The spiral is a spiritualised circle...

quoth Nabokov. In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, unwound, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free, he said.The meditative eye can look at any object and find an entire cosmos in it. The artistic problem, as Aldous Huxley pinpoints, is to produce diaphanousness in spots, selecting the spots so as to reveal only the most humanly significant of distant vistas behind the near familiar object.

He sought spiritual nebulae and Mozart's music in the smell of roast duck. I, less ambitious, looked at Calla lilies in S's garden and thought of Noel Harrison!

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain
Or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel thats turning
Running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Like a tunnel that you follow
To a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern
Where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving
In a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble
Someone tosses in a stream
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping
Past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple
Whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly?
Was it something that you said?
Lovers walk along a shore
And leave their footprints in the sand
Is the sound of distant drumming
Just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway
And the fragment of a song
Half-remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over
You were suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning
To the colour of her hair

Like a circle in a spiral
Like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning
On an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind
Like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind

A divine ecstasy, an inexpressible delirium of joy.

That is how I would describe the evening that went by yesterday. Yesterday, I heard my favourite poet in person, in a building I love (though I often say rude things about it!

उठाये फिरते थे एहसान दिल का सीने पर
ले तेरे कदमों पे ये क़र्ज़ भी उतार चले

This morning, a friend asked me: "So, how did it go? Did you get his autograph? Did you click a picture of yourself with him? What did you say to him?" I told her "The answer is: it was wonderful. No and no and nothing!"


I ask you. What do you do when you suddenly find yourself in the same room as someone whose words you cherish beyond life.
Whose poetry courses through you like that other red substance.
Whose songs are.... in his own words... "तेरे बगैर दिन न जला, तेरे बगैर शब् न बुझे"!
Do you tell him,"I love your poetry. It has lightened many a dark moment in my life". Can you reveal to him that all that he's written about feels as though it has really happened to you and that when you finished reading what he wrote, it belongs to you and to you alone: the good, the bad, the rapture, the torment, the bliss?
Do you ask him: "What inspires you?"
Do you inquire if he had lunch and whether it was to his liking?
Do you demand to know how he met and became friends with Meena Kumari and how did he chance upon her poetry?
How do you pry into his politics?
Do you implore him to share the true nature of his relationship with Raakhee, his former wife, friend, permanent muse? Do you quiz him on how love dies, and yet friendship remains?
Do you beseech him to explain his love for "mojris"?
Do you probe into his signature quirky phrases which push the frontier of language, which hop and skip from Urdu to Punjabi to Hindustani to English, much as dragon-flies skip on the surface of a still lake?
Do you grill him on who this new young person in his life is, to whom he so laughingly refers in his poems?



With Gulzar, every question seems an intrusion. The man wears an aura every bit as shiny white as his trademark crisp white kurtas. To pose questions would be, in some way, to sully this purity. The peace that he carries within cannot but percolate to the lovers of his poetry. Each one seems struck as silent by his presence as I am!!!

नज़्म उलझी हुई है सीने में
मिसरे अटके हुए हैं होठों पर
उड़ते फिरते हैं तितलियों की तरह
लफ्ज़ कागज़ पे बैठते ही नहीं
कब से बैठा हूँ मैं, जानम
सादे कागज़ पे लिखके नाम तेरा

बस तेरा नाम ही मुकम्मल है
इससे बेहतर भी नज़्म क्या होगी...

What would you ask for?

This was the question that one of my favourite bloggers, asked in her blog "My Topography".

It got me thinking, for I've always had a problem with asking for things. For some reason, I grew up quite deficient in a sense of entitlement - from my family, the man I loved, my friends, even from God. As a result of this not knowing what to ask for, I often settled for what I got. I do not blame the givers, for more often than not, they were unclear about what I wanted! This happened partly from my failure to articulate my "wants" and partly, because I myself did not know what I wanted!!!

But now that I'm older, have lived a life of my own making and one that resulted from choices I made - good and bad - I realise it's a good thing to ask for what you want! I am reminded of those cheesy (but fanstastically true) lines from the film "Om Shanti Om" "कहते हैं कि ...... अगर किसी चीज़ को दिल से चाहो तो पूरी कायनात उसे तुमसे मिलाने की कोशिश में लग जाती है ." (Rough translation: if you want something from your heart (i.e., really badly), the entire universe conspires to get that thing for you)

Here is my list:

• Two to three years more in Shimla.
  
• Good health for all my loved ones: family and friends.
  
• Books of Sophie Hannah's poetry.
• A reunion with the my classmates of KV, Srinagar.
  
• A Tamron AF57N-700 72E SP90MM 1:1 Macro Lens.
• A book of my Shimla photographs.
  
• A pissup at Shimla with the WT girls.
• More travels. And still more travels.
  

For all that I already have, I am grateful to whoever it is that's up there.

Dance until the earth dance!

A weekend afternoon. G & I set off for a walk towards the Mall in a bid to beat post-prandial coma. An unexpected treat awaits us at the amphitheatre outside Gaiety. A group of musicians is tuning its instruments. Then another group trips out lightly. These are dancers from Chamba, announces an officious little gentleman in the biggest sun-glasses you ever saw.

The dance begins.

Initially, the rhythm is gentle. The song speaks of a courtship. A boy offers a girl a flower, then the moon and finally, his life! She is flippant and shy, by turns.
The drums beat a little faster. The cadence picks up. Then, there are pauses in the movement. Together, the boy and the girl declare they desire to visit Shimla! She calls him "my gun"! He compares her to a flower! The jollity, it seems, is interspersed by a sort of spiritual elevation. As the tempo rises, feet move faster. Colours are a whirl.




The dance imparts an affirmation of life. It energises you, the spectator, with the vigour, the humour, the wonder, the enigma that life is. This is poetry with arms and legs. This is a revelation of the mystery of music, with the added advantage of being human and therefore, so much more palpable.


The music in the dancers' soul spills on to the audience....

What's bugging me?

I went walking in the forest of Sheogh with G, K, S, A and little M yesterday. These are deep woods located a little outside Shimla. For a paltry fee of Rs. 200, you can go up to the little rest house owned by the Forest Department, but no further. That pleasure is restricted to the heaven-born, such as yours truly. Be warned that the guest house has no amenities except a wonderfully pink toilet. You will need to carry your own food, water and other dire necessities. My fellow explorers and I spotted a group of the well-heeled, delicately sipping wine and eating little cucumber sandwiches with their pinkies raised. I can never help marvelling over the variety of people I get to meet on the road (or, as in this case, the forest)!

But, back to my group, a truly marvellous time was had by all. This was in large measure thanks to two of our companions: A who is an expert on forestry and pointed out all sorts of interesting details about the different types of trees which grow there; and S who is a scientist and taught us more in half a day than all Botany teachers in middle school could over several years.

It's incredible how the people with whom you journey can totally alter your perception and transform your experience!

We saw many varieties of trees, plants, flowers (which will make their way into this blog soon, I'm sure). But the best of all were the bugs! I wasn't able to identify a single one, but they were all fascinating, each of a different hue, each busily collecting nectar, taking off from this leaf, landing on that petal: the whole forest buzzed with activity.


I was reminded of an Aileen Fisher poem I'd read as a child. It went like this:

Don't you think it's probable
that beetles, bugs and bees
talk about a lot of things -
you know, such things as these:

The kind of weather where they live
in jungles tall with grass,
and earthquakes in their villages
whenever people pass.

You know what was so fascinating about the fat little spider in the picture above? He was the exact same shape, size and colour of the buds of the common broom plant on which he was building his webby home. The camouflage was so perfect that one of us nearly plucked him out, thinking him to be a fat little flowerbud!

A small, speckled visitor
Wearing a crimson cape,
Brighter than a cherry,
Smaller than a grape!

This little fellow reminded me of a senior colleague: someone who is great at punching holes into just about anything that's put before her!

Ann, meet Naughty.

Ann, you asked about Naughty. So here he is. Especially for you.

Happiness, they say, is a warm puppy. I don't need to add any words to these pictures. Look at them and smile. (Naughty is an absurdly cute puppy I met recently. My friend R is his human).

Said St. Bernard, (the saint, not the dog) "Qui me amat, amet et canem meum" (Who loves me will love my dog also). Right on, Saint! Naughty laughs with his tail. His tail, possibly the most overworked limb of his body, is expressive and speaks a language of its own. He likes eating and sleeping and playing with an oversized ball, preferably with obliging humans who will kick it around for him endlessly. He's one of those dogs who, if you said something really foolish, would give you a look that said "My god, you're right, I never would've thought of that!!"

All I ask is friendship’s pleasure:

Friendship is a common belief in the same fallacies, mountebanks and hobgoblins, said a wise man once. For me, it is a tangible thing: alive and concrete, offering supports that sometimes even love has failed to provide. Could be that it weighs more merely because where love has sometimes been blind, friendship has chosen to close its eyes! Uncommon as true love is, it is clear that true friendship is even rarer.

This mention of friendship comes to mind because I am reminded of my recent visit to Sunni to catch up with my friend R. R, in turn, reminds me of those lines by Maria Wentworth: "Good to the poor, to kindred dear / To servants kind, to friendship clear / To nothing but her self severe.." By association of thoughts, I leap from musings on friendship to thoughts of R and from there to images of Sunni, the little town where she lives.

Sunni is a little taluka place about 45 kilometres from Shimla. Plenty of people visit Tattapani, but few seem to stop at Sunni which is home to a lovely architectural gem, home to R, her husband M, their cute little puppy, Naughty and her venerable father-in-law, the old Tikka-saheb.


The drive from Shimla winds past Mashobra, Baldian, Badmain and Basantpur. A river runs through it all. Now you see it. Now you don't. Mountains form boundaries of sorts. In big-brotherly fashion, Shali, the tallest of them all, towers above the rest. The road which once tried your nerves as well your bones is today almost as smooth as Hema Malini's botoxed cheeks.

Take the hairpin bend where the road says Basantpur/Tattapani, and you're on your way to Sunni. The first thing you notice is the perceptibly higher temperature. R & M like to frighten potential visitors by talking of the horrendous temperatures. For sure, Sunni is not Shimla. (And thank God for that!). It is warmer than Shimla, but not as warm as, say, Delhi, or Agra!



A walk around the town reveals a multitude of temples, almost an embarrassment of religious riches, so to speak! The visitor sees godmen of various hues and persuasions. One or two look quite dubious, given to the ways, alike, of man and mammon.

Turn another hairpin bend. Puff your way up a little slope. If you stop to wipe your brow and happen to look up, you may see this little "palace". The residents shrug in acceptance of breathless praise. Perhaps, for them familiarity has bred contempt. But to the first-time visitor, the Bhajji palace is a breath-taking sight. On an empty stomach, it has reminded me of rich, scrumptious black forest pastry! But on a serious note, I drink every quaint little detail and never tire of this droll building which, though well-embellished, is not so rococo as to sate the eye.


I lack the knowledge to comment in an informed fashion about the architectural details of the palace. Suffice it to say that I find its combination of mud, plaster and wood ideal for the local weather.

It is also home to fanciful things, here a little window with swans and lemon fruit, there a spiralling stairway that looks like a sea-shell cut in half.

The wood has aged well: you see a range of colours: terracotta, russet, tawny, auburn, chestnut, hazel, fawn and puce.

The setting sun bounces off the palace windows. But Naughty the little puppy pelts around the house, creating waves of energy that don't let you settle to some melancholic and sombre associations. This is a building where you rest your oars and humour an unusually meditative mood.

The mansion is small as palaces go (not that I've seen many!), but is larger, much much larger, than your common-or-garden urban dwelling. It takes long for the domestics to charge from the kitchen to the living area, the poor blokes must live in constant state of exhaustion!

Simplicity, as seen in the Sunni palace, has in its foundation a sort of modest refinement rarely seen in large houses these days.

This little manor is majestic without severity, impressive without being showy, emphatic in its admonitions and grand in its sheer simplicity. All is measured, mingled and varied, abundant of meaning, should you choose to seek it.

Hills of home

Name me no names for my disease,
With uninforming breath;
I tell you I am none of these,
But homesick unto death -

Homesick for the hills I had known,
For brooks that I had crossed,
Before I met flesh and bone
And followed... and was lost.

And though they break my heart at last,
Yet name no name of ills.
Say only, "Here is where he passed,
Seeking again those hills."

Witter Bynner (1881–1968)

I have heard the sunset song...

Walking on the Mall around nightfall yesterday, for some reason the sight of these streetlamps reminded me this Stephen Crane poem:

I have heard the sunset song of the birches,
A white melody in the silence,
I have seen a quarrel of the pines.
At nightfall
The little grasses have rushed by me
With the wind men.
"These things I have lived", quoth the maniac,
"Possessing only eyes and ears.
But you ---
You don green spectacles before you look at roses."

What moments divine. What rapture serene.

I live to hold communion
With all that is divine,
To feel there is a union
'Twixt Nature's heart and mine.

~ George Linnaeus Banks ~

I'm a good loser.

I have portrayed temptation as amusing.
Now he can either waver or abstain.
His is a superior kind of losing
And mine is an inferior brand of gain.

His sacrifice, his self-imposed restriction
Will get through this controversy intact
For his is a superior kind of fiction
And mine is an inferior brand of fact.

I have displayed my most attractive feature
And he his least, yet still the match seems odd
For I am a superior kind of creature
And he is an inferior brand of god

And if he cuts me off without a warning
His is the book from which I’ll take a leaf
For his is a superior kind of mourning
And ours a most inferior brand of grief.

~ Sophie Hannah ~

Hawaghar Redux

A while ago, I'd made a post about the "hawaghars" in Shimla. I've been on the lookout for these quaint structures ever since and found two.

This one's in Upper Kaithu:



This one is in Chota Shimla, just outside the gates of Strawberry Hill: