11/18/2015

THE BROKEN WINGS, REVISITED

K
halil Gibran (January 6, 1883 - April 10, 1931) the poet, philosopher, writer and painter was born in Bsharri, Lebanon and soon immigrated to United States. In literature world, he is chiefly known for his timeless popular work The Prophet which recently has been adapted into an animated movie by Salma Hayek. His other great works include Jesus The Son of Man, A Tear And A Smile, The Earth Gods, The Forerunner, The Madman, Sand And Foam, Spirit Rebellious, Lazarus and His Beloved, The Wanderer and The Broken Wings. 


According to wikipedia, "Gibran is the third best selling poet of all time, behind Shakespeare and Laozi."

Among his works, the fiction poetic novella The Broken Wings  stands as my favourite. Each time I read it, I get to relive the love and life of the poet: Selma Karamy comes back to life to share the spiritual love with the poet but gets forsaken too by her cruel fate to her prisoners and to the saddening end.

Following are few excerpts from the book:

1.Her hand, when I touched it, was like a white lily, and a strange pang pierced my heart.

2.Real beauty lies in the spiritual accord that is called love which can exist between a man and a woman.

3.Love is the only freedom in the world because it so elevates the spirit that the laws of humanity and the phenomena of nature do not alter its course.

4.Every visit gave me a new meaning to her beauty and a new insight into her sweet spirit, Until she became a book whose pages I could understand and whose praises I could sing, but which I could never finish reading.

5.God had made two bodies in one, an separation could be nothing but agony.

6.Hearts that are united through the medium of sorrow will not be separated by the glory of happiness. Love that is cleansed by tears will remain externally pure and beautiful.

7.One thought will come to you at night which will elevate you to glory or lead you to asylum. One look from a woman's eye makes you the happiest man in the world. One word from a man's lips will make you rich or poor.

8.The mountains, trees, and rivers change their appearance with the vicissitudes of times and seasons, as a man changes with his experiences and emotions.

9.Modern civilization has made woman a little wiser, but it has increased her suffering because of man's covetousness.

10.The trees and flowers become kind mothers of their great fruits and seeds. And the mother, the prototype of all existence, is the external spirit, full of beauty and love.

11.The poets and writers are trying to understand the reality of woman, but upto this day they have not understood the hidden secrets of her heart, because they look upon her from behind the sexual veil and see nothing but externals; they look upon her through the magnifying glass of hatefulness and find nothing except weakness and submission.

12.The man buys glory and reputation, but the woman pays the price.

13.He who extinguishes his spirit s fire with his own hands is an infidel in the eyes of Heaven, for Heaven set the fire that burns in our spirits.

14.Limited love asks for possession of the beloved but the unlimited asks for itself.

15.The flowers of the field are the children of Sun's affection and natures love; and the children of men are the flowers of love and compassion.

10/07/2015

THE GOD

“B
efore sowing seeds, our experiential learning supervisor, a firm believer in Christ, put it a priority to say few solemn prayers to the Lord. After gaining spiritual content only did the actual work began. That was almost a month ago. Today, it’s satisfying to see the seedlings emerge. And the devotee, who called upon the divine intervention then, having seen his prayers granted made proud comment that there is clear difference in telling prayers and not. After little meeting, planning on what to do next, he left.

Indeed, it was a preliminary triumph as it’s the very response of our own, literal sowing.

Appreciating the initial success equally, was the field labourer who seemed to have been witnessing the entire moment, behind us. Then, approaching towards the plot, pointed to the growing plantlets. And stated, “ the soil was too dry.  All the moisture provided would disappear as soon as you leave. We ( his friend included ) had to provide mulching for the necessary conservation. You thought your fertilizers and few irrigation together had done the trick?”

I smiled.

I saw the God. 

9/16/2015

FEW QUOTES FROM 'THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY' - OSCAR WILDE

1.If a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart. 

2.What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? 

3.Anything becomes a pleasure if one does it too often. That is one of the most important secrets of life. 

4.All crime is vulgar, just as all vulgarity is crime. 

5.Civilization is not by any means an easy thing to attain to. There are only two ways by which man can reach it. One is by being cultured, the other by being corrupt. 

6.The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young. 

7.The books that the world calls immorale are books that show the world its own shame.

8.Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders.

9.He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.

10.It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. 

11.A dream of form in days of thought. 

12.Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. The sitter is merely the accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself.

13.The artist is the creator of beautiful things.To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.

14.The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. 

15.A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. 

16.If one hears bad music, it is one's duty to drown it in conversation.



8/27/2015

MANHJI – THE MOUNTAIN MAN.

Manjhi – The Mountain Man is a hindi movie by Ketan Mehta, starring Nawazuddin Siddiqui, released on August 21 this year. As inspired by the true story, the movie is also set in Gehlore village, Bihar, where the real legend, the mountain man hails from. The movie is packed with mixed genres starting from oppressions the people suffer, friendship, sacrifice, determination, commitment, and primarily the marital love, unfaltering as it ought to be, which ignites from the physical desires and remains spiritual one even after leaving the world.

http://www.movienewz.in/2015/07/manjhi-mountain-man-trailer-first-look.html

Review: Majhi, born of poor labourer’s family, as a child gets married to a girl named Phaguniya. His father, unable to repay his debt, easily consents to bond his son under the debtor, the landlord. However, young Manjhi escapes, crossing the mountain, separating himself from the bullies of the village tyrant and also his family and his childhood bride. Seven years later, he returns to find the village still the same, only his mother had passed away. To enlighten his home, he goes to reclaim his childhood bride. But his father-in-law denies him. There, he discovers the woman whom he met in the market and travelled together is, in fact, his bride. So, when adamant in laws were about to wed their daughter off to another man, Manjhi elopes away with his sweetheart.  Soon Phaguniya gives birth to a son. And when she gets pregnant again, Manjhi already has started working in the mountain to support the needs of his growing family. But working in the mountain comes with risk. Tragedy befalls Manjhi: he loses his wife who slips from the height. And what he does to avenge his wife are the works incredible to the senses of the sane and ordinary people. Nothing can stand on the way to the promise he’s sworn on the name of his love. Not even distances miles and miles away or things as big as a mountain.
http://www.eenaduindia.com/News/National/2015/07/17134527/Dashrath-Manjhi-the-modern-Shah-Jahan-with-a-difference.vpf
The Legend, Dashrath Manjhi 
From the movie:

“Don’t depend too much on God. May be God depends on us.” – Manjhi.    

7/19/2015

SUMMER DIARY

I
t never rains in Allahabad. But pours. And it started again in the morning, around 4. The swishing downpour blew my creeping sleep away. And here, in the room, I lay awake, wide - when my partner had already slept hours ago - thinking of the elements outside, visualizing how individual drops would be falling at the moment. I had always enjoyed moments of/in rain. It makes perfect backdrop for any romantic scenes and songs. If you 've listened to Don Williams Crying in the Rain then, perhaps, you may come in agreement with my statement. 

But this literal romance has little to do with what I was thinking then. The pouring brought images of Himalayan valleys in rain. The familiar sound outside and the almost the same feeling inside. Such moments I feel to keep in record always. And record, did I. Remembering I made few scribbles under the note of Summer diary when home, I flipped my diary to come across the pertinent entry:

RAIN; A BLESSING 

13th June

The Earth wears a fresh look after bathing in the rain the entire previous day and night. Trees sway in the motion of the late morning breeze. There is perfume in the air of mixed odour appealing to the senses. The silver lining clouds are rolling to the corner of the sky, allowing the long awaiting Sun to reach its light to the subtropical vegetations. And this is when the valley is most beautiful. 

Yesterday, the gentle beat of the drizzle against the roof kept me from sleeping and even as I enjoyed the thought of the drops whose coming in contact with the roof produced the pleasant melody of the night, I feared the probable premonition that waterlogged soil may give in to mud slide and my house may fall load to it as it's on the slope - the vulnerable site. 

The consistent rain has triggered road blocks in the vicinity areas. The people then, suffer from getting delivered to their destination on due time. Sometimes, to the degree of worst, the infirm road causes accidents. This is why people abhor - and fear - summer rain.  

The rain of the season here, heretofore, hasn't caused any damages to the property of the valley, though there is cut in water supply today. In spite of this and the complaints due to the long-wetting laundries - and the resulting stinking clothes - the rain is least of a nuisance here. 


And now, when the nature is in no more requirements of any adornments to be naturally attractive, the rain could be only called as the blessing from above to the people of valley in benediction. 

5/10/2015

MOTHER'S DAY

I wish Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers of the universe though I am of the opinion that could mother's greatness be gratified by the celebration on this single day. To return as homage their immeasurable love, it would take us our entire lives. Or perhaps, we simply cannot pay them back for what they did for us, even if we live each day of our lives cleaning their feet and serving their needs. Mothers are the other earthly manifestation of our God. To love and respect them is as equal as prayer.So, do obey your mothers ( and also fathers ). And wish again Happy Mother's Day to all dear moms. :) 

Hadn't you been here, God may not find better way to fill his empire or protect it, and He would be left all alone and lonely again. Even God needs you. So, Thank you again for being there for Him. 


Lovely patterns
she knits,
on threads of
complex lives.

My mother
weaves great;
her hand hard
yet beautiful. 

10 May, 2015



4/24/2015

TONIGHT


While returning from the playground, wind has already begun playing in the night atmosphere.  The warm breeze, as it sway the thirsty boughs and branches of the boulevard trees, took away the electrical power, leaving behind the hostel as an impression of one ghastly building. And I enter therein, as one exhausted spirit, to retire for the night.

From my bathroom window, I could see the crescent moon, illuminating low due hazy atmosphere. So, She looks less beautiful tonight. But still, Her divine presence adds romance to the night sky. And having taken literal bath also, I feel extra rejuvenated.

At the time of writing, it's been exactly an hour that the light has gone. The darkness cramped my room. I open the back door to invite light of the neighbouring building across the highway. They seem to get their share of electricity from source different from ours for whenever our block suffer power shortage, they always look fine. The narrow window throws only thrifty light, insufficient to produce even a weak shadow. Instead, swarms of mosquitoes, stirred by this night weather have found way in through the opening.

Apart from this selfish source of light, it's the zooming vehicles on the road which throw flash of light which runs out as soon as it has come.

The wind is still in action. And from my balcony, I sense moisture and couple droplets convince my senses. The rain is in anticipation. This night is totally beautiful in spite of the blackness of the night.Moreover, besides the song of this warm breeze and unusually few honks from the road, there is only silence in my room. What more could I ask for from this night to retreat into reading and finally to sleep.

A verse by thirteenth century mystic, Rumi, which I noted on a sticky note and pasted against wall facing my bed ran pertinently ;

Which is worth more, a crowd of thousands,
or your own genuine solitude?
Freedom or power over an entire nation. 

A little while alone in your room 
will prove more valuable than anything else
that could ever be given you. 

 Friday, 24th April.

4/18/2015

SKETCHING

Some of the sketches I have been doing of recent are reproduced here , as my today's blog post, for viewing purpose. Since I drew it with normal pencil and as I also lack creativity - which I already mentioned in my earlier post - they all are inaccurate and tinted with flaws. Though most of them are copy sketch - resourced from others works -  I couldn't stop from drawing them again and you already know the reason why. 
I hope you would enjoy. :)  

 An English Romantic poet, John Keats ( Oct 31, 1795 - Feb 23, 1821 ).

The Master. Bruce Lee ( Nov 27,1940 - July 20, 1973 )was Hong Kong American martial art actor, filmmaker, the instructor, philosopher, and the founder of Jeet Kune Do. 

In action. 

Lionel Messi, the magician in soccer game. 

Lee again. 

A hand! Could be of God. or of my roommate. or my own. or of others. or this itself is just one reproduction. you shall never know. and I shall never tell. So, just have view. :) :D :D 

Thank You. 




4/05/2015

I LOVE SKETCHING

I like to sketch as much as I like to read and write.  Though I never took this passion seriously from my early school days, it has remained same even now – I could see – for whenever I see exquisite pencil sketches, they entice me equally as those classic novels and their authors provide fascination. I end up gazing at those pencil works for quite long time, sometimes hours even! Like in literary works, sketches also tend to have their own stories; some tell mood of the faces, some reveal the state of the person portrayed as a substance and some describe hundred stories on a sheet of paper. It’s for the reasons that some people, instead of being a poet or a writer, simply end up drawing entire life, while others take up this as a profession to eke out their living. Whether to tell stories or to sustain life through drawing, the ultimate object stands to survive.
However, my drawing is neither to tell a story nor can I take it as a profession. But like all artists, I draw simply to survive my passion – or more specifically, to sustain it which till now, had been running on thin line of my concentration and attention.
As the substances of my drawings are resourced from other artists, my sketches are only mere reproduction of others work. Or imitation. I lack creativity. In spite of that, I like to keep doing same, because it keeps my will to draw living. And almost the entire previous month, when both the net and the interest to read and write was on the wane, learning to sketch and sketching were the good business that occupied me.  
Perhaps, someday, I may be able to animate my imagination into sketches.  Even if I were not able to, I would be glad still; I can fulfill my desire by imitation, of course, with proper attribution to the sources because there are figures and people I like to cherish and commemorate in all ways I can. 
Abe Lincoln 

1/31/2015

THE PHENOMENON

Sitting on the trampled, rough and dry carpet of grass, I was staring up to the sky, observing the setting of the sun, behind the distant horizon, which cast veil of slight darkness over the entire space. It was twilight. I could see the silhouette of the dark canopies of the boulevards, set against the backdrop of the marmalade evening sky.  Aerial characters, probably, were in flight for their nests. And they were in hurry that I could see only dark forms zoom across the mid-sky. The surroundings of the field where I lay seem to be in perfect compliance with the approaching phenomenon; they appeared to surrender their original colours to the only dominating colour of the time. The environment which was slightly dark became darker, and with every run of time, it seems to mature in its hue. Even the white facade of the institutional building appeared a dark shade.  I looked onto my pair of legs. And deceived were my eyes, for they also saw two identical forms of dark matter. Gradually. Very gradually it happened. The night.

1/28/2015

THE VERY INSPIRING BLOGGER AWARD

Thank you, Dumcho WangdiAthira RajkamalJigme Zangpo, Sherub Pelmo, Langa Tenzin, and Kipchu for the nomination and for considering me an inspiration for you. But it's also you guys from whom I get inspired. Honestly. 


By reading about the award from your blogs and from those responding to your nominations, I learnt following are the rules;
  1. Display the award on your blog.
  2. Link back to the person who nominated you.
  3. State 7 things about yourself. 
  4. Nominate 15 bloggers, link to them, and notify them about their nominations. 
I already did away the first two.
And the seven facts about me are;
  1. I am an introvert.
  2. I am not lazy but not active either. I just manage to do things on time.
  3. The first book – fiction – I read was ‘The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe’ when I was in class four. Of course, it was a children’s version, so, need not be surprised. It’s from then I picked up the habit of reading. (I read the book again in twelfth only to make sure of the author.)
  4. I wish I created the Sherlock Holmes.
  5. The most inspiring and the best scientific fiction I read was ‘The Strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr.Hyde’. So, R.L. Stevenson is the writer I celebrate most of all my favourites.
  6. The most difficult question for me would be – if asked – to define myself.
  7. Provided to choose either reading or writing, I shall go for the former. I think my talent to read exceeds than to write. And also because I learnt writing only after learning how to read. 
With regard to the last rule, I am sorry, but, I find that most of the bloggers I find inspiring were already nominated.(I am sure I would forgiven for the inevitable infringement.) So, they are the persons, or bloggers, who keep me up in this blogging field;
  1. Dumcho Wangdi
  2. Leki Choden Dorji
  3. Sherub Pelmo
  4. Kipchu
  5. Langa Tenzin
  6. Sherab Tenzin
  7. Athira Rajkamal
  8. Riku Dhan Subba
  9. Passang Tshering
  10. Rima Rekya
  11. Pelden Nima
  12. Ugyen Tenzin
  13. Tshewang Dorji
  14. Sangay Phuntsho
  15. Jigme Zangpo



1/27/2015

WINTER RAIN

T
he rain in summer subsides the heat. So, it comes as a saviour. But in winter, it is totally unbearable. Cold air, puddle-occupied path, swampy ground and dirty corridors. The weather allows not even a single handkerchief to dry, even if it be kept hung on balcony for a weeklong! Other washings? I fear those may simply succumb to the moisture locked in their fibres for so long and rot away, leaving nothing, only bad odour to its bearer.


For past two days, it’s been only a slight drizzle. And today, it’s complete rain. Allahabad is in rain. And rain is blessing us with cold.

In the evening, when the rain was less intense, we went to play our routine game. The lamp posts weren’t lit. Perhaps, it was intentionally left unlit by respective guards to let there be no players for the time at least. But adamant as the rain, we entered the ground only to besmirch our boots and to be scared back to the dormitory by the sudden thunder and lightning flash, followed by the winter downpour.

The corridors are even dirtier than was before, with the mud collected from the field and left upon there by our boots. If only the rain hadn’t fallen...

As I write, I could hear the groan from the sky and in my mind, I could see the dark clouds, pregnant with rain, overcast the already gloom sky. Any time, it could deliver the shower, last be it, I pray, upon us, rendering more cold. I can imagine the conditions of the poor now. I pray more philanthropists come to their rescue.

Weather forecast predicts sunshine tomorrow. Let it become a truth for the following day.

Be warm, folks. 

1/22/2015

IN LOVE WITH SAPPHO

I will make it brief, of how I met Sappho.

Once every week, I get into PoemHunter.com to feast upon some classical poetry. At one time, I came across a short verse, consisting of two stanzas. It was quite short to last even half a minute but it was vast enough to tell a story of the poet – her denial to marry her young lover. Perhaps that is what poetry is – to encompass the large of story within laconic expression by words.


Of course I love you
but if you love me,
marry a young woman!

I couldn’t stand it
to live with a young
man, I being older.

The lyric sounded intimate, as if it’s a song of a singer whom I stalk frequently. There seem to be some connection, though weak, between the mysterious poet and me. But the cruel truth stands ugly between us; she’s passed away thousand years ago and I am youth only, who has seen, of recent, the infancy face of poetry and writes also rough and rudimentary poems.

It could be the magic of the poetry, perhaps the divinity of her, preserved in the recess of her lyrics, which beckoned at me. I read the poem several times till I came to the point of really feeling that it was to me whom she’s referring to and I felt sorry for her. Perhaps, she might have been forgiven by her young lover also, then.

I carried on with many of her poems. I thought of getting more of her by searching in Google. But midway, I stopped! Some people appear wonderful when still unknown and mysterious. And Sappho was one poet. I could know her through her poetry. This is the magic of poetry – though it hides more of poet, it reveals even more because poetry is ‘poet’s tree’ by which s/he sustains eternally.

And as I read, I could feel the Greek, looking at me through the mist of time, with the eyes of her poetry and singing songs of her feelings to me.

You may forget but
let me tell you
this: someone in
some future time
will think of us.

Yes! How true! Now that I know you, I shall never forget you, Sappho dear. 

1/10/2015

THE BULLY

I was angry for some other reason then. 

Even the request for a cup of tea from my father which I usually undertook as a sweet service came upon me as an order. So, I went stamping my foot on the weak wooden floor of our poor dwelling, which succumbed to my adrenalized might and shook and creaked at my each step. 

I lighted the gas stove and heated half a kettle of water. Still then, within, I was mentally disturbed; unbalanced with wrath.

 The water boiled as did my blood. 

I turned for sugar container. There were those black gregarious sugar feeding ants, at the rim of the loosely closed lid. They seemed disturbing and the very instant I saw them, the Hyde in me surfaced. 
Without a second thought, I crushed few with my fingers and with a bang of my palm against the container, the entire division was swept away. 

On hearing the noise, my father rushed into the kitchen. Upon seeing the massacre, he stared at me but couldn’t say anything to me. “Poor animals.” And he left. 

Though a practical Buddhist, he couldn’t save those unfortunate that one time. Other time, even a fly that contaminates his tea and about to drown, he would fish out before late and let go rather than let it perish.  And upon accomplishment, he would advise me,”when it comes to the desire to live, all of us are same. They like not to be killed. When it comes to the degree of their innocence, compare them to children.”

Then, before me, lay the deed of my unbalanced and sick mind. They didn’t even retaliate by biting me back; they weren’t the kind – they were just a sugar loving ants. They simply tried to escape me. They were defenceless; as defenceless as an innocent child and as innocent as a school boy. 

When defenceless, innocence, harmless, killing and anger echoed in my calming mind, the remorse came as a shame upon me. 

*And when the school was attacked, I felt the same again.*