Fiqr aa legi ki tanhaai ka kya chara kare
Dard aayega dabe paon, liye surkh chiraag
Wah jo ik dard dhadkta hai kahin dil ke pare
Shola-e-dard jo pehloo se lapak utthega
Dil ki deewar pe har naqsk damak utthega
Originally meaning "a hash of various kinds of meats," "gallimaufry" comes from French galimafrée; in Old French, from the word galer, "to rejoice, to make merry"; in old English: gala + mafrer: "to eat much," and from Medieval Dutch maffelen: "to open one's mouth wide."
It's also a dish made by hashing up odds and ends of food; a heterogeneous mixture; a hodge-podge; a ragout; a confused jumble; a ridiculous medley; a promiscuous (!) assemblage of persons.
Those of you who know me, will, I’m sure, understand how well some of these phrases (barring the "promiscuous" bit!) fit me.
More importantly, this blog is an ode to my love for Shimla. I hope to show you this little town through my eyes. If you don't see too many people in it, forgive me, because I'm a little chary of turning this into a human zoo.
Stop by for a spell, look at my pictures, ask me questions about Shimla, if you wish. I shall try and answer them as best as I can. Let's be friends for a while....
I apologise for the ghastly spelling on this post. Blame it on blogger's horrid transliteration facility.
One of those many dates
that no longer ring a bell.
Where I was going that day,
what I was doing --- I don't know.
Whom I met, what we talked about,
I can't recall.
If a crime had been committed nearby,
I wouldn't have had an alibi.
The sun flared and died
beyond my horizons.
The earth rotated
unnoted in my notebooks.
I'd rather think
that I'd temporarily died
than that I kept on living
and can't remember a thing.
I wasn't a ghost, after all.
I breathed, I ate,
My steps were audible,
my fingers surely left
their prints on doorknobs.
Mirrors caught my reflection.
I wore something or other in such-and-such a colour.
Somebody must have seen me.
Maybe I found something that day
that had been lost.
Maybe I lost something that turned up late.
I was filled with feelings and sensations.
Now all that's like
a line of dots in parentheses.
Where was I hiding out,
where did I bury myself?
Not a bad trick
to vanish before my own eyes.
I shake my memory.
Maybe something in its branches
that has been asleep for years
will start up with a flutter.
Clearly I'm asking too much.
Nothing less than one whole second.
|Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days,|
|Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,|
|And marching single in an endless file,|
|Bring diadems and fagots in their hands.|
|To each they offer gifts after his will,|| |
|Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all.|
|I, in my pleachëd garden, watched the pomp,|
|Forgot my morning wishes, hastily|
|Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day|
|Turned and departed silent. I, too late,|
|Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.|
Tell me what boots to battle, when the end
|Is foreseen failure? What, by heaven, I ask—|
|By bearded martyrs, and the holy cask|
|Of papal comfort, what can struggle lend|
|Of true nobility to those who bend|| |
|Constrainèd after all? ’Twere better bask|
|With resignation and a quiet flask|
|Than rush to strokes that heaven will surely send.|
|Methinks the base desire to change our stars|
|Is but the taint of old mortality,|| |
|And as the wavelet curls in every sea|
|The schoolboy bares his wounds and thinks him Mars.|
|Give me Petrarca and a pot of tea,|
|And carry thou thy honourable scars.|
And here's what I detest about Shimla. These shops down the Mall & along Lakkar Bazaar which sell utterly ghastly, tasteless souvenirs of the most inferior quality. It is a bit frightening how all-pervasive this kind of stuff is! You find it not only here, but also in Mussoorie, Nainital, Manali, Darjeeling, Ooty, Dalhousie....
Kitsch, kitsch hota hai...