Songs could move you to tears. At least this one did . Poetry of complete submission. One of my favorites kafis . sung by Pakistani legend Pathanay Khan. Khan died in 2000, and but needless to say, lives on
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGv9yYbrlqo&feature=PlayList&p=8AA80F2378C711A8&index=5
Menda ishq wi tu menda yaar wi tu
My love as well as my beloved is you.
Menda deen wi tu eeman wi tu
My religion as well as my faith is you.
Menda jism wi tu meda rooh wi tu
My body as well as my soul is you.
Menda kalb wi tu jind jaan wi tu
My heart as well as my heartbeat is you
Menda bharm vee tu
My belief is also you.
Menda dharm vee tu
My religion is you.
Menda sharm vee tu
My shyness/decency is also you.
Menda shaan vee tu
My grandeur/glory is also you.
Menda dukh sukh roowan
My worries and relief, cries...
dard vee tu darmaan vee tu
pain as well as the cure is you,
Mendi khushian da asbaab vee tu
My source of happiness is also you.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
FB and me...!
Facebook living is hard at times. There is constant pressure to update your status, party and then post party pictures, join groups, start campaigns-the general stress of living up to a FB standard. After my FB dutifully informed me about what colour and historical event I was, now it wants me to list 25 things about myself. It the hardest bit. …getting to know yourself.
Heres an attempt.
1. When I was six, I thought Taj Mahal could be moved to my backyard in Baramulla, Kashmir. So far, it has not budged an inch.
2. I also believed there was a star growing on my bathroom window. I still believe that. Common wisdom tells me it is just the tube-light reflecting.
3. The first few professions I thought of in junior school were : a truck-driver, a police constable, a social worker. Finally, in class 5 , I decided to be a journalist. Experience tells me now the first option would have been better.
4. I left medical school to be a journalist. I don’t regret not being a doctor.
5. My materialistic side is my deep attachment to my camera and my Ipod.
6 . I often miss flights, am late for trains and make angry bus drivers wait. I call it a timeless existence. Others differ.
7. Point seven explains why I have never had a watch or a clock in my room. Watching time makes me nervous.
8. I am not a morning person. But there have been times when I have watched the perfect sunrise. At Grand Canyon for one.
9. I jumped off a moving train. I was testing Newton's First Law of Motion.
10. I am an extremely camera shy person.
11. The only dish I can cook to perfection is Kashmiri Dum Aaloos. But that does not stop me from being the head chef.
12. Old couples and young kids make my heart flutter.
13. I am a sucker for Cadbury nutties (chocolate coated butterscotch) and gems.
14. My six year old niece thinks I am cool. I think she is a rock star.
15. I strongly believe in the power of insane human emotions.
16. A fair amount of cash in my bank account makes me nervous. I feel the pressure to spend it.
17. I can not live in a house without music or drive a car without it.
18. My friend attempted to drown me in the Ganges once. That’s one of the reason I fear the water.
19. My first hollywood film was Gregory Peck’s Mackenna’s Gold. The first English song I could sing was Cliff Richard’s Theme for a dream.
20. Gambling and luck dont come together for me. Las Vegas casinos took away my savings for a new camera.
21. I learned pottery and coffee making. It is my alternate profession.
22. My junior school friends tell me that I would ask them to lick my shoes if they wanted to be my friend. I have no recollections of this brutal side. In my defence, I was awarded a certificate for politeness in school.
23. I like writing letters. Not emails, but words on papers in black ink.
24 I dream of a life in the hills.
25. I let my friends have the last word...... No. 25 is open for comments
Heres an attempt.
1. When I was six, I thought Taj Mahal could be moved to my backyard in Baramulla, Kashmir. So far, it has not budged an inch.
2. I also believed there was a star growing on my bathroom window. I still believe that. Common wisdom tells me it is just the tube-light reflecting.
3. The first few professions I thought of in junior school were : a truck-driver, a police constable, a social worker. Finally, in class 5 , I decided to be a journalist. Experience tells me now the first option would have been better.
4. I left medical school to be a journalist. I don’t regret not being a doctor.
5. My materialistic side is my deep attachment to my camera and my Ipod.
6 . I often miss flights, am late for trains and make angry bus drivers wait. I call it a timeless existence. Others differ.
7. Point seven explains why I have never had a watch or a clock in my room. Watching time makes me nervous.
8. I am not a morning person. But there have been times when I have watched the perfect sunrise. At Grand Canyon for one.
9. I jumped off a moving train. I was testing Newton's First Law of Motion.
10. I am an extremely camera shy person.
11. The only dish I can cook to perfection is Kashmiri Dum Aaloos. But that does not stop me from being the head chef.
12. Old couples and young kids make my heart flutter.
13. I am a sucker for Cadbury nutties (chocolate coated butterscotch) and gems.
14. My six year old niece thinks I am cool. I think she is a rock star.
15. I strongly believe in the power of insane human emotions.
16. A fair amount of cash in my bank account makes me nervous. I feel the pressure to spend it.
17. I can not live in a house without music or drive a car without it.
18. My friend attempted to drown me in the Ganges once. That’s one of the reason I fear the water.
19. My first hollywood film was Gregory Peck’s Mackenna’s Gold. The first English song I could sing was Cliff Richard’s Theme for a dream.
20. Gambling and luck dont come together for me. Las Vegas casinos took away my savings for a new camera.
21. I learned pottery and coffee making. It is my alternate profession.
22. My junior school friends tell me that I would ask them to lick my shoes if they wanted to be my friend. I have no recollections of this brutal side. In my defence, I was awarded a certificate for politeness in school.
23. I like writing letters. Not emails, but words on papers in black ink.
24 I dream of a life in the hills.
25. I let my friends have the last word...... No. 25 is open for comments
Monday, March 31, 2008
Every worried mother's delight!
My friend Chucki-the chukker would cave under pressure some day. His slightly drooping shoulders already weigh heavy. Every time he hears about another single television journalist, his heart is heavier by a few kilograms. And when that single television journalist hits her late 20s or more, Chucki-the chuckker knows that there is something wrong –either with this world or just the profession. So, when he is not planning a rugby game, or brooding over jobs, or drinking tea or even fixing his own dates, Chucki-the chuckker is wondering why so many female journalists are single. Chucki-the chuckler is every worried mother’s delight . Maybe he and Mum-the mother could set up a fact finding committee. Or hire detectives. Conduct an online survey. Or even a sms poll.
With so much of pressure, my friend has now moved places- to bigger, loner cities. Now, you might just spot him in a store buying deep blue shirts or even catching his own glimpse in flashy windowpanes. Also, if you get a call from someone trying hard to sound hoarse and pretending to be a “ shaadi.com” agent, you know it’s my friend calling. Anytime, you see a worried man, trying to fix up matches for single journalists, that good soul is again my friend. I just hope bigger cities lessen his burden. He has been advised to take up jazz classes, play polo, go salsa dancing or simply take his mind off the trends of journalistic lives….for these lives are best left unravelled.
With so much of pressure, my friend has now moved places- to bigger, loner cities. Now, you might just spot him in a store buying deep blue shirts or even catching his own glimpse in flashy windowpanes. Also, if you get a call from someone trying hard to sound hoarse and pretending to be a “ shaadi.com” agent, you know it’s my friend calling. Anytime, you see a worried man, trying to fix up matches for single journalists, that good soul is again my friend. I just hope bigger cities lessen his burden. He has been advised to take up jazz classes, play polo, go salsa dancing or simply take his mind off the trends of journalistic lives….for these lives are best left unravelled.
Laws of television journalism
If it makes you think, then check again. It aint TV news.
Unattended borewells are essential to our existence.
The amount of hard work put in a news story is inversely proportional to the airtime.
“How are you feeling” is a copyright of a TV journalist.
Everyone knows how to use this word. None really knows how it works. TRP.
The only time a news decides to break is when you are in the middle of a party.
If you cant scream, dance, break into moments of “ on camera-“ frenzy,
TV journalism is not for you.
When in doubt, blame technology and bad signals.
Make-up works both ways. . for your stories and even for your looks.
Unattended borewells are essential to our existence.
The amount of hard work put in a news story is inversely proportional to the airtime.
“How are you feeling” is a copyright of a TV journalist.
Everyone knows how to use this word. None really knows how it works. TRP.
The only time a news decides to break is when you are in the middle of a party.
If you cant scream, dance, break into moments of “ on camera-“ frenzy,
TV journalism is not for you.
When in doubt, blame technology and bad signals.
Make-up works both ways. . for your stories and even for your looks.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
An ode to my best friend
The first day I set my eyes on you, I was in love. Your dark body, sleek and shiny. Every curve was perfect. The deep black, with the right twinkle in the lens. Sibling and me had spend months just googling you. Lensman-of-Kashmir had also recommended you. My dear Cannon 30-D, I had waited for days, for months. Imagine the joy when you arrived. Packed in a brown box, with loads of paper to read. Who read the instructions. The eyes were all for you. $1,481 and every green was worth it. You were to be my best friend for the days ahead.
You froze with me at the Rohtang Pass, blinked at the yaks there. We drove to Ladakh, through the barren landscape. You saw all with the open wide lens. The happy Ladakhi kids with your portrait eyes.
We went all the way upto Siachen. And when I climbed the ice-wall, you tugged tightly alongside. We both devoured the warm sun after the cold winds swept our faces. We flew overseas. You captured squirrels, sea-gulls, our laughters, the drunken parties… the walks by the beach, the mystery of Stonehenge.
So much beauty, and you. But they say, it just takes a moment to ruin it all. The moment had arrived. The National Express Bus Service was always on time, and I was always late. A hasty jump into the bus, was out of breath, drank some water and placed you by my side. That’s when it happened. Deadly water entered your system like some strong venom. Within minutes, you were quiet. Dead, as if you had completely given up on life. Afreen-the-dazzler tried the first aid. Sun, wind, tissue-paper to clean up. We were on our way to Cambridge, and but the world had already stopped. The shopkeeper at Cambridge took you in his hands, and shook his head. Maha-the-magician said a silent prayer. I could have burst into tears, but guess, you had had enough water for the day.
The next few days passed off in numbness... like a limb had been cut off. Like a bird, with its feathers clipped harshly. Like a wintry evening with no warmth.
In Ireland, Seamus-the-showman brought someone who looked like you. The same deep black, but there was no twinkle. The filters had buried it somewhere deep. It didn’t have your soul either. Everywhere I went, I felt like an incomplete song. You had left me wordless, expressionless. My dear friend, somehow on my travels, you were the one who made me complete.
You froze with me at the Rohtang Pass, blinked at the yaks there. We drove to Ladakh, through the barren landscape. You saw all with the open wide lens. The happy Ladakhi kids with your portrait eyes.
We went all the way upto Siachen. And when I climbed the ice-wall, you tugged tightly alongside. We both devoured the warm sun after the cold winds swept our faces. We flew overseas. You captured squirrels, sea-gulls, our laughters, the drunken parties… the walks by the beach, the mystery of Stonehenge.
So much beauty, and you. But they say, it just takes a moment to ruin it all. The moment had arrived. The National Express Bus Service was always on time, and I was always late. A hasty jump into the bus, was out of breath, drank some water and placed you by my side. That’s when it happened. Deadly water entered your system like some strong venom. Within minutes, you were quiet. Dead, as if you had completely given up on life. Afreen-the-dazzler tried the first aid. Sun, wind, tissue-paper to clean up. We were on our way to Cambridge, and but the world had already stopped. The shopkeeper at Cambridge took you in his hands, and shook his head. Maha-the-magician said a silent prayer. I could have burst into tears, but guess, you had had enough water for the day.
The next few days passed off in numbness... like a limb had been cut off. Like a bird, with its feathers clipped harshly. Like a wintry evening with no warmth.
In Ireland, Seamus-the-showman brought someone who looked like you. The same deep black, but there was no twinkle. The filters had buried it somewhere deep. It didn’t have your soul either. Everywhere I went, I felt like an incomplete song. You had left me wordless, expressionless. My dear friend, somehow on my travels, you were the one who made me complete.
Friday, January 18, 2008
And I have learnt...
When your mother suspects something will go wrong, it definitely will.
If you don’t buy an umbrella, you will always get wet. If you buy one, you will still get wet.
Travelling on a double decker bus, in the middle of a night, helps you understand the character of a city.
"Nobody keeps Baby in the corner” , with that line Patric Swayze can still drive girls hysterical.
Language is never a barrier, unless you want it to be.
Even though you don’t know Italian, you can still carry a three-hour conversation with a 70-year-old, who only knows Italian.
Throwing a penny in a wishing well makes you laugh hard.
When its windy, you miss people.
The Welsh like their coffee with a spoon of hot milk, and their tea, with cold milk.
During the long hour flights, only a grey-haired woman gets to sit next to the cute guy.
Keys are the easiest possession you can lose.
All wooden benches in England remind you of Notting Hill.
Even if you have a sweet tooth, tears are only salt and water.
There is nothing called a diet beer.
If it is not mad, then it ain't right.
Borat is funny. And I don’t care if you think its gross.
There are people who read books with titles “ Art of secret keeping” and “ Beach therapy for the broken hearted”.
If you don’t buy an umbrella, you will always get wet. If you buy one, you will still get wet.
Travelling on a double decker bus, in the middle of a night, helps you understand the character of a city.
"Nobody keeps Baby in the corner” , with that line Patric Swayze can still drive girls hysterical.
Language is never a barrier, unless you want it to be.
Even though you don’t know Italian, you can still carry a three-hour conversation with a 70-year-old, who only knows Italian.
Throwing a penny in a wishing well makes you laugh hard.
When its windy, you miss people.
The Welsh like their coffee with a spoon of hot milk, and their tea, with cold milk.
During the long hour flights, only a grey-haired woman gets to sit next to the cute guy.
Keys are the easiest possession you can lose.
All wooden benches in England remind you of Notting Hill.
Even if you have a sweet tooth, tears are only salt and water.
There is nothing called a diet beer.
If it is not mad, then it ain't right.
Borat is funny. And I don’t care if you think its gross.
There are people who read books with titles “ Art of secret keeping” and “ Beach therapy for the broken hearted”.
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