Mussoorie

On windy roads on an autumn day, 

Dipping mercury to frost as Charleville's ghosts glide 

like in Potter's grand staircase portraits 

You in the lane from the green room was a portrait too,

A vision to behold! 

Had seen you many a times only to see you now 

with the lights on you and some shadows

an Impressionist's dream but in a portrait holds true.

Behind you the clamour of recitals and rehearsals

Ahead, beyond the curtain, another play, another life.

My wand clicked a screen shot

Of you seulement, in pensive 

Hills redefined, memories magnified, 

My rusted wand now cleansed with the stain lace

from my grand mother's book of love, 

choosing us as the wand does its own, 

I save memories 

of hands held and footprints made

of tears shed at airports and trainports 

of the intangible robe of waitinghood

The other Bond and his sweet peas, his cherry tree and Landour 

For us, our ghosts in cafes, lanes and those library books.

Van Gogh Trail in Reverse: Auvers-sur-Oise

It was a bright Saturday, the sun in its right measure like the perfect icing on a carrot cake. Suggested by a Francophile and artsy senior,  we embarked on a journey to Auvers-sur-Oise, a sleepy town which translates itself into Auvers on the banks of river Oise. More than just the beauty of the country side, Auvers is also the final resting place of the renowned painter, Vincent Van Gogh. With our RATP Navigo Pass letting us travel the entire length of 50 minutes, without any further expense, we had a comfortable travel along the RER C line going to Pontoise, shifting train at Saint-Ouen-l’Aumône, to change for the Transition H line that took us to Gare Auvers-sur-Oise. 

A petite and beautiful railway station welcomed us and the first thing that struck my eye was the elegant Notre Dame Cathedral de l’Assomption standing tall on a hill beckoning us. Excited we exited the station to see a sleepy town, lazing around in the heritage of the (post)impressionist movement. There was this chart that showed the important landmarks here, and we decided to follow the trail. 

As soon as we started walking, we noticed these tiny metal strips with ‘Vincent’ engraved on it. By following the signage, we first entered the cathedral, which from the station itself was calling out to us. In comparison to the elaborateness of Notre Dame cathedral in Paris and Bordeaux, this one was more elegant owing to its simplicity. Also, wedding bells were to ring in an hour of two, and flower girls dressed uniformly and flowers tied to each bench imparted a life to this church. It seemed like this church is still alive, while the others have become monuments of antiquities. 

As we came out, we noticed the church was undergoing renovation and had metal spears in certain areas. That apart, I could see what Van Gogh saw while painting it, in his typical blue and yellow colours. His memories pushed us to take a small path that took us to open fields on both sides, crossing which, we reached the Commonwealth War Graves, where Van Gogh and his brother Theo rest along with many others. 

Cemeteries, I have come to notice is an important part of French culture. It is more beautiful than a garden, with flowers and tablets raised in honour of the dead all over. I suddenly recounted one of my quick visits to Montparnasse cemetery in Paris to see Simone de Beauvoir who enthralled me with her Second Sex and her lover and renowned philosopher Jean Paul Sartre, only to see the beige tombstones covered with the impressions of kisses with dark red lipsticks. It took us quite sometime to locate Van Gogh’s tomb, so we walked around telling each other that we shouldn’t let the other people feel bad or lonely. We spent seconds with everyone finally locating the brothers’ graves covered with green leaves. Van Gogh is said to have shot himself at his rented house in Auvers-sur-Oise , and died a painful death by his brother, Theo’s side, with an agony that lasted for 2 days. Theo couldn’t come to terms with his dear brother’s death and joined him in a few months’ time. It was Theo’s wife who transferred his body next to Van Gogh’s, as the inseparable brothers could stay together in the timelessness of death. We also got reminded that Van Gogh’s body was not allowed in the church, nor were prayers chanted for him due to his ‘double sins’ of being a protestant and for committing the ‘blasphemous’ act of suicide. After a small grouping at Auberge Ravoux - where Van Gogh stayed, he was directly taken to the cemetery. Suddenly my mind flashed back to the florist near my home, who sells wide eyed sunflowers. We regretted not getting one for this painter who in his yellow house, to welcome his friend Paul Gauguin drew an array of sunflowers, madly, in the most fascinating way. 

From there, we then went to a building, hosting Robert Daubigny and his son Karl Daubigny’s paintings, along with many others. The next destination was Auberge Ravoux, Vangogh’s 38th address in 37 years, his final destination before death, where in seventy days of his stay, he created more than 80 paintings and many more sketches. The room he stayed in, a 75 square feet small cloistered space, once with a strong smell of oil and paints and scattered canvasses all around, now stay as a testament of memory of an early death of a painter whose oeuvre of talent had more canvasses to roll out, more paints to dissolve. A roof tile substituted with glass pour in a column of sunlight with dust lining and filling that column. The rest is wood, brown or burgundy, missing its erstwhile royalty and now smelling of death of a dear dweller gone away in the most unfortunate of ways. There are no furnitures in the room, which were all either stolen or destroyed. The room now is barely a shell, but the air has a lot to say, of creations and death, of colours and blood, of art and religion, of immortality and death. 

The death hanging around the room due to Van Gogh’s mental instability according to many is attributed to absinthe, the most coveted drink among his circles. Baudelaire, Manet and Degas worshipped it and Vangogh has infamously cut one half of his ear under its influence and presented it to a prostitute, named Rachel. So it was fitting to have a strange and curious museum on absinthe in Auvers. Also called as the la fée verte or the green fairy, it is supposed to give a high so high where one can see in circles and swivels like the brushstrokes of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Drinking absinthe was a popular culture in Paris. A 5 PM drink with an elaborate ritual, where absinthe was added to a glass with a spoon holding a sugar cube, which can neutralise the extreme taste of the drink itself. This ritual is believed to give birth to the new and chic ‘happy hour’ (l’heure verte). The museum had posters of the dream like absinthe and the jars and equipments with which it was concocted. We left the museum after  clinking my coffee mug with a glass of absinthe in a portrait. Sante! 

Our last destination was the house of Daubigny, a beautiful place, warm, cosy and full of paintings. Th room that attracted me the most was his daughter’s, that Daubigny has carefully painted with his daughter in mind, with flowers and objects that resembled her. The house opens to a large garden which could easily be around 5 times the size of the house or more, that was therapy itself. We sat for a long time in the grass and got into talking with a French lady who narrated her adventures in India when she travelled to India with her girlfriends in her twenties. 

It was time to catch our train back and we thought it would be fitting to see the waters of the river, Oise, before going to the station five minutes away. The river was majestic, with royal swans and humble ducks floating on its waters, while trees looking at themselves in the crystal clear river. A sight of photographic brilliance and tranquility, we sat there on a bench, for a while, with our tired legs, and content hearts.

Retracing the path, home beckoned to a good night’s sleep, under a starry night. 

Across the sea

Grandmom was born by the sea

and me on her lap

listening to the tales that swayed as the waves broke

the fort of the granite walls

of the ocean of love

that was my grandmother's sea.



I was born in a city by a beach too

Grew up too soon counting its old waves

grey and frothing

like life breathing a mad run for the sea.




The ocean and its gem stones and its treasures wild

its stories, folklores, grandmother's love

my soul mate's warmth.



This city has no sea.

The city of 'dreamers', protests and love,

a perfect Bertolucci reel.



I yearn for the sea, for my grandmother

and you!

Hold me in your waves as you come as an ocean of dreams.

tell me the stories of the bottom of your heart

tell me tales of Latin America's dream

and Arctic's snow


Come here as a sea

for Eiffel to see a non camera eye

,

human, my mother of pearl,

my large blue sea.

Brush strokes

This is a rendition of a few walks and a train journey, some cups of coffee and finding Monet. Like them, the sufis, the wise wo(men) who traversed lands as far as the eyes could survey, talking endlessly about the magic that travelling rubs off on them - the Melquidase(s) in the bliss of solitude or in the company of soulmates. Treading long paths, smelling the air, gazing the land meeting the skyline, witnessing the colours changing as animals nestled themselves into a good night as the mystique lulled into a short but rewarding sleep under that tree in an oasis, only to leave at the crack of dawn. This was exactly how we felt when we embarked on a journey to Giverny from Paris. Every step we took was like turning the leaf of a book, a lot of culture and art in every square yard. 

We booked our train tickets to Giverny from St. Lazare railway station. Incidentally, the story starts right at the railway station itself. As they say, the roads  too bear memories as much as the destination does. It was that same station, modernised now, but same in blood that Monet painted. The silvery smoke glistening as light falls only to unravel the steam engine, in royal black waiting to turn the wheels. 

The city faded away very quickly giving way to pastures, thickets and open lands. How true as history books speak of it that Paris and four or other five cities have almost all of its population and the rest is an unending stretch of open land with not a human let alone settlements in the vicinity. 

The train ran 20 minutes late. As we got down at Vernon, the nearest railway station to Giverny, we were treated to Monet’s paintings as if promising us of a trail that would only surprise with more bounties. Giverny is only around 6 kilometres from Vernon and like every other time, we planned to walk. It is something a 10 euro bus ride to Giverny will never give. Before the walk we decided to fill in our hunger pang tummies with burgers and large mugs of coffee and then we were good to go. We crossed the river Seine, but midway took a minute to admire the clear waters of the river with zero cruises unlike in Paris. The river by Paris is like the city itself, city lights reflecting in its waters, resonating the beauty of Paris and its bridges, but by the countryside, it is darker, with stories to say to only those people who are willing to take that plunge. 

 

As soon as the bridge ended, there was a way for pedestrians which we missed. So we walked on the road taking care of the speeding vehicles and wondering why there is no footpath or pavement. But soon we saw  sunlight sieving through the trees creating lemon yellow pastures, light green canopy with woods of burgundy, and emerald treetops where the sun did not grace, only to half surround by a bright cerulean sky with a whiff of feather like cirrus clouds, floating lazily. May be we looked at it all imagining how Monet would have seen these. We continued walking, in a line, saving ourselves from the road only to see vignettes of Monet’s canvases from our earlier readings of his paintings. Again, was this an error of previous knowledge of him, I cannot say. 

It was a half price Saturday and there was a long queue which moved at a snail like pace. We waited patiently and sometimes irritably measuring its length by taking a quick glance at the number of heads in front of us, and occasionally looking back, where a lot many people waited for their turn, and telling ourselves that we are at least much ahead of them. The occasional trivial rationality one uses to placate ones’s heart!

We finally entered his house premises to actually see an overgrown garden. It was not the neatly trimmed, heavily manicured gardenscape, but a forest of blossoms, as if he had arrested a whole segment of nature and its abundant flower bells within his compound wall. On the other side of the road connected by an underground pass was the real treat we were about to witness.

 The Japanese garden! The real image of the water lily series lying there in a tranquility so profound, the bridges telling a thousand stories of his fine brush strokes, while the water in its reflection of the garden itself resounding his ecstatic colours and the sun in all this bearing witness, now, as it did then, at its magnificence. As solar energy is primal so is its photons to the Impressionists. We sat on a bench in absolute silence only to see a person, his hair silvery white, lost in time. I still have not concluded what was more beautiful, the garden and its noiseless conversations, or the old man himself, giving away how Monet himself would have bathed and soaked in the aura of his two creations: the garden and the paintings.

Speechless, we took shorter steps to a nearby cafe and found us a spot among the shrubs. There was something so enigmatic about the whole village. It seemed like everyone lived on a huge canvas. We walked back, not going to the museum which was on our list, thinking it would be an insult to the painter to go to his shrine when our heads were saturated with absolute beauty. We dared not committing such a blasphemy. 

The walk back was through that path, lonesome except for a few people every fifteen minutes. It was a walk of reminiscence. Paradoxically, we felt a lot lighter carrying the weight of this memory. I remember finding a wooden plank, where we sat and looked to infinity, trying to sink in the beauty of this scale. We reached the Seine, now more welcoming. But we had to say good bye as our train was just an hour away. The train took us back to our home where Muzzu cooked us a warm dinner with a dollop of love, as we watched the BBC documentary on Impressionists. The show was brilliant beyond words, historically accurate and aesthetically appealing. As morning dawned, we made a beeline to the Musee Marmottan Monet, situated at a stone’s throw away from our home. To be in the neighbourhood of Monet itself is a blessing. There, right there was Impression Sunrise, a master craft which Monet did the first thing one morning, when the rays of sunlight hit his sleepy eyes. A round swirl of sun amidst the colours it creates. There was the water lily series too, which took us back to the soul of Giverny. 

In the museum, there were other interesting pieces too like Rodin’s Tete de Saint Jean-Baptiste and Paul Signac’s Castellane. This visit was but eventful when Muzzu chanced upon Georges Seurat’s Le Dineur ou le Bouveur , finding layers to it, that I was drawn into it by his exceptional connect with that work of art. We don't know Seurat, but are definitely going to know him better. There was a pause given, to take in, and pensively reminisce the experience. Let it ripe and bear blossoms. Let autumn pass giving way for winter, and let Shelley sing on a cold wintry night, ‘if winter comes can spring be far behind?’ Let the spring bring its breeze home so that we cherry the cake with Musee d’Orsay, together. Till then, the impressionists wait! 

A Warm Place As Frost Bites

A warm place as frost bites
In our everyday lives.
Masquerading wo(man);
Tinkering lives
Peach parachutes in the ocean and
Dolphins that dance in the swirl of the clouds.

Come to your machine and turn back in time!
Over and over till you reach here by my side!
There are flowers in the air and memories still,
The creak of the wood and the must of your books,
The five birds on that branch that I painted in my heart,
The warmth of the candle to be heat and sunshine.

A warm place as frost bites...

The Gardener in Red

Where do you see five birds perched on a single branch,
Uniformed dollops of gray against the rugged back of the old tree at the back of the house,
Or another singleton, a thumb fist sized bird, perching atop the tallest leaf of the tallest tree,
As the leaf sways the bird and its lightness against a cloudy sky where droplets drizzle in misty grandeur,
Where a caterpillar and lady birds carved in wood and painted in colors raw and rustic make a home
For the birds and their pages of songs, the morning serenades, afternoon siesta notes and lullaby's for nights long,
For love and a home full of love's footprints
Ammi's garden of happiness.

Doppelganger

Shrouds of ghouls
In a vale of shadows
To know is to live
In the beauty of time
A day when the hour hand turns golden
The curtain rises
With red hangings,
Chandeliers, grandeur
 and robes the same
Of velvet black on it gardens

sewed,
The past a memory of some other lived
You and I 

Discovery .

because beauty must exist,

hold back the world,

become it,

because to think with hearts redeemed,

is to make worlds come alive,

because the songs have always been,

but the will to dance is new,

because the prayer wished upon a face,

among the unknown, always seen,

because between dusk and dawn,

is when we learnt of light.

because the answers found us,

among questions forgotten.

why am I ?

you .

-MMK

Once upon a time , in a land beyond it.

In a dark corner ,
A weaver of tales lay ,
His stories forged alone ,
Of never being alone ,
Voices sang at the lyre,
All that filtered through were words ,
To fly without wings ,
Is how we come to fall ;

In the loneliest corners of night  ,
Resides brightest light ,
To be found without ever knowing to search ,
Is how prayer finds a god .

In a dark corner ,
Two weavers of tales lay,
Riding dragons ,

finding windmills to slay .

-MMK

When do we get to see Ghalib's Delhi?

That city is a wonderland
A portkey to history
Walled cities and cities within cities
Eco's maps as Polo and Great Khan
on balmy nights over brews talked

Every stone wall breathes here
Lest we stayed indoors fearing time's sprint
or a hasty cappuccino which put a shroud around
As museums for each other
With memories of the waves
The smell of the rains
And conversations of a night bygone
'Let us see history another day'

Truth at the Dholpur house

For as long as I can remember, this was to be it. Families would gather around dinner and talk about life , or the absence of it , mine would always find itself embedded in the civil service . There were always promotions and postings , and to spice things up maybe even a retirement . Rooted in every story was a remarkable man, someone I thought everyone wanted to be, and if the flesh was found wanting, at least look up to . Being his son was to know , life would never be something unwritten .

I bumble about life, much like a bee finds fleeting fancy in every new flower I presume . As long as I remember , my only passion was to be passionate . All the things I'd learn came from outside of those meant to teach me, 13 years of being let down in every school , of which I'd changed as many as 9 , could do that to you . Unashamedly , the closest friends I'd kept were a set of encyclopedias that still remain warm to the touch , every withered page a memory of a warm evening spent together. For an age I knew to wander , knowing that the discipline of life wasn't where my heart lay.
It was this heart that suffered the UPSC .

Some of us grow in the shadow of those that made us , I was born into reflected glory . There was nothing more to be , than the son of a benighted family . I began in red , knowing this was how I would try to repay the insurmountable debt in love my parents have willed me . Life had lessons in store .

I lasted 20 minutes in my first class for this exam. The master procrastinator in me told me I could do this faster by myself , went home , never touched a book for months , figured I was smart and smart was all it took . A lifetime of curiosity helped , cleared the prelims , felt like I was the chosen one . 18 hours of written tests and a 45 minute interview later I'd made it to the realm of pity . 'oh you're in the railways ? What's Mr khan's son doing there , tch , it's okay child , life will get better ' People have an amazing way of helping you so very kindly discover another depth of self loathing in yourself .

But hey , if no effort got you this far , all it'd take this time around was a month or so right ? Another year , I was yet again anointed as the chosen one within the confines of my mind . Failed . Cried in ways I never thought humanly possible , shattered . The exam wasn't just an exam anymore , it was a validation of my right to exist. So began the rabbit hole .

Year 3 , to be strong you need to appear to be strong .  'Why do we fall Bruce?' . There's a good reason batman dwells in his books , out here we fall because we do . No great story there , no epic background score . Took the exam again , went off to the railway academy in the interim . This was my year , I just knew it , every fibre in me resonated with the will of the universe .
Failed . Give up already , I told myself . I'd let my family down , the legacy ended with how unworthy I'd become . Not just ordinary unworthy , UPSC certified unworthy . Funny thing is , I'd stopped being sad at this point, drained of every emotion I was just a walking shell of a man , a long , long while ago I had a life and maybe even dreams , but who could even remember .This was done , and I was resigned to a life of settling .

Year 4 , even the worst form of self inflicted abuse has a rhythmic routine to it . I sat in those same chairs because at this point they were the only true friends I had , I stared at pieces of paper with longing familiarity . I walked back into dholpur house knowing every wall there and entered halls with such a painful degree of familiarity . Walking out after the interview I knew this had to end , I had to get out because dying trying was a very real possibility . Plan B was formulated , and then a plan C and a D , anything to end this horrible cycle .

Then I see a familiar name on the list , Muzammil Khan , rank 22 .

God damn , life , you're insane

Here's where I am now , I happened upon the love of my life at the last place I wanted or knew to look . This isn't a saccharine sweet ending , it's an honest one . Things happen , period . No reason , no story . If this is what you want , try until you break . If you're smart about it , find a passion , an actual passion and use it to distract yourself from your own pointlessness . Life will end regardless of how many letters you have next to your name , live , beyond being judged .

Sailor Moon

Staring into the unending ,
Possesed wanderers both ,
These lights have always been ,
Their illumination new ,
Sail away ,
Upon every coast I wait ,
Those found call it the horizon ,
Others lost ,
Promises kept .

MMK

Deepti

A best friend in a chick flick rendition would read as someone who is a jovial person in a kickass mode, partying with you keeping the nights long enough, bunking classes to hangout in coffee shops or may be help you royally bully others. Sometimes or mostly all the time, it is very confusing like the chicken and egg question, do movies precede society and its actions and drama or is it the other way around! As Brecht said it is always better to alienate yourself from the effect of in house pop culture and visual media debauchery. This according to me will help you understand the elements one is made of, the tender, intimate part of oneself included. 

This convoluted introduction is a circumvented way to come to the point I am trying to make. It is basically about being extremely blessed. Out of the hundreds of douchy people one witnesses on a real time basis, waiting to spill your blood, there are a few who make your life worth living. The boundary between living and surviving is drawn just here. 

Deepti, she is a calm breeze in the sand storm of a world. Parts of my life have drawn life from the strength she gave me. With a heart as large as that, may be she was giving me lessons on how to be a better person, a selfless friend. 

Again I am digressing. So this is about this gift she gave me on a small party where Muzzu and I were celebrating with friends. It is a drawing of a bench, in the backdrop of a colonial kind of building overlooking rolling hills of green. The moment I unwrapped it I knew that this wasn’t just a picture bought from any store, but something she has given her soul into crafting, an invaluable piece of art where she spent some of her mortal time and above and beyond her love for me and the beautiful person I am with. 

The picture of LBSNAA, Mussoorie where Muzzu and I spent our initial days of togetherness, unravelling and drawing close to each other, with stolen moments, conversations over coffee and devouring musty pages of books read and unread. Flowers falling and his first poem to me amidst it is surreal. To absorb what we had and describe it to her friend Rupika, to draw a life size rendition of that, only a friend can do. Only a friend can gift another friend art, not from a store, but from her heart. 

Deepti, this is for you, for every day after I have known you was a relief, to know of people so pure, rare as they are. You should know this! Had I told this in your face or on Whatsapp, I could have never completed. You would cut me by saying ‘onnu po Hamna.’ Here you hardly have any choice! 

Falling in

In breaking , revealed ,
Fragmented forms unknown ,
Strangers in mirrors ,
More us than us ,
Why must we know ,
When these edges jagged ,
Are but parts of this puzzle ,
Made whole ,
Beyond beautiful ,
Be .

'These spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly '.

MMK

The windowpanes colored white

A silver patch, for a silver coin

When summer is still a moment in waiting

rubs to enter a word of 

may be memories that never fade

every breath a memory made 

a room filled. 

Here laburnum in golden yellow 

a necklace on Delhi’s dust storm

And there the mist falls, 

settling on the glass 

as the signs come true

the vestiges of hands held 

dreams drawn 

as the trees swayed behind hail stones.

When spring is summer's bosom friend

Goodbye , goodnight.

Sky set ablaze in dying light,

Through these woods shared,

learning to love, returning unto innocence,

laid bare being clothed in intimacy known,

fingers clasped,mirrored pools in our hearts,

every space speaks the tale,only the insane truly hear,

this used to be a coffin , black, 

now the night,

twinkling songs of you.

There was once a dream,a wish, maybe even hope.Would life be more,perhaps kind, maybe even worth the living.

Time knew to seep into this destruction, taking everything to return nought.

Find the island, we know of eternity here.In passing, lay by me,immortal.

(Leaving behind the first home we ever shared.

LBSNAA -Mussourie)

To the Lover on Another Mountain in the Himalayas

Blossoms of violets
As far as the eyes could see
rarity in 'coketowns' of the world,
in 'magnetic mountains of shadowy wo[men]


The breeze in its moist swish
gives each petal a flick
A jar of pollens in the air
rub strands of hair

Smudges the kohl of his eyes
in my memories' paradise.


(Written in Lachung, Sikkim for a flower in the hills of Mussoorie)

Epithalamium - and a tiny prayer -

In a distant isle weaved

God’s  secret tarot card 

 A tale of colors rare 

of two peas in a pod. 

Born in sync yet out of time. 

Parchments’ best friends 

Moths of old torn pages

'All the world is a stage'

Cafes of cities big and small; masked faces; 

carnival of a different species.

The last tune of the time’s lyre

to all my world from a stage. 

 ‘I have measured my life in coffee spoons’ he said

Rubbed Arabica, musk and life 

like the fragrance of sandal on a shrub. 

Every sundew, snow and rain
The waters of the world, pacific waves

The stars in the night sky

The ghosts of the past

Turned colors bright, tuned mellifluous

To live this life, ephemeral I fear

Every moment by his side

‘In sonnets pretty room ‘ 

Not even death to do us apart. 

Amen

(We needed poetry to be a part of our wedding card, and I penned (typed it on notes) this one down on a beautiful evening sitting in a ferry on the way from Havelock island to Port Blair. It was blue waters beyond the eyes could see. This one is a tribute to the waters and my muse in him. )