Malvika's Ramblings

Shayari by Ustad Neera

Apne ko pehchanne mein taumra lag jaati hai
Kisi aur ko pehchane ki himaakat kaise keejiye?
Ye pehchaan ka silsila gar bhula deejiye
To bhi zindagi buri nahi jaati hai!

It takes a lifetime to recognise oneself
How should one dare to try and recognise someone else...
Even if you let go of this struggle to recognise
Life may not be much worse.

***

Ehsaason ko zubaan deti hai Kingfisher

Ehsaason ko zubaan deti hai Kingfisher..

Ehsaas naa bhi ho..

Tab bhi zubaan deti hai Kingfisher!

Beer gives a voice to emotions…

Beer gives a voice to emotions

Even when there are no emotions

Beer gives a voice to them!

(Never knew my mother was a shaayar/ poet.)

Oh noo! Ha ha..

Oh look at this paragraph that I found in a PG Wodehouse –

‘Oh look,’ she said. She was a confirmed Oh-looker. I had noticed this at Cannes, where she had drawn my attention in this manner on various occasions to such diverse objects as a French actress, a Provencal filling station, the sunset over the Estorals, Michael Arlen, a man selling coloured spectacles, the deep velvet blue of the Mediterranean, and the late Mayor of New York in a striped one-piece bathing suit. ‘Oh, look at that sweet little star up there by itself.’

Her morning elegance, by Oren Lavie

Click here and listen to the song. Don't read ahead without the music!

Sun been down for days
A pretty flower in a vase
A slipper by the fireplace
A cello lying in its case

Soon she’s down the stairs
Her morning elegance she wears
The sound of water makes her dream
Awoken by a cloud of steam
She pours a daydream in a cup
A spoon of sugar sweetens up

And she fights for her life
as she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
as it pours
And she fights for her life
as she goes in a store
with a thought she has caught
by a thread
she pays for the bread
and she goes…
Nobody knows

Sun been down for days
A winter melody she plays
The thunder makes her contemplate
She hears a noise behind the gate
Perhaps a letter with a dove
Perhaps a stranger she could love

And she fights for her life
as she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
as it pours
And she fights for her life
as she goes in a store
with a thought she has caught
by a thread
she pays for the bread
and she goes…
Nobody knows

And she fights for her life
as she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
as it pours
And she fights for her life
as she goes in a store
where the people are pleasantly
strange
and counting the
change
as she goes…
Nobody knows

Tagore’s Luscious Frivolity

Rabindranath Tagore's Birthday Thoughts

July 1887

I am in my twenty-seventh year. This event keeps thrusting itself before

my mind--nothing else seems to have happened of late.

But to reach twenty-seven--is that a trifling thing?--to pass the meridian

of the twenties on one's progress towards thirty?--thirty--that is to say

maturity--the age at which people expect fruit rather than fresh foliage.

But, alas, where is the promise of fruit? As I shake my head, it still

feels brimful of luscious frivolity, with not a trace of philosophy.

Folk are beginning to complain: "Where is that which we expected of

you--that in hope of which we admired the soft green of the shoot? Are we

to put up with immaturity forever? It is high time for us to know what we

shall gain from you. We want an estimate of the proportion of oil which

the blindfold, mill-turning, unbiased critic can squeeze out of you."

It has ceased to be possible to delude these people into waiting

expectantly any longer. While I was under age they trustfully gave me

credit; it is sad to disappoint them now that I am on the verge of thirty.

But what am I to do? Words of wisdom will not come! I am utterly

incompetent to provide things that may profit the multitude. Beyond a

snatch of song, some tittle-tattle, a little merry fooling, I have been

unable to advance. And as the result, those who held high hopes will turn

their wrath on me; but did anyone ever beg them to nurse these

expectations?

Such are the thoughts which assail me since one fine Bysakh morning

I awoke amidst fresh breeze and light, new leaf and flower, to find that I

had stepped into my twenty-seventh year.