(SR) 13: North India
NORTH INDIA
Whether it be the heat or the curry, or the state of one’s liver, it seems that the disposition of Englishmen alters in India, & they become very argumentative & theoretical
William Howard Russell
CALCUTTA SONG
With a ‘hats off’ sense of elation,
Time emptied my train at Howrah Station;
“Where’s the Modern Lodge?!” I roar’d,
Two fifty rupees taxi fair,
Feck it man I’ll walk it there!
As beggars chas’d me everywhere
The lepers, with a doleful stare,
Held out their rotting digits,,
“Just give me something!” they implor’d
But I’ve barely got a biscuit!
Give me Saint Andrews with sea-views & putter,
Or take me to Ascot to big-shot & flutter
Give me a hot-pot with fresh bread & butter,
Or if not, find ’em all in Calcutta.
KATIHAR
There is a certain sadness in this land,
The handicapp’d are heap’d upon my heart,
The twisted feet of those too low to stand,
& me, all in their midst, yet set apart.
I wait all night to catch the midnight train
So many shudras spread about the floor,
A spell of blessed respite to obtain,
From drudgeries of being born so poor.
As grunting swine from meal-to-meal subsists,
Therein lies the archaic chaff of wheat
On which this young democracy insist,
“Caste is caste & never the twain shall meet!”
Here, even dreams, which all should equal share,
Combusted by some tannoy’s constant blare.
KANGCHENZONGA
I came on Pemagangtse in the night
A leopard passing slowly in the snow
Awaiting precious pinch of silver light
Announcing phoenix day in foetal glow
I gazed across the Kabrus unaware
That to these climes had Calliope come
Slopes glooming greys, as sunbeams fill the air
They turn the burnish’d burgondy of rum
Savitri’s spell impells the Sun to strength
Red turns to orange, orange burns to gold
& as all shadows shorten in their length
What summit sparkles white, where, very cold,
My muse sits, singing, wisest of the nine
“On Nanda Devi waits my sister’s sign!”
1857: WHILE PLAY’D THE CANNONADE
General – My how hot a day this is
Reverend – I cannot agree with you sir
There was a lovely breeze this morning
The hour was three I think
& if you ever had visited Stuffcote
You wouldn’t dream of calling this hot
General – Stuffcote! Why, I have been there sir
Was there, in fact, for three years sir
It is one of the coolest stations in India
Reverend – Poppycock – in august – what nonsense
General – Yes, sir, especially & most particularly In August
I have felt positively chilly all thro the month
Reverend – Chilly? In stuffcote? In August…
Servant – More champagne, Sahib?
NANDA DEVI
Up to the world’s rooftop I slowly rose;
Checking upon the progress of the soul
Appears a mountain prospect a la snows
Of Austria, New Zealand & Nepal.
I left Almora for the Kashyap Hill,
High commune of fairest tranquility,
Fresh dawntint drew me to the lofty chill
Of this monolithic Axis Mundi.
It seems for me the lips of Laksmi smile,
No sweeter place on earth to greet the sun,
Here summon’d by the lyrical lifestyle,
I whisper a gentle dedication;
“Until my feet have circuited the globe
My thought & life with poesy I shall robe.”
JOURNEY TO LEH
The journey was a wonderful passage
Thro’ landscapes of such inspirational majesty,
Twas if the gods themselves painted the scene;
What mountains! Jagged like porcupines,
Or gnarl’d like tree-stumps, or rising
Into white-haired grey beards, like beautiful
Himalayan druids ruling all humanity.
On reaching the veritable rooftop of the world
On arrival in Ladakh’s lovely little capital,
I took a pleasant room with spectacular views
On all sides a grey, arid desert, bleeding
Into a great chain of mountains, encircling
This semi-autonomous ‘Little Tibet,’
This austere, scarcely populated, land!
ANOTHER SILVER ROSE
Up stony slopes I huff, puff & scramble,
All a-fluster in the blustery gale,
Blinded by sheets of thick sleet & hail,
Clothes torn by the claws of thorny bramble,
My spirit – ‘gainst which angry Zephyrus
Summons all his strength – calls upon the soul
Of our being, for being conquers all.
As I reach iconic peak, glorious
Realm of deity, barren heap of ice,
Blizzard-swept panoramic paradise,
I see, in the snows, a wee silver rose
Wonder how such sweet tenderment grows,
Like the gorgeous gardens of Shangri-La,
In this frozen wilderness, like a star.
GOD
I march on different minds in different ways,
A force beyond all knowledges combined,
But let it now be known to each on Earth
I have a single name & that be God,
Tho’ splintered by the tangl’d knot of tongues,
For as a man in Orchaa calls me Ram,
In Qadian as Allah am I prais’d.
Now reconciling all these diff’rences,
To every race a prophet have I sent,
& fill’d them with the milk of mine intent,
A source for common good, a common source
From which the well-font of this message springs,
A clear soul-song for all who wish to hear,
Thro’ Me find Heaven, & in Heaven, Love!
RAI PRAVEEN
Beside the bonnie banks of Betwa’s stream
A beauty dwelt, beholding her a dream,
Whose reputation to great Akbar flew
By regal claws she to his throne-room drew,
But noble are Bundellas & their Queens
& so played out the wondrous of scenes
As with a poem she made devlish dig;
“Hello King! You are King, not dog, nor pig,
& I am nothing but a plate well-used…”
Lord Akbar gasped, & gazed on her, confused,
While shell-shock’d audience grew hushly sure,
Such grave insult His Highness shan’t endure;
But no! Life’s nobler motions to protect,
He sent her home, alive & with respect.
PHONE CALL FROM AGRA
I was staring at the back of this rickshaw driver’s neck,
As I dragged my bags thro’ Agra, the Taj now just a speck
Of love dust immemorial, my mind’s eye to recall
Whenever living deeply yearns for sheer uplift of soul;
In that place grew pure poetry, man-made & yet divine,
A funerary megalith whose Mughal marble wine,
Endrenches human spiritus with splendour thro’ its form,
All races & all nations round its majesty must swarm.
As I depart for Gwalior I think of absent touch,
For she was like a queen to me, I loved her love so much,
& haunted by her happy smile I’ve wandered far, alone,
Til mental peace has found me, all my fuck-ups to atone.
So I shall get my mobile out & make that magic call –
Her voice was soft & happy – back in Sally-love I fall.
OVERTAKING LANES
Two saddus stood by the side of the road
Staring at a truck that had spill’d it’s load;
By that, an old wreck that just would not start,
Laugh’d at by a man in an ox-drawn cart,
& faster still; first a cycle rickshaw,
A dirt-green tractor from the days of yore,
Auto-rickshaw belching smoggy black smoke,
Mud-red moped missing many-a-spoke,
This lorry’s weird siren psychedelics,
Busses driven by mad alcoholics,
These, by breezy motorcycles bypass’d,
Then… an Ambassador of Rajput caste!
While gangs of robbers lawless highways stalk,
Y’know, it’s a nice day, I think I’ll walk.
POVERTY & WEALTH
Two goddesses bicker about beauty,
Content to start a second Trojan war,
Srinava’s wisdom thunders crore on crore,
“My Jyesthadevi, my Laksmidevi,
There is a young carpenter of Bundi
Who is so very honest to his core,”
Supreme goddesses stand soon at his door,
“Who is the most beautiful, she or me?”
Most humble cobbler thought a mortal while,
Then says, “Laksmi most lovely on arriving,
Yet Jyestha gorgeous more when she departs;”
This answer made each goddess equal smile,
& he – celestial wrath surviving –
Learns flattery woos e’en immortal hearts.
JAIT SAGAR
If India can make a man a man,
More than the veshyalay of Amsterdam,
If thro’ the chaos he can make a plan,
Respecting Hinduism & Islam,
If he can give the beggar his rupee
& tip the tout that charges o’er the odds,
If he can read his Rajput history
& choose a god but still bless other gods,
If he can sleep upon the railway run,
Find fresh, clean waterfalls amid the dirt,
If he can wonder how the Raj was won,
Then pause upon the horrors & the hurt,
If he can haggle down & know his daal,
Then does he need to see the Taj Mahal?
CREATION
As thro’ Mumbai I took the rickshaw home,
A great prostrate cow seem’d to be dying,
Guts on the pavement where she was lying,
But no… close by, lay her hour-old daughter.
I watch’d the wee one make her falt’ring first
Steps in the world, like an ambitious teen,
Thro’ her mother’s dung, slippery & green,
Then in the hot noon felt an earthly thirst;
Went looking for something, nuzzling half-blind,
She suckles on her mother’s rough larynx,
Who stands up, motionless as sandy sphinx,
& with a lick acknowledges her kind;
Who creeps now forwards to the golden teat
& clamps down hard as angels swoop the street.
Mumble Words 