writing – Ankahi. Unsaid.

Saam Lal’s Goats and the College of Art

April 25, 2026April 25, 2026Posted in Art, Delhi, My Art PortfolioTagged Art, Books, painting, fiction, writing, 2026, fantasyLeave a comment

On a burning-hot April afternoon (like today), sometime in 1994 or 95 Suneet Chopra entered the Ishtihaar office, his face red and profusely sweating. A safa, the kind worn by a peasant-mazdoor leader was dripping on his head. Without saying a word he pulled up a chair and sat down. Cleaning his glasses with the gamachha, he ran his fingers through his beard and drank two glasses of water. A cup of tea later he asked me to get up and come with him. “Where to?” I asked. At the Delhi College of Art, there is a show of final year students’ works on display and for sale.” When Suneet spoke with that kind of authority you couldn’t say no. We drove to the college where the artworks of final-year BFA students were on display for assessment and for sale. Walking up and down the corridor and the hall, we looked at the artworks but weren’t ready to pay the prices students had labelled them for. We were about to leave when we met Saam Lal (that’s how he pronounced his name). Saam (Shyam), a peon-like assistant at the college, held a few rolled sheets in his hand. He had displayed two others on a cord along the outer wall. Those were HIS paintings. Shyam Lal, who had never attended school, learnt to draw and paint at DCA only. A few works that he managed to sell in a year supplemented his meagre salary. Looking at his works Suneet retraced his steps, and so did I. Suneet kept looking at the “Goats” – a gorgeous single one, and a clean-coated family of four. Suneet asked Shyam Lal to open the roll in his hand, which had two more artworks; Goats again. He looked at me and nodded, signaling that we should take these. Between the two of us we bought all four works. Shyam Lal asked for 2,500 each. Mind you, these are 3×2 feet fabulous works, watercolour on acid-free chart paper. The two in picture are with me, I wonder what Suneet did with his. Over thirty years now… every time I look at these works I remember both Suneet and Saam. Suneet is gone, I wonder what ever happened to tall, emaciated, smoker Saam who could hold both a brush and a bidi in his left hand while painting. Syam signed these works for us with a pencil tucked in his left ear. I cherish these.

For those who don’t know: late Suneet Chopra was an art critic, writer, and poet. He was a trade unionist; Secretary of the All India Agricultural Workers Union and a Central Committee member of CPI(M). Born in Lahore, Suneet was an alumnus of Modern School and St. Xavier’s College, Calcutta. He taught regional development at Jawaharlal Nehru University Delhi. More than everything else, the ever-smiling Suneet was a fine human being.

The World’s Happiest Graveyard: Inside Romania’s Merry Cemetery

February 3, 2026Posted in DelhiTagged Books, Cimitirul Vesel, family, fiction, history, Maramureș, Merry Cemetery Romania, Stan Ion Pătraș, Săpânța, writingLeave a comment

Welcome to the Cimitirul Vesel—the Merry Cemetery.

The Village Where Death is a Punchline: A Journey to Romania’s Merry Cemetery
In most parts of the world, cemeteries are hushed, grey places defined by whispers and heavy hearts. But if you drive far into the northern reaches of Romania, almost to the Ukrainian border, you’ll find a village called Săpânța that sees things differently. Here, the graves don’t just sit in silence; they tell jokes, confess secrets, and burst with color.

A Forest of Blue
Walking into the churchyard of the Assumption, you aren’t met with cold marble or somber angels. Instead, you are greeted by a sea of vibrant, radiant blue. This specific shade, now known across the country as “Săpânța Blue,” represents the sky, hope, and the freedom of the soul.

Each grave is marked by an intricately carved oak cross, topped with a little “roof” to protect it from the Maramureș snow. But it’s what is painted on the wood that stops you in your tracks. In a charming, “naive” art style, the scenes depict exactly how the person lived—or how they died. You’ll see farmers tilling fields, weavers at their looms, and more than a few scenes involving a car accident or a bottle of plum brandy.

The Man Who Started the Conversation
This tradition wasn’t the work of a committee; it was the vision of one man named Stan Ion Pătraș. Starting in 1935, Pătraș decided that a person’s life shouldn’t be reduced to two dates and a “rest in peace.” He believed in the truth, even the uncomfortable parts.

Between 1935 and his death in 1977, Pătraș carved over 800 crosses, including his own. Today, his apprentice Dumitru Pop carries on the legacy. Pop doesn’t just carve wood; he acts as the village historian and judge. When someone dies, the family asks him for a cross, but Pop alone decides what the painting will show and what the poem will say. Because it’s a small town, there is no hiding. If someone was a bit of a grouch or loved the local tavern too much, it goes on the cross.

Poetry from the Beyond
The real soul of the cemetery lies in the epitaphs. Written in the first person, they feel like the deceased is leaning out from the grave to share one last story with you.

Some are delightfully cheeky. One man’s grave famously features a poem about his mother-in-law, warning passersby not to wake her up:
“Try not to wake her up, because if she comes back home, she’ll scold me even more. But I will surely behave so she stays in her grave!”

Others are brutally honest about their vices, like Stefan, who admits:
“As long as I lived, I liked to drink… I drank because I was sad, then I drank to be happy. I’m still thirsty, so if you visit, leave a little wine here.”

Why the Humor?
It might seem irreverent to Western eyes, but this “merriness” is rooted in deep history. The ancient Dacians, who once inhabited these lands, believed that the soul was immortal and that death was simply a passage to a better, more joyful life. For them, dying was a moment of exaltation.

While there is still room for sadness—such as the heartbreaking cross of a three-year-old girl lost to a tragic accident—the prevailing feeling is one of celebration. It is a reminder that while death is inevitable, a life well-lived (with all its flaws and foibles) is something worth talking about.

Planning Your Visit
The Merry Cemetery has rightfully earned its spot as one of the “Seven Wonders of Romania.” It’s an open-air museum that captures the heartbeat of a village that refuses to be silenced by the grave.

All images courtesy Wikipedia

Resources:
Virtual Tour: FindAGrave – Săpânța Archive
Photo Archive: Visual Gallery

The other end of rainbow

September 29, 2024Posted in DelhiTagged Art, boli, heatlh, language, Love, Ma, Poetry, rainbow, writingLeave a comment

I have moved to the otherside of the linguistic rainbow, hence, my absence from a few platforms where I used to contribute. Thin clouds are hovering under the rainbow but I can see them clearing. The light here – on this side – is soothing, the tones are muted, it is calm, not hurried. The colours are the same but the view from here is different, it is closer home, nearer the childhood, to the beginning, the earliest blabber (or is it babble!) of the first few sounds I mimicked. The first chatter I registered and the sounds that stayed; the words I picked up and the lips I aped are gushing in. Someone familiar is walking closer to where I stand. It is difficult to focus, it is not clear, there is fog – it must be Ma. She is trying hard to regain health after a downhill journey of the past nine months. Nine months! Is she birthing? At Ninety-one? Who? I am jealous. I have been listening to her with both my ears. Listening, storing, sorting, collating and writing. Mostly using the words she uses; broken, incomplete sentences where times, spaces, incidents, objects and people all churn and create a world with newer perceptions and realities unknown to any.

We have been talking. Yes, a lot. We talk in Hindi. From her fading memory words take time to form and flow. The recall, depending on how far she wants to go, is time taking and difficult. She thinks and many-a-times dismisses me not wanting to exert much. The fragile cervical spine doesn’t let the neck stay still, for long. No longer interested in reading or watching television, Ma spends most of the time lying down with eyes shut. We talk of her time in Lahore and Jhang; of her school; of Partition; of her college in Rohtak and Patna; of her teaching jobs; her marriage, motherhood; time with her husband; her life – the hits and the misses of life. Most of the time she smiles while answering/ talking and brushes off those queries that she doesn’t want to take.We think, converse and write in Hindi. I am glad that I can explore the other side of the rainbow with her.

Like a child I still watch her lips to make sense of the sounds and the words. It is ‘yesterday once more’ for me – it is the same as she was, as I was, decades back. The stage is the same, it is the same play, same script and same characters though time and age has added few props between us before the curtains come down. Without her dentures her jaw, the cheekbones and the face has shrunk.The pleats on her skin are mingled folds of silk which shines when light falls on her face at a particular angle. The hue and tint of her skin is pinkish-white other than the folds which seem darker (trust me they are not) that’s where light doesn’t shine. The blue veins now show more, especially on days when her heart pumps blood faster and the machine scares us with 210/130. Her toothless smile reminds me of my Nani – who was different – thinner, paler, whiter but cuter version – but Nani won’t smile as frequently as Ma does. Ma doesnt need a conversation or a joke or a tickle to smile – she looks at her granddaughter or grandson and fills the room with her smile. Sometimes she smiles looking at the Ranjha painting which she thinks is her beloved Krishna – both cattle herders – both flute players – both possessive lovers. Krishna or Ranjha – neither she, nor I can decide; but like her even I can see the rustle of kadamb trees even in the painting. She has been the source of my writing forever, but now she is the only source, the snout of the river which feeds me mineral-rich ambrosia.

For the times that we are living in

February 25, 2024February 25, 2024Posted in DelhiTagged 1933, Antiquarian, Books, Competition, Education, essay, literature, Madras, Poetry, teaching, writingLeave a comment

At the end of this fascinating book there is an announcement for an Essay Competition with a prize money of Rs 100, Rs 50, and Rs 25 each for the students of classes 8, 9, and 10. There is also a coupon in the book which is to be filled by the student and signed by the school Principal confirming that the 150 words essay is written by the student himself and no one else. The last date for submission of essays is 15 November 1933 and the announcement of winners of the competition is scheduled for 1st January 1934 in Madras.

Don’t you think way back then the schools, students, teachers, and the publishers were so much better! To keep the interest of students in poetry, or for that matter reading itself, was so important to them that a princely sum of Rs. 100 was given as the First Prize simply to understand and interpret poetry. Mind you this is in the 1930s when the salary of an English teacher in a school was all of Rs. 22 per month. This is the period when schools or education was managed and funded at community level only. As per Census figures of 1931 we had 22,86,411 Secondary Schools in India with an overall literacy rate of 9.5% only.

Published in 1933, The Golden Book of English Poetry, Selected and Annotated by N. Kandaswamy Pillai, the anthology was a part of curriculum for students of schools in Madras Presidency. The anthology has poems from 58 poets as diverse as Lord Macaulay to John Keats. At the head of each poem is a brief note on the author and a line or two of comments. At the end of the poems there are Notes, ‘to words, phrases and terms unfamiliar to students’. The book also has 11 ballads. The Editor in his preface says, “Tennyson and Victorians have been excluded…” in a hope to bring out a companion volume to this. Published by The House of Knowledge, Tanjore the book doesn’t mention its price or, maybe a page is missing from this antiquarian volume (I love their colophon). This well preserved copy, that I recently bought from a dealer, was originally owned by one J. S. Sowmianarayanan possibly a student or even a teacher.

For the times that we are living in, I find the lines of this song by James Shirley most appropriate:

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield.
They tame but one another still :
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
James Shirley

“To carry one’s own cross”

February 15, 2024Posted in DelhiTagged authors, book-review, Bookfair, Books, Delhi, publishing, writers, writing, writing-2Leave a comment

Having picked up eight titles for Ma from a Hindi publishers’ stall I realised it would not be possible for me to carry them in my two hands or lug them on the shoulders as all three were overbooked. I had already bought 23 books. (This is one event and place where I splurge and don’t feel guilty.) As the latest lot of books had been paid for, I didn’t want to disappoint the publisher by returning them. The lady, the publisher that is, was standing right next to me and had figured out my dilemma. She had not only helped me select some titles but was gracious to introduce me to an author and ask her to sign a copy for Ma. Looking at me she said, ‘you could leave the books here for now and pick them up as you are leaving’.

Was Jesus talking about a visit to the book fair when he said, “To carry one’s own cross”!

The lady’s offer was some relief but not the solution to my problem. This was an unplanned and unscheduled visit to the Book Fair as I happened to be in Mandi House for some work. Our driver was absent yesterday who normally doubles up as an enthusiastic visitor to the Mela with me. This time around I had to find a way to offer a sacrifice for the obsession.

At subsequent stalls I enquired if they would dispatch the books to my address if I paid them upfront. The answer was an emphatic No with the head bent down unable to face the reader. At many other stalls too my request was turned down. Brozo and Ola services wanted the books to be brought outside to the gate. Desperate, I was cursing the Mela and the uncouth publishers; a few of them claiming to be anti e-commerce platforms.

I sighed, the good old times were great, publishers were eager to book orders and dispatch later; 30% discount and no postage was the done thing. During the 80s Jhalli Waalas and Collies roamed around the Fair with their cane baskets ready to transfer the booty to any available transport outside the Maidan. Tea and snacks stalls lined up next to Hansdhwani Theatre and the Lake were always helpful in storing the bulging bags of books. Alas, so much is lost with time including the humble cup of regular kadak chai. There is not a stall around the halls which sells strong desi chai.

Wednesday was an easy day for the mela. Bereft of crowd publishers were sitting and yawning. The English paperback churners were, as usual, busy with wannabes to be seen with a certain author. Other than Hindi, other Indian languages were missing, however, what was selling was the magic of Lord Ram. Illustrated colourful volumes on every conceivable fraction of his life and times were stacked up at every tenth stall. There was one that was selling “Bolti Ramayan“, playing dohas from Charitmanas. Marigold garlands and jamun leaves adorned some stalls – incense was burning in front of a title in one of the stalls and a battalion of salesmen were out to lead you to the “spiritual path” with their books. Strangely, missionaries were conspicuous in their absence though what one found in abundance were authors, particularly of the genre called poetry.

Many a reading sessions and ‘meet the author’ events were happening with little audience paying attention to them. Forget the book, a selfie with the author is more important. The best attraction for the selfie-loving-lot were the Arabs and the Sheikhs at Saudi Arabia pavilion. There was a long queue of young and old Indians lined up at the large SA pavilion waiting to take a selfie with the white abaya-wearing Arabs smiling in their chequered red keffiyeh. Give me one reason why someone should be taking a selfie with a group of unknown Arabs, especially knowing well that they don’t even support the Palestinian cause any more. On the other side of their stall I realised ‘Dates were the Baits’. BTW the Arab nation is the partner country in this year’s fair.

Indian Council of Historical Research (ICHR), the nodal body to document history in the country has put up a large pavilion with the theme ‘Jammu, Kashmir & Ladakh Through the Ages: A Visual Narratives of Communities and Linkages’, which, not surprisingly, has very little space for Islamic or Buddhist heritage of the region. Models of shikaras over a dry lake welcome the visitors. Agar firdaus bar ru-ye zamin ast – where is it I ask?

I wish the NBT had distributed free copies of the Constitution of India to the visitors instead of spending money planting hordes of selfie points with the mahamahim showing a copy of the Constitution. I hope and pray that the people of this great nation preserve and defend the sacrosanct text behind the black cover. There was no avoiding the Orwellian face which was everywhere together with the signs that said, आप निगरानी में हैं .

However tiring and frustrating, so what if book prices are going through the roof, and who cares if quality international publishers are missing; the mela is a mast place to spend a couple of days at the beginning of spring. One ends up bumping into old friends and getting nostalgic about that book fair where we had dreamt of Pushkin, Chekhov, and Nabokov, where we had recited Sylvia Plath, Ezra Pound, Harper Lee and Dostoevsky; where we sang of peace and “Imagine all the people” was our anthem. Ah!

For me, the find of this mela was Promenade Books, an independent publisher of classic literature who have chosen to bring back books that are scarce or out of print. A young Abhay Panwar at its helm is an all-in-one machine doing everything for his nascent publishing house, all by himself. Impressed not only by his choice of titles but also by the cover designs and the production quality I spoke to the charming lad at length. A dropout from St. Stephen’s Delhi, Abhay is almost serving a notice to publishers big and small with his quality and pricing. The enthusiastic and well-read young man explains in detail about each title/author he has produced. Wishing you all the luck Abhay. Best wishes till we meet in the next Fair.