Showing posts with label Khaled Hosseini. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Khaled Hosseini. Show all posts

Sunday, November 29, 2015

I survived, but a dream died....#OrangeDay

It is said that books take you to places you cannot go. These places are not just the ones that are physically remote. These are places hidden deep within our consciousness - places where lurk darker thoughts, sinister emotions, hidden pains, feelings of anguish, secret desires, ambitions crushed, goals to be achieved, undisclosed loves, words unsaid but often thought of consciously as well as unconsciously. Authors, sometimes omniscient like God, tell everything about the characters, and at other times, they leave it to the reader to draw conclusions. Narratives, by way of perspective, become powerful means of interrogation and understanding. Who we are, what we think, whom do we identify with, where are we in the timeline of history, what limitations do we possess which we are unaware of, and many more questions like these are answered through the books we read.

I came across some really good books recently which I would recommend everyone to read. They are inspirational, and tell us how one can achieve a goal despite financial or other hindrances. These books tell us how small we are, enveloped in petty thoughts and confining mind-sets. They tell us that greatness is achieved by serving humanity. They tell us that nothing is greater than serving others. 


Promise of a Pencil by Adam Braun

Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortensen
Things a Little Bird told Me by Biz Stone (Twitter co-founder)


The first two books tell us how a common person, without a lot of money, but with a deep desire can surmount all hurdles to keep a promise. Both the books also deal with the issue of education, and its relevance, its undeniable importance for all. They also give a peek in other cultures, especially, Greg Mortensen's book. The tile of Greg's book itself is window to the culture of the people living in Baltistan. A thing as simple as a cup of tea is all it takes to bridge the gap of hearts, or as they say, to break ice. Biz Stone's book is the confessions of a self-made successful businessman. Biz talks about creativity, about dreams, about ego, about risk-taking, about failure, about success, about the desire and steadiness of trying, and not quitting. 


I now want to dwell a little on a book that has kept me awake recently. A book that has made me cry, that has made me wince in pain as the characters in the book became part of me or, should I say, I became one with them.


This book is Khaled Hossieni's A Thousand Splendid Suns



Image Source here


This book is a splendid historical chronicle of Afghanistan from the Soviet occupation through to the time the Taliban take over. History affects all. It is told keeping in mind the closeted life of Mariam and Laila, the two protagonists of the novel. But it is so much more than that. It is the story of Mariam who dotes on a father who fails her. It is the story of Laila who has never seen her brothers as they have been out in the war-zone, and yet, strangely, her life is overshadowed by their absence. It is the story of Mamy who pines for her sons and stubbornly refuses to leave the war-torn country as she wants to see her sons' dream come true - the expulsion of communists from their territory. It is the story of a woman whose womb is barren and who endures the wrath of her husband who just wants a son. This woman is Mariam and her husband is Rasheed. It is the story of the one-legged Tariq who cherishes the friendship with Laila, and will, despite his handicap, fight for her honor without hesitation. It is the story of the two friends who part, love that is forsaken, friendship that is formed in the most unexpected corner of life. It is also the story of a little child Aziza who is scared at the sound of bomb-shelling and seeks assurance from her mother by simply hugging her. And the mother in return keeps her safe from all save the brutal father. 


Hosseini has crafted a flawless narrative that brutally shakes you to the core. The violence out there in the streets is told only as a matter of fact. It is what the protagonists cannot witness. Their life indoors, is more violent and affects them in a way the larger historical events do not. It is the abuse they face in their own home, at the hands of their own family, that forms the master narrative. History stands right outside the door. 


I wish to quote a few lines that have amazed me and left me speechless. 


"A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing Mariam. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed, it won't stretch to make room for you."


"....each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all the sighs drifted up the sky, gathered into the clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below."


"Careful where you step," Babi said. His voice made a loud echo. "The ground is treacherous."


"....there was a scrambling, a bare-handed frenzy of digging, of pulling from the debris, what remained of a sister, a brother, a grandchild."


"But when it came to fathers, Mariam had no assurances to give."


"Aziza shrieked at the thumping of mortars. To distract her, Mariam arranged grains of rice on the floor, in the shape of a house or a rooster or a star, and let Aziza scatter them..."


"And the past held only this wisdom: that love was a damaging mistake, and its accomplice, hope, a treacherous illusion."



Hosseini writes in the Postscript to the novel that he wanted to explore "the inner lives of these two fictional women and look for the very ordinary humanity beneath their veils." And he has done that brilliantly. It is this very denial of 'ordinary humanity' from the male fraternity, from the power-holders (be they in the house or outside), that provokes a response of restlessness as we read the book. 


The UN this year has launched Orange the World campaign to increase awareness against the violence women meet in their day-to-day lives.


A few lines by me here... 





Born unwanted, raised
raised sitting at the periphery....
Married, sometimes sold off....
I survived but a dream died....

Sometimes looted, sometimes uprooted

prodded, traded,
squashed, crushed
trampled upon
I survived but a dream died....

Sometimes fertile, sometimes barren

Scoffed, rebuked
Used, misused, abused
I survived but a dream died......

Branded, disgraced,

veiled, exposed,
strangulated by masculine stares
choked up, touched, maligned,
innocent yet tarnished....
I survived but a dream died.....




Image Source here


Written for Indiblogger IndiSpire Edition 93.
Also liinking to Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Survival

Sunday, November 22, 2015

Few Words on Words I Like.....

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What would we do without words? What, I wonder! Yes, eyes speak too. But we all are so used to them. Can we go without speaking for even a single day? Perhaps not. Words help articulate our inner depths of consciousness. Words help us unburden our pains. Words help us express our joins. They give rein to our love, as well as our hatred. They are tools of communication, devices of influence. They can be like a balm that soothes, or like a sword that pierces. As I thought reflecting on the words that I just love, I realized that it was so difficult to choose just three out of the many that I loved. I loved the sound of certain words, and the symbolism of others. I liked a word because it evoked a strong memory and I liked a word because it had an association that made my heart flutter with excitement.

I thought and thought and thought and finally, here are my thoughts....!

Book

Those who know me won't be surprised. Tell me there is a book fair, a book sale, a library around the corner, and the greedy bookworm inside me wiggles and wriggles to break free and rush to where the books are. The affair with books started at a young age, when my mom gave me one of her Enid Blyton books. Then, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Agatha Christie happened. What followed was a long association with books - poetry as well as prose, fiction as well as non-fiction. There also came a time when I could not pick a book anymore. Reader's block, I guess. I would fret as to why I could read no more. I would buy books, borrow books from the library and then, they would just stay there on the shelf, untouched. But gradually, as if it was a miracle, things began to change and I could read again. I have gone a bit slow but books have been with me. Come to my house and see books in every room -  many now are for children. My kids are growing up and they need to uncover the treasure too. 

There are many of my friends who fail to understand my craze for book. I always have felt that a good book can change your life. You don't need to read all that is out there in the world. But one good bok, and your life's perspective widens, you become more sensitive and wise. There is a world of emotions that goes untapped because we live a superficial life. It is book that questions, that prods, that asks us to dig deeper. For those who like books, and those who don't, I have something to say -

कभी अकेले हो तो कोई किताब उठा के देखना 
उस किताब के पन्नो को दोस्त बना के देखना 
उन पन्नो में लिखे शब्दों को परख के देखना 
उन  शब्दों में छिपी भावनाओं को जी के देखना 
उन भावनाओं में निहित कुछ सबक भी होंगे 
जो जीवन के अभिप्राय का आइना होंगे 
उस आईने में खुद को देखना 
तुम्हारी कहानी वहां से झलक जाएगी 
तुम भी किसी कहानी का पात्र ही तो हो 
किसने रची कौन जाने 
तुम बस अपनी भूमिका के प्रति सच्चे रहना 
उस सच्चाई को कोई तो पढ़ ही लेगा 
तुम्हारी कहानी को कोई हमसफ़र भी मिलेगा 
सच्चे साथी होंगे तो कहानी भी और रोचक बनेगी 
किताब के पन्नों में और जीवन भरेगी 
सच मानो मेरी बात 
कभी अकेले हो तो कोई किताब उठा के देखना। … 


Image Source here



Lullaby

A word that sounds beautiful to the ear, and that evokes so many images - lullaby or लोरी in Hindi. A baby cuddled in the mother's arms, all attentive to the sweet melodies she sings, as she weaves a dream about her child's future, or a baby in her father's secure arms, listening to his bass voice, as he struggles to find the right words of the lullaby while trying to put his little bundle of joy to sleep - aren't these images beautiful. A lullaby evokes images of sleepless nights, anxious but proud parents, a little seed sprouting to life, a chick sitting cozy in its nest, comfortable yet restless since it pines for more. It speaks of a future taking shape, some dreams being imagined. It tells about a beginning - a new life of not just a child but of the couple who have become parents now. It is symbolic of new responsibilities, of new ambitions, of new plans. It speaks of nurture, of care, of an unbreakable bond. A lullaby.....

Hear these wonderful lullabies...Sleep, baby Sleep and Hush Little Baby....











Even though I am a mother now, I still like to hear my mom singing. She sings for her grandchildren and it soothes me too!


Snowflakes

Doesn't it sound good to you? Have you ever felt the season's first snowflake touch your cheeks? Have you ever seen it descend slowly towards you? Have you noticed the magical serenity with which it floats? Isn't it truly, purely blissful? 

Yes, it melts me too. It is cold but the moment it touches me, the moments it dissipates, it undoes me. It dispels every hard thought. It scatters a softness with its delicate fragility. Its transience speaks of a life lived fully. It is an exquisite example of nature's symmetry. They say that each snowflake is unique and the possibility of finding the same symmetrical pattern in a snowflake is rare. I don't know about that. All I know is that it is a special gift of cold winter months. It is what makes winters beautiful. Its white purity speaks of something unblemished, un-scarred. It is like a poem, falling word by word from the sky, touching us here and there, melting the frigidity away as it vanishes. 

There is something worth sharing here with all of you. It is from Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns. It is a coincidence that I came across these lines just when I was thinking about writing this post. 

"She remembered Nana saying that each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all sighs drifted up the sky, gathered into clods, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below."

With those lines, I stop. Over to you, my friends...!



Image Source here


This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.