Kise pesh karun

These past couple of days have gone in a nostalgic haze – revisiting songs we loved when we were younger. What a wonderful thing youtube is. I took one trip down today to enjoy songs from this 1964 film called Gazal. Before my time, but I saw it on trusty old Doordarshan. Given my affinity for Sunil Dutt, old film music, the ghazal, Sahir Ludhianvi and black and white cinema, what was not to love?

So many things to say about these songs that I don’t know where to begin. The music is by the melodious Madan Mohan, the poetry by Sahir and the movie features the wonderfully emotive Meena Kumari and an earnest Sunil Dutt. A love story, mostly.

The protagonists meet, banter and woo in poetry and song. When I heard it again, I yearned for the song to be an integrated part of the film again – not a disconnected ‘item’ number, not an elaboration on happiness or grief or drama that is already happening, not entertainment but song as conversation, song as advancement of the story. And when it takes the form of ghazal, subhan allah!

Ejaz – our hero, the atheist revolutionary poet – is taking a leisurely stroll on the banks of the Yamuna in Agra when he hears a voice longing for love. Kise pesh karun, she is singing, to whom shall I present these gifts of verse, these brimming feelings? These warm breaths, the secrets my lips hold, the inky darkness of my tresses?

Koi humraaz to paaun, koi hamdam to mile,
Dil ke dhadkan ke ishaarat kise pesh karun
To whom, the promptings of this beating heart?


 

Ejaz is delighted. Later, at a mehfil that Naaz Ara is also attending, he uses her radif and qafiya to put his own spin on it. See how Sahir converts everything that was soft and feminine in the first version into something robust and very masculine. To whom shall I present the heat of my feelings, these searing nights and days?

And see how Meena Kumari listens to the poetry being recited… multi-layered responses flitting across her expressive countenance. Her outrage at being plagiarised, then her indignation at being countered by this audacious young man, then being moved by the tributes he’s paying her and finally agitation that he is repeating her very own couplet back to her – by now she has figured that he’s too talented to want to rip her off, what he’s doing is appropriating it, syncing his own explosive feelings with hers. This was the stuff of the old Muslim socials – to fall in love with a beloved you haven’t laid eyes on yet.


 

Things go wrong as they are apt to do in love stories and Naaz Ara is marrying Akhtar Nawab (the suave Rahman who, poor man, always seems to be put in the position of hankering after someone else’s woman). Ejaz is singing at her wedding. The same radif and qafiya; something like their song. Ye mere sher mere aakhri nazrane hai… it is one final gift of poetry.

Madan Mohan alters the mood dramatically. And Sahir alters the form – this is not a ghazal but a variation that filmi shayars (for instance, also Shakeel Badayuni) achieved. The first lines form a couplet but the following ones have three lines, of which the first two rhyme and the third takes on the radif and qafiya of the first matla.
Like so:

rang aur noor ki baraat kise pesh karun
ye muradon ki haseen raat kise pesh karun

kaun kahata hai ki chahat pe sabhi ka haq hai
tu jise chahe tera pyar usi ka haq hai
mujh se kahde main tera haath kise pesh karun



There are other ghazals in this movie but that’s for another time.  However, I must say how much I miss the Muslim Social. The delicacy involved in all social transactions, the shayari, the use of hijab and purdah as delicious plot devices… it makes me sigh. Koi lautade mere beete hue din…

Creatures, great and small

I have said once or twice before how flattered the Vyases feel when wild creatures come visiting. We like stray cats and dogs to stay in the yard but we had a parrot swagger into our drawing room once and we nearly kept it.

Some part of our delight must’ve been due to this Enid Blyton that Shweta and I read over and over again as children. The Children of the Cherry Tree Farm had four city kids visit the English countryside. There they meet a wild man called Tammylan who introduces them to the wild. I’ve blogged about Tammylan before, here.

Blyton gets a lot of rap these days for very many reasons but as millions of our generation know, she gave us oh, so much joy and excitement. She held up all manner of traits we could emulate – if she made the aggressive Elizabeth Allen her protagonist in the Naughtiest Girl series, she could make an ideal of the shy, retiring sorts as well. In this book, Benjy is a timid, dreamy type of lad… unremarkable, except he has a deep quietude about him. He has “the low voice and the quiet hands of those who love the wild creatures”, and it is Benjy whom Tammylan first invites to come and meet his wild friends – rabbits, hares, snakes and badgers.

I suppose for children like me - susceptible to that sort of appeal - the capacity for being still became a virtue, reining in of unruly energy became a matter of discipline. We put our spins on what we receive but that was a good lesson, I’ve always thought. Needless to say, I longed to be Benjy. I have never succeeded with getting a squirrel to come to hand but I must tell you about this tailorbird.

He has been coming to roost in our back verandah everyday for more than a week now. It was spring-like weather and surely all god’s creatures must be out there, wooing and mating, building and breeding. And here was this fellow, coming to bed at 6.30 pm daily. He sits at the edge of this washing line, holding onto the wire, wedged tight against the roof and his head snug under the wing.

At first we were delighted. Shweta theorised that nest-building work was ongoing and that our tailorbird was here on a temporary basis. Now it does not appear to be the case – our bird has the air of someone who has found excellent living quarters going very cheap and does not mean to vacate it. Then worry struck. Was this tailorbird of a slacker ‘kaljugi’ generation… you know, just lazy? Had he not inherited the skills necessary to be ahead with the world? Preeti, who came by one day and caught sight of him by torchlight has been worried and seeking regular updates.

We have other problems also. For fear of disturbing this bird, we have been forced to forego use of the verandah every evening. Unfortunately, since he is perched just above the washbasin, it is very inconvenient.

However, we are now a little relieved of our concerns. The Wikipedia entry (which should have been consulted sooner) says:

“The birds roost alone during the non-breeding season but may roost side-by-side during the breeding season, sometimes with the newly fledged juvenile sandwiched between the adults. The roost sites chosen are thin twigs on trees with cover above them and were often close to human habitation and lights.”

So our guest is probably a carefree bachelor who has made do with a clothesline and roof – what’s life without a little jugaad? He likes the lights, so we don’t have to tiptoe around him. And he likes us, so that is a very, very good thing.

Aaj to hajari hanso

Trying to play some music on this blog. As a test, this wonderful wonderful song by Mukhtiyar Ali...

पाल पुरानी जल नुवो तो हंस्लो बैठो आये   

प्रीत पुरानी रे कारणों वो चुग चुग कंकर खाए 

आज तो हजारी हंसो पावनो रे हेली...

the banks are old but the water is fresh, and the swan swoops to sit

for the sake of an old love, he stays pecking at pebbles...

Today, the revered swan is a honoured guest, Heli...

The 'hans' is traditional imagery for the soul, the body is where it temporarily perches. The banks are the same, the water's fresh and the love, for whose sake all this is played out, is very old. 

The swan is always only a guest. Here today, gone tomorrow.

Now, hoping this works:

Snit

Supremely irritated.
Isn't it annoying how anything - anything at all - rapidly becomes about society, community, rules, demands, expectations? I have limited energy and some enthusiasm to spare and HATE it when people try to yoke it for their ends. 
bah.

Covering ground

This has been up here too long:

tough as we sound
our eyes
on the fireflies
-Paul Pfleuger, Jr.

I have been too lazy to refresh this and although there was one haiku that haunted me throughout this winter, it was too special to put up somehow. But talking of things that need to be cleared, here is the new one:

falling leaves
my friend and I
discuss clutter
-Connie Donleycott

It is autumn again and the leaves are falling. We have two Ashoka trees and the leaves are yellowing and dropping off in abundance. It is hot and dry too, so the ground crackles with the ones that are a day old, but the very top layer of the carpet is made up of softer vegetation.
My mother hated the mess they made. I always thought fallen leaves romantic and often tried to curb her zeal in ruthlessly clearing them out. If she had her way my mother would sweep the yard four times a day.
But holding house in her stead now, the leaves no longer seem that enchanting. We burnt a huge pile of them yesterday and just as the colony sweepers started to walk away from the still-smouldering fire, there was a dust-gale. It brought down a fresh flutter of gold and there was no help for it at all.

I wish my friend was here, even if only to discuss the clutter.

Sighing

...at the gulf between theory and practice.

Things to do

A nice warmish afternoon. Shall I play the Chaap Tilak playlist I've carefully put together and take up my dhurrie to embroider? Or pick up the Georgette Heyer I have a bookmark in? Or watch an episode of Burn Notice that's streamed and ready on my laptop? Or follow a juicy debate online that's ruffled a lot of literary feathers?
Or work perhaps - get on with some pieces I'm doing and need to be delivered before I start feeling harassed about them?

An embarrassment of riches. A blogpost's the only way to resolve such delicious dilemmas.

Janus-ing

saying goodbye
the river flowing
one way
-Cindy Truong

Intelligence and Knowledge

Sadhguru Jaggi Vasudev always makes sense to me but I particularly loved his piece in Deccan Chronicle yesterday. He talks of intelligence vs knowledge, the incisive nature of one and the burden of the other. Knowledge has always been held rather low by spiritualists - it falls short, the intellect itself is thought to fall very short when it comes to spiritual challenges. Then he touches on the burden of identities - what you think you are and the labels you pin on yourself that tell you what to think.

All of which strikes a chord, so I'm placing the whole thing here for my record.

It is very important to know the difference between intelligence and knowledge. Intelligence is like a flashlight. If you flash it, it’ll just show you what’s there. Knowledge is like a projector; if you switch it on, it will project its own story. Now, if you come with a flashlight and flash it on a painting, you will see the painting just as it is.

But if you come with a projector, which also has light in it and turn it on, you don’t see the painting but the cinema that’s running inside. Maybe you’ll see M.G. Ramachandran dancing, but not the painting the way it is. That’s the difference between knowledge and intelligence. This is why knowledge is a huge burden in the spiritual path, because it always projects its own story on life.

Now if you meet me before a class and ask me what today’s class is, I won’t know a damn thing. I don’t have the burden of knowledge in me. People who are burdened by knowledge cannot smile, cannot laugh, cannot be open to many things. When I walk on the street, I don’t walk with the burden of knowledge on me. On the other hand, intelligence is something that everybody is endowed with, but they keep their flashlights covered.

Because they like it so much, they painted the glass with their own designs, now they don’t see anything the way it is. If you value your intelligence, you should not paint it with anything; you must just leave it the way it is.

Now, the moment your intelligence gets entangled with identifications, it is all screwed up. It’s all distorted. It doesn’t show you things the way they actually are. It’ll distort everything, depending upon what types of identities you have taken. You need to understand this, if you sit here with any kind of identification, you will not see anything the way it is because the very structure of the mind will function from that identity.

If you have no identifications at all, then your mind will become still, empty like the sky. It can contain everything at the same time and not be burdened by anything. Knowledge means a certain accumulation. In that sense, knowledge is an impediment, but if you see things the way they are, that is not an impediment that is the only way you can walk clearly.

Meditation cleans the flashlight. When you become meditative, your intellectual capabilities will be at least 10 fold more than what it is right now. Not that meditation makes you intelligent, but because meditation clears up the mess, the muck that’s gathered on the glass of the flashlight. It just clears it up, more and more. As it clears up, the flashlight becomes more and more powerful; it shows you things more and more clearly.

All about cats - 1

Cats, cats, cats in the garden. A few months ago, we had a fresh line of cats. The incumbent went missing and a new-looking series took charge. Those numbered three. All striped fellows, of which more anon.

Then, recently one of said striped fellows turned out to be a felli, er... female feline, of whom Shweta said, "Zaroor kahin muh kaala kar ke aayi hai!" It was to be expected from a young cat in vigorous health but the colour was spot on. We even know who the father is. "Not a good character," Shweta thinks, but sins of the father etc because we cannot bear to hold the father's character against the kittens. They are all black. One has a hint of white on the paws, therefore Socks. The other... well, is Doosra.

The mother is very good, as you will see by and by. Very poised for a first-timer. She is affectionate, not over protective and is a rather enthusiastic participant in all manner of rambunctious games.

When she goes off on her motherly and catly duties, she is firm that they toe the line. Her preferred hidey-hole is a small protected space we have where we house our water pump. Stay here, she tells them, and they do, come rain or shine. My dad goes spare worrying about them there, half lest they gnaw at the wires and half that they may be hurt; we now have to check everyday before we switch the motor on. And since we cannot make them leave - the Vyases have not progressed so far in cat love as to touch them - we wait till they go voluntarily.

Here are some pictures. 

Mother Cat

Safe House

Doosra

Sorry for the messed up chronology but I have videos coming up of the Striped Triplets and some of the Black Twins in play. But you're used to Star Wars and all, what's a little mixed up cat genealogy?

Ae ve mere peer di jugni ji

I realise I’m beginning to make a symbol of fireflies. The other day, I relished the idea of a firefly-guide, dancing ahead of me as it illuminates the path. The words for it sound so nice – jugnu, minmini, minugupurugu...
Shweta and I were trekking once in Coorg. It was a simply wonderful; each campsite during the six-day trek was special. We ploughed through spice and coffee plantations one afternoon and arrived at a flattish sort of a valley where we set up camp. It had rained earlier but the mud and fibrous grass had caked into fairly hard ground. As we sat about, we puzzled over crater-like depressions that riddled the field. Largeish depressions; in fact, I sat comfortably in one. Then we remembered we were in elephant country. These pockmarked fields had, perhaps only last night, had a wild herd cross it, and what I was sitting in was a footprint.

We had dinner around the fire and by the time we wound down to snug sleepiness, the looming hills around us came alive with fireflies. They blinked and messaged – their codes complex, secret and very beautiful.

All this to point to a new header:

tough as we sound
our eyes
on the fireflies
-Paul Pfleuger, Jr.

We have tried to be brave this year. Disbelief comes even now, especially every morning at the point before complete wakefulness. Reminders come in bald statements: Mum’s dead. Of course. It’s silly to be sissy about death. It comes to everyone and when it’s such a good one, it’s cause for rejoicing. Also the alternative to this bracing attitude is a very crumbly mess. Not a good idea. It would be unworthy, unfair to the woman who put in so much to strengthening us, and quite wrong.

It is enough to be given the occasional firefly.



---------
The title is from this Coke Studio lyric:
Ae ve mere peer di jugni ji (oh, the light/spirit of my sainted master)

The song by Arif Lohar and Meesha Shafi is here:

Jab koi doosra nahin hota

मेरे साथ साथ सदा रहा, वो मेरी नज़र से छुपा हुआ
येह अजीब हिज्र-ओ-विसाल है, ना कभी मिला ना जुदा हुआ

He is ever with me, even if hidden from view
A strange union-separation; we never met, never parted

मेरे साथ जुगनू है और जुगनू की इस सफ़र में भी साथ क्या
ये चराग कोई चराग है, ना जला हुआ ना बुझा हुआ

I am guided by a firefly, and what a companion he is!
Is it a lamp, then? never lit, never extinguished

Happy Birthday, Amma!