When I met poet Neeraj

Born in Kashmir, the land of lakes and lotuses, I thought my poet-father must have named me ‘Neeraj’, which means lotus-the waterborne, after he saw some splendid lotuses in one of the emerald lakes of our valley. It didn’t occur to me those days that my father’s poetic sensibilities were inspired by a poet who lived thousands of kilometres away, in the heartland of India.

One fine snowy winter afternoon, when I was secure under few layers of woollens and listening to old songs on radio with my joint family in our century-old wooden-ancestral house, my father casually mentioned that he had named me after the writer of the song that was playing on the old box-radio, covered with a thick brown cloth cover. The song was megha chhaae aadhi raat, bairan ban gaye nindiyan.

I was pleasantly surprised that I was named after the legendary poet-Gopaldas Saxena “Neeraj”. The song is still one of my favorites, imbued with childhood memories of snowy winters spent indoors listening to songs on radio and watching cricket matches on black and white TV in those golden  years of Indian cricket.

Later I kept collecting more information about Neeraj, who is among the rare lyricists like Sahir, whose poetry was used in movies like that and admired for its rich literary value. He was born in 1925 in Puravali village in Etawah district of Uttar Pradesh. In a career spanning over five decades, he has penned over a 100 lilting romantic songs.

I never thought I will get a chance to see him in person, forget about talking to him or getting his interview. I feel people are connected to the person at some level, whose identity, personality, has been the reason or inspiration for putting a tag on their identity- a name, which is mostly the sweetest sound to their ears.

In February 2012, when Neeraj was in Bhopal to attend a felicitation programme organised in his honour by the Madhya Pradesh government, it was a dream come true for me.

At last I had got the chance to see the poet who wrote the immortal numbers like Jiivan kii bagiyaa mahakegii, Phoolon ke rang se, dil kee kalam se... Shokhiyon mein ghola jaye phoolon ka shabaab, Karawan gujar gaya, gubar dekhte rahe. When my resident editor told me that I could interview him and write it the way I wanted, I was ecstatic.

I fixed the interview. He told me to come at 10 am sharp. His attendant mischievously smiled at me; looking at the liquor bottle lying in  a corner of the room. 10 am!

It was a sunny Friday morning. I reached the government guest house before the scheduled time. When I entered the room, Neeraj, a frail body in a large frame, with flowing grey hair and bushy eyebrows, was squatted on the bed, attired in a causal white kurta. Those who don’t know about him can easily take him for a farmer or just another elderly guy from the countryside. He has this ordinariness in his persona that reflects in his poetry to which generations of poetry lovers relate to.

On one side of his bed, lay a bottle of scotch Vat 69 and Blenders Pride and on the other side, there were two packs of beedis. I felt it was symbolic in a way-he could regale both elite and the common man through his poetry, penned in rich Hindi, Urdu and beautiful Hindi-Urdu mix. His attendant for last ten years, Om Bahadur, a man in his late twenties, with mongoloid features, was making a butter toast and serving him morning tea. I waited.

After tea, Bahadur helped him gulp down medicines, five pills from different packs and small plastic pouches. And our conversation started. With his frail body and unwavering spirit, I was wondering whether this was the man, whose stentorian voice would keep people spellbound in mushairas, where he would recite poetry in his inimitable high-decibel baritone voice.

I introduced myself and told him that I belonged to Kashmir where my father had named me after him. With a smile that came slowly on his face, he said.

“So Neeraj wants to interview Neeraj”, he said. He put his hand on my head; it was affection and blessings together.

I smiled. He laughed. As our conversation progressed, with his fast-paced sentences, which took the poetic rhythm of their own, it became clear to me that this Padma Bushan awardee didn’t bother about anything at the dusk of his life- whether it was dates, years, awards, media attention, movies, money or luxuries. 

He seemed to have transcended them, having seen much in his six decades of the poetic journey. He looked like an ascetic- a Sufi fakir, who understood the language of love and its transcendence from words to silence.

“Don’t ask me about films”, he told me point blank at the very start of our conversion. He had left writing for films long back. When I asked why he did it, he said, “Music directors for whom I wrote successful songs like Jaikishan and SD Burman, expired afterwards. It left me very depressed and I decided to quit the film industry”. A long forgotten sadness floated in his deep sunken vigilant eyes.

After a while he started talking about his old comrades, his interactions with Sahir, Josh, Jigar, Bachchan, Firaaq, Makhan Lal Chaturvedi and other greats of Hindi literature.

“I miss Sahir. I still remember he organised a special mushaira for me. On whom he liked in the present generation of lyrists, he said he loved the work of Gulzar, Javed Akhtar and Prasoon Joshi.

I knew about his long association with Osho. Having read Osho, I asked him about his special relationship with the mystic, who was born just a few-hour journey from Bhopal.

“Osho was my friend. He would send me his books for which I wrote introductions, like his Gita commentary series and Sadhana Path. Osho invited me to Pune ashram and organised the first ever mushaira for me there. Osho is the most original thinker India has ever produced. He is yet to be understood fully, by those in the rat race and by governments, be it at Centre or here in MP.”

When I asked him about his favourite works and poems, he said all his poetic creations were his children. “I love them equally. I cannot choose; even when some of them are more popular”.

Like the old Zen master, these days Neeraj composes haikus and dohas.

“I am writing haikus in Hindi and will publish them soon. You cannot write them actually. Such Zen moments happen and you just record them.......”.

When I left Neeraj, I felt I had been in presence of a wandering Sufi, who will continue his nomadic journeys in the forests of words and valleys of silences.  His spirit still burns with a restless creative zeal and that is how he wants it till the end...to burn into poetry and silences...

Sharing one of his poems that sums up his life and poetry ....

दर्द दिया है

दर्द दिया है, अश्रु स्नेह है, बाती बैरिन श्वास है,
जल-जलकर बुझ जाऊँ, मेरा बस इतना इतिहास है !

मैं ज्वाला का ज्योति-काव्य
चिनगारी जिसकी भाषा,
किसी निठुर की एक फूँक का
हूँ बस खेल-तमाशा

पग-तल लेटी निशा, भाल पर
बैठी ऊषा गोरी,
एक जलन से बाँध रखी है
साँझ-सुबह की डोरी

सोये चाँद-सितारे, भू-नभ, दिशि-दिशि स्वप्न-मगन है
पी-पीकर निज आग जग रही केवल मेरी प्यास है !
जल-जलकर बुझ जाऊँ, मेरा बस इतना इतिहास है !!

Tears of our ancestral houses" a poem by Neeraj Santoshi

It was difficult to see them dying slowly,
inch by inch, in their moss-laden loneliness
and painful to see them fading back into the elements-
uncared, un-mourned, unwept
with trees and dogs peeping out from those
favourite windows of our grandfathers

some courageous walls were still trying to
hang on to some remnant memories
a rusty mirror
an empty photo frame
plastered bits of old newspapers with pale-yellow photos of celebrities of 80s
an old calendar, perforated by generations of silverfish
some dates circled- probably our festivals
a rusting hanger making absence so palpable
a gloomy earthen lamp
a broken earthenpot

some human shit within those crumbling walls that have somehow managed to save some privacy, some memory of those morning Sanskrit chants of our elders

some torn pages of school notebooks, magazines and binded-books
a small pencil with a thread attached to it

some old black circular electric switches
hanging dusty wires from wooden roofs
that make you believe for a moment that those old bulbs will suddenly light up bright yellow
and moths will start chasing that familiar light of our childhood years

the locals say
sometimes they hear loud cries, wails coming from those 'Batta' houses

ghosts of absences

or maybe our houses weep during night and when it becomes too much
a piercing shriek comes out

we don’t hear it
but someday, in this cacophony
if you hear a faint dying sob, don’t be mistaken…

your home is calling you
may be for one last time

By — with Neeraj Sanntoshi Khaar.

Take a look at @htTweets's Tweet: https://twitter.com/htTweets/status/740481003995598848?s=09

Hole in a sweater

tonight my eyes get teary
thinking of that  mother
who sees the hole in her dead son's sweater
she had knitted last summer..
but she sees nothing ...
lifetime of milk memories and that familiar sound 'maejjey...' vanish into that blackhole...

in the report they just wrote... bullet passed through his chest...

At dusk, poet moves from haunting songs to silence of haiku

(It was a dream come true to get an opportunity to interview my namesake Gopaldas Neeraj, the legendary lyricist i was named after. The piece appeared in Hindustan Times in February 2012)

Born in Kashmir, the land of lakes, I had assumed my father had named me after the lotus. But on a snowy afternoon, when we were listening to old songs on the radio secure under many layers of woolens in our century-old, wooden, ancestral house, my father casually mentioned that he had named me after the writer of the song that was playing: ‘Megha chhaye aadhi raat, bairan ban gaye nindiyan.’

I realised that the noted poet and songwriter Neeraj was not just my namesake but the man my poet father had named me after.

After all these years, I interviewed the 88-year-old man who wrote immortal numbers like ‘Phoolon ke rang se’, ‘Shokhiyon mein ghola jaye phoolon ka shabaab’, ‘Dil aj shayar hai’, ‘Mera mann tera pyaasa’ and ‘Maine kasam li’, sitting at a government guest house in Bhopal on a sunny Friday morning, bottles of last night’s whisky by the bedside.

“Don’t ask me about movies,” said Gopaldas Neeraj, whom many put in the league of our very best lyricists like Sahir Ludhianvi. “I have quit writing for films long ago. Music directors for whom I wrote, Jaikishan and SD Burman, died. It left me very depressed and I decided to quit the industry.”

But soon the man with a frail body in a large frame, with flowing grey hair and bushy eyebrows, start chatting about his old comrades — Sahir, Josh, Jigar, Bachchan, Firaaq, Makhan Lal Chaturvedi and other greats of Hindi literature.

“I miss Sahir. I still remember he organised a special mushaiyra for me,” he said.

Like the old Zen master, these days Neeraj composes haikus (poems in just 17 syllables) and dohas, or couplets. “I am writing haikus in Hindi and will publish them soon. You can’t write them actually. Such moments happen and you just record them,” he said.

He is not entirely disenchanted with this generation of lyricists. He likes the work of Gulzar, Javed Akhtar and Prasoon Joshi. He said like a cyclical process, songwriting is again improving in Bollywood after reaching its low point in the ’80s and ’90s.

However, he is not too sure if a young songwriter would do well in career today.

“Our education system is MBA-oriented, job-oriented. It doesn’t encourage free thinking. It just encourages materialism,” he said. He, in fact, holds the education system responsible for the decline of social values and rise in corruption.

As we talk, his attendant for last ten years, Om Bahadur, a man in his late twenties, served butter toast and tea. After the tea, Bahadur helped him take medicines — five pills from different packs and small plastic cases.

He then turned to his special relationship with Osho, who was born just a few hours’ away from Bhopal.

“Osho was my friend. He would send me his books for which I wrote introductions, like his Gita commentary series and Sadhana Path. He invited me to the Pune ashram and organised the first ever mushaiyra for me there,” he said. “Osho is the most original thinker India has ever produced. He is yet to be understood fully by those in the rat race and by governments, be it at the Centre or here in MP.”

The Padmashree awardee comes across somebody who does not bother about most mundane things like dates, awards, media attention, luxuries, movies or money at the dusk of his life. After six decades of poetic journey, he seemed a Sufi fakir who understood the language of love and its transcendence from words to silence.

Snow Still Falls...... my translation of Agnishekhar's Hindi poem......

Snow still falls
abundantly
like in our childhood days


Crows still
caw on the chinars
from the rooftops
snow slips
like loose edges of a glacier
dogs leap,roll and play


Snow still falls
abundantly
like in our childhood days
but we are not the same
life now pulsates differently

neither do we make a snowman
in our compounds
nor we throw snowballs
on one another

without celebration goes
the first snowfall..nausheen

no more ecstasies
on unhurt slips
no more shooting of nicknames

sitting near the window
for a brief while
we watch the falling snow


and with memories of good old days
move away from the window....

Amrita Preetam on Sahir Ludhianvi's death in 1980.....

Meri sez hajir hai
Par jute aur kameej kee tarah
Tu apna badan bhee utar de
Udhar mudhe par rakh de
Koi khas baat nahin
Yeh apne apne desh ka rivaj hai...

(I am ready,
But keep aside your body and keep it on the chair there,
like you have put off your shirt and the shoes
This is nothing serious
This is just matter of a different custom of different country...)

On the night between October 25 and 26, around 2 AM, when I learnt on the phone that Sahir was no more, the night mingled with the night exactly 20 years back. I was in Bulgaria then and the doctors had warned me of possible heart-attacks. Then, that night, 20 years back, I had written the poem that went, "aj aapne dil dariyaa de vitch maiN aapne phul parvaahe [today I offered my own ashes to the ocean of my heart]'. I looked at my hands. With those hands I had offered my own bones to the ocean of my heart, then how had the bones changed? Did death make a mistake or did these hands?


Along with that came memories of the time when the first Asian Writers Conference had taken place in Delhi. Poets and writers were given name-tags which they had affixed on the lapels of their jackets. Sahir had taken off his tag and put it on my jacket; he had taken my nametag and put it on his. Someone noticed it and said that we had put on the wrong nametags. Sahir had laughed and said someone must have made a mistake. We neither fixed the 'mistake' nor did we wish to. Now, years later, when I heard the news at 2 o'clock at night that Sahir was no more, it seemed as if death had made its decision on the basis of that nametag - it had my name, but was affixed on Sahir's jacket.


My friendship with Sahir had never had to employ words. It was a wonderful relationship of silences. When I was awarded the Akadami award for the verses I had written for Sahir, the press-reporter had wished that I pose as if I were writing something on paper. When the press people went away after clicking the photographs, I saw that I had only written one word again and again: Sahir, Sahir, Sahir...


After this madness, I was apprehensive that the morning paper would have my picture and the name on the paper would be clearly visible. What would happen then? But nothing happened. The photograph was published, but that paper seemed blank.


It is a different matter altogether that later I wished to God that the paper which seemed blank were not so...


The dignity of that blank paper is still the same. The story of my love is recorded in Rasidi Ticket. Sahir read it, but despite that, in none of our subsequent meetings, did he or I ever mention it again.


I remember, in a mushaira people were taking his autographs. Everyone had gone, and I alone was left with him, so I laughingly opened my palm out to him, like a blank paper. And he had signed his name on my palm and said it was a blank cheque that he was signing - I could fill in any amount and cash it whenever I felt like it. Although that paper was a palm made of flesh, but it too had the fate of a blank paper, so no letters could be written on it...


Even today, I have no letters, no words. Whatever is there is Rasidi Ticket, and today this as well, is the story of this blank paper..


The beginning of this story was silent, and the end too, all through the age, has remained silent. Forty years back, when Sahir used to visit me in Lahore, he would come and quietly smoke cigarettes. When the ashtray was filled to the brim with cigarette-stubs, he would go away. After he had gone, I would light and smoke those cigarettes alone. The smoke from me and his cigarettes would mingle in the air, the breaths too mingled in the air, and words from poems as well, in the air...


I think the air can travel any distance. Even earlier, it used to cover the distance between cities, now it would certainly cover the distance between this and the other world.

(From a later edition of Rasidi Ticket, titled 'Kora Kagaz' - 'Blank Paper - dated November 2, 1980, hurriedly translated by Sundeep Dougal)...

Arjan Dev Majboor: Poets Never Die....

Each day
I light a lamp in the whirlwind.
I am a stage of the caravan.

Peep into me
and listen to the ancient ballad.

It is endless…...

(from one of his poems)

Wherever Arjan Dev Majboor is at present, I know his ink stained fingers would be twitching for writing, for putting to paper what has remained unsaid, unfinished. The poetry of snow, silence and turbulence of longing will continue to resonate deep and far and remind us in which heart Majboor has taken a new birth. He will continue to live in our hearts, in the songs of our future generations. For now, he seems to have found some secret place to keep humming his soulful poetry, his songs of earth and solitude, of exile and longing.


Thursday morning news of Arjan Dev Majboor’s passing away has brought a flood of memories and a wound that will keep on bleeding. With the demise of Majboor, one of our greatest Kashmiri writers, something has died in all of us too, who love Kashmir and its ethos.


I often used to talk to him over literary issues. I used to do stories on his literary projects, often wondering about on his tremendous zest for life, youthful passion for writing, unexplained dynamism despite being ill. His insatiable urge to be creative even at the dusk of his mid 80 life was inspiring and humbling experience.


When I met him last, two years ago at his residence in Jammu, I pressed him for writing his autobiography- which would have been a priceless contribution, documenting literary ups and downs spanning, cultural movements, oral history of over six decades, from a man who had interacted with most of the stalwarts of Kashmir during last over half a century. He told me that he wanted to write, but due to illness, couldn't do so. He told me that if someone was ready to take dictation, he would go down the memory lane. I promised that I will try to find someone, but I could not. I regret.


Those days he was passionate about writing Vanwas (Exile), a novel intending to portray the saga of exile from the eyes of a poet, which he wanted to finish as early as possible, perhaps knowing well that his ill health won’t give him much time. I don’t know whether he has finished the novel or not.


I have many fond memories of this grand old man of Kashmiri literature. He used to come to our house in Jammu and my father used to visit him intermittently. He would sometimes scold my father affectionately for not visiting him often. I used to tell Kashmiri writers and scholars that Majboor has not been given his due credit and recognition, for what he has done and what he has achieved, especially on the part of authorities, who many a times embellish neophytes on their average books with awards.


One scholar even told me that had Majboor been from the “Other Faith”, he would have been in a much better place, and much better recognized and credited. I don’t know how much truth is in that, but posterity will have to answer such questions


His contributions are immense. Besides authoring over two dozen books, he also translated Neelmat Puran- the 6th-8th century AD Sanskrit text that depicts the then cultural and social history of people in ancient Kashmir, as part of a project by Jammu and Kashmir Academy of Art, Culture and Languages. The project was entrusted to Majboor, as he was among the very few scholars who were proficient in Sanskrit and Persian, besides being well aware about the history and culture of Kashmir. After three years of painstaking research, ailing Majboor completed the work in a 400 page manuscript.

When I talked to him about doing a story about it, he told me “Neelmat Puran is a historical work of immense importance, which had to be made available to wider readership in the Urdu world. It has given me tremendous satisfaction to translate this text from Sanskrit, which is one of the most quoted texts of Kashmir. I not only translated the 1400 verses of the Puran into Urdu, but also wrote nearly a 100-page introductory background about the Puran for the benefit of the Urdu readers, who may not be aware about the backdrop of the Puarn’’.


To make 3000 years of history available to people in Kashmir in their own mother tongue, he contributed in the mega project of translating Rajatarangini (River of Kings) into Kashmiri. The Jammu and Kashmir government took his services among others for the ambitious project in 2001-2002.


When I talked to him about the project, he told me, “Rajatarangini as a text holds very important place in the history of India as a whole, as writing history was generally not a tradition in ancient India. Though ancient literature is rich, it lacks history, with most of ancient texts dominated by sciences, philosophical, moral and metaphysical issues. In this light, Rajatarangini is a unique Sanskrit text which has all the ingredients of history”.


His infectious passion for literature and aesthetics was a source of inspiration for the budding writers in the state. For his wide knowledge of the Kashmiri literature over the last six decades, many people used to call him a walking encyclopedia of Kashmiri literature.


Though Majboor primarily wrote Kashmiri poetry, the contribution of this multi-faceted personality extended to other languages that includes Hindi, English, Sanskrit and Persian. Majboor’s first collection of poems Kalaam-e-Majboor was published in 1955, followed by Dashahaar in 1983, Dazavuni Kosam in 1987, Padi Samyik in 1993 and Tyoll in 1995’’.

Proficient in Sanskrit, Majboor was the first person to have translated Kalidas’s Meghadootam into Kashmiri verse. The English translation of his poems under the title Waves by Arvind Gigoo has been critically acclaimed by the literary community across the globe.


The best tribute to Majboor will be remembering him through his immortal works and bringing them to a wider readership. And introducing the young generations to life and works of this man, who defied age and its vagaries from touching his spirit.


I am reminded of his poem WILDERNESS……..from poetry collection Waves…


I spent my age
writing this legend.


But the pages
leapt towards the sky.
A dusty cobweb
Besieged me.


Time was at work.
The fault was not mine.
A few moments were given to me in trust.
The world maligned me.


Now
stranded in wilderness
I
wait for
the tree,
the water
and
the light.

I am the mosaic.
My glass-house will not crumble..


Each day
I light a lamp in the whirlwind.
I am a stage of the caravan.


Peep into me
and listen to the ancient ballad.


It is endless…...

Love and sex in ancient Kashmir....

``O descendent of Kasyapa, best among the brahmanas, on the12th, a pitcher full of cold water and decorated with flowers and leaves should be placed before Kamadeva, and before sunrise a husband himself should bathe his wife with water (from the pitcher).’’.

                                                                        --from Neelmat Puran



Much before Valentine’s Day became popular in India and fundamentalists started opposing it as a Western construct, people in Kashmir used to celebrate sex and love through a festival dedicated to Kamadeva, the Indian God of sex and love, with much gaiety and aplomb.


More than a thousand years ago, Kashmiris celebrated Madantrayodashi, a festival of love celebrated on 13th of the bright half of Chaitra (March-April), when Kamadeva , the Indian equivalent of Eros of the Greeks and the Cupid of the Latins, used to be worshipped with various types of garlands and diverse incenses. Madantrayodashi comes from two words- `Madan’ which means he who intoxicates with love and `Trayodashi’, which means the 13th.


The 6-8th century AD Sanskrit text Nilmata Purana says that ``on the 13th of bright half of Chaitra ``Kamadeva , (painted) on cloth should be worshipped with various types of garlands and diverse incenses’’.
In verse 680, Nilmata Purana records that on this day, ``One should decorate one’s own self and worship the ladies of the house. O twice born this (13th day) should be necessarily celebrated, the rest may be or may not be celebrated’’.


On how this festival was celebrated, the famous text mentions, ``O descendent of Kasyapa, best among the brahmanas, on the12th, a pitcher full of cold water and decorated with flowers and leaves should be placed before Kamadeva, and before sunrise a husband himself should bathe his wife with water (from the pitcher).’’.


The importance of Kamadeva in the life of Kashmiris could be gauged from the fact that there is reference about a pilgrimage in the name of Kamadeva. In verse 1365, Nilamata Purana states, ``Having bathed at Kamatirtha, a man obtains the fulfillment of his desires and having bathed at Apasarastirtha, he becomes possessed of beauty’’. At another place the text mentions,``One obtains happiness and becomes beautiful after seeing Kamadeva erected by Agastya on the mountain’’.


There is another connection of Kamadeva with Kashmir, the land of Shiva. There is a legend about Kamadeva’s annihilation and subsequent resurrection at the hands of Shiva. It is said that wishing to help Parvati, the daughter of Himalayas, in gaining the favour of Shiva, Kamadeva shot his floral arrows at Shiva to disrupt His meditation and help Parvati gain Shiva’s attention. Enraged by this, Shiva opened his third eye, and annihilated Kamadeva with a single glance. Later, at the behest of the Gods and Parvati, Shiva resurrected Kamadeva to life, thus ensuring the procreative continuity of the world through desire, love and sex. It is said that it was Kamadeva who succeeded in bringing Shiva who had turned away from love after the death of wife Sati, near to Parvati.


Kamadeva, who is also called Madana (intoxicating), is represented as beautiful young man, having a bow made of sugarcane and five floral arrows in his hands, traveling through the three worlds accompanied by his wife Rati, the cuckoo, the humming bee, gentle breezes, all symbolizing the spring time and the ambience of romance. And Kashmir, with its natural bounty, seems made for love. Kamadeva’s ornaments are the conch and the lotus, both related to water, the symbol of creativity and fertility. And Kamadeva’s this ornament, is found aplenty in the emerald waters of Kashmir .


Some critics feel that V-Day is being propagated by some market forces as a whole new industry has come up to market ``love’’. Some rightwing activists have been opposing V-Day celebrations on the grounds that it is a Western concept and is diluting the age-old Indian culture. V-day may be a Western construct, but love itself isn't Western or Eastern. In our tradition, Kama is the personification of the divine will which leads and propels the ray of creation.....

My haikus on love….

buzzing heavy night
glowworm’s surprise..
where stars make love silently…




snow falls
silently into the eyes of virgin mountain lake
just like that I saw you




snaking down
settlling in her breast-valley
a teardrop raises its shining hood




her pheran
sketching the veiled curves
nib of hard pencil breaks




dense cloud
of powder couldn’t hide
young moon on her neck




last windswept snowflake
lands
on her bare upper-back




that familiar scent

dry flower you kept in my book

memory of a lost spring that doesn’t go

many loves die

on the altar of bed

I love dragonflies making love in midair

heavy snowfall

all gravestones look alike

where is my friend’s grave …?

sleeping on the ground

i feel breasts

mother earth

moon

cupid’s tablelamp

under which lovers read their secret loveletters.

Van Gogh's love....

"For love is something so positive, so strong, so real that it is as impossible for one who loves to take back that feeling as it is to take his own life".
                                                             from Van Gogh's letter..




A widowed first cousin, Kee; a prostitute named Sien; shy, spinsterish Margot Bergemann; the seventeen-year-old peasant girl Stien de Groot—van Gogh knocked at the doors of their hearts…..and none of them journeyed with this great soul as his better half…
Van Gogh hungered for love all through his turbulent life……wounded…bruised……and still left us enough gifts......to be discovered and re-discovered....

A love letter of Van Gogh….. illumines the passions that rocked his sensitive heart ....He was desperately in love with his cousin, but his cousin refused to marry him. This letter was written by Vincent to his brother, Theo, talking about his love for his cousin.
Some selections from a letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 7 November 1881

Old boy,

This letter is for you alone, you will keep it to yourself, won't you?….. In the first place I must ask you if it astonishes you at all that there is a love serious and passionate enough not to be chilled even by many “never, no, nevers”? I suppose far from astonishing you, this will seem very natural and reasonable. For love is something so positive, so strong, so real that it is as impossible for one who loves to take back that feeling as it is to take his own life.


If you reply to this by saying, “But there are people who put an end to their own life,” I simply answer, “I really do not think I am a man with such inclinations.” Life has become very dear to me, and I am very glad that I love. My life and my love are one. “But you are faced with a `never, no, never,' ” is your reply. My answer to that is, “Old boy, for the present I look upon that `never, no, never' as a block of ice which I press to my heart to thaw.”


To determine which will win, the coldness of that block of ice or the warmth of my heart, that is the delicate question about which I can give no information as yet, and I wish that other people would not talk about it if they can say nothing better than, “The ice will not thaw,” “Foolishness” and more such nice insinuations. If I had an iceberg from Greenland or Nova Zembla before me, I do not know how many meters high, thick and wide, then it would be a difficult case, to clasp that colossus and press it to my heart to thaw it. But as I have never yet seen an ice colossus of such dimensions loom up across my course, I repeat, seeing that she with her “never, no, never” and all is not many meters high and thick and wide, and if I have measured correctly, might easily be clasped, I cannot see the “foolishness” of my behaviour.


As for me, I press the block of ice “never, no, never” to my heart; I have no other choice, and if I try to make it thaw and disappear - who can object to that??? What physical science has taught them that ice cannot be thawed is a puzzle to me. It is very sad that there are so many people who object to it, but I do not intend to get melancholy over it and lose my courage. Far from it. Let those be melancholy who will.


I have had enough of it, and will only be glad as a lark in spring! I will sing no other song but aimer encore! Theo, do you like that “never, no, never”? Indeed, I think you don't. But there seem to be people who like it and, perhaps unconsciously - “of course with the best intentions and for my own good” - they occupy themselves with trying to wrench the ice from my breast; unconsciously they throw more cold water on my ardent love than they are aware. But I do not think many pails of cold water will be able to cool my love soon, old boy…


Do you think it considerate of the family to insinuate that I must be prepared to hear in a short time that she has accepted another, richer suitor; that she has become quite handsome and will no doubt be asked in marriage; that she will take a positive dislike to me if I go further than “brother and sister” (that was the utmost limit); that it would be such a pity if “meanwhile (!!!) I let a better chance go by (!!!) …”


Does a man who has not learned to say, “She, and no other,” know what love is? … When they said those things to me, then I felt with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my mind: “She, and no other.” Perhaps some will say, “You show weakness, passion, stupidity, ignorance of the world, when you say, `She, and no other.' Add another string to your bow, do not commit yourself definitely.” Far from it! Let this my weakness be my strength. I will be dependant on “her, and no other”; even if I could, I should not want to be independent of her. But she has loved another and her thoughts are always in the past; and her conscience seems to bother her even at the thought of a possible new love.


But there is a saying, and you know it, “Il faut avoir aimé, puis désaimé, puis aimer encore” [one must have loved, then unloved, then love again]. “Aimez encore: ma chère, ma trois fois chère, ma bien aimée - “ [love again: my dear, my three times dear, my beloved -]. I saw that she was always thinking of the past and buried herself in it with devotion. Then I thought, Though I respect that feeling and though that deep grief of hers touches and moves me, yet I think there is some fatalism in it.


So it must not weaken my heart, but I must be resolute and firm, like a steel blade. I will try to raise “something new” which will not take the place of the old, but has a right to a place of its own. And then I began - at first crudely, awkwardly, but still firmly - and I ended with the words, Kee, I love you as myself… Then she said, “Never, no, never.” What is the opposite of “never, no, never”? Aimer encore! I cannot say who will win.


God knows, I only know this one thing, “I had better stick to my faith.” When it happened this summer, though I was not unprepared for it, it was at first as terrible a blow as a death sentence, and for a moment it absolutely crushed me to the ground. Then in that inexpressible anguish of soul, a thought rose in me like a clear light in the night: Whosoever can resign himself, let him do so; but he who has faith, let him believe! Then I arose, not resigning but believing, and had no other thought than “she, and no other.” You will say, On what will you live if you win her? Or perhaps, You will not win her. But no, you will not talk like that. He who loves, lives; he who lives, works; he who works has bread. So I remain calm and confident through all this, and it influences my work, which attracts me more than ever just because I feel I shall succeed. Not that I shall become anything extra-ordinary, but “ordinary”; and by ordinary I mean that my work will be sound and reasonable, and will have a right to exist, and will serve some purpose.


I think that nothing awakens us to the reality of life so much as true love. And whoever is truly conscious of the reality of life, is he on the wrong road? I think not. But to what shall I compare that peculiar feeling, that peculiar discovery of love? For indeed when a man falls seriously in love, it is the discovery of a new hemisphere. And therefore I wish that you were in love too, but then a woman must come into your life; however, as with other things, who seeks will find, though the finding itself is due simply to luck, not to any merit of our own.


And then it is a great surprise when you have found someone, and - and - and - if you then find yourself faced, not with a “yes, and amen,” but with a “never, no, never,” it is not pleasant at first, but terrible. But as Uncle Jan rightly says, The devil is never so black as he is painted; so is it also with a “never, no, never.” Now when you have received and read this letter, you must surely write me soon if you haven't already done so, for since I've told you everything, I long very much for a letter from you.


I do not think you will take what I have told you in bad part, but rather that you have pretty much the same thoughts about the question of the necessity of a “she, and no other” in general. However it may be, write to me soon, and believe me,


Yours sincerely,
Vincent

Some Haiku poems on terror and exile.....

 

      lonely dark night

      on the unmarried militant’s fresh gravestone

      two glowworms make love

     All the stolen silver of those
     childhood moons
     who has melted them into dazzling bomb blast….




     Cold canvas
     a gun shot
     still silhouette of a silenced cry.




    gravestone engraver
    stops his hand in mid air…
    a gun shot …a new name…




   Snow falling
   on the cemetery
   Please open the coffins!


   (For Nietzsche)




   Ancient pond
   silently sitting frog
   `Dhaddaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmm……….’…..a bomb blast.


   (For Basho)

   Calligraphy in darkness

   struggle in red on walls of our deserted house.
   alternative history

   Spider weaves thread

   on the rusted door latch

   a dream in exile

   Looking at lonely moon

   a childless mother

   stretches her arms towards the sky

Spiritual orphans: Is it the end of Kashmiri Shaiva lineage ?

Has the lineage of Shaiva Masters,especially in the context of oral tradition and guru shishya parampara, that existed in the Himalayan valley of Kashmir for over a millennia, ended? Was Swami Lakshaman joo last in the lineage? Is Shaiva tradition on decline or dying in the land of its birth? Is observing some festivals and rituals giving us a false feeling of being Shaivites? Are we being hypocrites who keep on harping about Shaiva roots and ignore the fact that Shaiva traditions are fading from the Kashmiri ethos?

If renowned physicists are discovering the parallels between Spanda and quantum physics, why our leaders and scholars have failed to teach us even the simple Shaiva traditions and their significance in the modern idiom. Do they really know or understand it themselves. How many of them would have read all the volumes of Abhinavgupta’s masterpiece Tantraloka, forget about understanding it and teaching it.


It pains me that our elders have failed in passing on the teachings and the essence. Our generation is like potted plants lying on dusty staircases of high rise buildings, content with our stunted and claustrophobic potted roots. Phony words and claims of great Shaivist heritage are no substitute for the real transmission, for real earthy touch.


In this sense, I feel like a spiritual orphan, who is trying to fathom the sea of Shaivism on his own with few paper boats (books, cyberworld) and limited knowledge. Nietzsche says somewhere ``One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil’’. Given the stature of Shaiva Masters like Abhinavgupta’s, Vasugupta or Swami Ram, we have really been very bad repayers.


Our generation watches the rituals and traditions of our community in exile with great amusement, unaware of their underlying spiritual significance. The fact is that elaborate rituals are now skipped on most occasions and short cuts are being taken- be it in rituals related to birth, death, birthdays or marriages. Gloss has overtaken most of our functions, while the spiritual side has taken a backseat. It seems that we are slowly moving towards a collective spiritual amnesia.




The realization of this spiritual blackhole dawned on me, when few years back I met world famous authority on Tantra and Kashmiri Shaivism, Mark Dyczkowski, who originally hails from Russia, in Jammu. It was a dream come true, an encounter that exposed my ignorance about the real significance of Shaivism and my superficial academic understanding of it.


I had always deeply desired to see a real Shaiva master and talk with him or her or at least be face to face with a real scholar who knows the secrets of Shaiva tradition of Kashmir. I hardly know of any living Kashmiri who can be said to be a living Shaiva Master or a real scholar who knows the mysteries of Shaivism. May be there are secret Masters, but almost no one is in the public domain who can be given the credit for taking the Shaivist lineage forward.


Dyczkowski was in Jammu to attend a conference. When I came to know about it, I was very excited. After few enquires that day, I came to know he was in the famous Raghunath Sanskrit Library, looking for some ancient texts. I was not aware where the famous Library, whose catalogue of nearly 6000 rare Sanskrit texts was prepared by Sir Aurel Stein himself in 1894, was.


I knew it was somewhere near the Raghunath temple. After half an hour of search and directions from the local shopkeepers, I reached the Library. I made a mental map of questions in English, which I had to ask. For me, Dyczkowski was a Russian scholar, who had studied Shaivism. A foreign scholar. I had imagined him as a high brow scholar, with an air of aloofness and absentmindedness, who would dish out replies in Hinglish accent. But when I saw him, I was taken aback. He was antithesis of everything that I had imagined about him. He was sitting comfortably in a chair in front of the Library. Basking in winter sun and conversing with scholar employee of the Library, he was eating groundnuts with a laidback approach, his demeanour never suggesting that he was the man who wrote the famous Doctrine of Vibration. Wearing a casual kameez payijama, with silky white beard and a shining face, he seemed a rishi from some ancient era. His eyes had the freshness of wonder and a soft glint of a child. He spoke in fluent Hindi, surprising me further. And I switched over to Hindi as well, loving his gentle sprinkling of Sanskrit shalokas intermittently.


After introducing myself, I started asking him general questions, trying to cover-up my ignorance of the higher topics of which he was a master. When I told him, that even now there are no institutions or research centres dedicated to the study of Shaivism in the land of its birth, he was surprised, but didn’t show much emotion. He told me that it was indeed surprising that while in many parts of the world, hundreds of institutions and scholars are dedicatedly researching various facets of Kashmiri Shaivism and the works of various Shaiva masters like Abhinavgupta, Vasugupta, Anandvardhan, Bhatta Kalatta and so no, here, in the birthland, nothing like that was happening .


When I asked him how he was initiated into the mysteries of Shaivism, looking far into the distance, as if looking at the fast collage of the past events, he recalled that it was great Shaiva master Swami Lakshaman joo who had initiated him in 1976. Even after studying different aspects of Shaivism for the last four decades, I could see the reverence in his eyes for his Master.


Then suddenly, as if hinting that my earlier question was not that important or foolish, he said, ``To understand the mysteries of Shaivism, one needs grace of Lord Shiva and then dedicated efforts in the right direction’’.


As if questioning my stress on books and institutions, Mark said with a childlike innocence, ``If the grace of Shiva is there , then only the spark will aflame your soul, then only access to the teachings of Shaivism through different mediums like books, CDs, audio cassettes, book exhibitions, workshops, seminars and lectures of scholars will help and mature your recognition’’ .


On his relations with the Ishwar ashram, the ashram of Swami Lakshaman joo, he said that he is not much in touch,….hinting subtly that how he got disillusioned with the ashram affairs after the departure of the Master.




That day I felt I had met a person, who has transcended the scholarship of Shaivism and was now moving on the higher paths as a seeker. His life is evident of his dedication towards understanding the mysteries of Shaivist tantra. He has devoted his whole life to the study, collation, edition, translation and interpretation of manuscripts of the Shaiva and Kaula Tantra. Dyczkowski, who lives and works in Benares is a Masters in Philosophy and Indian Religion from Benares Hindu University and has studied Sanskrit grammar and literature with Pandit Ambikadatta Upadhyaya. After graduating from BHU, he went to England, finished his doctorate in 1980 at Oxford University where he studied under the eminent Prof Alexis Sanderson, on the Spanda School of Kashmiri Shaivism. In 1980 he came back to Benares and started his research work.


This man who is author of The Aphorisms of Siva, The Stanzas on Vibration, 14 volume work on the Kubajika tantra, had no scholarly air about his being. He seemed a simple Shaiva bhakt to me, a modern day rishi . His simple demeanour, seemed to defy the fact that he is arguably the most original and wide-ranging scholar of Hindu Tantra alive today. As a community, I feel ashamed that we don’t invite him in our functions, for lectures, discourses, workshops for young or for felicitating him. Most of our leaders are busy in petty organizational politics, factionism and mini power struggles.


If this generation fails to carry forward the Shaiva traditions and the lineage, a day will come when all that will be left will be a swelled fan list on Shaivism groups on social sites like facebook and hollow claims of our great Shaiva heritage. The real touch of a master, a real seeker is missing somewhere….words and clicks help to a certain level…but primarily one needs grace, guidance and guru….


That day when I accompanied Mark Dyczkowski back to his university guestroom , where he was staying, in an auto-rickshaw, I felt his silent grace and love……it was wordless….when we departed….he just smiled with his eyes beaming with childlike wonder….that day I felt as if all Shaiva masters of last one millennia were smiling through him…. I recognized in his eyes a somewhat similar expression that I had once seen as a kid in the compassionate eyes of Swami Lakshaman joo, while he blessed me and gave me handfuls of prasad at his Ishwar Ashram in Kashmir….