Finding poetry

I waited for poetry today, but it did not come my way so I went looking for it, but returned empty handed all the same. This is the proper words waala poetry, not the metaphoric kind of poetry that one finds in random moments. I am in dire need of poetry in the traditional sense of the term right now, but since it refuses to happen, I can only surmise that perhaps, sometimes, unless you already acknowledge the poetry that a short while ago, had enveloped you in its profoundness, newer verses may not find their way to you. So, this is an attempt to remedy that.

In an earlier post, I had written about listening to Mann kasturi re while reading the lyrics of the song. It is by far the most well written song for me from this year. What I did not write about at that time was another line that wasn’t part of any of the songs in Masaan, but which I found thanks to the film. I had at that time turned the lines over and over in my head marveling at the sheer force of its thought and how sometimes I too have taken a leap of faith based on nothing more than audacious optimism. I wish these lines had been there with me in those moments, it would have made those leaps far less terrifying. These lines are by Dushyant Kumar. I found them here and they said,

Kaun kehta hai ke aasmaan main suraakh ho nahin sakta,
ek patthar toh tabiyyat se ucchhalo yaaron.

Even if the ideas are common, poetic thoughts in languages other than English often resonate and appeal to me more simply because it is not the language of my everyday. I hold on to them and remember them for long after so much so that I can recite them verbatim – something that does not happen to me with thoughts that are expressed in English which is the language I am most fluent in be it reading, writing, or speech. The very nature of the ‘foreignness’ of languages like Hindi, Urdu, and Punjabi and the unexpected contexts of encountering them are personally valuable to me because I wouldn’t know where to go looking for them if the onus were on me to find them because I don’t know enough about the tongue. So sometimes, when I do meet these verses, I find myself more vulnerable to their messages and what they have to say. Not only do I not know the first thing about poetry, I am also not interested enough in poetry to pick up a book of verses and read by myself. Hence, whenever poetry happens to me, I feel like these fleeting encounters that I have with verses in the midst of my prosaic life embody what the true essence of poetry anyway is – to create small embroidered pockets of restfulness that are threaded together by the prettiest combination of thoughts and words to usher in meaning that lights up your heart. It is why I love Hindi film songs so much. Their lyrics set to tunes offer me a short cut to poetic thoughts that I am only too happy to receive.

These lines by Dushyant Kumar have little to do with why I need poetry right now, but I feel I must record and acknowledge this because serendipity sending poetry my way is my only hope and perhaps this will appease whoever is in charge of these things.

P.S. I find my school education a tragic waste of my time. While it equipped me with the rudimentary basics of literacy, there seems to have been much that I missed out on. Chief of which is a rather underwhelming experience of learning about both Hindi and Marathi literature that were the regional languages I learnt in school. Why weren’t we introduced to thoughts such as these that occurred to poets like Dushyant Kumar? Why, after spending grades I-X studying Marathi and grades V-X studying Hindi can I not even think of blogging in any of these languages? I made a last ditch attempt to learn to read and write Tamil in my last five months in the United States and am semi-literate in my mother tongue now, but that is all. I spent three months learning to read and write Kannada when I moved to Bangalore, but I have forgotten much of that too because I did not keep up with practice and the alphabets are back to being squiggles that confuse me in my attempts to distinguish one from another. What a waste of time spent in school. So much so for coming from a country that boasts of linguistic diversity.

P.P.S. There are a couple of lines from my grade X Marathi text book which are the only ones I ever remember and something that I will never forget because the story of Phulvedya Mai (A lady who was mad about flowers) had a question as poetic as this – “Yevdhushya mannala jhapaycha tari kiti?” This heart so little; how much can one control its desires?
Another line in this story went – “Vede vha, vha thode vede. Nehmi shahane rahnyat, kai shahanpan aahe?”  Be mad. Be a little mad. What is the wisdom in always being so wise?

Touche. Poetry.

What were the odds this week?

• That on the day you have to start your data collection via telephonic interviews, your personal mobile phone gives up on you?
• That the sibling calls up at bedtime on the way to her field destination in North Karnataka to please recharge her phone.
• That you get out of bed to go do that only to receive a call the next morning informing you that she has successfully managed to lose her phone.
• That the very next day the guest house you are living in has both the phone lines and the Internet disconnected due to non-payment of bills.
• That now you are unreachable even on your home landline.
• That the other person with the sibling whose number is the only way to get in touch with her does not pick up the phone for a full 24 hours leading to panic attacks.
• That you get in touch with sibling’s field guide who tells you that he has had to come back to Bangalore and hence unfortunately cannot put you in touch with her.
• That all the six numbers you dialled this evening for interviews were either switched off, had weak signal, or asked you to call back later.
• That the person who currently picked up sibling’s phone at Gulbarga finally speaks to you long enough to vaguely and reluctantly reveal that he is somewhere in Banashankari and you wonder how to learn enough Kannada to get him to hand the phone back to you.

This week has been most communication challenged. The Internet and the phone lines were of course immediately fixed by the employer. Tomorrow a neighbor arrives wtih some stuff from Pune that includes two handsets. The immediate concern now is to arrange for a way to establish contact with him when he disembarks at Majestic. Tomorrw the errant sibling will also have to be picked up in the morning. Then next, the nearest police station will have to be visited to request a kind policeman to please speak to the man at the other end of the phone line that was formerly ours and get it back from him. I also have to remember to ask this kind policeman what the parking deal is on Church Street. I would love to stop quibbling and threatening  the goons with all kinds of eventualities who keep demanding money there. It is free parking, right?

I hope that the communication jinx is over with this week. Whatay odd week.