A distant come back

A reverie,
You,
And I caress life.
Startling,
the mind reckons else

Time,
I fail to seize.
Eternity,
is not acquiesced.

Alone, I reverie
Hard, but,
Umpteen lives,
and delicate threads to wind

-G Singh, San Jose, 22 Dec, 2008, 11:14 PM

Spurt of 12/3

Light
is beauty disguised
Sun
is burning too

Day
is hope concealed
truth
persists in dark, the night

-gs, 11:43 PM, SJ

Spurt of the day

Chants around,
she teaches,
how to live,
the lady called life

Sadness dying,
happiness inundating,
I wonder,
how to live?

-gs

Run-away sons

We have been witnessing a lively city coming to a halt - Mumbai, though only temporarily. No doubt the city exemplifies courage and resilience, coming back to complete shape every time some monkeys created havoc.

Indrani recently questioned - Where are the sons of Mumbai, the so-called Shiv Sena and MNS activists? What happened to them when there is a real need of them to come and save their bleeding mother? Sadly, they probably are amongst those children of the mother who don't listen to her, to her cries, to her grief. Rather, they often make her cry - cogitate just a few weeks in the past. The doleful truth is, that some loving and caring sons like Hemant Karkare, and the hundred other jawans of army and NSG, have to fight when the run-away sons don't turn-up. And ignobly perhaps, when they do turn-up too. These sons are not even worth being known as sons, just a bunch of ungrateful cowards. I don't see a difference between these cowards, and the cowards who attacked the beautiful Taj and other parts of Mumbai.

From the sludge of politics, religion, culture and sabhyata, who will stucco the wounds of the mother, the sons who died, or the cowards alive?

May peace be bestowed on the land. Impotently enough, another type of coward inside cries out for the brethren who have seen it, and taken it on their flesh. May the fragrance of your burning flesh awaken the ones still in siesta.

-G Singh, San Jose, 4:53 PM, 29th Nov, 2008

Bygone

The warm lap
A kiss on the golden-red cheek
That hand, anytime
Those assuring eyes, holding

The chirpy giggle
A naughty twinkle
That small stepped-run, wild
Those cajoling clings

The clock has ticked
Wonders the grown
That kid is lost
with the flower just sown

-G Singh, 21st Nov 2008, San Jose, California

All time blogger

May I be lured into writing by her slick interface. May the devices work in harmony for this blog. Anytime. Anywhere. Amen!

GS San jose 21st nov 2008

Made in China

From the land of maximum number of "Made in"s, comes this post as a souvenir. Sitting at the Shanghai airport transfer lounge, looking at the faces of all the fellow passengers who have been tortured with a 7 hour long journey iced with a faulty flight entertainment system, it appears that everyone is a hostage of an unpleasant event, and they have been enclosed in this huge glass walled cube (fondly called the waiting lounge).

Seriously, when the screen in front of you boots time and again (Redhat, as usual, sucks), you feel like opening some box and fixing it up or re-imaging the machine or .....

I was wondering if each such failure in the flight would be slapped as a penalty on Boeing. Jet airways would earn some bucks, but poor passengers get nothing. May be an extra glass of juice. Or honey roasted peanuts. Pity. Poor customer, always at the receiving end of it.

Lets see if the geeks in China can fix the system in 1 hour. Only then will I accept the mettle of these guys. May my blabber bring some color. Hail thass!

-G Singh, Shanghai, 16th Nov 2008, 9.30 PM

Analogy

I was speaking a lot the other day. For some reason, I was a bit high, may be standing at the roadside tea stall early-early morning without sleep was too exciting, and the victim was a poor (not literally) guy who was selling small artifacts in the Galleria around Harmandir Sahib, Amritsar. Though it didn't hurt him, and I was also doing a cinch blabber, it occurred to me that I should have spoken a bit lesser. May be the guy got bored. May be he misunderstood my words to some grief. May be it was 1.30 in the morning and I hijacked the last hours of his business (I bought some not very useful items in the end in bulk from him though :)). This brings me to a very interesting analogy.

Words are like arrows

I am not sure if this is a known analogy, but I am pretty sure Bollywooders have had the pie.

The analogy builds as-

i. There are limited arrows a warrior has. Using them wisely is very important. We have limited words, limited time here and limited energy to speak, using it wisely is important.

ii. An arrow hitting the right person, at the right spot is worth its price. A word, spoken to the right person, in the right way, reaching him in the intended sense is worth spoken.

iii. An arrow hitting the wrong person, makes you a murderer. A (wrong) word, reaching a wrong person can disrupt listener's calm.

iv. An arrow leaving the bow cannot come back, so will not a word out of the mouth.

v. Nobody nailed by you will forget you. Nobody ill-spoken to will ever forgive you.

Human mind, speaking loosely, is a paint blob. An impression on it is easy to make, persists for long, and also leaves a mark on you. Some souls, that are above this human instinct, are true Gods - Nirvair.

-G Singh, 1:25 PM, Nov 14, 2008, New Delhi

Talent, flowing, unabashingly

Traveler no. 1- T1
Traveler no. 2- T2

T1: Upadhyay ji, iska vyaakaran thoda druodh hai, aur isliye samajhna padhne waale ke liye asugam bhi (Mr. Upadhyay, its grammar is a bit convoluted and hence the meaning is difficult to understand)

T2: Sharma ji, padhne waale ko bhavnaaon ka sparsh ho, yehi vyaakaran bhog hai (Mr. Sharma, only if the reader feels the essence of the subject is the use grammar justified)


After a day at work, while returning home on "Delhi waalon ki Sawari", a million other frequencies struck my ears, along with "Delhi Metro mein aapka Swaagat hai". The above two lines pierced my attention, enough to bring it to focus, enough to tune it. There were some aged (people who know Hindi, please read "buzurg") people on board, and all of them Hindi literature luminaries (not all local language enthusiasts/literaries achieve fame). They were apparently returning from the launch of Upadhyay ji's novel at the "Karol Bagh Sahitya Bhawan", one of the million "Sahitya Bhawans" of the capital. I crossed all limits of over-hearing, and that too shamefully looking into their faces while keeping my ears to the ground. Though all of them were writers, one even a proud writer of 37 novels, some were still not old enough to be only writers - one a Professor, one a Reader in a DU college, one a writer with Jansatta (a local Hindi newspaper) and another a freelance article writer (who earned only by Pen).

"Ji haan ji haan, bahut umda thi" (Yes, yes, it was a very good read) came a reply from the man on my left when the man sitting one girl (who felt she was the patty of a hindi novel sandwich) to the right asked
"Aap inko to jaante hi honge, yeh Kailash Prem ji, jinki Hare Phool aur Laal Ghaans bahut prasidh hui thi pichle saal" (you must be knowing him, Mr. Kailash Prem, whose novel Green Flowers and Red Grass was a hit last year)

and the round of introductions was as smooth as the train ride.

In these introductions, in these literarily-glamorous talks, in the complex grammar pats and thumps, was hidden a difficult-to-find satisfaction. Here are some people who are no different than Rowlings and Zandts in profession and "self-understood" accomplishments, but are very different in the kinds of humble lives they live, the luxuries they (don't) enjoy. This, I feel, is Talent, unabashed of the worldly achievements, a pearl-reminiscent of success.

-G Singh, New Delhi, Nov 7, 2008 10:04 PM

A casual chat with a friend today reminded me of an intellectual, whose words were:
"Everything boils down to minimizing pain". Today, I beg to differ here, measly in words, but galaxies in meaning - "Everything boils down to pain".

Fun, to kill some pain
some types of fun, leads to pain
an urge to have fun, is painful
an unsatisfied urge, is even more painful

If everything is for fun (read your own definition, or substitute fun for whatever makes you happy), then pain is inevitable.

-G Singh, 2nd Nov 2008, 1:42 PM, New Delhi

Lives lived

Old narrow lanes
small houses
content souls
walking
ruffling yet hugging breeze
specie, no bills

Carpeted wide alleys
tall buildings, shadows to darkness
searching humans, lost souls
riding, whipping
nobody to embrace, dry gust
fortunes bought, sold

Times in contrast
the mind wonders
lives,
already seem lived

-G Singh, New Delhi

An Encounter

Roaming around in Delhi alone is so much fun. There is so much noise and chaos around you that you never feel alone. Politely, its so happening. Returning from one such expedition, a traffic policeman knocks on the window of my car. I look at the light. Its red. Knock again, light still red. I realize that a policeman's knock may not necessarily mean one's caught for a fault. I roll down the window -

P: Where are you going?
Me - towards X Nagar.
P: Ok, can you drop me at point Y?
Me - Well, thats in the other direction?
P: Thats okay, you can then drop me at point Z before X Nagar.
Me: Ok.

The policeman helped himself into the car and my bollywood eyes brought to me the scene of this policeman being a conman in a policeman's dress who will soon hijack my car. And the black bag clinging to him has a pistol. Vrrrrrrrrr. Although he had this imaginary pistol, I fired the first round.

Me: So where do you work?
P: At the Chanakya Puri station.
Me: And where do you live.
P: XYZ in Haryana.
Me: Whoa, thats 40 kms from here???
P: Yes. But I am learning to drive and I will soon get a motorcycle, on a promotion.
Me: You would reach at 11 PM in the night.
P: Hmmm. May be not. 10.30. Lets see.
Me: What time do you leave for work in morning?
P: 5. To reach the "chowki" by 7.30. VIPs are on a move starting early morning, so we have to be there before them.
Me: Who VIPs?
P: There are only 2 VIPs in Delhi. Dr. Singh and Pratibha Patil.
Me: Sonia?
P: Oh yes, she too.

My bollywood senses depart here.

P: Hey, can you take a slight right from here and drop me at point C?
Me: I will drop you right at some metro station. Dont worry.

He acks with a Thanks.

Time for my favorite question - Dhadwal vs Bedi.

Me: What do you think about Ms. Bedi.
P: Dont ask, if she were the Chief today, things would have been a lot easier.
Me: Are things hard today? Whats hard. What part in the whole scheme?
P: We have no schedule. Dhadwal wants us to be honest. We are honest. But there is no time schedule.
Me: Ok, so is Dhadwal not a great manager?
P: Hes only an administrator, a tough task master.
Me: Is it true that since Bedi's track record is better than him, hence she would have been a better manager?
P: Everybody has a good record. Ms. X of the Punjab cadre is also good. But she is not the Chief.
Me: Ok. So what do you think Bedi should do?
P: See, she has some more work to do. She has NGOs to run. She took VRS and is happily doing it.
Me: She has 35 years of service. Commendable record. Why cant she do service as a Chief for 5 more years, and then retire to play NGO-NGO?
P: These decisions are well done. They cant be changed. Lets face it. Ok, here is my stop. Thanks a lot. I appreciate your help.
Me: Sure. (Murmuring "Delhi Citizens, with you, for you, always" in heart).

I am wondering that this guy is spending only 6 hours at home, including his sleep hours, eating time, and any time he might want to spend with his kids. This brave fellow gets up at 4.30 in the morning, to leave home early for the VIPs. And then, he is expected to be honest and not crib. How is this possible? These guys have no say on who will be their boss. They have no schedule at work. With the measly salary for this much hard work, no transport arrangement in odd hours, what reasons does he have to stay honest?

-G Singh, 29th Oct 2008, 9.30 PM, New Delhi

Just for the day

आईने में ,
क्या हम हैं यह ?
हम तो इतने काबिल न थे
कि घर से बाहर उदोत हों!

यह ख्याल , है तो दरुस्त
पर हमारा कैसे हो ?
इतनी ज़ईफी ,
खयाल -ऐ -जुर्रत कैसे करें |

Chhide Raag Naad

This is truly a melancholic ecstasy. Bhai Baldeep Singh with Sukhwinder Singh, playing Shaan. As the video points, the duo immersed in the soul of Jodi so much so that they kept the audience tied for 3 hours in a concert performance supposed to be of much less time.

Notice the difference between the sounds of smaller sibling of the Jodi (Daya waj) of BBS and of Sukhwinder. BBS must have made his own "big" smaller sibling, while Sukhwinder is playing the normal one. Also notice the flying bits of wet dough (kneaded atta) that makes BBS re-apply it frequently.

Part I



PartII

Wisdom from Bulle Shah

Bulle Shah, a Sufi poet, also popularized by Mr. Rabbi Shergill (bulla ki jaana main kaun..), has always challenged religious rituals in his writings. I came across one of his writings, sung equally enchantingly by Nusrat, and ended up wasting (not really, only worldly) 3 hours on it. I could find a decent english translation here for you (spanks disabled). You are also welcome to step into the whirlpool Nusrat creates, Bulla sitting at the eye of it.



Philosophical response to the poem pending, yours truly cannot write but just listen right now.

Alla hu!

-G Singh, San Jose, 29th June, 2008

Deep inside, somewhere deep

There is us,
there is me,
there is you,
and there are they

Light inside,
reflecting on the face,
chord in the heart,
fibrillating, enchanting,
beat in the ears,
song on the tongue,
transforming, transporting, ages, miles

Deep inside, somewhere deep
we are all alike,
Reflecting face,
enchanting heart,
lost ears,
swinging tongue,
What is unknown,
strange,
sad, dismal?

The oneness,
there, deep inside,
refracts,
to colors human,
seeing, listening, feeling, thinking,
take over,
profusely,
enough,
spearing,
enough to bleed,
enough,
to blind

-G Singh, June 20, 2008, San Jose

Sayonara MSR and India

To the young folks at MSR, working towards a happier and progressive India:

Adorning a colorful robe,
woven with cultures, nature and love,
a child, in her hands staring, twinkling,
she recites a song of hope

A hope that her child will,
realize her dreams of happiness,
happiness that contents her heart,
for all lives she would live

The child buds into youth,
finds content in making The mother’s heart,
a beautiful garden,
from a baked patch of earth

Strives, struggles,
stretches beyond abilities,
reaching stars,
twinkling bright it says,
I shine apart, not in a quest to,
it is how I survive,
it is how my mother will smile

India smiles,
that love felt and the dreams dreamt,
the Godly destiny,
finally meet her at the horizon,
changed,
from where she will see,
her other children playing happily

-G Singh, Bangalore, 11th April 2008

Soul searching

Sometimes there is a talk between the two selves. Though it happens quite often, and there is usually a winner, but there are instances when both of them are equally strong. And The "You" can only listen, or at best write -


The sky is high
earth you consider too low
oh my soul
allow me to dream

Love too sweet
abhorrence not even sour
oh my soul
allow me to feel

With them too worldly
apart too abstract
oh my soul
know the penurious brain

Education imposed ignorance
ignorance a bliss
oh my soul
itch the lead in your own way

You are there, I
I have seen you
oh my soul
reveal yourself once again

-G Singh, 25th January, New Delhi

Maasoom hain hum,
zarrra mat samajhna,
in pyaari aankhon mein,
zindagi ko sameta hai,
inhi ki chamak ne,
aftaab ke haunsle kam kar diye,
humein kya padhaoge tum,
jaake apna jahaan to dekho

-G Singh, 20th January, 2008, Bangalore.

A spontaneous reply to a friend who on hearing some supposedly imaginary truths and elating ideas would say - "neeche aaja, zyaada ud mat"

khuda ne kaha parinde,
udnaa teri fitrat nahin,
udnaa teri zaroorat hai,
shaakha pe reh ke na hi khud ko,
aur na hi khudi ko samjhega

- G Singh, 20th January, 2008, Bangalore.