Time

 

My grandmother planted

A guava tree, the day I was born.
By the time I came to understand,
 

The tree had grown manifold,

Beyond my height.
Many times I thought I would
 
One day outgrow that black green chap
But that never happened.
One day its leaves started

Turning yellow and its

Branches dried up announcing
Its death and my defeat.

 

Well, this is a romantic poem.  Had written it long back. Hope you will like it.  

Instinct

 I know, I don't love her

I don't care,

I have nothing to do

With her coming and going

Anywhere or

Talking to anybody

I have assured myself,

Several times a day.

Why several times a day?

I don't know.

 

I am aware of

her beautiful face,

with tender smile,

her lovable nature and

her soft voice,

her friendly disposition

and pleasing personality.

But I don't have to do

anything with all these

I have assured myself

again and again.

Why Again and again?

I don't know.

 

 

When I expect her arrival

My heart beats fast,

When she doesn't

My joy departs

I find myself often deep drowned

In the deep dark lakes of her eyes

A sweet smile on her lips

Takes me far away

And whenever these happened,

I have promised thousand times

With myself not to repeat

But why thousand times?

I don't know.

 

The Sun, 2001

Orhan Pamuk, One of My Favourite Novelists

 

 

It was in the Spring of 2006, still ten months away from the big news- Orhan Pamuk, a Turkish novelist, was announced the winner of Nobel Prize in October, I found My Name Is Red (Turkish: Benim Adım Kırmızı) in Central Secretariat Library. Just a few days back I had read an article on him but it was not the Pamuk but the name of the book which attracted me. I started to read it and I must admit it that it immediately swept me away with its flow. Despite being it a budget session and heavy pressure of work, I continued it without break.

All the characters, their names, names of places and their stories were completely new to me. I could not link myself with them, except with their emotions. It was an amazing world of mystery and romance mixed together.  And above all the mastery of the creator!  Wonderful.

It is the magical world of love and passion of Kara (Black), miniaturist and binder, who is nephew of Enishte.  It is also the story of the most beautiful woman Shekure,  Enishte's beautiful daughter, whose husband has gone missing. While she waits for her husband, two men- Balck and her husband’s brother- almost fight for her. Though they are main characters of the novel, the story is not limited to them. It takes us into the strange world of miniaturists  of the Ottoman Empire.

This novel left a big impact on my mind. And I started searching for his other novels. Soon I found his other novel Snow (Turkish: Kar) translated into English by Maureen Freely and published in 2004.

And I still wonder which one is the best. Its whole story is set in Turkish city of Kars. When Ka the protagonist of the novel returns to Kars after twelve years in Germany, he meets İpek, whom he once had feelings for, and stays in the hotel her father runs. İpek is very beautiful woman and Ka is unable to stop himself from falling for her. But then a series of incidents occur and in the last a heart broken Ka returns to Germany. It is certainly not a love story, but a political one but they way Pamuk had mixed love, sex, politics, revolution, education and history is not only amazing but also leaves readers gasping. 

What struck me most was the way Pamuk ends both of his novels. To me it seems he wants to say that this world is imperfect. Our longings and desires cannot be fulfilled ever, because as much we get so much we desire.

I also read his The Black Book. But it disappointed me. Though the story is good and Pamuk’s presence is also palpable, but I couldn’t follow it.

I hope to read his other books soon.   

Binod Mairta

The witness

 

Of the passing moments of my life,

Of the blossoming flowers of my dreams,

Of the rising-ebbing hopes of my heart,

Of the rippling laughter of my lips

And of the streaming down tears from my eyes,

 

Witness is the house where I was born,

Witnesses are the green plains where I spent my childhood,

Witness is the city where I learnt to live,

And greatest witnesses are the earth, sky and winds:

 

Wherever I went, they followed me.

All the moments of my life lived and to be lived-

Yesterday and tomorrows-

Bequeathing them all I will pass away.

 

 

 

Neighbourhood Star, 1997.

 

I had written this poem in 1998 in the memory of a friend and it was published in The Asian Age in 2000.

Mahananda

 

 Mahananda, you left us at a loss

on the stage of the world

leaving incomplete your act

in the play of life.

We had great expectations

in your performances

but, alas!

Cruel destiny

played his role ruthlessly.

The tree that had borne you

is drying with grief,

its agony and wailing

has created a deep dark sky

and it rains often

whenever winds blow across.

Ah! What meant life to you?

Nothing, but the cruelty of time.

You were the bud

plucked before flowering.

Whom do you blame?

Time, god or destiny?

No Mahananda, who says you died?

No one can kill you,

no one has the right

to do so.

Life and death are two

shores of a river and

you have just left

from one shore to other

and it’s our inability to visualize

your world

because of deep waters

and tides

and also we are afraid

of our own life.

 

 

 

 

 

The Asian Age, 2000

Sparrow Haven: The Forces

Sparrow Haven: The Forces: The Forces Calls in the Distance Shadows moving in Peeps and Squeaks get closer The Forces are Gathering The Feeders are Filling Not Fast ...

Sparrow Haven: The Forces

Sparrow Haven: The Forces: The Forces Calls in the Distance Shadows moving in Peeps and Squeaks get closer The Forces are Gathering The Feeders are Filling Not Fast ...

Silent song

  

Twinkling stars were not ready

To go behind the spreading clouds

And moon seemed fighting

Intermittently to show

Its milky whiteness

And my heart was rejoicing

Breathing deeply, as if,

You were close to me.

Cool breeze was blowing

Rhythmically,

Gently pushing the leaves to sing

And dance with its tune.

But trees covering their bodies

With shawl of darkness

Were almost shivering with cold.

Time had stopped to witness

Nature’s game of hide and seek.

Nearby silver mountains

Were also glittering

With a few bare black spots

Indicating their newness, just as

They had been taken out of mine

And then there was silence

A laudable silence

Everyone could feel

And if had little knowledge of

Nature’s tongue

Would be overjoyed

Hearing that.

Excitement for the moment was at

Its zenith

And my heart was

Wondering in the heavenly

World of dreams, as happy as it should be.

O! Mother, I was reborn in your lap.

 

 

 

The Asian Age, 2001

 

 

 

 

I had written this poem in 2002 and it was published in State Times, Jammu.  It was gloomy atmosphere of J & K. .

Hellish heaven

 

Last Night

In the dream

I walked into the heaven

Just to get surprised,

Surprised to be greeted by

All odds:

So many houses,

All empty and destroyed,

Bloody and muddy,

Broken walls and holes,

Here and there

Peeping eyes,

Hungry faces,

Orphaned children,

Widowed girls,

Old people

Crawling as worms,

No voice

Just whispers.

 

I ran to the other side

Of the Heavenly river

But there too was

A land devastated and deserted

Like a war field:

Only cries and wails,

Miles and miles,

Frozen faces,

Parched lips,

Eyes turning into holes

And cheeks into pits,

Skeletons and skeletons,

And ghosts and ghosts.

Oh! God!

What happened to your heaven?

Or am I in the hell?

Why so many people are crying?

Where is the melody of heaven?

It is just wailing …wailing…

So many orphans, so many widows?

Where are the young couples?

Are all dead or sent away?

Is this heaven?

Or hellish heaven?                                                                             The State Times, 2002