The man who had been the absurdist and yet the most lyrical one

The first distinct memory of Sukumar Ray, for me, like many others is definitely ‘ Abol tabol’ ( ‘আবোল তাবোল), his collection of so called ‘ non sense verse’. The illustrations accompanying them were those which left indelible impressions . Surprisingly despite being absolutely illogical or at least being very adverse to usual sense of logic, most of his ‘verses’ having lyric grace and inimitable rhythm, caught our fancy. They were our ‘ nursery rhymes’ and we sang them too oft which only buttressed their popularity.
Many years after, on his birth anniversary, as I try to understand why were they so popular then, one thing that strikes me is the sweetness of fancy that most of his poems evoke. They talk of mundane things like how two persons can quarrel and yet that quarrel never turns into a quarrel as it becomes a poem filled with hilarious anecdotes, or for that matter ‘ bombagorer raja’ ( বোম্বাগড়ের রাজা) comes alive with his peculiar habits. Then there were those poems having ballad like qualities telling stories which can be related to by anyone so easily that they remain unforgettable. So we can never forget poems like ‘ সৎ পাত্র’ ( The suitable alliance) or ‘ কুমড়োপটাস্'( kumropotas). They took us to reality of dreams or fanciful presentations of the real.
Sukumar Ray , can never be compared with any poet for no poet even thought of working on the absurd so copiously as he did. We can find the ridicule and the ludicrous elements in other poets and writers, we can find poets writing excellent limericks, we can find writers bringing in that Coleridgean ‘ willing suspension of disbelief’, but we can never find one singular poet like Sukumar Ray putting lyric charm in ballad like poems having absurdities which are fanciful and fairytale like. And added to that which poet could have ever dared to write impossible songs apparently so meaningless and yet so enticingly rhythmic?
It is difficult, pretty difficult to categorise poems of Sukumar Ray. They are lyrical, albeit illogical. They are fanciful, unreal yet sometimes real and ironic. They carry pure laughter, fun and also sometimes ridicule.
They tell stories of familiar characters and on occasions come up with alien, strange, never seen creatures like hybrids of ‘porcupine ‘ and ‘ duck’ ( হাঁসজারু) . Only someone with a different set of skills embedded into ‘ Imagination’ can possibly think of and conceive ideas that Sukumar Ray so easily conjured up. Yes, he had been a conjurer too, a conjurer of a kind with unmatched sense of the absurd.

A little boy, a golden hill, a lonely mother and her aggrieved son

After many days, saw a beautiful bengali movie. Released this year, this one ‘ সোনার পাহাড়’ / ‘ Sonar pahar’ tells a story of how a son ( after being married) gets himself distanced from his mother, a widow, for he can’t find a proper way to please both his mother and wife. That’s a pretty common thing and people would definitely say ‘ O we know these stories of mother-in- laws and daughter-in-laws , for we have seen enough of these on tv ‘.
No, the director, Parambrata Chatterjee, had no intention to present another sash-bahu story. Instead, he brings in a little orphan boy who after being given the chance to stay with old widowed mother Upama ( played by Tanuja) gradually takes up a great space in her so far uneventful, lonely life. She, who had been feeling lonely, irritable, almost castaway, finds a glimmer of hope and laughter in the boy.
Her son Soumya, ( played by Jishu Sengupta) who always thought his mother was too austere and rigid to make little adjustments with his wife, was almost shocked when suddenly he learnt that his mother and the little boy had gone far away to the hills.
This time, he was more curious than feeling jealous of the little boy who was taking up more of his mother’s attention.
So he arrived at the place where Upama had put up. There, he and his wife, witnessed the sweet friendship between the little boy and Upama. The more they saw them walking holding hands, the more they realised how they actually had left a vacant place in the old widow’s heart and how that vacant place which would have turned sooty, diseased and pained, was filled with giggles and laughter and vibrant colors of life by that little orphan boy.
And more importantly they learnt how their mother, had taken to writing after a long, too long break.
The son, who knew his mother’s penchant for writing, now, standing infront of the hills ( Kanchenjunga) drenched golden in the light of the day, tells his mother, his side of the story, his aggrieved heart which bled and yet which could not be put into full view of his own mother.
The mother embraces her son.
The little boy who had been solely instrumental in bringing the mother and the son close, smiles, standing a few paces away from them.

A beauty of a movie.

Mother and the shiuli blossoms

She had been a professional nurse. My mother. Sefali Ghosh was her maiden name before she got married to my dad and changed it to Sefali Dutta. Quite interestingly Sefali is the name of a flower found in this part of the world which blooms every autumn. So come autumn , I go into a different mind, a difficult mind too, if am I to say so, for it is like revisiting my childhood and having glimpses of my mother who happily went taking the stairs to heaven.
That year too the autumn had been awesome. The festivity had been all around. I took her for a ride around the city. Being a person who knew how bodies work, how diseases spread, she perhaps guessed something about her illness. She had a heart which had erratic beats. I remember she telling me all the time while we were having a tour of the city, through its lanes and bylanes, watching people and the trees and cars and all that are the usual part of the cityscape, that it might be her last tour with me. I laughed.
But then , she was a nurse. She knew it. Like she knew how my eyes had an inexpressible medical condition of being wet with salty water at that time when she said those words to me. She knew it that I was trying to be brave. Her brave boy.
And she climbed those stairs easily. Without making even a groan. She just slept and woke not.
Next year, I planted a sefali / shiuli tree just on our small piece of land by the car shed, beside that patio. It was summer. A full grown horrid Indian summer. The sun blazed hot and cruel. But I had to save that sefali tree. Every morning, that summer, even before the sun would turn like a scorching red hot ball of fire, I would wake up and water the tree. And every time I did that , I just prayed with all my heart that it survived that summer. The sultry boring lifeless summer of that year. With all my heart , nerve and sinew , I took care of the shiuli tree. If I would find its leaves turning yellowish a bit , I would check the soil, rake it, apply manure and water. In the evening, I would go near the tree and touch its little branches and leaves. I thought of myself as perfect gardener perhaps then. Caressing it. Loving it. Not that I took no care of other trees. Of course I did that. But that shiuli tree was always under my scanner. Once I found a worm crawling at its body. I took it and threw it far away. But before that I took and snapshot of it and searched the internet to find its genus and species. Once finding that I with some kind desperation like that of a medic, found out the measures to be taken to save the tree from onslaught of worms and pests like that.
That time I thought of myself a nurse too. A nurse to a tree. The shiuli tree.
Then came the monsoon. It rained for hours each day that monsoon. I had to take a spade and create a nullah or a makeshift channel on the ground to prevent that particular spot from getting waterlogged, knowing accumulation of water could weaken the tree at its roots.
That time I felt like a construction worker. A sewage cleaner also.
And then, the monsoon also passed, giving way to autumn. The delightful autumn.
For the first few days of the season, all other trees bore flowers. But that shiuli tree had none. I was worried. I talked to my wife. She went with me to that small garden we had beside the car shed. Our son went there too. We checked for buds. The tree though had grown taller and greener, had no signs of buds.
My son suddenly quipped.
Yes, we needed butterflies to carry pollens and to make the tree bloom.
So again I searched for trees which attract butterflies most. Found some. Brought them and planted them.
That time I felt I was like a priest. Purifying the earth praying with all my heart for its beauty to arrive.
Praying those trees which attract birds and bees and butterflies to grow faster.
They did. Butterfiles arrived. Bees too.
The smell of flowers wrought my senses with joy.
I felt that time I had become half of that garden.
Only that shiuli tree.
I waited.
We all waited.

Then one fine morning, as I went near the tree I found them. Those white shiuli blossoms with an orange core waving to me from the branches of the tree. They had bloomed overnight!
I called my wife and son.
We three stood under the tree.
The air around it had that unmistakable fragrance of shiuli blossoms.

That time I felt perfect like a nurse.


One of the most talked about spots of the city of Kolkata and often visited by tourists and photographers is ‘Kumortuli’ as it is so called because of the residences of clay image/ idol makers which congregate here.

Situated in ward number nine of Kolkata Municipal Corporation, between Ahiritola and Shovabazar, by the banks of river Hooghly, this place accommodated potters and clay idol makers after the British East India Company decided to create separate districts for ‘ the company’s workmen’ as can be found in the orders of John Zephaniah Holwell who succeeded Robert Clive as the Governor of Bengal. In accordance with those orders different ‘ districts’ were formed like ‘ collotollah’ ( quarters for oilmen), ‘ chuttarpara’ ( quarters for carpenters), ‘ ahiritollah’ ( quarters for cowherd), ‘ kumortolly’ ( quarters for potters and clay idol makers), etc;

From then on till date , many families of potters and clay idol makers , have not only been living here, but also have been keeping alive their profession of making idols and pottery items.

A visit to this place around this time of the year would be a fascinating one for any art lover or photographer.

For in the lanes and by lanes of kumortuli we could see how the artisans and clay idol makers work on to give shapes to the idols. They spend most of their days and nights in front of the idols they are busy creating. The creation of the idols, a time consuming and fully labour intensive process ( as there is hardly any use of machinations ) often takes months and most of the artisans who work there, keep on working under time constraints, around this time of the year, for come rain, come shine, they are supposed to deliver the idols of Durga and her sons and daughters within the stipulated schedule and there is no way of moving an inch away from it. So they work on.

On my visits to this place, everytime I am left amazed by the sheer, should I say, devotion of these workers who, not by any stretch of imagination, getting hefty pays, simply work on in cramped places, often covered by tin roofs or tarpaulin. They work there and often take their naps on the floor of those tents or sheds before they wake up and start again with their works.

I have found how women folk of the area also join in their male counterparts in helping them with making ‘adornments’ made of shola or thermocol as they are called.

Though idol making had remained by and large a male bastion, in recent years , many talented women have made forays into that. With the advent of theme based puja, the demand for traditional idols of Devi Durga have perhaps dwindled but still, many idols are being made and sent from here to different parts of the state and also outside. Kumortuli has its own Durga Puja as well which got started way back in 1933.

Woman and Her Muse, a review

Woman and her muse

Author: Lopamudra Banerjee,

Publisher : Authorspress, New Delhi 110016,

ISBN 978-93-88008-42-6

Musings are part of every poet’s journey to writing. Without musing how can a poet write, dream, nurture words and embellish them to make them express his or her thoughts, beliefs, wanderings, religiosity, essence of being?

Lopamundra Banerjee has put her womanhood at the centre and like a flower , spreading petals, out of that centre are spread her poems and prose and once they spread they reach varied dimensions of both space and time. Divided into six sections, namely a) Five weird musings, b) Kolkata, the poetry I breathe , c) Bon Voyage , d) Portrait of a woman as the artist, e) The Durga series and f) cinema musings , this book of poetry and memoir brings the reader to the realm of poet’s mind and how fleeting things of life cast their impressions upon it. Being a collection of different poems and prose pieces written at different times, the work , quite naturally traces back and forth, the poet’s journeys, both on the physical plane which is real in the most real terms and that flight of mind which is the inseparable part of any poet and writer.

She has made it quite clear in ‘ Woman and Her Muse’ , the poem included in the first section ( pg 23) :

when she speaks poetry/wordless walls stare/invisible, foamy dreams./cardboard boxes of memories/childhood/scattered ashes,frozen in time.’

Yes, she has drawn a rich tapestry of her mind and its richness lies not in mere weaving of words so to say, for it puts the reader into a wider perspective. How much wide it is?

Well , for that the reader will have to believe in her ‘Writing in cursive, Melancholic letters’ :

‘First , a cursive a, then two swaying p’s , then an expectant l floating with a languid e;’

Never it has happened that apple, the fruit of knowledge, has been so deciphered! The children learning cursive handwriting can well do that on their exercise books and here is Lopa , doing the same thing but on a larger scale. She is taking from her notebook , the proverbial notebook of a poet, those writings which stirred her and also which came out of stirring, and putting them one after another like canvases being put before the eyes of the discerning reader to grasp their meanings, texture, tone and variety.

And that is why, the cover page has probably that pair of eyes of a face ( a work of art done by Sufia Khatoon, a poet and a painter/artist).

A pair of eyes that stare at the reader and at the same time, as the readers stare back at the book, its pages, at those printed alphabets arranged in forms of poems and prose, they find how seasons, places, people, photographs, come and linger and cast an unforgettable mark upon them.

If the city of Kolkata, arrives through ‘ the hungry salt of tears/ pelting on a window…’ in Tilottama , at Jorasanko it is not only ‘the red brick building ‘ but a building having ‘ the images illustrated. Kadambari, Mrinalini sing still, gazing from the white, lingering void’.

And then College Street:

I am a bystander in your serpentine lanes in the crossroads of my journey…’

And finally , Princep Ghat:

I know some evenings

Your breath brushes past mine,

And we are kindred souls,

Burning in each other’s fire.’

And Rowing : The Boat Song:

Tonight, I am in need of your mast and anchor,

I am chased by endless wafting.’

And when the city of her birth comes so, there should be as always, a tribute to the greatest bard.

And there, I find myself not as a mere reviewer. Reading her humble homage to Tagore, is like finding the true meaning of all writings and all lives we live. There she surpasses her womanhood. There she reaches to find where lies that touch of divinity which Gurudeb had left for all to find solace and comfort.

So she finds comfort in Tagore as she tries to come in terms of her Homecoming while rearranging her old study room all alone.

If places take up a part of her mental space , invariably there are people too.

If Between the Folds and Pleats : ARoseate Sonnet ( invented by Dr. A.V.Koshy) takes the metaphor of the sari and extends it to find where lies the agonies and hurts of a woman or all women, a memoir written for Get Bengal during Kolkata Book Fair, brings into fore her longing to cross paths with long lost friends.

Bon Voyage, the next section, is all about traveling and finding beauty and meditative contemplation. Be it By the side of Table Rock Lake, Missouri, or Kerala: a series of vignettes, or To The Grand Minaret, Qutub Minar, she finds how each and every place opens up vistas leading to her past and shaping her present.

Those vistas, are they sought like Joyce? I was asking myself the moment I moved to Portrait of a woman as the artist.

Is there Stephen in everyone of us , trying to come in terms with the intellectual awakening that we face in this world?

May be , and for Lopa, being a mother who is also very much part of Indian Diaspora, putting The Topography of the Mind, is the most sensitive and subjective work to do and she has done it with that candid tone which can not even be found in Joyce, primarily because Lopa is not following any Joycean repertoire, she is not adhering to his theme or his narrative technique.

She is doing it with her own characteristic elan. And so she can claim easily :

‘Crazy girls, listen, the topography of a fertile adult mind of a woman , turning middle aged and forlorn, is a queer one’.

She does not weave a folklore, she does not take circumlocutory ways. She is blatant. She holds no bar while she puts into paper her mind.

And so she resurrects. She finds Laxmanrekha: The pangs of Freedom and also Na Hanyate:The Resurrection. She responds to love poems of Kamala Das and let loose the fiery breath of a woman while going beyond cage following Maya Angelou.

She becomes Panchali and with fullest devotion, calls her Sakha, Krishna before laying open a bruised woman’s heart to Partha, Bheemsen, Dharmaraaj, Nakul and Sahadev and Karna.

The Durga series, inspired by paintings of Monica Talukdar and other works is eclectic as it should be and what takes this segment to its height of humanism is that belief of a poet and writer to allude Asifa Bano to The Goddess who Dies.

Cinema Musings begins with For Charulata and the Broken Home, which is quite logical given the fact that she has translated ‘Nastanirh‘ ( The Broken Home).

Next comes Durga and Apu and then invariably Apu and Aparna.

From there as we move, we find ghazals, Gulzar , Geeta Dutt.

The sufferings, the dreams, the journeys- all that make her life and make her a poet and a writer, are put with unabashed honesty and the culmination of that honesty is her tribute to Julie Andrews, the last but not the least one included in this incredible collection of poems and prose and this time, she generates her sound of music with profundity.

‘A skyful of balloons’ and finding Eric Segal’s ‘ Love Story’ and going even beyond that,

A skyful of balloons ( A novella)

Author: Santosh Bakaya

Publisher : Authorspress

ISBN 978 93 5207 —

The first time I read Santosh Bakaya was the time when I got her magnum opus ‘ The Ballad of Bapu’. Someone writing a ballad on Mahatma, someone who is creating a long biographical lyric on the Father of the country, must be doing it out of a serious love towards poetry and also to the country. That was the thought with which I started reading it and once I went through it, amazement was the only thing that I had and that amazement led me not only to review that work of hers but also later on her another work ‘ Under the apple boughs’ . ‘ Under the apple boughs’, being a collection of her poetry, brought all the poetic elements she had imbibed over years- her academic brilliance, her easy yet learned handling of varied kinds of poetry, her romantic bent of mind akin to that of any keen observer of nature and its inexhaustible beauty.

It is often said that a poet can never be a good story writer (and when it is said some exceptions are obviously kept aside as it is always done in case of any overtly generalised statement). Story writing is something which requires not only creating situations and events which formulate the plot, but also requires a greater understanding of how characters function in a story build-up, how they come across each other under the broader outline of the so called plot and how far they can move within the constraints of the plot.

If poetry, despite sometimes being very much metrically organised, can be free from plotting of events on a large scale, stories are bound to be well structured having delineation and denouement. So when Santosh ji, out of her elder sister like affection, asked me to have a read of her novella ‘A skyful of balloons’, I expected the novella to be an extremely poetic one having a rhyme of its own. But I was not sure how the characters would grow and evolve within the structure of an young adult fiction. But then, when there is Kashmir at the backdrop, a love story can never become a lacklustre one. It is bound to be poetic and also a gripping saga of human struggle.

If Kashmir is that place where Love of Nature can be felt at its supreme best, where chinar and walnut and pine trees dot the landscape, where shikaras on lakes make many to erupt with joy, finding two love birds Preeti and Vivek there, is like almost believing in the beauty of love and how it makes not only the two happy but also the world around them.

The two , being neighbours and also childhood friends, know each other like palms of their hands.They grow together, celebrate birthdays together and when the stars would twinkle in the sky , when even the birds would be snoozing, the two would bask in beauty of love. If they would be in the shikara, chirping on , breaking into songs and recitation, the birds in the trees fringing the lake would also break into chatter.

That’s how their love story becomes the story of Love, reminding one, time and again, that popular novella by Eric Segal, ‘ Love Story’.

If we try to find a parallel, ‘Love Story’ can be the one, in many respects, to this novella. Thematically the semblance is apparent. The abundant use of anecdotes related to literature and poetry in a novella which deals with love usually found in y/a fictions and yet which goes beyond the pre-set norms of y/a, primarily because of its treatment of the theme, is what that makes it different like ‘ Love Story’ became the different one.

Having said that, it would be wrong to assume ‘ A skyful of balloons’ is another ‘ Love Story’.

For ‘ A skyful of balloons’ has as its locale , Kashmir- its beauty, its inexhaustible resource of natural wonders, its people.

Secondly the narrative is a mixed one , flashback and present.

Thirdly and most importantly, it has someone like Vicky , a little boy, who like a sunflower shines to give the story that halo of hope and love at the end and there it follows the paradigm which is greatly different from the paradigm that is followed by ‘ Love Story’, essentially by providing a strong message of optimism in contrast to cathartic feeling that ‘ Love Story’ arouses.

Fourthly, if I may add, Santosh Bakaya has gone beyond the usual periphery of y/a novella by putting into ‘ A skyful of balloons’ poetic and delightful passages which take the novella to that height which transmutes the novella to a prosaic poem and there the novella supersedes even ‘ Love Story’ or for that matter all so called y/ a fictions.

To sum up, all I can do is to quote Santosh Bakaya from the novella:

“Walnuts keep falling on my lawn.
From dusk to dawn
On and on.”

Love, rain, Parama and Alokananda

‘Such a beautiful day…’
Parama said, ‘why not we go for a walk?’
Alokananda was trying to edit a passage.
The report would go to the editor’s desk by nine. From there to the composer’s.

‘Why not?’
Parama asked.

‘If Rajdeep da finds you loitering around like this, you know…’
Alokananda said, suppressing her smile.
‘Who’s that Rajdeep? I’m slave to none!’
Parama said, smiling.

It was only two forty.
A mild breeze was blowing.
It had the smell of flowers and a bit of moisture.
‘It might be raining somewhere…’
Parama thought the first thing she and Alokananda came down to the small park opposite their office. Break time.
The makeshift stalls of food and chai by the boundary of the park were having brisk business.

‘For the last few days noticed you are in the most blessed state…always smiling…doing all works in time…not sitting on papers and not keeping them piled up…clearing them as soon as they come…what?’
Alokananda asked Parama.
Parama looked at her.
‘Nothing… Just it is such a fine weather…’
‘Na…not letting go of you only by those words…’
She pulled Parama.
Parama danced her brows.
‘Tell me, will you?’
Alokananda asked, this time pleading.
‘Want to know?’
Parama asked.
Alokananda couldn’t suppress her excitement.
‘I am in Love…’
Parama replied bluntly.
Without any excitement.
Not even dancing her eyebrows.
Not even smiling.
Alokananda couldn’t close her mouth.
Parama, the girl she had known for the last five years, never even going out with any boyfriend, thinking them to be most childish, jealous, arrogant and silly, had fallen in love!
‘Don’t joke with me…I know how you only a few days back slapped a boy who just tried to offer you a rose…’
Alokananda said, looking confused.
Parama was singing.
Usually she sings English songs.
Alokananda had heard Bob Dylan to Bob Marley, courtesy Parama.
But Bengali songs…
Only Rabindra sangeet.
But this song though Bengali had a tribal tune.
‘Fallen in love with a tribal guy or what?’
Alokananda poked Parama, using her right hand.
Parama was not listening to Alokananda’s words.
She had bought kachuris from a shop and presently dividing them into two equal proportions, numerically, counting them.

‘Lunch break…stuff your stomach first…God knows when we would be out of office this evening…’
Parama gave some kachuris and potato curry held in a small plastic container.
They had sat down on a bench at the park.

‘Ok…but tell me, who that lucky guy is?’

Parama said, munching kachuris.
‘Come’n! Do you think I am a fool? Can’t I see it in your face?’
‘Really? Does it show?really?’
Parama became thoughtful.
‘Of course! When I met your Mriganko da, I didn’t sleep for a whole night!’
‘Ha ha ha…’
Parama guffawed.

‘Now tell me…please…’
‘Well, I am in love with Love…’
Parama said.
‘Love with Love? What kind of puzzle is this?’
Alokananda asked, her eyes patting.
‘Well…look…now that we are sitting here and having our lunch…in this park…ain’t it beautiful?’
‘Then what?’
‘Then we go to the office and edit stuff and compose things…you call Mriganko da, asking about Shiblu, in the midst of your terrible business,ain’t that beautiful?’
Parama asked, looking at Alokananda, with poignant eyes.
‘Yes…that’s we all do…I mean you call your dad and ask whether he had taken his lunch…don’t you?’

Alokananda was confused.
‘Okay…then you look at yourself at the mirror and don’t you say you are beautiful?’
‘I dress up standing there…but don’t say that…’
‘Okay…don’t you like it when a cuckoo sings or parrot talks back?’
‘My dear Alokananda di, that is love!’
Parama pinched Alokananda’s cheek.
‘Tui na…'(oh! You are such a …)
Alokananda giggled, almost like a child.

Gayatri’s discovery

That afternoon last, was the most blessed one probably I had’
Gayatri thought as she started ironing the school uniform of her daughter Ahona.
Ahona would go out at nine. She checked her school bag.
‘Have you taken your exercise books? The class work copies? That Enid Blyton which you borrowed from your friend?’
Gayatri asked.
Ahona nodded.

Kaushik was checking a script.
‘Ahona, have you seen my glasses?’
Kaushik asked.
‘You have put them on the bedside table’
Gayatri replied.
‘O yes…’
Kaushik went to fetch them.
The script of the story is to be checked.
Often while typing he loses a comma, or an exclamation or an apostrophe.

Gayatri was humming a song.
She was thinking of the afternoon last.
The cool breeze was sweeping the street then.
She was returning from office.
The sun was drawing a supranormal sketch on the sky.
She found herself immersed fully into the beauty of that moment.
She forgot to take the change from the vegetable man when she bought those vegetables.

‘Mom, where’s my pencil box?’

Gayatri was brought back to the reality.
‘Gosh, am I drifting?’
She thought.

Kaushik had started works with the script it seemed.
A song was being played at his music system.

An instrumental piece.
A piano.
Gayatri knew it.
Richard Clayderman.

The pool car had arrived.
Gayatri took Ahona to the car.
The children were chirping there inside the car like a flock of birds.

‘Have you memorised the poem aunty asked?’
‘I did…should I recite?’
‘I have got a new Percy Jackson!’
‘What is it?’
‘That Greek heroes…’
‘Oh! Would you lend that to me?’
‘Yes! Why not?’

The children were chirping.

Gayatri thought that the morning was just the continuation of the afternoon last.

Kaushik was writing something on his clipboard.

Gayatri looked at him and felt blessed.
‘A work centric man… How come he got so many words in him? How come he keeps on typing and writing and pouring?
All the time writing?
Where from he gets that energy?’

Gayatri had seen him for years.
He had remained that.

Then she thought of the scene of the last afternoon.
Her being fully immersed into the beauty of an afternoon of spring.
Her waking up today and being into the same kind of feeling.

‘It must be Love…’
Gayatri thought.
She started preparing the breakfast.
She started humming a song.

A song that had those words which narrates the story of finding Love as worship.
A kind of devotion.

‘Love, if it is there, it comes pouring, in forms of words, in form of a song, in form of an afternoon painting a sky…’

She thought.

‘Its a wonderful world…’
She heard Kaushik singing from his study.
A song.

Washington’s ?
Gayatri tried to recollect the name of the singer.

‘He must have completed checking the script…’
Gayatri smiled.

She thought of singing out aloud.
A song of Tagore.
Of finding Love as worship.

If music is that binds a family

Every evening, when the house would become agog with activities,
after the lull of the afternoon,
when uncles and father would return home,
Grandpa would switch on his turntable
And put LPs upon it,

Usually it would be a Bismillah Khan
Or Bade Ghulam Ali,
We had then also returned home from outdoors,

Mother and aunt would blow the counch shells
And put incense sticks at the tulshi mancha,

Grandpa would recline on his favourite armchair
And take puffs from his hookah,
His eyes would remain closed,
He would then be dipping into music,

And the house too would turn musical,
Aunt would be humming a tune while chopping vegetables at the kitchen,
Uncle would be reciting a poem to us
From our textbooks, teaching us the nuances of poetic diction,
And we would sometimes break out singing in chorus,
Our rhymes and verses,

At the backdrop, the vinyl LPs would turn on the table, giving a curious blessedness to all of us.

Some poems on Fathers

Today being Fathers’ Day,
sharing some famous and popular poems written by some prolific poets.
Reading each of them fills one with love, compassion, empathy and solidarity and of course a heightened passion which poetry in general is capable to evoke.
As without Mothers , Fathers become non existent, these poems invariably evoke our love for our Mothers too.

By sharing these poems here, I am just trying to pay my respect to Fathers who made us , Fathers of our countries too, like their counterparts, The Mothers of our lands.
1.The Little Big Man
– Rabindranath Tagore

I am small because I am a little child. I shall be big when I am
as old as my father is.
My teacher will come and say, “It is late, bring your slate
and your books.”
I shall tell him, ” Do you not know I am as big as father? And
I must not have lessons any more.”
My master will wonder and say, “He can leave his books if he
likes, for he is grown up.”
I shall dress myself and walk to the fair where the crowd is
My uncle will come rushing up to me and say, “You will get
lost, my boy; let me carry you.”
I shall answer, “Can’t you see, uncle, I am as big as father?
I must go to the fair alone.”
Uncle will say, “Yes, he can go wherever he likes, for he is
grown up.”
Mother will come from her bath when I am giving money to my
nurse, for I shall know how to open the box with my key.
Mother will say, “What are you about, naughty child?”
I shall tell her, “Mother, don’t you know, I am as big as
father, and I must give silver to my nurse.”
Mother will say to herself, “He can give money to whom he
likes, for he is grown up.”
In the holiday time in October father will come home and,
thinking that I am still a baby, will bring for me from the town
little shoes and small silken frocks.
I shall say, “Father, give them to my dada, for I am as big
as you are.”
Father will think and say, “He can buy his own clothes if he
likes, for he is grown up.”

2. Anecdote for Fathers
– William Wordsworth

I HAVE a boy of five years old;
His face is fair and fresh to see;
His limbs are cast in beauty’s mold
And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Or quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

The green earth echoed to the feet
Of lambs that bounded through the glade,
From shade to sunshine, and as fleet
From sunshine back to shade.

Birds warbled round me—and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,
And so is Liswyn farm.

My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.

‘Now tell me, had you rather be,’
I said. and took him by the arm,
‘On Kilve’s smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?’

In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, ‘At Kilve I’d rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.’

‘Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why.’—
‘I cannot tell, I do not know.’—
‘Why, this is strange,’ said I;

‘For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:
There surely must one reason be
Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea.’

At this, my boy hung down his head,
He blushed with shame, nor made reply;
And three times to the child I said,
‘Why, :Edward, tell me why?’

His head he raised—there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain—
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
‘At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that’s the reaon why.’

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.

3. My father moved through dooms of love
– E. E. Cummings.

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

4. To Her Father with Some Verses


Most truly honoured, and as truly dear,

If worth in me or ought I do appear,

Who can of right better demand the same

Than may your worthy self from whom it came?

The principal might yield a greater sum,

Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb;

My stock’s so small I know not how to pay,

My bond remains in force unto this day;

Yet for part payment take this simple mite,

Where nothing’s to be had, kings loose their right.

Such is my debt I may not say forgive,

But as I can, I’ll pay it while I live;

Such is my bond, none can discharge but I,

Yet paying is not paid until I die.

5. Sarvodaya

– Devarakshanam Govinden

Unto this last
I give the same
As unto the first.

He who worked from the first hour
is equal to he
who worked from the eleventh.

Both meet in the dignity
of work and in the dignity
of pay.

The gift of bread for all
Is the bequest of
Peace for the world.