The quest for the touchstone

the madman hunts for the touchstone

his hair a matted heap browned by dust and mud

his body a grey shadow

his lips hide a smouldering fire that his eyes reveal

like fireflies searching in the dark by their own light

he has no sheltering home

no one to ask for him, no one to call his own

no clothes even, except for a rag covering his modesty

more miserable than a beggar is he

yet what audacity!

he turns down gold-silver-king’s treasure

all for a magic touchstone

ridiculous isn’t he!

 

the ocean roars ruthless

wave upon wave simper at the madman

the sky stares blinkless

the wind charges ahead

and the eastern sky changes from sunrise to moonrise

while the waters flow endless

speaking in riddles of where the treasure lies

only they who know the language can find the spot

the indifferent ocean listens to its own song

while on the shore,

some arrive, some leave, some laugh, some moan

and yet the madman still searches again and again

for his precious touchstone

 

ancient legend has it that eons ago,

when the first sun rays revealed our Creation

gods and demons in utter wonder stood at this shore

heads bowed, eyes unblinking, lips silent,

and listened for a long time to the hum of the ocean

then they disappeared into its depths to unravel

the eternal mystery that churns within

until years later, Goddess Lakshmi,

the beauteous Goddess of Wealth and Prosperity,

emerged on this very shore

where now,

the wretched madman searches high and low

for his cherished touchstone

 

in recent days, his desire has dimmed

but he goes on without a break,

driven not by lust, but by force of habit

like

the lonesome bird that trills all night,

restless, sleepless,

but no mate ever joins her

or like

the ocean that sends waves above,

relentless, hopeless,

but its love never touches the sky

thus the madman on that shore

searches for his elusive touchstone once more

 

one day the village boys rush to him

“hey yogi, what shines at your waistline,

how did you find this chain of gold so fine?”

the yogi is startled,

he looks, rubs his eyes and looks again

what miracle is this!

the iron chain around his waist

had transmuted to gold, god knows when!

he collapses to the ground with a wail,

beats himself insane,

out of unseeing habit he would click

each rock, pebble and stone that he would pick

against the iron chain that had now turned gold!

oh my lord, there are no words to say,

he had held dream and tossed it away!

 

then when

the setting sun painted the sky bright gold

the flowing ocean made the water molten gold

the changing horizon seemed a bride’s dream of gold,

the yogi dragged his steps along the path he’d already trod

his heart drooping like a tree that had been felled

the old journey stretching like death without end

the landscape a dreary desert, even more dismal in the fading light

half a lifetime spent in the quest

that was gained for but an instant

now the other half of his lifetime he dedicates once more

to hunt again for the lost touchstone by the shore

Tonight, by the light of the full moon

This is the translation of a popular Rabindrasangeet,
set to a 123-45-67 beat, resembling the tune of Raag Behaag.
One wonders why the poet wouldn’t join in the springtime revelry by moonlight.
Who is he waiting for? A beloved son who passed away as some say?
Or is he waiting for the Lord to come to him?

Tonight, by the light of the full moon
They have walked to the woods
Tonight, in this heady spring breeze
They have walked to the woods
But I will not go with them
I will not go with them
I will wait right here in this corner
In solitude
In solitude
I will wait in my corner
I will not go out in this heady spring breeze
I will make my home tidy
I will make my home inviting
And I will wait for him all night
Because
He will come home to me
As soon as he remembers
As soon as he remembers
He will come home to me
So
I will not go out in this heady spring breeze
Though
Tonight, by the light of the full moon
They have walked to the woods.

Old Times - Purano Shei Diner Katha

Rabindranath was a prolific author, poet, painter, song writer. He wrote over 2000 songs, one of his popular ones being Purano Shei Diner Katha. It speaks of old times and is set to the tune of Auld Lang Syne. Here is a translation of the lyrics:

Purano shei diner katha,
The old times,
How can I forget?
How you gazed into my eyes,
How you spoke to my soul,
Oh, how can I ever forget?

Come once more,
Come to me, my friend
Right inside my soul,
We will speak of happiness and sorrow
And be fulfilled only with each other.

We picked flowers in the morning,
We played on the swing,
We played the flute while singing,
Under the fragrant flowering tree.

Oh, then our paths diverged
And we went our separate ways.
But we always meet, my friend
Within our souls, oh we meet again and again.

Purano shei diner katha,
The old times,
How can I forget?
How you gazed into my eyes,
How you spoke to my soul,
Oh, how can I ever forget?

Dark Times

Though dusk approaches with baby steps
And the music is silenced as if on cue,
Though there is no companion in the vast expanse of sky,
Though fatigue descends on the body,
Though panic chants a silent prayer as the horizon cloaks itself in darkness,
Still oh bird, my bird,
Now sightless,
Yet,
Fold not your wings.

This is not the rustle of the swaying trees,
It is the sound of the rushing tsunami.
This is not a meadow of whispering leaves,
It is the churning of the ocean waters.
Where is my shore lined with trees,
Where is that nest, that sheltering branch!
Still oh bird, my bird,
Now sightless,
Yet,
Fold not your wings.

The night of rest is imminent
As the sun sets on the distant skyline.
The universe holds it breath like a statue
As it counts the hours relentlessly.
Now the crescent moon reveals itself
After swimming across the blackness of space.
Still oh bird, my bird,
Now sightless,
Yet,
Fold not your wings.

Up in the dark sky, the stars signal with their hand,
While on the earth, Death flows like a tidal wave.
Far away on the shore, they stand with their offering,
"Stay, stay," they say with voices drenched in sympathy.
Oh bird, my bird,
Now sightless,
Yet,
Fold not your wings.

But
There is no fear,
There is no bond of love,
There is no bond of desire,
For desire is just an illusion.
There are no redundant words, no futile tears,
There is no place called home,
There is no flowering garden.
I have only wings
And the vast gallery of the sky
Where a painting hangs
Of a desperate day being overtaken by the deep night.
Oh bird, my bird,
Now sightless,
Yet,
Fold not your wings.

Translated from ”Dooshamay” by Rabindra Tagore

Sudden Meeting

Suddenly

On a local train on the Western Line

I see her sitting across -

I never thought we would ever meet again!

In those days, she would often wear a red dress

Like a rose in full bloom.

Today, her dress is midnight black,

A contrast to her frangipani face.

The darkness paints a distance between us,

As far from the mustard beach

As the blue edge of the sea on the horizon.

I see in her familiar face the aloofness of the stranger 

And my heart feels heavy in my chest.

Suddenly

She keeps her phone aside

And nods across the space at me

Opening the door to conversation between us.

I ask in a rush, how are you, how is the family, etc etc.

She looks at the dusty Mumbai landscape flashing by

With eyes reflecting the grey twilight of a day ending between us, 

And barely answers.

Her restless fingers reveal that she would rather have silence.

I am on the other berth with her companions.

After a while she gestures that I should join her, 

I say to myself, oh, so have you gathered enough courage now?

I sit down next to her.

She says in a voice muffled by the sound of the train,

"Don't mind, there's not much time.

I will be getting off at the next station, 

You will go far away, till Virar, 

And we won't meet ever again.

So, the question whose answer lies unspoken between us,

Will you answer? Truthfully?"

I say, "I will."

She looks at the darkening sky outside

And asks,

“Does nothing remain between us? Nothing at all?"

I am quiet for a few moments and then I answer,

"The night stars continue to twinkle

Even from the depths of daylight."

But then doubt assails me,

Did I make up that line?

"Go and sit there," she sighs.

They all alight at Bandra, the next station.

Only I travel to my destination.

Alone.

(Translated from Tagore, set in my city)

People are places

People are places,
so some are Lokhandwala -
bustling boisterous.
Some are Carter Road,
welcoming at dawn like a
morning walk partner.
Some like Grant Road
tempt
like tarts by night only to
offer guilt by day.
Few may provide hope -
Siddhi Vinayak, Orlem,
or Haji Ali.
And I? I want to
be the Arabian Sea
that embraces the city.

The Godman

In Chembur, I saw them sitting around

The visiting sage on the ground.

The holy man in a saffron robe

With the people, under the neon strobe.

He was talking about the higher astral plane

Rising beyond emotions of anger, hate and pain,

About nirvana and spirituality,

Transcending reality and mediocrity.

I looked at the listening crowd,

Their heads - not in reverence - but in sleep, bowed.

Pinched faces, patched clothes, tattered lives,

Utter despair dulling their eyes.

At the end of the meeting,

The audience moved to another seating.

Then I saw the corpses invigorated,

As the bulging food packets were distributed.

They filed past, touching the feet of the sage,

With total satisfaction writ on every face.

The wise man turned to me and said, “Do you realize, 

It is only the Divinity which keeps these souls alive.” 

The Piano Man

Did you notice him?

The piano man.

Did you?

Of course not, no-one does.

You remember we dined

At that posh hotel

On Bandstand,

Near the film star’s residence?

He was sitting in a corner

Of the lobby at the hotel.

It's not your fault

That you couldn't see him,

For he was a small wizened man,

Almost hidden by the grand piano.

I noticed him

Because he was playing

Familiar tunes,

From my childhood years,

Long forgotten, suddenly remembered.

Strawberries, cherries and the angels kissing spring,

Played the piano man.

I remembered the wine

My father first poured for us.

It was red and sour and icy.

I remember there was frost on the bottle,

From the freezer,

Which we gleefully licked.

My daughter will never know the joy

Of scraping frost from the freezer,

Collecting it in a glass,

And crunching it in her mouth,

On a hot summer’s day,

For our fridges don't make frost anymore.

Raindrops keep falling on my head,

Played the piano man.

My brother would play it

On his old cassette player,

In the room we grew up in,

Where raindrops would fall

From four stubborn leaks in the roof

Which refused to be filled.

So we let the raindrops trickle down

Into buckets and sailed boats in them.

The piano man was wearing

Black coat and tails,

Which hung loose on his gaunt frame.

I wondered if he'd lost weight recently?

Or had he lost a spouse or a child?

There was sadness in his stance,

In the way that he sat,

As he played happy tunes,

For the guests in that posh hotel.

I walked up the stairs and stood

Exactly above him.

From there I could see his bald patch,

And that his shoes were dusty.

I could see a tattered diary

On the stand in front,

With a list of songs, no notations.

The piano man played on.

Clementine.

Brown girl in the ring.

Tie a yellow ribbon.

Bimbo!

He played without a pause,

The songs merging into each other,

Colliding with my memories,

Wafting over the beautiful people

In the lobby of that posh hotel.

Then the piano man stopped.

I saw him as he bent down

And took a sip of water.

While he closed his eyes and took a break,

Something seemed to have gone from the room.

The flowers looked wilted,

The chandeliers seemed dull.

I saw the smart businessman

Stumble over his polished speech.

I saw the lovers in the corner

Had run out of words.

Even the young couple fighting on the sofa

Had halted in their tracks.

The piano man resumed after a few minutes.

Where do I begin to tell the story

Of how great a love can be?

The sweet love story that is older than the sea.

The piano man played.

Life flowed back into the room.

The white lilies stood proud,

While the chandeliers beamed.

The businessman struck a deal.

The fighting couple smiled at each other.

The lovers held hands.

Of course, they didn't realise it was

The piano man's doing,

For who notices an old piano man,

In a corner of the lobby at a posh hotel?

The Drummer

Every morning On the railway bridge, The marching of many footsteps Would be accompanied By the beating of his drum. Bim-Bom, Bim-Bom, Bim-Bim, Bom-Bom, Would reverberate against The measured strides of government officers, The dejected pace of separated lovers, The fatigued walk of old homemakers, The hurried pace of capped dabbawalas, And the restless run of teenaged college goers. The drummer, He was my favourite beggar. I passed him everyday With the surging crowd On my way to work, And gave generously to him, As he never seemed to ask. When I spoke about him at a party, My friends laughed at my naivete. One of them, the dapper marketing man, Narrated the story of a crippled beggar Found dead with thousands of rupees Tucked in his waistband. He sipped his malt and grinned, “Madam, may I be your beggar?” Another friend, the tough foreign banker, Looked at me over her red wine glass. “Put that money in a mutual fund And teach him to fish,” she said. So I stopped speaking about him, And continued to put a hundred buck note In the top pocket of his clean shirt, Every day that I walked past. I could well afford it And liked him, Liked this old man, Who sat on his haunches, A big drum between his knees, His dhoti gathered in neat folds, No begging bowl in sight, Just beating a rhythm and varying it, As a greeting to a world he could not see, For his eyes seemed to have been gouged out. Then one day, the drummer wasn’t there. I was sure he’d be back. The next day, he wasn’t there too. And the day after. I missed him. How was I to find him? Months have passed, But his drum beats haven't been heard. Now I am saving that useless amount In a mutual fund as advised. But something, some ineffable essence, Is missing from my mornings as I walk to work. I had liked him, My drummer, As I like the rocky beach near my Bandra home, As I like the Sea Link on my drive past Reclamation, As I like the fluttering pigeons when I go to Chowpatty.

The Bug

I stood still, frozen to the spot

In cold fear, for my fragile life.

The creature crept closer to me

In a dark lane, near Pali market.

Due to a severed wire somewhere

A familiar city had plunged

Into almost total darkness,  

Lit only by a pale moon.

My hands laden with overflowing bags,

My heart pounding loudly,

I saw a huge bug walking upright

On its two legs, like a giant mantis.

Straight out of my child’s story book

Into my life this summer night,

The Bug walked quite purposefully

Glowing in the ghostly moon light.

A head too large, topped by red eyes

Bobbing on a thin stalky neck.

Hanging by its side, are they wings?

No, they are its huge crushing arms.  

I wish it would go, but it’s here.

Next to me! My eyes close in fear.

A hand on my arm, a soft voice in my ear,

“I will take you safely from here.”

When I open my eyes, I find

I’ve reached the crowded bus stop.

The street lights suddenly come back

And I see its retreating back.

A hunch backed tramp walking away.

I would not trust him in daylight.

His dirty hand I would shrug off.

But his kindness. Did I deserve it?