Hey. I found this in some book. It's originally a Hindi poem, but when translated, it still sends an arrow of thrill through the heart of the reader.
Nay, said the flower
Cast me, said the flower,
Not on the virgin's bed
Nor in the bridal carriage
Nor in the merry village square.
Nay, said the flower
Cast me but on that lonely path
where the heroes walk
For their nation to die.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Of cricketers and heroes
The Tireless one (Jumbo) has gone. The Indomitable one (Dada)will hang his boots after Nagpur. Soon, the Immaculate one (Rahul) and the Special one (VVS) will crumble too. The Legendary one (Sachin) shall linger on for some more time, but inevitably, he too will have to call it a day. Indian cricket is at a crossroads now, witnessing the biggest exodus in recent times. The most iconic players to ever don the India whites are bidding farewell to the game.
Somehow, I cannot imagine an Indian team without the likes of Kumble, Dravid and Saurav. True, the recent inflow of youngsters had resulted in almost inhuman pressure being put on them, but they handled it with aplomb, and showed their class time and again.
I, like most guys my age, grew up watching and idolizing these players, and the most enduring of my cricket memories will be
1. Kumble bowling with a broken jaw and high fever in Antigua (2002) to get Lara out.
2. Sachin beating the living shit out of McGrath and co. in Sharjah (1998) and single handedly propelling the team to wins.
3. Saurav Ganguly and his offside strokes which were, according to me, poetry in motion. He repeatedly bisected 7 fielders on the offside and brought the best laid plans to pieces.
4. Rahul Dravid choosing to keep wickets to accomodate an extra batsman in the team, and withstanding the enormous toll on his body to become the ICC ranked No.1 ODI batsman in 2004.
5. Laxman bringing the Aussies to their knees in Kolkata (2001) and being christened 'Very Very Special'. To this day, he remains the nemesis of the Australians.
6. Kumble's test century in England (2007) and the way he celebrated when he got it, suddenly looking more like a 12 year old kid than a veteran of 37.
7. Rahul's comment in the media : "Everywhere else, there is God, but on the offside, there is Saurav Ganguly."
8. Kumble's magnanimity and humility when he remarks to the media on being given captaincy "I understand this is a transition phase and I have to do my duty and ensure the captaincy is handed in good hands when I retire shortly."
We as a generation shed tears at their failures, and jumped with joy when they played well, for we knew they were giving their heart and soul for the nation.
I wonder how long it is going to take, or is it ever possible, to respect the pugnacious Yuvraj or the fiesty Gambhir, or the ice cool Dhoni in the same way. They are great players too no doubt, but there was something about the oldies that made us idolize them and want to BE like them (I became a left hand batsman because of Saurav) .
Seniors, we love you, and shall always respect you for your immense contributions to Indian cricket. Please stay involved with the game.
Goodbye Jumbo. Goodbye Dada. And the others too. We are better players and humans for having seen you play.. You guys will always be missed.
(readers, feel free to post your fav memories in the comments section)
Somehow, I cannot imagine an Indian team without the likes of Kumble, Dravid and Saurav. True, the recent inflow of youngsters had resulted in almost inhuman pressure being put on them, but they handled it with aplomb, and showed their class time and again.
I, like most guys my age, grew up watching and idolizing these players, and the most enduring of my cricket memories will be
1. Kumble bowling with a broken jaw and high fever in Antigua (2002) to get Lara out.
2. Sachin beating the living shit out of McGrath and co. in Sharjah (1998) and single handedly propelling the team to wins.
3. Saurav Ganguly and his offside strokes which were, according to me, poetry in motion. He repeatedly bisected 7 fielders on the offside and brought the best laid plans to pieces.
4. Rahul Dravid choosing to keep wickets to accomodate an extra batsman in the team, and withstanding the enormous toll on his body to become the ICC ranked No.1 ODI batsman in 2004.
5. Laxman bringing the Aussies to their knees in Kolkata (2001) and being christened 'Very Very Special'. To this day, he remains the nemesis of the Australians.
6. Kumble's test century in England (2007) and the way he celebrated when he got it, suddenly looking more like a 12 year old kid than a veteran of 37.
7. Rahul's comment in the media : "Everywhere else, there is God, but on the offside, there is Saurav Ganguly."
8. Kumble's magnanimity and humility when he remarks to the media on being given captaincy "I understand this is a transition phase and I have to do my duty and ensure the captaincy is handed in good hands when I retire shortly."
We as a generation shed tears at their failures, and jumped with joy when they played well, for we knew they were giving their heart and soul for the nation.
I wonder how long it is going to take, or is it ever possible, to respect the pugnacious Yuvraj or the fiesty Gambhir, or the ice cool Dhoni in the same way. They are great players too no doubt, but there was something about the oldies that made us idolize them and want to BE like them (I became a left hand batsman because of Saurav) .
Seniors, we love you, and shall always respect you for your immense contributions to Indian cricket. Please stay involved with the game.
Goodbye Jumbo. Goodbye Dada. And the others too. We are better players and humans for having seen you play.. You guys will always be missed.
(readers, feel free to post your fav memories in the comments section)
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Words that permit
Without disguise, my dream I confess,
A journey impending, a lifetime's quest
I'll be back my love, I hear myself say,
You know I won't bear to be away.
Arts to revel in, trades to master,
Secrets, stories and legends to go after.
But none of these she desires for me,
For, is not distance every woman's enemy!
And in the pregnant silence I wait,
An entire journey hanging, subordinate,
To words that permit, yet somehow tie,
A blatant truth perhaps, an effusive lie,
But gushing and straining come the tears,
Adorable woman anger, betraying her fears,
"Come back soon, and always be strong,
Be good to all, and know right from wrong.
I'll wait always, but please don't be long."
Dusk falls, and the sea stretches infinite,
Rocking my ship and conspiring with the night,
A window on the shore, and a silhoutte slight,
Shivering and crying, that memory I hold tight.
What man of me, who leaves his all behind,
Travels far, a better life to find,
Suffering too, on destiny's rocky straits
As much as the one who remains and waits!
A journey impending, a lifetime's quest
I'll be back my love, I hear myself say,
You know I won't bear to be away.
Arts to revel in, trades to master,
Secrets, stories and legends to go after.
But none of these she desires for me,
For, is not distance every woman's enemy!
And in the pregnant silence I wait,
An entire journey hanging, subordinate,
To words that permit, yet somehow tie,
A blatant truth perhaps, an effusive lie,
But gushing and straining come the tears,
Adorable woman anger, betraying her fears,
"Come back soon, and always be strong,
Be good to all, and know right from wrong.
I'll wait always, but please don't be long."
Dusk falls, and the sea stretches infinite,
Rocking my ship and conspiring with the night,
A window on the shore, and a silhoutte slight,
Shivering and crying, that memory I hold tight.
What man of me, who leaves his all behind,
Travels far, a better life to find,
Suffering too, on destiny's rocky straits
As much as the one who remains and waits!
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Of Ganpati and Sean Paul
So its Visarjan day today. My colony Ganpati moves along at snail's pace. I am a passive bystander at the edge of the road. I see two trucks. The one ahead has a self proclaimed DJ, and atleast four speakers, each at least 8 feet tall. There're around 200 people behind this truck. Predominantly youth, but not without the ocassional beer bellied uncle here, or the fat bottomed aunty there.
The DJ churns out music loud enough to drive you crazy. And all these 200 people begin dancing. Traffic is obstructed. Cars honking, traffic police screaming at the top of their lungs, and the DJ changing the music on a whim. Some real popular Bollywood numbers. Then comes a different beat. 'Temperature' is the song. Sean Paul's words of wisdom follow, and the crowd does a loud 'Woooooooooo' to show their appreciation for the DJ and his choice.
Anyway, for all the colony to hear, Sean Paul raps
Five million and forty naughty shorty...
Baby girl...all my girls, all my girls...Sean de Paul say
Well woman the way they time cool I wanna be keepin' you warm
I got the right temperature for shelter you from the storm
oh lord, gal I got the right tactics to turn you on, and girl I...
Wanna be the Papa...You can be the Mom....oh oh!
Baby girl...all my girls, all my girls...Sean de Paul say
Well woman the way they time cool I wanna be keepin' you warm
I got the right temperature for shelter you from the storm
oh lord, gal I got the right tactics to turn you on, and girl I...
Wanna be the Papa...You can be the Mom....oh oh!
Not less than five feet behind all this, the second truck trundles along. A few disgruntled old men, and little kids too young to know what 'turn you on' means, trail along behind it, and above all of this, Lord Ganesha towers in all his benign and magnanimous glory. I detect a satiric smile on his face. I can't help but feel amused. Meanwhile, Sean Paul gives way to Eminem now, and the ardent devotees dance on into the night.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
No freedom
(With a few days to go for Independence day, I gave a thought to the meaning of the word 'free'. I came up with some thoughts related to freedom and the lack of it.)
No freedom. What does this mean?
No freedom means having to obey other people all your life. No freedom means not being able to stand up for what you think is right, and accepting ignominies and invectives hurled at you with nonchalance, resigning yourself to your fate. No freedom means being shown everyday that what you believe in and live for is insignificant and inconsequential. No freedom means getting used to that too.
No freedom means having to think twice before acting, for fear of the consequences. No freedom means inhibiting your desires and goals, for lack of belief to dream about the same. No freedom means fear of the future. No freedom means a passive acceptance of the fact that your destiny does not lie in your hands.
No freedom means being incapable of love, for love is the greatest proponent of freedom.
No freedom means doubting yourself. No freedom means fighting two wars everyday, one against the world, and one against your own self, to prove that you are right. No freedom means not knowing whether you are right or wrong.
No freedom means forcibly restricting your abilities and working capacity because of physical and mental exhaustions.
No freedom means a life lived within four walls, a floor and a ceiling, and thinking that’s all there is to life. No freedom means a life lived merely for survival, without hopes or spirit. No freedom means a life lived amidst chains, wondering about how life would be without them. No freedom means not living at all. No freedom means merely existing.
No freedom. What does this mean?
No freedom means having to obey other people all your life. No freedom means not being able to stand up for what you think is right, and accepting ignominies and invectives hurled at you with nonchalance, resigning yourself to your fate. No freedom means being shown everyday that what you believe in and live for is insignificant and inconsequential. No freedom means getting used to that too.
No freedom means having to think twice before acting, for fear of the consequences. No freedom means inhibiting your desires and goals, for lack of belief to dream about the same. No freedom means fear of the future. No freedom means a passive acceptance of the fact that your destiny does not lie in your hands.
No freedom means being incapable of love, for love is the greatest proponent of freedom.
No freedom means doubting yourself. No freedom means fighting two wars everyday, one against the world, and one against your own self, to prove that you are right. No freedom means not knowing whether you are right or wrong.
No freedom means forcibly restricting your abilities and working capacity because of physical and mental exhaustions.
No freedom means a life lived within four walls, a floor and a ceiling, and thinking that’s all there is to life. No freedom means a life lived merely for survival, without hopes or spirit. No freedom means a life lived amidst chains, wondering about how life would be without them. No freedom means not living at all. No freedom means merely existing.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
The Princess and the Shepherd
Sometimes, our own views of princesses and shepherds gets so all encompassing that we lose sight of what is God’s will. This is a poem that shows just that.
And she enters the palace, silver anklets tinkling softly,
In the dead of the night, to her room she tiptoes,
Her mother waits in the dark, heart beating wildly,
‘Oh you little jewel, my heart bleeds for you thus,
Away you go into the dark dangerous night,
On horseback, galloping into the moonlight,
Who is it that draws you so, out of your chamber,
And into the night, who is he who makes you wander?
A prince so fine, or a man with nobility divine?’
‘Mother, his company is what my heart longs,
But neither prince nor noble he may be,
The coarse Harijan class is to what he belongs,
And that makes him not a person worse,
Or shrewder less, or his thoughts less lofty,
He has strength that makes the wrestlers shiver,
Wit and subtlety to make the vazirs quiver
He is a complete man, and mine he will be.
Oh mother! Why do you weep thus!
Is it his lineage of birth, or the bulge of his purse,
That makes him fit for a princess? Is it not his soul
And his completeness, that makes him a man whole?’
‘Oh naïve little one, what do you know, of royalty,
Of poetry, nobility, and a king’s famed ancestry,
That you seek to blemish it, with a mere shepherd
Fit only to clean the stables at our palace!’
And her bangles she breaks, weeps and curses
Her hot tears fill the night, and thus it passes.
It is morning. The jungle awakens to glory
The shepherd stands one legged, flute in hand,
And as melody divine fills the heavens, you can see
How bird, animal, and all the creatures of the land,
Surround him in devotion, as do the villagers slowly,
And as the queen spends a sleepless night, may be
The princess still thinks of him, as now he is only memory,
But the shepherd Krishna revels outside, and all is Godly.
And she enters the palace, silver anklets tinkling softly,
In the dead of the night, to her room she tiptoes,
Her mother waits in the dark, heart beating wildly,
‘Oh you little jewel, my heart bleeds for you thus,
Away you go into the dark dangerous night,
On horseback, galloping into the moonlight,
Who is it that draws you so, out of your chamber,
And into the night, who is he who makes you wander?
A prince so fine, or a man with nobility divine?’
‘Mother, his company is what my heart longs,
But neither prince nor noble he may be,
The coarse Harijan class is to what he belongs,
And that makes him not a person worse,
Or shrewder less, or his thoughts less lofty,
He has strength that makes the wrestlers shiver,
Wit and subtlety to make the vazirs quiver
He is a complete man, and mine he will be.
Oh mother! Why do you weep thus!
Is it his lineage of birth, or the bulge of his purse,
That makes him fit for a princess? Is it not his soul
And his completeness, that makes him a man whole?’
‘Oh naïve little one, what do you know, of royalty,
Of poetry, nobility, and a king’s famed ancestry,
That you seek to blemish it, with a mere shepherd
Fit only to clean the stables at our palace!’
And her bangles she breaks, weeps and curses
Her hot tears fill the night, and thus it passes.
It is morning. The jungle awakens to glory
The shepherd stands one legged, flute in hand,
And as melody divine fills the heavens, you can see
How bird, animal, and all the creatures of the land,
Surround him in devotion, as do the villagers slowly,
And as the queen spends a sleepless night, may be
The princess still thinks of him, as now he is only memory,
But the shepherd Krishna revels outside, and all is Godly.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Of Mechatronics and first showers
Mechatronics is not even a word on this word processor. It is underlined red, a word not recognized in the English language. The closest match suggested, as I see, is macaroni. The stupidity of the whole thing is funny.
June 5th 2008. Outside, blustering winds and rumbling thunder, along with the enchanting prospect of imminent rain, have turned the landscape into a scene straight out of poetry. Ah. First showers.
Children come prancing down the stairs, to do a little jig, looking expectantly at the skies from time to time, children being children in all their uninhibited childishness.
Red gulmohar flowers dot the road in front of my building, and a lot more are plucked off from the tree by the notorious winds, and carried off in crazy swirls that defy geometry, and teach us more about the shapes of the world than any manmade art ever can.
And finally it starts raining. A gentle drizzle at first, then it slowly picks up until the patter on the window shed is all I can hear when I stand looking outside. Some water blows onto my face as well, wetting my spectacles. Surprised, I back off. The sweet smell of wet earth evokes strange emotions, and distant memories, which I really need not describe, for what every man feels and recollects during such special moments of proximity to nature shall be unique to him, and himself alone.
A quiet calm envelops the heart, and softly, ignites little desires left unheeded. A longing to see my grandparents once again, a longing to go down and play football like there’s no tomorrow, and come back drenched to the bone, and enter the house to the smell of piping hot tea. A longing to meet old friends, a longing to spend a little more time with loved ones than time permits, and a longing to be small and innocent again.
But, mechatronics beckons again, and sighing, I sit down to study, as there is an exam tomorrow. Such is life, for all its romance and poetry.
June 5th 2008. Outside, blustering winds and rumbling thunder, along with the enchanting prospect of imminent rain, have turned the landscape into a scene straight out of poetry. Ah. First showers.
Children come prancing down the stairs, to do a little jig, looking expectantly at the skies from time to time, children being children in all their uninhibited childishness.
Red gulmohar flowers dot the road in front of my building, and a lot more are plucked off from the tree by the notorious winds, and carried off in crazy swirls that defy geometry, and teach us more about the shapes of the world than any manmade art ever can.
And finally it starts raining. A gentle drizzle at first, then it slowly picks up until the patter on the window shed is all I can hear when I stand looking outside. Some water blows onto my face as well, wetting my spectacles. Surprised, I back off. The sweet smell of wet earth evokes strange emotions, and distant memories, which I really need not describe, for what every man feels and recollects during such special moments of proximity to nature shall be unique to him, and himself alone.
A quiet calm envelops the heart, and softly, ignites little desires left unheeded. A longing to see my grandparents once again, a longing to go down and play football like there’s no tomorrow, and come back drenched to the bone, and enter the house to the smell of piping hot tea. A longing to meet old friends, a longing to spend a little more time with loved ones than time permits, and a longing to be small and innocent again.
But, mechatronics beckons again, and sighing, I sit down to study, as there is an exam tomorrow. Such is life, for all its romance and poetry.
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