Glancing through some of my Father’s works last evening, as I gave a recital to some of the people working with me on this project, I came across two thoughts which I felt I wanted to share with my Extended Family.

The first was a short poem on pain and the other is an extract from the Foreward he wrote on the release of one of his books.

I am not endeavoring to Romanise the Hindi. Those that read the script shall read it and understand. Those that do not, will only benefit from its translation that I now attempt to put forth.

The poem is titled :

PAIN and I

Pain arose

And kept increasing in intensity

Pain quivered in agony

Pain spoke, screamed, shouted

Raised the whole house on its head

Even beckoned the people outside,

Everyone spoke to pain

Comforted stroked it,

I got left behind.

Pain came,

I welcomed it into my heart,

Cajoled it, sweet talked it, made it understand,

It is futile to cry and weep,

The world is full of crying and weeping,

Come let us sing together,

Liven up this isolated lonely home,

Liven up these isolated moments of time

Liven up these isolated lonely hearts !

Which epic has stipulated (in writing)

That life is all about being grim

That sadness is the epitome of life –

I set the tone of my song,

Pain joined me in tune

Pain became my partner .

Pain, the moment he became one with me said –

“I am without medication, without cure !”

I said “ Then what’s the point of screaming “

He said “ Then what will we get by singing ?”

I tolerated my pain, subdued it,

Pain became my slave, my follower !!

What follows below is the extract from a foreword of one of his books “Aarti aur Angaare”.

The extract has been kept short, though the entire foreword is worth reading, for, he analysis his own style of writing, his own assessment of his poems and the learnings from some other greats of the western world -

“ It is my belief that for a poet to write a long poem he must be the master of his own time. Once you sit down to write then your eyes should not wander to either the clock or the calendar. I was not fortunate enough to have got this benefit. In order to earn a living for my family I have had to do several other unconnected things. I sit down to write and lo ! its time now to go to the courts, to reach the University, be present at the parade, now be in office !

Inspiration, if symbolized by a clock, should not be burdened by the discipline of the hour and minute hands. The realities of life show no grace to the ‘timepieces’ of inspiration and neither do they give them any kind of liberty.

It is not possible that the needle playing on the record of a winding ‘inspiration’ gramophone, be removed at exactly thirty minutes past nine, and then at thirty minutes past four be placed back on exactly the same spot. The ‘needle of inspiration’ once removed is removed. I have found it to be impossible to remove the ‘needle’ once and put it back again at the same spot.

But I respect the realities of life, indeed I love them. I never wrote poetry because I was unable to do anything else or did not want to.

‘Sab jagah asamarth hun mai is wajah se toh nahi tera hua hoon !’

(a line from one of his works)

Just because I have been incapable in other places is not the reason I have become yours ..

If life was devoid of realities there would be no meaning to life. There can be a meaning to life without poetry. I do not live in order to write, I write to make life stronger and meaningful to make it more defensive. If someone were to come and offer to me that he would take care of all my worries so that I could write freely, my writing would stop. It is this image of  a poet that attracts me –

“Bojh sir par, kanth mei swar…’

(a line from one of his works)

A burden on my head, but a song in my voice ..

There is a saying I our colloquial Avadhi – ‘putau meet, bhatarau meet, kiriya kekar khaaun’. Meaning, my son is dear to me and so is my husband, who do I swear by. The realities of life are dear and the ‘time hours’ of inspiration too. Who do I sacrifice. I have reached some kind of an understanding on this and for many days I have been practicing it. I have understood that lengthy poems are not my cup of tea. Why do I not break up those emotions that demand a long poem, into smaller pieces so that each portion becomes part of a smaller poem. Even in my very busy attention towards the realities of life, I should at least be able to take out an hour or two,  to complete a few shorter poems. In my many collections, perhaps the presentation in isolation of the smaller poems is perhaps the reason for their presence.

Though a principle of the great Edgar Alan Poe does justify some truth in his belief that poems can never be long or lengthy, because the human brain cannot tolerate such a large and intense aggression of emotion for too long a time. When poems are long, then the seriousness of the emotions they convey get diluted. Another great poet comes to mind – I forget his name – who said that, every long and lengthy poem is the serialization of several small poems. It is quite possible that behind the presentation of my poems, there is not just the show of my limitations, but unknowingly the principles of these greats at work. I have never given this any special analysis.”

It is desirable then to overcome pain it is imperative to bear it and keep it suppressed. When this is done, pain becomes your slave.

And inspiration  does not need to be burdened by time .. leave it free for it to flow. Constrain it and you will lose its thread !

The evening was spent with the Sidi tribe - a people of African descent, now naturalized in Gujarat. Apparently they were brought by erstwhile Maharajas many years ago for purposes of labor and have now settled here. Their features are African, but they speak Gujarati and sometimes their native Swahili. take a look -

Tomorrow morning another early call. Its the famous Somnath Temple and its glory and history ..

Love to you

Amitabh Bachchan