TRAVAIL

[had a conversation with a dear school friend. got to get a tiny glimpse of what he lived after we parted. i tried portray his phase in the octet, and the sestet speaks of the present me!]



Marks red dotted his paper white,
Buttresses fell, that held him upright.
Caress, a hug, he asked no more:
In lieu, was left writhing in gore!
Chitin unmasked, staccato he wore,
Pain in the eyes, burdened the core.
Shunned and thwarted, a forced debark---
Soaked in rain, he 'danced' into the dark.

Shudder and guilt, I retraced his way,
Verity struck, i stared in dismay:
Smudges blue, sole lived his fight.
Solitude brew, he 'rehab'ed all white.
"I wish I were there"----harping idiosyncrasy,
"I need no one"---he bellowed, ecstacy!

BARFI

When the two main protagonists of a story are deaf-and-dumb and autistic respectively, what you experience is the sound of silence: the music that echoes through the cardiac tympanum. Barfi and Jhilmil are two such musicians who play their chords, silently. Yet they emerge as an orchestra—loud and heavy! The movie is not a silent one, in the truest sense of the terminology. ‘Cause the supporting characters speak, shout, laugh, cry: but what you look for is the soundless melody of Barfi and Jhilmil’s bond. And the man who conducts the symphony with charming despotism is Anurag Basu.

The entire film goes back and forth on the time scale. And with that you time travel to Darjeeling and Kolkata of the 70s. The foggy picturesque landscape of the hills ushers a ‘wow’ out of the audience. The scene where Barfi sets the camera for his picture is symbolic of the tremendous talent the cinematography exhibits in the rest of the reel. Be it the green mountains or the grey roads, be it the Farmville or the wooden house, the camera work is a delight! Capturing just the eyes of Jhilmil or the ponytail of Barfi, the lenses marvel the onlooker.  

When it comes down to the characterization, you will find it difficult to feel sympathy for Barfi. He evokes laughter out of you---‘muskaan’ unadulterated. When he eats up a child’s chocolate, you giggle at his prank; when he holds on to the toy train and rides his bicycle, you say ‘ai shabbash’; when he hits a post and falls down you caringly hush ‘awwwwwww’. He has this weird way of conducting a loyalty test. It makes you question yourself---“would I have passed it?”. Jhilmil does and how! The eyes of the girl speak volumes and the melancholy in her calling ‘baafffiiii’ outvoices all other sound in the movie. She is insecure too. Every individual is. But every individual is not fearless---Shruti is not. But these two entities know how to fly high and take you along with. And with them flows Pritam’s music—a reminiscent of Late Salil Chowdhury’s melody!

But the man behind the curtains is the director and screenplay-writer, Mr. Basu. Kahaani has taken us on a trip to the nooks and corners of Kolkata---Basu takes us on a holiday ride to the mountains. His screenplay is, to me, of top notch calibre in this venture. The scene where Barfi frustrates for the first time as Shruti chooses to be Mrs. Sengupta---out of this world! The mime speaks of his shouts, silenced. The scene in Kolkata where Barfi hands over the umbrella,  bids bye to Shruti and looks at the car from the door, the scene where Barfi introduces his home to Shruti and she finds through the window the presence of another woman, the scene where the light reflected of a mirror hits Barfi and he expectantly turns around : some of the best scenes. When the lad and the lass play with mirror reflections for the first time, you are bound to follow the reflections on the ceiling. The ransom note he left has words “ post bosk” and “jai hid” (hind goes missing). The strength of the script is that it makes you be the character. One frantically searches for Jhilmil with Barfi with the toy in his mouth, one’s heart leaps with hope as many times as Barfi throws his shoe up in the air, one actually realises “itni si hasi, itni si khushi, itna sa tukda chand ka, khwabon ke tinko se, chal banaye aashiyan…”!

One wishes to hold on to the movie with his little finger, forever. As I come out of the theatre and see the poster that reads “don’t worry, be barfi!” I feel the director IS asking us to worry— Because we fail to help without a repayment: Because we choke our lives with terms and conditions: Because we do not love without conditions. Even when we say “I love you unconditionally”, we limit our expression by mouthing ‘unconditionally’: And finally because ………we are NOT Barfi!

I am SHE

I usher a life to be

A mother---I am SHE.

But my birth, often gory
A daughter---I am SHE.

When I am to run family

An role model--- I am SHE.

 Chores for abuse as fee

A housewife--- I am SHE.

Serving truly his ‘husbandry'

A wife---I am SHE.

Still, I fail proving lucky

A widow--- I am SHE.

 

Holding hands, all in spree

A lover---I am SHE.

Not letting him to be on me

A bitch ---I am SHE.

Raising my child with all in me

Caring---I am SHE.

When grown, no time for me

An old prick then---I am SHE.

 

 

Unwanted 'push', the blood fiery

Tolerance---I am SHE.

No one wants a similar me

Cradle void---I am SHE.

 

 

 

Potent, I face dogma- blatant, tawdry

Raging fury, I fight social bigotry

I deal with men-shallow, paltry

Wiping the Wrong, i Forgive them-guilty

i am strong, and so wlll i be

I am WOMAN and I am proudly SHE.

 



THE WANT

[preview: i had been associated with some friends, akin sibling. but the force has gone weak! missing  them.]

I want to be with them

Four springs ago who came

In my verve.

Now that they are gone

Ties that held, are torn

And I starve.

Ragging set us off instep

Dragging is all that’s left

We moved far!

The link that bound them with me

Is dryly strangling our repartee

The gap is left ajar.

The bunch still does belong

But prick their words’ prong

I bleed dry!

I was mellowed by them all

Averse, I did build a wall

And all turned wry.

I want them back to me

With all the beam and glee

Like the oldest way!

But will the bridge be crafted?

Shall the peace be drafted?

The rhetoric is still to stay!



THUD!

[ preview: I went to a place. On my way back….]

The train, the ride, the thirst and heat, 

The halt, the shop, up from the seat.

The hurry, the money, so worthy a buy---

The whistle, the turn, the train moving by;

The panic, the rush, the want to climb board,

The grasp, the slip, the goliath lay floored!

The speed, the whoosh, the bang on train side,

The roll., the hurl, thrown out of the ride.

The hand, the knee, blood oozed out slow,

The scatter, the thwart, the ‘ahh’ed bellow:

The scramble, the grope, belongings spread ‘round,

The dust, the torn, but my laughter unbound!

The station, the wait, the concerned few men,

The cotton, the soak, to help was their yen.

The bench, the wait, sipping lemon tea:

The ponder, more laughs, how things can be!

The horn, the blow, arrived the next on line.

Same pace, towards home, incident entwined.

The share, the berate, friends stare in aghast,

Their question, my excuse, “the train was moving super fast”!

BONDED, BIZARRE!

[PREVIEW: how does it feel to meet your friend for just a moment ??? shall one crib abt the transitory meet or shall one live the emotions to the fullest? experienced it first hand--and so portrayed it, but metaphorically]

The pebble lies on the shore

The wave, afar, ragingly roar:

It’s coming.

It wakes, ready to sweep,

A slumber, not too deep---

No longer dreaming!

The water swirls up fast to splash

Gleaming white to have a bash,

Joy is brimming!

The froth, the solid, the usher and so

The whoosh, the hug, the smile galore:

Excitement summing.

Immense fun, abandoned glitch,

Moments weaving the priceless stitch

Memories forming!

Rapid receding, akin the come:

Hopeful adieu, tears some…

Sadness storming.

Melancholy struck, a lumpy throat:

Sunken heart, hopes afloat

The heart is strumming.

The wave, ebbed far, silently roar

The sand is wet, pebble still on shore

Linger continues humming.