More Difficult.

Seeing what is right in front is easier

Believing in it, is more difficult

To memorize the names, is easier

Forgetting most of them, is more difficult

Feeling the presence of someone is easier

To be that presence, is more difficult

Walking on predicted trail is easier

Traversing a prolonged distance, is more difficult

Falling in love impulsively is easier

Re-living that very moment, every moment, is more difficult. 

This poem is dedicated to the market on route 9, near Hadley post office, Amherst. When I reached Amherst, the first question I asked is, where can I get mustard oil. It was so difficult to find that in Whole foods, Walmart or in any other grocery store. Salma and I got to know that there is some market on route 9 where we can get that. We boarded on the bus and reached Northampton. We called the store and asked the directions. The lady said that we have crossed the market, so we kept walking in the opposite direction. W passed the Connecticut river and again I called at the store, the lady asked us to stand right there and wait. She came to pick us up and took us to the store. That store was everything that I was missing about India. From Pani Puris to Sambhar, from Bournvita to Mehendi cones, what not. And that soothing music in the background. Not only Indian, it had Turkish delights, South-east Asian food ingredients like bamboo shoots, Thai curry powder, etc. That was the world for us. We would visit that shop every weekend and carry loads of things for our house. Sometimes, I used to visit that store just to be there, to eat jalebis and remember my times in India. I could get Rohu, as well as a scaling machine to peel that Rohu fish. I could get my chutneys for the Dahi vada, I could get everything. There was also another store - Casablanca. We could get Halal meat from Casablanca for Salma, and keema too. That's how we made Kababs. I was so very attached with this market that I called the owners of the International food market for dinner. Rita had come with some home grown mangoes and she told me how she enjoys running this store. How she finds that joy on everybody's faces when they get what they want.She would try hard to know exactly what they wanted, she would ask you to describe it. One time, I was looking for Coriander leaves and she asked me to describe it. I somehow tried and she exclaimed, "cilantro"! 

Market carries a social life, where you interact with people, where you create a niche for yourself, to indulge in that nostalgia. That market on route 9 would have my fondest memories. 

Today, I got to know that that market has been burned down. 

http://www.masslive.com/news/index.ssf/2013/10/fire_investigators_probing_bla.html

The greek word for 'return' is nostos. Algos means 'suffering'. So nostalgia is a suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. - Milan Kundera, Ignorance. 

This route used to take us to the International market. It would have our memories too. Salma's laughter and my cooking plans. 

Somewhere, it would be missing us too.

Because forgetting is more difficult.

Moth and the light.

I speak of love most of the times
I dream of it: it  must be this way
People might express in this way,
Or may be the way through which
that actor confessed.
I move from flowers to buildings,
just to find out how it should be
expressed.
Should we write?
Should we bend on knees?
Do what?
In the middle of this
ethnographical research,
I found out
(Of course, to my surprise.)
That the most beautiful love story
Is so short that
It can never be written
Never be expressed.

These days.

These days,
a seed is scared of the soil
what if it makes me grow?
And then restricts
my growth just before
I reach close to the birth
of the leaves

This seed is scared of water
It feels that may be
I'll just bloom into a plant
and then this water turns
to a diminishing fire on me

"Nothing can be predicted."
The seed mutters a soliloquy,
"These days,
even the tongue has to be
scared of the teeth."

Voice

I hear a thousand voices

in one familiar voice

If there's a collection 

of human archives,

it indeed is our voice

we speak of the unspoken

or of spoken pasts

that has become a cliche

Intonations and pitches

make us discover people

and invent their emotions

sometimes in the art of imitation

sometimes in unknown deliberation

Your voice could remind 

somebody of Dashrath's promise

It could imitate Shakuntala's pain

Your voice can certainly

become some musician's delight

It could raise thunderstorms

or it could burn everything

with the permutation and 

combination of certain notes

You never know

what it could have done

what it has actually done

You delve in your own ears

when you should actually

delve into somebody's voice!

~Nishpriha

I have plucked your voice

and put them on my ears

just like a pair of earrings~Gulzar

Typing, Stereo.

"If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself that you're not poet enough to call forth its riches; for the creator, there's no poverty."~ Rilke

We always try to uncover the science behind everything but we miss out on the present that walks with that thing. All we are usually interested in, is what makes this? Or what will it become? These two poles separate us from the present that lies in the midway. The path is so very beautiful that it acts like an entity on it's own. But we usually don't care. Our judgements tend towards how it started. Also, we take pride in the fact that we could predict the future. Our present becomes just an action of prediction, removed from the action.

When I see people around, I see that even the everyday life of a human being has become an act of prediction. If I eat this, will it help my body? Does this juice contain enough multivitamins I need? That glass of some liquid (I choose not to name it because the one who drinks it sometimes doesn't even bother about it) is gulped down in some seconds with a proud countenance that some time has been saved in not thinking about the kind of liquid that was gulped down. Things are usually kept ready. Food, table, clothes, emails, templates etc. All we really need to do is~ just predict. (This prediction is also based on what has been already predicted by the stereotypical predictors) 

The worst kinds are those who never experience, or don't even know how it started but they predict. Most of these are based on their conventional thought processes and on the borrowed stereotyped notions. It never fails to amaze me how the brains of these people work. I have this turn off button in me when I see people jumping to the traditional set up. For example, I agree when people crib or complain about the mindset of people who are inclined towards only one form of society/culture. 

"They just don't know! They are not aware about these sitcoms Grey's Anatomy, Big Bang Theory and so many other funny things." 

I have heard these complaints. I talk about all these things with these people, including their Iron Maiden, Metallica and the Guns and Roses stuffs. It's not that I get bored or something. But I wonder that if I wanted to talk about Ghalib, Gulzar, Farida Khannum, Bharat ek Khoj, would they be interested? I have had negative experiences in the latter ones. People have limited their own mindset and stopped relishing almost everything. You don't think and relish. You relish and think about it. 

Grass usually is green beneath your foot. Just cut the weed of your own thought process and see how it pleases you!

यूँ भी सोचा जाए

यूँ भी सोचा जाए :

शब्दों में भरती है स्याही 

हमारे सोच की कलम 

हरे रंग में भर दिए जाते हैं 

कुछ चहकते पत्ते 

इठलाती चाल में जैसे 

रख दिए जाते हैं पानी के पैर 

सुगंध में सराबोर कर दिए जाते हैं 

मोगरे के फूल 

नीले रंग को उछाल उछाल कर 

बना दिया जाता है आकाश 

आवाज़ के घर में 

एक नन्हा सा दिल 

और भावनाओं के चादर पे 

सुला दिया जाता है इंसान 

उसकी सिलवटें बन जाती है 

ज़िन्दगी...

एक गिलहरी, जिस में भर दिया गया मेरा हाथ! 

Spectrum :)

"I am going to seriously kill you all if you don't go away."
Usually, I don't get the element of anger in me but during the festival of Holi, one can see that on my cheerful disposition. I have always hated Holi, I felt that on that day, suddenly, I was affected by OCD and went berserk. Nobody was allowed in my room, even at home or in the hostel. I used to lock it and kept lot of snacks in case people are standing outside with their armor of colors. I wondered why people enjoyed it when it is all about getting dirtier and crazy? 

I waited in the bathroom for three hours in the hostel so as to not get colored and wet. I would use my acrobatic skills when people threw water from the small hole above the door of the bathroom. My pitch would suddenly gain energy and I would curse all who tried to break my meditation. That's how my Holis have been, since ages. The meditation day, the cursing soliloquy and the scared soul.

This year, I decided to move to my uncle's place for rescue. I couldn't trust the neighbors for their enthusiastic behavior on festivals. A day ago, as I was going on the street, somebody threw a balloon and I shouted on the top of my voice, "This is not the day you can do what you want. Nonsense. Stupid fellow, Holi is tomorrow."

The moment I came unscathed, I rushed to my uncle's place. I had taken a couple of old clothes, if needed in the urgent cases. Next morning, I told everyone about my fears. My sweet little cousin said that he would just throw a little of water and some dry eco-friendly colors. I agreed. 

Well, it didn't stop at those convincing materials. It increased to what not.  We went to so many relatives, getting dirtier, bedraggled and what not. I was reduced to some strange looking street urchin who has been looking for food since ages or something like that. We were taken to the lawn, lots of clay was rolled on our faces and hair. We certainly looked like someone who has either rescued people with great difficulty or some stupid kids. 

Who would have thought that I would love this experience. But I actually did. I gave me the feeling of liberty. To enjoy every bit. To enjoy in everything. There are days when you have to actually forget about the sophistication on your face and embrace the colors. 

It is only when the sunlight enters the dark clouds, we see the spectrum. One has to let the heart warmen up and experience the spectrum within. :)

And I missed the golden gate! :)

"I list your gifts in this creation:

Pen, paper, ink and inspiration.."

Music and Literature have been always the similes/metaphors for me, or for that matter~ all the Arts. And that's why when I read An Equal Music by Vikram Seth, I fell in love with it, right at that moment. There were other reasons too, like my favorite people loving that book, so this was an add on factor. 

I actually ran across the works of Bach, Beethoven and those German magicians who made western classical seem great for me. Symphony number 9 has definitely been included in my daily chores, like when I cook, when I eat, when I read, this has to go on. But the credit certainly goes to Vikram Seth. He made me love Viola, the musical notes~do re mi fa so la ti :)
But above all, I fell in love with the way he understood a woman's heart, her vulnerability. 

Today, I met him. I saw him read his poems, oh the charm! Thanks to Penguin India for organizing the Spring Fever event. The way he read his poems, reminded me of Dylan's "The years shall run like rabbits" in Before Sunrise. He has an amazing sense of humor and I was mesmerized by his voice. He answered every question in a poetic manner, rhyming impromptu. One of them asked him, what should be the key element to become a good writer/poet. He smiled and said, 
"Well poor bird she should have known.
That song must be your own"

He did quote Frost, which was of course so very apt for that moment~ "All the fun's in how you say a thing."

I had grabbed my copy so as to get his signature on the very first page of "An Equal Music". The queue was indeed too long and it took me an hour to get that. But then, I kept myself busy by talking to the fellow passengers of the queue. We had to write our names on a small note so that he writes for us. I had written in Caps, Nishpriha. After sometime, I was playing with my pen and so some words came into my mind. 

I wrote on the same note, 
"Well, this was a little long to wait
But your signature was a bait."

I moment my turn came, I stood there smiling in front of him, thinking he will read it. But he didn't and I didn't say anything either. He wrote my name and I was about to go. Suddenly, he saw it and laughed. He tore that page and said, "I am going to keep this Nishpriha." and I smiled as an affirmative gesture. He said, "And you missed the golden gate"
ha ha, a laughter from me and a reply, "Oh Alas, but now that is my fate" :)
Again, he said, "This is going to be in my pocket!" and he kept it right there! I can't describe how elated I felt. 

This was indeed one of the happiest moments of my life. March, you're still on. Whosoever warned about the Ides of March should also know how wonderful March can be sometimes. (I definitely meant "A lot of times)

Lest we forget how fragile we are.

It is around  five in the evening, I just got out of vivax malaria and I wonder how to figure out things. New place, new office, new work and I have to manage everything. I take things in a funny way, unique things happen to unique people. God has been always planning for me, to get me to the best.

I get an email from my supervisor that my apartment mate, Salma Khan, is going to arrive at six in the morning. I usually get annoyed when I think of getting up early in the morning, but this time, I was definitely excited. She would be with me for the whole year. As usual, I start imagining. Sometimes, I do that only by the name, even if I haven't seen the picture, I imagine what the person could be like, how he/she would look like, what might interest him/her. Two things- either I am stereotypical or that I am a person with crazy imaginations. Whatever that may be, let's just move forward with the story. I imagined Salma. How she could be. May be a very shy girl, who has got more equipments than me to survive in Amherst. May be she knows how to put on make up. May be she has loads of luggage. (I had three big bags for that matter, so I assumed Salma would have probably four)

I wear shorts and a t-shirt, thinking that might create an impression that I exercise a lot, can carry all those bags easily, help her out and make things easier for her. I wonder would she be comfortable, would she talk? (she being so shy, in my imagination)

Anyways,

136,Sunset Ave, Amherst

I put an alarm of 5:50 am, but the usual habit of snooze never goes away. I get up at around 6:15, hurriedly running from the top floor. I reach downstairs, tip toeing so that no one wakes up. I see a beautiful tall girl in a t-shirt and pants. She looks so very beautiful, plaited long hair, thick eyebrows like mine, and a sweet smile. Okay, now I am nervous. All my imaginations have failed me. I just ask, "Salma?" (Other grammatical items like "are" "you" are missing) She says yes, hugs me and asks me "how are you?"(She didn't miss any) I smile and ask about her luggage. She tells me," no luggage."

Already nervous, I say, "No, I mean your luggage for Amherst."
She says again, "No luggage, this is all I have got." ( and she directs her eyes towards a small bag that she has in her hands)

That's so very small, that can be used to keep some toiletries, may be. I am already amazed by the carefree person she is.

I take her to her room. Show her the place and ask her about her trip and all.
She's too good. She traveled from Lahore to Amherst with a handbag, no laptop, no big bags,nothing. God, how?

Our deck, where we sipped coffee and talked nonsense

She has been the craziest girl I have ever come across. She asks me if I have something to eat. I direct towards the refrigerator with my index finger, as if I have no ability to speak. This happens to me when I am awestruck. I either speak a lot, become speechless or I laugh. I did the second one when I met her. There was some Daal I had made the night before. she had it with the bread. No rice, no paratha. God, wow! she's just amazing. Darwin would have loved her adaptability!

This was my sweetheart, Salma Khan.

One of the craziest persons I have ever come across. I used to hate the fact that I am not punctual,love sleeping but she gave me strength to carry on with my vices further. She would run on the street 136 and comb her hair along with it. Sometimes, she would sip tea from the flask and tie her shoelaces to go to the office.

Our way to Umass, where she tied her shoelaces :D

She used to hate if some guy would hit on me. She would protect me from those evil eyes. I remember one time, I was taking something from Umass dining and she saw some guy hitting on me, like trying to talk to me, or to join the same queue. She immediately took my hand and said, let's go somewhere else, like Antonio's. I was like, why? Later, she told me that some guy was hitting on me. I laughed and laughed for hours. I said, may be you misinterpreted. She said, nope. She was just too protective.

She loved the way I danced, the way I dressed up in a saree. She would ask me to do that for her and then she showered me with compliments. Of course, who doesn't like all this :)

I would cook for her all the time.

It's morning and the first thing I do is ask her, "what would you like for dinner?"
She would look at many things and tell me about one. Like, Dahi vada, Potato pastas, egg curry, Daal Makhani, Paninis, lasagnia, paratha bhurji and what not. She used to clean everything and I used to cook.

There are so many such stories. They make us. That's how we were.

She used to read Quran for me and say these lines often- Chapter 95, Verse number 4:
Laqad Khalaq-na al-insana fee ahsani taqweemin

(We have indeed created man in the best of moulds/stature.)

I miss her for everything.To talk about my crushes, what should I do and all that. I miss her.

God could have been a little considerate.

"On and on the rain will fall
like tears from the star
How fragile we are.." (~Sting, Fragile)


Happy Birthday Salma!


मुझसे मिलना फिराक का मिलना 

आप किनको नसीब होते हैं 

आप जिनके करीब होते हैं 

वो बड़े खुशनसीब होते हैं! 

  

Metamorphosis

Metamorphosis~

There are no sequences

No planned interventions either

There are these sporadic moments

you forget

How they landed up together

How it all happened

You go back

connect the dots

It actually completes the picture

Oh no, not complete

It makes the picture

You go along

sometimes in a crazy street

full of people

you sip some tea

You learn about each other's habits

in that crowd

you still learn about each other

Sometimes, you just laugh

on a joke that was meant

only to relish as a laughter 

that moment

later, you give a blush

instead of a laughter

the joke turns into 

a binding conversation

the metamorphosis of moments

the metamorphosis of emotions

all change

and make a complete you

You never know 

what could have made it

Or what it will become

A little interaction

could be for a lifetime

and a lifetime could be

Just 

A little interaction.

~Nishpriha

At Ghalib ki Haveli, Ballimaran, Delhi

(It started with metamorphosis at the top, became me at the end)

Letters to Salma :) (1)

They say you wouldn't come back ever. They say you've left us. Whom gods love, die young and all such sort of things.
Well you do know that I don't believe in all this. I have been saying these to people but it's hard Salma. Somedays, I feel you're playing a prank. That you will be back with me soon, skyping, commenting on my facebook status, messaging me, gossiping. The initial 15 days were tough to live, I shouted on top of my voice, Salma..Salma..No one answered. Later on, I realized that you did. Only that I couldn't hear then.

You have been working wonders for me. Yes, Salma, March 2013 has been the best month ever. I know you have been somehow sending me your love. I am receiving it. Every time I have a question, I close my eyes and ask, "what should I do Salma?" and you answer me right then. How did you know what I need? You have been making my birthday month the best. The loveliest of all. The way this month started, I blushed with happiness :) You know all the stories, I don't need to tell you. Right?

The theme of this month will be of course, Yellow. Your favorite. The way you used to say, "Yellow will bring an amazing fellow!" My wardrobe will be covered with shades of yellow, Mummy too sent me yellow dress as a birthday gift!

An year back,
around the same time.. I went to the Hampshire mall with you to buy heels for my birthday party.
"Well, these are amazing, but way too expensive Salma. Let's go home."
After I went home, you know what happened. I craved for the same. All night dreaming how I would look like in them. Usual reaction~" Salma. let's go tomorrow and buy them."
"Alright Nish, as you say." (By the way, I preferred only you calling me Nish)
Next day, at the Mall,
"I like the black ones as well the pink ones too, which one should I pick?"
"get both of them."
"Are you crazy? nope nope."

She went to try on something else while I was busy deciding.
After a moment,
"I got them both for you as your birthday present. Now don't ask for anything." (*wink*)

Huggsss her.

She was my sister, more than a sister perhaps. Writing notes on our dining table everyday. "take care Nish.. Love you"

She has been whispering this in my ears these days.

Otherwise, I wonder if there's any other reason that this birthday month had a great start, and it's getting better and better.

The reason must be you, yes Salma you :)

This is our first picture together, in Boston, near the Charles river. You renamed it from some .jpeg to strangers hahaha.jpeg. It is still with the same name. I am never going to change it. Nor this, neither your favorite Clam Chowder. You will be always with me. With your thousands of pictures and memories.

By the way, you have got a lot of letters from people around the world. I am going to compile it soon and send it.

Love
~Nishpriha

Neruda on Valentine's day :)

If you forget me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. 

~ Pablo Neruda

Before Sunset

What is there in a name?
That which we call as rose,
By any other name it would smell as sweet.

It has been very difficult for me to relate myself with this quote. Sometimes, I felt I have a name, therefore I am. And there were also times when I felt- I am, therefore I have a name. Descartes would have said the same if he had been at my place.

From kindergarten to Post-graduation, the first question was- what, can you spell it for me? Everyone found it so very difficult that they doubted if I could at least pronounce it. Some have also told me that I am very lucky to have no lisping or spoonerism effects even after having lived with this name for almost twenty four years! So much so, that when I got acquainted with people, they would ask me, do you have a nick name? Or can we shorten it? I generally didn't liked the idea. Whenever they tried to do that, I felt as if my height has been shortened or as if I had been robbed. So, I refused to come up with any ideas regarding my name. Witty people tried to put it this way- "How about a pen name?", I said,"Well, Parker or Pierre Cardin suits me!" A really good friend came up with the idea of naming me  Niche. I liked it a lot, but a little fearful that people might not think it is transliterated from Hindi and think I am downstairs. Anyways, it gives me a Nietzsche kind of a feeling.

Then there were days, when I literally hated the fact that people mis-spelt my name. People are so very conventional and stereotypical, even with names. aaaah! May be the sound "ya" at the end of a girl's name is common so they would usually say "Nishpriya". In my tenth grade, I did think of changing my name to this, at least I wouldn't be miss-pronounced, oops I meant mis-pronounced (Even the pun doesn't work in my case). Then, I moved forward with my relationship but it got tougher and tougher. College days were much tougher,more papers you see. I asked one of the registrars to find my identification card and she said, "What's your name?"
(Oh no, there she goes!) "hmmm, Nishpriha."
"Okay, give me two minutes, I will find it for you."
(Wow! she's amazing, got my name at one go.)
"sorry Miss Neha, we don't have it."
(too quick to judge)

Then, I had variants, or to say Apbhramsha in Hindi. People never got fed up of naming me. If anywhere I heard Priya, Nisha, Nishu, my ears tended to raise and be a little alert. It could be me. The best are by my folks. They love my name as much as I do so they never thought of changing it. But you know, not pronouncing correctly comes with the package. They would call me Nis-piriha, nisapriha. or something like that. But thankfully, it was never changed to those crazy nicknames which have their lasting presence, especially when you don't want to get embarrassed. Nicknames like Gudiya, buchi, baua, all these sort of remained away from me. Yes, some people called me Nishi and that was pretty good for me, because they said that this is their password. Now, if they had set my name as their password, they would have never been able to access their accounts or any such things. My name has those mischievous traits, you know~ to take to a wrong letter.

Then, the curious sorts. In all my interviews, meetings, conferences, the first thing they asked was- "What does it mean?" I had this so much on my tips that I could say it anytime. It definitely became ornamental at one point of time and so whenever I met people, I would say, do you know what my name means? and then they had to bear with it out of courtesy!

I still live with the same name, some letters here, some letters there.

Your name
just your name exists;
could there be
a better poem?
~ Gulzar