A priceless gem

And Then There Was None (Miniseries, 3 episodes; 2015)
BBC

I heard about this book even way back in Standard 6. I remember that we, young pre-pubescent boys, were intrigued by its title, 'Ten Little Niggers'. That was, of course, its original title when Agatha Christie wrote the book in the UK in 1939 and was based on a rhyme from minstrel shows and children's games. The poem goes to tell how ten blacks end up dead in ten different ways. In the story, the 10 murders happen similarly as described in the poem, but not so a pretty straightforward way.

When the book was reprinted in the USA, due to the sensitivities of the word 'nigger' even back then, it was renamed with the last line of the poem when old the figures died - 'and there was none'. Later publications also used the title 'Ten Little Indians', an 1869 poem and 'Ten Little Soldiers'. This book has the reputation of being the best selling book, selling over 100 million copies.

Ten Little Niggers (Frank Green) 1869

Ten Little Indians (Septimus Winner) 1868

Ten little nigger boys went out to dine One choked his little self, and then there were nine. Nine little nigger boys sat up very late. One overslept himself, and then there were eight. Eight little nigger boys travelling in Devon One said he'd stay there, and then there were seven. Seven little nigger boys chopping up sticks One chopped himself in half, and then there were six. Six little nigger boys playing with a hive A bumblebee stung one, and then there were five. Five little nigger boys going in for law One got in chancery, and then there were four. Four little nigger boys going out to sea A red herring swallowed one, and then there were three. Three little nigger boys walking in the zoo A big bear hugged one, and then there were two. Two little nigger boys sitting in the sun One got frizzled up, and then there was one. One little nigger boy living all alone He went and hanged himself and then there were none.

Ten little Injuns standin' in a line, One toddled home and then there were nine; Nine little Injuns swingin' on a gate, One tumbled off and then there were eight. Refrain: One little, two little, three little, four little, five little Injuns boys, Six little, seven little, eight little, nine little, ten little Injuns boys. Eight little Injuns gayest under heav'n, One went to sleep and then there were seven; Seven little Injuns cutting up their tricks, One broke his neck and then there were six. Six little Injuns kickin' all alive, One kick'd the bucket and then there were five; Five little Injuns on a cellar door, One tumbled in and then there were four. Four little Injuns up on a spree, One he got fuddled and then there were three; Three little Injuns out in a canoe, One tumbled overboard and then there were two. Two little Injuns foolin' with a gun, One shot t'other and then there was one; One little Injun livin' all alone, He got married and then there were none.

ref: Wiki

Many versions of this murder mystery story have been out in many languages, in newspaper serials, books, plays, movies and miniseries. Essentially, eight guests are invited to spend the weekend on a secluded island by unknown hosts, Mr and Mrs Owen. The invitees (a mix of retired army men, surgeon, aristocrat, teacher, governess, judge) and the two helpers have a dark history behind their regular appearance. Their misdoings are announced, and slowly one by one, they drop dead like flies. Fear mounts as each suspects the other as the murderer, and the guessing game starts of who the next victim could be.

I had the chance to watch the 1945 movie version and this 2015 BBC miniseries version. The 1945 one, as the whole story had to be rushed through one and a half hour duration, it failed to create depth in its storytelling. I enjoyed the 2015 one as it shows through various flashbacks what mistake each character had done wrong in their lifetime. There is a kind of moral dilemma whether what they did was wrong or justified. There was also a Tamil version of this story - 1967 Athey Kangal done in Eastman colour. If the BBC version excelled in storytelling and characterisation, the Tamil version made up in terms of pleasing eye-catching costumes and the ear-worm inducing songs and dances that have lingered in Tamil moviegoers minds all this while.

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The Roost

https://mybukz.tumblr.com/post/175292906152/poem-the-roost-by-farouk-gulsara

Credit: FB group: Rawthers

Penang circa mid-1960 

There was once a time, a few years ago, there was a spate when many of my relatives had given up on their motherland, turned their back on Malaysia and started looking around for greener pastures. I wondered how Mother Malaysia would feel to see one by one, her children, after years of nurturing them, after growing so big and strong, feel compelled to fly away from their roost. Like a proud mother seeing her kids having a mind of their own, she must be immersed in a kind of bitter-sweet feeling.


Like a flight of swallows,
you came all stocks and barrels,
from Swatow,
from Coimbatore,
Looking for a peace of mind,
you scaled the high seas and brine.

You were hungry, I fed your soul,
you had shivers, I showed you warmth.
you were homeless, I gave you home.
you were stateless, I was your hope.

Under the yellow umbrella,
and a piece of cloth,
you had dignity, camaraderie, integrity.
a history, a legacy,
an emblem, an anthem.
The colours to spill your crimson.

Now that you have wings,
you can expand your span,
once an ugly duckling,
majestically now a swan,
I remain your dodo,
Flightless, lifeless, brainless, valueless,
And cared less.

I am not up to your mark
not up to your spark,
no path to walk.
you want to fly,
to reach high up in the sky.
you peacocked to new horizons,
no future, you cite as reasons,
you curse me, you betray me
still, I don't call it treason.

A summer love, a puppy love,
the morning after, the hangover,
a one night stand,
a nightmare to be got over?

I have my desires too,
To progress like the red dot,
And shine like the rising sun too.
Not just a chicken feed to the rot.
I stay regal, guarding,
patient, majestic,
hawking over the nest
providing a haven for the crows and the rest.

-FG-

 https://asok22.wixsite.com/real-lesson 

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

Ageing with Grace

https://mybukz.tumblr.com/post/174902329732/poem-aging-with-grace-by-farouk-gulsa

JUNE 15TH, 2018

WINGSWORLDWEB 

Poem: Aging With Grace by Farouk Gulsara

Photo by Pranav Jain on Unsplash

Ageing with Grace

My mane, my crowning glory,

Once my pride, my joy,

Is now but just a silvery tuft.

My dimples, my charm,

Have lost their twinkle, now just wrinkles.

My charming Bella Donna eyes,

Cataractic, xanthomatous, have lost their glaze.

My neck, so nimble, so supple once,

Now only arthritic, sprouts crackles.

My breasts sprout proud once,

Parturient, now sag, atrophy. The curtain bows.

My female chest so majestic once,

Now left kyphotic and osteoporotic.

My midriff navel tease, sari for cover,

Left now with striae, protuberant and scarred over.

My posterior, an asset, my pride,

Adipose now deposited on both sides.

The thigh, the thunder,

Is flabby without tone, none to wonder.

The feet used to be so petit.

Now their shoes fit Big Foot.

They say it’s worth the goal,

To see one in your own mould,

To deliver, to nurture,

Two seeds for the future.

I shudder, I wonder,

Is it just me, I ponder?

My mind is no more mine,

Which I lost, rearing my kind.

Oh, those lost years,

Now in old folks home. I hold my tears.

My sacrifice, my parenting,

Are they just a passing?

For my benefaction of my gene pool,

I gave my health, my youth, no exception.

Joy and reason of living

Are seeing your offspring growing.

With pride I completed my Dharma,

Hope to escape the cycle of karma. 

FG.

 https://asok22.wixsite.com/real-lesson 

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

Their Kryptonite!

Still on the topic of conforming to the status quo...

It is everyone's nature for wanting tranquility and sanity to prevail at all times, that life goes on almost on a flatline without too many undulations and surprises. Everyone has their life plans carved out nicely, and that everything goes on by per schedule, on the dot. In other words, we like to move along with time like automatons, without willpower as if everything is predetermined and preplanned.
Deep inside all of us, there is a desire to scream out, to throw everything away and scream our lungs out. But societal pressures and our wanting to conform to the rest restrain us.

There is a constant battle within us, all the time, always wanting to do the right thing, to follow the Truth. But what is the right way and what it the real truth? Is there a single truth or layers of truthfulness? Who determines what is right anyway? Nobody can tell us that, but help is on the way. There are people amongst us who can do just that. They can make us think out of the box, conjure up conspiracy theories, bring us into an utopic future of milk and honey, break barrier and shackles and occasionally laugh at ourselves.

These are the artistic people of performing arts, literary stuff, painters, poets, writers, storytellers and even cartoonists. They hold a special place in society and keep the unique weapon which is mightier than the sword. In their hands, like a Hindu godhead with an arson of weapons of mass destruction, they carry the tool -the pen that can stimulate the minds of the masses to raise the sickle and hoe against the brutality of the regimes that misplaced their trusts or overstayed their welcome.

No wonder the powers that be take a hostile stance against creative thinkers and those who have developed their non-dominant hemisphere of their brains! They like conformists, not smart alecs!

Journey

Life is but a cycle, 
a circle, 
And a circle, 
has no beginning 
and no end. 
So, when does life really start?
Isn't it a continuum?
No beginning, no end?
Just to flower, to wither,
to willow, to fade,
to germinate, to bloom.
Yet again.

Her poem lives

Black Butterflies (2011)

I do not understand why and how some individuals from very debilitating backgrounds overcome their dark pasts whereas others are forever bogged in their misfortunes. Whilst the former come out stronger, resilient to whatever challenges that lie their way, the latter cringe and shrivel up carrying the baggage throughout life. Nietzsche said that the one which does not kill you makes you stronger. However, a group of people just throw in the towel at the first hint of difficulty.

When Nelson Mandela opened the first session of the post-apartheid parliament, he read a poem about the struggle of the blacks during the apartheid era. It was written by an Afrikaner, Ingrid Jonker, a fragile poet who endured a life full of challenges. Living with her grandmother after her parents separated, Ingrid and her sister were grudgingly taken back by her father after her mother committed suicide and her grandmother succumbed to illness.

Growing up with her father was no bed of roses. An orthodox man of political standing, he never approved Ingrid's carefree lifestyle and her separation from her first husband. Staying with her father with her young daughter, Simone, she falls in love with a famous author. Looking for that elusive love that she never found throughout her life, she became a clingy lover to a man who was not ready to depart from his wife and family. The film shows her obsession with writing poems, her drinking problem, her histrionic personality, her attempts at suicide, her international fame for her poems, her second failed affair, her institutionalisation, electroconvulsive therapy and the subsequent loss in creativity and eventual death by suicide.

Perhaps, the logical mind which is more cut-and-dry fails to see the soft nuances and the gentle side of things in life that only a sensitive soul can appreciate. The logical mind sees things quite differently from a creative mind. One can see, look, gaze, watch, observe, perceive, recognise and comprehend or simply stare through something!

Ingrid Jonker
[17.9.1933 - 19.7.1965]

The child is not dead
The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart
The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride
The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain
The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa
the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a pass

The child who was shot dead by soldiers at Nyanga
Nelson Mandela read this poem in the original Afrikaans, during his address at the opening of the first democratic parliament on May 24, 1994. © by owner.

Aging with Grace...

Look at me,

My mane my crowning glory,

Is wiry silvery tufty.

The charm the dimple,

Has lost its wrinkle, no twinkle.

The eyes which sparkled,

Is cataractic and arched.

The neck so supple,

Used to be so nimble.

The breasts so springy and proud,

Shows its parturient sag.

The female chest so proud,

Kyphotic and osteoporotic.

The naval midriff to exhibit,

Left with striae, protuberant and scarred over. 

Posterior an asset to pride,

Is adiposed with deposition by the side. 

The thigh the thunder,

Is flabby without tone no wonder. 

The feet so petit,

Shoe size big fit.

They say it’s worth it,

To see one in your own mould.

To share, to care,

I shudder to disagree.

My mind is no more mind,

As I lost in rearing my kind. 
Tme has not been kind

As I count my time,

In the old folks home.

Just look at me!-- 

FG.