Music and lyrics

If a continental youth wants to declare his love to a girl, he kneels down, tells her that she is the sweetest, the most charming and ravishing person in the world, that she has something in her, something peculiar and individual which only a few hundred thousand other women have and that he would be unable to live one more minute without her. Often, to give a little more emphasis to the statement, he shoots himself on the spot. This is a normal, week-day declaration of love in the more temperamental continental countries. In England the boy pats his adored one on the back and says softly: "I don't object to you, you know." If he is quite mad with passion, he may add: "I rather fancy you, in fact."

-George Mikes, How to be an Alien

It's that season of the year again when one tends to get a wee bit soppy. More the continental in the above context, if you will. It also helps when it's pouring outside, one's child has the half-yearly exams coming on, and mummy has taken full control of affairs. Going out is ruled out by exam and weather, and having gotten hold of a half-decent Maths tutor ensures one is rendered fairly redundant in the household. Having a dram of ol' Scotland in stock can't hurt. What does one do, under the circumstances? One can listen to one's favorite ghazals, watch the rain yonder through the window panes, and ponder. Quite a nice way to be!

Ladies and gentlemen, I then present you, what I've been listening to.




Kabhi yun bhi aa meri aankh mein ke meri nazar ko Khabar na ho
Mujhe ek raat nawaaz de magar uske baad sehar na ho

Woh badaa rahiim-o-kariim hai mujhe ye sifat bhi adaa kare
tujhe bhulne ki dua karoon to dua mein meri asar na ho

Mere bazooomein thakee thakee abhi mehr-e -khab hain chandni
Na uthe sitaron ki palki abhi aahaton ka guzar na ho

Woh firaaq ho yaa visaal ho, teri yaad mahakegi ek din
Woh gulab ban ke khilega kyaa, jo chirag ban ke jalaa na ho

Kabhi din ki dhoop mein jhoom ke kabhi shab ke phool ko choom ke
Yun hi saath saath chalein sada kabhi khatm apana safar na ho

If I have a problem with the the original poetry of Bashir badr, it is that the ghazal doesn't have a suitable climax. It fails to really build on the first two brilliant couplets. However the matla' alone is enough to make it count as an all time favorite. While I simply love the Hussain Brothers' version, the same, alas, I can't say about Jagjit Singh's. He seems to have taken a beautiful love song and turned into a wailing in pain directed towards the divine. I can understand the grave personal trauma he was going through at the time when he recorded the song in 1991, but still.

For months now, I've wanted to translate the poetry. From my lame attempts in the past, you'd know my bad propensity towards doing it in rhyme. Here, then. Promise not to make fun.

Appear in my vision once, just so

Naïve eyes do not need to know

Stay with me but a night, just so

Dawn never breaks on the morrow.

Praise be to God, may He please

Bless me with a virtue so rare

Pray I might, make me forget you

He must never answer my prayer

Wrapped in my arms, one kind dream

Lies still a pale and tired moon

The stars won’t fade out just yet

Heartaches won’t fall asleep so soon

Together, or far apart, your thought

Like incense, on my mind 'll grow

Flourish like a blossom how can he

Burning in flame who’s yet to know?

Basked in a bright summer sun

Kissed by the night in full hue

Strolling forever hand in hand

May our odyssey ever continue

p.s. I've since managed to embed the song sung by The Hussain Brothers.

Inscription

Here. Take every adoring glance
Here. Take morning bliss
Here. Take all my favorite words since childhood
Here. Take success, albatross in flight
Here. Take the most secret ecstasy of adolescence
Here. Take love, winding road in the hills
Here. Take missives from faraway lands
Here. Take memories, gemstones threaded in sun and rain
Here. Take this hanky, transience
Here. Take promises, run of the river
Here. Take the misery of pen on paper
Here. Take my palms, a-begging reprieve
Here. Take this bust oozing liquid fire
Here. Take ambition, a midsummer night's gale
Here. Take absolutely glorious failure
Here. Take every treasure this broken casket holds
Here. Take the call of wilderness
Here. Take countless doors ajar
Here. Take all the tears the heart would hide
Here. Take freedom, release
Here. Take affection, a pool gathered in droplets
Here. Take remembrance, take oblivion
Here. Take heaven's flag

What gives ?


p.s. (With apologies to Sunil Gangopadhyay, from whose original this is an almost verbatim translation. Except for the last line, which should have literally been : "Care to give anything?" But I wanted a twist.)

p.s.2 (On a summer holiday back home, I was browsing through a decrepit bookshelf from when I was in school. There I revisited this book. It's called "In love with you, blank sheet." Again, verbatim)

p.s.3 (I haven't got one. I envy people who do)

What's the story



A stunned silence befell the blog neighborhood since I did the last post. In one short week, it has caused a sharp fall in already scanty readership, commentlessness from old faithfuls, and a general air of distaste. I admit that there was no point in digging up that item except to let forth some bad jokes. The incident has also jolted my deep-rooted belief in the saleability of sex and bad taste. So much so that I also contemplated pulling it out. But one should be reminded of past follies from time to time, so it keeps.

In the meantime, yours truly has uncharacteristically mustered enough enthusiasm to write an entry for the flash fiction contest organized by Caferati and Livejournal. It required a story to be done within five hundred words. For want of story ideas, I'd borrowed from a real life incident that took place in our city coupla years ago. To win a positive response from the caferati people who also organize the cultural festival with that name, I have cleverly named it Kala Ghoda. Without further pretext, then , here goes the story. I'd rather you read it while listening to the excellent rendition of Kali Ghori Dwar Khadi from the film Chashme Baddoor. The connection between the song and the story is like nobody's business, except both have a motorcycle in it.

Kala Ghoda

Su. Her dupatta , powder blue in cream. Ombre’. Her longish hair teased up in a simple pony. Her pearl white kurta, half a size too small. Making her look all the more curvy. Maybe she’s put on a little weight since moving here. Maybe it’s her not having to do house chores anymore. Tis Hazari court Metro Station. Noisy intersection. Almost seven. It’s getting dusky. Surekha, unsure. Still from Bijnor.

“Careful with that Dupatta, miss. Try and keep it off the wheel. Here, are we comfortable now?” RJ had sized the girl up while easing up his Pulsar to her side. Small-town, lower middle class. Enrolled in some college in the city. Possibly looking for part time employment. Lost look. Great rack. Attractive, if imperfect features. Rabi Johar the Lajpat Nagar smartypants went to work.

-Said you were waiting for somebody?

- I was meeting Pilu. Childhood friend. She’s been in Delhi for some time. She’s a model. She was to take me to South extension.

-I’m going that way only. Where in South-ex?

-I’m not sure. We were going to see one Mrs. Tandon. I have her address. She runs the Glitz model agency. She might have openings for new faces.

-So what happened to Pilu?

-She got stuck in traffic. Cell out of range. At last she called, minutes ago. Asked me to reach there on my own. She’ll be waiting. I don’t know that area well. See, I’m new in this city.

-No worries miss. You’ll be OK. What did you say your name was?

Too smooth, this guy. Was that beer in his breath? Beware the city slickers, Didi used to warn her. Evening fell rapidly around them. RJ talked nineteen to the dozen.

-Indraprastha College? Fresher, eh? Know Monica there? The cultural secretary? Good friend of mine. Tell her Rabi said hi.

Speed breakers near Sadar Bazaar. He knows how to use them. Touchy feely. Awkward blush from Su.

-I’m sorry. Bit of trouble with the brakes. You OK? Be there in fifteen minutes now. Where are you staying in Delhi?

Janpath is a lonely stretch even at this hour. RJ lets loose the throttle. They’re riding into the wind. Su keeping an uneasy hand over his shoulder. Doesn’t want a rerun of the brake incident.

-Stop! Stop your bike now!

A flash of powder blue and cream. A dupatta in flight. The breeze is strong.

They alight. Su with arms folded over her breasts. Conscious of her young body. Poor girl’s got a long way to go if she wants to be a model, RJ thought.

-Wait. I’ll fetch it.

-Thanks.

Had RJ looked back, he could’ve seen her smile. Her easy confidence as she straddled the machine. The graceful flick of her leg as she kicked. But he was busy catching a swirl of powder blue. A black pulsar faded away like distant thunder.

Where the hell is Matt were my ears?

I can't thank Bongo enough. He first brought it to my notice, via The NY Times, and Sepia Mutiny, that the video which had blown my mind away on first watch about ten days ago, and by now has been viewed five million times already, had music set on lyrics from Rabindranath tagore's poem from Gitanjali. Set to haunting music by Gary Schyman, and sung with rare verve by Palbasha Siddique, a Bangladeshi teenager out of Minnesota. Like the NY Times article says,

In many ways “Dancing” is an almost perfect piece of Internet art: it’s short, pleasingly weird and so minimal in its content that it’s open to a multitude of interpretations. It could be a little commercial for one-world feel-goodism. It could be an allegory of American foreign policy: a bumptious foreigner turning up all over the world and answering just to his own inner music. Or it could be about nothing at all — just a guy dancing.However you interpret it, you can’t watch “Dancing” for very long without feeling a little happier.

I was so happy watching the video I couldn't, or didn't bother about lyrics at all. At first watch, it sounded like something in in an obscure language, maybe Maori. The music was appropriate. I even showed it to two Bengali friends last Sunday morning, over beer. They had the same reaction. Nobody caught the words.

Bongo was curious about what the poem actually was, so I thought about looking a little more and found it was from Gitanjali. Utube has even released a version of the music with subtitles here. The number is selling wildly on Amazon too. The lyrics I will Ctrl-C Ctrl-V from here for fellow Bengalis who might be too lazy to read subtitles.

Bhulbona ar shohojete
Shei praan e mon uthbe mete
Mrittu majhe dhaka ache
je ontohin praan

Bojre tomar baje bashi
She ki shohoj gaan
Shei shurete jagbo ami

Shei jhor jeno shoi anonde
Chittobinar taare
Shotto-shundu dosh digonto
Nachao je jhonkare!

Bojre tomar baje bashi
She ki shohoj gaan
Shei shurete jagbo ami
She ki shohoj gaan.

Two things. I'm as true red a Bong as they come, though I don't readily recall that poem. Second, as many Bongs would agree, the work that got Tagore his Nobel was definitely not his best. It was like giving the Coen Brothers the Best Picture Oscar for No Country, and not for Fargo or Oh Brother, where art thou?

Wifey, of course, effortlessly took the cake. Last weekend I once went running some errands while the video was playing on the pc. She was pottering about the house and not watching. She now says she caught the words right then and it sounded vaguely like Rabindranath. I'm like, stop pheko-ing, mama!

The Tao of Ginseng

How does one receive free bars of soap, sachets of shampoo, conditioner, face wash, or fairness potions (eek, the horror!) with one's fortnightly? Not with ecstatic joy, I presume, but pleasant surprise, anyone? Thank you. I guessed as much.

Imagine now, the WTF expression on the countenance of hundreds of post-teens, freshmen and sophomores of Bengal one fine day, when the paper boy delivered their favorite vernacular spread packed with a punch. Two free caps of Revital in a sample pack.

Now, Revital in India is an OTC drug. While Ranbaxy positions it as a daily food supplement that also contains ginseng, which will help you keep sharp and active throughout the day, this med info site from Moldova says it is indicated for assorted dermatological problems. Whatever the fug it is used for, there is an underlying implication that it's got Ginseng and thus, mythical age-defying aphrodisiac properties. It may not be much in this day and age when anybody with a mail ID meets about five peddlers of cheap Viagra in the course of one working day. But old timers will still remember the early eighties when these ginseng concoctions had flooded the Indian market. Whereas these were mostly advertised with scant subtlety and a picture of coital bliss, one brand, 30-plus, had a stand-apart visual of an extremely fit Jeetendra (then 50 plus) enjoying life as a mature (read over-the-hill) gent with Simple Kapadia as arm-candy. The advert had sort of shaped our outlook towards Ginseng products, through the years. That these were meant for old foggies who otherwise can't, ahem...stand up and deliver.

Thus it came as a shock when Ananda Publishers started distributing free samples of Revital with their recent issue of Unish Kuri, a magazine targeted at teenagers and young adults. Frankly, as one Doc friend puts it, the gimmick helps promote none of the two brands. Like a fish needs a bicycle, he said. (Or, is it? Do fishes need bicycles too?)

When an editor of said magazine was contacted, she didn't seem too enthusiastic about the promotion idea herself, saying it was part of a strategic block deal between Ranbaxy and ABP. She encouraged readers' reaction to the issue. Apparently, ABP is also distributing the same sample packs with Desh, their flagship literary mag, and Anandalok, a hugely popular film fortnightly in Bengali. They have their rationale in perfect order. Since the product is a harmless dietary supplement suitable for all adults, there's no reason it should be R-rated.

In their quest to deliver to the younger populace a taste of the sharp, energetic and active life, ABP has not yet extended the offer to Anadamela. We're waiting.

Random Hurrrh

Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels. Having said that, we must acknowledge the wisdom in opting for the second best.


Thank God for handy phrases. Take the phrase ''having said that". Instantly allows you to go back on your premise. How useful is that?

By the way, I'm also mighty impressed with a Punjabi word which I've been hearing recently in a lot of songs. Some word that sounds like Hurrrh. Used once in the Singh is Kingg title (See earlier post). Now, go back to yesteryear's Mauja hi mauja. Again, lots of Hurrrh. Used with great efficacy as a resounding refrain. Makes the sound of somebody herding stray livestock. Like many a potent word, I suspect it can convey most anything under the sun. Even in this authentic qwaali by Nusrat ( singing Bulleh Shah's poetry)

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I would much appreciate it if anyone will enlighten me on the connotations of Hurrh. See, even wiki is not able to offer any help. Plus I'm encouraged by the kind of success gawker had with getting linguistic info on his blog.

In other news, the nearest theater showing Jane tu is 25 miles away, so I couldn't catch it. Saved the trouble of putting down a reaction.

Lie down and Listen

Abeeda, bless her soul, is easily one of my five most favorite singers. She of the wild headshakes and the late Fatty Ali Khan Sahab (No offense; just terms of endearment.) This blogger is completely floored by her power, style and range. Alas, it's her inimitable style, that today I'm about to make a weeny-teenie complaint on. You see, it's like this. Whenever Abeeda opens her mouth and lets forth the first notes of her song, she is in communication with divinity. It's a great thing when she's singing sufi. I mean it's overpowering. It makes an agnostic like me go into trances and have visions of a Supreme Being. Take Raqs-e-bismil.

Now consider her singing a simple song of love. She is still talking to Almighty.

Woh Jiski Deed Mei...

Don't get me wrong here, this song also is a big favorite. It's still an awesome rendition and all. It's just that whilst listening to it all these years, I had a foolish notion the poet had meant to convey delicate things about God, in those lines. Thanks to Abeeda's power singing and my proficiency in Urdu. It's only recently I've learnt , that Janab Faiz Ahmad Faiz sahab actually wrote this fine ghazal while hanging out by the wayside and ogling at the beauty queen of Sialkot as she walked by. For all we know. I wanted to translate it, but later realized that like much of great poetry, it's not about what the poet is saying but how he says it. And that, unfortunately, is impossible to translate.

Nuff chitchat. Listen to the song. Browse the lyrics, courtesy schwetank. I've included meanings of certain words and expressions. I had looked for them here and here, while attempting the translation. Thought it might come in useful for people with prolific Urdu, like me.

Woh jiski deed mein laakhoun masarratein pinhaan

Woh husn jiski tamanna mein jannat pinhaan

Masarrat: Happiness, Joy; Pinhaan: Concealed, Hidden

Hazaar fitney tah-e-paa-e-naaz khaak-e-nasheen

Har eik nigaah khumar-e-shabaab se rangeen

Tah : Plait, fold, multiplicity, perplexity; Fitnaa: Sedition, Mischief, Quarrel, Revolt, Temptation, Wickedness

Naaz : coquetry, amorous playfulness

Shabaab jis se takhaiyul pe bijliyaan barsein

Waqaar jiski rafaqat ko shokhiyaan tarsey

Shabaab: Juvenility, Youth ; taḵẖaiyul : imagination, fancy ; Waqaar : Solemnity ;

rafāqat : companionship, society, friendship ; Shokhiyaan : Coquetry, Mischief, Restlessness

Ada-e-laghzisheiy paa par qyamatein qurbaan

Bayaz-e-rukh pey sahar ki sabahatein qurbaan

Laghzish: Blunder, Lapse, Mistake, Tottering ; Bayaaz: Album, Handbook, Notebook, Vade Mecum

Sahaba : Wine, Esp. Red Wine ; Rukh : Face, Cheek, Side

Siyaah zulfoun mein badaaon sa nikhatoun ka hujoom

Taweel raatoun ki khwabeedah raahatoun ka hujoom

Siyaah :Black, Dark ; Baadaa : Booze, Wine ; Nikhat: Fragrance;

Hujoom: Assault, Attack, Crowd, Onset, Throng, Tumult ; Taweel: Extended, Lengthy, Long ;

Raahat : Quiet, rest, repose, ease, tranquillity

Woh aankh jiski banao pe khaliq dey raae

Zabaan-e-shair ko tareef kartey sharmaae

Banaao : Appearance, form, shape, colour, Adornment; ḵẖāliq : The Great Creator, the Originator

Gudaaz jism qaba jispe sajke naaz karey

Daraaz qad jisey sarw-e-sahi namaz karey

Gudaaz: Well-Mixed, Well-endowed ;Daraaz : Long, tall; Qaba: Gown, Long Coat Like Garment

Sarw : Affluent, Opulent, Rich, Wealthy; Sahi : A religious mendicant, a Mohammadan faqīr;

Kisi zamaney mein is rah-guzar sey guzraa thaa

Ba-sad guroor-o-tajammul idhar sey guzraa thaa

Tajammul : Dignity, pomp, splendour, magnificence; guroor : pride, vanity, haughtiness,

Ba-sad : by a hundred

Aur ab ye raah guzar bhi hai dilfareb-o-haseen

Hai uski khaak mein kaif-e-sharab-e-sair makeen

Dil fareb : Alluring, Beautiful, Charming, Enticing; Sair : Walk, Excursion, Stroll

Makeen : Firmly fixed; well-established;--in a high station; Kaif: exhilaration, Happiness, Intoxication, Joy

Hawa mein shokhi-e-raftaar ki adaaein hain

Faza mein narmi-e-guftaar ki sadaen hain

Fiza ; Atmosphere, Environment; guftaar : discourse, conversation ; Raftaar: Going, motion, walk, gait, pace

Shokhi : Playfulness, fun, mischief; pertness, sauciness; coquetry, wantonness

Garaz vo husn is raah ka juzu-e-manzar hai

Niyaz-e-ishq kou eik sajda gaah maiyassar hai

Garaz: An object of aim or pursuit, or of desire; aim, end, object, design, view, purpose;

Manzar: Aspect, Countenance, Landscape, Scene, Visage ; Niyaz : Petition, supplication, prayer; Mayassar: easy, feasible, practicable; favourable

Myriad Mistakes

People say that the 3 mistakes Chetan Bhagat has made in his life are the three novellas he's written. On my part, I think that these people are jealous and unkind, to the point of being rude. I don't wholly subscribe to their school of opinion. For starters, as financially viable ventures, they have all handsomely paid off. In the process, he's also making India read like never before (this, a gem of a coinage by m/s Penguin India, instantly puts him on the same kind of a pedestal as a certain Dr. Radhakrishnan, a Gokhale or a Vidyasagar.) Yessir, In his life, Mr. Bhagat has done good, despite all the jealousy, and he's merrily dedicated his book to "My Country, which called me back." He's still keeping his day job, through when does he make time to visit office in between all the book promotion tours and reading sessions is anybody's guess. In short, his life so far reads like an utterly improbable balancing act, brilliantly pulled.

So, what gives?

You know, it's difficult to put a finger to it. Unfortunately there's no better way to put it than say that it just doesn't feel right. It's like watching Arnold do a drag show time and again. It's obvious Mr. Bhagat has Bollywood aspirations. All he wants to play to is his college student readership. All he wants to write for is a mainstream Indie film. He even drops names of his Bolly friends in Acknowledgements. There's nothing essentially wrong with that. One only wishes that with his kind of education and his capacity for lucid prose in an undergrad vocab (a rare trait in an MBA, who has been trained to jargonise and obfuscate.. but I digress), he should try and scratch the surface a little, put up a little classier act, and kind of do an Sabrina Dhawan instead of a Vijay Krishna Acharya, if that's the allegory I want. But there, that's his one undoing. He seems fixated on kitsch.

Let's look at Chetan's other strength. He has the ability to structure a compounded story with multiple characters woven around real life surroundings and sometimes, incidents. His first born, mostly autobiographical, had hit home with its freshness and cadence. His second, just to cash on his debut success, was born out of second hard research and third hand influences, noticeably of Hollywood flicks. The effect showed. You can't produce a halfway decent novel out of some idea that struck you upon watching Bruce Almighty. Perversely, this again sold. So, by the time of his third release, Mr.Bhagat had developed some very annoying habits. Even though much of his storytelling is still in the autobiographical mode, he will needlessly start and end his story in first person, encounter a protagonist, and try to stitch it all into his real life. Every story will also have a happy ending, fuck probability and likelihood. Every story will have a drawn out climax which reads like more a screenplay than a book. (In fact, this time around, the finale, y'know, the felling of Kans mama with a cricket ball, was so graphic, it evoked visions of an Ekta Kapoor serial. It cried for that same zoom in, zoom out, pan right, pan left, then go negative and back to color...treatment.) To make things worse, now and then, in between workaday storytelling, he will throw in some profundity which is the written equivalent of a ceetee bajao piece of dialogue. Sample this :

A very good friend is a dangerous category with Indian girls. From here you can either make fast progress. Or, if you play it wrong, you go down to the lowest category invented by Indian women ever..the rakhi brother.

In my humble opinion, this time around, Chetan had bargained with too big a landscape to go with his inane storyline. If there is one part of India which has seen the most action during the last decade, it is Gujarat. If he had to keep in frame that time, and those events, he should not have dealt in such shallow sentiments.
Two: by the time he was shaping up for Godhra, the whole ruse of his plot had fallen into a predictability trap. Which is not a good thing for a novel which has a purported USP of pace, twists, and turns.
And three, if he is writing about a child cricket prodigy and his abilities, he has to be a little convincing in his cricket commentary. I mean, "the medium pace ball rose high on the bounce and smash! another six," or, " Ali spun as if in a dance and connected-six!" just don't cut it.

Source and Source