On my grandmother Lachchmi - a poem, and then something about her grip...

 

Laxmi, Lachchmi (my grandmother)

She was a simple soul

No, she never cared about

things that are not worth caring about

For instance, she never cared about cricket,

or tv serials, or movies

And dismissed all that with a one liner

"yo laambe laambe chehre"

These long faces..

For somewhere inside she knew

that faces are better.

they are not like the diplomatic faces on the television...

that faces are better, like, like

those of her children...

'Sham, Fulad, Raj, Munna and Lala'

like, like..

those of her grandchildren,

maybe like Manu's face,

which was sweetest to her..

on whose birth she had danced and sang,

while beating spoon frantically on the plate...

And what about her grip?

the way she clutched her grandchildren's arm

and dragged them back to house

in the fear that they may get lost

Manu hated it,

for how could he know that it was out of sheer love!

how could he know that this lady, his grandmother

had lost so much in her lifetime, that losing was

a nightmare to her!

She who lost her father's family to plague,

And then many of her children at birth..

how could she manage to lose Manu...!!!

Wasn't she a saint?

Her tragedies and then, her devotion to God,

her singing of 'Bhootan ke dere mein, bhaj le pyare, tu sahara'

'where I am trapped in this pit of ghosts, it is you god, who will get me out'

every morning.....

She knew a secret, deep inside that this modern generation doesn't

(though she knew nothing of cricket scores, and once when Manu tried to explain her

cricket, he came to the point of forgetting himself)..

just one rhythm, like Meera's can take you across..it is all that matters

nothing else does....

And what about her cloth and cotton parrots?

Can any living artist suffuse so much love into his art?

the love that she suffused into the parrots she made for Manu..

Art is for love, not for diplomacy,

yes, she knew that too!

And her tale of Hallaq Kuttaq

Wasn't that masaledar??

Manu loved that

and went around the streets repeating it..

'Hallaq Kuttaq it's your turn,

Let your tail put put burn!'

She didn't know how to read and write

She couldn't write her name for that

'Laxmi...(Lachchmi as it was pronounced)'

And when somebody teased her regarding that

and said that you should learn..

Her response was epic

"Baawli na hoon mein...gadanjoge, khapparbharne, daatwe, jaadwe..."

'I am not so mad as to learn now...then some excellent abuses'

She was a simple soul

So simple that she considered her village as the whole universe

Was there something beyond 'kharkhoda' her village?

No, just forbidden zone..

She didn't know much about what was outside,

but she did know a taste of the inside..

that is lost to people now!

By - Manan sheel (Manu of the poem)

-----------------------

“And what about her grip?

the way she clutched her grandchildren's arm

and dragged them back to house

in the fear that they may get lost

Manu hated it,

for how could he know that it was out of sheer love!

how could he know that this lady, his grandmother

had lost so much in her lifetime, that losing was

a nightmare to her!

She who lost her father's family to plague,

And then many of her children at birth..

how could she manage to lose Manu...!!!”

The Grip

Manu was playing in the upper part of the house, that

belonged to his ‘Fulad’ uncle and the family of ‘Fulad’ uncle.

Some ruined stairs connected this upper part of the house to the

lower house, that belonged to Manu’s ‘Raj’ uncle. Manu was

about to descend the stairs, when he saw the figure of his

paternal grandmother coming up through stairs. He couldn’t

return to his uncle’s house on the upper stairs, for the door had

been closed, by his uncle’s wife, for she had seen enough of

Manu’s naughtiness. There was nowhere to go. Manu’s

grandmother was approaching. Her face looked almost ghostly,

horrible, at one glance. It needed a look of love, a look laced with

love, to know what was hidden behind that ghostly face. It was a

sorrow, a kind of sorrow that was forgiven by the person who

contained it, and thus, transformed painfully, but successfully

into love, utter love. Manu was a sensitive boy, but being utterly

immature, he couldn’t comprehend his grandmother and was

afraid of her. Now, there was no place to escape for Manu. By the

time he could think of something, her grandmother, Lachmi, had

grabbed his arm by her nails. It was like a witch’s grip;
which Manu couldn’t escape. Manu was dragged downstairs, and

afterwards, the whole day, Manu made faces at her grandmother.

There was a reason for his grandmother, Lachmi, doing this. She

was afraid, in her soul, that Manu might get lost. Manu was the

child of ‘Lala’, her youngest child. Manu was dear to Lachmi,

more than any of her grandchildren. On Manu’s birth, she had

danced and sang, while beating the spoon frantically on a silver

plate. It was as if, when Manu was born, all her wishes had been

fulfilled, it felt like to her, that she had saved life from the

clutches of death, had been at last victorious against death. Oh! I

may now have to enter her soul to write further. My hands are

trembling, my soul is shedding tears in love, for a fever of love is

gripping me – the kind of fever that had gripped the soul of

Lachmi, for the larger part of her life. She had lost 9 of her

children at birth, by some unknown disease. Some were born,

and some equally loved, didn’t survive. One of the children died

between ‘Lala’ and ‘Munna’. It was like she was hoping that her

child will survive every time, and again it went out like a puff in

the air. From this, she came to know, imperceptibly, not in words,

but in her innermost core, the nature of love, the nature of hope,

the nature of madness, the nature of God. And thus, sung her

songs for the unseen one, that penetrated in every cell of her

body. Her capacity to love was ultimate. For she put her sorrow

into the colorful cloth parrots that she made for a living, and with

her art, magically, she reaped love from her sorrow.

Manu’s grandmother died when he was in 5th grade. He had cried

when they took her body to the cremation ground. Manu is now

28 years old. He has seen a lot of the so-called love of this world

– the sweet and selfish love. None of it is like the ocean of love

that was contained, in that grip, in that uneasy, witch’s grip.

© Manan sheel.

Wholesomeness...

If I were to describe the current phase of my life in a word, I would say that it is 'wholesome'. 

Wholesomeness, like experienced after eating a slice of bread, that is the current taste of my life...

This word comes from the context of food and the satisfaction and health felt after eating well, but this is true for me in other dimensions of life as well -

Beautiful, touching music and movies give me emotional, spiritual wholesomeness...

Looking at the flowers provides dessert for my eyes and fill up the heart with a colored nectar-filled wholesomeness...

My family is wholesomeness for me in every dimension that is more real than anything...

When my heart understands the soul of music, and the flow of rivers, and the richness in written words, and the depth of the stars, the waves of ecstatic wholesomeness again and again hit the shore of a laughing God, to whom it says thank you in its thick, wholesome frothy way...

© Manan sheel.

Companion...

Alone I was in this stream of life, When you came I found a companion

How was it conceived

in the nature of things,

that someone would

share her nights and days

with me, and I with her?

A chance encounter

written nowhere,

and yet it happened,

that you will be a poem

I will read over and over

all my life, and find 

new meanings, inexhaustible, 

never-ending meanings

I agree that all is chance,

Chance is the sight 

of a sparrow,

Chance is the witnessing

of a butterfly’s fluttering wings,

it is by chance that 

when we are outside, the wind

brings the fragrance 

of flowers to us,

I agree that our meeting 

was by chance,

but the magic in life happens

afterwards,

after chance brings

the unknown gifts,
and we can only be grateful
for them

You made my life playful

You brought order to my life

I had the pencil in my hand,

and was trying with trembling hands

to complete life’s circle,

working night and day 

to give it completeness, wholeness, 

you held my hand,
and gracefully 

completed the circle

making my life whole

and beautiful…

© Manan sheel.

The Legend of 'Andy'

The Legend of ‘Andy’ in Kharkhoda is as popular as the legend of ‘Hallaq Kuttaq’. So popular that it has seeped into the everyday language as an adjective that can mean ‘Awesome’, ‘Wonderful’, ‘Unparalleled’, ‘Unique’, ‘Stylish’. When someone is called ‘Andy', it means all these and much more.

The tale of ‘Andy’ is a tale of the old times, as old as the first fable of Kharkhoda. It is said that in the times when Kharkhoda was like a desert with few oasis, covered with golden dust all over, and a cruel sun always above the people, when the oasis were the places of storytelling and refreshments, a foreigner in a big bright pink turban was seen in the oasis. He had deep green eyes which brought the coolness of ocean to that dusty place. He was white-skinned with a light golden beard. He wore a shining bright leaf green shirt that was also like a T-shirt, that fluttered in freedom when the winds blew. He wore white pyjamas with long black vertical stripes. And he had very long and thin artistic fingers.

‘Andy’ told strange stories and often children gathered around him. His stories were of alien worlds, out of this world. He did magical things, so magical and so unbelievable that their secrets are unknown to this day. What he did was more magical than what science would be to a prisoner who has returned from jail after being there for more than 30 years. He had secrets, he dealt in enchantments.

Once, Andy called a feeble, sick, and dumb-looking boy from the crowd gathered around him, touched his little hand with his long fingers and the boy turned suddenly healthy, not only in the body, but also in the mind. It is said that the same boy went ahead to become one of the prominent scientists of Kharkhoda. Once, Andy was seen floating in the air, and at other times talking to the spirits.

Andy amazed all, and Andy loved all. Once there was a big calamity in the village. There was a plague which had affected everyone, people were dying like flying moths on a light. Andy was sitting in the oasis sipping his favorite Lassi when he considered the situation. Andy came out of the oasis and summoned the Gods of the winds, to bring about a terrible storm, thunder, rain, and lightning. Once the storm was over, there was a renewed freshness in the village, each leaf and flower had a new life – Kharkhoda was no longer a desert, but a bed of flowers and gardens as beautiful as Kashmir.

The people thanked Andy with their tears of joy. Andy disappeared into the sky showering fragrant white-pink flowers that looked like cherry blossoms. From that day on, people take his name reverently. Nobody knows whether he was a God, or an Alien, or simply a Man with super powers, but he won the hearts of the people and his name got into Kharkhoda’s everyday language, and till this date when someone says, ‘You are Andy!’, it is taken as the biggest complement.

© Manan sheel.

Billu's Shop

 

Billu was the shopkeeper of the little shop in front of the Kharkhoda house. Manu, Golhu, Uma, Chhotu would all go to Billu’s shop to buy biscuits, toffees, imli pipes, sweet jellies, and little toys in the shapes of animals and birds made of colored plastic. One particular delicacy that had come up and was popular with children was the ‘ABCD’ biscuits – biscuits in the shapes of letters, that all the four children used to make names from, and then gobble up – the simple taste of these biscuits was a taste of happiness, as they were eaten during the happiest, most playful moments created by the name making game.

‘ABCD’ biscuits costed a rupee for 20 of them. Billu was a frugal shopkeeper, he counted 20 little biscuits each one like a part of treasure he was about to share, with utmost attention, as if he was using his weak, spectacled eyes in the best possible way – to get a little money, that was the motive of his life, and in the process making his eyesight worse. Billu was in the habit of saying little phrases three times consecutively – for instance, to make the animals like the cows and dogs to go on from the gate of his house, he would say ‘chal re, chal re, chal re’ (go on, go on, go on), and to make someone step aside he would say ‘hat re, hat re, hat re’ (step aside, step aside, step aside).

Billu was dark as the night, slim like a stick, cunning like a fox, attentive on matters of money, trapped in a little house that contained a shop in the top corner – a small ladder was used to reach to the shop, it was a kind of metaphor for his philosophy – that business and matters of money are 2 feet above all the other matters in life. Billu was not honest – he would try with his cunning mind to remove 2-3 biscuits while counting, he would sometimes miscalculate willingly for his profit, and to the simple children, he would often sell washed colorful stones that he had gathered from his walks at a good price.

Whatever the case, his shop was the favorite of the children – it had so many of the things that the children are crazy about, so many colorful bright things, so many of the lip-smacking sticky delicacies – and thus Manu fondly remembers Billu’s shop – it was a fortunate thing in the order of the things that happened – that a shopkeeper like Billu chose to open a shop in Kharkhoda, that made up Manu’s childhood…

© Manan sheel.