I don't want to die. I don't want my thoughts to die. I don't want my desire to make a difference to things around me to die. But I am so afraid that this will become blunt as time goes on. There is so much that needs attention right now. I need to do so much more than what I am doing. Thinking is just one aspect. There is more that needs to be done.
The biggest fear is that getting caught up in the mundane realities of life will leave me with no time for thought, will suffocate my spirit of action and nullify my existence.

Discovering Faiz

An evening with Faiz Ahmad Faiz, with Shubha Mudgal's dramatic voice playing the medium. Can one ask for more?

Mudgal began her tribute to the revolutionary poet with Jashn ka din hai, Junoon ki yaad manao. Delivered in her powerful voice, the words of Faiz reverberated through the auditorium at Nehru Memorial Museum and Library. Her rendition of his poems stirred the audience, which included veterans on Faiz like Prof S.R Kidwai and those like me who are just beginning to be initiated into the works of the master of Urdu poetry.

Mudgal's voice brought him back to life 25 years after his death on November 20, 1984.

It was a journey of the discovery of an art form, a genre of thought, an era long past, but which still retains a relevance for the present that is fast dissipating into an abyss of hopelessness and despair.

Hum dekhenge, wo din ke jiska wada hai,

Jo lau-e azal par likha hai...

It's the message of hope in the face of adversity, of love in the face of hatred and peace in the face of war.

Mudgal confessed to her lack of Urdu talim, and her 'bhakti' for Faiz saab. But that is the magic of Faiz, isn't it? It draws you out of your inhibitions at not knowing a language and gradually leads you into a a magical journey of exploring something new at every step.

The beauty and cadence of his words weave a web that intoxicates the listener, leading him on to a revolution, a cause and much more.

That is the magic I have found in Faiz, and am still looking for more, to fulfil my desire to drink his poetry to the lees.

May his words give wing to hope wherever there is darkness, and courage wherever there is fear and conviction wherever there is indecision.

Raqt-e-dil bandh lo, dil figaro chalo

Phir hamin qatl ho ayen yaron chalo

Aj bazaar mein pa bajaula chalo

Mcleodganj

Hills, beautiful hills

Barren peaks in the distance

That give way to snow, which like a scoop of vanilla ice garnishes the hills

Peace in the air

Sombre monks in flaming attires

Flowing red robes everywhere bustling about in their dogged pursuit of peace

Blue skies

Fluttering prayer flags

That refuse to be weighed down by the hopes they ferry to the blue skies

Lotus petals

Dragons and heavy metal

Buddha sits on a lotus alongside Bon Jovi and Che looking out of earrings and badges

Tea, hot Tibetan butter tea

Steaming momos

That pave the path to salvation wrapped in gastric juices and needs of existence

Piety, prayer, devotion

Church, temple, monastery

Beckoning to the faithful, to lovers of art and curious explorers of the Self

Mountain trails

Gurgling streams

Long walks through both to lose yourself before a renewed discovery

Silent revolution

Austere penance

Living in a home that never will be home, keeping alive their past to empower their future

Liberty, sovereignty, self-determination

Web of words that keeps struggles alive

And give wings to dreams in distant places and times

Gathering hope,

Beaming them across mountains

To mobilise strength to save Tibet, Free Tibet and spread Peace

Taken in by Origami. Now am just folding every bit of paper I can lay my hands on to create birds, animals and more

Dreams...w(h)ither dreams

There are times when everything points in the same direction. More than two conversations I have been having today are all about what people want and what prevents them from achieving what they want.
I have always thought I do not know what I want. So I asked others if they suffered from the same ignorance. Some said we were in the same boat. But many others said they knew what they wanted, but could not pursue it for fear of hurting those who are close to them.
Is it justified to forgo one's dreams so that people around do not get hurt? Is it not in some ways a treachery to one's own purpose in life? Where does one draw the line between 'my wants' and 'the results of my wants'? Till when do I think about how my actions will hurt those around me? Till when do I hold my dreams ransom to those of others? To social compulsions, family traditions, peer pressure? Aren't all of these in the long run, some kind of social constructs that we create and we can dismantle at will?
How sacred are these external impulses that we internalise? How sacred is anything? For that matter how sacred are our dreams?

Will the Phoenix rise again? What will keep it going? There are no dreams to give wings to its flight.

Love's labour lost

Flap flip flap

The bird has flown the nest.

On a bright, sunny day, when the heat decays everything it touches,

The bird has flown its nest after years of breathing, living, growing.

The egg had hatched on a cold night in March…Yes, there used to be cold nights in March not so long ago.

The tiny bird came out, wary of everything and everyone around.

It was happy to be alive and out of a cramped, limiting shell.

It learned to breathe on its own,

But did not know its nature was to fly. It ate what came its way

From the warm embraces on hot, humid afternoons to the loving gazes across the greens.

It fed on the long walks through eternity

On debates from God, to theatre to sex

It did not judge, did not grudge and did not budge.

It lived as it thought it should.

There were some who told it to learn to fly for it would have to fly some day.

It scoffed at their ignorance.

After all, not every bird flies, some

Soar and others

Glide and still others become

One with the breeze that threatens to destroy them

So our little bird was content in what it saw as the essence of its life.

There were fights with its conscience, some with the world,

There were long distances within itself, paces to be covered in so little time.

It learned to make the most of what it was given.

Gradually, the world became more important than its own conscience.

There were voices in its head.

And these voices were different from the voices that had questioned what people had always told it.

About flying, fighting and fearing.

It started learning new meaningless things such as

Fear – of parting and not being able to live after that

Pain – of separation and inability to balance between the voices within and those outside

Guilt – of not being able to fulfil expectations and not being able to accept limitations

Doubt – about itself and its abilities and its potential

Envy – of everything around that seemed happy as it thought it could never be

These feelings became a burden. Yet the long summer nights and the short winter days,

The hours spent away from the world discovering itself,

The effort put in to adjust, accommodate and understand kept it from falling apart.

But in secret, the bird taught itself to fly.

So that when the Moment came, its skills would not be found wanting.

And in secret, it kept waiting for the Moment.

It kept looking for the Moment,

Lived anticipating it

Preparing for it

So much so that when the Moment finally came, it did not realise when it flapped its wings and flew, glided and soared.

But from that distance, when the delirium of the wings it had taken died, it looked down on what was left behind.

In a split second, that cold night of March came back into view.

Along with it came the years it had spent dreaming, daring and Living in defiance of the Voices Outside.

It saw what it had once owned and had now lost.

It saw the essence of its being, and how far behind it had left its soul.

And in that split second, the Earth and the Heavens did not stay still.

The Earth kept spinning around the Sun and the Heavens kept rumbling

The bird forgot to flap its wings.

The memory of its past life caught up with its future and brought its present to the ground.

And in that moment, the bird lived and died its destiny.

Something that began in March 2003 and has ended so many times, only to rise like the Phoenix...but this time, the ashes have become cold