Miyan ki Malhaar

Ragas are soliloquies and meditations, passionate melodies that draw circles and triangles in a mental space, a geometry of sounds that can turn a room into a fountain, a spring, a pool - Octavio Paz

Yesterday, it was raining a non-proverbial 'cows and buffaloes'. My commute, which generally eats two and a half hours of my life everyday, took three and a half. Keeping me company was Raag Miyan ki Malhaar sung by the Gundecha brothers. The verse is written by Saint Tulsidas is in the Awadhi dialect, which I dont understand fully.

And it did not stop me from translating the same to English.

Original lyrics
Ghan ghamand nabh garjat ghora, priya heen darpat man mora
Damini damak rahat nabh mahi, khal ke preeti jatha thir nahi
Barasahi jalan bhoomi niyraaye, jatha nabhahin guni vidya paaye
Boond aghat sahayin giri aise, khal ke bachan sant saha jaise
Chhudra nadi bahi chali tyorayi, jas toreiun dal khal itrai
Samiti samiti jal bharihin talaba, jimi sajjan sadguna pahinaava
Sarita jal jal nidhi mahoon jaayi, hoohin achal jin jeev hari paayi

My translation
The clouds, full of pride, are roaring fiercely in the sky; without my beloved, my mind is scared
Just like the capricious love of the unscrupulous, the clouds are brightened momentarily by the lightning
Just like the rainwater that flows as per the slope of land, knowledge moves towards the able
Just like a sage who tolerates the barbs of evil, the mountains are enduring the impact of raindrops
Just like the evil who become arrogant after tasting success, the rivers, fed with rain water, are swaggering over the banks
Just like the way the virtuous inculcate good qualities, the lakes are collecting water from here and there
Just like the way a soul is at peace after meeing Hari, the flowing rivers calm down after meeting the sea

The incessant rains, the apt lyrics and distinct taal of the mridangam made the traffic jam bearable.

Nay, it turned the stifling bus ride into a powerfully cascading waterfall.

Respite

‘Raahat’ in Urdu or Hindi means respite or relief.  

It is also a name, particularly among the Muslims. Some of you might have heard about Raahat Fateh Ali Khan, the versatile singer capably shouldering the legacy of his uncle, the great Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. But this post is not about him. It is about his namesake, a little known scrap dealer on the Thane-Belapur road, you may never encounter.

This incident happened about six months ago.

Halfway during my ride home, my bike refused to go further. A preliminary check found that the fuel tank was dry. And I was about two and a half kilometre away from the nearest petrol pump.

Somehow, I managed to get a bottle from the locals. I started the walk. After a hundred meters, I thought of hitching a ride. After a score of vehicles passed by, one biker stopped. But he was not going the way I wanted to. I thanked him and started looking for the next vehicle. That guy went a few metres ahead, parked his bike and walked towards me. He asked me why I was looking for a ride. Then he saw the bottle in my hand.

Petrol khatam ho gaya kya? (Are you out of petrol?)

Haan, petrol pump tak lift chahiye thi. (Yes, I was looking for a lift till the petrol pump)

Bas? (Is that all?)

Haan. (Yes)

Ekdum barabar aadmi ko rukaya phir tumne. Lao apni bottle. (Then you stopped the right person. Bring your bottle)

He unplugged his bike’s fuel pipe and gave me half a litre of petrol. When I tried to pay him, his reply was, “Paise loonga toh Khuda ko kya muh dikhaoonga? Kabhi yaad kar lena humein, woh bhi kaafi hoga.” Translated to English it means, “How will I face the Lord if I accept your money? It would be enough for me if you think of me once in a while.”

This was when petrol was almost Rs.80/- per litre.

Raahat had not only saved me a hike, he also saved me some money. But, above all, he taught me not to expect anything in return of a good deed.

I know you cannot read English, Raahat. There is close to zero possibility that you will know this post is about you. It has been six months but, every time I get the bike tank filled, you are the first person I think of.

May your tribe increase!

No man is an island

This post is about a girl. 

We were in the same project but different technologies. We sat at different floors and hadn’t seen each other. In fact, I was not even aware of her existence.  Until Destiny put us side-by-side in a training program conducted by the client we were working for.

The circumstances under which we talked were rather amusing.

Sitting at an oval table, we were neighbours. One plate of biscuits was provided for every two participants. I shared mine with another team mate. We polished off ours while this girl and her neighbour had not started theirs. We eyed their plate for some time and finally, steeling myself, decided to ask her if she could please pass it on.

I cleared my throat, she turned around and looked at me with her expressive almond eyes. Her eyebrows posed a question, she did not speak. For that moment, I forgot the biscuits, the training program and even the world around me. For that endless moment, all that existed were those jet-black twinkling eyes.

Then, from nowhere, came the question, “Yes?”

I realized it came from her. I started to form a sentence, discarded it and looked into her eyes again. Then I said, “You have ……” I was going to say “…beautiful eyes!” I swallowed the compliment and said, “You have ….a plate of biscuits which you don’t seem to be interested in. Could you please pass those?” She smiled, not only with her lips but with the eyes too. She nudged the plate towards me and those eyes were back on me. I blurted out my thanks and got busy with the biscuits.

I never bothered asking her name, I already had one for her.

Almond Eyes.

In the next couple of months, I saw Almond Eyes twice or thrice. She might have smiled at me, I never noticed; I was busy admiring her extraordinary eyes.

One not-so-fine morning, there was a mail from HR. About the demise of a colleague. Those mails make me think about my inevitable mortality which lingers on throughout the day. This time, it was all the more intense.

Almond Eyes had died in a car crash.

She was returning from her engagement.

She was just 22 years old.

That was the day I realized what John Donne meant by ‘If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less’.  

No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thine own

Or of thine friend's were.

Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee...

I felt diminished. I went through the day like an automaton, I could not concentrate on anything.

Rest in peace, Almond Eyes. 

In addition to your family and friends, you will be remembered by a guy who, instead of complimenting, went for the biscuits.