Indian Blue Robin

This is my second sighting of Indian Blue Robin, the first sighting was more than a decade back. So one can say with much certainty that it was a remarkable stroke of luck that i could not only take some good pictures at close range but could observe this bird for few minutes. Previously thought to be a thrush (similarity with Orange throat is not unnoticed) Indian Blue Robins are migratory birds breeding along the forests of Himalayas and Burma and wintering in hills of Western Ghats and Srilanka. A pleasant looking insectivorous bird, it could be seen foraging on the ground of dense and dark forest. Found this one in the middle of Shola jungles

Elizabeth Bishop

There is a magic made by melody:

A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool

Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep

To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,

And floats forever in a moon-green pool,

Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep

Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979) a significant American poet had a tragic childhood, rarely though these are revealed in her poetry. She rejected the confessional, politicized bent of her contemporaries (She refused even to be included in anthologies of women's poetry). Her meeting with Marianne Moore was turning point in her literary life and she took up poetry as a vocation. Elizabeth Bishop’s poems are remarkable in its stress on details in ordinary. 

The big fish tubs are completely lined

with layers of beautiful herring scales

and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered

with creamy iridescent coats of mail,

with small iridescent flies crawling on them.

Up on the little slope behind the houses,

set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,

is an ancient wooden capstan,

cracked, with two long bleached handles

and some melancholy stains, like dried blood

Bishop shifted to Brazil, unfortunately the relation ended with her lesbian partner suiciding (One Art is a remarkable poem). She later took up a teaching career at Harvard. The beauty of Bishop’s poem is that it reveals in different layers every time you read, it needs constant rereading. She once said that writing poetry "is a way of life, not a matter of testifying but of experiencing. It is not the way in which one goes about interpreting the world, but the very process of sensing it."

A Miracle for Breakfast

At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,

waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb

that was going to be served from a certain balcony

--like kings of old, or like a miracle.

It was still dark. One foot of the sun

steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.

It was so cold we hoped that the coffee

would be very hot, seeing that the sun

was not going to warm us; and that the crumb

would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.

At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony

looking over our heads toward the river.

A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,

consisting of one lone cup of coffee

and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,

his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.

Was the man crazy? What under the sun

was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!

Each man received one rather hard crumb,

which some flicked scornfully into the river,

and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.

Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.

A beautiful villa stood in the sun

and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.

In front, a baroque white plaster balcony

added by birds, who nest along the river,

--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--

and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb

my mansion, made for me by a miracle,

through ages, by insects, birds, and the river

working the stone. Every day, in the sun,

at breakfast time I sit on my balcony

with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.

A window across the river caught the sun

as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony.

I am in need of Music

Each day with so much ceremony

begins, with birds, with bells,

with whistles from a factory;

such white-gold skies our eyes

first open on, such brilliant walls

that for a moment we wonder

"Where is the music coming from, the energy?

The day was meant for what ineffable creature

we must have missed?" Oh promptly he

appears and takes his earthly nature

instantly, instantly falls

victim of long intrigue,

assuming memory and mortal

mortal fatigue.

More slowly falling into sight

and showering into stippled faces,

darkening, condensing all his light;

in spite of all the dreaming

squandered upon him with that look,

suffers our uses and abuses,

sinks through the drift of bodies,

sinks through the drift of vlasses

to evening to the beggar in the park

who, weary, without lamp or book

prepares stupendous studies:

the fiery event

of every day in endless

endless assent.

(maybe there is some mistake here don’t know what “vlasses” means)

Seascape

This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels,

flying high as they want and as far as they want sidewise

in tiers and tiers of immaculate reflections;

the whole region, from the highest heron

down to the weightless mangrove island

with bright green leaves edged neatly with bird-droppings

like illumination in silver,

and down to the suggestively Gothic arches of the mangrove roots

and the beautiful pea-green back-pasture

where occasionally a fish jumps, like a wildflower

in an ornamental spray of spray;

this cartoon by Raphael for a tapestry for a Pope:

it does look like heaven.

But a skeletal lighthouse standing there

in black and white clerical dress,

who lives on his nerves, thinks he knows better.

He thinks that hell rages below his iron feet,

that that is why the shallow water is so warm,

and he knows that heaven is not like this.

Heaven is not like flying or swimming,

but has something to do with blackness and a strong glare

and when it gets dark he will remember something

strongly worded to say on the subject. 

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Conversation

The tumult in the heart

keeps asking questions.

And then it stops and undertakes to answer

in the same tone of voice.

No one could tell the difference.

Uninnocent, these conversations start,

and then engage the senses,

only half-meaning to.

And then there is no choice,

and then there is no sense;

until a name

and all its connotation are the same.

What a charming poem this one, if you have observed Sandpipers you will readily identify with the apt description. Such a busy bird sieving through “millions of grains” 

Sandpiper

The roaring alongside he takes for granted,

and that every so often the world is bound to shake.

He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward,

in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake.

The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet

of interrupting water comes and goes

and glazes over his dark and brittle feet.

He runs, he runs straight through it, watching his toes.

- Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them

where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains

rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs,

he stares at the dragging grains.

The world is a mist. And then the world is

minute and vast and clear. The tide

is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which.

His beak is focussed; he is preoccupied,

looking for something, something, something.

Poor bird, he is obsessed!

The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray

mixed with quartz grains, rose and amethyst.

I love this quaint little poem “Mannered”...

Mannered

(For a Child of 1918)

My grandfather said to me

as we sat on the wagon seat,

"Be sure to remember to always

speak to everyone you meet."

We met a stranger on foot.

My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.

"Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day."

And I said it and bowed where I sat.

Then we overtook a boy we knew

with his big pet crow on his shoulder.

"Always offer everyone a ride;

don't forget that when you get older,"

my grandfather said. So Willy

climbed up with us, but the crow

gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried.

How would he know where to go?

But he flew a little way at a time

from fence post to fence post, ahead;

and when Willy whistled he answered.

"A fine bird," my grandfather said,

"and he's well brought up. See, he answers

nicely when he's spoken to.

Man or beast, that's good manners.

Be sure that you both always do."

When automobiles went by,

the dust hid the people's faces,

but we shouted "Good day! Good day!

Fine day!" at the top of our voices.

When we came to Hustler Hill,

he said that the mare was tired,

so we all got down and walked,

as our good manners required.

O mine it is the Nilgiris Laughing Thrush!!

I was up climbing the Botanical Garden (in Ooty) early morning before anyone was around, scale beyond the fencing of the garden there is a pathway (further up is a temple, a Km further in the Shola forest is Woodhouse- an abandoned colonial cottage ...more on that sometime later. This is thick forests where Gaurs and even leopards have been spotted quite frequently). I was walking around and from the bush next to the trees came what sounded like a chuckle, almost human. It was unbelievable since i had already walked passed and this bird seemed to be mocking!. White patch over the eyes was indication that i am in the presence of Endangered Nilgiri Laughing Thrush. O mine did i feel a surge going through my body? I had to be calm since the bird is notoriously shy. A wrong move and this one will flit away- it would be devastating to miss an endangered specie, the mechanical lens was giving me problems as i focussed refocused all the while excited about the fortuitous spotting. Incredibly fortunate to have got these few good shots, memorable indeed.

Nilgiri Laughing Thrush are endemic specie to Western Ghats and are found in the Nilgiris at the elevation of more than 4500 feet. They have preference for shola edges and could be seen foraging for fruits and invertebrates in the bushes . Once quite common now it has become endangered specie (IUCN) with serious threats to its habitat and encroachments (studies show breeding success rate as low as 33%), the restricted range of the specie also add to its problems. Hopefully creation of Nilgiris Biosphere Reserve will help in conservation.

The Toda community of Nilgiris

We have sat at a place with a good view

All the hamlets are seen; all the sacred places are seen

The Toda tribal community of Nilgiris are probably the most studied tribal community in India. Though quite insignificant in numbers (as per the 2001 census there are about 1560) they are unique in many ways. Ethnically (including Kota tribes) and linguistically they are different from other tribes in the region (seems to share more with Greek Cypriots) speculating many theories. I read about a strain from Malabar, but must say though the language is classified as Dravidian but having listened to it just couldn’t decipher anything, it doesn’t really sound Dravidian. It is believed to have split from Dravidian stock before Malayalam, but carries rules of earlier derivation making it an interesting study. Other characteristic of this tribe is that they are vegetarians and life revolves around dairy with buffaloes being centre of activities- consisting of elaborate rituals and practices, the care of buffloes and the duties connected with dairy forms the sole work of toda men. Goddess Tokisya is honoured as their principal spirit. Toda hamlets are referred to as mund and their houses are half barrel shaped made from bamboo, close to the mund is another hut with smaller doorway called tirieri or Dairy temple. Also in the vicinity is buffalo open shelter called pen. Another aspect of this community is the dress- garment known as putkuli, a thick white cotton cloth with red and blue strips that is wrapped around the body. I have known about Todas from mid 1990s, and read few essays, even met some from the tribe in Delhi during a tribal meet; i was extended an invitation but somehow forgot about it.

It is only last week i took out time to explore this community (end of March being right time to travel nilgiris- Ooty to be specific- before the vacations and marauding Indian tourists). My main concern was literature, if possible some poems. Fortunately i got some help from Dr. Sathyanarayanan (Director of Tribal Research Centre), an amazingly enthusiastic man who opened the modest library at the Centre for me and even searched some books out. I also contacted Ms Sandhya of Nilgiri library, who was kind enough to share photocopy of some personal material related to Toda songs. There are three seminal writers on Toda: Murray Emeneau, WHR Rivers and Anthony Walkers. The library had all the writers including Emeneau except his Toda Songs- the one i was looking for!!. I flipped through other books for few hours till i realised it was getting late, tribal centre being on the outskirt of the city i was concerned of being stranded. Mr. Sathyanarayanan also gave few contacts one being Mr.Pothili who stays in Toda Mund within the city. Mr.Pothili turned out to be man of few words but the surprise was his wife (Vasamalli.k) an articulate lady who seemed to have dealt with outside world frequently, comfortable in English (even a hint of western accent!) she explained to me about Toda culture and so on, even ventured to sing a song about a bird, to my pleasant surprise. She wrote few lines of some toda song (i am putting the scan of the write up in here. It is a Peacock Song-wherein the prayers of toda saved the life of peacock from fire as it brought rain. The first few lines are in toda language-incidentally it doesn’t have script so uses mostly Tamil, rarely English. The next lines are literal translation in English). The picture herein is of Ms Vasamalli in front of concrete half barrel shaped house that used to be in Bamboo few decades back.

This is a song of lamentation (written by Teitnir on the death of chief Pidrvan), lament is referred to as Kundstkin. First i am putting a literal translation from Toda, then it is sought to be explained!

buffalo oh! plate oh!

necklace neck oh! trouser legs oh! car horn oh!

elephant foot oh! European oh! sambhar oh!

beautiful buffalo to eye i kept, old woman that

they said, old man that they said, Kwarzan of Kars clan

O chief seven village chief, conqueror oh!

peace loving man oh! strong man oh! kavanadi diary carried oh!

pen carried posts oh! not born before one

you were born, renowned one you were born, council

you held, money fine you imposed, buffalo fine one man to

you told, girl one to man you made, barren buffaloes

in the midst you went, buffalo to the next you went,

chosen number beat you went, chosen number you ran before,

leg dance you danced, your one new things

you made, your one invention you made, to-day eye

face i saw, kars kazun has it come? kwarzan of kazun

has it come? burning place at ashes heaped, azaram at grass

grew up.

Before i go into understanding the above it need be pointed out that the rituals associated with death includes sacrificing buffalo, that in itself is an elaborate procedure (documented in detail by Rivers, Walkers). The dead buffalo in the lament is equated with the deceased. The first part in this lament is for the buffalo and the next is for the dead.

O, your legs like trousers, your horns like a car, your foot

is like that of an elephant, you walk a step like European soldier,

your appearance is like that of a sambhar, i saw you were the most beautiful buffalo of all

they said you would be the parent of the dead, but now you are dead yourself

O chief of many villages, conqueror, peace loving and yet

strong man. You were like Kavanadi, who carried the posts of buffalo pen.

O man of wonderful birth, renowned you were born; you held councils; you fined

some by money some by buffaloes; you settled who should marry the woman.

In the midst of barren buffaloes you went; you caught the throat of the buffaloes;

you ran first and caught the buffaloes before the chosen men; well you danced and shouted finely;

you invented new things. Today for the first time i saw your face. Has the angel of death come to you?

I see nothing but ashes in your burning place. In your azaram place i see nothing but grass growing.

This one is a charming myth, i got it from Emeneau’s collection.

Origin of thunder and lightning

If you say “what is that thunder thunders in the sky?” in former times two buffaloes went to heaven-so they say.

The names of those two buffloes- Osum was one- so they say.

Pusum was the other –so they say.

These two buffloes fight at various times and knot their two tails to one another and the two buffaloes fighting pull the knotted tails, one this way and one that way- so they say.

At that time the two knotted tails crack – so they say.

It is when the two tails crack that the thunder thunders- so they say.

The two buffloes cry out- so they say.

At that time, the vapour which comes out of their mouths becoming bright, it lightens- so they say.

When the tails crack, the thunder thunders- so they say.

When the buffaloes cry out, the vapour lightens- so they say.

This is how they say that thunder and lightning are created.

I liked this song that is part of dairy ceremony which involves uttering of curse and then removal of curse. Must say it is quite fun to read!

May he die

May a tiger certainly seize him! May a snake certainly bite him!

May he certainly fall over a cliff ! May he certainly fall into a river!

May a boar charge him!

May a jungle animal seize him! May a leopard carry him off!

Reversal of curse

Instead of what we said “may he die!” “may he be well”

Instead of what we said “may a tiger certainly seize him!” “may it go on not seizing him!”

Instead of what we said “may a snake certainly bite him!” “may it go on not biting him!”

Instead of what we said “may he certainly fall over a cliff !” “may he go on not falling!”

Instead of what we said “may he certainly fall into a river!” “may he go on not falling in!”

Instead of what we said “may a jungle animal seize him!” “may it go on not seizing him!”

Instead of what we said “may a leopard carry him off!” “may it go on not carrying him off!”

Instead of what we said “may a boar charge him!” “may it go on not charging him!”

There are many more charming songs/myths like these. This blogger requests the readers to take time to read about this unique tribe, and next time you come to Nilgiris try to visit their munds. It is an enriching experience.

White bellied drongo: another cop on duty

In my early blogs i had written about Black drongo (one of the commonest bird in countryside, black fork tailed perched on electric cables) as also Racket tailed (that are found in abundance on the outskirt of thick forests), White Bellied are not common and sightings are rare. This probably was my second or third sighting. It shares the characteristic of all other drongos. 

Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo: a Malagasy poet 

One day some young poet

will make your impossible wish come true

by knowing your books,

books as rare as flowers underground,

written for a hundred friends

Jean-Joseph Rabearivelo (1901-1936) was one of the prominent poets from Madagascar –an island nation in Indian Ocean along Africa, he was involved in literary revival that swept the island during 1930s. He was born in the capital Antananarivo (Tananarive), his mother was a Malagasy aristocrat who lost her property and fell into poverty after French colonization. After a brief stint in public school, he dropped out entirely and worked at various odd jobs, all the while reading voraciously and teaching himself everything he could about poetry. He was concerned about Malagasy language (the native language of Madagascar) and tried his best to promote it despite pressure from colonial rulers. French had placed heavy restrictions on writing in Malagasy; his poetry therefore is the product of a difficult life living under French colonial rule.

To feel, believe, that roots push from your feet

and slide and turn like thirsty snakes

down to an underground spring

or clutch the sand,

and marry you to it so soon — you, alive

tree, unknown, unidentified tree

swelling with fruit you’ll have to pick yourself

Rabearivelo used Malagasy language as also his own unique version of French. At the age of 20 he published his first poems. He contributed articles to journals in his own country and abroad. A recurring theme in Rabearivelo's writings was exile. When all texts written in French were considered to belong to French literature, Rabearivelo supported bilingual works and proposed that Malagasy literature would recognize French-language texts composed by the Malagasy. To underline his point about the dual nature of the colonial culture, he wore Western style clothes under his traditional long robe. In part because of his commitment to both languages and traditions, Rabéarivelo was held in suspicion and banned from travelling by the French government. In 1930s Rabearivelo launched his own journal, Capricorne. A temperamental man he was addicted to drugs, death of his daughter accentuated the matter he spiralled into depression. Rabearivelo long sought to study in France – where most of his favourite literature originated, realising it is denied he suicided. He was only 37.

The Three Birds

The bird of iron, the bird of steel

who slashed the morning clouds

and tried to gouge the stars

out beyond the day

is hiding as if ashamed

in an unreal cave.

The bird of flesh, the bird of feathers

who tunnels through the wind

to reach a moon he saw in a dream

hanging in the branches

falls in tandem with the night

into a maze of brambles.

But the bird that has no body

enchants the warden of the mind

with his stammering aria

then opens his echoing wings

and rushes away to pacify all space

and only returns immortal.

Cactus

Here,

when the flanks of the city were made as green

as moonbeams glancing through the forests,

when still they cooled the hillsides of Iarive

crouched like bulls after food,

upon these rocks, too steep for goats,

they drew apart to guard their springs.

Lepers in finery of flowers.

Three daybreaks

All the stars are melted together

in the crucible of time,

then cooled in the sea

and turned into a many-faceted stone-block.

A dying lapidist, the Night,

setting to work with all her heart

and all her grief to see her mills

crumbling, crumbling,

like ashes in the wind,

cuts with what living care the prism.

Translation of his traditional Malagasy poem, “Lamba” (lamba- i read in the Net-means the fresh silk shrouds that is used to wrap deceased family member's remains taken from the tomb to be periodically re-wrapped. The event is an occasion to celebrate the loved one's memory and enjoy a festive atmosphere)

Few trees bloom without leaves,

Few flowers bloom without perfume

and few fruits mature

without pulp you have the foliage,

you have the perfume,

you have the pulp of the old tree

that is my race in lamba.

Your name rhymes well with legs

in this long that I chose

to protect my name of the forgetting,

in this language which speaks to the soul

while ours murmurs to the heart.

Your name rhymes well with legs

with the legs which cover

your transparent sharpness:

But you, you rhyme well with several other things in my thought.

Your appearance rhymes with rocks, in Imerina.

When there is feast and that the crowd goes on terraces:

With the strips of peaceful egrets

which come to arise on the forests of rushes

as soon as the sun capsizes.

Madagascar being an island has unique biodiversity, i distinctly recall watching a program in TV that was about Lemurs (the variety is nothing short of miracle). What is remarkable is that despite ethnic diversity and varied ecosystem Malagasy is the only language spoken by all inhabitants. Madagascar's neighbour, Africa, has 1500 languages. The island of New Guinea, only a third large than Madagascar, has 700 languages. Further Malagasy acquired a script only after colonial invasion and so the language was preserved through oral traditions. It is interesting to note that the written English script (introduced by welsh missionaries) hardly resemble spoken language. It is a question mark on competence of colonial languages, if it cannot even contain what is spoken how can it represent? It is clear that languages like Malagasy needed few more centuries to evolve and develop its own script. Socio-cultural losses through colonial invasions across the world is quite significant, in recent times market (very much constructed on western premise and defined by money power) has taken over the role of imperialism.

Some traditional poems of Madagascar with translation 

Izaho vary ary hianao rano

an-tsaha tsy mifandao, an-tanana tsy misaraka

fa isak'izay mihaona

fitia vaovao ihany

The translation

I am the rice and you are the water:

they do not forsake each other in the country,

they do not part in the town

but each time they meet, there is truly new love

***

Tsy mba nahita izay fingadongadonan'ny volana aho

Tsy mba nahita izay fikatrokatrohan'ny masoandro

taro-daingo anie aho ka taro-daingo

taro-daingo an-tsefatsefa-bato

alaina tsy azo, avela mora foana

Izany zavatra alaina tsy azo

avela mora foana izany

ka zavatra tsy aritra indrindra

Translation

I did not perceive the resounding tread of the moon,

I did not perceive the booming gallop of the sun.

I am a young laingo shoot and a young laingo shoot,

a young laingo shoot in a rocky cleft.

Attainment is impossible,

abandonment is very easy.

That which is impossible to attain,

but very easy to abandon,

is that which is most desirable.

***

Iza ry zoky iry avy atsimo?

Ikakintsika Raberoberomanga

be vositra be tsimiranga

ary ny tanany roa feno vola

ho anao ho ahy koa

ka raha tsy omeny?

raha tsy manome izy

fa fatra-pamolapolaka antsika

dia tsy mba manana antsika

fa mitodi-doha

hiverina any amin'ny anaran'ineny isika

sy ny lambantsika

fa tsingala miavona isika sy ny saina

ka izy irery no tsy tia

dia mitoto koba isika hatavy

fa ny dada tsy mba lany

izay tia samy ray avokoa

Translation

Elder brother, who is that coming from the south?

Our father, the Handsome-one-who-speaks-indistinctly

he has many oxen, many long-horned cattle,

and his hands are full of silver

for you and for me.

And if he does not give us any?

If he does not give us any,

but cuts us off in earnest,

then we will have nothing,

but we will turn back and return to our mother,

together with our lambas,

for we are proud, like the tsingala,

and our spirits are proud.

And if he is the only one who does not love,

we will grow fat pounding our own rice flour,

for there is no lack of fathers:

all those who love us are fathers.

Watch out for Chestnut bellied Nuthatch

Nuthatches are the birds to watch out for, it is tremendously satisfying to sight a Nuthatch, and the bird doesn’t disappoint. A small active bird that is slaty blue and chestnut below these are dexterous climbers, like Woodpecker they are able to climb the bark of the tree but without any support of tail. They achieve this feat as they have highly developed hind toe while the front one is dwarfed, it makes them enormously agile than any other bird i know about. It goes about the business like a motorised mouse, sideways, upwards, upside down...a restless bird indeed. And though this bird was few feet away from me (which was an amazing stroke of luck since they prefer taller and older tree, sightings are rare) i found it exceedingly difficult to take pictures. Gosh this one did check my wits, mostly i was trying to focus refocus and checking where exactly the bird has vanished! The pressure of rare sighting and taking a picture did take its toll and i could only manage these. Disappointing but not really a bad effort, the fun was definitely watching these exquisite species. It did make my day and i shouldn’t be complaining.

Al Ma’arri: An amazing Arabic poet philosopher

But some hope a divine leader with prophetic voice
Will rise amid the gazing silent ranks.
An idle thought! There's none to lead but reason,
To point the morning and the evening ways

Al Ma’arri (973-1058) was a Syrian Arabic poet, a rationalist who questioned religious dogmas. It is interesting since despite being blind (he lost his eyesight due to smallpox) he could see what the world couldn’t.

The Prophets and the Priests
The Prophets, too, among us come to teach,
Are one with those who from the pulpit preach;
They pray, and slay, and pass away, and yet
Our ills are as the pebbles on the beach.
Islam does not have a monopoly on truth:

The blogger will add that what is true for Islam is also true to all religions. No religion can have a monopoly on truth. Al Ma’ari rejected claims of any divine revelations. He was a philosopher and ascetic, for whom reason provided moral guide, and virtue reward. "Men of acute mind call me an ascetic, but they are wrong in their diagnosis. Although I disciplined my desires, I only abandoned worldly pleasures because the best of these withdrew themselves from me." He saw religion as human institution invented as a source of power and income for its founders and priesthood, who pursued worldly ends with forged documents attributed to divine inspiration. Here is a small gem of a line (amazing since it is as true even after thousand years)

The Scoundrel’s Plea
Make not, when you work a deed of shame,
The scoundrel's plea, "My forbears did the same"

Al-Ma'arri believed in the sanctity of life, urging that no living creature should be harmed. He became a vegetarian and opposed all killing of animals, and the use of animal skins for clothing. Read these poems and experience how immense the man was. With the rise of fundamentalism and intolerance these poems stand out as beacons of sanity even after thousand years. Al Ma’ari is someone who should be read by all, he should be part of school curriculum.

Fools Awake!
O fools, awake! The rites ye sacred hold
Are but a cheat contrived by men of old
Who lusted after wealth and gained their lust
And died in baseness-and their law is dust.

A Little Doubt is Better
Traditions come from the past, of high import if they be True;
Ay, but weak is the chain of those who warrant their truth.
Consult thy reason and let perdition take others all:
Of all the conference Reason best will counsel and guide.
A little doubt is better than total credulity:

Creator of Wrongs
If criminals are fated,
It's wrong to punish crime.
When God earth's ores created,
He knew that on a time
They would become the sources
For sword blades dripping blood
To flash across the manes of horses
Iron-curbed, iron-shod.

Scenes that Stun Introspection
For his own sordid ends
The pulpit he ascends,
And though he disbelieves in resurrection,
Makes all his hearers quail
Whilst he unfolds a tale
Of Last Day scenes that stun all introspection.

Death's Debt is Paid in Full
Death's debt is then and there
Paid down by dying men;
But it is a promise bare
That they shall rise again.

A Spoken Lie Enforced by Blood
Had they been left alone with reason,
they would not have accepted a spoken lie;
but the whips were raised to strike them.
Traditions were brought to them,
and they were ordered to say,
"We have been told the truth";
If they refused, the sword was drenched with their blood.
They were terrified by scabbards of calamities,
and tempted by great bowls of food,
Offered in a lofty and condescending manner.

Creation Reveals A Lack of Sense
You said, "A wise one created us ";
That may be true, we would agree.
"Outside of time and space," you postulated.
Then why not say at once that you
Propound a mystery immense
Which tells us of our lack of sense?

Since i couldn’t find any proper pictures of Al Ma’ari on the Net i am putting the picture of cosmos-i guess that is appropriate. People like Al Ma’ari don’t die they become part of universe, they are eternal.

Some scribbles from my writing pad...

Despair

When all what you feel
you couldn’t even tell yourself
What would you do?
Collapsed houses, buried dead
A man keeps looking under the rubble
A woman mumbles to herself
Alphabets, words, sentences are sterile creations
to fill the void.
Silences forlorn
Metaphors vain attempts
Thoughts are but slight substitute
for realisations immense.

Mind a cosmos with black holes
Suck all that we know
Bereft of even a hint of loss
We carry on with our life
‘Time will heal’
Meanwhile,
the vacant space infinite thoughts
all naught.

(On devastating earthquake in New Zealand)

Certainty
It is going to deteriorate from here on
The creaks will get louder
steps shorter
One of these days i will have to cease my adventures
annihilate all hopes
call for the taxi

Reprisal
Something always interferes with the routine
‘It could be the end of all what we know’ screams the newsreader.
The distance a crisis travels for the solution.
Exhausted marathon runners enter the stadium
No audiences not even the officials
Winners don’t exult, losers don’t cry
In trance they carry it home
to feed their children