Some days just belong to Ghalib.
The rain has been unyielding, descending in clumps one minute, drifting like gauze at another; the clouds, dense and dark with moisture, have laid siege to Hong Kong skies. And I am in the throes of beginning work on a new book.
The weather, I think, mirrors my current dilemma - I am filling up with what I want to say, write, tell and yet, it’s all fits and starts. Like the rain, I don’t know my own mind. However, this isn't my first book and much like the rain, writing has a pattern - that much I know. At this time I am my cranky-worst-self: unsettled, clutching at ideas that refuse to be pinned down, lost.
Just as I endure the rain knowing the sun will out, I have to plod my way through this amorphous cloud which hides within itself my fifth book. I feel trapped in a cage of my own making. And yet, am I?
As always, for sustenance there is Ghalib.
Bas ke hun Ghalib asiri mein bhi aatish zer-e-pa,
mue aatish dida hai halka meri zanjeer ka.
Even in bondage, Ghalib, there is fire beneath my feet,
The chains that bind me are merely curls of singed hair.
(The video clip below is from the TV serial Mirza Ghalib by Gulzar. The above shayr comes towards the end of the clip.)
