rashmi-vasudeva.com - Doodles and squiggles

Bloodless

Sun, 08 Jan 2012 09:33:12 -0800

The sun wounded in the sky
voice crack'd; song untamed
Shadows never the same
Happy journeys that griefs belie

Mourning for a dead tortoise

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 07:13:30 -0800

The heart knows only one place as home,
where the borewell found nothing but cracks
that split open blood vessels and
put to sleep a tortoise wide awake.

The ghosts of its walls still shed stone tears

Effort

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 07:29:43 -0800

Once inside, you can only scratch
But you can't tear
Try smiling.
A crack might show up clear.

Loan

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 07:27:08 -0800

There's a devil inside who whispers you are left with nothing,
neither a kiss nor a fish. And then he cackles;

You have been denied the entwining of a gurgling little fist
But you have been gifted the fumes of a love blackened crisp.

An angel stands outside, unwilling to knock
You have nothing? He laughs.He mocks.
Now, now, keep it safe under a lock,
You must know it is loaned from
God's own stock.

Filing system

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 07:26:12 -0800

He wants me to organise my nostalgia
Clipped, filed and sectioned.

He wants me to discipline my despair
Arrange its night-bitten edges
over the luxury of time.

He expects to see perfection in me
I am planning to buy it for him
But only after I am free of arranging
But only if I am finished with

labelling the jagged edges.

Cavern

Tue, 08 Nov 2011 07:22:46 -0800

Going deep inside the cavern
With farting sounds for company.

Auden said grief comes when others are busy.
When was he wrong? But he forgot to say;

Grief also comes when you are busy

making love.

Ships that pass

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 07:24:29 -0800

I stumbled, the heavy bag with the coriander bunch peeking out, slipping precariously. He stumbled too, his hands involuntarily stretched out to catch the coriander bunch. It didn't fall. Only the briefest of glances touched. My mouth turned downwards as it always does, when happy, when sad, when embarassed, when delirious; it is not particularly choosy about emotions for its movements. His mouth turned downwards too. He hastily removed the earphone from his right ear -- I saw this from the corner of my eye while my hand was removing my earphone from my left. A faint smile was exchanged in a moment that had already collided into the next -- the acknowledging of each other by the momentary stilling of private joys.

So can two strangers find more than a thing in common in the briefest of time spans.

Hating Yahoo! and loving Shammi

Tue, 16 Aug 2011 00:14:43 -0800

I always hated 'Yahoo'. I thought it was Rafi and Shammi's worst collaboration ever. I secretly thought Rafi huffingly-puffingly screeched through the entire song and Shammi too huffed and puffed down those icy slopes a little too bouncily for my taste. I had also learnt a new word for it. Cacophony. And it was a visual and aural cacophony that made my fingers automatically reach out to reduce the volume on the two-in-one. But nothing would have made me say this out loud to my Kishore Kumar-fan friends. For a Rafi-Shammi fan like me, to admit to anything as blasphemous as a bleating Rafi and a less-than-charming Shammi lip-syncing to him was unthinkable. As much unthinkable it was to imagine Rafi and Shammi separately.

I discovered Shammi through my ears. It was the time when my entire being was resonating with Rafi's voice. Every song was a delicious new discovery to be daydreamt about while watching rains and to learn by rote secretly in the night; to feverishly write down words that didn't make any sense and keep a sharp ear out to hear it again in another song so that a meaning can be guessed. And of course to wait with endless patience for the cablewala to dig out an Eastman colour film for week day afternoons and finally end up being disappointed by its puerile picturisation.

But Shammi literally shook out puerility from such numbers by well, shaking to them like a jelly out of its mould, and astonishingly, make it look romantic, rebellious, fashionable and charming but never, never distasteful and ugly. I can imagine my lips curling in disdain for instance, if Shahrukh hung out of an helicopter in a patchwork dressing gown with his spindly legs peeping out. And I cannot imagine anybody today being able to carry off a deliciously romantic number like 'Tumse accha kaun hain' mostly hidden in a sack. Not only did Shammi wriggle and jiggle inside the sack but he also had the temerity to wrap it around his head, look around beady-eyed much like a badger would and grin broadly at the girl he is wooing.

He could do all this and more and get away with it not just because he had the legendary Kapoor screen presence but also because he had a little something more. He had the right kind of gooey goodness peeping out of his eyes which made women forget his awkward gait and his less-than-perfect heavyset figure. 'I will make you happy, I will keep you warm and you know I will make you laugh.' That's what his eyes said. Rare is the woman who can resist such mute appeal.

In all the hoo-haa about Shammi the dancer and Shammi the rebel and Shammi the Indian Elvis, what is often forgotten is the softer side of a man who was at ease lip-syncing to some of Rafi's most honeyed renditions. I discovered many of them in a cassette I borrowed every other day from my uncle who, the kind man he was, never refused to lend it. It was called 'Romantic Hits of Shammi Kapoor Volume-2' and though I am ashamed to say that I repaid my uncle by stealing the cassette one day without any feeling of guilt, I am today happy about that bit of unscrupulousness in me. Perhaps without that cassette to listen to almost every day, I would never have known that Rafi sang the best of his soft numbers not for Dev Anand, not for Guru Dutt and not even for Rajendra Kumar but for Shammi Kapoor. Without that cassette, my throat would not have been constricted with that curious mixture of melody, nostalgia, loss and gratefulness when I heard of Shammi's death. Shammi, like his Voice Rafi, has left behind enough to live by. One shouldn't ask for more.

Here are three of my most favourite Rafi-Shammi collaborations.

Hum aur tum aur ye sama:
Notice how Shammi's movements are stilled and how he looks at Asha deeply and then looks away when he says 'lipte gesu khulne lage'. And Rafi's effortless waves and troughs. Kya nasha, nasha sa hain indeed.

Aside:
When I was searching for 'hum aur tum' one day, I found this little gem. Let's just say, it is a 'lovely' version hehe.

Ye Duniya usiki, zamana usika:
Though Shammi himself claims otherwise, this for me is the best example of how well the singer and the actor understood each other's needs. Every pause that Rafi makes, every breath that Shammi takes is in perfect sync.

Is rang badalti duniya mein: Tell a girl that the world is evil and men's intentions ought to be doubted in such dulcet tones and with such caring expressions, she will not stir out of the house, feminism be damned!

Tell me yours, will you?

Below are the songs mentioned by those who read this blog and responded to my request. Thanks all of you! Happy listening!

Blind Date

Wed, 03 Aug 2011 08:23:36 -0800

Outside the window cut into the brick and stone, tall eucalyptus and Ashoka trees were swaying. The ground looked like how it does after good rains in a dirty city -- a thick brown gravy road with Brittannia Good Day (Have a good day! ting ting ti ting!) packets as milestones and once-dry-now-wet leaves surrounding them like travellers eager to note down how many miles they have covered. Inside, she sat, first with both her legs apart and then she remembered somebody telling her that crossed legs send signals of confidence. She imagined rays of light streaming from her thighs to the person sitting opposite. And giggled. The heart had not yet started thumping so light-hearted banter even if it was only with herself, was still possible. What was rather difficult was indeed to cross her legs in that tight jeans and tighter purple kurta, the only decent one she had, despite its little unnoticeable tear near the thigh. Somebody else had told her, no, she had read somewhere that big bags can hide more than a mere fabric tear. They can hide your love handles and unsightly waist bulges as well if you hold them close enough, the article had smugly said. She didn't agree. She also didn't think the writer of the piece had any love handles herself. Which fool would think that just because there is a big bag sitting on your waist, your waist is smaller? Stupid magazines! And stupid writers! What did they know!

And so she waited, imagining herself as the writer of that piece on big bags. She saw herself wearing her favourite red heels and trotting inside a steel-gray office, throwing her oversized bag on the chair and sitting stylishly on the edge of the table to make small conversation with her colleague. She giggled again and sat up straight; her shoulder blades were not tense at all -- her body was displaying more confidence than she felt. Maybe she would get it right this time.

She turned her attention back to the trees which had now stopped nodding and were expectant just like her; or so she thought. She was idly wondering when was the last time she saw a completely blue sky when they came in. They were not the bad sort; in fact her mind had already decided who they resembled. They were like Mole and Ratty, the mild-mannered doughty looking friends from that children's classic 'The Wind in the Willows'. They made her comfortable; they even asked if she would have tea. "No, no tea, thank you." "Are you sure?" "Yes, yes." (Oh start it now please!)

It was when her hands started moving rapidly up and down, back and forth, the thin bony fingers flailing as if they were trying to catch truant beads falling from a mischievous sky that she realised that she was being spectacularly foolish yet again. She had felt this before and had examined the feeling thread by embarrassed thread. She also had come to a conclusion. Feeling spectacularly foolish, she had concluded, wasn't such a bad thing if that feeling was only known to her. It had happened many times before with her that at the precise moment when she was feeling grandiloquently silly, she would lift her head up and notice a spark of affection or admiration in another's eye. That would amaze her enough to keep her snug for days.

Her troubles, like now, began when she distinctly realised that Mole and Ratty, sleek in their thinking, perfectly worded in their speech, had noticed the spectacularity of her foolishness. It was this signal her heart was waiting for and thump! thump!! Blop! That was already a two-feet fall. She felt it thumping somewhere below her stomach. The last bit of drama was still left. The little tick next to the down-turned mouth started to twitch. In a swift movement she brought her hands down and laid them straight on her lap. Her fingers felt the purple fabric and began stealthily rolling the edges of her kurta. Her breath came out in short gasps and she spit out what she had to say with her throat constricted and her words like playground hoops -- connected and yet cutting into each other. She was afraid she would be stopped right there and then. She sneaked a glance but Mole and Ratty were only nodding. They even looked faintly interested.

"Is there anything else you would like to know?" Mole leaned forward. "No,that's it for now." she said swiftly. Shit! That was too swift. "Er.. I think" she added. Desperation started welling up from somewhere below the navel. Shut up! No, say something idiot! No shut up! Uff, say something NOW! She finally gave in. "Er..umm.. nice place this." Wan smile from Ratty. "So much greenery around." Wan smile no. 2 from Ratty. Mole looked around as if he was noticing his surroundings for the first time. "Yes yes. Good...Right then." He extended his puffy hands and she took them in hers lightly and mumbled. "Good, Good."

Another interview had come to an end.

One winter in Wales

Thu, 12 May 2011 01:18:19 -0800

It is easier to write about snow in Wales when your back is being warmed up fat slabs of sunshine and you only have to turn slightly to look at a tall oak preening in its new foliage. It has forgotten its own starvation right through the long winter when it knew stoicism was its only hope; my own memories of that emptiness too are getting hazier and romance is applying gloss all over again. For somebody who has grown up in winters that never dipped beyond 15 degrees Celsius, to live through a season that pays such powerful obeisance to the power of white is to comprehend fully why the sun inspires such unbound joy in these colder parts of the world. And why snow doesn’t.

For the tropical soul though, snow is imbued with all the maudlin poetry of the hopeless romantic. You hear its first strains on clear nights; they are gentle swishing sounds and feel much like how it does when you brush your cheek against mom’s oldest and softest cotton saree. They don’t shout for you and yet your feet run to the window. Outside, in a landscape lit with the deepest indigo of twilight, shimmery white stars fall to the earth and vanish at her touch. In a matter of two hours, what were earlier square unimaginative buildings painted slate-grey transform into a vision in starkest white. It makes belief in a higher power remarkably easy. It also makes you empathise with the Impressionists’ fascination with snow.

It shows you what those artists understood instinctively — a snowflake is all the marvel and grandeur of nature tightly stuffed into half a millimetre. By carrying such beauty so lightly, it gives us clues about how we perhaps should take ourselves.

This lightness, alas, is ephemeral. Nothing about snow, much like life itself, is lasting. Neither its purity, nor its contemplative beauty much less its docility. As winter deepens, and the light ebbs away and the trees begin to resemble angry scratches on a child’s hand, snow perceptibly gathers power. Before it arrives in its strengthened form, there is a heightened sense of darkness. The earth looks parched and dull, the trees bare and the sky grey. You wake up to darkness and you sleep in darkness and spring seems like a distant dream.

It is the kind of winter that drips coldness on to your heart and has the power to obscure the very imagination of sunshine. Snow almost seems like a benediction but you quickly realise it is anything but. It first drifts across the landscape but rapidly thickens. And then it settles down. It clots on windows, squats on dustbins and freezes on footpaths. It increasingly begins to look like a corpulent beast that is unconcerned about the ugly lumps of fat all over its body.

Once it has settled down in this fashion, it makes life unbelievably tardy. Everything, it seems, is dictated by this smug beast. To step out of the house is to put on layers and layers of clothing, not to mention gloves, scarves and hats — enough tediousness to put even the most earnest soul off the idea of taking long walks. Not only do such everyday activities like driving, walking and shopping become unwanted adventures, the feeling of being snowed in heightens your emotions and dramatizes everything you hear and see. A mere sad song appears to be full of pathos; a friend’s casual teasing takes on hues of bitter sarcasm and solitude frighteningly begins to resemble loneliness. You begin to fathom the terror and fear that stares out of Turner’s landscapes overrun by snow. Somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, you also register why often in art and literature snow has always been more about evil and misery than about joy and romance.

Curiously, as snow dies, as it must, it renders its surroundings bleaker than ever. As it begins to melt, it becomes muddier and dirtier and all the more dangerous. Its icy sheen is a mirage designed to make you lose your grip; its long thaw is a time of numbing chills and indeed feels like the foul-smelling last gasp of a dying beast.

And then as suddenly, it’s gone. It’s like waking up from a dream. The buildings are slate-grey again and the footpath and dustbins are no longer white. But there is a patch of blue above. And the first brave snowdrop flowers. You are now convinced that sunshine will come. And so, you fall in love with snow all over again.

This was first uploaded on 'Unboxed Writers', a website for writers who believe in creative freedom and respect. Read it on this website here: http://unboxedwriters.com/2011/05/winter-in-wales/