Friday, April 08, 2011
Don’t come again
I will never write
I will never write for you
For the pain you have given me
The pain of invisible love
The sadness of being in love
But I don’t know for how long I can keep my promise
Your charm ignites the thought
Forces the words out of vain
Don’t ask me to write a poem
If anything, I want to write about happiness and not love
Melancholy of joblessness and not being separated from you
Wounds of accidents and not memory
Don’t come again….
Don’t ask me again Shyamalee…..
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Last time she came here, it was Holi, pretty colorless
Summer was yet to set.
We had planned to whitewash our house later in the year
Around September and October
This will keep the house white for a long time
till rain soaks the wall
And in the wall,
till we see our ancestors taking shape
For generations we have believed
Kept whitewashing the walls
Year after year
Monday, July 27, 2009
to negotiate with the hills.
In every turn there is a mark
a tiny flower,
a few stones
and a good old tree.
Only the tiny steps are missing
some heartfelt laughter,
little of undecipherable sounds
some distinct ones
she would have made otherwise.
The missing marks slowly vanish
as the river takes one more turn.
This time, the river
refuses to negotiate
with the hills... ... ...
This poem is an outcome of days when my son was not with me for a few days. I remodified the poem a bit to get a universal feeling
Saturday, March 07, 2009
(I was tagged by Runa to write a review on books I read in January. When started writing I was confused and ended up writing on many books that I have read so far. It is a challenge for me to write prose that are outside my field of research. I don't know she will like this or not, but I enjoyed going through the nostalgia of books I have read)
When it comes to food, watching a movie and reading a book and very specifically investing your own hard-earned money and time on these, one needs to be very careful. I for, do that. Therefore, often I keep ordering the same set of food in a restaurant, I keep watching the same set of movies in Television and rare though, I keep reading the same set of books I read. It is uncountable times that I have eaten chicken curry, Tandoori Rotis, green salad and fish fry in select restaurants, it is innumerable times that I have seen the movies like Angoor, Golmal, Choti si Baat in any of the Television Channels. When it comes to books and very specifically fictions, I rarely take chance. So, when I don’t have a recommendation from same wavelength source or a book by an author whose work has already been read by me, I end up reading a set of books already been read. In last few months, therefore, I ended up reading the Feluda series by Satyajit Ray and Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and stories of R K Narayan with same vigour and thrill as it has happened several times to me reading these books. This is the case with picking up Tintin or Twinkil or a Chandamama (or, in Oriya it is called Janhamamoon that I often read). There have been several attempts by me to complete My name is Red by Orhan Palmuk, A Feast of the Goat by Mario Vargas Llosa or God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy and short stories by Ritwik Ghatak. Of these Llosa needs a special mention as his book titled Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter enthralled me throughout the reading. However, others are yet to be successful. It is the fate with Arvind Adiga’s White Tiger; but in this case, I am sure, it is just the matter of time as the book has the language of lucidity and the simplicity of narration that holds the reader. Besides, my wife is hooked into this one for which I have to wait till she completes.
It has happened several times that I have picked short stories and short fictions by Marquez and read them a dozen times (if not exaggerated) but for One Hundred Years of Solitude. No one writes to Colonel, Innocent Erendira, Of Love and other Demons and Love in the Time of Cholera that comes back to mind time and again. Autumn of Patriarch and Love in the time of Cholera are two of the titles of Marquez’s craftsmanship that have drawn attention of several authors to write several notes under this title albeit with slight modification. Then there are Siddharth by Hermen Hesse, a few regional translations like Yayati (in Mrathi) by Khandekar, Chemin (in Malayalm) by Pillai, Ramer Sumati (in Bengali) by Sarat Chandra or Ananda Matha (in Bengali) by Bankim Chandra. When it comes to Oriya, I had the privilege to read them in original language. Most of the work of Gopinath Mohanty and specifically Paraja and Amrutara Santana has the touch of awfully vivid and depth that not only touches the core but also tears one apart by reincarnating the characters in visual imagination. The biography of Madhusudan Das written by Surendra Mohanty is also one such feast to read. Tiled as Satabdira Surjya (A crude translation would mean Sun of the Century) has a wonderful crafting of language. The autobiography that I savour is ‘My Auto Biography’ by Charles Chaplin the legendary filmmaker (well known as Charlie Chaplin) whose life was of equal twists and turns as his films.
In recent months when I read the book by Yann Martel titled Life of Pi, it was hilarious to begin with, however, it took serious turns as one sails through the book. Masterly written, the book reminds of Marquez’s one of the earlier work titled “The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor”.
When it comes to poetry it is difficult to ignore Neruda and his Tonight I can write the saddest line….But, there are many more to his poems as well his Memoirs. Though bought, I am yet to read his autobiography Memoirs. I was more attracted to read this, specifically after reading Marquez’s Clandestine in Chile that depicts the adventure of the filmmaker Miguel Littin in disguise to shoot a documentary twelve years after being exiled in the troubled nation of Chile followed by assassination of President Allende and beginning of dictatorship of Pinochet. This book, through its journey, rightfully renders tribute to Neruda and his popularity in Chile and rest of the Latin America as well as the rest of the World. After reading this, its logical to know what Neruda depicts about his on life.
Of late or say from last few weeks the book in my hand is Ramchandra Guha’s India After Gandhi. As the second part of the title suggests, it is the History of World’s largest Democracy. The 900 pages book not only shows the volume of work that has gone in the book but also the value and depth of work without compromising on the lucidity of writing which is expected from Guha’s style of writing and narration. It is a book that fills the gap of History of a country that somehow stopped soon at independence. The eloquence with which Guha explains the merger of states at Independence specifically the troubling one’s like Travancore, Hyderabad and not so much troubling one’s like Bhpal, Junagarh along with 500 odd feudal states reads like a fiction. The partition question, the way it was handled specifically for Punjab, the troubles relating to Kashmir and Nagaland, the foreign policy question, the way Nehru saw these problems and developed the diplomatic relation specifically with China, the then USSR and USA, making of the constitution, oppositions and its development where Dr. Ambedkar played a crucial role, the first general election and its planning, Planning of economic policies and priorities have so far been an interesting knowledge for me. Never before I read these in my history or any other classes. It is not only enlightening to read Guha but also one could very well feel what a greater aspect of our own history we are unaware of till today. The easiness and lucidity of Guha’s writing coupled with vivid and magnitude of our own nation on making and path of democracy makes the book very interesting and readable. If any complains I have about the book, it is about its volume that restricts me to carry with and hence increasing my completion time. The publisher could have thought about bringing it in two volumes for the support of readers like me who can carry the book to work or through travels.
I would stop here and get into my own readings. Perhaps, I will write a second episode of it like the soap operas in our TV Channels and bring in more reviews about books, films, food and travel. By the time I completed writing this review I also finished reading Adiga’s White Tiger. It is a splendidly written book with its raw expression of darkness and subtle humour, seeing the transiting Indian society through the lenses of a Master’s car driver.
Monday, December 15, 2008
seem to be opaque
someone has thrown a stone
to the still water
Unmoved by all these
she is in a trip to nostalgia
gathering a few fractured dreams
A rain would come
to bring her back
She will again feel shy
about her drenched semi-transparent clothes
Would also remember
many of them she knew are dead
In an uncountable steps to the Haveli in the alley
a hope perhaps would sprout
There are many more left
and a few children
who would come back running
to the river,
to the hillock
Friday, October 17, 2008
I have Kandhamal and Democracy
Sadness of not believing, in spite of knowing
afternoon's wall and corral of sea
Apart from naked God
and nude galaxy
I remember the woman tying her hair
They have put a big market
selling violence and terror
like a lane of red ants
putting fire is cheapest of all
then comes raping a woman
getting killed is not costly either...
(I Used Photofunia effect to get a feel of market)