- Sometimes it’s just that wind, a cold icy wind that freezes every single hair on your body, though it’s covered by a blanket of warm clothes and penetrates your skin to touch the bones. You feel the air, still you are happy. Why? Because you are reminded of your home, a home, a place where you were born, a place where you grew up, a place where even during summer, you feel the cold winter wind and what you need is warm woolen clothes to wrap up your skin.
- I remember our skin drying up as we are now made aware by the weather that Winter is on the way. We are ready to welcome her. Every home now make a space for room heaters, new technologies. Before it was hand made mud and tin hearth where coal would be lighted and fanned for hours. It’s embers warming the whole house…
Short note on Culture and Anarchy
Culture as perfection.
Click on the link below.
I walked down the streets of my dear hometown, tired is she by now because time an again she is being used as an object for gambling. A few more paths and I came across the same old Wall, this time painted with a different colour. I felt a little bad because the wall looked handsome in its ancient yellow attire.
That place is special because it was the one who had permanently adopted her and it is the same place where I first saw her. And today the same street, the same good old wall knocked the door of my memory where she still breathes.
But this is not the only place to have reminded me about her. When I was doing my masters I came across this old woman, living in one of the streets of Jalpaiguri. We often saw her, mostly while coming back from the classes. She looked old, a little hunched back, thin and dressed in an old saffron saree. She had a mixture of dry grey and few black hair that was loosely made into a bun. Her dusky face,those small smiling bright eyes,dark lips with one teeth protruding out, everything , everything was strikingly similar that she just reminded me about my old friend. Once again the long forgotten friend came back before my eyes. But the one striking difference that I noticed between them(one who was past and had become a history and the other who was present and alive)was that the unkempt,shabby appearance of my old friend made her look more attractive than the divas on the street. Compared to her this new woman was surprisingly pretty clean and tidy . She usually carried a
Most of the time when we passed by her we would exchange glances and smiles. Like my old friend she too lived in the mercy of local food stalls, selling sweets, tea or momos. Everyday she lived the same day. Of course,we were curious to know where she slept and later we found that she used to spend her night inside an unused shop. Time passed so fast and we finally finished our masters programme. Me and my friend once made a promise to give her something with our pocket money. So when our last days in Jalpaiguri arrived we contributed whatever little amount we could and purchased a new saree for her. We gifted her our small love and care just the day before we left. I felt immense joy like her when she received it with a soft smile. At first she could not understand because she was not a regular beggar. She did not know begging, just like my old friend. We could not understand each other’s language but we felt something. The food stall owner who was providing her with dinner told her in bengali that we were gifting a new saree for her to wear. By gifting her I felt as if I was giving something to my old friend.
Our Century old tattered hopes are in rags
Enchanted dreams still hangs on every green cliffs
Confused among the conspiracies that hatched without a sound
As the twenty four hour channel portrayed the scenario like in a daily soap
Where the writers head winds up like our hilly roads
Conjuring up stories after stories
Leaving the hills muted left only to talk in wispers, even when she is the queen
She is the imprisoned and forced to gulp venom
Darjeeling being poisened is growing purple bit a bit
The land has been raided once again
Sounds of boots, thuds,thuds,thudding every corner of the streets
Voilence making remedy to suppress the voice of the masses
Simple common citizens just asking a big hearted country for their rights which they swiftly denies
As the state sends forces after forces to shut the mouth of the million gorkha voices
That’s not enough
Terrorist! Who? We
They label you for free
Yes, for free
When your brothers are in borders
As country’s respected army men
But where is that respect?
Lost ? Gone,tossed aside, inside that dirty bin.
Dirty,Oh very dirty dictatorship prevails in the heated hilly air
O! Wait was Hitler born twice?
Banning internet was such a clever move
The rest is left dark, blank,that fear of revealing the truth.
But we the Gorkhas are spread worldwide
So suppressing a few will not stop our fight,our birth right.
We forgot when last we enjoyed the thunder, the lightening and the glistening monsoon rain
A sip of a coffee or the Darjeeling tea who is now quiet and in pains
Because what showered in the hills and gardens were rains of gunshots and thunders from rifles
Deafening the mountains, leaving her with bloody bloodstains,
Erasing the faces of the three Gorkha voices, martyred men as the soil drenched.
Drenched with tears from a mother, a father, a daughter, a son, a wife, a sister, or a brother, friends or the entire Gorkha generation.
This is what you wanted. Right?
When will your tyranny end?
When will we breathe the free air?
When will your rule end?
Yes the art of Colonisation painted the hills even after the coloniser’s end
Your wrath may have fell upon us
Like a meaningless curse
But do not worry
Weapons we do not carry
With only a thread and a needle
We will March forward in solidarity
Sewing and stitching broken wounds that are still fresh
Sewing all that you ripped apart
Your attack on language was indeed a blessing in disguise. Yes
I don’t wanna lose my mother
I don’t wanna cut her tongue
I don’t wanna stay forever dumb.
Together we stand and voice more clearly, our demands
Now do you hear?
The hills of Darjeeling have come alive
Echoing the Voices of its people
Without a land
Their never ending chorus
‘ Gorkhaland, Gorkhaland’
But even after many deaths
Our voice have risen- reborn and revitalised
As we sing that old song
“we want Gorkhaland
More louder,more fiercer than ever.
Hear my poem in the video below.
I watched that blue,deep blue ocean
As it’s waves twirled and move forward
I felt at once to swipe myself off and leave with it’s to and fro motion, without a trace.
Until my body,tired of holding the weight gets exhausted
My existence becomes extinct
As the ocean slowly swallows me in.
So deeply did I delve in the thought
That I found no difference between you and that vast ocean.
It’s color resembled your eyes.
Yes, your blue eyes where I had so long sailed
Didn’t realize that the weather change
be it in your eyes or that Ocean,it’s same.
And at last I became that old Titanic
Sinking, gradually sinking in the pains
That left me all broken and paralysed
But you are too unworthy to be called an ocean
That harbours thousand different lives.
Never does it abuse or leave others bruised.
As I viewed the blue universe
It taught me lessons in silence
So letting everything go
I stand before it, peeling off that paralysed self,in an outfit,
That mirrors its color.
My mind and my heart all blue
Resembling the powerful
Blue,Yes,deep blue ocean.
Post by :pr_timeandreflections
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I am quoting my words from my poem Azaleas posted a week before in my blog.
“I still have that old photograph
Me and my mother beside
That new mother happily
bursting with pink azaleas
It was last winter,
Grandpa had to cut it short
I still remember that expression
Of discomfort and regret
“Don’t be disheartened baba
They will grow again”, I said.
But his reply gave me a shock
,“They knew I would cut them.
It gives me much pain to inflict the same upon the plant I planted and nursed.”
“But they will grow next year”, he consoled himself.
Weeks haven’t past
My mom sick and in pain,
Tortured me more…
Yes, there is a strong connection
Between a mother and her child
It was then I realised
My grandpa though a Father figure
Had already become a Mother
To the plant life he was giving birth
With every passing year,
Trees,plants,orchids and so on…”
How I Became a Tree very much reminds me of my Thulobaba, baba and boju who are very much one with the green friends growing around us- pines, Azaleas, orchid trees( bahunia.sp), bottle brush( my favourite), Oranges (tall and dwarf), lemon, roses, lalupathey,chinaroses, Gauva, orchids and many more I cannot name.I have grown up with the hills, the trees around me, soaking in the aroma of the fresh tea leaves.I have grown up with the orange trees in our orchard. Some are of my father’s age, some even older than him, some are of my age and others are still younger and growing, all so very taller than me. Each winter, they bless us and when we were kids we would spend the whole day in the orchard, often skipping our lunch…
And reading Han Kang’s novel The Vegetarian, “set in modern-day Seoul,tells the story of Yeong-hye, a home-maker, whose decision to stop eating meat after a bloody, nightmarish dream about human cruelty leads to devastating consequences in her personal and familial life”. What struck me more are the lines in part 3.flaming Trees where she explains her dream“
[…] “Do you know how I found out? Well, I was in a dream, and I was standing on my head…leaves were growing from my body, and roots were sprouting from my hands…they delve down into the earth. Endlessly,Endlessly…. yes, I spread my legs because I wanted flowers to bloom from my crotch; I spread them wide…” .
This description goes so well with this amazing book cover.Isn’t the cover amazing ?
And here is the book with its subtle contemplative narrative “Among all desires to become a tree, the most urgent was the need to escape the noise; one was the noise of the humans, the other was the vocabulary of silence of the active life of trees” –How I Became A Tree by Sumana Roy is one remarkable book you never want to lose at any cost. I ordered this book from Flipkart (Of course it is available in Amazon). The more you read the more you get absorbed into the detailed photographic experiences and glimpses of the authors’ life. The more you read, the more you feel trees and flowers becoming more alive before your eyes. The way she thinks is unmatched and unparalleled, with her unique comparisons and interesting terms like the “tree-time”. There are chapters like Women as flowers and Women as trees. This is an exceptional book where one is awestruck and mesmerised at the same time. This book helps you come a hundred steps closer to the plant kingdom and feel each senses of a variety of flora breathing together with us. This is a book which is not hard to understand. Written in a simple lucid manner, we are sure to explore every flavour of memoir, literary history, nature studies, spiritual philosophies and botanical research.
I am still reading this book and by the end I am sure I will understand more and discover the heart beating inside every plant life.I hope I am not the same person after finishing this book.
Since I haven’t completed the book, I cannot produce a full book review. But below 👇 are the few links where you can read the full book reviews-
Well not every one is blessed as I am right now😇😇😇.
Well I got my copy signed by the author who fortunately turns out to be our beautiful Teacher. She is one of the best teachers on Earth with a beautiful heart and a gorgeous smile.A picture with our Dear beautiful Ma’am. How can I miss this opportunity…
From the Aleph book publisher-“In this remarkable and often unsettling book, Sumana Roy gives us a new vision of what it means to be human in the natural world. Increasingly disturbed by the violence, hate, insincerity, greed and selfishness of her kind, the author is drawn to the idea of becoming a tree. ‘I was tired of speed’, she writes, ‘I wanted to live to tree time.’ Besides wanting to emulate the spacious, relaxed rhythm of trees, she is drawn to their non-violent ways of being, how they tread lightly upon the earth, their ability to cope with loneliness and pain, the unselfishness with which they give freely of themselves and much more. She gives us new readings of the works of writers, painters, photographers and poets (Rabindranath Tagore and D. H. Lawrence among them) to show how trees and plants have always fascinated us. She studies the work of remarkable scientists like Jagadish Chandra Bose and key spiritual figures like the Buddha to gain even deeper insights into the world of trees. She writes of those who have wondered what it would be like to have sex with a tree, looks into why people marry trees, explores the death and rebirth of trees and tells us why a tree was thought by forest-dwellers to be equal to ten sons.
Mixing memoir, literary history, nature studies, spiritual philosophies and botanical research, How I Became a Tree is a book that will prompt readers to think of themselves and the natural world that they are an intrinsic part of, in fresh ways. It is that rarest of things – A truly original work of art. How I Became a Tree a book that will prompt readers to think of themselves and the natural world that they are an intrinsic part of, in fresh ways. It is that rarest of things – A truly original work of art.” (Blurb)
Book – How I Became a Tree
Author- Sumana Roy
‛How I Became a Tree by Sumana Roy’ is available in Amazon or other online book stores by Aleph book company For only Rs.599 (discounts are available)