Empty Journeys

re Farzana Versey #26:

Now that was cute. I am beginning to like you. And the end of the beginning generally marks the beginning of the end......well in 99% of the cases in today`s self-centered world anyway.

later

-sac

Hi Siddhanth:

Are you back for good? Do people really return?

Yes, call. Everything`s changed, except the numbers.

F



Hey, how I wish there was more real interaction during poetry week -- thoughtful, introspective and even critical analysis. But did not happen. Maybe next time:)

Ah,there they run...anyway, before this thread loses itself, a small thank you to those who connected...Zahra, that was very magnanimous and genuine...scout, now i know how to please you...Aamir, I think you were just having a great day somewhere, and I benefited in the bargain! Though do i have to be in the `wilderness`? Urstruly, more ladies will do this for you if you stick to life, death, literature...and of course thinking of their words while shaving!...And a special thank you to the person for whom I came on this board in the first place. There is a lesson for you in this -- here is how you learn to get out of the pits; everything turns around...there is a light at the end of every tunnel. Better still, light your own way...carry a torch.

Farzana

=== Interact Filtered ===
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``I think I was dead``

No, only those who would deny they are touched can claim that.

Farzana Versey #26,

Hail to the Queen :)

That was very cute.

Farzana:

That was sweet, lyrical and touching!

I never write something that I do not mean. It is poetry week so I had to say poetess` efforts than anything else :-) Poets, often times, get carried away with their emotions and expression. I have heard a lot of them since my chidlhood and I have a good bunch of extremely poetic ones in my immediate family.

You have a unique way of expression. I do not want to be very analytical, but I cannot resist admiring the strong-hold that you have on your emotions and the adroitness you portray in managing any shift :-) OK, poetess ? It`s more like a hybrid than a poetess only. It`s a compliment!

Enjoy your exploration journey and a very happy poetry week!

Aeisha # 25

She ain`t a poor little girl. She dances with the wolves and Boy! does she dance.

Ms. Versey!
Good one again. hey it had even my name in it. No lady has ever done it before-I am almost in tears :)

Emptier Journeys



This is a funny place

Getting funnier by the day

They feel not the verse

And quarrel about better or worse

Why the hell am I getting into rhyme?

Oh, that’s the in thing for those with a few spare lines!

So I thought I’d give it a shot

And stem the bloody rot.

Says scout in right earnest

And she wasn’t the meanest,

“is this poetry week really a good idea?”

I think so, I think so, my deah.

There will be some you like and some you hate

Just like it happens on a blind date…

When Aamir said, maut tu ek kavita hai...

Hum ko bhi laga ke yeh shaayad sach hain.

Ras, kuchch baatein sar se upar se guzar jaati

Isi liye to zindagi samajh mein nahin aati…

Was that a warm welcome? Er… never mind…

When we get round to Kashmir, you will know what to find!

Urstruly, you thought of me at 6 in the morning?

Gosh, you got me rocking…

But my subconscious does not run a cost-benefit analysis

Damn, it does not even know when it is going to pieces.

I liked what you said about deprivation, though --

It is imagined, which is why I can still glow!

Zahra, you don’t know what you got into by calling me a poetess

They will give up on you more or less…

It was sweet if I could remind you of your fave albums

Yes, it is exploration, which brings on melancholia that burns!

“Do you need skin and flesh to mesh?” I asked

Sac wondered if that wasn’t important for a start.

Indeed it is, but where does the beginning end?

Must one always borrow what one lends?

Latif, I can still hear your words ring,

“Are you trying to get in her pants or something?”

Since this one-liner is your literary contribution

What can I say, except more power to your imagination?

And just for the record, guys I do not nail

How many martyrs can I accommodate in my jail?

Vicky, you are spot on about how I constructed it

Though I will use different words to convey my bit…

It starts with unforeseen desire for closeness

Moves to the experience and then emptiness.

Studebaker, badon se hi badtameezi karte hain log

Kyonki jaante hain ke hum maaf kar denge unka rog!

Hamidm, if fools punish you

I wonder what the wise ones will do?

Paedolphilia , necrophila aren’t the only sins

The worst one is always wanting to win.

Veeresh, if this is the stuff you wrote and managed to get her

Wow, that is something to ponder over…

Yes, I write like I talk

Which is why I mistake cheese for chalk.

Uthey vich ke ithey vich

I just don’t know biraadar which is which.

Aeisha, these are not wolves in sheep’s clothing

They are just wooly-headed folks with loathing…

I am no poor girl, that is the big pain

So I have to deal with boys pretending to be men.

Temporal, you say, “let us say that you know that I know”

Wish you would just tell me some more…

Yeh rooh ki tashnagi hain, kya karein?

Chalo aansoon hi bahaakar pyaas bujha lein.

hamidm #20:

[...... now that is poetry ! byron, eat your heart out ...... you too, temporal..].

.....moucho gracias ....gotta lumber outta slumber...even if for a minna `r ta...

....yes mastah...that po’ good ... very good .. mastah....

....yes hamid ... yes... eat my heart out ... everyday.. every moment... whatddya know...
with chianti...with merlot... with single malt ... with khoon-e-jig’r ... and bud ...it tastes stale, awful, downright disgusting sometimes ... like old friends who’d drifted away... like old wives (tales?), girls...but silly bud...gotta hand it t’ya...you know how to touch that chord ...

... worry not...it is not you...

..it is them idiots galore ... (here in a daze...on a clear day... with my umbrella am pointing there... there...there and there.....umbrella makes a 360 degree turn... enveloping .. pointing at everything.. in its sweep)...them all .... but most of them those ... who understand everything but know nothing....whose sole armour is hate .... who eat, smoke, drink hate.... who inhale, exhale hate...and pass it out here....

... and speaking of all this gargantuan display of pent up hatred...Saima ... a little haphazard and impromptu as it was this poetry week can only be redeemed if you go on to have similar weeks in future... Mullah Omar week...Kashimr week... Pakistan is good India bad week...India is good Pakistan is bad week...I am good you are bad week .... then I would have supported you more...

...you could have really channeled all the pent up hatred and frustration.. and then hopefully we could have moved on to thoughtful deliberations...but if wishes were pennies


...do they have a life...but they must... we all do.... but then what kind of life is it ? .. wallowing in so much hate?

latif....yara are we not compounding a bad day with worse?....feel offended not ... mean poetry can be ordure ... never the other way around... though both can be extremely personal statements...and can become coprolite... it (poetry) is but a manifestation of deep personal feelings expressed by the poet with the tools at his/her disposal....and received by the catcher/reader in a net of his/her vocabulary, experience, sensitivity and ..... that is why the same words can and do evoke sometimes/oft times disparaging reactions in the reader...example...yours and mine....cheers

...scout...poetry ... good poetry cannot be taught ... it pours straight from the heart .. all else is contrived maneuvering...some may hit pay dirt ... mostly they miss ... by a wide berth...

...that was nice resonsance ...zehra...

..ferz... how do I know?...well let’ say you know that I know...

...later

love/regards

t

I wrote long letters like this to a woman for 7 years. Then we got married and I guess children, family, work . . .

Decades later, with the advent of email, back to travels on parchment replaced by screen?

Cheers Farzana, you write like you talk. Or is it the other way around?

+++

Here is one from pre-partition days:-

Pigeon kabootar, udan fly,

Look dekho, aasmaan isky.

+++

Also

+++

ABC

Kithe gayee see?

Edward mar gaya,

Vekhan gayee see.

Dick Whittington & Cat.

farzaana, found you at sulekha and then here. have returned after a long time for good. Are you telephoen nos. the same. i am not in Bombay now. i think i was dead. why do you say that. that old song safall hugee teri araadhana, you and your poetry remind me of that. will meet soon as possible if you still want to.

bye,

siddhanth

A travel account from a Delhiwallah for Mohajir friends across the border

Delhi Diary – visit to Old Delhi (Walled City), March 29, 2001

Browsing the Internet, I came across a web-site operated by a restaurant owner in the walled city of Delhi – Karim (www.karimhoteldelhi.com), and was immediately tempted to try the delicacies prepared by this excellent restaurant tucked away in a narrow by-lane off the famed Jama Masjid. To get in the mood, I decided to take along my father who has lived in Delhi all his life and can give an excellent guided tour of the Delhi of yesteryear.

We started our trip by parking our car near Ajmeri Gate in front of the Hamdard building on Asaf Ali Road. Cars were prohibited in the narrow by-lanes from here on. The only wheeled transport available for the infirm was cycle rickshaws. We decided to walk, not yet comfortable with the idea of letting a fellow human being cart us around.

Our first stop was the Anglo-Arabic college, where Mirza Ghalib had turned up for his first job. Galli (lane) Qasim in Ballimaran is a stone’s throw away. The story goes that the principal of the college had not come out to greet Ghalib upon his arrival, and the proud poet decided that that was an insult big enough to not consider any further offers of employment there! The buildings now house the Zakir Hussain College (named after India’s 3rd President) affiliated with the University of Delhi, and a high school. The building was made of beautiful sandstone, and a narrow passageway lined with classrooms led to a central courtyard with green grass, chirping birds, and a tranquility that was at complete odds to the hustle and bustle of the crowded streets outside. There were a mosque and a beautiful shrine of Itmadad-ud-Dowlah (one of Aurangzeb’s generals who died in 1710). The shrine had some of the most stunning bas-reliefs in marble (the quality of the work, though not the scale, rivaled that of the Taj). The shrine was cordoned off, locked up and no entry was allowed. It is now protected by the Archaeological Survey of India. To find such an unsung treasure off the beaten tourist track in Delhi was a delight. Upon inquiring we found that a certain Mian Yusuf (retired professor of Persian in DU) would be able to give us a detailed history of the whole complex the first thing next morning in a library upstairs. I may well take up the offer someday. Today, I was in a mood for some ‘burra kabab’.

We stepped out from this oases of calm on to the sea of activity that is Ajmeri Gate, and started making our way towards Jama Masjid. As we passed along Chawri Bazaar, and Kazi Haus (city square) I was struck by the volume of business that was conducted by wholesalers of all types of goods (hardware, greeting cards, musical instruments, etc.) many of whom had stores that were barely 3 feet wide and 6 feet deep.

We were enticed by a sign for a musical instruments store, and climbed a steep, narrow staircase to reach a shop in Chawri Bazaar whose owner, a Sikh, was busy testing the strings of a sitar. The gentleman explained that the shop had been established by his father Kartar Singh when he had migrated from Lahore in 1947. They had previously owned a store in Anarkali Bazaar in Lahore, and that the family hailed from Sialkot. His shop had every conceivable Indian instrument for sale, with a gorgeous sitar right on his desk. He explained that his customers were spread out as far away as California, while most of his fine instruments came from Bengal. He appeared disappointed to tell us that maestros like Amjad Ali Khan and Zakir Hussain prefer to get their instruments commissioned by custom manufacturers to their own specifications, rather than buy from him. We had a very pleasant chat with this gentleman.

I remember that there used to communal tension in this area in the 70s. Now this area appeared to be very calm and tension-free. Business was brisk. We did notice a police post near a major intersection in Chawri Bazaar. A soft-drink store owner said that in the last 15 years the place had become very peaceful. I wonder why – the mandarins of the BJP who rule India sit barely 2 miles away as the crow flies. Perhaps, the peace is because of the BJP, and not despite it. It is generally believed that the Congress governments stirred up communal trouble to ensure that the besieged Muslim communities vote for Congress en block. Now that the BJP is in power, it does not need to resort to this practice, and is able to keep the Congress in check.

By now we were almost upon the Jama Masjid, and decided to make it our next stop. I bought a skull cap for 30 Rupees, donned it, and made my way in. We were allowed to hand-carry our shoes, but not wear them. I even managed to teasingly frighten the daylights out of a man who had placed his shoes on the mosque square while posing for a picture. My admonishment to him sent him scampering quickly to rectify his error! The masjid is beautiful, though in dire need of maintenance. I cannot believe that the millions who go there every year cannot be tapped for repair and upkeep. The Imam has certainly been remiss in his responsibility. There were people from all over north India (young couples – one of them lovingly holding hands, elderly people) in the mosque. There was one old man with a henna-beard, and a beautifully embroidered skull cap who appeared as if he had just stepped straight out of a history book. The view of the ramparts of the historic Red Fort (barely a mile away) from the mosque is unique and majestic. The Jama Masjid is one of the few places from where you can look down upon the high walls of the fort. We could have climbed one of the minarets for an extra 10 rupees, but decided to head straight for Karim’s instead.

Finding Karim’s restaurant requires numerous inquiries from locals, since the spartan restaurant is in a by-lane with access through a tunnel-like galli. It appears that the restaurant is in a converted haveli since the dining rooms are in different rooms. There is a central public courtyard. We feasted on burra-kababs, seekh kababs, rumali roti, biryani, phirni in clay saucers, and other delights. Our Bengali waiter Md. Azim was only too eager to help us choose the right stuff. Only half-way through the meal did we realize that the time being in the middle of ‘narratey’ period (Hindu period of fasting for new year?) was an inauspicious time of the year for us Hindus to be feasting on the choicest halal. We gave the thought all of two seconds, before continuing to munch on! I highly recommend this place to all visitors to Delhi.

It was now time for us to return, and our exhaustion compelled us to seek the services of a rickshaw puller. He took us to Turkman Gate through a short-cut, which ran through the narrowest by-lanes that I have ever seen. The names of the gallis were themselves quite exotic – Chitli Kabr (spotted grave?), Mattiya Mahal being some. There were butcher shops galore with sights that would turn the stomach of any meat-lover, spice stores, jewelry stores, and people popping out from everywhere. Yet, in all the chaos, there was a palpable spirit of accommodation and mutual coexistence as people, animals, and rickshaws, all managed to find harmony in a small space. At the end of the day, I rued myself for not having explored this part of Delhi sooner in my life. There is many a treasure here, and one only need look with a discerning eye.

.....as far as i am concerned, bob dylan is the only poet who ever made any sense ........all other poets are egotistical, nay, downright narcissistic, fools sent down to punish us for horrible things like pedophilia and necrophilia :

Now they asked me to read a poem

At the sorority sister`s home

I got knocked down and my head was swimmin`

I wound up with the Dean of Women

Yippee! I`m a poet, and I know it.

Hope I don`t blow it.

I`m gonna grow my hair down to my feet so strange

So I look like a walking mountain range

And I`m gonna ride into Omaha on a horse

Out to the country club and the golf course.

Carry the New York Times, shoot a few holes, blow their minds.

Now you`re probably wondering by now

Just what this song is all about

What`s probably got you baffled more

Is what this thing here is for.

It`s nothing

It`s something I learned over in England.

................ now that is poetry ! byron, eat your heart out ...... you too, temporal.

Farzana, welcome to the Poetry Club.
Loved the first line and other parts somewhere
near the middle.
But conclusion ``sir kay uper say guzar giya``.

Ras

tame my demons, purge my soul

i need to twist and rock and roll

to ride the surf when high tide`s in

to show the birdie to the veritable fin

to run amock `mongst simbas pride

to deem me naughty, shag the bride

to uncle fester-ise my skull

to drown in acid, burn the lull

to anne french up my faggy curls

to dance with wolves and kiss the girls

to snort some coke and strip for all

to click my heels and dice my ball

and after all is done and gone

i`ll freak out on some jumbo prawn



ugh

studebaker #16,

I didn`t do any badtameezi. And I can take what I dish out. What`s wrong with criticism, even if it`s just an opinionated one?

I like Farzana`s writing and thoughts, so what if I didn`t like this example of her poetry?

Sue me :)