Matchbox Mansions, Chocolate Cake

What are our days made up of?

Of good-mornings and good-byes,

Of long hellos and how-do-ya-dos,

Of green grass and sandy surf,

Of prosaic poems and poetic prose... 

Behind touching tears in twinkling eyes,

there live day dreams and subtle smiles,

Dreams of matchbox mansions, 

chocolate cake,

those of a lonely lotus in a lovely lake.... 

I sight wonder, woe and oh! a camera click,

there is plaster, paint, gold and gilt,

I see Romeo, Juliet, and a dead nightingale,

who bled herself for the flower pale.

And yet, the days go on and on,

made up ever and anon,

of good mornings and good byes.. .

BROKERED PEACE

They scream justice, they lock it away

And secretly hide the keys

In ink-pots, filled with warm blood,

and sealed with lies.

They are the victors of yesterday's battle

Ambassadors of brokered peace

Today's powerful, they

Are your self-appointed masters.

They play at justice from their high desks,

as if it is a game of cards.

They make you cower at their feet

In slavery and in fear.

Your turn inside yourself, feel a stab of pain,

And then the glacier melts

You feel the blood flow through time, as

You begin your tale of woe.

But they are not listening to you, captive

That you are, you,

your life, your tale, your past, your sorrow

Is captive and dumb.

They have played their cards, its show-time and

They mock you with grins, trying

To put victory and triumph on their faces

Hiding, scars of shame.

You see how piteously ugly their faces can be, 

and smile back in silent knowledge

of suffering and patience: You know their truth

And they, they do not.

Graveyard in my phone

After Gowri and before Guddi,

there is a number in my phone

It reads "Graveyard".

The phone was a gift from my dad. 

Why did he have the number?

Why did he give it to me?

Did he know I would need it, that I 

would die alive, and myself would have to

call the graveyard?

Did he think I might have

to dig my own grave

with my own bare hands?

Like my brothers and sisters

in blood and in honour, who have passed before me

to the graveyard?

For where I come from,

that is the norm, and we learn it

from the breeze and the wind.

We tie shrouds on our heads

every morning, and make our way

to the graveyard.

We stand over unnamed graves,

and look at anonymous tombstones,

praying Jinazah for ourselves.

And fathers gift their children,

with love, loss and longing, 

the number to the graveyard.

Review: Servant of Sahibs

SERVANT OF SAHIBS

[Image from Amazon.com]

Had it been a more polished book or of finer language, it would not have rung so true. To its claim, it is considered the first book in English written by a Kashmiri. However, our narrator, Rassul Galwan was born in Ladakh, and identifies himself as Ladakhi and not as Kashmiri in the book. Once you take it up, it does not matter that we are in the 21^st century and that Rassul Galwan lived and died in the one gone by. Indeed, the book he wrote is just a few years shy of being a hundred years old.And reading it still provides an insight into the psyche of the people in this part of the world. The Introduction of the book by Sir Francis Younghusband opens with the words: “WHY Himalayan peoples should be as ready as they are to undergo hardships, and run risks of the most serious nature, in the service of any stray traveller who appears among them is not easy to understand.” Somewhere among the pages, the book answers this puzzle. But this mysterious question is lost in the farthest recesses of the reader’s mind as the story of Rassul Galwan unfolds. Like any serious study of the human culture, the book unfolds in the past of Galwan – with the story of his grandfather. The reader is taken along on a journey through Rassul’s childhood and into his adulthood. Along the way are stories – true to the mountains which have witnessed them, some funny, some sad and all of them downright innocent and honest.
The narration is like how a child would narrate his best experiences, with interest and full of lively humour. Never once does the reader feel bored or the narrative seem slow. In every sentence, the blunt honesty and truthfulness of the man is reflected.His intent was to write the story of “my happened” - the story of his life. But subtly the book also holds up a window to the different worlds he inhabited. On one side, we are introduced to the grit and determination of his European sahibs and we get a completely different and behind-the-scenes account of their expeditions of which there is otherwise no or little documentation. The relationship he had with his masters is also touching. He shows a slave’s devotion when he is ready to die in their service, a diplomat’s political skill when he negotiates with hostile tribes, a friend’s concern and an honest man’s integrity. One cannot fail to imagine that he must have been more than a “servant of the sahibs”. The sahibs did not fail to see his remarkable qualities as is evident in the Introduction and the Editor’s Introduction.The second world he lived in was the world of a poor and common man. He was a Ladakhi, and the scenes and events from that place and time are painted with acute detail. His childhood years reflect how ambitious and hardworking he was.  His interactions with other people – Kashmiris, Turkis, Chinese, Hindoos, Kashgars – are interesting to say the least. Throughout the narrative, one can’t help but praise the integrity and will of this man, humble in his beginnings, humble in all his dealings, but also wise and clever, ambitious and devoted, responsible and merry all at the same time. The book takes us to a time gone by, a world of yore, and a journey so vividly painted that one feels as if one is a traveller oneself.And as to the question that puzzled Sir Francis Younghusband, I can only think of one answer after reading the book. It is the road that the Himalayan man seeks; the thrill and fear of unknowns and the joy of travelling. Yet, he is timid when it comes to aggression and would sooner negotiate a deal than fight a war. All he needs is a chance to explore – he does not aim to be a master of men. The mountains have taught him a lesson – no man is master of another. We are all servants of the Almighty.

Oh! Shaam

Shaam is an old name of present day Syria. The present day tragedies of that unfortunate country contrast strongly with what it once was.
I wrote this poem on seeing a picture of the Khaled bin Walid mosque after its bombing.

Pigeons no longer fly over our domes,

For our mosques are taken

As trophies in battle;

Battle that plays out on storied soil,

As our gloried warriors long forgotten

Lie buried beneath the rubble.

Pigeons no longer fly over our mosques

Our domes are mere shells of the past,

And our minarets are broken

There are no prayers anymore

No messages for them to take

To the lofty skies.