I got this one from the reader's Digest. Great morale booster...
Tribute to working moms
By Elizabeth Ralph Mertz
When Aristotle wrote his books, when Milton searched for rhyme
did they have toddlers on the knee requesting dinner time?
When Dante contemplated Hell, or Shakespeare penned a sonnet
did Junior interrupt to say. his cake had ketchup on it?
When Socrates was teaching youth and Plato wrote the Phaedo
were they the ones to clean the mess the children made with play dough?
If Edmund Burke had had to work om all his kids' ablutions
Would he have had the time and strength to speak on revolutions?
Did food get bought when Darwin sought the origin of the species?
Or did he have to rush the tots and tell them not to tease please?
When Judge Holmes and Brandeis donned their robes and gave their wise opinions
was laundry piled a meter high with socks mixed up with linen?
How much greater then the task of those who manage both
who juggle scholarship with child development and growth?
And how much greater is the praise for those who persevere
and finish their advanced degrees to take up a CAREER?
Friday, December 22, 2006
Quo Vadis (Whither goest thou?)
This was written very soon after the demolition of the Babri masjid in Ayodhya and the subsequent riots. I was just aghast at the senseless riots that rocked the nation. I have always taken pride in being an equal citizen of the world's largest secular democracy. That faith lay shaken... as a journalist, a mother, a wife, a daughter, something in me revolted. This is neither poem nor prose. It uses the lines of a poem by Ravindranath Tagore that I hold sacred, juxtaposing each line of that vision of the founding fathers of India with the harsh realities of today...
The architects of modern India had a vision, a dream that helped them break the shackles of foreign oppression and give posterity a free India to breathe in. Presented below are images of that dream juxtaposed with the stark and agonising reality of the present, the nightmare that the dream has changed to---
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high....
Ayodhya,. December 6. The nation hangs its head in shame as the three domes of the 465-year-old Babri mosque come crashing down, one by one, amid frenzied chants of Jai Shri Ram. And significantly, as this symbol of Muslim identity collapses, screams are heard from the Muslim dominated regions of Ayodhya where a fanatic mob is out on a mission to destruct...
Where knowledge is free...
Images of the brutal, unprecedented, planned attacks on the fourth pillar of democracy-- the press. Ripped clothes of women reporters, smashed cameras, bleeding bewildered scribes, unarmed, unprepared against the systematised attack...
Where the world has not been broken up into narrow domestic walls,-- where words come out from the depths of truth...
The betrayal of the highest court of the land by a democratically-elected government that goes back on its written pledge. Ragukul reet sada chali aayi, pran jaayi par vachan na jaayi? (In Ram's family and among his followers, it is a tradition that one would rather die than go back on his given word... the basis tenet of Lord Rama's life.)
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection, where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sands of dead habit...
Images again...this time of Uma Bharti ecstatically hugging Murli Manohar Joshi as the third dome tumbles down...saffron hordes clearing the debris... holding aloft bricks of the desecrated structure like treasured trophies. But is this the debris of the Babri mosque alone that they are clearing... for somewhere in that rubble is buried the myth of Hindu tolerance, for in a Hindu Rashtra-- their version of modern India-- there is no need for myths. The mask has been lifted off the face of the world's largest secular democracy. And the face beneath it is horrifyingly ugly.
Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening thought and action...
The idols of Ram lalla, hastily installed at a makeshift temple atop the mute remains of the Babri mosque...which God would condone this?
Into that heaven of freedom my Father, let my country awake...
The stench of death and doom hangs in the air as curfew is imposed in city after city in the wake of the incidents at Ayodhya. In the eyes of the world overnight, the image of India has changed from a tolerant, secular democracy to a fascist mobocracy led by religious fanatics. And the perpetrators of this sit smug, unrepentant...
Quo vadis India?
Quo vadis my Indians?
QUO VADIS???
(With humble apologies to Gurudev for my temerity)
The architects of modern India had a vision, a dream that helped them break the shackles of foreign oppression and give posterity a free India to breathe in. Presented below are images of that dream juxtaposed with the stark and agonising reality of the present, the nightmare that the dream has changed to---
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high....
Ayodhya,. December 6. The nation hangs its head in shame as the three domes of the 465-year-old Babri mosque come crashing down, one by one, amid frenzied chants of Jai Shri Ram. And significantly, as this symbol of Muslim identity collapses, screams are heard from the Muslim dominated regions of Ayodhya where a fanatic mob is out on a mission to destruct...
Where knowledge is free...
Images of the brutal, unprecedented, planned attacks on the fourth pillar of democracy-- the press. Ripped clothes of women reporters, smashed cameras, bleeding bewildered scribes, unarmed, unprepared against the systematised attack...
Where the world has not been broken up into narrow domestic walls,-- where words come out from the depths of truth...
The betrayal of the highest court of the land by a democratically-elected government that goes back on its written pledge. Ragukul reet sada chali aayi, pran jaayi par vachan na jaayi? (In Ram's family and among his followers, it is a tradition that one would rather die than go back on his given word... the basis tenet of Lord Rama's life.)
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection, where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sands of dead habit...
Images again...this time of Uma Bharti ecstatically hugging Murli Manohar Joshi as the third dome tumbles down...saffron hordes clearing the debris... holding aloft bricks of the desecrated structure like treasured trophies. But is this the debris of the Babri mosque alone that they are clearing... for somewhere in that rubble is buried the myth of Hindu tolerance, for in a Hindu Rashtra-- their version of modern India-- there is no need for myths. The mask has been lifted off the face of the world's largest secular democracy. And the face beneath it is horrifyingly ugly.
Where the mind is led forward by Thee into ever-widening thought and action...
The idols of Ram lalla, hastily installed at a makeshift temple atop the mute remains of the Babri mosque...which God would condone this?
Into that heaven of freedom my Father, let my country awake...
The stench of death and doom hangs in the air as curfew is imposed in city after city in the wake of the incidents at Ayodhya. In the eyes of the world overnight, the image of India has changed from a tolerant, secular democracy to a fascist mobocracy led by religious fanatics. And the perpetrators of this sit smug, unrepentant...
Quo vadis India?
Quo vadis my Indians?
QUO VADIS???
(With humble apologies to Gurudev for my temerity)
Monday, December 11, 2006
Kaanch ka sheesha
Kaanch ka sheesha, nazuk dilkash
tootey to chubh jaata hai,...
mere sapney bhi kuchch aisey
toot gaye, ab chubhtey hain...
Written by my father, Syed Anwer Abbas. One of my fav shers.
tootey to chubh jaata hai,...
mere sapney bhi kuchch aisey
toot gaye, ab chubhtey hain...
Written by my father, Syed Anwer Abbas. One of my fav shers.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
On Mrs Gandhi's death
The light has gone and hopelessness descends
in blankets of dark, swirling grey mists
covering a nation with its gloom
There is no leader, only anguished hearts
that hunt the way to doom.
the night has fallen, there is no moon
nor stars and the sky seems so far
there is no light, no one to guide the way
only a dark hatred burns everlastingly
and millions watch...helpless and astray.
O come the morn with singing birds
and light and sunshine clear
come dawn and vanish hazy mist
come hope and wipe the tear
-- that falls across this fallen land
with hearts that long and long...
and grieve the death of one who was
and millions hopeless throng...
...and stumble in the darkened streets
at times they stop and pause
for the sound of a voice, the touch of a hand
a ray of a light that was!
Written at age 17 soon after Mrs Gandhi's assassination in 1984 and after witnessing the senseless riots that rocked the nation in its wake. This poem was later forwarded to Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi on Mrs Gandhi's first death anniversary, who replied with a note of thanks. Published National Herald, 31 October 1988.
in blankets of dark, swirling grey mists
covering a nation with its gloom
There is no leader, only anguished hearts
that hunt the way to doom.
the night has fallen, there is no moon
nor stars and the sky seems so far
there is no light, no one to guide the way
only a dark hatred burns everlastingly
and millions watch...helpless and astray.
O come the morn with singing birds
and light and sunshine clear
come dawn and vanish hazy mist
come hope and wipe the tear
-- that falls across this fallen land
with hearts that long and long...
and grieve the death of one who was
and millions hopeless throng...
...and stumble in the darkened streets
at times they stop and pause
for the sound of a voice, the touch of a hand
a ray of a light that was!
Written at age 17 soon after Mrs Gandhi's assassination in 1984 and after witnessing the senseless riots that rocked the nation in its wake. This poem was later forwarded to Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi on Mrs Gandhi's first death anniversary, who replied with a note of thanks. Published National Herald, 31 October 1988.
The Miracle
I had practically worked out
all the steps
smoothed out all the wrinkles
of our path
cleared all the obstacles
put myself in the role of a martyr
and planned out a masterplan
carefully, painstakingly
I had worked out
the blueprint of a miracle...
it wasn't hard, perfect strategy
was all that was required
...a little more time was needed
so I sat and replanned
Eureka!
I had worked out the perfect miracle
for both of us
and now to execute it...
I turned around to where i had left you,
a look of victory in my eyes...
to find an empty space
...the waiting was too long for you
...even for a miracle!
Published 5 July 1987 National Herald/Pioneer
all the steps
smoothed out all the wrinkles
of our path
cleared all the obstacles
put myself in the role of a martyr
and planned out a masterplan
carefully, painstakingly
I had worked out
the blueprint of a miracle...
it wasn't hard, perfect strategy
was all that was required
...a little more time was needed
so I sat and replanned
Eureka!
I had worked out the perfect miracle
for both of us
and now to execute it...
I turned around to where i had left you,
a look of victory in my eyes...
to find an empty space
...the waiting was too long for you
...even for a miracle!
Published 5 July 1987 National Herald/Pioneer
Thirst
The cracked and parched earth
lapping up
each drop of new fallen rain
drop by drop
absorbing and emanating
the smell of dampened soil.
The sun shining down like a sadist...
vapourising all the drops
and the smell of parched earth
pursuing as if to retrieve
that vital ingredient
and losing itself in the process
...and that is thirst
Published-- Sunday Pioneer, 16 November 1985
lapping up
each drop of new fallen rain
drop by drop
absorbing and emanating
the smell of dampened soil.
The sun shining down like a sadist...
vapourising all the drops
and the smell of parched earth
pursuing as if to retrieve
that vital ingredient
and losing itself in the process
...and that is thirst
Published-- Sunday Pioneer, 16 November 1985
Illusions
This poem won the first prize for Creative Writing in the Nazrana-e-Avadh Inter Collegiate festival at Avadh Girls' Degree College.
Illusions, of happiness
omnipresent yet elusive,
intangible like bubbles
I ache to reach out and touch
and feel their softness in my palms...
take some joy from them
to fill the hollows,
the aching voids of my life...
and yet i know,
the minute I touch them,
they burst.
In my sight yet not for me...illusions...
All that I want and can never have
teasing like the taunts of women,
confident of their attraction,
their allure and their existence...
Illusions... if I reach out to you,
will you promise not to go?
Published: The Pioneer, 23, Nov 1986
Illusions, of happiness
omnipresent yet elusive,
intangible like bubbles
I ache to reach out and touch
and feel their softness in my palms...
take some joy from them
to fill the hollows,
the aching voids of my life...
and yet i know,
the minute I touch them,
they burst.
In my sight yet not for me...illusions...
All that I want and can never have
teasing like the taunts of women,
confident of their attraction,
their allure and their existence...
Illusions... if I reach out to you,
will you promise not to go?
Published: The Pioneer, 23, Nov 1986
Janani—the life giver
Short story by Shirin Abbas
From the corner of her eye she looked at him, her son. His tonsured head betraying signs of the recent loss. So young, she thought, as she saw him proudly, waiting for the last guests to depart, seeing them to the door.
“Achcha Savitri, keep in touch,” said Shanti bua, pausing tearfully at the threshold of the house, her back bent a little more by the loss of her beloved nephew. Wearily Savitri bade farewell to the last of the visitors before sinking down on the bed herself. As the sound of the departing rickshaw drowned in the shouts of the busy street outside, she relaxed in the sudden sense of freedom that overwhelmed her. Guiltily she turned to her side, taking in the sight of her insensate mother-in-law seated barefoot on the floor. The sharp words on the tip of her tongue failed to find a voice, gagged by years of social conditioning. From her privileged perch, which placed her at an elevation, she studied the matriarch’s profile, still to come to terms with the loss of her beloved son.
As she served dinner that night, Savitri reflected on the sudden change in the social order within the house. Till a few days ago it used to be so different. Ramesh, her husband, seated cross legged on the floor at a vantage point, closest to the kitchen to ensure that the steaming hot chappatis, greased generously with liberal servings of ghee (Clarified butter) would be served first to him. Today she thought nothing of seating Vishnu there, the social order within their house yielding to make way for the new incumbent. Her turn, as usual, came last after ensuring that all other family members had been served. In a way she found a strange solace in the constancy of her position; it gave her a sense of stability.
“Let it be mother, you must be tired,” Vishu said half-protesting as, later in the night, she settled into the daily chore of pressing his head, a routine disturbed by the recent turn of events. “I’m used to it,” said Savitri, taking her son’s head in her lap. Her fingers absently turned in quest of the thick luxuriant hair, retracting in its absence, shuddering only once as an image from the past reared its head once again. The smell of cheap country liquor, of sweat, grime and her terrified protests as she buried her hands in hair knotted thick for want of a proper wash. She banished the foul memories that threatened her peace.
Leaning back against the wall she stared vacantly into the night, resisting once again giving in to the sudden sense of release that threatened to engulf her. It had become second nature for her to resent the better things in life and even today she continued to view happiness with jaundiced eyes, like a windfall not really meant for her lot. She knew she would have to hold her silence. It was in everybody’s interest. The woman in her, though, balked at the thought and the unfairness of her situation. So many times during the course of the last eighteen years her secret knowledge had threatened to spill over with her tears, stemmed only by the fear of the reprisal it would bring. She knew she may have to hold her silence forever now. But she felt cheated by fate, even as she reveled in its ridiculous coincidence.
Suddenly she felt like such a hypocrite. That bastard was dead and he had never known….not even at the moment when Vishnu lit his pyre, she supposed. For the first time in several days she allowed herself to laugh. At the irony of it all. The laughter sounded strange…she had almost forgotten what it was to laugh freely over the years, so the sounds came out awkwardly. She muffled her mouth with the bedsheet lest someone hear her unbridled mirth and wonder at its source. It was all over. She had won.
She still remembered that dark night, the road stretched out like a barren chapter from her life as she hurried through the park, clutching at the tiffin carrier that held dinner for her mother-in-law at the hospital. A heavy December fog hung ominously in the air and visibility was low. She hoped like always, that she had done the right thing to take the short cut through the park to the hospital, but prepared almost unconsciously to be chastised for that too.
The sudden assault took her by surprise. A heavy figure lunged at her from the side, flinging her to the ground. Startled she gazed into the eyes of her attacker. She did not remember if she had screamed. For a few seconds she struggled, raking her fingers into the sweat-matted hair, trying to push him off. But he was stronger. She felt like throwing up. Surprisingly it was over in minutes. A grunt of satisfaction coupled with an expletive escaped his lips as he got off, reassembled his clothing and slunk off into the night. Savitri lay there longer. She could feel his seed spill from her, trickle down her parted thighs even as she waited for the tears to well in her eyes and do the same. Painfully she stood up, cowering from the dark. After a few minutes she collected her clothes about her, picked up the tiffin carrier and stumbled towards the hospital. The pain gave way to fear as the reality of what had just happened hit her. Confused she set off for the hospital, duty weighing heavier on her than her conscience.
She was surprised her mother-in-law did not notice anything amiss. The hawk eyes of the old woman had till date never missed her monthly discomfiture of having to hide shamefully the proof of her barren womb over the last two years. Her disheveled state, she was sure, would give her away. But no. She was too sick to notice and too critical about her daughter-in-law’s cooking to notice anything amiss. And Ramesh did not bother to turn up at the hospital that night too. She wondered which woman he was with tonight, only too aware of his wayward ways, sometimes thankfully so.
In the days that passed she had little time to brood over the incident or worry about its consequence. Two years of marriage and the curse of a banjh-- a barren woman—had lulled her into a false sense of security. Which was why the horror that came with the bouts of nausea was stronger. She fretted frantically, hoping for some sign from nature to allay her worst fears. But it was true. She was pregnant. For nine months she carried the unwieldy burden in mortal dread of the day the awful secret would spill out of her womb to damn her forever.
Then Vishnu arrived. As her mother-in-law held the wailing newborn, Savitri wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead. Wincing, she braced herself for the blows, the invectives. But they never came. Ramesh and his mother peered hard at the newborn, finding resemblances to ancestors even as the small bundle, swathed in an old sari wailed his protest at the genetic mismatch. Savitri sank wearily into the sagging bed, taking the approving glances from other women of the locality who had come in to bless the newborn. Her secret was safe!
The initial euphoria at the birth of his son faded fast for Ramesh. At least as far as his wife was concerned. Knowing, furtive glances thrown in her direction at social functions and hushed neighbourhood gossip made Savitri uncomfortably aware of his latest conquest. But she set aside her pain, clutching her son to her bosom like a medallion. Her mother-in-law reassured her, “A man needs some variety. These women mean nothing. They really don’t matter. You are the mother of his son. He will never leave you.”
But leave he did. Night after long lonely night. Savitri stared out at the blank unfeeling darkness ahead, waiting for him to return, sometimes in the wee hours of the morning. Even till the last day. Which one was it that night? Probably Malti, the young widow from the sweeper’s colony. She was really hard-pressed for money. What did he pay her? Ten rupees? Five? How did it matter? It was all over. Forever.
It was eight months before Ramesh’s dues were finally cleared, that too after running from pillar to post, greasing numerous palms. Rattling down over the pot-holed roads, Savitri clung tightly to her bag, sitting upright on the rickety rickshaw. She felt ashamed beside Vishnu, the strapping youth looked almost like a white-collared babu. She stole furtive glances at his swarthy profile, wondering if he bore any resemblance to the man who had attacked her in the park eighteen years ago. Why, they were passing it now and Savitri unconsciously tightened her grip on the bag, smiling absently at the way the chance encounter had changed her fortune.
The rickshaw stopped outside her lane, the pathway too narrow to allow its passage. Mother and son got down, Vishnu curling up his nose in distaste as the putrid squalor of the choked street drain hit their nostrils. “I am thinking we should sell this house, Amma,” he said. “We could just manage that now.”
Suddenly both froze in their tracks. For, coming from the other side was Malti. So he knew too…the thought registered in Savitri’s head. With no hope of avoiding the encounter, they quickened their pace, in order to get past the offending sight as soon as possible. Savitri emboldened by the lowered eyes of the younger woman, stared enviously at her curvaceous, lissome figure. “Why she must be only a few years older than Vishu,” she thought, taking in her tattered sari, her bare feet and the general aura of poverty that hung about the young woman like a curse.
Eyes lowered, Malti crossed the duo, aware of the sudden hush on the street. They hurriedly crossed each other, both sides eager to get over the chance meeting without any incident. Then, on an afterthought, Savitri turned calling out to the girl. Malti turned too, a look of sheer fear on her face as Savitri rapidly closed the distance between them. Trying to avoid eye contact, Savitri rummaged through the bag and carefully separated five hundred rupee notes from a bundle. Reaching out, she placed them in the girl’s hand. Their eyes locked briefly, abruptly, before they turned to go their separate ways. Savitri looked at her son, basking in the love and respect brimming in his eyes. She smiled, then, on an impulse, laughed out aloud, to the surprise of the curious bystanders in the busy street. Life was good. Suddenly, she felt generous.
From the corner of her eye she looked at him, her son. His tonsured head betraying signs of the recent loss. So young, she thought, as she saw him proudly, waiting for the last guests to depart, seeing them to the door.
“Achcha Savitri, keep in touch,” said Shanti bua, pausing tearfully at the threshold of the house, her back bent a little more by the loss of her beloved nephew. Wearily Savitri bade farewell to the last of the visitors before sinking down on the bed herself. As the sound of the departing rickshaw drowned in the shouts of the busy street outside, she relaxed in the sudden sense of freedom that overwhelmed her. Guiltily she turned to her side, taking in the sight of her insensate mother-in-law seated barefoot on the floor. The sharp words on the tip of her tongue failed to find a voice, gagged by years of social conditioning. From her privileged perch, which placed her at an elevation, she studied the matriarch’s profile, still to come to terms with the loss of her beloved son.
As she served dinner that night, Savitri reflected on the sudden change in the social order within the house. Till a few days ago it used to be so different. Ramesh, her husband, seated cross legged on the floor at a vantage point, closest to the kitchen to ensure that the steaming hot chappatis, greased generously with liberal servings of ghee (Clarified butter) would be served first to him. Today she thought nothing of seating Vishnu there, the social order within their house yielding to make way for the new incumbent. Her turn, as usual, came last after ensuring that all other family members had been served. In a way she found a strange solace in the constancy of her position; it gave her a sense of stability.
“Let it be mother, you must be tired,” Vishu said half-protesting as, later in the night, she settled into the daily chore of pressing his head, a routine disturbed by the recent turn of events. “I’m used to it,” said Savitri, taking her son’s head in her lap. Her fingers absently turned in quest of the thick luxuriant hair, retracting in its absence, shuddering only once as an image from the past reared its head once again. The smell of cheap country liquor, of sweat, grime and her terrified protests as she buried her hands in hair knotted thick for want of a proper wash. She banished the foul memories that threatened her peace.
Leaning back against the wall she stared vacantly into the night, resisting once again giving in to the sudden sense of release that threatened to engulf her. It had become second nature for her to resent the better things in life and even today she continued to view happiness with jaundiced eyes, like a windfall not really meant for her lot. She knew she would have to hold her silence. It was in everybody’s interest. The woman in her, though, balked at the thought and the unfairness of her situation. So many times during the course of the last eighteen years her secret knowledge had threatened to spill over with her tears, stemmed only by the fear of the reprisal it would bring. She knew she may have to hold her silence forever now. But she felt cheated by fate, even as she reveled in its ridiculous coincidence.
Suddenly she felt like such a hypocrite. That bastard was dead and he had never known….not even at the moment when Vishnu lit his pyre, she supposed. For the first time in several days she allowed herself to laugh. At the irony of it all. The laughter sounded strange…she had almost forgotten what it was to laugh freely over the years, so the sounds came out awkwardly. She muffled her mouth with the bedsheet lest someone hear her unbridled mirth and wonder at its source. It was all over. She had won.
She still remembered that dark night, the road stretched out like a barren chapter from her life as she hurried through the park, clutching at the tiffin carrier that held dinner for her mother-in-law at the hospital. A heavy December fog hung ominously in the air and visibility was low. She hoped like always, that she had done the right thing to take the short cut through the park to the hospital, but prepared almost unconsciously to be chastised for that too.
The sudden assault took her by surprise. A heavy figure lunged at her from the side, flinging her to the ground. Startled she gazed into the eyes of her attacker. She did not remember if she had screamed. For a few seconds she struggled, raking her fingers into the sweat-matted hair, trying to push him off. But he was stronger. She felt like throwing up. Surprisingly it was over in minutes. A grunt of satisfaction coupled with an expletive escaped his lips as he got off, reassembled his clothing and slunk off into the night. Savitri lay there longer. She could feel his seed spill from her, trickle down her parted thighs even as she waited for the tears to well in her eyes and do the same. Painfully she stood up, cowering from the dark. After a few minutes she collected her clothes about her, picked up the tiffin carrier and stumbled towards the hospital. The pain gave way to fear as the reality of what had just happened hit her. Confused she set off for the hospital, duty weighing heavier on her than her conscience.
She was surprised her mother-in-law did not notice anything amiss. The hawk eyes of the old woman had till date never missed her monthly discomfiture of having to hide shamefully the proof of her barren womb over the last two years. Her disheveled state, she was sure, would give her away. But no. She was too sick to notice and too critical about her daughter-in-law’s cooking to notice anything amiss. And Ramesh did not bother to turn up at the hospital that night too. She wondered which woman he was with tonight, only too aware of his wayward ways, sometimes thankfully so.
In the days that passed she had little time to brood over the incident or worry about its consequence. Two years of marriage and the curse of a banjh-- a barren woman—had lulled her into a false sense of security. Which was why the horror that came with the bouts of nausea was stronger. She fretted frantically, hoping for some sign from nature to allay her worst fears. But it was true. She was pregnant. For nine months she carried the unwieldy burden in mortal dread of the day the awful secret would spill out of her womb to damn her forever.
Then Vishnu arrived. As her mother-in-law held the wailing newborn, Savitri wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead. Wincing, she braced herself for the blows, the invectives. But they never came. Ramesh and his mother peered hard at the newborn, finding resemblances to ancestors even as the small bundle, swathed in an old sari wailed his protest at the genetic mismatch. Savitri sank wearily into the sagging bed, taking the approving glances from other women of the locality who had come in to bless the newborn. Her secret was safe!
The initial euphoria at the birth of his son faded fast for Ramesh. At least as far as his wife was concerned. Knowing, furtive glances thrown in her direction at social functions and hushed neighbourhood gossip made Savitri uncomfortably aware of his latest conquest. But she set aside her pain, clutching her son to her bosom like a medallion. Her mother-in-law reassured her, “A man needs some variety. These women mean nothing. They really don’t matter. You are the mother of his son. He will never leave you.”
But leave he did. Night after long lonely night. Savitri stared out at the blank unfeeling darkness ahead, waiting for him to return, sometimes in the wee hours of the morning. Even till the last day. Which one was it that night? Probably Malti, the young widow from the sweeper’s colony. She was really hard-pressed for money. What did he pay her? Ten rupees? Five? How did it matter? It was all over. Forever.
It was eight months before Ramesh’s dues were finally cleared, that too after running from pillar to post, greasing numerous palms. Rattling down over the pot-holed roads, Savitri clung tightly to her bag, sitting upright on the rickety rickshaw. She felt ashamed beside Vishnu, the strapping youth looked almost like a white-collared babu. She stole furtive glances at his swarthy profile, wondering if he bore any resemblance to the man who had attacked her in the park eighteen years ago. Why, they were passing it now and Savitri unconsciously tightened her grip on the bag, smiling absently at the way the chance encounter had changed her fortune.
The rickshaw stopped outside her lane, the pathway too narrow to allow its passage. Mother and son got down, Vishnu curling up his nose in distaste as the putrid squalor of the choked street drain hit their nostrils. “I am thinking we should sell this house, Amma,” he said. “We could just manage that now.”
Suddenly both froze in their tracks. For, coming from the other side was Malti. So he knew too…the thought registered in Savitri’s head. With no hope of avoiding the encounter, they quickened their pace, in order to get past the offending sight as soon as possible. Savitri emboldened by the lowered eyes of the younger woman, stared enviously at her curvaceous, lissome figure. “Why she must be only a few years older than Vishu,” she thought, taking in her tattered sari, her bare feet and the general aura of poverty that hung about the young woman like a curse.
Eyes lowered, Malti crossed the duo, aware of the sudden hush on the street. They hurriedly crossed each other, both sides eager to get over the chance meeting without any incident. Then, on an afterthought, Savitri turned calling out to the girl. Malti turned too, a look of sheer fear on her face as Savitri rapidly closed the distance between them. Trying to avoid eye contact, Savitri rummaged through the bag and carefully separated five hundred rupee notes from a bundle. Reaching out, she placed them in the girl’s hand. Their eyes locked briefly, abruptly, before they turned to go their separate ways. Savitri looked at her son, basking in the love and respect brimming in his eyes. She smiled, then, on an impulse, laughed out aloud, to the surprise of the curious bystanders in the busy street. Life was good. Suddenly, she felt generous.
Black & White 2
Sometime you take on a series on a challenge...this was the result of one such effort. Unfortunately have no copy of the first of the series....
Tinged with pink come misty morns
Mustard fields that beckon dawns
A splash of green, a brush of gold
Floral wisps with hues untold
Tawny sunsets as silence falls
When birds return to plaintive calls
Silver rivers in landscapes grey
Limpid pools reflect clouds astray…
With zillions of colours on earth to fête
A thousand reasons to celebrate…
It seems such an awful plight
That some are stuck to Black and White!
Tinged with pink come misty morns
Mustard fields that beckon dawns
A splash of green, a brush of gold
Floral wisps with hues untold
Tawny sunsets as silence falls
When birds return to plaintive calls
Silver rivers in landscapes grey
Limpid pools reflect clouds astray…
With zillions of colours on earth to fête
A thousand reasons to celebrate…
It seems such an awful plight
That some are stuck to Black and White!
Deep is his slumber
Millions throng...
hands folded, heads bowed
with tear-filled eyes,
hope-filled hearts
at temples, churches and mosques,
chanting, in different languages,
prayers filled with one note-
of hope, salvation, redemption...
and He..who has for years listened
and toyed with His playthings on earth,
till now tired...He brushes them aside,
their chants grow louder...He turns his head away
till their unceasing murmer is like a lullaby
to which He closes his eyes...and sleeps
Deep is His slumber,
unshattered through the night
and maybe when at dawn He awakens,
He might play with them again
or cast them away...
and create a better toy to play with
when He wakes.
It is better that He sleeps...
their despearte chants continue,
more out of habit than need
and He continues to sleep... through the night!
(This poem by me was read out at the Caferati Lucknow read-meet in September 2006.)
hands folded, heads bowed
with tear-filled eyes,
hope-filled hearts
at temples, churches and mosques,
chanting, in different languages,
prayers filled with one note-
of hope, salvation, redemption...
and He..who has for years listened
and toyed with His playthings on earth,
till now tired...He brushes them aside,
their chants grow louder...He turns his head away
till their unceasing murmer is like a lullaby
to which He closes his eyes...and sleeps
Deep is His slumber,
unshattered through the night
and maybe when at dawn He awakens,
He might play with them again
or cast them away...
and create a better toy to play with
when He wakes.
It is better that He sleeps...
their despearte chants continue,
more out of habit than need
and He continues to sleep... through the night!
(This poem by me was read out at the Caferati Lucknow read-meet in September 2006.)
Don ka jawab nahin....
Once in a lifetime you get to be a part of history. this was one such moment. to be part of Indian television history's biggest moment. Star CEO Samir Nair, Siddharth Basu, Creator of Kaun Banega Crorepati and cinestar Shah Rukh Khan got together ibn Delhi's Oberoi hotel to announce the launch of the show's third run. KBC 3 on December 4, 2006. I was flown in by Star to the venue to attend the press conference and it turned out an exhilerating experience as he happens to know my bro Roshan rather well. --- Excerpts from the published interview...
It's been weeks of rumours ever since King Khan SRK announced his re-entry on the small screen, creating Indian television industry's biggest moment. But on Monday, in the city of birth, "my City of Joy" as he chose to address Delhi the Badshah of Bollywood put paid to all of them at Star's press conference at the Oberoi to announce the launch of the third edition of Kaun Banega Crorepati, the show which catapulted the channel from number 3 to number 1 position in seven days flat, with the star as the fresh anchor.
Ever the metrosexual male, Shah Rukh, wearing an ash pink shirt and rose pink tie under a blazer, stymied all rumours of attempting to put down Star's former anchor in a way only he can. "I generally consult my son Aryan when I want to take up a project and I asked him whether I should take up the show and he said, 'Agar crorepati uncle mana kar de tab hi karma.' When I told him that was not happening he was a little sad but we will overcome that. It was only when Amitji informed he could not do the show that Star decided to pick me up as the second best choice. It is a show close to my heart, I have been a participant on it and am grateful that I have been considered able enough to I make my promise before you all today that I will do my best to ensure the show does not lose value and content," said the star in all humility.
Steering clear of controversy, both Star CEO Samir Nair and the show creator, Siddharth Basu clarified that it was only after a confirmation from Mr. Bachchan's side that he would not be doing the show that they chose Shah Rukh to take on the mantle, preferring albeit to define him as the "best alternate choice."
Taking a cue from SRK Star CEO Samir Nair clarified that the channel was informed in July that Amitabh was no longer interested in doing the show. " "Shah Rukh has been a Gen Next icon. There has never been any doubt of that," said Siddharth Basu. "He is intelligent, smart, witty, classy, cool, and has everything to make it run on a fresh run. The show, (a copy of the original Who Wants To Be A Millionaire), has run in 106 countries worldwide. Despite several attempts by the media to elicit a negative statement against Big B from the Badshah of Bollywood, SRK carefully side-stepped the traps and made a clear breast of his intent. Commenting on his role in the comeback of KBC 3, Shah Rukh clarified, "Siddharth Basu is the K -- Kreator, for which Samir Nair will be giving me the C— Crores and I am the bachcha in the midst of these veterans, and together we three make KBC 3 I would not like to be just a host but also a dost."
Waiving aside rumours that the show marked his exit from films or that his re-entry on the medium which marked his debut meant his film career was in trouble, Shah Rukh shot back media queries drawing similarities between his and Amitabh's entry into television – "Mr Bachchan has been an icon to me and generations of others. I don't think he was ever in any position that he had to enter the television industry out of any need. And I cannot step into his shoes ever—he has rather big feet," he jested. Asked who he would like to have as a guest on the show, SRK said, "I don't have a list of honour but if Mr Bachchan would agree, I would go on bended knees to have him as a guest. But I would also like to open the show to all of India. I would like the people who have put me in this place to get a chance to be on the show." Replying to doubts whether he would be able to give the kind of commitment the show requires, SRK said, "I do three films in a year which take up 80 to 90 days, I have never changed it, so I have a lot many days left. I never really went from the small screen—with media being so film-oriented today I have always been their in the people's hearts in the form of films and. And the programme gives me a chance to build an interactive people with the public that has made me what I am today," he said.
Questioned if he would ever like to be in politics, the Badshah displayed all of the tact and charm that he's noted for, "I think I am too bloody good looking to ever be a politician," then clarified, "Seriously, I am apolitical, I have full respects for all the people who are running this country and the perseverance and the patience with which they run it." However he categorically denied he had been offered a seat in the Rajya Sabha by the Congress.
There are replacements when a King abdicates. I have made no such announcements. This King is coming right into your bedrooms, said SRK," moulding the media like putty in his hands.
Main hoon na
Are you going to join politics?
I think I am too bloody good looking to ever be a politician.
After being besieged with queries by a star struck lady reporter.
"If you ask me my salary, I will ask you your age.
Are you thrilled or nervous?
Arre mera dil dhak dhak karney laga…
On whether he makes his choices from the heart or the mind?
"If there is a contest between the heart and the mind, I will listen to my heart but it will not be a foolish choice."
On why the choice of background colour for KBC3 is red (laal), not blue?
"Arrey main is dharti ka laal hi to hoon"
Describe KBC in your inimitable style
"I love K—k-k-k-k KBC!"
On seeing the massive press presence?
"You are proof that the population of this country refuses to go down.
On whether his audience will see him in a bathtub on the show? (By a lady reporter)
"Sure, if you agree to come in too."
On what would he like to be in another life?
I'd still like to be Shah Rukh Khan
It's been weeks of rumours ever since King Khan SRK announced his re-entry on the small screen, creating Indian television industry's biggest moment. But on Monday, in the city of birth, "my City of Joy" as he chose to address Delhi the Badshah of Bollywood put paid to all of them at Star's press conference at the Oberoi to announce the launch of the third edition of Kaun Banega Crorepati, the show which catapulted the channel from number 3 to number 1 position in seven days flat, with the star as the fresh anchor.
Ever the metrosexual male, Shah Rukh, wearing an ash pink shirt and rose pink tie under a blazer, stymied all rumours of attempting to put down Star's former anchor in a way only he can. "I generally consult my son Aryan when I want to take up a project and I asked him whether I should take up the show and he said, 'Agar crorepati uncle mana kar de tab hi karma.' When I told him that was not happening he was a little sad but we will overcome that. It was only when Amitji informed he could not do the show that Star decided to pick me up as the second best choice. It is a show close to my heart, I have been a participant on it and am grateful that I have been considered able enough to I make my promise before you all today that I will do my best to ensure the show does not lose value and content," said the star in all humility.
Steering clear of controversy, both Star CEO Samir Nair and the show creator, Siddharth Basu clarified that it was only after a confirmation from Mr. Bachchan's side that he would not be doing the show that they chose Shah Rukh to take on the mantle, preferring albeit to define him as the "best alternate choice."
Taking a cue from SRK Star CEO Samir Nair clarified that the channel was informed in July that Amitabh was no longer interested in doing the show. " "Shah Rukh has been a Gen Next icon. There has never been any doubt of that," said Siddharth Basu. "He is intelligent, smart, witty, classy, cool, and has everything to make it run on a fresh run. The show, (a copy of the original Who Wants To Be A Millionaire), has run in 106 countries worldwide. Despite several attempts by the media to elicit a negative statement against Big B from the Badshah of Bollywood, SRK carefully side-stepped the traps and made a clear breast of his intent. Commenting on his role in the comeback of KBC 3, Shah Rukh clarified, "Siddharth Basu is the K -- Kreator, for which Samir Nair will be giving me the C— Crores and I am the bachcha in the midst of these veterans, and together we three make KBC 3 I would not like to be just a host but also a dost."
Waiving aside rumours that the show marked his exit from films or that his re-entry on the medium which marked his debut meant his film career was in trouble, Shah Rukh shot back media queries drawing similarities between his and Amitabh's entry into television – "Mr Bachchan has been an icon to me and generations of others. I don't think he was ever in any position that he had to enter the television industry out of any need. And I cannot step into his shoes ever—he has rather big feet," he jested. Asked who he would like to have as a guest on the show, SRK said, "I don't have a list of honour but if Mr Bachchan would agree, I would go on bended knees to have him as a guest. But I would also like to open the show to all of India. I would like the people who have put me in this place to get a chance to be on the show." Replying to doubts whether he would be able to give the kind of commitment the show requires, SRK said, "I do three films in a year which take up 80 to 90 days, I have never changed it, so I have a lot many days left. I never really went from the small screen—with media being so film-oriented today I have always been their in the people's hearts in the form of films and. And the programme gives me a chance to build an interactive people with the public that has made me what I am today," he said.
Questioned if he would ever like to be in politics, the Badshah displayed all of the tact and charm that he's noted for, "I think I am too bloody good looking to ever be a politician," then clarified, "Seriously, I am apolitical, I have full respects for all the people who are running this country and the perseverance and the patience with which they run it." However he categorically denied he had been offered a seat in the Rajya Sabha by the Congress.
There are replacements when a King abdicates. I have made no such announcements. This King is coming right into your bedrooms, said SRK," moulding the media like putty in his hands.
Main hoon na
Are you going to join politics?
I think I am too bloody good looking to ever be a politician.
After being besieged with queries by a star struck lady reporter.
"If you ask me my salary, I will ask you your age.
Are you thrilled or nervous?
Arre mera dil dhak dhak karney laga…
On whether he makes his choices from the heart or the mind?
"If there is a contest between the heart and the mind, I will listen to my heart but it will not be a foolish choice."
On why the choice of background colour for KBC3 is red (laal), not blue?
"Arrey main is dharti ka laal hi to hoon"
Describe KBC in your inimitable style
"I love K—k-k-k-k KBC!"
On seeing the massive press presence?
"You are proof that the population of this country refuses to go down.
On whether his audience will see him in a bathtub on the show? (By a lady reporter)
"Sure, if you agree to come in too."
On what would he like to be in another life?
I'd still like to be Shah Rukh Khan
Ram Bhai, Lucknow’s intellectual property right
Shirin Abbas
Lucknow, August 3:
Ram Advani speaks to SHIRIN ABBAS on Lucknow’s literary links, the interests it holds for global scholars and some of his favourite authors whom he has helped in their scholarly pursuits
Why has there been such a void in Lucknow’s contribution to the written word?
“Maybe what you mean to say is that Lucknow has not contributed too many writers to come out with literary works. Though works by Atia Hossain and Naiyyer Masud refute that premise. It is wrong to conclude that the city no longer remains a haven for scholars. Even today you have students from all over the world coming to the city to pursue their research quietly, not seeking publicity. Only last week, Prof Catherine Asher from the University of Minnesota came calling. In fact, when the American Institute of Indian Studies wrapped up its operations in Pakistan, it chose to set up base in Lucknow and today there are over 19 scholars working on different areas at the same.”
So Lucknow’s contribution to the world of academics has not diminished, you would say?
“Not at all. On the contrary it continues to inspire great research work and other texts— some of these focus on the history of the region, the arts, crafts, cuisine, culture, architecture, political upheavals and social struggles. A recent example is New York Academician Kanchan Chandra’s latest book: Why ethnic parties succeed: Patronage and ethnic head counts in India, released just last week. Last year there was an American scholar Sarah Pinto, doing research on the problems of rural women’s child birth and the role of the ‘dai’.”
What about Lucknowphiles probing the history of the city and its role in the First battle of Independence?
“One of the most famous writers is of course Rosie Llewlyn Jones who makes it a point to visit almost every year. Then of course French political analyst Violette Graf. I’d say the focus of late is more to look at the other side and probe the truths of history sans bias. There is this continuous string of writers seeking information and it is still a strong centre for academically inspired text and historically-oriented people. In fact the global consensus among scholars remains that Lucknow ids a treasure trove of historical invaluable information. But most of the interest comes from scholars based outside India— in Europe, US, Canada, Australia and Japan. Our own research scholars often lack the diligence and patience to pursue such extensive research. I have seen writers come down and take up abode in the crumbling houses in the Old City to pursue their research —that kind of dedication is not often seen among indigenous students.”
Who do you remember among the writers who’ve come to research their texts?
“Vikram Seth, Naipaul came twice, Ruskin Bond I have known since he was a boy of ten, he has been a regular visitor— in fact I was the Bursar Secretary when Ruskin was in Bishop Cotton School in Shimla and had a close association with him. Even today we never sell n unsigned Ruskin Bond copy at Ram Advanis. He autographs all his books for me. William Dalrymple was here some years back doing research on The White Moghuls. Of course Irfan Habib, Romilla Thapar, Ralph Russell, Carla Petrovich are some other prominent names who have been drawn to the city. Authors and academics like Dr Francis Robinson, (Author of Separatism Among the Muslims), Barbara Metcalfe an authority on Deoband, Gail Minault, the present head of the University of Texas, Prof Peter Reeves, Vice Chancellor of the Singapore University, Rosie Llewlyn Jones, Violette Graf and Peter Taylor, Author of the Oxford comapanion to the Mutiny of 1857 have given Lucknow pride of place in the world of academics.”
Why call a bookstore Ram Advanis? Isn’t that a little narcissistic?
“The world over bookstores are known by their owners. They take on the personality of the owners and reflect the close association they share with their patrons. I was advised to do the same by a friend. We had closed down our family bookstore in Lahore when we came and for some reasons I could not continue that name. I took on that advise against my family’s wishes and have never regretted it.”
What have been the gains of a life spent among books and academics?
“I do not see my job as just that of a bookseller. If someone asks for a book I have to help them find it. It is like a relationship between a doctor and a patient. I cannot leave his needs unattended. I must pursue it to the best of my ability. And it has been a rewarding pastime. I have gained knowledge and friends from this association and developed a link that has extended over generations and across the seven seas. What more reward can one seek from a vocation?
Lucknow, August 3:
Ram Advani speaks to SHIRIN ABBAS on Lucknow’s literary links, the interests it holds for global scholars and some of his favourite authors whom he has helped in their scholarly pursuits
Why has there been such a void in Lucknow’s contribution to the written word?
“Maybe what you mean to say is that Lucknow has not contributed too many writers to come out with literary works. Though works by Atia Hossain and Naiyyer Masud refute that premise. It is wrong to conclude that the city no longer remains a haven for scholars. Even today you have students from all over the world coming to the city to pursue their research quietly, not seeking publicity. Only last week, Prof Catherine Asher from the University of Minnesota came calling. In fact, when the American Institute of Indian Studies wrapped up its operations in Pakistan, it chose to set up base in Lucknow and today there are over 19 scholars working on different areas at the same.”
So Lucknow’s contribution to the world of academics has not diminished, you would say?
“Not at all. On the contrary it continues to inspire great research work and other texts— some of these focus on the history of the region, the arts, crafts, cuisine, culture, architecture, political upheavals and social struggles. A recent example is New York Academician Kanchan Chandra’s latest book: Why ethnic parties succeed: Patronage and ethnic head counts in India, released just last week. Last year there was an American scholar Sarah Pinto, doing research on the problems of rural women’s child birth and the role of the ‘dai’.”
What about Lucknowphiles probing the history of the city and its role in the First battle of Independence?
“One of the most famous writers is of course Rosie Llewlyn Jones who makes it a point to visit almost every year. Then of course French political analyst Violette Graf. I’d say the focus of late is more to look at the other side and probe the truths of history sans bias. There is this continuous string of writers seeking information and it is still a strong centre for academically inspired text and historically-oriented people. In fact the global consensus among scholars remains that Lucknow ids a treasure trove of historical invaluable information. But most of the interest comes from scholars based outside India— in Europe, US, Canada, Australia and Japan. Our own research scholars often lack the diligence and patience to pursue such extensive research. I have seen writers come down and take up abode in the crumbling houses in the Old City to pursue their research —that kind of dedication is not often seen among indigenous students.”
Who do you remember among the writers who’ve come to research their texts?
“Vikram Seth, Naipaul came twice, Ruskin Bond I have known since he was a boy of ten, he has been a regular visitor— in fact I was the Bursar Secretary when Ruskin was in Bishop Cotton School in Shimla and had a close association with him. Even today we never sell n unsigned Ruskin Bond copy at Ram Advanis. He autographs all his books for me. William Dalrymple was here some years back doing research on The White Moghuls. Of course Irfan Habib, Romilla Thapar, Ralph Russell, Carla Petrovich are some other prominent names who have been drawn to the city. Authors and academics like Dr Francis Robinson, (Author of Separatism Among the Muslims), Barbara Metcalfe an authority on Deoband, Gail Minault, the present head of the University of Texas, Prof Peter Reeves, Vice Chancellor of the Singapore University, Rosie Llewlyn Jones, Violette Graf and Peter Taylor, Author of the Oxford comapanion to the Mutiny of 1857 have given Lucknow pride of place in the world of academics.”
Why call a bookstore Ram Advanis? Isn’t that a little narcissistic?
“The world over bookstores are known by their owners. They take on the personality of the owners and reflect the close association they share with their patrons. I was advised to do the same by a friend. We had closed down our family bookstore in Lahore when we came and for some reasons I could not continue that name. I took on that advise against my family’s wishes and have never regretted it.”
What have been the gains of a life spent among books and academics?
“I do not see my job as just that of a bookseller. If someone asks for a book I have to help them find it. It is like a relationship between a doctor and a patient. I cannot leave his needs unattended. I must pursue it to the best of my ability. And it has been a rewarding pastime. I have gained knowledge and friends from this association and developed a link that has extended over generations and across the seven seas. What more reward can one seek from a vocation?
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