I guess you love poems?

A Girly Love Story

She was my heartthrob. We were in same class. I was fifteen. Mitul was few months older than me. We were students in a girl’s school and there were forty more girls or fifty in the class. But Mitul was special. None else had such a pair of eyes like hers.

Mitul looked like Radha in Rajasthan miniatures - with her large pair of eyes and body that can be found only in the miniatures or on the temple-walls – the intriguing curves and pliability of whom make the viewer awe-struck.  Mitul fascinated me. I used to sit beside her for hours – used to spend hours looking at her, busy with the canvas standing before the easel.  Once in a while she turned to me and asked if she liked her strokes on the canvas. To me, the sky she painted used to look more mesmerizing than the real one.

Mitul taught me the difference between miniature and mural – basics of watching an object d’art. She was a student of Academy of Fine Arts at that time - preparing for entrance test of government Art College.  I was from an orthodox family – was not allowed to go anywhere but school, and Mitul’s place. We liked each other’s company for sure – there couldn’t be any other reason of her frequently inviting me home. Mitul’s room – a ten by twelve space having one single bed, cartons of papers of different colours and sizes and quality, boxes full of pencils and brushes, and a stack of canvas made heaven for them. I used to stretch myself on the bed sometimes with a book – but mostly watching her work as she went on caressing her paper or canvas with gentle strokes of her pencil, sometimes with brush. And in the end of the long summer afternoon, tired she used to lie beside me. We used to start chatting.

“You know Moly, I am planning to move to Paris someday,”

I answered, “Hmmm – and you will paint French sky instead of Indian then.”

“You are silly – an artist should always move to France.” And she continued talking about Picasso and Braque – she did not like men at all, but one painter cannot really avoid talking about male painters.

One day I was standing at her window. No, there was no beautiful garden outside. The window was open towards a five feet wide lane, on the other side of which stood the high wall of another tall building. There apartment was a cheap ground floor one in a posh south Calcutta locality. I loved to stand by the window, watch the high wall of the adjacent building and the narrow strip of sky visible above that. I turned back as she entered the room.  She screamed, “Nooo, don’t move, I want to see you beside the window. I had to freeze for almost half an hour till she completed a rough sketch of mine. I found the face of the portrait different. “You can’t draw my face, Mitul!” – I taunted. She sounded indifferent, “No you don’t have a face. You only have a body and a posture that I need. I need your curves beside the window.” “What a caring painter!” – I replied and jumped into the bed, not extending the discussion further – freezing at same posture for so long was no easy task for me!

I remember another day with her. I was scrutinizing her notebook. She was busy cleaning her paintbrushes. She told, “Before I move to France, I will do a nude of yours.” I was puzzled – my body never resembled to any beautiful lady painted by any of our acclaimed painters! Scared, I somehow expressed my concern, “You mean! Well! But one needs a perfect body to be painted right?” She burst into laughter, “Do you know what kind of models we poor students have to work with? Who would come to expose themselves before one hundred students from different social classes for two hundred rupees per hour?  And we are not providing them any safety. You know– we have only old and poor. Now you imagine – I helped you with information.” She winked. I understood her trouble. I was waiting for her next sentence. She finished, “You have a proportionate body – I like that.” 

- “hahaha – you are mad! Dad told I am ugliest woman he had ever found.” - My voice chocked as I remembered dad’s derogatory words about me that morning as he had explained his reason of not buying me a white frock I wanted.

“Dad’s are dumb. All men are – even my dad is no different. He shouts even louder than your’s. A spoiled brat!”

True her dad used to yell a lot. I didn’t want a yelling dad either! I gave a nod supporting her. Her mom was nice – like mine. They cook yummy lunch for us. Both of us agreed to the point that men are simply unnecessary creation of God, probably created only to irritate us.

“But you are not ugly – only a little short - another two inches would make you perfect, but doesn’t matter. You have a nice body and I want an image of that with me.” – She winked again.

I remained silent. She touched my lips – I was enjoying the budding painter’s soft fingers moving on my lips.

Examination approached – we couldn’t manage time to meet after that. Both our moms maintained that they would prepare a grand lunch again for us after exam. Anyway no aspiring artist could move to France before passing tenth standard exam, as per our knowledge. We still had time.

…………………………………………………………….

Few years passed. Within days after my exam, my dad was transferred to another district. Our shifting far from Calcutta blocked the chance of meeting her. We used to write letters to each other but the communication faded soon. I went on studying as I found a literary treasure trove in language studies while she was unsuccessfully trying to enter Art College. The daughter of the government clerk couldn’t move to France. She had to opt for a university famous not for its excellence in producing artists but for its student politics. We were not connected any longer. 

…………………………………………………………….

Completing my post-graduation few months back, I’ve started teaching in one of the reputed language institutes run by one of my father’s friends. Who doesn’t enjoy explaining nuances of a foreign language before groups of techies who have to pick up a little foreign language skill after office in order to meet their professional demand? I come home late these days making my orthodox mom little annoyed; anyway none is going to stop me as long as I am enjoying my job.

Yesterday – it was late evening; I bumped Mitul on my way home. We cried loud seeing each other, ran towards each other and hugged making all other pedestrians aware of a happy reunion.  Within moments, I started showering her with queries, “How are you? What are you doing these days? Hope you are still painting skies? Hope you didn’t forget about painting French sky someday?” But did my overflowing curiosity made her uneasy? She looked at me - her glance made me shiver this time. It was not appreciating, but devouring me now. She sounded chewing her words, looking straight at my face, “I am fine – giving lessons on painting these days. How are you? Your boss wants you to work till late night? Let’s go for a coffee.” I didn’t get her properly, but was feeling uneasy. Her eyes were burning. Under the street light, she was looking like a witch straight from a fairy tale. I was scared, even though trying to scold myself for being too much in the world of fairy tales and fiction. I should stop reading fictions from now onwards, I thought. Still, I knew I can’t seat with this lady even for five minutes for a coffee! So I denied, “Some other day, Mitul. You know mom – she will get angry.” Mitul smiled with corner of her lips. She looked completely unknown. We exchanged phone numbers before I boarded the bus.

Today, as soon as I entered office in the morning – Manida called. Manida was my dad’s friend, my boss at office. As I entered his cabin, he roared –“You are grown up lady! Stop talking to everyone you meet on the road.” I was trying to understand what exactly he was talking about. But he didn’t give me any chance, “Tomorrow onwards, you will leave office with me if you have to leave late; or tale Pappu to arrange cab for you. Don’t go by bus.”  I nodded as he finished. I knew I didn’t have chance to ask anything else as he already turned to his files.

Minutes back, I returned my desk – I have to prepare the days lessons those I need to present in the afternoon.  Concentrating was bit difficult as I was pondering Manida’s words – what could be reason he wants to snatch my right to walk on Calcutta road. He knows I love walking!

I didn’t need to wait long – Pappu, the office boy arrived with tea, as usual with a big grin hanging on his face. “Madam – I was watching you yesterday when you were going home.” Pappu took up duty of keeping an eye on me from our second floor office till I board bus, I know that. Offices need to take care of women employee’s safety after all. There’s nothing new. But what he tells next terrifies me. “I saw you talking to a lady yesterday – she is a local leader of Jansevak party. Be careful madam!”

I am feeling a chill in my spine again. Jansevak party’s connection to some notorious extortion racket and their mode of operation is widely known. Moreover I know they are trying to extort money from our institute too. Some of the party goons came to office to threat Manida few days back. Now I guess the meaning of the words she told last evening. Today I am more than happy that I avoided going for coffee with my once good friend. 

Discovery - Bengali Literature

Last year was my year with Bengali literature - especially those created in 18th-19th century. Considerable part of which is, obviously 'nationalist literature', if we have to categorise them. Bengali authors learnt writing prose from colonising Europeans, adopted the structure of novels following their way but their content was of course, indigenous.

And as I was looking at the content, I was amazed to find that many of Bengali novelists found their content not only based on stories from Bengal, but also on stories from other parts of the country. Some authors found patriotic heroes in Mughal rulers of past centuries, whereas some others reintroduced stories from Rajasthan and Maharashtra. Some of them successfully created fictional novels and plays keeping history only at the core while some of them tried to combine history and fiction together. 

Ramesh Chandra Dutta (August 13, 1848 – November 30, 1909) was an economic historian, translator of Ramayana and Mahabharata, an ICS by profession and a novelist who believed in combining history and fiction. To him Shivaji Maharaj and Rana Pratap became the symbol of patriotism. He designed two fictions based on the backdrop of the era of these two national heroes. 

We have to remember that these tales of Maharashtra and Rajasthan were told by a Bengali author holding high administrative position, who might not have in depth knowledge of Maharashtrian culture but had a romantic vision of the rocky and harsh western part of the country that had fought for resurrection of Hindu empire removing the Mughals once. The author tried to fill the gap with illusive sketches of commoner’s lives, where the fictional characters sometimes seem more Bengali than Maharastrian or Rajasthani. 

Readers also need to remember that these historical fictions were written in 19^th century. This was an era of romanticism as well – the novelists not only had a romanticised vision of the motherland, but of every aspect of life. E.g. in the Novel 'The dawn in Maharashtra' -  story evolved around one legendary incident in Indian History – capturing of Chakan fort by Shivaji’s small but efficient force from the mighty Mughals. But it starts with a romantic anecdote and also ends with the same emotion – romanticism that flows through the entire history of human civilization, steers all human activities between life and death.

The beginning of the novel, interestingly is difficult to be differentiated from a history book. 

Enjoy the first chapter :)

“Clap your hands in applause,

And hold the flowers in your folded hands,

As the sun rising in the east –

Smiles seeing you at the day-break.” - Hemchandra Bandyopadhyay

Mohammed Ghuri conquered Northern part of India around the end of twelfth century AD. The Mohammedans were contented almost a century after acquiring that vast and rich patch of land; did not take an attempt to conquer Southern part of India crossing the high wall like mount Vindhyachal and the deep trench in forms of Narmada river those separated south from north. Finally, by the end of 13^th century, Allauddin Khilji, the invader from Delhi, crossed the river Narmada leading an army of eight thousand soldiers. He besieged Devgarh, the capital of a Hindu State without a warning. The prince of Devgarh reciprocated leading a large army, but the Hindu force was defeated in the fierce battle. The Hindu king was forced to make a peace treaty paying large sum of money and a district called Ellichpur. Later, when Allauddin became the Sultan of Delhi, his commandant Malik Kafur attacked South India thrice, unsettling and to some extent devastating the area between Narmada to Kanyakumari.  Devgarh and other Hindu states were forced to surrender to Mohammedans from Delhi.

In fourteenth century, Mohammed bin Tughlaq took an attempt to transfer his Capital from Delhi to Devgarh, and modified its name to Daulatabad. But annoyed by his wild behaviour, both Hindus as well as Islamics in southern India went against the Emperor. Hindus established a large empire building its Capital in Vijayanagaram while Islamics established a separate Islamic state in Daulatabad. In course of time, Vijayanagaram and Daulatabad became two major states in South India. The Emperors of Delhi did not take up an effort to acquire the southern part of the country for another three hundred years.

Even though saved from Delhi’s aggression, Southern Hindu states were not completely free from danger. They had the Islamic Daulatabad as neighbour. Hindu cultural spirit was already seeing decay at that time. On the other hand, the Islamic were not only growing powerful but also started flourishing culturally. Following the rule of history of civilization, the mightier started wiping the powerless out. Eventually, Daulatabad increased in size and then separated into three Islamic states – namely Bijapur, Golkonda and Ahmednagar. All three joined hands in a fight against Vijayanagaram and crushed that kingdom in the war of Talikota in 1564. The Hindu rule was thus extinguished in South. Bijapur, Golkonda and Ahmednagar became extensively dominant. In course of time, Hindu kings in Karnat (Karnataka) and Dravida region were also defeated by them.

Again in 1590, Emperor Akbar took an effort to bring South India under Mughals of Delhi. Both Khandesh and Ahmednagar were defeated by his army in his lifetime. His grandson Shahjahan got hold of entire Ahmednagar before 1636. So, by the time this story evolved, only Bijapur and Golkonda remained two independent and dominant Islamic states in South.  All the others became part of Mughal Empire.

We need to recognise the role Maharastrians played during these political turbulences. Hindus enjoyed a fair status even in the Islamic states of Bijapur, Golkonda and Ahmednagar. The administrative decisions of the Islamic states used to be dominated by old Hindu ideology. Every state was divided into Sarkars and Sarkars into Parganas. True, Islam followers used to be appointed to rule those Sarkars and Parganas in many cases, but tax was mostly collected and sent to treasury by Maharashtrian Hindus. Maharashtra is located in hilly region; numerous forts were built on the hilltops throughout the land. Islamic Sultans did not mind entrusting Hindus with the task of controlling those forts.  As a result, many Maharashtrian Killadars (fort-keepers) maintained their respective forts with the revenue earned from Jagir (estates) granted by the Islamic rulers. Apart from these fort-owners and Deshmukhs, many Hindu Mansabdaars used to be recruited by Sultans. They lead hundred, two-hundred, five hundred, one thousand or more number of soldiers. They were duty-bound to join hands in wars leading those soldiers whenever ordered by Sultan. He used to  award them a grant of rent-free land to meet the expense of those soldiers.

Under Bijapur Sultan, Chandrarao More was a leader of twelve thousand foot-soldiers. Being directed by the Sultan, he conquered all kingdoms between rivers Neera and Barna; and the pleased Sultan awarded him that tract of land as Jagir for very less tax. Chandrarao’s descendants, gaining the title “Raja”, ruled over that territory till seventh generation after him. Similarly, Rao Naik Nimbalkar family ruled the Phaltan region for generations as Deshmukh. Influential Maharashtrian families ruled Mallari, Muswar, Kapusi, Mushola, Jatta and Wari as subsidiary under Bijapur Sultan. Fighting against each other was also not uncommon. Conflict within family can be considered most horrible among all kinds of conflicts. But most of the prominent royals in the hilly regions of Konkan and Maharashtra frequently kept themselves busy in combat against family members. We may come to the conclusion that bloodshed is not always bad; on the contrary, this sometimes appears to be good omen. Exercise makes our body healthier and farmer. Similarly hard work, disturbance and disaster help building the nation stronger. Hence the dawn in the life of Maharashtrian nation brightened the Indian sky long before the arrival of Shivaji.

Jadhavrao and Bhosla were two prominent states under Ahmednagar Sultans. There was no other dominant family in Maharashtra like Jadhavraos of Sindh khed. Many consider them to be scions of the old royal family of Devgarh. Bhoslas did not stand exactly at the same level with Jadhavraos, but was no doubt another powerful clan. We should mention here that Shivaji’s mother came from the Jadhavraos and his father from the Bhoslas.

Picture from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Only for a poem…

The moon appears in the dusty city sky;

For a poem needs to be written.

The scorching summer brings soothing breeze;

For a poems needs to be written.

The courtesan falls in love with the connoisseur;

For a poem needs to be written.

Dear flowing time, please wait here for a moment

Right now - a poem needs to be written.

From:

https://www.amazon.in/dp/B01NCSMHK9/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_x_J4DBybQDC14X1

Happy New Year

Naked night dances in the cheap pubs-

Beside the highway, drunken cubs-

Busy sucking breasts of affordable hookers

In the roadside stalls, stray onlookers

Enjoy live show of molesting girls -

For free on the crowded roads.

Crowd throngs around the boxing ring

In cities to watch rival gangs fighting.

Laser shows announce arrival of a future bright -

Making helpless poet shiver on the New Year night.




(Sorry I am not equipped with words to describe every nasty thing "nicely" and "politely" )

Star-sign

Happy New Year!!!

🙈🙉🙊

Star-sign

They advised her to be polite

Others wanted a brave chap

Some pointed lack of romanticism

Some were waiting to see chauvinism

Some found her hair wild – some too professional

To some her skin was rough – to some too soft

Her breasts were not erotic – legs not photogenic

Behind the glassdoor, it was serious discussion

Mutton should be first fried or boiled,

Whether sizzler tastier or the barbecue

How to fit a piece of mutton in a serving dish…

She was waiting outside the glassdoor,

Human resource selection round ahead -

After all formal interviews are done.

Study of the movements of celestial bodies

Would interpret her selection…