Mon Carnaval

2008-09-02T13:21:00.000-07:00

I am an educated individual. I belong to the 63 % who can write their name on a piece of paper before another educated person who can read what I have written during a national literacy survey. I fear imparting knowledge the most. I fear letting the 63 % becoming 73% as that is equivalent to10% more competition. With all these quotas and more quotas 10 % is a good amount to keep at bay. The only means that I have devised to bring my plan into action is to deny economic prosperity. I will support any political party that stands morally strong against development. The people who I deny growth have growth. Their farmlands have extensive crops…although it is a different issue that often their income is included in the “below poverty” line statistics. But that is exactly what I want. If the parents cannot feed their children how are they going to educate them. Let them reproduce at 10 % rate to facilitate more hands for farm work…(chuckle) their farm isn’t getting any bigger, but my 10% illiteracy buffer is here to stay.

If you cannot hear the oppressed crying, then they aren’t crying. If you cannot see them being raped, then they aren’t being raped. What happens when the camera is not looking on is a different issue yet again. The nation does not need to know what it already knows but chooses to overlook. This is how the machinery has been running for 30 years. This is how the machinery will be run by a different driver. I am happy to stand by the driver’s seat as his stagecoach of the economically and educationally hoodwinked guns gloriously towards the Ganges, which is now a drain in my part of town.

Today is a glorious day for my kind. The farmers have got their lands back. The majority opposition has got its glory back along with them. Now both of them can walk down the aisle hand in hand and sing our standard anthem, “Amar shonar bangla…” I am happy that my people still desire “gold” in the form of grain, although it wouldn’t matter because they are mostly clueless about the clever numbers I pull on my mathematically wise calculator. It is simple to shortchange them. I am glad their land is back, so I may continue shortchanging them. Think of the horror of industrialization. It would have brought in schools and hospitals, and other tertiary industries with a demand for education in our locality? We have been spared of that horror. I do and will remain a faithful member of the 63 % educated class of Bengali people. May Orwell live for a thousand years- it is much too sweet to belong to the “more than” equal class of equals.

A trivia for those who are my fellow brethren:

Question.

How often do you call a woman motherly, when all she does is strangle your growth?

Answer.

All the time, thanks to our very own evergreen Mamata.

Neo Religion Jiyo

2007-11-25T20:13:00.000-08:00

Most religions have a ladder of ascension:

The Hindu has the concept of rebirth until one becomes part of the paramatma.

The Muslim has the stages of going from non believer to finding a place by God's side at judgment day. The Christian has a similar schema.

The remaining religions, I am sure have something similar.

Let me propose a new religion. Wait, first let's name it. Naming is an integral part of setting up religions. The name has to be logical. Let us call this new religion Pissenpush. Why such a strange name, you may ask. See, this new religion is based on pissing and pushing away maximum number of people belonging to other religions. So, the better you are getting someone's temples hot, or greater your skill of pushing peoples' patience over the hill, the higher you get to the God, similarly named, Pissenpushamma.

Takers anybody? Anybody? Come one... don't be shy, come forward, sign up for a pie of bliss. Speaking of pie, this religion does not have a heaven, it has the concept of pies. Higher one gets in its echelon, bigger the pie. Pissenpushamma has an entire pie to itself. The God is asexual, therefore the use of the word, "it". Let's go for the show of hands once more people. Tick tick one tick tick two tick tick three...and we have the first member of our religion!!! Let me see...ah...Mr. Rushdie welcome to our sanctified brother/sister hood. Hello!!! Another member! Mr. Hussain... ah... your pie is much bigger than Mr. Rushdie's. Btw...don't you think "Rushdie" is an intriguing name....he's got the speedway to the entire pie spelt out in his name. A third? Not a single another one... any sisters out there ready to kick up a point? Yes yes...raise your hands a little higher... no no... you are not scratching your head with, you are raising it. There is no shame...Ms. Taslima... there we go... the first trio. Now we have three brand ambassadors .... this is where we employ them in our worldwide recruitment policy. The way it works it the quickest and most powerful method used by any religion as of yet--- yes, we throw them at your face via the television.

See how simple it is to set up a religion. Now coming to the purpose...Errm... to piss you off?

Taking Sides

2007-10-26T11:58:00.000-07:00

Karan Thapar spoke. The conversation broke. And Narendra Modi went up in smoke. It was a Houdini act. The leftist folks joked about how Thapar had tingled Modi's chords. And the right wing scoffed at Thapar's puppy dog "please don't screw my interview" expression. I belong to the junta on the left. I am not for marveling present development and forgetting past crimes. And I am not for promoting one sect that is a minority just to boast about our secularism. Lives were lost. Lives that belonged to both Musalman and Hindu faiths. Statistically many more Muslims were killed. But can one look at loss of life statistically? Ask the relatives and friends of those who died (both Hindu and Muslim) does it matter if 1000 or 50 were butchered or burnt? For them that one dead body made all the difference.

It is sad that in times of man made and natural calamity we look towards statistics. Thing is, not everything is cricket. Not everything is entertainment on the television set. And surely not everything is forgettable and material for the census books.

I am not sure what it takes to live with blood on your hands. Shakespeareans would quote Macbeth here, but I'll disagree. Macbeth was weak. Modi and his band are not. Even if they regret they do not show it. Hopefully they will truly feel sorry someday for all the lives that were lost. And hopefully someday we will understand that it does not matter if 50 or 1000 died, but that even one person was killed in the name of God.

Throwing in a bit of sentimentality...What would Bapu, the father of our nation, have to say? Would he too shrug, and scratch his bald head as we do?

The Alley

2007-10-17T20:27:00.000-07:00

Of cigarette packet silver rangta foils
And many sugar coated sandesh spoils
This is a tale of our very own Manik’s alley
Flat but picturesque as the terrorized valley
We begin with the stop where buses stop
A temple where mothers pray and hop
And move towards the roadside food stalls
Where fried black oil flows like Niagara falls
Dhrubo has been selling his brick and bracs
Cursing the day he emigrated with two sacks
His smuggled goggles reflect the cinema shop
That pays Rs. 5 homage per seat to many a flop
Dulled eyes look towards the psyche asylum
From the press that presses Daily Bengali Ghum
Which has fueled the innumerable paper boat
Sailing open drains which make mosquitoes gloat
Right outside the display Benares Mithai Bhandar
A quintessential shop for a thriving Bangla sansar
Who build their dreams from their second floor
Which holds five houses all with a green door
But before we move into their detailed specific
Lets walk down to the bazaar quite prolific
There’s wear and tear on all kinds of sale
Fish of all kinds but the humongous whale
The chicken seller is busy with his feathers
Tying bird legs to keep them in tight tethers
Potato and onions heaped on top of mounds
Of course there’s a whole frequency of sounds
The sky above is cloaked with colored sheets
Beneath which one sees million and one feats
This market has one peculiarity to offer
It has shops tailored for the prince to pauper
Above the market are the matchbox homes
On whose porches the women sit with their combs
Children both naked and not conjure adventures like Sinbad
Their devilish shrieks could even turn Lucifer mad
Armed with a plethora of grandmother’s tales and whim
The grandfathers take their progeny on a wild spin
Fathers cozy cocooned in their unperturbed shell
Puff as they dream of where mystic fairies dwell
The older children from class eight and onward
Scheme get rich technique to take them forward
So untamed and peculiar is this world they live
One couldn’t separate chaff no matter how fine the sieve
These eccentricities are essential for Maniktalla
For without them there wouldn’t be a mohulla
Wait! There’s much to be wrote and read
This not being the end of what’s been said
Tales of lives lived within stuffy brick quarters
And individuality of Bengali women for starters
All that is left for us to later diligently extract
Turning common knowledge into poetic fact
Hear ye hear ye I’ve one final thing to say
Hope you all enjoyed this nostalgic word play

Red and Blue

2007-10-16T13:35:00.000-07:00

The Indo- US nuclear deal ought to be spelt with a "k", nuklear. And "US" should be typed up as "Yoo Es". Both these changes combined make it sound more rustic as well as Communist. Here's the deal, naming is important. See if US wasn't named a "red and blue" nation our Yechuris and Karats probably wouldn't have any beef with them. Remove the blue and leave the red, then I am sure our brothers at CPI(M) wouldn't have raked up this issue. But here's another deal. The reds aren't playing too fair. The reds are crawling up our necks. The reds don't mind helping the shooting of monks. Incidentally the monks too were clothed in red- haha...dressed to kill (their claim?).

Some say color should be overlooked. I am not talking about skin color. That's a whole different issue. But the color red. Intriguingly we have shades of both these red and blue spectrum on our national flag. So we are caught smack in the middle. What does India do? As the Priminister said, and paraphrasing him, India is not a one track nation, although at times it gives such an impression. Maybe we will move onto better things from here on. Only thing is...if the reds still keep poking at India and keep threatening to strangle any progress they should be given the blues.

Clearly I am a supporter of the nuclear deal. And clearly I harbor little love for the present Reds. Why, you ask? In all their years of "rule" in West Bengal they really didn't get too far. The Bengali junta might throw tomatoes at me but that will surely not make me incline towards their redness.

Just a thought: English needs to be revised...it paints Red in the wrong light often. OK...call it yellow.

3P's

2007-10-08T07:56:00.000-07:00

We’ve heard of three rivers, threesomes, triangles…but what about three P’s? What is this 3P that is sweeping our nation from corner to corner like the bucket full water that cleans every aangan in many Indian homes? 1 P is the smallest denomination of the Indian currency system that can be held on one’s palm and be seen. 2 P is an act most people engage in throughout the day. 3 P? Bolo bolo kuch to bolo.

“Hare Ram Hare Krishna” (a topic worth a blogpost separately specially after Akshay Kumar’s cheeky smile for the music video kickoff)…Ley bol diya.

Politics

Lord Macaulay, now deceased unlike the immortal Ashwatthama, also liked challenges and probably sparked off today’s political fashion in India. Macaulay stated, “I do not think we would ever conquer this country, unless we break the very backbone this nation, which is her spiritual and cultural heritage.” It took two centuries for the British to realize their fallacy in assuming that any foreigner can truly rule another people- but the adoption of certain values did bring in much humanism in our culture that had been spread thin like butter over bread and left to the exploiters to exploit. Thank you Macaulay Sahib…shukriya indeed. For a non participant, Desi politics seems to be based on the constant tussle between forces that wish to force policies of “humanism” and the traditionalists. Since I am not too keen on the rat race that is today’s politics I won’t drool on this subject. Although I would like mention my curiosity- What is the difference between a politician and a statesman and why aren’t today’s political leaders “statesmen”?

Publicity

Post all our Chak De’s…T20, Asian Cup, Nehru Cup…the only one that still gets swarmed by tabloid makkhis (flies) is the first. Without our tele, press, radio, internet, cricket would be yet another improvised form of gulli-danda. So lesson to be learnt is simple: Want fame, fortune, frolic? Get the second P covered first.

PaRhai

Being a child of a Humanities family and a student in pursuit of science I often meet persons who often think aloud, “Arey tu wrong field mein hain. Tujhe to…” Sorry to disappoint, I am definitely not in the wrong field. The divide between Humanities and Science in the Indian education system can be stretched to be compared to the Hindu- Muslim communal divide (a reality that we shall overcome?). Our education system is very strong in most aspects of parting knowledge and ploughing old information for new information, but lacks in imparting the cross cultural bridge between the Humanities and the Sciences. Maybe someday we’ll teach our children the art and science of science and art respectively. Why do I say this? If anybody studies any elegant derivation of physical law with the usage of mathematics, it’s parallel to any beautiful painting or music. And good music of course has acoustics built into it.

Ooops...almost forgot the other set, "Punya, Paap and Paschyataap."

Nameless

2007-09-26T09:44:00.000-07:00

We do not name the dead
They die without a name
That is the fate of the dead
A nameless sort of suffering
Like the empty cry of a belly
Or the want of fresh blood
That never quenched thirst
Which is a nameless death
Killing, names trying to live
Turn them into many a dead
All…all nameless corpses
Bodies dead without a name
Such is the fate of us dead
Us who have not a name

Intimacy

2007-09-09T21:23:00.000-07:00

The intimacy of bricks and earth

is strange

Farther the bricks attempt to distance
sooner they fall

And those reared in mother’s affinity
remain strong

The intimacy of bricks and earth
is strange

Father the bricks make their distance
still hear her call

Saucers in the Sky

2007-09-03T09:59:00.000-07:00

We Asians love our tea. It's a matter of pride and distinction. The better people opt for Darjeeling's best hand picked, hand wrapped, hand shaked and hand bought in store close to Darjeeling or expensive shops with mirrored walls in the far far West. For the other lot, tea bags would do. We Asians really do love our tea... from black, red, green... to herbal, diabetic, heart control...ayurvedic...all sorts of teas. We Indians amongst us Asians have ours with a good quantity of milk brewed with tea and sugar- In Bombay they add mirch masala to it, in the hills its that fresh aroma of ginger, and in my hometown (Calcutta) the disposable earthen cup adds earthen flavor to the roadside chai. Despite our exuberant enthusiasm towards chai we Indians amongst us Asians are not too fond of saucers in the sky.

Why is Area 51 in New Mexico and not in Rajasthan? I am sure the aliens are clever... given that they've crossed oceans of time and space to bring us their first hello. They're mission is always behind closed closets. They are either too shy or too clever to come out in the open- yet they go and park their vehicles in United States... those guys there are obsessed with little men who are green... and they've got radio and radar sweeping the skies for them...If the aliens truly wanted some lone time before they began eating us up- India would be the best place to begin. Where else could they find a billion strong food storage with a protection agency that provides "sticks" to their police. Further more, given that we like our tea so much... we are bound to adore them saucers in our sky. Imagine, if one of these saucers tipped... all of us would look up and open our mouths with hopes of tea drops falling and wetting our throats... the aliens could take advantage of our love for anything that is free and deliver their man eating spawns through their tea shower.

Sadly Area 51 is not in India. And sadly Area 51 is off limits to Indians... if not at least us expatriates could catch a plane to the saucers and have our fill of space age tea. But no...we have to be content with "Wah Taj boliye".

To end this- ever realized how ugly those aliens look. They are mean and green. Now, ever think how truly disgusting we look? I mean common... blonde and brunette...awwckh!

I Love Spam

2007-08-30T20:32:00.000-07:00

This spam is no pig meat and all other unwanted piggy parts mashed into a tin can product. And no- it does not have any expiry date either. But yes, it does fry my space...and sometimes my humor.

I am talking about cyber spam.

"From the nation of Independent X Nation of Africa."

or

"engrogivosilificus temperamentalati erectoinstantati penesylium"

and the new

"you've won and apple 4 gig Ipod Nano"

Spam humors me. I know I am not supposed to like it. I've got spam filtering arsenal all loaded and gungho on my gmail, but I read them anyway. Just cause they are so darn funny. I mean, where else, in what kind of literature would you expect some African dude from some impoverished African nation that has only bones and archeology to offer wanting to thrust a million bucks in your account. Most often than not its the widow of a deceased high ranking official or bank manager in the bargain. For solo folks like me that adds some spin- who doesn't like a tall dark damsel in despair? Yet, I haven't replied to any... cause I know these damsels aren't really damsels, they are men in disguise. I go to Africa, sipping on my mineral water, and perusing the landscape of Sahara with my binocs and I spot my Mrs. X in Mr. X's clothes... only men are capable of causing and falling for such antiques. Women are the brighter species... they don't send no mails to do their job- they'll come themselves... and men wouldn't even know that they've moved on.

Now the second...with their claims that medicine, or miracle drug would turn me into Ricky Ponting's best guarded secrets- his darned wickets. I'd have Shoab charging at me and Kumble throwing me guglis. Basically, I'd be stumped in no time. Or whacked before by Ponting and his Aussie mates. Only if their claims had been in moderation.. I'd subscribe to the wonder pill. I'm no dog but who doesn't want to be bigger, longer and uncut...South Park?

Free apples...even Sir Newton didn't have those!!! It caused a dent in his head that sent physics all over its head. It was never the apple but the effect of the thump on his head that got his eyes rolling all over scientific stardom. And Stevey, yeah, I call him that... that .... that little cool cat is a shrewd businessman in all the positive of senses... how could he part with his products without a price? We know he's never going to become a Gates in his lifetime... cause Gates loads his customers with free stuff for which you need to buy 3 year warranties and wait on hold to a certain Monica, Jenny, Amanda... oooooooo...... Nancy over the phone for three fuming hours before they say in some foreign language, "Arrey baba... kis c**tiye ne yeh lene ko bola thaa.... mein sirf higher secondary pass huun... tumko babysit woh bhi telephonically kaise karoon."

Yup! I can proudly say, "I LOVE SPAM" whether tinned or untinned.

The Weather

2007-08-11T00:40:00.000-07:00

I live in Pittsburgh now. It is an ancient American city in the state of Pennsylvania. I’ve heard myself say, “The weather is unpredictable in Pittsburgh.” Others have said this too. Statements about the weather are no revelations. They are mere fillers in silent soliloquies in the midst of strangers. It is something we residents of this land partake in. It might not run in our blood, this talk of weather, but it surely rubs onto our skin. I’ve lived in the free land for long enough to have this weather- talk sink deep into my epidermis. My conversations begin and end with the forecast, four days prior and two days hence, thereby covering a weeks estimation. The forecasters do their arduous job with any available honest effort. Proof of this being the truth in my small talk at bus stops, and smoke pit stops.

I am not expert on weather forecasting but have read a little into it. As Lorenz discovered, the weather is a dynamic, deterministic yet unpredictable problem. From him we get a convection model for gases in our atmosphere. And from his research the world coined the science of chaos. I am no specialist in Chaotic Systems. At best my understanding of this physical and mathematical concept is sketchy. I can write bits here that talk about chaos only superficially- but its God lies in the details, and I shall pretend to be no saint seeking him. I am a writer not a mathematician and will leave the mathematics up to the theorists. But I know this, flapping wings sometimes do cause tidal waves- in this case, the flapping being the movement of tectonic plates, and tidal waves being the harbingers of tsunami.

Maybe it is fear that has persuaded millions of Americans to stick to home runs, touchdowns, basket assists, and the weather in their casual conversation. No matter how tough a society one makes, its people remind themselves that all they have come to represent can be washed away in one breath stroke of Nature. She has the upper hand with her element of surprise. Therefore it is always comforting to know that man has been able to read her motives, thereby always keeping an eye for her unpredictability.

Continue your weathered small talk…it keeps me informed.

Providing you humor is not my job; it’s Letterman’s. This is a message to remind myself how important the weather is. It is no laughing matter. It is not a strange tale of pink cows grazing on blue fields. It is not abstract. It is real- if that is hard to believe ask a survivor of the Saharan Tsunami. It was no laughing matter.

The Theory of Darwinian Natural Selection

2007-08-06T15:53:00.000-07:00

He combed his brows
And laid his eyes to rest
The spectacles dropped
His nose bridge was marked
Fingers clasped plastic
And put glass in its position

(a sure obstruction otherwise
if it were not for his need)

Eye brows turned crooked
Eyes had a knowing gleam
Spectacles stayed their own
The bridge let waters run
Fingers felt thin paper
As he read in a fixed pose

(a trance of sorts, meditative
if it weren’t for moving eyes)

Looking up; he did do so
A window- framed world
Looked back at him, stared
As he did gaze at the trees
If they had voices they’d say,
“Please do not look so strange.”

(but trees have no voices
we know of, but imagine they did)

His once combed brows
Now so naked in disarray
Pondered their existence
What they could do,
Given the situation -
Never truly functional
Never truly useful, now old
And ruddy in the middle

(they did not respect nature
for nature had been meaningless)

An eighty five year old soul
Drew air into an old body
Such times require contemplation
So he did; thinking very hard
The wavered brows indicated
Pain pilled in difficult capsule

(they said he was useless
that’s what was said, useless)

He combed his brows
And laid his eyes to rest
The spectacles dropped
His nose bridge was marked
Alas his eyebrows felt useful
They’d caught his forehead’s tear

(they held the moisture
and didn’t let go until it dried)

Wonders of India

2007-08-05T11:22:00.000-07:00

The world seems to be discovering its heritages with urgency. The new seven wonders few days back, and now the wonders of India...All that is good. But all the emblems of humanity, and culture are old. Maybe one could come up with Modern Wonders... and not necessary splendors carved in stone or sand.

Here's my list of seven (concerning India).

Bombay's Dharavi Slum-
Dharavi is the living emblem of human struggle. The conditions are poor, and the atmosphere over it is worse, yet the men, women and children in it, live as family units, and share a laugh when they can. Such a remarkable feat of courage and strength ought not to be overlooked.

Calcutta's Shonagachi Harem-
While walking past Rabindranath Thakur's kindergarten school, my cousin's friend pointing to the right side of the road and sniggered, "Shonagachi" and for the first time I saw the sex workers waiting along a stairwell for business. They were not heinous as people might want to portray them in our section of society. These girls painted faces, and broad lipsticked lips, that hid their tired countenance. But we could see their bruised mind... yet their eyes had a limited amount of glitter- maybe that's the gift of hope.

Delhi's Jama Masjid-
Situated in the heart of busy business ventures, this mosque has given me calm that I have seldom found elsewhere. Although I am not a Muslim...his presence seemed to speak for itself in the quiet air, surrounded by the hodgepodge of Delhi life.

Hyderabad's Hitech City-
I lived in Hyderabad when nobody would dare to build a house near Gacchibowli. Now, this once neglected rural area has turned into the limelight of a city that has seven universities. It shows us that if the people want development they can strive to get it...something other cities might profit from.

Benares-
Do I need to explain why so? Think not.

Mattur village-
Sanskrit being the source of most Indian languages has always been close to our hearts but not our tongues. Most Indians do not speak it. We might chant a prayer or two in this language because the old Hindu scriptures were "written" in Sanskrit, a language now almost extinct from practical usage. But the town of Mattur has fought for Sanskrit by having it spoken everyday, as if it were Hindi, Tamil or English.

The Brahmaputra-
Even though our border issue has not be solved since the days of the British Raj we continue to drink the waters of the same river flowing through our countries. We might have the occasional bickering at foreign policy tables, and scant transaction of gunshots, yet we drink from the same river, and it would do both nations good to remember that.

Legal Bite

2007-08-04T07:52:00.000-07:00

I was reading a Sanjay Dutt article on TOI's website. The article was run of the mill. It's "user comments" were not. Comments showed that there were fans, critics, stoics, law abiding citizens etc. letting a bit of their opinion grace the graceful space left by TOI. There's one guy who wrote, "There is no one above the law." That comment caught my attention.

Truly, is there nobody above the law? What if the law makers and the pronouncers of lawful edicts begin wearing leather hats, carrying colts, and smoking cigars with a badge on their breast to flaunt their legality in matters? Would nobody be above them? Would nobody stand up? Wouldn't anybody dare to say, "Enough's enough, and its time for the law to do for the people what it was meant to do in the first place"... I guess not. A large chunk want "Sanju Baba" in jail, and rightly so. He did buy guns from those who used cheap deceit to claim innocent lives. The law says, such a man should be put behind bars. And he, Mr. Dutt knew it. Maybe a bit of Gandhigiri did rub onto his skin...maybe he had understood the Mahatma's saying, "The biggest strength lies in knowing and acknowledging your flaws." (paraphrased) Now let me go back to the statement which was most amusing, "There is no one above the law." It is easy to say that. It is especially easy to say that when law's hands have not put us on the balance. Only when on the balance do we know how precariously the blind lady's "tarazu" swings. The same law that has put a screen actor for buying guns, whether knowingly or unknowingly, from Bombay's bombers (400 life killers and so much more injurers), does not recognize the crimes of the people who are the real threats to our society- Us, common folk- We are the origins of cowardice that feeds terrorism within our domain- but we do not want to hear of that. We are the swindlers without any scruples. We are the criminals. I am not being inspired by Gandhi here- his era has passed. His thoughts are still golden, but the thoughts that he professed are not his alone- those thoughts of love and honor, belief and courage, are immortal ideas of man... but the Mahatma preached them to us in a form the people of his time could understand and associate with... Starving to death will not quell our blood thirst...no wonder the new breed of leaders take to "fast until death" dharnas only to munch a sandwich in a posh hotel once their resolution is passed in the house... Let us now put a common digression into politics aside and look at ourselves. While pretending to be citizens with the belief that nobody or no people is above the law, we are the ones who run lights and pay bribes. We are the ones who know best how to hide our money from the taxman. We are the people who burn our own for the sake of dowry money. We are the people who drown innocent girls to make life "better". The law we speak of- does not touch us then- what use is such law that cannot lift the morals of its own people... isn't the justice system a ground for morality to bloom? Where is our law then? Where is that sacred law of our democratic nation? Is it dead? If it is... why is it still dispensing judgment on others. Let the lawmakers for once, begin by judging themselves... Hopefully they will inspire us to spark some dignity in ourselves by way of which we might strive to become better citizens of this land of ours.

"There is no one above the law"- I say nay! Law ceases to be a prudential tool for its people when people themselves are lost... otherwise we are left with a legal system that becomes a stage for disgraceful wolves to usurp greater power by putting the meeker lot of their kind to the gallows, thereby giving the lambs of society a fattening fair. One should remember that a wolfish pack feeding the lamb cannot have good intentions for the thirst on their tongue is too, simply put, bloody.

To end this, let me quote Mahatma Gandhi, "In matters of conscience, the law of the majority has no place."

Why I shot the alien who said, "Hello, how do you do."

2007-07-24T23:24:00.000-07:00

The alien could say “Hello, how do you do” in seven languages and a total of thirty five dialects, none known to me. So I shot him in the head before picking up a box that seemed like a bomb but was indeed his method of tongues. With the alien dead I have gained thirty five separate dialects comprised in a seven suite language pack. Heavy!

PS: word count= 66.

Hangman 2

2007-07-24T23:03:00.000-07:00

Sometime back I had written...a game ending with the conclusion of a prisoner's hanging. The man had bombed the Indian Parliament. I am not sure what happened to that man. If he was pardoned, the news would have shown up in the papers. All the hoopla of reporting exists before the neck is strained and the limbs stop shaking. At least that's how it seems. Today the same media that tries so very hard to get balance of justice to hang heavier on a certain "mediated" side showed me a photograph- a simple snapshot of an accused bomber's sister, caressing the death row man's mother. The women were wearing scarfs. A fraction of their face was visible. Yet that little visible nature was gut wrenching. The bombers have a family who were probably not aware. The bombers probably have children who have just begun going to school. Maybe the bombers never got the red tri-cycle of their dreams.

Do we provide a free ticket to heaven or hell to these bombers? These are the same persons who took the above mentioned sentiments away from hundreds of others because they believed in a cause that required them to blow up children, women, men, vegetables, and dreams. Is then the bomber's mother's tears justified? Absolutely, yes. Wouldn't any mother weep if her government were putting a stopper to his "life"?

I must ask you, "Should our Democracy hang men?"

Harry et al

2007-07-23T12:35:00.000-07:00

I think I was young back when the first Harry Potter came out. The world was reading it. I did not. I was an idiot. I picked up HP in grad school. The world hadn't read Sorcerer's Stone for a while. I had begun flipping through it. I felt like a bigger idiot. All those years of vehemently attacking the Harry Potter world without actually reading through the pages seemed a waste of energy. What an idiot!...The seventh book drove up to my mailbox on saturday (21st). The book ended on sunday. It is monday today and I feel a great void. The thing is, if I had been my old self (the self who hadn't read it and b*tched about it) I could have picked up copies to read. But alas...the story has ended.

Will I be following Quidditch anymore? Will Expeliamus excite me when directed at Snape's chest. Will the Patronus bring forth awe? I hope so...I am darn sure they will, but I know now what Snape's dying thought was, and why Voldemort could not overcome Harry James Potter...the end is empty. Truly empty. I feel like I am at King's Cross, with no baby shrieking and no Dumbledore to shed tears- just me. But this cannot be about my overwhelming sense of loss.....neither about how brilliant the last installment was...nor the humorous "19 years later"...its got to be about what remains of Harry Potter- the films.....and one in particular- The Order of the Phoenix (which I've seen a couple of times). Nope, sorry to dissappoint, its not film review... if you want the review, visit IMDB. This is about film making...it is a confession of sorts, without the priest in flesh.

I love films. I would put on a T that read, "I (heart) films". This is quite something for me because my T's don't say much- they are just colored, and have patterns here and there. Yup...I love films. I began loving films because of the actors.....I was never too fascinated with the actresses in my younger years of film loving, because the actresses didn't seem to be doing much (except the Alien series). Nobody could talk like Peck- Very few could deliver justice from the barrel of a 44 magnum like Eastwood- Morgan Freeman had redifined the term "black gold"- and Terminator....ooo....I won't touch that realm of hypened excitement here. But then, the stardom of actors lost some of its spark...like every star, the one's in my mind began losing their energy. They began dwarfing... It all seemed to be up to the director. He was the unsung hero...he was the magician in charge of all others who had to perform tricks for the culmination of the final show. And this is where Order of the Phoenix comes in...given that Radcliffe, Rupert, Emma etc. have aged- given that Fienes is more solid- given that the enterprise (not star trek) has got loads of dough- given all that- David Yates changed the way I look at Harry Potter movies. I had enjoyed the movies previously with the exception of Prisoner of Azkaban, because they were cute, silver screen versions of the book. But this one---Oh hohoho.... this was far more... far far more. The camera moved with jerks. The camera was synced with the lead character's turmoil. The cuts were not smooth- just as his emotions- when Voldemort invaded his mind- the scened jumped- the expressions were not always face on... they were not sideshots to beautify the actors' Roman nose...sideshots were taken, often with the face cut off from the main screen to play the battle from all sides. I just loved the camera in David Yates' version of Potter. Ron was reserved.....many kudos to Rupert, although I think, Yates did have a say in it.

So much for the camera...what about the first scene? It looked like farmland/wheatland to me, sawying, dolling on the prospect of inevitable depression... the clouds were murky, and their shadows played shades on the broken faces of the actors. The film was not glossy. The props were tarnished---the tunnel lights (dementor attack scene) were dirty, and so were the unused windows of 12 Grimauld Place.

And finally the graphics input...Yes, Buckbeak was friendly and all laughs, but the Thestrials were haunting... they were as Luna put it, "different" for the better of all things. In short Order of the Phoenix has kept my hopes alive for Half Blood Prince and ofcourse Deathly Hallows. Yates is making HBP... and I hope he gets the final one for himself...He'll do it greater justice.

To end it.

There are some who do not like Harry Potter on principle. The principle being- Rowling becoming the richest lady in England and all from writing childrens' books. Such principle, although I held them once, is weak. Do dislike and critisize only after you've had your share of her words...otherwise it would be like saying, "I do not like chicken stew" without actually having it. And if principles mean too much to you....say this, "I will not read it" on principle.

Sivaji

2007-07-03T12:16:00.000-07:00

I have not seen the movie and I am pretty sure I will not view it in the near future. You may ask why? Please do. Well, I will not because I am not a Rajni fan. But thisi post is not a review of the movie, rather its a spin off of the humor Sivaji brought into my online existence. How so, you may ask once more. Please do. I like question and answer sessions- makes me feel political, which I am not otherwise.

This is the bit where I introduce the snippets-

A Marathi friend asked me, "Have you seen Sivaji?"

I said, "Why should I?"

He said earnestly, "It is Sivaji!"

I said, "Not your Sivaji...but a software Sivaji."

He said, a bit disgruntled, "Oh...not my Sivaji...I thought well..."

I found this regionalism humorous. Now there are people who tell me to take matters such as capitalism, communism, regionalism, socialism and all other isms seriously, including jisms that is, but for the life of me, isms tickle my funny bone.

If my friend was a Southie and had come across a Northie's Sivaji, he would have probably delivered similar sentences..."Oh...not my Sivaji..." I am not supposed to use slang. Well, I was never supposed to call myself a Bengali, but I do, and you call me a bong.

Now, the second story line- this is more serious. I am a tentative blogger. People do not often read my blog. And if they do, I do not come to know that they do, because nobody seems to be leaving any message, but what if I was a serious blogger with a blogfull of followers who blogged in and out of my blog and I had my firm nose grinding through the blogosphere in an attempt to outsmart others in my blogathon? Would I have the permission to make fun of Sivaji- the movie? The many bloggers who commented on this article did not find the blogger's blog humorous- they found it insulting (reference a thesaurus for better words please). Here's my beef- I am not supporting the blogger or her blog, neither am I discrediting it- now to my beef (yum yum?): Why do we as a people get hurt so darn easily. Somebody calls Gandhi a stick figure and we go all ballistic. Somebody claims the Taj Mahal isn't anything better than its Jamuna backdrop, and we start a petition in its support. A few others beat our cinematic sense and we begin calling them "immature" and comment, "Hey in our films we sell dreams. But you wouldn't understand." WHY THE HELL ARE WE SO DAMN NAZUK? So what if a Calvin Clein wearing idiot calls Gandhi a stick figure (just making it up)... its more important to let him do so. In the long run, after the sticker on his garment has faded he'll come follow our line of people who honor a stick figure and have come to call him the Mahatma. And so what if the Taj isn't pretty anymore- its memory is, and that memory is for us, those who love it. Finally coming to our films- enjoy what you enjoy and let the critiques, or in this case, the blogger say anything they want to...one shouldn't give a hoot.

To end this let me say, long live Sivaji and Rajni.

Paper cuts Letters Love

2007-05-13T21:56:00.000-07:00

Paper cut pain licks

Do paper cuts bleed?

Letters’ fading memory

Crimson stain borders

Do paper hearts ache?

Where edges blurred
In blue felt ink remain
Unanswered by love

Is silence love’s tongue?

Words now like bone
Dust into fading sand

Paper cut pain licks

Do paper cuts bleed?

Crimson stain borders

Filling empty white

Do paper hearts ache?

Where edges blurred
In blue felt ink remain
Unanswered by love

Is silence love’s tongue?

Tears become text

Teaching History

2007-05-11T14:17:00.000-07:00

Many newspaper websites were flooded with pictures of persons taking part in the commemoration of 1857's mutiny. Yes, those men and women who braved death sparked the first fires of our independence. We ought to be proud of their bravery, but does that mean we consider everybody and everything that "our side" did during that period "saintly"? Do we now, this day, have the courage to accept that killing women and children in British safe- houses was not very honorable?

I am not one to say that all that the East India company did was correct. Often their acts were heinous. But should we, as so called children of the Mahatma, neglect one of his greatest teachings...the teaching being, having the boldness to understand one's own flaws first before pointing out the flaws in others. History can be like an euphoric drug...indulge in it, and one forgets the truths lying deep within. Let us not partake in such dishonesty. Let us not say that all that our forefathers did was right. Let us not scribble every act of murder into our historic records as heroism.

If all this reads too negative, let me pose you a question, "How do you think the British should teach the history of the British Raj in Britain?" Should they teach history as we do? Should they transcribe every historic crime into sweet cream?

Migration

2007-05-06T16:12:00.000-07:00

Most Indians from India come to this foreign land with a conviction that they will return home. Their conviction fails... they end up staying in a "foreign land". Every summer, or winter, when it get's too chilly in say New York or Chicago, we pack up our bags, suitcases with dollar tags, hop onto planes and fly home. Birds do that, so do fish, and many other beings. Like them we return, as our ticket is always round trip. (Probably the only one way ticket was bought, the first time we came here with a dream of returning with....please do fill in here). The difference between the birds-fish-etc and us is that we still call this land, "foreign".

Why is it foreign?

Heck, what is foreign?

As a curiosity, the Indian National Students (INS) has termed all Indians from India, "Desis". We call each other Desis. We eat Desi food. We watch Desi movies. We wear Desi clothes on special occassions- Desi stuff is fun. Our attitude begs the question, "What is Desi?"

Growing up on Hollywood pop, and Springsteen/Beatles/Adams/Collins/Doors/etc I had come to believe that my "foreign" land was truly a backyard of them Hollywood studios. Everybody was either a Willis or a Stone. How wrong...how wrong...yet the attitude, "this is a foreign land" did not subside.

Is this a foreign land because I choose not to let it become my home despite having an aalishaan bungalow on it (I don't have one, most others do)? Why do we become so damn desperate before boarding that plane back to Bombay, Calcutta, Bangalore or Delhi?

In the true Desi spirit I would answer the above by quoting soem obscure lyric from some equally obscure song, "Des ki mitti ke jaise koi mitti nahin...uski mehek...uski ..." Stepping away from our Desi overdrive, I ask ourselves, "How many of us have tried to find the khushboo in America." We still think it is about research, economics, business, opportunities... everything barring the simple happiness of living. Say, like flying a kite in the outdoors with friends and family, or blending cricket and baseball into one game? How many of us call a gathering with friends from American and Non American origin? We might invite John Doe and his wife for dinner, but do not do so when Champaklal Desi and his Misses are around. Weird eh?

So what is foreign?

Probably foreign is what we make of it. Until I learn to understand this soil... and it is rubbish to cite the ancientness of India... for America has an equally lengthy history... it had people, and persons, who until this day speak in Native American tongues so old.

As a conclusion, I tell myself, let's learn the art of migration from the birds and the bees.

Senses

2007-04-08T14:35:00.000-07:00

Masks and Men

2007-04-08T14:33:00.000-07:00

Path

2007-04-03T18:10:00.000-07:00

Shame

2007-04-03T18:08:00.000-07:00

LULLABY

2007-03-31T09:06:00.000-07:00

Evil sees right through me with a smile
How long can you pretend to play good?
Smile broadens as I keep feeding on guilt

The clock strikes one…no mouse runs down

I observe the cat purring by my empty feet
You know it will surely scratch you someday
My feet jerk nervously, deciding upon a kick

The cow jumps over the moon…now foggy

Flesh perched on a cool metal trigger, toying
You will resign as all the others have done
Fingers shivering with the cold metal touch

Bah-bah black sheep…that’s being racist

Evil sees right through me with a smile
How long can you pretend to play good?
Smile broadens as I keep feeding on guilt

To The Shelter of Trees

2007-03-31T08:59:00.000-07:00

Take me to the shelter of trees
Where I might taste an orange
Freshly fallen from the branch

Take me to the highest clouds
Up on which the orange grow
Setting to the dew all the nigh’

Take me to the farthest fire
That refuses no fuel we pour
Ne’er bowing to blowing wind

Ink

2007-03-31T08:56:00.000-07:00

How blue the ink stain

has deepened on still
paper lettered to anon
I mus’ to heavy spots
clear scratches aback
my body does hurt
not more than a thin
paper cut through me
where word lies lost
without its lost limb
once so blue withstaen’
Fade away, fade away
my faraway memory
for what use are you
as a memoir undone
whisper myself to wind
harsh beating my chest
plays the distant drum
and sings me his song
“how brave mans’ heart
faces howling canons
fearing his love gone”

Feet

2007-03-31T08:51:00.000-07:00

TWENTY FEET

I am sitting on a ledge, about twenty feet from the ground. I have not measured the fall with a tape measure. And I do not intend to jump. Twenty feet will not work. Such less heights never work. At most they break bones. But I do not want a broken bone. I want myself broken, and that is not merely bones.

The wind is cool. The sun has set. The park is filled with people. I can see those people. Have they ever sat on ledges? Does sitting on a ledge and contemplating mix well. Can I think here? I guess I can. Therefore I am writing these on a ruled piece of paper in a spiral bound notebook. The binding is metal. It hurts the skin. Yes, it does hurt. The sharp end pierced into my skin once. That is why I choose to write in this book, not any book, but this one, which has tasted my blood. I am kin.

A bird sits on a higher ledge. The bird is a better thinker at its height. It does not fear a fall for it can pick up a flight midair. I cannot fly. I do not have wings. Yet, the ledge does not scare me. I might go higher up, to begin fearing.

FORTY FEET

The window ledge was stuck. I struggled with its rusty edges. But metal gave in. The iron bolts were red. They have colored the jeans I am wearing. My shirt is white. I have been careful not to mar it with odd stains. I am now sitting forty feet above the ground. The bird that was over me is now below. It did not choose to fly away when my ground touched the ledge beneath the window on which I sit staring at it staring at me. We have understood this height together, although the bird got here before I. Would I let it stay in my place of reign if I had come here first? Maybe the bird is a better creature. Maybe the bird is wiser as it has rested on higher rises.

The people that were in the park have left its lamps shining on empty space. There are still a few dogs running around. The dogs have soft tennis balls clutched in their mouths. I know they hold tennis balls as their fluorescent glaze is bright beneath the electric lamps. I can smell the oncoming rain. It is a peculiar scent when earth begs for water from the clouds above. They have a amicable relation. It is a relation of giving and taking that remains dynamic all year round. The relation is never unfair to either.

My ledge- mate has sought higher altitude. I see it fly away. Its black feathers blend into the black sky above me. There is always something higher than my height. I do not fear the forty feet drop beneath me. The ground does not invite me yet. I am different from rain. Rain is many. Rain is particulate. I am one. I am whole. But I need to be broken. I desire shattering and this height will not do.

EIGHTY FEET

The roof is home to pigeons. An old lady on the first floor who uses a cane to hobble about in the apartment leaves a dish of cooked rice on the roof. The cook white rice is left in an open plastic plate. The birds eat from it. They enjoy her rice. I have not known persons before who cook rice for birds. She is the first of this thoughtful lot. Maybe she learned her truthful method the hard way. Maybe she had given uncooked rice to the pigeons in her childhood and watched the pigeons pop as the grains bloated in their belly and eventually burst their digestion red on the ground. I watch the pigeons pecking away gaily at the rice behind me. That dish is not for me. I am nobody’s responsibility.

My legs dangle over the rooftop ledge. I can feel the low density of air here. I can feel the heat from rising smoke here. I can hear the television blaring a floor below. Someone’s watching a comedy. Or maybe the television has been turned on high to cover up whatever that someone is up to.

A jet plane flies over me. It has a tail. Monkeys have tails. But monkeys do not fly as cousins to clouds and children to stars. Monkeys fly tree to tree but their flight is short lived for they, like me, do not have wings as the birds behind me. A crow is eyeing the pigeons’ gathering from atop a water tank. The crow is alone. It is black. It is dark. My jeans are black. The white cement powder has stained them again. The red of the rust has been overcome by white.

Sitting eighty feet above ground is a giddy act. Remember Hitchcock’s Vertigo?

GROUND FEET

I have tasted the giddiness of heights. It feels safer on ground. The park is now exceptionally empty. The odd couples still linger. There are no dogs anymore catching fluorescent green tennis balls. Animals must eat. Animal food comes packed in all sizes of packets. I do not like dogs. For that matter I do not like pets.

A hoard of mosquitoes have gathered around a muddy puddle. I watch them. They watch me with their mosquito eyes. They do not come to me. I am bloodless. My blood belongs to my book that I have tucked beneath my arm pits.

Zero feet above ground. My feet touching the ground. This reality is most fearing. Higher heights did not scare me. This reality shivers. The cold wind blows. The distant scream. The television soap blaring in the background of a sobbing woman. The drunken walk of a penniless beggar. My walk. My thoughts. My height. My feet. My steps. I fear them all. This is the realm that I fear most…just as the birds who fear the skies most and therefore come to a ledge, twenty, forty, eighty feet from the ground to rest.

Ratri, a Woman

2007-02-20T06:33:00.000-08:00

Let me become your mirror,
Holding only an image, enough
To shimmer my desire afloat.

How carefully you hide in veil,
Dark calligraphy around twinkling
Mirrors reflecting your gentle light.

Sindur trailing into dusts of distance
And the bold forehead’s medallion
For lovers to witness in your aanchal.

Let me be a lake filled with still water
To catch your image in my tranquility
For the lives swimming within me.

The Lotus Man

2007-02-20T06:30:00.000-08:00

The lot of the muddy pond
Blooms alone in the morn
Hidden to the dimmed eyes
The lotus eater swims on
Unaware of the thousand
Flowers to appear in time
In memory of that one lotus
That stood ground amidst
Dirt, deluge, suffering, pain
Of the chocking black lake.

The man brings back the lotus
Before the temple gates open
And factories begin churning
Smoke towards a drowning sun.

The Red Frocked Toad

2007-02-20T05:44:00.000-08:00

A red frocked toad
Leaped onto my broken boat
and told the tale of the one legged goat
soon enough my eagle got very bored,
How quickly she went through frogged hoard!

Flutter

2006-11-23T18:31:00.000-08:00

The pigeon has not flown,
Home is much too distant,
and the wind mighty cold.

Flutter over soil not own,
the pigeon is then killed.
Now body too distant- too cold.

HangMan

2006-10-03T08:21:00.000-07:00

Many of us have played the game, Hang Man. Think a word, draw dashes, and let others fill it out. I think one had to give a clue. H_n_m_n was prone to swing like a pendulum- to and fro, fro and to. It was fun! But this is a different kind of Hangman. This game's being played by people, the representatives of the people, and the voice of the people (people, government, and media). Save the man whose going to be hanged! Have mercy! Gandhigiri ke naam pe raham karo.

The literate and people belonging to the literati have tried to justify their humanity. I do not believe them. I will not believe them. If the man had planned to take out our capital...they his punishment aught to be one of similar magnitude. If this person is not treated in a similar manner as to the Bengali chowkidar, Dhananjaya, who choked for raping a little girl many years ago, won't Dhananjay's ghost come back to haunt us?

There's one trick to winning in hangman that works most often than not- wait and watch. When the waitings over, fill in the blanks... Hangman.

Rang De...

2006-09-26T15:03:00.000-07:00

I would understand the Bruhaha if Mr. Banerjee was given the Nobel for Physics. The subject, Physics is a more or less an even playing field. Meaning, the apple does not drop any different in Calcutta from the way it splits on New York soil.

But comparing movies? With RdB nominated for the oscars (note Aamir Khan common factor) our media is going all nuts about "Agar the choice is..."

A tally in some national newspaper read. Three Indian movies has been nominated for the oscars, and no Indian movie has won one yet. Hmm...

Statistically this implies that: 1. India is a minority film producer. 2. If India is not a minority film producer, she has produced only three movies worth being shortlisted. 3. Although our movies are good they do not play up to French/Mexican/Spanish movie standards. 4. The West is biased. 5. etc.

1. India makes an average of more than two movies a day in a year. Point chucked out.

2. Have the Scorcesses heard of Mera Naam Joker? Maybe not. They dont know enough about our films as a collective whole. Point 2 dismissed.

3. This is up for debate...

4. The West has always been fascinated by the Orient. Hero was a blockbuster here...Hero spelt in Chinese.

5. Etc. ...

So, the point to be incurred is that a stochastic model will not quite fit this question about Indian movies on Hollywood's most grandiose stage.

I think our movies are as they say, "Hatke". Let them be different. Honestly Rang de Basanti needs no oscar to prove that its a worthwhile film. If your blood boils- the works done? How many oscar winning movies has boiled your blood off late?

Reality, Dreams, Awakening, and Death

2006-04-11T22:42:00.000-07:00

He died in her dream,
Ne'er woke to reality.

The dream of death,
Awakened her reality.

The dead dream,
Awakened no reality.

The awakened dream,
Lay dead 'fore reality.

Silence

2006-04-06T04:22:00.000-07:00

Silence speaks.

She has spoken.
No more a stranger.
Mi casa es su casa.

She and I in pronoun.
Love living in her.

The Professor

2006-04-05T07:23:00.000-07:00

The Professor and The Monkey are intended to be used as tool to teach children lessons in mathematics, language, and moral studies. If anybody is an aspiring cartoonist, or wants to draw cartoons for children's books please contact me.

A thought: II

2006-03-27T09:23:00.000-08:00

Self indulgence is the secret of poetry. Pain and pleasure, mostly pain scratched on papyrus for others to read. The others will read your words, probably admire them, congratulate you, and leave a note of appreciation for you have successfully publicized that common gash. Poetry tries to beautify the pus. I am culprit to such foolishness. Why should I consider pain any different from pleasure? Why should I understand pleasure to be good? Should there be pain or pleasure for that matter? At the fair I shot a pellet and burst a balloon. It was my pleasure. When a similar projectile hits me, I give a name, "pain" and try to kill it by suffocating it in my poetry. I am a coward to do so. Face it. Do not hide it. Live it. Do not kill it. And if you survive...then write a verse in honor of the experience. Following this logic, poetry is a parable (in verse) narrating an experience, your experience. Poetry ought to be humanized then. Give it a life, and let it live inside you, as you. It will grow flagella, and eventually acquire perception and understand morals. If it does, you will benefit...becoming more moral. Only then will poetry be honest and useful. Cherish what you have. Do not waste it. Preserve it. You might lose it any day. Do not mourn when it is lost. It was meant to disappear. Before it is gone make poetry a brother. Give it respect. Question it when it sways from course. Learn from its answers. And share bread. You are sons of the same mother- nature that is.

A thought: I

2006-03-27T09:08:00.001-08:00

Man is passing. So are his deeds. We fight for a legacy. But those who might remember us will eventually become null. Legacy is lost. Should remembrance be our purpose? Or should men strive to live as men, work as men, live, and then die, knowing that they have achieved completion at the ultimatum? What should our philosophy be? Not comfort. For comfort is not more than self indulgent fashion, and fashion is petty. Not beautification as the rose has to wilt one day. And not many of us can compare to the candor of a flower. I do not know what the purpose of my existence is. I will not pretend to harbor such knowledge. Although intuition tells me, life is not for a greater purpose but for living with honesty and belief in what is greater than us, creator...and let our actions be the fruit of our years. A woman gives birth. She raises the child- raising the child is her reward. She is content. So should I with my life at this moment. If satisfaction is not harnessed in the present it might never show its face in the future. Go on...as you should...and eventually turn into shadow, stone, dust, fire and return to the elements which make us.

Insomnia

2006-03-17T18:38:00.000-08:00

A blue crane flies past my window. There are no cranes in Calcutta. But a blue crane races the air. A blue crane. I walk to my window. The bird is gone. A woman is sitting upright on my bed. She is naked. Her skin is light, burnt sunshine shade. Her hair is black. She has thin lips. Her eyes are calling me. I step towards her.

I touch her lips. They are lifeless. She disappears.

The bed is empty.

White sheets, and a green chador. A second hand wooden bed. It is clean. But I know its filth. I understand its filth. Men and women have slept on it. It is to be dirty. It has to be unclean. The sheets are dirty; haven’t been washed in a fortnight. I know it. I hide myself in the darkness beneath the chador. Darkness is strange. You do not see much. There is no future. There is no past. And present is lacking. There is no present. Time is lost in darkness. This is not science. It is my mind. My mind is not physics. My mind has more than atoms. My mind has more than gravity. My mind is…a being.

The blue crane is perched on my window. It is pecks the paint chips hanging from the drying walls. Paint dries. It is wet when applied, but loses moisture. It sticks to the wall. In time, the walls reject paint. They begin wearing. The blue crane eats the yellow paint chips from my windowsill. The bird stays.

I watch the bird. It flaps its wing twice and then stops.

Where is my chador? I want my chador.

Often we do not get what we want.

Gandhi wanted peace. He got a bullet. It must have hurt. He died. They said he died peacefully. But he found bullets in his abdomen. Bullets are metal. They kill pain. The pain we call life. He longed for peace. And Death smirked. A bullet. Godse.

My chador is on the floor.

How did it get there?

A body is beneath the chador.

I know it is a woman. Her hair is flowing out. She stirs.

Bare legs defy confines of the linen cover. Her legs are beautiful. I could make love to them. I could make love to her. She stirs. Her arms prop out. Her hands are simple. They are kind. Her hands have blood in them. They have life. She stirs. She turns towards me. She stares at me from behind the cover. The thick cloth covers her face like a veil does. Her eyes are inviting. She is inviting.

I look into the mirror. I see myself. The mirror is not helpful. Glass lies. It distorts. The reflection is not I. Throw a stone, the mirror shatters. Reflections scatter. It does not die.

The woman takes my side. Her lips move. She whispers. Her kiss is warm. I want warmth. She provides warmth. I turn towards her. We come closer. She is bare. I am hidden. She hides. I am open. She is love. I love. She sits on her knees. I follow suite. She lies down. I lie beside. Her body rubbing the floor. Her body moving towards me. I move towards her. Whisper. My mouth catches her breath. Our sighs mingle. It is a marriage.

I am nude.

We are in arms.

A comforting touch.

I cannot sleep. There is no rest.

She writes on my back. Her fingers on my body. Nails scratching skin. She has written her name. She has a name. I did not know. There is much I do not know. There is much we do not know.

Jyotsna.

Rain drums on my window. There is a crack at the bottom right. Water trickles through it. Wind pushes a way. Wind, water make a damp breeze. The breeze caresses my arms. My arms are limp. They have not blood. A heavy head was on them.

Seven. Alarm.

I bought the clock at a decorated shop.

It was meant to be a present. The red-green-blue wrapper stayed on. I threw away the card with the little laurels on the side yesterday. My relic of Japan. An alarm clock. Three hands for the hour, minute and alarm. The seconds are missing. A blue crane painted on its face. The video cassette is stuck. A man is lying on a woman. There is no confluence of colors. White sex. Her eyes are closed. She looks satisfied. I am not.

* * *

Cold soup.

The microwave counter ticking, its ping. Warm soup. A layer of cream on top. The solidified grease coagulated as one overlying mass. A camouflage for the yellow corn. I remove the thick fat with a steel spoon. Indian Airlines. I picked it up. I pick them up. Airline silver ware for personal use only.

Still cold.

Microwave humming, ticking, consuming, heating, and cooking.

The soup’s too warm. I blow on it. A thinner yellow grease layer dances to the little wind. Dance. I watch it shimmer. Stirring in the grease, I drink it spoon by spoon. A bunch of baby corn and chicken pieces are left in the end. I tilt the bowl, and collect the bottom nourishment with a spoon.

No kabuki.

Taxi cab. Meter down. Rough ride. On- time. Fare paid.

The telephone rings.

Talk. Smile while speaking. Smile at nobody. Just the grey walls frowning back. Keep smiling. It is necessary. Tone comes with facial twitches. Happy customer representative. An Indian on the line. He has time. He is fooling around. He will not fetch you a raise. But you cannot be discourteous.

Yes sir.

Yes sir.

No sir.

Talk.

You are Amanda. You have an American accent. You work at a call center. Call centers are central to economic growth. Ten thousand a month. You are independent. The money is enough. Sufficient. You have worked for six months. The average work period is fourteen. You have lesser patience. You have read the papers. The taxi driver murder. The increased protection. It is claustrophobic.

Talk.

Your father is alive. Your mother is alive. They reside together. They’ve never been apart. Your father is five years older than your mother. They love one another. They do not have sex. You know. You just know. Times are changing. Movies altering. No more rose garden dances. It’s the age of striptease. The fad hit America two thousand years ago. Its finally arrived now. News channels have quarrelsome shows. Feminists in crew cuts. Men with mascara. Straight men. Straight women. It’s a cauldron. There are no witches. The witch hunt ended two centuries ago. Salem is a sleepy town today. You don’t know where Salem is. You have Salem’s lot. Night interests you.

You undo the first two buttons of your shirt. The air conditioner is running. But the air in you is hot.

Thank you. Goodbye.

My blue crane is back. It is hopping on my table, looking at everything but me. I do not exist. I am invisible. I am air. The bird’s feet are wet. A black residue is imprinted on an office paper. The crane does not take note. A fish tries to violently catch its last few gulps of life. Thick beak inquests the fish. Sweet meat. Violence ends. Violence begins in the crane’s mouth. Violence is swallowed. The bird’s eyes twitch. She begins crafting a hole in the cubicle board that separates me from my working neighbors. I do not know her name. She does not know mine. The wound in the cheap separation might bring us closer. Blue crane logic. Human logic. Logic never was to creation.

The hole is made.

It is crude.

I bring myself to look into it.

The air is pleasant. A sweet fragrance tickles my sense. Orange sky has cupped her hands around the sunflower bed. She sways the flower heads. Suns collide. Petals fall to the ground. Brown soil turns yellow. Earth will influence solar bits into soil. Earth has always got its way in the present. There is light here therefore a present.

The blue crane graces the flowers. The occasional green stalk confides in her. She keeps their secret and does not share it with me.

In the heart of the field I want the sky to shroud around me.

Mould me floral.

Evolution is intense.

I am flora.

Jyotsna and I lie parallel on the grave of tradition. The blue crane blows air. Geometry is broken. Bird becomes one with sky. Deep orange sky sings us a lullaby…

* * *

I am in the arms of my lover. Satisfied. Asleep.

The Soothsayer's green parrot

2006-03-06T23:28:00.000-08:00

A parrot picks a future.

He’ll have money, a beautiful wife, two children, a Maruti, and a flat in Salt-lake.

Indranil walks home.

He’ll have it all.

A parrot said so.

A wallet he stole in Shealdah lies on the table.

Plywood.

Cash.

Wonders.

Have it...but honor.

Parrots never lie.

2006-03-03T16:10:00.000-08:00

I do not have a title for this post. Let it be unique in being without a name.

Seldom does a face- a voice- a character- a thought amuse me to a degree Amelie has done. I watched her two years ago. Two years ago, I wanted to fall in love. Two years ago a woman (girl) chipped a piece of me and pocketed in her pocket. She might skip it over a canal. I have watched "Amelie" a number of times (more than the digits on both my hands). Yet, from the very first shot she manages to tickle me. And I laugh. I am particularly sensitive around my foot. She does not have to lay a finger on my foot. Her presence is enough. I laugh. I giggle. I am amused. I am saddened. And in the end I go, "only if..."

It has been six years I have been jotting words down on the back of my notebooks, or printing them on a computer screen. In these years, I have not once written words to her. Maybe someday I will. Only the name will be different. Not Amelie. But with a similar spirit.

For Amelie I thank Jean and his cast and crew.

Tomorrow if someone asks me, "Who was your second love?" Can I say, "Amelie" without blushing at my childishness?

Long Distance

2006-01-25T22:24:00.000-08:00

Every now and then we forget the past. But the past is not be forgotten. It returns. Comes crawling back into our lives and thoughts at night. The loneliness of the present gets to you. The chilling cold of the present rattles the very person within- or does a person reside within?

And then we pick up the phone. Flip through diaries that haven't been used in five years. Scurry through the numerous telephone numbers- all with seven digits, add a "2" and the current telephone number pops up. Punch in a collect call number- and then your personal password. The password works. Now the important bit- that portion your dreams having been tugging- "011-91-the rest follows". A lady of age picks up the phone. How do you say who you are? "Dida, Bundai, a friend of your grandson...remember?" Memory. We remember obscure names, and people that have turned into ghosts. Ghosts have voices. I have a voice. Its changed over the years, but the core of it- the broken English, the Indian accent, the jumbled and confused sentence construction have not altered. I am still a fraction of what I was in High school. "Bundai!" An exclamation is necessary. We exchange information, and 5-year stories in five minutes. She gives me a number. My friend's cell phone. I dial, hesitantly, mind you. I have changed. He must have. So I think. The telephone rings, and Lattu picks up.

Its been about six years since we've got in touch.

Five years of our lives compressed into a hour long bag of conversation. They say, "Zindagi bahut choti hai, jina chahiye..." I say, "Are bhai, zindagi khamosh nahin hai, hum ek chupp guha mein kho gaye hain."

The long distance call ends. A renewed conversation begins...

Gandhi and Nachiketa

2005-10-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

People have heard of the Mahatma time and again. Most ears have received the man's name with fond respect, although some cannot stop criticizing M. K Gandhi. But not too many people who use the English language to communicate have heard of
Nachiketa,
a boy who walked up to Yama and came back with the knowledge of the "atman". Both these figures from India share the common desire to know oneself- one an old man fighting for freedom, the other a child discovering the grandeur of humanity.

GANDHI:
Son, why do you sit so still?
Hasn’t your mother told stories,
Of princes, and kings, and gods,
Demons battling good to lose?

NACHIKETA:
My ears are thick with stories,
Tales of all those sweet and fragrant,
But all around there is a stink,
Although its fetid reason eludes.

GANDHI:
A child, but burdened you are,
And who said there’s some rot?
Don’t you like the smell of roses,
And the taste of honey suckle,
Which grow in our land’s gardens?

NACHIKETA:
Father, you tease as other men…
They mock my dreary soul,
And send me forth to fetch a game…
Or hunt the restless dragonflies fluttering.

GANDHI:
Come sit by my side, and we shall be men,
You, Nachiketa, the new and I, the old,
We shall talk of all that your heart desires…
And the stench might vanish from air.

NACHIKETA:
And the air shall be clean again?

GANDHI:
Boy, so you have breathed the fresh,
Wind carrying tunes of a myriad countrymen?

NACHIKETA:
I have…but I was a mere flesh then,
A being without much thought,
For now the troubles haunt me…
And in you I see the reflected,
Light that will drive my worries away.

GANDHI:
Like the Asuraas who ran at Vishnu’s sight!

NACHIKETA:
Mahatma, may I sit at your feet, as we speak?

GANDHI:
Why my feet, for your place on my lap.

NACHIKETA:
Then I shall whisper my words…’cause
In creatures of Earth I have no trust to spare.

GANDHI:
So we will begin with trust, and turn towards,
The greater burdens that your mind carries,
I shall be the scarecrow turning black thoughts,
Unto the distant hills, away from our abode.

NACHIKETA:
So be it Father as I wait to hear your words…
Words that heal the wounds inflicted by words

GANDHI:
O Nachiketa trust is a gift from Krisna,
Without it we invite howling grief,
To camp within our very make- and spin,
Cobwebs of dark and failing deceit.
But with trust we succeed to gather,
A handful quantity of peace that remains,
Deep in conscious and fires happiness.

NACHIKETA:
Do you then trust the British?
My father says they’d be cruel,
Men who would lack conscience n’ morals…

GANDHI:
Why shouldn’t I trust the British?
Wasn’t it an Englishman who was,
The cause for birth of revolutions all over –
In Africa, in America, and even in India?
Should I harbor the audacity to dislike,
A people who have given this world countless,
Truths…truths of nature, and truths of mind?

NACHIKETA:
Then why do you wish them to leave?

GANDHI:
So they might realize my truth –
Our collective truth, if I may say so
For which we have been in penance so long…
God had made man in His nature…
And it his nature to live and let live,
Sadly the politics of governance has
Taken away the art of it, forsaken,
Such a truth while harming our people,
Using us as fodder to feed their cows and coffers.

NACHIKETA:
And what say you to those killing the English,
And proclaiming superiority of our people?
Do you despise their efforts? Or, scoff at
The sacrifice they make at the alter?

GANDHI:
Does one have to despise to dislike
All things one disagrees with? Let all
Such thoughts fly away into a clear sky
That can bear seven opinions in a rainbow.

NACHIKETA:
Talking of flying Father, into the Sky
I wonder why can’t I grow wings,
Like the young butterflies and go,
Whence the flowers bloom in sun,
And the rain only adds splendor,
To the stream flowing down rocky paths?

GANDHI:
A butterfly cannot think, it flies,
But you my son, are bound to ground,
In your chains of thought - so am I,
So is every human soul on earth,
And for that we may curse or crave.
Choose you what must you choose,
After all

NACHIKETA:
A man am I then,
and not a butterfly, nor a boy?

GANDHI:
A boy, yes, a man too you are,
And I know your kind are in thinning,
Hiding themselves under blankets,
Of frivolous boyish runabouts –
Reading not the writings on the wall
But fat books of poison that dig a hole
In their imagination, and opens the door
Of wonderland with elf n’ seafarers;
But to be frolicking is your age,
And none should commit the crime,
Of snatching that child from within.

NACHIKETA:
O Mahatma, the sun sinks now,
And mother shall be awaiting my call,
The woman I do not wish to hurt,
For she has suffered much pain on my behalf.

GANDHI:
Their pain is the gift of womanhood…

NACHIKETA:
I must run down the valley now,
And fly like a kite, a post rather,
Fall before my doorstep before,
Father’s return, for his cane I do not miss.

GANDHI:
Go, go, go run wild in meadows…

GANDHI:
Look there - a child goes running,
Scampering through crowded folk,
Will my country, my land have kindness,
To give to him what he has lost -
Freedom, fun and a pair of wings?

A Letter for Maria...

2005-10-09T07:34:00.000-07:00

The war was cold,
Like others it was brutal,
There were guns, and machines,
Crushing the very bodies of men,
And then I found relief,
I could go home,
Someone else had volunteered,
The soldier beside me,
Stuffed a letter into my pockets,
“A letter for Maria…” he said.

The jet plane sped home,
White clouds combing my hair,
And stork birds of fairytales,
Carrying babies in baskets,
The name tags flying ‘bout in air,
A dream on the plane…
The actual jingling of my dog- tag,
A man beside me…his eyes closed,
Only momentary…shivered back to life…
Maybe it was a bullet, or a bomb,
That killed his friend, which woke him…
Soldiers never cry…they put stones,
Stones that stop the bleeding heart,
From pumping blood to the wounds,
Of warfare etched deep within,
That no knife can meditate on.

Home at last…a band of smiling faces,
Gay expressions ready to receive,
These are the people I called my friends,
These are souls once I had words for…
But today I have to be silent…
For home is my prayer ground…
In its silence I might pay homage,
To fellow soldiers whose body have turned cold,
As I walk down the jet plane,
I see the coffins, loaded onto a truck,
As if they were a burden…the coffin loader,
Lifting the dead weight without a smile,
Sweat trickling down his forehead,
And his raw muscles bulging with strain…
Seeger had sung about flowers,
And about men at war, but we,
Those who’ve heard its noises,
Only wish for silence- no songs, no music,
No speeches or preaching, letting me,
Know how painful it is- for I know.

A thought strikes my mind,
An image rather, a picture of urgency,
Fighting soldier stuffing two pieces,
Of paper into my pocket…I haven’t
Changed my trousers…I carry the war,
To my home- the letter still tucked in,
The “Letter for Maria.”

Maria, you live by a distant street,
Where the language is not my own,
To your home I take a cab- its $12,
An unfair charge, if you’d ask me…
And there you stand by the window,
I have a letter for you…

The door bell is loud…
It’s a screaming thing that gnaws my heart,
And a man opens your door…
He is young and handsome…no dirt,
No blood, no pain, no sweat, and no wounds,
He is a man…not a thing to be shot at,
Not an object coffined, or carried,
He is alive- but I, and my brothers,
We were dead the moment we took the gun,
And gave our honor to those like you,
That we’d defend, that we’d serve…

I watch you run down the stairs,
He must have loved you…
My friend must have taken many moments,
To fabricate a message for you…
To let you know about his bleeding heart,
And now smile to myself-
Another man’s wife…and he, no man,
But a count, a star, a name on a wall…
Maria, you will never have to visit,
The black walls of wailing and lament,
I won’t hurt you…my hands are cold,
You stare at me…I smile,
And walk away…with treasure in my pockets,
“A letter for Maria.”

A Conversation: Father and Son

2005-10-03T15:52:00.000-07:00

Adiratha:

Son, shall I call you so?
For now you know your truth,
That as a charioteer's son,
A great Kshatriya has been raised.

Karna:

"Father" you are Karna's,
Although your blood I have not,
Your love flows in me,
Like the river that carried,
A lost boy to his father's feet.

Adiratha:

Karna, then will you not heed,
Your mother's fear, for your life,
Is all my wife has left in hand,
And such a battle might steal,
Her child away from her,
And leave her maternal cradle empty.

Karna:

Father you ask me do the impossible,
A charioteer must ride into death,
Witout praise or glory, he doesn't,
Leave his master's side, and I, I,
Karna son of a Charioteer, a man,
Of much misfortune have been,
Given the love of a mighty warrior,
Should I leave Duryodhana's camp,
When the man needs me most- would you?

Adiratha:

Nay!

Karna:

Why do you smile so, father?

Adiratha:

Witness the crimson sky- your heavenly father,
In the heaven arises, he rides fire horses,
Across the span of this entire Earth,
I smile at my fortune- to raise,
His blood as my own- a lowly charioteer,
Has become a proud father today,
For under my teaching you have,
Not become base like the rest...

Karna:

Father to your might I bow my head.

Adiratha:

Karna- you know your end do you?

Karna:

Yes...my death is certain, let that,
Not be told to my friends resting,
Let them enjoy music and wine tonight,
For tomorrow much sorrow must they face,
Let the brave men leave this earth,
Without fear, and filled with mirth,
To meet their foe in battle.

Adiratha:

And Lord Krishna told you of your demise?

Karna:

The Lord is graceful- and did not hurt me,
With such a bitter truth, his tone was kind,
A delicate note of mirth and sorrow-
No, Lord Krishna does not need tell me,
I know for that must be my end-
The Lord drives the chariot of the victorious,
For the victory of the Pandavas,
Kunti's first born must lay down his body,
But father, fear not, for this body,
Is not much more than a vessel of deed,
I shall have fulfilled my dharma at battle,
And ride unto heaven beside the sun-

Adiratha:

And how do you know of Krishna's divinity?

Karna:

Father, don't you realize God's game-

Karna:

Only three humans knew of my truth,
You, Mother Radha, and Mother Kunti,
Not even I! But another stepped forward,
To tell me my birth father's and mother's name-
Only God could have known that,
And Krishna only adviced me, never did,
The Lord spread his palms before me,
And ask for the life of his "partha",
For he knows my end- he is the author,
Of my fate- and it shall be as he desires,
Karna shall be vanquished at battle,
And Arjuna shall be crowned the winner,
Kunti who had five sons will have them all,
But you, two humans who have natural son,
Shall have to give me away...to the wishes,
Of Lord Krishna, the Lord who governs,
And gave me to you in the first place-

Adiratha:

Cruel this world has been on you!
Like snakes has fate hissed and struck,
You time and again- why? Why must my son,
Be treated in such ill a manner?

Karna:

O Adhiratha!
Your son is Karna-
Fate hisses at him-
For it must keep him from victory.
But remember, your son,
Shall be the only son of Kunti,
Who shall find the grace of God,
Without questioning...the others,
Have sinned in vanity, and lived,
In that empty heat without realization,
But Karna has learnt his little stature,
Despite mastering the art of war.

Adiratha:

Your father shines bright with pride!

Karna:

Yes father, your face shines,
Like the very sun in the sky.