OCTOBER
The majestic Banyan Tree
taught me
the Lullaby of Life
I listened
as the wind
whispered
sweet lessons
And ran with
joy into the
protective
arms of
The majestic
soul.
He gave me
life.
I kneel down
Savouring
the moment
As the Pure pink blossom
Wraps her tiny,
tender fingers
Around mine.
Autumn's
adventure has just begun
A delightful
dance
A faraway
dream
She taught
me to live.
You are both
October's!!!
-SG
This dawn,
I’ll be the breeze
And reach
out to where you are –
Reach out
to you and
Without a
warning
Wrap you in
my arms.
With a
promise that I’ll never let go!
I’ll be the
breeze today
And play a
little game –
Sit by your
side and ruffle your hair,
Then look
at you fondly.
While you
look around and wonder
‘Who is
this?’
“Don’t
pretend you don’t know” I’ll whisper.
And run
away!
I’ll be the
breeze and hum a little song
But you
will hear only the sounds of stillness
I’ll be the
breeze and stir up a storm in my heart
But you will
feel only calmness.
I’ll be the
breeze and blow music into your flute
You’ll look
around in amazement
Wondering, “Who
is this?’
“Don’t
pretend you don’t know” I’ll whisper.
And you’ll
laugh when I gently caress your cheeks,
And run
away!
I’ll be the
breeze today –
Swaying
gently, I’ll make your pale dusk delightful
And quickly blow away your fears and tears.
I’ll be the
breeze
And reach
out to where you are –
And without
a warning
Wrap you in
my arms.
With a
promise that I’ll never let go!
But as you
sit there watching the story of your life unfold,
turning the world of my delicate dreams into your robust reality
And wait
for me to start the game again,
The hazy horizon where earth embraces the sky
will beckon me!
I’ll be the
restless breeze riding the willowy cloud to that distant place!
As we fly
over you, I’ll ask the cloud to shed a silent tear
You’ll look
up startled
Wondering,
“Who is this?’
“Don’t
pretend you don’t know” I’ll whisper.
-SG
Unmindful of the intoxicated bee
The beauteous one stands beneath the Kadamba tree,
She is the moonlight to the lotus that is his heart!
The fragrance of the blossoming flowers
Stirs up the primal cause of life!
O One, with hair that is dark like the monsoon clouds,
Style a braid gently
Lest the tempestuous wind
Should ruffle your silken tresses
Or disturb your tender heart.
Her half – turned face catches the moonbeam
And glows with embers of love.
The half-closed lids, heavy with sleeplessness
Search for the footprints of the Beloved.
The lazy lips stir up some tune
As she stands transfixed!
From the pure pitcher of the skies,
The rustling leaves of the Kadamba
Having sipped on cloudful of nectar
Play Megh malhar.
As raindrops seep through the greens
And fall on the parting of her hair.
The graceful swan cranes its neck to hear
The honeyed voice of the Alasya Kanya
Accompanying the beats of the thunderous clouds
II काली बदरिया मारे नजरिया
मन में छुपा लो मोहे
जुल्मी सावरिया II
- SG
तड़पे
जियरवा मीन समानपड़ गई फीकी लाल
चुनरिया
पिया
नहीं आए
गरजत
बरसत सावन आयो
Orality or folk literature is never marginalized in India.
It is always an alternative tradition and alternative is not to be understood
as “The opposite”. If you want to draw a white line, you need a black or grey
or any dark colour background, so it is a mistake to say white is the opposite
of black or grey or blue. We have to make use of black or grey or any dark
colour to bring out the white in all its distinction and glory. Music, painting and
of course literature, use GREY to depict so many emotions and situations.
As the monsoons close in upon us, the sky takes on different
shades of grey, with a few wavy lines of gold, as the sun struggles in vain to
peep out from the veils of lighter grey cloud upon a denser grey cloud. As the
Nayika stands in the shelter of misty windowpanes and draws out visages with
her delicate finger, grey takes on a new meaning. The grey tempestuous sky is
streaked with lightning and the occasional rumble of thunder shakes her out of
the grey reverie. She sings out a Kajri -
काली
बदरिया मारे नजरिया
मन
में छुपा लो मोहे
जुल्मी
सावरिया
The word Kajri is possibly a derivative of Kajal – meaning dark
Kohl, that adorns her deep, large eyes. In a country of scorching summers – the black
monsoon clouds bring with them a reprieve and great joy – with a need to sing out
loud. , The jhoola is tied to the strongest branch in the mango grove. There
are bursts of giggles as the grey clouds drench the Nayika with raindrops as
she swings on the swing between hope and despair!
This is the moment for the Kajri to be sung and what makes
these songs so special is how they are simply about capturing the moment – the grey
clouds, the gusts of moisture-laden breeze, a fleeting feeling of bliss or
longing – and how, in so doing, they bridge the ‘natural’ world with one’s
inner world!
The rain-washed leaves or scent of jasmine wafted along by
the wet wind, the foliage of newly-shooting rice plants or bamboo-groves
tossing in the stormy wind create the rhythm of a delightful sway. The grey,
wandering clouds appear unpredictable and nomadic, the dancing creeper of
Jasmine flowers are ecstatic. Varsha (monsoon season) is announced by the
plaintive singing of the koyal.
The moist rainy wind sends a nostalgic sigh from the
Virahotkanthita Nayika, who looks up at the grey clouds which she hopes carries
a message from her beloved. A moan of cry rumbles as the lightning tears the
grey sky and the grey clouds burst forth in a torrential downpour. Expressions
still waiting to be articulated bring out a stream of tears. The sigh of
desolation, deserted grey pathways and human activities suspended remind her
of her dark-grey lover.
And can her dark-grey lover then be far behind in expressing
his anguish to the passing grey clouds:
‘O grey cloud over-head
Rise up, won’t you, and carry a message from me
To my beloved across the seven seas (Kalidas, Meghdootam)
She has deep soulful eyes darkened with deep grey kajal,
mass of black tress let open and floating, a deep blue sari wrapped around loosely
and a face expressing the agony of separation mixed with joy at the prospect of an
anticipated union.
She discards her colourful garments, drapes a greyish dress
to camouflage herself as she battles the grey foams of the swelling river to
envelop herself in the comforting arms of her lover.
GREY then is the colour of love, intense, passionate, and
intelligent. For Kalidas, the baramasa poets, and Tagore among other poets and
the painters of Ragamala miniatures grey has been a symbolic colour for the
monsoon glory.
Tagore looks upon Kalidasa’s Yaksha as an emblem of all
loneliness and separation that prevails in this world and the cloud as a global
messenger to all yearning souls:
‘Did every exile hum to the grey clouds
The same song of desire?
Did every lover ask a grey cloud
To carry a tearful missive of separation?’
And then yet another kajri,"Ye dou naina kaho na mane
nadiya bahe jaise sawan ki, koi jaye kaho piya aawan ki
jhuki aai re badariya sawan ki, jhuki aai re badariya
sawan ki manbhawan ki...
Yonder, a rudderless boat blobs up and down
As the sunshine tears through
the fog-draped dreary sky
And blazes in a flurry of gold ribbons.
The blue breaks into the grey
As the brown silhouettes of marshy trees
frame the distant horizon
where the sky meets the sea.
Seagulls on wings conduct an impromptu orchestration
Their plaintive calls, a prologue to sweet surrender!
The caring crests caress her fingers
as the gentle breeze envelops Baawri in a comforting hug.
Rock in the ebb and flow of the tide
And make time standstill.
The ripples on the waves
map the wrinkles
on the aging skin of love
The kiss of the salty sea lingers on her cheeks.
Baawri pauses for a brief while
Then moves on...
SG
