Friday, 29 March 2013

What ho, Bum!

Hello.

Today I spent all day being a bum. I got up in the morning and bummed around till afternoon. Then I bummed some more. In the evening, the sun was shining on my face so I could barely move. I lay there on my couch, looking at the sun. It was a lot of fun.

I also discovered this poet called Michael Robbins. One of my friends gave me this book so that I would not look like a bored bum while having dinner alone in a restaurant. My friend did not join me for dinner at the restaurant, because that would make two bums. He doesn't think the bums of the world should unite.

Michael Robbins I disliked at first until I realized that every line that he writes is a clever allusion. Gee. Who would have thought. He made me want to eat more katsu chicken than I usually do.

I really need to stop bumming around today. The first step towards this is to stop writing this post and get back to proper writing. This may not happen because I am sleepy. Do bums sleep, is my question. Michael Robbins would say, I have miles to go before I fart.

Goodnight folks.

Tuesday, 19 March 2013

pastoral

How hard is it to speak of a green land
enshrined by doubt? I am writing of villages,
of beauty, golden sun, and neglecting freedom.
Or is it freedom to think of this green community
of happy people? Is it freedom to realize that
one's imagination can transgress the dirty boundaries
of overpopulated cities? Is it freedom to recognize
that in the south

much down south

there are people of God too,
and Sanskrit, the lofty language of the Gods,
borrows divine tears.

It isn't hard to desire an escape from ugliness,
from inequities of race, class and gender.
To want to escape the limits of two
principles working dialectically. Even duality
can constrict, and one principle must be stronger.
Think, the city dweller says, think of how
to be free
from privilege.

Nothing constricts more than privilege,
not even lack.

Lack leads to fantasy,
and fantasy to
transcendence.

Therefore in the dirty bylanes of destiny,
and the amorphous alleys
 of modernity
sprung up green valleys.
Valleys of love, harmony, and truth.
Desire, dreams, liberty;
all those things

all that would never exist.

But how does it matter?
As long as such catechism could make
a child could
cry
the tears of the nation.

Friday, 8 March 2013

being tentative

I feel I must reconnect with this dead child of mine, this blog, an abject creature I turn to at times of fatigue. I have moved on considerably in the last year, or was it month? I don't know. I have learnt to live alone, to appreciate my alone-ness, instead of despising it and fearing it. Perhaps there is a charm to everything we see as a cross to bear, every albatross has its day.

I think the crucial moment comes when you know how to say goodbye to what, and if necessary to make it long, but the moment of short and sweetness, the moment of short and sweetness comes when you blow your nose long and loud (and yet efficiently) into a wilting tissue.

Somewhere in Calcutta, an old grandfather clock strikes 1 pm, one short and striking 1 pm, and I stare at the  contingency of the hour, of every hour that passes by, until the final hour, the final hour when we add up the odds, and make it even, even as the uneven hours slip by-beautiful, sometimes intimate, at others sordid, and at all times, covered with sweat, blood, grime or snot.