best left unnamed.

Elusive, as always

I look up as your shadow falls on me,
a transversal on my ruled sheets.
I can't help a smile.

Most days, it is for you.
Sometimes, it is in spite of you.
But you're always the reason.

You remind me of light and darkness.
One word, a gesture, a half-grin,
and grim, protracted silences.

I can chase you away (most days, I manage).
Often, though, you refuse to go.
You don't budge; you simply stand there, smiling down at me

Willing me to understand that I can't defy science;
open windows mean that sunshine can stream in.
They also mean long shadows. That's science.

I settle for the next option:
Stay if you must (please, please stay),
but don't bother me while I go about existing.

You nod in agreement, far too readily
and my suspicions are aroused.
Why are you being so amenable?

Hands in pockets, you smile down at me.
Just knowing that you're there is so unnerving;
but you're oblivious to it all.

Chin up, I look you in the eye
Defiant, questioning, hopeful.
And the shadow melds into the sunshine. Nothing.

I smile to myself, then grin helplessly.
I think of you and sigh and laugh.
Now, I live.