Where were these wrinkles yesterday?

  Where are the friends you used to know?

  Where are the oats you used to sow?

  Who is this stranger – foolish, wise –

  Who stares at you with your own eyes?

  20. Swollen with Pride (Kabir, Hindi, 15th century)

  Swollen, swollen, swollen with pride, you wander.

  On your ten months in the womb, why have you ceased to ponder?

  Bees store honey, you store gold, but for all you gain here,

  Once you’re dead, they’ll shout, ‘Away! Don’t let his ghost remain here.’

  Your wife will follow to the door, your friends to your last station.

  Then your soul’s alone once more – no friend and no relation.

  Burned, your body will turn to ash; buried, you’ll lie rotten –

  An unbaked water-swollen pot, you’ll fall apart, forgotten.

  Into the trap the parrot walks, lost in its own confusion.

  Into the well of death falls Man, drunk with the world’s delusion.

  21. Mahaparinibbana Sutta, from D.xvi. 2.25 and 2.26 (Pali, 5th century BC)

  I have now grown old, Ananda, worn out, full of years,

  approaching dusk. I am eighty years old. Just as an old cart

  is kept going by makeshift repair, so too is it with my body.

  Therefore, now, Ananda, be lamps to yourselves. Be a refuge

  to yourselves. Seek no other refuge. Take the truth as a lamp.

  Take the truth as a refuge. Seek no other refuge.

  22. From a Ghazal (Mir Taqi Mir, Urdu, 18th century)

  All my arrangements were in vain, no drug could cure my malady.

  It was an ailment of my heart that made a final end of me.

  My term of youth I passed in tears, in age I closed my eyes at last;

  That is: I lay awake long nights till dawn and sleep came finally.

  1.6 Rig Veda Creation Hymn Verse 6

  Who really knows, who can declare

  From where this creation came?

  The gods themselves came later,

  So who can tell from where it rose.

  Part 6: Dead

  23. Six Ages: (6) Dead (Vikram Seth)

  No breath to give or take,

  No love to feel or make,

  No thought or speech or deed,

  No fear, no grief, no need,

  No memory, no view,

  No four, no three, no two,

  No one, no entity

  To be or cease to be.

  24. Bhagavad Gita 2.11–2.17 (Sanskrit, 2nd century BC to 2nd century AD)

  Though you speak words of wisdom,

  You grieve for those for whom you should not grieve.

  The truly wise grieve neither

  For the dead nor for the living.

  Never have I not existed,

  Nor you, nor these kings,

  Nor from this time on

  Will we ever not exist.

  The embodied self passes through

  Childhood, youth, old age;

  So does it pass into another body.

  This does not perplex the wise.

  Cold, heat, joy, sorrow

  Come to us through the touch of matter.

  What comes and goes is transient.

  Arjuna, endure such things.

  One whom these do not torment,

  Who treats joy and sorrow alike

  And is steadfast through all

  Is fit for immortality.

  What is not does not come to be.

  What is does not cease to be.

  Those who see the core of things

  Know the truth about both these.

  That which pervades this universe

  Is indestructible.

  No one can destroy

  What cannot perish.

  1.7 Rig Veda Creation Hymn Verse 7

  Whence this whole creation has arisen,

  Whether it was made or was not made,

  He who surveys it from the highest heaven,

  Only he knows; or perhaps he does not know.

  Epilogue

  Child of son, of daughter … &c. [repeat No. 3]

  25. The Meeting Has Dispersed

  (Munshi Amir Ahmad Minai, Urdu, 19th century)

  The meeting has dispersed; the moths

  Bid farewell to the candle-light.

  Departure’s hour is on the sky.

  Only a few stars mark the night.

  What has remained will not remain:

  They too will quickly disappear.

  This is the world’s way, although we,

  Lost to the world, lie sleeping here.

  Seven Elements

  Introduction to

  Seven Elements

  For the fourth and final year of the project, we reduced ourselves from the massed forces of the third year to just three performers: violin, tenor and piano. We agreed that there should be a song-cycle for tenor and piano; a suite or sonata for violin and piano; and a concluding piece for all three.

  One year had related to China, one to Europe, one to India. But whereas these were zones of culture that I was familiar with, it was not at all clear to me what the theme for the fourth year should be. Various suggestions had been made by various listeners, as we’d hoped: why not try Australia, or Africa, or South America, or the oceans, or even outer space? But nothing seemed to click. I wanted the fourth year to be different somehow – and yet partake of something from the previous years, so that I could have in my text phrases and echoes of what had gone before. Since the first three years had dealt with various geographical spaces, perhaps the fourth could include the aspect of time. Then, I don’t know quite how, the idea of the elements struck me, and I began working on a few poems based on these; but very slowly.

  Shortly afterwards, I accepted an invitation from a literary festival in Milan: La Milanesiana. Its theme that year happened to be ‘The Four Elements’. Alec’s deadline was still some months off and I had been dawdling away. But my reading in Milan was due to take place much sooner than that, and this compelled me to write more and to waste my time less. (Not that I think wasting one’s time is not a part of writing, but in my case it often seems to be the whole of it.) In due course, my seven poems were ready, all set to be translated into Italian.

  But why seven – given only four elements? Well, apart from the four elements in the European tradition – earth, air, fire and water – in India there is a fifth element, a quintessence: space. And the five Classical Chinese elements overlap with these: they are fire, water, earth, metal and wood. By combining the elements of the three culture zones of the previous years, I had the subject for the concluding year. And somehow, through the elements, the oceans and nature and space and time were all included.

  The effect of writing these seven poems about the elements was immediate and long-lasting. I began to see the world in sevens. The seven days of the week, the seven notes of the scale, the seven bright stars of the Great Bear, the seven animals that I have recently sculpted in different materials ranging from glass to plaster to wood to stone to steel to bronze to pewter. For some reason, the hotel in which we were housed in Milan had seven square black bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body lotion, hand cream, etc., with the labels Ira, Invidia, Superbia, and so on. This fed into my obsession, and I tried to connect the elements to the deadly sins. Of course, this sort of thing can drive you mad.

  All seven poems were first recited in Milan, and published in an Italian newspaper. So, paradoxically, their first ever publication was in the form of a translation. I later showed them to Alec, and he seemed happy with them. He began setting them as his song-cycle. Parallel to these, he began writing his suite for violin and piano in seven movements, influenced both by the themes of the songs and by the music of the previous years.

  The programming for the first half of the concert was planned to include seven Schubert songs loosely relating to the seven elements, followed by his entrancing ‘The Shepherd on the Rock’ in a transcription by Alec for tenor, piano and violin (in lieu of clarinet). So, by way of a parallel coda, I wrote an eighth poem which included all the seven elements and called it ‘The Hermit on the Ice’, to be set for the same performers.

  Things seemed to be going along swimmingly and I was congratulating myself on having finished my work on the entire project when I got a plaintive email from Alec.

  One of the poems that had so pleased the Milanese audience did not please him at all. He liked the other six poems. But he couldn’t do anything with ‘Fire’.

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, nothing really … I mean, everything.’

  ‘So you don’t like it?’

  ‘Oh, I like it a lot …’

  ‘Alec, you’re talking in riddles.’

  ‘It’s just that it’s a bit literary and, you know, indirect. The other poems I can work with.’

  ‘And this one?’

  ‘Fine as a poem, useless as a text.’

  After a while he added, ‘Couldn’t you just go back and write something else?’

  No, I said, I couldn’t. This was the fruit of my inspiration. I couldn’t go back to the muse and say, sorry, you’ve done your best and I’ve done my best, but my composer (who actually likes the poem) has nevertheless rejected our work. I was, in fact, quite annoyed. By now I had moved on and was working on other things. I couldn’t revert to the elements just to appease a fussy composer.

  But upon looking at the poems, I began to think that maybe Alec had a point. The other six poems – ‘Earth’, ‘Air’, ‘Wood’, ‘Metal’, ‘Water’ and ‘Space’ – related to their elements directly. In the case of ‘Fire’, however, I had worked much more metaphorically. I had used the sun and the moon as symbols of fire – and then used two characters to refer to these: one from Indian religious poetry, the infant Krishna; and the other from European drama, Oswald in Ibsen’s Ghosts. This made things difficult for the audience – especially since everything was being sung. When reading a poem, you can slow down or even go back if you don’t understand a reference, but you can’t do the same when you’re listening to a song. Alec was right; the poem wouldn’t work.

  But what could I do? Time was short, and I couldn’t see how the same poet, within a couple of months, could write two completely different poems on the same subject and with the same title.

  Eventually, as the deadline approached, Alec told me that the paradox was easily soluble. He suggested I go home and get drunk. This irresponsible advice worked. The muse – or maybe a different muse – re-emerged, not unwillingly, from the fumes of the wine, and the second poem, also called ‘Fire’, was born. I still don’t know what to think of this particular poem, which is different from anything I have ever written. It sits in the middle of the libretto, and Alec has set it to some of his craziest music. But here is the rejected poem, which, though deprived of music, should not, I feel, be thereby deprived of existence.

  Fire (1)

  Mother, give me the moon.

  I want it as my toy.

  Mother, I want it soon

  Or I’ll be Papa’s boy.

  No, I won’t plait my hair.

  I won’t go out to play.

  I’ll sulk on the ground all day.

  I won’t come to your lap – so there!

  Nor will I drink this milk from Surabhi, our cow.

  Mother, I want the moon – and I want it now.

  Here in this bucket filled with water it scatters.

  But that one there never shatters,

  Cold in its silver fire,

  Climbing higher and higher.

  I now know, Mother,

  You only love Balram, my brother,

  Who loves to drive me wild.

  He says you bought me, that I’m not your child.

  No, don’t sing me a tune.

  Mother, give me the moon.

  The moon, the moon.

  Mother, give me the sun.

  The horror, the horror has begun.

  For ten years now my father has been dead.

  This is his heritage, here in my sick head.

  Who will rid me of my fear?

  Regina would, her health and strength and cheer –

  But she has gone and never will return.

  Now everything will burn.

  The orphanage has been consumed by fire.

  My body is the wreckage of desire.

  I burn, I burn away.

  I’ll lie like this for years, helpless and old and grey.

  I didn’t ask for life. I never sleep.

  No, Mother, do not weep.

  Help me to end my endless night.

  The sunlight on the ice, this morning light.

  I am cold. It is done.

  Mother, give me the sun.

  The sun, the sun.

  Seven Elements

  1. Earth

  Here in this pot lies soil,

  In which all things take birth.

  The blind roots curve and coil

  White in the sunless earth.

  The soil slips over fire.

  The great lands crack apart

  And lava, pulsing higher,

  Springs from earth’s molten heart.

  Here in this jar lies clay,

  Dried clay, a whitened dust.

  The moistened fingers play

  To make it what they must.

  The earth begins to reel,

  Round, round, and near and far,

  And on the potter’s wheel

  Is born another jar.

  Here in this urn lies ash,

  Dust uninfused with breath:

  Burnt wood, burnt bone, burnt flesh,

  The powdered clay of death.

  The embers from the pyre

  Sink on the rivered earth

  And moistened into mire

  Wait for a further birth.

  2. Air

  Air from your lips makes me vibrate,

  Who am a tube of air,

  And I make ripples where

  Singing, singing,

  I speak of joy and soothe the erratic pulse of hate.

  Air from the sky slips past my arms

  And buoys my tube of air

  And thrusts me forward where

  Winging, winging,

  I soar above all earthly frenzies and alarms.

  I am the stuff of death and birth,

  Of wreck and of repair,

  The unseen skin of air –

  Clinging, clinging

  To wrap and save for life the injured crust of earth.

  3. Wood

  A wooden bench. A wooden cuckoo-clock.

  A pencil marks the surface of a pad.

  Outside, a woodpecker goes pok-pok-pok.

  A girl plays with a carved owl on a swing.

  A log-pile lies beside a wooden bridge.

  Listen: a bamboo flute begins to sing.

  Some find the song too sad or too oblique.

  I hear a wooden drumbeat sound from far.

  The oak stirs in the wind; its branches creak.

  The rains will come. The swing will rot and fray.

  The logs will burn. The bench will crack and split.

  The owl will break. The girl will move away.

  The oak will die. The bridge will fall apart.

  The cuckoo-clock and flute and drum will fade

  But pok-pok-pok will echo in her heart.

  As for myself, the nest is in my head.

  The eggs are laid. The hatchlings will emerge

  And pok-pok-pok will echo when I’m dead.

  4. Fire

  Fa-yaah

  O fayah – fayah – fayaaah

  Dizayaah

  Hot hot hot

  I’m burning a lot with dizayaah

  O fayah fayah fayah

  Hot as a filament wa-yah

  Hot as prawn jamba-la-yah

  I’m burning so hot

  I’m baking a pot –

  O hot hot hot as dizayaah

  Fa-yaah! Fa-yaah!

  All was born from me –

  All your eyes can see.

  Who gave life and birth

  To sun and star and earth?

  Who gave pulse and germ

  To man and beast and worm?

  Who is hot hot hot

  When black space is not?

  Who is bright bright bright

  In this endless night?

  Fa-yaah! Fa-yaah! Fa-yaah!

  Fa-yaah

  O fayah – fayah – fayaaah

  Dizayaah

  Hot hot hot

  I’m burning a lot with dizayaah

  O fayah fayah fayah

  Hot as a funeral pa-yaah

  Leaping up ha-yaah and ha-yaah –

  I sizzle, I daze,

  I fizzle, I blaze,

  I scorch, I toast,

  I smoulder, I roast,

  I flare, I excite,

  I flash, I ignite,

  I rage, I lust,

  I blaze, I combust,

  Red, yellow, white,

  I light up the night,

  This endless night, with dizayaah,

  O fa-yaah! Fa-yaah! Fa-yaah!

  5. Metal

  A steel tube on steel wheels upon steel rails.

  A steel nib moves black fluid on the page.

  Across from me sits a woman sadly looking

  At the gold ring on her finger.

  Around her neck is a gold chain with a cross.

  She takes her mobile phone out of her bag

  And taps its shining keys.

  An aluminium tube thrust through the air.

  Clunk goes my safety belt as I unclip it.

  Near me tapping titanium keys

  Sits a man in thought. From time to time he grips

  The can of beer perched at the edge of his table.

  He ignores the time on his screen and looks

 

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