An Ode to WH Davies- Some days are so utterly beautiful. They shake you up. So utterly calm, they rest you in spirit. Today is one such day for me. And today is a day for music and for the air to flow past you and for you to just reach around and feel it. And it is here. No deadline, no rush-hour, no office-work, no to-do lists, no buying or selling- today is just for solemn somnambulance and for contemplating the free spirit that life bestows on you one way or another. Winter is almost over- brief though it was and summer is playing peek-a-boo. And the summer- she had her own music . An enchantress who casts her spell long before she arrives. She perfumes her way much ahead of her arrival so that enraptured souls lie await in torment and await with bated breath for what is to come. Today I wish my name was Balthazar and I was in Corsica or Naples sitting atop a winding hill at my window writing beautiful prose that will surv...
On the eve of the 10 attacks by terrorists in Mumbai and some subsequent thoughts... 27th Nov 08’ Yet another explosion. Yet another day filled with breaking news, smses, urgent phone calls and canteen talk of how the world is going to the crazies. A field day for the broadcast media and lots of future print will be spared for the victims, the police, the politicos, the must-have dones, the candle marches, how the spirit of the city took over and how how prejudice works in strange ways...A fresh understanding of communities, why little boys play with hand grenades and AK 47’s instead of toys and virtual games. A distortion of security truths and itsy bitsy cover ups that can save face of the government taken by surprise one too many times... The same old emotions played a myriad times, with different locations with different dates and different people... Yet some of our very own... A tragedy brings a collective emotion together, be it in indifference, in sadness or grief, shock or info...
Dear Mrs Kamala Das, We are destined to meet in words, you and me! Be it our shared lingual franchise, our roots, the ruminations of the society we have inherited, the philosophies we grope around with in our lives or quite simply our gender even. I came to know you on a sunny little humid afternoon as I worked out my laziness at an aunt’s house in the very Malabar you grew up in and made eternal through your words. I began reading a manuscript of Indian poets. It began with your poem. It spoke of your fatal seduction by your husband. Within minutes we were on an intimate journey, you and I. To say the least, I was first alarmed and quickly piqued at how as a 20 year old I could sense your sense of detachment yet ardour of your complaint on what should be ‘conjugal bliss’. I moved on pleasantly to explore Jayant Mohapatra and Nizim Ezekial, whom I thought quite impressive in his metre as well. I must say that I held together in a couple of typed photocopied notes; some of India’s fines...
Comments