Independence Day!

For many years now, most of them spent in India, this particular day held no importance to me. Which day you might ask. This day, the Fifteenth day of the Eighth month of any year since 1947. August 15, Indian Independence Day. 

If you have ever read post of mine, such as this one (Concept called Country), one might be forgiven for thinking that this is going to be a post deriding this day. However, this is nothing of that sort. 

This morning, when I reached out to turn the alarm off on my phone, and probably would have headed back to sleep, the date caught my eye. There was something in the formation of the numbers which caught my eye. Today, if I were in India, I would not have to wake up early and would have not given it a second thought. 

But, I did give it a second thought. And these are the things that came to my head

I did not have a choice to be born; neither did I get to choose my parents, nor my religion, nor the country. My birth was a fortunate accident. However, once born, I was handed a heritage that I did not get to choose, but have come to embrace. The more I interact with people around the world, the more I realize that whatever I am today, I am because I am an Indian. This could be a variety of things, from the comfort food, to the comfort music, to the fact that I still tear up when I hear MSS croon Nanati Baduku.

This could range from the mundane such as the kind of colors that one prefers their clothes, the amount of spice that one needs before the food is palatable, to the more spiritual like thoughts on what everything actually means. I realize that everything that I am, my country has played a role. It has had a very big influence the person I am today.

It is in the light of this admission that I wanted to touch what Independence Day has begun to mean to me. 

Today is a day I thank people, not the Gandhis or Nehrus, not the Boses or Tilaks. These people did play a big part no less, but then to me personally, a bigger part was played by the common man, the man who went through strife, the man who even when he did no have much clothes to wear, burnt those from Manchester (if he had them on himself). That man, who despite the fact he was tempted with food when hunger was the norm, chose to stay hungry in protest. The man who did not know what freedom actually meant, but was wiling to fight for it. The man who was ready to, and more often than not did, lay down his life in the pursuit of an ideal, which he hoped could change the way his life was played out for him. That ideal was freedom. I might have never seen this man, but I cannot ignore his sacrifices. I thank that faceless man on my Independence Day.

Today I thank the centuries that passed before me, which shaped the identity of every Indian. Be it the epics, the Vedas, the Hindu school of thought, be it the Quran, the Islamic belief system, be it the Bible, the Christian thought, be it the Granth Sahib, the Khalsa, be it Buddhism or the Bodhi Tree, be it the Jains and their naked deity, everything had a part to play. I might have been born Hindu, but by being Indian, I cannot ignore the scores of other religions that reside in me. I might choose not to believe in a God, but cannot ignore the fact that others do with fervor. The fact that i have the freedom to do that, without fear of oppression, or subjugation under a different god one that is not mine, I cannot ignore my Independence Day.

Today I might have savored a thousand different delicacies from different parts of the world, from the pastas and pizzas of Italy, to the sushi of Japan. But I shall have always have a special place in my heart for that simple curd rice, or for a well made dal makhni. The fact that I have the ability to decide what I want to eat and go out there and eat it, makes my every morsel a celebration of my freedom, a celebration of my Independence Day.

Today I pay homage to the Aryabhattas, to the scholars of yore, to  R K Narayans, to the Valmikis, to Vyaasas, to the Bharathis, to the Kabirs, and in fact to the British. I thank all those who used to write their thoughts for giving me a bedrock, a foundation upon which I spin my tales. I thank the British, for giving me a language to express myself in. Even though I will never forgive myself for not being able to write in my own native language, but I still have the freedom to express my views in speech or thought. My every word is a homage to that freedom, on my Independence Day

Today as I walk around in a foreign city, a different country, I am tempted to rech out and grab every Indian on the street and shake him out of a slumber. I wish to yell into people's ears, today I am free, as my country has been for 65 years. I am not perfect, but I am me and it feels damn good to be me. 

My country is but an extension of me. It is nowhere close to being perfect, but it is mine. As much as it is yours.

Even though my views on a country and what it should constitute have not changed, the last few years have shown me what is independence, what is freedom. Something about not being in India has made me value it more, treasure it more. Something about not being in India has made being Indian a matter of pride. 

It is to that pride I pay respects on my Independence Day.

I have not forgotten

The memory of a touch
A kiss and a hug

Ones
That were shared
And ones
That were not

Things go by
Times passes
Lives move on
Memories, they stay

Mine are absent
Despite the presence
Mine are present
Despite the absence

I promise, I remember
Those distant memories
Before I have had them
Before I will.

I promise to remember
Those distant memories
Ones that I have had
Before I remember.

I have not forgotten
What I don’t remember

Looking Glass

I stare long and hard
Into his eyes,
The eyes of one who looks like me
For something has set him free.

In the depth of his eyes,
I see a faint resemblance,
Resemblance of who I am
But far from who I could be.

In front of the looking glass,
I stand and stare,
There is something similar,
But I am looking at the difference.

It is obvious, I say
Despite the obvious
You are not I,
For I am not you.

He smiles at me,
With a grin,
His life is different,
As is he.

He took a path
One that was closed to me
A different man, a different place
Yet the same man, me.

Look deep into the mirror
Why do I see what can be
From this side of the mirror
Where I see what is?

In to the looking glass,
I look at lives,
Ones I did not live, I could not
For they are not mine.

I stand here, here and now,
And I am now sure,
I have this, here on this side
Of the looking glass.

Silence

I sit there,

With a thousand thoughts

That run through my head;

Seamless, one dovetailing into another.

Pic from here 

They scream into my head,

Asking for deliverance

“Let us out”, they shout

“Give us a voice”.

“We deserve to be heard

We are real, as real as you are

We are not to be held captive,

But to be let free on the world.”

They range from the mundane,

To the irrational.

From the deep

To the perverse.

They are formless,

Yet, they carry weight,

They belong to me,

Yet, they are not mine.

I open my mouth,

To lend them my voice,

Nothing comes out,

Nothing but silence. 

Veiled

I am shrouded,
Some say in mystery,
Some say in suppression,
I say in belief.
Belief in something
That I can never understand,
That lies beyond me
Something I believe in.

My face is a key,
To my emotions,
To my expressions and
To my beliefs.
They are there,
Emotions expressions and belief,
I show them, in my voice
In my eyes, in my life.

I do not mind
The anonymity,
The exclusivity
Or the concealment.
I do not say
What you can bare
So please do not dare
To me what I can cover.

I remain shrouded,
Watching behind my veil,
Just as you watch
From behind yours.
My veil is real,
I am true,
Your veil is invisible
Are you?

IMG SRC - http://thehivedaily.com/
Inspiration - Dhobi Ghat

Travels with Tasha

Not a soul in sight,
I walk on alone,
All my earthly belongings,
Packed in the suitcase
Trailing behind me.

I have eaten for today,
Food for free
From under the bridge,
Sandwiches and cookies,
A meal for a king,
Well, at least an dying old king.

It is getting colder, the night is here,
I am searching for warmth,
In a room or from people, I know not.

The police, they do not scare me,
Just be a toy soldier,
I have learnt,
"Yes Sir, No Sir, Sorry Sir",
Is all you have to say,
They are human after all,
They let you go in the end.

I wanted to travel,
See the world, with my pet, my dog,
My Tasha.
This shall one day be a book,
Not the full book, for Tasha is gone,
Just the first few chapters,
My travels with Tasha.

Who needs money, when you have a life,
Who needs a life, when you have no money?
A few hours here,
And a few there,
A social helper there,
A random kind stranger here.

Just for that one kind word,
I walk on alone
Not a soul in sight
And all my earthly belongings
Packing in the suitcase
Trailing behind me.

~aditya


P.S. The words of the old woman outside the library tonight

Her tear

Clap, a streak,
Of white in complete black.
But for a second, she stays,
All illuminating streak
Purity, in all her energy,
Dissipated in a moment in
Her thousand arms,
Brandishing,
She takes a path
From heaven above
To the earth below.

She seems to search
For something she lost
Each arm of hers
Searching in places unknown
For the love she lost.
“My love,
Banished from heaven,
For the sin of loving me.
Is he somewhere here,
Or is he there?
Oh, I have to go back
To my father in heaven,
Won’t you take me to him?”

Sooner than soon
She is gone,
Leaving her tears behind,
Her tears that will soothe
The very burns she caused
She burns the air
Around her, singeing
No mark left of her
To show that she was here.
Just the memory of her path
Of her pain
Infringed on his eye.
Just a memory of her tear
On the palm of his hand.

My lady with a saxophone

She stands there
A part of an ensemble,
A lot of four,
A violin and a keyboard
A drum set and a singer.
A saxophone,
Held up nervously,
Unsure fingers on unsure keys.
“My first concert,”
She thinks
With a wry smile
Lost to the audience.
The light does not dim,
For this is no theater,
There is no gentle applause
A prologue to the event.
Their stage is meager,
A roadside corner,
Their audience sparse,
Me and the walker-bys.
For a moment,
her worlds stops
As the sax moves to her lips,
In slow motion
Her movement
Like a guided waterfall. First a note – a drop
Followed by a trickle
Then a torrent,
I cannot see the notes,
Yet I am blinded by the music.
Soon she is done,
They pack and move.
I am left standing there
Still listening to
My lady with a sax.

~aditya

The Snow and the Night

She calls out into the darkness,
There is no answer,
He remains silent.
She pleads with him,
Implores him to say a word,
He is still dark, still silent.
She covers everything in white,
To make him show himself,
A final bid in her efforts
For just a brief sighting of his face.
There is nothing to see,
No one is out there in the dark.
Her white turns to tears,
A stream that threaten
To overrun the world,

"Your silence melts me," she begs
"Show me yourself,
Just once, So I can go away,"
She pleads.

He then smiles,
A loud smile, so loud,
That it deafens her.
In that moment, her final moment
She hears him say
"I am everywhere,
You have come into me
And yet search for me?
You say you are lost,
But you are lost in me,
I am the night, the darkness,
I am everywhere."

~aditya

Pic: courtesy http://www.gcclark.net/photoblog/

Silent Night

Standing on a barge,
The world dancing away to
Loud music below and
Louder people below.
Me, at the bow, alone
A beer in one hand,
A cigarette in the other.
We gently float down
The mighty Hoogly,
Creator, protector, destroyer.
Today she is meek,
As silent as the night I am in,
More silent than the moon above me.
 

The light from the Howrah
Plays gently on the waters,
As we move under the bridge,
Quiet she stands,
For the day is done
And all are home.
The barge turns
Towards Vidyasagar Setu
And she is quite too,
Silent witness to the deed.
I turn to the shore,
Once so closely tethered
By the might of a slight rope.
Now far away
From the barge, now ebbing along
With the ebbing waters.
The Hoogly is pure,
She is kind,
The barge is cruel, the beer warm.
A flick of my wrists,
The cigarette dies in the waters,
Followed by the empty beer bottle.
Kind as she is, Hoogly accepts all,
Everyone in her fold,
Everyone to the sea.
A moment's thought,
Fleeting, nevertheless,
Would she be kind,
To deliver me, to deliver to me
To accept me as she did my things?
Silent, she remains,
As silent as the night I am in,
More Silent than the moon above me.

aditya

P.S. I unearthed this piece from within my mailbox. Still in love with the river and the city.

White

I plan to start a series of poems, based on colors. This is the first of the lot.

Her touch, so cold,

Even at her warmest,

She freezes my depth.

Clad in pure white,

Even in the dark,

She makes you shiver,

From open head to covered toe.

Forever having her way,

Blanketing everything around

In her whiteness,

And her purity,

She makes my world stop.

Her touch cold,

She robs your warmth.

Even your slightest touch

She will melt away,

Leaving just her tears.

I now hold on to those tears,

For those are all I have

A memory of a beauty

In white, pure,

Lost.

Dated: 6th February 2010
Location: Pittsburgh PA
Pictures: Self Shot

Revival

For some arcane reason, I see a reason to write again. I am coming back, and soon. If you are even reading this, thanks for coming here. I promise you, I shall try to make it worth the wait!

.


P.S. (Go here for Wiki article)

Baga beach

The waves gently wash to the shore
As the crowds mill past us
Some friends, some couples, some lovers
All here at Goa for different reasons
For the sun and for the sand
For all its hidden romances
For cheap King’s Beer and Feni
All have come together, all have come alone
But dear, nothing of that matters,
For I am at Baga with you.

People taking water sports
Soaring above the water on their parachutes
Looking so small, smaller than your nail
Some riding a flimsy banana boat ride,
Riding along, getting thrown off
Some hang on to dear life
As they bounce all over the waves
In their water bumper ride
No Sir, no sports for me today
I am at Baga with you.

Women and men sunbathing
For their own country is too cold for a tan
Lying on beach chairs
With sun-glass covered eyes
And sweat drenched bodies, all for the tan
Beach torts all around selling
Bead chains, to be worn in Goa only
Offering massages, temporary tattoos, cheap
None of which I want little girl
For I am at Baga with you.

Riding along bikes,
The wind in the hair, the waves beside
On roads so narrow, that no one can pass,
Where people have right to pass
And so do the stray dogs and cows of the place.
Long roads, along the countryside
As we go to Anjuna, for the flea market
Or to Aguada to the Dil Chatha Hai fort,
I do not want to ride my dear for
Today I am at Baga with you.

Lazing around in the shacks on the beach,
Scores of ones to choose from,
Go to Lucky star, or go to Zanzibar,
They let you lie around, in those easy chairs
The salty air, the warm sun above,
Shall put you to sleep,
Even if the excess of beer and food does not,
Not too much beer for me, for there are'nt any restrooms
For I need to be here dear,
As I am on Baga with you.

Sand castles we have built, a million times,
But we are yet to build one here
One that is mighty,
With fortified walls and all
Tall towers to keep watch for enemies
As we rest safely inside
Did we build too close to the shore dear,
For the waves come in high on the shore dear
And our monument, our castle is washed away dear,
Monument for I was at Baga with you

Concept called Country

The events of November in Mumbai did not have such an earth shattering effect on me as it did on most other people. It did not uproot my sense of security as it did on thousand of Mumbai residents and neither did I feel a sense of helplessness where I could be the victim of an act of ‘terrorist’ aggression. 

That will be the only place in this post where I use the word terrorist. To earmark someone terrorist means that their actions does not have a reasoning. These people have a sense of being wronged. I do not know what it is that they perceive, but that is not for me to comment.

The question that arose in me as an aftermath of the episode was what does it mean to belong to a country. The train of thought I followed to get finally to this question is the underlying theme of this post.

I revive on old habit when I say that the Oxford English Dictionary (the online version) defines a country as below

Country: noun (pl. countries)

1. A nation with its own government, occupying a particular territory


2. Districts outside large urban areas


3. An area with regard to its physical features: hill country

Do notice that the basic theme of a country lies in the territorial nature of it. This means that we define country based on its boundaries. When I posed the same question, what is a country to one of my friends, her answer was what I believe is the true meaning of a country. Her reply was that it was a collection of people who share common cultures/ethnic origin. Her definition removed the need for a boundary for a country.

My understanding of root of terrorism in India has been and will continue to be Jammu and Kashmir. I do not mean that the peoples of Jammu and Kashmir are terrorists, what I mean is the way that India has treated Jammu and Kashmir over the last sixty odd years has created a sense of being wronged in the minds of many people who are trying to voice that sense of being wronged. In addition, you have a neighbor who claims to have an equal right on the land of Jammu and Kashmir, creating further rift.

In my limited knowledge, I do not know what the people of Jammu and Kashmir want. I believe that the only way to resolve the long-standing conflict is to hold a referendum in the state. The terms of the referendum are if the people of Jammu and Kashmir want to belong to the collection of states that constitute the country called India, or would they prefer independence.

The reason that I make this statement is my belief that no region whose people do not want to belong to a country must have to made to belong to that country by force. An example to prove this point is in a family, if a member wishes to break free from the ties of the family and live on his own, wants to proclaim his independence, then the family has no right to prevent him from doing that. This I believe comes from the basic right to freedom.

The question that arises here is if the result of the referendum were towards freedom, then there would be other regions that would want to break away too. I hope that as you ask the question you are realizing how misplaced it is. By asking the question, you are telling me that you are identifying the country not by the people who live in the country, but by its boundaries. It is like trying to identify you by the body rather than the mind.

So, if the country is not defined by the boundaries, what is a country? In my opinion, a country is just a collection of people who share a common culture or ethnicity. That is the core issue surrounding India as a country. There are so many cultures, so many ethnic groups that it is not possible to have a unifying culture or ethnicity as the glue. Therefore, we have had to resort to the boundary as the fact defining India. I hope that you are not going to tell me that you belief in India, as a concept for that is not a glue; there still needs to be something that hold India together, not the concept of India and that cannot be its boundaries.

I would go on to state that of all the countries that I can think of at this point in time, the one that most suits the concept of a country is Russia. I am not sure if there are very many other so-called countries that share ethnicity and culture the way that Russia does. I do agree that there bound to be many dialects, many sub cultures; however, they are Russian for they speak Russian.

Given the mass migration of people over the last couple of centuries, the concept of country is getting highly outdated, for there is no particular region that does not have a multitude of cultures and ethnic groups. The so-called alpha-country, the United States of America is not even a country by any means, for it is the collection of people from all over the world. I guess that is the reason that they are correct when they say that the world starts at the Atlantic Ocean and ends at the Pacific (they are actually correct in one sense).

Coming back to the topic under discussion, when I mean that a region must not be attached to country by force, does this mean that I am advocating that India be broken into many tiny parts, each a different country by itself? I did a little research and I think that the concept of Constituent Country might work in India. This same thing binds England, Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland into United Kingdom.

A final question that could pop up and I want to address here is the significance of the turnout in the recently concluded Jammu and Kashmir polls. Does the ~60% turnout signify that they want to be part of India and be ruled by India. I would not assume so. When the options given are either do not vote and let someone who is not even remotely connected to the state rule the state, or have your say, the obvious answer would be to have a say in the ruler. However, that need not be the ultimate desire of the people of the state. In this case, they are maximizing the return in a given set of limitations. My request is to remove those boundary conditions and given them the option of independence. If then there is as much people who want to be with the country, the abstract concept called India, then I will agree having them as a part of my country. If not, then I would be more than happy to give them their freedom.

As an afterthought, it is the duty of the rulers of the country to give the country and its peoples what they want, even if it is independence from the country.

World in slow motion

The world around me, 
Moves at the speed of light
No time for me,
A man on crutches
For whom the world inside
Moves in slow motion.
Every step a challenge
A mountain I see
Where you see a molehill.
Painstakingly slow,
Each step I take,
Efforts and thoughts
A billion,
To put one leg
Ahead of the other.
Your feet move
With a life of their own,
You know not
Where you are going
Or whence you came.
My world is smaller,
Tiny compared to yours,
You claim the earth as yours
I claim my six by three
Every grain of sand,
I place it there,
By choice, by will.
Your world is full of clods
That you threw,
Unseen, unknown.
You rush me by,
For my world too slow,
To keep pace with yours,
You are in a haze, a daze
To see the world in slow motion,
Every action overstated
Every thought amplified,
In this world in slow motion.

Facade of love?

Is this wrong,
This feeling we share?
The passion
I can see flowing
Through your lips
Through my lips,
From your body
To the core of mine.
Every moment
A drugged state
Ecstasy and pleasure.
Pain and torture.
Pleasure in the ecstasy
Pain in the torture
That I know this can't last,
This night will not live on.
Your family beckons,
Your wife,
So lovely in her cotton saris,
Knowing every want of yours,
Waiting to hear your steps
As they come from the street
On to the doorway
The one you share with her.
Does she smell me,
My perfume on your shirt
My scent on your skin
Does she hear my voice
In every word you say?
Does she run up you,
To be hoisted in the air
The way you hoist me
When you see me after a long time?
Do you hold her as close
As close as you hold me
Never letting me go,
Until it is time for you to go?
I will never as you
To let her go,
For she is the mother
Of a daughter you love
As much as you love me.
Does my understanding
Of my position in your life
Make me cheap
Do the gifts you give me
Make me paid?
Is the idea of love
That we share
That you share,
With your wife,
Just a lie,
A farce
A facade?

Full stop

Your life is mine,
For you are me,
Not entirely,
Though entirely from me.
Now that you are here,
My life seems to stop,
Everything revolves
Around your presence.

Your life is no more,
You have left nothing behind
Other than your memory
You memories in my head
In everything I see
My life seems to stop
For everything revolves
Around your absence.

The post is based on a line I read in a book from Shashi Deshpande's "In the Country of Deceit". The line goes Both birth and death make you take your eyes of the clock. Time comes to a standstill; the hands of the clock cease to move.

Sincerely sorry

I have post where I expounded my theory that one is not to feel sorry, for that means regretting a choice one has made. When there is a point in life, where one does regret the choices that one has made, is it better to apologize to the person concerned?

I asked this question to Suchitra over an SMS and I will paraphrase, without her consent of course. 

"Which is better? To apologize for a mistake very old or to let it go, for it was so so long ago?"

The reply received was, "It depends. I guess on what complications digging up the past can bring against what good an apology can do, repair a relationship may be. Sometimes, I think that an apology is transfer of responsibility, but at least you have the satisfaction of being honest with yourself."

I kind of like the last lines. The apology is transfer of responsibility, a transfer of guilt. When I apologize, I am relieved of the pain that caused me to want to apologize. It is now the prerogative of the other person to forgive me or not. At least my conscience is clean. 

However, I am not sure if this is being honest. It seems to be more of cowardice than anything else for the reason that by apologizing I am saying in not so many words that I do not want to go on regretting what I did. Therefore, I am apologizing for the effect my choice, if it were a choice has on you. Now forgive me, or not, it does not matter for the moment I have let you know that I am sorry; my soul has been freed from the clutches of guilt. 

We are honest when we accept that the choice was wrong and that someone was hurt by it. Not when we go a transfer the responsibility in the mess to the person who was already wronged. The best thing we can do is regret it, to ourselves, keep it to ourselves and try to ensure that the regret is not repeated. To accept that one was wrong is honest. To rid of it because it caused pain is more like cowardice, the inability be true to yourself and the choices one has made. 

I am sorry, 

That I was foolish

In my choices

But, it is my secret

For my sin in life

Is my sin alone, 

I will be brave, 

I will be strong, 

For my weight to carry

I will not spread

Among people

People I already wronged

Accepting ghosts

There are a lot of things I know, these are things I thought, I think and I hope to think about. However, knowing them is far removed from accepting them. 

These are like the ghosts in our lives, the ones we believed in as children. When we were kids, there were many methods that our parents and elders at home devised to keep us from doing things. I am not sure of many children who have loved the dark as kids. Again, that depends a lot on the way that the parents have exposed the concept of darkness to a child. With most of the faiths believing in post mortem life, in other words, life after death, it has never been too hard to imagine those spirits of once alive people to be among us. Why, this is amongst the most popular of all genres of movies, with creepy crawlies. Ghosts, the things we sense, the things we believe we stress, dead people, coming back to haunt us, to protect us, to take care of us, to cause us harm, we have the entire gamut of emotions that we can feel, we attribute to them. No matter how many times we have read that there are no ghosts, and there is no place for such entities in the science we believe in, many of us get goose bumps when we enter a dark room, when there is a slight breeze touching us, when there is a sudden noise, for which we are not able to place the source. Then our cognitive mind comes in, reassuring us that it is either a figment of our imagination, or just a breeze or some earthly incident, and not a ghost. 

This is what happens when you have believed in something for a long time and then have that belief destroyed by reason. When we believe something, we do not need reason. It just is. God, good, evil, right, wrong, everything is a belief. The ones we choose to believe in is something we picked up from our parents and that is because since those sets of beliefs worked for them, there is a high probability that those will work for us. I am not sure if ever running away from a hungry tiger that is directly in your path, without anything separating you is bad. You can try reasoning it as much as you want, but logically, and instinctively it is the best path.

What happens when reason destroys a belief? Well, in that case, you stop believing because you can think that it is not true. However, there will be a part of you that still wants to believe for there is a comfort in belief and human beings are creatures of comfort, comfort derived from habit. The destroyed belief will leave scars, it will come back in different manifestations. It will ask, when you reasoned that I was wrong, what prevents the current belief, which came as a result of that reason from being wrong. 

If your reason is air tight, you will have an answer. However, reason cannot be airtight, for it is something mankind developed to explain things. This means that, what we know to be wrong, because it cannot be reasoned is not out from our system yet. This goes on to mean that until we can accept that the belief has gone and either find a better belief to replace it, or accept the absence of the belief, we would still be haunted of the departed belief. 

The question that arises is, since all are just beliefs, what prevents us from holding on to just the first belief, and not questioning it? Since reason, even if it is paramount, cannot be tantamount to carved in stone. So why change a belief in the first place, and then be haunted by the changed reason?

Man kind will never learn, for learning means more questions, and more questions is both a measure of ignorance, and knowledge.