I'll show you straight!! Yeah, right!

There was a lovely girl from Waltair

who had very little sense and some flair
for dress, fashion and style;
and one wide, radiant smile
though the occasions she flashed it were rare.

 

And the reason she remained so grave

she explained to me thus, “The curly wave
looks graceful on the sea,
not-so-charmingly on me
I’m so fed-up of my curls that I could shave.”

 

“Have you heard the one about the mongrels
with tails impervious to all creams and gels?
Well, that is my sad fate
my hair just won’t go straight
crowning glory is no glory when it rebels.”

 

“I’ve tried everything, all I could think of

I’ve treated them gentle, and then got tough
it’s just no point, I guess
my waves are quite shameless
they curl back in a sec and don’t give up.

 

“I’ve powdered beetle wings into a poultice

added both babies’ breath and angles’ kiss,
unmentionable parts of bats
stomach contents of gnats
applied carefully for days. But then, look at this!

 

“And I’ve stretched my hair out on the rack

for five whole nights steamed them back-to-back,
but when they were unpinned
only the roots had thinned
the rest curled fiercely as soon as they got slack.

 

"I’ve tried vrischik asana, tied stones to each lock

and I held the pose upright round the clock.
They straightened when down
as soon as I turned around
they frizzed right back. My toes too curled with shock!

 

"I got special uncurlers from the coiffeuse

hot steel plates that straighten while you snooze.
I slept ramrod straight
but the curls resumed their state
the minute they were off. It’s just no use.

 

"My ringlets just refuse to lose their ring

as I’ve said before, I’ve tried everything
both normal and insane
but curly is what they remain
Straight sexy is something I can’t seem to swing.”

 

I tried logic, she said, ”Give me a break

you straight-haired lot don’t get our heartache.
You haven’t got a clue
how it curbs my hair-do!
Don’t say now each one’s a unique snowflake.

 

“I’ve tried remedies modern and medieval

each and every option left open to a gal
but I’ve been led to think
that this is no ordinary kink
and it requires measures strongly radical.”

 

The last I heard that curly-haired virgin

stormed into the clinic of an upscale surgeon
and she said, ”Please stop
my head being a curly mop
slice my genes off, or something else merge in.”

 

I’d tell you the end, but I’m not sure I should

because at this point it gets a little lewd -
limericks are often ripe;
and so sometimes is life.
So dear reader, the story’s for you to conclude.

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

This entry has been written for a contest,

the link over here will explain it best -
ideas extraordinaire
for straightening curly hair
and this is the tale of curly and distressed.

 

There are certain tales that must come out

and this one’s of them without a doubt;
if they bubble in the brain
then they become a pain
in the arse and other parts – terrible fallout.

 

Will this long entry win? And should I care?

Is straight or curly a significant affair?
Between us, one-on-one
I’ll confide it can be fun
to style it diversely, but then, it’s just hair.

 

So long it’s slick and healthy, tangle-free

and on a head that’s heady as well as happy
it matters not one jot
both curly and straight are hot
what’s one person’s ho-hum is another’s pretty.

 

And I can tell you that I’ve had the fate

of being born with hair that’s rigidly straight
and I have always wanted
what the others take for granted -
a curl or two would have been just so great!

 

The truth is that we’re never satisfied.

Just wear our natural hair with care and pride.
Style it straight and flat
wear a braid, or a hat
but it shouldn’t get your knickers in knots tied.

 

Dear reader, fellow blogger, whoever you are

you’ve come here, and stayed with me, this far
so I must be thanking you
for your patience – and I do
with a sweeping flourish and an “au revoir.”





 

RFW Holiday Spirit Blogfest : How do I celebrate thee? Let me count the ways!

 

We have an idiom in my mother tongue that sums up the essence of India: thirteen festivals in twelve months, meaning there is some kind of party going on all year round.  Add to these the minor Hindu festivals, then the number probably doubles straightaway.  Mix in the festivals of the other faiths that have found their homes in India, the Islamic, Christian, Buddhist, Zoroastrian, Sikh and Jain festivals, and there really is no time in the calendar when something or the other isn’t being celebrated. 

 

The degrees of celebrations might vary depending on local customs and practices, though over the years the boundaries have blurred.  What used to be a festival celebrated exclusively in a pocket of the Western Coast, is now being celebrated with great fanfare in my hometown in the extreme East. And also vice versa, due to advances in technology as well as India being the cultural melting pot that it is.

 

In my hometown Kolkata, the festival season starts around September and lasts through the autumn well into the winter, spanning both major Hindu festivals as also Christmas.  The different faiths follow different calendars, Hindus follow a lunisolar combination, Muslims a lunar one and Christians of course the Gregorian one, and so it sometimes happens that we celebrate an Islamic festival or two sandwiched between the main Hindu ones and Christmas. Like we have done/are doing this year. 

 

It all sounds very complicated, but what it essentially means is that from September to around mid-January, it is fiesta season there.  Depending on which part of the city you are in, you will finds sparkling lights, festival banners and impromptu bazaars for that whole stretch of time. In other words, once the monsoons are over and the skies clear up, after that there is a street-, or some other, party to go to anytime if you want.

 

When I think of our main festivals, three of them spring to mind – Holi (the festival of colours, a spring festival), Durga Puja (the worship of Goddess Durga), and Diwali (the festival of lights).  Among these, Holi and Diwali are pan-Indian festivals, while the middle one is celebrated by Bengalis mainly. Elsewhere in India, Durga Puja is celebrated as Dusshera and Navratri, essentially to commemorate the same practices and events, the triumph of good over evil, but on a slightly lower key, and on varying dates of the same month. 

 

The Durga Puja season starts on a moonless night, the Goddess Durga descends to earth for a few days and is worshipped in huge elaborate public marquees, and then the idol is taken on a grand procession for immersion in the holy river waters on the tenth day of the moon.  A few days later, during the full moon, Goddess Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, prosperity and grace, Durga’s  daughter, is worshipped on the same pedestal.  And then a fortnight later, another moonless autumn night comes around again with the celebration of Diwali, and every home in the city is lit up with millions of oil-lamps and fairy lights and fireworks in a brilliant display of both light and sound.

 

Durga Puja is the main festival for Bengali Hindus and is celebrated by the Bengali Diaspora wherever they are.  There are huge celebrations in the US, UK, Australia and all over the Western world.  Also in teeny-tiny places like Bahrain, Dubai and Muscat.  Although freedom of worship, particularly idol worship is frowned upon and religious tolerance is not as common in large tracts of the Middle–East as it is in India and the Western nations.

 

The public festivities can get seriously intense though, and whole of Kolkata explodes in bursts of music and mantras, of lights and sounds and a medley of experiences engaging, and sometimes assaulting, every one of the senses.  Here is a short film that I enjoy watching every year. It sums up the festival through the sounds of the special drums that are played during the time.

 

  

As it happens in all cultures and with all festivals, Durga Puja embodies the same spirit and values of sharing and celebrating with friends and family.   New clothes are bought for the occasion, gifts given, special dishes prepared and relished, food shared within the community and outside of it.

 

Many Bengali cultural events, such as film, music and book releases are timed to coincide with it.  Literary and travel magazines bring out special collections targeting both holiday reading and travel markets. Children’s magazines come out with especially colourful and thick “Puja” numbers, which I remember looking forward to immensely as a child.  It was a staple gift in the goodie-bags I used to receive.

 

For the devout, it is a chance to cleanse and purify oneself, an opportunity to pray and fast, and place their petitions at the feet of their god. And to feast and make merry and have a general good time for the not-so-devout, amongst whom I count myself.  To just take a few days off from the grind, and stand back and introspect, or travel, or soak up the party atmosphere. 

 

Since I have been away for many years from Kolkata, I have not attended “Pujas” there for a couple of decades.  In fact, the last time I saw Goddess Durga decked out in all her finery and surrounded by her four children being worshipped is also almost a decade ago in Bahrain.  But the Bengali in me finds ways to celebrate it wherever I am.  I make a few special dishes, I reserve some new outfits, which are got early when we get home leave in the monsoons, and which I then vaguely insist the family wear on the relevant days; we travel out somewhere if there arises the opportunity.

 

Last year we were in the White Desert of Egypt where the sunset and our simple tents got somehow connected in my mind to the marquees of the goddess and the sacred fires there.  This year we went out to the Mediterranean.  We get together with friends and share the same dishes that are cooking at that very moment in time in our respective hometowns.   We check the net for our fixes of the music (especially the drum that you hear in the film which for me is a must-listen), and photographs/clips of the different functions.  People from home mail us the special editions of the magazines sometimes.  All in all, we manage to make our Puja-less "Puja" festive enough, there is usually no time for nostalgic regrets.

 

And I always end up writing a verse or two in the quiet nooks and crannies of the festival days, maybe early in the morning or late at night before going to bed....

 

There are more ways to worship besides being threaded in garlands,

More ways to prostrate than bending heads or knees,

Or be piled in heaps with sandal and cupped and thrown by hands

As and when the conch or the flame or the bell decrees......

 

And going by the same logic, there are many more ways to celebrate as well. 

 

 

 

 

This entry is my contribution to the Romantic Friday Writers Holiday Spirit Blogfest where we are getting together to share and celebrate the holiday spirit.  Do feel free to click on the link and join in with yours.  Wishing you every joy of the season and a very happy 2013.

Own lilt

I have come to a zithering rest

in your winter-cooled soothing arms
how mired I’ve been! how obsessed
with alien climates and subjects,
frantic fine tuning borderline calm.

 

Entire mythologies of summer heat,

of fire charred clouds of wilderness
have passed me by in discrete
small steps of many desert feet
through the blurry interface.

 

The march may have gone on through

scorching weeks and monsoons
but I just rushed, and stopped, and drew
breaths of breeze scents, looked for dew
on cactus thorns between high dunes.

 

Did you know that? and still sit still

and let me forget the hot sharp limb,
and offered me no counsel?
but perhaps that’s just as well
that I found my own lilt and hymn.






Shared at dVerse for the OLN where the post today is about writing poetry and inspiration for it.  Incidentally dVerse is where just the right mix of counsel and support is to be found for any creative writing, I learn such an amazing lot from each visit, and from the poetry pages that are linked there.  If you are in any way moved by writing or reading poetry, then it's a must visit.



 

The Matriarch's Admonition

I return your greeting of peace, my son

but you and I know we can hope for none
I foresee a long period of strife
that will mar the twilight years of my life.
We must always be canny and cautious
the enemy is  subtle, ferocious
and you know that, then why do you let
the reins slip thus from your loose hands and fret
me so? The vultures circle, peck and pull
but does the lion give up his kill? Careful
now, you mustn’t allow others to dictate
the policies and running of the state.
I have heard disturbing news, and stranger
accusations, we are in grave danger
one misstep and the entire edifice
will topple, how could you be so remiss?
a leader must know when to delegate.
This is the time to hold tight, no debates
or internecine struggles.  Don’t spell
out who gave those orders, I know it well.
That’s wholly unnecessary.  You lied
about the arrests, the children who died;
you told me lightly that no-one ordered
them tortured and then ruthlessly murdered.
I am no silly sentimental fool;
far from it! I know that the ones who rule
need iron fists; even steelier wits
but children! that should be off-limits;
they can turn into PR disasters
and I’m afraid this surely will.  Faster 
than you can recite the sacred First Verse;
nothing could be less opportune or worse
now than the negative publicity
that’s sure to follow.  It is a pity
you can’t, or won’t, control your siblings
and all this petty relentless quibbling
over how and who; it’s time for a council -
they must come to lunch here.  And I will
have that special Tuscan, white goat cheese flown  
in, that my son-in-law has strangely grown
to have a particular preference
for. You must try and bridge the difference
if possible. If not make clear, henceforth 
children are not to be singled out, both
adult men and women targets are fine
and of course any child that’s in the line
of fire by mistake, that’s not our lookout.
Matters should settle, I must think about
the food too, what would you prefer? Chinese
or Russian? I don’t care. Though Tuscan cheese
is a misfit in both cuisines, a waste.
Why must you all have such conflicting tastes
from food to vital nuances of state?
I am too old, I tire under this weight.
If that man listens, good; or things get cruel.
It’ll have to be that, I’ll keep the ampoule
ready at hand, it’s lucky only he
likes his cheese platter brought from Tuscany.
This your father gave me and departed.
Such long days! Go now, love, don’t be faint-hearted
and remember, my leader and my son -
it’s a grave error to touch the children.




Shared at dVerse where the prompt this day combines poetry, first person narrative, and acting. 

This poem plopped into my mind as a response, lately surrounded by the upheavals in the Middle East. I have always wondered at the family dynamics behind the one-man shows.  I have also wanted to try out a dramatic monologue, and this prompt was the perfect opportunity to write my own version. 

The situation here is a mother talking to her son who is President, a somewhat weak man surrounded and swayed by his bossy relatives in high positions.  The mother is disturbed after a particularly harrowing episode where some young children have been targeted, tortured and killed for the first time during the uprising.  She is trying to recover lost ground after widely publicised media reports of the same.

The son-in-law holds powerful office and has different ideas as to running the country, and the mother plans the council to first try and persuade him, and failing that, to eliminate him.  Obviously drawn from reality but the individual characterisation and conversation are both completely imaginary.  Assad incidentally means lion in Arabic.

Long Post Alert!

Google image

Like most Bengalis I have grown up with Tagore, probably heard him hummed by my mother first when I was still unborn.  I certainly remember Tagore poems being recited, and sung as lullabies, and enacted. Told and retold as bedtime stories, on holiday afternoons, snuggling close against my mother and aunts and grandmother, whoever was available.  And years later I have crooned his poems as lullabies to my own son in his babyhood. Whether I like it or not, Tagore colours every perception of poetry that I might grasp.  Two of his poems that were bundled and sung to me as a child are "Shubhokshan" (Auspicious Moment) and its sequel "Tyaag" (Sacrifice), I loved them as a child without really understanding the philosophy behind them, and that naturally deepened as my understanding grew.  Here is Tagore's own translation:

7

O mother, the young Prince is to pass by our door,--how can I
attend to my work this morning?
Show me how to braid up my hair; tell me what garment to put on.
Why do you look at me amazed, mother?
I know well he will not glance up once at my window; I know he
will pass out of my sight in the twinkling of an eye; only the
vanishing strain of the flute will come sobbing to me from
afar.
But the young Prince will pass by our door, and I will put on my
best for the moment.

O mother, the young Prince did pass by our door, and the morning
sun flashed from his chariot.
I swept aside the veil from my face, I tore the ruby chain from
my neck and flung it in his path.
Why do you look at me amazed, mother?
I know well he did not pick up my chain; I know it was crushed
under his wheels leaving a red stain upon the dust, and no one
knows what my gift was nor to whom.
But the young Prince did pass by our door, and I flung the jewel
from my breast before his path. ~ Rabindranath Tagore, from The Gardener.

Tagore says in his preface that the translations are not always literal - the originals being sometimes abridged and sometimes paraphrased. Well, these are both abridged and paraphrased.

I often translate poems of Tagore (and others) when I can't find anything much of my own to say/write.  Here is my translation of this one from the original Bengali, maybe a little longer than it in terms of word count.

Oh mother, the beloved son of the king,

the prince will pass our door
how can I be focused this morning
on mundane household chores?

 

Tell me instead what should I wear

how should I style and braid up my hair
in what colours should I drape my fair
self? Mother, why do you look at me so?
I know where I’ll stand by the window
he’s not going to glance up there
in a  twinkling of an eye this whole show
will be over and he’ll be gone, his entourage disappear
only from some far-away route
the yearning strains of the flute
will waft its lament back to me here.

 

But still, the prince will pass my way

How can I not dress my best today?

 

 

 

O mother, the beloved son of the king

the prince has gone by our cottage
the rich sunlight of this morning
flashed resplendent on his carriage.

 

I’ve flung back my veil, and standing alone

for a split second seen him and then he’s gone
I’ve taken the ruby from my breast and thrown
it on the dust before him. Mother why are you
so amazed? This jewel that I’ve torn from my throat
he hasn’t picked it up, or taken any note.
It’s been crushed to dust, and now only two
parallel wheel tracks mark the dust
what I gave and to whom no-one knew
it reddened the road, then lay hidden and crushed.

 

But still the prince passed by and before him

how can I not throw down my blood-red gem?




 

Shopping trip

Who sings because they have a song

or because they have a say
how am I to tell them apart
and will it matter anyway?
press the buttons, twist the knobs,
turn the key and speed away.

 

Potatoes, tomatoes, fresh mushrooms

a pack of meat, jars of preserves
bread is boring, but devil’s food
is far too rich, this gateau’s worse
how much stuff do we consume!
and how little it takes to starve!

 

The parking attendant comes and barks

in his fluorescent uniform
straight cut left back long look sharp -
the coins transfer smooth and warm
abject hands give clipped commands
toot the horn and whoosh off home.

 

An old man stands by the red light

he wears a rim of dusty white hair
his eyelids don’t quite fit his eyes
could be his age, could be despair
he makes no pitches of his life
just offers tissues to the midday air

 

the glass is filmed, the scenes are dimmed

but nothing’s ever dimmed enough
a breathy, jingly radio sings
about namby-pamby fancy love
peppermint fresheners cover the stink
of dust and blood, keep windows up

 

Children stand on ladders by trees

trim them into top-tail smart
others dance by the side and sweep,
their broomsticks shorter than the dirt
adults and children no longer meet
at the old house, times are hard.

 

I carry my bags on the right side

the left shoulder’s gone a bit stiff
another peace of urban slice
nothing unusual where we live
the doorman’s smile is sad and wide
he carries all bags for a small tip.

 

The rallies get long, the rallies get large

songs are sung but the audience thins
somewhere tyrants are in charge
elsewhere seasonal shopping begins
but everywhere the times are hard
and bones shake looser in nervous skins

 

you’ll tell me where to go and when

the rest is a case of semantics
you can say it’s a song, or a slogan
it’s up to you to match and mix
some sing as they fill up on reason
and for others nothing clicks.






Shared with poets for OLN@dVerse