Tuesday, 23 February 2010

trippy trip trippy

Going to Delhi and staying in a university where my father studied in the 70s. This is going to be odd, I always have a problem with history. Which is perhaps why he didn't encourage me to study it in the first place. To think this is where Baba did his thing when he was my age is bound to be a bit strange, especially because everyone thinks I look like a young him in jeans and sweater. The kaalo choshma, the short crop of unruly curls and the rather hostile smirk at people who oppose us.

Not to mention the total lack of regard for order, sobriety and reason. There is absolutely no method in our madness. Except he's lots cleverer than I am. And he is married to my mother- an achievement I can never hope to emulate. She is the most beautiful and clever and sensitive Leo that I have ever seen. Which reminds me- she got his goat, that rather wretched Capricorn that he is.

So I'm going to Delhi tomorrow and staying where he stayed 35 years back and wondering whether the quirkiness of time will kill me when I go to England in summer, for that will remind me of the summer 22 and more years back when I was conceived. The product of the marriage between two earnest young scholars who had to wait 7 years before bringing me into it without the hope of a sibling-before or after.

I don't think I want to do a serious PhD after all.

Sunday, 21 February 2010


I looked at my room today and thanked God that I have been given a home. My lamp, made of bits and pieces of coloured glass, looks like fragments of divine feeling. I know that sounds absurd but is not, if you knew my lamp. I am happy to be alive and in a pretty room. Therefore I am not an atheist, never was and never will be.

Friday, 19 February 2010


I have often wondered whether one lives in this world when one is extremely fatigued. It almost feels like a parallel universe, this world of infinite weariness. At such times I wish to be 10 again and feel that certain nonchalance. I remember Turner Classic Movies (or TNT as it was known then) and extended dinner and extended dessert and then finally a cozy bed with a cozy lamp and a shrug of the shoulders before a dreamless and relaxing sleep.

Yet- I forget to mention the bedtime book- that haven of endless peace in which one immersed oneself before that dreamless sleep. Such comfort, such beauty. Where do they go, I wonder, these innocent days? Slowly disappearing into a sepia past, the contours fading into a web of relentless time... Time, our eternal enemy, bites into our black and white photographs leaving a trail of red. Our blood that slowly coagulates into rust and disappears into the ether altogether.

When extreme fatigue strikes me, I look into my fridge for chocolate. Such it has always been. Such it will always be. But today my fridge seems to be containing only the humble pumpkin, that hideous bumpkin. Seldom have I hated kumro so much, as today.

No chocolate. I am so tired.

Monday, 15 February 2010


Maybe this is what constitutes happiness.
That's it.Or

"I shall take the world by storm.
And make myself the norm."

Saturday, 6 February 2010

~Almost-idea; in search of finis~

1.Nobody reads my stories anymore, possibly because I don't write stories anymore. Stories cannot be incoherent and disconnected fragments. Neither can people be reduced to merely story or anecdote. I am not trying to be profound here, it's just that something is puzzling me. Something elusive and intangible...let's call it the almost-idea. Now that brings us to question of what an idea is in the first place- that which is in the mind at the moment of conception maybe, a fundamental ontological category of being? So is there something in the mind before conception?For that (even though we shall inevitably resort to reductio ad absurdum) I shall use....

2.Hypothesis. Every hypothesis is ultimately not-quite-true and resides in this horrid liminal zone, caught between truth and untruth. That devastating word perhaps qualifies a hypothesis just as it colours every poem that a poet writes. This "perhaps"-the whiff of the counterfactual-is what makes life worth living, whether you choose a scientific method or a poetic path.

3.Poets are charming idiots. Every poet is a charming idiot, except Rabindranath, Shakespeare, Chaucer and I don't know enough about Milton. Eliot is an idiot because I think he should have written at least one novel. Don't ask me why, just. And don't call me presumptuous/audacious. I will give you a turd made from curdled uhhhh...curd?

4. And since we speak of Eliot, is it time to speak of time? Or do we not have time?
Q: Why are you reading this?
Likely A: To kill time.
So it is obvious that you have some time to spare if you are killing it so mercilessly in the first place. (This entire section is an allusion to our dear friend Alice who once dreamed an entire book and then her author turned it into a complex mathematical conundrum, but why do we digress? Suppose you ate her cat Dinah for dinner....actually let's not suppose this horrible pun. Let's not suppose anything at all...let's start tabula rasa...)

5. Memory. Which always succeeds time. And again. Our minds are never a clean slate. The earliest memory I have is jumbled up with a couple of other memories and any one might have preceded the other. This is where I return to the idea of hypothesis. ὑπόθεσις- an explanation that you may propose for a phenomenon you observe. You shriek in horror; do not get Socratic! You ask in curiosity; you have the semblance of a scientific method? And then you wonder; is she true?
And since your memory(memories) are entangled and enmeshed with mine until there is a complex web of truth untruth reality fiction freedom anarchy love hatred compassion cruelty revulsion attraction good evil relevant redundant anticipation certainty there can be nothing but a semblance and a mirror....each reflecting the other...why do you reduce? Why is the entire canon so reductive? Especially the Western world which divides and subdivides ideas ad infinitum. But what about our almost-ideas? What happens to those? What are we going to do?

Tentative answer: Even an infinity mirror, a mirror that contains a strand of lights that appears to repeat forever, a mirror that has an apparent infinity of images, is nothing but an optical illusion.

~I rest my case~
- finis-

Friday, 5 February 2010

What are these nights-
slightly sedated, musical, mad, throbbing with horror...
buy me beauty, make me beauty, take me away.
What are these nights?
Nocturnes, preludes to the hopelessness of living forever?
Tell me; if the night faded not into tomorrow night
and I could remember the morning

Would I forgive you?

Thursday, 4 February 2010

For then one night fades into another fades into another and into another...
And then life is over,
And one is dead.
And nothing is left, not even these preludes to death
These fucking insane nights, would I value them
if the end was closer?