I'm free
to read the characters
on our hands,
measure
the shape of your nails,
trace the lines
on your palms
- and hope that somewhere,
they run into mine.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
INDRA JATRA
My favourite time of the year in Kathmandu, felt desecrated this year.
Every year, when the Indra Jatra week begins, I pick my camera and make rounds of the city- Basantapur, Hanuman Dhoka, Naradevi and the vicinity. Until a few years ago, I made the trip without a camera, usually with cousins. And even before that, it was my father who took me to the Kathmandu Durbar square to see the Jatra. He would carry me on his shoulders like a little monkey. It somehow made me feel secure to know the crowd would not crush me as long as I was on his shoulders. But what about Baa (my father) himself? I never seemed to have thought about it back then. But I would be most thankful for his shoulders when the Pulukishi and the Lakhe made their appearance. They are my favourite part of the festival.
The Lakhe, with its energy and rhythm is a character I'm always in awe of. Red hair, face and the rest of the attire. And the movement reminds of something I fear, as well as adore.I've carried that with me since the time I was a toddler. I still live with that childhood impression and I'm unable to think of it as a human being behind the mask. To me, the Lakhe is the crimson face with fangs, it's frock and the bells that jingle as it moves with such amazing grace and vigour. A premonition. But I love it!
Then there's the Pulukishi, playful, silly, and always finding ways to run into girls who scream away in fright. Imagine, the sexual politics at play even at events like these. As a kid, you always want to avoid standing next to young women, if you want the Pulukishi to stay at a distance.
These things never change. But so much had changed this year at Indra Jatra. The Durbar Square was crowded like never before. Last year, I had been able to stand on one of the pavilions, watching. This year, there was no space to even squeeze myself in for a glimpse of the Living dieties. Then there were Dohoris playing to madals, at the pavilions, as though it were not Indra Jatra, and something else. Most of the people I overheard in these crowds, only had questions about the festival. You could have counted the locals on your fingers.
Every year, when the Indra Jatra week begins, I pick my camera and make rounds of the city- Basantapur, Hanuman Dhoka, Naradevi and the vicinity. Until a few years ago, I made the trip without a camera, usually with cousins. And even before that, it was my father who took me to the Kathmandu Durbar square to see the Jatra. He would carry me on his shoulders like a little monkey. It somehow made me feel secure to know the crowd would not crush me as long as I was on his shoulders. But what about Baa (my father) himself? I never seemed to have thought about it back then. But I would be most thankful for his shoulders when the Pulukishi and the Lakhe made their appearance. They are my favourite part of the festival.
The Lakhe, with its energy and rhythm is a character I'm always in awe of. Red hair, face and the rest of the attire. And the movement reminds of something I fear, as well as adore.I've carried that with me since the time I was a toddler. I still live with that childhood impression and I'm unable to think of it as a human being behind the mask. To me, the Lakhe is the crimson face with fangs, it's frock and the bells that jingle as it moves with such amazing grace and vigour. A premonition. But I love it!
Then there's the Pulukishi, playful, silly, and always finding ways to run into girls who scream away in fright. Imagine, the sexual politics at play even at events like these. As a kid, you always want to avoid standing next to young women, if you want the Pulukishi to stay at a distance.
These things never change. But so much had changed this year at Indra Jatra. The Durbar Square was crowded like never before. Last year, I had been able to stand on one of the pavilions, watching. This year, there was no space to even squeeze myself in for a glimpse of the Living dieties. Then there were Dohoris playing to madals, at the pavilions, as though it were not Indra Jatra, and something else. Most of the people I overheard in these crowds, only had questions about the festival. You could have counted the locals on your fingers.
I know these things will keep changing steadily.
It all makes me long for the Kathmandu of my childhood. The courtyard, where you could walk freely and run into all your neighbours and relatives and still enjoy the Lakhe, the Hatu Dyaa, the Pulukishi and the chariots. The crisp evening, where youngsters wore their pre-Dashain bests and shared laughter.
Indra Jatra has lost its essence for it as it becomes more and more politicized with every passing year. First there were the Malla Kings, then the Shahs, then Girija Prasad Koirala, then Prachanda and then Rambaran Yadav. I wish we could learn to leave festivities out of politics. If tomorrow, we have a Muslim head of state, are we still expecting him/her to grace the Kumari ceremony and accept the "holy Khadga" and everything else that comes with the package?
I also hope the capital will be moved to Birendranagar or elsewhere. Kathmandu cannot bear the increasing numbers anymore. She has wilted already. I'm afraid she will soon crash.
It all makes me long for the Kathmandu of my childhood. The courtyard, where you could walk freely and run into all your neighbours and relatives and still enjoy the Lakhe, the Hatu Dyaa, the Pulukishi and the chariots. The crisp evening, where youngsters wore their pre-Dashain bests and shared laughter.
Indra Jatra has lost its essence for it as it becomes more and more politicized with every passing year. First there were the Malla Kings, then the Shahs, then Girija Prasad Koirala, then Prachanda and then Rambaran Yadav. I wish we could learn to leave festivities out of politics. If tomorrow, we have a Muslim head of state, are we still expecting him/her to grace the Kumari ceremony and accept the "holy Khadga" and everything else that comes with the package?
I also hope the capital will be moved to Birendranagar or elsewhere. Kathmandu cannot bear the increasing numbers anymore. She has wilted already. I'm afraid she will soon crash.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
FROZEN
My face on my knees, my hands around them and my eyes on the floor. I feel like a painting. You know, those abstract ones without a face in the frame? And my head is in a pool. I feel as though I left myself behind somewhere, where I experienced a proximity of souls. I made it eternal.
My arrested limbs, my frozen gaze, this still mind- they all stem from a moment of knowledge, that when souls fit in together correctly, they also fit in together as physical beings. That's when there is no discomfort of elbows, ribs or craned necks. That's when you can find abundance, even in a split embrace.
Raining inside
Looks like it will rain
as you hover over the city,
push through the clouds,
and move on.
And I, in a silence
too feeble
to speak of how much
you are missed.
READING YOU RUMI
1.
Why fumble with your books, your candle,
When something else has taken light inside you?
2.
You come but I am nowhere.
No when. No why. No you.
You leave, and you are everywhere.
No me.
3.
You the sky, and I the astonished earth.
What makes you grow new again inside me?
How should the earth know what you have sown with her,
It is enough that you know: she is big with you.
4.
Before you, there were shadows, fears.
After you the same.
Why do I feel transformed?
5.
What is that knocking?
Who goes there?
Not you, or he, but I.
I knock at my own door
And no one answers.
6.
You move me
Out of stasis.
I see your reflection in the mirror.
I can't tell me from you.
7.
Asleep, and being comforted by a cool breeze,
Suddenly, I saw a grey dove
Soar above the trees and sob with longing;
In her anguish, I heard my own.
8.
These words, my wounds, a homesickness.
A bird calls above the sea.
A light on the shore, a light.
9.
When you left, I did, too.
No I at home any more.
Only this candle, this quiet burning.
10.
My hand
Your hand
Connected
Over
His hand.
No division in
Our hearts.
11.
Down this street, down that one,
To the center of the maze.
Nothing waits us but silence.
12.
And yet, in this abandonment of both
in both, what did we give each other?
In the arms of the cross of our crossing,
what flowers and what thorns
did it gather on the road without end?
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
YOU GIVE ME POETRY AGAIN
1.
Who did you awaken in me
last night?
She felt like a person
I used to know.
2.
Rains.
It has poured heavily this month.
Let's listen to it
-together.
3.
A voice.
Just a voice-
and you changed so much.
4.
When you return
I wonder
what will have changed.
I know what will remain unchanged.
-me.
So, come back?
5.
What if you never know?
What if you never find out?
Never.
I didn't know it was such a powerful word until just now.
6.
Chequered table-cloth,
Rain,
A courtyard in quiet bustle.
Phrases, eyes and hands.
When these are over,
the waiter clears the table,
fixes the table-cloth,
pushes the chairs back in.
And nothing ever happened on that table.
7.
You pass
like a day in stasis,
pausing
like an old man,
awkward
like a boy in a new school.
The cars pass us by.
The street
keeps stretching before me
as far are you're walking
Who did you awaken in me
last night?
She felt like a person
I used to know.
2.
Rains.
It has poured heavily this month.
Let's listen to it
-together.
3.
A voice.
Just a voice-
and you changed so much.
4.
When you return
I wonder
what will have changed.
I know what will remain unchanged.
-me.
So, come back?
5.
What if you never know?
What if you never find out?
Never.
I didn't know it was such a powerful word until just now.
6.
Chequered table-cloth,
Rain,
A courtyard in quiet bustle.
Phrases, eyes and hands.
When these are over,
the waiter clears the table,
fixes the table-cloth,
pushes the chairs back in.
And nothing ever happened on that table.
7.
You pass
like a day in stasis,
pausing
like an old man,
awkward
like a boy in a new school.
The cars pass us by.
The street
keeps stretching before me
as far are you're walking
-slow,
uncertain,
as though you had left behind
yourself.
8.
Half-emptied cups,
words lingering in air,
Courage,
Aspirations,
Dreams,
Tomorrow.
They all begin with you.
9.
Lazimpat
-busy like every day.
You and I
at nothing.
You just left.
I'm missing.
10.
I searched your face
for
a memory.
It's all you've left behind.
uncertain,
as though you had left behind
yourself.
8.
Half-emptied cups,
words lingering in air,
Courage,
Aspirations,
Dreams,
Tomorrow.
They all begin with you.
9.
Lazimpat
-busy like every day.
You and I
at nothing.
You just left.
I'm missing.
10.
I searched your face
for
a memory.
It's all you've left behind.
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