In 2007 there was an evening. An evening when I went to the Burning Ghat for the first time and saw my favourite jethu in the world turn into dust and ashes. I wanted to uncork champagne and spray it wildly for the hour that ticked by. The pungent smell of death vis-à-vis bubbles.
Could I ever quote Eliot again? Are we those who suffer the ecstasy of animals? Did I know what I was thinking? What do people think when it is sunset? Or was it early morning? Nevertheless, desolation. Like some cheerful fairy whose wings were cut off. Tinkerbell! Tinkerbell? A futile sort of emptiness and imagined music. The breeze was blowing most hard, that day in 2007. My father was crying, was that it? The strange but not jarring music?
Eloquence is often a misguided act. Literature is a sham. Coherence is a con-man. Articulation is a hoax. Dupe me not, stranger- and I shall regard thee all the more. Where is thy sickle, o fickle god of retribution? I only see the moon. It cannot be.
And then, ~The End~
Postscript- What is beauty, saith my sufferings, then?
If all the pens that ever poets held
Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts,
And every sweetness that inspir'd their hearts,
Their minds, and muses on admired themes;
If all the heavenly quintessence they still
From their immortal flowers of poesy,
Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive
The highest reaches of a human wit;
If these had made one poem's period,
And all combin'd in beauty's worthiness,
Yet should their hover in their restless heads
One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least,
Which into words no virtue can digest.
(from Marlowe's Tamburlaine)