Abhisaarika Naayika

Sharad In Vrindavan

The tyranny of a prolonged spell of summers had been long forgotten. The excesses of scorching months of Vyshaakh and Jyestha had been tempered and washed away by the gift that the month of Shraavan promises to bring along each year. Shraavan had never betrayed the people of Vrindavan since He was born. This year, too, it kept its word, and had been kind and generous.  

 It had been a month now since the rainy season set in. It was only intensifying with every passing day. Yamuna, flanked by lush and enlivened green lands on both sides, had swollen to almost twice its usual breadth, partly with water, partly with joy. The sounds of resonant bass of thunder accompanied by sounds of a cuckoo carolling here, a peacock yodelling there, leaves swaying in the mild and moist breeze, and the patter of the falling rain-drops permeated the air of Vrindavan. Each tree, each shrub, the lush grass, varnished and rain-rejuvenated, beamed as it looked up to the overcast sky. The thick clouds that tenanted the sky of Vrindavan seemed to convoke a wide variety of colourful and lissom birds out of their boughs and burrows. The fragrance of wet earth picked up and distributed generously by the blowing breeze heightened the sense of pleasure of the people of Vrindavan. Huddling around the Tamaal trees and swinging on them as the evening advanced, had become a part of the daily routine of the young damsels of Vrindavan. They would chatter, banter, and croon rain-songs under the shades of Tamaal trees as it drizzled. Such was the bliss that prevailed in land of Vraj during the rainy season!

****************************************************************************************

Shyama

 Alas! The month of Shraavan had left Shyama deeply grieved; for she had to spend it at her ailing maternal grandmother’s house in village of Raawal. But now Shraavan had come to an end, and so had the grandmother’s ailment. The month of Bhadrapad (the sixth month of Hindu calendar) had seen its new-moon; the grandmother had recuperated, which meant that Shyama was now free to return to her father’s place in Barsaana.

Her mirth was hard to conceal and contain, however hard she tried; it seeped and flashed on her glorious face rendering it flushed. More than a month had passed since She had seen Him. It seemed nothing less than an epoch to her. It was only the hope of seeing him at the end of this obligatory sojourn that kept her alive day after excruciating day.

Finally the much awaited day had come. She was now in Barsaana. Her joy was overflowing like the the tide of Yamuna, and was manifesting in every part of her body. Her girl friends had come to visit her and welcome her. They exchanged knowing smiles. Nothing was hidden from them after all. The day seemed too long to pass-- even the joshing could not keep Her mind from drifting to His thoughts. Her girl friends shook her pre-empting her pleasant train of reflections. She smiled a bashful smile, and waited eagerly for the night to descend.

Her prayers were answered. The sun had spent all of its daily stock of light, and had dipped behind the horizon. The sky had been sequestered by the scheming, rain-filled clouds which shared their hue with Him. Something only of a fine arc of the moon was visible. And soon a cluster of thick clouds which came wafting on the wind gobbled this celestial vestige. Entire Vraj was in the arrest of darkness—a perfect occasion for her to sneak out. It was as if the nature had colluded with her to grant her all that she had asked for.

The dark night sneaked in through the window of her bedroom and stood smiling in front of her.

“Sshhh...say not a word! Make haste. I won’t be here long. You cannot afford a second to waste. Dress up. He is waiting for you at Kusum Sarovar. Allow me to serve you. Allow me to be your alibi,” Yamini (the night) said.

She instantly knew what Yamini meant. She reached for her coffer and took out her black apparels.

“Will this work?” She asked.

“Perfectly,” said Yamini smiling.

She observed her black garments in the dim light of earthen lamp that graced the small niche carved on her bedroom wall. It seemed as though the garments had seized the darkness of the very night and soaked it. They would help her camouflage in this dark night of this wet and dark month of Bhadrapad.

Yamini assisted Her in slipping into the chosen apparels swiftly. She was clad in a black lehnga (long skirt) and her assets were held in a black choli (blouse). Her navel peeped through the gap between the upper edge of her lehnga and the lower edge of her black choli. Yamini stepped back and observed Shyama so dressed for a minute. The contrast between Shyama’s marmoreal complexion and the pitch black ensemble conjured beauty beyond expression. She realised how ineffectual all the poets hitherto have been in trying to describe Shyama’s beauty. She also pitied them, for no metaphor ever invented could even capture a sliver of Shyama’s beauty. How helpless the poets must feel. If only the nymphs could even come close to her resplendence. Each feature so perfectly aligned so as to evoke envy from beauty itself. The lock of hair carelessly swaying by her forehead was fit to be meditated upon for ages together. The thin and shapely waist could be the subject of many an epic. The doe-like restless eyes were meant to discompose the tranquillity of sages of highest order.

“You seem lost!” exclaimed Shyama.

“Your beauty knows no ruth, does it? “ asked Yamini upon being jolted out of her meditation.
Shyama smiled coyly. “Let us make haste, Yamini. I have yet to put on my ornaments. You do not want him to see me sans my ornaments, do you?”

The ornaments she chose were black, too.

She was now ready to venture out in this dark Bhadrapad-night. The clouds had started to thunder. The wind had begun to bluster. And her heart had begun to pound.

Yamini noticed the lines of anxiety crossing Shyama’s glorious visage. “What bothers you thus, Shyama?” she asked with a hint of concern in her voice.

“What if someone sees me, Yamini? Perhaps you do not know what kind of things people will say if they find about my nocturnal escapades,” replied Shyama.

“Since when did you start paying heed to the hearsay?” rejoined Yamini holding Shyama’s chin in her right hand.
“Hearsay and heresy are two things lovers are not meant to care about. “

It had begun to pelt outside.  Shyama peeped out through the window. It was pitch-dark save for flashes of lightning.

Anticipating Shayma’s apprehension, Yamini wrapped her in a black odhni.

“Now, you will be perfectly camouflaged. Do not unveil your face completely. Beware! “

“Why do you say so?” inquired Shyama.

“For the radiance of your face will give you away, O naive girl! Nothing in the world can conceal this luminous face which is more lambent than the moon itself. Pace your steps appropriately lest the tinkle of your anklets will awaken people,” returned Yamini.

“Should I do away with them altogether?”

“No, Shyama. They are much needed. It’s dark outside. There will be all kinds of beasts and snakes in the woods. The sound of the anklets will chase them away as you wade through the woods. Don’t take them out at any cost,” said Yamini authoritatively.

And just then their conversation was interrupted. Shyama suddenly looked startled

“What is wrong, Shyama?”

“Did not you hear that, Yamini? The sound of flute. His flute. Did not you hear that?”

Shyama returned a perplexed look, for the fact was that Yamini could not hear His flute. It was addressed only to
Shyama, and it was only she who could hear it.

The notes of Jaijaiwanti reached straight to her heart through her ears. The melody purloined her heart, and she had lost her control on herself. She was now a thrall to this divine sound emanating afar.  All the apprehensions and qualms were melting away. All her thoughts were only channelled in the direction from which this sound was coming.

“Shyama, is everything fine? I hear no sound!”

                                                         

Where was the time to reply. Shyama had already left. She ran through the dark and deserted alleys-- careful, not to awake anyone-- until she found herself in the forest. Now she breathed a sigh of relief. Yet she was restive, for she was still captivated by the sound of the flute. It was only the sound of his flute that was charting her path on that dark night, as nothing was visible beyond an arm’s length.  She was completely drenched from head to toe. Her clothes were dishevelled and ornaments disarrayed.  She did not care for once to stop and set them right. Her odhni had fallen where she did not even remember. The pace of her movements was so fierce that one of her anklets got dislodged. She remembered Yamini’s warning about deadly snakes and beasts, but the incantation of the flute was so powerful that Shyama was drawn  powerlessly to its origin; she could not have paused for a moment to reflect on the possible dangers.

She was driven by some sort of juggernaut crushing every fear, every misgiving which came along its way. Her heartbeat was racing with the flying time. The agony of separation was growing unbearable with every passing second.  The sound of heart thumping against her chest could be heard despite the unsuccessful attempts made by the roaring clouds hanging above her to overpower it. The night was certainly dark, but not as dark as the darkness of separation she had to bear from her beloved. And now it was to come to an end. A smile indicative of this anticipatory joy of her conjugal union illumined her face.

 At last the source of the sound was traced. He was now to be seen. The sight of her beloved revitalised her spirits. Every fibre of hers was throbbing with intense joy. Hearing the tinkling sound of her singular anklet, he opened his eyes. The sound of flute, which had unsettled and delighted her at once, finally ceased. Their eyes met. He smiled. Panting heavily, She stood there soaked both in water and his effulgence. It was one of those moments wherein words lose their meaning and purpose. She flung herself in his arms; and the moment was sealed with a torrid kiss.

In Another Universe

In another universe where
My form doesn't betray my soul,
Where beyond a splintered being
I find myself whole,
I will laugh, I will cry.
I won't let life just pass by.
I will breathe
Without the fear of being stifled.
I will run
Without the fear of being crippled.

I will run, I will fly.
I will run farther than far.
I will fly higher than high.

O life! Thy fruit I will taste,
However sweet or sour.
All those colours that you hide,
I will see them as they are,
In all vibrancy and vividness.

In another universe where
There is life and there is light,
Deliriously I will dance
Shunning all the precepts
Of wrong and right.

Delirium! What bliss!
Oh, the method-less madness!
No, one is not beyond moral censure.
Yet one is beyond its torture.
Oblivion is the precious key
That sets one loose
And sets one free.
Were Keats' words I to borrow,
"To think is to be full of sorrow. "
Blessed is such oblivion!
Blessed is such delirium!

In another universe where
I will be I
Without festering others
Without fettering myself.
In another universe where
There are no strident silences and glaring glances,
Where my form won't betray my soul,
Where beyond a splintered being,
I will find myself whole.

(Some times you don't write poetry, it writes itself. And sometimes poetry writes you.)


                                                        

There are times when:

When you want that phone to ring/beep, but it just won't.

When you want that stranger you just met on the street to turn around, but they just won't.

When you search through the racks of the library frantically to find that one particular book, but you just won't.

When you run your eyes up and down repeatedly through that list to locate your name on it, earnestly hoping that you might've missed it the last time, but you just won't.

When you want a particular story you're reading/ movie you're watching to take a happy turn, but it just won't.

When you want that train/flight to run behind schedule for merely ten minutes, but it just won't.

When you want someone to treat you the same way (if not better) you treat them, but they just won't.

When you want the doctor to just smile at you and say everything is fine and that there's nothing to worry about, but he just won't.

When you want someone whom you secretly liked and whom all your friends hated in college, to turn out to be great, but they just won't.

When you want the people who are the closest to you to understand your problem without you even having to express it, but they just won't.

When you see a four year child completely absorbed in a cartoon series that you had once watched with as much of interest, but now, no matter how hard you try, you just won't.

When you learn about a new development in your friend's life and you want to genuinely feel happy about it, but you just can't.

When you want to say really nasty and mean things to someone who's a complete douche-bag, but you just won't.

When you want life to stop being a bitch for once, but it just wont.

When you want to stop ranting about life and just live it, but you just won't. :)

निजगाद सा यदुनन्दने

I wish to twirl in your darkness, 
wrapping it around my fair self.
Let your darkness permeate my very soul 
and dye me black.
Taint me, for purity is banal.

Let your darkness
prance upon my barren self.
Let it rise like thick smoke,
eclipsing me and my doubts.

Let it drip along my form,
drop by drop, 
washing away my vanity and frailty.

Smear me with your darkness.
Allow me to dissolve in it.
For this form is too tiresome to bear.
Bless me with ignorance 
which only your touch could accord.

Let your darkness grow on me, 
and consume me.
Let it camouflage me
in this dark night, 
in the cosmic darkness
that knows no bounds.

I don’t wish to be seen; 
conceal me in your dark embrace.
I wish to be as close to you as your darkness.
I want to be you.
Let your darkness eat me away 
leaving behind no residue.

                                                   

For Once

For once let's fly and never come back.
For once let's make it a magical night.
For once let's forget everything else.
For once let it just be you and I.
For once let's not judge and be not judged.
For once let's overlook the imperfections yours and mine.
For once let there be no fear.
For once let the anxities be suspended.
For once let not the uncertainities ruin the moment now.
For once let the prudence hang lose.
For once let the eyes speak.
For once let the word be felt not heard.
For once let's touch moonlight.
For once let's capture the twinkle of stars.
For once let the silence of the night permeate our souls.
For once let's lose ourselves.
For once let's try to find each other.
For once let's forget the wrong and right.
For once let's make it a magical night.
For once let it be just you and I.

The Ancient Youth

“Arts fac, baithiye, Arts fac! Bees rupaye. Baithiye!" (Arts fac, sit, Arts fac! Twenty rupees. Sit!")

Angai wondered, as she emerged out of the metro station, how these rickshaw-pullers always slotted the people without erring, how they somehow knew that person like her would go nowhere else but Arts faculty. She was in hurry and in no mood of haggling. She nodded and boarded the rickshaw silently. On her way to Arts Faculty she saw a motley of students passing by—walking, chatting, munching, making faces at each other, nudging each other. They all looked so charming to her.

“bhaiya khule nahi hain?”

She got off the rickshaw after rummaging through her wallet for change for a minute or so. As soon as she stepped on the campus of the University of Delhi, the words of Alisha, a dear friend, echoed in her head, “soak in some campus air for me when you go there.” She felt like a foreigner encroaching upon her property. It was Alisha’s campus. Her heart ached for Alisha. She wished she could go and salvage her from her house arrest. She wished she could just go argue fiercely with Alisha's parents and ask them to let her be, let her fly, let her breathe.

She reached the first floor where she was to submit the form—her form. Another attempt. She was anxious. She took out the form from the bag. The form had become limp, maybe because of the weight of her hopes, she thought.

“That way. Window number 53. Submit your form there,” a gentleman told her.

This was a familiar territory. She was acquainted with those classrooms. She had attended a few classes there. They seemed inviting. There was something so romantic about those corridors; they had an old-world charm about them; something very organic.

Her eyes met a slew of students waiting much before him to submit the form. Some were making inquiries; some were fanning themselves with their forms; some were cursing the prolonged lunch break. The wait seemed endless. She observed all of them closely. Her gaze was glazed with awe. These were the students who had studied literature formally. They had read Derrida and Foucault as part of their curriculum. They had thrived on Shakespeare, and had breathed Wordsworth and Keats. And here was she, merely on a caprice. How farcical it must seem to them if they got to know about it. They’d laugh, she was positive. They had formally read literature; whereas she...she merely lived it. Yet she, a student of medicine, was there...among them; trying to be one among them. Why, she wondered. Everyone she knew would either find her decision amusing or absurd. The people sharing the latter sentiment certainly outnumbered those who shared the former.

Though she vociferously defended it, she herself knew how impractical and unsound the decision was when considered on financial and professional grounds. Maybe she did not want others to tell her that. Why, she wondered again. Was it to prove a point? If yes, then to whom? No. Not to others definitely. She could have continued with her medical practice, had that been the case for that would make his kin so happy. Then? To herself? Maybe yes. It wasn’t just a course for him; not just another thing to be done. It was a decision as queer as her. It could be something that would define her. She knew she deserved to be there regardless of the result of the entrance test. He knew how deeply he revered the subject, how she slept with Othello pressed hard against her chest, how she had read so much into Faustus, how her eyes would light up every time there was a discussion on Austen or the Bronte sisters. She wanted to belong there. She too wanted to be part of that system; to be able to gripe about it legitimately.

“May I borrow that pen for a second?”

The girl standing next to her obliged. She wrote her phone number at the back of the Demand Draft which was to be submitted along with the form. The queue had moved a few inches forward. She spotted something-- a someone rather. How could she have not noticed this boy till now? The boy stood tall and lean; his complexion clear and glowing; his face bespectacled. While the rest of them were constantly fretting, fidgeting and grumbling, checking and re-checking if their documents were in place or not, this fellow was standing with his sang-froid. This nonchalance was magnetic. To Angai’s fanciful gaze he looked like young and solemn Buddha. The ancient youth was biting his lips and was lost in some sort of deep meditation. His entire demeanour suggested as if he was gravid with some profound realisation. He certainly seemed to be on the brink of it, if not fully realised it.

Angai was happy. She had found an engagement worthwhile. This should help him ignore the crawling pace of the queue and the humid summer. No, the attraction was far from sexual. The boy looked too pristine to evoke any such sentiments. This attraction was pure. Something similar to what she had felt for Priyank. In her head Angai had walked up to him and said “hi” already; the boy, too, had flashed a broad smile and took keen interest in this random stranger who had walked up to him to strike a conversation; they had hit off instantly; they were sitting in some cafe conversing seamlessly and the conversation segued from literature to philosophy, from politics to their personal lives; they had contemplated on the purpose of life, or the incoherence of life by now. That was all that Angai expected—his company. But, as always, that was all in Angai’s head. All these things only happened with others. Angai either read about them or heard about them.  The queue had moved. The boy had submitted his form already and left. All Angai could do was to watch the back of his navy blue shirt, drenched in sweat, disappear slowly in the crowd.

“Form dijiye...” the clerk peeped from behind the window.





                                                           

Let's Talk Bombay Talkies

So, a couple of days back I (finally) got an opportunity to watch the much acclaimed and the much talked about Bombay Talkies. I am no connoisseur of cinema. I blatantly confess my inability to appreciate the finer nuances and technical aspects of cinema as a form of art. My appreciation of the movie is hardly based either on the apparently superficial parameters such as: popularity of the star cast, merit of the director(s), locales in which the movie is shot (I couldn't have cared less if ZNMD was shot in Satpura instead of Spain), or the more profound aspects such as the intricacies of plot construction, nuances of characterization, art direction, verisimilitude of the story etc. Or maybe these factors influence me subconsciously without my being fully aware of them. All I mean to say is that I don’t go in with a check-list in my hand. 

By and large, I've realised, that the one thing that appeals to me the most in a movie, or any form of art for that matter, is its potency to stir emotions, thrum the strings of heart, as it were. If the movie does that, then, at least for me, it redeems itself of all other inevitable flaws that it has; for art is the extension of humanity not divinity; and perfection is not a human realm. Yes, there's always a better way of doing, saying and creating things. But that should not preclude one from appreciating the beauty of the art form as it stands now.

Perhaps, that's one reason I've never been copiously pleased by Sci-Fi, action flicks, or even thrillers for that matter. I may enjoy a rom-com here and there, but it won't be something that stays with me. Whereas the movies which may be apparently nondescript but manage to ripple my emotions usually persist in my memory, influence me, and become a part of my life.

I was told that Bombay Talkies is my kind of movie. I read the reviews and the broad story line and had an inkling that I might actually like the movie. However, within few days of its release the movie had raked a storm of discussions in the intellectual circuits. The critique was highly polarised. 

Of the many things that caught people's fancy was Karan Johar's bold, serious and overt depiction of a homosexual character in his short story.

 While there was one section of the top crust of humanity that hailed it as the coming of age cinema and commended K Jo's daring, the other section panned the movie for depicting the gay character in a negative light-- allegedly as a "husband-snatcher". 

I for one think that perspectives of the critics on both sides of the fence are a little too loaded. It was a story. And a story should be seen as just that. A story is a small fragment of someone's reality. By passing a judgment on a story we implicitly pass a judgment on someone's reality. While I could not see in what manner was the gay guy trying to "snatch" the husband, I would not be surprised at all even if he were depicted so. Are we saying that queer people are sacrosanct and are not as susceptible to human follies as straight folks? 

In fact, not even once does the wife in question begrudge the gay man or show any sign of resentment toward him. She begrudged the husband. And mind you the grudge was not ascribed to his being gay, but to his deception-- for keeping her in dark, for donning a facade all through their married life. 

I think people missed out on the larger message that Karan wanted to convey through his story (and also by deciding not to marry himself) that while it is not wrong to be gay, it is wrong to be deceitful. 

The story commences on the note: "Homosexual hu main...homosexual. Chakka nahi hu. Na chakka hona galat hai aur na homsexual hona. Samjha!! (I am homosexual not a eunuch. And there's nothing wrong in being either. Understand)"

And the story ends on the note: "...jhooth bolna buri baat hai (it's wrong to lie)". 

I think these two lines sum up the entire essence of the story and define its premise. People failed to read this underlying and subtle message. 

It was not a case of a gay man alluring a straight man to sleep with him driven by lust. The husband was a closeted gay man himself. If anything the gay man should be commended for having such an effective 'gay-dar' (just kidding. lol). 

Surprisingly, I always empathise with women in such cases. No matter what, I somehow I cannot see how under any circumstances--however extenuating-- can a gay man choose to put a woman's marital life at stake. Maybe few years down the line when I am more experienced and more mature I may come to terms with this aspect of queer existence especially in a socio-cultural milieu like ours, but for now, I can't but be a little judgmental. 

For me the high point of the story was when the wife after all the sobbing and weeping breaks into a smile and concludes that now she's free and it's over. I loved the sense of liberation she experienced in that moment. I loved how she felt absolved of the guilt of not being appealing enough for her husband or not being worthy of his love. 

I can't imagine the agony-- that constant self-doubt, that constant guilt of being incompetent, that constant sense inadequacy on the count of not being desirable enough for her man-- of that woman caught up in such a marriage. 

All this while the wife dressed up seductively only to elicit gaze that makes her feel desirable-- something which her stoic husband could not accord her. 

I loved that moment when the wife is shown wearing a blood red lipstick post the confrontation she has with her husband. She was now dressing up for herself and not to please the husband for a change. It is that sense of emancipation that thrilled me.

The husband belittles the gay man, because he is not able to digest the gay man’s courage and unapologetic disposition.  He turns hostile towards the young man not because he was miffed by the unseemliness of the young man’s move, but his own inability to resist temptation. The violence was not the fallout of prudery; it was the fallout of fear—the fear of confronting one’s own desires. The husband saw in the young man what he himself could never be.

While the story subtly censures the lie pulled off by the husband all his life, the story also briefly reveals the rather mordacious ramifications of accepting and being vocal about the truth of one’s own sexuality in the land of “Satyamev Jayate”. The young gay man is subjected to vehement violence and barbed remarks (physical and mental torture) at the hands of his own father finally culminating in the ouster of the young man from his house. The price that hundreds of queer children have to pay for speaking truth, nothing but the truth, about something as innate as their sexual orientation. Sad and shameful, isn’t it?

I wonder why people overlooked these aspects of the story and either went about extolling the story or excoriating it left right and centre. 

Like any other anthropological existence, Queer existence too is so diverse and complex that no one film, or story, can do full justice to it or present a panoptic view of it. One story can only portray one dimension of queer reality. Censuring the story is saying as if that particular dimension is non-existent. 

I feel that the best thing about a story —a realistic one-- is that it’s a slice of life. It can be good, it can be bad. It can’t be right or wrong. 

Phew! Well, talking about the other stories: Zoya’s story was extremely endearing. The way it subtly questioned and subverted our notions of (hyper) masculinity was indeed praise worthy. The way the child innocently gives up on hewing to his father's ideas of how boys should be was touching. " But I hate it. Mujhe nahi maarna goal-voal. Goal maaro...goal maaro...goal maaro."

 Honestly, I don’t care even if it was a rip off from some western movie. I loved it! Period.  

I am ashamed to admit that this was the first time I witnessed the genius of Nawazudien Sidique. And I must say all the praises that I’ve heard about him were not even one bit exaggerated. He is certainly a ‘Nat-Samraat’ in making. 

The three child artists were also brilliant. The first one’s unassuming rendition of the melodies from the golden era of Indian cinema (Hindi film music to be more precise); the second one’s mere smile when she sees her father return home with a story was more eloquent than any poesy; the third one’s expressive eyes which dilate and light up when he sees his mother’s stilettos and slips into them tugged my heart. The fine depiction of pathos, helplessness and a consuming sense of urgency on Vijay’s face when he is unable to get through the gates of Pratiksha (Mr Bachhan’s residence in Mumbai) is truly remarkable. 

All in all, I connected with the movie at various levels. It is one movie I’ve seen in a long time that will linger on for some time to come. It was simple (nothing grand or ostentatious), subtle and yet effective.