Saturday, November 27, 2010

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.

Monday, October 4, 2010

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".

Friday, October 1, 2010

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.

Friday, September 17, 2010

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

Saturday, September 4, 2010

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.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

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.