Gyan for the Gullible

I read some lines to this effect somewhere a few months earlier. And since I hate to accept the fact that my retention capacity for both facts and fiction is fast resembling a generously proportioned seive, I'd like to formally lay the blame squarely on Momnesia for this tragic genocide of my once-promising brain cells! Anyway, here comes the gyan!

Be who you are, do what you want, and say what you feel.
Because those who matter don't mind.
And those who mind, don't matter.

Makes sense, doesn't it? Wonder why I keep forgetting that in a bid to be loved, nay liked, by people who have graduated magna cum laude in the fine art of fault-finding? The bottomline is: Mystic fools never learn!

The Curious Case of the Missing Mystic

The good news is - I'm still alive! And contrary to what my almost-two-month-old disappearance from the blogosphere might suggest, my virtual disappearance doesn't have anything to do with alien abductions or involvements in hush-hush top secret shenanigans to save the world!

• I managed to sprain my wrist rather badly and it's only after two months that it's close to being at back-to-normal status. And no, I refused to see a doctor because as far as I am concerned, a sprained wrist doesn't qualify as a playing-chess-with-Death kinda emergency!



• I also checked myself into Blogaholics Anonymous, located somewhere in the labyrinthine stretches of matter (grey and otherwise) in my head! While I did catch up on favorite blogs, I took my self-imposed blog withdrawal was an exercise in self-control as I curbed the urge to make my presence felt through comments, and more importantly, through blogging as a matter of habit.



• I have always wondered why I blogged in the first place since I can never bring myself to lay bare the minutiae of my life on a blog. I'm still trying to find an answer and I'll blog as and when I want to till I can reach a decision.



• The recalcitrant wrist and recession have ensured work is painfully slow. So, to save my mind from being appropriated for nefarious purposes by the devil, I decided to start working out. But being the villager that I am, I hate gyms with a vengeance. So, I did the next best thing - the tried-and-tested Forest Gump act -- running around the subdivision --two to three miles in the evenings under the cover of darkness so people would be spared the rolling-on-the-floor act at the sight of my Phoebesque gait. All this running is my last-ditch effort to stop (and hopefully reverse) the gradual transformation from the waif-like Princess Leia to the ample Jabba the Hut, which I assure you is not a pretty sight!



• I also learnt several things over these past months - the least of which is not to compare my life or any aspect of it with anyone else's. Nothing. Not even little things. And accept that every one's lives and choices are unique and cannot be weighed against each other. In that, I believe, lies the secret to happiness and contentment.



• Finally, Popol continues to be a child - out-pestering pests, throwing his hapless mom out of whirl, and being a clown, a headache and an angel all rolled into one. His love for music continues unabated and he belts out Desi Girl and Bristi Bristi Bristi with equal elan! He has decided the ocean is his 'swimming pool' since our mini-vacation to a beach resort and loves being a water baby. He also takes very good care of me, insisting "Mamma coffee, Mamma, eat," when I skip breakfast and smearing his kiddie cream all over my face after his bath, sending me to Mommy heaven!

Does she deserve to be killed?

Well, many Indians all across the country seem to think so! Which is why sex determination and female foeticide is still rampant -- not just in the rural areas, but in big cities as well.

I came to know of Laadli through this commercial that I chanced upon. It made me cry. It made me pledge and join the fight to stop female foeticide. I believe it will move you enough to pledge as well. Just go here - it takes just a couple of minutes. Alternately, you can also sms LAADLI to 575758 to pledge your support. Isn't it about time we gave the unborn girl child a chance?

Thode aansu hain, thodhi haansi

In case you've been missing my comments and wondering why, it's just that I haven't been in a very blogging/blog-hopping frame of mind lately. Hope to be back in the blogosphere soon.

Meanwhile, enjoy this song which never fails to cheer me up and make me feel one with the tide of life. Incidentally, Popol loves it, too, and sings along, glossing over the lyrics yet carrying the tune perfectly!

Help!

My home has been invaded by a super villain! A mini super villain, to be precise. One who mouths 'Mogambo khush hua' and 'Popol khush hua' with an impish grin 23,187 times a day!

Note to self: Bury, burn, or destroy the Mr. India DVD when Mini Mogambo is not looking!
And since my non-violent and non-destructive (sic!) nature forbids it, I'll probably have to hide it someplace for a couple of days! (Edited to add)

BAD no more

Child prodigy. Bundle of talent. King of Pop. Moonwalker. Icon. Harbinger of cultural revolutions. Tormented soul. Boy trapped in man's body. Black and White. Suspected child molester. Modern-day Lucifer.

A meteor that shone dazzlingly bright before burning out ahead of its time. A man more sinned against than sinned.

Rest in peace, Michael Jackson. You'll always be remembered as you should be - an iconic performer with a magical voice and moondust feet.

I Remember...

Kind eyes behind a pair of glasses,
Curly black hair peppered with grey,
Crisply ironed pastel shirts,
And a faint whiff of aftershave.

Daily tram rides to school.
Scrambling to claim the window seat on the bus.
Long walks along Southern Avenue.
An ice cream on the way home.

Stories told on stormy nights.
Shadow puppets in candle light.
Trips to the annual book fair.
Gifts of books. And love for words.

Craning over the balcony wall waving goodbye --
till the road curved away from view.
Pacing the balcony restlessly when the clock chimed six.
The the whoops of joy when the doorbell rang early.

A much-loved voice calling my name
even before the door opened.
A musky fragrance announcing the arrival
of my father. My Bapi.

Now, after 23 long years,
I still hear that voice call my name,
And smell that same musky smell,
But I know no one waits behind the door. Anymore.

I never wished my father on Fathers' Day. It was not in fashion back then. But I know that he knew he was much loved and cherished by his wife and daughter. And I know he knows that we miss him still. I might not write or talk about you much any more, but I still remember you and all our moments spent together. Happy Fathers' Day, Bapi.

Banalata Sen

I have been re-reading some of Jibanananda Das' poems these last few days. As some of you may know, Jibanananda Das (1899-1954) was one of the foremost modern Bengali poets and his work beautifully merges elements of modernism with rich imagery of the beauty of rural Bengal, along with shades of the increasing complexities of urban life and trials and tribulations of the modern man.

One of Jibanananda's most popular poems is Banalata Sen and the name recurs in some of his other poems as well. While some interpret Banalata Sen as symbolizing the eternal cycle of history and time overshadowing transitory emotions, others view it as a paen to the ideal woman, one who transcends temporal and geographical boundaries to offer solace and refuge to man. She can also be interpreted as the eternal Muse, who has been a source of inspiration to men since times immemorial.

I leave you with an English translation of Banalata Sen by Clinton B. Seely, Professor at the University of Chicago. While faithful to the original words and their meaning, the tranlastion is a tad bookish and falls short of capturing the lyrical quality of the original. You can also go here to listen to Soumitra Chatterjee recite Banalata Sen in his beautiful voice.

Banalata Sen

For thousands of years I roamed the paths of this earth,
From waters round Ceylon in dead of night to Malayan seas.
Much have I wandered. I was there in the grey world of Asoka
And Bimbisara, pressed on through darkness to the city of Vidarbha.
I am a weary heart surrounded by life's frothy ocean.
To me she gave a moment's peace -- Banalata Sen from Natore*.

Her hair was like an ancient darkling night in Vidisa,
Her face, the craftsmanship of Sravasti. As the helmsman,
His rudder broken, far out upon the sea adrift,
Sees the grass-green land of a cinnamon isle, just so
Through darkness I saw her. Said she, "Where have you been so long?"
And raised her bird's nest-like eyes -- Banalata Sen from Natore.

At day's end, like hush of dew
Comes evening. A hawk wipes the scent of sunlight fom its wings.
When earth's colors fade and some pale design is sketched,
Then glimmering fireflies paint in the story.
All birds come home, all rivers, all of this life's tasks finished.
Only darkness remains, as I sit there face to face with Banalata Sen.

~ Jibanananda Das

*Natore - now a subdivision of Rajsahi in Bangladesh.