Tuesday, 25 March 2008

Your perfumed presence!

Your perfumed presence,
your polite ways,
your perfect smile,
draw a rainbow in my eyes!
Your soft voice,
your moonlit face,
your open heart,
the way you dress
the way you walk!
What a joy
to have you in my life!

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Monday, 17 March 2008

Let's light a candle

Pic by the author

Fellow rafters
in the rocky waters,
We should row on
however rocky be the path;

Let's light a candle,
Because a candle in the darkness
is a good thing;

And things will be on track,
And we'll reach the destination
though it will take some time.


Friday, 14 March 2008

1st Inter-consulate Table Tennis Tournament in St. Petersburg

I love to play table-tennis . I remember my university days when I was a student at the K.M. College in Delhi University and lived in the College Hostel. At the hostel in 1998 I saw for the first time a table-tennis table, racket and an orange ball and students playing this game. I touched the racket, took it in my right hands and hit the ball across the net but the ball never landed on the table. I tried many times to put the ball as other players did but I did not succeed. Then days, weeks, months and two years passed by and I did not touch the table-tennis racket or ball.
Then I moved to the Jawaharlal Nehru University where I stayed in the Narmada Hostel. It was at Narmada that I again took the table-tennis racket in my hand and I found the balls falling at the right places after a few days of practice. Since then I have moved from strength to strength. I played table-tennis during the lunch break at the Embassy in Moscow with the Embassy staff. To play table-tennis was great way to relax and stress out. I simply loved the game.
Now I am already in St. Petersburg since the last six months and have mingled with the diplomats from the other countries in this city. Last month I proposed to host an Inter-consulate table-tennis tournament. We got participants from Cyprus, Finland and Hungary. We held both the doubles and the singles. Finland won the doubles. In singles there was a tie among Magnus from Finland, Gabor from Hungry and me. I had reached to the final beating all the participants except Magnus but finally Magnus got the first place, Gabor the second and I got the third place. The other players were Anton from Cyprus, Kai from Finland and Jagdish from India.
Whatever were the final results, we enjoyed playing table tennis greatly and got to know each other much better than we ever get the opportunity to know them during the diplomatic parties over a glass of fine champagne. We have decided to host the next Inter-Consulate table-tennis tournament soon...by the first or second week of April with many more participants from many more countries.

Interesting facts-
  • Table-Tennis was banned in Russia in the early twentieth century as it was considered to have an adverse impact on the eyesight of the players.

  • Table-tennis was included in the Olympics games in 1988.

  • Table-tennis started in UK and developed in the United States where it became popular as 'Ping-Pong'.

  • 'Ping-Pong' is not of Chinese origin as it seems sometimes.

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Monday, 10 March 2008

How many hearts broken?!

How many hearts broken
How many lives shaken
How many tear drops fell?
From those tender eyes;
How many curses bespoken
For his pig-headedness
For the pursuit of happiness
For living up to one’s dreams
For his sins…

He didn’t break any hearts
He didn’t shake any lives
He didn’t cause tear-drops fall
He just moved on …
He the flow of life
Pursuit of happiness is what he lives for
Living up to one’s dreams does no harm…


Wednesday, 5 March 2008

Anna Akhmatova( On her 42nd death anniversary)

A portrait of Anna Akhmatova by Nathan Altman
On 1st March I was invited to visit the Literary Museum at the Fountain House (part of the Sheremetev Palace). Here Anna Akhmatova spent many years of her life in a Communal flat where she shared the kitchen with at least ten other people. The museum has well preserved the articles,utensils, furniture,paintings, books etc. from that period.
Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966) was born near the city of Odessa as Anna Gorenko but she moved with her parents to the Tsarskoe Sello(The Tsar’s village)near St. Petersburg when she was just one year old. She began to write poem at the age of 11. It was at the Tsarskoe Sello she met the poet Nikolai Gumilev who proposed to her but was shown a cold shoulder by Akhmatova. Gumilev went to Africa to forget the bitterness of rejection and in the meanwhile Anna Gorenko’s parents separated and she went with her mother to live in Kiev. Gumilev wrote-
“You can’t call her beautiful
But all my happiness is in her”.
Later when Gumilev returned from Africa he again proposed to Anna Akhmatova and they got married in 1910. She completed her first book ‘Evening’ which was published later. Their son Lev was born in 1912. Their relationship was not easy as Gumilev himself was a well known poet and both of them pursued their hearts in terms of relationships.
The legend is that one of the ancestors from her mother side was Ahmad Khan, from the family of Chengis Khan and when her father told her that it was not good to be poet for a girl from a noble family then she changed her surname from Gorenko to Akhmatova.
Anna Akhmatova was one of the leading figures of the famous ‘Silver Age’ of the Russian literature and she shared the stage with writers and poets like Mikhail Kuzmin, Aleksandr Blok, Osip Mandelstam, Mayakovsky etc... Akhmatova had a long life and she was witness to the Bolshevik revolution led by Lenin and afterwards the repressive Stalin years. She did not leave Russia even though her friends and fellow poets either emigrated to the West, were sent to the Siberian camps, died or were killed. Her husband Gumilev was charged with anti-revolutionary activities and was arrested and shot. Their only son Lev Gumilev was arrested and released and arrested again. She could not publish her poems in the Stalin years until the Second World War began and she was given the opportunity to publish. During the 900 days of blockade of Leningrad she wrote her great poem ‘Courage’ to inspire her countrymen to withstand all the sufferings and defend the motherland. During the war years she wrote “Poem without a hero.” But once the war was over she was again banned from publishing and her son was arrested. She began to glorify Stalin for the sake of her only son Lev but this did not help much and Lev had to spend ten years in Siberia. In the 1960s Anna Akhmatova wrote her most important work ‘Requiem’ which had not been written since the last twenty years. Requiem celebrates the memories of her very near and dear ones. She wrote-
"To forget is a terrible thing
I remember each one of you".
Anna Akhmatova published her poems after the Stalin Era was over and the ‘Khrushchev Thaw’ began. She lived a long life and vividly narrated the history of her generation through her poems. In 1962 Robert Frost visited her country house. In her last years Akhmatova wrote memoirs and poems and made many translations. On March 5, 1966 Anna Akhmatova died. I am placing below one of her most widely read poems 'Requiem'.


Not under foreign skies
Nor under foreign wings protected -
I shared all this with my own people
There, where misfortune had abandoned us.


During the frightening years of the Yezhov terror, I
spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in
Leningrad. One day, somehow, someone 'picked me out'.
On that occasion there was a woman standing behind me,
her lips blue with cold, who, of course, had never in
her life heard my name. Jolted out of the torpor
characteristic of all of us, she said into my ear
(everyone whispered there) - 'Could one ever describe
this?' And I answered - 'I can.' It was then that
something like a smile slid across what had previously
been just a face.
[The 1st of April in the year 1957. Leningrad]


Mountains fall before this grief,
A mighty river stops its flow,
But prison doors stay firmly bolted
Shutting off the convict burrows
And an anguish close to death.
Fresh winds softly blow for someone,
Gentle sunsets warm them through; we don't know this,
We are everywhere the same, listening
To the scrape and turn of hateful keys
And the heavy tread of marching soldiers.
Waking early, as if for early mass,
Walking through the capital run wild, gone to seed,
We'd meet - the dead, lifeless; the sun,
Lower every day; the Neva, mistier:
But hope still sings forever in the distance.
The verdict. Immediately a flood of tears,
Followed by a total isolation,
As if a beating heart is painfully ripped out, or,
Thumped, she lies there brutally laid out,
But she still manages to walk, hesitantly, alone.
Where are you, my unwilling friends,
Captives of my two satanic years?
What miracle do you see in a Siberian blizzard?
What shimmering mirage around the circle of the moon?
I send each one of you my salutation, and farewell.
[March 1940]


It happened like this when only the dead
Were smiling, glad of their release,
That Leningrad hung around its prisons
Like a worthless emblem, flapping its piece.
Shrill and sharp, the steam-whistles sang
Short songs of farewell
To the ranks of convicted, demented by suffering,
As they, in regiments, walked along -
Stars of death stood over us
As innocent Russia squirmed
Under the blood-spattered boots and tyres
Of the black marias.


You were taken away at dawn. I followed you
As one does when a corpse is being removed.
Children were crying in the darkened house.
A candle flared, illuminating the Mother of God. . .
The cold of an icon was on your lips, a death-cold
On your brow - I will never forget this; I will gather

To wail with the wives of the murdered streltsy (1)
Inconsolably, beneath the Kremlin towers.
[1935. Autumn. Moscow]


Silent flows the river Don
A yellow moon looks quietly on
Swanking about, with cap askew
It sees through the window a shadow of you
Gravely ill, all alone
The moon sees a woman lying at home
Her son is in jail, her husband is dead
Say a prayer for her instead.


It isn't me, someone else is suffering. I couldn't.
Not like this. Everything that has happened,
Cover it with a black cloth,
Then let the torches be removed. . .


Giggling, poking fun, everyone's darling,
The carefree sinner of Tsarskoye Selo (2)
If only you could have foreseen
What life would do with you -
That you would stand, parcel in hand,
Beneath the Crosses (3), three hundredth in
Burning the new year's ice
With your hot tears.
Back and forth the prison poplar sways
With not a sound - how many innocent
Blameless lives are being taken away. . .


For seventeen months I have been screaming,
Calling you home.
I've thrown myself at the feet of butchers
For you, my son and my horror.
Everything has become muddled forever -
I can no longer distinguish
Who is an animal, who a person, and how long
The wait can be for an execution.
There are now only dusty flowers,
The chinking of the thurible,
Tracks from somewhere into nowhere
And, staring me in the face
And threatening me with swift annihilation,
An enormous star.


Weeks fly lightly by. Even so,
I cannot understand what has arisen,
How, my son, into your prison
White nights stare so brilliantly.
Now once more they burn,
Eyes that focus like a hawk,
And, upon your cross, the talk
Is again of death.
[1939. Spring]


The word landed with a stony thud
Onto my still-beating breast.
Nevermind, I was prepared,
I will manage with the rest.

I have a lot of work to do today;
I need to slaughter memory,
Turn my living soul to stone
Then teach myself to live again. . .

But how. The hot summer rustles
Like a carnival outside my window;
I have long had this premonition
Of a bright day and a deserted house.
[22 June 1939. Summer. Fontannyi Dom (4)]


You will come anyway - so why not now?
I wait for you; things have become too hard.
I have turned out the lights and opened the door
For you, so simple and so wonderful.
Assume whatever shape you wish. Burst in
Like a shell of noxious gas. Creep up on me
Like a practised bandit with a heavy weapon.
Poison me, if you want, with a typhoid exhalation,
Or, with a simple tale prepared by you
(And known by all to the point of nausea), take me
Before the commander of the blue caps and let me
The house administrator's terrified white face.
I don't care anymore. The river Yenisey
Swirls on. The Pole star blazes.
The blue sparks of those much-loved eyes
Close over and cover the final horror.
[19 August 1939. Fontannyi Dom]


Madness with its wings
Has covered half my soul
It feeds me fiery wine
And lures me into the abyss.

That's when I understood
While listening to my alien delirium
That I must hand the victory
To it.

However much I nag
However much I beg
It will not let me take
One single thing away:

Not my son's frightening eyes -
A suffering set in stone,
Or prison visiting hours
Or days that end in storms

Nor the sweet coolness of a hand
The anxious shade of lime trees
Nor the light distant sound
Of final comforting words.
[14 May 1940. Fontannyi Dom]


Weep not for me, mother.
I am alive in my grave.

A choir of angels glorified the greatest hour,
The heavens melted into flames.
To his father he said, 'Why hast thou forsaken me!'
But to his mother, 'Weep not for me. . .'
[1940. Fontannyi Dom]

Magdalena smote herself and wept,
The favourite disciple turned to stone,
But there, where the mother stood silent,
Not one person dared to look.
[1943. Tashkent]


I have learned how faces fall,
How terror can escape from lowered eyes,
How suffering can etch cruel pages
Of cuneiform-like marks upon the cheeks.
I know how dark or ash-blond strands of hair
Can suddenly turn white. I've learned to recognise
The fading smiles upon submissive lips,
The trembling fear inside a hollow laugh.
That's why I pray not for myself
But all of you who stood there with me
Through fiercest cold and scorching July heat
Under a towering, completely blind red wall.

The hour has come to remember the dead.
I see you, I hear you, I feel you:
The one who resisted the long drag to the open window;
The one who could no longer feel the kick of familiar
soil beneath her feet;
The one who, with a sudden flick of her head, replied,

'I arrive here as if I've come home!'
I'd like to name you all by name, but the list
Has been removed and there is nowhere else to look.
I have woven you this wide shroud out of the humble
I overheard you use. Everywhere, forever and always,
I will never forget one single thing. Even in new
Even if they clamp shut my tormented mouth
Through which one hundred million people scream;
That's how I wish them to remember me when I am dead
On the eve of my remembrance day.
If someone someday in this country
Decides to raise a memorial to me,
I give my consent to this festivity
But only on this condition - do not build it
By the sea where I was born,
I have severed my last ties with the sea;
Nor in the Tsar's Park by the hallowed stump
Where an inconsolable shadow looks for me;
Build it here where I stood for three hundred hours
And no-one slid open the bolt.
Listen, even in blissful death I fear
That I will forget the Black Marias,
Forget how hatefully the door slammed and an old woman
Howled like a wounded beast.
Let the thawing ice flow like tears
From my immovable bronze eyelids
And let the prison dove coo in the distance
While ships sail quietly along the river.
[March 1940. Fontannyi Dom]


1 An elite guard which rose up in rebellion
against Peter the Great in 1698. Most were either
executed or exiled.
2 The imperial summer residence outside St
Petersburg where Ahmatova spent her early years.
3 A prison complex in central Leningrad near the
Finland Station, called The Crosses because of the
shape of two of the buildings.
4 The Leningrad house in which Ahmatova lived.

Anna Akhmatova

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Tuesday, 4 March 2008

Chuck Close at the Hermitage

Pictures taken by Abhay K.
Chuck Close- who is he?
A painter, photographer and a master printmaker. Chuck was born in Washington, USA in 1940. He has painted large portraits from photographs and
belongs to the school of hyperrealism.A hyperrealistic painting is a painting that resembles a high resolution digital photograph. For example this oil painting of Bill Clinton by Chuck Close.

The painting of this woman below by Chuck Close is also an example of a hyperrealistic painting.

Chuck Close also works with the carpets and the self portrait of Chuck Close that can be seen below is his work on a carpet.

Chuck Close is a master photographer as well. His photos of the top model Kate Moss has been published by the Adamson Editions, Washington DC. The six prints of Kate Moss by Chuck Close can be seen by clicking here.

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