Of High Roads and Haibun
I had been fascinated by haiku poetry for a very long time and would often put down a few lines to sum up my thoughts or feelings. For the uninitiated, Haiku is a short, three line poem where the first line has five syllables, the second has seven and the last, five again. It is a Japanese literary form that is used to convey a feeling, an emotion, an experience subtly and to leave the reader to mull over what the deeper meaning could be.
Haiku sort of grows on you. Like a fix, you want to read more and more of the poems to piece together the almost disjointed words into a meaningful picture, to ruminate on it, and then, in a moment of epiphany, get what the poet wanted to convey. Being an ardent traveller, I began to pen haiku to capture moments in different parts of the world I visited.
And then I discovered Haibun. The big brother of Haiku. So beautifully tailored for travel writing, Haibun combines prose with poetry, or rather, glides like wine from a stone decanter to sparkle in a crystal goblet. And as you swirl it around your mouth to release its flavours, it sorts of hits the spot.
That’s Haibun for you. A short description of a place, an event, a piece of history, that leads the mind into a Haiku poem that makes you imagine, makes you think. To quote a literary text: ‘haibun … a recollection of a journey composed of a prose piece and ending with a meaningful murmur of sorts: a haiku.’
Here are some random Haibun pieces I wrote over the years.
Kedarnath in Uttrakhand….
Sitting atop a mountain, framed by snowy peaks and flanked by the Mandakini snaking down between the slopes, the Kedarnath temple is almost as remote as the Lord Himself was when he sat in meditation. The river looks so gentle now, so calm. Inside the temple, it is dark and the walls and floor thick with smoked ghee. A gargantuan rock, apparently rolled here from the river by Adi Sankaracharya in the 6th century, sits in the centre of the sanctum sanctorum and the priest points out the trunk of a Ganesha, the curve of a Parvati and the peak of a Shivling to you on its uneven surface. The air vibrates with the prayers chanted over centuries. When the Great Flood had come down the mountains, we are told, a huge rock hurtled down towards the temple but got stuck on the slope behind it, causing the flood waters to part and gush away on both sides, thus saving the temple.
We walk the sixteen kilometers down, lightheaded by the altitude and the experience. Most of the mules that pass us carrying pilgrims to and from the holy Hindu shrine are pulled by young Muslim boys. Humbled.
Gods sit on high ground
laundering souls in the river
Sins flood towns away
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
My second impression of Rio was that it was cut out of a picture postcard and pasted onto the undulating coastline and mountains behind. A shock of blues and whites: blue sky, white skyline, blue ocean, white beaches. And two promontories, one on the hill, Corcovado peak, from where Christ the Redeemer looks down to bless the sinners, and the other, Sugar Loaf mountain in the Guanabara Bay. They say this was the first sight of Brazil for the Portuguese explorers who came across the Atlantic in the 16th century.
My first impression happened on the flight into Brazil. Big noisy families shouting across the aisle to each other, children jumping on seats and passengers jostling in lines was oh so familiar. I knew that thousands of miles apart, the Brazilians and we were not very different!
Rio is masterly sand art on beaches, foot tapping Latin music and dance shows at night. We loved Rio. And the favelas we had heard so much about, they were shanty towns covering hill slopes, the tin roofs glinting in the sun, audaciously, defiantly. Like our very own Dharavis, these are humming beehives of not just the underworld elements, but vibrant business and commerce too. As I said, human nature doesn’t change, no matter which hemisphere we live in nor which half of the world, east or west….
Rising from the sea
Aroused by the sight of ships
And their lusty cries
Madrid, Spain
In Madrid, our first stop in Spain, I was seized with a morbid curiosity to witness a bullfight. Asking around, we came to know Madrid was at that time one of the few cities that still allowed bullfighting. Activists had closed down most of the rings around the country. On our tours of the city, we passed the granite gateways of medieval bullfighting arenas and I would crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the amphitheatre style ring being prepared for the evening shows. Finally I decided to satisfy my curiosity and slipped into one of the entrances when the guard was distracted.
Within, it was a huge circular game arena, like the Roman Colosseuem. The high stone walls all around had low cut entrances separate ones for the bulls and the matadors. The central area was heavily cordoned off from the spectator benches. I walked around, and in my mind I was seeing a fight in action. The arching neck of the animal as it scratched the thick sawdust covered ground, the toss of its massive horns, the bellow of rage as it sighted the reedy figure of the matador in reds and yellows. As the sport progressed, there would be more red on the bull, on the ground, on the matador…and the bellows would rise from the stands…
I shuddered and left, my mind seething with impotent anger. Medieval sports were unbelievably cruel. They had no right to still exist in a world enlightened and empowered with knowledge.
I would rather have a raging bull on my fridge door.
Released from the ring
They rage through the market place
Red, black, blue, no gore
Philippines
Hundred islands! Look down, said the young pilot of the Cessna single engine plane that hovered like a pesky mosquito over the waters of the Subic Bay. Looking down, I saw green clumps all over the waters, some islands just rocky outcrops shadowed with moss from being constantly lapped by waves. The plane skimmed dangerously low over the sea till I feared for our safety, and then rose again, its tiny engine humming joyfully.
But Philippines is more than just a hundred islands. It is over seven thousand islands of the most stunning topography. Hills and valleys and forests and beaches, almost untouched but for the small areas of a few islands that have been urbanized.
In Manila, the capital, we saw young girls and boys in the latest fashions holding rock concerts along the piers every evening where people turned up in droves for the music and the eateries. Modern malls and restaurants peppered the city. And on the sleazy side, a horse drawn cart ride to the Old City landed us in a dark quiet street and nearly into trouble! Unemployment and poverty has driven all the young women into plush homes across the world, leaving their children with old parents. The menfolk left behind, have taken to drugs and street crime.
It is not just the dormant volcano Pinatubo that simmers quietly nearby, waters boiling in its bowl.
Cluster of jade beads
floating in the frothing sea
fires, anger seethe beneath