A rainy day

 

Oh, how beautiful is the rain…

Leaps the heart, beyond the sane…

 

Unfeeling and numb, I may be…

Of the world and its pain…

And the threads of life I hold…

Uncaring, cold, inhuman and vain…

Yet, this life has lots to offer…

Before it drizzles down the drain…

I do not know what drives me forth…

Is it the spirit in me…?

Or is it just the rain!?

Bulla ki jana ..

Not a believer inside the mosque, am I
Nor a pagan disciple of false rites
Not the pure amongst the impure
Neither Moses, nor the Pharoh

Bulleh! to me, I am not known

Not in the holy Vedas, am I
Nor in opium, neither in wine
Not in the drunkard`s craze
Neither awake, nor in a sleeping daze

Bulleh! to me, I am not known

In happiness nor in sorrow, am I
Neither clean, nor a filthy mire
Not from water, nor from earth
Neither fire, nor from air, is my birth

Bulleh! to me, I am not known

Not an Arab, nor Lahori
Neither Hindi, nor Nagauri
Hindu, Turk (Muslim), nor Peshawari
Nor do I live in Nadaun

Bulleh! to me, I am not known

Secrets of religion, I have not known
From Adam and Eve, I am not born
I am not the name I assume
Not in stillness, nor on the move

Bulleh! to me, I am not known

I am the first, I am the last
None other, have I ever known
I am the wisest of them all
Bulleh! do I stand alone?

Bulleh! to me, I am not known

A tribute to the great Bulle Shah, A translation of one of his works.

The Kite Runner

Picture this – I am on CMH road, Bangalore for “a bank job” rushing through to the office, hurriedly when my eyes fall upon The Kite Runner. Now, normally I don’t trust my instincts abouts books having failed on more than respectable times, but the cover picture is so simple, a boy looking from behind a wall that I give in. Standing in the queue itself, I start browsing through it.

The Kite Runner is the narrator’s tale of life and times in Afghanistan. It is the story of a young boy, Amir in happy and turbulent times. It is a story of guilt and remorse and yet somehow, Hosseini keeps it upbeat and lovable. The bond between Amir and Hassan, his hazara, is quite humane and touching. I particularly liked the understated complex nature of their relationship of master and servant and their friendship inspite of that. The characters of Ali and Baba are etched to perfection. Picturisation of life in pre-soviet Afghanistan seems fictional in our times, and yet has a personal touch to it. The twists in the tail are melodramatic and a little too swift for my taste and yet I loved the way the story unfolds, how the kite runner Hassan is tormented and yet at peace with his life, the kindred of baba towards Hassan and Ali, Amir’s life as a writer and his final plunge to free himself of guilt. Hoseinni is a master story teller and has his way with words.

A movie by the same name has also been made and I am awaiting eagerly for it.

The ground beneath her feet

And it read,

All my life, I worshiped her.

Her golden voice, her beauty’s beat.

How she made me feel, how she made me real,

And the ground beneath her feet.

And now I can’t be sure of anything,

black is white, and cold is heat.

For what I worshiped stole my love away,

it was the ground beneath her feet.

She was my ground, my favorite sound,

my country road, my city street,

my sky above, my only love,

and the ground beneath my feet.

Go lightly down your darkened way,

go lightly underground,

I ll be there another day

I won’t rest until you are found

Let me love you true, Let me rescue you

Let me lead you to where two roads meet.

O come back above, where there’s only love,

And the ground beneath your feet.

He closed the book down, a tear in his eye. It was not the ending, but for him, it was

THE END