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गौरी देशपांडे, Between Births ...

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Bee
Monday, March 03, 2008 - 3:05 pm:   Edit Post Delete Post Print Post  Link to this message

मायबोलिवर गौरी देशपांडे ह्या लेखिकेचा सातत्याने उल्लेख होत राहिलेला आहे. ते बघून कधीकधी अस वाटतं इथे कुणाला त्यांच्याबद्दल लिहिलेले पोष्ट 'काय हे तेच तेच नि तेच ते' अशा प्रकारचे वाटू नये. गौरीच्या Between Births ह्या काव्य संग्रहातील कविता मी माझ्यापर्यंतच राहू द्याव्यात असे वाटले होते. पण इथला वाचकवर्ग बघून हळुहळु तिच्या सर्व कविता इथे लिहून काढण्याचा मी प्रयत्न करत आहे कारण हा काव्य संग्रह सध्या छापला जात नाही आहे. कृपया ह्या बातमी फ़लकावर गौरीच्या कवितांखेरीज तिच्या गद्य लिखाणावर कुठलीच चर्चा करू नका अशी सर्वांना विनंती आहे. कारण गद्य साहित्य विभागात आधिच गौरीचा एक बातमी फ़लक खूप पुर्वीच निर्माण केलेला आहे.

गौरी देशपांडे जेंव्हा पार्थिव देह सोडून गेल्यात त्यावेळी मीनाक्षी मुखर्जी ह्यांनी गौरीवर एक खूपच छान लेख लिहिला होता. त्यांच्याकडे गौरीनीच त्यांना पाठविलेला Between Births हा संग्रह होता. त्यावरील धुळ झटकून त्यातील एक कविता ह्या लेखाच्या शेवटी दिलेली होती. हा काव्यसंग्रह मिळावा म्हणून मी मीनाक्षी मुखर्जी कोण? त्या काय करतात? कुठे राहतात? त्यांचे दुरध्वनी क्रमांक ही माहिती नेट वरून काढली जी खूपशी बदलली होती. म्हणजे त्यांचे घर, दुरध्वनी क्रमांक ही मुख्य माहिती जी नेट वर दिलेली होती तशी नव्हती. पण तरीही हळुहळु लिंक लागत गेली आणि तब्बल चार वर्षानंतर मीनाक्षी ताईंनी मला हा संग्रह photocopy करून सिंगापुरला पाठविला. तो माझ्यापर्यंत इथे पोचला त्याबद्दल इंदिरा, राजश्री आणि अर्चना ह्यांना धन्यवाद.


Bee
Monday, March 03, 2008 - 3:12 pm:   Edit Post Delete Post Print Post  Link to this message

A change of seasons

All the time that day in June
I shivered
A deep foreboding in my guts
Made my breast-tips quiver
(As though the long-weaned child
Thirsted again for a flow of milk)
And I felt exhausted by the long walk to the kitchen
(As though after running leagues)
Books bored me
And speech annoyed
And I wondered if perhaps I had caught something...

Yet nothing happened
And I dreamt in the night of long travels.
When I woke up the sky was heavy

And then it rained.

Bee
Monday, March 03, 2008 - 3:21 pm:   Edit Post Delete Post Print Post  Link to this message

Indian treescape

Trees are like people only much more indifferent
So much more beautiful
They stand unheedful of own stand or fall
We care about their leaf or limb
Or fruit or flower and observe the gap
And their departure.

Cassia is a sketch throughout his life
(A mere symmetry of charcoal lines in early spring)
The temple tree is lovely without a flower
And plush and luscious in monsoon mists.
The vast banyan a king tree
Supports his espanse with disdain
And is thunderous in his decline.
The Indian poplar a giant conquette
Waving-wishpering, bedighting-denunding
Always beckoning.
A cluster of lithe bamboos, smooth
Tall and vicious and straight,
The silk-cotton a poem of passion and restraint.
The jasmines that start as younglings
Grow into stately martrons pervading
The world with their strong smells.

And last we come to their emperor
Whose smells and tastes and presence
Are woven in our dreams and hours.
He is supreme in flower, supreme too
In fruit in this tree the mango.
Snowflake shaped flowers make us drunk in youth,
The firm and sour flavour of pleasure's in his early fruit.
And his ripe maturity fills our mouths
And runs in saffron rivers down
Our summer-soaked trunks.
He drinks and blossoms and yield the Indian sun.

Bee
Monday, March 03, 2008 - 3:25 pm:   Edit Post Delete Post Print Post  Link to this message

Re : Memories

You should find an old letter
evoking images of laughter and rain
Or a yellow diary
pressed violets in its leaves
In a book a photograph - vauge
Reminiscence of eighteen.
You should not be deprived
At one glance - jellybelly and bald -
Of a centre at your being
A stillness before sleep
And an awareness in dreams.
You should be left with a face at the window
A heartbreak, a farewell.

Otherwise there's nothing.

Bee
Monday, March 03, 2008 - 3:28 pm:   Edit Post Delete Post Print Post  Link to this message

Camouflage

Astonishing, a grossy weed grew on the asphalt
as I stood to stare it slowly moved off :
only a clever insect bereft of its camouflage.
Garbed in the insular greyness of gracelsss days
I find myself nakedly apparent
In the green sunshine of your glance.



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