Bosky

My child has one more name, Bosky.

Time. Not seen it coming, going or passing by
Nor seen the face of dreams on earth
But I have seen Time
Gathering in a contained space.

Perhaps it came soft-footed out of my dreams
Not letting even my thoughts be aware of its coming
The day I watched the sunrise in her eyes
I kissed Time but failed to recognise it.

I heard its footsteps in the lisping words
Saw it too where the milk teeth fell
Bosky, my daughter, delicate as a silk petal
Lay wrapped in layers in her silken hammock
I did not fathom that it was Time lying there.

Lifting her from the cradle, when I placed her on the bed
I touched her gently with a lullaby’s soft words
Trimmed each time her growing nails
Bangles would unceasingly travel up and down wrists
And books would climb into her hands and then slip down …
I did not realise Time was written in them.

I have not seen Time coming, going or passing by
But I have seen it gathered in a place
This year Bosky turns eighteen.

Jagjit Singh: An Elegy

A renowned singer. The spirit of the ghazal had settled in him like musk in the depths of a deer. I would often allude to him as Ghazaljit Singh. A happy-go-lucky man with a sunny temperament. My neighbour, whom I often shared my evenings with. A man with a lust for life. He was younger than me. But broke the queue and left early.

A strange chill had arrived
And settled like a lump in his heart
He would set alight a kangri of ghazals and warm himself

When he returned after lighting his son’s pyre
He skipped stones across the water
Watched them like horses running.

He would start to shiver in the cold
And shroud himself in sunlight.

I heard that when the snow fell yesterday on the mountains
He opened his window and went to warm himself
On the fire of a burning pyre,

Pancham

I cannot describe in four sentences, the personality on whom I could write an entire book. However much I may write, it will not suffice.

There is light, but it glimmers low
Perhaps because my eyes are ready to flow
Musical relationships are not created thus
There are seven notes, and one is Pancham

Do you remember that rainy day, Pancham
When in the valley below the mountains
Peeping through the gentle mists
The train tracks would go past.

In the hazy mist we looked
Like two plants sitting close together
Long we would stay, sitting there
Talking about that traveller
Who was to arrive last evening, but
Whose arrival was being constantly delayed.

Long we sat along the train tracks
Waiting for the train to come
Neither the train, nor the time for it did come
And you, taking two steps, stepping into the mist
Left.
I am alone sitting in the mist, Pancham.

Sunil Da

You know him as Sunil Gangopadhyay. I was familiar with his stories; then acquainted myself with his poems, and aft er that met with his novels. A very musically tuned soul, brimming with aff ection. Though he was the bigger person in every way, he never made me feel lesser than him. He read a lot…

The book lies open face down, on the table
Let it be …

The book lies open, face down
Let it be so …
He fell asleep while reading.
He moved to the bed and went to sleep.
Though at daybreak, the sun did peep in,
It even knocked on his window
And the breeze entered to touch him with a caress,
He did not awaken; nor did he turn on his side.

His discourse continues in literature
The book lies open, face down
Let it remain so …
If he should wake, he may like to continue
From the same page, perhaps …

Jalaluddin Rumi

Rumi, to me, is an image made on a laser. Whatever is seen of him, as much remains invisible. Behind which an entire universe is visible. At times it feels as if he never existed. He was just a thought that time created. Or a love that acquired substance.

Rising from the smouldering coal
The flame of Sufi says
Even when it is extinguished
This fire continues to blaze.

Since a generation past
On a high ladder he stands steadfast

Who knows what he speaks of
The old man with body gone soft
Lying heavy on his back
Is a dense knot of hair
Wrapping up the night
He has folded it in tight.

He chooses things from the earth Telling us that he knows The soil has come from the universe Carrying the salt of galaxies.

Earthen plates and cups
And bowls of kaansa made
And countless bags of jute
He keeps incessantly filling.

A pinch of it he takes
And throws into the air
Whoever wants, can taste it
Whoever cares, can take it.
The soil has come from the universe,
Carrying the salt of galaxies.

He was speaking in my ear,
Which I had dusted well to hear.
My eyes welled and dribbled
A cascade of water, tepid.

Somewhat tired was he
And a little bent
For a generation past
On the ladder he stands steadfast.

Under the sky, the earth
Has taken innumerable rounds,
He stands fast, unmoving yet
Is the old man a seer, a prophet?

Or he in the Turkish cap we see
Could he be Jalaluddin Rumi!

Shakespeare (1564–1616)

Depending on whether you are looking at old or new editions of his books, Shakespeare fits into both the old and the new. Check out an old edition, and he seems to belong to the 16th century. But look through a new edition and you feel, let’s call him on the phone; he must still be there at Stratford.

He offers up new adaptations continuously. Four hundred years after his time, I finally met him in the wings, one day.

Shakespeare …
Pull up the curtain
Your actors are waiting
All of them have donned their costumes
And applied their make-up too.
Everyone knows your lines by heart
That despite the passing of four hundred years
Life’s conflicts remain the same,
The same indecision, the confusion …
To be … or not to be.

Everyone is aware that the world is a stage And we are just actors.

Even now, quietly within her house
An innocent Juliet
Leaning from her balcony,
Continues to grapple with her Romeo

And vainglorious Caesars, proud
About their mode of governance
Are felled by unforgiving scimitars
Et tu Brute … the phrase
Echoes across the senate.

Your characters, Othello, Desdemona and Macbeth
Of turmoils of heart and mind are yet
To be freed.

The third bell has sounded,
The lights have come on
Your actors are a-waiting,
Shakespeare,
Lift the curtain, pull it up.

Excerpted with permission from Caged: Memories Have Names, Gulzar, translated from the Urdu by Sathya Saran, Penguin India.