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North Star Talks

  • Something Warm

    August 3rd, 2020

    I’m looking forward to feeling
    something warm, something quiet.
    Time’s been rough on me, old buddy,
    I haven’t got a smile in me just yet.

    Give me something that eases my mind,
    something that takes the voices out.
    Give me something smooth to
    forget what my day’s been about.

    Let me dwell here for a moment longer,
    even though I know I cannot stay.
    Give me hope and love and cheer,
    old friend, give me a kiss on my way.

    And when I leave, don’t miss me just yet,
    I’ll be back tomorrow, I’ll drink with you again.
    You give me this smile, my friend, you make my day,
    You’re my cup of tea, amid the Bombay rain.

  • Man: The God

    July 9th, 2020

    I picked a rose today,
    for my girlfriend who smiles and says,
    “Thanks, this brightens my day.”
    And thus, I win her over every day.

    The rose existed for that purpose,
    I’m sure, because it brought smiles to us,
    De-thorned and de-nailed, this rose,
    Scissors rendering its evolution to dust.

    But what’s the big fuss about?
    I killed it and gave it life,
    made it matter, caused a human smile,
    isn’t the immortality worth a petty crime?

    We protect our own, the world over.
    We give it meaning in our own words,
    We make children look for diamonds,
    and we do it all for our human’s smile.

    Kill, conquer, dominate, vanquish, burn,
    we cancel living things for our fine dining.
    Every animal is a predator, but none more
    than man. Man is the peak.  Man is God.

    A vengeful God, killing and maiming for
    pleasure, for money. For a moment of magic,
    he causes a lifetime of grief. For a smile
    from his pretty girl, he causes a rose to wilt.

  • बातें/ Baatein

    July 7th, 2020

    कुछ तो बात छुपी है तेरे दिल मे,
    बातों से डर नहीं लगता।
    बातें जब तक चले, सही,
    गुमराह मन के भी साथ हुं रहता।।

    आपस में बीताया ये समय,
    आपस में रहे हम साथ।
    इसी याद में कह दो मुझसे,
    क्यु कांप रहे हैं तेरे हांथ?

    ये आंखों में आंसू की छाया,
    ये माथे पर डर की लकीर,
    चुप रहके सहती हो सारा दर्द,
    इसका क्या इलाज, ओ फकीर!

    कुछ तो बात चुब रही है,
    कहके दिल को करदो हल्का।
    साथ हुं तेरे, साथ रहूंगा।
    बाट दो बोझ इस दिल का।।

    Kuch toh baat chhupi hai tere dil mein,
    baaton se dar nahi lagta.
    Baatein jab tak chale, sahi,
    gumraah mann ke bhi saath hu rehta.

    Aapas mein bitaaya ye samay,
    aapas mein rahe hum saath.
    Isi yaad mein keh do mujhse,
    Kyu kaanp rahe hai tere haath?

    Yeh aankon mein aasu ki chhaya,
    yeh maathe par darr ki lakir,
    chup rehke sehti ho sara dard,
    iska kya ilaaj, O fakir!

    Kuch toh baat chub rahi hai,
    kehke dil ko kardo halka.
    Saath hu tere, saath rahunga,
    baat do bojh iss dil ka.

  • Conversations on Platforms

    July 2nd, 2020

    I hurried along the platform, anxiously checking
    the time. That’s when I felt that gaze upon me,
    following my bags, with eyes as dark as night.
    I had some time to spare, and I was curious.
    I called for him, he looked at me, and I stopped.

    He was no more than five or six- dirty,
    shy, ashamed and worryingly thin.
    ‘Could you give him some water’, a nearby
    woman asked. I did. Something about her pricked
    at me, and I wanted to hear her talk more.

    Maybe it was the vacant eyes, without and beyond hope.
    She seemed like she had something to say,
    if only she found someone to listen.
    I checked my watch again and sat down,
    asked her to talk to me, maybe I could help.

    She and her son, she told me, were thrown out
    of their home. Begging for a place to stay, they
    knocked on many unanswered doors, before settling
    for this railway platform, with fellow refugees from
    the world having no voice, after slipping through its cracks.

    “Would have killed myself if I didn’t have to
    look after him”, she muttered, watching her son
    kick around the empty bottle. I asked gently if she
    went to the police or her family. She shook her head,
    “Who wants a mad woman? They’ll take him away too.”

    She stretched her arm out, a long line of neat scars,
    each white over the years, each with its own reason,
    each yet another strike against her for society
    and for her family, each a silent scream to regain control.

    But she seemed so lucid, and was talking to me so easily. As if
    to read my thoughts, she said “I know. I stopped after I was sent
    away. Why did I do it then? I don’t know. Sometimes I wondered too,
    and I hated myself for not knowing why. They wanted to take my son
    away. Why would I hurt him? I only hated myself; I know that much.”

    I wanted to do something. Anything. What could I do?
    As I kept thinking, I realised how much she had already tried,
    and how little of what she went through could I ever comprehend.
    And what about the son? Could I leave her with him, knowing
    what I know? He seemed fine, and she seemed tired of it all.

    By now, my train had arrived, and I knew I had to go.
    I pressed some money in her hands, even though I knew,
    It wouldn’t be enough, not by a long shot. She declined,
    “I pass my days on the kindness of people here.  Thanks for
    listening to me.” Here was someone who had no idea what
    life had in store a year from now, and she was grateful. To what?

    As I boarded my train, I promised myself that I would be back,
    Talk to her again, maybe help move her into a better place.
    I shook my head one last time, and waited for the train
    to take me away. I haven’t gone back to P3 at Purani Dilli yet,
    But I hope my friend has found a way out of there.

  • A Flight Portfolio: Humanity in times of crisis

    June 19th, 2020

    Julie Orringer’s The Flight Portfolio, is a stirring story of the human spirit.  It is a story of an American putting his life at risk to rescue hundreds of people from a fate worse than death, and in the process, rediscovering himself, his love for life, and the love of his life. Varian Fry, a journalist, a Harvard graduate and happily married to Eileen Fry, has been posted in Marseille, France after the surrender of France to Hitler’s Germany in 1940.  Varian Fry has been given the unenviable task of rescuing and evacuating high value individuals, refugees and citizens of France alike, to USA on behalf of the Emergency Rescue Committee (ERC). The individuals mandated by the ERC are famous in the field of literature, arts and culture, with a significant majority of them Jews.  Varian establishes an office, engaging similarly brave men and women to help raise money, transport refugees and identify the truly talented artists from the thousands of people begging from evacuation.  Over the course of a year, Varian rescues many familiar faces, including Marc Chagall, Hannah Arendt, and many other artists who are now household names.  All of this did happen.  The real Varian Fry did do exactly all of the above things in the above manner, risking life and limb in Vichy-controlled France.  So great was his contribution that he was the first American to be named in the ‘Righteous Among All Nations’, a list of individuals felicitated by Israel for their efforts in saving Jews from extermination by the Nazis.  

    There is also a heavily invented and fictional part of the book, where Varian meets up with a close friend, Dr. Elliot Grant.  Elliot is in France searching for his lover’s son, apparently being chased by the Nazis due to his prolific research in physics and maths.  Elliot enlists Varian’s help and connections to help find this wunderkind.  Over the course of this search, we discover that Varian and Elliot have an intimate history, and they reconnect almost immediately.  Keeping in mind that this was during the 1940s, Orringer adds another layer of possible social ostracization, ridicule, and raises the stakes for the already tiptoeing protagonist.  Along with his regular evacuation, the search and rescue conducted for Elliot, and the intimacy that Varian shares with Elliot, Varian decides to create a portfolio of art and literary works, something tangible to show the Americans back home what was at stake here.  When the ERC and the Vichy government tire of his covert actions, Varian is forced to go back State-side.  

    There is a lot of beauty in ordinary things, as my favourite TV show rightly puts it. Orringer has not taken it upon herself to tell the story of an ordinary man.  Varian Fry in real life and in the book is a superhero, saving countless lives and cultural artifacts from destruction.  However, the book bares all of Varian’s thoughts, lets the reader into that mind, the insecurities, the guilt over stealing a few hours for selfish delights, the shame in accepting that he is what he is and life cannot be normal after the war, and the heartbreaking choice of having to pick who lives and who dies.  The reader can empathize with Varian, and he feels real.  The book exposes the prevalent atmosphere of fear and hate, the mistrust and the bravery of countless people who risked their own lives to protect the lives of others during World War II.  Moreover, the vividly descriptive style picked by Orringer allows the reader to visualize the city of Marseille, the events, actions and the many lives these heroes lived in those precious few years.  The reader does not simply read what happened in that time, the reader goes through it. 

    My favorite takeaways from the book are the portions describing the humanity exhibited by many individuals during the crisis. The book emphasizes on the beauty of the human mind, and the ability to draw comfort and joy during the darkest times.  The ability of the human spirit to hope, to accept, to sacrifice, and to love in the darkest timelines.  Maybe that is a lesson we can all come away with, and remind ourselves during this difficult year.

  • Today and Every Day

    June 3rd, 2020

    Every day, I wake up
    and stare at my roof.
    Another day to tackle,
    numerous chores to do.

    I wish I slept some more,
    I could have postponed today.
    But today would still be here,
    waiting for me to come.

    The days don’t stop, the job goes on,
    It makes no sense; life won’t wait for me.
    That’s the way it works- this life,
    it’s only my story when I am in it.

    Life doesn’t go away, even if I do,
    So I may at least get to work.
    Take my place in this world and
    fight the battles myself today.

    I know this all, and I remind myself,
    Today is another chapter, one of many,
    I get to write my story today and every day,
    what more can I ask from life,
    than that I get to live it today?

  • Reflections

    May 26th, 2020

    I sit here and judge,
    watching myself
    through the mirror. 

    I wonder why he is who he is,
    why he does what he does? 
    I guess I’ll never really know. 

    I don’t mind, I’m sure
    He must have had a reason.
    After all, all his choices got me here.

    The person on the other side
    of the mirror can handle life.
    I just need to convince the
    one on this side, that he can too.

  • Song of the times

    May 16th, 2020

    There is a song in all of us. 
    A song that we used to sing
    loud and bright as children.  

    A song that used to annoy,
    prickle, and confound the grey
    monotones of adults.  

    Someway along the road of life,
    we start going to school.
    We meet other people, hear other songs.
    We try to sing along, join a band,
    instead of sticking to our songs. 

    That’s alright, we say.
    What we lose in our singing,
    we make up for it in the feeling
    of being in tune with others.

    We add dulcet tones to
    these songs when we fall in love.
    We pass out of school and go to college.

    If we still remember singing,
    we decide to sing, sing out our hearts.
    Until we remember that
    singing our songs do not pay. 

    We learn new songs.
    Songs someone else would pay to hear.
    We do not sing too shrill,
    nor tap our feet to these songs,
    because that’s not what a singer does.

    We remember the pitch
    others want to hear,
    the tone that pays and
    the voice that is not mercurial.

    Pitch, pitch, pitch.
    Rhythm, rhyme, no reason.
    We marry, and foster children.
    We learn to sing along with our partners.

    Every song we learn to sing
    becomes less annoying.
    Every group we sing with
    becomes less raucous.

    We sing to feed our family,
    hum to please our partners,
    and we do not whistle,
    lest it becomes too radical.

    We tone it down.
    We make it universally acceptable,
    and with that, our songs are
    universally pleasing.

    Offend no one,
    cause no brows to lift.

    There is a song in us alright,
    but the orchestra plays deafening
    silence when we are alone.

    In singing cover after cover
    of songs that pay and
    songs that please,
    we have forgotten our songs.

    We sang these songs to fit in,
    finally sit and work on our hit.
    But after all this time,
    we can’t remember our song anymore.

  • Sunrise

    May 14th, 2020

    Sunrise, I wake to thee.
    I rise to meet my destiny.
    I marvel at the joys to be,
    feel myself rise in glee.

    Sunrise, I wake to thee,
    I ride to paint my tapestry.
    I know not what I see in thee,
    You just evoke something in me.

    Sunrise, I wake to thee.
    Birds chirp in harmony.
    I will soon rise and see,
    a day full of possibility.

    Sunrise, I wake to thee.
    I feel a wave of energy,
    The clock starts back to set me free
    Each day, you bring a gift to me.

  • Uneven

    May 10th, 2020

    Uneven are the emotions that I feel,
    Whether in my life or of those around me,
    There is a lot to be said about lonely apathy,
    Is that the only solution to preserve my sanity?

    Uneven is my mind and the decisions I take,
    Too many times I flip-flop and take a break.
    There is a lot to be said about stoic silence,
    Is that the only solution to save my vanity?

    Uneven is my heart and the people I love,
    Too often I lose my head and sometimes I don’t.
    There is a lot to be said about stifling passion,
    Is that the only solution, chastity?

    Uneven is the world and the people in it,
    Too often we have fights, we shout and disagree,
    There’s a lot to be said about passive individuality,
    Is that the only solution for humanity?

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