Where is Swadesh Deepak?

In an old mansion, on Ambala's Mall road
He lay in his room, doing nothing, only
speaking to characters. His thoughts went
berserk like cigarette stubs on his ground.

Food was brought to him; he ate it silently
swallowing most of it, and at times,
winking at his image in the glass of water,
spilling it inside, without any sound.

He had stopped going out and didn't care
for what happened outside. Within himself,
much took place, and it went on and on
Like a child in a Fair on a merry-go-round.

As if she would ring the doorbell with a bouquet
of sunflowers in her hands, say, Hello, is he inside?
Her voice came tiptoed, smiled, and said: I am the hunter
What would you like to be: The hare or the hound?

Oh, welcome, Maya, so you have finally arrived
Place a kiss, if you may, on my parched lips
and erase all the lines on my forehead; who asks then:
Where is Swadesh Deepak, and where could he be found?

Should I take you to Shaheen?

A poem for a woman called Shanta.

Houses for you

Oh, it is not that we are not concerned!
Look! We have made houses for you
And they are made of proper brick and mortar

The soil is the same, you see
Here is the proof:
It can grow red radishes

We will even get a temple constructed
But be sure, you don’t blow the conch
It may tear off the fibre of Kashmiriyat

And yes, we could not create these houses
On the banks of a river
So you will have to solemnize your God’s marriage
By sending his bride to him
Through flower pots

And these low doors of your houses
They are for your safety, you see
The boys, you know, are no longer indigenous
But we swear, Afghans have a self-pride
You don’t believe us, ask your ancestors
Or the learned men of your community (Ha, ha, ha! Every Batta is an intellectual!)
‘Their Majesties’ will never lower their heads
Even if their forefingers may be twitching
To pull your guts out

We know, your backs are hardened
And your torso muscles as well
From continuously shifting hearths
During those initial years
But still, it pains us to see that
Old men and women have to
Transport polythene bags full of
Sesame bread, rice flour and spices
To their sons and daughters in
Delhi, Mumbai and beyond
We see them all the time
In trains and deluxe buses
Trying to keep fresh,
Vegetables, they carry with them

That is why we want you to come back
And settle in these houses made for you
Did we tell you that they
Are made of proper brick and mortar?

Flower dreams

I remember, one day
While sitting
Just like that
You made on
A pack of cigarettes
Kept on my table
A sketch of a plant
Come and see it now
A flower has apppeared on it
~
Translated from Gulzar's Koi Baat Chale...

Between the pages

Often in your books
I discovered dried flowers
And in my books, the winds
That dried them

In winds like those
I go out, wearing, these days
A checked woollen muffler
Around my neck
Considering its two ends
Your two arms

I do not know, what is there
In this song:
Beqarar karke humen yun na jayiye…
Loneliness or its panacea

Today, I almost knew
When in the cupboard
Beside naphthalene balls
I found, in an old copy of
Gustave Flaubert’s Sentimental Education
Between pages 210 and 211
A stamp-sized picture of yours

Years have passed and
I could never tell you
But today, as I saw
You smiling in that picture
I found myself muttering:
Aapko humari kasam laut aayiye…

(This poem appeared originally here)

Three friends and days of leisure

A poem dedicated to heady days of late 96 and early 97

Srinagar, Jammu, Delhi

For a man who no longer has a homeland, writing becomes a place to live: Theodor Adorno

Two days ago I saw
My land like a tourist
On the Discovery channel

My father shouted and
Told my niece:
Look that is the Dal lake
Where lotus stems come from

In his shikara
Gulla carried
Bunches of Narcissus
Which we would decorate
In a brass plate
Along with a pen
And a coin to
Welcome the spring

Now springs are spent
In colouring rusted coolers
To enable them to
Provide succour in heat

Relatives from Jammu
Arrive every few months
Bringing with them
Souvenirs of my land
Green saag with roots
And local sesame bread

My father and mother
Arrived in Delhi
A few years ago
From Jammu

And now when
He refers to Jammu
My father says:
Back in Srinagar

And then he stops
When he realises
That Srinagar was
What he left
Sixteen years ago

And then for days
He keeps silent
He keeps on staring
At the ceiling
He also does not
Then read newspapers

Monaco Biscuits

You have retained
Your habit of making
Caricatures when you
Do not bother
To listen to
What a speaker
Has to say

The free strands
Of your hair
Look like Vincent’s
Corn-field and
Your worn-out
Canvas shoes
Like his canvas

You wear
A silver ring
On the little finger
Of your right hand
Through which I desire
To pass like a
Pashmina shawl

When you entered
Yesterday into
The array of my vision
You passed your
First glance at me
How I wished
I had a beard

I also heard
You telling your
Friend that you
Were hungry
I could have fed you
My liver instead of
Those Monaco biscuits

If I turn blind tonight

Poring over a yellow carton, you entered into my stream of consciousness like a ray. Your eyes were fixed upon your fingers trying to open that carton. But somehow I felt that you had included me in the array of your sight. As if to confirm my view, a smile played on your lips like a flute. It seemed to play a song, the words of which could have been: Hey, do not hide there, for I know you are here...

We never met, we never spoke, but we acted as confession boxes for each other. I could share those really lunatic thoughts with you. So could you and I nearly transformed into a father, a friendly one, while seeking answers to questions you almost asked.

I discovered very early, within you, the same wheel of restlesness which I had driven with the wooden stick of my being when I was of your age and younger. Half hidden behind the red, yellow and blue fibres of Dharamshala blankets, you asked me riddles the answers to which I sought in your eyes and ultimately found them in your smile. How I wish we could lay together, our heads supported by our elbows and, while you shared the secrets of your friends with me, I would remove your yellow hair band and play with it!

We could also wear those masks - I choose the red one with demon's face - and dance stupidly in the wilderness, pretending to frighten each other. We could also talk endlessly with that old Tibetan woman. I could also tell you that the paper machie boxes made in Kashmir are the best.

I am a dreamer, excuse me, and I dream about the most stupid and flimsy and childish dreams ever known to mankind. Consider this - You have put my picture up on your blog and then your statement has changed to this: All photographs published on this website and the man featuring in the topmost photograph are the property of PPK.

And yes, PPK, if I were to turn blind tonight, you would remain dear to me.

(Pic by PPK, taken at Dharamshala)

Your Painter, yours only

You cannot fool me
In my dreams
By telling me
You are married

I know you are not
The wife of
An Air force officer
You can never be
Because he cannot
Paint with his eyes

Don’t lie to me
Don’t narrate the warmth
Of his joint family
In your letter

Don’t tell me
That you keep fast
For his long life

You don’t lie
To the wind
That ruffles your hair

See your nose ring
In the mirror
Feel it
With your fingertip
My heart beats in it

Sit close to me
Too close to me
Let me paint
Yet another world
For you
Only for you

Someone peeps into me

(C) Rahul Pandita, 2006

I want to cry

Where do I go now?
Could I possibly
Take my guts out
Clean them
With a toothbrush
And put them back

The night
Has descended
And I wait
For the next morning
To escape
Fom myself
Drown meaninglessly
In trite conversations
And then
In absinthe
Towards the evening

That mail
Has not yet arrived
And mails which have
Put wrinkles
On my forehead
Do I cry
Out of devotion
Or for the lack of it?

I hear nothing
Behind me
And soon
I will hear
Heavy breath
A body will go
Up and Down

I will switch off
The light
And lay awake
In the darkness
I will feel thirsty
And drink water
From the bottle

Would I cry?
Shall I cry?
May I cry?
Can I cry?
What does it take
To just BE
And cry?

No sleeping last night

Regrets come back
Like Trade winds

Window panes
Howl in the night

Words whoosh
Like a cannon ball

Sweat dries up
Inside the armpit

Turned elbows
Reflect in the glass

Darkness inside
Tastes like mint

A wet towel
Sheds tears

A drunken man
Sings on the street
A country song
Life long!

The cherry stain

Miniatures lie
in my cupboard
Like pawns
on invisible,
black and white squares;
staring at me

When I look at them
they evade my eyes
One of them
with a picture of gypsy girl
steals glances at me

Can she hear
the rhubarb of my heart?
What is it really?
A liturgy
or have I been hexed?

In a dark recess
of my heart
I caress the gypsy girl
She puts up
a mock fight with me;
snatching cherries
from the clutches of my lips

Someone knocks on the door
The spell breaks
The gypsy girl is nothing
but a label on a tiny bottle

But I can still smell
the gypsy girl's musk
My shirt is stained
A cherry
has squirted on it

You have come, what for?

Life comes a full circle
I wait for it
To come to me
After taking
A merry-go-round

I have a gift for Life
A watermelon
Packed in a condom

I will hand over
The gift, to Life
And wink my eye
Saying: Chattri se Azaadi.

The Elbow Cream

Today, I write about you
Words come from my gall bladder
All drenched in bile,
And wine made from cider

I remember those summer afternoons
When coal tar would stick on shoes
And you would dress up in cotton Pyjamas
Planning to set up a ruse

You, lost in your own world
And partially in mine
You’d seek refuge in the recycled paper
And lie down beside me

On the top floor of that house
I would go to sleep
and you would look at me
And then lie down beside me
(as I felt the mole near your navel)

Remember? You were after me those days
Trying to change the destiny of my elbows
Armed with, do you remember, the elbow-cream?

You’d be soon leaving for Kolkata
I knew you had surrendered
Their happiness mattered to you.
But what about my elbows, Nina?

That Night of 1990

This Characterless String

Bazaar mein,
baune khambe ke upar
Teen baar mudi hui
eik charitraheen rassi

Koi khambe ko chhue
to fanfukaarti hai,
Naagin si bal khaati hui
eik charitraheen rassi

Do premiyon ko dekhkar
thoda hilti hai
maano laaj se ho simti hui
eik charitraheen rassi

Aur saamne madiralay mein
shaam guzaarti hai wo
dekho, jhumkar nikalti hui
eik charitraheen rassi

Hai to wo khaane peene ke thelon ke beech,
pur unse duur uska apna chulha hai
alag khichdi pakati hui
eik charitraheen rassi

A translation by my friend Tanzan Senzaki:

This characterless string
Is clinging to a stumped pole,
Going around it three times,
In the vendors’ street.

Many lovers she has.
But this one,
This pole is special,
For the characterless string.

Should someone touch the pole,
She uncoils fast like a snake
And snaps back sharply at him.
This characterless string.

When she sees two lovers together,
She acts as if drenched in shame.
This characterless string.

She spends her evenings at the pub.
Look there she is,
Walking out all drunk.
This characterless string.

Though in the middle of vendors’ street,
She cooks her hotchpotch in a pot,
Placed in a hearth away from street.
This characterless string.

A Poem in Hindi

A co-traveller on the Intentblog, Tanzan Senzaki has translated my Hindi poem in free English verse: (You can find the original - in Roman - below this translation)

Time does not hang
On trees for me,
It passes like a rope passes
Through a bull’s nose

Even if I am still
It still moves on
Marching past my pulse

Carrying my subconscious
In a sack on its back,
To savor the sweetness of future
It still passes on

Once I ran fast after it,
Asking it to stop and stay
Under the tree of my memories
Blinking its eyes it marched ahead,
Saying if it did stop,
My pen too would stop,
And only when it moved
‘Now’ became ‘yesterday’
Making my memories thunder in the skies
And passing them on into my pen

Time moved on
I turned back

Reaching far back,
I heard the skies thunder
And my pen moved on

Translated from my Hindi Poem:

Mujhe Samay, Paed pur latka hua nahi milta
Wo guzarta hai -
guzarta hai, jaise bael ke nathunon se nakael

Uske saamne mein thithak bhi javun, pur wo
meri nabz pur kadam taal karte hue
aage nikal padta hai

Apni peeth pur mere antarmann ka pitthu baandhe
wo bavishya ka gud khaane daud padta hai

Maine use raukne ke liye eik baar daud lagayi
aur poocha - ki wo aaram kare
meri smritiyon ke vraksh ke neeche

Wo palke jhapkaata hua mujhe dekhta gaya
lekin ruka nahi
aur phir wo muskuraya
bola -
mein agar ruk gaya to tumhari kalam ruk jaayegi
kyunki mein jab chalta hun
to hi 'ab' kal banta hai
jiske aasman mein smritiyan
bijli bankar kaundh ti hein
aur tumahri kalam ki syaahi mai tabdeel ho jaati hai

Wo chalta gaya
aur mein bhi mudkar chalne laga

duur nikal aaya
aur phir bijli kaundh ne lagi
aur meri kalam chalne...