Of Cigarettes and Cyclones, Lights and Lego Houses

They say that once you grow up
You should write about things
That concern the realities of adulthood
You should write about
Love and lust
Trust and tornadoes
Cigarettes and cyclones
Walls and wine
Solitude and scars.
Your poetry should mirror the world around you
And talk about
Politics and pain
Refugees and rights
Humans and homes
Violence and victories
Wars and wisdom.
But tonight,
I'll write about
Magic and mysteries
Candies and colours
Unicorns and umbrellas
Paper boats and pencils
Apples and adventures
Lights and Lego houses.

Do you remember what they were?
I will write so that you remember
I will write so that you do not forget.

Not All Men Are The Same

I see dear, that you've become afraid of love
Because of the boy who left without a word
You never ran out of things to say to him
When you were together
The conversations began at dawn
And continued till moonlight broke in through the clouds
But he could not find the right words
To say goodbye
No words would have been right.

I see dear, that you're afraid of touch now
Because of the man, years older
Who quietly touched you as a child
In places where it hurt
You didn't cry back then, you were too young to feel pain
To understand that some men can be monsters
But the pain comes back to you in moments of silence
As you lie in the arms of another man
No noise can drown it out.


I see dear, you have become afraid of smiles
For your father came home smiling
Each time he had a little too much to drink
After having spent the night in the arms of a woman
Who wasn't your mother
But you loved him back then and you love him still
You never had the courage to hate.


I see dear, your faith dwindles
And your heart trembles
Each time you come across a man
Who makes you believe in a better tomorrow
The words they say seem like elements of fiction
The promises they make seem to be made of glass
But, my dear, just once
Once
Just once
Don't see the present from the prism of the past
Don't make your future a hostage of your experiences
Take your time,
Unravel my sides
Tell me your fears
Not all men are the same, my dear
Not all men are the same.

The Moon No Longer Belongs To Me

In the camp swarming with flies,
Tired of the half truths and twisted lies
I sat down to talk to the moon
For sleep wasn't going to come soon.

I tried to tell the moon my story
Just another tale of a homeless refugee
But the words came out in muffled whispers
In my mouth remain unhealed blisters.

Others said it'd comfort my soul
For the moon belongs to humanity as whole
Yet I don't recognise it- not anymore
It appears to belong to a foreign lore.

It isn't the moon I saw as a child
Back when life was carefree and wild
When the streets still belonged to me
And a home too, sheltered by a tree.

Now my country has been reduced to rubble
Dreams of a future burst like a bubble
The homes no longer shelter or comfort
They contain memories that only hurt

In the moon I see those observing silence
As we desperately cross seas to flee violence
It turns away, treats me like a stranger
Simply thankful to be out of danger.

In the moon I see blood stains
A reminder of my people's pains
Like my street, my home, my country
It no longer belongs to me.

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."