Etched question

Arm chaired intellect puffing Marlboro

high on vodka

talked of Marx.

The maggot broth of memory

heaved air conditioned sighs

and elicited data.

Impressive minds neatly compartmentalise

sex ratios, poverty indices

Kierkegaard and Brecht.

Really appealing kohl-lined eyes

dreamily debate

for an egalitarian world.

In the Italian coffee house,

the luscious lips furiously fume

at the jaundiced judiciary.

At the opera house

she deftly demands

rights for minorities.

That candy sweet voice

confesses confidence

of unfettered zeal.

I wonder if this commitment

would have ensued

without a French toast breakfast

in a murky suburb

that reeks of filth.

Singed desire

The worm licked the page

and slithered away.

The dusty aroma of ancient ink

of stale pages

assaulted my nostrils-

almost choked my memories.

But desirous i grew

with each draught

of words i gulped in.

The pages were up in flames

the world inflamed.

A curious stench of burnt flesh

and singed sleeves

began to ensconce the world........

yet it was not burnt-

the world i mean.

The worm appeared again

This time it licked it clean-

the word "desire".

Rotten wood

The streets squelched

with each soft step.

Leaves - dry and dead,

yield to the mushy earth.

Each foot impression

sinking into the soil.

Somewhere lay a broken wood.

Its edges rough and uneven

layered with moss it was -

green and blackened.

Ravages of time

pronounced in each drop of water

that encased in each curve

of the broken dead tree

that it was once

suffer to fester.

Time seems to clutch the wood

with rabid fierceness

and gentle commitment.

And yet the wood is no longer a tree

it was.

It is a dead plank

effusing softened smells,

aromatic whiffs -

that lay trapped

within cloud clusters,

that burst and seeped liquid mobile life.

Once when it was a tree.

Lushness of leaves - green and lively

that coloured the branches.

The wood lay there

smelling rotten -

the same, sweet smell of new life

that eagerly awaits death.

The wood like an yielding smile

lay propped on the

Ravages of time.

It awaits a fern

a mushroom

a seed

a lichen

to extract the left remnants

of life, nutrition.

To get released.

To be free.

To explore.

To discover.

To transform.

To transcend time

into timelessness.

A rare luxury

I love deserted roads. It kind of excites the sentimental me to walk down the calm ambience of sleepy roads, licked my meagre traffic on and off just to make you realise that quietude does not entail loneliness. Yesterday evening after the Ayodhya verdict was declared, i alighted down the auto rickshaw pleasantly greeted by the broad grin and calmness of my loved campus. I was seduced to take one of my (recently grown rare) evening walks all to myself. The soft sheen of streetlights kissed the walls of colleges, faculty buildings, chai shops, recently built pavements - sometimes casting sinister shadows and at others blending deliciously with the (ahem!) romantic hues of the moonlight. I loved it, except that i had to console the frantic voice of my parents with the routinised candy-sweet voice of "i am and will be okay" and that i am definitely not on the hit-list of any fanatic(well, i didn't say this, of course!)

It was a Thursday evening. One of the days of the weeks when "knags"(Kamla Nagar market in the campus..........the shopping hub and fashion statement zone) brims with seething mass of students - bunking classes, hanging out, shopping madly,browsing bookshops, checking out "eye candies" etc. Interestingly, yesterday the coffee shops were pallid yellow, roadside vendors were busy wrapping up impossibly early. It was amusing, sad yet smug.

The few lines that haunted me yesterday were these:

The sky vomited pitch black tar.

The past few nights had been sooty -
rusty and baked with dry charcoal.
The nights were sinisterly dark -
murmuring threats and violent silences
into the infantile ears of dawn.

Even the mornings dared not kiss the sun
for quite some time now.

But tonight was different.
The moon peeped shyly
behind the clouds.
The monster regurgitated venomous stygian darkness
with intense hatred.
The crescent moon smiled
and rolled back.

A few moments later
the etherised table of the sky
yawned.

The moon emerged,
wrapping the night in its embrace.

Slowly,

The darkness began to melt.
Layer by layer the soot flaked.
Molten tar trickled down
With the ascent of the moon
the sky climbed down -
white as the lilies
limitless as truth....


I am happy that the moon
dared to smile.
Perhaps the mornings can
happen to be bright now.

Perhaps they can prise open their buds now.

rudan

शाम की सिंदूरी सी कालिमा
पर नए रंगों की परत
यों पुतती गई
मानो
कहीं किसी गाँव के
किसी छप्परनुमा झोपड़ी
के चार शहीद के
गुमनाम अक्सों के
खून से सनी
अबतक धूल-धूसरित हो चुके
सरकारी कागजों,
कानूनी दस्तावेजों
और कानूनी लबादों पर
दुबारा प्रशासनिक
स्याहियाँ पुतती जा रही हों।
रात गहराती जाती है
और उसी तरह गुम होता जाता है आकाश
घुप्प अँधेरे मैं।
वैसे ही यह खून
सूख कर चिपक चुका है
अबतक
कार्यालयी ज़ेहन में।
मिटता जा रहा है अस्तित्व
परत-दर-परत पुतती हुई
स्याहियों के इन्द्रधनुष में ।
क्या कहूँ इसे?
नव छंद?या
नया सवेरा?
या बासी पड़ी
एक सूखी सी रोटी
के लिए होती
ज़द्दोज़हद

Festered wound

Cultivated love
withers with weather-ed change.

Just as the radios distributed
have withered away in rust,
in want of signals-
that hang limply
in desperate search.

The tendons of snapped cables,
doctored channels,
filtered news.

News freeze in memory
too curfewed to kiss
the caskets called
brain sockets-
just as
my neighbour's blood lies buried
under layers of this snowy 'paradise'
in an awaited wish to
unstiffen and thaw.

To release
bloody tears of 'special status' happiness.

Can you see the bunkers
behind the green paints?
Or do you think it's the lush
green valley

rosy with bloody apples?

But before he could see
he was shot..
"A terrorist killed in ambush"-
the news reports.

Few ruminations on literature today

Before i begin to indulge myself in another verbal tirade, i confess that the stimulus to write this post was one of the articles i read moments ago titled, "The decline and fall of literature", by Andrew Delbanco. It has the potential to raise some interesting discussions on the practice of the study of English literature in the past few decades.

As the title conjures up an anticipation of an elegiac mood, Delbanco fulfills the same by painting a grim picture of how literary studies, production of literary texts and academics and scholarly pursuits in English literature have increasingly declined.

What constitutes English literature? Should it strictly restrict its ambit to the nationalised identities of Shakespearean, Keatsian, Miltonic productions or should it embrace Irish Yeats and Scottish Robert Burns? Expanding globally, should we read Amitav Ghosh or Nadine Gordimer just because they write in English? To problematise the subject a little more, should we credit the study of translations - Russian novelists, Oriya poetry? Notwithstanding the argument of English being a global language which makes it accomnodative to expand its horizons beyond its restrictive national concern, i remain ill informed and unconvinced about reading Arundhati Roy's and Salman Rushdie's novels as a part of my course. I thoroughly enjoy their ingenuity in exploiting the language but can not believe that they carve a space in the 'English' canon. If not, then will i really emerge as an M.A. in 'English' Literature after reading Kabir, Premchand, Ilyankal, Ghalib?

To me Delbanco seems to point out, as one among the many concerns, a very rampantly emergent phenomenon in English studies that has plummeted to the emergence of "fragmented, jargonised subjects"(Edward said's expression). In the name of appreciation of literary writing in innovative fashion, most of the intellectual capital is invested in extremely portioned and myopic reading of the same with the tinted glasses of a particular ideology. Or, in the name of 'independent', creative , 'imaginative' reading, the limits of criticism are stretched to ridiculous and vulgar dimensions. Also, Delbanco takes a dig at the recent shift in attention at directing the analytical skills of literary appreciation through the sieve of popular media like photography, films, art, architecture etc. However, what is ironical is that while the modern tendency is to cling to popular routes of presentation, the popular tends to turn its gaze and capture the classical antiquities.

While Delbanco expatiates on the trend, he fails to substantially expand on the reasons behind this phenomena. In the cut-throat materialist and fastly transforming global situation to the dictates of capitalism, an expectation to see academicians bereft of any market influence would be fundamentally erroneous. The recent figures that suggest fastly declining trends in university enrolments in Humanities and Literature studies and contrarily extremely high spurts in professional courses with affinity to generate money, testify the overarching influence of cash and cash-driven motives.Notwithstanding this deplorable occurrence, i see a note of optimism here. Despite the fact that very few research papers and theses would be generated out of the English departments across the country in sync with this trend, the scholars entering the field would be, by and large, genuine and committed in their pursuit.

To use Sidney's phrase," A poet does not assert anything". Also, he says, good literature is universal in its appeal, like Shakespearean art which can be filmed as it is and also be moulded to Maqbool and Omkara. It is this non-accreditation to final, factual conclusions and general understanding of the mass pulse that seduces people across temporal and social realities to immerse in its consumption. However, the recent years have shown extreme exploitation of this free, liberal space that literature provides to suit petty gains of paltry demands of ease. The sequence of words that we assign meaning to are actually gaps filled by the subjectivity of individual readers. In this sense, only responsible and committed scholars can do justice to preserving the sanctity of literary studies.

Though Delbanco's article makes some interesting assertions, it fails to provide a concrete solution to the problems in the field. In his defence, what i could add is,that the nature of the problem is such that bureaucratic precision in a hunt for solutions is futile.

To begin with, universities should do away with crediting marks as the criteria to allow research in literary studies. As a professor at Oxford remarks," There are many things for a man's personal study, which are not fit for University examination. One of them is literature..." Instead written papers and verbal tests, according to the comfort of the scholar, should be invited to judge his or her credibility to join research. Moreover,research and teaching practice should be separated in commissioning promotions in academic circles. We all know that good researchers do not necessarily make decent professors. Incentives to those doing research can be shifted to other perks like free trips to places of artistic interests rather than as tools to grab the wad of a fatter salary. Also, the rules regarding examination of research papers should be stricter and net-savvy so as to check plagiarism and other innovative malpractice, thanks to a plethora of material available online.

We know that education needs a gradual but overhaul reformation. Any further laxity in this direction would lead to worse forms of degradation in academic standards.

It continues to ooze -
drop by drop.
The colour,
black or is it red yet?

As if
freshened by the new showers -
clotted blood yields
and begins to thaw.

The files get inked.
Fresh insights,
newer revelations.
All pooled in blood -
but wiped neatly
at the same time.

Four muffled voices
writhed and groaned.
Freshly pulsed to life
with a bureaucratic pen.

Thousands asphyxiated souls
struggle to catch
one whiff of unmethylated oxygen.

However,
it's a crammed cupboard,
full of crawling germs,
dusty papers,
declared verdicts,
finalised justice.

One wonders -
looking deep in those
hazel-doe eyes,
flirting with jet black ringlets of hair,
caressing pale cheeks.
Rosy lips kissing
the white coffee mug,
embossed with pink flowers -
if this is what life meant.

The very next moment
one ignores,
laughs,
and consciously grows numb
leavings things
just there.

Is it this?

I could smell the sun in you,

freshly squeezed it seems,

from the musty mould

that grows everyday-

in my furnitured brain.

Or, maybe, i smelt just you again.

Is it possible to possess?

As the night does,

clinging to its scent-

even as it melts-

in darkness,

and shadows,

and dreams?

Or, maybe, it's just loveless to possess.

I can still see the scribbles you nailed -

randomly,

on the already scratched

musty, mouldy wood.

They were measured

as life is -

in teaspoons.

Or, maybe, i should leave them undeciphered.

I can smell you again

here,

now-

in you.

That how 'this' whiffed out

perhaps-

for a measured while

from the musty mould

of the sprawled furniture

that is me.

Just tell me-

should i love

or

quit?

Politicising the proposed personal

Well, this day begun as all days have been beginning since the past few months that i started to prepare for civils(and NOT ignoring my M.A. classes)...but i guess the day defeats the purpose of exciting me to sail new heights... reasons, many. Organisation to write coherently, nill....probable explanation, panic mode and to top it all my "high" existential moments...

I firmly believed and literally STUCK to the idea that my parents are my best friends......so far so good, but i doubt the grounds now, if not my commitment towards them. They are still the first people to know what newness i explore each day, have given me the encouraging permissions to accomplish ALL 'adventures' i have wanted to undertake (some are highly censored to be mentioned on open forums) and continue to listen and understand me through and through...but well, the ground seems to have suddenly shifted.

There is something called a generation gap which i luxuriously ignored in my relations with them till now..I donot doubt their reciprocations with an iota of suspicion...but what i failed to acknowledge was that what is "cool" about them for me is so so taxing on their part to live up to. For every outburst of emotion and commitment to my fancies, they have had to fight out battles among "their" peers.

According to the unending mass of relatives which defines THE society for my parents, i have hit the "perfect" marriageable age in sync with the "only urgent and committed mission" of all relatives (especially females) to earmark and convincingly suggest to the respective parents of the subject (here me), prospects "suitable" for the "precious little doll" of the family. It really does not bother them that the "doll" in question has literally hated the sissy idea of feminine gudia - gudda, teddy bears, barbies and other such unproductive objects of supposed girlie goodies. They also seem to have just forgotten that this same "doll" had actually been reprimanded on public notice by one among the matronly host of relatives for 'operating' a newly bought (disgusting!) doll of her cousins to see how the intestines looked like. That such a "destructive, uncouth , barbaric" girl has a life of her own definitely not to deck up for some arbitrary "gudda" seems to just not register in their fierce quest for hosting yet another marriage. My question is "Why do you guys not get a life and NOT bring weird panic stricken ideas to my parents head?"

I just wish and fevorishly expect my host of aunties and other relatives to just get to read this blog by a flip of miracle and perhaps see for themselves what has actually happened to their "doll"..
First, my assertions which are crystal clear:

(1) I do not want a "cash vending machine" for a husband....so masi, just relax! transfer your area of interest somewhere else.

(2)If by default i happened to be fair, do not punish me with the uncalled for attention of your 'yogya' nephew, bua! I hate him and his liberal hovering eyes on every girl who happens to inhabit your locality, and on his "oh so important! contacts" on networking sites ....test his 'yogyata' not on his All India Rank but the actual content of his "upper compartment"

(3)And, last but not the least of all, mami, please stop sponsoring me as a branded commodity out of a "convent school"! There is much more in my life than accomplishing the mundane act of marriage(or should i say institutionalized prostitution in more than one cases...if not all....ha ha! such a sadist i am! I just love to strike them dumb with such jargon!!!!!!)

(4)As a parting assertion, Maa and Papa! Stop falling prey to these good for nothing relatives and see who is more important for you!

It feels good to vent out your anger! Aha! Now i can think and not randomly blabber.......

One of the really amusing part of "the" sociey which continues to interest me is the obscene amount of attention given to the idea of marriages in our country. Whether in a comparatively "less developed" state like Bihar, or the supposed "open" societies offered by metropolitan cities like Delhi, the amount of energy, resources and concern this business gets makes me wonder if our sole objective in life is to get "hitched'. Look at this, a simple love affair has to culminate in a "hapily ever after" marriage, a son or a daughter who has moved out of his or her home is expected to get back to his "roots", unchanged and unadulterated with new fangled ideas to obey his social mores and get tied to a match of his or her parents' choice. I do not deny that given the predominantly patriarchal set up as being the normative framework of life in this society and the matters of property rights and social stability, marriage is the expected and easy solution to living a smooth life.

I also do not deny that we have been so subtly and at times blatantly engineered to shape up ourselves within strict gender stereotypes that it is really difficult to move out and think of actually living a life beyond the scriptures of social programming.For instance, almost every girl in our society is trained from the nascent phase of childhood to becoming a flirt. If you have noticed carefully, the barbie doll culture, the idea of designer, strappy, short dresses in which girl kids are furnished today seems like a miniature teenage or adult lady being given the first lessons in looking pretty and sexy. Is it not the same version of how girls dress up for pubs and clubs? In the effort to deck up the "cute" little girl kids, what we end up doing is giving them a subtle lesson in "how to exploit your sexuality"? Similarly, the whole idea of introducing boys to "macho" hobbies like biking and car race and even a violent world of various video games is but to instill an idea of gendered consciousness of being heroic and manly in a pervert way. I remember being asked as a kid, being given one of my first lessons in feminine behaviour, to "talk soft" and not "shriek like a crow". I wonder had i really been an avid debator if my parents would have actually made me all sweet honey for a voice.

I have equal sympathy and empathy to all of us being victims to this gendered attitude on a pornographic scale. It is a guy who is supposed to woo his girl with diamonds, food bills, endless bouts of shopping spree and all of that. I wonder if this is actually (if reduced to dimunitive parallels) not prostitution of some order. In lieu of being "pampered", the girl is supposed to shower her non wavering, true love and appear all beautiful and pretty to her guy's social circles. Is is an idea on both the counts to "show off" the catches they have managed to get for themselves among peers and in the personal domain, prostitute their respective resources to the service of each other.

Needless to say, the ideas around and behind this gradual programming of the human self in strict gender terms is bolstered by the movies we watch(hollywood) included, the package of moral values we are fed on since our birth, the kind of education we receive and the kind of job profiles we "choose". Even after all the hyped up notion around being a feminist (that by and large invariably leads to male bashing in barring a few but almost all cases), why is it that the calls of militant feminism comes from the intellectual wing of women primarily and not the ones at the grassroots about whose lives these distant, observant, feminists comment upon? Is it not worth noticing that the housemaid in our homes are the ones who battle it out with "the" society and enter into challenging job profiles of say cooking for a group of bachelors in "the big bad world" of potential rapists at the cost of experiencing the wrath of their husbands of even boyfriends, each day? One the other hand are the sophisticated self- proclaimed feminists who prefer to settle with a "respectable" job profile in a "respectable" society that arranges their marriage or nods apprehensively to love matches. Where is the battle and who fights it out tough? Who exercises more agency? And is it substantial fighting it out?

The point that i tried to put forth is this. We really need to go beyond the prevalent discourses of freedom and choice and norms and expected modes of conduct to see for ourselves what we are ready to settle with. In the process of doing so, we also need to get prepared to slander ourselves for our own politics of ease and convenience in choosing one and not the other. We need to be ready to be able to say that "Yes! we are hypocrites by choice! may be because it makes things lot easier............."

That is all maa and pa and that is all i can at the maximum submit to....

Love in times of hate

Why i chose to write about such an issue today is because i am feeling utterly bored with myself....and trust me when i say this, you experience love only when you are bored.Revolting?? Okay, here i go.......



When i choose to define love in this part of my argument, i choose to limit my ambit to the grossly overused form of "love" around us. Yeah yeah,the "udta hua duppatta",first kiss, deep eyes- kind of hormonally charged expressions of love.Also, i humbly embrace the next stage of this "business" where you try to "settle" with your so and so object of love or even "call off" your love and subsequently "move on".To exploit the technical jargon, i shall build on the "relationship" quotient of love.



I believe that one can think of falling or better put"rising" in love only when one is satisfied with one's personal, professional and social life to the extent that one can actually desire for more.Remember all proponents of Indian philosophy who talk about desires being limitless? A person who has the luxury of time and resources and the confidence of success in the field of inviting attention can one risk one's life in the terrain of love.Okay, let me be a little explicit...you do not risk proposing a girl before you have had a job or before you can think you have enough to wine and dine her, right?Similarly, you do not risk proposing (and i can claim 90% surety) a guy unless you have had a proper beauty care regimen and have thought the idea through like 10 times.......meaning, in both the situations , you have obscene amount of time and well resources of all kinds(will power, money,friend circle.......blah blah blah)to invest in even considering of being in a relationship.....



Well, Britain and subsequently the Western nations , especially the ones that colonised us once, are suddenly all friendly and bum chums to an alluringly indecent proportions since the past decades.Reason, the stastistics of India being the 2nd most stable economies after China(the other arguments follow this deterministic capitalist definition)..."they" saw lot of potential in "us" earlier and lo and behold! now they see a "friend" in us.....i can not but help notice the change in language......a paradigmatic shift from being a distant, self proclaimed ,authoritative observer to being a "friend" for God sake! It is remarkable how quickly(consider historical and not actual time) the hate of even talking to an Indian has turned to the love of creating........ err... "building" friendship ties. Well, the west constructs or builds on already existing structures and not creates.(Remember?the histories of colonialism and imperialism)



Hmm, i know i meandered from the fever of "love" to the euphoria of diplomatic ties......but wait! i see a connection.Is it not realistic that the idea of detesting and loathing a person from the core of our hearts takes a complete U- turn when we see the new avatar of the same individual cast in the light of success.It can be a guy transformed from a jobless graduate to a fast cash generating machine.....or a fat, dark, short girl as the new slim, 'dusky','petite' urban sophisticate??The idea behind all this chemistry is the key phenomenon-transformation.Well for what and under what circumstances and at what costs,does not really matter as long as you did transform...



Look, the point is that i am a firm believer in change....some writer said, the only permanent reality is change. I dote on these words to the extent that i do not have respect for dead roots, seized in time, proudly boasting the stench of their festered tumour of "Oh!i am still the same guy you met like 90 years ago". But the point is that i also can not stand ridiculous shifts under the compulsion of being"Oh! so cool!" The same nation which aims at putting two square meals a day on every plate in the country charges a measley amount of ten bucks to recharge your cell phone but cannot satisfy the hunger of a worker who sweats out in the open in all weather to construct the same telephone tower or office in a city.If this is how we change should not we not change and lust for more British and American industries but more "friendly" constructive conversations on scrap the air conditioned Mac Donalds and invest in cheaper food tokens for all? I am not an economist but can predict from managing my own expenses that a deal is such is possible-on the grounds that we are 'friendly' and not status conscious.

The over arching view is hate is just a cynical expression of love.We hate because we fall short of love. And we love because that is the only it that exists. We were colonised because we were loved by the west,we were hated in the process because we started to frustrate their expectations from us....and the vice versa. Same goes in relationships too..

Well, did i begin by announcing that i was bored with myself? Yes i am because i have the luxury to love and hate my life at the same time in my absolute boredom of existence....

Treating myself with interest

A famous writer once claimed that the best gift for man is to be born in interesting times. The statement pronounced in the erstwhile boring and fundamentally unproductive class actually invited my attention. I could not but feel lucky to be a part of this really interesting world.

I am twenty two year "old"- a female, trying to fierciely negotiate the idea of "being" or "becoming" a woman/ lady . Further, my lineage belongs to the socially defined, middle class "shakdwipiya brahmin" family in north India. Better or worse, i am trying really hard to confirm to my self defined idea of becoming an "educated" citizen of a nebulous society i conceive in me with each passing day.

My friend from Kashmir lusts for freedom of his motherland. I am all for self determination in the valley without any slightest trace of doubt. Well, the interesting part is , i aspire to join as a civil servant.

I have genuinely tried my hands at engaging with blind students, child labourers, street children, and other underpriviledged sections of the society but i would totally ignore the column when i fill up the stipulated UPSC form for the examination that curiously and conveniently ignores the existence of hermaphrodites in this nation by asking us to shade the correct block - male or female. It is interesting that i live in the world's largest democracy which enshrines equality as a fundamental right in its constitution.

I have a friend (an upper caste Hindu from the shield-wielding heroic Rajput family in Bihar) who is madly, deeply in love with a Muslim guy (also from Bihar), both knowing very well the risks and dangers of such an affair. It is interesting that i am all for their support but i am equally hypocritical (which interests me all the more for my "liberal" ideas) to even think of accepting such a situation in my life (appreciation is different from acceptance and agreement). It is doubly interesting that i appear all "ideal" to this friend of mine who feels i would not "cheat" my parents. What adds to the confusing parameter of interest is that i love to criticise myself but am coward to actually improve upon the ground on which i stand.

It is an interesting world that i inhabit. My country hosts the dictator of Mynmar and his family members for some religious performance despite the fact that we are a democracy and fail to support the same form of governance there because of "strategic" and "political" reasons. It is interesting that the same Indian culture rants from all quarters of religion, philosophy and moralistic preachings about unity in desire, action and speech.

It is interesting that the times i am born in is full of such oxymoronic definitions. In fact all times are in their spatial and temporal contexts. What i just wish for myself is to be able to see this interest and feel its pulse through me life long. More importantly, i wish to do something about defining this ambit of interest in my own way.....hope that i do not run completely dry with "practical calls" of life.

A wish

I wish i were i again
and not serach my i in you
and not search for you in me
i wish i were
i again!

At violent peace....

(1)
The reality seems choked,
full to the brim -
trying to spill out of the beams -
already sprawling with the trash,

the litter,
the abominable refuse.
Each time it tries to ooze out,
the lid is shut -
tight and final,

as if incumbent to stifle.

Each passing day

submits layers of peels.

In the already stuffed bins.

Meanwhile,
reality gasps -
for a whiff of fresh breath in fresh air.
Reality struggles,
hard to survive -
living is out of question now.

Still reality continues
to live on hope -
of a passionately faded dream.

Sometimes even that hope deludes.
It scuttles away -
like birds who fly from their perch,
at the onset of dusk.

All the while i wonder -
Will reality ever be real?
Will it ever dare come out -
without being stuffed in again?
Till then shall i wait -
just wait?

With ironed hands and steeled eyes?


(2)


The hourglass stands empty -
drained and clean.

No speck of grain inhabits the vessel.
It stands empty -
carrying a void,

a disturbed ennui.

The hour glass grins-
right to my face,
laying bare its invisible teeth.
They are set in a void.

So the hourglass stands -
empty and void.
Unable to resound the echoes.
It stands -
absolutely empty.


(3)
The waves broke
with ferocious intensity

they crumbled -
on the hard, rocky surface.

The waves exploded.

The rock stands
as if untouched, unaware
of the sheer force
of the exploding, gnawing, clawing waves.
Its solid body
against the changing waves.

The rock stands -
heroic and grounded.

That body has ripples
This body definitions
That body spread and ejected
This body accepted then rejected
The form and the action coalesced -
all at the same time.

The waves sought identification.
The rocks seek none.
The waves broke on the rocks
and identified themselves.

The rock stands
self-contained,

self-referential,
self identified.

lost, detached, found......

(1)
It seems as if something slipped
just now.
Just as sand slips slowly but swiftly -
down the crevice, in the hourglass.
It seemed as if something detached
just as a leech drops dead from the trees.
It seemed as if something melted
just as a piece of mud melts into a watery puddle.

It just got lost
just as you lose something
without having found it - ever.
I wonder beyond words
what "it" was that i lost.


(2)
I do not want myself to be carved
i want to carve.
Myself, my dreams, my life -
in the moonlit desert,

on the deserted path
moving alongside some sand dunes,
passing the high mounds lying bare.
I want to make indentations
scratch crevices -
So that i grin among those high mounds
And become a diminished marker of their heights.


(3)
She tried to breathe.
Determined to inhale deep

she took dragged in
a whiff of smelly air -
full of chokingly black smoke
that have puffed up in her lungs since.

She drank -
a mouthful of putrid water,
full of crawling germs
that wriggle in her body now.

She saw -
a sight full of nudity,
absolute debasement and depravity
that have haunted her for years now.

The question is-
why does she breathe, drink, see
and worst of all -
dare to dream?


Perhaps because
she has yet not learnt to exist.

Perhaps because

even today

she desires to be able to choose.

To live.


(4)
The space stretched beyond her -
an extension of herself.
The space was quiet -

serenely so,
amidst the vulgar cacophony
of the soundless existence

that had led her -

so far.

She stood -

charged and elated,
partaking the infiniteness it offered.

The space motionless and still,
became noisy within her - unpronounced.

She turned pale and restless.

(5)
A thousand desires across the night
pierced the dark silences,
screeching loud and in shrill voices.
A thousand longings hovered
around the spidery web of musty walls
entangled inescapably within its fine maze.
A thousand wants caressed

softly the turgid trunks of the swollen trees.
A thousand wishes across time, place
fancied a small claim over the vulgar vastness.

These desires are dangerous -
furiosly seething in anticipation,
sensuously nursing their wounded visages,
seductively enticing intensities of reality.

In their soft illusions,
their harmless innocence,
their restfull apparitions
These desires embrace
dynamitic explosiveness.

These desires are violent silences.

Lust, longing, love and life
can all kiss these desires -
the thousand desires of incomprehensibility.
But none can realise even faintly
the momentary shadows of these desires.

These desires are many -
life just one.

An unbridgeable gap
yawning and grinning widely across the night.


(6)
I chewed the bread
that smelt sweet as honey.

I lost myself in the mirth.

I went unconscious on the lonely path.

I was happy at seeing the vastness ahead
merging slowly in the depth of the horizon
I lost myself in the calm quiet
as if notes sunk in music.

The night set in.
Black with stars, calm with crickety chatter.
I slept to wake up
freshened by the joyous breath of morn
(or was it still night?)

The taste of the honey-dewed bread,
leisurely lingering in my mouth -

suddenly sour,
freshly bitter.
Soothingly painful.
The softened hardness of the bite
scraping at my tongue, palate, throat.

I bleed.

I am happy -
in a sad way.

A call for self

I am new to the experience of blogging....had been thinking of writing here for quite some time but somehow never managed to convince myself....perhaps my single minded committment to caressing my diary as and when i felt the need detained me from taking this leap........
Well, in this age of absolute fragmentation of one's self(at least i can confirm and certificate my perpetual sense of angst) is not blogging too an expression of our equally palsied social and personal space?Torn apart by our predominantly middle class upbringing of immersed conservatism, our overambitious aspirations of modern achievements and the liberal calls of defying traditions and donning ones own voice,we become a sort of an individual with broken limbs and decapitated body. Biological normalcy indicate life but somewhere the inner flame seems dead. Is not a blog then a space to interact with similar halved consciousnesses across the space that surrounds us?We might differ but we are similar in our differences nevertheless, we might agree but at the same time disagree on our very parameters of similarities..........
It is this realisation of sharing and search that propelled to writing my first blog. Critics are welcome to comment.