Wednesday, 18 October 2017

The Darkest Place : Write... Edit... Publish... October 2017

Okay so I thought I could do a flash - a spooky sort, but nope, it vanished into thin air ghost. Then I started with another which coolly wriggled out of its obligation towards the original prompt. Inveigled itself into a thoroughly non-spooky type - aaaargh! Right, I'm falling back on poetry, much more reliable... 

So here we are - at the annual autumn/spring scarefest at Write...Edit...Publish... hosted by authors Denise and Yolanda. With design inputs from Olga, and prompt inputs by someone who has been hoisted by her own promptard and shall remain nameless.  

We have a prayer in the Hindu scriptures, one of my favourite verses - '(Lead me) from falsehood towards Truth, from darkness towards Light, from death towards Immortality.'

Darkness and Light, Anxiety and Tranquility, Suffering and Bliss. All is in the mind, ultimately. No place darker than a tormented mind.

The Darkest Place

This isn’t a poem you’d want to write.
No morning pills of positivity,
just a convulsed line rushing, falling free
in and out of digital screens and sight,

dripping fluids of unknown origins.
No trickles of moons, rivers, women’s scarves,
not an inch of no man’s land between wars.
A trembling drop in time’s sharp toothed engines.

Nor is it a poem you’d want to read
out loud among strangers, folding paper
art, to hang it like buntings of wafer
thin, lavish rhymes; jewel toned; filigreed.

This - the one you keep in the dark recess,
between the planes of sane and loneliness.

WC - 100+

And it is Diwali tomorrow, the darkest night of the year according to the Indian calendar, when we put up lamps around our homes to make sure that everything's headed in the right direction, as per the verse! :)  A very happy and prosperous Diwali to you and yours if you are celebrating! And lots of sunshine, moonlight, starlight and candlelight to you even if you are not. May your life be illuminated at all times and never get into dark places.


Read the other entries here and join in -

Sunday, 15 October 2017

Call me!

Where are you today? I keep trying your phone
there’s the same message playing, it doesn't change -
hope you're not at a concert? within range?
Are you with friends? Are you, by chance, alone?

Are you at this moment by a riverside?
and suddenly a hired van swerves too close,
scatters the commuters - hope you're among those
who see it coming and quickly jump aside.

Are you in a park? or college campus?
where a ruthless finger plays with a trigger.
Are you trapped where no-one can quite figure
if we’re firing guns, or the gun’s shooting us?

Call me dear one, call me back, I can’t bear
this silence, my world’s broken everywhere.

For those who've lost family or friends to senseless violence across the world. 

Sunday, 8 October 2017

Empty nester run-up

You haven’t left the house yet. But everything
suddenly falls into a chill headlong -
a choked gasp like my room itself were being
sucked dry of all the room you’d brought along.
No space, no space, none to breathe or to sing,
even the urban birds lose their tortured songs;
the universe feels like it’s lost its footing -
the sky and earth are both awry, hanging wrong.

You’re not going away just yet, you’re here,
a foot sometimes must swing out - that’s enough
to deform rooms to ooze, undo the year.
All birds’ eyes are wounds, all the stars are fears;
and all the words I can speak, or think of,
keen at the edge of grief, though they start with love.

Saturday, 30 September 2017

Nine nights


My goddess is a patch of sky
between two raffia palms -
a bird streaks down like a spear
thrown by one of her arms.

My goddess is a curl of cloud
on the skyline somewhere
and the wingspan of a kite’s her crown,
tangled mesquite’s her hair.

My goddess is a snapped off stem -
an arrangement of spice
fortuitously made in the kitchen.
A rich bubbling of rice.

She is, and isn’t, made of clay,
she’s whole seasons, not just four days.


She sends me a sign that I don’t
instantly recognise -
the mind admits only a want
to relate might to size.

I look at the sky and forget
the grass beneath my feet
and I think she’s a mauve sunset
where seas and heavens meet,

but the horizon’s just a line -
the limits of my eye,
a sunset is as much divine
as an earthworm or a fly.

She is broad as winds, warriorlike
and a stick thin match ready to strike.


The temple dance of northern lights
she sends me through a friend,
and I watch the worship mesmerised
before I comprehend.

Likewise a different autumn night
there is a quiet fall
of moonlit shreds of small insights -
but their sum’s not small.

She’s among my friends and my folks,
the least of my brethren -
she doesn’t need to be invoked
and worshipped now and then.

She demands not one thing from me,
just lets me breathe and walk out free.


She sends me more, but by this time
I am on high alert
get clued up how she leaves her signs,
offhand, hidden by dirt.

She isn’t there in lotus buds
hundred and eight, or more
neither the soil we call sacred,
nor a foot drawn on the floor,

she sends me a pulse of light and dark
a scratch of old perfume
and news of distant loved ones marks
her grace within my rooms.

She’s a cell, a text, telephone ring -
a massive world of tiny things.


She’s not a fast, she’s not a feast -
she’s core of grape and grain,
what goes into the mouth is least
for it passes out again.

She’s hard to trap, she’s hard to fold
in sandalwood and stone,
and eight rare metals never could hold
and claim her for their own.

She’s not the conch, she’s not a song
she’s not in lamp nor flame.
Nor is she the bell, nor overlong
chant of a special name.

No exact angle quite defines
her intimate bounds, and what’s divine.


She comes to mind about this time
with all my womenfolk,
stretching behind in one long line,
half lost in incense smoke.

I knew no goddess as a child,
maybe not even now.
I knew her through my mothers’ smiles
an aunt’s kiss on my brow.

I knew her from the silky sands
that ran between my toes;
through elephant grass, savannah lands,
where the sandbur grows.

She’s woman, and burr, and long ago
she pricked my cuff and never let go.


And now from time to time I get
distracted by my cuff
at the mass of spines that firmly sits
and won’t be shaken off

Does she like things neat? yet won’t let
me snugly button them up?
I finger the fabric and get pricked
her spines are somewhat rough -

but there’s a smoothness obvious too.
As we move from spot to spot
the garments change, the years, the views,
but the massed burrs do not.

She’s a spine, a roughness - in my side,
and smoothly endures through the ride.


The gods don’t come, they don’t return -
it’s me who comes and goes,
falters at the gates and then turns,
afraid to get too close.

The marquees are made of floodlights
and a thousand-strong crowd,
inside my space her touch is like
silk poured on a raincloud -

and when she can, she lays her hand
on my temple and cheek
though I may see the raffias and
a spear-like sparrow streak.

She is bird-flight, and animal-track,
but she doesn’t arrive, nor go back.


She looks at me through the prayer niche -
her seal’s on calligraphed walls.
On the crucifix. On flesh and fish.
And gutters and urban sprawls.

Her footmarks weave the river bank
into its sunlit scarf,
her thumb print’s on the desert flanks
and on the ocean surf.

She loosens out the date palms coif;
asks neither wind nor breath,
a full moon night she quite shrugs off,
nips out the wicks of faith.

She’s never at home and always near,
she’s everyWhere and everyHere.

Today marks the end of one of the main festivals in my community in India, celebrated over nine nights. I got sent various images by friends and family members the past few days and looking at them this is what happened.  None of the pictures belongs to me, I don't know the copyright holders, credit where credit is due and I do emphatically wish to salute the amazing creativity and expression, kudos!

One of the things I like about my community is the pluralistic approach to religion - it allows space to the devout and the atheists and the agnostics, we are all God's children whether we believe in an Almighty or not, or the forms of our beliefs, or how we observe our festivals. India has been practicing live and let live for centuries, probably the most ancient community to adopt this as a motto, for all I know. But recently this pluralism has been under attack, which is concerning and saddening. 

My own devotion quotient is irretrievably flawed, I leave my family members and friends to intercede on my behalf, and they do a fantastic job - the evidence is amply clear in my life. I'm deeply grateful for that. Therefore, I find it preposterous this vicious effort now to herd us all into one 'right' way of observance, to create one path where there are obviously many. 'There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground.' The clueless have a claim to a way and a kiss too!

Happy Festival to you, whatever it is you are celebrating today. May all our prayers in all their various ways find their mark.

And we are getting together for the Halloween at Write...Edit...Publish later in October, see you there.

Sunday, 24 September 2017

Malfuf wa Malik : Graffiti, Gems and Holidaymaking

Listen here to Ghalia Benali collaborating with Belgian, Iraqi, Moroccan and Indian musicians to produce a uniquely Arab-Indian-International blend of music that’s beyond mind blowing. The album is called Al Palna (Palna is a Hindi word meaning ‘Cradle’) and she is singing a track titled Hayyamatni.  (you can listen to Ghalia and Dina al Wedidi singing the same track but without the Indian instruments live in Cairo in 2013 here)

Ghalia Benali is a Tunisian singer, songwriter, dancer, design artist and performer, born in Brussels in the late sixties. She grew up in Zarzis in southern Tunisia, and returned to Brussels to study graphic design after completing high school. She embarked on her musical career in the nineties and soon climbed to fame abroad. She has this hypnotic voice, nuanced, deep and passionate. I remember reading somewhere that a soprano is not the natural range of most Arab female singers, they tend towards the alto. I haven't been able to discover why that should be so, but I am happy that it is, if it is. Just a personal preference, nothing to do with the quality of their, or anyone else's, music.

Ghalia is a self taught musician, influenced by not just the Middle Eastern greats, but the cross currents of world music that ebbed and flowed all around her in her formative years. Her mother listened to Indian and Arab music, her father favoured Western classical, she herself was exposed to Middle Eastern folk traditions and other musical ones rooted deep in the cultural fabric of her native land. As a result both the East and the West and the Middle meet in her art.

Holidays. A certain, sudden spring. And the making of both.

The Arab Spring came to Egypt in January 2011, on a day that my child returned from a school trip to Luxor. A handful of parents, just those of that particular year group, went to pick the children up at nightfall and waited and waited in the dimly lit school grounds. An empty school devoid of the happy bustle of learning and light is one of the most forlorn places to be. We rattled around, tired, impatient, bored and fed up already. The teachers texted almost continuously and conscientiously about the snarls and the protests blocking the main highways. I was probably not at my patient best.

They finally came in at around ten, three hours late. We thought nothing of it at the time, Cairo traffic has a formidable reputation in the congested department. And the airport was 50 km away from us. Then things took a scary-beautiful turn a few days later. The anger escalated, the protests continued, we were evacuated, the President fell. And returning, I saw graffiti for the first time in Cairo streets. The Revolution ultimately failed, but not before it created a lava explosion of art – visual, audio, written, performed. Watching a revolution unfold is a concentrated life lesson, whether you are a part of it or just a bystander. Two personal milestones happened unobtrusively during that time, my child spent his first night away from his mum, he and I both grew up a little, and my book of Bengali shorts was published during the Kolkata Book Fair in January 2011.

That whole year was a concentrated learning opportunity in ways more than one. Tagore’s 150th birth anniversary was being celebrated and the Indian Embassy in Cairo organised a yearlong fiesta of his works, documentaries, poetry readings, seminars analysing his life and times. I went along for as many of them as I could, obviously. One particular literary event stands out – a seminar on the poetry of ‘Tagore and Shawky’ – not only did I get to know about the correspondence between the Egyptian poet Ahmed Shawky and Tagore, I heard living, established Arab poets recite from Tagore’s works, their own works, past Arab greats, a veritable bonanza of poetry. All that year my newsfeed had translated snippets from Gitanjali posted by Egyptian friends; an Egyptian who had lived in Bangladesh stood up and declaimed a Tagore verse, impromptu, at one of the events, complete with the Bengali accent; someone sent me cuttings of past articles in Cairo newspapers on Tagore - ordinary people, not poets and intellectuals superkeen on the arts or anything. I had no idea the following Tagore had among Egyptians and I was blown away.

That year was the first time I heard of Prof Galal Amin too. He was the main speaker in one of these events.

Galal Amin is a well known economist, and has taught at both Ain Shams University and the American University in Cairo. He has also been visiting faculty at US universities. He is a serious social commentator but his essays are threaded through with a dry wit, quite delightful, while being informative and intimate.

Socially speaking, summer holidaying in Egypt has been characterized, like many other aspects of social life, by a striking dualism reflecting an obvious contrast in the way of life of the upper and lower classes. No wonder that Egyptians have coined several words based on the noun for summer season, sayf. Thus, where an English- or Frenchman would speak of "taking his holiday," the Egyptian speaks of tasyif, "summer holidaymaking," which means specifically, spending the summer at the seaside. Egyptians even have a special noun for people who spend the summer this way: mustafin or musayifin, as well as a word for the summer breeze, meaning, literally, the "breeze that comes from the direction of the sea," bahari, whose praises are continually being sung. Egyptians attribute to it the power of restoring the soul and of healing the sick, they may even entrust it with carrying messages to and from a beloved person.

~ Whatever Happened to the Egyptians, Galal Amin

As a non-Arab and a Desi, I can tell you I am into waterscapes (I was born on the East bank of a river, not far from the seas) and so I get this - Egyptians are inordinately fond of waterbodies. Most Arabs are, considering much of their lands are arid and inhospitable. So that's no surprise, all humans probably have this affinity for water, given that perish without the sweet version of that commodity. But extolling a particular kind of breeze? and assigning it a postman role for  love notes? So totally charming, so Egyptian! And also - Indian.