Infinitesimal

 

Infinitesimal

infinite ocean

incredible horizon

infinitesimal me

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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

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Wake-up Call

 

Wake-up Call

a slice of dawn

hangs in wait

I wake up late

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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

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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. 

©

Ceasefire

pc: pngtree.com

 

Sue & Rue

Sue: Now, about this ‘ceasefire’, Rue...

Rue: Now, cease talking about it, Sue.

Sue: But why?

Rue: ‘Cos it’s lost all its fire.

©

Did I Really Do All This?

Book Title: DID I REALLY DO ALL THIS?
Genre: Memoirs
Author: Vijay Raman
Publisher: Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd. 

As an Indian living far down South, my first impression, as a kid, of the Chambal Valley was thanks to India’s iconic silver screen villain, Gabbar Singh, in the epic film, "Sholay". Apart from that, my childhood memories of a few train journeys, crossing the Valley, remain distant and vague. And then came Shekhar Kapur’s "The Bandit Queen", by which time I was an adult. The movie left me, as it did many others, disturbed. Of course, there were many other films too made on the baddies of the badlands, but they never reached the theatres of the South. And somewhere in between, I got to read about the daring, swashbuckling Vijay Raman IPS’ intense, gruelling encounters with the dacoits of the Chambal Valley. Those were real-time stories, and he was, undoubtedly, the real hero. Ever since I got to know about the book, “Did I Really Do All This”, I was looking forward to reading it. The book throws as much light on the man, the author, as on his illustrious career as a high-ranking police officer.

In contrast to the typical image of a policeman, Vijay Raman IPS, obviously, was a kind, compassionate, sensitive, and easily approachable police officer. Several incidents in his career, as revealed in the book, are testimonies to this. However, much remains unsaid, unwritten, or so this reader feels. Much is left to be read between the lines. There is much more to the man beyond the surface. Buried deep within him, and such guardians of law, must be a burden of emotions – the leftovers of many a job done well. This anguish is a huge sacrifice made by them, perhaps known only to them.

“One day, I received a report of the discovery of an unidentified dead body. Somehow the name of the place, which fell under the police station of Pandokhar, rang a bell, and I found myself rushing anxiously towards it with a growing sense of dread. It was about 100 km from Gwalior and by the time I got there, the body, though badly mauled and with limbs dismembered, had been identified. Beside it sat a woman clutching two children tightly to herself and wailing loudly.

It was a terrible, terrible feeling to know that this was my fault. I was responsible for the death of this informer. I was the person responsible for all those who were killed by Devi Singh after his release, until he was terminated by my junior, SP Asha Gopal. It would always remain on my conscience that my actions, though purely with the intention of upholding human rights and protecting human life, had led to so much violence and misery.” (p. 48)

When the author looks upon his own actions objectively, he is harsh on himself, but not in the least does he flinch from facing what he believes is the truth, albeit bitter.

“I did feel flattered by his description of me, and the objective way in which he reported what I had told him: my understanding and sympathy for dacoits as human beings that later became influenced by the suffering they wreaked on the villagers and seeing my own men crippled and killed in encounters. I told him that when I dealt with dacoits, I had to become as dehumanized as they were, shedding all sensibility, becoming exactly what my enemy was. I did not like it, but it happened.” (p. 58)

At the end of it all, after all the sacrifices and criticisms, does the law enforcer feel it was all worth it? Perhaps yes. But with some misgivings. The author speaks about the flip side, or the “alternate and rather harsh reality” of his encounter with Paan Singh Tomar which led to the decimation of Tomar and his gang.

“…to the media across the world and in India too, it was a hero who had been brutally gunned down. Paan Singh had served in the Indian Army. He had won athletics medals for India. When he returned home to his village, the disparities and inequities of Indian society had given him no choice but to turn to dacoity. The media focused on these, and this gave rise to huge sympathy for Paan Singh and even contempt for the law-keepers who had gunned him and his gang down. There was no mention of the fact that, in the course of our duty, and at great risk to our own lives, we had removed a dangerous criminal and his gang from the face of this earth. However, the people of Chambal and its surroundings, who had lived in terror of the gang’s burglaries and abductions, were deeply grateful for the capture.” (pp. 76-77)

The series of incidents that led to the execution of the bandit and his coterie is no less gripping than a suspense-filled silver-screen thriller. But one shouldn’t excerpt them here and spoil the surprise of a prospective reader.

And with as much as a few words, in an aside, Vijay Raman dispels the myths created by the movies around the highly romanticised, heroic image of the bandits.

“In those days, no dacoits in Chambal were going around on horseback. They were all walking. The movies have depicted this incorrectly. There were no horses, and there could not have been horses, because horses meant expenditure; they meant money. Where would the fodder for a horse come from? Where could the money come from? Every source of money could be detected. At night, when a gang is surrounded, you can tell your men to be silent, but can you keep your horses silent? The horses will neigh. And horses are easy to track, by their excreta, among other things. The dacoits do not ride on horseback – they walk. They walk through the ravines. I know that Malkhan used to walk every night, often as much as 22 km!” (pp. 61-62)

How the poor viewers’ lack of common sense is being taken for granted continuously by the filmmakers. One wonders how all those movies turned out to be the blockbusters they were. How far away are the general public from reality!

As one reads on, one realises that this “simple, straightforward” cop commanded the respect of even the lawbreakers. Take for instance Malkhan Singh’s surrender. Vijay Raman didn’t just defeat his opponent but won him over.

“That was the day on which a dacoit from the ravines of Chambal came to Delhi, made enquiries to find out where I lived and, when he found out, climbed eight floors (lifts scared him!) to come to my home (adorning a tilak, holding a gun!) to pay me a visit. He had honoured me with his rituals (touching feet, offering tilak, paying Rs. 101 shagun!), assuring me that, despite being on opposite sides of the law, despite my holding out relentlessly against him, he had always held me in respect and continued to do so.” (p. 112)

The author’s deceptively stoic recountal of the gruesome scenes that unfolded before his eyes following the Bhopal Gas Leakage, as he rushed back and forth between the hospital and the railway station, trying to make sense of the traumatic effects of the Tragedy and deal with them, makes it all the more heart-wrenching.

“The entire platform, a huge expanse, was filled with dead bodies. They were lying helter-skelter, as they had fallen, and I could see many corpses with intestines spilling out of the anal area. I did not allow the dreadful sight to affect me – it was my duty to find someone here who could tell me what had happened. I walked around to try and locate a person who was still alive, but could not.” (p. 122)

Vijay Raman’s portrayal brings out the writer in him as he makes the situation come alive in the reader’s mind so much so that they can see, feel and hear the panic.

“As they ran, people panted, struggled for breath, and inhaled even more than they would have if they had not ran! That image of people running for their lives, and the very act of running taking them closer to death, is one that will never leave me.” (p. 123)

This super cop’s daredevilry and adventure was not confined to his job, which was, as it were, adrenaline-fuelled. He was also full of fun and frolic. What else could have taken him around the world, along with his friend, in a Contessa in less than 40 days to earn a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records! He narrates the tour hour by thrilling hour, without leaving out any of the delightful surprises (or the rude shocks!) that popped up on the way. From the preparation for the tour to the receipt of the certificate, he relates, at length, the tiniest of details.

The passages quoted above are but a few, fleeting peeks into the book, which is replete with revelations on the action-filled life of Vijay Raman, the outstanding police officer who was also a remarkable human being. The list of his achievements and accomplishments are long, and include the liquidation of the mastermind behind the 2001 Parliament attack, Ghazi Baba, giving protection to four Prime Ministers of India, initiating the fencing of the Indo-Pak border, and so on and so forth, each one more engrossing than the other.

The book leaves the reader in awe of this dauntless man who had put his life at risk and had a brush with death, not once but several times, for the security of the nation and its people. His writing style is incredibly unassuming for a man who had created history at about every turn in his life.

In closing, one wonders if this note has turned out to be more about the man than about his book. Perhaps Vijay Raman was a man who couldn’t be separate from his purpose, his duty, or his actions. The more one reads into the book, the more one feels he identified himself with all three. His wife Veena Raman’s anecdotes throw more light on the personal side of this legendary man. You close the book with a sense of sadness, though. The author left this world before he could see his book published. But then, perhaps, it would have hardly made a difference to him, the karmayogi that he was.

©

Legends of the Hill

Title of the Book: Legends of the Hill
Author: Ruskin Bond
Genre: Stories
Publisher: Rupa Publications India Pvt. Ltd.

Everyday life and things are not as commonplace as they are made out to be. There are quaint, interesting, intriguing stories lying hidden in them. You just need to have the eye and ear for them. Ruskin Bond sees the extraordinary amidst the very ordinary. And he weaves amazing stories around them.

In “Legends of the Hill”, Bond’s writing flows like a mountain breeze. It carries the fragrance of the forests and the echoes of the valley. Characters are incredibly natural. Even the ghosts are like normal beings. There is no suspense built up around them, for they are part of the environment, the people, the setting.

The author often writes about little things – deceptively unimportant things – that make up charming stories – stories that recreate the life on the hills.

“Had it all been a dream, that strange episode on Pari Tibba? Had an overactive imagination conjured up those aerial spirits, those siddhas of the upper air? Or were they underground people living deep within the bowels of the hill? If I was going to keep my sanity I knew I had better get on with the more mundane aspects of living – such as going into town to buy my groceries, mending the leaking roof, paying the electricity bill, …” [p. 59]

It is interesting to note that while the author refers to the safety and sanity of ordinary, “mundane” things, his stories on ordinary people and their ordinary lives get the readers’ eyes glued to the pages. The reader is captivated by the beauty in the mundaneness, so to say.

“The truth is, what we commonly call life is not life at all. Its routine and settled ways are the curse of life, and we will do almost anything to get away from the trivial, even if it is only for a few hours of forgetfulness in alcohol, drugs, forbidden sex or golf. Some of us would even go underground with the fairies, those little people who have sought refuge in Mother Earth from mankind’s killing ways; for they are as vulnerable as butterflies and flowers. All things beautiful are easily destroyed.” [p. 59]

The author paints pretty pictures with his words. I wished I were an artist when I read this book. Why, I could have created a whole gallery of pictures inspired from his writings!

“The train would reach Deoli at about five in the morning when the station would be dimly lit with electric bulbs and oil lamps, and the jungle across the railway tracks would just be visible in the faint light of dawn. Deoli had only one platform, and office for the stationmaster and a waiting room. The platform boasted a tea stall, a fruit vendor and a few stray dogs; not much else because the train stopped there for only ten minutes before rushing on into the forests.” [p. 61]

The author continues to write about the railway station. If you are the kind of person who have felt a strange connect with lonely places (I am), and if you feel something stirring within you if you see a quiet, unpopulated place like a railway station (I do), then you will instantly relate to the following passages.

“Why it stopped at Deoli, I don’t know. Nothing ever happened there. Nobody got off the train and nobody got on. There were never any coolies on the platform.
…
I used to wonder what happened in Deoli behind the station walls. I always felt sorry for that lonely little platform and for that place nobody wanted to visit. I decided that one day I would get off the train at Deoli and spend the day there just to please the town.” [p. 61]

As the author narrates a story, he leaves so many stories untold between the lines, urging the reader to take off on their own imagined tales. Often, the author leaves his own story midway, happy to hang on in a state of expectation, revelling in the joy of anticipation.

“In the last few years I have passed through Deoli many times, and I always look out of the carriage window half-expecting to see the same unchanged face smiling up at me. I wonder what happens in Deoli, behind the station walls. But I will never break my journey here. It may spoil my game.
…
I never break my journey at Deoli but I pass through as often as I can.” [p. 66]

Stories have a way of conveying the simplicity of the common folk. Especially when Ruskin Bond narrates them. It’s right there in front of your eyes in all its innocence and charm. Exposed, naive, vulnerable. Like a dainty, delicate bubble. Your thoughts hover on it and move on. You might as well not touch it, lest it burst. You leave it well alone.

‘Won’t you feel scared returning alone?’ he asked. ‘There are ghosts on Haunted Hill!’
‘I’ll be back before dark. Ghosts don’t appear during the day.’
‘Are there lots of ghosts in the ruins?’ asked Binya.
…
‘Because, Grandfather says, during a terrible storm, one of the houses was hit by lightning, and everyone in it was killed. Even the children.’
‘How many children?’
‘Two. A boy and his sister. Grandfather saw them playing there in the moonlight.’
‘Wasn’t he frightened?’
‘No. Old people don’t mind ghosts.’ [p. 68]

Have you ever looked at a beautiful picture, be it a painting, drawing or a photograph, and felt like going to that place in the picture? I have, always. And I am stirred by the same feeling when I read Bond’s stories. I want to be in that place, among those people, walking down the roads there, feeling the air, listening to the sounds of the people, the birds, the wind, the trees. Drinking in all the sights. Capturing moments and storing them in my mind forever.

©