Khud se hi darr raha hai...

खुद से ही डर रहा है आने वाला कल,

नाउम्मीदी के ऐसे गुज़रे किस्से तुम सुनाते हो।

दुनिया से तो कह आये तुम कि ज़ख्म है हल्का,

दर्द आज भी है, दिल को आज भी सहलाते हो।

सीधी बात कह डालूँ, तो रूठ जाते है मुझसे, 

फिर इलज़ाम भी देते हैं, कि बातें क्यों उलझाते हो?

होश अपना तुम किसी के नाम कर आये,

अपना नाम भी अब आइना देख कर बतलाते हो।

With due apologies to one Mr. Asadullah Beg Khan

If you ask for the literal meaning, this is what Ghalib says:

दर्द से है मेरे तुझको बेक़रारी, हाय हाय.

(You say my pain leaves you restless, Dear God!)

क्या हुई ज़ालिम तेरी गफ़ल्ताशीयारी, हाय हाय. 
(Just what happened to your cruel carelessness, Dear God!)


But if only the man were that simple to explain, in words or in illustration! So I decided, I had had enough of not being able to draw Ghalib in the seriousness that he dictates. There you go, Ghalib! That's what happens when you write gloriously lyrical thoughts that cannot be expressed in any other medium. People draw silly cartoons about them.

Hairy leg! Thou must be punished...

Who was the first person who thought this would be a good idea? You know pouring some hot, molten caramel on bare skin, rubbing it on for good measure and then yanking it right off! Clearly someone, somewhere hated body hair in a badass way. Also they were very very sick and should have been kept in the isolation ward of the 'dangerously insane'.

So anyhow, given how insane the society in general is, this thing became pretty popular; a normal routine thing in fact. Body hair has been shunned from decent society. Still it shows up every month. Shame on you, you hairy leg! Even after all the pain you have been through, you don't give up. Thou must be punished...

There is only so much liberal arts crap that you can dish out to your mother

Trust mothers to put a bit of common-sense into a liberal-arts lecture...

अब और कितने स्टेशन बाक़ी हैं?

इक्कीस फ़रवरी का टिकट,         

जेब में छुट्टे पैसे खोजना.         

एक गरम कप कॉफ़ी में,         

एक हज़ार बातें घोलना.          

पल-पल की पाबंदी है,          

क्या बात कहें, क्या जानें दें?          

और उसपर भी ये तय करना,          

समझायें या समझानें दें?         

अब भारी मन से चढ़ तो गए,          

जाने की भी मजबूरी है.          

तुम रुक जाओ, हम साथ चलें,          

कितनी लम्बी ये दूरी है.         

ये किस्सा सुन शायद दुनिया,          

हंस-हंस कर पागल हो जाए.          

रोने से फुर्सत कहाँ हमें,          

कि उनको जज़्बा समझायें.          

है गला रुंधा और सिर भारी,          

वरना उनको समझाते हम.          

हर प्लेटफ़ॉर्म पर बिछड़-बिछड़,          

फिर दूजे पे मिल जाते हम.          

How does one celebrate seven years of not running out of words to say to each other? By holding hands over a humble cup of coffee on the railway station as we continue talking. At railway stations all over the country, we have had inconsolable, heart-breaking farewells; only to poetically reunite on similar railway stations at a later date. Movie scripts can only aspire to match this sort of drama. (The comic relief we provide to the general public is a bonus feature.) Darling, what other love can I aspire to? You have set the benchmark too high.

The thin line between comedy and tragedy

Laughter and applause. What a crowd, what a night! But they won't let him leave without one last wisecrack. The jester sighs behind his painted smile. And fishes in his little bag of tragedies to craft one more joke for the night...

The element of surprise in love...

Bus 119

I was at Infy, Mysore in 2007. Just as the clock struck 5, hoards of happy Infoscions escaped the cubicles, via Food court 1 and boarded bus #119 on their way to freedom. 

This was the year Puneet Raj Kumar's "Ninninndale" was being played everywhere. I heard this song so many times on the bus, I actually began to like it. Even today, this song brings back to mind those days of travelling from Hebbal to Myna auntie's house via Bharat Cancer, Vijaynagar, Surya bakery, Fab mall...

Mahishasuramardini

The trouble with watching an awesome dance performance live is that one begins to feel very left out and ostracized by the end of it. I know!! Petty me! But to watch breathtaking choreography without being a part of it in anyway is my idea of a desperate personal hell.

And sometimes desperation is another name for inspiration. Hoohaahaaaaa...

Hide and seek

One by one they all fly away...

Stumbled upon an old album from my undergrad days when we were all together, in pursuit of specimenhood...

Sigh!

Seven miles per hour; and this was in my head?!!! So it was!! Big deal!!! The film has Richard Gere. There is a uniform involved. It's complicated. Don't judge me.

विचारों की vacancy

एक किस्म की कायरता बुन ली है तुमने,
अपने विचारों में,
अपनी धारणाओं में।
स्वीकृति के भूखे इन विचारों में,
नया सा कुछ भी नहीं।
न यह क्रांति ला सकते हैं,
न समय पर अपना चिन्ह ही छोड़ सकते हैं।
ये सिर्फ चाय की टपरी पर बैठकर,
चर्चा-परिचर्चा कर सकते हैं,
सबसे सहमत हो सकते हैं,
बहती हवा के रुख में बह सकते हैं।
लेकिन अगर कोई सच्चा संकल्प लेना हो,
या किसी जज़्बे का भार उठाना हो,
तो इनके पांव कांपने लगते हैं।

Maybe this is too literal, but hell I was feeling very come-undonnish...

जयपुर से कन्नूर

Where are the old cities?

सीढ़ी, सड़कों, दीवारों से.
गलियों, कूचों, बाज़ारों से.
आँगन और चौखट और नुक्कड़,
चारास्तों से, चौबारों से.

मंदिर तक जाते रस्ते से,

जो घाट पे जा कर गिरता था.

गलियों को छेड़ के जो उनके,

आगे-पीछे को फिरता था.

उस छत से जिस की गोदी में,

सर्दी की धूप सो जाती थी.

जहाँ शाम ढले अनगिनत पतंगे,

उतर समर में आती थीं.

फिर पूछा रुक-रुक कर मैंने,

हाट की सब दूकानों से.

जहाँ सौदा करते आये थे,

कभी रुपये, कभी चार आनों से.

पर नहीं मिला, अब किसे याद,

अब कौन पता दे सकता है?

था शहर पुराना वैसे भी,

बिक गया, कबाड़ था, अच्छा है.

Pink! Just like that...

Mujhse pehli si muhabbat mere mehbuub na maang

Faiz Ahmed Faiz wrote the poem "मुझसे पहली सी मोहब्बत मेरे महबूब न मांग". But it was Noor Jehan's celebrated voice, that shot his words to fame, as they rang across airwaves all over the world.

The first half of the poem mourns the love that once was, and is now lost. Delicately, Faiz weaves into words, the generous promises held in the folds of first love. When the resolution to every misery and misfortune lies in the embrace of that one lasting love. Steadily Faiz builds the sense of loss between the estranged lovers.

But Faiz was a crafty poet. The first half of the poem is simply an invitation; an invitation to be presumptuous. Faiz leads you on to imagine that this is just another poem about the aching tragedy of love. This is when the second half of his words, brutally bring to conclusion the real sentiments behind Faiz's writing.

Faiz was a poet and a marxist. The second half of the poem speaks of the grotesque and sickly face of life elsewhere. In the real world where years of exploitation by the rich have driven the poor to become a commodity; a disease; a sore that begs to be called 'life' too. The poet, despite trying, is unable to ignore this spectacle of suffering. He assures his sweetheart, that her beauty and her grace still hold the same place in his heart. But he is disillusioned now and knows that there are greater tragedies in life than the tragedy of lost love. There are far greater pains on earth that need relief; relief that is far more urgent than that of 'vasl' or 'meeting one's love'.

Here is the second half of the poem with word meanings included. For the complete poem, you can visit urdupoetry.com

मुझ से पहली सी मोहब्बत मेरे महबूब न मांग
अनगिनत सदियों के तारीक बहिमाना तलिस्म
रेशम-ओ-अतलस-ओ-कम-ख़्वाब में बुनवाये हुए
जा-बा-जा बिकते हुए कूचा-ओ-बाज़ार में जिस्म
ख़ाक में लिथड़े हुए, खून में नहलाये हुए
जिस्म निकले हुए अमराज़ के तन्नूरों से
पीप बहती हुई, गलते हुए नासूरों से
लौट जाती है उधर को भी नज़र क्या कीजे
अब भी दिलकश है तेरा हुस्न मगर क्या कीजे

और भी gum हैं ज़माने में मोहब्बत के सिवा
राहतें और भी हैं वस्ल की राहत के सिवा
मुझ से पहली सी मोहब्बत मेरे महबूब न मांग

vasl = union/meeting;

taariik = dark

bahiimaanaa = dreadful

talism = magic

resham = silk

atalas = satin

kam_Khvaab = brocade

jaa-ba-jaa = hither-thither

litha.De = covered/soaked in

amaraaz = diseases

tannuuron = ovens

piip = pus

naasuur = ulcer/a wound that won't heal

dil_kash = heart-warming

An after-thought to Editing lectures

A wise man once tried to explain to a bunch of bambi-eyed students, why cinema was not a language but a meta language. This is what one of the bambi-eyed understood.

Learning a language (say Hindi) can teach you that nice weather can be expressed by words "achcha mausam". Learning a meta language can teach you how to lay down rules in a language so that a collection of symbols express a certain meaning. So a meta language will allow me to define a new language all together in which good weather can be called "sikka dum; dee da da". Also meta language will help me understand the structure of Hindi and why therefore should "achcha mausam" mean good weather in Hindi.

This mean that cinema or film language does not tell me that a montage means "xyz happened" or a fade in implies that "so much time elapsed" or a sound effect estabilishes "such and such facts"? Instead it teaches me to how to establish what a fade out could mean within the context of my film, what sense a certain shot would evoke in the audience as regards my film, what a montage sequence will come to mean strictly in my film.

The principle advantage of this school of thought is that if this is what the wise man really meant, then hah, I got his point; and if it isn't, then hah, I just came up with a film theory. (All smiles. Very happy. Dangerously skirting self-congratulations)

Maine yeh jaana ki goya yeh bhi mere dil mein hai...

I'll steer clear of words like 'love', 'adore', 'admire', 'absolutely crazy about'. I am neither a fanatic nor an authority on it. I just read poetry and occasionally run into words that could have been put together only by some occult literary magic and nothing less.

I owe 'Kadamb ka ped', 'Basanti hava' and 'Krishna ki chetawani' to the humble NCERT books. Members of my typical Hindi-speaking, CBSE-boarding, Uttar-Pradesh-hailing family, often broke into renditions of boistrously rhythmic and fiercely chaste Hindi poems. All it took was a power cut, my naniji's courtyard and post-dinner idling for someone to proclaim -
"Sinhasan hil uthey raajvanshon ney bhrikuti tani thi,
Boodhay Bharat mein aayee phir se nayi jawani thi
Gumee huee azadi ki keemat sabney pehchani thi
Door phirangi ko karney ki sab ney man mein thani thi
Chamak uthi san sattavan mein woh talwar purani thi
Bundeley Harbolon key munh hamney suni kahani thi
Khoob ladi mardani woh to Jhansi wali Rani thi..."

The ones more inclined to situational drama would quote when the occasion demanded -
"Woh khoon kaho kis matlab ka, jisme ubaal ka naam nahi,
Woh khoon kaho kis matlab ka, aa sake desh ke kaam nahi,
Woh khoon kaho kis matlab ka, jisme jeevan na ravaani hai.
Jo parvash ho kar behtaa hai, woh khoon nahi woh paani hai!"

Untill I had read his name in my Hindi text book, I thought Ramdhari Singh Dinkar was a family friend because everyone was quoting him. After a scuffle with my cousin, I chose to be the bigger person and said I had forgiven him. The 8-year old brat, who I thought was capable of only bullying and mathematics replied-
"Shama shobhti uss bhujang ko, jiske paas garal ho
Uska kya jo dant-heen vish-heen vineet saral ho..."

My Naniji is the only one whose tastes went beyond the CBSE text books, pole vaulting the immediate allure of veer ras and reached out to the elegance of-
"Vardant ki pangati kunj kali, adhara dhara pallava kholan ki
Chapala chamake ghan beech chavi, chavi motin mala amolan ki..."

From the recesses of her infinite memory, Naniji brings out poems like artifacts long forgotten. When she quotes a doha by Kabir, one would think she and Kabir are sharing an inside joke. Infact they are; for more often than not, the person at whom the quip is directed has no clue what it means. Owing to her whole hearted involvement in poetry, Naniji is forbidden from reading the likes of Sudama Charit. This is because by the time she reaches the lines "Dekhi Sudama ki deen dasha, karuna kari ke karunanidhi roye...", she too is weeping; struck either by the meaning or the alliteration in those lines!

Somewhere down the line, I became the pariah in my family; the one to digress not only from Veer Ras, but from Hindi itself. In times when trashy SMS forwards and downmarket orkut updates of the jilted lovers pass off as Urdu poetry, I was trying to quote Zafar and Zauq. Clearly, no one was impressed. In times of instant gratification and adrenaline pumped entertainment, who would sit down to decipher Ghalib? How painful it is to read something as profound as - "Qayamat hai ki hove muddai ka humsafar Ghalib, woh kaafir jo khuda ko bhi na saunpa jaaye hai mujhse" - and not have anyone to share it with?

In the face of such desperation, the only outlet then is to write. I can't write poetry myself. Prose maybe. Poetry not. It is not for the want of trying. Oh sure I tried! With results like "The lion so fierce, it's claws can pierce." Many a poets have turned in their graves when I have put pen to paper and begun to express my deep thoughts in what aspires to be the third cousin of poetry, twice removed. This is then the blogpost of an avid reader of poetry, who has no one to pass it on to and must therefore subject her blog to it.