Saturday, April 13, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Evolution.
When you were a tadpole and I was a fish
In the Paleozoic time,
And side by side on the ebbing tide
We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip
Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
My heart was rife with the joy of life,
For I loved you even then.
Mindless we lived and mindless we loved
And mindless at last we died;
And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift
We slumbered side by side.
The world turned on in the lathe of time,
The hot lands heaved amain,
Till we caught our breath from the womb of death
And crept into light again.
We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,
And drab as a dead man's hand;
We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees
Or trailed through the mud and sand.
Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet
Writing a language dumb,
With never a spark in the empty dark
To hint at a life to come.
Yet happy we lived and happy we loved,
And happy we died once more;
Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
Of a Neocomian shore.
The eons came and the eons fled
And the sleep that wrapped us fast
Was riven away in the newer day
And the night of death was past.
Then light and swift through the jungle trees
We swung in our airy flights,
Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms
In the hush of the moonless nights;
And oh! what beautiful years were there
When our hearts clung each to each;
When life was filled and our senses thrilled
In the first faint dawn of speech.
Thus life by life and love by love
We passed through the cycles strange,
And breath by breath and death by death
We followed the chain of change.
Till there came a time in the law of life
When over the nursing side
The shadows broke and the soul awoke
In a strange, dim dream of God.
I was thewed like an Auroch bull
And tusked like the great cave bear;
And you, my sweet, from head to feet
Were gowned in your glorious hair.
Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,
When the night fell o'er the plain
And the moon hung red o'er the river bed
We mumbled the bones of the slain.
I flaked a flint to a cutting edge
And shaped it with brutish craft;
I broke a shank from the woodland lank
And fitted it, head and haft;
Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,
Where the mammoth came to drink;
Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone
And slew him upon the brink.
Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,
Loud answered our kith and kin;
From west to east to the crimson feast
The clan came tramping in.
O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof
We fought and clawed and tore,
And cheek by jowl with many a growl
We talked the marvel o'er.
I carved that fight on a reindeer bone
With rude and hairy hand;
I pictured his fall on the cavern wall
That men might understand.
For we lived by blood and the right of might
Ere human laws were drawn,
And the age of sin did not begin
Till our brutal tush was gone.
And that was a million years ago
In a time that no man knows;
Yet here tonight in the mellow light
We sit at Delmonico's.
Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,
Your hair is dark as jet,
Your years are few, your life is new,
Your soul untried, and yet --
Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay
And the scarp of the Purbeck flags;
We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones
And deep in the Coralline crags;
Our love is old, our lives are old,
And death shall come amain;
Should it come today, what man may say
We shall not live again?
God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds
And furnished them wings to fly;
He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,
And I know that I shall not die,
Though cities have sprung above the graves
Where the crook-bone men make war
And the oxwain creaks o'er the buried caves
Where the mummied mammoths are.
Then as we linger at luncheon here
O'er many a dainty dish,
Let us drink anew to the time when you
Were a tadpole and I was a fish.
- Langdon Smith
In the Paleozoic time,
And side by side on the ebbing tide
We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip
Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
My heart was rife with the joy of life,
For I loved you even then.
Mindless we lived and mindless we loved
And mindless at last we died;
And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift
We slumbered side by side.
The world turned on in the lathe of time,
The hot lands heaved amain,
Till we caught our breath from the womb of death
And crept into light again.
We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,
And drab as a dead man's hand;
We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees
Or trailed through the mud and sand.
Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet
Writing a language dumb,
With never a spark in the empty dark
To hint at a life to come.
Yet happy we lived and happy we loved,
And happy we died once more;
Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
Of a Neocomian shore.
The eons came and the eons fled
And the sleep that wrapped us fast
Was riven away in the newer day
And the night of death was past.
Then light and swift through the jungle trees
We swung in our airy flights,
Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms
In the hush of the moonless nights;
And oh! what beautiful years were there
When our hearts clung each to each;
When life was filled and our senses thrilled
In the first faint dawn of speech.
Thus life by life and love by love
We passed through the cycles strange,
And breath by breath and death by death
We followed the chain of change.
Till there came a time in the law of life
When over the nursing side
The shadows broke and the soul awoke
In a strange, dim dream of God.
I was thewed like an Auroch bull
And tusked like the great cave bear;
And you, my sweet, from head to feet
Were gowned in your glorious hair.
Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave,
When the night fell o'er the plain
And the moon hung red o'er the river bed
We mumbled the bones of the slain.
I flaked a flint to a cutting edge
And shaped it with brutish craft;
I broke a shank from the woodland lank
And fitted it, head and haft;
Then I hid me close to the reedy tarn,
Where the mammoth came to drink;
Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone
And slew him upon the brink.
Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes,
Loud answered our kith and kin;
From west to east to the crimson feast
The clan came tramping in.
O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof
We fought and clawed and tore,
And cheek by jowl with many a growl
We talked the marvel o'er.
I carved that fight on a reindeer bone
With rude and hairy hand;
I pictured his fall on the cavern wall
That men might understand.
For we lived by blood and the right of might
Ere human laws were drawn,
And the age of sin did not begin
Till our brutal tush was gone.
And that was a million years ago
In a time that no man knows;
Yet here tonight in the mellow light
We sit at Delmonico's.
Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs,
Your hair is dark as jet,
Your years are few, your life is new,
Your soul untried, and yet --
Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay
And the scarp of the Purbeck flags;
We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones
And deep in the Coralline crags;
Our love is old, our lives are old,
And death shall come amain;
Should it come today, what man may say
We shall not live again?
God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds
And furnished them wings to fly;
He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn,
And I know that I shall not die,
Though cities have sprung above the graves
Where the crook-bone men make war
And the oxwain creaks o'er the buried caves
Where the mummied mammoths are.
Then as we linger at luncheon here
O'er many a dainty dish,
Let us drink anew to the time when you
Were a tadpole and I was a fish.
- Langdon Smith
Friday, January 25, 2013
Dark Sonnet
I don’t think that I’ve been in love as such
although I liked a few folk pretty well
Love must be vaster than my smiles or touch
for brave men died and empires rose and fell
for love, girls follow boys to foreign lands
and men have followed women into hell
In plays and poems someone understands
there’s something makes us more than blood and bone
And more than biological demands
for me love’s like the wind unseen, unknown
I see the trees are bending where it’s been
I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown
I really don’t know what I love you means
I think it means don’t leave me here alone
- Neil Gaiman
although I liked a few folk pretty well
Love must be vaster than my smiles or touch
for brave men died and empires rose and fell
for love, girls follow boys to foreign lands
and men have followed women into hell
In plays and poems someone understands
there’s something makes us more than blood and bone
And more than biological demands
for me love’s like the wind unseen, unknown
I see the trees are bending where it’s been
I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown
I really don’t know what I love you means
I think it means don’t leave me here alone
- Neil Gaiman
The Sarai of Nur Mahal
The Sarai of Nur Mahal was built on the orders of Noor Jahan, one of the wives of Jahangir, the fourth Mughal emperor, and the power behind the throne. It was completed in 1620-21 A.D. Constructed on the old GT road connecting Delhi and Lahore, it seems to be quite well known in Punjab, not least because it is now situated in the middle of the town.
Till a few decades ago, the government school was located inside the sarai, and its bricks were being used to build houses. The Archaeological Department has taken over its maintenance now and while some parts seem incongruously shiny and new compared to the original, it is still a job well done, besides providing a walking space for the people of Nur Mahal.
"The Sarai is 551 square feet outside, including the octagonal towers at the corner. The western gateway is a double storeyed building faced on the outside with red sandstone from the Fatehpur Sikri quarries. The whole front is divided into panels ornamented with sculpture; but the relief is low and the workmanship coarse. There are angels and fairies, elephants and rhinoceroses, camels and horses, monkeys and peacocks, with men on horseback and archers on elephants. The sides of the gateway are in much better taste, the ornament being limited to foliated scroll-work with birds sitting on the branches. But even in this the design is much better than the execution, as there is little relief. Over the entrance there is a long inscription."
Cunningham writes that the sarai "is said to have been built by Zakariya Khan, the Nazim of the Subah of Jalandhar, during the reign of Jahangir. His inscription which is cut in sunken letters on the right jamb of the west gatewaty says nothing about the building of the sarai, while the main inscription over the western gateway distinctly states that the sarai was erected by the order of Nur Jahan. I suppose, therefore, that the actual work was superintended by Zakariya Khan, of whom I can learn nothing."
A Zakariya Khan, who was the governor of Punjab, is known in Sikh history for having ordered the mass torture and execution of Sikhs. However, he existed in the early 1700s, much after the construction of the Sarai. It may be that the plaque referring to Zakariya Khan is of a much later date, added to the wall upon his becoming governor and having perhaps renovated the Sarai.*
Cunningam mentions that "There was also a similar gateway on the eastern side, but this is now only a
mass of ruin, and all the stone facing has disappeared. There was also an inscription over this gateway...", which was provided to Cunningham by a local resident:
Cunningham's description of the sarai continued:
"...In the north side of the courtyard there is a masjid [mosque], and in the middle a fine well. On each side there are 32 rooms, each 10 feet 10 inches square, with a verandah in front. In each corner there were three rooms, one large and two small. The Emperor's apartments formed the centre block of the south side, three storeys in height. The rooms were highly finished, but all their beauty is now concealed under the prevailing whitewash. The main room was oblong in shape, with a half-octagon recess on two sides, similar to the large rooms in the corners of the sarai...From this description it will be seen that there was accommodation inside for about 100 people. But the great mass of the Imperial followers found their quarters outside, in an exterior court about 2,000 feet square, some of the walls which were pointed to me in November 1838; all of these have disappeared now."
It's interesting to note that the practice of whitewashing our history and making it disappear isn't new.
Till a few decades ago, the government school was located inside the sarai, and its bricks were being used to build houses. The Archaeological Department has taken over its maintenance now and while some parts seem incongruously shiny and new compared to the original, it is still a job well done, besides providing a walking space for the people of Nur Mahal.
 |
| Western Gate - August 2012 |
 |
| Photograph by Henry Hardy Cole (or possibly Joseph David Beglar) in the 1870s of the Western Gate to the Sarai. Source: http://www.bl.uk/ |
 |
| A view from the tower looking towards the arched gateway, with the town beyond - Photograph by Henry Hardy Cole (or possibly Joseph David Beglar) in the 1870s. Source: http://www.bl.uk/ |
Alexander Cunningham visited Nur Mahal during his Tour through Punjab in 1878-79 and provides a description of the complex -
"The Sarai is 551 square feet outside, including the octagonal towers at the corner. The western gateway is a double storeyed building faced on the outside with red sandstone from the Fatehpur Sikri quarries. The whole front is divided into panels ornamented with sculpture; but the relief is low and the workmanship coarse. There are angels and fairies, elephants and rhinoceroses, camels and horses, monkeys and peacocks, with men on horseback and archers on elephants. The sides of the gateway are in much better taste, the ornament being limited to foliated scroll-work with birds sitting on the branches. But even in this the design is much better than the execution, as there is little relief. Over the entrance there is a long inscription."
The second inscription on the western gateway consists of six short lines, as follows:
Cunningham writes that the sarai "is said to have been built by Zakariya Khan, the Nazim of the Subah of Jalandhar, during the reign of Jahangir. His inscription which is cut in sunken letters on the right jamb of the west gatewaty says nothing about the building of the sarai, while the main inscription over the western gateway distinctly states that the sarai was erected by the order of Nur Jahan. I suppose, therefore, that the actual work was superintended by Zakariya Khan, of whom I can learn nothing."
A Zakariya Khan, who was the governor of Punjab, is known in Sikh history for having ordered the mass torture and execution of Sikhs. However, he existed in the early 1700s, much after the construction of the Sarai. It may be that the plaque referring to Zakariya Khan is of a much later date, added to the wall upon his becoming governor and having perhaps renovated the Sarai.*
Cunningam mentions that "There was also a similar gateway on the eastern side, but this is now only a
mass of ruin, and all the stone facing has disappeared. There was also an inscription over this gateway...", which was provided to Cunningham by a local resident:
Cunningham's description of the sarai continued:
"...In the north side of the courtyard there is a masjid [mosque], and in the middle a fine well. On each side there are 32 rooms, each 10 feet 10 inches square, with a verandah in front. In each corner there were three rooms, one large and two small. The Emperor's apartments formed the centre block of the south side, three storeys in height. The rooms were highly finished, but all their beauty is now concealed under the prevailing whitewash. The main room was oblong in shape, with a half-octagon recess on two sides, similar to the large rooms in the corners of the sarai...From this description it will be seen that there was accommodation inside for about 100 people. But the great mass of the Imperial followers found their quarters outside, in an exterior court about 2,000 feet square, some of the walls which were pointed to me in November 1838; all of these have disappeared now."
It's interesting to note that the practice of whitewashing our history and making it disappear isn't new.
 |
| Surprisingly well-maintained laws by the Archaeological Department |
 |
| The mosque and the well in the Sarai |
 |
| Looking towards the outer walls of the Sarai with the main gateway at the left of the print - Photograph by Henry Hardy Cole (or possibly Joseph David Beglar). Source: http://www.bl.uk/ |
 |
| Looking to the South |
 |
| Rooms on the southern side with the emperor's chambers - Town rumour has it that a tunnel runs from the chambers to a nearby lake which was used by Nur Jahan |
 |
| The remains of the Eastern Gate |
 |
| Any information on why this diagonally placed brick? |
 |
| A renovated corner |
 |
| An original part of the Sarai |
 |
| Carvings on the western door that left Cunningham unimpressed |
_________________________________________________________________________________
* However, there is no evidence that I have found (yet) to back it up this claim.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Winter: My Secret.
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I;
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
- Christina Rossetti
via Poets.org
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro' my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro' my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro' the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
- Christina Rossetti
via Poets.org
Saturday, December 15, 2012
On winter afternoons.
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are –
None may teach it – Any –
'Tis the Seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –
When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –
E. Dickinson.
Winter Afternoons –
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –
Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are –
None may teach it – Any –
'Tis the Seal Despair –
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –
When it comes, the Landscape listens –
Shadows – hold their breath –
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –
E. Dickinson.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Friday, November 30, 2012
Yuri Gagarin and Nicholas Roerich.
Yuri Gagarin, a personal hero, apparently commented on one of my favourite artists, saying:
"Rays were blazing through the atmosphere of the earth, the horizon became bright orange, gradually passing into all the colors of the rainbow: from light blue to dark blue, to violet and then to black. What an indescribable gamut of colors! Just like the paintings of the artist Nicholas Roerich."
- Statement of April 1961, as quoted in Warrior of Light : The Life of Nicholas Roerich : Artist, Himalayan explorer and visionary (2002) by Colleen Messina, p. 46
"Rays were blazing through the atmosphere of the earth, the horizon became bright orange, gradually passing into all the colors of the rainbow: from light blue to dark blue, to violet and then to black. What an indescribable gamut of colors! Just like the paintings of the artist Nicholas Roerich."
- Statement of April 1961, as quoted in Warrior of Light : The Life of Nicholas Roerich : Artist, Himalayan explorer and visionary (2002) by Colleen Messina, p. 46
Nicholas Roerich was a Russian painter and philosopher who settled for the latter part of his life at Naggar, near Kullu-Manali and who painted the Himalayas and Mongolia and Tibet in all their glory and various moods. The mountains that he painted are grand and mysterious, and colourful - reds and pinks and blues and all other shades and hues so that if one were to go only up till the Inner Himalayas and not travel through the Greater Himalayas, it would be easy to think that Roerich's paintings are artistic license. It was only when travelling from Manali to Leh that I first realised that mountains can take on shades of the sun and the sky and be, proverbially, "purple-headed".
Paintings sourced from:
I don't know if the Gagarin quote is an apocryphal story - the only source
for it seems to be from Roerich related links and nothing from the
Gagarin ones. But it adds just one more layer to understanding
Roerich's paintings. And the earth.
 |
| Kanchenjunga. 1936 Tempera on canvas. 60.5 x 99 cm. Nicholas Roerich Museum, New York |
 |
| Krishna. From “Kulu” series. 1929 Tempera on canvas. 74 x 118 cm. Nicholas Roerich Museum, New York |
 |
| Mount of Five Treasures (Two Worlds). From “Holy Mountains” series. 1933 |
 |
| Path to Kailas. From “Holy Mountains” series. 1933 Tempera on canvas. 46.5 x 79 cm. Nicholas Roerich Museum, New York |
 |
| Tent Mountain. From “Holy Mountains” series. 1933 Tempera on canvas. 46.5 x 78.5 cm. Nicholas Roerich Museum, New York |
 |
| Wular Lake. From “Lakes and Gilgit Path” series. 1925 Tempera and charcoal on paper mounted on cardboard. 25 x 35.5 cm Private collection, New York |
 |
| Pir Panjal. From the series of the same title. 1925 Tempera on canvas mounted on cardboard. 65.5 x 98 cm. Private collection, New York |
 |
| Temple of Naggar. From “Kulu” series. 1929 Tempera on canvas. 74.5 x 118 cm. Private collection, USA |
 |
| Himalayas. From “Holy Mountains” series. 1933 Tempera on canvas. 47 x 79 cm. State Museum of Oriental Art, Moscow |
 |
| Himalayas 1944. Tempera on board. 28 x 44 cmMuseum of Oriental Art, Moscow |
 |
| Himalayas 1938. Tempera on board. 28 x 44 cm Museum of Oriental Art, Moscow |
 |
| Nicholas Roerich. The Hunt. 1937. Tempera on canvas. 45,5 x 78,4. State Museum of Oriental Arts, Moscow, Russia. |
 |
| Nicholas Roerich. Ice Sphynx. 1938. Oil on canvas. 48,6 Ñ… 78,8. Museum by name of Nicholas Roerich, ICR, Moscow, Russia. |
- http://www.tanais.info/art/en/roerich.html
- http://www.roerich.org/
- http://www.roerich.ru/index.php?r=1280&l=eng
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Old love.
For a very long time, the only poem of William Savage Landor that I knew was the one on Rose Aylmer's* tomb in Calcutta:
| AH, what avails the sceptred race! | |
| Ah, what the form divine! | |
| What every virtue, every grace! | |
| Rose Aylmer, all were thine. | |
| Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes | |
| May weep, but never see, | |
| A night of memories and sighs | |
| I consecrate to thee. |
 |
| Rose Aylmer's Tomb, Park Street Cemetery, Calcutta |
Until I came across this:
____________________________________________
You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!
Which reminded me of this poem by Ahmed Faraz:
Pehle se marasim na sahi phir bhi kabhi to - Though the relationship we had is over
Rasm-o-rah-e-duniya hi nibhane ke liye aa - Come to fulfill the rituals of the world
Kis kis ko batayenge judai ka sabab hum - Who all must I explain the reason for our separation
Tu mujhse khafa hai to zamane ke liye aa - Come, despite your displeasure, to continue the ceremony
The most famous version by Mehdi Hassan (though not completely faithful to the original poem*):
Ranjish hi sahi dil hi dukhane ke liye aa - Even if you bear a grudge, come at least to tease my heart
Aa phir se mujhe chhod ke jaane ke liye aa - Visit me once again, come, even if to depart
Aa phir se mujhe chhod ke jaane ke liye aa - Visit me once again, come, even if to depart
Kuchh to mere pindar-e-mohabbat ka bharam rakh - Respect a little the depth of my love for you
Tu bhi to kabhi mujhko manaane ke liye aa - You should also come someday to assuage my heart
Tu bhi to kabhi mujhko manaane ke liye aa - You should also come someday to assuage my heart
Pehle se marasim na sahi phir bhi kabhi to - Though the relationship we had is over
Rasm-o-rah-e-duniya hi nibhane ke liye aa - Come to fulfill the rituals of the world
Kis kis ko batayenge judai ka sabab hum - Who all must I explain the reason for our separation
Tu mujhse khafa hai to zamane ke liye aa - Come, despite your displeasure, to continue the ceremony
Ek umr se hoon lazzat-e-girya se bhi mehroom - For long I have been denied even the luxury of tears
Aye raahat-e-jaan mujhko rulaane ke liye aa - O joy of my heart, come at least to make me weep
Aye raahat-e-jaan mujhko rulaane ke liye aa - O joy of my heart, come at least to make me weep
Ab tak dil-e-khushfeham ko tujh se hain umeedain - Even now this gullible heart has pinned its hopes on you
Ye aakhri shamein bhi bujhane ke liye aa - Come to blow out this last glimmering hope
Ye aakhri shamein bhi bujhane ke liye aa - Come to blow out this last glimmering hope
The most famous version by Mehdi Hassan (though not completely faithful to the original poem*):
____________________________________________
* On Rose Aylmer, the British Social Life in India 1608-1937 states that she contorted "a most severe bowel complaint brought on entirely by indulging too much with that mischievous and dangerous fruit, the pineapple" and "at the end of a few days fell a martyr to the obstinacy of the malady" (and not cholera as is commonly believed). Maybe it's better to be unknown and forgotten than be remembered a hundred years later for having been a glutton.
On another note, Rose Aylmer is also referenced in To Kill A Mockingbird: “Rose Aylmer was Uncle Jack’s cat”
** The last two couplets as sung by Mehdi Hasan are not by Ahmad Faraz. These were added later by Talib Baghbati
** The last two couplets as sung by Mehdi Hasan are not by Ahmad Faraz. These were added later by Talib Baghbati
Friday, October 12, 2012
I wish I had the ability.
It wasn't a very loud word, but it had an effect rather like that of a drop of black ink in a glass of clear water. The word spread out in coils and tendrils, getting everywhere. It strangled the noise.
- Going Postal
Terry Pratchett
- Going Postal
Terry Pratchett
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Suicide in the Trenches
I KNEW a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
. . . .
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
Siegfried Sassoon
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
. . . .
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
Siegfried Sassoon
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Au Revoir Bombay
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| Mordor and the Eye of Sauron - view from flat |
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| On a clear morning - view from flat |
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| After rains - view from flat |
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| All shades and colours - view from flat |
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| VT in the rain |
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| Long Dinners and Great Memories |
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| Waiting for a taxi - The only city in India where queues are formed, sometimes, at certain spots |
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| My weekly headline provider on way to work - the very up-to-date Amul hoarding at Tilak Bridge |
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| Beach and Bridge, Dadar |
I will not let Delhi scare me - "jaisi billi maari, vaisi Dilli maari"
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