Bridges

A crossing or a crossover?

Bridges

bridges are made

for one to pause

to ponder and gaze

and then to cross

© 

Dreams

These things called dreams.

Dreams

some sell them
and some buy them,
some earn them,
some yearn for them,
some make them
and some break them—
these things called dreams—
and then there are some
who fake them
or so it seems

©

[Location: Dihua Street, Taipei]

Misty Hues

The umpteen worlds in the world at large.

 

Misty Hues

miniscule windows,
infinitesimal doors,
minute balconies,
storeys upon storeys
of invisible stories
veiled in misty hues,
tales of love and rue
in every drop of dew—
the infinite worlds
in a tiny speck
of the universe

©

[PC: MP Padmakumar / Location: Shimla]

A Conversation with Anjali Bajpai

A Sunday afternoon chit-chat with Anjali Bajpai at Badi Bindi Guftagu, founded by  playwright, theatre actor, folk singer and poet Vibha Rani. The channel is a literary and cultural initiative which holds engaging conversations with women achievers. I am impressed that the channel has completed a journey of 24 years. I feel grateful, humbled and honoured that they chose to include me on their list of guests.

 

Artisan

Where the creation and the created merge with the creator.

Artisan

 

when the lines that define

dissipate and fade,

when the shapes and shades

with the space interlace,

when the hues transfuse

the night and the light,

when the canvas eases

itself from the easel

to gently merge

with the universe,

then the art is not apart

but one with the artisan

 

©

[Location: Atal Tunnel, Rohtang / North Portal]

 

A Childhood in Malabar—A Memoir

 

Title: A Childhood in Malabar—A Memoir
Genre: Memoir
Author: Kamala Das
Translator: Gita Krishnankutty
Publisher: Penguin Books
Original titles (two volumes): Balyakala Smaranakal/Varshangalkku Mumbu

Amy's Childhood Encounters with the Raw, Real World of Nalapat

I was in a hurry. I picked up two books on the go. One of them was “A Childhood in Malabar” by Kamala Das. By the way, this bug has got into my system. Of wanting to revisit timeless and modern classics—both movies and books. So when I saw the author’s name, I didn’t give it a second look. I just picked it up, got it issued and rushed out. Let me confess, if I had realised I was picking up the translated edition, I would have looked for the original. Not that I don’t read translated works. (Why would I not since I too occasionally try my hand at translation?) But I would prefer the original if I knew the language. Having said that, I now have no regrets that I picked this book up.

Gita Krishnankutty’s translation flows smoothly. Not for a moment would the reader feel this is a translated version. For me, reading this book gave some learning too on how a translation should sound and feel. While reading, I found myself translating certain words and phrases back to what I felt would have been the original Malayalam. I found this a delightful challenge. But more importantly, this shows how close to perfect Gita’s translation must be.

The memoir is a series of anecdotes which reads like a novel. They give you glimpses of how the young Kamala and her brother tried to find their feet in their native land where they were temporarily shifted to from Calcutta during the times of the Second World War. The reader gets a peek into Kamala’s mind, as she is pleasantly surprised at the conservative and religious ways of the people in the new environs and, at the same time, quietly disturbed at the class and caste differences and discriminations there.

The child’s perspective is maintained throughout the book with all its naivety and curiosity. And the readiness to believe all that one heard in a world that was hitherto unfamiliar to her.

Everyone appreciated the dishes Kunju Nair made. After his death, none of the cooks who succeeded him achieved his standards. People therefore lost interest in food, and apparently this was the most important provocation for dividing the wealth of the taravad later. It was the children of the family who told me these secrets. [P15, para 3]

Childhood memories remain unerased for a reason. They are like torches that light up the path to your future. The childlike wisdom of  young Kamala, who would grow up to become a writer known across the world for her intelligence and individuality, is evident in what she captured and held in her heart right from when she started noticing the world around her.

There were two types of people in our village at that time: a group who thought of truth as lies and another that thought of lies as truth. Both groups were entangled in a web of fallacy. [P63, last para]

The narrative flows at the same slow pace as that of the life in a traditional taravad of Kerala. The calmness on the surface is deceptive, as it hides the turbulence underneath. The author deftly—and subtly—brings this out.

‘She is not afraid of anything because she lives in Calcutta. She doesn’t even know snakes are poisonous! No one’s explained these things to her either,’ said Kali Narayanan.

‘Let her grow up like that, not knowing fear,’ said Ammamma. [P172, paras 2 and 3]

Among many things that fascinates me as a reader is the author’s creative brilliance in bringing out her slow discovery of her own roots as a child and then her gradually growing attachment to the place, its people and their ways. Her attachment to her Ammamma lurks between the lines through the entire narrative.

‘Won’t we take Ammamma to Calcutta?’

‘How can we take her? Doesn’t she have to look after things here? She’ll stay in the village. I’ll take you with me and make you an elegant, fashionable girl. Right?’

At that moment, I dreaded the city and its fashionable ways, the circus, everything… [P130, paras 1,2,3]

Kudos to Gita Krishnankutty for preserving all the understated emotions in the stories intact. The translation reads like it was the original, while it retains the regional flavour of the original. Every word and line of this charming memoir was a heart-warming read.

©

Infinitesimal

 

Infinitesimal

infinite ocean

incredible horizon

infinitesimal me

©

Scatterbrain

 

Scatterbrain

seeking beauty

in every frame

ah! my scattered brain

©

Perch

 

Perch

from a quaky perch

nestled in a shaky tree–

caught on a high!

©

Afternoon Spree

 

Afternoon Spree

picking up bits

and pieces of bliss–

afternoon spree

©

Lone Star

 

Lone Star

caught between

light and dark

a lone star

©

Tipsy

 

Tipsy

an urn full of wine

overturns–

a tipsy morning

©

Afternoon

Afternoon

the night gathers,

the noon still lingers

unawares

©

 

Touch Me Not

Touch Me Not

shade or shine

let me be with my lot

touch me not

©

Doorway

 

Doorway

a doorway guards

a distant past

future passes through

©

A Sip of Dawn

 

A Sip of Dawn

tipped and dropped

into the railing pot

a sip of aurora

©

Backyards

[Mathur, Kerala]

Backyards

unfading past

unchanging backyards

changing facades

©

Wake-up Call

 

Wake-up Call

a slice of dawn

hangs in wait

I wake up late

©

Valleys

[Pokhara, Nepal]

Valleys

 

sky bathed in blush

clouds in a stealthy rush

valleys hush-hush

©

Infinity

[Kanthalloor, Kerala]

Infinity

where road ends

infinity begins

earth meets heavens

©

Morning Cuppa

 

Morning Cuppa

a drop of sun

a cup of shine

daily decoction

©

Samalkot Station & Other Stories

Prose, or poetry, or something beyond?

Title: Samalkot Station & Other Stories
Author: Sindhoor Varkoor
Genre: Short Stories
Publisher: Notion Press
Stores: Amazon, Flipkart, etc.

The sea spoke in murmurs only the heart could hear, wrapping me in its rhythm.

In those moments, I moved like the mermaid – as though born from salt and story. [p.83]

Sindhoor Varkoor’s Samalkot Station & Other Stories hover somewhere between prose and poetry. If at all you have to give them a name, you may call them haibun. Let me confess, I have just a smattering of the Japanese formats of writing. That being said, is it essential every piece of writing is categorised or labelled as one genre or the other? No, not really. Not when you are thoroughly enjoying the read anyway.

There’s something about wood that I have always loved – it smells of forests, of damp roots buried in rich earth…That old almirah wasn’t just furniture; it was memory, magic and meaning all woven together. [p. 14]

The short verse that follows every story carries the entire spirit of the story in a few lines. Varkoor’s prose has the feel of poetry. It touches you like a cool gentle breeze on a warm summer afternoon. Her poetry stirs something inside you so you want to read it again, and again. And then it settles you, soothing your soul. The reader doesn’t realise when the prose transcends to poetry.

flowing stream
stones settle
down
unsettled [p.36]

The stories sound personal – personal not only to the writer but also to you as a reader. Not that you have gone through similar situations as her protagonists, but because you feel you belong to their world.

alarm…
her anklets
wake up the household [p.46]

There’s something personal for me in the above poem, though. This reminds me of my own childhood days when my Ammamma’s click-click of her flip-flop, as she busily walked down the central corridor of our home, woke us up as we tried to sleep in on Sundays. Her story and poetry renditions still ring in my ears like music. But enough of that. This is about Varkoor’s stories. But you get my point. This author’s stories resonate with the reader. There is something in them that may sometimes evoke a memory and sometimes echo your thought.

This is Amma’s world – the mango tree, the neighbour’s woes, the gate, the creaky chair, the echo of footfalls that no longer return. [p.17]

The story “Amma Maatalu” brought tears to my eyes. And so did the concluding poem. There’s more in the poem than its words.

death anniversary
crows gather as
mom folds
dad’s black coat
into silence [p.17]

The author uses common threads of ordinary life to weave enchanting narratives. “Shraddha Extension” is a subtle story set in as commonplace an environment as a busy (probably kids') store.  The setting could as well be a slice from anybody's life. But the magic of the author's storytelling brings out the emotional impact of the moment.

Varkoor’s way of writing appeals to all your senses. The music of the sea, the fragrance of freesia, the flavour of tea, the vision of the "shreds of peacock-blue silk hanging like wounded feathers" – you can experience them all and suchlike in her writing.

The book, with its illustrations, looks charming to say the least. Viswaprasad Raju’s sketches have captured the soul of Varkoor’s narrative. As with the poems, there’s more in the pictures than their lines.

©

 

'Art of the City

Today, I chanced upon a snatch of an article I had begun writing some time back and left halfway through it, and some old photographs which brought with them a rush of memories. Memories of a short trip I made a couple of years ago. A whirlwind of a holiday. Or call it a dream. A dream of a holiday. Because it was like a dream in every way. It came upon me out of nowhere, when I was least expecting it. Like a dream, it was beautiful. And before I knew it, I woke up at home, on my own bed, to my regular routine of a life. But whenever I reminisce this surprise of a holiday, the memories never fail to bring with them a rush of joy. A holiday to a beautiful city where art throbs in its heart.

Art can manifest in different places. An artist’s mind is a canvas, their home an environment of art and artists. A street can be an easy space for art. A place can be home or a memorial to an art or artist. An event could be a dedication to art. But for an entire city to look like a single, extensive work of art! And that’s Paris. The colours and the designs, the art and the architecture, all seamlessly blend with each other. The roads are like an unravelling of a story without an end. The city, from every angle, is picture perfect, and its people merge into the picture. Any shopping street looks like a page out of a fashion magazine. A sidewalk might as well be a ramp. It’s not for nothing that Paris is called the world’s fashion capital. The city far exceeds your expectation.

Art can co-exist with the business of life. Paris is testimony to that. Art not only co-exists, it lives and thrives even with the mundane day-to-day existence of its people. In fact it mellows the monotony in the mundane. Art breathes beauty into every activity in the city. Paris is proof that it is possible to have art in every square inch and around every nook and corner of a city. It is possible to have art in every phase of its evolution. Art can nourish and nurture civilizations, and carry the spirit of the times through generations. Again, Paris proves it.

Every region has its history, its dark pages and golden ages. Throw light on them, expose them, or celebrate them. Accept them for what they are and/or leave them. But let not go the art of those times. Preserve it as it has always been. The art will speak for itself the history of its times, its journey and its evolution. For every piece of art we celebrate today, we are indebted to its past, our past.

Time and tyranny could have destroyed or defaced the works of art of a region. But why not restore them if you can, and preserve them anyway. Let the art narrate the stories of your land. Let the stories be told in all their truth. Stories of love and loss, wars and battles, victories and defeats, conquests and invasions. Stories of repression, revolution and redefinition. Let nothing destroy the art of your land, let nothing spoil the aesthete in you. 

©