Holiday hangover

From hills to hell. And hardsell.
Making ’em wait when they want to move
Dancing to the groove; there’s love to prove
The past popping up from doubt-dens
I did hunt them down, but the ghosts are never gone
He plays planchette
Or so it seems
Even in daybreak beams
Of Tiger hills
Tea garden thrills
The thorns still stuck somewhere
The air, still fresh

The Fall

From a wondrous windward to a lonely leeward.
And now, a sweet strangeness inward, outward, at times awkward.
The trust's tall. And it's His call.
Stopped, stooped, stumbled, surrendered.
And rose.
From violent to violets.
An Elf shelved.
But babies born are never quite gone.
Love, just changing forms.
Behold; it's still beautiful.
And there's nowhere to go than better.

Muddleheaded

Piles waiting to be filed
Stories, barring the one that’s my life
Lost in perplexity
Bad men on bikes
Good men on hikes
Being hushed, crushed, shushed
Cabins refilled, with ink of a different colour
Elsewhere, lackluster pages loom over the future
A thought-salad of love, defense, transience and letting go
On my soul’s platter
One of better rank and responsibility, on my mind’s
The heart, however, eats out of itself
As it turns into a messed pie
Every morsel infused with a muddleheaded high

Read-write conflicts

It’s 5:16 by the clock and I can’t believe it’s my first Word document in the day. And the first written words, too, except the odd Gtalk greeting. Journalistic blasphemy; Shakespearean sacrilege. Especially when Zen in the Art of Writing looms over my bedside lamp, with it wondrous revelations and simple yet spellbinding suggestions. I often wonder why great reading and good writing can never quite go hand-in-hand… maybe the subconscious is skilled at it all — imitating, soaking, standing apart, spilling out — but only one thing at a time. I don’t know which one’s in progress at the moment, but till then, soaking up the city feels tolerable enough.

Khusro ki class

The Sufi spirit is intoxicating Delhi's cultural hubs. Here's trailing the Beethovens of Balli Maran and beyond...

The magic of mystic music will never die down in the City of Djinns, its author assures. "At quarter to six, I will be at the Hazrat Nizamudin Dargah, like I am, most of the weeks — it's a spectacle," said William Dalrymple excitedly, hoping to catch us there when we called to ask how the legendary lore of the Chishtis is doing in Delhi. It's quite crowded, so he offered the Mehrauli Dargah, explaining how this city has a fascinating history, and qawwali helps it connect with its roots. "Great performances may come and go, but the art will forever shine." I wandered about for proof.

No, I discovered, Delhiites aren't a set of Wajd (ecstasy) wannabes. Harshdeep Kaur, a young Sufi singer who'll be performing here soon, feels this is the most fertile soil for these songs of love. "I grew up here, and the place infused in me this fondness it has the best listeners. I'll be singing Bulle Shah, and modern compositions by Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, too, because tastes have evolved." The well-known Warsi brothers will accompany her at Seher's three-day devotional music do, Bhakti Utsav.

Sourced from the term 'Qaul' meaning utterance of the Prophet, qawwalis, or selfless renditions devoted to God and gurus, are supported by a many a cultural group in the capital, including Spicmacay, Chinmaya Mission, India Islamic Cultural Centre, India Habitat Centre and music labels like Mystica Music. And it isn't just the Walled City that's singing to the art's tunes. Only the other day, author Omair Ahmad's new title, The Storyteller's Tale, was released in the midst of a qawwali concert by the famous Pakistani Sabri troupe at the American Center on KG Marg.

Apart from usual sessions in dargahs and a major outpour around the 'Urs' to observe the death anniversary of Sufi saints, the eighth century form thrives in the hearts of musicians of other genres, too. "Some people might misunderstand it and others only sit around the stage and clap, but for me, it's about far more than that," said city-based sitar maestro Ustaad Shujaat Khan. A fan of both the Aashiqana form that sings to the lover and Sufiana that praises the lord, he has a clarification for Wikipedia, which classifies ghazals under qawwalis. "Ghazal is only love poetry, expressed in songs. First, they sang it alone, then, some rhythm was added. Gradually, it was sung in groups, but never as an ode to the almighty. So, it can never qualify as qawwali." There are more corrections in the pipeline. The Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) feels the Nizammudin Dargah offers limited scope to the heritage act, and is toying with the idea of taking performances to the spacious Humayun's Tomb nearby. Elsewhere, Bauls are being embraced as part of the Qawwal community. They weren't wrong when they sang yeh sheher nahi mehfil hai!

Catch the best of qawwali at:
>> Hazrat Nizamuddin Dargah and Dargah Sharif, Mehrauli: Thursday evenings
>> Qutub garden complex during the Qutub Festival
>> India Islamic Culture Centre, Lodhi Road (011-43535354)
>> Bhakti Utsav: April 3 to 5, Nehru Park, Chanakyapuri

Thank you...

Just wanted to thank you for being here, and hope this interview of mine at Ampercent helps your blogging lives, even if by a bit. Thanks Ani, Soumen and everyone who's ever been here.
Take care.

A season without reason

A scent I've sniffed before
that of nostalgia, freshness, joy, apprehension
All at the same time
Mysterious whiffs
from a source unknown
The Springseed just sown
Feels like autumn for all that was
Scorching summer for all that is to come
And rainshowers of sweet surrealism in between