Ruminating...

As an old year draws to a close it’s time to sit back and ruminate on how a slice of time, of a lifetime of measured time, has been allowed to slip past. I am reminded of a stanza from T. S. Elliot’s poem “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock” that runs thus…

 

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
 

And here we are, poised and looking forward to a new year – a brand new yellow fog, while the breath of the old yellow fog still lingers around us, embracing us in its reluctant brace and…
 

Seeing that it was the last of the days of a chilly December morning,
Sat up with a start, startled by its cymbal of thoughts,
Lent itself against the wall, tail in hand,
Pondering the dark alley, to slither into the gloom,
Turning its soot covered back,
To a year marred by the oddities of human nature,
Of smiling faces and bedecked bodies, but savage cores,
Of fire spewing machines, felling people,
(Don’t we too savagely fell the trees and pull food out of the seas!)
And women with wild hair and white sarees, running sailing ships aground,
And men in white caps, white silhouettes, white cavalcades,
A beatific smile on their faces to greet the faces that they meet,
Dancing a wet Monday morning pantomime,
Limbs askew, gurgled speech, paunches filled beyond belief,

And me, sitting by the doorframe, framed by the alleyway,
Seeing the smoke rising from the butt-end of each day,
And the yellow fog, burdened by human foibles,
Slithering past the darkening alleys, past the faces of stone,
Past obscenely loud TV sets, past the clinking crystalware of the rich,

And what do we presume?
Shall we treat the new yellow fog, bright with the vigour of youth,
Newly appointed with a tailored suit, with boots of leather to match the gait,
Any better than the fogs of the past? Or shall we…

Presidential Couplets.....

Sonia lay in bed and stretched and yawned,
“I need a new President”, it suddenly dawned!

“The current guy is such a thorn,
Shivraj Patil, ah! That’s why he was born!

Patil was summarily summoned,
‘You are my new President’, Sonia announced!

Patil – his jaw dropped, his eyes popped
At the Italian’s feet 6+ feet of flesh plonked!

The Opposition screamed, the Left growled
A lot of noise was generated all around!

Sonia despaired, what shittery she thought,
To prise a new name her grey cells fought!

Pranab, the name appeared out of the maze,
The lady in ruptures got out of her daze!

The new name had a much shorter life
Pranab was her trouble shooter when mischief was rife!

She couldn’t spare the guy whose shoulders bore her gun
Who would protect her if she had to run?

No, our lady did not give up,
None of her plans were ever messed up!

Who am I? was all she thought,
A ‘woman’ was the only answer she got!

Ah! there lies my salvation she exclaimed,
A woman president! A greenhorn with no name!

Quickly out went a search order,
A lady popped up from Rajasthan, on India’s border,

Pratibha Patil (yes another Patil) was her name,
She was a woman and that was her only claim to fame!

Elections were a piece of cake
Shekhawat, the competitor, realised he woke up late!

To the presidential palace the first family rolled
Who all were in tow we were never told!

The next day the mortals were treated to a spectacular show
First pictures of the first family were splashed for all to know!

The last I know, the lady threw a massive fit
Her portrait, she said, wasn’t a hit!

All government offices and embassies are in fix
Where they wonder will we get the Lady’s pix!

Till then the old President stares down from the wall
He who laughs the last, laughs the loudest after all!

Revisiting a Poet-King

I am thru with reading the ‘Last Mughal’, William Dalrymple’s latest book and needless to say, as with all of WD’s writing, I found the book to be an immensely captivating read. For me the book has been as much about the ‘Indian Mutiny’ of 1857 as it was about Bahadur Shah Zafar, the last of the great Mughals to rule this country, a reign that lasted about 350 years. God in his wisdom chose to have a sensitive and mystical person, in Bahadur Shah Zafar, to be the last flickering light of the Mughal dynasty, long shorn of its wealth and military power.

Bahadur Shah Zafar was as an extremely sensitivity person - a poet, an intellectual, a lover of arts and a religious mystic, whose biggest fallacy was his inability to take a any decision, at even the most crucial junctures, instead relying on his trusted (sic) advisors and allowing himself to be manipulated. Great leaders create history, but in Zafar’s case, he let himself become a pawn in the hands of history. He did not want to be a part to the mutiny but was instead dragged to become its commander-in-chief; he had no part in killing of the Europeans under his protection but was instead willed to be a mute spectator. The mutiny tore through his family and kingdom, ejecting him from his beloved home, city and country, to spend his remaining days in exile, in far away Rangoon (Yangon), bidding his Lord to relieve him from the burden of existence.

My real introduction to Zafar was through one his beautiful ghazals, hauntingly sung by Mohd. Rafi, one of India’s biggest singers. While WD does not attribute the ghazal to Zafar (it is popularly believed that the ghazal was written by Zafar during his captivity in Burma (Myanmar), which can’t be true since he was denied access to pen and paper) I would tend to believe (and I can be miles from the truth) that Zafar wrote this poem much before his exile when he clearly saw the writing on the wall.

Here’s the ghazal.

Lagta Nahin Hai Dil Mera Ujde Dayar Mein
Kiski Bani Hai Aalam-e-Napaidar Mein

Kehdo In Hasraton Se Kahin Aur Ja Basen
Itni Jagah Kahan Hai Dil-e-Daagdaar Mein

Umr-e-Daraz Mang Ke Laye The Chaar Din
Do Aarzoo Mein Kat Gaye Do Intezaar Mein

Itna Hai Badnaseeb "Zafar" Dafn Ke Liye
Do Gaz Zameen Bhi Na Mili Koo-e-Yaar Mein

Here’s my translation, which was difficult to do since Urdu is such a beautiful and at the same time difficult language where the same word can be interpreted in multiple ways!

This desolate land interests me no more,
(and) Who has had his say in this transient world

Let my aspirations (wishes) go find place elsewhere,
This broken heart has no room for them

Of the four day lease of life I got from Him,
Two were spent petitioning (wishing) and two waiting in anticipation

(look) How ill-fated Zafar is! Even two yards of burial ground,
Is not available in his beloved land

La Figlia Che Piange (T. S. Eliot)

The second in the series of poems by T S Eliot that I am posting. Again among one of my own personal favourites.
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La Figlia Che Piange
T. S. Eliot

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair--
Lean on a garden urn--
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair--
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise--
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.

The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock.....

T S Eliot is among my most favourite poets. I would be uploading on my blog some of his best poems that I personally love! The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock is the first among the series. With T S Eliot you got to read his poems over and over again, and with each new reading you discover a new meaning... a stanza that stands out...the masterful weaving of words...is short just cool!

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The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock (T S Eliot)

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then,
You and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.