A Lotus in the Swamp

An invitation that inspired a journey

As the auto- rickshaw see – sawed over the innumerable pot –holes

Finally coming to a halt at a township where people were stacked like sardines in a tin

Buildings stacked like bakery shop sandwitches

Racks of floors spread across to fit 17 of those tins

My eyes rolled over those stacked buldings in the left and right

And at the road divider that made the division evident.

My intuition pictured a virtual map and guided me to the destination

Then there were these invisble vibrations, repelling me from not going to one of the houses on the other side of the divider

I became a clockwork man to my intuition, And I Manuvered my way to the entrance,

Dodging over the random heaps of polythene.

The tins were noisy, quite contrary to the way they were disciplined in every rack

An then a door opened with a smile

A smile with an aura, a refuge from the filth people were surrounded with.

I entered a room of a man with basic needs

Faith, knowledge, rest and travel

A wanderer

Who trusts his imagination inspired by printed letters, not by spoon fed plasma screens

Who exahales experiences like the throttle of his royal enfield

Who makes you realise that it’s not the size of the house, but the belief that gives a man the warmth and security which he desires.

And you question yourself,

What makes a man?

Does he carve the environment or does the environment carve him?

We blame the upbringing, but

If his individuality permeates and gets manipulated by the guild where he belongs or rather where he is forced to live

There would have never been

A lotus in the swamp

Sunday ka Tadka

so the Sunday .... man it can been more eventful than this
Stared off with a call from hamza saying there's a musician by the name Kavita Seth who desperately wants to fill the rhythm section for their shooting for 'UTV Bindass Music ka Tadka' show (the same one which Coshish went for almost a month back). I told Hamza it's not gonna happen as in i dont play impromptu without any rehearsals. he mailed me few of her tracks and i was taken aback by her voice. Her voice is what can be categoriesed as 'Bulandh awaaz' with deep low tones and mid ranges. i worked on my basslines while listening to her compositions and was armed with my own compositions for the day.

We were supposed to reach at 5 30 which was the scheduled timing for the Kavita seth's troupe to hit on stage. the moment i reached the place it was heavy with percussive beats of reknowed percussionist Tafiq Qureshi and the kneaded melody created by Ravi Chary on Sitar. and i knew my day is gnna go good and it has already become eventful. so we met with Kavitaji's troupe and greeted them with fake smiles to cover up the feeling of being the weakest link on today's performance. hamza already had written Kavita's compositions in an algorithm, and i as usual didn't study for the exam :(

There was a good vibe of camaraderie in the air so i could feel comfortable and all the more confident. Draped in maroon kurta which was gifted by the 'haat delhi kyuti'. We hit the stage and twas time for setup. Then i heard a sound, a rustic sound of vintage instrument, takes to back to the era of the mughals and the Persians. An instrument that goes by the name Rabab, built like an alien spaceship with 4 strings to strum and the bunch of thin strings to create vibrance in the tones and resonance. Played by Chintuji who has been exploring the instrument for the last 15 years. i was convinced that today's performance will render hapiness into the Sufi souls.

And thus the first original compostion was been played and recorded on the Canon EOS DSLR's and what was before a bunch of session musicians now sounded like a 'band'. and we (hamza and I i.e.) made sure we dont end up being misfits among them as well. The 'Bulandh awaaz' still sounded like how it sounded on the earphones and i was truly tripping. The sufi themed song ' yaar mera gaar mera' was customised to infuse with the rustic reverberating rabab. The band was taking it's own sweet time and it gobbled up the night and seeped into the 'graveyard shift'. the session came to and end with soulful 'khuda wohi hai' and the energetic 'Sanam ab dil'. During the break me hamza and chintuji were jamming and the blues was 'high fiving' with the Sufi compostions. An impromptu jam carved itself into the composition and Kavita herself admitted reaching a state of trance. The song came to an end was and invited by a thunder of claps from the crew members and other performing artists. Kavitaji was truly happy with effort by 'half Coshish' members.

Up next was 'Rabani brothers', three khan brothers from musicals lineage who were so eccentric that they'd alaap hindustani classical ragaas during free time. Claiming they created shockwaves at their session on MTV Coke Studio. I was requested by the production incharge Chanakya Chaterjee to play bass for them as they couldn't bring their own session musicians. And since i was the only 'bassy' in the perimeter, and the room was heavy with humble requests from both the production people and the 'Alaapers'. Hamza had to bid goodbye has he had a long way back home.

I agreed and was looking forward to their rehearsals. I'd admit these 'Alaapers' were finicky. They expected us to be 'Raagafied' and caliberated so much that they always mutter to themselves "nahi maza nahi aa raha yaar" after every chunk of rehearsing. Twas a hostile situation and me with the bunch of other 'in-house' musicians felt restrained. Some how we all got on stage and tried to gel and hold on the other musicians and making sure to have minimal communication with the 'Rabani'. i'd admit the ambigious raagas of theirs could easily be dissected into western scales and the confidence held my hand again. Accompanied by guitar maestro Ravi Iyer. We also made a Reggae version 'Damadum mast kalandar'. and my overworked body was suddenly grooving. Inspite of the 'Alaapers' forgetting the lyrics and humming and retaking the song, the groove kept me going and it all came to and end at sunrise (7 am that means more than 12 hours). the 6 stringer baby was hanging on my faitgued shoulder for more than 10 hours. Whoa! that's quite a rush.

and finally Suyash from the production team and a good friend of mine pooled with me on the cab back home and i crashed into the 'monday' bed. Sorry corporati i aint working for you this monday.

Backyard hills

Swimming through the sheets of green fields
strokes complimenting the trumpet rhythms of 'toots and maytals'
the 'reggae' trek prepares to render
the hill greets me with a smile
riddled in liquid dust
I wave to the
human fins propelling in the pond
approaching the gargantuan's navel
winds shifts the dust trajectory
transforming, thus I soak in welcome showers
weak rocks give away
while the mud cemented ones volunteer a boost
spidering over the grinning rocks
walking along the natural caves
dried water reservoir affirms
the ruins of a civilization
perhaps ancient ..
a sight
wraith like sculpture in polished white
contrasting the pastel surroundings
park my sneakers
now soles caressed by wet earth
as i touch the marble feet
faith enlightens.. fear subdued
turn around..
faraway scrapers like tombstones from...
the materialistic cemetary
PANIC written in epitaph
Tear taps still firmly wound
Rejuvenated..
observing the tornado of swallow birds
communicating in their elliptical paths
disoriented peace
wet mud stuck to the second skin
a testimony ... to a beautiful experience

snake walk path beckons again
god descends from the smiling hills

triumphant breath

a place that jived a tornado
under the heap of debris
a gleam in gray
shivering in the cold
still breathing a steady rhythm
a faint smile of innocence
triumphant one
He picks up the baby
and the little one makes an involuntary wrap around his neck
As if it was meant to happen
mocking the ravaged den with her smile
the God's little one...
triumphant one

Angels from Vrindavan

Instruments of gods disrupts the cacophony of crows
dry leaves from bamboo shoots tempted to welcome the musicians
Acoustics rode the chariots of wind
and i breathe in deep
for the air carrying the divine sound
blesses my breath pipe
progressive patterns mock the still breeze
fingers tiptoes on the chiselled melody
webbed in the matrix of talas, reaped by the percussions
strings knead the wood thus weaving a magical ambience
draped in white

angels from vrindavan
shone in the rising sun

Dreamreel cogwheels

The dry purple leafs succumb to welcome the visitor
for his attempt turns futile to rattle the gigantic tree trunk
the mojo fruits sway
held at the tip of the slender branches
the visitor
slave to the experience the fruit will yield
Now the fruit loosens its grip n freefalls on the being
teeth digs on the textures
allowing citric juices to rendezvous with the pheromones
as the being lays on volatile pastel shades of grass
view of the sky sports a purple tint
the cloud intimately mounts on the beacon of amour
eclipsing the sun, inspiring a silhouette
shining in the nascent light
sheets of lust bubblewraps both
Entwined, in spiritual and physical embrace
spirits guides the involuntary sway

As the Dreamreel climaxes, the cogwheels creak counter-clockwise
Rewind :)

snowflakes of ashes

Feet ascend the dingy stairs
if my aural sense could be seen
the visibility is null
i touch those frigid fingers, possessed in cold
devoid of warmth of the soul
mind rolls back to the memories
her expression of love can be gauged by the spoons of sugar
that aided the creation of super sweetened chai
the memories roll like 'sunday family' flicks
It's said when you age
when the bodyclock reaches the threshold of maturity
the mind goes backwards
her medium of communication roamed unexplored territories
only the toddler could understand her feelings
the kid reigned where everyone failed
as she shares a secret conversation
the frequencies which can never meet our rational minds
now the infant tries to reach out to her again but the signals turn dry
held on the shoulders of four
she prepares for the final journey
Enrobed in the heap of damp woods
the flame now pierces through...
the bones which are laminated in the layer of shrivelled skin
tears of remorse trickles down the eye
remorse of time depriving me with her
when she needed us the most

the air is now consumed in the snowflakes of ashes