Fishing

Thanks for those who read this

DRUMZ say something new:)
rozaiaba will you edit the next piece?
sammi moucho gracias!...as for the rapid-fire ‘quote’…your point is taken…at one point I did consider it…and it was impactful…but it added many words to an already long piece…
P-Z…perhaps you should give it another go another time
Jawahara very kind words
shandy…finally?;)
Ferzi not entirely…(This is stream of consciousness…)….i’d like to think this is more of a blend…your other comments were thoughtful…and when am not spread so thin would look at them again;)
saman…but you did not mention how you reacted…
hoosp hunh?

rgds & lve

t

Saminsha

What are your favourite Paul Celan and Pablo Neruda poems?

And what is the umbilical connection between these poets and Robert Frost and Stanley Kunitz that so surprises you that I am not familiar with their work?

``He once very eloquently captured the laments of the writer.``

Is this brilliant or what??

Shakespeare must be crying out loud!!!

...Hairaan hoon dil ko piton yea kaa Roeoon jigr ko main.

“t, finally i feel we are on the same road.”

Ah, the perfect couple...holding hands...hop-scotching on a concrete road with potholes...where the cement-trees virtually sprung by the road-side...hehe...and the apples hung from the cement-trees like big marbles...t took a bite and half his teeth broke (but, hey, look at the bright side, he’s now qualified to play Ice Hockey...on a concrete rink)...the miserable couple...holding hands...hop-scotching...on a concrete road with potholes...


“This is stream of consciousness”

No, this is a stream of unconsciousness...naked in a whirlpool, passed out on cheap whiskey, delusions taken as profundity!

pz,

What is your fav Celan or Neruda poem?

t,
Was transported back to my literature class discussing Joyce, Faulkner...stream of consciousness...

Saminasha

Thanks for the references. But I fail to understand why I reading Celan and Neruda would have made me familiar with Robert Frost and Stanley Kunitz.

Temporal:
This is stream of consciousness, but did not like the idea of you stating about its possibility. The ‘sculpture’ does not wonder what the ‘sculptor’ has made of it…

It is clear that you have attempted an inside-outside mental/emotional jugglery and are dealing with several questions of existence. This ‘movement’ is interesting.

However, a few thoughts…

At points the ignoring of the use of prefixes seems less stylistic or conversational and more a case of deliberate obfuscation.

There are also times when you teeter between past and present in one sentence and singular and plural…

Occasionally, you have overstated what could do wonderfully if you had left them bone dry. E.g.: “he lack of any expression on his face, the blank utterly devoid of life look was something that left an indelible mark on me”…
“Here was this fellow who was obviously alive but oblivious to life. Any zest for living was missing from his demeanor…

I did not understand what some phrases were trying to convey: “from mystic to mysterious”, “And then there is the unbridled chasm between reality and logic bridged by words. Celestial lubrication.” (ref to context?); re. “oasis of cacophony” are you being ironic? For the peace and quiet you seek would be the oasis, the cacophony would not.

I do not want a response to these specifics, as they are points I noticed, personal observations. I am a firm believer of creating in isolation. And the voices in my head are far more dispersed and disorganized, so I understand!

In sum, I will use your own quote to describe this piece: “It is intriguing how one of these passing thoughts later becomes a catalyst towards something profound and subtle.”

Love,
F

PS: “Know what I would be doing when this hibernation is over.” No, you don’t…so here is a gentle reminder ;)

t,

finally i feel we are on the same road.

shandana

World of Difference

Taimur…I hope you get your visa for India….you are going to Jullundhur?….well I hope you will get to see more of India…while Amritsar and Lahore are barely 40 clicks separate they are a world apart!….read on:)

“Sirji will you take our picture?” a college student asked me. He handed me his camera when I nodded. There were seven of them, They wanted a picture with the Golden Temple in the background. It was an early December morning and the sun was attempting to break through the clouds and the morning fog.

I took off my back pack and the heavy camera bag and rearranged the group, instructing them to pose properly in the group, while checking them out through the view-finder from different angles. This took a few minutes of cajoling and coaxing. When I was ready I took three pictures with their cameras.

Then I asked one of them to take our picture. The young man took his time and took our photograph. That picture turned out to be one of the better ones of both of us. I have it enlarged and framed in the baithak.

We were at the tail end of our Indian tour. We had arrived at Amritsar early that morning from New Delhi, checked in our bags at the cloak room and then ordered breakfast in the station restaurant. All other passengers had left the platform by then. In the restaurant we met Henrik and Jacob. Had crossed paths with them twice in the past few weeks in Jaisalmer and Ratnagiri.

I asked them where they were heading this time. “Dharamsala, and you?”
“We are crossing Attati to Wagah this morning.”
“You are going to Pakistan?” There was just a hint of incredulity in their tone.
“Afghanistan, “ I jokingly replied.
“Good, we will see you in the newspapers.”

Touring all over India in the after math of September 11 we met foreign tourists. And Indian tourists too, a testimony to the burgeoning middle class in India. Though both the tour operators as well as State Tourism Agency officials moaned of the diminishing number of foreign tourists.

As we walked around the Darbar Sahib a kindly and elderly Sikh became our guide, pointing out the highlights. Loudspeakers broadcast the Gurbani Kirtans sung in the upper floor of the Harmandir Sahib, the inner sanctum sanctorium. The soothing verses floated over the water into the fog shrouded peace. It is as if peace and quite is willed into them by centuries of praying by the devout. (One of the things I do in any new city or country I visit is to visit the oldest house of worship there. I find the peace and calm of these mosques, temples, synagogues, mandirs, gurdwaras very invigorating, touching. And rubbing.

After the Golden Temple we stepped back into the bazaar and walked the short distance to Jallianwala Bagh. Paused and paid our respect at the eternal flame in memory of the unarmed civilian Indians who were butchered by General Dyer. There were many Indian families from Gujrat, Bengal and Chennai among other places.

It was still early in the morning but felt hungry after all that walking around. So we asked around for a clean restaurant and had the traditional sarsooN ka saag and makkai ki roti. Then we walked through one of the main bazaars to a central chowk.

It was a typical Indian bazaar scene. Narrow streets, filled with people and cars and scooters and trucks and buses. Crowded, dusty and dirty. Throngs milled about.

I told M to look around and absorb the scene very carefully. In two hours we will be across on the other side and I will ask her to compare this with that. (I had experienced this difference before but this was M’s first foray into the country).

In the Amritsar crowds, there were old and young women and children. The Young and old women were driving cars, riding scooter and bicycles and even motorbikes through the crazy Indian traffic. Women owned stalls and kiosks and thelas. School and College girls rode bicycles through the traffic.

At the square I bought two copies of the daily newspapers, the Hindustan Times, Times of India, the Hindu, Indian Express and some local papers and magazines. (the second copy was for feroz.) The Newspaper stall was managed by a retired journalist named Narang. When he saw the newspaper purchase he enquired if we were heading across the divide. And was kind enough to arrange our transportation to the border.

At the border we were the only travelers. The border was closed to local traffic. As we entered the customs hall the coolies asked us to wait. Finally a custom officer emerged, took our passports and disappeared across the road, Half an hour later, he returned and examined our luggage. Picking on some Cuban cigars he wanted to levy duty on it. I asked to see the Superintendent. A petite South Indian Lady with ear to ear smile came in and was introduced to us as the Asst. Collector. She listened to the Custom officer and turning to me said I would have to pay the duty. I pointed out that the cigars were rolled in Cuba, and I had brought them into India and now am taking them out of India, therefore there was no logic in paying any duty or ‘export’ levies. She understood, smiled and let us go. Simple as that!

We walked through the no-man’s land into the Islamic Republic. The rangers and the custom officers were sunning themselves in the foggy afternoon sun. After the passport check they wanted to examine our luggage.

The Custom Officers, two of them, blatantly asked for money for chai. M and I exchanged glances. We were now officially in the Islamic Republic. Later as we left the check post there was a lone taxi cab. Asked him to take us to the town. Rs. 1500. Knowing the distance I balked. He would not budge. This was highway robbery. I looked up and saw a local bus. I walked over and asked the driver if he would take us and our bags. Sure if you pay for them. So we made it into Lahore in a public bus.

The Conductor asked M “aap oodhar chalay ja’aiN,” pointing to the cage separating the driver and the front section to the rest of the bus. “Yeh tO pinjra hay, hum yaheeN baithaiNgay.”

There were only two other passengers. So the Conductor shook his head and resigned.

Now for the first twenty thirty minutes into the Islamic Republic, we saw a lot of people. And traffic. But no women. Even in the center of the town across from the Lahore Railway Station, at what must have been rush hour, there were paltry few women to be seen. But that is not the main thing one noticed. There were no woman driving a scooter or motorcycle or even car not to mention bicycles. Later on we saw lots of women driving cars. Maybe we were in the worng end of the town. No woman behind any stall or thela.

And within two hours of crossing the border M confessed, ‘look at the way the men are staring at me.’

Taimur, as you make this journey in reverse, note the spectacle. People on both side of the frontiers are predominantly Punjabi speaking people. Only fifty plus years back they were the same. Today they look the same but are different...totally different!

Zina-ul-Haq induced religious stupor has flamed the latent fundamentalism and created such a wide gulf of intolerance and chasm that we accept segregation as the norm. This leads to mental and sexual depravity. We twist and bend the religious injunctions to satisfy limited interpretations and fetishes.

GO and notice these dichotomies and then share your views with us. Sorry for this long post.

Others who have commented, for now, understandably, thanks!…replies later:)

Temporal, I could see the word whirlpool in this piece. Very well done. This was like a love letter to writing....to the words, the images, the thoughts and feelings and everything else within its embrace.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez says “Life is not what one lived, but what one remembers and how one remembers it in order to recount it.”

To me that is bare essence of writing.

Rozaiba, 3

“Godot: I urge you to let me know when you have decided to grow up.”

Hang around (but I won’t hold my breath!) When times comes at Chowk for certain ehmaq clowns masquerading as serious and thoughtful people (yes, one of them is an “Ehmaq Aurat #1”!), I sure will. It’s a deal.

PunjabiZulu, 5

“Invective can be a mature and worthy mode of criticism and an enjoyable manner of engaging with the world.”

Perhaps purposely, you are circumspect, but dead right, in your comment on invectiveness, maturity, criticism, enjoyment, and engaging a bystander reader. It’s an art form.

pz,

If you`ve read Celan and Neruda, you should know who Robert Frost and Stanley Kunitz are.

Robert Frost: ``No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.`` Authentically good writing becomes a process of revelation or small epiphany for both reader and writer. Writer doesnt write with predetermined agenda and then straightjacket his/her ideas/text until it is a lifeless parrot repeating the author`s thoughts. Hopefully, a writer`s text will ``talk back`` to the writer and not be his/her slave.

Stanley Kunitz: `` A poem without secrets is dead on the page.`` This is difficult because one must walk the line between suitably mysterious and cryptic. Mysterious in the natural way that the world is mysterious. Cryptic in that only the work operates by a code that only the writer can understand. Also, good text contains an inner life that cannot be entirely explicated or pinned down; it is nuanced and independent. It moves outside of the page.

I`ll add Annie Dillard whose work I use in teaching writing: Beggining writers aspire towards building grand palaces when all they need is a serviceable shack. T Bhai has understood this in his piece.

Life without passion...is the life of a living robot `destined to play his part` waiting for the batteries to run out!!

word-worker...amsterdam reference...don`t know about writers generally but Chowk does seem more and more like a showcase :) ironic indeed..but atleast you don`t have to spend the standard 50 Euros to appreciate the works!

The indian example is ironic too..for you with a `foreign` passport could travel all over India with ease whereas the divided families in Indo-Pak can`t even get together on deaths and marriages.. so near yet so far!!! [trying to attend a friend`s wedding in Jalandhar..but thanks to my green passport even with all the documentation and connections I have had to spend three long mornings outside the Indian High Commission..only to finally have my passport deposited with the IHC today till God knows when!!...but you should have seen the girl whose mother had died over the weekend in UP and the IHC gave her a date in June for an `interview`!! and the `samjhota express` had only a few dozen passengers yesterday...for there are no more visa holders!]

anyways...

rozaiba

Invective can be a mature and worthy mode of criticism and an enjoyable manner of engaging with the world.

temporal

Some nice moments but then there are some things about your writing that seem deliberately obtuse. At the same time, that could be ascribed to my mental idleness at this moment and laziness in engaging with your work. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

Saminasha

~~As you know, according to Frost and Kunitz, a higher compliment does not exist~~

I dont even know who Frost and Kunitz are. Who are they and what did they say?