Nov 7, 2011

Ok Tata Bye-Bye

What is it about the 'rangrez' and sufi music influences?
Increasingly I come acros songs invoking the Rangrez or The Dyeing Artist.
'Kun Faya Kun' mentions the rangrez, 'Rangrez mere' takes it to another level comparing the dyer to God. The song sequence ends with the leading lady wearing dove white and wandering around amongst dyer's work stalls and all around her are multicoloured dupattas in various stages of the dyeing process. The accompanying vocals meanwhile confer various roles to the 'Rangrez' - killer, friend, judge, master, god, etc.

From all the old numbers that I can remember, only one song comes to mind that has a mention of the 'rangrez'. Inhi Logon Ne from Pakeezah.
Humri na maano, rangrajva se poocho, jisne gulabi rang dee na dupatta mera.
The only character out of the 3( the merchant, dyer and soldier) who did not demean her virtue by putting a price on it or snatching it away from her.

Quite an unexplored character, this Rangrez. Loads of potential. Only hitch being that dyeing is restricted to a few small towns in the North of this country and slowly more and more from the Rangrez caste are turning to other lucrative professions like auto-driving and ironing clothes.

In a dupatta-less age of skin show, the Rangrez makes an unobtrusive exit from the society. Time for poetry to immortalize him.

Sep 30, 2011

The Orchid and the Dumpling

They are both fair and soft.
One rested in a narrow glass vase,
slender and fragile, she looked.
My wine drenched rim
barely making it midway up her length.
There she is,
turned away and upwards.
The gentleman absently fingers her smooth skin
whilst impatiently talking on the phone.
His roughly calloused fingers
impatiently plucking at her immaculate delicacy.
Does it hurt her?
The man's wine suffused breath hangs like a cloud over our thoughts.
Sure, we are inanimate, but we are not vacuous.
The other lies lies soft and yielding on a plate.
Chubby to a fault, but smooth to touch.
Smoothness all around.
Shiny where the steam in an effort to escape
has surrendered to her arresting flesh.
She evokes lust.
One look at her and you want to poke her
dig into her flesh and know what that feels like.
She offers herself to your lustful enquiry
your all devouring interrogation.
She will mingle happily with the wine droplets
and satisfy the man till he wants no more.
They are both fair and soft and satisfactory.

Jul 3, 2011

The day job

I listen.
You and your ideas.
Your reasons, for choosing
Cambria 14 over Calibri 12.
I nod, vigorously, seriously even.
Vow to vouchsafe 'client's comfort'.
My mind snickering at the phrase,
unbidden thoughts of Asian girls in brothels.
The crispness of the presentation,
the lucidity of explanations,
I listen, I do.

At the back of mind,
(yes, my mind is not tiny as you make it out to be)
I am not thinking.
Of you or your client.

Just like the widest of camera vision
cannot capture what the corner of your eye sees.
The eye sees what is shown to it,
but the corner, my dear, the corner
sees something unconnected to the scene.
Rebellious, no?

I think of mountains,
a cabin made of stones stacked up together,
a notebook and chai,
freezing temperatures and the warmth that ensues.
The mind churns out ideas for a story,
it is like bits of candy floss,
drifting in a fair ground.

I smile.
At my thoughts.
Those ones at the back of my mind.

And you think that I smirk.
In disapproval.
Of your fonts and slides.
Of your colours and plans.

Jun 24, 2011

Oxymoron 1

Those who die young,
live longer.

Mar 19, 2011

Taxiing for take-off

How and what does one write ? How do people write copiously? How come there are so many books published? How come there are so many stories told? Sometimes I feel all the stories have been told and then I read a tale retold so well that it seems like a new story after all.
I thought travel gives your pen wings, it doesn't. If your ink don't run on a page now, all the wandering won't help it.
Sometimes there is just no way to tell a story.
I wander, I see, I imbibe yet I cannot tell it to anyone. Cursed. Bound by some unknown pact to keep all the stories bubbling inside secret. I couldn't tell it if I wanted to.

Writers, I think, are just people who have broken their word and outed the secrets.

Curse them all.

Anyway, something melodious and uplifting for those who have wandered here on to this page. Just turn right and click.