(Inspired by the Blues Bar- London)
I fell in love with a singer
on the Mississippi highway
I fell in love with a singer
on the Mississippi highway
He looked so torn and battered by life
on the Mississippi highway
He was so lonesome oh! boy,
he was so handsome singing blues
on the Mississippi highway
He sang me blues till the sunset
on the Mississippi Highway
I fell in love with a singer
on the Mississippi highway
Walking Talking with London
She gazed from the beautifully strung millennium bridge, white tight ropes that formed little pyramids swung on cobble stones that trembled with the passing train and sprung fresh with the rain, standing exotically on the Thames, overlooking the mighty brown Thames; if one peered long enough you could see pale blood from dead wartime soldiers in the deepest ripples, covered with sooth from the industrial revolution, dark beauty riding on the moon’s shadow. She wasn’t even drunk, her mind just floated in history and back and forth to the present day England, imagination let wild and free to interpret the artistic surrounding of the beautifully lit banks just above the embankment. It was a beautiful sight but beauty and pain seem to be the best of friends, hidden under a mask of strokes and colours, brushes and brows, bruises unseen and feelings unfelt, like beauty was a mask to un-remember the past. She actually felt ugly, a gray little duckling left ashore to see the wonderful world which was her home and yet wasn’t really.
She paused in the middle of the bridge, soaked herself till the lights around made her feel dark and hollow and empty, the kind of emptiness that makes the dead wake from their death, the kind that scares emptiness itself and sends it howling into the night, pain people can seldom see, people seldom notice and the kind of pain often plastered by a well stretched smile, as they say ‘ear to ear.’ She walked the first part of the cobbled bridge, weighing her footsteps carefully, like each tiny step would send a string flying down the bridge, London bridge is hanging some would say, and on her the little ducking clutched her webbed feet. She walked till her feet hurt from her thin soles of her black pumps, till her body trembled in sync with the frequency of the trembling bridge, on either side were the white little pyramid like tight ropes glued together, a pattern which is quite similar to if you have ever played the thread game. Yes the thread game, you take a long thread knotted at the end and dribble it around your fingers till art forms shapes and the artist feels the pride in those. A train passage was just in middle of these two threaded designs, smooth poles and elegant designs, it almost made her feel ugly, quite succeeding so.
She swung to the motion of the bridge, walked till the end and climbed the other thread, the view changed, magnificent buildings bathing in yellow light, her eyes felt like someone has just changed the lens of the camera, she rememberd her canon and yet knew the canon actually saw what her eyes made them see but this was clear and distinct, like its details were screaming to be noticed. She paused to the ringing strings of a guitarist on the bridge. He wasn’t a good one, nor did have an angelic voice, but his instrument made some wonderful sounds, it was an old one, natural wood of brown from its look, quite a good looking guitar she thought. She was thankful though, he was atleast singing, with a guitar case lying bare naked and open, two fifty pence two people had dropped, she bent down to give her share for the entertainment she was going to fully relish, for the joy of having music on the bridge swinging to its own melancholies, the guitarist said ‘bless you,’ and she really needed to be blessed, not by preachers not singers, just blest by the dark hanging clouds right above her head. Rain was sure to fall she thought, but she didn’t care. She cared about nothing these days, not even her-self.
The Buddha said nothingness was it, wasn’t it? Maybe she was getting there, becoming a flesh devoid of pain and suffering, suffering is a thought she had figured that by now, the thought would end with the end of thinking; she knew she was far from it. Oh! those thoughts, they didn’t trouble her, not anymore, they amused her, she could even laugh at her own miserable plight, she called them adventures, life called them troubles, but the Globe was right on her right, she wanted to scream ‘what’s in a name Shakespeare and was quite sure his floating ghost might shout back at her saying ‘hey that is my line.’
She walked a bit further, she was intrigued that sometimes her thoughts were actually quite intelligent. She shrugged and gazed till no thoughts were in her mind and all she saw was sight, oh! beautiful sight of London, stretched miles till the dark blue horizons and careless strokes of clouds caught her eyes, froze her thoughts for those few eternity like seconds, gripped her heart and squeezed her might, as the strength drained and she descended from her trans like state, all she wanted to do was cry, wail and howl, shatter the peaceful night like falling stars, shooting meteorites kissing the earth, clattering the silence of the night and the harmony of the passerby. She wanted to stare into a stranger’s eyes and question them if beauty hid pain so well and if so well and why so well? For what so well?
She walked a bit further, the bridge ended and began a little pale yellow dungeon, graffiti on either side and a phrase caught her eye, it said, are you a mooner?
She knew those words well and what connotations of state of mind it stood for but she wanted to write next to it, are you a moaner? Sometimes do you moan aloud, if not, you should!
Grumbling with her own thoughts, she descended the stairs and there were two lovely gentlemen, they were not suited and booted like the corporate Kings walking past but they were strumming such heavenly tunes of Spanish music and the instrumentals touched the deepest and the furthest veins of her heart and she could feel it tremble, with pleasure, sadness, beauty, love and feelings only the chords can touch, music was what she really needed to balm her soul.
She rested her feet, her heart, closed her eyes and floated with the sounds of music that reverberated around the Thames.
It was finally a beautiful night.
She paused in the middle of the bridge, soaked herself till the lights around made her feel dark and hollow and empty, the kind of emptiness that makes the dead wake from their death, the kind that scares emptiness itself and sends it howling into the night, pain people can seldom see, people seldom notice and the kind of pain often plastered by a well stretched smile, as they say ‘ear to ear.’ She walked the first part of the cobbled bridge, weighing her footsteps carefully, like each tiny step would send a string flying down the bridge, London bridge is hanging some would say, and on her the little ducking clutched her webbed feet. She walked till her feet hurt from her thin soles of her black pumps, till her body trembled in sync with the frequency of the trembling bridge, on either side were the white little pyramid like tight ropes glued together, a pattern which is quite similar to if you have ever played the thread game. Yes the thread game, you take a long thread knotted at the end and dribble it around your fingers till art forms shapes and the artist feels the pride in those. A train passage was just in middle of these two threaded designs, smooth poles and elegant designs, it almost made her feel ugly, quite succeeding so.
She swung to the motion of the bridge, walked till the end and climbed the other thread, the view changed, magnificent buildings bathing in yellow light, her eyes felt like someone has just changed the lens of the camera, she rememberd her canon and yet knew the canon actually saw what her eyes made them see but this was clear and distinct, like its details were screaming to be noticed. She paused to the ringing strings of a guitarist on the bridge. He wasn’t a good one, nor did have an angelic voice, but his instrument made some wonderful sounds, it was an old one, natural wood of brown from its look, quite a good looking guitar she thought. She was thankful though, he was atleast singing, with a guitar case lying bare naked and open, two fifty pence two people had dropped, she bent down to give her share for the entertainment she was going to fully relish, for the joy of having music on the bridge swinging to its own melancholies, the guitarist said ‘bless you,’ and she really needed to be blessed, not by preachers not singers, just blest by the dark hanging clouds right above her head. Rain was sure to fall she thought, but she didn’t care. She cared about nothing these days, not even her-self.
The Buddha said nothingness was it, wasn’t it? Maybe she was getting there, becoming a flesh devoid of pain and suffering, suffering is a thought she had figured that by now, the thought would end with the end of thinking; she knew she was far from it. Oh! those thoughts, they didn’t trouble her, not anymore, they amused her, she could even laugh at her own miserable plight, she called them adventures, life called them troubles, but the Globe was right on her right, she wanted to scream ‘what’s in a name Shakespeare and was quite sure his floating ghost might shout back at her saying ‘hey that is my line.’
She walked a bit further, she was intrigued that sometimes her thoughts were actually quite intelligent. She shrugged and gazed till no thoughts were in her mind and all she saw was sight, oh! beautiful sight of London, stretched miles till the dark blue horizons and careless strokes of clouds caught her eyes, froze her thoughts for those few eternity like seconds, gripped her heart and squeezed her might, as the strength drained and she descended from her trans like state, all she wanted to do was cry, wail and howl, shatter the peaceful night like falling stars, shooting meteorites kissing the earth, clattering the silence of the night and the harmony of the passerby. She wanted to stare into a stranger’s eyes and question them if beauty hid pain so well and if so well and why so well? For what so well?
She walked a bit further, the bridge ended and began a little pale yellow dungeon, graffiti on either side and a phrase caught her eye, it said, are you a mooner?
She knew those words well and what connotations of state of mind it stood for but she wanted to write next to it, are you a moaner? Sometimes do you moan aloud, if not, you should!
Grumbling with her own thoughts, she descended the stairs and there were two lovely gentlemen, they were not suited and booted like the corporate Kings walking past but they were strumming such heavenly tunes of Spanish music and the instrumentals touched the deepest and the furthest veins of her heart and she could feel it tremble, with pleasure, sadness, beauty, love and feelings only the chords can touch, music was what she really needed to balm her soul.
She rested her feet, her heart, closed her eyes and floated with the sounds of music that reverberated around the Thames.
It was finally a beautiful night.
Muse of Music
(An invocation)
Who is the muse of music?
Who is the muse of music?
Who is the muse of music?
Who is the muse of music?
Oh! bless me please,
Oh! bless me please.
Oh! please, bless me please,
Who is the muse of music?
Who is the muse of music?
Muse is the muse of music,
Muse is the muse of music.
Oh! bless me please,
Oh! bless me please.
Oh! please, bless me please,
Dear Muse, bless me please.....
Who is the muse of music?
Who is the muse of music?
Who is the muse of music?
Who is the muse of music?
Oh! bless me please,
Oh! bless me please.
Oh! please, bless me please,
Who is the muse of music?
Who is the muse of music?
Muse is the muse of music,
Muse is the muse of music.
Oh! bless me please,
Oh! bless me please.
Oh! please, bless me please,
Dear Muse, bless me please.....
Happy Song
Mr happiness came around
Mr happiness came around
lets sing a happy happy song
For Mr happiness is around
Mr happiness came around
lets sing a happy happy song
For Mr happiness is around
Two different thoughts, A song in my head
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
I am my only friend I have
I will stick to you
till the end
I am your soul speaking
through you
Listen to your voice
it will
never fail you
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
You might get bored with me
I am your only friend
You might get bored with me
I am your lonely friend
I share my breath with you
We share our laughter...
I share this song with you
I share these thoughts with you
Friends flock to you in times of success
and in sorrow they disappear
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
We live in one house
but
we are
two
different thoughts
And in the end
I am
the only friend
I have got
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
and in happiness they disappear
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
I am my only friend I have
I will stick to you
till the end
I am your soul speaking
through you
Listen to your voice
it will
never fail you
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
You might get bored with me
I am your only friend
You might get bored with me
I am your lonely friend
I share my breath with you
We share our laughter...
I share this song with you
I share these thoughts with you
Friends flock to you in times of success
and in sorrow they disappear
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
We live in one house
but
we are
two
different thoughts
And in the end
I am
the only friend
I have got
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
Friends flock to you in times of sorrow
and in happiness they disappear
In response to famous economist Jeferry Sachs' advise on Bhutan's rapid progress by investing in chemical fertilizers
The article can be found on Business Bhutan at the following link:
http://www.businessbhutan.bt/?p=2521
Mr. famous Sachs can pocket his $£$£ worthy advise, as much as we must thank him for all the advises and analysis done in the few days time he spent searching for happiness (which I hope he did find), we very much appreciate it but thank you. It would be fair to bring to his notice organic 'tasty' food makes a happy man and 'frozen' food makes a man cold (all pun intended). Soil is organic, it gives birth to life not just trees from where bills are produced, one needs to treat it with respect, perhaps the Red Indian's point never got into their ears. With Seattle- Chief Seattle was forgotten and his words buried under bulldozers and fertilizers. Now with all good intentions and far sight I hope, he has put Bhutanese people in dilemma (tried to-failingly so). Organic Vs Inorganic? We talk of substance abuse to our human bodies, what about abusing the soil? Well, soil cannot talk back, I forgot and neither can the insects that thrive in them.
On a scientific note in the virgin rainforests of the Amazon it was found that they were not 'virgin' after all; there were evidences of past human settlement and the presence of tera preta soil was discovered which was then linked to the rich nature of the soil and the growth of the rainforest. Bhutanese have been practising something closely similar for centuries- compost pit manure. Also, maybe Mr. Sachs did not notice the primary forests of the country, perhaps he could have thought nature was fertilizing it because litter fall manure is one of the best natural fertilizers. There are already natural mechanisms at play Mr. Sachs which are beyond your monetary understanding, while rapid development, increase in food production and decrease in poverty are very much desirable, it is a terrible long term strategy to use chemical fertilizers, it results in soil and water pollution among many other ailments. Patience is a virtue we all learn, when your soil becomes sour and food 'production' lesser in quantity perhaps you will remember the Shangrila, till then to alleviate our poverty how about giving us some money for reducing your carbon sequestration in the world. I think you OWE countries like us, US!
I could say a thousand things but to sum it up our value system is different, we as Bhutanese think differently and it is always an environmental friendly thought. Come back in ten years Mr. Sachs or even sooner, or actually, we will come to you- export you some organic Bhutanese food!
If the Himalayas were the Sahara, I would say Mr. Sachs give us some chemical food, but since we are THE Himalayas, I say Mr. Sachs, you need to get back to your roots.
http://www.businessbhutan.bt/?p=2521
Mr. famous Sachs can pocket his $£$£ worthy advise, as much as we must thank him for all the advises and analysis done in the few days time he spent searching for happiness (which I hope he did find), we very much appreciate it but thank you. It would be fair to bring to his notice organic 'tasty' food makes a happy man and 'frozen' food makes a man cold (all pun intended). Soil is organic, it gives birth to life not just trees from where bills are produced, one needs to treat it with respect, perhaps the Red Indian's point never got into their ears. With Seattle- Chief Seattle was forgotten and his words buried under bulldozers and fertilizers. Now with all good intentions and far sight I hope, he has put Bhutanese people in dilemma (tried to-failingly so). Organic Vs Inorganic? We talk of substance abuse to our human bodies, what about abusing the soil? Well, soil cannot talk back, I forgot and neither can the insects that thrive in them.
On a scientific note in the virgin rainforests of the Amazon it was found that they were not 'virgin' after all; there were evidences of past human settlement and the presence of tera preta soil was discovered which was then linked to the rich nature of the soil and the growth of the rainforest. Bhutanese have been practising something closely similar for centuries- compost pit manure. Also, maybe Mr. Sachs did not notice the primary forests of the country, perhaps he could have thought nature was fertilizing it because litter fall manure is one of the best natural fertilizers. There are already natural mechanisms at play Mr. Sachs which are beyond your monetary understanding, while rapid development, increase in food production and decrease in poverty are very much desirable, it is a terrible long term strategy to use chemical fertilizers, it results in soil and water pollution among many other ailments. Patience is a virtue we all learn, when your soil becomes sour and food 'production' lesser in quantity perhaps you will remember the Shangrila, till then to alleviate our poverty how about giving us some money for reducing your carbon sequestration in the world. I think you OWE countries like us, US!
I could say a thousand things but to sum it up our value system is different, we as Bhutanese think differently and it is always an environmental friendly thought. Come back in ten years Mr. Sachs or even sooner, or actually, we will come to you- export you some organic Bhutanese food!
If the Himalayas were the Sahara, I would say Mr. Sachs give us some chemical food, but since we are THE Himalayas, I say Mr. Sachs, you need to get back to your roots.
Early May Morning
(An attempt at song writing- written in May, 2010 in Punakha)
An early May morning
A black and white bird sang
it circled the green white water
and it danced
it flew three times and laughed
and then it sang
Clouds are hanging gray
leaves are falling green
on this solemn day
this early May morning
this early May morning
An early May morning
A black and white bird sang
it circled the green white water
and it danced
it flew three times and laughed
and then it sang
Clouds are hanging gray
leaves are falling green
on this solemn day
this early May morning
this early May morning
Tales of a Bhutanese Traveller
Surfacing
On early travellers H.G Wells says how impossible private travels must have been in the pre-Alexandrian world during the absence of money but evidences of early travellers date back to third or fourth century BC. I can only imagine what Bhutan must have been like during that epoch given that we had our first roads built in 1960’s. Being a landlocked country, sheltered by towering Himalayas, the world must have been home and home must have meant the world, maybe the world wasn’t even oblate spheroid but just mountainous. Atleast that is what I thought when I grew up, well I wasn’t too wrong, not very much atleast, there are mountains higher than Everest below the ocean in the Pacific. Back in the days, we would have had saints and nomads and pilgrims travelling to Tibet, Nepal, India and maybe some other Asian countries but what would the worldview have been like? What were the stories that were heard and narrated? What did the travellers bring back apart from tradable goods?
I have no answer or maybe too many doubts but I as a traveller, now on my seventh year after leaving home to embark on an unknown journey finally feel ready to share my experiences. I feel the need to share what I have seen through these eyes and mind of mine, where my legs have carried me away from my mountainous abode, to learn, seek, lose and find, to experience this wonderful world, the dancing ball in space. Do not judge me for I humbly share my experiences so that you can feel the world of a traveller, the addict of constant change and motion, the detached being who constantly seeks new adventures in new lands. I know I haven’t really visited the most exotic places in the world, yet, but I know I belong to one. I grew up in Thimphu; eighteen years went by admiring the valley and valleys beyond, growing up and contemplating life, relishing and enjoying those moments in a wonderland with friends and family and now from a far away land, like the sailors did in the past, travellers who came home and narrated the stories of the vast world, I now in the age of technology which you and I are privileged to access, don’t even need to learn how to swim or wait for pigeons to deliver the news. Here is my epistle to you. These are tales of a young Bhutanese woman who was born in the year of the fire tigress with way too much energy and has dared to live the life of a yogin, a modern one or so I would like to think, even though that sounds too fictional!
I am writing this to you from London, I have been living here for a month now. I live next to the highway in East Acton. As I write this cars are whooshing past, I can hear the sound of the wind left by flying tyres, some music blasting from next door, compared to my lovely quiet house in Changidaphu, this is way too noisy but you don’t really get to live next to the highway with beds shaking from tremors of the passing underground trains, this is a new experience for me. Welcome to the world of underground and over ground. This shifting land dichotomy is an everyday part of a Londoner (which I suspect is true for all big cities in the world). Three long staircases down the trains and tunnels excite me and when the underground tunnels open with interesting adverts plastered on the semi circle like metallic arches, I feel like a character in a fictional novel, rooted deep, underground smelling soil above my head. I love wandering around in the underground, to me it is like toy trains zooming by, the sound of an annoying English woman who announces the arrivals and departures of trains with an emotionless voice blaring through the speakers, the fading music usually from electric or acoustic guitars played by street musicians who I absolutely enjoy and as and when time permits, I pause and enjoy the hanging sound of music floating in the tunnels of the underground. I often drop a coin in the not very filling empty guitar cases and smile at those musicians for making my day; I am crazy about music and have all the respect for all who can play some sort of an instrument and on the streets is where most artists begin their musical career.
I live on the central line, there are many lines in many different colours when you look at the tube map. Red is central, black is northern, and green is something else and you can imagine all the other palatable colours. Each line is associated with a series of tube stops following a pattern, there are places to change and interchange and exchange and finally get out, get above on the ground. The other day a friend of mine who has always lived in London was saying how artistic the underground is. It sure is another form of modern art; the art, the architecture and the way people experience and interact with it. It is a place where I could sit and look at the characters who get in and off the tube (very well dressed since London is the fashion capital) people who commute and people who make a living in those shiny steel dungeons playing music, or people who lose their phones or their lives in the everyday hustle bustle of working class London. The lines are so much important that when you ask a friend for his/her address it isn’t below the hospital or above the picture hall but on the lines! The lines also tell a lot about your social status and class, the further away from central London that you live the less posh that you are and areas like in any other place in the world are designated to classes, ethnicities and whatever else division you can muster. This is the place where the industrial revolution began (now England is a declining economy and there are no industries on the island which was strategically thought about since the English are very fond of nature, colonial memories might disagree) but England is still pretty and green and clean.
If I was a fish in an ocean would I remember all the fish faces? I see thousands of people in a day, they are mostly very good looking, very well dressed and the shoes, as any woman I love shoes too! I can keep looking at a feet or two and on and on. The strappy sandals for the summer, the dingo boots and those suits, colours and clothes are enough to keep my eyes moving. Other times when I am travelling in the tube, am stuck listening to my music player with Beatles playing only to me while I stare at the face facing me, stare through the person into the darkness of the underground and the wires whizz by and darkness fades into light and soon my station arrives. We are such evolved species, smiling to a stranger isn’t really a practice here. I sometimes see people voraciously devouring their books, some sleeping and dreaming, some with wrinkled foreheads thinking and worried, maybe it is the recession, I can feel England depressed and declining, money is worrying everyone, jobs are being lost, new jobs seldom found, after the great depression, this is another history in the making and I get to be a part of this. Is the sun setting in the English empire?
Once a well known Bhutanese writer once told me how terribly I write, ever since those words keep ringing in my ears, I had a mental block for a long time. I would crumble papers and erase written documents; the writer in me was slowing regressing, words failed to become alive, feelings expressed seemed like non sense, I have finally been able to slightly lift my shell, all I want out of my writing is for you to enjoy as much as I enjoyed living those moments and writing to you, judge me but gently. I wasn’t born to English parents, nor do I claim to have mastered the language but I do know that if you have stuck with me this long to read this piece you will eagerly wait for the next because this is a series you will love. Borrowing from Margaret Atwood, I have finally surfaced.
Till then I remain your humbly,
Manju
On early travellers H.G Wells says how impossible private travels must have been in the pre-Alexandrian world during the absence of money but evidences of early travellers date back to third or fourth century BC. I can only imagine what Bhutan must have been like during that epoch given that we had our first roads built in 1960’s. Being a landlocked country, sheltered by towering Himalayas, the world must have been home and home must have meant the world, maybe the world wasn’t even oblate spheroid but just mountainous. Atleast that is what I thought when I grew up, well I wasn’t too wrong, not very much atleast, there are mountains higher than Everest below the ocean in the Pacific. Back in the days, we would have had saints and nomads and pilgrims travelling to Tibet, Nepal, India and maybe some other Asian countries but what would the worldview have been like? What were the stories that were heard and narrated? What did the travellers bring back apart from tradable goods?
I have no answer or maybe too many doubts but I as a traveller, now on my seventh year after leaving home to embark on an unknown journey finally feel ready to share my experiences. I feel the need to share what I have seen through these eyes and mind of mine, where my legs have carried me away from my mountainous abode, to learn, seek, lose and find, to experience this wonderful world, the dancing ball in space. Do not judge me for I humbly share my experiences so that you can feel the world of a traveller, the addict of constant change and motion, the detached being who constantly seeks new adventures in new lands. I know I haven’t really visited the most exotic places in the world, yet, but I know I belong to one. I grew up in Thimphu; eighteen years went by admiring the valley and valleys beyond, growing up and contemplating life, relishing and enjoying those moments in a wonderland with friends and family and now from a far away land, like the sailors did in the past, travellers who came home and narrated the stories of the vast world, I now in the age of technology which you and I are privileged to access, don’t even need to learn how to swim or wait for pigeons to deliver the news. Here is my epistle to you. These are tales of a young Bhutanese woman who was born in the year of the fire tigress with way too much energy and has dared to live the life of a yogin, a modern one or so I would like to think, even though that sounds too fictional!
I am writing this to you from London, I have been living here for a month now. I live next to the highway in East Acton. As I write this cars are whooshing past, I can hear the sound of the wind left by flying tyres, some music blasting from next door, compared to my lovely quiet house in Changidaphu, this is way too noisy but you don’t really get to live next to the highway with beds shaking from tremors of the passing underground trains, this is a new experience for me. Welcome to the world of underground and over ground. This shifting land dichotomy is an everyday part of a Londoner (which I suspect is true for all big cities in the world). Three long staircases down the trains and tunnels excite me and when the underground tunnels open with interesting adverts plastered on the semi circle like metallic arches, I feel like a character in a fictional novel, rooted deep, underground smelling soil above my head. I love wandering around in the underground, to me it is like toy trains zooming by, the sound of an annoying English woman who announces the arrivals and departures of trains with an emotionless voice blaring through the speakers, the fading music usually from electric or acoustic guitars played by street musicians who I absolutely enjoy and as and when time permits, I pause and enjoy the hanging sound of music floating in the tunnels of the underground. I often drop a coin in the not very filling empty guitar cases and smile at those musicians for making my day; I am crazy about music and have all the respect for all who can play some sort of an instrument and on the streets is where most artists begin their musical career.
I live on the central line, there are many lines in many different colours when you look at the tube map. Red is central, black is northern, and green is something else and you can imagine all the other palatable colours. Each line is associated with a series of tube stops following a pattern, there are places to change and interchange and exchange and finally get out, get above on the ground. The other day a friend of mine who has always lived in London was saying how artistic the underground is. It sure is another form of modern art; the art, the architecture and the way people experience and interact with it. It is a place where I could sit and look at the characters who get in and off the tube (very well dressed since London is the fashion capital) people who commute and people who make a living in those shiny steel dungeons playing music, or people who lose their phones or their lives in the everyday hustle bustle of working class London. The lines are so much important that when you ask a friend for his/her address it isn’t below the hospital or above the picture hall but on the lines! The lines also tell a lot about your social status and class, the further away from central London that you live the less posh that you are and areas like in any other place in the world are designated to classes, ethnicities and whatever else division you can muster. This is the place where the industrial revolution began (now England is a declining economy and there are no industries on the island which was strategically thought about since the English are very fond of nature, colonial memories might disagree) but England is still pretty and green and clean.
If I was a fish in an ocean would I remember all the fish faces? I see thousands of people in a day, they are mostly very good looking, very well dressed and the shoes, as any woman I love shoes too! I can keep looking at a feet or two and on and on. The strappy sandals for the summer, the dingo boots and those suits, colours and clothes are enough to keep my eyes moving. Other times when I am travelling in the tube, am stuck listening to my music player with Beatles playing only to me while I stare at the face facing me, stare through the person into the darkness of the underground and the wires whizz by and darkness fades into light and soon my station arrives. We are such evolved species, smiling to a stranger isn’t really a practice here. I sometimes see people voraciously devouring their books, some sleeping and dreaming, some with wrinkled foreheads thinking and worried, maybe it is the recession, I can feel England depressed and declining, money is worrying everyone, jobs are being lost, new jobs seldom found, after the great depression, this is another history in the making and I get to be a part of this. Is the sun setting in the English empire?
Once a well known Bhutanese writer once told me how terribly I write, ever since those words keep ringing in my ears, I had a mental block for a long time. I would crumble papers and erase written documents; the writer in me was slowing regressing, words failed to become alive, feelings expressed seemed like non sense, I have finally been able to slightly lift my shell, all I want out of my writing is for you to enjoy as much as I enjoyed living those moments and writing to you, judge me but gently. I wasn’t born to English parents, nor do I claim to have mastered the language but I do know that if you have stuck with me this long to read this piece you will eagerly wait for the next because this is a series you will love. Borrowing from Margaret Atwood, I have finally surfaced.
Till then I remain your humbly,
Manju
And the blind man cries
Eyes lie awake till wee hours in the morn
sees colours of dawn become the darker shade of blue
lightens to lovely azure and sweetens to copper brown
slowly to mellow yellow that brightens welcoming the sun
The clouds form patterns and play with the eye,
I,
me,
We,
I see,
shapes I want to see and shapes that see me,
brighter the sun seems to the eye,
sigh! clarity is fading away,
it is darkest before dawn,
and that is the brightest
for you can see in the dark.
The eye lids are still not weary,
of seeing visions,
pass and sail,
to close and open one's eyes,
to be seeing such beautiful sight,
I thank that I blink,
I thank that I can sink- in the palate of colours unimaginable to the
blind man.
And the blind man cries....
sees colours of dawn become the darker shade of blue
lightens to lovely azure and sweetens to copper brown
slowly to mellow yellow that brightens welcoming the sun
The clouds form patterns and play with the eye,
I,
me,
We,
I see,
shapes I want to see and shapes that see me,
brighter the sun seems to the eye,
sigh! clarity is fading away,
it is darkest before dawn,
and that is the brightest
for you can see in the dark.
The eye lids are still not weary,
of seeing visions,
pass and sail,
to close and open one's eyes,
to be seeing such beautiful sight,
I thank that I blink,
I thank that I can sink- in the palate of colours unimaginable to the
blind man.
And the blind man cries....
Somewhere in between
Somewhere in between a book I found an unread note,
the pages were crumbled and it smelt of faded yellow paper,
and yet those words smudged in black ink sank deeper than any sword,
as a tear drop fell smudging the already smudged crumbled ruffled paper,
it blotted till eyes became too blurry to read and my heart sank,
like someone sitting on cushions,
so deep till no air could be felt and even the breath was of muffled sobs...
It was no love letter, nor from someone who had passed away,
it was a note written a long time ago.
Somewhere in between living and dreaming,
Somewhere in between trying to please and be pleased,
Somewhere in between the east and the west,
Somewhere in between soaking the sun and gazing at the moon,
Somewhere in between thinking and speaking,
Somewhere in between growing and laughing,
Somewhere in between wiping the tears and trying to smile,
I have failed.
Friends who once held hands and hugged hearts,
Foes who I never wanted any,
Family who I could never please,
Relatives whom I never met,
Love and Lovers, too many to see,
Books I failed to read,
Poems I could never sing,
A guitar I could never play,
Writers I never understood,
I have failed for too many reasons to quote.
Somewhere in between failing and trying to stand,
I sprain my leg and wince in pain,
it is a gloomy day and my heart is weary,
Somewhere in between ageing and growing
I lament, my life, my life
I weep for the dead and the ones who will die,
I weep because I want to cry...
Somewhere in between I read the note and it is my own elegy that I recite.....
ps- Rest in peace, all those who passed away
Live in peace, all those who still breathe
the pages were crumbled and it smelt of faded yellow paper,
and yet those words smudged in black ink sank deeper than any sword,
as a tear drop fell smudging the already smudged crumbled ruffled paper,
it blotted till eyes became too blurry to read and my heart sank,
like someone sitting on cushions,
so deep till no air could be felt and even the breath was of muffled sobs...
It was no love letter, nor from someone who had passed away,
it was a note written a long time ago.
Somewhere in between living and dreaming,
Somewhere in between trying to please and be pleased,
Somewhere in between the east and the west,
Somewhere in between soaking the sun and gazing at the moon,
Somewhere in between thinking and speaking,
Somewhere in between growing and laughing,
Somewhere in between wiping the tears and trying to smile,
I have failed.
Friends who once held hands and hugged hearts,
Foes who I never wanted any,
Family who I could never please,
Relatives whom I never met,
Love and Lovers, too many to see,
Books I failed to read,
Poems I could never sing,
A guitar I could never play,
Writers I never understood,
I have failed for too many reasons to quote.
Somewhere in between failing and trying to stand,
I sprain my leg and wince in pain,
it is a gloomy day and my heart is weary,
Somewhere in between ageing and growing
I lament, my life, my life
I weep for the dead and the ones who will die,
I weep because I want to cry...
Somewhere in between I read the note and it is my own elegy that I recite.....
ps- Rest in peace, all those who passed away
Live in peace, all those who still breathe
Drip Drop Rain
In between trees I planted memories
the trees flowered
the memories faded
flowers blossomed
petals crumbled
rumble rumble
the thunder grumbled
In between trees I planted rain
drop by drop it collected
a puddle, a stream
an ocean, a dream
soaked deep in slumber land
the memories filled and flowed
till the ocean became a dream and the rain
a dreamy drumming dripping drop
running down the drain!
tip tip tip .....
the trees flowered
the memories faded
flowers blossomed
petals crumbled
rumble rumble
the thunder grumbled
In between trees I planted rain
drop by drop it collected
a puddle, a stream
an ocean, a dream
soaked deep in slumber land
the memories filled and flowed
till the ocean became a dream and the rain
a dreamy drumming dripping drop
running down the drain!
tip tip tip .....
Confusion
She stood at the edge of the cliff,
A whiff of air blew her lush black hair,
She shone delightfully fair in the moonlit air,
The shore was noisy and so was her soul,
The waves jumped in confusion,
and lashed with even greater delusion,
bubbles and foams and froth and wrath,
all jumped,
all tumbled,
within the waves,
between her soul,
the air became foul,
and rot her soul,
confusion breeds clarity they say,
clarity is an illusion they say,
She breathes the foul air
and manages to walk back with her flowing hair,
in despair
in despair......
A whiff of air blew her lush black hair,
She shone delightfully fair in the moonlit air,
The shore was noisy and so was her soul,
The waves jumped in confusion,
and lashed with even greater delusion,
bubbles and foams and froth and wrath,
all jumped,
all tumbled,
within the waves,
between her soul,
the air became foul,
and rot her soul,
confusion breeds clarity they say,
clarity is an illusion they say,
She breathes the foul air
and manages to walk back with her flowing hair,
in despair
in despair......
Saturday Blues
I can hear the left over music from the saxophone,
Friday's hue fades into twilight blue,
a crescent moon with a dotted star,
hardly at war,
and the Buddha sat behind the bar,
listening to blues from space afar
I can hear the fading sound of the harmonica,
Saturday is not in harmony,
it awoke to a gloomy morn,
and wanted to piss all day long,
and for miles, Miles Davis was all I had
to forgo my Saturday blues
Start a day with Saturday Blues
blew blew blow the blue
have you heard a harp so sharp
piercing piercing bloody blue
brew some whisky play some blues
tap your feet to Saturday blues.....
Friday's hue fades into twilight blue,
a crescent moon with a dotted star,
hardly at war,
and the Buddha sat behind the bar,
listening to blues from space afar
I can hear the fading sound of the harmonica,
Saturday is not in harmony,
it awoke to a gloomy morn,
and wanted to piss all day long,
and for miles, Miles Davis was all I had
to forgo my Saturday blues
Start a day with Saturday Blues
blew blew blow the blue
have you heard a harp so sharp
piercing piercing bloody blue
brew some whisky play some blues
tap your feet to Saturday blues.....
BANKING WITH A DIFFERENCE, ISLAMIC BANKING
When one hears the words Islamic banking one might immediately try to associate the words Islam and banking and wonder, how different can a money making business be whether it is Islamic banking or conventional mode of banking? Is it just a name or is there more to the way how this kind of banking is done?
There are an estimated 1.61 billion Muslims worldwide, making Islamic banking one of the fastest growing segments of the financial industry. This banking system is not only appealing to the Muslim audience but in fact has much more to offer individuals, companies and governments who are interested in banking with a difference, a system that differs in the spirit of contract, a system that brings an element of honesty in a cold banking scenario where usually only money talks, a system that places importance on the ethics and the way banking is conducted.
The Islamic banking system differs fundamentally from the conventional banking system in its central idea that giving or taking interest (Riba) is prohibited. This system of banking bases its objectives and operations on the Qur’anic principles. The basic principle of Islamic banking follows the laws of the Sharia or Islamic law and this religious motive that governs the system of banking changes the whole structure about the way money is made and shared between the investor/borrower and the banker. Unlike conventional banks, Islamic banks share business risks with investors and borrowers. Another fundamental difference between conventional and Islamic banking from a risk perspective is in the nature of risk taking. There are no fixed rates promised and no false promises made, the bank becomes a partner and therefore the relationship created between them is much different than the conventional way of banking. The thought processes and the fundamental idea that drives and governs Islamic banking are religious and therefore it makes all the difference in its perception, implementation and accountability which cannot be found in the conventional banking system that is driven by collateral alone. Though it must be mentioned that Islamic bank attaches varying degrees of importance to the elements of capital, collateral, character and condition unlike conventional banks that focuses on collateral alone, Islamic bank gives priority to the character of the customer. But there is a similarity between the two banking system on the issue of priority attached to the security and soundness of a project submitted to the bank for financing.
During a time of economic recession the greatest since the Great Depression it does pose the question, is it about time that other ways of banking be explored? At Davos in January 2009, the World Economic Forum released a report on the future of global financial system and it commented on the Islamic financial system that it is capable of minimizing the severity and frequency of financial crises by getting rid of the major weaknesses of the conventional financial system. Then how does an interest free banking framework function?
Instead of interest the system in use is a Profit-Loss Sharing (PLS) mechanism for resource allocation and financial intermediation. Banks that comply with Islamic laws are forbidden to charge interest or late payment fees, which is also considered a type of Riba. To minimize risk, banks will often require a large down payment on goods and property or insist upon large collateral. It is lawful for the bank to charge a higher price for a good if payments are deferred or collected at a later date since it is considered a trade for goods rather than collecting interest. Sharia-complaint banking products include Mudharabah (profit sharing), Wadiah (safekeeping), Musharakah (joint venture), Murabahah (cost plus) and Ijarah (leasing).
Another way banks work within Islamic laws while trying to turn a profit is by buying an item that the customer wants and then selling the item to the customer at a higher price. For example, if someone wants to buy a house, a conventional bank will loan the customer the money to buy the house and charge interest on the loan but an Islamic bank will buy the house and rent it to the customer at a higher price. The bank will own the house until the rental payments are made after which the ownership is transferred to the customer. This is a joint venture.
The Mudharabah (cost surplus) is a partnership between an entrepreneur and the bank. The bank is known as the rabal-maal and the entrepreneur as the mudarib. The bank provides all of the necessary capital to start a business and the entrepreneur does the work of managing the business. Profits are split at an agreed ratio until the initial funds of the rabal-maal are paid off. The rabal-maal is also compensated with additional funds based on the profits of the business in terms previously agreed on. In the event that the business folds, the rabal-maal shoulders the cost and the mudarib is not compensated.
The Sharia or Islamic law also forbids engagement in investments that include financial unknowns such as buying and selling futures. In Islamic banking the money has to be from an Islamic deposit and it cannot be used to deal with something synthetic (like the recession), the goods have to be tangible. Therefore the risk involved is much lesser. It also forbids businesses that are haraam – dealing in products that are contrary to Islamic law and values such as alcohol, pork, gossip or pornography. These principles apply to all individuals, companies and governments.
In 1975 there was one Islamic bank; today there are over 300 in more than 75 countries. Today, Islamic financial institutions exist worldwide, participating in the $180 billion/day industry. The total amounts of deposits in Islamic institutions are growing at a rate of 25-40% annually. Because oil prices and liquidity are expected to stay high, budget surpluses will remain high, pushing both public and private sectors to be involved with the Islamic market. Many Islamic countries are investing in large infrastructure projects, creating more than a trillion dollars in investments.
There is also a huge potential customer base. According to Standard and Poor’s surveys, 20% of the customers in the Gulf Area and Southeast Asia would choose an Islamic banking product over a similar conventional product. There is significant middle-class urban and suburban populations that already use conventional banking and therefore present ripe opportunities for Islamic banks. Most importantly, outside of the religious and political allure of Islamic banks people are choosing their services for the safeties they are offered.
The evidence is clear: Islamic banking is big business and is growing by the day. The 25-40% tremendous annual growth rate of Islamic banking is a testimony that this system of banking based on values and ethics instilled and driven by religion emphasizes on the conduct of doing business, promoting an honest way of making money and is becoming a fast growing niche in the financial world. With a growing customer base especially in the emerging markets and a distrust of conventional banking in such economic times of recession, people are willing to explore and experiment new secure modes of banking that is disciplined and puts an emphasis on basic issues of business, ethics and religion- Islamic banking seems to be the lucrative answer.
There are an estimated 1.61 billion Muslims worldwide, making Islamic banking one of the fastest growing segments of the financial industry. This banking system is not only appealing to the Muslim audience but in fact has much more to offer individuals, companies and governments who are interested in banking with a difference, a system that differs in the spirit of contract, a system that brings an element of honesty in a cold banking scenario where usually only money talks, a system that places importance on the ethics and the way banking is conducted.
The Islamic banking system differs fundamentally from the conventional banking system in its central idea that giving or taking interest (Riba) is prohibited. This system of banking bases its objectives and operations on the Qur’anic principles. The basic principle of Islamic banking follows the laws of the Sharia or Islamic law and this religious motive that governs the system of banking changes the whole structure about the way money is made and shared between the investor/borrower and the banker. Unlike conventional banks, Islamic banks share business risks with investors and borrowers. Another fundamental difference between conventional and Islamic banking from a risk perspective is in the nature of risk taking. There are no fixed rates promised and no false promises made, the bank becomes a partner and therefore the relationship created between them is much different than the conventional way of banking. The thought processes and the fundamental idea that drives and governs Islamic banking are religious and therefore it makes all the difference in its perception, implementation and accountability which cannot be found in the conventional banking system that is driven by collateral alone. Though it must be mentioned that Islamic bank attaches varying degrees of importance to the elements of capital, collateral, character and condition unlike conventional banks that focuses on collateral alone, Islamic bank gives priority to the character of the customer. But there is a similarity between the two banking system on the issue of priority attached to the security and soundness of a project submitted to the bank for financing.
During a time of economic recession the greatest since the Great Depression it does pose the question, is it about time that other ways of banking be explored? At Davos in January 2009, the World Economic Forum released a report on the future of global financial system and it commented on the Islamic financial system that it is capable of minimizing the severity and frequency of financial crises by getting rid of the major weaknesses of the conventional financial system. Then how does an interest free banking framework function?
Instead of interest the system in use is a Profit-Loss Sharing (PLS) mechanism for resource allocation and financial intermediation. Banks that comply with Islamic laws are forbidden to charge interest or late payment fees, which is also considered a type of Riba. To minimize risk, banks will often require a large down payment on goods and property or insist upon large collateral. It is lawful for the bank to charge a higher price for a good if payments are deferred or collected at a later date since it is considered a trade for goods rather than collecting interest. Sharia-complaint banking products include Mudharabah (profit sharing), Wadiah (safekeeping), Musharakah (joint venture), Murabahah (cost plus) and Ijarah (leasing).
Another way banks work within Islamic laws while trying to turn a profit is by buying an item that the customer wants and then selling the item to the customer at a higher price. For example, if someone wants to buy a house, a conventional bank will loan the customer the money to buy the house and charge interest on the loan but an Islamic bank will buy the house and rent it to the customer at a higher price. The bank will own the house until the rental payments are made after which the ownership is transferred to the customer. This is a joint venture.
The Mudharabah (cost surplus) is a partnership between an entrepreneur and the bank. The bank is known as the rabal-maal and the entrepreneur as the mudarib. The bank provides all of the necessary capital to start a business and the entrepreneur does the work of managing the business. Profits are split at an agreed ratio until the initial funds of the rabal-maal are paid off. The rabal-maal is also compensated with additional funds based on the profits of the business in terms previously agreed on. In the event that the business folds, the rabal-maal shoulders the cost and the mudarib is not compensated.
The Sharia or Islamic law also forbids engagement in investments that include financial unknowns such as buying and selling futures. In Islamic banking the money has to be from an Islamic deposit and it cannot be used to deal with something synthetic (like the recession), the goods have to be tangible. Therefore the risk involved is much lesser. It also forbids businesses that are haraam – dealing in products that are contrary to Islamic law and values such as alcohol, pork, gossip or pornography. These principles apply to all individuals, companies and governments.
In 1975 there was one Islamic bank; today there are over 300 in more than 75 countries. Today, Islamic financial institutions exist worldwide, participating in the $180 billion/day industry. The total amounts of deposits in Islamic institutions are growing at a rate of 25-40% annually. Because oil prices and liquidity are expected to stay high, budget surpluses will remain high, pushing both public and private sectors to be involved with the Islamic market. Many Islamic countries are investing in large infrastructure projects, creating more than a trillion dollars in investments.
There is also a huge potential customer base. According to Standard and Poor’s surveys, 20% of the customers in the Gulf Area and Southeast Asia would choose an Islamic banking product over a similar conventional product. There is significant middle-class urban and suburban populations that already use conventional banking and therefore present ripe opportunities for Islamic banks. Most importantly, outside of the religious and political allure of Islamic banks people are choosing their services for the safeties they are offered.
The evidence is clear: Islamic banking is big business and is growing by the day. The 25-40% tremendous annual growth rate of Islamic banking is a testimony that this system of banking based on values and ethics instilled and driven by religion emphasizes on the conduct of doing business, promoting an honest way of making money and is becoming a fast growing niche in the financial world. With a growing customer base especially in the emerging markets and a distrust of conventional banking in such economic times of recession, people are willing to explore and experiment new secure modes of banking that is disciplined and puts an emphasis on basic issues of business, ethics and religion- Islamic banking seems to be the lucrative answer.
Karmic Disasters
I have never felt so frustrated before. All my life I have been told about how much I talk and argue and how difficult I can be sometimes and yet when the time was for me to react that way I chose not to. Now that conveyed a completely different personality of mine (a fraction of me is still a listener) to people who knew me just for a day or two. I became "weak and introverted" which everyone who knows me long enough would laugh at or atleast let out a chuckle. I am an extrovert through and through (even proven by psychological tests in my class). I am one of the craziest people I know and my guts, sometimes even I shudder to think of what all I have done. I know my enthusiasm is infectious and my passion can make people wonder what fuels my energy, my curiosity surrounding the debates on words, meanings and meaningless topics, I can talk till people ask me do your jaws hurt? What do you not know?
The more I learn the more I realise how little I know.
And the faithful day where all the communication that I have ever learnt in my life is put to test, I fail and that too so dramatically that I don't get recognised for the very traits that are my signature! That is called a karmic disaster, when the whole world conspires against you.
Life doesn't give second chances, I wonder if some humans do....
I am deeply frustrated to have not been able to get a marketing communication fellowship and all that I have done these past couple of years is learn this business.
Disaster, absolute.
The more I learn the more I realise how little I know.
And the faithful day where all the communication that I have ever learnt in my life is put to test, I fail and that too so dramatically that I don't get recognised for the very traits that are my signature! That is called a karmic disaster, when the whole world conspires against you.
Life doesn't give second chances, I wonder if some humans do....
I am deeply frustrated to have not been able to get a marketing communication fellowship and all that I have done these past couple of years is learn this business.
Disaster, absolute.
And so the cookie crumbles
It crashes down like a pile of loose stones and boulders, of dreams built on a pile of trash,the crash is dusty and the dust surrounds choking me as I grasp for some fresh air to breathe.
You are an adventure seeker, what happened now?
Even seekers lose it sometimes. After all I am a human too, beyond a threshhold it is crash point!
How can you lose hope?
Oh well that I guess I should have lost long back.
I am another Dickens but the failure version of him. I came to seek new paths and find platinum streets, little did I know, little did I know, where the fittest survive the weakest are eliminated and I sure am not the strongest.
Where do I go now? What do I do?
Who am I? What am I? What am I doing?
Nothing really (chuckle)
Oh shut up!
Back to the beginning. Its a full circle.
Come lets go home...need a break.....
And so Alice decides her world will never be understood so she should never walk away from her wonderland. After all its a different view through the looking glass and only Alice knows, only she knows...
You are an adventure seeker, what happened now?
Even seekers lose it sometimes. After all I am a human too, beyond a threshhold it is crash point!
How can you lose hope?
Oh well that I guess I should have lost long back.
I am another Dickens but the failure version of him. I came to seek new paths and find platinum streets, little did I know, little did I know, where the fittest survive the weakest are eliminated and I sure am not the strongest.
Where do I go now? What do I do?
Who am I? What am I? What am I doing?
Nothing really (chuckle)
Oh shut up!
Back to the beginning. Its a full circle.
Come lets go home...need a break.....
And so Alice decides her world will never be understood so she should never walk away from her wonderland. After all its a different view through the looking glass and only Alice knows, only she knows...
Shattering Stars
How delightfully it breaks
into a million pieces
into a billion dreams
fresh as ever
sparkling and polished
distantly fading into the dark blue blanket
Oh! the shattering stars
How delightfully it shines
bright and twinkling
makes a man a child
unleashes his wonder
beneath those moustaches there is a grinning boy
Oh! the shattering stars
How delightfully it stays
forever and ever
etched to the sky
swinging with the moon
ever so gently
carved with randomness
born out of a bang
bang bang boom
zooom zooooop
Oh! the shattering stars
I have counted hundreds
but there are more than numbers can count
zeros will wonder
and will be left wondering.
Oh! the shattering stars
Like the little girl
holding hands with the little boy
pointing to the sky and saying
oh! look~ shooting stars, let's make a wish
Oh! the shattering stars
into a million pieces
into a billion dreams
fresh as ever
sparkling and polished
distantly fading into the dark blue blanket
Oh! the shattering stars
How delightfully it shines
bright and twinkling
makes a man a child
unleashes his wonder
beneath those moustaches there is a grinning boy
Oh! the shattering stars
How delightfully it stays
forever and ever
etched to the sky
swinging with the moon
ever so gently
carved with randomness
born out of a bang
bang bang boom
zooom zooooop
Oh! the shattering stars
I have counted hundreds
but there are more than numbers can count
zeros will wonder
and will be left wondering.
Oh! the shattering stars
Like the little girl
holding hands with the little boy
pointing to the sky and saying
oh! look~ shooting stars, let's make a wish
Oh! the shattering stars