tear love

Tear love













You never told
The wet ends of your eyes
Made by love charred heart’s smoke
The cracks and the peeping
Unfulfilled hopes
And that sobbing laughter’s
That makes the illusion of intoxication
Story.
From the depth of separation
Your cries
In poetic-mansion they put in decoration
And say how special is
Your teary love.

(translation of a self written Hindi poem “ashru prem”.)

confab

Love
“Dear Disha,
I hope this letter reaches you and finds you in great comfort. I am knocking the blind doors in the furnace of my inconsequential repentance. I tried hard not to bother you. I can imagine the condition you may be in. But all proved futile. I can not convince myself of itself. That stormy night drained myself out of me. My predicament is that I can not blame anyone but myself for all that. I find myself unable to love me without you being my soul. But I am not a stone hearted murderer who kills his soul first and then other lives. Think me as a fool. I broke the pearl to test its purity. And now the broken pieces have scattered and lost. They are still shining. I did not see the beauty; I was examining its worth. I admit that I was an undeserving fool. But think of the punishment. The pieces are still shining. I am craving for them. But they have stuck with my shadow. My shadow that always follows me in the light but deserts me in the moments of darkness. I search for the pearl pieces. I crave for some light. But it has gone with the shadow. The shadow that is believed to be inseparable. Whom to blame! The pearl pieces or the shadow! Neither is wrong. It was just a moment. The moment possessed me and see what it has done. I lost you, I have lost myself. And now I want to hold it and turn it back. But its slippery form doesn’t allow me any grasp. Hope has kept me alive. Hope makes me desperate. Hope gives me the fear of hopelessness. See what life has become. Treading a dreary path, carrying the immense burden of betrayal. But I was just too ignorant to know the consequences. What else one can expect from someone who learns ‘love’ as a word! Since the childhood days I have seen love in its material manifestation. Mother loved with food. Father loved with other things. Some one else with something else. But every time this love appeared as something. How could I have known it if love never appeared before me as itself? I knew the icons of love. I understood the icons but missed the love. For me a hearty bye was love. For me a meticulously prepared dinner was love. For me a kiss and return kiss was love. See I knew all the conventions. Only I missed the love. I was ignorant of love. Disha, I have spent my life in the poverty of opulence. Every corner filled with something. Every side decorated with something. Every emptiness filled with a new gift. I never grew up but remained a child. And suddenly one day the child started feeling a lack that made him to grow. He was told that this emptiness is just too personal. His search began. His search for love. Only love can get love. But how love is exchanged! Through gifts. Through cards. These were the only methods I knew. Archie’s was my angel of love. Nirulas and McDonalds were the temples of romance. A night long stay was the acme of love. And then if I felt any emptiness, I lit a cigarette. I still don’t know whether it was just a myth or some truth. Post-sex cigarette took me to the height where I felt floating. For me that was the best experience of love. There were different episodes but meaning remained the same. But that night has changed my world. an Emptiness has engulfed my whole existence. You have made me to realize love. And once knowing this true love has nullified all the love I got so far. My whole existence seems vacuous. What had filled all the emptiness in my life was nothing but illusion, lie, deception. Now I want to substantiate myself with true love. Love that you have taught me. Please come back and be my guru, my path and my companion. See the bee is still around that lotus. Flying around. Dancing and singing the dirge of his lost beloved. He has understood the true meaning of love. It goes beyond the material existence. Love has an existence of its own. Love is the space of immortality. love is an eternal celebration of itself. I entreat you to put me through any expiation and cleanse the stains. Lead me to that celebration of love and together we will compose new harmonies and fresh celebrations. We will row together the dinghy into the depth of the never ending ocean. Let eternity be our destiny. Through the rising tides, sailing beyond it. Liberate me from the slavery of the shore. From the chains that I always believed to be my anchor. Saturated with the nectar of your love I want to sail free. Give me at least one drop and let me fuse myself with that, with you, with love. Sailing from this momentary and incomplete shore to the eternal and complete horizon, we will realize our oneness. I want to experience that oneness with love. See destiny awaits us.
Waiting for you,
The culprit of your love
The child of your love
The seeker of your love

confab

LOVE 1

She looked at his face for some moments. Several emotions came there, on her face and in her eyes. He stood fixed but perplexed. Sometimes there is no way out. She took a deep breathe and turned to her left. After going a few paces she stopped. As if something stopped her. There was some restlessness in her. Some conflict. Feelings are the strangest creatures inhabiting the world that we in our scientific age call individual mind. The duality of heart and mind was the golden age of incomprehensibly intense and consuming romances. Now is the time of mind’s monopoly. And what limbs will follow if mind itself is confused. She had to say something. She did not want to say. She did not have the words. She was not able to frame her ideas. Or she was just apprehensive if she could express her feelings without slipping into incomprehensibility. Poverty of language, tyranny of mind. There was a time when lovers could submerge into each other, revelling in the same universe of nothingness where feelings were shared not exchanged. Now mind holds the reign of an individual world that has immense possibilities before it. It does not want to lose it. We don’t share. Now we exchange our feelings. Mediated through a colourful maze of language we exchange our feelings. Feelings that are primitive, feelings that are pre mordial, feelings that come creating turbulences or feelings that go without causing even a small ripple. And we try to understand this polymorphous essence of human life through syntactical frames of non essential words. I felt happy. I was sorry. I felt just like anything. Hey you know it was a strange feeling and I have no word to express that. What was her problem? She stood there, looking away from everything. Only six or seven yards away but two individuals in complete isolation. And then she turned. “Do you know the story of that bee couple, Ramesh?” he looked at her face. Might be trying to recollect. She continued. They were great lovers. Always engrossed in each other. And one day the male asked his beloved, “Do you love as much as I love you?” she replied in yes. They remained silent for some time. Then she said, “ I love you more that anything.” Suddenly the facial expression changed and ramesh looked confused. But it was the story. This time she turned to ramesh and loked into his eyes. “ the male bee asked her to give its test. They agreed on a test. Who brings the lotus nectar the earliest! It was settled. Next morn...” suddenly ramesh caught the narrative. “ yeah, i remember ti now. It’s the same story in which the female bee dies.” Ramesh brought the end in a single shot. She gave a detatched smile. Probably she understood that ramesh was impatient with her slow movement. Or , may be, he was not interested in the story.lack of suspense might also be a reason behind this kind of response. Or wa s it like some bitter syrup that he immediately finished? She remained silent for sometime. Then she resumed her narration. “even before the sun bathed the eastern horizon with its first vermilion hue or the moon departed like a dejected lover, he went to the pond and sat near the lotus which was yet to open after a night long slumber. He was the best lover. The beloved was nowhere around. He was just musing upon the immensity of his love. The pride of returning more than he received. A strange reciprocation. Finally the sun peeped over the horizon and its rays fell on the sleeping beauties. The whole nature appeared like a beloved who has adorned herself the whole night and now is rushing into her beloved’s fold. The bee sat beside the lotus. Wating it to open. With the soft touch of the sunlight the lotus opened its eyes. Like some amorous beloved. The petals moving with eternity in their eyes. The bee was getting impatient. What if his beloved also comes before it fully opens. Just one more circle and it was over. He was already up in air. His heart was hard to contain when he got a glimpse of that magical nectar. Dancing he descended. Every nectar bore witness to his love. Every nectar was his love token. But there was something more lying. In the thick of those magical nectars. He had to rush. But the curiosity was overwhelming. Who can be there even earlier than him? Some rival? Lost? And he had reached where the answer was waiting. It was his love. It was his beloved. Lying dead in the middle of those tokens of love.” She looked at him. Now he had to respond again. “yes, actually she had come before the night fell and started collecting her token of love. And suddenly the lotus petals closed. Suffocation killed her.” She took a deep breathe as he finished his formally compulsory response. “yes, suffocatoin kiled her. Love can survive only within itself. Beyond it lies its death. There is some cosmic conspiracy. Everytime love has to venture out to prove itself. You see, dont you. Love dies for its life.” She laughed. Its hollowness drilled into him and spiralled down into some yet untouched depth. It had someting that brought further gloom on his face. “ what a paradox! Love dies for its life.” She took a long sigh. Ramesh dropped his eyes.

Silence reigned there for next few minutes. Ramesh had sat on a chair. His face bore a dilemma. He expected a reasonable explanation or excuse. But here was none. Her offering no explanation or excuse made his position quite vulnerable. His straight posture had arched at the back as he sat in the chair. She had come nearer. “don’t think that i am hostile to you. love is not some chemical bonding that some catalyst could change its very nature. It’s not some material philosophy that understands yes or no. Love is permanent. Its realization could be in various forms. my feelings are still the same for you. it’s just that i am going for a greater love. My love for” ...suddenly ramesh looked into her eyes. Shocked into stone he was. She continued and the calm on her face looked sublime. “ the pristine form of love. I can not disgrace my love by defending it. I can not be so selfish. I can not be ...” a sudden break in her speech betrayed the inner turmoil raging her heart. A pain appeared on ramesh’s face. He stretched his hand to touch her shoulder. To comfort her. But he felt her sailing away into the deep ocean, in her small boat with an entire universe of love, and he standing at the shore extending his arm, unable to muster enough courage to follow the now gradually drowning trail. He felt a tide rising in the depth of the ocean. She will be drowned. The tide riding higher and higher. fishes flying in air spreading their fins like wings. He felt his limbs shaking. A fear chilled his spine. His mind had started growing dark. He felt the high tide pressing on him, dragging his feet, his body, his soul. Tide, the monstrous tide. His arms were still stretched. Some hope that could come in his clutch and save him from this devouring tide. she was nowhere. Gone in her small boat. Beyond that tide perhaps. . A sudden movement in her shoulder broke the spell. She suddenly remembered something. Putting his hand away, she moved towards the kitchen. Ramesh wondered what she was doing. And she returned with tea. “would you like to have something with it?” he just sat, watching her making tea. She knew he did not take much sugar. Just strong liquor and a little milk. He was looking at the spoon that moved, pressed between her fingers, in his cup. The ring that connected them was nowhere. The ring that he gave her as his token of love. It was there. Wrapped in a small piece of paper. Paper that bore his mark. Paper that bore testimony to their love, and now, how ironical, of its demise. His first love letter. “ the rose you gave me has dried, pressed between the pages of the diary that had our names written over it. Its fragrance has spread through the pages, the days and the dates. Hope you wont mind me keeping them.” Slowly she stood. Holding the cup in his hand Ramesh was looking at the tranquillity of her face. Storm was raging inside. “Please shut the door when leaving.” Ramesh had put down the cup. He stood with his eyes fixed upon her back as she had turned towards the wall in the opposite. He took a deep breathe. Suddenly his lips parted. But words deserted him. Probably he had found no expression within the realm of language. Slowly he crossed her. Eyes cast down. Paused near the door for few moments. Looked back at her. She stood stone, looking into some unknown depth. Only if she had returned back. Only if she had understood his repentance. He begged fate for at least once. Yes, only if he had understood her. he stepped out. The road opened like the wide mouth of a monstrous adder and he entered it. It was all dark and he was groping his way. Only once. He was begging.

unheard weeping

Unheard weeping

“i could not burn”
At the moment of last farewell
You said
Returning my loveletters
“ i will burn...”
Hearing my thses words
You sobbed
“ yes, you must do likewise
But never tell me
on which deathbank did this cremation
of my first unborn expectation...”
since then i am praiyng
whenever youe womb bears fruit
same your first unborn hope
everytime bloom in that
because telling truth
could not ash even i
your that unmarried hope
in those self written loveletters
often serch my own face
and my whole poem
is that your unborn hope’s
unheard weeping.

(translated from malchand tiwari’s rajasthani poem “ ansuni rulaee” in its hindi translation.)

confbulation

Trishanku in Alps



Holding the half-ashed cigarette between his lips, he appeared at the door of the classroom. Probably mocking the wooden face of that “no smoking” board that hung there for no apparent effect. Suddenly a deadness of discipline engulfed the whole class that was enlivened by the gay chirping of youthful flock. Corridor was our most usual loitering space during the class intervals that we had enough as very few teachers troubled us with punctuality. There was another board that told, “Loitering in the corridor is prohibited”. We laughed on the deadness of those words but sometimes it made me to reflect. I remembered a school day story of a demon who had a big garden and it had perpetual springtime. Children from the neighborhood used to sneak into and play in his garden. One day he saw them. He drove them away, made a big boundary wall round the garden and put a big notice “transgressing the boundary is a big offence and offenders will be prosecuted”. Every time I thought who might be the demon here. My paranoia was just momentary and then I used to think what if those demons crept out from the closed world of fairytales. Anyway, the cigarette was burnt till its butt and he released it from the crab clutch of his fingers. Smoke was rushing out through his nostrils and he gave cool eye to the class. The last flame was extinguished with the shining tip of his right shoe and he entered the class with a solitude around his face. We found it quite befitting for a person who was to teach us Wordsworth. “Who are you?” the whole class was perplexed with this sudden throw. No one knew who was to catch. After floating for a while around the heads it started descending down the benches. Suddenly our smart teacher gave it a fresh blow into air. “ you don’t need giving your name or some other thing like the same. Just tell what gives you the sense of ‘ I’.” equally confusing. Or even worse for many for us. Now I understood why wordsworth was so much fond of mountains. Such deep questions could be solved only under some kind of transportation. Transported into a state of intoxication, affected by the beauty of nature or some opium. But here was none. Logical consequence: question remained unanswered. Attempts were made. “I am what I think I am.” This was the best answer I thought a student of literature could make. This is what art should offer. Unlike science that gives either right or wrong, art revels in the world of deferred judgments. And the answer was exactly that. but it was considered inadequate on the philosophical scale and he waited for some surprise package. When no answer surprised him, finally he surprised himself on the absence of some good answer. We gave a gratifying grin and he gave it a somber acknowledgement by offering us some enlightening views on self. Passing through some gentle obscurities of philosophy, we reached a sublimated level of wisdom that could be plainly termed as defamiliarization of the familiar. We had a sudden realization of the profundity that our body encompasses. If “self” could be an hour-long thing then body must be something of many times bigger importance. However, philosophy did not let it be. Personally, I felt the body of commonsense being mutilated by the cold knives of philosophy. Suddenly Descartes appeared before me, flying upon his wings and performing magical antics like in some popular belief geese do with a mixture of milk and water. separating the two apparently inseparable things. After straying for a while in the wild wisdom of some nature myths suddenly my imagination descended down into the world of reality and I found it absurdly incomprehensible. What strange creatures we humans have become that we can’t buy a single simple thing without creating a hard laboured web of wisdom around it! It took me some moments to realize the import of those words for the examination purpose and I also realized the importance of master’s degree as a career building block. Very next moment I was a most attentive student like any body else, my eyes glued on his face and my ears tuned to his lips. I was so absorbed that I forgot to open my notebook and taking any note. The incessant flow of words seemed making an unobstructed passage into my mind and occupying my soul. A sudden loud tone broke my attention and started. Dear teacher was moving in his evenly smooth tone. Probably I had fallen asleep. My friend later confirmed my guess. I was totally blank on whatever was discussed in the class and whatever I got was merely an illusion of my self. Now I had begun to understand what self clould mean. The only thing that troubled me was that even though I knew what self could be, I could not assert it without risking another fall into a mere illusion. It was after several afterthoughts that I came to conclusion that self is something for self realization, strictly not for explanation. The harder you try to crack into its core the worse it gets for your intellect to track its circumference. And then you are also vulnerable to the traps of false enlightenment. It just reminded me the case of a recently married friend. He has an average built and an average appearance. After their first night of consummation( among maithil brahmins it happens on the fourth night after the mariage) I went to meet him with some other friends. He was at his in-laws’ place as customarily the groom has to stay there till the chaturthi( the four days period of familiarization and abstinance). We went with fishes as the sagun. We found him in a room, surrounded with his sisters-in-law. They were just pulling his legs. Poor chap felt great relief when he saw us. He immediately greeted us and a stormy rush of our friendly jokes drove away the in-laws. He even called them to stay but they did not. He laughed loudly to mark his ultimate finish of the episode. We had some hearty chat and our friend was often blushing. Well, cutting a long story short, he sent our rest two frinds out on some pretext. I expected some spicy thing to come, personally for me. I must tell you, my ears were burning like anything. But a sudden wet voice cooled it like the thing you might guess. “I don’t know for sure. In fact it is slightly embarassing but I think it ok to share it with you. Well this is something I felt…” I was looking at his face unblinkingly. “ I think she was faking at night.” He spoke in a hurry as if the words were burning his tongue and he spitted it out. I dared not to ask him to repeat them. Just silent for next few moments. Quite unlike me who loves being called a chattering box. I tried my level best to fake the troubled look on his face. Honestly it was oppressive. Just to break the silnce I said, “ oye don’t bother yaar! Arre you enjoyed na?” “ well…yaa…I enjoyed. I enjoyed but you know I just felt that she was faking.” I felt his voice drowning somewhere. Pitiable, lamentable, laughable, and above all it was unresolvable. “ see bro. you enjoyed and she also did. Forget if she was faking or not. The game had a happy course. Now forget all this crap.” Supposedly my best logical consolation failed misrably. He gave me a hurt kind of look. “ how can you even talk like this man? It’s no game but a relation. Leave it, you wont understand.” I took a long breathe and repeated with a pretentious mischeviousness, “yaa. How could I understand? I am telling you man just take some gulps down and she wont be faking anymore.” I put special emphasis on the last five words and got a tired kinda smile on his face. Fish was reaaly delicious and it was a most welcome break for all of us. The taste watered my palate as we sat there waiting for our tea which abdul bhai was yet to bring. Wisdom of the day:
doubt and seriousness make a really deadly combination and it must be used with care.
Anti dotes if badly inflicted: yet to be invented.
Immunity: eat, drink, be happy.
What If it turns chronic: turn to philosophy and make the maximum of it.
Diagnosis: when you fail to answer your own questions upto your satisfaction and then try to convince others with your arguments.
What if uncared: well, that is a case study still under way. You can also contribute some data.

before the camera

Before the camera
Any date
Like 20 june 1989
I took your picture
Of laughter
Laughter such was that
As fallen from hands
A bronze plate
Do you remember
The thing
I had said
To make you laugh?
You must be laughing still
Because i have been saying the same
Sitting forgotten
The flowing teary garlands
Listen
Do see once more
On that very day’s pattern
Before this camera.
(translated from the hindi translation of Malchand Tiwari’s Rajasthani poem “ camera ke saamne”.)

pasikhana: temple of discards

Pasikhana: temple of discards

Pulled on the bhuiyan
India Pakistan!

Yess that salla
Bahaanchoddoesn’t return
That master’s salla
My thousand rupees

God knows what shittdung
That pasi ka bachha
Never gives an extra glass
Fucks money first
Betichod gandoo

Rythming cleavage
Sweat popping from pores
Randiya smiles mad
Mouth waters
Shimmering fire
roasting litti
Ghee dripping oh fuckk

India lost
Pakistan won
one shouted AKRAM
bastards still here
born castrated


peeping through black
I bet it’s white snow
How you know
Got any ever
Gandoo tharki saala

Saali still trickles
Sitting in her pidhiya
Roasting litti
Ghee drips oh fuckk

Only if father knows
The world of sucking hopes
Redundant strutting spirits
Worthless weight of papers

J.V.G. failed
Son of my drunk piston
That master’s saala

Honourless trust traders
Crumbled
from citadel into dust
My fleeing fucked fortune

switch off radio
match is over
B.B.C. at eight

India has lost
The pulled in the bhuiyan
One more bottle please
Three litties
Drink gandoos


bhuiyan: A low caste variant of maithili language uses this term for “ground”. Maithili is a language used in mithila. Mithila is famous as the land of raja janak and his daughter sita who later married lord ram.
bahanchod: Literally translated as sister fucker. That’s again a local pronunciation of the word. Benchod is the form that many Indian authors use. Bahaan means sister.
pasi:Pasi is a caste that deals in palm juice.
Tadi is the most popular drink among the low earners. Fermented palm juice is called tadi/taree.Son of pasi. Using one’s caste identity as an abusive word. This is commonly used against the lower caste people.
betichod: Daughter fucker
gandoo:asshole
randiya:a further demeaning way of calling someone "randi", meaning Prostitute. "rand" is a word used for young widow without any child. it has an undertone of being a loose character. widow remarriage is still not approved among the upper caste people. at the same time such widows are suspected of moral transgression due to their youth and desires. they are also sexually exploited sometimes.
Tadi is usually drunk in a group, sitting in the pasikhana(the pasi’s shop or place). Pasi’s wife sits and roasts litti. Litti is made by stuffing spiced salty sattu into besan and roasting it fire. Sometimes roasted litti is put into ghee.
AKRAM: Famous Pakistani cricket player
tharki:Male counterpart of nymphomaniac. this is a new word for maithili, brought back from metros. again a low caste's thing as standard mailthili speakers dont use this word. they can use sanskritized word like "kamatur". "kama" in sanskrit means lust.pidhiya:A wooden thing used for sitting.
JVG: A non-banking company that failed. All its small investors lost their money. most of them were poor village farmers and farm labourers who invested their petty savings with plans like daughters' marriage, financial support in old age etc. Its agents were often the biggest culprit in public opinion

DISCLAIMER: MEANING MAKING IS A SUCKING HABIT OF ALL THOSE WHO ARE AFFLICTED BY THE MYTH OF INTELLECT. are you an exception!

poker of the patriarch

Poker of the patriarch

In an ancient land of Sindhusthan, he was the lord. He liked singing songs that created titillation in his poker and he admired his waking up father turning inside his langot. At the acme of his popularity he decided to get himself immortalized. He chose iron as the material for making his statue but his ministers proved his wisdom a bit less thought. Iron may catch rust. And then iron could never look as ancient as a great king of his stature should appear like without appearing decadent from any angle. Court astrologers made a worldwide survey of the various arts of sculpture making in their star-studded chart and finally decided to have one, which combined the best of everywhere. Whatever was thought, planned, and decided by the court officials meant nothing unless the lord approved it. And lord’s decisions were made at the dead of the night when he lied sucking toes of some beauty and she milked him into drain. Standing poker meant all approved for the next day. And if the lord refused to budge on any decision everyone knew that last night his dog refused to budge. Some new wine, new singers, new paintings and some new beauties were sent to his regal lodge with a great hope of making the gradually defuncting poker work a few more days.

The lord stood at the height of some fifteen meters and his head was held high. flowing hair like a healthy horse’s mane was just heart snaring. His chest was bared with utmost care as not to expose the impatiently peeping ribs but show the immensity of his heart which could hold all the love and care of this world. The rest of the description may look tediously boring so let’s cut it short. He was just too much in love with his beloved poker and at no cost he was to separate from it. He wanted to have that as an integral part of his statue, standing there to command equal love, adoration and awe. While his athlete body was perfectly there to be copied, his poker was putting some strain on the artist’s imagination. No one could have pointed a single snag in the whole body he had made so far. But this poker thing! He sucked all the fingers in his both hands but still without any clue. He dared not ask anyone what he needed to proceed with the same perfection. And as most of the self proclaimed artists have the enigmatic craziness for originality, he was also too reluctant to proceed with his work unless having a detailed view of the lords poker. After several rounds of meeting in the dead of the night, leaving their wives at the mercy of some unseen but expected bed-rockers, the ministers decided to tell this problem to the lord. They just decided to hold it till the opportune day. They just waited for some favourable night. Unfortunately, neither was budging.

Artists can reach beyond the reaches of the sunlight. Poor chap cursed whoever was the maxim maker every time some one repeated It before him. only imaginative peple can understand the imaginary boundaries of imagination. He always murmured with exhaling like some watered oven. Where to get the required details for making the poker. He approached all the discarded pieces of beauties from the lords lodge. But every time he got some different idea about by now the most haunting and dreaded thing. Some went on to say that he did not even have any. Some just scratched their head as if trying to remember how many times they went to pee without feeling any urgency and then declared in an unburdening tone that he had something looking like some inverted spoon. Some just yawned and said that it was like the bottom head of a bamboo stick. One told that his was like a dancing fish which is actually suffering in the absence of water and dies in a few moments. And then just stale and stuffy outside the cavern.

Even lords get worried. Mortality makes them vulnerable to commonality. Moreover, the most effective immunity against such a common fate was still not in effect. All tried in every possible way to establish some authentic ground on which the statue can get the finality of perfection, but all for almost no result. The image of the object that the artist had to copy was still not clear . and the lord was not getting his poker correct for the last many months. No new supply was proving effective enough to affect his these days defunct poker. Finally, they gave over to technology when nature failed to help.

The artist was very busy drawing all the possible sorts of positions that could fit the lords fantasy. He took several models fitting various postures as discussed in multiple techno-philosophical, bio- technological and other scholarly texts coming from different ethno-racial sources. Everyone felt impressed by his assiduous effort and irritated by his still dissatisfied artistic satisfaction. the lord was cursing his courtiers, the artists and time. The courtiers were cursing the artist and time. The artist was cursing the bloody illusive poker that was not revealing its true image. Pokerless lord kept waiting in the open and the white cloth wrapped around his waist could not hide the absence of that cloth-elevating object. The moon changed its position every night.

One night the artist woke with some bestial noise coming from the regal lodge. he smiled . it was pleasant to his ears. he just threw some clothes over himself and ran towards the sound. The long chain of heaving and moaning could end with an orgasmic cry of despair and he did not want to loose that moment. Magnitude of the lordship at its best before it starts shrinking up again.. he pushed the door in a rush and it opened with a pull. He collided with a beauty just in her natural garb and a shriek pierced into his ears and through it into him. he felt his package humiliating mauled. The beauty leapt away without giving another glimpse.

The lord was standing near his bed with his poker still and erect, making an angle of around sixty degrees at his waist. Muscles of his butt were tense, he was biting his lips and his eyes were closed. Blood was trickling down, in inches, from the top of his poker. The artist measured the length and the angle and ran out that very moment to accomplish the long-waiting job.

People still tell the story of a mad artist who roams naked at night. Who reincarnated the great lord in his superbly built statue. The lord with his blood oozing poker is still a secret cult god of all the womanizers who perform their antics n the dead of night. As story goes, the lord died after receiving a mortal injury. He was hunting in the forest I a full moon night when a tigress attacked him from behind. Even though taken by surprise, the lord thrust his spear into his adversary’s chest. Unfortunately, he held the spear on the wrong side as the bottom side was turned at the tigress and the head was at him. The jumping tigress hit against the butt and the sharp spear tore his chest apart. A defiant roar came from his mouth and frightened the whole forest and the tigress also ran away.

His statue stands with his poker pointing to the heaven. It is in divine communion with the divine powers and whenever Sindhusthan is felt to be in any kind of problem the priests perform an appeasing and pleasing ritual which restores the earlier peace and calm. While two musicians are playing trumpet and vina respectively, priests wash the poker of the lord with sacred water and then offer fresh hymenal blood mixed with the writhing pain of the sacrificed virgin. It is believed that the lord kept penetrating hymens even until he lost his appetite for food, sense of natural calls, desire of being in this world and all the rest. It was the perfection of the performance of the royal duties and the bloodstain on his poker symbolizes the perpetual proliferation of nature’s fertility. Foreign attack or famine or any other calamity can be averted by pleasing the lord. Every true patriarch of this Sindhusthan wears a garland of miniature pokers, made after the model of the poker of the lord, and it keeps his poker working and dominating his women.

SALMA AGHA

SALMA AGHA


dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye,
hum vafa kar ke tanha reh gaye.
zindgi ik pyas ban kar reh gayi,
pyar ke kisse adhure reh gaye .
hum vafa kar ke tanha reh gaye
dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye-2
sayad unka aakhri ho yeh sitam,
har sitam ye soch kar hi seh gaye.
khud ko bhi hamne mita dala magar..
faasle jo darmian se reh gaye...

some unknown hand wrote down these lines and besides many things which remain, often, away from common men’s knowledge, Salma Agha immortalized them in her voice . Filtering through or trickling through, a bit tricky to decide which is right, these lines entered the You Tube.

Music has some mysterious relation with human mind. I would have used ‘heart’ but many doctors are advising against this. Science is moving forward and upward.

Immediate response was the first expected thing and it happened. The Zaheer Ahmed wrote. I cannot stop listening this music. Urdu is such a beautiful language and the voice is just amazing.

Everyone knows that NIKAH was a Bollywood film and no one can mistake while guessing its location. Fine, it might be just some confusion. Some misunderstanding of history. VinayShivlal responded with paternal correction. This is hindi dude,not urdu.

Some came around with immense liking for the music but some problem with the language. Some blamed the song of being burdened with Persian. But it was with the lyric. Music was just sublime. Some one was sighing like a hot furnace. Beautiful poetry.... finds its way straight into heart....rather a beautiful dialogue between a hopeful heart and a broken heart... wonder what happens next in such a situation.
Jenab added :
Fazaa: Atmosphere, Environment
Ravaan: Move, Flow, Soul, Life
Samaa: The heavens, sky, firmament; a canopy; height, altitude, meridian, highest or uppermost part (of anything), culminating point, prime, spring.
Qaafila: Caravan
Bikhar: Scatter
Wafa: Fulfilling A Promise, Fulfillment, Fidelity, Faithful, Sincerity, Sufficiency
Qurbatein: Closeness, Nearness, Together, (Plural of Qurbat)
Visaal: Death, Meeting, Union

The zaheer ahmed probably woke up to find that some important changes had turned the course of thought and an essential issue remained unsettled. He rolled things back in order to carry them forward.
The film is called Nikah, which in Urdu means Marriage Ceremony - no part of this film is Hindi, all the words are Urdu language. Typical Hindu! in your hatred for Pakistan and Urdu every thing that You admire is Hindi and the rest is Urdu.
Sleeves must have come up.
Quasim streched his eyes to explore some more ditches of history . and his gravity was unmistakable. Before we were British India and before that the Mughals made what is today known as India, India was never a nation state. In fact most of Pakistan belonged to Iran until Alexander the great made it part of the Hellenistic empire. However, we have a shared history that’s for sure and a lot of good art and architecture came out of that ,as did literature, dance and food. to deny this is to be blind.yet we have our own unique culture too.each province, each village!
persian and urdu both belong to indo european language, thats all. yes we have persian influence but we also have turkish,arabic and of course sanskrit and hindi.
History was witnessing its making. No error should stain our role in its making. The worst part of history is that we don’t have a say in this. But that is our predecessors’ mistake. In this age of technologically democratized world one should not miss any chance of correcting or makng the history. Drills were going on. Salma is a paki. But she made her carrer in india. Some discovered that she was a sister of Rajkapoor. The immense love was creatin an enormous amount of pressure on both the parties as salma was becoming heavier and heavier. Quasim 65 came veilding a pin in his hand to diffuse the tension. yes she is pakistani but cut the crap.not all indians are aryans and south pakistan has aryans too.
Much as I commend the noble intent behind your words, I think credit must be given where it is due. Let’s preserve the individuality and co-exist rather than trying to fuse into "one". Hindu and Muslims are different and yet they CAN co-exist with affinity. Salma Agha is Pakistani and not too Indian. We'd be hard pressed to find any Dravidian roots in her. What endears and unites her and others to each other is music, talent and "the eye of the beholder". Rather a simple concept, really.
In some other corner of the world some one was quite unaware of this urgency of the situation and unable to appreciate the noble mission of setting the historical records straight.
people i beg you all,please forget about hindu-muslim crap.we all are one.i love this song like i love my life,salma aga is as much indian as she's paki.she's my fav,nobody else cud have sung this song the way it is.absolutely amazing......NO WORDS.....never had:)
several chukling sounds echoed on this naïve request. World is not merely for such trivial
things like pleasure, amazement other innocent ga ga gas. It’s the serious jobs as of theirs that keep it going. And they were doing it.

Someone bursted in with a deafening voice. Watt u sons of fucking bitches mother fuckers go and fuck ur sisters asses . its better than liking the stinking cunt of that paki whore while sitting in india. A sudden silence . it continued. The stormy course of history halted for a moment to see the immensity of this torrential outburst. And then it changed its cource.

On this new course new events were happening to guide and protect the history. Aftab had a sheet in his hand. Nice song But I hate this women. She is a home breaker. She destroyed Mahmood Sipra's house and then Javed Sheikh’s house. Both the men divorced their wives becasue of this Two dollar Whore. She is the kind of women who will do anything for money. That’s why I hate this Bitch.

Some one was more worried. He had seen an interview of salma on you tube and the anchor, a cracking masculine voice, was pouring all his humility on her while addressing her as the asset of the land.
what a shame, now under a corrupt General we are putting kanjars as our assets..........no wonder we as a nation are going down the drain...

Again the things were contextualized on the sub continental level but in an oblique manner.
Kanjroon ka kia hota hai jo marzi bulwa lo are yeh to mazze mein thee abb haal hee mein iss kee cousins daikh lo Karina & Karishma from bollywood
Someone was making another point.
Well we call this performing arts. There is nothing with to dance and sing. Its an art. Only our backward and stupid religion tells us that we should not dance or sing. Kanjar are also children of God. So dont throw stones when you live in glass house yourself.
Dins were echoing sometimes in ding dong and sometimes in silence.

Across the wall another salma was singing in a music reality show. Some bengali song on some Bangladeshi channel. Someone smiled with compassion and sent an advice.
Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Sona Nahin Chandi Nahin Yaar to Mila Chal Pyar Kar Le...stop copying songs silly cow .
Reply came quite close to the heels.
this song is our folk song and older than 100 yrs.Yaar bina chaen kaha re was tuned by Bappi Lahiri and it was sung by Runa Laila of Bangladesh.U may know Bappi Lahiri’s old home is Bangladesh,he might've copied from here or the tune worked in d back of his mind while making Pyaar bina chaen even RD Burma and SD Burman were in Bangladesh and their old home are still in Comilla Bagnladesh. we gifted to India for them you are proud now so see back past brother.

Some old voices were still wandering in search of some empathy. Finally, they sat on their bottom, waiting for some sympathetic touch of warmth.
Adiba had seen Nikah, the film, and felt moved by it. She appreciated its effort to give women some voice. At least on the silver screen. Commendable job for its period and also quite inspiring.
It is not a slap on Islam but rather how some people misuse divorce laws for their own ends; it's not about Islam abusing women but men abusing Islam against women. ABCDE had cried-
i dont understand ur comments. there is nothing 2 do with religion or so. It’s just d love for music we come here n listen or upload our favorite songs here....so just enjoy music n give positive comments.....Allah hafiz .

हम

हम छी एक टा खाली घैला ...

ताप संतिप्त , व्याकुल जननी के
कर्महीन , जलरहित जलधर।
जीवन के संग्राम में भटकैत
कउनु लोहित रहित जीवित धर।

घस्कैत ,तृष्णा, शुष्क ठोर सब
हमरा जीवित बुझी आबै छैथ ;
पाबि के हमरो ओतबे व्याकुल
मुंह मोरि गरियाबाई छैथ ।

हमहूँ घुराकलौं उही मुंह के
जिम्हर हरियर देलक देखाय;
रास्ता में देखनाहर हंसला
खली घैला धन्कल जाय।

हरियरी के जैर में बैठ के
सांप बजल आबू यजमान !
ई सब पुलकित जीव सब जेकाँ
अहूँ करू ई अमृत पान ।


एखनोऊ हम छी खाली घैला ,
कानू के व्यस्त कंसार में;
अप्पन सफल उपयोग करबैत
ई उपयोग जनल संसार में ।

BONFIRE

Bone fire


Aahh…yo…aah…yoo…ah….yyooo…come on..
Hey da role some grass…just baby wait a minute…hey dude do it quick…just baby…hey move a bit…hi Sid how u chap…new glasses oooohhh…mast man…aahh…yo…aah…yoo…ah…yyooo…yupp me back and now say what were you asking?
Sam your documentation is awesome man! How did you do it? I mean it’s just awesome…brilliant…moving. I love you for this bastard. What a charming natural setting. Awesomely beautiful scenery…oh what a…
Samresh was having a really big drag that just kept on going and going and going while all possible compliments candied with most charming words showered over his chest and flowed from Shweta’s mouth and showered over Sam’s face and kept flowing. Bonfire was burning and the flames were leaping into air and coming back to spring again and music was filling every heart with some energy that moved all feet with the rhythms changing with the changing tracks and demands and the whole atmosphere was bathed in the alcoholic aroma that had its sacred resources in those many beautifully moulded bottles bearing various labels and various flavours and tastes and fragrance and everything else.
You know I got this grass from there only. It’s dirt cheap there you know. They have cheelum in which you can stuff larger amount of grass and a single drag is enough to fill you inside and outside both. Look at this guy! Sam stopped the video suddenly and dragged his browser to a particular face. Look this man can make this much big flame rise from his cheelum in the very first drag. Sam waved his palm in air to denote the rising flame. And it is really difficult to do so in the very first you know. It’s not even properly lit and grass takes some time to catch fire. Man he was just awesome with his cheelum…Ohh damn! At least four or five faces were looking at his face and experiencing the same awe as if the person was performing the wonderful feat right in front of them. Video was running again. Samresh was holding his glass of whisky. Shweta had her beer can that she took to her lips and removed again after having a sip and her eyes were fixed upon the video. Music was playing and many bodies were following the rhythm, jerking their body and waving their hands holding glasses or cigarettes or both and bonfire was fed with some fresh wood by that guy who again shifted himself into a distant corner and wrapped his shawl around which was holed by rats and the catering owner had promised to give another one in a few days. Shweta had removed the headphone from her ears and was calling for Sam. He was just busy in rolling another. His friends had got some stuff. In full excitement he came to her and told look this is the stuff I simply love. I had got some with me when I went to shoot this documentary and you know men just fell for it. Hey something funny now. You know those people rub tobacco and the dust that remains they sniff it and sneeze and sniff again. Their nostrils glisten with that sticky stuff…owwwh it was disgusting. I don’t know how they did it. And now my part. I showed them this stuff and asked if they wanted to sniff this. And they started laughing upon me. Said that that tobacco dust was medicine for their nose when it gets stuck with goo and this powder... You know they thought this stuff to be powder and said their women can use it but it is so little. Blockheads…simple blockheads. And then I explained everything to them. And you know once they were in they were in. they were just dying to have another sniff but I had no more. They bought my promise for more when I come again. And look they gifted me this much grass. Sam waved his palm in the air to show the quantity he received for his promise. Hey Sam it’s not fair man. You must give us some. Jaggy was showing all his front teeth as his eyes were almost closed after sipping a bitter drink. Fuck..Fuck…fuck…I think I changed my drink with somebody. He is always a late reactor. Sam and Shweta and Pal and Addy, all were laughing as Jaggy was swaying his body up and down and side and side and uttering the same four-lettered fashionable taboo word with increasing vehemence. And suddenly he ran towards a corner and holding his chest with one hand and another supporting against the wall he was puking once twice and thrice…and …and…
Water! Just one gulp and stop. Sam was holding a glass of water, Pal was stroking his back, and Shweta was saying something and sitting at some distance that shawled boy also murmured something. Music was high and bonfire was high and party was on. All were back. Shweta was watching that video and Sam was sitting, explaining certain things and jaggy was also watching that video. Addy was back into the rocking group and Pal was rolling another one and Sam was sipping from his peg and talking with Shweta and Jaggy and Pal. It’s quite a dismal scene there. I mean it’s just poverty, hunger, starvation and you know it’s just like some hell. Thankfully, I carried that much water and food. Still I had to travel back with my whole group to the nearest town, which was at least hundred kilometers. I cannot believe how one can drink that water or eat that food. Sam took another sip, his peg was finished, and he took another from pal’s hand. Rolled grass was also in his hand. Shweta just shifted a bit closer to him and Jaggy was feeling sleepy so he went to sleep. I think Paul sir will be very happy with your work this time. It is really brilliant and can move any heart. Shweta’s remark drew Sam’s attention to her as he was looking at a girl standing in a corner of that video still. He is a damned bastard. Even this time you know he will begin with oh Sam this is really a brilliant video but dubbing part is not up to level. It does not create the vibes you know. This word doesn’t go with the scene and this doesn’t give the shocking effect what is needed and then just add some more idyllic flavour. Usually this goes with general image of these sorts of rural lives. And blah… blah… blah…blupp.
She was just laughing and laughing and laughing and he was also. Anyway, who is this woman? Shweta had noticed that woman standing in that corner. A real bitch. Sam’s tone was unusual here. And Shweta noted that. She put the video on move and soon both were engrossed in the various aspects of that documentary. It had crooked legs, shrunk chests, ballooned bellies, and bulging eyes. And parallel to it ran the dubbed sound narrating the story of their poverty and diseases and superstitions. A narrative of malnutritioned maternity and irresponsible males and the oral stats of pregnancy deaths followed the hanging breasts of women covered in a strange manner that left them almost showing. How can they do this? It’s brutish I mean they simply fuck their wives into pregnancy and then leave them to rot. Bastards. Sam caressed her back above the jacket and under her jacket and cooled her. They are just like that. Almost savages. Video was running and they sat close to each other and they were so close that when they spoke they felt the warmth. Look this is a ritual that they perform with musical accompaniments. Is this a music? All those naked men howling their lungs out! One minute. Sam how can you appreciate this music that is no music at all? It’s just howling and howling and howling. Just jumping around the fire, swaying the body in such weird ways, and making these howling noise. Shweta had taken off the headphone and rested her head on his shoulder. And what these women are doing there? Standing like zombies.
It is a part of their belief. They believe that these men have got some divine spirit and whatever they are chanting are supposed to be divine sounds. It brings fertility to their land and their cattle and their women. And unmarried get husbands very quick. How dumb! Shweta felt indignant at the wretched condition of her sex and hurled as many stones as possible by the time sam switched off his laptop and put it into his car.
Bonfire was leaping into the sky, the bodies were jerking with the music’s rhythm, and that guy had fed it with some more woods and shweta stood there, waiting for sam to come. He had already taken off his jacket and now shweta also did the same and both joined the dance around that bonfire. It was some Brazilian band’s track, all bodies were swaying this way and that way, and sam and shweta were close again, feeling each other and determined to evade any distance that could creep between their bodies.
I will miss this campus very much. These bonfires, these parties, and these friends. You know journalism was my dream career and I swear this college proved to be my dream college. Just exclude the creepy teachers and it was the best place. I hope this documentary will prove a good project work. His hands were following his instincts and moving through and exploring her body. She was caressing his back and holding his hair and stroking his chest. I believe it is the best portrayal of rural poverty and backwardness and no one can see as closely. Words were flowing this way and that way, music was flowing all around, drinks were still flowing from bottles into glasses and from glasses into all the mouths and lungs, and alchoholic aroma were flowing from every mouth, as there were several aaahh…yyoo… ye…aah…yoo...yae…and whistles and shouts and whistles.
Our last wild time in this college. Both sighed. Do you want to be a bit wilder? Sam looked into her eyes as if trying to read her answer in her eyes. Fire leapt higher and higher and higher. Fire was surrounded by a thick and still growing cover of fog and at some distance from all this…
Don’t worry I have got pills.
Thank god.
The shawled guy rose again as he had to feed the bonfire.
It was leaping again into the sky and music was getting wild and people around were getting wilder and that guy shifted to another corner now. He was just waiting this party to get over. Someone may be waiting for him…probably outside this college campus…at his lodging place…or far away at a place where he might have left his wife when coming to this distant city of hopes and dreams.
I stood there, looking at this wild night and remembering many such wild and wilder nights from the past and thinking about the many that are to come and felt the warmth of leaping bonfire and jerking bodies and intertwined wildness and…and his shawl as he sat against my wall, murmuring something. I heard the music of machine and music of soul, music of flesh and music of love, music of orgasm and music of arousal, music of enlightened despair and music of blind hope. I still stand there witnessing similar nights.