Search This Blog

Saturday, 23 April 2011

another poem. again written some years back....


gratitude..

You live here… in the walls.
And seasons pass to
Reflect on my forehead - crevices.
The age of sadness sprinkle down
Like the droplets… and
Disappear like the vapors…

You live here… in the walls.
I can count -
The songs that echo in symphony and solitude.
And the songs drown themselves
Under the wheels of the train…
Unabated… unbound…
The wheels chug along… without a fate…
In an unknown time… and
A path, which is frozen… of
An uncertain kingdom… beautifully foggy…

You still live here… in the walls forever.
I am sure -
Like an image that is young, fresh, timeless and stagnant
And which spreads jasmine…
And I can smell.

Years from now -
When you have grown old
And are walking your kin down the memory lane…
And if I could - if only once,
Provoke in you -
A thought which brings a smile on your lips -
I shall be grateful to you.

Sunday, 17 April 2011

yesterday was Charlie Chaplin's 122nd birthday. a great humanist and one of the greatest filmmaker ever he has entertained young and the old alike. my tributes to the master.

here are 2 great speeches he makes in the film 'The Great Dictator". enjoy.


Monday, 11 April 2011


a poem i had penned long back. thought of posting it for you all...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sonata

On a restless night where the immense sea lay like the dead
Where the moon anchors in shimmer… and where sailors mean - no destiny
I still catch you smile in fore in spite of the silhouette broken -
Only by the song of the wind.


Where space kisses the sea - forever, in an infinite hold
Where only now hasty, now tardy sun can intrude with impunity
And where mariners dread to tread but celebrate with ecstasy instead…
Where nature unwinds with humid fragrance
I hear the hint of your breath, which at once grows colossal.


Where the tides rise in revulsion to silence with rims of silver and shoot off in a cascade
Like the brides possessed - frothing at the edge, to kiss me in a brackish broil…
You shoot through me in a cold spasmodic shiver.


Where the turbulence of the heart is matched only by the silence of the sea
Where seasons alternate like the hermits with miseries and death
And where songs have no meaning and words are for the dead
I sense in your look an urge, which makes me live… forever.


Where existence means an eternal struggle
Where the soul and mind wander like the nomadic tribes
You frolic like the twister and vanish with the wind
Leaving a trail of nostalgic trauma - wounds - which never seem to heel.

Saturday, 9 April 2011

Not to be forgotten tales

india is an unique amalgamation of people, religion, language and custom. dance, dress, drama, food changes from state to state and from region to region within a state. stories are unique from each region and from ancient times have passed on orally from generation to generation and have become part of our folklore heritage.

one such (among many) from the state of Karnataka is very interesting because this story is about the genesis of the 'story' itself!!

here is that brilliant story AK Ramanujan (needs no introduction) collected and is part of his book - A Flowering Tree And Other Oral Tales from India. a must have book. however you can enjoy it and the other stories online from the link at the bottom of the post.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




1. A Story and a Song



A housewife knew a story. She also knew a song. But she kept them to herself, never told anyone the story or sang the song. Imprisoned within her, the story and the song were feeling choked. They wanted release, wanted to run away. One day, when she was sleeping with her mouth open, the story escaped, fell out of her, took the shape of a pair of shoes and sat outside the house. The song also escaped, took the shape of something like a man's coat, and hung on a peg.

The woman's husband came home, looked at the coat and shoes, and asked her, “Who is visiting?”
“No one,” she said.
“But whose coat and shoes are these?”
“I don't know,” she replied.

He wasn't satisfied with her answer. He was suspicious. Their conversation was unpleasant. The unpleasantness led to a quarrel. The husband flew into a rage, picked up his blanket, and went to the Monkey God's temple to sleep.

The woman didn't understand what was happening. She lay down alone that night. She asked the same question over and over: “Whose coat and shoes are these?” Baffled and unhappy, she put out the lamp and went to sleep.

All the lamp flames of the town, once they were put out, used to come to the Monkey God's temple and spend the night there, gossiping. On this night, all the lamps of all the houses were represented there—all except one, which came late.

The others asked the latecomer, “Why are you so late tonight?”
“At our house, the couple quarreled late into the night,” said the flame.
“Why did they quarrel?”
“When the husband wasn't home, a pair of shoes came onto the verandah, and a man's coat somehow got onto a peg. The husband asked her whose they were. The wife said she didn't know. So they quarreled.”
“Where did the coat and shoes come from?”
“The lady of our house knows a story and a song. She never tells the story, and has never sung the song to anyone. The story and the song got suffocated inside; so they got out and have turned into a coat and a pair of shoes. They took revenge. The woman doesn't even know.”

The husband, lying under his blanket in the temple, heard the lamp's explanation. His suspicions were cleared. When he went home, it was dawn. He asked his wife about her story and her song. But she had forgotten both of them. “What story, what song?” she said.

not to be forgotten tales