Category: Uncategorized
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Nirmal Verma: चीड़ों पर चांदनी
Perhaps, it is this — and, I think so, that we travellers never arrive at a place for the first time; we only return to see those sites again which we, at some time, in some strange moment, had discovered in our own rooms. Is it ever possible to not suddenly meet an Ibsen character…
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I met an old Englishwoman in Bristol. She shared a room with me at night. Her eyes looked older than her body. She talked a lot. Too much, actually. She told me how much she hates England even though she grew up in Brighton. “The English are cliquey”. She liked her two hundred year old…
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I have been listening to Erik Satie. A few months ago, someone in my dream played that piece I have been trying to find. I was relieved. Then, I woke up. But, do you ever wake up from a dream? I have always thought that to wake up from a dream is to forget it.…
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Anatomy of a temple.
Indian temples are traditionally built in the image of the human body. The ritual for building a temple begins with digging in the earth, and planting a pot of seed. The temple is said to rise from the implanted seed, like a human. The different parts of a temple are named after body parts. The…
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जो दवा के नाम पे ज़हर दे / उसी चारागर की तलाश है جو دوا کے نام پہ زہر دے / اسی چارہ گر کی تلاش ہے
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On Trees.
Someone in an attempt to create a tree, created green. A tree like a still photograph. Of what? Sometimes, when I look at a tree long enough, it moves. Almost. But, then I move. The tree always manages to look at me longer. I walked in my room and found a tree…
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Night. Day.
And, the light went off right when someone switched on a light in the story I was reading. “There is no night darker than a night of fires. There is no man more alone than one running in the midst of a howling mob.” My friend said that they showed no remorse. “Showed…
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A history textbook.
A black and white print of Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, which I had seen years ago in my history textbook, came to my mind today. Suddenly. A memory I never knew I had. I had almost forgotten that book in which I first saw the grainy prints of The Scream and Guernica. All black and white,…
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December 6/ A poem by Asad Zaidi
Who doesn’t know That everything in Ayodhya Is imaginary That mosque Which was demolished Was imaginary Those images Were for some famous film It was an afternoon nap Sort of a muddled dream Or, a snore In the noise of which The almost inaudible sound of a cracking Mihrab Was…
Beyond Six Rivers 