Wednesday, 20 June 2007

Death.

Death. A casual whisper, a jibe, a threat, an insult...all in a light vein.
How easily one utters the word without sparing a thought for the actual magnitude of the event.
And how suddenly it strikes without warning one stray morning...
Death.
Those who used to jeer at an abrupt ending, or any sort of ending, did so half heartedly. An ending is unpleasant.Because it's morning and the usual chaos continues unabated.
Death.This man introduced Mr.Eliot to me.Mr.Eliot, the banker and the poet.He also spoke of Sriman Shakti Chattopadhyay's spirit-ual habits.With equal ease he could speak of quarks and quirks, cliches and clerks, physics and IAS perks.
This man is dead.
Most people who knew him in his last days would say the genius of the man killed him.His lungs failed to work but he would chew his cigar with the same concentration and work on electromagnetic fields.His friends came to see him on weekends.His family was scattered -alienated by his terrible terrible behaviour.
He was brilliant.Brilliant in the old style sense of the word.Not the new fangled concept of superficial sheen but possessing a profound knowledge of all things.He had a few favourites-Wodehouse,Shakespeare, T.S.Eliot,Lewis Carroll and Einstein.Oh yes, and the Bible.He would quote lines from these often and quiz me.However, I was supposed to be doing physics and maths.He gave up on the Scientific Ahona soon enough.He called me a dhyaronsh,not in a derogatory manner but in a resigned and affectionate way.It was a pleasure to have been an erstwhile veggie I must say.
This man is dead.
He died of drink and nicotine.He grappled with demons.Existential demons.Also the system.This mediocre and corrupt system exhausted him.He was often wont to say Something is rotten in the State Of Denmark and also The tiger in the tiger pit/Is not more irritable than I.
Which is true but then again not.
Dear Arka Jethu, you cannot be dead.But you are.I know you are snorting and passing snide comments wherever you are and thinking that so many people you heartily disliked turned up to see you turn into ashes at Keoratala.And also how, with a terribly snide and subtle touch, the cynic is bid adieu with great solemnity at Keoratala.

Goodbye Jethu.Sorry for doodling and scribbling when you tried to make me understand the intricacies of the universe.
You didn't understand death either.You just said it wasn't an equation.

Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone
Man has created death.
(Yeats, yet another of his favourites)

Tuesday, 19 June 2007

Die, Die,Die.

As Mike Teevee, character out of Willy Wonka, once succinctly put it..."Die!Die!Die!"
I have a few questions to ask mankind in general...
1.Aunts aren't gentlemen but why aren't they human?
2.What is the lumbar region made of?Why does it hurt so?
3.Are all cousins terrors?What makes them yell like banshees without provocation?Do they all pinch for recreation?Why does my cousin pinch, yell and punch for pure sportive pleasure?
4.When I asked my cousin whether it was fair game to treat my stomach as punching bag she beamed and whispered "It's a fair sport..."
5.Why does my maid labour under the dismal delusion that that insipid pale shimmering liquid that makes me sob for my good strong black cuppa is tea?
6.Am I a latent Mike Teevee with hidden homicidal talents?
Latent= anagram of talent
7.Are Aunts reborn as Aunts i.e., to the same person?
8.Are Cousins reborn as Cousins or worse still Siblings i.e., to the same person?!!!
9.Is Lumbar Spondylosis a recurrent feature of Reincarnation?
10.If I yell Die!Die!Die! very loudly and very strongly and with a great deal of passion, will there be a holocaust?Even a miniature family version?

To all those who died at the hands of others
Fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers
Uncles, aunts, cousins and nieces
Along with those who rest in shattered pieces
May living man take note of what he's done
And not hand down this cruel streak to his daughter or his son.

Saturday, 16 June 2007

a stray mutter

Sometimes, just sometimes, I don't wish to write a Blog Post on an empty stomach.This is beacuse it invariably makes the post so...well hungry.Depressed.Typical and montonously so. The only word I can find for it is ekgheye.
Anyway this is a strange refection now.Now is the state of flux, that time of the (academic) year when there are finalities, and new beginnings.People one adores are leaving (and I write this on an empty stomach.Fortitude, thy name is Pun-da).Also may be a pretty rotten bunch are about to enter my life and since I hate gossip and trouble and messy kids and in general most people...ah well.
Also I wonder: why did the Corrs completely transit to Pop?I loved them at one point of time.The strains of that violin...ooh...and flute...Hmphh.It just shows.I just detest transition!Yes, well.I forgive them for Toss The Feathers, the sheer energy and verve of which can also transform.
There are many types of transformation.
BUT there is only one kind of curtain.
Yellow.
Maddening,annoying, peaceful, familiar, oxymoronic yellow.

Right.Anybody checked out the World View bookstore back at JOOD?The cat's whiskers I callit.Delicious!I just wished I wasn't so monetarily challenged when I entered.Also it would be nice if they placed a few seats here and there. Erm, ok.Yes.Next in line cha bar.

Tuesday, 12 June 2007

Admissions, and some other Nuggets of Nothingness.

Lightening. Ooooh.

Shall we pour our heart out for posterity’s sake, or should we go for dinner, as the gong resounds in ones stomach?
I think we should look natty, and wear interesting socks and headgear. After that I am all for some dinner, which should include mushrooms and cheese in whichever capacity they choose to be in.
So striped socks deserve mushrooms, you ask, and I nod my head. Why are we trying to be all confused? It is a most disagreeable state to be in, only surpassed by hunger, which, one might add, is also disgruntling and disgusting.
We all seem to be waiting for the Great Carnival coming up soon.

Headgear, hats, caps, bonnets and those events from Nepal (wink wink nudge nudge), also other debatable carnivalesque modes of defiance. I have been thinking (nudge wink again) and a question, a FAQ, pops into my head.
Food?
In these vast processions of mass mayhem, canine confusion (alright, alright), dastardly deeds, Herculean Henchmen, Polite but in much Pain Professors, and eager beaver parents with wayward wards who give every entrance examination under the sun, and are waiting for final medical lists in Universitus Obscurus, in all useless things we succeed (speaking all the while Lingua Northumbrian).
Yes, yes. We look dandy. It’s the candy. (Today liquor is not quicker)… but what if the dreaded Pangs Of Hunger strike while yelling at a parent who is busy mutilating Beloved Offspring’s Fellow Contenders or, BOFC. BOFCs are vile things and one must kill them. The most potent weapons in order of efficiency and potency;
1. Body Odour- position your arm so, and hear the thud, which potential BOFC standing next to you makes.
2. Elbow. Practice from a month before to make it hard and deadly. One strategic poke/dig and BOFC drifts to heaven without a staircase.
3. Umbrella- that staple of all I Shall Need To Wipe ANYBODY Out missions, BOFCS wouldn’t know what struck them. It can be camouflaged as a shield against the merciless June sun. Except your son would know whose Pop is the Merciless Weasel.
4. Bombs- plant bombs in toilets for BOFCs who will visit in the coming moments. Don’t worry. They all do, accompanied by their parents since the stress is killing and they forget how to urinate. Parents probably make hissing noises and cheer on bowel movements. It is a stress-relieving activity also for parents. It irritates the professors and makes the students wonder. The flipside is that we will all die.
5. Food- tempt the volunteers with food and make them your devoted slaves. They will bark for you, they will kill BOFCs for you. Poison a portion and offer that to BOFCs.

After every successful mission we will all dance, in utmost Carnivalesque fervour, to My Baby Does The Hanky Panky.

Now I am very hungry. So goodbye. Definitely more on this later.

Friday, 8 June 2007

Wee hours of morning mourning alone with the crows and the silence and the
Solitude.

Mourning for those extinguished each morning with memories wiped out with morning cuppa papa she says I want a horse to ride in metropolis from maidan to murshidabad where the nawabs stayed near a bend in the river giver she said give me my horse like banbury cross the lady who rode toed and ringed singed with the fire of unearthly desire to preserve memories in time rhyme metrically geometrically give me a horse hoarse with desire sire…

Daughter he said dead with the weight of hope elope he said wed in murshidabad some old time crook look at him bring him to book nook cranny granny he mentioned pensioned you thought well they forgot ask her the stories of maidan to murshidabad she too felt so many things rings on her toes nobody knows the bend in the river giver am I you think in a blink of the I …

Father she sighed bride eye cannot be me granny is dead last winter ma she said but you misheard bird you thought some other bird crows maybe nobody knows glows in the dark like memories she sees she told me all before she died cried that is why I ask for horse remorse for all the bends amends eye never saw raw regret we never met but now how it is time for some sublime…

Daughter he wailed failed am I then as son one whose mother is dead fed up son never heard bird song only raucous wails fails the crow I do not know mother is dead all the stories from maidan to murshidabad unheard untold old woman died pride all lost cost who will pay day after day tell me daughter slaughter the son questions answers who is to say…

Father she sings maidan to murshidabad move not in rings go get your things if I am old enough you can be bold enough let me go know that the future is to story preserve and try deserve the efforts to drink rather than sink the river giver all that it is I look at the bend I call it friend and it tells me what I should say day after day and I tell you father you too shall pray…


And maidan to murshidabad the people they say
Stories, our stories, their stories…
Day after day.

Wednesday, 6 June 2007

In dusty corners of old forgotten attics where memories and broken nostalgia mingle to hate our existence where we met many years ago when the dirt was less but still considerable where we made erotic gestures like batting eyelids and other things there I know you wait endlessly for me but I don’t have the courage to return…

In the cool riverside breeze of the last millennium with gothic pillars and white magnificence there I know you also wait for me to gaze at sinking horizons in the calm serenity of renewed vigour and youth for I know that the river is older than our love…

In the sublime snowscapes of old half-remembered dreams in which snowball fights decided the winner or loser of an unequal match where both parties wanted to make utter hatred in cozy log cabins and blue tinged green veined red cheeks looked like luscious apples…

In the myopic vision of many lost generations who believed that love was immortal splendid sad but did not know how to translate this and got married got disillusioned had children who also did the same whose initial grand visions ended in sordid divorce and they knew not the scope of true love…

In the universe of our many delusions only one thing do I know with certainty that I have loved and my love was true and so did you and we wait for eternity to end so that we can reunite for this bitter joy is what sustains us this never being together this eternal anticipation and constricted feeling at the same time liberating…

Thus ends the saga and thus begins it for in our end lies our beginning and we shall meet in those sepia attics and the whiteness until universal darkness shall engulf us in a different understanding
and still may we love…

Monday, 4 June 2007

When It's Almost Tuesday

When It's Almost Tuesday, Midnight.

Dearee Dooooo....
Midnight beckons with silver wings
Like all pretty witty things
Hot as Hortense, sad as sapphire
this weather is not what i desire
Come take me to Trollish Delights
Where we while away the nights
In fluorescent memories obscene
Vulgar in tone, colour green.
Come let us go to OceanBlue
where the fishies fishy you
And then in a little glen
We shall practise a little zen
Come take me to Viagra Falls
where the phone is immune to calls
the Dog, at least, so has decreed
Brood not, unless you Breed.