A Conversation Between Father and Son

An Important Conversation

Son, we all are at war.
Some for finance

Some for romance
Most with Chance

Between anima-animas.

"Papa,Why do we battle?”

Not for victory or prosperity, my son.
But surely for power and for wealth

And for recognition of a breath

Amidst the unfaltering terror

Being salvaged by hate.

“What do we fetch?”

Hunger and fatigue,
Pain and unhappiness
Suspicion and drunkenness;

That’s all, I guess.

“Papa, how do I save myself?”

Our Shepherd's path, my son
With love as the only ointment.
Do you remember
The jolly good fellow?
And his gift of hope
Right there in your pocket!

So my son

Hold my hand.
As we walk;
Let us sing.
Let us love.
Let us live.

Above all,
Let us search for peace
at first. That once dwelt

Within ourselves.

*picture courtesy: Google Images.

Petrichor: In reminiscence of Monsoon in Bengal

As far as I remember, I wrote this poem on 19th of June. My sincere apologies for the delay in posting the poem.

I still remember how my mother grumbled about the rain-less weather and the asphyxiating humid conditions of Kolkata on that day. Wondering their plight, I started browsing facebook and my eyes fell on an award winning photograph shared by my friend. It was that of a lion meditating in the rain. Instantly, it reminded me of the virile Royal- Bengal  Tiger that we saw from the watch tower of Netidopani during our Sundarban trip. It didn't end there. It was followed by a Kaleidoscopic vision of the plethora of vibrant shades of Bengal during monsoon.

Thanks to my father who fed us with West Bengal and made us see the charm in her diverse beauty. The beauty that beholds the plains, the seas and the mountains.... And being a Bengali I claim all of that to be mine..... all of us to be ours. We represent the macrocosm in our microcosm.

Once you are out of Bengal, you recollect it all, not in truncated bits, but as a whole. I too recalled those moments that way... including the floods of Balurghat where we had to shift to higher floors in order to save ourselves from drowning or floating away. We children, would spend our days making and racing paper boats. It was all a part of my growing up...And all of it has made me... Me. This again merges with the nebulous called us which in a way, inspired me to write this poem....

         Memories of the First Rain

The tiger meditating in the rain.

Drenching in wisdom from the skies;

Sinking in the earth 

As it sprouts to new life.

A spectacle divine!

"Alive! Alive! We are still alive!"

As the maiden in her green petticoat,

Swings to the plumes of a peacock dance;

While the squirrels and rabbits prance;

And amuse themselves to the tunes

Of the peacock throned lad;

Who meditates on the notes of rain

Awaiting his cattle to come back!

"Lo! Lo! We are still alive!"

Alive by the blessings of

Our grand- father mountains,

Who roar to the rains

And bring home monsoon.

And for the farmers who farm

And hide in darkness of the caves;

They too meditate and pray .

And know the mysteries of the rain.

Alas! Do we know them?

"Alive! Alive! We are still alive!"

My son has set paper boats on sail;

From the balcony of our apartment.

                                    With the fishes sailing from the ponds                                  

Crabs and tortoise from the shores

Of his vacation last month.

Will they reach a new found land? 

That's not there on the Google map?

His dreams amidst the rain drops say:

"Alive! Alive! We are still alive!"

And guess what, it rained heavily in Kolkata on that day. Maybe, Kolkata is missing me as well, or maybe,Nature Goddess became so impressed with the poem that she blessed Kolkata with rain. This must be sounding bizarre to you, right? However, that is not the end. The peacock in the poem actually came to visit us in the  backyard of our house in Hyderabad on the very next day. It was an impossible sight and it took some time for my husband and myself to believe what we were seeing..... But as the great saints say: miracles happen to us in order to re-instill our faith in God and also understand the benevolence of nature.

 Alas! this could only be perceived by souls who are in harmony with themselves and with each other. But considering the current circumstances; I wonder; whether our children will ever be able to sense  miracles in their lives.  

* The pictures have been downloaded from Google Image.

     

Kalimpong Revisited

From the “Hill Top”

If my act sans Nirvana in the life yet to come:

My Self won’t brood, if You make me a grant:

That I be born on this Hill Top garden,

Amidst this burgeoning green

And blossoming flower plants.

Sprite me in a butterfly shaded as one with the peonies;

A vibrant bumble bee, more honey to store than my hive would please.

You can make me a beetle, dancing on a blade of grass;

Or, one among the crickets humming in the forest dark.

All my karma of this birth, be an account for what next to be.

 Be it a speck of a life:

Spent hovering over the Nature’s blooming vase;

 As a sparkling dew crystal, slipping down a pine tree;

 Or clustered in a day’s blossom, to be squashed under your feet. 

Be it a life of ignorance lived without knowing

Even that horse-shoe curving a few steps down the hill.

Indeed! It would be a life more fulfilling than that we civilized live,

In the jungle named ----------Society.

Yes, this is how I felt when I went to Kalimpong for the first time, ten years back. Then we had put up at The Hill Top Lodge which is undertaken by the West Bengal Government. It is situated on the Durpin hill of Kalimgpong. And I wrote these lines in reminiscence of this untamed natural beauty. The wooden octagonal rooms with glass pane windows of this lodge almost made us live the pages of Romantic Victorian Novels.

  As many of you know, Kalimgpong is a hill station in West Bengal which is slightly lower in altitude than Darjeeling. Although it is less famous than its cousin, it has gained much repute for its educational institutions, many of which were established during the British colonial period. One such school that has a rich legacy is The Graham’s Home.

This underrated hill station has much more than you can expect. And like me, you would feel like visiting this place again and again, especially for its serenity and pristine natural beauty. And this feeling was reassured when I revisited this small town with dense forest and rich heritage, for the second time. The child in my mature prosaic self was reborn.

We went straight to Kalimgong from NJP station. First we visited The Cactus Garden. They

too have boarding facility amidst a thriving nursery containing rare orchids and variety of cactus. We did not stay here. We wheeled towards Durpin Monastery for some spiritual bliss. Then after picking some bakery products from 3Cs (a must visit shop in Kalingpong for its delectable freshly baked items) we headed towards our destination.

Cactus from Cactus garden

cactus from cactus garden

cactus from cactus garden

cactus from cactus garden

Durpin Monastery

This time we stayed at Deolo Lodge atop the Deolo Hill. This lodge is undertaken by the Gorkha Hill Council. Here when the gates opened for us we felt that we were led into “The Far Far Away” land of the fairy tales. Yes, my heart skipped a beat to see the plush green meadows embedded with vibrant varieties of peonies, money plants and pruned hedges. Unlike the untamed beauty of The Hill Top Lodge, Deolo Lodge is a like neatly decked up maiden whose maidenhood has been vigilantly guarded by her knights.

Without spending much time in the cozy rooms of the lodge built in the model of British Mansion, lest we get consumed by the comfort, we sprang out to explore. It was around 5 in the evening. Soon it would be the evening twilight followed by a full moon night. We ambled through the meadows, past the tears of meditative pine trees till the edge of the cliff in order to catch up with the setting sun. But we had another important objective----- imbibing positive energy from the Mother Nature. And standing at the highest view point I could almost speak to her and her children:

Do you remember me?  I came here before.

And much before than that.

In some ancient form, known or unknown to man.

 You were still here:

 The towering pine trees across the soaring mountains.

Only that, now you are lesser in number, standing after withstanding the blows,

Scattered across the bulldozered peaks.

At least few of you stand, holding hands at the gate way to the God’s abode.

  The God of all flora and fauna: clad in the tiger hide.

He is chanting the hymns of divine harmony in his meditative mind.

For which you are still here and I exist in a half life

In a world far far away from yours….

But in deep reminiscence, confused;

 I leap into your arms----- again and again.

But like an echo, these moments fade away.

The sun is sinking, making his way for the placid moon;

Changing your green, from golden to silver hue.

The crickets are singing louder as some secret flowers awake,

While you brood on ancient thoughts that my naive mind can barely relate.   

All I can recollect: I was here several times.

For I drew you deeper, darker and more colourful on my colouring book.

I know, once you were so; when maybe I was a beetle, bird or a butterfly.

Or was I a hunter? That is why; I am no longer one among you?

At times wandering away from you, burdened by the heavy axe of guilt:

Perplexed and unaware, deluded and tangled;

Although I leap into your arms----- again and again.

But like an echo, these moments fade away.

Now the sky has put on its sombre cloak

And the Queen Moon is sitting on her throne

Whispering tales to all her earthly folks.

To you, the flowers, the grass, the birds the fishes the beasts…..

I realise, I am one with you;

For I too can listen to the lays of pain and endurance

 And shed misty tears of remorse but promised reassurance;

As I leap into your arms----- again and again.

But like an echo, these moments fade away.

 It is sun rise. And the world is still thick in mist.

So thick that I can’t see, not even you.

May be because of my heavy heart.

But my soul is cleansed by the morning dew.

And now I am sure.

With the sun shine my vision has cleared.

Like always, shivering with joy

 I leap into your arms----- again and again.

But like an echo, these moments fade away.

It is time for my retreat…. Back to the mundane.

Would you remember me when I come here again?

Maybe in the same form----adding a haunch, with a wrinkled face.                                      

Or maybe, not as what you can see me in this birth.

But I shall leap into your arms----- again and again.

Till the time, like an echo, these moments won’t fade away.

   

………………………………………..This is how my poetry came back to me again.

* photo courtesy: Anubhav Bhattacharya and Yours truly.


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Pattaya..... A mixed bag of unforgettable experiences

Few hundred kilometers from Bangkok, Pattaya is a beach city renowned not only for its coastal lining but also for its epicurean mirth and lascivious indulgences. And that gives it the nick name: The Sin City.

We entered Pattaya late afternoon. I was surprised to notice that the city seemed to be just waking up from its beauty sleep. Most of the shops were closed only few restaurants were open and the streets were sparsely crowded. It seemed that a curfew had just been lifted. In short, it looked anything but the Pattaya I heard about….. Or was it the calm before the storm?

It was… it was…that I realized once I started strolling down the streets around six. It was evening twilight and the city was waking up, much like a blooming Night Queen. And I could feel how the tempo of the party beats escalated in my veins with every passing hour. My observant eyes could also spot many unfamiliar sights that pierced like shards into my “typical Indian eyes”. The first thing that caught my attention was the mismatched couples crawling across the streets and communicating in some coded language. This was followed by men (some of them quite elderly) showing pictures of women on display. I also came across a young grandfather of an illegitimate grandson. But what shattered my orthodox beliefs is the frankness of the people. Yes, Pattaya is one place where prostitution is legal. It is a profession as much as that of a gold smith’s, black smith’s, cobbler’s, sweeper’s, teacher’s, lawyer’s, doctor’s or an engineer’s. Like these professions, the sex workers here have licence , they maintain certain code of conduct, standard rates, they go through regular medical check up by the government and above all, they are protected by the law which is so much unlike India.

The Beach Road on which we were walking, ended to begin with a massive neon gateway written “ The Walking Street”. And once I stepped in, I felt that I was living in Tennyson’s “The Land of Lotos-Eaters”. To an onlooker it might seem to be a red light area but it is indeed a major tourist attraction for foreigners and Thai Nationals because it has a lot more to offer. This two kilometres stretch which wakes up only after the dusk and sleeps at the brink of the dawn is popular for its seafood restaurants, live music venues, beer bars, discotheque, sports bar, go-go bars and night clubs. Although “Walking Street “ is a part of Pattaya sightseeing package, as I could see tour guides leading groups of tourists as if they are doing march past. But this way, you can barely get an essence of this place. So I would suggest you to visit this place after nine, that too, on a Saturday night to taste its real flavour. But mind you, the way you leave your shoes outside a shrine, you should leave your “typical Indian mind-set” outside the large video signboard erected at the gateway. Then only you can groove to the tunes of the electrocuted atmosphere of this place. If you take it in the right spirit, you would feel like being in a carnival where you can let your heart out in the company of those who are really very close to you. However, I invariably saw a huge number of drooling men who have large libido and mighty ego but small pockets. A statuary warning for such men : Here all that is good to see is also nice to touch, but once you take the bait you would be charged and that would be quite a pocket pinch. Only and only window shopping comes at an affordable price.. And if you misbehave, there’s Tourist Police

understanding and speaking different languages. They usually park themselves at the entrance. These hawk eyed cops constantly patrol the entire area keeping everyone under check. They can even confiscate your passport if they suspect you of any crime.
Anyway, after some live music and song on demand, we jigged to hindi tunes at Toni’s club. Then we entered a bar which had Russian pole dancers. Gorgeous women coiling and slithering up and down the pole like snakes was a spectacle for my eyes. But each move came with a price and if you dare to touch these ladies you would be boxed and kicked out of the bar.

I really don’t know about the living condition of these women and their reason behind taking up this profession.  But have you ever thought who the real sinners are, even in the sin city? The people who are causing the sin, or the people who are committing sin or the ones who are mere instruments. In most of the cases, it is the instrument that suffers the maximum loss. Then why all the fingers are pointed only at them?

(II)

These are poses by the dancers of the famous Alcazar Cabaret Show. It is undoubtedly the most magnanimous cabaret show in Asia and one of the best amalgamations of dance drama and costume. The dancers started their performance with traditional Thai style of dance bejeweled in flamboyant costumes.This was followed by jazz, cabaret and Bollywood style. They also included a little comic dance drama  as a cherry on the cake.This show is a real feast to the eyes..... An extravaganza of entertainment.   

Can you imagine who these stunning beauties are? They are lady-boys whom we categorize as transgender. It is commendable to see how they are celebrating “who they are” in this state- of- art theater. They don’t have to beg. Instead the audiences book tickets to watch their performance. Isn’t it glorifying? They ended with a touching performance on a song with the following lyrics:“ The world is a beautiful place to begin with.” How poignant these words are! After all, we should bring the change we want to see.

On this account, I remember the incident where my colleague’s son got hooked in a scandal: It was his birthday. His roommate and other hostel mates had surprised him with cake in the middle of the night. They also ended up giving a shock to his parents by getting hold of his cell phone and updating his status: “I am 18 and I am gay!” This had made my colleague’s family furious. Later on the son had reverted to the status and explained his parents that it was a prank. But what if it were true? My colleague said, still she would remain her son. But, what about the family? What if, he had really belonged to the third-gender?
 According to the present Indian law, all the citizens of  India have equal right to all the opportunities. Recently, this has included the transgender as well. But, what about our mind-set which in turn makes the society? How many among us accept and respect a transgender for what he is? We shun at giving them alms and complain why they don’t earn their living. But till the recent past, there had hardly been any avenue for them to do so.

After the Alcazar Show the dancers came out to click pictures with the audiences. Even I didn’t miss the opportunity to be in the same frame with one of the ravishingly beautiful dancers. When I complemented z for z’s beauty I saw her eyes going moist with emotion. The expression was not like the seductive glances of those Russians at the go-go bar or the anxious stares of the ladies queued up on the pavements of the Walking Street anticipating the day’s business. Even that glance was far too different from the eunuchs begging for money in India. That lady-boy’s eyes were full of dignity and moist with gratitude… as though above all the adulation for her performance, some appreciation for what she was, was the only thing that she wanted to hear…. It was all that mattered to her.     

(III)

Chef Tim of Hotel Avista, in Phuket had wittily instructed us: “Visit Sanctuary of Truth to wash off

your sins from Walking Street!” Jokes apart, in reality, we could feel that he was mesmerized by the architectural magnificence of this place. But even after entering, little did we expect what we were about to see. Only after a tall and slender lady-boy had helped me wrap a sarong round my waist and directed us to climb down a flight of wooden stairs, we came to realise the grandeur of this spot.

A magnanimous wooden temple posed in front of us, keeping Andaman Sea as a challenging backdrop. We were simply rapt in awe. None of us could see the Taj Mahal in making, right! I was feeling accomplished for; here at least we could see the pain and labour and innovation involved in construing such a monument of equal stature. Walking through the intrinsically etched galleries with deities in their various forms, many among which were carved out of sandal wood and rose wood was a sheer treat for the senses.

The most surprising aspect of this temple is: no nails are being used to raise this grand sanctuary of 

craftsmanship.Either the blocks are fitted into each other so that they don't slip off and the pillars can be raised. Or, a special adhesive is used to permanently fix the statues.

 Moreover, the builders have to constantly fight against the salinity of the sea that stands as a big threat to the timber from Myanmar that is predominantly used for constructing this monument. Some parts are carved out of sandal wood and rose wood as well. But, after all nothing is impossible for a willing heart. And this we realized from there craftsmen who are working day and night doing and redoing the drawing, designing, cutting, etching etc. as if, that’s the quintessence of their lives. I believe, this is worship in its own sense….a divine meditation.

Nobody knows, when the construction of this temple would be complete. But seeing this grand monument in its making is no less achievement. Indeed, The Sanctuary of Truth is a marvel of architectural craftsmanship.  

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