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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Arabian Frights part1

Tell you what. I’ll dance and then you dance and then we can eat some Chinese. After that we will dance hand in hand. Or arm in arm. With cheek to cheek.
But then whatever will happen of undying love and everlasting promises? Those too. In good measure. Not now. Now we dance.
Shake those hips cha cha cha. Pout those lips waah waah waah. Not too fast now and mind don’t step on my feet. When you twirl me around I can see the shadows. They flit past me in an unhurried semblence of order. In their half mist they capture our memories. Each shadow a personal camera. Each twirl a recording sequence. Stop now. Enough with the round and around. Let me sit down. I must recollect. Examine my shadows as it may.
Do you want to know the story of my life? What will you do once you have devoured it whole? Let me tell you other stories. Of nature incoherent, of value incomplete, of circumstance callous. You would rather dance? But who will have you?
Listen


1.
V:Fallen as I am on hard times judge, you will please forgive if I sound wrong.
Judge: Proceed.
V:I sat on a chair very different from this one here. No leveraged blue cushioned plastic muffin, a real wooden rickety wicket with wobbly legs and a bolster that made you wince.
The Jester: Government Issue.
V:We were a private entity sir. No meddling and such things. Cutting costs maybe but that chair made sitting hard. Still it was a relic that one. I can still see it if I look hard enough
Judge: I am not quite sure. Private you say
Scribe who describes: It is of archaic time your honor. There existed elected groups of people who could hold entities in the name of a collective yet selective population for the good of that collective yet selective population. Apparently sir, these entities were run in the name of welfare. The word “private” was used to describe the other groups who ran things for money.
Judge: Obfuscation. I do not see the difference between the two. They were both groups you say. Welfare you talk about. And who selected what?
Scribe who describes: It involves countries sir. And minorities.
Judge: Country! The very word scares me. Well then. A Minority must be in some way related. Next you shall be bringing up Religion. Quite boring all this. Let us just get on with the matter at hand.
The Jester: God save us from the anarchists!
V:The chair was what drove me to resign. One fine day they come in and take it away. And the next thing I know we are each sitting separately in these little boxes. Like an unopened set of garden gnomes. Cubicles they called them.
Judge: We all sit in cubicles witness. It is most gratifying to have your personal space. Of course one cannot have too much personal space. Many a happy time have I spent in my cubicle secure in the thought that in the next cubicle, a person I do not know is uniformly happy. Still, since you have been away from the mainstream for so long.. You worked in what they called a “room” did you not? Tell me more about this - this “room.”
The Jester: The pompous ass. He shares his walls you know. They are not his. Still someday he might get a corner cubicle.
V:I ran away didn’t I? But it wasn’t the room that drove me to it. The room was quite dandy. It had blue walls and I put myself up a photo picture of a beagle. I always liked that breed. And it had my easel in it of course. I was quite sentimental about that easel. Then that old man from accounts retired and they moved his desk to my room. I miss the desk, what with its panel woodgrain and brass knobs. Now no one came to take it back, so I gradually made it a part of my room. On one side I put my swan pen stand. It isn’t a real swan but somehow the feathers seemed quite authentic…and on the other corner I had my “I love NYC” coffee mug. Quite a find that one. I am still at a loss as to what NYC means. After extensive research I have come to the conclusion that at some time it musta been how they spelt nice and Oh! So many other bits and ends…
Judge: What a verbose person you are. But see here, it is to the room that I allude. Not these varied articles that you so impudently conspire to acquaint me with. What kind of geometric proportions did it have? Was it square or rectangular?
The Jester: Punch and Judy are they not? An odd couple for any era.
Scribe who describes: Maybe your honor should if he so wishes, get on to cross examination of a more pertinent nature.
Judge: I am quite capable of doing so I must assure all. Do you paint witness?
V:I paint. Rather I did used to paint.
Judge: What did you paint Witness?
V:This and that. All most harmless I assure you. There was some funny going ons though. Once I drew this face with the nose all inverted like and the eyes lost in what I assume were ‘is cheekbones. No hair either.
Scribe who describes: Picasso I believe sir. Lot number 57.
Judge: Still in storage then. Is that the one that caused all the controversy then? Not sure weather to tag it “heureux ‘d art “or “ triste ‘d art”. Most upsetting this amorphous nature.
V:What’s thi bout lort’s then?
Scribe who Describes: Earlier in this century it was decided in infinite wisdom to restore the art of painting. The pictures produced are to be placed in abandoned parking lots until they can be tagged and properly distributed. You cannot after all be allowed more than your fair share of happiness or sadness. In my opinion the whole exercise is a waste.
The Jester: He has opinions. That’s very disturbing.


I will continue.
Hopefully
Also "bob" was quite uninspiring. But i will continue that too
inbetween.
Note: There are no spelling errors in the above piece. Supposedly tis intentional.

Bob

Once there was a lamppost. It stood on an elevated cement slab and took pride in the fact that it had been inaugurated by none other than the daughter in law of the first nephew of the current minister of fertilizers. It was the seventeenth lamppost on the sidewalk by the side of Filibuster street and a honorable member of the Society of Mute Artistic Laudable Luminations. (SMALL).
There exists a trend wherein young scallywags and the simpering objects of their desire tend to address each other in sweet nothings. By way of example, young Sallie May might tenderly appoint for ever after the non sequitur “Lumpkins” for her slightly overeager trailing plankton, who otherwise goes by the partly Christian title of Jacob Smittengodamn. Following such tradition, we might as well for the rest of our sordid tale refer to lamppost seventeen as “Bob.”
Those of us born under nascent stars have long since forgotten the grand and tremulous history of SMALL. It was instituted and christened by none other than that very ancient flame ‘Streetlight “Gus” the Fust(OH OH one). According to lamp post lore, Streetlight singlelightedly stopped Jack the Ripper.
(NOTE: Jack the Ripper is a common ‘Moronic Audible Nonluminates’ (MAN) mythical figure. Indeed Jack the Ripper might have been more than one MAN but this has never been conclusively proven. What has been establised to a degree is that Gus did indeed illuminate a part of the Whitechapel area where the unsolved MAN murders took place. According to modern accepted accounts of this legend, Gus blinded Jack the Ripper and by subtle interplay of his burning fires brought the infamous murderer to his knees. He thus heroically saved Nellydora Fitzgerald (Nubile Nelly) from the inglorious fate of being Jack’s sixth prostitute victim. However due to the sheer incompetence of a slow bumbling London Constable the ripper made good his escape. Whatever remains of Gus, has been preserved as a loving family heirloom by the Fitzgeralds. The current-a Miss Filomena Fitzgerald (Fertile Filly) is running for the post of the Mayor of New York City. According to other Luminate Legends however, Gus might have blinded not Jack the Ripper but Jill the Stripper. This account suggests that Gus produced uncontrollable incandescent bursts due to the sheer excitement of seeing Jill and Nellydora engage in a particular type of semi erotic foreplay. These opposing views have caused the long acrimonious divide of SMALL into two factions- the “Gussers” and the “Guessers”.)


THIS STORY WILL BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT POSTING….