Myriad Reflections. Shastri Akella

The Kiss


She cradles the tube roses in her arm. The white petals of the flowers are smudged brown. But didn't Neil say that wilting flowers release the most intoxicating fragrance?

She wears her gray fur coat. It has acquired the musty odor of neglect that belongs to her room. She doesn't notice. She is in a hurry to hold the flowers again. Once they are perched on her forearms, she looks for her house keys. On the dressing table: amidst talcum powder, jujube lipstick, eye liner, foundation, and a dried-up kohl. In the washroom: on the windowsill above the commode, between a four-week old
newspaper and dog-eared paperbacks.

A fleck of spittle smears her lips. Her eyebrows crowd her forehead. She looks on her bed: under pillows, damp and smelling of the room.

Oh what will one find in her room anyway? Expired make-up and tangled sheets? She smirks at her need to secure her possessions, steps out onto the cobbled street, and draws the door shut, recklessly deciding to leave it unbolted.

She walks with a forward stoop, the posture her body assumes when she is at ease. Irish winters are inhospitable. The frigid caress of the winds leaves even the sturdy birch with brittle branches. But at least tourist season is over. No more Asians and Brits scampering on the streets in clutters of brown and white skins, clutching Celtic crosses or porcelain dolls and glossy tickets to Aran islands. It is once
again the Galway of the townspeople.

She takes the shortcut through Prospect Cemetery. She likes the squeal that accompanies the opening of the cemetery gate; a song for the living, she fancies, a compensation for the dirges sung in their honor, that they will never savor. The tombstones seem like hands wanting to wave, but frozen, partly by the weather, mostly by the cold corpse below. A lone willow rises amidst the graves, stripped of
flower and leaf. Was it under this tree that he kissed her? She stops beneath its gnarled branches. Yes. It was here. He shoved her against the bark and pressed his mouth against hers. When he withdrew, he found her eyes were glassy, cold as the coldness she cursed his lips to. He wiped his cherry lips, as though to rid them of a stain.

He arrived at her doorstep that night. Tormented by the aborted kiss. He felt the familiar privacy of her room would coax her into responding. She lay below him, stoic as the naked cadavers that eceived a ritualistic bath of rosemary and mint in the days of the Gaelic.

His body ached with a passion whetted but not satiated. He left, crimson with humiliation. How was she to tell him? That she was tormented by the hallucination of a serpent entering the mouth of a canary and watering down its sweet song to a wispy caveat? Did you know Neil, she says bitterly to the tree, this chimera haunted me from the time I turned six, from the time Uncle, mother's brother, began living with us, doing more than helping mother accept her widowhood? A tear froze on its way down her cheek. Her eyes trembled. She placed a tentative finger on the tree.

The scar was still there. Left on her wrist by the ropes that bound her to the iron bed. A bed that hundreds slept on, schizophrenics, manic depressives, people called mad for lack of a fancy phrase to attach to their lunacy. What was the nomenclature attached to her act of consuming forty sleeping pills after Neil dumped her? Without
racking her brain she summons the name. Suicidal extreme.

The nurse who injected tranquilizers into her veins, cast sympathetic looks at
the red spots that cropped up on her face. It was a reaction to the strong dosage, administered to banish her callow acts of heroism. She had dragged the iron cot with her wrists, hoping to raise the shutters and jump into her liberty. They found her kicking at iron flanges, rusted, refusing to budge.

But they managed to cow her masochistic pining. As a bonus for spending ten numb months in a deserted, whitewashed room, her delusion was cured. She may not be as free as Uncle who lay in one of the graves behind. Still. She can offer Neil a
body that is willing to take him in, lubricate him, satisfy his biological hunger.

She walks past the revolving gates, crosses the garage Neil owns. There it is. His house of adobe bricks and slate roof. Surrounded by acacias. With a feel of the woods.

The main door is left ajar. Was Neil too a man of few possessions, so that anyone trespassing his house will walk out, robbed of their spirit to thieve? She turns scrutinizing eyes on his garage. Brown jeeps, used to lug tourists around Aran Islands, stood in a row; their owners parked them and left for their hometowns to celebrate Christmas. They pay him a handsome parking rent. He's also kept their
jeeps in smooth condition, inhibiting possibilities of breakdown during peak season. They're Craig now.

She walks in. The house carries the smell of beacon. He is away, perhaps to shop for groceries? She starts stripping. She leave her corset intact, so his fingers can relish opening it. She lies on his bed, waiting for her prey, waiting to become his prey.

And then she sees him. First she is amused. She thinks he is standing with his head on the ceiling.

Then, tube roses in her arms, she rises and kisses his lips.

The blue lips of death.

Movie Review: Jodhaa Akbar

When the curtains descended over the magnificent ‘Jodah-Akbar’, I felt as though my skin shone with a newly acquired opulence: a whirlwind of rare, historic dust, gathered from Mogul gardens and battlefields and sprinkled over body and heart.

Hollywood has often been applauded for its befitting treatment of historical cinema. The cast and crew of movies like ‘Elizabeth’, ‘Troy’, and ‘Gladiator’ have often been seen walking down the Oscar aisle to collect awards bestowed in recognition of their outstanding contribution that helped weave the elusive genre of historical.

‘Jodah-Akbar’ is our very own historical masterpiece then. It shimmers through and through. Be it the dialog that holds the distinction of casting itself into poetry, witticism, metaphor, and action, the sets that gloss the screen and eye in burgundy and green, or the music that makes you celebrate things as diverse as love, victory, tenderness and grandeur all at once. This is perhaps the first Indian historical where the emperors and their counterpart are shown to speak and behave as people do at their home: cooking food, casual banter, and no officious language that is reserved for the court.

What I liked most about the film is its screenplay. There is not a moment of the film that is vapid, that makes me want to check on the time. Vividly detailed in the able hands of Ashutosh Gawarikar and Haidar Ali, every scene rings with authenticity, and captures the nuances of human equations. And to be able to sustain the human angle and make it stand out in the face of dazzling Rajput jewelry, grandly captured wars, and rich tapestry of Mogul tents is the true victory of the screenwriters. They have succeeded in showing one the most basic and yet rarely understood reality: that emperors, queens and the entire gamut of support team that populated their armies, courts, palaces and harems, are human beings. They too, possess their frailties, their moments of indecision, their moments of reveling in cold bloodedness, and ultimately, their moments of experiencing the absolute glory of human fragility.

The scene where Akbar rises from his imperial seat and swirls ecstatically with the dervishes; his steely eyes when he instructs his foster mother’s son to be thrown from the roof twice in succession; his reaction when he is honored with the title of Akbar. Undoubtedly, Akbar’s character is well rounded, holding enough gravity to not slip away in the breathtaking elephant, sword, and fist fights. And Hrithik essays this role with an aplomb that leaves one speechless. His eyes convey entire chapters of history, his expressions melt over your skin, making you want to fall all over in love with Bollywood’s most underrated actor. Hrithik’s persona not only provides him with the punch and veneer to carry the role of India’s most illustrious emperor, his stellar performance creates new insights into this famed emperor of our land. And there lies Hrithik’s greatest achievement of an actor. He not only portrays the nuances skillfully detailed by the screenwriters, he embellishes them with his onscreen persona.

Aishwarya is a fitting choice for an empress who possessed a rare streak of quite strength. It was a layered character that she had to portray on screen – a princess who handles sword and prayers beads with equal conviction. And she does justice to the role. Watch the confrontation screen between Jodah and the foster mother: kicking off in the imperial kitchen where the queen goes to prepare food for her husband, and culminating in the scene the queen has to eat the food herself first – as demanded by the step mother – to testify that it is safe for the emperor to have. Her expression, even from behind the gossamer veil, grab your attention by its cuff and draw you to the very edge of your seat.

The chemistry between the lead pair helps in understanding the complex progress of the relationship: from the misplaced alliance, to overcoming the distance of different cultures, religions, and hurdles set up by the entire gamut of thankfully non-cardboard villains, to their sword fight, to the final coming together in an intimacy that leaves you breathless.

Notable amongst the support cast are Ila Arun as the foster mother and Sonu Sood as Jodah’s brother.

Bringing together all these aspects in a project of this proportion and complexity, and yet offering a shimmering, seamless experience, the filmmaker, Ashoutosh Gowarikar transforms ‘Jodah Akbar’ to a monument of cinematic experience. Attention given to details – the first battle of Panipat, unlike the other war sequences that feature in the film, does not use canons – speak for his caliber. And where he succeeds the most is in translating the excellent characterization into unforgettable on-screen experience, so that the age old characters of Jodah and Akbar seem real, contemporary, their mores of love and family that exist in spite of the political and religious upheavals of the times carrying a universal ring that seem identifiable even in the contemporary era.

And ultimately, yes, ‘Jodah Akbar’ is a film that has much to say in today’s times. By watching the story of an emperor whose religious tolerance helped the scattered factions of the country unite, we have much to learn. Quoting the emperor himself, ‘By discriminating between the peal of the conch and the call of the azaan, one is only belittling the power of the supreme who has given all of mankind the right to worship Him in any manner that is aligned with their faith.’

Do yourselves a huge favor. Watch ‘Jodah Akbar’ today. Do not deny yourself a five star instance of cinema. We Indians are passionate cinema lovers. We deserve cinema like ‘Jodah Akbar’. Entertaining, riveting, with a solid message, and ultimately, leaving you feeling cleansed and richer.

TO WATCH A ROSE BLOSSOM...

It takes a Sanjay Leela Bhansali to make even potholes and dusting carpets look so alluring, so poetic, you would hope in all sincerity that you walk on roads pockmarked with potholes and switch professions to dust Persian carpets at least part time! ‘Saawariya’ shimmers from within: gorgeous sets in turquoise and emerald seem so beautiful because they blend with a story told with heart-aching beauty. It is one of those movies that is not about the story itself; it is about the experience of characters within a given framework of time and destiny. And given this premise, Sanjay does a phenomenal job as a storyteller. Each moment in the film is like tender pollen, and watching them bunch together to create a beautiful flower is a sheer pleasure that no lover of cinema should miss. Lights have been used well to bring alive the sets that captivate you for the genius with which different shades of blue and green have been used to create eye candy that never looks monotonous. The music is mellifluous and songs are used to deftly map the story. The dialog – by Sanjay’s favorite Prakash Kapadia – uses a nifty combination of poetry and casual to create thoughts that hit you straight in the heart. Ranbir Kapoor is a brilliant performer with a simmering screen presence. His expressive eyes and ability to suffuse energy into the simplest of scenes are what I loved about him. In the last scene, where his tear drench his heartbreakingly sad smile, live in your heart for long after the curtains are down. Sonam Kapoor has a limited scope when compared to Ranbir (who is there in practically every scene and is offered a variety of moments to display his acting finesse). But she does a commendable job of what is available. There is an untouched innocence to her beauty that makes her apt for this role. Seasoned actors Zohra Sehgal and Rani Mukherjee add to the films sheen with impeccable performance that touch your heart. But the film, from my experience as an intense cinema viewer, belongs to Sanjay Leela Bhansali. I doff to you sir, for yet again having crafted poetry for the silver screen. ‘Saawariya’ melted on my skin in all the elegance of a Milton poem and tapestry of an Indian miniature, and left in my mouth the bittersweet taste of dark chocolate. Thank you sir, for yet another five-star instance of cinema.
It takes a Sanjay Leela Bhansali to make even potholes and dusting carpets look so alluring, so poetic, you would hope in all sincerity that you walk on roads pockmarked with potholes and switch professions to dust Persian carpets at least part time!
‘Saawariya’ shimmers from within: gorgeous sets in turquoise and emerald seem so beautiful because they blend with a story told with heart-aching beauty. It is one of those movies that is not about the story itself; it is about the experience of characters within a given framework of time and destiny. And given this premise, Sanjay does a phenomenal job as a storyteller. Each moment in the film is like tender pollen, and watching them bunch together to create a beautiful flower is a sheer pleasure that no lover of cinema should miss.
Lights have been used well to bring alive the sets that captivate you for the genius with which different shades of blue and green have been used to create eye candy that never looks monotonous. The music is mellifluous and songs are used to deftly map the story. The dialog – by Sanjay’s favorite Prakash Kapadia – uses a nifty combination of poetry and casual to create thoughts that hit you straight in the heart. Ranbir Kapoor is a brilliant performer with a simmering screen presence. His expressive eyes and ability to suffuse energy into the simplest of scenes are what I loved about him. With the last scene, where his tears drench his heartbreakingly sad smile, he lives in your heart for long after the curtains are down. Sonam Kapoor has a limited scope when compared to Ranbir (who is there in practically every scene and is offered a variety of moments to display his acting finesse). But she does a commendable job of what is available. There is an untouched innocence to her beauty that makes her apt for this role. Seasoned actors Zohra Sehgal and Rani Mukherjee add to the films sheen with impeccable performance that touch your heart.
But the film, from my experience as an intense cinema viewer, belongs to Sanjay Leela Bhansali. I doff to you sir, for yet again having crafted poetry for the silver screen. ‘Saawariya’ melted on my skin in all the elegance of a Milton poem and tapestry of an Indian miniature, and left in my mouth the bittersweet taste of dark chocolate. Thank you sir, for yet another five-star instance of cinema.

Diamond

She arrived in a rush
her gown swirling & swelling
golden locks entangled & strewn all over her face
------------
‘can you please mind this word for me’, she requested
crimson lips shivering whilst spelling her etiquette-dabbed question
------------
‘Can’t you see my hands are full’, I ask, baffled
‘pantomimes swimming in my arms,
free verse crawling over my shoulders,
words spilling over,
a tender thought, a fragile dream holding together the complex design
in a varnished cauldron of inspiration’
------------
a flicker of pride in my voice,
Tut-tut vain writer
------------
‘but it is just one word I want you to mind’ she restates
‘I promise I shan’t be long,
I’m off for but a brief swim in the oceans of madness,
to taste the sweet ambrosia of genesis in
all its archaic glory’
------------
Intrigued, I offer my consent:
‘place it on the white sheet there,
the paper was meant for a requiem of lost muse,
but it shall now be the caretaker of your word’
------------
‘You are a generous soul’ she cooed,
as the word cascaded from her cupped calms,
a tumble of azure with sparkling-white dust motes,
imprinting itself brazenly on my crusty parchment,
in grand sweeps & callous curves
------------
the dawns faded, the moon depleted, the days slid past,
silent hours of the in-between
spent seeking the flutter of golden hair across my mahogany door,
but there is no sign of her return
------------
when she finally emerged at the brink of my property,
I bawled, ‘Lost in the dollops of time when you vanished:
poetic notes of musical meter,
precious tales of jewel shimmer,
all because your big fat word,
sat at the center of my page:
the only available cushioning,
for all my thoughts’
------------
‘patience’, she said,
the timber of her voice etched with discovered notes of self-assuredness
------------
her outstretched hand & an open palm,
offer me a diamond,
one that could have as well been a star from the galaxy,
glittering & aglow with a cosmic allure
------------
I pick my quill & dab it with the ink of muse,
to capture that vivid beauty in a free verse of sorts
------------
She objects with raised eyebrows, ‘Not for muse,
‘but for pain.
It takes a diamond to cut another,
it takes pain to open up the tunnels of poetry,
for after all, is not all poetry,
the quintessence of pain:
the final distilled remains,
of pain sanitized of human trauma & prejudice’
------------
she flung the diamond at my chest,
& it became awash in my blood
------------
I clutch my bleeding heart,
& find my poetry afloat,
unbridled & free from the fetters of a thinking mind,
appending bits of infinite to flood the milky way,
------------
it suddenly strikes me,
the absence of that word from my attention span,
the one that sat silently on my page all this while.
------------
She ran past,
& I saw the sweep of azure,
my lips moist with tears,
as I spell it out, that word.
------------
True: it takes a diamond to cut another,
& pain to decipher the crystallized sum of all pain:
the artifact I discover on my page,
& that imprints my poetry with a finishing signature of eternity.
‘Love’.
------------

Purple Subways

Everyday
I cut a piece of
memory

and fling it
into the fire

I smile wickedly
eyes shining with evil
as I see the seething embers
eat at them

My memories
crumbling and burning
like hapless paper sheets

But when I wake in the morning
they are complete again

These wretched memories

Full, with the richness
of pained screams
passionate kisses
burgundy bedsheets
and final farewells

Back to haunt me
torment me
and see me through the end of madness

these memories of you.

But ah! I have discovered
a way to put an end
to their immortality

Tomorrow I will come
and lie beside you

And in that one single moment
when I turn
and our fingertips will meet

I shall gaze
into your hollow eyes

We will together
paint our dreams in the pink
blush of first love

and relish the smell of dahlias
growing above
the infinite dust of our cold graves

Then I will know
that they have burnt away
these memories of mine
in the purple subways
of afterlife

Couplet

finger tips pointing upward offering a prayer,
from the shattered verses of my past,
a drop of blood tumbles into my open palms,
I stare at the dried up stain – a frozen memory, perhaps,
a black and white word from some forgotten page of childhood.

Conversations

The book was returned
on Tuesday at dusk.

It's a smoggy Friday morning today
unreal as a dream

I sink into the sofa
smell the pages

and am numbed with
the scent of her fingers

running along the bare bodies of the page
an unlikely romance

her finger and these pages
drinking in the words

mind squiggled with the tales that emerge
a chapter beginning

heavily underlined
a question mark crafted at the end
personification, of unsure smiles and confused-cat stares


I fell compelled to respond
and scribble the answer
of culture polemics and layered tunics


and so the book connects hearts
hers the origin,
the book a bridge

over which the thought dances
and reaches its destination
my heart filled with the sweet music of its coo

She shuts the book and presses the flap
against her lips
her mind a maze of thoughts

woven from the threads of
hazel eyes, simmering loves stories
antiques, carpets

candlelit faces, drunken carousals
all of which unfurl between
the dog-eared covers

They sense it all
my fingers, as they potter
over the burgundy edge searing

with the hot touch of her lips
the discovery seeps in
like the warmth of kindred sunbeams

that lay scattered
all over the sky
a love story

begun in the proscenium
of the world
finds its culmination here

across deadpan pages
written decades, no, some centuries ago
published in a frozen city
passed from hand to hand
kiosk to sales counters to second-hand road side shop
and sitting in my lap now

the sensations gathering within
of human touch
finger meeting finger
over the little crease she creates over a page
a bookmark, if you like

lips locking,
over the spine where her lips,
briefly hovered,

and conversations completed
in the invisible space
between the pages

The sirens weep
lift creaks into its cockpit
songbirds croon a strangely familiar tune
the maids hum and sweep, hum and sweep
bells clang and the priest chants
I settle into the rhythms of life
and whisper
'long live the world of fiction'

Rendezvous
what is the substance
of a baby’s dream
what does the mind, fresh as lily-petal and untouched by desire
envision in the hours of somnolence

what are the beseeches
laced into a mendicant’s prayer
the one who has given it all up in the powerful wake of renunciation

what are the notes
silence is made of

and what is the color of music
is it a hotchpotch of the colors of the nine emotions,
or something different and singular?

I sought these answers everywhere:
in the galaxies, amidst star-crossed patterns of the cosmos
in the darkness of the netherworld, in cold, unexplored planets
but found them finally in surrender to your

serpentine flow, Ganga

Floating over your waters
I found matter: flowers, lamps, and the ashes of the dead
all together, adrift: existence as it is
devoid of organization and judgment
the fluid expedition of vivid sensations

and I discovered what a baby’s dreams are made of

I submerged myself into your undercurrents
and heard the prayers of mendicants
whispered into your ears
during countless oblations

give us not the wealth of kingdoms or the
might of emperors, they said
they sought neither the exalted seat of the Gods
nor age that extended unto eternity

they sought thoughts clear as your waters,
journeys well-defined with purpose as yours,
and life experienced as a rose-petal lilting,
floating over your being, purifying all that comes in mere contact

I found the truth of silence in the space,
between prayer and oblation,

in that one defining moment,
between an uttered chant,
and the music of your waters squishing and parting
to let my head plough through

your placid waters elucidated,
how silence itself is note, a single note,
that occurs between every pair of notes,

at that breathtaking fraction,
where one note ends,
and the next begins,

padding the two elements of music with a touch of thoughtfulness,
transferring the canto to the realms
of fulfillment

lascivious as any musical note
and yet sovereign
a bridge connecting two lands of brilliance

the color of music
I found floating over your waters
rich as the cry of a flute
powerful as the percussion of a pakhwaj

a merger of all the colors it was – a sparkling white
full of and yet distinct from the colors of the nava rasas
much like your waters, a mingling of human faiths and yet independent of them

my rendezvous with you stands complete
yet I stand along your bank
beseeching unto the Gods

Drenched I am the waters of the Ganga

Drenched I am in nectar
heed my prayers, O honey-bees of the heaven
I seek thy sting of redemption