Gripe! Maybe, because I lack the talent, I'm a tad tired with the singers and poets around me.
Last year at a Durga Puja gathering we had this fabuloso singer from India entertaining us with some old melodies. I sighed in pleasure as I looked forward to a very enjoyable evening, when this guy sitting behind me started humming in sync with the singer on stage. Peace is elusive; the humming turned to vocal gymnastics, and there I was sitting with a finger delicately pressed against one ear, listening with just a single ear to the voice on stage.
We have had our share of great poets, ennobling thoughts, controversial lines and also publications in magazines like:
We have had our share of great poets, ennobling thoughts, controversial lines and also publications in magazines like:
The crow fainted today
Was it the heat?
Or thoughts of a bygone era…..
The lines haunt me now, as increasingly some folks have started reciting their self-composed poems at our gatherings. Some have merit, sure, but after a tiring week I just want to relax and not use my brains to decipher why:
The sorrow of the river
Knew no bounds
Like a lazy snake
River of my hazy dreams
O Kaveri….. Kaveri
The bird flies over you
Dropping - a feather
O Kaveri…..Kaveri
Thank God for just a feather. Now, I have a malady; if I start to laugh, I just cannot stop.
In the U.S. the Bengalis often put up shows……. a kind of music and dance medley or home theater productions. We were sitting in the middle of one such show, when from behind the wings it was announced that Mr. Y would recite a self-composed poem. Electrified with memories of past experience I tried to quit the room in a hurry, but too late......
In the U.S. the Bengalis often put up shows……. a kind of music and dance medley or home theater productions. We were sitting in the middle of one such show, when from behind the wings it was announced that Mr. Y would recite a self-composed poem. Electrified with memories of past experience I tried to quit the room in a hurry, but too late......
Remember me O motherland
Though I do not want to be a great poet
The poem was about the problems of modern India(a verse for each state, we have more than 22 states) and after each verse the refrain in a high pitched whisper, as if every government agent was after Mr. Y:
Remember me O motherland
But I do not want to be a great poet
Now Sir, if you do not want to be a great poet, why bestow on us the gift of your sublime imagination? And every time a member of the audience discreetly tried to leave the room, Mr. Y would ask us to sit down in a stern voice.
That night, I had nightmares about my motherland.
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