Bhambhu Bawra

Bhambhu Bawra, mad Bhambhu, was a sweeper in the streets of Kharkhoda. He was not mad like other mad people who lose their minds - he had lost his heart. It was lost in his journey of life. He was now 28 years old and his heart, not the organ that pumps blood, but the real heart that fills with countless joys, sorrows, colors, tears, electricity, was lost. He remembered having a mother, and putting his head in her lap, he remembered that velvety tenderness that spread behind his eyelids then, he also remembered his daily trifles, daily sweeping with his tall broom, frequent insults by the people, but he didn’t remember what happened in the middle of his life, nobody knew that middle period of his life. Manu, who became his friend, took Bhambhu’s hand in his hand and could feel the warmth, the kind of warmth that has become alien in the world of logic. There was a film of tears that floated perennially in Bhambhu’s eyes. Manu used to look into his eyes and saw meaning in those tears, that something inside him knew, but that was not known in words. There was one thing Bhambhu was very particular about. Whenever someone died, he used to go to the funeral pyre and sit there for two to three days even after everyone was gone. If the funeral was of some old man, he used to repeat ‘Baba, mar ga’, ‘Baba, mar ga’ - ‘Baba is dead’, ‘Baba is dead’, while continuously silently sobbing. When Manu used to sleep in the night, before sleeping, he would say a few lines of prayer for Bhambhu, for Bhambhu’s well being. One day, Bhambhu visited a funeral pyre and was not seen afterwards. Nobody knew what happened to him, nobody even cared, but Manu’s heart still aches for his friend, he still keeps Bhambhu in his prayers…

© Manan sheel.

Gopi Sunar (An Imagination)

Gopi sunar was a childhood friend of Billu. They were very close when they were little, but afterwards their friendship declined and they went separate ways with their lives. Both of them got lost in what their respective fathers used to do. Gopi became a sunar (goldsmith) and developed a concentration of the eyes and deftness of the hands that is essential for a sunar to succeed, and billu as you know, became a clever shopkeeper whose shop became a heaven for Manu, golhu and other children. 

Gopi became a very successful goldsmith, surely the best of Kharkhoda. His profits became unmatched. As Gold and money flowed in his bank accounts, he became increasingly what he already was much - more accurate in the movement of his eyes and measurements, more deft in his handling of gold, but also he started becoming a little wild and a little crazy like a scientist. Something about his appearance - he was almost bald with little hair on his head above his ears, and had a charlie chaplin like little moustache, he was thin and looked older than his years. These hair became more and more like a bird’s dishevelled nest as he grew more crazy. He used to look at people and he would see gold and cash walking, he used to have dreams of oceans of gold coins, of the moon being a silver plate and the sun being a great gold shield.

To the people, it looked as if he was becoming something else - not a human, but a fine robot machine, people at that time had never heard of robots, so they were in awe of this first time phenomenon.

Then, one day, Gopi sunar started dancing in his gold shop, dancing like an absolute madman, like a dervish, he threw the coins in the shop everywhere, all the jewelry he simply threw in the streets outside, all the precious things to buy in his shop were now in the streets or in the street side drains. People, the people of Kharkhoda, looked at him and saw a twinkle in his eyes. He declared in this state that his love for money was now absolute, and has turned into the love for Laxmi goddess…

© Manan sheel.

Gladdening!

When 

a koel sings,

in those moments 

when notes flow

out of her throat,

to gladden the hearts

of all those listening,

or all those busy

with their life,

who will

one day

listen,

then, won't 

a million light years away

a few stars be born,

given birth by the melody

in the notes, of this koel,

Does this event seem

impossible to you?

then, what you see

all around you,

every little thing,

every music,

the peace and colors

in the flowers,

the light filled

stars of the leaves,

the nectar in the fruits 

and how they refresh

your throat, your life,

the dancing of your mind,

the singing of your heart,

how is all that possible?

© Manan sheel.

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.