For those who don’t know: Sawai Gandharva is a music festival started by Pt. Bhimsen Joshi as a dedication to his guru – Sawai Gandharva. It’s now a 56 year old tradition. The greatest of musicians perform here. The genre is purely Indian classical. About 15000 people attend the festival every year, but it could be much more. The festival has grown to be larger than life. It’s also interesting to hear the conversations of people around you, they know their artists and talk about their idiosyncracies, they also know their music. It’s an experience worth taking and revisiting.

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Thank you A & H for introducing me to this.

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While there, i wrote a few music scapes. Haven’t edited them much. So execuse the mistakes.

Here they are:

During the performance of the brothers Rajan & Sajan Mishra (vocals)

The casual droning of the tanpura muffles the voices of a soulless melody that emanates from the heart and reaches the Fingertips.
God lets man supersede him at times. Reluctance of being a man falls apart. Bit by bit it becomes the beats of a tabla. Accompanying the tanpura they leave the man they occupy. They become what lesser mortals will never be.
Ants – They Crawl over what remains, releasing a sigh that grows into a moan. A moan that slowly grows wings and flies. And in its flight it meets another bird, another bird that’s emanated from dead skin, a hint of desperation and a rhetoric gone mad.
Together they fliy over a sea, a sea that has been thirsty for years. They are the bashirs of a never ending rain. But it is still far – the droplets will take their own time to come. For now there is only hope. But unlike before, this hope comes with a promise. The birds Slowly land on to the parched land. And wait in peace.
For only when war is over, will man see who he really is.
The rain will come.

During the performance of the brothers Rajan & Sajan Mishra (vocals)

The dust gathers dust
It’s been a while since someone has even been here
Centuries may be
Seth was last seen here
May be this is what he saw
And decided to be the progenitor of mankind
He too had seen hatred
brother killing brother
He Foresaw The bleakness
he also foresaw the beauty
A Beauty that
Even Methusaleh couldn’t have managed to see in all his llfetime
A beauty that would need at least a billion lives
And yet
The eyes would be hungry
The ears unsatiated
He would have to risk a hundred  Kanes
Killing a billion Ables
For the few SethS
Who would assimilate this beauty
And use it
To recreate paradise
The few Seths who would die a billion times
And a hundred More…
And Survive..

During the performance of Ronu Muzumdar (flautist)

The bird soars high
Slowly but surely
Sure of  What it’s doing
Sure of the eventuality
Sure of its proximity to the sun
Sure of its descent
Sure Of its eXtraordinary fate
UnKnowing of the outcome
the higher it flies
The lonelier the illusion
The emptier the arena
What it seeks?
A desert  in the sKY
For its death is foretold
But its life still a mystery

During the performance of Pandit Jasraj (vocals)

An opening in the sky
A ray of light passes through
Banished from the Kingdom
It seeks to find a meaning
A meaning so ordinary
So simple
That
The puzzle is solved
But what mystifies the man whose eye it enters is the need for demystification
Thus the puzzle is passed on
Only its form changes
an incessant cooing of the cuckoo catches the man’s ear
In an attempt  to find the beholder
The ray of light leaves his eyes.
It travels thru the branches of a tree
Who embraces its very being and breaks it into a million pieces
Thus the puzzle prospers
It blooms and bears pollen
Travels on the back of a bee
And discovers honey
For what it thinks is sweet death
Is but humiliation
A theft of freedom
It desires to break free once again
It counts a million moments
And then jumps into a cup reluctantly
Trying to enjoy its freedom between two cages
The last it remembers is hot water flowing over it and the gentle aroma of camomille
Which picks its burnt soul
And rises
And resuscitates it
The awakening-
The cloud opens up…
An angry demeanor hides the wisdom
And lets A ray escape
Another puzzle bears wings
A potter awaits,
the clay is wet …

It doesn’t seem like 3 years and the group in a way has experienced everything that a group of people does. But it’s still alive. 9 almost strangers came together and the only thing that bonded them together was writing.

Amongst us we cover the four corners of India and amongst us we have traveled to various parts of the world. We are largely an underground group but surface once in a while. Last weekend we surfaced at the Prithvi Cafe, showcasing some of our writings in an interesting manner.

Personally for me, it was a great privilege to be in the lap of Prithvi Theatre, not as an audience but as an artist. To talk to people about writing, share my writing, and try to sell it. I met a number of interesting people – from beautiful women who asked me to write poems for them to playwrights who expressed the possibility of working together. I discussed my fascination with the moon with a girl whose folks could never understand her fascination for the moon. Yes, one waits for conversations like that. I spoke to Dharini about how we could do this for a living. It didn’t feel real.

I am someone who procastinates till the last moment. I was rescued by my friends – Dahlia, Haribabu, Boy, Chandni & Neha, who not only helped me get my stuff ready by working all through Friday till early Saturday but stood like pillars when we faced a mini crisis. And amidst all this they would push me to do interesting things. The standards were raised and I for a while felt like the protagonist of a Hollywood sports movie, who literally rises from nowhere.

The days of the sale I felt numb. I wanted to feel happy and elated but I knew I had to wait for the event to get over to truly experience the elation at peace. It’s almost 3 days post the event and I am finally writing this post. I do feel the elation and a sense of achievement. But more than that I feel fulfilled that I was at Prithvi and I called myself a writer. It needs guts to stand in that mosque and call yourself a believer. Saturday morning  I spoke to Sanjana Kapoor as some things needed to be sorted out and I was curbing my excitement of talking to a lady that I have admired for a long time. She is a wonderful person – exceptionally wise and reasonable. I have seen Shashi Kapoor many a times at Prithvi and have whenever I smiled at him have always got one in return. It’s easy to fall in love with such people.

For the garage sale, we had put up many interesting pieces for sale. One of the things we had come up with was a poetry jhola, which consisted of poetry written by us. It was only thing that people could not pay and take away with them. For people to draw out a poem, they had to drop a 5 Rs coin in a jar. If they didn’t like the poem they could have the coin back. I would love it when people would draw out poems again and again.

The poetry jhola is still with me. I have kidnapped Dharini’s bag which is serving as the jhola. But I didn’t have the heart to separate the poems from it. I think they are comfortable in there. On an idle evening, it will be great to sit with a glass of wine and draw random poetry from it and read.

In your little world of giants
Life is still simple

I will try to be your friend
I hope to be nothing else
When you are little older
I will treat you to cold coffees
And ice creams

I can’t warn you enough
Of what’s going to come
All I can tell you is -
Life is happening right now
And no one even knows

Sometimes I won’t make any sense
I am wired like that
Sometimes U won’t make any sense
Don’t get too upset
I will still hear you out

See the mornings, take the Vitamin D
Sleep as much as you can
Sleep by the window at nights
And get to know the moon
He is our friend

Don’t lock yourself behind doors
Don’t ever hide your face
And I will tell you a secret
There is a God
And it loves to sing

Welcome kiddo, welcome to the world
It’s not such a bad place
And you make it a little better
Make yourself at home
In my arms

I have not done anything so far,
But I promise – when i go -
to leave you a better world

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On another note – Wordpress has turned 5 years old. Happy Birthday Wordpress, you are older than Nano, be a good brother to her.

i make it a beautiful place
for your children to live in.
in my dreams.

i am so sleepy
it’s not funny
i sleep at night
to make the world more sunny
i will sleep in the day too
if u give me some whisky
or rum

and don’t ever ever
show me the deadly cup of kapi
my greatest enemy
the world will be awake
and everything dead

i am the sleepy man
i will save the world for you
if you let me sleep

you thought i was obnoxious

and today,
when i drank darjeeling tea
from my cup at ccd
a few drops of the potion
fell on my hands.

i could smell your memory

i am still obnoxious, you know,
i rubbed the tea bag on my palms
and smelled them for a while

I couldn’t find a dove today,
She must be waiting for me,
I didn’t send her my love today.
Upon the street a fool man walks,
Too drunk with his foolish talks,
He didn’t drop his line today,
He’s running low on wine today.

Hey Kitkat, hang in, don’t throw your shoes
They are green and they beat the blues.

Monday morning comes like flamingos,
A tad too late to celebrate,
A tad too early, to count our woes,
I can wait you know, I really can,
I drink beer, I drink beer,
I eat the beach, I drink the sea,
And when they flash at me, I take a tan.

Wait dear boy, it’s not yet over.
The last song of hope -
Here, catch this rope, and sire,
Don’t struggle, it’s not the sea, it’s the mire.

Hi there, I am a hug seller.
I sell hugs, one for one rupee,
After the 2nd the third is free.
(I know there’s a better deal.)
But I can’t kiss you know, my lips are burnt,
It’s a tragic story, that I can’t tell,
Let’s just say, you have to earn the kiss,
The roasted kiss that I can’t sell.

Two little birds on a tree.
One says hello, one says hi,
One bakes me a word filled pie.

Fill my glass, with wine you jerk.
Did I call you a jerk, you jerk?
There is something awfully wrong about me,
I can hear the music, but I cannot see,
The winds are changing you know,
Changing for good, you old pile of wood.
And when the wind changes,
I will drink my wine with a straw, you jerk.

Sidd boy, I crossed the Ganges, the dirty Ganges,
They fucked her bad you know, I couldn’t save her.
I am running away, I can’t save anyone, anymore.
Let me go.

The music, it has stopped. And I am ready to cry.
Almost ready, like – almost famous.
But my tears have to wait a bit.
It’s just the hiatus, no fucking shit.
Who cares for the king’s permission anymore?

Don’t drop dead on me, my friend,
Here hold my hand, lead the way.
We are just two blind men wearing thongs,
Making crude remarks, singing lewd songs,
You lead the way, your imagination is better than mine.

They didn’t understand me the other day,
They thought I was saying something profound,
I do not know my exact words, but it went like -
“Blah, blah, blah, something something, bullshit, bullshit,”
And then I said, “Another round.”
And then they all clapped in glee, and waited for another simile,
And they waited, because I had to pee.

I wish you Shakira my friend, I really do.
Her hips don’t lie, and so don’t I.
But she is an illusion, don’t you think?
But wtf, so are you.

Sing me another song, my friends.
I am dying slowly. The world is a one long cigarette.
And there’s hardly anything left to smoke.

Red smoke, red smoke in the air,
Open your eyes if you care,
If I have ever made you sigh,
Wave your arms and say goodbye,
I am feeling Mr Mesmer Mesmerized,
And my blood is all vaporized.
Sing me the ‘Last Song Of Hope’
As I rise into the sky.
I could have been the Christ, you know.
But I never tried.

It isn’t a metro station.
It’s a giant painting. a painting that is alive.
The trains come and go, the people change.
Sometimes it is crowded, sometimes it isn’t.
It’s a painting that allows you in,
Let’s you be a part of the landscape, And let’s you go…
When you want to.
Not me, I am not you, I am forever here.

I swim past the words, the waves, the hills, the trees.
I swim in the rivers.
I disintegrate, and integrate as words.
The sketches, they imitate my form,
They know who I am, they smile at me.

And the people, they stumble, against me,
They walk past me without recognizing who I am.
They don’t know me, they have forgotten.
I feel offended but I forgive them easily.
They ask me for directions.
Of the outside world,
But I can’t help them, I never could.

It has been years but no one’s asked
For the direction to a poem.
No one has asked.
If someone did, I could take them there,
And show them my worth.
Sigh!

But do come to Rabindra Sadan,
Pay me a visit.
I will be waiting for you.
Right across the lines that say  -

An unknown flower in a strange land speaks to the poet: “Are we not of the same soil, my lover?”

Ahh! coming back from
My short but sweet thought reverie,
I see the page to have loaded.
Yes I too can think within 3 seconds
And at most times as well as…

So what do I see?
I see that I am wrong,
Rather not wrong
But someone has already got there.
Got there to the thought
Faster than me,
May be ages ago,
May be minutes.
Does it matter?

So I ask a question
to the open chat window -
What is this world so full of care?
Ehh, no! what am I saying?
I rather tell her my woes.
The woes of a man whose idea has been
thought by someone else.
Someone else,
Who has gently deposited
His semen in the idea pool
And he now lets it germinate there,
And not care for my legacy.

She tells me,
(the girl in chat window)
Sweet little person she is,
Says good things to me.
(Most times.)
She says, “well it means…
that u hv good ideas,
that’s why other people are working
on them.”

I agree… (profound isn’t it?)
But then again
I think,
(yes you can laugh now,
i am the joke)
That these ideas i think
If they are small enough to be on google
But not big enough to be heard otherwise,
Then they are really just useless ones.
“But then if you would have heard
of what u would think,
then it wouldn’t be ur idea, would it?”
(says the wise little chat window)
I contemplate…
and understand the viciousity of it all
And declare…
Everything that has to be thought
has already been thunked.
(has this too?)
I dread searching anymore….

i wanted to cry
but the desert was dry,
way too dry for any leaf to grow,
but the thorns didn’t prick
and the sun didn’t wane.

Kismat is a devilish woman,
she sometimes comes and seduces the man,
and he leaves his virgin bride, mamma,
leaves her but takes her pleasures away.

mamma, the other day,
a beggar woman was asking for alms,
she asked not for money, not for food,
she asked for medicines, mamma,
her child was suffering from tubercolosis,
i gave her medicines,
i did right, mamma, didn’t I?

i have lost something in the desert, mamma,
I need to go back again….

I see many shadows lurking around,
Left behind by people who came and left.

The shadows have a society of their own,
They entice my shadow to join them.

But my shadow can’t relate to them,
The bohemian shadow prefers its own company.

I thought, I had lost the key to this room,
But then I remember this room never had doors.

A lonely bulb hangs in one corner,
The yellow lights are on the verge of extinction.

Soon the authorities will take the yellow bulb away,
And replace it with a less hungrier one.

I wonder what will happen of the shadows then,
White light makes them dull.

I wonder why I have come here,
May be it is a search of some kind.

I don’t know if I will find what I am looking for
But coming back was a journey itself.

A journey much easier than I thought,
I feel comfortable here.

Will you come to my room my friend?
But do not get your shadow along.

I will be here, waiting, demystifying these shadows,
And enlightening my life.