Devdas (and also Amarkant Verma and Meursault)

I first read the magnum opus by Sharatchandra Chattopadhyay on Friday, January 1, 1999. Since then, I've had an admiration for that impatient arrogant escapist self-pitying loser, the protagonist of the novel 'Devdas'. In fact, at one level, I identify with him. Yes, I do... just like I identify with the reluctant detached truthful Meursault of Camus' L'Etranger or with the passionate Amarkant Verma of Maniratnam's Dil Se.

I just realized that all the three characters die at the end of the story - Devdas in a drunk state, outside his beloved's house; Meursault was hanged to death, and; Amarkant Verma was blown away with his beloved suicide bomber.

Yes, there are a lot of more famous, more admired, and more admirable heroes in reality and in fiction and I love them too but I love these more. Perhaps because there is something in all of these three that I wanted to but couldn't be. I never could be so unfeigned like Meursault or so persistent like Amarkant Verma. And most of all, like Devdas - I was never so brave (or coward) to refuse to move on and to sink the life in a glass of memories. Yet, I left a part of myself back there, forever.

Feels good

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My Library

This February, a stock taking of my library revealed that there are some 1,050 listed books now. What started as a small column in my study shelf, when I was in class 3 or so, has grown into this. After meticulously indexing them all over so many years, now I've plans for computerized indexing and some better system of classification. After all, I'm aspiring to read and collect many more such thousands.
So here is a peep at my collection back home only - there is a tip of this iceberg in my dorm-room also :D

This is the First Shelf, with literature for children - my childhood book collection, poetry books (in the front row), literary magazines, and some general knowledge books. Since my high-school, this shelf has seen very low movement except for the front row.

Next is the shelf of Hindi literature - full of classics, contemporary literature, pocket books, and Hindi translations of other language books as well. This shelf has been on a slow growth path since my graduation.

And the third shelf has noted highest inflow in the past few years. This one houses English literature - Classics, contemporary, Indian authors, translated ones, and some periodicals.

And here is a full view of the three shelves in my room at home - space crunched with multiple rows and arrangements, waiting for another shelf, or may be, a full library and reading room in my soon-to-be new home.


And every single piece of this collection carries a stamp that reads this -->

The Last Trip

One year since the last trip together... perhaps ever! Now only some images remain - images drawn with sun rays, images drawn on water, images drawn in memories.

Sometimes it is better to let go. Sometime it is better to move on. That is what I have done. That is what I had to do. There were no choices. There were no parallel universes. I often ask myself what if life gives me a chance again? I often tell myself that life is not lived with 'what ifs'.

I wish to see all those places again someday. I wish to make all those trips again someday. I know those trips will never be the same again. I don't want to know those trips will never be the same again. I live with images. I live with 'what ifs'. I still live with you.

Cricket in my life

Recently I played my second ever cricket match at IIMA. First one was FPM senior vs. junior and the recent one was dorm 6 vs. dorm 9.
In both the matches, I had to field at third man. I remember that in school days, I always got to field at silly point or long-off.
I wonder if that is a reflection of my life on my game. I wonder why I never get long-on, point, fine leg, or even, short leg.

Change

A lot has changed since you are gone...

I still go places and I still shoot a lot but you are not in those frames anymore. "Nomadic Dreams" is a sacred folder now with the memories of all the tours that we did together and all the journeys since your departure are in "wanderlust". And it is not about naming the folders alone - in going places, there are no dreams anymore but only a lust for wandering, a quest to escape.

I still have those tea and F.R.I.E.N.D.S. sessions but there is one cup less now. I still cook sometimes and sometimes I eat outside but it is never as fulfilling as skipping a meal with you.

I still write poems for you but none looks up and smiles. I still read those pages of my slam-diary and those poems too, which you wrote for me. Words are all the same but as dead as 'us'.

I know there is no sense in writing all this now. Nothing can bring you back and nothing can make for whatever has happened. But yesterday, someone asked about you and I couldn't resist myself from falling all over again. Remember how you always said that I am a pessimist and I always emphasized that I am an optimist. It's my destiny to hope...

Poetry vs. Poetry

I've been writing poetry for almost 12 years now and reading for much longer than that. Over the time, I've read Hindi and Urdu poetry a lot and a bit of English poetry lately. I attended a lot of poetic events, recited form stage quite a few times, and recently, got published as well. However, I have never been so disappointed with the state of poetry and the audience response like this time.

Within the past two weeks, I got to attend two poetic events - one, the poetry workshop and recitation in Jaipur; and two, the Kavi Sammelan during Chaos, the cultural fest of IIMA. The first one was undoubtedly high in standards with Gulzar, Sheen Kaf Nizam, and Nand Kishore Acharya like luminaries on the dais. That was the event where I and RC got a fatherly scolding from Gulzar for speaking in Hinglish and we got lessons from Nizam on linguistic purity. The event was a literary treat, with sophistication of highest degree.

However, the source of my chagrin lies with the one in Chaos. The event was christened as Kavi Sammelan, yet the only thing I couldn't find was 'Kavita'. Yes, I was a part of it and the very first one to recite but I was not a part of the five on stage - a fact that I, in retrospect, appreciate. There were five, supposedly, poets of Hindi; yet only two of them reached anywhere near what can be called as the domain of poetry. Otherwise, it was all full of jokes, mostly cheap, despicable, and so old that they would be treated with MBMST on Jokes NB (the virtual notice board in IIMA for posting jokes, with MBMST meaning Maine Bachpan Mein Suna Tha).

Even more embarrassing was the immediate response of audience and ensuing discussions on different forums. People seemed to like three hours of cheap humor and literary torture. I understand that I can not demand poetic sophistication from people in general but at IIMA? And more importantly, why name it 'Kavi Sammelan' then and why not something more apt for its status, like stand-up comedy or laughter show?

Sadly, it is not one event only that compelled me to blurt it out. Reading literary Hindi magazines (like - Hans, Vagarth, Kadambini etc.) gives another sort of torture. The prose is stuck with concerns and vows of 1980s and all the poetry seems to follow Agyeya's Prayogvaad and Dharmveer Bharti's Pragativaad, without understanding an iota of either, leave apart reaching their literary standards. In this sense, Urdu poetry seems to be in a much better state of affairs; although the problem there is not of jokes but of same age old ways of romancing the Hijr, Mai, and Zeest (separation, wine, and life).

Despite all this, I hope to read on and write on like I have done in past. Some crusaders never die - be it relationships, politics, or poetry!



P.S. - I must thank the Chaos team for putting up their best efforts in inviting the 'famous' names and more emphatically, for giving me a chance to recite in my own campus, in front of my own people.