Saturday, 24 January 2009

The aesthetic of violence...

....otherwise known as waxing.

Moving to other things, henna smells like saal leaves.

Now I will share a really shocking story. I could, if less magnanimous, had listed it as a bad secret. Bad Secret. This aunt of mine was embroiled in an absolutely useless love affair instead of studying. So she was betrayed by the dubious individual she had a tendre for. Following which, plunged in utter gloom and despair, she started tearing off all hair(and she had much)... taking thus literally the proverbial sayings involving tearing hair by roots etc. Then because of her utter failure in both academia and love and looks(she had only clumps of hair left) , she was condemned by her family though not left to die.

Then came a good samaritan in the guise of my mother who asked her to coat her scalpwith leaves of efficacious indigenous plants going by the name of mehndi and keshut. Volia!Within a few months she had hair. And a husband, for her marriage was fixed elsewhere. Which shows that the next time you disbelieve hairsay, you should be banned, chopped and garnished.

I was thinking of this unique piece of abuse the other day.

Sample khisti: With the ghee of your penis, you penis, will we make halwa of your testicles.

Saturday, 17 January 2009

My hair smells lovely today.

Sooner or later the grand finale comes, except it's not so grand. At times I wish I could churn out some desperate prose characterized by a gritty realistic fervour, you know like an arsehole tossing out gags with every fart, such that the funny sounds have a distinct smell of their own.
Or am I not making sense?
That is to say, why must I cry at every juncture these days? What the effing fuck does that even mean? *weep weep* *sob sob* *sniff* *howl howl* (not *howl howl howl* just *howl howl* which takes away that shakespeherian touch, but ah well...)
I am really disgusted with myself. Reading Elizabeth Gaskell's Ruth, maudlin Victorian sentimentality but yes powerful, watching the cruel American parable (or rather Afro-American parable) Madagascar 2, thinking about love and the complementary process(or is it far more complex, only I am too stupid to comprehend it?) called Jazz.
I have been reading Existential philosophy/literature/ associated/ ideas like tragedy of late. Is that it? Or has it always been like this? Or are we all like this? Only I am idiotic enough to succumb to this wretched temptation?
This glorious sensation below the skin... my nerves writhe and wriggle waiting to erupt, a physical epiphany of perverse pain mingled pleasure, the red and white, the red and black, the red and scarlet...the individual within and against, the individual and his cat, the individual as cat, the cat without the grin metamorphosing into a grin without the cat!
It is, as Henry James so pointedly said, an awkward age. Awkward. Age. It's been an age and it has been awkward, for the disenchantment co-exists with every minute of enchantment, and my bowels never work well and I always feel like potty, and I do love despite the awkwardness, gauche ahona, ahona gateaux, yum!yum! (What was I saying again?)

I am not sure, but with every passing day I am arriving at a conclusion. It is impossible to say what exactly I mean. But that has happened a century before. So what's new?

My hair smells lovely today.

Friday, 9 January 2009

Just a post.

Once upon a time there was a lyre called Liar. This is the story of Liar. Liar went away, but never completely. She lurks there, her strings bent, broken and out of tune. Sometimes she weeps, and when she weeps it sounds soft and sad, like music. But she would ask you not to harp on that.

Liars or lyres, Sisyphus or Samson, roses or white lilies; how does it matter? That white flower that I saw that day was the flower of death, she smelt strange like death, she tasted stranger (than death) for you see I had chewed her (white) petals. But when I spat her out she was red- dead, like a dead rose.

That was when I cried a little bit, the littlest bit, for there was no escape- the white was forever red. It reminded me of my childhood. Of Alice in Wonderland who met two queens. And don't think there was escaping either, for they worked a bit like dialectic. Except that viciously pretentious word takes away almost all the charm. Like the way a chocolate biscuit makes you forget the taste of coffee for a little bit. Are you crying for me? Are you?

Of course you're not. The absurd brings tears only when it ends in a dashing finale. The best love is unrequited love; the sweetest sorrow is parting. The perverse has a beauty that the straightforward can never have.

There was a phrase I coined once. The "candid dead"... it was in a poem I once wrote... "the candid dead"...the music almost seems questioning now. An awkward but effective interrogation. Not quite harsh, but so awfully cruel. The cruelty not only of candour, but one that arises out of thwarted desire. No, not quite that.

Beauty. that's