And still from the green paths of those small roads
Now I feel it in my middle age
Life…my life
the sweet sound of it
But yet something more to be heard
Life…you are the light so heavenly
And the sound –
The moving reason behind
All those fluttering butterflies
RUMORE
La vita
è la mia cosa più forte.
E’ caduta appena
per questo mondo
d’una mia luce breve,
e mi solleva da terra.
La vita è così bella
perchè fa un rumore.
Un rumore che conosco
nel fiore dischiuso
nella mano di Dio
nell’amore amato e coincidente
nel cerchio della mia pietà
.
Il rumore che conosco di tutti i treni
di tutte le stazioni con gli orologi fermi
di tutti i passanti nel vento
.
Questo rumore
che va bene per tutte le stanze,
per le stanze della mia casa
dove, da sempre,
ricordo il rumore.
.
Il rumore di cui parlo,
il rumore che ti fa sentire le cose
.
qualcosa già prima
per ogni mia lacrima
.
Perchè ho pianto, in gioventù.
E nel cammino verde
della piccola strada
sento adesso la via
così a metà della mia vita.
.
Vita, mia vita,
vita mia,
immenso dolcissimo rumore
di tutto il mio vivere.
Rimani ancora qualcosa.
.
Tu che sei la meravigliosa luce
e la ragione commovente
delle mie farfalle.
*************************************
YOU NO LONGER KNOW WHAT WINTER IS
(To my father)
You no longer know what winter is
a winter of the Thermopylae kind
the hatred
sickened by love
the road
perspiring from medicine
the cold
in steam from water
all this cold
like the last unfinished
speech at six
the kind that discards me
like a defeated soldier
inoculated
and kicked like tin cans
that discards me
with all the candy souls of radiators.
TU NON SAI PIU’ COS’E’ L’INVERNO
(A mio padre)
Tu non sai più cos’è l’inverno
quest’inverno da Termopili
l’odio
ammalato d’amore
la strada
nel sudore della medicina
il freddo
nel vapore dell’acqua
tutto il freddo
come quell’ultimo discorso
incompiuto delle sei
da scartarmi via
con la resa d’un soldato
inoculato
in calci da barattoli
da scartarmi
con tutte le anime di caramelle dei radiatori.
************************************************** TELL ME I LOVE YOU
Tell me I love you,
I who hardly can say it any longer.
Tell me I love you,
so that this house, for once,
will not remind me
because the last sunset
seems a story told
because “I love you”
is something immense
in this silence
that vibrates so much
tell me I love you
and I swear to you
that I will have slowly counted
all the swallows”
DIMMI TI AMO
Dimmi ti amo,
io che quasi non so più dirlo.
Dimmi ti amo,
perché questa casa, per una volta,
non me lo ricorda
perché l’ultimo tramonto
sembra un viaggio narrato
perchè “ti amo”
è qualcosa di immenso
in questo silenzio
che vibra così
dimmi ti amo
e giuro
che avrò contato piano
tutte le rondini
The Grand Inquisitor
Shukra aka Morningstar (Mumbai, July 2012)
He took me to a place
hanging loosely in the stratosphere
and he showed me the kingdoms of the earth
in splendour, sealed with blood.
But, he was only a shadow.
He was not
the Prince of Darkness
and he didn't ask for my soul.
On this day in July,
blood looms bigger
than faith.
My mustard seeds have lost their fragrance.
They're scalded as if
the mustard oil
had been left unattended.
It is time to look for other flavours,
says the earth,
athelas, sanjivni, valerian root ...
But something inside me whispers, even burnt mustard will suffice.
Katya and Grushenka (Mumbai, 2013/2014)
Red velvet in my hands
holding you in my heart
until the end.
Unwoven strands of present
tense, wasted, swirling.
In the basin of the night,
the veiled Mistress
smiles gently.
"Patience, my love."
They will find you
when their time comes.
You'll be ready
red velvet in your hands.
Strange Days (Mumbai 2013/2014)
She gave me an address
and instructions
on the way to get there
but I was blindfolded
a hand covering my eyes,
my face,
my mouth
she had been there before
it seems
she seems
confident of the path she takes
strange loops of glamor
underneath the full moon's light
opening the trees like curtains
in a well-rehearsed production
scenes edited like history
delivered as only-begotten children
once having entered
must exit
through ways predestined
never to be born again
anew.
And After All the Tea and Cakes and Ices (Patna, 2003)
That's all, your Honour!
no more witnesses today.
The stars are dull.
Look in my eyes
every question wraps around my irises
like a solenoid
you are magnets, held
to black pinpoints
look, how you tremble
locked inside your iron will.
Laugh with the Fool
he has forgotten the Footman
the settled dust of memory
awaits the coming of a deeper night.
The Kiss – Heathcliff and Catherine (Mumbai, November 2014)
A smog of memory breathes droplets
shimmer in November's lamplight
a million moths crawl across the chasm
conversations thicken
into zero watt serial patterns
Lips lock into lips
Spirit locks in human
Human twines into Spirit
Warp drive to Stars' End
He lives on
Sowing bullet seeds
The majesty of willing life-in-death
Fusion
in Absolute Zero
The Peasant’s Verdict, Through a Glass Darkly (Mumbai, June 2007)
An enemy
is only a mirror
that reflects
a few stains
on a dress that doesn't fit.
Sometimes I snap the threads
that seem to hold it together
and there are times
when it hangs so loosely
that I am utterly shapeless
an amorphous mess
spreading out like something sticky
into spaces where I dare not venture.
But when the bugle calls
I look into the mirror
and I fit myself
into the soldier's uniform
to give those stains
a chance to belong.
That when my peace
comes back to me
I will not be distracted
from my joy
by those naive remarks
that fall upon
some stupid little stain.
The references to The Brothers Karamazov (Fyodor Dostoyevsky) are too numerous to mention. Strange Days is a song by The Doors. The Footman and the cakes and tea and ices are taken from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. Stars’ End is a reference to the Second Foundation by Isaac Asimov. Heathcliff and Catherine are from Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte). Athelas is from The Lord of the The Rings (J.R.R. Tolkien). The other references need not be cited because they fall well outside the purview of any copyright laws.
Night’s Neurons
The Weaver (June 2007, Mumbai)
Betwixt waking and eternity
the corridor twists
and turns
darkness peeps out
of many doors
left ajar.
Out in the open
a man steps out
of the lamplight
into the rain
he wears a long, black coat
his voice
is breaking
and his eyes are earnest.
He drives off
in a van, full of people
into mortal danger
there are no digits
on the number plate.
The corridor turns
like a thread for Sydney Carton
on a spindle
in his weary hands.
He reeks of midnight's oil.
The rain drips off
his shoulders
like a chill
into his heart
His lamp is burning
and the door is shut.
Wait Until Dark (February 2014, Mumbai)
The wings of night are spreading wide
the Morgul Lord unmounts
his hands are cold as ice
his breath
forks like a tongue
a sheet of flame, twisting and unwavering
his eyes the usual
empty sockets
hopelessly out of sync
for it is daylight that he haunts.
The night, the pristine, the undying
night
keeps us safe,
unmirrored
untouched
within Her bosom
for if any of Her creatures should see the day
be it an owl, besieged by ravens
or a candle flame
in a pile of amorphous wax
or a student grappling with a crowd
of random cadences and flashing rhythms
a fastening of fancies
into tens and fives
and sevens and their noises,
if one of us forgets a turning, strays
into the deepening shadows of daylight
and forgets the way,
the noonday sun will have his fill
and let us go
and She will find us
where She left us
in the midnight hour.
To Swell A Progress (March 2015, Mumbai)
A voice: What will you do
when you're free?
When the memory of this tiger and that
no longer snarls
at your gate?
When your bones have left their grating
at chalkboards
squeaking clean
allowing
no dust particles to settle with ease
at the counter
dark matter
white matter in a parallel universe
I answered - almost.
My eyes are tired
from too little widening
the muscles are stretched thin
now blowing out
at elliptical fault lines
cavernous as hot air balloons
and just as vacuous in their leaning
into the bitter air.
And yet, there is a way
of gentleness
a deathly stillness
that rips the sky open
and in between the seconds
uncountable millennia
leave just enough
breathing room
for a promised freedom.
Class (October 2001, Philadelphia Suburbs)
Your curses clamor through the walls,
the crickets shrill, the boiler's rumbling grin
a grin,
not quite a laugh, a grin
escapes the boiler room below
muscles in its chin
contort in heed, in heat,
to conversation's end.
Pieces of your soul are strewn like coals
into this empty din.
I read between the minutes of the night
freezing autumn night unquenched
the boiler's heat in rhapsody, in flame
in flame upon my back
in chill upon my feet.
I read between the minutes of the night
your face
caught in a struggle
with my swearing friend
I looked at you
with brave and tender eyes.
Mother of God! There you stand tall and proud the blade across your torso angled like a grey black sports bra but you have no breasts. Why no breasts? Only straight lines running true without curving without bending. I stand for my turn sometimes sit waiting always waiting for you to christen me again your pen writing my name in blood, in drops of red ink rolling, rolling with my severed head across the floor my thoughts disembodied stuck in limbo for a soul to pick them up somewhere off the mainline. I think they've lost my number I've been waiting for hours the never-ending minute seems to stretch across eternity like a rubber band carrying within it infinite tension never breaking always teasing just a little further ... Your blade is dull today it carries rust there is no one to whet it. We are saved by gravity alone Madame la Guillotine! May Thou always be so merciful. Hallowed be Thy Name.
Sand and Yang (Mumbai, 2014)
The safest place in the universe
is the eye of a hurricane.
Walls of steam rise up around me
making havoc of buildings, trucks
breaking trees like pencils
carving messages into uranium
reactors that pop and fizz
like corks and balloons
now spurting blood
as if some wrathful Goddess
eyeless
in the steam-colored garb of Isis
drawn like oil paintings
from the wells of fantasy
threw a party
for a fan following of misshapen clowns
and half-baked misanthropomorphic entities
hanging out
the bored masculinity of the ancient desert
having been assured
that there is no water on the red planet
and no little blue men worth waiting for
hooded or otherwise.
The balloons we live in
are fragile
and yet the storm
protects us
for the whirlwind has no center.
His dark anger spins Him
in the vortex
of memory.
And who are you
to talk of fantasy
said He
you who live in the land of Bell Curves
and Sorting Hats?
August (Philadelphia, 2002)
As you walk by
the air becomes so heavy
I am pushed against a wall
Is it you or is it just the heat of August?
Hiroshima breeze
you are so heavy
I am hanging like the leaves
on the drying summer trees
pulled down towards the earth
Is it you or is it just the August air
that makes me droop with so much longing?
The August sun was always known to burn
us lesser mortals
with his august glare
We sacrificed an apple for the rain
I kissed the earth
I heard a little girl cry out
as if she knew the presence there
If August comes creeping
like a whisper
through the hollows of your mind
tell me, love
then does September trudge behind?
If you were a pebble
in the walls of Jerusalem
would they come crashing down?
Is it you or is it just the mushrooms clouds of August?
Sodom and Gomorrah lifted out
like mushrooms from our lore, our fantasies
borne into reality
and christened Hiroshima, Nagasaki ...
hanging heavy in the firmament
laden with their sixty years
of ripened weariness
your glance is heavy as the August rain
shining through them and the trees.
The stares of the undying lifted through the skies
reflecting points of consciousness
the dying steps of the millenium
now reborn into the new
thunder like the heavy August rain
and you.
Waiting for Rain (June, 2005, Mumbai)
Climb, gaze
up where the steeple meets the sky
scribble someone's name
into the dust-filled clouds.
Casino in the heavens
lit by lightning
somewhere the westerly wind
sits poker faced
covering diamonds
about to be scattered
wait for the sparkling rain.
Shards of Light (October, 2005, Mumbai)
In the shredded darkness of this night
dazzled and undeafened
stupid
stupid, staring eyes
stuck in the stupor of unceasing sight
the heaviness of nothingness plodding
through
tortuous miles of wakefulness
and twisting arms of time
tick-ticking through eternity.
Arise! Awake! Shake off your sleep!
You swept through the room in all of your magnificence.
An army of rays assailed us
nailing me to shadows
that have dared remain.
Eyelids jammed are not like doors
the lock of sleep
cannot be forced with chisels
chisels are at work
carving out my name
into each terrifying minute.
Acknowledgments: I have quoted song lyrics by Iron Maiden and Megadeth in some of my verses.
These are the words of Amrita Kaur; born a hundred and two years ago, sparkling with uncommon fire in Gujranwala, Pakistan who afforded us a glimpse of her promise shortly after her mother had passed away despite her furious and fervent prayers to the Almighty. Questioning her grandmother about the perplexing tradition at home of keeping her father’s Muslim friends’ utensils in a segregated corner in the kitchen, an activist at eleven, refusing to drink in any other glass until all glasses belonged to one religion. Her first ‘baghavat(rebellion)’, as she called it.
Constantly unafraid, she wrote with much fervour and managed to churn out her first collection of poems published in 1936, at the age of sixteen entitled ‘ Amrit Lehrein (Immortal Waves)’.Getting married off soon after to Pritam Singh did not rob her of her resolve or gift and write she did; finding solace in her inner world and words as Amrita Pritam.
Her first distinguishable progressive streak in writing became rather apparent when she wrote of the anguish and the socio-economic concerns of the hour in ‘Lok Peed’ (People’s pain), in 1944. Here, she criticized the state of the economy after the Second World War and the terrible agony suffered by all during the Bengal famine in 1943. It was however in 1948, post the Indian Partition in 1947 and its innumerable and unspeakable horrors, that Amrita wrote her now iconic poem ‘Ajj aakhan Waris Shah nu’ ( Today, I invoke Waris Shah)which made her a household name in India and Pakistan alike.
Ajj Akkhan Waris Shah nu/ Today I invoke Waris Shah
Speak from the depths of the grave
To Waris Shah I say
And add a new page to your saga of love
Today.
Once wept a daughter of Punjab
Your pen unleashed a million cries
A million daughters weep today
To you Waris Shah
They turn their eyes.
Awake, decry your Punjab
O sufferer with those suffering!
Corpses entomb the fields today.
The Chenab is flowing with blood,
Mingled with poison by some
And the waters of five rivers
And this torrent of pollution
Unceasingly covers our earth.
And heavy with venom were the winds,
That blew through forests
Transmuting into a snake
The reed of each musical branch
With sting after sting did the serpents
Suppress the voice of people….
Where can we seek another like Waris Shah today?
Only you can speak from the grave
To Waris Shah I say
Add another page to your epic of love today. (Translated by Amrita Pritam)
In 1950, her novella Pinjar(Skeleton); arguably one of the finest and foremost depiction of the Partition from a woman’s perspective was published and gained much acclaim. It was adapted and made into a Hindustani movie in 2002 produced in Bollywood(Mumbai). In this story, Amrita wrote passionately about the plight of scores of Hindu, Muslim and Sikh ‘nowhere women’ who were abducted, raped or killed as well as those who somehow managed to return but were never accepted back into their families for being ’tainted’. It was a strong comment on the hypocrisy of the societal norms of the day and fiercely feminist and critical in tenor and managed to make quite an impact on the conservative collective consciousness at the time. Some of her later work, notably ‘Kaal Chetna’(Consciousness of Time), Aksharon ke saaye(The shadow of words) and Kaala Gulab(Black Rose) all had a serious rebellious flavour.
The trauma of partition and the shackles of patriarchal society which relegated Punjabi women to the kitchen, behind the veil forever lamenting their unspeakable grief in hushed tones to each other or in innumerable pathos laden Sufi folk songs; Amrita Pritam emerged as a fearless voice from amongst them and made a name for herself despite being criticized, condemned and even threatened braving the odds.
Speaking of socially relevant purposeful literature and the Progressive Writers Movement (from1930s till after Independence) which sought to inspire people through the written word championing the cause of equality and condemning social injustice; one tends to recall Munshi Premchand, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Kaifi Azmi, Sajjad Zaheer , Majaz, Manto, Ismat Chugtai, Krishan Chander and Bhishm Sahni to name a few; Amrita Pritam who initially indulged in romantic poetry had joined the movement and went on to create and express her own brand of revolutionary ideas in an original voice strongly and soldiering on.
Post Partition, she began working at the Punjabi service of All India Radio in Delhi, where she had moved from Lahore and continued serving there till 1961.
Mera Pata/My Address
Today I erased the number from my house
and got rid of the street name from the top of the road
Wiped off the names from all the street posts
But if you are really keen on finding me
Then go knock on the door of each house
Of every street, of every town in every country
This is a curse
This is a blessing
For wherever you come across a liberated soul
Think of it as my home
As an alternative view of history luminously shines through her poems and stories that cut deep, laying bare raw grief and palpable despair which find little solace but for her words; her refuge; her “Akkhar’(Words).
In her personal life, love came to her outside her marriage in the form of Sahir Ludhianvi, the celebrated poet who became her muse of sorts and fiercest lifelong attachment… She was enamoured by his charm and did not keep her feelings under wraps and wrote him ‘Sunehey’(Messages) which won her the Sahitya Academy award in 1957. Interestingly, at the time her intense involvement with him which she describes in great detail in her autobiography “Raseedi Ticket(Revenue Stamp) recounts moments of prolonged silence between them with him smoking cigarettes and her saving the stubs and reigniting them in private. Another famous anecdote has her recalling a time when she was being photographed by a press reporter posing with a pen and paper on her table; she would scribble his name “Sahir”, filling up the age in a trance like state. That she would get turned on by languidly applying Vicks on his throat when he was a little under the weather and describe it in minute detail was considered extremely sensuous and not at all appropriate at the time. Her first meeting with him has been recorded for posterity in “Aakhri Khat” (The last Letter) and his dalliance with Sudha Malhotra, a singer in Mumbai resulted in Amrita suffering a clinical emotional breakdown. Her poems obviously took on a different hue speaking volumes of her unfulfilled longings, all rather semi erotic in nature and completely frowned upon in public yet devoured with relish in private fomenting some of the most original, paradigm shifting poetry of its time…
You do not come
Spring awakens and stretches its arms
Flowers weave their silk threads
For the festival of colour
You do not come.
Afternoons grow long
Red has touched the grapes
Sickles are kissing their wheat
You do not come.
Clouds gather
Earth opens its hands to drink
The bounty of the sky
Yet, you do not come…she laments.
Her desire for him is almost tangible and she openly professes to the poems being dedicated to him and admitting that her marriage was a loveless burden which she finally freed herself of in 1960.
In an interview to Carl Copolla she articulates, “The bonds and conventions of society are certainly reflected in my poetry, negatively, of course. But I think every intelligent person has to suffer…Suffering is the price the intelligent person has to pay. As for women, I feel that women in literature are different from women in other fields…Basically; there is a prejudice against women in literature. Men take women’s writing lightly; they doubt a women’s sincerity. For example, when I got this Sahitya Akademi Award, and with it fame, the leading English daily in Delhi wrote that I got my popularity in Punjabi literature because of my youth and beauty. I felt very sorry to read that. Why not talent? They can admire a beautiful woman, but not a talented one.”
In spite of innumerable constraints, she continued writing in her native tongue and started the publication of a Punjabi literary journal, ‘Naagmani’ (Serpent’s jewel) in 1964.
Translating poems of Edgar Allan Poe and Robert Frost n Punjabi as well as highlighting the work of emerging Punjabi poets and women writers; she worked relentlessly to create a healthy, aesthetic platform showcasing marginalized thought and voice.
It was an uphill task but she had a companion and a lover extraordinaire called Imroz who spent the last 45 years of her life dedicating his own to her cause.
Imroz allowed her to be.
Living with Imroz in an unconventional, uninhibited way, without formally marrying him at the time was again Amrita’s way of following her inner truth and at the time considered a remarkable revolutionary life choice.
In another instance, when she insisted, he roam around the world before taking any final decisions about them; he apparently got up and circumambulated around her seven times and said; “That’s done”.
“Father, Brother, Friend and Husband…the labels mean nothing.
When I set my eyes upon you, all these words became meaningful at once…she said of Imroz.
That was our tryst, yours and mine
We slept on a bed of stones
And our eyes, lips and fingertips,
Became the world of our bodies; yours and mine
They then made translations of this first book
The Rig Veda was compiled much later.
(An excerpt from her poem ‘Kufr’ )
Her book ‘Aurat(Woman)’deserves a special mention which carries interviews of scores of women activists and writers , translations of feminist writings from other languages and her own essays on issues such as prostitution, bride burning, women’s rights and the quest for liberation.
Her strength lay in her knowledge that her vision was shared by many others in other times and places.
She would often implore all who vociferously criticized her to give her a fair chance.
“I wish to ask all those who condemn me and my writings, do you wish to allow the fire of Punjabi writing to spread light all over or do you forcibly wish to bury it, silence it forever?
In her self- portrait poem, ‘Amrita Pritam’, she attempts to mirror her innermost core in very sparse, simple words.
“There was a pain
I inhaled it silently
Like a cigarette
There are a few songs
I have flicked off
Like ashes from the cigarette…
In a career that spanned over six decades, Amrita Pritam penned over a hundred works including poetry, essays, stories novels and biographies. Her works have been translated into several Indian and foreign languages.
Apart from the Sahitya Academy award for Sunehede in 1956, one of the highest awards for literature, Bhartiya Jnanpith Award was conferred upon her in 1982 for Kagaj Te Canvas (Paper and Canvas).
She also received the Padma Vibushan, India’s second highest Civilian Award in 2004.
“An award is not the ultimate goal for any writer. The only goal is to reach people, touch their souls. If an award aids that process, then it actually means something, becomes important.”; she said.
But apart from her very passion laden emotional poems, her influences were of multiple nature which lead her to produce an alternative, exceedingly intelligent, often explosive, unique, inspirational body of work.
So she wrote on as a progressive-romantic writer who promises her lover that she shall return to him and live on.
Her most quoted poem which is also a promise to Imroz reads
Maiyn tenu phir milangi (I shall meet you again)
I shall meet you yet again
Where and how
I know not
Perhaps I shall become a
figment of your imagination
or maybe splaying myself
as a mysterious line
on your canvas
I shall keep gazing at you.
Perhaps I shall become a ray
of sunshine and
dissolve in your colours
or embraced by your colours
I will paint myself on your canvas
How and where
I do not know –
But I shall meet you for sure.
It’s possible that I shall transform into a spring
and rub foaming
droplets of water on your body
and like a tender coolness I shall
rub your chest
I do not know enough
But that whatever time might do
this birth shall run along with me.
When the body perishes
All perishes
but the strings of memory
are woven with cosmic atoms
I will pick these particles
Re-weave the strings
and I shall meet you yet again.
And live on she shall, for all those who are concerned with the truth of life.
Constantly challenging the status quo, her legacy is her philosophy which still inspires;
“My life shall be my answer.”
(All translations are done by the author unless mentioned otherwise).
In The City Alone … and other poems / Rachna Joshi
In the City-Alone
The lone Tesu tree at the edge of the road,
hardy survivor of many city beautification drives
throws the morning shadow over the mazdoor
woman
breaking stones.
Half-erased signboards written in Hindi
flank her.
Yahan Malba Phekna Mana Hai
‘Do not throw rubble on the road.’
Undeterred, she keeps pounding rocks
breaking them into pebble-size,
the sidewalk is cluttered.
There is a bulldozer parked on one side
and also a scrawny boy with a limp hobbling by.
Girl on the Bulldozer
Oh! Thin girl on the bulldozer,
your faded sari, shriveled plait,
your bold attempt to stand erect
have stilled me here.
Is the beefy driver-lover
exploiter, employer?
Have your desires, loves and life
Been pounded into
a sick and suffering body.
Ensconced in my sunlit terrace
like the maker of a documentary film
I see you still.
Elvish , wispy, forlorn
spirit: I gather you,
in my thoughts.
That Boy with a limp
He had shorn off
his hair after 1984
yet the limping boy
still feels cornered
by innocent stares.
Pulled apart by two sets of conditionings
split by the riots
in Byronic despair
he thrusts his fascinating profile forward
his trembling limb held firmly in check.
He is iconoclastic and outrageous
his voice fierce, eyes black
he seeks clarity and meaning
identity and success
in an increasingly incomprehensible world.
Images of carnage haunt him
scared, wary, suspicious,
he will rather starve than beg.
(From Travel Tapestry, Rachna Joshi, 2013, Yatra Books, New Delhi)
Rue de Rivoli, Paris
A cobbled street merges
into the paved road.
I see the old Paris
old buildings, worn and used entrances,
people dressed in quaint clothes.
I am drawn back to India.
India as a dark, vibrating womb
which maintains at its core
a primal rhythm.
A fragrance arising
out of old manuscripts, statues
rock carvings, leaves, bricks, dust.
Buried in nooks and crannies,
in forgotten places.
(From Monsoon and Other Poems, Rachna Joshi, 2020, Tethys, New Delhi)
Sivoham
In the bus, people move among goats and sacks of grain.
Women in flaring skirts
seamen on leave
sick children.
Across the ridge, the sun rises
Nanda Devi, Trishul, Pancha Chuli,
they appear in different colours.
I walk through the old market
fascinated by cowbells. Himalayan cedars
and pines cover the slopes around.
Dew soaks through the foliage
and the cold vapours settle everywhere,
branches and leaves hang in a myopic mist
green, white and light blend.
In the wooden house, the harmonium is playing.
someone is singing ‘Sivoham, Sivoham.’
His brow is covered with sweat
and there is a sandal-silver dot in the middle of it.
(From Configurations, Rachna Joshi, 1993, Rupa & Co., New Delhi)
Worli Sea Face
Rain flies across the pavements,
and smoke rises from the road,
wet, sticky odours linger…
one streetlight flickers,
one mangy pie dog barks,
but…the onslaught continues.
The churning sea comes inwards,
With deafening crashes, tumultuous breakers,
foam, froth and water boring every shattered rock.
Haji Ali, bathed in some celestial light
stands alone…distant…a tower of silence.
Smoke rises from the Bhel Puri vendor’s stall,
it hurts the eye.
Something drifts in the air,
something…reflected in the restlessness of the sea,
something felt as the rain drums the tarred road,
something felt as Sunita and Sujata discuss the language of the waves.
‘The sea dances,’ they say.
‘It joins hands to dance among the stratified remains of some land,
it breathes, it heaves, it wants to say something.’
I stare up at those tall, towering giants,
those muted high rises, the forlorn penthouses,
they look back, with conscious irony.
Then the sea decides to speak,
the rain beats faster, the sea leaps up,
the fast, co-ordinated dance breaks,
the waves lose step, the water screams,
screams out, too clear…
and we walk back,
unable to understand the fathomless, changing, unpredictable dance.
The sea has warned us,
the sea has warned us.
(From Crossing the Vaitarani, Rachna Joshi, 2008, Writer’s Workshop, Calcutta)
As tributes pour in on Surekha Sikri’s demise listen to her Swan Songs
Veteran actor Surekha Sikri passed away this morning, Friday the 16th July 2021, following a cardiac arrest, her agent, Vivek Sidhwani informed. In a statement shared with the media, the agent said the actor had been suffering from complications arising from a second brain stroke. She was with her family and her caregivers who requested privacy at this time.
Surekha Sikri (19 April 1945 – 16 July 2021) was an Indian theatre, film and television actress. A veteran of Hindi theatre, she made her debut in the 1978 political drama film Kissa Kursi Ka and went on to play supporting roles in numerous Hindi and Malayalam films, as well as in Indian soap operas. Sikri has received several awards, including three National Film Awards and a Filmfare Award.
Sikri won the National Film Award for Best Supporting Actress thrice, for her roles in Tamas (1988), Mammo (1995) and Badhaai Ho (2018). She was awarded the Indian Telly Award for Best Actress in a Negative Role in 2008 for her work in the primetime soap opera Balika Vadhu and won the Indian Telly Award for Best Actress in a Supporting Role for the same show in 2011. In addition, she won the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award in 1989 for her contributions towards Hindi theater. Her last release Badhaai Ho (2018) got her immense recognition and appreciation from viewers and critics. She won three awards: the National Film Award for Best Supporting Actress, Filmfare Award for Best Supporting Actress and the Screen Award for Best Supporting Actress for her performance in the film.
As a fitting tribute to the great performer she was we will listen to her mellifluous recitations of Hindi and Urdu Poetry. But before that, here are some of the tributes which poured in on social media and otherwise from her millions of admirers, and eminent people whom she knew, including actors and directors from film, television and theatre.
Ashish Abrol, Income Tax Commisioner, laments: “Surekha Sikri or Surekha di as we called her passed away today morning. I cannot get myself to accept that she is no more. I came to know her in 1985 when she was a faculty member in NSD and came completely under her thrall as she became a mentor, teacher, older sister and a maternal figure for me. Her panache, idiosyncrasies, brilliance as an actor and her erudition… often when her silences taught you more than lectures of so many others. Her love for chaat and the occasional joint… later of course she could not eat much courtesy the intestine problems. She was perhaps the greatest theatre actor ever in modern India; some one who could emote and yet be aware of her own performance as if standing out of her body observing herself perform. More than that she was always overflowing with warmth that traveled to you through her twinkling often mischievous eyes. She was so thrilled when her son Rahul had an exhibition in The Habitat Centre …I was not in touch with her for some time more since her paralysis and with her inability to speak. A triple national award winner; Surekha ji was known to the country at large courtesy her TV and film roles…in Tamas, as Dadisa, in Mammoo but it is her oeuvre in theatre that is stunning; she owned the stage, set it on fire and then doused the flames with her voice and gentleness. RIP Surekha di my mother in another life you live on in your performances and our memories”
“She was one of my personal favourites .. a lovely actress .. will never forget her Nsd work when I was in college in delhi .. god bless her” – Lillet Dubey
“There is a total immersion in life…have deeply admired her work, her persona from the Nsd days, so fully engaged in enjoying everything that came her way intensely” – Amba Sanyal
“Surekha my dear dear friend! We were in the same batch! A consummate actress,very strong woman , determined and brave! ! Never let go of her beliefs and strong options! I shall miss her dearly” – Amal Allana
“Very very sad news. We have lost another great actress. Surekha Sikri left for her heavenly abode. Heartfelt condolences to her family. May God rest her soul in peace” – Satish Anand
“Another great loss to theatre and films. She was a great actor and inspiration to all her juniors at NSD. Will never forget her superb performances. Rest in peace Surekhaji” – Anila Singh Khosla
“Deeply saddened – was always uplifted by her rendering of Faiz’s poem- may she rest in eternal peace” –Salima Hashmi
“Shocking news. She was one of the few who defined theatre for us in our youth. What a great loss for all of us” – Rajiv Bhargav
“Last of the greatest products of NSD..and loved and respected hugely for her talent and principles. Will be sorely missed” – Dolly Thakore
Tail Piece: Surekha Sikri was very fond of poetry. Listen to her reciting poetry by Faiz, Raghuvir Sahay & Sarveshvar
Aneeta Chitale: Sojourn to Maldives – Book Review / Interview
Book Cover: Sojourn to Maldives
Manohar Khushalani: You are a poetess at heart Aneeta Chitale, and, with an anthology to be released soon, how did you think of writing a novel?
Ans. I have been penning poems since the age of eleven. I used to write and keep them as treasures! I was a bit shy I think when it came to presenting it. But I had strong streaks of an artist; I was very active in theatre and writing, even during my Pune University days.
Q2. Can you tell more about your journey as an: “ Appreciated Poet-from India”. You have just received “Gujarat Sahitya Academy Certificate from Government of India Year 2020- and Motivational Strips” the largest Forum for writers all over the world.
Ans. I have been very fortunate to write poems on varied topics, especially on the environment, unprecedented times of the Covid 19 – where life has become a challenge to lead a normal lifestyle. I wrote on a wonderful theme: ‘Striving For Survival’ collection of my poems OPA Forum, out of which three of my poems have featured in OPA International Magazine this year. I am happy to say that my poems were selected from more than 600 + poems from Global Poets-
Most of my poems are on Europe’s most acclaimed ‘atunis.portal’. I am most humbled by The Chief Editor Sir Agron Shele’
My poems ‘ The Three Witches’,’ Gypsy’ and ‘Rhapsody’ made waves. The Best Poets almost 162- contributed to a Quarterly OPA@ E- magazine/Print Year-2020 & For the month –July 2020. And the best part was I have got accolades & given an ‘International Spot Light- fromThe Government of Seychelles – Island and by World’s Largest Forum Motivational Strips.’ My three poems were widely read: Devi, Grasshopper and Himalayas.
I give my sincere ‘Thanks’ to Ms. Maggie Vijay Kumar & Sir Shiju H. Pallithzeth Founder President of (MS) Motivational Strips.
Recently on 17th August 2020, I received the news that my writings; my novel “Sojourn To Maldives” and poems have been ‘Globally’ appreciated and in India as well overseas. I also write in ‘Bi-Lingual’ journals. Have contributed to few journals especially in Egypt and Greece.
Aneeta Chitale : Author
Q3. You have been associated with the teaching profession for the last twenty years in different countries. How did writing happen to you amid such a demanding lifestyle?
Ans. I have been lucky enough to have travelled to different foreign countries like Sultanate of Oman, UK, and The Republic of Maldives during my long service, in teaching filed. When you are working abroad, you have to work hard and cope up with the international standards, and which is highly qualitative work according to the quality frameworks. I have taught to the ‘Sophomores’ which again is very challenging, but at the same time very eclectic I should say. I was always on new locations and amidst the ‘multi-cultural’ society, which provoked me to write. I had been writing in my diary all along. It was only recently, I could write the full novel. I had to write brick by brick, I must admit.
Q4. Having travelled to various countries across the globe; why did you choose Maldives as the setting of your debut novel, ‘Sojourn to Maldives’?
Ans. The Republic of Maldives is an archipelagos, it is formed by a chain of tiny islands; one thousand, one hundred and ninety-nine islands. It’s situated to the south west of India, in the Indian Ocean. It has bioluminous beaches and most exotic water villas, in the whole world. I was mesmerized by the turquoise green waters and the serenity, and its unique topography. Some islands are absolutely remote and miniscule and situated in the deep ocean. When I saw all this, I was fascinated and I knew this was the going to haunt me. Much later, it emerged as a backdrop for my debut novel. Maldives is famous for adventure- water sports
Q5. How is the story of Aari, and Brad in ‘Sojourn to Maldives’ different from the run of the mill romance?
Ans. The protagonist in the novel, Aari is a strong willed woman of today, who has embarked her professional journey on the islands of Maldives. She is an ‘expatriate’ who faces many challenges in her personal and professional life. She explores the new found land. She meets Bard Marquez, a Spaniard, who is an ‘International Champion’ a wind surfer, on these exotic islands; quite by chance the romance blossoms. But the islands of Maldives have a political unrest and fate plays its part. Brad is an adventure freak, an novum and Aari an aficionado of altruism! The relationship has a roller coaster ride! It is for the readers to find out. I would say.
Q6. What kind of research you had to conduct before writing this book which touches on the “political dimensions” between the two counties- India and The Republic of Maldives?
Ans. I had to do extensive research, as my novel is set in the backdrop of the Indian Ocean. The life on the ocean and especially on the remote island; is in total contrast compared to the urban lifestyle I have lived in India. The ocean routes, the seafarer’s and the boat journeys, was minutely, studied by me. The Muslim culture is the fabric woven in this novel. The social, cultural and religious beliefs and sentiments are much valued, respected and penned by me. The ‘Political Crisis’ is the discerning perspective here and it is a glaring reality, portrayed by me.
Q7. As an Indian author, writing a novel of this magnitude depicting an era of ‘Political Turbulence’ how difficult was it for you to incorporate the real – socio cultural milieu in your novel?
Ans. This writing is not just a piece of fiction but it has charted the ‘International Boundaries and routes’ inked with skirmish between India and Maldives. Being a neighbor, have its pros and cons.
The turbulent times between the years spanning from 2008 to 2014 is presented on the canvas. The relations between the two countries were totally raptured in this era. The entire plethora of Indian nationals and foreigners had gone berserk. I had to study it in detail and follow it consistently.
Q8. Your bio describes you as a ‘Solo Traveller’ round the globe. How has this helped you groom as a Poet/author?
I got my highs and lows both in this journey as a teacher. But ‘Highs’ has a price tag too! One learns to be more independent minded, be more brave and learn to face challenges with a smile! As an ‘Expatriate Teacher’ you have to walk on the unchartered routes be it on an ocean or a desert. You have to walk that extra-mile. I had to face many obstacles too and the moment you leave your native country, and after the initial euphoria has died, one is left in a vacuum. That time is most difficult and one has to mature as a person. Being solo – as my son was very young that time. And I had to leave him in India with my parents and my husband. One learns from the book of life! There is no gain without pain.
Q9. With an anthology to be soon published how did you think of writing a novel?
Ans. I have been penning poems since the age of eleven. I used to write and keep them as treasures! I was a bit shy I think, when it came to presenting it. But I had strong streaks of an artist; I was very active in theatre and writing, even during my Pune University days. But this novel is a surprise for me. I had my stories talking to me. Writing a book is a huge task. I had the passion for writing for sure. Being an artist has always paved my way to success. I have done a small role in a Marathi movie when I was 21 years old.
Q10. You have written a story on ‘India’s Bi-Lateral Relations with Maldives’. Can you shed some light on this international relationship between the two countries?
Ans. Maldives is our neighboring country and has got a great strategic importance in ‘The Indian Ocean’. The recent political crisis had turned the friendly ties, into a feud with this nation. There was a dark patch that altered the relations between the two neighboring counties for more than a decade. But India has always been very helpful and friendly. The other great powers, like China had a major role to play a gambit. But the bilateral relations were handled very sensitively by the Indian High Commissioner and Ambassador India, His Highness Dnyaneshwar Mulay -To the Republic of Maldives. Indian High Commission did a commendable job then. Indian Defence Services did a brilliant job, with the precision of eagle’s eye.
One has to read the story, to know about it.
Q11. In this book you have touched on ‘global the water’ crisis? Do you think this is a burning question even in Maldives?
Ans. The one thousand and one hundred and ninety one islands of Maldives have its own fate to face. With the sea levels rising everyday a great climatic shift is going to happen any time in future. The land which is habitable is only 300 kms and the mineral water is most scare here. One has to depend on the two monsoons- this country gets annually. The rain water is the most treasured resource and some islands are totally isolated and if the water perishes there is no future for these islands. Rain water harvesting is a great practice Water is a Global Crisis. Indeed.
Q12. Which authors have influenced you the most in your journey as a writer?
Ans. I have be most impressed with the writings of Khushwant Singh, Girish Karnad, JK Rowling. Poets like Pablo Naruda , S. Coleridge, Maya Angelou and Rabindranath Tagore.
Margaret Mitchell, William Shakespeare. I have always loved reading Henrik Ibsen’s plays.
Q13. With a large number of paperbacks, as well as ebooks being published, how difficult is it for the emerging authors/ poets to sustain the competition?
Ans. I think writing world has got its highest spurt now and the eBooks and paperbacks are both equally, relevant in todays’ fast paced, high tech world. It is a healthy world, where one has both the choices available. But it’s always a great pleasure, to hold the fresh mint paperback copy in your hands. New authors have to learn to ride over this wave.
Q14. In today’s publishing world, a constant debate is going on about ‘Traditional vs Self-Publication’, what is your take on this?
Ans. I am sure the new authors/poets have a great choice to make and enjoy the benefits of Self-Publishing too. One can be happy to self-publish his/ her work, than be frustrated about not being approved by the traditional publishing houses. Both has it’s plus and minus points, I feel.
Q15. What is the message you would like to convey to the budding authors/ poets?
Ans. If you have the skill and desire to write you must write and not be in a dilemma, should I or shouldn’t I write? You must follow your heart’s passion. Writing should be a long term affair. There is no short cut to success.
Resonances of the Past – a review by Manohar Khushalani
Resonances of the Past (The Ruth Wieder Magan Show) first Published in IIC Diary Feb-March 2021
Ruth Wieder Magan
To commemorate International Womens Day, Organised with the support of “The Foundation for Independent Artists”, Ministry of Culture and Sport, Israel) the India International Center Screened three films by Ruth Wieder Magan; Mirror Sky (50 min), Come Away Human Child (6.42 min) and Kadayil Shabbaso (10 min)
A Webinar was also conducted at IIC, The Ecstatic Voice. What is the Female Voice? Participants were: Ruth Wieder Magan, well-known contemporary voice/body theatre artist from Israel; Prof. Michal Govrin, Prominent Israeli writer, poet and theatre director; Gabriella Lev, theatre director, writer, performer, Artistic Director and Co-Founder, Theatre Company Jerusalem; Michael Shachrur, prominent body worker, dancer; Sara Siegel and Yuval Steinberg, filmmakers. The sentiments echoed what the films resonate with.
Ruth is best known for her pioneering work integrating sacred texts into contemporary voice/body theatre. Her pioneering approach to the transcendental aspect of voice is founded solidly in sacred cantorial Jewish traditions. In Mirror Sky in a backdrop of dimly lit scenes Ruth, swirling, moaning, producing gutrral sound explains the origin of her techniques:
“The process of my voicing goes something like this; a voice arises from the particular presence of present time. I will begin to track the life of the vibration. Where is it sounding in my body?
[As Music Swirls] Is it liver or kidneys or blood or eyelids?
And where in my perception of the cosmos?
is that reverberation, am i feeling angels
or am i sensing the moon or feeling stars shifting?
….and how is that kernel of sound moving out into space?
Does it want to travel forward or travel back into the sides?
and what cultural meaning arises in me
As i hear the sound emitting from my very own voice
…is it ancient America or China or is it atlantis?… or am i hearing an animal? Her investigation continues
Ruth’s source of inspiration, were her own parents, both were Holocaust survivors. Their memories and experiences triggered the melodies and intonations rooted in the barren world of the yore.
The movies are psychedelic Ruth’s voice and body performance is mesmerizing. Audience connected to so many insights and the things she said ”..a wound is a gateway, a gateway to the universe.
A wind blown image of her own hair swirling over her face like diaphonous clouds punctuated with screams of agony seems to haunt you
Folk Theatre Forms of India: Tamasha
Tamasha is considered a major traditional dance form of the Marathi theatre, which includes celebration filled with dancing and singing and is performed mainly by nomadic theatre groups throughout the Maharashtra region. The word “Tamasha” is loaned from Persian, which in turn loaned it from Arabic, meaning a show or theatrical entertainment.1 In the Armenian language, “To do a Tamasha” means to follow an exciting and fun process or entertainment. Unofficially, this word has come to represent commotion or display full of excitement.1 The traditional form of Tamasha was inspired by a lot of other art forms like Kathakali, Kaveli, ghazals etc.
The region of Maharashtra had a long theatrical tradition, with early references to the cave inscriptions at Nashik by Gautami Balashri, the mother of the 1st-century Satavahana ruler, Gautamiputras Satakarni. The inscription mentions him organizing Utsava’s a form of theatrical entertainment for his subjects.1 Tamasha acquired a distinct form in the late Peshwa period of the Maratha Empire and incorporated elements from older traditional forms like Dasavatar, Gondhal, Kirtan etc. Traditional Tamasha format consisted of dancing boys known as Nachya, who also played women’s roles, a poet-composer known as Shahir, who played the traditional role of Sutradhar, who compered the show. However, with time, women started taking part in Tamasha.2
Marathi theatre marked its journey at the beginning of 1843.3 In the following years, Tamasha primarily consisted of singing and dancing, expanded its range and added small dramatic skits known as Vag Natya.3 These included long narrative poems performed by the Shahir and his chorus, with actors improvising their lines. There are two types of Tamasha dance forms: dholki bhaari and the older form known as sangeet baari, which contains more music and dance than drama.4
The government of Maharashtra has instituted annual awards in the memory of the late Vithabai Narayangavkar Lifetime Achievement Award for those who had extensively contributed to the preservation of the Tamasha Art form throughout the world.1
_________________________________ Independent Project by Sezal Chug Guide: Prof. Manohar Khushalani __________________________________