A Conversation With The Moon

Beneath the silver glow of a winter night

Behind a wooden windowpane carved with memories

Sits with a pen in his hand, the master

Looking at his beloved muse, the stained moon.

The years gone by have wrinkled his skin

Yet the love is as young as it was at twenty

Like the moon, it is timeless, ageless

Such is Gulzar’s love for his beloved moon.

He stretches out his palm towards her

Caressing the beams that tickle his hand

Then smiles and whispers in a soft voice

“Tell me, what shall I write tonight?”

Shall I write about your imperfections

That make you all the more dear to me?

Or shall I describe the distant lands

Where you shine the same light, equally?

Tell me, shall I pen down how you heal

Broken hearts looking for a hand to hold?

Or shall I tell the world how you guide

Refugees on journeys with no destinations?

Someday, one day, I'll write about all this

And much more, I promise you my dear

But tonight, I will just sit here and look at you

For you'll be gone in the morning-dying another death
To allow me to see the light of the sun
Leaving behind an absence, a void, a longing, a wait
And all I'll have is the warmth that I feel in your afterglow.

Lessons of Love and Co-Existence Learnt from Bajirao Mastani

WHY THE HISTORICAL NARRATIVE OF BAJIRAO MASTANI IS MORE RELEVANT THAN EVER TODAY

There are movies that preach and there are movies that entertain. Then there's Bajirao Mastani that does both, leaving the theatre buzzing with claps and muffled sniffs in equal measure. No doubt, the movie has singled out and dramatised certain aspects of the Maratha warrior's life and its historical accuracy will always be a subject of debate. However, the issues it touches upon and makes us think about are spot on.

Very rarely do we come across a historical narrative that feels like it was written for today. It is more than just the heroic saga of the legendary general Bajirao. The movie, a labour of Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s love and vision, is a celebration of the love that transcended religious barriers and broke away from orthodox notions.

It is much more than a tragic tale of unrequited love. It is as much about Mastani, brave enough to amalgamate two religions, yet never let them define her identity. It is as much about Kashibai, Bajirao’s first wife and the decisions she made, coming out of the shadow of her husband. But more than these individual characters, it is about ideas that remain relevant in every age - that of love, coexistence and peace.

At a time when history is being distorted and communalised, with kings and their actions being related to their religious identities, it is no surprise that the movie will offend some, especially those who have celebrated the Maratha empire as an opposition to ‘foreign Islamic rule’.

Bajirao, who played a key role in expansion of the Maratha empire and has long been celebrated as the protector of the Hindus, fell in love with a half Muslim. At a point in the movie, when asked how can a fighter who slays Muslim kings fall in love with one of “them”, he replies that his enmity and battles are against particular kings for power, not the religion. When the Brahmans in the empire get offended and refuse to accept the child of Bajirao and Mastani (who Mastani named Krishna), he quite simply changed it to Samsher Bahadur. He made it abundantly clear that the grandeur of the Maratha empire or the battle against the Mughals and Nizams wouldn't be weakened by the cross-religion love.

Mastani, born to Bundela Rajput clan Maharaja Chhatrasal and his Muslim wife Ruhaani Bai, was one who doesn't hesitate to do namaz and name her son Krishna, is both gritty and defiant in her approach to secularism. She questions the association of certain colours with specific religions and celebrates Eid and Brahmanic festivals with equal fervour.

The movie also questions the hypocrisy of notions of purity and “prashyachit” or atoning for your religious sins. Bajirao questions whether taking a half Muslim as a wife was a greater sin than the actions of those who kill in the name of religion. He attacked the notion of defending one's “own people” even if they were on the wrong side.

It is a coincidence (or maybe not) that the story of Bajirao Mastani has been told at a time when issues of “love jihad” and ‘honour killing’ dominate discussions. And no, we cannot get away by saying that “religion has nothing to do with it” anymore. If 300 years ago, Bajirao, despite his power and heroic prowess, could be made to face resistance by his own family and Brahmanic nobles of the empire and eventually give up the position of Peshwa, it is anybody’s guess what is the fate of cross-religious love in present times. While the Mastanis of today may not be chained and tortured, instances of honour killing continue to raise questions-will love ever really be allowed to transcend religious barriers?

As an audience watching this period movie today, either we can spend time in questioning its historical accuracy or sit back, and think about the chaos that surrounds us today.

Giving is Receiving

I don't know why people say I inspire them. I never know how to respond to that. I always thought that in order to inspire people you had to be a superhero. Or at least someone who had had a glorious death. Or a life of a tough battle with a disease or disability. As weird as it sounds, I always wanted one of these, I wanted to be remembered for good. For that I made myself believe that I needed to do great things. Perhaps save a life and get the bravery award. However, as I grew up, I understood that you can be a regular person and still inspire people. That it doesn't have to be about the grand things but small instances which make people smile. I honestly never knew my words could touch people. When people tell me something I write inspires me or makes them cry, it just fills me up with a sense of exhilaration. While writing I never think about how a person reading it might perceive it as. But people have told me that my words have guided them and made them better people. Yesterday during the trend, people who don't even know me came and said wow your blog was inspiring. I felt like a hero. A flawed, imperfect, little known hero. So thank you everyone for making me feel like a hero.

If you're reading this, I'll just like to share something. Yesterday, I decided to distribute chocolates to underprivileged kids who come to my college to be taught by few students. However, chocolates seemed inadequate. So I decided to give them pencils. Pencils always fascinated me as a child, they gave me the belief that you could erase your mistakes and start over new. However as we grow up we switch to pens. We harden around the things we write and say, we make it harder for the mistakes to be erased or forgotten. But it also is a lesson that each mistake shapes you. Anyway, so as I distributed, the smiles on the faces of the kids lifted me up. The way they said Happy Birthday and Thank you Didi. In the end all of them gathered and sang for me. A small girl even gifted me these pair of handmade earrings. Another one a bookmark saying "Books are my best friends". I wonder how she knew. Kids have a magical sense of intuition. As I came back a friend of mine said she will do the same next year. So if I'm your friend, just somebody whose blogs you happen to read or even someone you don't like, try doing this for your next birthday. It doesn't cost much. 200 rupees for chocolates. 100 for pencils. Much less that what we mindlessly spend on our cake and gifts. It will make your year. For what they say is true. Giving is receiving.

The Enemy Country

I have packed my suitcase, booked the flights
Kept with me the precious treasure called visa
That I acquired after eight failed attempts
I finally approach my mother, smiling like the Monalisa

"Mother!", I speak into her almost deaf ears
Startled, she turns her pale face towards me
Signalling with her finger to stay quiet
"I'm saying my prayers, can't you see?"

I leave my sentence hanging right there
My news can wait but not her prayers
Pray mother pray, I smirk as I think
You're going to get a shock after years

Opening her eyes from the spiritual state
She says, "Yes son speak, now I'm free"
I take a dramatic pause for greater effect
"Mother, I'm going to the enemy country."

Her cloudy eyes become wider than ever
"What did you say? I didn't hear properly!"
I lean in closer, raise my voice a decibel
"Mother, I'm going to the enemy country!"

She tries to put on a fainting show, but fails
Waits for the roof to fall, but it refuses to slide
Finally she mutters a prayer under her breath
And speaks, "There are aliens on the other side!"

I subvert my laughter, keeping a poker face
"Your blessings will protect me from disorder!"
She shakes her head forcefully, forgetting her cramp
"No son, my blessings work only till the border!"

Seeing her emotional blackmail fail to work
She sighs, "They'll arrest you at the gate!"
"But mother I have a passport and visa"
"Son, they will not protect you from your fate."

Walking around in circles, like a woman possessed
She declares, "There's enough news in this country"
"Mother I have been assigned this task, be happy"
Shaking her head she speaks, "Money can't ensure your safety."

Next morning as I prepare to leave for the airport,
She comes up with a bowl of sweetened curd
In the other hand lies a lemon and a chilly
"Keep these, they'll protect you from the herd"

I touch her feet and seek her blessings
"Don't worry I'll be back very soon!"
With misty eyes she bids me farewell
Keeping aside the plate and the spoon.

As I reach the other side within matter of hours,
I pick up the phone, call my mother
And speak in a voice full of unmasked glee
"Mother I have got a surprise for you!
People here look just like you and I
And the sky is the same shade of blue."

Happiness

Are you ever consumed by a fear that is born out of happiness? A fear that tells you, something is about to be lost. Something precious. It is a fear not based on reason. When there's nothing really wrong in your life- that's when the fear strikes. Creeps up from behind and consumes you, before you know it. You want to cry but tears don't come. You want to hug somebody without being asked why. You want to be appreciated, reaffirmed, reassured that this happiness is not an illusion. It is not a piece of snow that will melt away in your hands, leaving behind a cold sensation. You wonder if the smile is a veil, shielding the sorrow waiting to show its ugly face. You feel as if you're being followed by a stranger who's watching your every move, watching you as you smile, waiting to wipe it away. You're drowning. Choking. Suffocating. Spinning. Even gravity cannot hold you down. The worst kind of fear- happiness that makes the heart afraid.

An Inconvenient Truth

It happened 4 years back- when I was big enough to understand things but not old enough to have opinions worth listening to. I had gone to attend my cousin sister's marriage in my native place in Bihar. (Before you scrunch your face, our families are highly educated and respected, and as you can read, I'm good enough at English.) As the house was bathed in celebrations, the women discussing which sarees to wear, and the men concerned about what to put on the menu. I spent most of the days on the terrace, away from the noise, too fascinated by the open spaces I didn't see back in Delhi. A week before the marriage, however, the entire festive spirit faded away.

The groom's side had increased the demand for dowry at the last minute. Everyone went into a frenzy. My cousin's father had passed away two years back and there wasn't an earning member. The rest of the family, along with my grandfather, put their heads together in order to find a solution. Numerous attempts at negotiations were made, only to give in in the end, as the bride's side always does. In my head, I was already making stories of how to tackle the "bad side" with totally unrealistic ways. As all savings were put together, fixed deposits broken, nobody seemed happy at all. I couldn't understand how a marriage could be built around this strong sense of repulsion. I went to my mother and asked why we couldn't we simply say no. Dowry was illegal, all of us knew that. What my mother replied shook me. We couldn't say no because the same situation would be repeated with the next prospect and the next. Moreover, time was ticking bomb. My cousin was 29, already beyond the age considered right for girls of "respectable families" to get married. To add to the problem, she wasn't really known for her beauty, which is judged by complexion. Her younger sister was waiting in line to be married next. It was a bitter reality we had to accept, a reality that had existed in previous generations and will continue to do so in coming ones.

Before the day of the wedding, all the items for dowry had to be packed and sent to the groom's house. Before being loaded on the truck, they were laid out in full view, for the neighbouring ladies to come and scrutinise. They approved. Our status in society was intact. Music blared from loudspeakers, celebrations began again.

I write this not to present a grim picture, but only to shatter the myth that dowry is a thing of the past. Neither is it an obsolete practice, nor confined to any region or class. The societal pressures and stereotypes exist despite education. (The groom was a journalist, if that makes you feel worse.) 24,771 dowry deaths have been reported in the last 3 years.

Love Affair With Words

They say you fall in love only once. They say love is about seeing stars, dancing on the clouds and hearing the melody of your heart. They say love is about finding parts of your soul in another. They say love is about the light that dispels your darkness. They say love is a passion, an emotion built on trust and stability. They say a lot more. Alas I don't agree with them!

Ever since I fell in love with words so many years back, I have fallen in and out, more than once. This love has been marked by moments of hatred, sprinkled with instances of doubt. At times I have felt I don't know these words, at others they have betrayed me when I needed them the most. The bursts of passion have been interluded with months of absence. They left me in the middle of the night and stayed away for days, like an unfaithful lover. They refused to listen to my pleas and come back into my heart. They stabbed me time and again by coming out in fractions, broken little pieces, which hurt the ones who read, and I the one who writes. Yet I always forgive them, when they crawl back and caress my cheeks, I welcome them. When they flow out of my pen and slide gently onto the paper, I marvel at their beauty. I fall in, I fall out, but we remain.

This love isn't about the clouds, it doesn't stir up melodies in my heart. It is as much as about the darkness as it is about the light. It is as much about the torn pieces of paper, the blotted letters never sent, the greeting cards that have lost their meaning, as it is about the moments of inspiration, the nano seconds of magic, when the confusions melt away like a ball of snow. It is as much about the words which stabbed, along with the words that comforted.

They say love is about finding parts of your soul in another. I have found myself in not one, but many of these words. Not just the parts which people find "sensible". Not just the parts based on logic and reasoning and rational dreams. But the parts which cannot be explained. The stories which cannot be told. The emotions which cannot be described. Not only mine, but of so many others. People I'm most likely never to meet, people who exist only in fiction yet feel more real than the air which surrounds me, people who belong to me like the beats of my heart.

They say love is about trust and stability. No, I don't trust these words and their ability to make things right always. I have seen them get misunderstood, I have seen the lies twisted to appear like the truth. They don't make me feel safe. They scare me, these words. They ignite a fire in my mind and drag me towards the precarious places, the crestfallen faces. They tempt me to dream unrealistic dreams, they bring back memories I wish to forget. The engulf me sometimes and make me forget who I am, they rob me of my mundane identity and make me feel a sense of power. They make me bring alive goodness and peace which exists only on paper. And mostly, mostly, they make me believe that someday, these very words that I write will reach another, and ignite in them a similar flame. They make me dream a dream where the realities will be different, where the fiction and the truth will collide.

Yes, I have hated these words more than I can say. But I have also loved them. And I hope I have made them right.

At the First Sight

Over the summer, I enrolled myself in a creative writing course at the British Council. During a character building exercise, we were given a "Secret Spy Task" in which we had to observe a stranger for 10 minutes and answer certain questions about him. The questions ranged from "What is his most prized possession?" to "When was the last time he cried?" It struck us as weird at first, formulating ideas about such personal information, just by a simple glance. However, we took up the challenge. I observed a man sitting at a distance, trying not to appear like a spy on his trail, and jotted down my answers. In my head, I built up a story revolving around a recent heartbreak, and went on to judge his views about religion and how he'd react in a robbery situation.
When we went back to the classroom and discussed our observations, we made ourselves believe that we knew a part of a person we'd never see again.

Does the task strike you as weird, dear reader? It must, for it appeared bizarre to me too. But, sit back and think for a moment. Don't we do this everyday? We observe people sitting beside us in the metro, glance at individuals sitting across our table at the cafeteria. We gauge their character by looking at the length of their clothes, classifying them on a range of loose character to a sanskari bahu. Don't we look for signs of their religion, a cap and a beard qualifying someone as a good Muslim. A red thread around the wrist a pious Hindu. Aren't we always quick to spot a man who's different from the rest, ridiculing his hand gestures and terming him gay. Haven't you ever looked at the brand of a person's clothes, shoes and phones, and judged their class, wondering how better their lives are.

We live in a nation that judges beauty by complexion, nationality by the size of the eye, piety by the number of threads, sexuality by the gestures. Our movies glorify love at first sight, our society encourages marriages arranged after a single meeting. We're all spies, then, building up characters and stories in our heads, far away from the reality.

The Forgotten Art Of Writing Letters

“Those were the days!”, my aunt gushed as she rummaged through her box of memories. Searching among the folded letters- some protected by the moth balls, while others that succumbed to the vagaries of time- she took out an envelope. As her face turned cherry red, she spoke softly, “This was the first letter your uncle wrote to me.”

As I held the letter in my hand, moving my fingers over the words in order to feel their magic, I got lost in the land of letter writing. I tried to picture it all, with little anecdotes provided by my aunt. She relived and I imagined the excitement in the locality, as the khadi-clad “dakiya” came on his bicycle, ringing the bell 

as he unloaded the stack of letters from his basket.  The postman handing over the letters was thanked over and over again, warmly and genuinely, and often, invited in for a cup of tea. The excitement was followed by an anticipation as the old and young alike waited with bated breaths, hoping that atleast one of those letters had their name on it. The euphoria of receiving a letter addressed to oneself led to the curiosity- did the words contain news of a new arrival, the announcement of an unexpected end or something in between? Everyone dropped their day’s chore and surrounded the piece of paper, as one member of the family read the words out loud. Letters that were not meant to be read aloud were tucked away into almirahs or hidden beneath pillows, taken out only when the moonbeam started filtering in through the windows. After the letter had been read and re-read countless times, began the search for the right words to formulate a reply. The ten-minute walk to the post office always seemed to last for hours, and the anxious wait for a reply for years.

As I came back from the trance-like state into the world of instant messaging, I couldn’t help but feel nostalgic for something I didn’t even have. However, I decided not to turn a not yet into a never, and wrote a letter to my friend who lived in a different city. The experience of writing the letter was lyrical in itself.  The way it had to be divided into 3 clear parts- a beginning, a middle and an end- had parallels with life itself. Although I took an auto to the post office, and was given a tracking ID through which I could monitor the movement of my letter online, the nervousness and anticipation that I felt was the same my aunt had felt writing her first letter many years back.

If you happen to read this, dear reader, pick up a pen and write one yourself- to a pen friend, a long-distance lover, an author you idolize, someone on whose face you want to put a smile. Experience the joy of the forgotten art of writing letters, if only for a moment, and give a new beginning to something that’s facing its ending.

Fun, frolic and a bit of learning!

When I had enrolled for the Creative Writing class, I had no idea what it had in store for me. I figured I'd be with people older and more experienced than me, being guided by a teacher who like most of the college teachers, would say his part and leave. I didn't know how one could be taught writing, but having nothing better to do in the summers, I embraced the opportunity. The key motivation was meeting new people, who read and write, who have an imagination beyond the text.

I remember the deafening awkward silence that greeted us all as we waited for the first class to begin. Credit goes to Yaseer Sir who broke the ice with his games based on torturous words (syzygy, nobody knew it existed.) The constant moving around and being paired in different groups allowed us to get to know everyone a little bit. We had amidst us an experienced journalist, a girl aiming to be a spy and interestingly a girl who hates reading books! One fact about everyone was learnt via an improvised version of Chinese whispers. Our teacher was a bad bathroom singer, I the one who reads books about wars, Anushi who missed maggi, Taru who hates reading books, Aparupa who had been trained in classical music, Rica who loved talking to strangers, Akansha who loves Harry Potter. (Yes, a moment of appreciation for my memory!)

We started off by asking some really random, entertaining and at times unabashedly intrusive questions to each other. I still remember the question I asked Anushi- Which is the oldest book on your table? "6th century BCE!" she said. For a moment I wondered if I was in the presence of a mummy, then burst out laughing.

Next up was a discussion about the books we love, I think I creeped out Nistha with my books about Nazi invasions, Iranian Revolution and Afghanistan war! But it was amazing to know what people like and what they don't. I do believe what a person reads tells much about his personality. The bonds were deepened through lazy walks to the Metro station and endless discussions on things which cannot be mentioned here for the sake of sanity.

As we delved deeper into the class, we found ourselves discussing aspects of writing that we had considered too small to be important- for example opening lines and character names. We learnt the importance of detaching ourselves from the fictional people we create, yet give them enough soul to make them believable. Somewhere during the discussion, we had extra terrestrial presence as sir's UFO themed ringtone went on for a long time, leaving us in splits.

Basically, the two hours spent twice a week, amidst people who read, write, laugh and talk a lot, made my vacation much better. (And the air conditioner certainly made the heat easier to bear!) More to come in successive blogs, I hope the lessons learnt in the classroom inspire me to update this blog more often now ;)