I have called its people and parties retarded, its architecture daft and its drivers mental. But Chandigarh really cannot be as fucked up as I make it out to be. Can it? As I leave this city, I try to find a semblance of normalcy here – in its lyrics.
I was recently gifted a collection of Punjabi poems by Amrita Pritam. In one of her pieces Main Tenu Fir Milaangi (I will meet you yet again) she says
I was recently gifted a collection of Punjabi poems by Amrita Pritam. In one of her pieces Main Tenu Fir Milaangi (I will meet you yet again) she says
“Main tenu fir milaangi.
Kithey, kis tarah? Pata nai.
Shaayad terey takhayul di chinag ban ke, terey canvas tey utrangi.
Ya khowrey terey canvas dey utey, ik rahasmayi lakeer ban ke,
Khamosh tenu tak di rawaangi”
“I will meet you yet again
Where, how? I know not.
I might become a figment of your imagination and fall on your canvas.
Or perhaps, spreading myself as a mysterious line on your canvas,
In silence, I will keep gazing at you.”
Kithey, kis tarah? Pata nai.
Shaayad terey takhayul di chinag ban ke, terey canvas tey utrangi.
Ya khowrey terey canvas dey utey, ik rahasmayi lakeer ban ke,
Khamosh tenu tak di rawaangi”
“I will meet you yet again
Where, how? I know not.
I might become a figment of your imagination and fall on your canvas.
Or perhaps, spreading myself as a mysterious line on your canvas,
In silence, I will keep gazing at you.”
I am very dense when it comes to poetry or for that matter love as well. They both have a time tested methodology involved, yet almost contradictorily they’re supposed to express spontaneity (God forbid if you don’t – the bitch will skin you alive).
Both poetry and love have their lines.
There is always a line.
One that you absolutely should not cross - the iambic (short for iambecomingsick) pentameter. Or a line that you’re measured against, aptly called (?), the sexameter.
It’s not like the ‘modern’, free-er version of love or poetry is something that I can understand either.
What in God’s bloody name is free verse?
Have you heard of the ‘modern poet’ e.e. cummings? If you’ve not, let me tell you – he is a turd. Anyone who deliberately writes his name in lowercase is a bloody retard. Sample this. His “poem” titled ‘!blac…’. DO NOT adjust your browser. It is the title of his poem – ‘Exclamation point-b-l-a-c-Ellipsis’. Fancy the rest of it? Again, do not adjust your browser or your eyes -
Both poetry and love have their lines.
There is always a line.
One that you absolutely should not cross - the iambic (short for iambecomingsick) pentameter. Or a line that you’re measured against, aptly called (?), the sexameter.
It’s not like the ‘modern’, free-er version of love or poetry is something that I can understand either.
What in God’s bloody name is free verse?
Have you heard of the ‘modern poet’ e.e. cummings? If you’ve not, let me tell you – he is a turd. Anyone who deliberately writes his name in lowercase is a bloody retard. Sample this. His “poem” titled ‘!blac…’. DO NOT adjust your browser. It is the title of his poem – ‘Exclamation point-b-l-a-c-Ellipsis’. Fancy the rest of it? Again, do not adjust your browser or your eyes -
“!blac
k
agains
t
(whi)
te sky
?t
rees whic
h fr
om droppe
d
,”
k
agains
t
(whi)
te sky
?t
rees whic
h fr
om droppe
d
,”
This is not free fucking verse. This is not fucking poetry. It is a deranged man with a botched up typewriter and in all likelihood he’s suffering from acute Parkinson’s.
One must never date someone who writes poems to live (not for a living; to live). You will be told that in today’s world, Love is like free verse. I never got it, I still don’t.
No rules. No boundaries. And what about line breaks? As you please.
I am told, one is supposed to feel the verse.
Not.
You just end up feeling worse.
One must never date someone who writes poems to live (not for a living; to live). You will be told that in today’s world, Love is like free verse. I never got it, I still don’t.
No rules. No boundaries. And what about line breaks? As you please.
I am told, one is supposed to feel the verse.
Not.
You just end up feeling worse.
!the re is;
ju st
to o-mu
ch
t(s)ex(t)ual
¿tension
;
¡
ju st
to o-mu
ch
t(s)ex(t)ual
¿tension
;
¡
So I was saying, I do not get poetry.
But when Amrita Pritam wants to take the form of a line spreading across a canvas just so that she can gaze at her lover – I cannot help but think that this is where the Punjabis, and in essence Chandigarh, might have got something right – their lyrical expression of love.
Not.
For the last nine months I have never been to a club or party without cringing at the utter inanity of Punjabi song lyrics.
Take for instance the pop number Amplifier (Translation - Amplifier).
The song has the basic boy-trying-to-ask-girl-out theme. It has the usual ‘heartbeat-stoppage upon damsel sighting’ references in measured dosage; followed by boy trying to up the lyrical ante when he does not get a favorable response. And how he does!
Does he call her his moon? Nah – too mundane. How about his rose? Nope, very B-grade Bollywood. How about woofer? Perfect.
Why bother with bringing the girl massive lunar objects when audio equipment metaphors will do the job just fine.
In one of the break-up monologues I sat through in college, I was called an unromantic twerp. If she only knew my true feelings for her - I was her Dolby and she was me Bose.
While the Amplifier craze phased out, it gave way to an equally inane movie track – Dil Waali Kothi (Translation - The heart’s bungalow).
The song revolves around a man begging a woman to appoint him as the watchman of the bungalow that her heart is. Why the protection? He fears that the poor damsel, being fair-skinned and possessing precisely 40 whims and 84 fancies, might have her heart stolen.
This Punjabi obsession with numbers can even be found in the current ‘chartbuster’ and the most preposterous wooing song in recent times – Lakk 28 Kudi Da (Translation – The Girl’s Waist is 28 inches).
But when Amrita Pritam wants to take the form of a line spreading across a canvas just so that she can gaze at her lover – I cannot help but think that this is where the Punjabis, and in essence Chandigarh, might have got something right – their lyrical expression of love.
Not.
For the last nine months I have never been to a club or party without cringing at the utter inanity of Punjabi song lyrics.
Take for instance the pop number Amplifier (Translation - Amplifier).
The song has the basic boy-trying-to-ask-girl-out theme. It has the usual ‘heartbeat-stoppage upon damsel sighting’ references in measured dosage; followed by boy trying to up the lyrical ante when he does not get a favorable response. And how he does!
Does he call her his moon? Nah – too mundane. How about his rose? Nope, very B-grade Bollywood. How about woofer? Perfect.
“Darling, you are my woofer and I,
am your amplifier.”
Why bother with bringing the girl massive lunar objects when audio equipment metaphors will do the job just fine.
In one of the break-up monologues I sat through in college, I was called an unromantic twerp. If she only knew my true feelings for her - I was her Dolby and she was me Bose.
While the Amplifier craze phased out, it gave way to an equally inane movie track – Dil Waali Kothi (Translation - The heart’s bungalow).
The song revolves around a man begging a woman to appoint him as the watchman of the bungalow that her heart is. Why the protection? He fears that the poor damsel, being fair-skinned and possessing precisely 40 whims and 84 fancies, might have her heart stolen.
This Punjabi obsession with numbers can even be found in the current ‘chartbuster’ and the most preposterous wooing song in recent times – Lakk 28 Kudi Da (Translation – The Girl’s Waist is 28 inches).
The song is written as an ode to the girl whose waist is 28 inches and weight is 47 kilos. It even has a refrain to that effect – “Waist is 28, and 47 weight”. We are given to believe that this muse is a ‘modern’ Punjabi girl for she sports a Lady Gaga tattoo on her white chest, wears ‘fit-dresses’ (versus two sizes too big?) and has a white i-Phone with a ringtone from LA on it. If you’re wondering how the said muse is so bloody white and is in general very ‘milky-milky’ and ‘silky-silky’ - the secret’s in copious amounts of body butter cream.
And lest we forget, we’re reminded in all 14 times that her waist is twenty eight and forty seven weight.
The Jehadis are promised 72 nubile virgins in paradise as a reward for martyrdom. According to the Quran, the virgins would have eyes like pearls and ‘large, round breasts that are not inclined to sag’. They would be eternally young, transparent to the marrow of their bones, sans unwanted-hair and have no bowel movements whatsoever. They would be chaste, albeit perennially nude, and restrain their glances. In general – they’d be splendid, pure and child free.
How bloody prissily precise.
And all we Punjabis could come up with is milky - silky - 28” - 47 kgs?
And lest we forget, we’re reminded in all 14 times that her waist is twenty eight and forty seven weight.
The Jehadis are promised 72 nubile virgins in paradise as a reward for martyrdom. According to the Quran, the virgins would have eyes like pearls and ‘large, round breasts that are not inclined to sag’. They would be eternally young, transparent to the marrow of their bones, sans unwanted-hair and have no bowel movements whatsoever. They would be chaste, albeit perennially nude, and restrain their glances. In general – they’d be splendid, pure and child free.
How bloody prissily precise.
And all we Punjabis could come up with is milky - silky - 28” - 47 kgs?
