The word Shringara in Sanskrit means love,romance, decoration and beauty, attractive and aesthetic sense. Shringar can give rise to all kinds of love, be it romantic love, the love between siblings or the affection towards a pet. Devotional love and parental love are also forms of this rasa.
Presenting Roopvati and her beautiful jewels. But dear visitor, do look beyond the gold and beautiful looks.
सच ये है कि लोग चले जाते है बस उनकी यादे रह जाती है।।आपका चला जाना इतना अचानक था, कि मैं संभल ही नही पायी और सारी ज़िम्मेदारीया आ गयी सर पर, सब आये चले गए समझाकर कि अब जो ज़िन्दगी बची है वो कैसे जीनी है। उन्होंने कहा कि कोई भी परेशानी हो बता देना जैसे मेरी परेशानी उन्हें पता ही नही।।मुझे खुद को ही सीखना पड़ रहा है सबकुछ, सारी दुनियादारी..कैसे दुख जताना होता है?कितना दुख जताना होता हैं? कि सबको लगे कि आप दुखी हो? क्यों लोग किसी को अपना दुख अपनी तरीके से नही जीने देते?? क्यों हर कोई कहता है कि जो चला गया वो चला गया, ऐसे भी कोई जाता है क्या??
Oh to be the only daughter of the rich scholarly couple from 50’s India, driving a Morris Oxford to University, speaking fluent Hindi, Urdu, Bangla, English and French, lounging in my summer cottage in Shimla, going shopping with Anglo-Indian friends in the local market, either being the subject of envy or disdain of other women, smoking a cigg from my pearl studded gold case that was a gift to daddy from some royalty with one of my many flings, flying off to Paris for vacations, attending meetings with the top leaders and not giving a fuck about getting married because daddy’s rich enough to buy me a trophy husband. All this while clad in elegant yet sexy chiffon saree.
A stream of waterfall cascaded from the stygian valley of her hair.
The droplets teetering at the edge of her sharp collar bones before abandoning the contours of her body to form a commune with the ripples that flowed around her in wordless whispers.
It was as if the water carried secrets that could quench her dessicated mind but chose to torture her anyway, chose to show her no mercy.
Instead it mocked her with the illusion of reverence, the echo of the sky above kneeling in faithless worship.”
When Saqi Faruqi wrote, “mujhe khabar thi mira intizaar ghar me raha , ye hadsa tha ki main umr bhar safar me raha” but he also wrote “ab ghar bhi nahin ghar ki tamanna bhi nahin hai, muddat hui socha tha ki ghar jaenge ik din.”
Shokhiyon mein doobi yeh adaayein, chehre se jhalki huyi hai. Zulf ki ghani ghani ghatayein, shaan se dhalki huyi hai. Lehrata aanchal hai jaise badal. Bahon mein bhari hai jaise chandni
Roop ki chandni…
[Your grace drowned in playfulness is showing on your face. The thick strands of hair are resting on your face with pride. The flowing scarf is like a cloud. It’s like moonlight in your arms. The beauty of moonlight]
Only a fellow sufferer, only someone who knows what it is like to burn in your own fire, to be consumed by your own passion will understand how I feel. And so I address myself to the flame – not the moth.
She’s more than what meets your eye. The Creator’s mind made her to distract the mind, even the best of minds blessed with immense self-control. The poised and wise beings look beyond her bewitching looks and the rest lose their mind over her.
The apsaras choose regal colours like purple and red. Swayamprabha dons the colour white, representing purity, wisdom and the eternal light of knowledge.
Mortals today scoff at these passionate and beautiful beings of Swarga (heaven) who dance and sing and lure the sages to lust. But is that what are they capable of? To bring a man to lust with their heavy bosoms and slim waists?
Who is it you see in your temples? The beautiful lady sculpture you just passed by the temple, as you immersed yourself in the beauty of her craftsmanship is embodied by an apsara. The ladies who possess expertise over the arts, the forever inspiration of poets and sculptures, there is a lot more to the beauty they carry.
Swayamprabha knows that only a handful few see her beyond her pearly white garments and her enchanting looks. She smiles and plays the veena, singing a love ballad of two lovers uniting under a moonless night. The mortals of today’s age may look at shringara rasa in disdain and consider it impure. But, Shringara rasa, the beauty of life, the beauty of art that has stayed strong all these centuries shall never fade.
Hua hai aaj pehli baar jo aise muskuraya hoon Tumhe dekha toh jaana ye ke kyun duniya mein aaya hoon
Ye jaan lekar ke jaa meri tumhe jeene main aaya hoon Main tumse ishq karne ki ijaazat rab se laaya hoon
Maybe its been a thousand years since I fell in love with you. Maybe it’s been an era since I bound my lines of fate with yours. Maybe we never existed in flesh and blood. Maybe we are lines and dots of the world’s most beautiful poem. Forever etched on some parchments, fading at the same time. Who is God? What is God? God is us, our heartbeats, our mingled breaths, our falling tears, our confessions of love. Each passing day the universe burns in our passion and we fall deeper and deeper in this haze. You are me and I am you. Where do we begin and end? We are time embodied, eternity is our collective destiny.
तू जहाँ जहाँ चलेगा मेरा साया साथ होगा मेरा साया साथ होगा…
कभी मुझको याद करके, जो बहेंगे तेरे आँसू तो वहीं पे रोक लेंगे, उन्हें आ के मेरे आँसू
मैं अगर बिछड़ भी जाऊँ, कभी मेरा ग़म न करना मेरा प्यार याद करके, कभी आँख नम न करना
तू कोई जनम भी लेगा मेरा साया साथ होगा…
I would have opened this letter with a ‘dear’, however I wondered for a long time if it would indeed be a correct way for me to address you, after all this time. A lifetime seems to have passed between that evening of 1952 and now, sometimes even making me feel that I have slept through the last 30 years. I would often look at faces of my children and grandchildren, wondering if I am stuck in some never ending dream from which I might wake up any minute now. My hair has greyed in the fringes of my temple and forehead, my smile is showing signs of wrinkle and my fingers feel heavy. It’s not a terrible feeling, I enjoy my experiences most of the time, but sometimes my body feels like it is living the life of someone else. And that in a different timeline I am still there playing with you behind that tree. Is it still there? I was so sure I will forget everything, you, those lanes, that house and all else. Are you also there? Do you also, like me, go to sleep in the expectation of reliving our lives till 16 years of age again and again, like listening to a record on loop or going to see one particular cinema multiple times? If you are coming back from there, can you accompany me back to myself as well please?
This night seems to be taking all away from me again. The moon is cruel.
रजनीगंधा फूल तुम्हारे , मेहेके यूँ ही जीवन में यूँ ही मेहेके प्रीत पिया की मेरे अनुरागी मन में
Your tuberose flowers for no reason emit aroma in my existence. And for no reason effuse my mate’s love in my devoted consciousness.
Hi. I am writing this in the middle of the night, more as a sort of remembrance for myself than as something for you. Chances are you might never see this letter, even though it is addressed to you. Today when I was waiting near the railway station for you, I made a sudden observation. I was restless. I was pushing my two thumbs together, slightly shaking my knee and glancing left and right. Then suddenly, when I was staring at the small chai stall near the station for a long time, it suddenly hit me that I was restless. Restless looking for you, if you had come, if you were coming, from which direction you were coming, what kind of expression were you carrying on your face and many other such questions. It struck me as a bit odd, at first. I am not used to feeling like this. I live an ordinary life, an ordinary home, an ordinary existence. People like us have very less to feel restless about. But, it’s nice, feels very…human. I smile more these days too. Do not mistake my smiles as frivolous, they are every bit as sincere as yours. Today this realization has made my heart feel full, like I do after a good meal made by my mother. Today’s meal for my heart has been your gift. Thank you.
