Death comes, in a flash of light

The sun is ablaze, the ground is scorched
By the rays that seem to engulf
Life everywhere, in a haze of death.
The mind is on fire-
The timeless, ageless blaze of fury
That drowns out the voice of reason.
And, all around, the incendiary fumes
From the raging fires
Fill the already-noxious air.
The winds have stopped;
Perhaps even they feared
To tread the way of dancing death.
And he, all alone,
Is treading the way slowly, but surely
That will lead him to his end.
Everything is behind him-
All despair, pain and hatred;
It is an old story now.
No regrets, no sadness,
No pining for what does not come;
The mind is still, and calm.
The fires glower stronger, the fumes thicken,
The blazing earth says 'goodbye'.
Time stands still, as if in a thrall.
Death comes, in a flash of light
That darkens out the sun,
And leads him to silence, forever.

Ramzan, Old City

Ramzan is a festival to watch out for in Old Delhi. It is during this one month of fasting that the Old City comes alive in colours , celebrating faith . From Ballimaran to Matia Mahal to Jama Masjid, the streets are a riot of lights and colours. All kinds of food line the shops on both sides of the road, the air smells of semai, fried chicken and attar.

I started off from Urdu Bazar, in front of Jama Masjid. Heaps of chicken were stacked in the shops on the roadside, kebab were being roasted on skewers, heaps of semai were being sold. The Jama Masjid was lit up brightly. And the usually chaotic streets were even more chaotic, with people, rickshaws and cars fighting for the same space.

I took a street on the left and entered Matia Mahal. It houses the eatery, Karims, an institution by itself. But there are umpteen other hotels, some looking decent enough, others decidedly shabby. The entire street is lighted with bright lights and festoons. It is just after Iftaar and people are devouring like crazy. Kebab flies off faster than lightning.

I venture deep into the innards, past shops selling sherwanis, salwars and kurtas and restaurants selling all kinds of food. In front of some of the eateries, poor people lined up, squatting on their haunches, in anticipation of the feast to follow.

The names are interesting- Chitli Qabar, Bazar Tiraha, Sui Walan … The esoteric galis of the old city surround me , in all its festivity.

I walk far enough and then turn back towards Matia Mahal.On the way back, I buy Semia from a sweetshop. It is being sold by the quintals, in huge heaps, in shops all around.

I enter an Attar shop, try out the fragrances, buy one. It is the famed five flower fragrance, which I had last seen in Hyderabad. The shopkeeper generously rubs attar on my shirt-sleeves. Soon, I am smelling pretty, sp much so that the next customer smells my shirt . Queer!

I have excellent Shammi Kabab at a restaurant, follow it up with jalebis , and buy rusk biscuits , speciality of this area.

I finally venture into the huge Jama Masjid, now decked in lights. There is a large crowd outside and inside. I take photographs sitting in the huge corridor. The lights have added a special sheen to this age-old building. People loiter around inside;some are praying in groups.

On the way back to the car, I buy fried chicken and firni , and move on. I am loaded with goodies, and it has been one more successful trip to the old city.

The heart of the city


All cities have a character of their own. Cities such as Delhi, which have a particularly rich history, have an inner core- an inner soul that defines the character of the city as it was meant to be.

Delhi is today singularly marked by indifference of its citizens towards the city. As a columnist recently wrote, we drive past millennia of history without even bothering to look around. Indeed, it is difficult to rouse the kind of passion in the average Delhiwallah about his or her city compared to a Mumbaikar or Kolkatan. There are reasons for this , the most important being that in most of the urban sprawl that is Delhi/ NCR today, the is the lack of an inner soul that binds.”The city of migrants” seems to drift like a migrant at time, defying comprehension for the drift, for it is here, among the ramparts and monuments that dot the city, that the millennia of history that shaped India as we know it today, are hidden,.

It has been nearly a 1000 years since Delhi’s recorded history begins, and a tumultuous 370 years since ” Purani Dilli” (Old Delhi-also called Shahjahanabad), was founded. The reign of Shahjahan and Aurangzeb, then that of the lesser Mughals like Shah Alam, later the sunset of the Mughal empire during the reign of Bahadur Shah Zafar , the eventual transfer of power to the Britishers, existence in a neglected state thereafter , and finally, the stab of Partition which saw large-scale migration. from the area- all have affected the spirit of this old place, these few square miles of area which have had a profound effect on Indian history.

But nothing dies forever. In the old city, you can still see pigeons being flown, in the time-honoured tradition of “Kabutarbaazi”. You can see still see the colorful kites flying, fluttering above the rooftops. And once you have done the Red Fort and the Jama Masjid, and venture into the quaintly-named labyrinthine streets of the old city, you will feel the soul of the city, never mind the grimy surroundings. It is here that India existed, in its time-tested tradition of communal amity. This is reassuring in an age where cynicism is increasingly taking the centre-stage in our lives, and secularism seems like just another cliché.

And so, it was on a moderately hot and profusely sweaty day, that I decided to take a journey through the old city. I was very graciously accompanied by Sumbul Siddiqui, who had grown up here and retained the kind of affection for the place that only an old-timer could muster.

We take a rickshaw ride from Daryaganj, where I have parked my car, and we check out the famed Sunday book bazaar. There is an assortment of books- textbooks, childrens’ books, story books. It is renowned throughout Delhi as the place to buy second-hand books from, but since it is only ten in the morning and the bazaar has not opened on a full scale yet, we move on and take a rickshaw. After some haggling, the fellow agrees to fifteen rupees and drops us at Chandni Chowk, in front of the imposing Red Fort (Lal Qila).

The city of Shahjahanabad, the seventh of the eight cities of Delhi, was established by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan, about 360 years back, and it was the abode of the inimitable Urdu poet Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. Shahjahanabad was ruled over by the Mughals, the last of whom was Bahadur Shah Zafar. Chandni Chowk, which means ”moonlit square”, was established by Begum Jahanara, the daughter of Emperor Jahangir, at around the time that Shahjahanabad was built.

Hidden in the gallis of the old city, after one has done the Red Fort, Jama Masjid and the Sisgunj Gurudwara, there are treasures to be found. Like the curiously -named alley,”Patli Gali”. Like the markets or “Katras”, neatly arranged by sections, the haveli of Mirza Ghalib, the old mansions, the beautiful Fatehpuri Masjid, the Kabootarbaaz (pigeon-flyer) on the streets, the covered well of Lalkuan, the quaintly-named streets such as “ Khari Baoli” , and of course the delicacies such as Tikkis, Paranthas, Kababs, Jalebis, Kulfis and what have you. All the while, a mass of humanity moves alongside you, ahead of you and behind you, exhorting you to walk on. The Old City is crowded, hot and dusty- and is definitely not for the faint-hearted.

Chandni Chowk was built as the main street of the then-new Shahjahanabad. It was the main shopping street of the city in the years gone by, and at the time of Shah Jahan, it definitely was a fashionable avenue.It was along this promenade that the Mughal emperors would proceed in their processions of splendour, seated on the back of the imperial elephant; a caravan of mace-bearers, horseriders, footsoldiers, palace guards, sepoys, water-bearers, and other people ahead of and behind them. There was a water channel flowing in the middle of the street those days, which has since been closed. The water supply for the channel came from an octagonal pool in the middle of the road. The name “Chandni Chowk” comes from the reflection of the moon which could be seen in this water pool in those days. The Britishers later closed the octagonal pool and the water-channel and built a clock-tower on Chandni Chowk, which existed there as one of the prominent landmarks of the area, before collapsing in 1951, never to be rebuilt again.

We walk past the Digambar Jain temple, built by Jain merchants during Shah Jahan’s reign; the Gauri Shankar temple; and the Sis Gunj Gurudwara, where Guru Tegh Bahadur was beheaded by the Mughal emperor Aurangzeb for refusing to abandon his religious beliefs .We walk past the Dariba Kalan, the jewellery lane, which, according to legend, in Mughal times used to be adorned with rare stones and riches. Rare jewellery from all over the world used to find their way here. Today it is just another jewellary market, but nothing like the days of yore. We make our way past hordes of Sunday revelers, merchants, mendicants, policemen and hangers-on. Cycle rickshaws have resumed plying on the road today, it being Sunday, and the general air is that of a laid-back atmosphere, many of the shops being closed on Sundays in Chandni Chowk.

We walk into one of the "Katras", through a half-closed gate. There are very few shops open in, but what amazes me is the neat network of tentacle-like Galis inside the Katra. There is a huge network of shops inside this building, Katra Asharfi, and there is no way of making out from outside what kind of life exists inside these walls. Mainly clotheswear is sold here, and as Sumbul informs me, people come from other parts of the city to buy stuff at Chandni Chowk, especially during special occasions like weddings. For some, the Old City is like religion (plus good savings) and they even come from abroad to buy stuff for special occasions, as one of her relatives did.

We walk past the Paranthe Wali Gali, the street of Parantha delicacies in Chandni Chowk, and decide to give this street a miss, because we have just had breakfast .We have Nimbu Paani at one of the roadside shops ; it’s refreshing , and what’s more , it’s available at Old City prices- only Rs.8/- per glass. We are in the search for a chemist shop to buy some band aids, and the shopowner helpfully gives us the directions. The greatest part of the Old City is that there are no airs- people like you or dislike you, and are generally helpful. The synthetic atmosphere of the rest of the city is mercifully missing here.

By the roadside we can still see an old haveli. The delicate latticed work stands out; the arches remain-, but the windows are broken, the wood is well-worn. Parts of the building are broken, other parts have been turned into shops and commercial establishments, and eminently “modernized” with iron grills and glass windows, which is typical of many such old buildings in this area. But I can’t help wondering that a vestige of the magnificence of there erstwhile days, remains. She still stands out among the rest.

We can see the town hall on our right. It has a chequered history, having been built by the Britishers in 1865, after having defeated the mutineers in the 1857 struggle. It was initially an educational and cultural institute and later was turned into the municipal headquarters. Today, it stands still like any other building on this stretch, a mute spectator to the passage of time and the reversal of fortunes.

We move on to Nai Sarak, which is the place selling clothes and books. Many of the shops are closed today, but this is definitely the place to come to if you are in the need of buying any book, for pleasure or business. A signboard reads” Munshilal Manoharlal Publishers Private Limited”. They sell-“books, magazines, catalogues, reports”. What catches my eye is the elegant building the shop is situated in. It is one of those old buildings that have seen the ravages of time, yet remain beautiful.

It is here that I discover the “Patli Gali”. It is a narrow ally, just off the street “Nai Sarak”, with the entrance, situated amongst two buildings just wide enough to let one person pass. It leads us to a row of bookshops (open,this time).

“You want any books?” one of the shopkeepers enquires.

We are interested only in looking around. A few shops are open, selling law books, engineering books, college books, any book one might require. There are also residences inside, not grand havelis but simple residences as seen in other parts of the city .The Gali meanders inward in a serpentine way, like all these streets of the Old City, and the omnipresent temple is also seen.

Sumbul stands at the entrance of the building to demonstrate how narrow it actually is. This place must be one of the hidden gems of the Old City I had never seen before. There’s a proverb in Hindi ” Patli gali se khisakna.” Which means “ to escape by the narrow alley.” This narrow alley would give no such chances of escape. Thieves,beware!

We visit the haveli (house) of Mirza Ghalib in the crowded locality of Ballimaran.This was one of the buildings where Mirza Ghalib had spent some part of his life.The house is adorned with his famous couplets, and has been suitably restored by the government from its earlier stage of dilapidation.

Mirza Ghalib was the peripatetic poet of Urdu. Having spent his life in the service of verse, but also wine and occasionally women, he was one of the icons of the tehzeeb, the culture that characterized Delhi during the days of the Mughals. Having witnessed Delhi in its most culturally advanced phase under Bahadur Shah Zafar, he also later witnessed it under its saddest day-the cataclysmic events post-1857 when the rampaging Britishers razed large sections of the Old City, killed thousands of people, pillaged and looted property and brought the proud city down on its knees. The carnage had a profound effect on Ghalib, and the pain and the shock that he witnessed during the ravishing of this once-beautiful city, remained with him till his days of death. But he refused to abandon his city even in its worst days. He had taken the poet, Ibrahim Zauq’s (his contemporary and rival) verse to heart:
“Kaun jayen Zauq, dilli ki galiyan chhod ke?’”
(Who would think of abandoning the streets of Dilli, O Zauq?)

The Old City symbolizes a large part of Indian history. Regal elegance, external attacks, British domination, revolt, repercussions, the trauma of Partition –this area of a few square miles has witnessed it all. Today, it is another trading locality where crores of money are transacted every day, but its place in Indian history remains assured forever.

As was perhaps inevitable, winds of change, some of them not so desirable, have come in. The communal amity of yesteryears is marked by the advent of mutual distrust. And so you have “Hindu Mohallas” and “Muslim Mohallas”. History acknowledges the efforts of the rulers such as Bahadur Shah Zafar, who took pains to maintain the communal amity of this place, in trying times and under difficult circumstances. People such as Ghalib had an equally large number of friends in both communities and were accessible to both. Hindustani culture as it has evolved over the ages has taken elements from all religions -even languages have borrowed from each other. Here, in Old Delhi, you learn the true importance of that synergy – it is the only area in India where you have, in close proximity, a Hindu temple, a Jain temple, three mosques, a Gurudwara and two churches. Probably our religious leaders could take a leaf out of this. Instead, as reports bear out, religious animosity is increasing and a polarization has begun even in the Old City, ironically here where the nearby “Urdu Bazaar” gave rise to a most unique language, Urdu, a synergy of Sanskrit, Persian, Arabic and Turkic, an example that synergestic co-existence can be possible.

Sumbul located her old tution school, the “Rabea Girls Public School”, in Balllimaran- it’s like walking down memory lane (literally) for her.

Two kids willingly stand and pose for photographs in front of an arch. Just happy to be there. I click them and show them.

We move on to the Fatehpuri Masjid, which was built by Fatehpuri Begum, one of the wives of Shah Jahan in 1650, as a place where women, too, could offer prayers. This mosque has had a turbulent history- it was a prominent centre of resistance for the Indian forces during the 1857 mutiny, and in retribution, Britishers took control of the building after crushing the mutiny and sold it to Rai Lala Chunamal, one of the prominent traders of Delhi at that time. It was reacquired by the Britishers in 1877 and handed over to the Waqf, so prayers could be carried out once more.

It is a beautiful, small mosque, well-preserved and devoid of Jama Masjid’s mad rush. It is situated in a busy street, and one hardly realises that there is a gem of a building inside. There is a Hauz (water body ) for ablutions, and the building is made in red sand stone and marble, typical of Shah Jahan’s time. It is well-kept and well-maintained, and I am pleasantly surprised to see a Sardarji and his family sitting with the ulema and listening to his words. Hoorah! Communal amity still lives.

We do a round of the Masjid. People are sleeping in the shade, others are simply sitting, and the atmosphere is one of calmness after the mad rush of the streets.

We come out onto Khari Baoli, the “street of spices”. Spices and condiments of every sort are sold here, in wholesale, in technicolours of brown, red, yellow, green and other colours. The unmistakable aroma ligers in the air. I make a mental note to come back here sometime, for culinary supplies.

We ask for the directions to Chawri Bazaar and are promptly guided. People are in general helpful here, unlike the sundry surly characters that you often encounter, and endure, in the rest of Delhi.

The names of the streets we pass, are enchanting-“Gali Chabuk Sawar”,” literally the “lane of the rider with the whip. History goes into the naming of these places, “Ballimaran” literally means” lane of the oarsmen” and it was here that the oarsmen who made oars for the boats that plied on the Yamuna, resided at one time.

We are now in Lal Kuan, which had again a prominent significance in the history of Delhi- it was here that Begum Zeenat Mahal, the queen of Bahadur Shah Zafar, lived in her haveli. This area saw heavy fighting in 1857, and it was at this place that the emperor was imprisoned, a pitiable and dejected man, before being deported to Burma.

The decline of the Old City began at that time. The decimation of the inhabitants of the old city, and a strong bias against and persecution of the Muslim population by the British rulers, later fructified into the” divide and rule” policy used by the Britishers to drive a wedge between the followers of the two major religions on the subcontinent. The probable byproduct- Partition and its miseries. Delhi was one of the worst-affected cities in the cataclysmic events of 1947.

As a matter of fact, the erstwhile military ruler of Pakistan, Gen. Pervez Musharraf, originated from the Old City, and resided in the quaintly-named ” Nahar wali haveli” , the “mansion with the canal.”

One feels tempted into asking,” What if? What if 1857 had not taken place? What if the persecution that followed the Mutiny had not taken place? What if the perceived sense of discrimination had not, later on, given rise to the demands for a separate country? What if 1947 and its carnage had not taken place? Would Delhi then have been a better place, would we have seen its tehzeeb today and witnessed the finest traditions of a synergestic culture even today? Would Babri Masjid, Gujarat and the 2008 Delhi blasts not have taken place? Would Ghalib’s beloved Delhi have remained the epitome of the best that Hindustan could offer? Would our religious and political leaders on both sides of the religious divide have then shut up and just let us be? “

Unfortunately, we will never know the answers to these questions.

The name Lal Kuan was given on account of a well which was made by one Mr.Lal Chand. The well lies covered today, and a temple has come up above it. Only a plaque announces its location today.

Further on, we enter into one of those narrow alleys, hardly two metres wide. People live here as they have done for ages, though I must admit it is quite congested. We walk a little inside and come back. These are close-knit neighbourhoods, so people are inquisitive and ask you where you want to go. A Mohammad Rafi song blares from one of the houses-it just adds to the old-world charm of the place:
“Pukaarta chala hoon main, gali gali bahaaar ki”
( I wander, searching, amongst these splendid streets)

It just sums up the mood, though these streets may not be as splendid as they were at one time.

Outside, the shops on the streets are selling everything from utensils to kites. Kite-flying is still a big passion in the old city, and colourful kites in various shapes and sizes adorn the shops. Braving the hustle-bustle, we make it to Chawri Bazaar, decide the heat and humidity is too much, and take a rickshaw, to the famous Karim’s restaurant.

Karim’s is on the southern flank of the great Jama Masjid- the huge mosque built by Shah Jahan. It is a gigantic red sandstone and marble institution, much in the style of Shah Jahan’s typical architecture, and is the epicenter of the Islamic religion in India. One feels awed by the sheer size of the structure.

Karim’s, situated in "Gali Kababian "(street of the kebabs), is, of course, an culinary institution in its own right. The hotel ownership claims its descent from the Mughal cooks employed by Babar and his descendants. The food is good, the butter chicken (which I learn to my surprise is actually a Muglai and not a Punjabi dish) is delicious and the ambience is comfortable; the AC works, which is a huge relief in this heat. Karim’s does not deject us, like always.

Outside, the Jama Masjid is the epicenter of activity. The tall minarets loom large over the city skyline. Inside, there are legions of pigeons, fluttering about. People have gathered from all around- there are tourists, devotees, vagabonds, photographers. Children run about, making good use of the huge courtyard. And outside, boys carrying metal toothpicks offer to clean my ears. I decline out of purely practical reasons of hygiene and safety, though I was curious to try it out. Ear-cleaning is an old vocation here, going back to the Mughal times.

The Jama Masjid was built in 1656, and is also called Masjid-i Jahān-Numā , literally meaning “the world-reflecting Masjid” in Persian. It is said that in the olden days, the Emperor could directly see the Masjid from the Red Fort, without the intervening visual obstructions that have come up since then. It was also an important area around which the events of 1857 unfolded. British plans post-1857 included blowing up the Masjid and building a church there. One can only thank the turn of history that sanity and better sense finally prevailed upon them, and the Jama Masjid was spared, but only after they had razed many of the cultural treasures of the city,like true rampaging vandals.

The market in front of the Masjid is Meena Bazaar, built by Shah Jahan on the lines of a similar bazaar that he had seen in Peshawar. Covered markets were a novelty in India then, in the 17th Century. One can very well call this place the forerunner of the malls of today. It was here, in the days of yore, that expensive goods used to come from all over the world- exquisite carpets, rugs, shatranjis, jewellary, precious stones, costumes, embroidery. Today, it has shops mainly selling an assortment of cheaply priced items-bags, clothes, bedding materials and other things.

Exiting Meena Bazaar, we enter a shop selling Islamic motiffs. On display is the "Lohe Qurani", a plaque consisting of letters from the Quran, which gives the revelations from the Quran; and the "Dua e Safar", a motiff which Muslims use before starting a journey or auspicious activity. A number of these were being sold in the Meena Bazaar, too.

The trip is coming to an end, and as we walk towards the parking lot, I see the final thing that characterizes the different facets of life in the Old City- a boy with his pigeons, the kabootarbaaz.

In less hurried and more genial times, pigeon-flying was a popular activity, patronized by the Mughal emperors. Along with kite-flying, it was the way of life that depicted the leisurely pace of life in the city. Pigeon-flying originated from Agra and was developed into an art form by the Mughals. It remains today, but like the rest of the lifestyle of the Old City of yore, in a more diminished form.

The heat and humidity remain as oppressive as ever as we walk towards the car for our journey back, to a fundamentally different world. But I am happy that the trip has been every bit worth it. We have captured facets of a lifestyle that may not survive the onslaught of “modernity.” As cities change, cultures evolve and people challenge their identities, the way of life in the Old City may matter lesser and lesser to many. But for me, there is no doubt that Bahadur Shah Zafar’s soul still lives here, along with that of Ghalib, Zauq and the other luminaries of that time. Ghalib’s verses still reverberate :
“Hazaron khwaishen aisi, Ke har Khwaish pe dum nikle,
Bahut nikle mere armaan, Lekin phir bhi kam nikle.”
(Thousands of desires, Each worth dying for ,
I have realized many of these, Yet I yearn for more)

I wonder whether Ghalib’ s soul has finally realized his desires and found peace in his beloved city of Dilli.

(Abhimanyu Bishnu, Jul 2009, Delhi
With sincere gratitude to Sumbul Siddiqui for having made this possible)

Goodbye; Calcutta,2009


Everytime I leave this city behind,
There’s this bittersweet feeling,
And the journey of the mind
Of going home, where I belong,
Yet leaving a part of me here behind
Forever in this city.
I wonder but I cannot fathom
Why it’s so happy to go back home
But yet so hard to say to leave this place,
Yet so hard to say goodbye.

The raindrops fall on the tarmac,
Clouds fill the city sky,
But I still do not know
Why it’s so hard to say goodbye.
The airplane lounges forward
I see the city in the distance,
In three hours, I’ll be back
To home and hearth, and my work-
But still as we leave the city
And hit the city sky;
Tears well up inside me
‘Cause it’s so hard to say “goodbye”.

The forgotten alley






I entered this alley, still and quiet;
It was yesterday once again.
I closed my eyes and listened to the sound
Of gently falling rain.
I could feel the years that had passed by,
The happiness, sorrow and pain;
As I stood there quietly listening to
The sound of falling rain.

WHY?








Smoke, sounds, chaos;
Do you see the killer
Crouching amongst the crowd?
Do you see the pain,
The horror, the death,
The rivers of blood and gore?
Do you see the bomber
Crouching before he runs?
Do you see the flames
Rising sky-high?

I am in a barber shop,
The regular friendly neighbourhood guy;
The picture of the Kaabah
In front of me.
A guy comes in;
“Assalaam alekum”
Why this sudden
Sense of unease in me?
Why this fear?
He wears the same clothes that I do
He breathes the same air,
Walks the same ground,
He speaks the same language;
Then why this apprehension?

Barricades at street crossings;
Sand bunkers
(Did I think for a moment
We were at war?)
The men with the guns
Marching in uniform-
Fearing the enemy
Or the demon inside us all?

Why are minds polarized?
Why is the battle of the mind
Often the hardest one?
Terror flows not from the barrel of the gun
But from the cranial vault of the mind.


(Written in the aftermath of the deadly Delhi blasts and the Mumbai terror attack in 2008 ;the poem does not seek to express prejudice against any community- I have just tried to outline the fact that terror flows from misplaced emotions rather than from guns or bombs)

A WINTER DAY
DELHI, 2008




A haze all around
The sun, a prisoner in the vault of Space
Mist on the trees
And the grey leaves of winter
All around.

Biting cold,
The dew perturbed
By passing feet
On the remaining spots of grass
In a grey, decaying field.

Bright lights
From vehicles passing by;
The arc of light cutting a torch
Through the fog
And lighting up the eerie air.

HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS?











Wonder why it's so hard to come away from home. Was in Calcutta (Kolkata) last month, after 20 months. It was initially tough negotiating the humidity, the overcrowding and the congestion, but I got used to it, even to the smoke-spewing autorickshaws, after a couple of days. After all, home is home.

And home brings back memories-of growing up, of learning, of moving on. You enter an old alley in Tollygunge and you remember,” Hey! This is where we came during the all-night Durga Puja excursion so many years back.”. Impromptu comes a verse to the mind:

“I entered this alley, still and quiet;
It was yesterday once again.
I closed my eyes and listened to the sound
Of gently falling rain.
I could feel the years that had passed by,
The happiness, sorrow and pain;
As I stood there quietly listening to
The sound of falling rain.”

I see houses, streets I haven’t seen in ages, not even during my last few years of existence in Calcutta, and I discover them anew. Places remind me of people, of sweethearts, of incidents that are lodged in the corner of the mind like an old archive which is opened only once in a long, long time, only to be seen and closed away again. And then, I actually meet those people, and the memories come flooding.

Beyond the bandhs, strikes, rallies and the frustration of the people, I find that life still lives in glorious technicolor. People still talk as animatedly as they used to (Bengalis are an excitable lot!).The “mashi” (maid) in my house is still working there, after 10 long years. Talk of employee loyalty!

People work on their vocations regardless of all the disturbances around. Nano, Nandigram, Aila- it does not matter- life goes on. Makes me feel , for a second , whether one could think of coming back .And then the last few months of existence in Calcutta flashes back in my mind- the daily disturbances, bandhs, employee disturbances and the menacing shadow of the “party”, and it doesn’t take much longer for reality to sink in. I am more contented where I am now.

Speaking of the “party”, the commies are on the backfoot now, getting bashed up everywhere. When one hears of the once- all powerful local CPIM councillor being heckled, one knows that the time for change has come, after 32 long years, and the people are well and truly weary. It’s only a matter of time before they are overthrown.

You observe that society has moved on. Children don’t play as they used to- it’s more of computer games, tuitions and indoor existence now. Our carefree (relatively!) childhood seems almost utopian today. You see the change in the dressing style, the words, the way people behave , and you understand that it is inevitable. It is what “modernity”, as perceived by some, is all about.

My Dad was shocked when we went to one of those swanky malls and I bought him a Reebok for Rs.4000/-(in Delhi, I buy it for much less, courtesy factory outlets and the Sarojini Nagar market). Malls have come up all over the city, and even in these supposedly recessionary times, people are happily buying.

Even in these “modern” times, the city still hits me hard- the pile of uncleared garbage outside a swanky mall, and indeed everywhere on the streets, the broken footpaths, the rickety buses and the all-enveloping congestion and confusion. Ah, well, one notices that the roads have improved somewhat. It is better to expect small gains-dreams die hard here.

Oxford Bookstore proves to be a comfort, as always, and I have a cool refreshing drink and watch the rain and the people outside. And start composing another poem.

I talk to relatives; and I find they all have their share of problems- the recalcitrant daughter-in-law, the argusome son, the nonchalant husband and the pompous mother-in-law. Wonder how things went by with relatively less conflict when we were growing up. Or is it simply a perception of things?

And then comes the day for leaving. There is a certain heaviness in the mind . The pain of leaving home mixed with the relief of going back to another home, where I actually belong now.”Home “is actually a state of the mind. It doesn’t help to see Mom quiet and disappointed- wonder why it still affects her when I go back “home”. Parents will always be thus.

The journey to the airport is fast, since it is early in the morning. Leaving Behala, Park Circus, Rajarhat behind, we race towards the airport. It is one of those muggy Kolkata monsoon mornings.

I hug and say goodbye to Doel at the airport, since she will be staying on for some more time. And enter the terminal building, only to encounter the huge lines at the check-in. After a lengthy check-in, one finds a lack of place to sit, rickety bathrooms and nothing to eat. It is then that the comparison with the orderly and neat Delhi airport comes into the mind and irritation sets in. Really, what holds this city back from progress? It has everything it could ask for- except the state of mind to take it forward. But, of course, that doesn’t take away the fact that it is my city. Someday, things will improve. Someday..someday, I can only hope.

There are raindrops on the tarmac, as I take my seat inside the plane. I can see the now-abandoned Hotel Airport Ashok in the distance. A couple of buses are running across the periphery of the airport. Again, memories come back.. of catching those buses and coming to the airport all those years back, when Dad would come back from one of his official trips. The whole thing seemed so exciting then.

The sky is overcast, and I am really feeling gloomy now. All said and done, I still love my city, I decide. And I say goodbye:

“Everytime I leave this city behind,
There’s this bittersweet feeling,
And the journey of the mind
Of going home, where I belong,
Yet leaving a part of me here behind
Forever in this city.
I wonder but I cannot fathom
Why it’s so happy to go back home
But yet so hard to say to leave this place,
Yet so hard to say goodbye.

The raindrops fall on the tarmac,
Clouds fill the city sky,
But I still do not know
Why it’s so hard to say goodbye.
The airplane lounges forward
I see the city in the distance,
In three hours, I’ll be back
To home and hearth, and my work-
But still as we leave the city
And hit the city sky;
Tears well up inside me
‘Cause it’s so hard to say “goodbye”.

We hit the sky, and I can see small houses, buses, greenery, water bodies. And as we move on further, the Hoogly passes below us like a giant silver strip. We move on over kilometers of lush greenery, till we are well above the clouds.

Flights are all the same. Read a magazine, buy your breakfast and have it, visit the loo (there was an abnormal wait this time before the loo- I exchanged a knowing smile with the next person in the queue, sympathesising with the plight of the person inside.

And then I came back and put on my earphones to listen to some music. I was still feeling gloomy. The Robindrosangeet wafted out:
“ Jibono moroner shimana chharaye
Bondhu je amaar, royechho daraye”
(Beyond the boundary of life and death,
You keep standing, my friend)

It was quite apt. If one has listened to Robindrosangeet, especially one such as this, on an aircraft, he would have known true joy. We were floating among the clouds, and it really seemed as if one was in transition from Earth to Heaven and inching closer to Him. Did Tagore compose this on an aircraft?

The descent began. I could see acres of dry land, an apology of a river called Yamuna . The contrast with the lush greenery 2 hours back was too great. I felt like shutting my eyes.

We flew over Delhi; I could see the Tughlakabad Fort, the Qutb. Very soon we hit the tarmac of IGI. A long taxi to the main terminal- on the way, construction activity everywhere, a city in full-blooded business. A typical Delhite would have said” No time for Tagore-Shagore”. Back to Delhi , and the oppressive Delhi heat.

Journeys are made first in the mind. My journey was over, and I had reached back home, leaving behind memories, and longing.

THE RAIN , AGAIN





It was quite a torrent today, and I can still hear the vehicles outside my house, crawling on the Outer Ring Road. Guess there have been traffic snarls.It's been an unusually heavy shower for Delhi.

When I came out of office, the skies were already dark grey, clouds hovering. A bout of heavy rain had just taken place.


Driving back home was not really an ordeal, as there was not much of a traffic congestion.I was one of the lucky early ones.

The torrential rain was back by the time I reached home, and then I thought...why not?Let's get drenched after a long, long time. Call it madness, call it impulsiveness.. I went out into the rain with my jeans and shirt on...got completely drenched, head to toe, and loved every minute of it.

If times like this could come every day.

It's been a dry year so far, but if the rains arrive like this even a few times, I think we are pretty lucky.

The rains have stopped now, and I guess it will be one more day of inclement weather tomorrow.

GOOD OLD DAYS

GARHWAL MOUNTAINS FOREVER

The bridge across time

Dusk, shadows, breeze…
The turbulence in the trees
On the banks.
I stand in the middle of
The bridge across time
At a lonely winter dusk.

Did I see a flicker of light
On the left bank?
It must have been
The lamp at dawn
Lit in front of the house
Where I lived so long ago.

Every dusk would be heralded
By the flight of the birds
To their nest,
Flying over the vast field
Where we used to play;
That was ages ago.

When time was still,
When imagination flew
On the wings
Of the butterflies
I used to chase
All day long.

When life’s innocent song
Bounced around on our lips,
When the carefree song
Of childhood
Filled our hearts
Night and day.

I look harder to my left;
I see her-my nanny
Guiding me through the dark
When we roamed the streets
On pleasant Sunday evenings.

I see the glow-flies
Filling up the air
And the bright stars
Filling up the sky
On those dark nights
When we used to wander.

I can see myself
Perched on my father’s shoulders,
Returning from a show,
Late at night;
Secure, cocooned, safe
And fast asleep.

And I can see
The bridge across time
That stretches across the river
Of life;
Connecting yesterday
To today.

I look to the right bank
And I see
Mornings that show sunlight
With wisps of grey;
Something amiss
Among the brightness.

Dusks heralded
By the screech of horns
On busy city streets.
Can someone tell me
In which direction
The birds have flown?

Bright lights, big city
And a soul searching for directions
Searching for the centre;
Searching for a piece
Of yesterday
Once again.

Further to the right
I see a grey, desolate stretch
That I know I must walk alone;
The Bard had said
“ All life’s a stage
And we are merely the actors”

I stand still
On the bridge across time
Connecting yesterday
With tomorrow
And dream of happiness
Once again.

Conversations in the dark

Dark night,
Silence and shadows…
Whispering breeze
And a person who sits, all alone;
Misty haze, as if thoughts,
Rise above.

I take a step
Through the shadows.
I ask him,
Is he thinking
Of what he has left behind?
Of what he was
Of what he is
No more?

The transition;
Simplicity to worldliness;
Pursuit of Heart to
Pursuit of Mind;
“Progress”……
Which has been attained;
Has it left a void somewhere,
My friend?

Do the birds still chirp?
Does dawn still bloom
In crimson red?
Does sunlight still come
Streaming through the morning window?
Does the child of five
Still run after
Bright butterflies in the sun
And glowworms by the moonlight?
Does he still believe in
Human goodliness
And that nothing
Can go wrong?
Does he still believe
In undying love?
Does he still believe
In innocence?

Is he still
Afraid of the dark?
Does he still know how to give
And not to ask?
The child of twelve;
Does he still know how to cry?
Does he still sing
From the heart and not
Merely the lips?

Does he still know himself?
…….Or, has spring progressed
To autumn,
And the shadows turned grey
And the embers within
Dimmed out with the years?
Has innocence turned
To cynicism,
Ravaged by time?

Has love’s labour
Finally been lost?
Have the bright lights
Finally ebbed?
Have the butterflies stopped flying
And the birds stopped chirping?
Is the sunlight less bright now?
Is dawn a dull grey now?

Has the child stopped crying
And the shadows taken over?
Has the Mind overtaken the Heart
And has he lost himself
In this great big game of life?
I hoped not so,
I hoped from my heart,
I said it aloud.

He could not answer;
……….Silence;
I looked at him
Through the darkness, haze
And the shadows.
A flash of light,
Bright as day.
And as I turned away,
I saw his face;
My eyes welled up, my friend;
It was Me.