The Marathon Runner

An eighty plus woman ran her first Marathon and received a standing ovation from the crowd. When she was asked for the motivation behind her daredevilry, she said that she had done it for her dream. When she was a little girl, she had started to play basketball but had given up soon after because not knowing the game made her feel small and inferior. That instance of giving up without even trying remained her regret throughout. Finally, she decided to learn basketball again but by that time she was too old. She had not exercised and played all her life. Everyone tried to dissuade her and said that she would end up breaking her knees or getting a heart attack. But she did not want to get afraid once more. She started jogging, and to her and everybody's surprise, survived! Running was difficult for her but she kept at it, reminding herself of how painful giving up was. She ran her first 10 km competitive run at the age of seventy-seven. This encouraged her to set higher targets. At eighty, she ran her first marathon. People started calling her 'The Running Gran.' She ran for twenty more years. She became the oldest marathon runner of the world and went down as a legend in the sporting history.

At the line of start stood
A paragon of elderlyhood
Alone in all the young she stood
Calm and ran thinking she could
Complete the tough, long run.

Complete the run she did indeed
And kept her spirits and kept her speed
Up stood in ovation the crowd frenzied
As her eighty years scurried
To the finishing line.

Later, amidst the eulogies
Many asked if she would please
Share how she in her eighties
Could run so, with such an ease!
She said, “I had my fantasies.

I was seven and a seventy
When I began my sports spree.
Warned they and I did agree
That runs would hurt my heart and knee
And death would trail me threateningly.

But you see it was a dream
To in the long run reign supreme
Over the dire lack of steam
That sixty years upstream
The young girl I had been had shown.

That girl took up basket ball
Her skill progressed at a crawl
She felt slow, dull, dumb and small
And, instead of climbing o’er the wall
She stopped playing basket ball.

I never did pick the ball again
In later years, I felt much pain
At being so craven and inane
I finally decided to play again
But now all thought I’d missed the train.

It was too late, and I was grey,
And past my prime, and my heyday
Had slouched away, with little play.
I was too old, and not fit, aye?
I started jogging anyway.

At seventy-seven for the first time
Thus I thrust myself in the grime
And sweat and strain of a lifetime.
I would be dead by the bedtime
But in my mind a voice would chime,

‘Given up too soon I’d once before-
An albatross I always bore.
That ache was more than this footsore.
This pain is that ache’s cure.
I can endure. I can endure.’

I did not die. I was not maimed.
One year later, I claimed
With pride, and with all aches tamed,
The first title that I had aimed-
The Grannies run of 10 km.

That was when I set my sight
On Marathon. I’ve won the fight.
My maiden ‘thon I ran tonight.
Ah, my delight! I say with spright
‘A sportswoman I am all right!’”

All that happened years ago
The ‘Running Gran’ kept on her toe
For twenty years with the halo
Of being the eldest to still run so.
As a legend in sports down she did go.


Japinder Gill

Shakuntala

Glossary: Hindi -> English
Ashram -> hermitage
Rishi -> sage
Baba -> father/ father-like man



Shakuntala was sitting by the door of the ashram, totally lost in thought. “That day was just like today,” she smiled. “That day too I was alone. It was the same hour. Just imagine...if today is actually like that day and he comes!” She blushed and played with her ring. Her ring which had been his before. “I say the two days are similar but how different they are! I was just a girl that day and today...I am the queen of this land! The woman who is loved by the man before whom the whole world bows! A woman! In fifteen days, I’ve become a woman! But no, silly me! What fifteen days? Just that first gaze of his was enough. Oh, how I wish today becomes that day!” She closed her eyes. “Today is that day. It really is. I can see all around. Everything is the same. The leaves are rustling gently. This slight breeze is blowing. Smell! The air has a whiff of his perfume! He is coming! Slowly, slowly, he is coming near. I can hear his footsteps- those feet that I've so longed to fall at!- but let me pretend I cannot hear them. He has seen me. He is looking at me with those love-filled eyes. He is now walking on tip-toe. There is a playful smile on his face. He is delighted at the prospect of surprising me. How handsome he looks! He has reached quite close...I open my eyes. “Oh, you came to know?” His face falls a little. I laugh. He laughs too. I am naughtier than him, he has realized. I run to him...”

“...he will forget you forever!” someone suddenly shouted somewhere. What rage there was in that voice! Shakuntala quickly opened her eyes.

In front of her was standing...Rishi...Durvasa!

How long had he been there? He looked furious! She got up and ran inside and fumbled around to fetch something to seat him on and within a moment came out with a wooden stool and placed it before him. He turned away. She came before him with a bowed head and guiltily asked if he would take water. “Stupid girl,” her mind immediately berated her. “Of course he would take water!” She scurried inside and took a tumbler, dropping two others meanwhile, poured water into it from the pot, spilled a lot of it around, wiped the outside of the tumbler with her sari and rushed out with it.

The Rishi refused it.

“Please baba, forgive me!”

Her repentance only stoked the Rishi’s fury. He strode out of the ashram. Shakuntala
was horrified. A Rishi was leaving her father’s ashram in indignation! Her father would be so embarrassed! She ran after the Rishi, pleading for his consideration. He kept walking on, his face still livid.

Not knowing what else to do, she fell at his feet and clasped them.

“Please baba, I will not let you go till you forgive me. I am sorry! I did not realize when you came.”

The Rishi tried to move on but she did not let him. He stood watching her cry, first with the same anger, then with indifference and slowly, with affection.

“Come on now, enough. Get up,” he picked her up. “It’s all right. What were you thinking about? I called you twice but you just kept sitting stubbornly, refusing to so much as open your eyes. Naturally, I felt insulted.”

Shakuntala hesitated. “Err...baba...my...err...husband...was thinking...”

“Oh,” the Rishi understood. “I cursed you for life then,” he said gravely.

Shakuntala remembered the words...“he will forget you forever!” She was filled with terror. What curse had he given?

The Rishi saw her face and felt sorry. She was like a daughter to him; he shouldn’t have lost his temper with her. “I cursed you that whoever you were thinking about at that time would forget you. I am sorry, my child, but all that I speak does come true.”

Shakuntala wailed out loudly. She had lost her husband forever! Her love had forgotten her!

“Do not worry my daughter. Nothing is lost. I bless you now that the moment your husband sees a token of love that he has given to you, he will get back all his memories of you.”

After patting Shakuntala’s head and wiping her tears, Rishi Durvasa went away.

Whenever she looked at the ring now, Shakuntala also remembered, and not with little distaste, the Rishi. She thought that it was petty of him to issue such great curses- just because he was able to- for such little crimes. “That is not how great men behave,” she told herself angrily. “They do not abuse their powers.”

No one ever agreed that Shakuntala was not to be blamed for the curse she got and that the Rishi was reproachable in any way.

A man who wanted to be great

He was only a boy when he started saying that he was a writer. He wanted others to say that he was a great writer.

He did not do too well in school. One day, when he was fourteen, his father beat him in a fit of drunken rage. He left home and never returned.

He went to Bombay and did odd jobs. At sixteen, he picked up a fight with a street gang. He was badly beaten and barely survived. Soon after, he fell in love with a girl of his neighborhood.

He worked hard to earn money. He ran away with his sweetheart because her family opposed their marriage. He married her.

He started a small business. He became a father. He became rich.

He fell out of love with his wife.

His father died. He refused to attend the funeral. A few days later, he repented, went to his lonely old mother, cried for her forgiveness and promised to come often to meet her.

He fell in love with a young girl. His wife refused to divorce him. He moved in with his girlfriend. His mistress bore him a son and a daughter.

Sometimes, he felt guilty about his absence in his eldest son’s life.

His mother died. He was surprised at his lack of tears. He tried to make himself cry but couldn't.

Close to his forty-second birthday, his doctor asked him to get tested for cancer. He underwent the tests, his heart heavy with the question, “What if?”

He was diagnosed with a rare cancer.

A month later, he shot himself.

*

In each situation of his life, he had weighed its dramatic potential. A narrative voice in his head turned the ongoing chain of events into a story. Many stories formed in his mind each day. But, he did not write them down. “I won’t be able to write it that well right now,” he would tell himself, looking at the task that he was busy with at the moment. “I will write it tomorrow and make it a great story.”

If he did start writing the next day, doubts would come in soon after. “Am I writing well enough? My story has to be outstanding!” He needed to be considered a writer at par with Tolstoy, Chekhov and Premchand. Otherwise, what was the point of writing? The world was teeming with ordinary writers who filled pages after pages that no one even bothered to look at.

He always introduced himself as a writer who was also a businessman. His primary identity was that of a writer, he believed. Sometimes- the frequency increased as the years went by- he felt hollow about calling himself a writer without having any writing to show for it.

“Don’t worry,” he would then cheer himself, “you still have time. Not every great writer started writing in his twenties!”

His restlessness became unmanageable when he turned forty. More than half his life had passed by and he had not written anything! He desperately tried to write a novel about his life so far. It would surely make an interesting read, wouldn’t it? To his shock, the first few pages that he wrote seemed no better than a boring private diary. He put them away.

There were days now when he could hardly breathe, so heavy was the burden of the wasted years on his head. He was more than forty and had written nothing that the world would remember him by. He could not look at himself in the mirror. He felt sure that everybody around laughed at him.

When he was diagnosed with cancer, he became hopeful once more. Stories of people who faced certain death with courage were always well received. He would write a book that would inspire and overwhelm people. People would salute his fortitude, he would become famous and when he died, all national newspapers would publish his obituaries. “What a way to go!” people would marvel. At least through death, he would become a great writer.

He began writing with great enthusiasm. He was thankful for his disease. A rare cancer sounded all the more glamorous. But after a few pages, he found himself thinking, “Am I writing well enough? I must! I cannot afford to go wrong now! This is my last chance!”

He could not write further. He shot himself.

A letter to my readers

Dear Readers

Thanks for dropping by! :)

Are you a non-Punjabi (like most readers of this blog) and didn't understand a word of all the poems I posted yesterday? Please do not feel excluded. Yesterday morning I discovered the transliteration link of Google and found it very easy to use. It fired me up to put the Punjabi poems and quotations I've collected over the years, online. My diary- a cheap pocketbook in use for twelve years- has long been in tatters. I had been procrastinating about salvaging my collection before the diary finally succumbed to its wear and tear. Yesterday's enthusiasm did the job. I'm not finished though, only about half-way through. So, there will be a few more Punjabi posts yet.

I can't tell you how satisfied I felt yesterday. Typing in Punjabi, taking care of the spellings, the bindis, the tippis, the adhaks, I felt the same tenderness that one must feel when they caress a baby. I caressed Punjabi words the whole day yesterday!

There is this poem by Firozdin Sharaf, a very famous Punjabi poet of the early 1900s, in which he paints an idyllic picture of Punjab. He says:

Mauj laayi daryaavaan sohni, baag zameenaan falde
Sharaf Punjabi dharti utte, thhumak thhumak paye chalde

(pronounce the 'thh' of 'thhumak' as in 'thhanda pani')

Translation:
The rivers make Punjab festive; gardens and fields flower
Their gait has a lady’s grace; Sharaf! What beauties they are!

I totally adore the words 'thhumak thhumak'. Like them, each of the poems I posted yesterday have some words, phrases or lines which always overwhelm me with a love for the sounds of Punjabi. Yes, I really, totally love my mother language and yesterday, I felt a sense of completion when I saw the 'Punjabi collection' label in my Labels-list. An important part of my identity had finally made an entry on my blog.

I plan to translate each of the Punjabi poems, idioms or sayings on my blog into English, so that my non-Punjabi readers too can partake of their delightful imagery, wisdom or wit. I will notify you as and when I do it.

Also, my dears, I will soon be moving to my own url, http://www.japindergill.com/. Now that the book is finished, I want to give undivided attention to my blog. The regular readers of this blog have seen me grow from a confused-struggling college student to a confused-struggling Software Engineer to a confused-struggling writer. Now that we have reached the stage of calling ourselves a 'writer', shouldn't our blog reflect that too? So from now on, you can expect a regular stream of short stories here, starting from Monday. Of course, I will continue to post my confusions and struggles whenever they arise- where else would I vent them? :)

So, see you on Monday now, with a new url and a fresh new story.

Take Care!

Japinder

Ajj Aakhaan Waris Shah nu

Amrita Pritam

ਅੱਜ ਆਖਾਂ ਵਾਰਿਸ ਸ਼ਾਹ ਨੂੰ, ਕਿਤੋਂ ਕਬਰਾਂ ਵਿੱਚੋਂ ਬੋਲ,
ਤੇ ਅੱਜ ਕਿਤਾਬ-ਏ-ਇਸ਼ਕ਼ ਦਾ ਕੋਈ ਅਗਲਾ ਵਰਕਾ ਫ਼ੋਲ
ਇੱਕ ਰੋਈ ਸੀ ਧੀ ਪੰਜਾਬ ਦੀ, ਤੂੰ ਲਿਖ ਲਿਖ ਮਾਰੇ ਵੈਣ,
ਅੱਜ ਲੱਖਾਂ ਧੀਆਂ ਰੋਂਦੀਆਂ, ਤੈਨੂੰ ਵਾਰਿਸ ਸ਼ਾਹ ਨੂੰ ਕਹਿਣ
ਉੱਠ ਦਰਦਮੰਦਾਂ ਦਿਆ ਦਰਦੀਆ, ਉੱਠ ਤੱਕ ਆਪਣਾ ਪੰਜਾਬ
ਅੱਜ ਬੇਲੇ ਲਾਸ਼ਾਂ ਬਿਛੀਆਂ ਤੇ ਲਹੂ ਦੀ ਭਰੀ ਚਨਾਬ
ਕਿਸੇ ਨੇ ਪੰਜਾਂ ਪਾਣੀਆਂ ਵਿੱਚ ਦਿੱਤੀ ਜ਼ਹਰ ਰਲਾ
ਤੇ ਓਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਪਾਣੀਆਂ ਧਰਤ ਨੂੰ ਦਿੱਤਾ ਪਾਣੀ ਲਾ
ਇਸ ਜ਼ਰਖੇਜ਼ ਜ਼ਮੀਨ ਦੇ ਲੂੰ ਲੂੰ ਫੁੱਟਿਆ ਜ਼ਹਰ
ਗਿੱਠ ਗਿੱਠ ਚੜ੍ਹੀਆਂ ਲਾਲੀਆਂ ਫੁੱਟ ਫੁੱਟ ਚੜ੍ਹਿਆ ਕਹਿਰ
ਵੇਹ ਵਲੀਸੀ ਵ੍ਹਾ ਫੇਰ, ਵਨ ਵਨ ਵੱਗੀ ਜਾ,
ਓਹਨੇ ਹਰ ਇੱਕ ਵੰਸ ਦੀ ਵੰਝਲੀ ਦਿੱਤੀ ਨਾਗ ਬਣਾ
ਪਹਲਾ ਡੰਗ ਮਦਾਰੀਆਂ, ਮੰਤਰ ਗਏ ਗੁਆਚ,
ਦੂਜੇ ਡੰਗ ਦੀ ਲੱਗ ਗਈ, ਜਣੇ ਖਣੇ ਨੂੰ ਲਾਗ
ਲਾਗਾਂ ਕੀਲੇ ਲੋਕ ਮੂੰਹ, ਬਸ ਫਿਰ ਡੰਗ ਹੀ ਡੰਗ,
ਪਲੋ ਪਲੀ ਪੰਜਾਬ ਦੇ, ਨੀਲੇ ਪੈ ਗਏ ਅੰਗ
ਗਲਿਓਂ ਟੁੱਟੇ ਗੀਤ ਫਿਰ, ਤਕਲਿਓਂ ਟੁੱਟੀ ਤੰਦ,
ਤ੍ਰਿੰਝਣੋਂ ਟੁੱਟੀਆਂ ਸਹੇਲੀਆਂ, ਚਰਖੜੇ ਘੂਕਰ ਬੰਦ
ਸਣੇ ਸੇਜ ਦੇ ਬੇੜੀਆਂ, ਲੁੱਡਣ ਦਿੱਤੀਆਂ ਰੋੜ੍ਹ
ਸਣੇ ਡਾਲੀਆਂ ਪੀਂਘ ਅੱਜ, ਪਿਪਲਾਂ ਦਿੱਤੀ ਤੋਰ
ਜਿੱਥੇ ਵੱਜਦੀ ਸੀ ਫ਼ੂਕ ਪਿਆਰ ਦੀ, ਵੇ ਓਹ ਵੰਝਲੀ ਗਈ ਗੁਆਚ
ਰਾਂਝੇ ਦੇ ਸਭ ਵੀਰ ਅੱਜ, ਭੁੱਲ ਗਏ ਓਹਦੀ ਜਾਚ
ਧਰਤੀ ਤੇ ਲਹੂ ਵਰਸਿਆ, ਕਬਰਾਂ ਪਈਆਂ ਚੋਣ
ਪ੍ਰੀਤ ਦੀਆਂ ਸ਼ਹਜ਼ਾਦੀਆਂ, ਅੱਜ ਵਿੱਚ ਮਜ਼ਾਰਾਂ ਰੋਣ
ਅੱਜ ਸੱਭੇ ਕੈਦੋਂ ਬਣ ਗਏ, ਹੁਸਨ ਇਸ਼ਕ਼ ਦੇ ਚੋਰ
ਅੱਜ ਕਿਥੋਂ ਲਿਆਈਏ ਲੱਭ ਕੇ ਵਾਰਿਸ ਸ਼ਾਹ ਇੱਕ ਹੋਰ
ਅੱਜ ਆਖਾਂ ਵਾਰਿਸ ਸ਼ਾਹ ਨੂੰ ਕਿਤੋਂ ਕਬਰਾਂ ਵਿੱਚੋਂ ਬੋਲ
ਤੇ ਅੱਜ ਕਿਤਾਬ-ਏ-ਇਸ਼ਕ਼ ਦਾ ਕੋਈ ਅਗਲਾ ਵਰਕਾ ਫ਼ੋਲ

My most favorite Punjabi poems

ਮਾਂ ਵਰਗਾ ਘਣਛਾਂਵਾਂ ਬੂਟਾ,
ਮੈਨੂੰ ਨਜ਼ਰ ਨਾ ਆਏ
ਲੈ ਕੇ ਜਿਸ ਤੋਂ ਛਾਂ ਉਧਾਰੀ
ਰੱਬ ਨੇ ਸੁਰਗ ਬਣਾਏ
ਬਾਕੀ ਕੁੱਲ ਦੁਨੀਆਂ ਦੇ ਬੂਟੇ
ਜੜ੍ਹ ਸੁਕਿਆਂ ਮੁਰਝਾਂਦੇ
ਐਪਰ ਫੁੱਲਾਂ ਦੇ ਮੁਰਝਾਂਦਿਆਂ
ਇਹ ਬੂਟਾ ਸੁੱਕ ਜਾਵੇ
(ਪ੍ਰੋ. ਮੋਹਨ ਸਿੰਘ)


ਭਾਵੇਂ ਮੂੰਹੋਂ ਨਾ ਕਹੀਏ ਪਰ ਵਿਚੋਂ-ਵਿਚੀ
ਖੋਏ ਤੁਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਓ, ਖੋਏ ਅਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਆਂ
ਇਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਆਜ਼ਾਦੀਆਂ ਹੱਥੋਂ ਬਰਬਾਦ ਹੋਣਾ
ਹੋਏ ਤੁਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਓ, ਹੋਏ ਅਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਆਂ
ਕੁੱਝ ਉਮੀਦ ਏ ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ ਮਿਲ ਜਾਏਗੀ
ਮੋਏ ਤੁਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਓ, ਮੋਏ ਅਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਆਂ
ਜਿਉਂਦੀ ਜਾਨ ਈ ਮੌਤ ਦੇ ਮੂੰਹ ਅੰਦਰ
ਢੋਏ ਤੁਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਓ, ਢੋਏ ਅਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਆਂ
ਜਾਗਣ ਵਾਲਿਆਂ ਰੱਜ ਕ ਲੁੱਟਿਆ ਏ
ਸੋਏ ਤੁਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਓ, ਸੋਏ ਅਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਆਂ
ਲਾਲੀ ਅੱਖੀਆਂ ਦੀ ਪਈ ਦੱਸਦੀ ਏ
ਰੋਏ ਤੁਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਓ, ਰੋਏ ਅਸੀਂ ਵੀ ਆਂ
(ਉਸਤਾਦ ਦਾਮਨ, ਦੇਸ਼ ਦੀ ਵੰਡ ਬਾਰੇ)


ਮੌਜ ਲਾਈ ਦਰਿਆਵਾਂ ਸੋਹਣੀ, ਬਾਗ ਜ਼ਮੀਨਾਂ ਫ਼ਲਦੇ
'ਸ਼ਰਫ' ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਧਰਤੀ ਉੱਤੇ, ਠੁਮਕ ਠੁਮਕ ਪਏ ਚਲਦੇ
ਸਤਲੁਜ, ਰਾਵੀ, ਜੇਹਲਮ, ਅਟਕ, ਚਨਾਬ ਨੀ ਸਈਓ !
ਸੋਹਣਾ ਦੇਸਾਂ ਅੰਦਰ ਦੇਸ ਪੰਜਾਬ ਨੀ ਸਈਓ!
(ਫ਼ਿਰੋਜ਼ਦੀਨ ਸ਼ਰਫ)


ਮਾਂ ਛਾਂ ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ ਦੇ ਨਿੱਕੜੇ ਜਹੇ ਦਿਲ ਵਿੱਚ
ਸੋਮਾ ਓਹ ਮੁਹੱਬਤਾਂ ਦਾ ਰੱਬ ਨੇ ਪਸਾਰਿਆ
ਅੱਜ ਤੀਕਣ ਜੀਹਦਾ ਕਿਸੇ ਥਾਹ ਤਲਾ ਨਹੀਂ ਲੱਭਾ
ਮਾਰ ਮਾਰ ਟੁੱਭੀਆਂ ਹੈ ਸਾਰਾ ਜੱਗ ਹਾਰਿਆ
(ਮਾਂ ਦਾ ਦਿਲ, ਫ਼ਿਰੋਜ਼ਦੀਨ ਸ਼ਰਫ)


ਇਹ ਦੁਨੀਆਂ ਨਹੀਂ ਕਮਜ਼ੋਰਾਂ ਦੀ,
ਇਹ ਜਗਤ ਨਹੀਂ ਬੀਮਾਰਾਂ ਦਾ,
ਇਹ ਰਣ ਹੈ ਵੀਰ ਬਹਾਦੁਰਾਂ ਦਾ,
ਇਹ ਪਿੜ ਹੈ ਸ਼ਾਹ ਸਵਾਰਾਂ ਦਾ
(ਅਵਤਾਰ ਸਿੰਘ ਆਜ਼ਾਦ)

ਵਾਗਾਂ ਛੱਡ ਦੇ ਹੰਝੂਆਂ ਵਾਲੀਏ ਨੀ, ਪੈਰ ਧਰਨ ਦੇ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਰਕਾਬ ਉੱਤੇ
ਮੇਰੇ ਦੇਸ਼ ਤੇ ਬਣੀ ਏ ਭੀੜ ਭਾਰੀ, ਟੁੱਟ ਪਏ ਨੇ ਵੈਰੀ ਪੰਜਾਬ ਉੱਤੇ
ਸਰੂ ਵਰਗੀ ਜਵਾਨੀ ਮੈਂ ਫੂਕਣੀ ਏ ਬਹਿ ਗਏ ਭੂੰਡ ਜੋ ਆਣ ਗੁਲਾਬ ਉੱਤੇ
(ਦੇਸ਼ ਪਿਆਰ, ਪ੍ਰੋ. ਮੋਹਨ ਸਿੰਘ)

ਇੱਕਨਾਂ ਦੇ ਘਰ ਪੁੱਤ, ਪੁੱਤਾਂ ਦੇ ਘਰ ਪੋਤਰੇ
ਇੱਕਨਾਂ ਦੇ ਘਰ ਧੀਆਂ, ਧੀਆਂ ਦੇ ਘਰ ਦੋਹਤਰੇ
ਇੱਕਨਾਂ ਦੇ ਘਰ ਇੱਕ, ਤੇ ਓਹ ਵੀ ਜਾਂਦਾ ਮਰ
ਵਜੀਦਾ ਕੌਣ ਸਾਹਿਬ ਨੂੰ ਆਖੇ, ਇਉਂ ਨਹੀਂ ਇੰਝ ਕਰ
(ਵਜੀਦ)

ਰਾਂਝਾ ਰਾਂਝਾ ਕਰਦੀ ਨੀ ਮੈਂ ਆਪੇ ਰਾਂਝਾ ਹੋਈ
ਸੱਦੋ ਨੀ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਧੀਦੋ ਰਾਂਝਾ, ਹੀਰ ਨਾ ਆਖੋ ਕੋਈ
ਰਾਂਝਾ ਮੈਂ ਵਿਚ ਮੈਂ ਰਾਂਝੇ ਵਿਚ ਹੋਰ ਖਿਆਲ ਨਾ ਕੋਈ
ਮੈਂ ਨਹੀ ਓਹ ਆਪੇ ਹੈਂ, ਆਪਣੀ ਆਪ ਕਰੇ ਦਿਲਜੋਈ
ਹੱਥ ਖੂੰਡੀ ਮੇਰੇ ਅੱਗੇ ਮੰਗੂ, ਮੋਢੇ ਭੂਰਾ ਲੋਈ
ਬੁਲ੍ਹਾ ਹੀਰ ਸਲੇਟੀ ਦੇਖੋ, ਕਿੱਥੇ ਜਾ ਖਲੋਈ
(ਦਿਲਜੋਈ= ਦਿਲਾਸਾ, ਮੰਗੂ= ਮੱਝਾਂ ਦਾ ਵੱਗ)


...to be continued.

Surjit Patar

ਏਨਾ ਹੀ ਬਹੁਤ ਹੈ ਕੀ ਮੇਰੇ ਖੂਨ ਨੇ ਰੁੱਖ ਸਿੰਜਿਆ
ਕੀ ਹੋਇਆ ਜੇ ਪੱਤਿਆਂ ਤੇ ਮੇਰਾ ਨਾਮ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੈ

ਸੜਕ ਉੱਤੇ ਡੁਲ੍ਹੇ ਹੋਏ ਉਸਦੇ ਗੱਭਰੂ ਖੂਨ 'ਚੋਂ
ਉਮਰ ਦੇ ਬਾਕੀ ਹਜ਼ਾਰਾਂ ਝਿਲਮਿਲਾਂਦੇ ਦਿਨ ਮਿਲੇ

ਮੁੱਦਤਾਂ 'ਚੋਂ ਉਸ 'ਚ ਕੋਈ ਕੰਵਲ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੀ ਉੱਗਿਆ
ਡੁੱਬ ਕੇ ਕਾਲੀ ਝੀਲ ਵਿੱਚ ਉਸਨੂੰ ਤਦੇ ਮਰਨਾ ਪਿਆ

ਸੀ ਬਹੁਤ ਗਹਿਰੀ ਉਦਾਸੀ ਜੇ ਮੈਂ ਦਿਲ ਵਿਚ ਦੇਖਦਾ
ਇਸ ਲਈ ਮੈਂ ਸੱਖਣੇ ਅਸਮਾਨ ਵੱਲ ਤੱਕਦਾ ਰਿਹਾ

ਲਫਜ਼ ਹਾਂ ਗਲੀਆਂ 'ਚ ਰੁਲਦੇ ਹਾਂ
ਸਾਨੂੰ ਲੈ ਜਾਓ ਸ਼ਾਇਰੀ ਤੀਕਰ

ਇਸ ਮੌਸਮ ਦਾ ਨਾਮ ਕੀ ਰੱਖੀਏ ਮਾਰੀਏ ਵਾਜ ਕਿਵੇਂ
ਇਹੀ ਸੋਚਦਿਆਂ ਨੂੰ ਯਾਰੋ ਮੌਸਮ ਬੀਤ ਗਿਆ

ਮੈਂ ਕਦ ਕਿਸੇ ਨੂੰ ਛਾਂ ਕੀਤੀ ਮੈਂ ਕਦ ਬਣਿਆ ਦਰਿਆ
ਹੁਣ ਕੀ ਰੋਸ ਜੇ ਯਾਰਾਂ ਦੇ ਵੀ ਨੈਣ ਗਏ ਪਥਰਾ

ਮੈਂ ਤਾਂ ਬੱਸ ਏਨਾ ਕਿਹਾ ਸੀ ਨਾ ਜਲਾਓ ਫੁੱਲ
ਅੱਗ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਫੜ ਕੇ ਲੈ ਗਈ ਕਹਿ ਕੇ ਚੋਰ ਚੋਰ


ਜ਼ਖਮ ਨੂੰ ਜ਼ਖਮ ਲਿਖੋ ਖ਼ਾਮਖਾ ਕੰਵਲ ਨਾ ਲਿਖੋ
ਸਿਤਮ ਹਟਾਓ ਸਿਤਮ ਤੇ ਨਿਰੀ ਗਜ਼ਲ ਨਾ ਲਿਖੋ


ਇੱਕ ਕੈਦ 'ਚੋਂ ਦੂਜੀ ਕੈਦ 'ਚ ਪਹੁੰਚ ਗਈ ਏਂ
ਕੀ ਖੱਟਿਆ ਮਹਿੰਦੀ ਲਾ ਕੇ ਵਟਨਾ ਮਲ ਕੇ


ਏਨਾ ਉੱਚਾ ਤਖਤ ਸੀ ਅਦਲੀ ਰਾਜੇ ਦਾ
ਮਜ਼ਲੂਮਾਂ ਦੀ ਉਮਰ ਰਾਹ ਵਿਚ ਹੀ ਬੀਤ ਗਈ


ਮਸਜਿਦ ਦੇ ਆਖਣ 'ਤੇ ਕਾਜ਼ੀ ਦੇ ਫਤਵੇ ਤੇ
ਅੱਲ੍ਹਾ ਨੂੰ ਕਤਲ ਕਰਨਾ ਇਸਲਾਮ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੈ
ਜਿਸ ਚ ਸੂਲੀ ਦਾ ਇੰਤਜ਼ਾਮ ਨਹੀਂ
ਯਾਰੋ ਐਸਾ ਕਿਤੇ ਨਿਜ਼ਾਮ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੈ

ਬਲਦਾ ਬਿਰਖ ਹਾਂ, ਖਤਮ ਹਾਂ, ਬੱਸ ਸ਼ਾਮ ਤੀਕ ਹਾਂ

ਫਿਰ ਵੀ ਕਿਸੇ ਬਹਾਰ ਦੀ ਕਰਦਾ ਉਡੀਕ ਹਾਂ



ਪਿੰਡ ਜਿਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਦੇ ਗੱਡੇ ਚੱਲਣ ਹੁਕ਼ਮ ਅਤੇ ਸਰਦਾਰੀ

ਸ਼ਹਿਰ 'ਚ ਆ ਕੇ ਬਣ ਜਾਂਦੇ ਨੇ ਬੱਸ ਦੀ ਇੱਕ ਸਵਾਰੀ



ਜਾਂ ਤਾਂ ਫੌਜੀ ਮਰ ਗਿਆ ਹੋਣਾ ਜਾਂ ਕੋਈ ਹੋਰ ਖੁਆਰੀ

ਪਿੰਡ 'ਚ ਲੋਕੀਂ ਡਰ ਜਾਂਦੇ ਜੇ ਖ਼ਤ ਆਵੇ ਸਰਕਾਰੀ


ਕਾਲੇ ਧਨ ਦੇ ਚਿੱਟੇ ਸਿੱਕੇ ਚਾੜ੍ਹ ਗਏ ਵਿਓਪਾਰੀ
ਮੰਦਰ ਵਿੱਚ ਮੁਸਕਾਈ ਜਾਵੇ ਫਿਰ ਵੀ ਕ੍ਰਿਸ਼ਨ ਮੁਰਾਰੀ


ਬਾਂਹੀਂ ਚੂੜਾ, ਹੱਥੀਂ ਮਹਿੰਦੀ, ਸਿਰ ਸੂਹੀ ਫੁਲਕਾਰੀ
ਕੰਨੀਂ ਕਾਂਟੇ, ਨੈਣੀ ਕਜਲਾ, ਕਜਲੇ ਵਿੱਚ ਲਾਚਾਰੀ


ਮਨ ਮਰਿਆ ਤਾਂ ਸੋਗ ਨਾ ਕੀਤਾ, ਨਾ ਰੋਏ ਰੂਹ ਵਾਰੀ
ਤਨ ਢੱਠਾ ਤਾਂ ਸ਼ੁਹਦੇ ਯਾਰਾਂ ਕੂਕ ਗਜ਼ਬ ਦੀ ਮਾਰੀ


ਤੂੰ ਵੀ ਬੁਝ ਜਾਵੇਂਗਾ, ਇੱਕ ਦੀਵਾ ਮਸੀਂ ਦਾ ਘਰ ਦੇ ਕੋਲ
ਰਹਿਣ ਦੇ ਗਲੀਆਂ 'ਚ ਰੋਂਦੀ ਪੌਣ, ਤੂੰ ਬੂਹਾ ਨਾ ਖੋਲ੍ਹ



ਝੀਲ ਦੀ ਫਿਤਰਤ ਹੈ ਸਭ ਦੇ ਸਾਹਮਣੇ ਸੱਚ ਆਖਣਾ
ਝੀਲ ਦੀ ਕਿਸਮਤ ਹੈ ਭਰਨੀ ਪੱਥਰਾਂ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਝੋਲ


ਮੈਂ ਕਿਓਂ ਡਰਦਾ ਉਲਝਣੋਂ ਤਲਵਾਰਾਂ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ
ਚਾਰ ਦਿਨਾਂ ਦੀ ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ ਮੌਤ ਹਜ਼ਾਰਾਂ ਸਾਲ


ਸੜਕ ਤੇ ਵੇਖੇਂਗਾ ਨੰਗੇ ਪੈਰ ਭਜਦੀ ਛਾਂ ਜਿਹੀ
ਇਹ ਮੁਹੱਬਤ ਹੈ ਜਾਂ ਮਮਤਾ, ਯਾਦ ਕੁਝ ਕੁਝ ਆਏਗਾ


ਲੋੜ ਕੀ ਹੈ ਏਸ ਦੀ ਕੋਈ ਯਾਦਗਾਰ ਬਨਾਉਣ ਦੀ
ਬਿਰਖ ਸੁੱਕ ਜਾਏਗਾ, ਬਿਲਕੁਲ ਬੁੱਤ ਹੀ ਬਣ ਜਾਏਗਾ



ਚੋਟਾਂ ਖਾ ਕੇ ਆਖਰ ਖੁਦ ਹੀ ਪੱਥਰ ਜਾਵੇ ਹੋ
ਦਿਲ ਹੈ ਕੋਈ ਜਿਸਮ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੈ ਮੰਗੇ ਜਿਹੜਾ ਢਾਲ


ਰੂਹ ਦਾ ਖ਼ਾਲੀਪਨ ਹੈ ਯਾਰੋ ਕੀ ਰੌਣਕ ਕੀ ਮੇਲੇ
ਇਹ ਕੋਈ ਆਕਾਸ਼ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੈ ਜੋ ਭਰ ਜਾਏ ਤਾਰਿਆਂ ਨਾਲ



ਅਜਾਈਂ ਮਰਨਗੇ ਹਰਫਾਂ ਦੇ ਹਿਰਨ ਖ਼ਪ ਖ਼ਪ ਕੇ
ਚਮਕਦੀ ਰੇਤ ਨੂੰ ਯਾਰੋ ਨਦੀ ਦਾ ਤਲ ਨਾ ਲਿਖੋ


ਇਹ ਕੀ ਹੁਨਰ ਹੈ ਭਲਾ ਕੀ ਕਲਾ ਕਹੇ ਜਿਹੜੀ
ਹੁਸਨ ਨੂੰ ਹੁਸਨ ਲਿਖੋ ਕ਼ਤਲ ਨੂੰ ਕ਼ਤਲ ਨਾ ਲਿਖੋ

Baba Bulley Shah

ਇਸ਼ਕ ਅੱਲ੍ਹਾ ਦੀ ਜਾਤ, ਲੋਕਾਂ ਦਾ ਮੇਹਣਾ

ਬੁਲ੍ਹਿਆ ਤੈਨੂੰ ਕਾਫ਼ਰ ਕਾਫ਼ਰ ਆਖਦੇ, ਤੂੰ ਆਹੋ ਆਹੋ ਆਖ

ਬੁਲ੍ਹਿਆ ਪੀ ਸ਼ਰਾਬ ਤੇ ਖਾ ਕਬਾਬ
ਹੇਠ ਬਾਲ ਹੱਡਾਂ ਦੀ ਅੱਗ
ਚੋਰੀ ਕਰ ਤੇ ਭੰਨ ਘਰ ਰੱਬ ਦਾ,
ਇਸ ਠੱਗਾਂ ੜੇ ਠੱਗ ਨੂੰ ਠੱਗ.


ਮੂੰਹ ਆਈ ਬਾਤ ਨਾ ਰਹਿੰਦੀ ਏ,
ਝੂਠ ਆਖਾਂ ਤੇ ਕੁਝ ਬੱਚਦਾ ਏ
ਸੱਚ ਆਖਿਆਂ ਭਾਂਬੜ ਮੱਚਦਾ ਏ


ਬੁਲ੍ਹੇ ਸ਼ਾਹ ਚੱਲ ਉੱਥੇ ਚੱਲੀਏ, ਜਿੱਥੇ ਸਾਰੇ ਹੋਵਣ ਅੰਨ੍ਹੇ
ਨਾ ਕੋਈ ਸਾਡੀ ਕਦਰ ਪਛਾਣੇ, ਨਾ ਕੋਈ ਸਾਨੂੰ ਮੰਨੇ

ਰਾਂਝਾ ਰਾਂਝਾ ਕਰਦੀ ਨੀ ਮੈਂ ਆਪੇ ਰਾਂਝਾ ਹੋਈ
ਸੱਦੋ ਨੀ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਧੀਦੋ ਰਾਂਝਾ, ਹੀਰ ਨਾ ਆਖੋ ਕੋਈ
ਰਾਂਝਾ ਮੈਂ ਵਿਚ ਮੈਂ ਰਾਂਝੇ ਵਿਚ ਹੋਰ ਖਿਆਲ ਨਾ ਕੋਈ
ਮੈਂ ਨਹੀ ਓਹ ਆਪੇ ਹੈਂ, ਆਪਣੀ ਆਪ ਕਰੇ ਦਿਲਜੋਈ
ਹੱਥ ਖੂੰਡੀ ਮੇਰੇ ਅੱਗੇ ਮੰਗੂ, ਮੋਢੇ ਭੂਰਾ ਲੋਈ
ਬੁਲ੍ਹਾ ਹੀਰ ਸਲੇਟੀ ਦੇਖੋ, ਕਿੱਥੇ ਜਾ ਖਲੋਈ
(ਦਿਲਜੋਈ= ਦਿਲਾਸਾ, ਮੰਗੂ= ਮੱਝਾਂ ਦਾ ਵੱਗ)

ਮਸਜਿਦ ਢਾਹ ਦੇ, ਮੰਦਰ ਢਾਹ ਦੇ
ਢਾਹ ਦੇ ਜੋ ਕੁਝ ਢਹਿੰਦਾ
ਇੱਕ ਕਿਸੇ ਦਾ ਦਿਲ ਨਾ ਢਾਹਵੀਂ
ਰੱਬ ਦਿਲਾਂ ਵਿੱਚ ਰਹਿੰਦਾ

Professor Puran Singh

ਮਰਜ਼ੀ ਦੇ ਮਾਲਕ ਇਹ
ਦਿਲ ਦੇ ਚਾਅ ਉੱਤੇ ਉਲਰਦੇ
ਨਿੱਕੇ ਨਿੱਕੇ ਪਿਆਰ ਦੇ ਕਿਣਕਿਆਂ ਤੇ ਰੀਝਣ ਪਸੀਜਣ ਸਾਰੇ,
ਤੇ ਵੱਡੀਆਂ ਵੱਡੀਆਂ ਗੱਲਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਲੱਤ ਮਾਰ ਦੌੜ ਜਾਣ

ਪਿਆਰ ਦਾ ਨਾਮ ਇਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਸਿੱਖਿਆ,
ਦਿਲ ਜਾਨ ਵਾਰਨ ਇਹ ਪਿਆਰ ਤੇ
ਸੱਚੇ ਪੰਜਾਬ ਦੇ ਵਾਸੀ ਦਾ ਇਹ ਈਮਾਨ ਹੈ
ਰਾਂਝੇਟੜੇ ਦੇ ਨਿੱਕੇ ਵੱਡੇ ਭਰਾ ਸਾਰੇ,
ਬੇਲਿਆਂ ਤੇ ਰੁੱਖਾਂ ਵਿਚ ਕੂਕਾਂ ਮਾਰਦੇ

(ਪ੍ਰੋ. ਪੂਰਨ ਸਿੰਘ)
(ਜਵਾਨ ਪੰਜਾਬ ਦੇ, ਪ੍ਰੋ. ਪੂਰਨ ਸਿੰਘ)


ਬੀਜ ਬੀਜਣ ਇਹ ਹਲ ਚਲਾਣ,
ਘਾਲਾਂ ਘਾਲਣ ਪੂਰੀਆਂ
ਖਾਣ ਥੋੜ੍ਹਾ, ਪਹਿਨਣ ਮੋਟਾ ਸੋਟਾ
ਵੇਖਣ ਮੁੜ-ਮੁੜ ਵੱਲ ਬਦਲਾਂ
ਇਹ ਹਨ ਜੱਗ ਦੇ ਭੰਡਾਰੀ
ਰਾਜੇ ਹਥ ਅੱਡ ਅੱਡ ਮੰਗਦੇ ਇਥੋਂ ਰੋਟੀਆਂ
(ਪ੍ਰੋ. ਪੂਰਨ ਸਿੰਘ ਭਾਰਤੀ ਕਿਸਾਨਾਂ ਬਾਰੇ)

ਜੀਓਣ ਸਭ ਬੱਚੇ ਮਾਂਵਾਂ ਦੇ, ਹਰ ਮਾਂ ਆਖਦੀ. ਇਹ ਧੰਨ ਜਿਗਰਾ ਮਾਂ ਦਾ.


ਪੜ੍ਹ ਪੜ੍ਹ ਪੁਸਤਕ ਢੇਰ ਕੁੜੇ
ਮੇਰਾ ਵਧਦਾ ਜਾਏ ਹਨ੍ਹੇਰ ਕੁੜੇ
ਕੁਝ ਅਜਬ ਇਲਮ ਦੀਆਂ ਜ਼ਿੱਦਾਂ ਨੇ
ਮੈਨੂੰ ਮਾਰਿਆ ਕਿਉਂ ਤੇ ਕਿੱਦਾਂ ਨੇ
ਮੈਂ ਨਿਸਚੇ ਬਾਝੋਂ ਭਟਕ ਰਿਹਾ
ਦੋਜ਼ਖ- ਜ਼ੰਨਤ ਵਿਚ ਲਟਕ ਰਿਹਾ

ਇਹ ਬੇਪਰਵਾਹ ਪੰਜਾਬ ਦੇ
ਮੌਤ ਨੂੰ ਮਖੌਲਾਂ ਕਰਨ
ਮਰਨ ਥੀਂ ਨਹੀਂ ਡਰਦੇ
ਪਿਆਰ ਨਾਲ ਇਹ ਕਰਨ ਗੁਲਾਮੀ
ਜਾਨ ਕੋਹ ਆਪਣੀ ਵਾਰ ਦਿੰਦੇ
ਪਰ ਟੈਂ ਨਾ ਮੰਨਣ ਕਿਸੇ ਦੀ

Dhani Ram Chatrik

ਬਾਲ ਬੁੱਢੇ ਗਭਰੂ ਮੇਲੇ ਵਿਚ ਆਏ ਨੇ,
ਟੁੰਬ- ਟੁੰਬ ਰੀਝਾਂ ਨੇ ਸਾਰੇ ਜਗਾਏ ਨੇ,
ਭਾਂਤੋ-ਭਾਂਤ ਦਿਲ, ਭਾਂਤੋ-ਭਾਂਤ ਮਾਲ ਨੇ,
ਟੋਲ੍ਹ ਰਹੇ ਆਪੋ ਆਪਣਾ ਖਿਆਲ ਨੇ,
ਮੇਲੇ ਦੀ ਬਹਾਰ ਤਰਕਾਲਾਂ ਤੀਕ ਏ,
ਸੌਦਾ ਲੈ ਵਿਹਾਝ ਜਿਹਦੀ ਜੋ ਤੌਫੀਕ ਏ,
ਪਲੋ ਪਲੀ ਵਿਚ ਹੋਈ ਚਲੋ ਚਲੀਏ
ਚਲ ਨੀ ਪ੍ਰੇਮੀਏ ਵਿਸਾਖੀ ਚਲੀਏ


ਨਿਕਲੀ ਬਸੰਤੋ ਵੇਸ ਕਰ
ਫੁੱਲਾਂ ਦੀ ਖਾਰੀ ਸਿਰ ਤੇ ਧਰ,
ਖਿੜਦੀ ਤੇ ਹੱਸਦੀ ਗਾਉਂਦੀ,
ਨੱਚਦੀ ਤੇ ਪੈਲਾਂ ਪਾਉਂਦੀ


ਸਾਉਣ ਮਾਹ ਲੜੀਆਂ ਗਰਮੀ ਝਾੜ ਸੁੱਟੀ
ਧਰਤੀ ਪੁੰਗਰੀ ਟਹਿਕੀਆਂ ਡਾਲੀਆਂ ਨੇ
ਰਾਹ ਰੋਕ ਲਏ ਛੱਪੜਾਂ ਟੋਭਿਆਂ ਨੇ
ਨਦੀਆਂ ਨਾਲਿਆਂ ਜੂਹਾਂ ਹੰਘਾਲੀਆਂ ਨੇ
(ਸਾਉਣ, ਚਾਤ੍ਰਿਕ)


ਸਿਖਰ ਦੁਪਹਿਰ ਜੇਠ ਦੀ, ਵਰ੍ਹਨ ਪਏ ਅੰਗਿਆਰ
ਲੋਆਂ ਵਾਵਰੋਲਿਆਂ ਰਾਹੀ ਲਏ ਖਲ੍ਹਾਰ
ਲੋਹ ਤਪੇ ਜਿਓਂ ਪ੍ਰਿਥਵੀ ਭੱਖ ਲਵਣ ਅਸਮਾਨ
ਪਸ਼ੂਆਂ ਜੀਭਾਂ ਸੁੱਟੀਆਂ, ਪੰਛੀ ਭੱਜਦੇ ਜਾਣ

ਛਿੰਝ ਦੀ ਤਿਆਰੀ ਹੋਈ ਢੋਲ ਵੱਜਦੇ
ਕੱਸ ਕੇ ਲੰਗੋਟੇ ਆਏ ਸ਼ੇਰ ਗੱਜਦੇ
ਲਿਸ਼ਕਦੇ ਨੇ ਪਿੰਡੇ ਗੁੰਨ੍ਹੇ ਹੋਏ ਤੇਲ ਦੇ
ਮਾਰਦੇ ਨੇ ਛਾਲਾਂ ਦੂਲੇ ਡੰਡ ਪੇਲਦੇ

Baba Fareed de slok

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਬੁਰੇ ਦਾ ਭਲਾ ਕਰ, ਗੁੱਸਾ ਮਨ ਨਾ ਹੰਢਾਇ
ਦੇਹੀ ਰੋਗ ਣ ਲਗਈ, ਪੱਲੈ ਸਭ ਕਿਛ ਪਾਇ

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਜੇ ਤੂ ਅਕਲ ਲਤੀਫ ਕਾਲੇ ਲਿਖ ਨ ਲੇਖ
ਆਪਨੜੇ ਗਿਰੀਵਾਨ ਮਹਿ ਸਿਰ ਨੀਵਾਂ ਕਰ ਦੇਖ
(ਅਕਲ ਲਤੀਫ = ਬਰੀਕ ਸਮਝ ਵਾਲਾ; ਕਾਲੇ ਲੇਖ= ਹੋਰਾਂ ਦੇ ਮੰਦੇ ਕਰਮਾਂ ਦਾ ਲੇਖਾ)

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਖਾਕ ਨਾ ਨਿੰਦੀਐ, ਖਾਕੁ ਜੇਡ ਨਾ ਕੋਇ
ਜੀਵਦਿਆ ਪੈਰਾ ਤਲੇ ਮੁਇਆ ਉਪਰਿ ਹੋਇ

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਜਾ ਲਬੁ ਤਾ ਨੇਹੁ ਕਿਆ ਲਬੁ ਤ ਕੂੜਾ ਨੇਹੁ
ਕਿਚਰੁ ਝਤਿ ਲਘਾਇਐ ਛਪਰਿ ਤੁਟੈ ਮੇਹੁ
(ਲਬੁ= ਲਾਲਚ; ਨੇਹੁ ਕਿਆ= ਕਾਹਦਾ ਪਿਆਰ, ਕਿਚਰੁ= ਕਦੋਂ ਤੱਕ, ਮੇਹੁ= ਮੀਂਹ; ਸੱਚਾ ਪਿਆਰ ਸਦਾ ਹੀ ਲਾਲਚ ਰਹਿਤ ਹੁੰਦਾ ਹੈ. ਲੋਭ ਵੱਸ ਕੀਤਾ ਪਿਆਰ ਬਹੁਤੀ ਦੇਰ ਤੱਕ ਕਾਇਮ ਨਹੀਂ ਰਹਿੰਦਾ; ਠੀਕ ਉਸੇ ਤਰ੍ਹਾਂ ਜਿਵੇਂ ਵਰ੍ਹਦੇ ਮੀਂਹ ਵਿਚ ਟੁੱਟੇ ਛੱਪਰ ਹੇਠ ਬਹੁਤੀ ਦੇਰ ਤੀਕ ਨਹੀਂ ਟਿਕਿਆ ਜਾ ਸਕਦਾ)

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਜੋ ਤੈ ਮਾਰਨ ਮੁੱਕੀਆਂ, ਤਿਨਾ ਨਾ ਮਾਰੇ ਘੁੰਮਿ
ਆਪਨੜੇ ਘਰ ਜਾਈਏ ਪੈਰ ਤਿਨਾ ਦੇ ਚੁੰਮਿ

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਮੈਂ ਜਾਣਿਆ ਦੁਖ ਮੁਝ ਕੂ
ਦੁਖ ਸਬਾਇਐ ਜਗ
ਊਚੈ ਚੜ੍ਹ ਕੇ ਦੇਖਿਆ
ਤਾਂ ਘਰ ਘਰ ਏਹਾ ਅੱਗ

ਰੁਖੀ ਸੁਖੀ ਖਾਇ ਕੈ, ਠੰਢਾ ਪਾਣੀ ਪੀਓ
ਦੇਖ ਪਰਾਈ ਚੋਪੜੀ, ਨਾ ਤਰਸਾਏ ਜੀਓ

ਬਿਰਹਾ ਬਿਰਹਾ ਆਖੀਏ, ਬਿਰਹਾ ਤੂ ਸੁਲਤਾਨ
ਫਰੀਦਾ ਜਿਤ ਤਨ ਬਿਰਹੁ ਨਾ ਉਪਜੈ, ਸੋ ਤਨ ਜਾਣ ਮਸਾਨ

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਬਾਰ ਪਰਾਏ ਬੈਸਣਾ ਸਾਂਈ ਮੁਝੈ ਨਾ ਦੇਹਿ
ਜੇ ਤੂੰ ਏਵੈ ਰਖਸੀ ਜੀਓ ਸਰੀਰਹੁ ਲੇਹਿ

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਕੰਨ੍ਹ ਮੁਸੱਲਾ ਸੂਫ਼ੁ ਗਲਿ, ਦਿਲ ਕਾਤੀ ਗੁੜ ਵਾਤਿ
ਬਾਹਰਿ ਦਿਸੈ ਚਾਨਣਾ, ਦਿਲ ਅੰਧਿਆਰੀ ਰਾਤਿ
( ਕੰਨ੍ਹ = ਮੋਢਾ, ਮੁਸੱਲਾ= ਨਿੱਕੀ ਚਟਾਈ ਜਿਸ ਤੇ ਬੈਠ ਕੇ ਨਮਾਜ਼ ਪੜ੍ਹੀ ਜਾਂਦੀ ਹੈ, ਗੁੜ ਵਾਤਿ= ਮਿੱਠੇ ਬੋਲ)

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਕਾਲੇ ਮੈਂਡੇ ਕਪੜੇ ਕਾਲਾ ਮੈਂਡਾ ਵੇਸ
ਗੁਨਹੀਂ ਭਰਿਆ ਮੈਂ ਫਿਰਾਂ ਲੋਕ ਕਹੈ ਦਰਵੇਸ

ਫਰੀਦਾ ਦਰਿਆਵੈ ਕੰਨੈ ਬਗਲਾ ਬੈਠਾ ਕੇਲ ਕਰੇ
ਕੇਲ ਕਰੇਂਦੇ ਹੰਝ ਨੇ ਅਚਿੰਤੇ ਬਾਜ ਪਾਏ
ਬਾਜ ਪਏ ਤਿਸ ਰਬ ਦੇ ਕੇਲਾਂ ਵਿਸਰੀਆਂ
ਜੋ ਮਨ ਚਿਤ ਨਾ ਚੇਤੇ ਸਨਿ ਸੇ ਗਾਲੀ ਰਬ ਕੀਆਂ
(ਹੰਝ= ਹੰਸ, ਕੰਨੈ = ਕੰਢੇ, ਕੇਲ= ਖੇਡ, ਅਚਿੰਤੇ= ਅਚਾਨਕ)

By Waris, On Waris

ਮੇਰੀ ਬੋਲੀ ਦੇ ਵਾਰਿਸਾ ਸੱਚ ਮੰਨੀਂ, ਮੰਨਾਂ ਮੈਂ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਦਾ ਪੀਰ ਤੈਨੂੰ
ਦਿੱਤੀ ਜਿੰਦੜੀ ਤੂੰ ਹੀਰ ਸਲੇਟੜੀ ਨੂੰ, ਦੇ ਗਈ ਸਦਾ ਦੀ ਜਿੰਦੜੀ ਹੀਰ ਤੈਨੂੰ.

(Vidhaata Singh Teer on Waris Shah)

ਚਿੜੀ ਚੂਹਕਦੀ ਨਾਲ ਜਾਂ ਤੁਰੇ ਪਾਂਧੀ
ਪਈਆਂ ਦੁੱਧ ਦੇ ਵਿੱਚ ਮਧਾਣੀਆਂ ਨੇ
(Warish Shah describing a rural morning)

ਗੰਗਾ ਗਈਆਂ ਨਾ ਹੱਡੀਆਂ ਮੁੜਦੀਆਂ ਨੇ,
ਗਏ ਵਕ਼ਤ ਨੂੰ ਕਿਸੇ ਨਾ ਮੋੜਿਆ ਈ

ਇਹ ਇਸ਼ਕ਼ ਦੇ ਰੋਗ ਦੀ ਗੱਲ ਏਹਾ
ਸਿਰ ਜਾਏ ਤੇ ਇਹ ਨਾ ਜਾਏ ਮੀਆਂ

ਭਾਈਆਂ ਬਾਝ ਨਾ ਮਜਲਸਾਂ ਸੋਂਹਦੀਆਂ ਨੇ
ਤੇ ਭਾਈਆਂ ਬਾਝ ਬਹਾਰ ਨਾਹੀਂ
ਭਾਈ ਢਾਹੁੰਦੇ, ਭਾਈ ਉਸਾਰਦੇ ਨੇ,
ਭਾਈਆਂ ਬਾਝੋਂ ਬੇਲੀ ਯਾਰ ਨਾਹੀਂ

ਵਹਿਣ ਪਏ ਦਰਿਆ ਨਾ ਮੁੜਦੇ ਨੇ
ਲਾਏ ਰਹੇ ਜ਼ੋਰਾਂ ਜ਼ੋਰਦਾਰੀਆਂ ਵੇ
ਸਿਰ ਦਿੱਤਿਆਂ ਬਾਝ ਨਾ ਇਸ਼ਕ ਪੱਕੇ
ਇਹ ਨਹੀਂ ਸੁਖਾਲੀਆਂ ਯਾਰੀਆਂ ਵੇ

ਵਾਰਿਸ ਅਹਿਮਖਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਬਿਨਾਂ ਫਾਟ ਖਾਧੇ
ਨਹੀਂ ਆਂਵਦਾ ਇਸ਼ਕ ਦਾ ਸਵਾਦ ਮੀਆਂ
(ਅਹਿਮਖ= ਮੂਰਖ)

ਨਾਓਂ ਫਕਰ ਦਾ ਬਹੁਤ ਅਸਾਨ ਲੈਣਾ
ਖਰਾ ਕਠਨ ਹੈ ਜੋਗ ਕਮਾਵਣਾਓਂ

Hindi collection

शहीदों की चिताओं पर लगेंगे हर बरस मेले
वतन पर मिटने वालों का बाकी यही निशाँ होगा

जब से पता चला है के मरने में है ज़िन्दगी
सर पर कफ़न बांधे, कातिल को ढूंढते हैं

Kartar Singh Sarabha

Dhoondta phirta hoon main, ai Iqbal, apney aap ko
aap hee goya musaafir, aap hee manzil hoon main


हमें दुनिया की सरहदों से क्या मतलब
हमारा पैगाम मोहबत है जहां तक पहुंचे
(सरदार जाफरी)

हज़ारों साल नरगिस अपनी बेनूरी पे रोती है
बड़ी मुश्किल से होता है चमन में दीदार पैदा

ਮੇਰੀ ਮਿੱਠੀ ਬੋਲੀ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ

ਪੁੱਛੀ ਸ਼ਰਫ ਨਾ ਜਿੰਨ੍ਹਾਂ ਨੇ ਬਾਤ ਮੇਰੀ
ਵੇ ਮੈਂ ਬੋਲੀ ਹਾਂ ਓਹਨਾਂ ਪੰਜਾਬੀਆਂ ਦੀ

ਇਹ ਤਾਂ ਕਮਾਲ ਹੀ ਹੋ ਗਿਆ! ਮੈਂ Google Labs ਦੇ icon ਤੇ ਕਲਿਕ ਕੀਤਾ ਤਾਂ ਇਕਦਮ ਇਸ ਸੋਫਟਵੇਅਰ ਬਾਰੇ ਪਤਾ ਲੱਗਾ ਜਿਹੜਾ ਰੋਮਨ ਅਖਰਾਂ 'ਚ ਲਿਖੇ ਸ਼ਬਦ ਆਪਣੇ ਆਪ ਗੁਰਮੁਖੀ 'ਚ ਲਿਖ ਦਿੰਦਾ ਹੈ.

ਛੋਟੇ ਹੁੰਦੇ ਸਕੂਲ 'ਚ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਬਹੁਤ ਜਜ਼ਬਾ ਹੁੰਦਾ ਸੀ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਲਈ ਕੁਝ ਕਰਨ ਦਾ. ਉਦੋਂ ਮੈਂ ਕਿਨੀਆਂ ਹੀ famous ਕਵਿਤਾਵਾਂ ਦੀ collection ਵੀ ਬਣਾਈ ਸੀ. ਸਮੇਂ ਦੇ ਨਾਲ ਮੈਂ ਆਪਣਾ ਆਪਣੀ ਬੋਲੀ ਲਈ ਓਹ ਫਰਜ਼-ਭਾਵ ਕਿਤੇ ਖੋ ਹੀ ਬੈਠੀ. ਮੈਂ ਹੁਣ ਪੜ੍ਹਦੀ ਵੀ ਸਿਰਫ ਅੰਗ੍ਰੇਜ਼ੀ ਹਾਂ ਤੇ ਲਿਖਦੀ ਵੀ. ਕਿਤੇ ਨਾ ਕਿਤੇ ਇਸ ਗੱਲ ਦੀ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਸ਼ਰਮਿੰਦਗੀ ਵੀ ਮਹਸੂਸ ਹੁੰਦੀ ਹੈ. ਅੱਜ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਦੀ ਬਹੁਤ ਮਾੜੀ ਹਾਲਤ ਹੈ, ਨਵੀਂ ਪੀੜੀ ਬਹੁਤ ਬੁਰੀ ਤਰਾਂ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ ਤੋਂ ਟੁੱਟ ਰਹੀ ਹੈ ਅਤੇ ਉਸ ਦੇ ਮਾਪਿਆਂ ਦੇ ਚਾਹੁਣ ਕਰਕੇ ਟੁੱਟ ਰਹੀ ਹੈ. ਮੈਨੂੰ ਇਹ ਗੱਲ ਚੰਗੀ ਨਹੀਂ ਲਗਦੀ ਪਰ ਮੈਂ ਜ਼ਿਆਦਾ ਕੁਝ ਕਹਿ ਨਹੀਂ ਪਾਉਂਦੀ ਕਿਉਂਕਿ ਮੈਨੂੰ ਲਗਦਾ ਨਹੀਂ ਕੇ ਜਿਸਨੇ ਆਪ ਕੁਝ ਨਾ ਕੀਤਾ ਹੋਵੇ, ਉਸ ਨੂੰ ਕਿਸੇ ਹੋਰ ਨੂੰ ਕੁਝ ਕਹਿਣ ਦਾ ਹੱਕ ਹੈ.

ਇਹ blogpost ਮੇਰੀ guilty conscience ਨੇ ਲਿਖੀ ਹੈ. ਸ਼ਾਇਦ ਅੱਜ ਤੋਂ ਬਾਅਦ ਮੈਂ ਪੰਜਾਬੀ 'ਚ ਹੋਰ ਵੀ posts ਲਿਖਾਂਗੀ.

Translation:

Title: Punjabi, my sweet tongue

Sharaf, I'm the poor tongue of those Punjabis
Who did not ever bother 'bout me.

This is just fantastic! I click on the icon of 'Google Labs' and lo! I discover this transliteration software which automatically converts Roman script into Gurmukhi!

When I was young, I used to feel quite emotional about my language and would dream dreams about doing something for it. I had even made a huge collection of famous Punjabi poems then. But with time, I lost that enthusiasm somewhere. Now, I read and write only in English. Somewhere inside, I do feel guilty about this but that is how it is. Today, the future of Punjabi doesn't look too bright. The new generation is getting disconnected from their mother tongue and that disconnect is being brought about by their own parents. I see this, do not like it- it pains me- but feel unable to say anything because what right does one, who has done nothing for her language herself, have to preach to others?

This blogpost has been written by my guilty conscience. Perhaps, I'll write more posts in Punjabi!

I was not prepared for this!

It was so romantic- dreaming dreams of being a full-time writer and dedicating myself to art. Since November 2008, I had been absorbed by just one passion- the book.

It's finished now.

It's almost a month since it's been.

And...I don't know what to do now! I suddenly am free, out of job, doing nothing and can't handle the sense of purposelessness and being a wastrel that comes along with it.

I can now understand the wisdom of those writers who start their next project the very next moment after they finish the one in their hand. Because, that is the only way to feel like a writer.

I have two or three ideas in my mind but none of them have enthused me enough. And so...am just dawdling away my time...

Going further on 'Individuality'

I read this post just now and had so many things to say that I thought I would write a new post.

I am much surer of myself- as a person- now than I was in college, and before that, in school. But I still have a long way to go! Last evening, I was chatting with my cousin and she bragged that she was just 21 yet while I was getting old at 24. I sent her a smiley and said that 24 is a much better place to be in. I was so raw at 21! Gauche perhaps is the word.

In school, I was a perennial topper and a great participant in extra-currics related with academics or elocution. That was why I was a great favorite of all my teachers and really enjoyed my school years. Recently, we had a reunion of our Tenth class mates. One of them specially called me the next day to express his surprise at how much I had opened up. He said that everyone used to think of me as a nerd then.

My relatives too usually think of me as a nerd. They do not think I am very worldly wise. I am well respected by them as IAS material. None of them was very surprised when I quit Infosys to write a book. But when Infosys posted me in Bangalore, my mama ji asked me twice if I would be able to fly all alone and live all alone there. In the weddings (which are many in our large, extended family) and other family functions, I have often been at a loss for company. I do not have any friends among my cousins. They think of me as an intellectual and keep a wary distance. When I was younger, I actually used to take pride in the 'intellectual' tag and made no efforts to mingle with the cousins. One of my favorite quotes has been:

'Great minds discuss ideas, intelligent minds discuss events and ordinary minds discuss people.'

No prizes for guessing which category I aspired to belong to.

So, my cousins used to keep their distance from me- thinking of me perhaps as 'weird' or a 'bhondu'- and I would keep my distance from them- thinking that they were ordinary and I was not. Yes, now that I think of it- and it is the first time that I am looking at it this way and confessing this even to myself- I was a snob!

I have many best friends- all from college or later- who are like cousins to me. I wish the vice versa was true!

One startling lesson that time has taught me is that NO mind is ordinary. There is something special about everyone. And that, I am just as ordinary or as special as anyone else.

The consequence of this realization is that now, when people talk about things which I earlier dismissed as 'ordinary' and had nothing to say on, instead of trying to steer the conversation towards something more to my taste or- to put it more snobbishly, 'intellect'- I just keep quiet and listen and often find myself learning many new things. And, I've discovered that listening with interest is a surer way of becoming a part of a conversation than talking. If I was considered an outcaste by my cousins before, I guess that was because I acted like one. I refused to involve myself in their discussions and perhaps sat with a bored look on my face or a book in my hand.

Now, my ideal is to talk intelligently but interestingly. There are people who talk with great depth but in a wonderfully engaging manner- using witticisms, jokes, stories, colorful metaphors and easy examples. That is the style I now wish to have.

I genuinely believe now that it is a talent to be able to keep things simple. I can look back and laugh at myself for the times when I tried too hard to belong to the club of Intellectuals.

What the heck is 'Individuality'?

Scene: A lunch in a busy restaurant with a group of best friends from college. The group has reunited for two days after four years!

Friend 1: It's been four years since we passed out. Do you people see any change in yourself?

One or two people in the group answer. This is a topic that I have often reflected upon, so I too chime in pretty soon.

Me: I have definitely changed a lot. If I now look back, I think what a bachi I was then!

Friend 2 (with a twinkle in his eye): And what makes you think that you are not a bachi now?

Me: Exactly! What I've learnt in these four years is that whenever I will look back, I will find my past behavior kiddish as compared to the present. Now I know that maturity is an ongoing process.

Friend 2 (perhaps startled): Arrey, main mazaak kar raha tha.

Me: But I was serious.

Friend 1: If I talk about myself, I think I've become more selfish in these years.

Me: I guess that is actually not selfishness but that our individuality has become more defined.

Friend 1 hasn't heard it properly because of the din. There is another friend sitting in between us. She asks me to repeat. I do. Half-way through, I notice an amused grin on the face of our sandwiched friend. I realize, stop, look around, find many similarly grinning faces around the long table and break into a sheepish smile. Oops!

In the evening, when my mind is tired, 'individuality' comes back to me. I marvel. What a heavy word to use! And how remarkably vague!

Making light-hearted and light-worded conversations is a talent. Blessed are those who have it.

On Intellect

Excerpts from the essay 'Intellect' by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Our spontaneous action is always the best. You cannot, with
your best deliberation and heed, come so close to any question as
your spontaneous glance shall bring you, whilst you rise from your
bed, or walk abroad in the morning after meditating the matter before
sleep on the previous night. Our thinking is a pious reception. Our
truth of thought is therefore vitiated as much by too violent
direction given by our will, as by too great negligence. We do not
determine what we will think. We only open our senses, clear away,
as we can, all obstruction from the fact, and suffer the intellect to
see. We have little control over our thoughts. We are the prisoners
of ideas. They catch us up for moments into their heaven, and so
fully engage us, that we take no thought for the morrow, gaze like
children, without an effort to make them our own. By and by we fall
out of that rapture, bethink us where we have been, what we have
seen, and repeat, as truly as we can, what we have beheld. As far as
we can recall these ecstasies, we carry away in the ineffaceable
memory the result, and all men and all the ages confirm it. It is
called Truth. But the moment we cease to report, and attempt to
correct and contrive, it is not truth.

What is the hardest task in the world? To think. I would put
myself in the attitude to look in the eye an abstract truth, and I
cannot. I blench and withdraw on this side and on that. I seem to
know what he meant who said, No man can see God face to face and
live. For example, a man explores the basis of civil government.
Let him intend his mind without respite, without rest, in one
direction. His best heed long time avails him nothing. Yet thoughts
are flitting before him. We all but apprehend, we dimly forebode the
truth. We say, I will walk abroad, and the truth will take form and
clearness to me. We go forth, but cannot find it. It seems as if we
needed only the stillness and composed attitude of the library to
seize the thought. But we come in, and are as far from it as at
first. Then, in a moment, and unannounced, the truth appears. A
certain, wandering light appears, and is the distinction, the
principle, we wanted. But the oracle comes, because we had
previously laid siege to the shrine. It seems as if the law of the
intellect resembled that law of nature by which we now inspire, now
expire the breath; by which the heart now draws in, then hurls out
the blood, — the law of undulation. So now you must labor with your
brains, and now you must forbear your activity, and see what the
great Soul showeth.

We are all wise. The difference between persons is not in
wisdom but in art. I knew, in an academical club, a person who
always deferred to me, who, seeing my whim for writing, fancied that
my experiences had somewhat superior; whilst I saw that his
experiences were as good as mine. Give them to me, and I would make
the same use of them. He held the old; he holds the new; I had the
habit of tacking together the old and the new, which he did not use
to exercise. This may hold in the great examples. Perhaps if we
should meet Shakspeare, we should not be conscious of any steep
inferiority; no: but of a great equality, — only that he possessed a
strange skill of using, of classifying, his facts, which we lacked.
For, notwithstanding our utter incapacity to produce any thing like
Hamlet and Othello, see the perfect reception this wit, and immense
knowledge of life, and liquid eloquence find in us all.

A
self-denial, no less austere than the saint's, is demanded of the
scholar. He must worship truth, and forego all things for that, and
choose defeat and pain, so that his treasure in thought is thereby
augmented.

God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose.
Take which you please, — you can never have both. Between these, as
a pendulum, man oscillates. He in whom the love of repose
predominates will accept the first creed, the first philosophy, the
first political party he meets, — most likely his father's. He gets
rest, commodity, and reputation; but he shuts the door of truth. He
in whom the love of truth predominates will keep himself aloof from
all moorings, and afloat. He will abstain from dogmatism, and
recognize all the opposite negations, between which, as walls, his
being is swung. He submits to the inconvenience of suspense and
imperfect opinion, but he is a candidate for truth, as the other is
not, and respects the highest law of his being.

Entire self-reliance belongs to the intellect.
One soul is a counterpoise of all souls, as a capillary column of
water is a balance for the sea. It must treat things, and books, and
sovereign genius, as itself also a sovereign. If Aeschylus be that
man he is taken for, he has not yet done his office, when he has
educated the learned of Europe for a thousand years. He is now to
approve himself a master of delight to me also. If he cannot do
that, all his fame shall avail him nothing with me. I were a fool
not to sacrifice a thousand Aeschyluses to my intellectual integrity.
Especially take the same ground in regard to abstract truth, the
science of the mind. The Bacon, the Spinoza, the Hume, Schelling,
Kant, or whosoever propounds to you a philosophy of the mind, is only
a more or less awkward translator of things in your consciousness,
which you have also your way of seeing, perhaps of denominating.
Say, then, instead of too timidly poring into his obscure sense, that
he has not succeeded in rendering back to you your consciousness. He
has not succeeded; now let another try. If Plato cannot, perhaps
Spinoza will. If Spinoza cannot, then perhaps Kant. Anyhow, when at
last it is done, you will find it is no recondite, but a simple,
natural, common state, which the writer restores to you.

Love

By Pankaj

love is not a pair of scales,
virtue and vice, weighed on each side,
a tipping for virtue, rewarded with love,

for which cheated wife, did not forgive her mate?
which coldly spurned lover, did not think twilight thoughts of his beloved?
and sigh, at what may have been, and might still be (oh, desperate hope)
which mother, did deny her comforting womb, to her murderer son?

love, rather, is a fickle little devil,
inclined towards beauty and power,
but not always,
it owes no’one nothing,
not as true as it is made out to be,
but all consuming,
for a time at least,
till it renews its search for a muse,

so stop playing your game of “should”,
as that is not love’s game.
stop harping upon your graces,
and curse the sky,
because love never was about deserving was it?

On The War on Terror

Everybody's worried about stopping terrorism. Well, there's a really easy way: stop participating in it.
Noam Chomsky

Jaipur Lit Fest

I've been putting off the Fest report for many days now, initially out of tiredness and later due to inertia because I knew the post would be long and time-consuming.

With each passing day, the report that I will write gets shorter. So, I better pen it down today.

Well, I was so very glad to attend the Fest. It was an awesome opportunity provided by the British Council. I had gone there on a bursary offered by it. That meant that I did not spend a single coin to attend the Fest. My to-and-fro travel was paid for, my hotel accomodation was paid for and my food there was free! The hotel was just a three minute walk from Diggi Palace, the venue of the Fest. That meant that we could stay back till as late as we wanted for the music and the dinner without any worries. That was great!

I wrote 'we.' I knew no one in the Fest to begin with. That was not an issue at all because of course, one always does befriend people wherever one goes. That happened in the first five minutes of reporting at the Reception Desk. The lady in charge of the British Council bursaries introduced me to the other bursaries and I instantly gelled with three of them- Manmeet (Delhi), Karthika (Chennai) and Niharika (Chennai). For all the five days of the Fest, the four of us hung together as a group. They were new friends, so I didn't feel bound to alter any of my plans in accordance to theirs. I attended or did not attend the events as I liked. But at the end of the day, there was this comfortable group to explore the markets and enjoy the dinner with and have walks and joke-sessions with. The group added much fun to the Fest and made it all the more memorable.

Now for the Fest.

First of all, it was very well organized. And, very posh. One thing that I've been telling everyone who asked me about it was that 'I saw the elite side of Indian Literature.' I'm familiar with the poorer side. The Saahit Sabhas of the Punjabi poets and writers are austere events with negligible attendance by the general public. On the other hand was this fest. People dressed richly, queues for food at Rs 500 per plate, celebrities flitting in and out, abundance of foreigners, sophisticated English- complete with the "Ooh"s and the "Aah"s and the "Darling"s and the "sweetie"s. It was a different world altogether.

On the second day, after attending an afternoon session on 'Social Activism in the Arts' which most people attended because Shabana Azmi and Rahul Bose were on the panel, I had just walked out of Diggi Palace in rebellion (not that anyone noticed, of course) with the idea of just going back to the hotel and sleeping and sleeping and shutting that fake world out. I had enjoyed the previous day but by that time- the second day afternoon- my mouth had begun to ache from speaking nothing but English. I didn't like feeling that I needed to speak English there and if I didn't do that, I would just not be considered worthy enough. That day, I realized in full force- I had only vaguely thought about this on occasions before- that I do use English as a tool to prove that I 'belong.' Hear me speak at a mall or a CCD or a rich hotel- I'll be speaking English there. That day, because I resented all the show of sophistication that was going on before me, I realized how I too often take part in that charade. All of us bursaries spoke to each other only in English, whoever met anybody in the Fest communicated only in English. I didn't like that.

Another thing that I didn't like that day was the excess focus on celebrities. Not by the organizers but by the people. Shabana Azmi, Javed Akhtar, Gulzar, Rahul Bose, Om Puri and Girish Karnad were there and their sessions were the most heavily attended and what I found really puerile was people jostling for their autographs. "The Lit fest isn't about autographs!" I ranted before my friends that day.

My mood and opinion improved the next day.

From 10 in the morning to 6 in the evening each day used to be a whirlwind of sessions. And each day would give me so many overwhelming new thoughts that I kept yearning for my blog. There was so much I wanted to record! The cafe at the Diggi Palace however charged an obscene Rs 100 per hour. So, I controlled myself and just saved what was on my mind in the drafts folder of my cell. Here's one such thought, 3 messages long, made on Jan 23rd (3rd day of the fest) at 2:19 pm, as I sat waiting for the 2:30 session.

'There's so much to learn. So much. I am emotional, I am overwhelmed right now. I am feeling like a writer and can see myself attending the fest as a writer and giving my viewpoint on issues. But what will I say? Thats wat I need to work on. Greatly. My one mission this year. And what's making my nostrils quiver is that this project starts right now!'

This was indeed my greatest takeback from the Fest. The realization that there was so much to read, so much to know! And that, I knew nothing!

There were so many writers whose names I heard only when I attended their sessions and then discovered that they were held in high esteem!

I was on a special lookout for young writers. Writers in their twenties. Writers who had just had their first book out. Basically, writers like myself. I wanted to compare myself with them and see how I would fare. Yes, I am conscious of how silly such a comparison is, yet subconsciously I always do it.

So, the youngest writer I found on the block was Ali Sethi. His novel 'The Wish Maker' was published in the summer of 2009 to critical acclaim. I discovered him on a panel discussion on the 3rd day, 'In a Tough Neighborhood.' He spoke quite intelligently about the political and social situation in his country, Pakistan. And, he is just 26! I was mightily impressed. Of course you can easily guess what I asked myself as I heard him- "Can I speak as knowledgeably in two years time? I must!" Then, that evening, as I was discussing him with my friends- each one of whom I realized was equally impressed by him as seemed to be most of the girls in the Fest- Karthika said that she had read somewhere that he was 1984 born. What? I exclaimed. After coming back home, one of the first things that I did after coming online, was to check Ali Sethi's birth year. So, he is not even 26! Just 25, just an year older to me and already so intelligent. You can imagine how pressurized I felt!

Then the other young writer I was impressed with was Shazia Omar. She is a Bangladeshi writer, must be around 30 (thank god!) and has published one novel. I first saw her in the same panel discussion as Ali Sethi- In a Tough Neighborhood. Before the discussion started, as I saw her take her seat, I disapproved of the body-hugging spaghetti top that she was wearing. "Where does she think she is sitting?" I thought. But when she started speaking, I only noticed how intelligently she spoke. She won my admiration for that.

This is the other takeback from the Fest. I've discovered that there is no one 'lekhak style.' Lekhak style is my term for the artsy, intellectual look. That is the style that always makes me go "Wow!" and that I've tried to emulate for years now, often- as hindsight has taught me- with disastrous consequences. When after college, I did a wardrobe overhaul for the corporate job ahead, many of my college friends- who used to keep mum in college- now heaved a sigh of relief and said that I looked much better! In my dictionary, lekhak style meant 'smartly careless dressing.' Silly me, I only kept clutching the 'careless' part and never quite reached the 'smart' bit. In this Fest, I saw lekhak style in full abundance. The women really added so much color, so much glamor to the fest! There were women in saris, in skirts, in skirts and overly long crumpled kurtas, in jeans, in kurtis, in suits, in turbans (!)...and all of them could be classified under the lekhak style. In college, I used to think that one could either be a Beauty or a Brain and I definitely wanted to be the latter. After college, my thinking slowly grew less radical. But in the Fest, I absolutely adored the Brainy beauties I saw. They were intelligent women who were also gorgeous. The lekhak style is less about what you wear, I realized, and more about how you feel. If you feel you are an intellectual, it will show through. You do not have to be deliberately careless about your looks to emphasise that point.

I attended this Fest as an observor, an outsider. I was a nobody. I knew nobody. In all the discussions that I attended, there was only one in which I asked a question. It was to VK Karthika, Publisher and Chief Editor, HarperCollins. She was a panelist on the discussion 'The Myth About Short Stories' and had said that one reason why the publishers were not really keen to publish novellas and short story collections was that the readers did not think them as value for money- the novellas were priced almost the same as a novel but were much shorter, and a short story collection usually had only one or two outstanding stories. So, when the panel was thrown open to the audience, I asked her the question that I've pondered over for more than an year now- why aren't the English books priced cheaper? In India, an English book that sells 5000 copies is termed a bestseller. I asked her why didn't the publishers think of making the English books more affordable to the general public. She replied that if they were to price the books any lesser, the writers would not be able to earn their bread and butter. The target readers of the English books were generally affluent. "It's not a price-sensitive market," she said and added that an English novel still comes cheaper than a Domino's pizza.

I do not agree to that point but will detail my thoughts some other time.

Another thing that I had specially wanted to blog about was the literary snobbery to Chetan Bhagat. I had read about it many times but in the Fest, saw it for myself. One of the last panel discussions of the Fest was on the state of Indian Publishing. The panelists were Ravi Singh, Ed-in-Chief of Penguin, VK Karthika from HarperCollins, Urvashi Butalia from Zubaan and Amitava Kumar and Vikram Chandra, both writers. Amitava sniggered about Chetan Bhagat's mass appeal and made comments about him not being a writer at all. I actually felt offended by his facetious tone, as did many people around me. Karthika however spoke up in Bhagat's defence when her chance to speak came. She said that the success of Bhagat showed that there was a demand in the market which no one had even thought there was. The other two publishers on the panel too defended Bhagat and Amitava was much mellower after that.

So, that's the end of the blog post. The Lit Fest gave me a first hand experience of the world of literature and deglamorised and de-romanticised it, which is a good thing (Writing a book has already deglamorised and de-romanticised the process of writing for me). I found that the writers were just people like me, albeit much more knowledgeable than me. And so, plugging that knowledge gap is my goal this year.

Now that's what you mean by 'Bizarre'!

At the 1994 annual awards dinner given for Forensic Science, AAFS, President Dr. Don Harper Mills astounded his audience with the legal complications of a bizarre death. Here is the story:

On March 23,1994 the medical examiner viewed the body of Ronald Opus and concluded that he died from a shotgun wound to the head. Mr. Opus had jumped from the top of a ten story building intending to commit suicide. He left a note to that effect, indicating his despondency. As he fell past the ninth floor his life was interrupted by a shotgun blast passing through a window which killed him instantly.

Neither the shooter nor the descender was aware that a safety net had been installed just below at the eighth floor level to protect some building workers and that Ronald Opus would not have been able to complete his suicide the way he had planned.

"Ordinarily," Dr. Mills continued, "a person who sets out to commit suicide and ultimately succeeds, even though the mechanism might not be what he intended, is still defined as committing suicide."

That Mr. Opus was shot on the way to certain death, but probably would not have been successful because of the safety net, caused the medical examiner to feel that he had a homicide on his hands. The room on the ninth floor, whence the shotgun blast emanated, was occupied by an elderly man and his wife. They were arguing vigorously and he was threatening her with a shotgun. The man was so upset that when he pulled the trigger he completely missed his wife and the pellets went through the window, striking Mr. Opus.

When one intends to kill subject A but kills subject B in the attempt, one is guilty of the murder of subject B. When confronted with the murder charge the old man and his wife were both adamant. They both said they thought the shotgun was unloaded. Thed old man said it was his long-standing habit to threaten his wife with the unloaded shotgun. He had no intention to murder her. Therefore the killing of Mr. Opus appeared to be an accident; that is, the gun had been accidentally loaded.

The continuing investigation turned up a witness who saw the old couple's son loading the shotgun about six weeks prior to the fatal accident. It transpired that the old lady had cut off her son's financial support and the son, knowing the propensity of his father to use the shotgun threateningly, loaded the gun with the expectation that his father would shoot his mother. The case now becomes one of murder on the part of the son for the death of Ronald Opus.

Now comes the exquisite twist. Further investigation revealed that the son was, in fact, Ronald Opus. He had become increasingly despondent over the failure of his attempt to engineer his mother's murder. This led him to jump off the ten story building on March 23rd, only to be killed by a shotgun blast passing through the ninth story window. The son had actually murdered himself so the medical examiner closed the case as a suicide.

Culled from here