Bookstore romances are a kind of storybook romance...

Andaaz-e Bayaan

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Bah Qadr-e-shauq nahin zarf-e tangnae ghazal,

Kucch aur chahiye vusat mere bayaan ke liye

In porportion to my fancy, the tight alleys of a Ghazal are too narrow...

I need something more spacious for my expression...

-Asadullah Khan Ghalib.

Who reads our thoughts really...

More than we read his.

Great Expectations

It was never Pip!  It was the convict first and then it was Miss Havisham who had me rattled into a curiosity that will never be satisfied. Great Expectations speaks about what became of them. I want Charles Dickens to tell me who they used to be...


Especially this shriveled old fruit of a lady still clad in her wedding gown increasingly getting cocooned by the growing cobwebs around her... 
She sits in a room in Satis House, a room boarded up to not allow sunlight nor the passage of time to show.  With all the clocks stopped at that hour when she was abandoned by her lover at their wedding altar, Miss Havisham stopped the passage of her life and remained... 


I have referred to another sketch for this one and hence will not claim it to be entirely original.
Or maybe I will to the extent that its originality goes only as far as the fact that i can claim to have stroked every stroke of black ink herein.




A tribute to Miss Havisham and how she left me rattled...
I sm still wondering Who she used to be...?

Rapunzel Rapunzel let down....

And let not a fear amply feed
The dark waters that already run deep.
Nor stretch it too wide and thickly so
That it eclipses all of life.
As worse will be to stoke its embers wild
For until we breed the fear....we have the fear defied...

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A ball cracked bat shaped holes in a window

Ronger Rabindranath

I have been searching for a few days for articles and essays written by Tagore especially those elaborating more on the nature and importance of art for man and the world which he inhabits.



While at that I happened to stumble across an interesting article that took me into a unique and as yet unknown aspect of Tagore; his vision and his private world of colours triggered by a “partial colour vision deficiency” he had since childhood.

In the book: ‘Tagore of Colours/ A Study of the Use of Colour in the Writings and Art of Rabindranath Tagore’ Ketaki Kushari Dyson and Sushobhan Adhikary (Ronger Rabindranath/ Rabindranather Sahitye o Chitrakalay Ronger Byabahar) explore the impact of this colour deficiency on Tagore’s paintings, on his language and also provide beautiful evidences of how the man wove his “deficiency” into unique perceptions that manifest into fabulous words and poetry that evoked an imagery like none other…


You can read the complete article here:


Some excerpts:

If Tagore was a protanope, then he was arguably the greatest protanopic creative genius the world has ever seen.
I learned for the first time in my life that Tagore had probably had a partial colour vision deficiency, the kind known as protanopia, in which the wavelengths of light that we see as the colour red are lost to the eye, and there is confusion between red and green in perception. It is not an illness, just a genetically inherited condition. There is no ‘cure’ for it.

It seemed obvious to us, however, that a colour vision deficiency was bound to ‘colour’ a person’s entire psychology of perception, and if that person was a poet, a writer, an artist, it would surely have important consequences in his writings and art. Perception is indeed a private process, each person being his or her own processor, but when the perceiver is also a compulsive communicator, we are inevitably allowed innumerable glimpses into that private chamber.


He tends to refer to reds in a roundabout, often anomalous, manner. When describing sunsets and sunrises, he frequently feels frustrated and helpless, and concentrates on the colour golden. He talks about the leaves of the krishnachura (the gulmor, about rain on them, sunlight through them, their branches at night, but never about the dazzling beauty of their red flowers. Red, which he probably perceived as a darkness, as an absence of colour, is used by him regularly in negative associations and contexts.
In Tagore’s colour symbolism blue is existence, blue is rup,blue is lavanya,blue is ananda.Red is often unknown, unseen, a-jana, a-dekha,associated with duhkha and vyatha.Indeed, once we delve into the depths of his mature texts we realize that Tagore is often acknowledging his problematic vision of red, but only obliquely. “Tomar ashoke kingshuke/ alakshyo rong laglo amar akaroner sukhe” - “In your ashok and kingshuk an invisible colour touches my happiness without reason” - so he says to Phagun, the first month of spring.
My purpose here is to whet your appetite for the details, which will enable you to look at Tagore’s themes and images (both verbal and visual) in a new light. If you allow us to take you on a conducted tour of the colour-world of the man who wrote: “Aaj shobar ronge rong mishate hobe”- “Today I must blend my colours with everyone else’s colours”, many lines of Tagore with which you are already familiar will reveal new vistas of meaning.

A trotolla spinned it all...

I wish for life in satin, ribbons of living greens.  

I wish for a cool lump of clay, dug out of the brown earth.

I wish for a glass melody, water breaking into a thousand shards. 

I wish for an oily darkness, dancing around my flickering lamp.
I wish for living glass bottles,in the sun on the sill.
I wish for a flutter of worlds, in books lying open.
I wish for glowing skin, from the burning mettle within.
I wish for soft tresses, spewed by a smiling mind.
I wish for scents and a bath, merging in vaporous trails.
I wish for melting meat, mouthfuls of tender joy.
I wish for dressed up toe nails, brazen in glossy red.
I wish for goldfish streaks, vibrant in my head.
I wish for a wall screening of the dreams I will dream
I wish for glowing butterflies to paper from my ceiling.


I wish for a child who will plant a future with me...

बिन्नी

सारा शहर परेशान ही कि बिन्नी, बिन्नी क्यू है...
सारा शहर दुबला जा रहा है कि बिन्नी, बिन्नी क्यू है

जहा महात्मा गांधी रोड पर बिकती शराब है...
वहा सिर्फ मेरी बिन्नी कि वजहसे इस शहर का आसमा खराब है?

बिन्नी जैसी भी है, बिन्नी है, वो मेरी है!
उसमे कोई खोट नाही, वो पूरी है!

अरे जिस शहर को इन्सान होने की तमीज नही
उस शहर को शिकायत है बिन्नी के बारे मे?

अब मै शहर की उम्मीदोन के हिसाब से बिन्नी को काट छाट कर छोटा कैसे कर दू?
बिन्नी आखिर मेरी बेटी है, कोई कमीज नही...


कमलेश पांडे I think
थोडा सा रुमानी हो जाये...1990

Pecheeda...

If you want to use this doodle, you can by all means.  Do let me know if you plan to at jamuna.inamdar@gmail.com and if you wish to have a high res image :)

It was not the most enjoyable of sketching tasks but I did persist and did so voluntarily as it did offer something to "do" in particular moments. 


The following words, woven into preciousness by Gulzaar, do not describe my sketch in any way nor does my sketch commit the folly of wanting to capture their essence. The sketch is far too barren than the vivid imagery and feelings the words evoke.  The two will show on one plane here simply because the words were shared about the same time as I completed the sketch and the first line resonated with what I had put on paper...


Irrespective of the fit/misfit, the words are worth being shared:

’Ballimaran ke mohalle ki wo pechida dalilon ki si galiyan...

 The lanes of Ballimaran are convoluted that they are reminiscent of the criss-cross nature of a lawyer's questioning.

Samne taal ke nukkad par bateron ke kaseede

Right ahead in a corner there's a teak tree on which birds chirp and they seem like they are singing paeans of praise.

Gudgudati hui pan ki peekon mein wo daad wo wah wah

People can't get enough of listening to Ghalib's poetry. They are consuming Paan and smoking (gudgudati) hooka while they go wah wah on the verses...

Chand darwazon par latkehue boseeda se kuch taat ke parde

The place also has a few old and tattered (boseeda) jute made (taat) curtains

Ek bakri ke mamiyane ki awaz

And there's a goat which bleats

Aur dhundhlai hui shaam ke benoor andhere aise deewaron se muhn jod ke chalte hain yahan

The evening is devoid of light and the night too is not in its full glow. It's twilight. And if you notice closely, the shadows are slowly embracing the doors and the windows of the area. And soon they'll be gone...

Chooriwalan ke katre ki Badi Bi jaise apni buhjti hui aankhon se darwaze tatole’

... And while the shadows are merging with the night, In the little space of Choodiwalan, there's an old woman who is straining her dim eyes to scan the area, to scan the doors

Isee Benoor andheri see gali kaasim se Ek tarteep charagon ki shuroo hoti hain

Right here in this dim lit locality named Kasim, there's a series of lanterns

ek Kurane sukhan kaa safaa khultaa hain asadallah khan Ghalib kaa pata milta hain...

And here, the Kuran is recited like it never has never been recited before and right there is where Ghalib stays....

Remains of the Day

It took me a month to read Remains of the Day. An impeccable, English description of a butler's 6 day sojourn into England's hamlets during which he reminisces on a good twenty years of service he has engaged in. The book inches into the future from the present like the butler's ford, leisurely trudging ahead on empty roads. While that happens, it takes big leaps backwards into his past...it moves back more than forward. While "time" moves ahead and the present moves ahead allowing the future to join it...and become present, people do not move thus! They flow against the flow of time...inching forward but leaping behind.

This book is the first of its kind for me. Staying distant and outside my sphere of empathy until the last 15 pages...after which it comes so close it twists everything inside!

Enjoying Knopfler one night....and sketching it another...

Knopfler's song with a reference to two curvy creatures that are such a delight to sketch.....

Patterns, of papers and birds!

When a tub of water is filled and left alone on the terrace, the first birds that come frolicking are the crows while the pigeons sit perched at a distance awaiting their turn. Once the crows  have had their heart's fill of drinking and waddling, the pigeons take their place, resulting in another round of frolicking and splashing. This is the time when we hear birds differently, not through their calls but through their movements. We hear a heavy sound as they beat the water with their soaked wings, we hear a gentle bobbing sound as they dip their heads underwater and we hear them flap their wings dry after they have daintily jumped out the tub.  They ruffle and smoothen their own feathers using their beaks.  They shudder at last putting every stray feather in place, ready to take flight!

 If you want to use this doodle, you can by all means.  Do let me know if you plan to at jamuna.inamdar@gmail.com and if you wish to have a high res image :) 

They have bathing patterns too.....some dive headlong, some cautiously test the waters, some take a few minutes to warm up to the wetness (I relate to them the most), some stand still, some are all over the place and some walk around!  But all finally perch on branches to dry themselves....

Rabindra Sangeet

I was introduced to Rabindra Sangeet by Sohini.  All my workshops with her are memorable because their memories vividly float on the canvas of Rabindra Sangeet looped by her during our sessions.  It was overwhelming to be in Kolkata, seated in a bare, sparsely furnished room, dancing and engaging in discussions on personal power and somatic healing while it got dark, foggy and pleasantly cold at 5 in the evening, Rabindra Sangeet floating around all day, accompanying us into twilight! It was all so soulful. Well it had to be, it was Bangla.  I guess the unsubstantiated belief that I must have been Bangla in some century, some life, living in Kolkata stems from my otherwise inexplicably intense love (and longing) for all things Bengali.  


I am discovering new melodies each day.  
For a music lover to discover a new genre of music is like embarking on a melodious voyage of discovering harmony newly, sometimes in an unknown and yet soothing language that feels "one's own" and spending time looped in its beauty in myriad moments of deeply private joy that I, through this blog, painfully and inadequately undertake to share!  I am looped and I fail to convey how...


Sukher Lagi Chahe Prem, Prem Mele Na (used in the end credits of Chokher Bali):

Old but just not enough...

I do not remember him as someone with a shock of black hair.  By the time I was born he was already 44.  By the time I started recognizing him, he was older. The moments from which I have a conscious memory of him, he was maybe 54!  I remember him as old, since I remember! At 71, I still know him as old but still not old enough...

His proficiency in the "sciences" and mathematics intimidated us children... because at least one of us, somebody, anybody was expected (implicitly and eagerly) to match up and nobody could.  

I owe to him my understanding and gradual liking of those horrid Science I and II sums of speed, velocity, current electricity, heat and the chemical equations that were a part of the curriculum of my Xth year at school.  Where I thought I was going to miserably fail and according to Baba spend my life selling उत्बत्त्या or अगरबत्ती door to door for the rest of my life, his visit one evening restored my faith that I was meant for other things (not using the word "better things" because I do not believe selling incense sticks is menial)! It must have taken a few minutes in his manner of explaining, for me to solve that which I had shed tears over and trembled at the mention of, for almost a year! After that evening I realized science sums fell into the category of things whose ass could be kicked out of this orbit!  

He had a tiger cub as a pet in his youth and he sneaked to the Everest Base Camp in his mid 60s without the  knowledge of family and friends! He clearly did not want words of caution and a reminding that he is a diabetic His record (which I need to double check because it might be more) is roughly 24 मोदक, the maharashtrian dumpling delicacy stuffed with jaggery and coconut which I must stress he started eating, "after" a "complete" dinner.

Over this weekend, we walked to Atya's house together. Clad in a smart striped Tshirt, well fitted pants, floaters and with his sparse silver hair neatly combed, he asked me if I can manage a kilometer's walk!  I did not bother myself with a repartee because I lack the पुणेरी sarcasm just as I lack proficiency in science and math and just as he has both these proficiencies by the bountiful!!

He descended the flight of steps from his house cautiously. I noticed few things near the neighbor's wall which I swiftly pointed out, which he refrained from looking at while descending. He was cautious!  He stopped a few feet away from a reversing car preferring to wait while it reversed and sped off while I extended my hand, my palm facing the car as if to stop it and skirted across without waiting.  I saw numerous sights on the road I wanted to know about, point them out to him, show him a particular signboard or a structure (had to be the charming पुणेरी वाड़ा).  Each time I had it on the tip of my tongue to say, "see this, look there, see that" I realized he could not turn as swiftly while walking in order to look around as he used to. It was getting tough to maintain balance and orientation.  I deliberately slowed down lagging behind at times to watch him walk ahead. At times I deliberately walked ahead and turned around to see him walk towards me.

He is my dad's eldest brother, my uncle and the only family member who reads my blogs!

He also thinks they are utter utter rubbish!  Yet he never denies my request for a read and graciously comments too... 

It is one thing to know someone as "young" and watch them age. 
It is something else altogether to get to know someone as "old", see them only growing older by the day and yet never see them get old enough...ever!

He is comfortably nestled himself in the "old people who will just not be old enough" category...
Rather I realized there can be a category like that because of him.