The shoemaker and the elves

Remember the story about the shoemaker and the elves? Shame on you if you don't, go ask any 6 year old.

You don't have to look too closely to notice all the things that happen in the cover of the night while you sleep. The anonymous early morning set of emails concerning local news, half price shoes, flat screen televisions and a new fortune should you provide the number of your bank account, that you sleepily check and delete. All those leaves you crushed on your way home have assembled themselves neatly into a hill on the grass and there's no crackle in your step on your way out this morning. You find a line of sparkling white toilets with raised seats, quite unlike the careworn washroom you grumbled about yesterday.

Ever wonder how the bulletin boards get plastered the way they do even though you never see a mob of people having a stapler fight to punch their piece on that precious space. I wish I could tell you that you can catch them red handed in the half lit corridors outside the library late in the evening. But I was there last night, with my posters and my stapler, and there was no one there to fight. So I just tried to be considerate, under no force, and posted my little ads only over events that were over. I roamed the corridors, merrily stapling and solitary. And then I was spotted, by a man with a vacuum cleaner, piling chairs on desks lifted off the carpet. I met his glance and kept moving without a nod. When I step onto the deeper blue fiber in class today, I will know the face behind the cause of the clean carpets. And the carpet cleaner will have solved the mystery of the sign sprouting bulletin boards.

Challa

Challa is a punjabi folk song that's been around forever, obviously. Since Indian music is dominated by Bollywood now, the folk songs that you hear now are ones that have survived the test of time. They strike a chord whether you heard them from your parents while you worked in the fields as a kid way back when or if you were sniffing around on youtube and clicked something that seemed vaguely familiar. The latter would be me, in case you didn't get that. So, several days ago I rediscover this song and find this lovely version of it sung by one of those rare present day sufis, Rabbi Shergill. I've been completely hooked to it, and for the first few days it made me really sad. It's so heart wrenching, it remind me of a part of myself that's always stuffed away somewhere and brought out to try on every now and then and then put away again. Like an old dress that you got from your Mom that you wore so fondly before but looks sorta silly on you now and doesn't go with any of your shoes. The song is lovely to me in its abstractness and its willingness in being interpreted any way you like. The word "Challa" literally means "Ring", the kind you wear, which is made quiet obvious in the Dali-esque video. I don't know much Punjabi, I took the liberty of translating it and putting it in my own words. I'm not really competing from accuracy here and have just put down my interpretation, with some help from other blogs and discussion boards. Don't read it if you consider yourself an independent thinker. Before I spoil all the fun, heres the video...

Chhalla vas nahi oo mere

Chhalla vas meri maan de

Ghallegi tan jange

Ve gall sun chhallia

Khaure keeta kis is ‘te toona

The ring, it heeds me not

The ring, it heeds only my mother

It will leave if she wishes

Listen to me, my darling

I don’t know who cast this spell

Chhalla bambi da paani

Kithhey veh gaye ne jaani

Asan khabar ko na jaani

Ve gall sun chhallia

Teri beri ik uggia ey kanda

The ring, water deep in the well

Who knows where it seeped away

I have no news from it

Listen to me, my darling

On your vine grows a thorn

Chhalla gut ik lammi

Asan supne chummi

Hoi neeyat si anni

Asan dil di si manni

Ve gall sun chhallia

Hun de lai jehrhi deni ey sazaa

The ring, a long braid

I kissed in a dream

I was blinded by desire

But I listened to my heart

Listen to me, my darling

Then punish me as you will

Chhalla boharh ik ‘kalla

Unhe farhia ey palla

Thalle dharat utte Allah

Ve gall sun chhallia

Khaure jandian kinni dunghian jarhan

Es gall da os khud nu nahi pata

The ring, a lone banyan

Where it sprouted it held fast

To the Earth below and God above

Listen to me, my darling

How deep his roots run

He himself does not know

Chhalla ambian kachian

Mattan de koi sachian

Laiey lekhe jo bachian

Terian merian gharian

Ve gall sun chhallia

Langh javan ain na umran khaali

The ring, unripe mangoes

Somebody give me some true advice

Let’s think of what’s left

Of your time and mine

Listen to me, my darling

Lest our lives should go to waste

Notice for Chubby

Hellos and welcomes

Thank you for gracing with presence at lasts

Person awaits comments

Thank yous

Negative gradient

Before this day goes totally and utterly downhill, I want to at least shout out, while my last remnants of sanity dwindle.

My life has been taken over by numbers, symbols and loops of stubborn logic. I count my words when I speak, or write. I force my feet to take bigger steps and just get there already. I shove food down my throat and guzzle coffee for sustenance.

I'm on the negative gradient of my function right now and it keeps getting higher in magnitude. For instance, factor in the girls upstairs who decide to have a tete-a-tete at 1 am, but unwittingly share their boisterous enthusiasm with their pretty sleepy and very gruff neighbor downstairs. Add in lack of sunshine, two powerpoint presentations, a not-quite-right research project bordering on a thesis deadline topped with a nitpicking pessimistic attitude like yours truly and your really on a roll.

It's therefore time to open up my parachute, slow my descent, take a nap.