Thursday, December 5, 2013
Dr. Mtandeki Xamlashe, Chief Executive Officer, Cecilia Makiwane Hospital, Mdantsane, being presented the Plaque of Honor for his close interest in the development of Emergency Medicine in Eastern Cape
Presenting Emergency Medicine Certification to Mr. Felmore, Aero-Medic EMS Professional, East London, Eastern Cape
Presenting Emergency Medicine Certification to EMS Professionals, East London Eastern Cape
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Monday, October 14, 2013
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Arunachal is a place. I stood still as much as time that never moved. I breathed, I held on to skies that arrives there only to rest in brief interludes. China was just a fingerbreadth away. I remembered Ha in Bhutan. Beneath me were many such skies and many such suns. There were whispers all around. Petals of your odour touched me. In incessant places believing in a sun, I walked on such surfaces believing its there. I dreamt of you. It was a path entering a mountain pass and there were many people walking. In a stranger luminescence I felt I was talking to you again like older mountain peaks hiding in older skies. The gradual whirring of copter blades seem to merge in the surrounding mist. The glare seem to succumb, whiteness remained everywhere. In the popping of flashbulbs, you had once walked a ramp of demure whiteness in Delhi. Somewhere you must be there, even if it is not here at Tawang, even if it’s not Arunachal, even Delhi.
Acrylic on Canvas by Amitabh Mitra
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Friday, June 14, 2013
Monday, May 27, 2013
This photograph is of Laurence Hope from her book Indian Love published in March 1917 by William Heinemann. This 1917 edition book is with me. Adela Florence Nicolson (née Cory) (9 April 1865-4 October 1904) was an English poet who wrote under the pseudonym Laurence Hope.
Adela Florence knew Urdu and Hindi and was well conversant with the culture of India during those times. Her poetry is a true reflection of those turbulent times and the passion and obsession of forbidden love.
The Spectator writes in a review in 1901 on the book Indian Love, ‘The poetry of Lawrence Hope must hold a unique place in modern letters. No woman has written lines so full of a strange primeval savagery – a haunting music – the living force of poetry.’
From her Poem, Yasin Khan
Thou hast enough caressed the scented hair
Of these soft-breasted girls who waste thee so.
Hast thou not sons for every adult year?
Let us arise, O Yasin Khan, and go!
Let us escape from out these prison bars
To gain the freedom of an open sky
Thy soul and mine, alone beneath the stars,
Intriguing danger, as in days gone by
The poetry of Laurence Hope remains till today, the finest in the traditions of Indo-English literature. A fitting memorial to her work would be to organize an International Festival on Love Poetry in Chennai where she lies buried in Saint Mary's Cemetery. She rightly deserves to be the pioneer in Anglo-Indian literature till today.
“For this is Wisdom; to love, to live To take what fate, or the Gods may give. To ask no question, to make no prayer, To kiss the lips and caress the hair, Speed passion's ebb as you greet its flow To have, - to hold - and - in time, - let go.”
More on Laurence Hope by Amitabh Mitra, Love poetry, the British Woman, Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century India
Monday, April 22, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Friday, March 15, 2013
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Geeta Chhabra is a well known poet living in Dubai. I have with me here two of her coffee table books An Indian Ode To Emirates and No Journey Ends. Both are poetry books published in gloss and includes poems corresponding to the beautiful Dubai landscape.
Geeta is the mystic; her words shape an azure dawn.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
At the Health Resource Centre, East London with Accident and Emergency, EMS personnel and Swedish medical volunteers. Towards an Integrated Accident and Emergency System for the province of Eastern Cape
On this day as I grow older it seems I have betrayed my sky my skin many a times. It’s the same sky, years back we thought had raised itself to such a fluid happiness. Invariably I look for rust on such corrugated skies; collateral suns grieve today the fall of innocence on a Delhi street, a harsh rejoinder to believing that truth is not always sacrosanct. Envious of coloured threads partaking many a horizon, everyday shadows subtly search for corners hiding a shrub or even a tree. Like our many loves replete with the unseen, skins craved in turgid rivers. I hear your voice, your undulant whispers, in shame of unreserved partings. In love we screamed curtailing the benevolence, in love we cried assumptions of the unheard, in love we dared once rolling the streets of old Delhi. With age came sun burnt pores, the mind stops against a reasoned wall, hopes flee a rising dusk. On that day a sudden sky could no longer catch an everyday sun. I could no longer retrieve your words in a long shared memory. In a treasonous river somebody quietly executed Afzal Guru, In a burning shack somebody tries unclothing Kobad Ghandy. Francisco de Goya lives again.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Remember that rain from a lawless sky when rivers broke unevenness of many warnings. The Chandni was draped in a sinewy blue grey platform on which we stood and saw the rain running beneath us. We believed then, we still ruled. Between us remained only a tiny sliver of your Baluch inheritance, sand that refused to grow in time. I remember touching a rivulet cupping it in my hand as it flowed down your hair. Look there, those people, you said, they are going back home again. Home is the nowhereland within each of us. The rain here lives within barricades and lightening resembles gunshots in hills. The Chandni with its shutters down was just another land where people once again forgot to live. Hunched in a living memory of the long walk, it shivers sometimes in its mortal thoughts. Lets now have chai rain today; you smiled, after all not many can mix so smoothly the tea with rain. Looking; a one eyed pirate in a pelting rain, sipping tea from a cracked saucer, the rain on my retina suddenly clicked a picture of you on an unveiled moment.
Poem and Drawing by Amitabh Mitra
Thursday, January 24, 2013
And as I faintly remember you coming out of Fatehpuri Masjid, it was an evening of prayers and colours crashing against a rebel sky. A sky believing in anointing an old belief stretching all the way to the Hindu Kush where it turns bleak. At the Khyber pass or further at Chitral the same sky seems to disappear. They tell me a sky here died long back riddled with bullets from AK 47 shot by her own people. Somewhere in a Dera Bugti hill side, Nawab Akbar Bugti too died in a hail of bullets dreaming of peace and coexistence. You told me many stories of the Lahori Gate which doesn’t exist anymore and your generations that believed in India since then. Like many other evening even refusing to comprehend, I always waited, feeling the aroma of your itr as you came nearer. It was this clever stroke of losing ourselves in a crowd of loud thinkers, without talking till we reached Khari Baoli, laughing all the way till the spice filled air evoked cough, laughter and cough again. The cashew seller, Arif Chacha, participated in this grand plan every week, munching cashews we just looked at each other and only sometimes you would touch my ears as chacha jaan arranged to become busy. The sky reddened as if it will explode any moment crushed by an evening closing in to our breath. I had told you many things, rambled off to inconsequential endings like the havelis, its filigreed windows abruptly ending in long shadows, longer secrets. When we did finally part every Friday evening, Arif Chacha always insisted in forgetting to take any money, you forgot to put your veil down and I as usual forgot the way back home.
Drawing and Poem by Amitabh Mitra
Sunday, January 6, 2013
crossing a land grooved
by the presence of dauntless signs
sighs of solitude hovering
over the aching night
there are answers hidden
in these moonlit memories
at the centre of the margins
a quiet view
of places left
and paths imagined
a rusty lamp throws a weary towel over the street corner
i sit on a bench and share some words with alain,
my brother from burundi
he’s a street vendor
he’s got two public phones
and even single rizlas
in case of emergency
he’s trying to make a living and raise his two kids
between the cops’ raids
and the xenoidiotic threats of some local afrophobiacs
(king shaka would be ashamed of these modern age fighters
and don quixote would pity them)
apart from this
alain’s doing fine
his babies are sleeping now
they’re dreaming of tomorrow’s crèche
where they’ll be playing all day
with the policemen’s kids
i salute alain as
three skinny cats jump out from a deserted building
look at me with disdainful indifference
it must be my long beard and my tattered shirt
they’ve more urgent things to think about
like finding a way to catch that bloody bird
they’ve skipped too many meals this week
ribs don’t lie
and the night cutting wind reminisce
of how fragile they are
i kick dreams away as a
washed out pack of nik naks swirls down the sidewalk
and arrogantly lands
over my rugged takkies
littering is fascism
and i just can’t stand ignorance
drunk screams from the flats across the road
from under a leafless tree the glittering shadow of a knife
blinking in the shrieking winter fog
“business as usual” smiles the flashy nedbank billboard
over the razor-wired fence
the umpteenth sickening sound of police sirens
rips the moistened sky in two
it stiffens the mallow along my squeaking spine
sting the midpoint
of my frozen anus
it reminds me that it’s time to go home
and i agree (even if i don’t have one).
i walk around the corner
find a seat at sipho’s tavern
pull up my overcoat
pull down my beret
and order another beer
it’s the penultimate one
Dr Raphael d’Abdon is an Italian scholar, writer, editor and translator. His essays, articles, poems and short stories have been published in volumes and journals. In 2008 he moved to Pretoria, where he lives with his wife and his daughter. He is a vegetarian and his hero is Prince.
The Pakistani doctor from Faisalabad practices on a busy street at Hillbrow. His surgery is full of people, white, black and coloureds. They all want to live. Like an overshadowing doom with scratches of light now and then he tries to pick and choose. Hillbrow is in his vein too. It runs in virulence, speeding in hopeless strides. His patients too change their gasps before moving on. I think of him. In days bloodied with endless motorcades and streets hanging on desperately to a fast moving train, he sometimes tries stretching himself to people he had left. The Nigerian mafia at times pushes an unwilling customer from the seventh floor. The train doesn’t stops. There is a big hole in the sky here. The sun always forgets to pass by. I live a life somewhat closer to breathing somewhere close by. In evenings when a storm takes familiarity of a lost vengeance, I believe I am still alive. The heart throbs bridging living with those dying and the dying with those who have just survived. In our many lives, we always shared this beating heart, dying is the stream of light, a train running over a slumber unhinged to our other lives. We do wake up finding ourselves cornered by time’s insistent pursuit. Living and loving at Old Delhi was not just an end to a despairingly belief. I still see them through window panes when evenings rush in colouring your whispers again.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
To be free is all we ever need. These age old streets at Johannesburg are the same as in Delhi. One reflected its own reflection of the conqueror and the vanquished and the other spoke of once rusted rivers now barely an overcrowded thread. Each in its own way remembered their ancient strife; season in layers resented the estrangement of evenings and darkness. Today as I stand on a Dutch sounding street at Johannesburg, evenings of jacaranda flowers reminds me of its age and many such lost livings. Like me, you too might have been on an endangered street; saturday reasoning at dusk might even have the aroma of karims at chitli qabar. We once talked about freedom here while watching pigeons fly. You said how can we have freedom when there are so many threads pulling the kites and so many skies living our lives. Brimming with tears from the hot kebab, we laughed the sunset of many such small beginnings.
Watercolor Drawing of Old Delhi by Amitabh Mitra