The same pair of eyes,

locked on to their reflection.

I wonder though, there’s a difference.

Approaching the next milestone,

Wiser, experienced yet still stupid.

Where I am heading to, What if I fall off?

The same pair of eyes,

locked on to their reflection.

Now I see the glint as a spark in it.

Sometimes a sparkling gem goes unnoticed in a sea of stones. Lately I had this desire to post about some songs which I thought were those unnoticed gems.

Firstly, my favourite of all times. It has still not conceded the no.1 spot in my player even after more than a year of its release. ‘Mann Mohana’ from Jodhaa Akbar. According to me it should be amongst  Rahman’s best works. He takes  the bhajan to a completely new level with the sound arrangements. The orchestration and flute interludes are completely fabulous when combined with Meera bhajan type simple yet deep lyrics.  I wonder why such a great song received really less attention from the ‘media’ world too. I understand it is a religious song and comparatively slow for the current generation, but still it could have heralded a revolution for the Hindu spiritual music Industry.. I also have a hunch that it is Rahman’s favourite track from the album too considering how ubiquitously he has used the very same interludes and music arrangements as background score in the movie. Takes the scene to a whole new level.

Continuing with Rahman, ‘Shauk Hai’ from Guru (Yes that’s right from Guru. Don’t try to look it up in the album CDs as it won’t be found there!) is  another brilliant masterpiece. It is a pity this wasn’t released with the main audio track of the movie. If you do remember this is the song that plays in the background for all the  scenes involving Vidya Balan in the movie. Simple, yet hautingly melodious yet not sad, the lyrics convey the need for more in spite of disabilities, exactly giving voice to the character essayed by Vidya in the movie. The piano always at the background from the very beginning of the track, is really simple, sounding great with Sowmya Raoh’s voice (She adds this sensual touch after every ‘Shauk Hai ohhhh’ which is simply awesome!), leaving you asking for more. Sometimes something simple is very beautiful, and Rahman has captured the mood of the situation perfectly without overdoing anything.

Without taking up much space another one from Rahman’s bag is Aahista Aahista from Swades. I would say it is a modern day adaptation of a lori (song for making someone go to sleep peacefully), fitted with interesting interludes and again simple piano background running throughout. Completely encompassing your soul when you listen to this before you sleep!

The last song that I want to talk about is not from A.R.Rahman which is a bit surprising to myself. It is ‘Paayalia’ from Dev D. I wouldn’t say it is an awesome song or amazing song, but definitely different from the run-of-the-mill stuff. Considering the instruments used and the voice of the singer, it definitely an experiment by Amit Heri, an experiment which is gone really well. Using the veena, some tinkles of bells, and the special ‘By God’ touch at places you least expect (and by not repeating it everywhere!), the shehnai and scores of other instruments with a completely unconventional tune and voice, the song makes an impact and gives repeatability to it. It’s different and stands out.

It wouldn’t be a crime to once listen to these numbers if you are listening to the same stuff daily! Well I listen to these everyday!

For part I:  http://isparku.wordpress.com/2009/06/17/a-cup-of-happiness-i-coromandel-express/

That day when Gobind had left he had a rupee in hand and had promised to bring back happiness. Today she waited for all three, Gobind, Keshu and happiness.

Puspa was a simple woman who wished all the happiness and comfort for her only son Keshu. Everyday was a struggle with Gobind’s meagre income but Keshu was mad about rosogollas. Any moment when he had a rupee in hand, you could find him buying a couple at Mohon dada’s shop round the corner, across the railway crossing.

Kharagpur. No sign of the new ticket babu who got in at Cuttack yet. Keshab looked out in hope. Two more hours and he’ll be in Puspa’s lap. He saw the platform move backwards, the train pick up speed, and voices rushing to catch up with it. Keshab imitated the clank of the wheels. Somewhere inside he still loved the trains. Suddenly he felt the entire compartment go silent. A black image passed by and stood right before his seat. Terrified, he tried fleeing to the nearest escape, the toilets. The rosogolla hawker stood, blocking the way, serving some passengers. Another reason to hate the rosogollas he thought.

That day Puspa had gone to her ailing aunt’s place and Keshu had the uncontrollable desire for a rosogolla. Gobind was helpless with no penny in hand. Helplessness came out as anger and irritation. Keshu was an adamant child. Puspa came late in the evening and Keshu was crying. He complained and fell asleep on her lap, tired.

Keshab woke up happy, thinking he was still on Puspa’s lap and all his tantrums for the evil rosogollas was a dream. The train’s whistle told him otherwise. He cursed himself as the cause for his mother’s misery. Thanking his stars that the ticket babu was in a dream, he turned to the lavatory, when out of nowhere a voice asked “Ticket please!”

Puspa sensed Gobind’s helplessness and gave him the only ruppee she had in her pallu to get Keshu’s rosogolla from across the crossing. As Gobind faded into the darkness, Puspa smiled at Keshu sleeping on the mat.

“Ticket Please”. Keshab was stuck to where he stood. The new ticket babu had an air of authority about him. “Are you travelling alone?” asked the babu. “No sir, er I mean yes sir. I don’t have a ticket sir please forgive me” and he started crying. “Stop crying” said the babu. “What’s your name?” “Keshab”. “Did you run away from home?” “No sir. I came in search of my father who works at the Cuttack railway station” “Why, did he leave you alone or did you get lost?” “He got lost sir”. The babu laughed.

Gobind clutched the rupee hard in his palm. And it pained. It pained in his heart. As he got the cup of rosogollas from Mohon, he felt happy. One thing at a time he thought. Soon he will provide Keshu with all that he desired. As he ran across the level crossing with the cup, the gates fell without warning. Gobind looked up in alarm.

“Do you want something to eat?” ” No sir”. “Some Jhalmuri or rosogollas perhaps?” Keshab was tempted to say rosogollas but then he remembered why he was there. “Nothing sir”. “Do you have anybody else at home?” “Yes sir, my mother” “Does she know where you are?” “No sir” “Never run away from home without telling anybody from now on Keshu. Do you understand?”

“Do you understand?” Gobind shouted at Keshu. Keshu stood wailing at the door for Puspa’s return. He wanted to sleep in her lap. He wanted no sweets now.

Puspa awaited the return filled with hope after the phone call. She stood at the doorway, waiting eagerly for his return. She was almost certain he would come today. There was still time before the Coromandel reached Howrah.

Keshab nodded. Soon everybody around prepared to get down at Howrah, as the train pulled into the station. The ticket babu wouldn’t leave Keshab alone. He seemed to be a nice person, but Keshab was terrified if he would hand him over to the police. “I will take you to your home. Don’t worry I won’t tell your mother that you ran away. Let us just say you were lost. Okay?” Keshab nodded. There was something peculiar about the way the babu talked and his walk. Something he had said bothered him.

Puspa saw Keshu as a tiny dot at the end of the street. With him was a man with a black coat, which she recognised as that of a ticket babu. When they were at the door she hugged Keshu tightly. Then she hugged the babu.

Keshu was thinking hard of something the babu had said. Suddenly his eyes lit up. “Never run away from home without telling anybody from now on Keshu. Do you understand?” The gold badge on the black coat caught Keshu’s eye. On it was written ‘Gobind’

*****

Court proceedings of a case on May 6 1999:

“… due to negligence on part of the railway authorities. Hereby the court instructs the concerned department to undertake full responsibility for the mishap and award compensation for the victim, by making arrangements for his face reconstruction surgery as well as promoting him from the catering department to a ticket inspector…”

P.S: Have I redefined hell?!

Two days to go and everything is delayed due to the ceremonies associated with grandma’s death.  Still life has to go on. And my sister’s does go on full speed during the wedding time as I am the chauffeur! Narrowly escaping being bleached and tested positive for mehndi marks on my palm, I happily sit on the computer at my desk on Mehndi day.

Remember, the Mehndi artist did a double take when I was offered (as a sacrifice) for the hand test, but I was summoned unceremoniously every now and then for things as simple as a glass of water to actually providing things needed by the artist. Lemon water, sugar, cloth, pillows, finding misplaced objects., She was highly impressed and she had the audacity to tell my sister how efficient a brother I was. She should thank her lucky stars that she didn’t consider me joining her as her third assistant to earn a living.

After the group of chatty women left, it was my turn to moisten the hands and legs of the bride – to -be with the lemon + sugar mixture. Where is my mother you would ask. Well, she awaited her turn next with her hands displayed, as if she were in dismay looking at my shoddy work. I had my revenge when due to lack of time the artist had to leave without ‘decorating’ my mother’s feet, and since I had two free hands obviously again I had to step in to the rescue. Since it was feet, not much attention was paid by both ladies to what atrocity I had committed there. Let bygones be bygones shhh..

Pre-wedding ceremony, involves the bride’s brother to be all over the place. Worse still if the wedding hall consists of a building with three floors.  On the day of the actual wedding the condition multiplies. How difficult it is to be god, to be omnipresent!

Attending to guests is another thing. Trying to recognize  someone whom you don’t remember is a tricky situation. Worse still is if they know you well. Well I am a master of that situation now. You got to give them the feeling that you know them too well to be telling their names to them! And when you are about to be caught, just remind them to have food or meet the couple. Simple!

Food and sleep were totally unrequired for both brother and sister for those days, for completely different reasons. Throw in some running around and a three-storeyed building and you have the perfect way to lose three kilos!

As the train jerked to a halt along the platform in Bhadrakh, Keshab rested his chin against the rusty bars on the emergency

window alongside which he sat on. Summer was at its peak and last of the sun’s heat stayed with the lingering piece of orange

in the sky. He prayed that the ‘ticket babu’ wouldn’t come and ask him for the ticket. Pride mingled with prayer as scenes of

how he managed to avoid the babu from Chennai to Cuttack played inside his head. Luck was what he prayed for, with a bribe of

one ruppee. That and that the lie that he would be telling his mother should be believable.

Puspa lit the oil lamp as darkness turned the Hooghly black. The small houses arranged in a row seemed like a train without

lights. Power had failed again. Lines of worry creased her forehead as she looked in vain at the end of the alley for  Keshu.

All her neighbours and friends of Keshu had failed to answer why he didn’t turn up home the previous night. It was like the

same night three months ago when Gobind had deserted her with Keshu sleeping on her lap.

Keshab was happy playing with his friends near the small railway housing colony behind the Howrah station. A train passing by

was an everyday affair and he had lost interest by the time he was twelve unlike other kids in the Government boys’ school

where he studied. He dreamt of Puspa’s tasty Maachher Jhol (fish curry) as the train rumbled on. As the train changed tracks,

the hawkers started with the shouts of ‘Tea, coffee and Jhalmuri’. Rosogollas too. Rage filled him as he willed himself

against pushing the mud cups out of the hawker’s hand.

As Keshu slept on her lap, Puspa woke her husband and gave him a ruppe from the end of her pallu. Carefully she lifted Keshu’s head and saw Gobind disappear into the darkness at the end of the street. The gusty wind shook her out of the reverie, as she closed the door. That day when Gobind had left he had a ruppee in hand and had promised to bring back happiness. Today she waited for all three, Gobind, Keshu and happiness.

As the train jerked to a halt along the platform in Bhadrakh, Keshab rested his chin against the rusty bars on the emergency window alongside which he sat on. Summer was at its peak and last of the sun’s heat stayed with the lingering piece of orange in the sky. He prayed that the ticket babu wouldn’t come and ask him for the ticket. Pride mingled with prayer as scenes of how he managed to avoid the babu from Chennai to Cuttack played inside his head. Luck was what he prayed for, with a bribe of one ruppee. That and that the lie that he would be telling his mother should be believable.

Puspa lit the oil lamp as darkness turned the Hooghly black. The small houses arranged in a row seemed like a train without lights. Power had failed again. Lines of worry creased her forehead as she looked in vain at the end of the alley for  Keshu. All her neighbours and friends of Keshu had failed to answer why he didn’t turn up home the previous night. It was like the same night three months ago when Gobind had deserted her with Keshu sleeping on her lap.

Keshab’s thought of  happy times playing with his friends near the small railway housing colony behind the Howrah station. A train passing by was an everyday affair and he had lost interest in them by the time he was twelve unlike other kids in the Government boys’ school. He dreamt of Puspa’s tasty Maachher Jhol as the train rumbled on. As the train changed tracks,  the hawkers started with the shouts of ‘Tea, coffee and Jhalmuri‘. Rosogollas too.  He couldn’t resist one. Then he thought of his mother who found her husband gone one day.  Rage filled him, even as he willed himself against pushing the mud cups filled with sugar syrup and the white evil as he had christened it, out of the hawker’s hand.

As Keshu slept on her lap, Puspa woke her husband and gave him a ruppee from the end of her pallu. Carefully she lifted Keshu’s head placing him carefully on the mat and saw Gobind disappear into the darkness at the end of the street. The gusty wind shook her out of the reverie, as she closed the door. That day when Gobind had left he had a ruppee in hand and had promised to bring back happiness. Today she waited for all three, Gobind, Keshu and happiness.

Part II : http://isparku.wordpress.com/2009/06/21/a-cup-of-happiness-ii-answers-on-a-ticket/

P.S: An attempt at my first short story. Note it is an attempt!

The typical Palakkad Tamilians’ wedding goes on for a span of more than a week with the main ceremonies over a spread of three days. Attending weddings as a guest and being a part of one are completely diverse affairs, as I learnt during my only sister’s wedding.

Well everything involves ’selection’.

Selecting the groom or bride (duh!) is an exhaustive process as the weddings here are a marriage of families rather than that of two individuals.

Then comes selecting the dresses. And it so happens that every single ceremony needs the bride to wear the ubiquitous silk saree you find in such weddings, bringing the number of those to be needed for the bride-to-be to eight!! Well the groom needs to be happy with the silk dhoti, which unfortunately is available only in cream unlike red, green, maroon or the other bright ones that his female counterpart sports!

Well, why to be left out, the parents of the groom and bride ’select’ dresses too! And of course me the only brother did too!

Then selecting the invitation cards, the wedding hall, the menu for three meals for two days, the ‘look’ of the reception. Things are difficult when your sister who is the bride-to-be is a good selector (BCCI are you listening?) and who desires everything on her is prim and proper (after all it is her special day). So you being the ‘only brother’ (comes as an emotional blackmailer term!) has to drive around her to the ‘accessories’ shop (lali-peelee shop as me and sis refer to it!) and (heavens help me) help her select the bangles that match perfectly with the saree. I wonder how she is able to spot the difference in the shade between two pairs (All reds look the same to me!).

Topping that is the mehendi artist selection, which precedes the actual design selection. Guess who is subjected to the ‘test’ whether the lady has the skill or not? Me! So I am the driver – cum – ‘test hand’ that would decide the selection of the mehendi artist. Luckily some kind friend of the artist stepped in at the last moment to save me from 15 days of embarrassment!

As the wedding day draws nearer tension mounts, not for my sister, but me. The number of pick-ups and drops increase. Add to it an attack on my masculinity! I am forced to undergo a facial bleach to make me look better in the wedding as per sister’s orders. To attain the new ‘metrosexual’ me, I am dragged to this men’ beauty salon (ugh! I almost throwing up!) for the bleach. Advantage number one is that this is out of bounds for my sister, so I coolly get a shave and some hair cut, and announce that the bleach is done. And ‘my face glows’ and is ‘much better and radiant’ in the words of my dear sister. Phew! narrowly escaped that one.

Finally, it’s mehendi day. A complete ladies’ riot, supposedly, but..

TBC…

 

I waited for the arrival,

parched as I was, wrinkled,

trickling from my eyes,

reduced to a stream.

The burning heat,piercing through,

dissipating my soul,drop by drop,

as trees withered by,around me

I waited for the arrival,

parched as I was, wrinkled,

trickling from my eyes,

reduced to a stream.

 

The burning heat,piercing through,

dissipating my soul,drop by drop,

trees withering by,around me,

Patiently, I wait, limping by.

 

White clouds crawl across,

nudged by a  gentle warm breeze,

Green mangoes turn bright orange,

Soon would the white into grey

 

Transforming into the life giver,

Greenery around me, I would rush through

eating through the rough crevices

Knowing well, this too shall pass.

Continuing from following your dreams.. A good song with simple 

lyrics and a rock touch.

***

Sindbad The Sailor Ek Jahaaz Mein Jab Chala …Mere Yaar Sunlo Sunlo…..

Doondh Raha Tha Ek Naye Duniya Ka Pata …Mere Yaar Sunlo Sunlo…..

 

Woh Anjaane Raahon Mein Tha, Woh Lehron Ki Baahon Mein Tha

Sab Ne Kaha Tha In Samandaron Mein Jaana Nahin

Mere Yaar Sunlo Sunlo…..

Khwaabon Ke Peeche Jaake Kuch Bhi Hai Paana Nahin

Mere Yaar Sunlo Sunlo…..

 

Woh Apni Hi Dhun Mein Raha, Woh Suntata Dil Ka Kahaan

Us Ke The Jo Sapne Wohin Us Ke The Apne, Aisa Tha Sindbad The Sailor

 Us Ke The Jo Sapne Wohin Us Ke The Apne, Aisa Tha Sindbad The Sailor

 

Us Ka Jahaaz Gira Tufano Mein,

Mere Yaar Sunlo Sunlo…..

Phir Bhi Na Aayi Aandhi Us Ke Armaano Mein

Mere Yaar Sunlo Sunlo…..

Woh Deewana Aisa Hi Tha Ooo..Woh Sapno Ka Humrahi Tha Ooo..

Us Ke The Jo Sapne Wohin Us Ke The Apne, Aisa Tha Sindbad The Sailor

Us Ke The Jo Sapne Wohin Us Ke The Apne, Aisa Tha Sindbad The Sailor

Woh Kuch Paane Ki Chaah Mein, Woh Badta Rahan Raahon Mein

Gehra Samundar Tha Oonchi Oonchi Lehren

Mere Yaar Sunlo Sunlo…..

Kasthi Acchi Acchi Bhi Mushkil Se Tehre

Mere Yaar Sunlo Sunlo…..

Woh Saahil Pe Gaa Hi Gaya  Oooo, Woh Mazil Ko Paa Hi Gaya Oooo

s Ke The Jo Sapne Wohin Us Ke The Apne, Aisa Tha Sindbad The Sailor

Us Ke The Jo Sapne Wohin Us Ke The Apne, Aisa Tha Sindbad The Sailor

 

Tum Ho To Gaata Hai Dil , Tum Nahin To Geet Kahan,

Tum Ho To Hai Sab Haasil, Tum Nahin To Kya Hai Yahan

Tum Ho To Hai Sapno Ke Jaisa Haseen Ek Sama

Jo Tum Ho To Yeh Lagta Hai Ke Mil Gayi Har Khushi

Jo Tum Na Ho Yeh Lagta Hai Ke Har Khushi Mein Hai Kami

Tumko Hai Maangti Yeh Zindagi…..

And finally today I complete a year here. A big thank you to who has stuck to this till now, including myself! 

 

Stats

Here is are the stats for the year… This is not for analysis, just to show the ups and downs, like it is always with everything!

Thank You!

Time for psycho-analysis. Be warned, it might be uninteresting, or worse unintelligible.

***

A year ago I was reading this book Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. It is based on Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism.  To be short and precise, in the words of Rand herself:  “My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute.” 

Dagny Taggart, puts her blood and soul into running her railroad she had always considered herself to be part of. Loving herself the most does not necessarily mean, according to her, wrecking others lives, but it also does not mean considering someone else’s happiness.

***

Some questions: How much can you love someone? Is there a limit? Can it be measured? Can you compare the quantities by which it varies from subject to subject? Why is there a lot for some and for some with boundaries attached to it? Why is there no reason for why it exists in the first place? Does it happen on the basis of incidents, the person, or both, or none? Does it necessarily have to be bi-directional to exist? If not does it disappear? Or does it stay disguised? Should I feel guilty if I don’t love everybody equally? Can there be equality in love? Is it possible to love all equally? Bigger question: Is it possible to love all? On a lighter note: Can logic and love go together?

***

‘Dream’ is a beautiful word. Dream can mean your sub-concious wake up call (ironically when you are asleep!) or the destiny you wish for. Do both have a connection? ( I know they do.. but how?) How do you interpret them, both types of ‘dreams’? One of the types is one on which you have fair amount of control on. The other is one, on which you don’t have any (or do you?)

***

From a larger perspective: Are there bridges connecting Objectivism, Love and Dreams somewhere vaguely? Some boundaries that define objectivism apart from love in general. Something that defines the link between love and dreams (both types) ?

So many questions, and no answers. But there is the one missing link where I have to find the question itself: Objectivism and Dreams. Do dreams define how objective you are or does objectivism define your dreams (both types again!)

***

For the concerned, I am hale and healthy, and I have not gone crazy!