Mere hanjroon de toofan*

I dusted off an old, much-loved music album today with songs by Anup Jalota. And re-found this sher with a very short behr:

baithe baithe rone ki,
rut hai paagal hone ki

बैठे बैठे रोने की
रुत है पागल होने की 

And it seemed to fit my mood (and so goes on the header). You see, somehow this November (1, 2) is here again. It has always been a vivid month for me. Everything darkens... you begin to prize what light there is. This year, the month has begun with a piercing drizzle as well. Everything inexplicably turns a little more profound, more meaningful -- also a little melancholy. I cannot say why.

Fittingly, this ghazal has another sher that I like:

marne wala mitti ka
arthi chaandi-sone ki

मरने वाला मिट्ठी का
अर्थी चांदी सोने की

That's it! How did the shayar manage to pack so much comment into eight words? These poets, I tell you...

__________
*The blog title is from Farid's Meda ishq vi toon, in which he says, among other things, 'Mere hanjroon de toofan vi tu...': you are (also) my stormy tears.

Moonstruck

Third post for the day.

I've said before, the moon has never been as significant to me as it has been of late. Rather, I now realise that it has always been significant but I had not noticed. 

Isn't it curious how some things never come your way and when they do, they tend to come in bunches of three - a new word, or a concept or a piece of trivia? I had never heard about the Sahasra Chandra Darsanam – it had never been done in my family – but a friend told me last year that her family was going to have a pooja and a gathering to mark her father-in-law’s turning 83 and a few months. It was to celebrate a point where he had experienced a thousand cycles of the moon in his lifetime. Then another colleague of my father's turned a 1000 moons and then my Guru mentioned it. Not that you need to have seen a thousand full moons with your eyes, he specified, knowing perhaps that many of the fools that he looks after stay hunched over their petty lives, instead of looking up at something profoundly amazing simply because it happens every month. The body apparently has its own way of experiencing the ebbs and flows of the world around it. Once it has known a thousand lunar cycles, the human system alters in a few ways, making it easier to shed your karma – or that's how I understood it.

But it is no hardship to look at the moon. And when a full moon coincides with your travels, well, sona on top of suhaaga. It happened in Zambia. (Where I was not able to take the Rainbow Walk, which takes you to the Victoria Falls by moonlight and, if you're lucky, gives you a glimpse of the Moonbow - a rainbow refracted by moonlight.) But I was happy enough to be in a lovely cabin by the expansive River Zambezi under a full moon. It was light when I sat to meditate in the lounger outside; when I came to, it had darkened to deep purply ink, the moonlight glistened off the choppy waters and it was so beautiful. I have no picture of that sadly, and I doubt any lens of mine could’ve done justice.

A month later, my incredible luck saw me in Srinagar. As the moon waxed, we saw it every day – rising from behind craggy mountain frames, as we stood about this Mughal garden and then the next as darkness fell… 

From Chashm-e-Shahi Gardens, Day 1

From Nishat Bagh, Day 2

On our third day there, we were in Gulmarg, making our way back (rather late) to the parking lot where our anxious driver awaited the posse of women he was in charge of. As we walked back, there were these views.

Strolling down the lanes of Gulmarg, Day 3

As we drove back to Srinagar, the world had turned monochrome. Only blue-black and silver seemed to exist; we turned bend after bend to a new view as the dappled woods stood bathed in moonlight. I had not seen trees throw shadows that sharp at night.

On the fourth day, we had a party on top of a houseboat. The full moon was on time, voices carried this way and that over the water, sounds of paddles sloshing, and in the distance, traffic on the road.

Full moon over Srinagar from HB Hilton on the Dal, Day 4. Pic: Nishat Fatima

You can’t hold moonbeams, of course, but now and then, you come close enough.

Andananta etha?

We were talking about Kshana kshanam yesterday - what a classic it is, how refreshing the music, the way the songs were 'taken' as they say in Tollywood-speak. And of course, Sridevi. Gamine charm, mobile face, now innocent, now sexy, now crafty, now ditzy. She carried the movie. Venkatesh rocked too, but Sridevi!
 
So as I'm feeling somewhat excessive:







...and, why the heck not!



Whachoo doin', Ramu? Kuch cheezein apne aap se bhi seekhni chahiye.

The in-between times

I had a haiku for the rains, I really did. A hauntingly beautiful one. But I procrastinated, and now the season is past. A new one advances but we are not yet in its grip. So the change of header demands not a remark on the seasons but something else.

So just like that, this funny haiku that's a study in plotting, on how to tell a story... and the importance of the villain.

shiny red apples
the painter introduces
a caterpillar
~Greg Piko

Housekeeping

Dust lies on the shelves of this blog. The haiku hasn't been changed since the summer, the air is musty, and everywhere, cobwebs of abandoned posts.
But soon - a post on Kashmir, which I visited last month, my story on Zambia, where I travelled in July, a header change, some thoughts on the moon... much!
In the meantime, I post now because I'm running very very fast from a deadline that is upon my heels and will slay me if I don't wrestle it to the ground. Wish me luck.

A gala time

It has been a crazy month. I was swamped by deadlines of varying levels of clinginess – it was just one thing after the other. In the middle of all this though, there was something I was determined to do – attend the Park Hyatt’s Masters of Food & Wine event. This is a series of sophisticated culinary and beverage experiences hosted at Park Hyatts across the world. Award-winning chefs, sommeliers and experts are invited – it is a celebration of food and drink.

The Park Hyatt in Hyderabad is fairly new and they were holding their first Masters of Food & Wine between 19th and 22nd September.  The Masters in this case being Spanish 2 star Michelin chef Koldo Royo, Thai chef Maitree Polboon and French cheese affineur Eric Mickael.

The whole programme sounded fascinating but work! But I managed one night off – donned a dress and took off to a five course gala dinner at the Tre-forni where Chef Koldo Royo’s offerings would be paired with wine from the house of Torres. It was a lovely experience.

Some lip smacking Sangria and fritters whet the appetite, strawberry gazpacho followed and then buttered and herbed mushroom on a bed of mashed peas. Two desserts – a convent-style coffee custard and a rice pudding flavoured with Spanish anise. The wines were fabulous too and I was taken with the dessert wine Floralis - Moscatel Oro – a sweet mouthful with tints of rose, geranium and lemon verbena.

The Spanish Ambassador, Gustavo De Aristegui, honoured the evening with his presence, and he came by to talk of wines, India, culture, Japan and Bollywood movies. Has Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara made a difference to tourism, I asked. Emphatically yes, he said, in fact the filmmakers and cast may be meeting the King of Spain to receive his appreciation.

I wish I had attended the Thai event as well. Another time.

What I did

There were so many things I meant to blog about but there wasn’t enough time when the mood came upon me, some posts needed an elaborate gathering of thoughts and links, some needed notes to be collated.

Still, I have a few updates. I spent the first fortnight of this month in the most unusual fashion: I was at the Isha Yoga Center to volunteer. They somehow had three programs lined up with a day’s gap between each and it seemed a good idea – at the time. Had I known how demanding the stint would be, I may have had second thoughts. I had attended all these programs last year and had been struck by the wholehearted devotion of the volunteers who had served the programs. It seemed very appropriate for me to do this as well. A part of it was a desire to ‘pay it forward’, and partly, having heard so much about the experience of volunteering, to taste for myself what such giving can do to the giver.

So I landed there on pournami, offered my services, my body, mind and presence in any manner they thought fit, and came away on amavasya – a poetically arranged period. It was quite a unique experience, something that broke quite a few notions of myself that I had lived comfortably with. I no longer know for sure. An advancement, of sorts.

Woh bhi kya din the, ke har veham yakin hota tha
Ab haqeeqat nazar aaye to use kya samjhoon?
-Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi

वो भी क्या दिन थे के हर वेहम यकीं होता था
अब हक़ीक़त नज़र आये तो उसे क्या समझूं ?
-अहमद नदीम क़ासमी

Now the prospect of other interesting travel faces me – excited, happy-excited. There are things beyond our imaginings, our wildest hopes… what a good thing we don’t always get only what we thought to ask for.

Barsan laagi...

...kari kari baadariya...
umad umad ghir kaare badal, nanhi nanhi boondariyan aayi

After a long time today, I have arranged it so I listen to a monsoon raga as it rains. Nazakat and Salamat Ali Khan with Megh Malhar. I remember doing this once many many years ago. Favourite music lay in tapes in those days and I had a second generation recording of Shiv Kumar Sharma playing Megh. Side B was, if memory serves me well, Jasraj singing Dhulia Malhar.
Inspired by tales of the elements pouring down when Tansen sang his own Malhar and diyas catching flame when he sang Raag Deepak, I tried it myself. Played the recordings a couple of times back to back, sent up the rain yearnings with as much intensity as I could manage. And it rained. For hours. All day. And the next. I had no doubt at all I had caused it. There is something to be said for faith and innocence.

Phool khile hain...

The rains are here again, everything is beautiful and our jasmines are flowering. We have four plants around the house and mercy be, they’re all putting out buds.

One of these is a particularly insane giver. Once spring arrives, it kicks gears all the way up. No holding back, no spacing out… just whooooosh. For a week or ten days, the whole creeper turns white with abundance. My mother – grateful and dismayed at this bounty – would need several pairs of helping hands to haul them in. Then she would sit and laboriously try to string as many as humanly possible into garlands.

I’ve always enjoyed gathering these flowers, which I found a bit surprising. I used to have a very low boredom threshold and surely this is boring, repetitive work? But I think now there is a meditative quality about the activity. Giving, taking, loving, thanking… a sweet transaction.

I was so pleased yesterday to have samples from all four shrubs, I took the trouble to document it. For whiteness and fragrance, I do believe our big ones could rival the mallis of Madurai.

And here, simply because the malli is the recipient of the hero’s confidences, being asked to bear witness to the woes that beset his life, this song. Also because I love Ghantasala’s extra long caress of the phrase “mounamuga unnaaaa…ra?” The song actually begins at 4.28 so jump ahead please – this was only video I found.

King Jack

I have been told once or twice that it is impossible to be ambivalent about jackfruit. I’ve come across people who shudder and blanch at the smell, but I unequivocally love it. I have even tried on a couple of occasions to use the seed – peeled, boiled, peeled, chopped and put into sambhar. What an amazing fruit it is! Such perfect packaging, its smell the very embodiment of tropical lushness… I wonder at its audacity in growing so high up on a tree. Surely something this enormous should grow along the ground?

I’ve confessed here and there that I’m a city girl with deep country love. Then you will understand how much it galls me to eat halasina hannu out of a packet thus. Five measly pieces sold for Rs 10. 

There are whole fruits available but it is impossible to convince my father to buy one. He baulks at carrying it home from the local market, for which he has my sympathies. Besides he jibs at the possible waste, which is nonsense. I would eat it, cook it, pickle it, worship it. Also he suspects (with good reason) that he’ll be lumped with the job of disembowelling it. Which, as anyone who has experience in these matters knows, is a very difficult business. The hands must be oiled; considerable muscle, skill and patience is needed.

   

What I need is a Man Friday. To cut up jackfruit, peel coconuts that have fallen in the garden and disappear conveniently the rest of the time.

Azaan

Do you find that it tugs you just there?

The cavity below the ribs, a throbbing hole

Every evening as dusk falls and then, a few minutes after,

The azaan goes up.

Plaintive, my neighbourhood muezzin!

His voice soars and dips, and I soar and fall in sympathy.

A grief grips me sometimes, a sadness, a trembling –

Call it existential angst.

A few brief minutes and he trails away,

And I return, blindly, to my computer screen.

Dhuan dhukhay mere murshid wala…

….jaan pholaan taan laal ni*


My heart was cleansed anew two or three days ago. It had gathered debris, a film of dust perhaps, or to borrow and stretch a metaphor: like a lit cigarette that has a thickness of ash still clinging. A small flick and the ash has fallen – the flame breathes and smoulders red again.

Earlier this week, I attended a lecture on Daag Dehlvi and the speaker quoted this evocative sher by Sauda, which appealed very much.

Aadam ka jism jab ki anaasir se mil banaa
Kuchh aag bach rahi thi so aashiq ka dil bana

आदम का जिस्म जब भी अनासिर से मिल बना
कुछ आग बच रही थी सो आशिक का दिल बना
 

When the five elements blended to form Adam’s body
A leftover flame went to making the lover’s heart.

========

*From Farid's Mae ni mai kinnu aakhan
[Trans. My Master’s fire spits and smoulders
Red hot, everywhere I blow]