1.3

If I realize I am at rest I will pen a wisp of awkwardness.
To be here and stable is a journey in itself.
If I pass through the rarified doors to inner sanctums of apprehension
I will miss disorders of nature divorced elsewhere

Then let me traverse retraceable motion and go forth
My absence will account for its self importance
So that sudden changes of perspective
Can be pardoned to represent the natural course of a day

Might not furrows and ridges and other distinctions below my feet
Trace mutable paths that undulate reprehensibly
To prevent my fall from innocence would require
A tilt towards heavenly retribution and the open limits

It is insanity to affect an overload of sight through distinct sensations
I will impose around each a blatant boundary
For each little segregation will attract me equally
And I will despair at acting a perennial outlier

If my gaze could collate yet not collide each frame
A stasis would mould itself to blurring motion
But I insist on looking upon action in isolation
It is because I am slow to differ between apparent and self

Then I perceive that the objects of my attention
Could impose biases if aware of my observations
A bush blooms by the side of my transgression
If I blush in its thickets I am merely ornamental

Might an aberration underline the palatable mainstream
Or are my subjects swaying in currents of random misanthropist
Am I disillusionment are they a simple justifiable
I feel big or small but not a natural balance in comparison

It is such potent carnival that swallows separate agnostics
Until gyrating and screeching in throes of a vertiginous mundane
They maintain health, wealth, wise and whelp
But lack an animosity to reason and an antipathy to remorse

If I stay, there will be a flash, rustles and faraway chants, a sidewise glance
I will be seduced by the interminable passage to attraction
Of an understanding acquired on the fringe of all that matters
Will I find myself unequal member of a faceless congregation


Then I can persevere, but to break free from a miasma
That swirls beyond the upper reaches of my stretching fingertips
For I do not want to be within instead of without
Realizing a stray wisp is saner than listening to conversation in Babel

Bombay 27/11

 

 

An article in NYT says-":this is not India's 9/11." With all due respect to that particular event, nobody is in the mood for a comparative analysis. It further goes on to say that this event is homegrown and a reaction to discrimination against the islamic population in India.

 

We have lived in relative secular harmony for the last 500 years. I can personally say that young indians do not consider religion to be an important part of a person's identity. Events such as these however throw into disarray our shared secular beliefs and traditions of cultural tolerance.

 

As part of the world's largest democracy I have often argued against fundamentalism, defended the right of a minority population to have a voice larger than its collective sum and reveled in the notion of a "Mr nice guy" India. This blatant cowardly act of mass murder begs me to ask myself - "are my beliefs and values a cosmopolitan blunder?"

 

AS I sit at home watching horrible scenes enfold on my television screen, as commando units overrun my evening coffee destinations and monuments that have defined my city burn I feel helpless, vulnerable and horribly disenchanted.

 

I don't know when this situation will finally be brought under control. I don't know what will happen after, though I harbor a sneaking suspicion that this day wil be forgotten just like so many others before in a country where human life holds no value.

 

How many of us have sat in elegant living rooms and argued passionately about state corruption, condemned 'reactionary' measures and stylishly stated that "we love our neighbors."? Today it seems like empty rhetoric as the policemen we condemn for bribe taking die by the dozen, the army that is sent to jail to build vote banks act as human shields and our "neighbors" train 'jihadists' to spill the blood of innocents.

 

After this is all over we will get on with our lives. Trains will run, people will go back to work and high powered deals will be struck in the hotel by the bay. But for a generation reared on ideals of democracy, secularism and brotherhood, a generation that might be the last bastion of normalcy on an increasingly polarized globe the world might never be the same

Interlude.

This is not the classic palate cleansing interlude. It is a tangy note to self opened to public display. All posts on either side of this divide are INCOMPLETE. They are meant to be that way. When i wake up one morning and discover all the mush I have written up while punch drunk including this rather tasteless INCOMPLETE clause I shall probably gargle twice and attempt to finish a post. DO NOT. Leave them half eaten. 

( ,' )

Imagine a clock. As sharp as a prism. Time comes in. It is split. Seven different "nows" are born. They come of age in an instant, for an instant is all they get before the next tick tock.

The time on the Right ( of the time elsewhere?) is fairly important. Let us label it. Call her Judy. Judy is hard to resist and impossible to pin down. A real lady. She wafts as she spreads. There are sharp rumors of her in nooks and crannies. 

But Judy will not bear ill-repute. There are places where try as she may she does not fit. These are the Anachronia. Over anachronia she merely floats.

Asleem is a good man. He sleeps. He is awoken, by the twin 'avataars' of urgency and insecurity. He dons his commercial uniform. Peter England and checked. (Yes). Gray trousers from Raymond. (Yes). The watch passed down, lost and finally recovered form Timex Corp U.S.I(ndia) (Yes).  Sensible shoes brown, scrubbed at the toe worn at the heel (yet how he wishes that they display pizzazz!). (Yes). And the belt. (Oh the belt!). Without the "belt" there is no respect. But a buckle a moment he puts on his straight jacket. Pushing the spoke through weathered orifice and he is ready. Then it is only the commute.

Opens the door. Out and then the twirl around. Brow knitted in concentration. A key fumbled for in the right place. (Always!). Left pocket of current gray trouser. Still acutely aware, the half twist. Stuck. But that is the usual. More pressure applied, probably the pascal needed. Just so and it turns. One two three- That is what it takes! Homage payed to the obsequious Godrej lock he continues onward.

Staircase one step at a time like hopscotch on two legs. Down the darkened passage past abandoned electrical boxes. Wires fall like medusa hair from cracked junction boxes. Blue green Red yellow. Wires that emote. a jumble of emotiwires. Past them and into the daylight. It is now nine 'o' clock. (cheep cheep.)

Up/Down the street then 'Maharishsi Marg' bifurcated by mud and mayhem. Past 'Ghankar Wines' (sniff sniff and middle class outrage). Past Ramakant's depot ( SIM cards JUGAADOO and more..). A quick glance toward Joe' Costa's stationery shop ( pilot pen and aakanksha copybook) and then left onto 'Manoj Palekar' street and he reaches 'Auto' stand. 

"Twe(n)ty, thi(r)ty, fo(r)ty rupis?  . Twety ate? Okay." (Always twety ate never mo(r)e never les(s)). And we are off to far and beyond. Little pot belly goes a wiggly jiggly, mind maps the 'Gayatri mantra', arms akimbo like Marlboro cowboy, state of trance, state of right, state of solitude (and all that!). Twe(n != necessary)ty minutes. (Yes). And then a workplace.

Judy observes floatingly. Rumbling and rambunctious, calmly and charismatically comes a voice. - " Asleem is dimensions of anachronia. ( I-ta-liks != necessary anymore). And I love him so."

So?

Remember what the dormouse said

A first Indian(AFI): Would you like your food ?
Some second Indian(SSI) : No Maa.
AFI : It's hot right now. And I just made the 'roti'. What use is it eating later? Ive got you your plate. See. Just the way you like it. Eat now no.
SSI: Don,t force
AFI: 'Arre',later it will get cold. Its not healthy
SSI: In other countries they have specifically cold meals. In fact, come to think of it, i prefer my meals cold.
AFI: Ya Ya. I have also heard of ice cream. But this is not ice cream no? Also, all that ice cream they eat, they are continuously getting cold from the heart. See all these divorces they have. All because their hearts are getting cold.
SSI: Look. I promise you i will eat my food okay ! Just..not now.
AFI : What are you upset about?
SSI : When did i say i am upset?
AFI : It's 'Her" isn't it?
SSI: She has a name Ma. Why can't you say "Ind..."
AFI : Did she leave you again? Why do you still care? That's why i say all this love affair business only good in movies.
SSI : She will come back. I Believe in her. I have spent my life with her. She is part of me. She will come back
AFI : All this ! It has gone to her head. No one is coming back Beta. She has forgotten. Old Struggles are forgotten in times of plenty.In my time it was different. Commitments we made. Now all this modern thinking..
SSI: No Ma. I wanted her to change. To evolve. That is good. For me it is fine. I have been brought up differently. I can live on unadulterated unwavering belief. But she is a golden bird. She must fly. She must change. She is a child of chance. It is why we fell in love..
AFI: I warned you. The first time she left you. And I saw everything. The squabbles, the partings that broke your heart. It was a fractured love then. She stabbed you in the heart. Killed you. Over and Over she killed you. "Hai!"
SSI: Arre! I am here am i not? There is no need to be so dramatic. Anyway, it does not concern you.
AFI: Oh that i had to live to see this day. My own son! You are not mine? Is she not mine? We are her past you and me. How can you exclude me like this? So what if it was your great love affair? Did i not care? Do i not care now? I love her too. But she betrays you. She betrays us. She forgets her ideals. Her vows. (Starts to cry..)
SSI: (Smiles) You always had a flair for the dramatic Ma! You know..when we feel in love she was like that too. An actress. That was what she was.
AFI: Maybe.. Maybe she is acting now.
SSI: But where is her actor mother? Where is her hero? Without a hero she will fall. Her virtues will be twisted, her beauty molested. Still, i have hope...
AFI : (absentmindedly)Your food is getting cold.
SSI: Yes...

The TV screen flickers of its own accord. Bad for my eyes. I must change the channel. "click". Oh! Its a news channel. I am fixated by the anchor. Perfectly shaped breasts that know today's stock prices, Luscious lips that whisper sweet nothings about riots and the occasional murder, Seductive eyes that draw me into the vagrant follies of the Indian cricket team...I turn the volume up.

"....Rajghat today. On the heels of the Godhra incident, a guard patrolling Bapuji's samadhi claims to have heard voices emanating from the monument. Our sources say that he heard two distinct voices male and female. Researchers of the paranormal have gathered in Rajghat and claim high levels of disturbance..can it be Bapuji talking to us from beyond the grave..opposition leaders...condemn...hoax..hindutva raj..

Im zoning out now. Fuck Gandhi, fuck rajghat, fuck godhra and id really like to fuck this news anchor...I drift off to sleep.

Jai Hind!

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