Unheard weeping
“i could not burn”
At the moment of last farewell
You said
Returning my loveletters
“ i will burn...”
Hearing my thses words
You sobbed
“ yes, you must do likewise
But never tell me
on which deathbank did this cremation
of my first unborn expectation...”
since then i am praiyng
whenever youe womb bears fruit
same your first unborn hope
everytime bloom in that
because telling truth
could not ash even i
your that unmarried hope
in those self written loveletters
often serch my own face
and my whole poem
is that your unborn hope’s
unheard weeping.
(translated from malchand tiwari’s rajasthani poem “ ansuni rulaee” in its hindi translation.)
Thursday, September 10, 2009
camera
Before the camera
Any date
Like 20 june 1989
I took your picture
Of laughter
Laughter such was that
As fallen from hands
A bronze plate
Do you remember
The thing
I had said
To make you laugh?
You must be laughing still
Because i have been saying the same
Sitting forgotten
The flowing teary garlands
Listen
Do see once more
On that very day’s pattern
Before this camera.
(translated from the hindi translation of Malchand Tiwari’s Rajasthani poem “ camera ke saamne”.)
Any date
Like 20 june 1989
I took your picture
Of laughter
Laughter such was that
As fallen from hands
A bronze plate
Do you remember
The thing
I had said
To make you laugh?
You must be laughing still
Because i have been saying the same
Sitting forgotten
The flowing teary garlands
Listen
Do see once more
On that very day’s pattern
Before this camera.
(translated from the hindi translation of Malchand Tiwari’s Rajasthani poem “ camera ke saamne”.)
confabulation
Trishanku in Alps
Holding the half-ashed cigarette between his lips, he appeared at the door of the classroom. Probably mocking the wooden face of that “no smoking” board that hung there for no apparent effect. Suddenly a deadness of discipline engulfed the whole class that was enlivened by the gay chirping of youthful flock. Corridor was our most usual loitering space during the class intervals that we had enough as very few teachers troubled us with punctuality. There was another board that told, “Loitering in the corridor is prohibited”. We laughed on the deadness of those words but sometimes it made me to reflect. I remembered a school day story of a demon who had a big garden and it had perpetual springtime. Children from the neighborhood used to sneak into and play in his garden. One day he saw them. He drove them away, made a big boundary wall round the garden and put a big notice “transgressing the boundary is a big offence and offenders will be prosecuted”. Every time I thought who might be the demon here. My paranoia was just momentary and then I used to think what if those demons crept out from the closed world of fairytales. Anyway, the cigarette was burnt till its butt and he released it from the crab clutch of his fingers. Smoke was rushing out through his nostrils and he gave cool eye to the class. The last flame was extinguished with the shining tip of his right shoe and he entered the class with a solitude around his face. We found it quite befitting for a person who was to teach us Wordsworth. “Who are you?” the whole class was perplexed with this sudden throw. No one knew who was to catch. After floating for a while around the heads it started descending down the benches. Suddenly our smart teacher gave it a fresh blow into air. “ you don’t need giving your name or some other thing like the same. Just tell what gives you the sense of ‘ I’.” equally confusing. Or even worse for many for us. Now I understood why wordsworth was so much fond of mountains. Such deep questions could be solved only under some kind of transportation. Transported into a state of intoxication, affected by the beauty of nature or some opium. But here was none. Logical consequence: question remained unanswered. Attempts were made. “I am what I think I am.” This was the best answer I thought a student of literature could make. This is what art should offer. Unlike science that gives either right or wrong, art revels in the world of deferred judgments. And the answer was exactly that. but it was considered inadequate on the philosophical scale and he waited for some surprise package. When no answer surprised him, finally he surprised himself on the absence of some good answer. We gave a gratifying grin and he gave it a somber acknowledgement by offering us some enlightening views on self. Passing through some gentle obscurities of philosophy, we reached a sublimated level of wisdom that could be plainly termed as defamiliarization of the familiar. We had a sudden realization of the profundity that our body encompasses. If “self” could be an hour-long thing then body must be something of many times bigger importance. However, philosophy did not let it be. Personally, I felt the body of commonsense being mutilated by the cold knives of philosophy. Suddenly Descartes appeared before me, flying upon his wings and performing magical antics like in some popular belief geese do with a mixture of milk and water. separating the two apparently inseparable things. After straying for a while in the wild wisdom of some nature myths suddenly my imagination descended down into the world of reality and I found it absurdly incomprehensible. What strange creatures we humans have become that we can’t buy a single simple thing without creating a hard laboured web of wisdom around it! It took me some moments to realize the import of those words for the examination purpose and I also realized the importance of master’s degree as a career building block. Very next moment I was a most attentive student like any body else, my eyes glued on his face and my ears tuned to his lips. I was so absorbed that I forgot to open my notebook and taking any note. The incessant flow of words seemed making an unobstructed passage into my mind and occupying my soul. A sudden loud tone broke my attention and started. Dear teacher was moving in his evenly smooth tone. Probably I had fallen asleep. My friend later confirmed my guess. I was totally blank on whatever was discussed in the class and whatever I got was merely an illusion of my self. Now I had begun to understand what self clould mean. The only thing that troubled me was that even though I knew what self could be, I could not assert it without risking another fall into a mere illusion. It was after several afterthoughts that I came to conclusion that self is something for self realization, strictly not for explanation. The harder you try to crack into its core the worse it gets for your intellect to track its circumference. And then you are also vulnerable to the traps of false enlightenment. It just reminded me the case of a recently married friend. He has an average built and an average appearance. After their first night of consummation( among maithil brahmins it happens on the fourth night after the mariage) I went to meet him with some other friends. He was at his in-laws’ place as customarily the groom has to stay there till the chaturthi( the four days period of familiarization and abstinance). We went with fishes as the sagun. We found him in a room, surrounded with his sisters-in-law. They were just pulling his legs. Poor chap felt great relief when he saw us. He immediately greeted us and a stormy rush of our friendly jokes drove away the in-laws. He even called them to stay but they did not. He laughed loudly to mark his ultimate finish of the episode. We had some hearty chat and our friend was often blushing. Well, cutting a long story short, he sent our rest two frinds out on some pretext. I expected some spicy thing to come, personally for me. I must tell you, my ears were burning like anything. But a sudden wet voice cooled it like the thing you might guess. “I don’t know for sure. In fact it is slightly embarassing but I think it ok to share it with you. Well this is something I felt…” I was looking at his face unblinkingly. “ I think she was faking at night.” He spoke in a hurry as if the words were burning his tongue and he spitted it out. I dared not to ask him to repeat them. Just silent for next few moments. Quite unlike me who loves being called a chattering box. I tried my level best to fake the troubled look on his face. Honestly it was oppressive. Just to break the silnce I said, “ oye don’t bother yaar! Arre you enjoyed na?” “ well…yaa…I enjoyed. I enjoyed but you know I just felt that she was faking.” I felt his voice drowning somewhere. Pitiable, lamentable, laughable, and above all it was unresolvable. “ see bro. you enjoyed and she also did. Forget if she was faking or not. The game had a happy course. Now forget all this crap.” Supposedly my best logical consolation failed misrably. He gave me a hurt kind of look. “ how can you even talk like this man? It’s no game but a relation. Leave it, you wont understand.” I took a long breathe and repeated with a pretentious mischeviousness, “yaa. How could I understand? I am telling you man just take some gulps down and she wont be faking anymore.” I put special emphasis on the last five words and got a tired kinda smile on his face. Fish was reaaly delicious and it was a most welcome break for all of us. The taste watered my palate as we sat there waiting for our tea which abdul bhai was yet to bring. Wisdom of the day:
doubt and seriousness make a really deadly combination and it must be used with care.
Anti dotes if badly inflicted: yet to be invented.
Immunity: eat, drink, be happy.
What If it turns chronic: turn to philosophy and make the maximum of it.
Diagnosis: when you fail to answer your own questions upto your satisfaction and then try to convince others with your arguments.
What if uncared: well, that is a case study still under way. You can also contribute some data.
Holding the half-ashed cigarette between his lips, he appeared at the door of the classroom. Probably mocking the wooden face of that “no smoking” board that hung there for no apparent effect. Suddenly a deadness of discipline engulfed the whole class that was enlivened by the gay chirping of youthful flock. Corridor was our most usual loitering space during the class intervals that we had enough as very few teachers troubled us with punctuality. There was another board that told, “Loitering in the corridor is prohibited”. We laughed on the deadness of those words but sometimes it made me to reflect. I remembered a school day story of a demon who had a big garden and it had perpetual springtime. Children from the neighborhood used to sneak into and play in his garden. One day he saw them. He drove them away, made a big boundary wall round the garden and put a big notice “transgressing the boundary is a big offence and offenders will be prosecuted”. Every time I thought who might be the demon here. My paranoia was just momentary and then I used to think what if those demons crept out from the closed world of fairytales. Anyway, the cigarette was burnt till its butt and he released it from the crab clutch of his fingers. Smoke was rushing out through his nostrils and he gave cool eye to the class. The last flame was extinguished with the shining tip of his right shoe and he entered the class with a solitude around his face. We found it quite befitting for a person who was to teach us Wordsworth. “Who are you?” the whole class was perplexed with this sudden throw. No one knew who was to catch. After floating for a while around the heads it started descending down the benches. Suddenly our smart teacher gave it a fresh blow into air. “ you don’t need giving your name or some other thing like the same. Just tell what gives you the sense of ‘ I’.” equally confusing. Or even worse for many for us. Now I understood why wordsworth was so much fond of mountains. Such deep questions could be solved only under some kind of transportation. Transported into a state of intoxication, affected by the beauty of nature or some opium. But here was none. Logical consequence: question remained unanswered. Attempts were made. “I am what I think I am.” This was the best answer I thought a student of literature could make. This is what art should offer. Unlike science that gives either right or wrong, art revels in the world of deferred judgments. And the answer was exactly that. but it was considered inadequate on the philosophical scale and he waited for some surprise package. When no answer surprised him, finally he surprised himself on the absence of some good answer. We gave a gratifying grin and he gave it a somber acknowledgement by offering us some enlightening views on self. Passing through some gentle obscurities of philosophy, we reached a sublimated level of wisdom that could be plainly termed as defamiliarization of the familiar. We had a sudden realization of the profundity that our body encompasses. If “self” could be an hour-long thing then body must be something of many times bigger importance. However, philosophy did not let it be. Personally, I felt the body of commonsense being mutilated by the cold knives of philosophy. Suddenly Descartes appeared before me, flying upon his wings and performing magical antics like in some popular belief geese do with a mixture of milk and water. separating the two apparently inseparable things. After straying for a while in the wild wisdom of some nature myths suddenly my imagination descended down into the world of reality and I found it absurdly incomprehensible. What strange creatures we humans have become that we can’t buy a single simple thing without creating a hard laboured web of wisdom around it! It took me some moments to realize the import of those words for the examination purpose and I also realized the importance of master’s degree as a career building block. Very next moment I was a most attentive student like any body else, my eyes glued on his face and my ears tuned to his lips. I was so absorbed that I forgot to open my notebook and taking any note. The incessant flow of words seemed making an unobstructed passage into my mind and occupying my soul. A sudden loud tone broke my attention and started. Dear teacher was moving in his evenly smooth tone. Probably I had fallen asleep. My friend later confirmed my guess. I was totally blank on whatever was discussed in the class and whatever I got was merely an illusion of my self. Now I had begun to understand what self clould mean. The only thing that troubled me was that even though I knew what self could be, I could not assert it without risking another fall into a mere illusion. It was after several afterthoughts that I came to conclusion that self is something for self realization, strictly not for explanation. The harder you try to crack into its core the worse it gets for your intellect to track its circumference. And then you are also vulnerable to the traps of false enlightenment. It just reminded me the case of a recently married friend. He has an average built and an average appearance. After their first night of consummation( among maithil brahmins it happens on the fourth night after the mariage) I went to meet him with some other friends. He was at his in-laws’ place as customarily the groom has to stay there till the chaturthi( the four days period of familiarization and abstinance). We went with fishes as the sagun. We found him in a room, surrounded with his sisters-in-law. They were just pulling his legs. Poor chap felt great relief when he saw us. He immediately greeted us and a stormy rush of our friendly jokes drove away the in-laws. He even called them to stay but they did not. He laughed loudly to mark his ultimate finish of the episode. We had some hearty chat and our friend was often blushing. Well, cutting a long story short, he sent our rest two frinds out on some pretext. I expected some spicy thing to come, personally for me. I must tell you, my ears were burning like anything. But a sudden wet voice cooled it like the thing you might guess. “I don’t know for sure. In fact it is slightly embarassing but I think it ok to share it with you. Well this is something I felt…” I was looking at his face unblinkingly. “ I think she was faking at night.” He spoke in a hurry as if the words were burning his tongue and he spitted it out. I dared not to ask him to repeat them. Just silent for next few moments. Quite unlike me who loves being called a chattering box. I tried my level best to fake the troubled look on his face. Honestly it was oppressive. Just to break the silnce I said, “ oye don’t bother yaar! Arre you enjoyed na?” “ well…yaa…I enjoyed. I enjoyed but you know I just felt that she was faking.” I felt his voice drowning somewhere. Pitiable, lamentable, laughable, and above all it was unresolvable. “ see bro. you enjoyed and she also did. Forget if she was faking or not. The game had a happy course. Now forget all this crap.” Supposedly my best logical consolation failed misrably. He gave me a hurt kind of look. “ how can you even talk like this man? It’s no game but a relation. Leave it, you wont understand.” I took a long breathe and repeated with a pretentious mischeviousness, “yaa. How could I understand? I am telling you man just take some gulps down and she wont be faking anymore.” I put special emphasis on the last five words and got a tired kinda smile on his face. Fish was reaaly delicious and it was a most welcome break for all of us. The taste watered my palate as we sat there waiting for our tea which abdul bhai was yet to bring. Wisdom of the day:
doubt and seriousness make a really deadly combination and it must be used with care.
Anti dotes if badly inflicted: yet to be invented.
Immunity: eat, drink, be happy.
What If it turns chronic: turn to philosophy and make the maximum of it.
Diagnosis: when you fail to answer your own questions upto your satisfaction and then try to convince others with your arguments.
What if uncared: well, that is a case study still under way. You can also contribute some data.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
MODEST PROPOSAL II
I’m Jonathan Swift. I’m eighty. I’m fifty. I’m twenty. Riding on the popularity of ‘The Tale of Benjamin Button', I’m rejuvenated; I feel young again. From this vantage point I always sit next to you, looking at the vapidity of your vanquished postures(including mine), which resemble that of the Fallen Angels, especially in a interminable lecture.
I believe in Shakespeare’s aphorism, ‘brevity is the soul of wit’, therefore let me plunge directly into my Modest Proposal II. But before formulating this unprecedented proposal for which I expect nothing less than Nobel Prize for Peace (all agog as I’m), let us talk something about our department. Our department is a kiln (we being the child labourers) that churns out Stoics- equal in pleasure and pain. The way we confront shocks and anagnorises, for instance, whether it may be the date sheet episode which was as much full of uncertainties as exit poll during the electoral process; or our internal marks (which we keep on counting -11,12, 13,like a mahajan counts the number of months), it makes us stone-hearted and staves off any contingency of cardiac arrest. I genuinely pity those fat uncles, aunts, and pretty girls who burn their calories in the park and keep on complaining about having cardiac diseases. Why don’t they join our department instead of being swindled by doctors? This will bring them closer to Gandhian ideals as doctors and medicines were an anathema to Gandhi, an idea enunciated in Hind Swaraj.
From Gandhi I could recall the Gita. During exams however hard I swoted to glean various hackneyed expressions from the background readings, my cerebrum revolted after wading through a few pages. And my strenuous efforts to instill into it the Gita’s philosophy of karmanye va adhikare ma phaleshu kadachane and Hemingway’s a man can be destroyed but not defeated seemed as inane and abortive as attempts made by a girl to cover her bare midriff by committing violence both on her T-shirt and the onlookers.
To steer past this enigmatic state of mind, when, once in the evening I came across one of the most prestigious teachers of our department, I asked him, ‘Sir, why do we read literature?’ He responded: Shelley has rightly… I cursed the moment I had decided to demystify myself as it puzzled me further.
A couple of years ago, I read a book Raag Darbari by Shrilal Shukla, where one of the characters talks about the predominant belief among the villagers including their vaidya (a charlatan) that a man after completing M.A. runs the risk of losing his virility to some extent. Had he imagined our department even in his distant dream, I’m sure he would have proposed something better for women too, in the aftermath of M.A., to extricate them from the post-M.A. syndrome. But I’m here, to accomplish the Great Tradition.
Most probably you’ll also agree that eve-teasing and Satanic-male-gaze are some of the foremost problems this bustling city is encountering today. Now the premise of my proposal is that it should be mandatory for all the girls of Delhi to undergo the two-yr odyssey of MA English and if feasible followed by a course in MPhil. What! You still find them stunningly beautiful? Then, let me tell you beauty lies not in the eye of the beholder but in the beholden. Who talks about exceptions and minorities in democracy?
PS: A few months back when I used to make jeremiads about our class and department one of my friends exhorted me to write something on the topic. I remember thinking it was like being asked while travelling to Shimla during the summer vacations whether I would take a detour and travel Switzerland as well in my limited resources. Onerous as the task seemed to me, I dropped the idea. Since I’m an unemployed person now I undertook the task.
I believe in Shakespeare’s aphorism, ‘brevity is the soul of wit’, therefore let me plunge directly into my Modest Proposal II. But before formulating this unprecedented proposal for which I expect nothing less than Nobel Prize for Peace (all agog as I’m), let us talk something about our department. Our department is a kiln (we being the child labourers) that churns out Stoics- equal in pleasure and pain. The way we confront shocks and anagnorises, for instance, whether it may be the date sheet episode which was as much full of uncertainties as exit poll during the electoral process; or our internal marks (which we keep on counting -11,12, 13,like a mahajan counts the number of months), it makes us stone-hearted and staves off any contingency of cardiac arrest. I genuinely pity those fat uncles, aunts, and pretty girls who burn their calories in the park and keep on complaining about having cardiac diseases. Why don’t they join our department instead of being swindled by doctors? This will bring them closer to Gandhian ideals as doctors and medicines were an anathema to Gandhi, an idea enunciated in Hind Swaraj.
From Gandhi I could recall the Gita. During exams however hard I swoted to glean various hackneyed expressions from the background readings, my cerebrum revolted after wading through a few pages. And my strenuous efforts to instill into it the Gita’s philosophy of karmanye va adhikare ma phaleshu kadachane and Hemingway’s a man can be destroyed but not defeated seemed as inane and abortive as attempts made by a girl to cover her bare midriff by committing violence both on her T-shirt and the onlookers.
To steer past this enigmatic state of mind, when, once in the evening I came across one of the most prestigious teachers of our department, I asked him, ‘Sir, why do we read literature?’ He responded: Shelley has rightly… I cursed the moment I had decided to demystify myself as it puzzled me further.
A couple of years ago, I read a book Raag Darbari by Shrilal Shukla, where one of the characters talks about the predominant belief among the villagers including their vaidya (a charlatan) that a man after completing M.A. runs the risk of losing his virility to some extent. Had he imagined our department even in his distant dream, I’m sure he would have proposed something better for women too, in the aftermath of M.A., to extricate them from the post-M.A. syndrome. But I’m here, to accomplish the Great Tradition.
Most probably you’ll also agree that eve-teasing and Satanic-male-gaze are some of the foremost problems this bustling city is encountering today. Now the premise of my proposal is that it should be mandatory for all the girls of Delhi to undergo the two-yr odyssey of MA English and if feasible followed by a course in MPhil. What! You still find them stunningly beautiful? Then, let me tell you beauty lies not in the eye of the beholder but in the beholden. Who talks about exceptions and minorities in democracy?
PS: A few months back when I used to make jeremiads about our class and department one of my friends exhorted me to write something on the topic. I remember thinking it was like being asked while travelling to Shimla during the summer vacations whether I would take a detour and travel Switzerland as well in my limited resources. Onerous as the task seemed to me, I dropped the idea. Since I’m an unemployed person now I undertook the task.
Monday, May 25, 2009
An 'Adult' cogitation..
SEX,VAGINA,BREASTS,PENIS,SEMEN,MASTRUBATION...
There is a mild thud inside me as I write these...biological terms...I still refrain from using a few more of such explicit terms - 'why?' is what this post is about.
As I was reading Suman's 'Castration' post a couple of weeks back...my younger brother came into my room and stood behind me with his arms on the head of the chair on which I sat. At first I did not realise that he was reading the post along with me...and even after I had, I did not find any reason to react instantly. A minute or half into it- we both realised what the other person was reading and we both started.
"Err…"
"What IS this..Hina!!"
Before I could convince myself that I was not entertaining myself with a frivolous unaesthetic pornographic tale that might have qualified a nervous reaction, I found myself giving my 15 year-old brother an explanation.
"Err..Its not what you think it is..."
"Well...Of course, its not. What did I say?" he said, sniggering.
"But its NOT!" I revolted.
"Sure sure..." nodding his head in feigned understanding.
It is an art. The way he irritates me. I knew I was beating a dead horse.
I felt an urge to straighten out this misapprehension immediately. It was as though I was being convicted of a crime I did not commit. I knew what part of the post was exposed to his view in that particular moment. He must have read fragments like: "two round breasts, the opened thighs, and his erect penis…" It felt very awkward at first. I had even increased the font size of the web page through pressing the Ctrl and + keys together...so he had a rather…magnified view of my....private preoccupations.
Then I thought….. he is young and immature and so probably could not construe the aforementioned terms in anything but socially verboten terms. As this realisation dawned upon me, I became less eager to clear my position in one breath. Convinced that he knew all about sex and much more, I looked at him, trying not to fall into the trap of his annoying yet infectious snigger.
If I needed to put my point across here, seriousness was a necessary pre-requisite.
I remember how in school days, it was the 8th or 9th grade, I reckon, when we had those eye-opening Biology chapters in our curriculum. It was a tough task to exude decent nonchalance while the teacher explained (referring to diagrams, not to forget) the complex sexual anatomy of the human body. And that too, in face of racy boys who having already read the chapters back home - a scholarly eagerness rarely exhibited in any other subject - were chuckling explosively underneath their desks, bent,on pretext of picking up an intentionally dropped pen/scale/eraser/pencil. It was the scare of being reprimanded by the teacher for being so utterly shameless and 'dirty-minded' that kept a check on the chuckles and the queue of delinquents outside the class.
A few significant Biology chapters were obliterated from our course back then -perhaps for the fear of turning the students' eye-opening tutorials into wide-eyed addictions; and also to save many Biology teachers the discomfiture of addressing a class of developing hormones.
It was a year later that I learnt that ninety percent of the class had dutifully read those omitted chapters, which as I later came to know, explained the 'real thing'. I happened to be part of the other ten percent who never cared for out-of-syllabus questions in exams, and thus, remained unenlightened for yet another year.
Hence, I always found myself outside the huddle of gossiping and giggling girls who shared 'Adult' humour or in the popular jargon, 'Non-Veg jokes'. Besides the fact that I always found them crude and unfunny, I could never really ‘get’ these jokes. One could say that the former was a result of the latter. But, with all due respect to pornographic jocularity, I still have a hard time searching for the 'joke' in the 'Non-Veg'.
I vividly remember that it was a bright summer’s morning. I was walking back to the classroom from the canteen, munching blissfully on a samosa, when this candid friend of mine, accidentally spilled the beans for me.(or should I say, spilled the… samosa for me…for I couldn’t really finish it after what she revealed) I was appalled apart from merely shocked to find about the act of penetration for the first time. I kept thinking about it for a few days. I had these million questions and doubts but I did not dare ask anyone, being the shy simpleton that I was. Gradually of course I conciliated myself with the concept. But I was always ill at ease at using the terminology that referred to it, and often found myself at the other end of the following exclamations: “Tch-Tch” ,“Aww…”, “Look at her..!”, “Come-On…”, “Grow-Up!”, “It’s the reality of life” especially from those who were much more denotative in their expressions than me. I knew even then that it was not purely in the vein of discussing squarely the “reality of life” that such saucy discussions used to take place. But I was never fiercely judgmental for all I could help. For I was terribly inquisitive and interested in them myself. Only, I maintained a respectable distance and deterred from an active participation.
As I entered college, I had matured, which is to say, I did not jump at hearing the word 'sex' or the likes and could bring myself to discuss ‘issues’ explicitly.
I remember reading about this racket that installation of a condom vending machine in the JNU campus attracted. A few ultra-conservative minds were of the opinion that it spread vulgarism and further westernised India. I could not grasp the head or tail of that argument. I think we use vulgarism and the ‘It’s not our culture’ argument as a facade to conceal our hypocrisy, and a deceleration of our open-mindedness and democratic impulse. Then it becomes a case of social mores impinging on freedom of expression, and rationality being compromised in honour of ‘social taboos’. Majority of the rural population of India is totally unaware of the use of contraceptives. In fact, even most educated 'modern' city people are too shy to go to a medical store and ask for a condom and would rather risk unprotected sex. So the sentience of the agrarian society is beyond pathetic.
So, when I come across the unabashed directness of the some of the creative write-ups of Aruni or Suman, I do not know where to place these people in a comparison. Two parallel worlds, aren’t they?
But within the given context of our social setting, there will always remain words that will be needed to be minced. We sure have evolved, democratised and sensitised ourselves but surely nowhere close to being enough.As I have mentioned before, I used to be the kind of person who avoided such unfastened expressions. The kind of person who would rather use the phrase 'love-making' for 'sex'. But you realise that there is a particular terminology for particular descriptions and you cannot go on biting your lip in the garb of decency or social protocol. And as i say this, I hold vulgarism and salaciousness in a totally different arena of discussion.
I recall this scene from Walker's 'The Color Purple'(the novel that I have mentioned earlier in my first post to this blog) which is probably one of the most impressing scenes in the novel, when Shug Avery hands Celie a mirror and asks her to look at her own vagina.
"What, too shame even to go off and look at yourself..?" ....."Why, Miss Celie" she says, "you still a virgin."
Celie has mothered two children..she has been been raped continually as a child by her own father, she is given to sexual commodification by her unfeeling husband...if anything, she would have the technical know-how of sex. But the sex-education that Shug Avery imparts to Celie is something more sublime. It is about knowing and loving and respecting your own body shamelessly. About having the gumption to express your fierce individualistic desires and the needs of your body. About liberating yourself from social control.
So, I looked at my brother and I told him exactly what Suman’s post was about. I told him it was about the culture-shock that this person gets on migrating from the country to the city, about the sexual needs of a man, about a man masturbating and about motleying social protocols. Visibly,my brother was caught unawares. And his face read - "THAT was uncalled for.." Then, I found him looking at the screen of the computer pensively... He turned to me...Hmmm-ed and asked, “What does 'Castration' mean?”
I was proud of the fact that he was not sniggering anymore.
There is a mild thud inside me as I write these...biological terms...I still refrain from using a few more of such explicit terms - 'why?' is what this post is about.
As I was reading Suman's 'Castration' post a couple of weeks back...my younger brother came into my room and stood behind me with his arms on the head of the chair on which I sat. At first I did not realise that he was reading the post along with me...and even after I had, I did not find any reason to react instantly. A minute or half into it- we both realised what the other person was reading and we both started.
"Err…"
"What IS this..Hina!!"
Before I could convince myself that I was not entertaining myself with a frivolous unaesthetic pornographic tale that might have qualified a nervous reaction, I found myself giving my 15 year-old brother an explanation.
"Err..Its not what you think it is..."
"Well...Of course, its not. What did I say?" he said, sniggering.
"But its NOT!" I revolted.
"Sure sure..." nodding his head in feigned understanding.
It is an art. The way he irritates me. I knew I was beating a dead horse.
I felt an urge to straighten out this misapprehension immediately. It was as though I was being convicted of a crime I did not commit. I knew what part of the post was exposed to his view in that particular moment. He must have read fragments like: "two round breasts, the opened thighs, and his erect penis…" It felt very awkward at first. I had even increased the font size of the web page through pressing the Ctrl and + keys together...so he had a rather…magnified view of my....private preoccupations.
Then I thought….. he is young and immature and so probably could not construe the aforementioned terms in anything but socially verboten terms. As this realisation dawned upon me, I became less eager to clear my position in one breath. Convinced that he knew all about sex and much more, I looked at him, trying not to fall into the trap of his annoying yet infectious snigger.
If I needed to put my point across here, seriousness was a necessary pre-requisite.
I remember how in school days, it was the 8th or 9th grade, I reckon, when we had those eye-opening Biology chapters in our curriculum. It was a tough task to exude decent nonchalance while the teacher explained (referring to diagrams, not to forget) the complex sexual anatomy of the human body. And that too, in face of racy boys who having already read the chapters back home - a scholarly eagerness rarely exhibited in any other subject - were chuckling explosively underneath their desks, bent,on pretext of picking up an intentionally dropped pen/scale/eraser/pencil. It was the scare of being reprimanded by the teacher for being so utterly shameless and 'dirty-minded' that kept a check on the chuckles and the queue of delinquents outside the class.
A few significant Biology chapters were obliterated from our course back then -perhaps for the fear of turning the students' eye-opening tutorials into wide-eyed addictions; and also to save many Biology teachers the discomfiture of addressing a class of developing hormones.
It was a year later that I learnt that ninety percent of the class had dutifully read those omitted chapters, which as I later came to know, explained the 'real thing'. I happened to be part of the other ten percent who never cared for out-of-syllabus questions in exams, and thus, remained unenlightened for yet another year.
Hence, I always found myself outside the huddle of gossiping and giggling girls who shared 'Adult' humour or in the popular jargon, 'Non-Veg jokes'. Besides the fact that I always found them crude and unfunny, I could never really ‘get’ these jokes. One could say that the former was a result of the latter. But, with all due respect to pornographic jocularity, I still have a hard time searching for the 'joke' in the 'Non-Veg'.
I vividly remember that it was a bright summer’s morning. I was walking back to the classroom from the canteen, munching blissfully on a samosa, when this candid friend of mine, accidentally spilled the beans for me.(or should I say, spilled the… samosa for me…for I couldn’t really finish it after what she revealed) I was appalled apart from merely shocked to find about the act of penetration for the first time. I kept thinking about it for a few days. I had these million questions and doubts but I did not dare ask anyone, being the shy simpleton that I was. Gradually of course I conciliated myself with the concept. But I was always ill at ease at using the terminology that referred to it, and often found myself at the other end of the following exclamations: “Tch-Tch” ,“Aww…”, “Look at her..!”, “Come-On…”, “Grow-Up!”, “It’s the reality of life” especially from those who were much more denotative in their expressions than me. I knew even then that it was not purely in the vein of discussing squarely the “reality of life” that such saucy discussions used to take place. But I was never fiercely judgmental for all I could help. For I was terribly inquisitive and interested in them myself. Only, I maintained a respectable distance and deterred from an active participation.
As I entered college, I had matured, which is to say, I did not jump at hearing the word 'sex' or the likes and could bring myself to discuss ‘issues’ explicitly.
I remember reading about this racket that installation of a condom vending machine in the JNU campus attracted. A few ultra-conservative minds were of the opinion that it spread vulgarism and further westernised India. I could not grasp the head or tail of that argument. I think we use vulgarism and the ‘It’s not our culture’ argument as a facade to conceal our hypocrisy, and a deceleration of our open-mindedness and democratic impulse. Then it becomes a case of social mores impinging on freedom of expression, and rationality being compromised in honour of ‘social taboos’. Majority of the rural population of India is totally unaware of the use of contraceptives. In fact, even most educated 'modern' city people are too shy to go to a medical store and ask for a condom and would rather risk unprotected sex. So the sentience of the agrarian society is beyond pathetic.
So, when I come across the unabashed directness of the some of the creative write-ups of Aruni or Suman, I do not know where to place these people in a comparison. Two parallel worlds, aren’t they?
But within the given context of our social setting, there will always remain words that will be needed to be minced. We sure have evolved, democratised and sensitised ourselves but surely nowhere close to being enough.As I have mentioned before, I used to be the kind of person who avoided such unfastened expressions. The kind of person who would rather use the phrase 'love-making' for 'sex'. But you realise that there is a particular terminology for particular descriptions and you cannot go on biting your lip in the garb of decency or social protocol. And as i say this, I hold vulgarism and salaciousness in a totally different arena of discussion.
I recall this scene from Walker's 'The Color Purple'(the novel that I have mentioned earlier in my first post to this blog) which is probably one of the most impressing scenes in the novel, when Shug Avery hands Celie a mirror and asks her to look at her own vagina.
"What, too shame even to go off and look at yourself..?" ....."Why, Miss Celie" she says, "you still a virgin."
Celie has mothered two children..she has been been raped continually as a child by her own father, she is given to sexual commodification by her unfeeling husband...if anything, she would have the technical know-how of sex. But the sex-education that Shug Avery imparts to Celie is something more sublime. It is about knowing and loving and respecting your own body shamelessly. About having the gumption to express your fierce individualistic desires and the needs of your body. About liberating yourself from social control.
So, I looked at my brother and I told him exactly what Suman’s post was about. I told him it was about the culture-shock that this person gets on migrating from the country to the city, about the sexual needs of a man, about a man masturbating and about motleying social protocols. Visibly,my brother was caught unawares. And his face read - "THAT was uncalled for.." Then, I found him looking at the screen of the computer pensively... He turned to me...Hmmm-ed and asked, “What does 'Castration' mean?”
I was proud of the fact that he was not sniggering anymore.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
P (wet hair); Last exam
She is not exactly at the top of her class but she is pretty good. Good enough to ask questions, to attract stares outside class when she catches the professor for a two-minute chat. She doesn't wear red very often but that is simply because she doesn’t have a lot of red things, not because of any particular aversion to the chromatic aspects of that colour. I used to think of you every time I saw her.
Now I think of you both. You are, like she is, fragments of me. I tell myself that I am going to remember you while walking up the stairs to the department. But then again, the very idea of female beauty is so naïve and unqualified. I am aware of the biological behind the visual (and the imaginary), and it doesn’t stop me from appreciating the beauty of both the biological and the visual.
But I still cannot explain what happened a few days ago, right after the exams got over. I was sitting outside class, listening to people declare how badly they’d done their papers, and suddenly I saw her walking toward me. I looked away, to pretend that I hadn’t noticed her, so I could be surprised when she actually stopped near me. She was wearing a magenta kurta, and it had flowers printed all over it. When she stopped next to me I smiled, and couldn’t do anything else. I told her that I’d written a decent paper, and she asked me what were my plans for the two-month break, now that the exams were over.
I don’t know why, but I can’t quite explain what happened next. I haven’t cried for eight years now. I never cry. I have felt physical and emotional pain, but the carapace of masculinity never allowed me the tears, the liquefaction of dejection.
As the first tear rolled down she pretended not to notice. She began to get slightly embarrassed as the drop grew to a steady flow. She looked away from me, either because she was uncomfortable or because she thought I would feel better this way, if she didnt look at me. At that point, I hadn’t started to hate myself for crying before her. I was really, just crying. I had dreamt of that moment for so long. I couldn’t believe it would really amount to nothing.
-Uh-oh...are you alright?
-Ya, Im fine..
She smiled. I couldn’t look her in the eye, caught as I was, between hating myself and trying to explain myself to myself. Crying unmans you somewhat. It really does.
-Nothing… Just this really stupid thing. You know, I’ve had dreams of this day, this moment, of how good it would feel to be done with the exams. Its… its like the past six weeks someone was choking me, forcibly holding my head under water, and now I have finally surfaced… but I cant see myself gasping for breath… I imagined doing things after the exams got over, and I cant think of anything now.
-Maybe your lungs have got used to breathing under-water. Maybe its not so bad anymore.
-Like the way your stomach shrinks if you don’t eat a lot of food for days together?
-Ya, something like that.
-Okay.
-Okay.
I wiped the tears from my face. More like smeared it across my cheeks. She began to walk towards the main gate. I followed, making it look like a mutual decision.
-I have to have lunch with a professor. Actually, its we. Four of us are having lunch with her.
-Okay. I would have asked to have lunch with me otherwise.
I fixed my gaze on the embroidery on the sleeve of her kurta. I hoped she’d notice it and not think I was looking at her arm. It had tiny flowers, eace with a mirror at the centre and four thin petals surrounding it. The flowers were dark green, and were stitched on a black strip that ran along the edge of the sleeve. The bed sheet in my room has flowers like that, though the flowers are much bigger and without the mirrors.
She saw me looking at her sleeve. I didn’t move my eyes, though after a while she moved hers.
-You actually cried… Aww.
-Don’t have to remind me, embarrass me…
-No, its cute…I think I’m going to tell my friends.
We walked into her friends at the gate, they reacted with a similar aww… and I told them it was nothing. I spoke with them for two minutes and left. I walked back to the building because I had to use the urinal. As I stepped outside the loo I saw her waiting for me. She was standing near the water cooler at the corner. Between smiling at her and walking toward her I took my water bottle out of my bag, thinking of filling it up. Before I could ask her why she hadn’t left for lunch she raised herself on tiptoes, leaned into me, supported herself with her hands on my shoulders and pressed her lips to mine. I closed my eyes at the moment of contact, and I knew she was waiting for me to make some sort of movement, to give a sign because our lips stayed like that for quite a while. I moved. I puckered my lips, held her in mine briefly, and released her. She did the same. I wanted her to use her tongue but she didn’t. She pulled away in less than a minute. Her eyes were half-asleep, unwilling to get up, and the dream of a smile slowly painted itself on their watery canvas. I preferred to look rather than to speak.
-Wow.
-Thanks.
-I should be thanking you. I half expected you to push me away.
-Really? I was a bit shocked, honestly, if you ask me, but I’d never have pushed you away. Even if I didn't like you kissing me... I mean, its not everyday that I have people kissing me as I fill my bottle at the cooler, you know…
She laughed.
-Ya, I thought so. I have to leave.
-Oh yes. Of course, I mean. See you in a couple of months, I guess?
-Yes, I don’t think I’ll see you before that. Don’t think I can.
-Have a nice lunch.
-Sure. You too.
-Whatever they give in the canteen…where are you going, Nirula’s?
-Yes, I think.
I nodded and waved. She walked down the stairs. I followed her head till it all but disappeared under the staircase and I shouted.
-Thanks a lot. I don’t think anyone saw us.
She looked up, smiled, winked. Time slowed down, enough to let me notice her sleeve again.
The following day as I moved my things I was hating myself. I hated myself for settling down in one place such that it was so difficult to shift. Carrying the books from the room to the cab, and then from the cab to my flat in Gurgaon reminded me of my own complacency. I sickened myself with the way I had settled down in my room in North Campus, with everything from books to toiletries to clothes and a computer. How much better if I just had a big canvas bag that I could carry on my back to college everyday, and if I could just dump all my stuff into it and move out of or in to any place I wanted to. A couple of shirts, a couple of t-shirts, a couple of trousers, sets of underwear, some books, a bedsheet and a toothbrush. That’s all one needs, really. But I’ve got a taxi full of stuff. Around two hundred and fifty seven books. And a computer. I was shaking my head in despair as the taxi moved out. The taxi-driver took a long hard look at my books and asked me if I had bought them all, and if I had started a laboratory (I think he meant 'library') in my room. He leafed through one book and said he couldn’t understand a word of what was written. It was DM Thomas’s The White Hotel.
Everytime I came down with my hands full of books he’d raise his eye-brows and ask me if that was it, and I would shake my head and go back up. I couldn’t help thinking of a line from Werner Herzog’s Heart of Glass: they settle down as if they’re never going to leave.
Now I think of you both. You are, like she is, fragments of me. I tell myself that I am going to remember you while walking up the stairs to the department. But then again, the very idea of female beauty is so naïve and unqualified. I am aware of the biological behind the visual (and the imaginary), and it doesn’t stop me from appreciating the beauty of both the biological and the visual.
But I still cannot explain what happened a few days ago, right after the exams got over. I was sitting outside class, listening to people declare how badly they’d done their papers, and suddenly I saw her walking toward me. I looked away, to pretend that I hadn’t noticed her, so I could be surprised when she actually stopped near me. She was wearing a magenta kurta, and it had flowers printed all over it. When she stopped next to me I smiled, and couldn’t do anything else. I told her that I’d written a decent paper, and she asked me what were my plans for the two-month break, now that the exams were over.
I don’t know why, but I can’t quite explain what happened next. I haven’t cried for eight years now. I never cry. I have felt physical and emotional pain, but the carapace of masculinity never allowed me the tears, the liquefaction of dejection.
As the first tear rolled down she pretended not to notice. She began to get slightly embarrassed as the drop grew to a steady flow. She looked away from me, either because she was uncomfortable or because she thought I would feel better this way, if she didnt look at me. At that point, I hadn’t started to hate myself for crying before her. I was really, just crying. I had dreamt of that moment for so long. I couldn’t believe it would really amount to nothing.
-Uh-oh...are you alright?
-Ya, Im fine..
She smiled. I couldn’t look her in the eye, caught as I was, between hating myself and trying to explain myself to myself. Crying unmans you somewhat. It really does.
-Nothing… Just this really stupid thing. You know, I’ve had dreams of this day, this moment, of how good it would feel to be done with the exams. Its… its like the past six weeks someone was choking me, forcibly holding my head under water, and now I have finally surfaced… but I cant see myself gasping for breath… I imagined doing things after the exams got over, and I cant think of anything now.
-Maybe your lungs have got used to breathing under-water. Maybe its not so bad anymore.
-Like the way your stomach shrinks if you don’t eat a lot of food for days together?
-Ya, something like that.
-Okay.
-Okay.
I wiped the tears from my face. More like smeared it across my cheeks. She began to walk towards the main gate. I followed, making it look like a mutual decision.
-I have to have lunch with a professor. Actually, its we. Four of us are having lunch with her.
-Okay. I would have asked to have lunch with me otherwise.
I fixed my gaze on the embroidery on the sleeve of her kurta. I hoped she’d notice it and not think I was looking at her arm. It had tiny flowers, eace with a mirror at the centre and four thin petals surrounding it. The flowers were dark green, and were stitched on a black strip that ran along the edge of the sleeve. The bed sheet in my room has flowers like that, though the flowers are much bigger and without the mirrors.
She saw me looking at her sleeve. I didn’t move my eyes, though after a while she moved hers.
-You actually cried… Aww.
-Don’t have to remind me, embarrass me…
-No, its cute…I think I’m going to tell my friends.
We walked into her friends at the gate, they reacted with a similar aww… and I told them it was nothing. I spoke with them for two minutes and left. I walked back to the building because I had to use the urinal. As I stepped outside the loo I saw her waiting for me. She was standing near the water cooler at the corner. Between smiling at her and walking toward her I took my water bottle out of my bag, thinking of filling it up. Before I could ask her why she hadn’t left for lunch she raised herself on tiptoes, leaned into me, supported herself with her hands on my shoulders and pressed her lips to mine. I closed my eyes at the moment of contact, and I knew she was waiting for me to make some sort of movement, to give a sign because our lips stayed like that for quite a while. I moved. I puckered my lips, held her in mine briefly, and released her. She did the same. I wanted her to use her tongue but she didn’t. She pulled away in less than a minute. Her eyes were half-asleep, unwilling to get up, and the dream of a smile slowly painted itself on their watery canvas. I preferred to look rather than to speak.
-Wow.
-Thanks.
-I should be thanking you. I half expected you to push me away.
-Really? I was a bit shocked, honestly, if you ask me, but I’d never have pushed you away. Even if I didn't like you kissing me... I mean, its not everyday that I have people kissing me as I fill my bottle at the cooler, you know…
She laughed.
-Ya, I thought so. I have to leave.
-Oh yes. Of course, I mean. See you in a couple of months, I guess?
-Yes, I don’t think I’ll see you before that. Don’t think I can.
-Have a nice lunch.
-Sure. You too.
-Whatever they give in the canteen…where are you going, Nirula’s?
-Yes, I think.
I nodded and waved. She walked down the stairs. I followed her head till it all but disappeared under the staircase and I shouted.
-Thanks a lot. I don’t think anyone saw us.
She looked up, smiled, winked. Time slowed down, enough to let me notice her sleeve again.
The following day as I moved my things I was hating myself. I hated myself for settling down in one place such that it was so difficult to shift. Carrying the books from the room to the cab, and then from the cab to my flat in Gurgaon reminded me of my own complacency. I sickened myself with the way I had settled down in my room in North Campus, with everything from books to toiletries to clothes and a computer. How much better if I just had a big canvas bag that I could carry on my back to college everyday, and if I could just dump all my stuff into it and move out of or in to any place I wanted to. A couple of shirts, a couple of t-shirts, a couple of trousers, sets of underwear, some books, a bedsheet and a toothbrush. That’s all one needs, really. But I’ve got a taxi full of stuff. Around two hundred and fifty seven books. And a computer. I was shaking my head in despair as the taxi moved out. The taxi-driver took a long hard look at my books and asked me if I had bought them all, and if I had started a laboratory (I think he meant 'library') in my room. He leafed through one book and said he couldn’t understand a word of what was written. It was DM Thomas’s The White Hotel.
Everytime I came down with my hands full of books he’d raise his eye-brows and ask me if that was it, and I would shake my head and go back up. I couldn’t help thinking of a line from Werner Herzog’s Heart of Glass: they settle down as if they’re never going to leave.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
castration
CASTRATION
On a Saturday his friends decided to go and see the nearest shopping mall. Actually during the last four Sundays they took him for Delhi Darshan. They had many photographs clicked and he pretty excited about everything. Last Sunday he pointed towards some western tourists at Rajghat and shouted in disbelief-“ Angrez! Angrez!” it startled all the visitors there. His friends felt embarrassed with this boorish behaviour of their friend who had recently come from the village. They immediately silenced him and almost dragged towards Shantiban, an adjoining park sort of space. On the way, he was fed with all civilizing instructions- how people in Delhi don’t behave. He listened them with changing facial expressions, which were mostly those of guilty confession. He noticed a couple, they looked unmarried, behind a bush and looked towards his friends with questioning eyes. They made it easy for him to understand the thing with a light smile and many other bushes. They made some crude remarks and he also participated in their way which was not very unlike him now except in language. He understood the difference between Rajghat and Shantiban; Gandhi’s Samadhi and ‘behind the bushes’. He understood how his friends were acting ‘civilized’. He marveled on this art. He also understood how metro makes one. But , in spite of all these understanding, one thing he could not understand was how to feel about all these things.
He was quite excited about this mall visit. No confusion was in his mind but the different images that could be a mall. His friends described everything with smallest details. Fully AC, self-running stairs and much more. They also told him how cameras watched over all the places. And they never missed to remind him how to behave or how to move or how to look at the things. Finally, in the evening, they were in front of the mall. He followed his friends while entering the mall. Everything was awful there. He saw how his friends balanced on the escalators. He saw the way his friends liked the things and then disliked them and then bought nothing. He was just following them. He saw other people buying the same things. Were they fools? He had no idea but may be. He kept following his friends. They moved from one store to another. Every time they came out they talked about the prices of the things, how much they would costing another market and how fool the others were. “Really they are”. He thought.
After going through different stores, finally, they came to a video parlour. They saw many CDs like music, film, porn etc. first time he felt his he felt his right hand in his pocket. A steaming scene on the cover of a porn CD cassette drove his fantasy to another level. He pressed his hardened dick against his thigh. He moved away from his friends, from the stall, away from all the eyes and the only place that proved to his wish was the parking lot. In the semi-darkened space, he thought of easing his fantasy. He remembered his several adventures in his village. Sometimes in an orchard, sometimes in any cornfield, once in the back of the village school when it was dark. He eased himself against the back of a car and started moving his hand. His eyes were closed and he could hear the moaning, the cry and his triumphant movement. He felt a body moving under his pressure. He could not fix the head. Intensity of desire had outdone the choice or preference. He just felt two round breasts, the opened thighs, and his erect penis, which was complimented as big by that headless body. He thrust harder and harder and heard her yelling in pain, saying that his was just too big. He imagined her bleeding and further lubricating the passage, which was his conquered zone. He smiled when his imagination made her to beg to be a bit slower or to stop. But he kept on and her protesting voice was stifled under his chest. She held the crops or grass roots or whatever that was within her reach and uprooted it when the pain was too intense. He moved even faster. Sometimes he got slightly slow or almost stopped but renewed the same with the same vigour. “This is how a real mard does it” he mused.
But this was not his village and nor were his fields. It was an alien city with which he had still to align himself and learn to identify himself. He felt his imagination carrying him to the seventh height of pleasure as his hand was still at work. Suddenly he was surprised by them. A boy and a girl, standing hand in hand. He had felt some jerk and it was when the doors opened on the both sides of the car. Pleasure was just too absorbing to notice anything. He continued. He had heard the girl whispering something in the boy’s ear but damn them. He became faster. He was just coming to the point where it climax. But did he get it? He could have. His body was jerking with the rhythm of his hand when a voice, mixed of a male and a female, paused the world around him including himself. His eyes met theirs. He felt like hiding somewhere. the same hand smothered the same penis inside his pant in a hurried effort to minimize his shame. All the bodily sensations were lost for a moment and a mixed expression of embarrassment, anger, guilt, and surrender appeared on his face when he found those two faces still looking at him with a cynical smile and some mocking encouragements. He felt time moving thousands times slower than a snail,stopped like some etrnity, and wished only if those two faces would walk away and leave him alone. But how?
His head was bent down. A big confusion of sound was invading his ears from different angles. He did not know what those sounds were and from whom. Nor did he try to know. He was just trying to cover himself in silence with a shamefaced passivity, very unlike a tortoise in its shell. Was he really ashamed? A simple “yes” would be a simple lie. He was too much confused, confused with too many emotion, confused with too many thoughts. Angry with himself and also with the rest. He just wanted to close his eyes, lie down, and forget about everything as if nothing had happened. Traitor mind! He was still restless. He could see those two figures going away. “were not both of them fucking each other?” he thought. He felt angry. And probably envious. It was not for being an embarrassing discovery. The slowly moving hips of that girl were provocative. Strange imagination. Did not he remember what happened few moments before? He did. He was just trying to get over those moments. Always the best way to get over your present miseries is to fantasize about your future. He could have crushed her into pieces and make her feel and respect his masculinity. He put his right hand back into his pant. This time it was not for a wood picking or grass-cutting girl in his village. It was an amazing face in skirt and top. He could not imagine his field or the orchard beside the pond. But why not to imagine some unseen hotel room. Some of his friends talk about them. A HOTEL ROOM. Paid by? Even in his imagination, the question was there. “can not she pay!” he had heard about such things. All was an open-eyed dream. He grabbed his package to make a masculine gift to her passive beauty. A poor limp fool in his hand. Where was gone the erection? Could not his super masculine erection come from those village fields to that metro hotel? He tried to awake it. A poor lost thing. The lord of phallus was castrated.
On a Saturday his friends decided to go and see the nearest shopping mall. Actually during the last four Sundays they took him for Delhi Darshan. They had many photographs clicked and he pretty excited about everything. Last Sunday he pointed towards some western tourists at Rajghat and shouted in disbelief-“ Angrez! Angrez!” it startled all the visitors there. His friends felt embarrassed with this boorish behaviour of their friend who had recently come from the village. They immediately silenced him and almost dragged towards Shantiban, an adjoining park sort of space. On the way, he was fed with all civilizing instructions- how people in Delhi don’t behave. He listened them with changing facial expressions, which were mostly those of guilty confession. He noticed a couple, they looked unmarried, behind a bush and looked towards his friends with questioning eyes. They made it easy for him to understand the thing with a light smile and many other bushes. They made some crude remarks and he also participated in their way which was not very unlike him now except in language. He understood the difference between Rajghat and Shantiban; Gandhi’s Samadhi and ‘behind the bushes’. He understood how his friends were acting ‘civilized’. He marveled on this art. He also understood how metro makes one. But , in spite of all these understanding, one thing he could not understand was how to feel about all these things.
He was quite excited about this mall visit. No confusion was in his mind but the different images that could be a mall. His friends described everything with smallest details. Fully AC, self-running stairs and much more. They also told him how cameras watched over all the places. And they never missed to remind him how to behave or how to move or how to look at the things. Finally, in the evening, they were in front of the mall. He followed his friends while entering the mall. Everything was awful there. He saw how his friends balanced on the escalators. He saw the way his friends liked the things and then disliked them and then bought nothing. He was just following them. He saw other people buying the same things. Were they fools? He had no idea but may be. He kept following his friends. They moved from one store to another. Every time they came out they talked about the prices of the things, how much they would costing another market and how fool the others were. “Really they are”. He thought.
After going through different stores, finally, they came to a video parlour. They saw many CDs like music, film, porn etc. first time he felt his he felt his right hand in his pocket. A steaming scene on the cover of a porn CD cassette drove his fantasy to another level. He pressed his hardened dick against his thigh. He moved away from his friends, from the stall, away from all the eyes and the only place that proved to his wish was the parking lot. In the semi-darkened space, he thought of easing his fantasy. He remembered his several adventures in his village. Sometimes in an orchard, sometimes in any cornfield, once in the back of the village school when it was dark. He eased himself against the back of a car and started moving his hand. His eyes were closed and he could hear the moaning, the cry and his triumphant movement. He felt a body moving under his pressure. He could not fix the head. Intensity of desire had outdone the choice or preference. He just felt two round breasts, the opened thighs, and his erect penis, which was complimented as big by that headless body. He thrust harder and harder and heard her yelling in pain, saying that his was just too big. He imagined her bleeding and further lubricating the passage, which was his conquered zone. He smiled when his imagination made her to beg to be a bit slower or to stop. But he kept on and her protesting voice was stifled under his chest. She held the crops or grass roots or whatever that was within her reach and uprooted it when the pain was too intense. He moved even faster. Sometimes he got slightly slow or almost stopped but renewed the same with the same vigour. “This is how a real mard does it” he mused.
But this was not his village and nor were his fields. It was an alien city with which he had still to align himself and learn to identify himself. He felt his imagination carrying him to the seventh height of pleasure as his hand was still at work. Suddenly he was surprised by them. A boy and a girl, standing hand in hand. He had felt some jerk and it was when the doors opened on the both sides of the car. Pleasure was just too absorbing to notice anything. He continued. He had heard the girl whispering something in the boy’s ear but damn them. He became faster. He was just coming to the point where it climax. But did he get it? He could have. His body was jerking with the rhythm of his hand when a voice, mixed of a male and a female, paused the world around him including himself. His eyes met theirs. He felt like hiding somewhere. the same hand smothered the same penis inside his pant in a hurried effort to minimize his shame. All the bodily sensations were lost for a moment and a mixed expression of embarrassment, anger, guilt, and surrender appeared on his face when he found those two faces still looking at him with a cynical smile and some mocking encouragements. He felt time moving thousands times slower than a snail,stopped like some etrnity, and wished only if those two faces would walk away and leave him alone. But how?
His head was bent down. A big confusion of sound was invading his ears from different angles. He did not know what those sounds were and from whom. Nor did he try to know. He was just trying to cover himself in silence with a shamefaced passivity, very unlike a tortoise in its shell. Was he really ashamed? A simple “yes” would be a simple lie. He was too much confused, confused with too many emotion, confused with too many thoughts. Angry with himself and also with the rest. He just wanted to close his eyes, lie down, and forget about everything as if nothing had happened. Traitor mind! He was still restless. He could see those two figures going away. “were not both of them fucking each other?” he thought. He felt angry. And probably envious. It was not for being an embarrassing discovery. The slowly moving hips of that girl were provocative. Strange imagination. Did not he remember what happened few moments before? He did. He was just trying to get over those moments. Always the best way to get over your present miseries is to fantasize about your future. He could have crushed her into pieces and make her feel and respect his masculinity. He put his right hand back into his pant. This time it was not for a wood picking or grass-cutting girl in his village. It was an amazing face in skirt and top. He could not imagine his field or the orchard beside the pond. But why not to imagine some unseen hotel room. Some of his friends talk about them. A HOTEL ROOM. Paid by? Even in his imagination, the question was there. “can not she pay!” he had heard about such things. All was an open-eyed dream. He grabbed his package to make a masculine gift to her passive beauty. A poor limp fool in his hand. Where was gone the erection? Could not his super masculine erection come from those village fields to that metro hotel? He tried to awake it. A poor lost thing. The lord of phallus was castrated.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Shoes, politics and medals
I know these are hard times for us and we are undergoing the reign of Terror under the juggernaut of Swift and Pope. Let us have some respite and switch over to politics. What about the recent spate of shoe hurling episodes during the current electoral process?
Sometimes I wonder whether the whites have rightly dubbed us ‘the other’. Shoes and chappals have always been the most successful weapons in our country. But we are using it now when once it was flung at Bush by the Iraqi journalist. Are we merely apes? We should have started employing this tactic much earlier. Every now and then our parliament witnesses this melodrama. Despite that our fortune-forgers seem to be as unchangeable as Bush remained on his standpoint on the Iraq issue. Then, it gives the impression that these missiles have proved to be innocuous and utter failure.
But again your toil never goes in vain. If you follow my advice, I’ll earnestly suggest you to learn the art of shoe flinging. Believe me I’ve already started practicing it.
What! How can you accuse me of doing so in order to gain cheap popularity? How many of you can recall the name of that journalist who initiated this chain. Friends history has been an evidence of it that those who meet tragic fall survive the test of time. Troy is still more famous than Sparta. Let me be plain then and say that in the whole melodrama the leader who will bravely encounter this missile of shoes will be immortal, at least during the elections. I can foresee that very soon political parties will hire not goons but those who would be expert in hurling shoes. They will be bribed to fling the missiles at big political leaders so that they may come to the limelight. Thus very soon this will emerge as a big market, like a subculture, and hopefully as a sport it will be included in the Olympics. We will be able to win many gold medals as our political leaders are already experts in throwing shoes. This will further lead to the democratization of the whole process. Shoe companies will flock to us for advertisements. Now you could have understood why I was counseling you to cultivate this art.
For girls this skill will equip them with double advantage. Along with the above-mentioned advantage they can keep the eve-teasers at bay. The only repercussion of which I am afraid is that the rocketing price of shoes will make my already straitened circumstances more precarious, as presently I am struggling to buy a new pair of shoes.
Sometimes I wonder whether the whites have rightly dubbed us ‘the other’. Shoes and chappals have always been the most successful weapons in our country. But we are using it now when once it was flung at Bush by the Iraqi journalist. Are we merely apes? We should have started employing this tactic much earlier. Every now and then our parliament witnesses this melodrama. Despite that our fortune-forgers seem to be as unchangeable as Bush remained on his standpoint on the Iraq issue. Then, it gives the impression that these missiles have proved to be innocuous and utter failure.
But again your toil never goes in vain. If you follow my advice, I’ll earnestly suggest you to learn the art of shoe flinging. Believe me I’ve already started practicing it.
What! How can you accuse me of doing so in order to gain cheap popularity? How many of you can recall the name of that journalist who initiated this chain. Friends history has been an evidence of it that those who meet tragic fall survive the test of time. Troy is still more famous than Sparta. Let me be plain then and say that in the whole melodrama the leader who will bravely encounter this missile of shoes will be immortal, at least during the elections. I can foresee that very soon political parties will hire not goons but those who would be expert in hurling shoes. They will be bribed to fling the missiles at big political leaders so that they may come to the limelight. Thus very soon this will emerge as a big market, like a subculture, and hopefully as a sport it will be included in the Olympics. We will be able to win many gold medals as our political leaders are already experts in throwing shoes. This will further lead to the democratization of the whole process. Shoe companies will flock to us for advertisements. Now you could have understood why I was counseling you to cultivate this art.
For girls this skill will equip them with double advantage. Along with the above-mentioned advantage they can keep the eve-teasers at bay. The only repercussion of which I am afraid is that the rocketing price of shoes will make my already straitened circumstances more precarious, as presently I am struggling to buy a new pair of shoes.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
SALMA AGHA
SALMA AGHA
dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye
hum vafa kar ke bhi tanha reh gaye
zindgi ik pyas ban kar reh gayi
pyar ke kisse adhure reh gaye
hum vafa kar ke tanha reh gaye
dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye
sayad unka aakhri ho yeh sitam
har sitam ye soch kar hi seh gaye
khud ko bhi hamne mita dala magar..
fansle jo darmian se reh gaye
some unremembered hand wrote down these lines and besides many things which remain, often, away from common men’s knowledge, Salma Agha immortalized them in her voice . Filtering through or trickling through, a bit tricky to decide which is right, these lines entered the You Tube.
Music has some mysterious relation with human mind. I would have used ‘heart’ but many doctors are advising against this. Science is moving forward and upward.
Immediate response was the first expected thing and it happened. The Zaheer Ahmed wrote. I cannot stop listening this music. Urdu is such a beautiful language and the voice is just amazing.
Everyone knows that NIKAH was a Bollywood film and no one can mistake while guessing its location. Fine, it might be just some confusion. Some misunderstanding of history. VinayShivlal responded with paternal correction. This is Hindi dude, not Urdu.
Some came around with immense liking for the music but some problem with the language. Some blamed the song of being burdened with Persian. But it was with the lyric. Music was just sublime. Some one was sighing like a hot furnace. Beautiful poetry.... finds its way straight into heart....rather a beautiful dialogue between a hopeful heart and a broken heart... wonder what happens next in such a situation.
Jenab added :
Fazaa: Atmosphere, Environment
Ravaan: Move, Flow, Soul, Life
Samaa: The heavens, sky, firmament; a canopy; height, altitude, meridian, highest or uppermost part (of anything), culminating point, prime, spring.
Qaafila: Caravan
Bikhar: Scatter
Wafa: Fulfilling A Promise, Fulfillment, Fidelity, Faithful, Sincerity, Sufficiency
Qurbatein: Closeness, Nearness, Together, (Plural of Qurbat)
Visaal: Death, Meeting, Union
The zaheer ahmed probably woke up to find that some important changes had turned the course of thought and an essential issue remained unsettled. He rolled things back in order to carry them forward.
The film is called Nikah, which in Urdu means Marriage Ceremony - no part of this film is Hindi, all the words are Urdu language. Typical Hindu! in your hatred for Pakistan and Urdu every thing that You admire is Hindi and the rest is Urdu.
Sleeves must have come up.
Quasim streched his eyes to explore some more ditches of history . and his gravity was unmistakable. Before we were British India and before that the Mughals made what is today known as India. India was never a nation state. In fact most of Pakistan belonged to Iran until Alexander the great made it part of the Hellenistic empire. However, we have a shared history that’s for sure and a lot of good art and architecture came out of that ,as did literature, dance and food. to deny this is to be blind.yet we have our own unique culture too.each province, each village!
persian and urdu both belong to indo european language, thats all. yes we have persian influence but we also have turkish,arabic and of course sanskrit and hindi.
History was witnessing its making. No error should stain our role in its making. The worst part of history is that we don’t have a say in this. But that is our predecessors’ mistake. In this age of technologically democratized world one should not miss any chance of correcting or makng the history. Drills were going on. Salma is a paki. But she made her career in India. Some discovered that she was a sister of Rajkapoor. The immense love was creatin an enormous amount of pressure on both the parties as salma was becoming heavier and heavier. Quasim 65 came veilding a pin in his hand to diffuse the tension. yes she is pakistani but cut the crap.not all indians are aryans and south pakistan has aryans too.
Much as I commend the noble intent behind your words, I think credit must be given where it is due. Let’s preserve the individuality and co-exist rather than trying to fuse into "one". Hindu and Muslims are different and yet they CAN co-exist with affinity. Salma Agha is Pakistani and not too Indian. We'd be hard pressed to find any Dravidian roots in her. What endears and unites her and others to each other is music, talent and "the eye of the beholder". Rather a simple concept, really.
In some other corner of the world some one was quite unaware of this urgency of the situation and unable to appreciate the noble mission of setting the historical records straight.
people i beg you all,please forget about hindu-muslim crap.we all are one.i love this song like i love my life,salma aga is as much indian as she's paki.she's my fav,nobody else cud have sung this song the way it is.absolutely amazing......NO WORDS.....never had:)
several chukling sounds echoed on this naïve request. World is not merely for such trivial
things like pleasure, amazement other innocent ga ga gas. It’s the serious jobs as of theirs that keep it going. And they were doing it.
Someone bursted in with a deafening voice. It was shivalien. Watt u sons of fucking bitches mother fuckers go and fuck ur sisters asses . its better than liking the stinking cunt of that paki whore while sitting in india. A sudden silence . it continued. The stormy course of history halted for a moment to see the immensity of this torrential outburst. And then it changed its cource.
On this new course new events were happening to guide and protect the history. Aftab had a sheet in his hand. Nice song But I hate this women. She is a home breaker. She destroyed Mahmood Sipra's house and then Javed Sheikh’s house. Both the men divorced their wives becasue of this Two dollar Whore. She is the kind of women who will do anything for money. That’s why I hate this Bitch.
Some one was more worried. He had seen an interview of salma on you tube and the anchor, a cracking masculine voice, was pouring all his humility on her while addressing her as the asset of the land.
what a shame, now under a corrupt General we are putting kanjars as our assets..........no wonder we as a nation are going down the drain...
Again the things were contextualized on the sub continental level but in an oblique manner.
Kanjroon ka kia hota hai jo marzi bulwa lo are yeh to mazze mein thee abb haal hee mein iss kee cousins daikh lo Karina & Karishma from bollywood
Someone was making another point.
Well we call this performing arts. There is nothing with to dance and sing. Its an art. Only our backward and stupid religion tells us that we should not dance or sing. Kanjar are also children of God. So dont throw stones when you live in glass house yourself.
Dins were echoing sometimes in ding dong and sometimes in silence.
Across the wall another salma was singing in a music reality show. Some bengali song on some Bangladeshi channel. Someone smiled with compassion and sent an advice.
Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Sona Nahin Chandi Nahin Yaar to Mila Chal Pyar Kar Le...stop copying songs silly cow .
Reply came quite close to the heels.
this song is our folk song and older than 100 yrs.Yaar bina chaen kaha re was tuned by Bappi Lahiri and it was sung by Runa Laila of Bangladesh.U may know Bappi Lahiri’s old home is Bangladesh,he might've copied from here or the tune worked in d back of his mind while making Pyaar bina chaen even RD Burma and SD Burman were in Bangladesh and their old home are still in Comilla Bagnladesh. we gifted to India for them you are proud now so see back past brother.
Some old voices were still wandering in search of some empathy. Finally, they sat on their bottom, waiting for some sympathetic touch of warmth.
Adiba had seen Nikah, the film, and felt moved by it. She appreciated its effort to give women some voice. At least on the silver screen. Commendable job for its period and also quite inspiring.
It is not a slap on Islam but rather how some people misuse divorce laws for their own ends; it's not about Islam abusing women but men abusing Islam against women. ABCDE had cried-
i dont understand ur comments. there is nothing 2 do with religion or so. It’s just d love for music we come here n listen or upload our favorite songs here....so just enjoy music n give positive comments.....Allah hafiz .
(listening salma agha's song will be really helpful while reading this piece. all the statements are taken from actual comments made on You Tube. few words need some glossary thing which i m not doing right now but promise to do later. till the time wikipidea can help. hope you will like reading this stuff.)
dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye
hum vafa kar ke bhi tanha reh gaye
zindgi ik pyas ban kar reh gayi
pyar ke kisse adhure reh gaye
hum vafa kar ke tanha reh gaye
dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye
sayad unka aakhri ho yeh sitam
har sitam ye soch kar hi seh gaye
khud ko bhi hamne mita dala magar..
fansle jo darmian se reh gaye
some unremembered hand wrote down these lines and besides many things which remain, often, away from common men’s knowledge, Salma Agha immortalized them in her voice . Filtering through or trickling through, a bit tricky to decide which is right, these lines entered the You Tube.
Music has some mysterious relation with human mind. I would have used ‘heart’ but many doctors are advising against this. Science is moving forward and upward.
Immediate response was the first expected thing and it happened. The Zaheer Ahmed wrote. I cannot stop listening this music. Urdu is such a beautiful language and the voice is just amazing.
Everyone knows that NIKAH was a Bollywood film and no one can mistake while guessing its location. Fine, it might be just some confusion. Some misunderstanding of history. VinayShivlal responded with paternal correction. This is Hindi dude, not Urdu.
Some came around with immense liking for the music but some problem with the language. Some blamed the song of being burdened with Persian. But it was with the lyric. Music was just sublime. Some one was sighing like a hot furnace. Beautiful poetry.... finds its way straight into heart....rather a beautiful dialogue between a hopeful heart and a broken heart... wonder what happens next in such a situation.
Jenab added :
Fazaa: Atmosphere, Environment
Ravaan: Move, Flow, Soul, Life
Samaa: The heavens, sky, firmament; a canopy; height, altitude, meridian, highest or uppermost part (of anything), culminating point, prime, spring.
Qaafila: Caravan
Bikhar: Scatter
Wafa: Fulfilling A Promise, Fulfillment, Fidelity, Faithful, Sincerity, Sufficiency
Qurbatein: Closeness, Nearness, Together, (Plural of Qurbat)
Visaal: Death, Meeting, Union
The zaheer ahmed probably woke up to find that some important changes had turned the course of thought and an essential issue remained unsettled. He rolled things back in order to carry them forward.
The film is called Nikah, which in Urdu means Marriage Ceremony - no part of this film is Hindi, all the words are Urdu language. Typical Hindu! in your hatred for Pakistan and Urdu every thing that You admire is Hindi and the rest is Urdu.
Sleeves must have come up.
Quasim streched his eyes to explore some more ditches of history . and his gravity was unmistakable. Before we were British India and before that the Mughals made what is today known as India. India was never a nation state. In fact most of Pakistan belonged to Iran until Alexander the great made it part of the Hellenistic empire. However, we have a shared history that’s for sure and a lot of good art and architecture came out of that ,as did literature, dance and food. to deny this is to be blind.yet we have our own unique culture too.each province, each village!
persian and urdu both belong to indo european language, thats all. yes we have persian influence but we also have turkish,arabic and of course sanskrit and hindi.
History was witnessing its making. No error should stain our role in its making. The worst part of history is that we don’t have a say in this. But that is our predecessors’ mistake. In this age of technologically democratized world one should not miss any chance of correcting or makng the history. Drills were going on. Salma is a paki. But she made her career in India. Some discovered that she was a sister of Rajkapoor. The immense love was creatin an enormous amount of pressure on both the parties as salma was becoming heavier and heavier. Quasim 65 came veilding a pin in his hand to diffuse the tension. yes she is pakistani but cut the crap.not all indians are aryans and south pakistan has aryans too.
Much as I commend the noble intent behind your words, I think credit must be given where it is due. Let’s preserve the individuality and co-exist rather than trying to fuse into "one". Hindu and Muslims are different and yet they CAN co-exist with affinity. Salma Agha is Pakistani and not too Indian. We'd be hard pressed to find any Dravidian roots in her. What endears and unites her and others to each other is music, talent and "the eye of the beholder". Rather a simple concept, really.
In some other corner of the world some one was quite unaware of this urgency of the situation and unable to appreciate the noble mission of setting the historical records straight.
people i beg you all,please forget about hindu-muslim crap.we all are one.i love this song like i love my life,salma aga is as much indian as she's paki.she's my fav,nobody else cud have sung this song the way it is.absolutely amazing......NO WORDS.....never had:)
several chukling sounds echoed on this naïve request. World is not merely for such trivial
things like pleasure, amazement other innocent ga ga gas. It’s the serious jobs as of theirs that keep it going. And they were doing it.
Someone bursted in with a deafening voice. It was shivalien. Watt u sons of fucking bitches mother fuckers go and fuck ur sisters asses . its better than liking the stinking cunt of that paki whore while sitting in india. A sudden silence . it continued. The stormy course of history halted for a moment to see the immensity of this torrential outburst. And then it changed its cource.
On this new course new events were happening to guide and protect the history. Aftab had a sheet in his hand. Nice song But I hate this women. She is a home breaker. She destroyed Mahmood Sipra's house and then Javed Sheikh’s house. Both the men divorced their wives becasue of this Two dollar Whore. She is the kind of women who will do anything for money. That’s why I hate this Bitch.
Some one was more worried. He had seen an interview of salma on you tube and the anchor, a cracking masculine voice, was pouring all his humility on her while addressing her as the asset of the land.
what a shame, now under a corrupt General we are putting kanjars as our assets..........no wonder we as a nation are going down the drain...
Again the things were contextualized on the sub continental level but in an oblique manner.
Kanjroon ka kia hota hai jo marzi bulwa lo are yeh to mazze mein thee abb haal hee mein iss kee cousins daikh lo Karina & Karishma from bollywood
Someone was making another point.
Well we call this performing arts. There is nothing with to dance and sing. Its an art. Only our backward and stupid religion tells us that we should not dance or sing. Kanjar are also children of God. So dont throw stones when you live in glass house yourself.
Dins were echoing sometimes in ding dong and sometimes in silence.
Across the wall another salma was singing in a music reality show. Some bengali song on some Bangladeshi channel. Someone smiled with compassion and sent an advice.
Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Sona Nahin Chandi Nahin Yaar to Mila Chal Pyar Kar Le...stop copying songs silly cow .
Reply came quite close to the heels.
this song is our folk song and older than 100 yrs.Yaar bina chaen kaha re was tuned by Bappi Lahiri and it was sung by Runa Laila of Bangladesh.U may know Bappi Lahiri’s old home is Bangladesh,he might've copied from here or the tune worked in d back of his mind while making Pyaar bina chaen even RD Burma and SD Burman were in Bangladesh and their old home are still in Comilla Bagnladesh. we gifted to India for them you are proud now so see back past brother.
Some old voices were still wandering in search of some empathy. Finally, they sat on their bottom, waiting for some sympathetic touch of warmth.
Adiba had seen Nikah, the film, and felt moved by it. She appreciated its effort to give women some voice. At least on the silver screen. Commendable job for its period and also quite inspiring.
It is not a slap on Islam but rather how some people misuse divorce laws for their own ends; it's not about Islam abusing women but men abusing Islam against women. ABCDE had cried-
i dont understand ur comments. there is nothing 2 do with religion or so. It’s just d love for music we come here n listen or upload our favorite songs here....so just enjoy music n give positive comments.....Allah hafiz .
(listening salma agha's song will be really helpful while reading this piece. all the statements are taken from actual comments made on You Tube. few words need some glossary thing which i m not doing right now but promise to do later. till the time wikipidea can help. hope you will like reading this stuff.)
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
BONEFIRE
Bone fire
Aahh…yo…aah…yoo…ah….yyooo…come on…
bodies were rocking with the music and the party was on.
Hey da roll some grass…just baby wait a minute…hey dude do it quick…just baby…hey move a bit…hi Sid how u chap…new glasses oooohhh…mast man…aahh…yo…aah…yoo…ah…yyooo…yupp me back and now say what were you asking?
Sam your documentation is awesome man! How did you do it? I mean it’s just awesome…brilliant…moving. I love you for this bastard. What a charming natural setting. Awesomely beautiful scenery…oh what a…
Samresh was having a really big drag that just kept on going and going and going while all possible compliments candied with most charming words showered over his chest and flowed from Shweta’s mouth and showered over Sam’s face and kept flowing. Bonfire was burning and the flames were leaping into air and coming back to spring again and music was filling every heart with some energy that moved all feet with the rhythms changing with the changing tracks and demands and the whole atmosphere was bathed in the alcoholic aroma that had its sacred resources in those many beautifully moulded bottles bearing various labels and various flavours and tastes and fragrance and everything else.
You know I got this grass from there only. It’s dirt cheap there you know. They have cheelum in which you can stuff larger amount of grass and a single drag is enough to fill you inside and outside both. Look at this guy! Sam stopped the video suddenly and dragged his browser to a particular face. Look this man can make this much big flame rise from his cheelum in the very first drag. Sam waved his palm in air to denote the rising flame. And it is really difficult to do so in the very first you know. It’s not even properly lit and grass takes some time to catch fire. Man he was just awesome with his cheelum…Ohh damn! At least four or five faces were looking at his face and experiencing the same awe as if the person was performing the wonderful feat right in front of them. Video was running again. Samresh was holding his glass of whisky. Shweta had her beer can that she took to her lips and removed again after having a sip and her eyes were fixed upon the video. Music was playing and many bodies were following the rhythm, jerking their body and waving their hands holding glasses or cigarettes or both and bonfire was fed with some fresh wood by that guy who again shifted himself into a distant corner and wrapped his shawl around which was holed by rats and the catering owner had promised to give another one in a few days. Shweta had removed the headphone from her ears and was calling for Sam. He was just busy in rolling another. His friends had got some stuff. In full excitement he came to her and told look this is the stuff I simply love. I had got some with me when I went to shoot this documentary and you know men just fell for it. Hey something funny now. You know those people rub tobacco and the dust that remains they sniff it and sneeze and sniff again. Their nostrils glisten with that sticky stuff…owwwh it was disgusting. I don’t know how they did it. And now my part. I showed them this stuff and asked if they wanted to sniff this. And they started laughing upon me. Said that that tobacco dust was medicine for their nose when it gets stuck with goo and this powder... You know they thought this stuff to be powder and said their women can use it but it is so little. Blockheads…simple blockheads. And then I explained everything to them. And you know once they were in they were in. they were just dying to have another sniff but I had no more. They bought my promise for more when I come again. And look they gifted me this much grass. Sam waved his palm in the air to show the quantity he received for his promise. Hey Sam it’s not fair man. You must give us some. Jaggy was showing all his front teeth as his eyes were almost closed after sipping a bitter drink. Fuck..Fuck…fuck…I think I changed my drink with somebody. He is always a late reactor. Sam and Shweta and Pal and Addy, all were laughing as Jaggy was swaying his body up and down and side and side and uttering the same four-lettered fashionable taboo word with increasing vehemence. And suddenly he ran towards a corner and holding his chest with one hand and another supporting against the wall he was puking once twice and thrice…and …and…
Water! Just one gulp and stop. Sam was holding a glass of water, Pal was stroking his back, and Shweta was saying something and sitting at some distance that shawled boy also murmured something. Music was high and bonfire was high and party was on. All were back. Shweta was watching that video and Sam was sitting, explaining certain things and jaggy was also watching that video. Addy was back into the rocking group and Pal was rolling another one and Sam was sipping from his peg and talking with Shweta and Jaggy and Pal. It’s quite a dismal scene there. I mean it’s just poverty, hunger, starvation and you know it’s just like some hell. Thankfully, I carried that much water and food. Still I had to travel back with my whole group to the nearest town, which was at least hundred kilometers. I cannot believe how one can drink that water or eat that food. Sam took another sip, his peg was finished, and he took another from pal’s hand. Rolled grass was also in his hand. Shweta just shifted a bit closer to him and Jaggy was feeling sleepy so he went to sleep. I think Paul sir will be very happy with your work this time. It is really brilliant and can move any heart. Shweta’s remark drew Sam’s attention to her as he was looking at a girl standing in a corner of that video still. He is a damned bastard. Even this time you know he will begin with oh Sam this is really a brilliant video but dubbing part is not up to level. It does not create the vibes you know. This word doesn’t go with the scene and this doesn’t give the shocking effect what is needed and then just add some more idyllic flavour. Usually this goes with general image of these sorts of rural lives. And blah… blah… blah…blupp.
She was just laughing and laughing and laughing and he was also. Anyway, who is this woman? Shweta had noticed that woman standing in that corner. A real bitch. Sam’s tone was unusual here. And Shweta noted that. She put the video on move and soon both were engrossed in the various aspects of that documentary. It had crooked legs, shrunk chests, ballooned bellies, and bulging eyes. And parallel to it ran the dubbed sound narrating the story of their poverty and diseases and superstitions. A narrative of malnutritioned maternity and irresponsible males and the oral stats of pregnancy deaths followed the hanging breasts of women covered in a strange manner that left them almost showing. How can they do this? It’s brutish I mean they simply fuck their wives into pregnancy and then leave them to rot. Bastards. Sam caressed her back above the jacket and under her jacket and cooled her. They are just like that. Almost savages. Video was running and they sat close to each other and they were so close that when they spoke they felt the warmth. Look this is a ritual that they perform with musical accompaniments. Is this a music? All those naked men howling their lungs out! One minute. Sam how can you appreciate this music that is no music at all? It’s just howling and howling and howling. Just jumping around the fire, swaying the body in such weird ways, and making these howling noise. Shweta had taken off the headphone and rested her head on his shoulder. And what these women are doing there? Standing like zombies.
It is a part of their belief. They believe that these men have got some divine spirit and whatever they are chanting are supposed to be divine sounds. It brings fertility to their land and their cattle and their women. And unmarried get husbands very quick. How dumb! Shweta felt indignant at the wretched condition of her sex and hurled as many stones as possible by the time sam switched off his laptop and put it into his car.
Bonfire was leaping into the sky, the bodies were jerking with the music’s rhythm, and that guy had fed it with some more woods and shweta stood there, waiting for sam to come. He had already taken off his jacket and now shweta also did the same and both joined the dance around that bonfire. It was some Brazilian band’s track, all bodies were swaying this way and that way, and sam and shweta were close again, feeling each other and determined to evade any distance that could creep between their bodies.
I will miss this campus very much. These bonfires, these parties, and these friends. You know journalism was my dream career and I swear this college proved to be my dream college. Just exclude the creepy teachers and it was the best place. I hope this documentary will prove a good project work. His hands were following his instincts and moving through and exploring her body. She was caressing his back and holding his hair and stroking his chest. I believe it is the best portrayal of rural poverty and backwardness and no one can see as closely. Words were flowing this way and that way, music was flowing all around, drinks were still flowing from bottles into glasses and from glasses into all the mouths and lungs, and alchoholic aroma were flowing from every mouth, as there were several aaahh…yyoo… ye…aah…yoo...yae…and whistles and shouts and whistles.
Our last wild time in this college. Both sighed. Do you want to be a bit wilder? Sam looked into her eyes as if trying to read her answer in her eyes. Fire leapt higher and higher and higher. Fire was surrounded by a thick and still growing cover of fog and at some distance from all this…
Don’t worry I have got pills.
Thank god.
The shawled guy rose again as he had to feed the bonfire.
It was leaping again into the sky and music was getting wild and people around were getting wilder and that guy shifted to another corner now. He was just waiting this party to get over. Someone may be waiting for him…probably outside this college campus…at his lodging place…or far away at a place where he might have left his wife when coming to this distant city of hopes and dreams.
I stood there, looking at this wild night and remembering many such wild and wilder nights from the past and thinking about the many that are to come and felt the warmth of leaping bonfire and jerking bodies and intertwined wildness and…and his shawl as he sat against my wall, murmuring something। I heard the music of machine and music of soul, music of flesh and music of love, music of orgasm and music of arousal, music of enlightened despair and music of blind hope. I still stand there witnessing similar nights.
(i wrote this the day i had a big debate with some of my left wing friends. it began with kabir and went till god knows what. but we had a proud end without any conclusion. issue was, as you can guess, the possibilities for revolution in our society in the post modern world. thankfully this word occured only twice, once when one of our friends mentioned it and another when i asked him to define what he understood by it. i decided to put this story as an entry piece because it got the maximum number of advices regarding my grammar and word selection. and i kept it unchanged. i am glad to share it with u. )
Aahh…yo…aah…yoo…ah….yyooo…come on…
bodies were rocking with the music and the party was on.
Hey da roll some grass…just baby wait a minute…hey dude do it quick…just baby…hey move a bit…hi Sid how u chap…new glasses oooohhh…mast man…aahh…yo…aah…yoo…ah…yyooo…yupp me back and now say what were you asking?
Sam your documentation is awesome man! How did you do it? I mean it’s just awesome…brilliant…moving. I love you for this bastard. What a charming natural setting. Awesomely beautiful scenery…oh what a…
Samresh was having a really big drag that just kept on going and going and going while all possible compliments candied with most charming words showered over his chest and flowed from Shweta’s mouth and showered over Sam’s face and kept flowing. Bonfire was burning and the flames were leaping into air and coming back to spring again and music was filling every heart with some energy that moved all feet with the rhythms changing with the changing tracks and demands and the whole atmosphere was bathed in the alcoholic aroma that had its sacred resources in those many beautifully moulded bottles bearing various labels and various flavours and tastes and fragrance and everything else.
You know I got this grass from there only. It’s dirt cheap there you know. They have cheelum in which you can stuff larger amount of grass and a single drag is enough to fill you inside and outside both. Look at this guy! Sam stopped the video suddenly and dragged his browser to a particular face. Look this man can make this much big flame rise from his cheelum in the very first drag. Sam waved his palm in air to denote the rising flame. And it is really difficult to do so in the very first you know. It’s not even properly lit and grass takes some time to catch fire. Man he was just awesome with his cheelum…Ohh damn! At least four or five faces were looking at his face and experiencing the same awe as if the person was performing the wonderful feat right in front of them. Video was running again. Samresh was holding his glass of whisky. Shweta had her beer can that she took to her lips and removed again after having a sip and her eyes were fixed upon the video. Music was playing and many bodies were following the rhythm, jerking their body and waving their hands holding glasses or cigarettes or both and bonfire was fed with some fresh wood by that guy who again shifted himself into a distant corner and wrapped his shawl around which was holed by rats and the catering owner had promised to give another one in a few days. Shweta had removed the headphone from her ears and was calling for Sam. He was just busy in rolling another. His friends had got some stuff. In full excitement he came to her and told look this is the stuff I simply love. I had got some with me when I went to shoot this documentary and you know men just fell for it. Hey something funny now. You know those people rub tobacco and the dust that remains they sniff it and sneeze and sniff again. Their nostrils glisten with that sticky stuff…owwwh it was disgusting. I don’t know how they did it. And now my part. I showed them this stuff and asked if they wanted to sniff this. And they started laughing upon me. Said that that tobacco dust was medicine for their nose when it gets stuck with goo and this powder... You know they thought this stuff to be powder and said their women can use it but it is so little. Blockheads…simple blockheads. And then I explained everything to them. And you know once they were in they were in. they were just dying to have another sniff but I had no more. They bought my promise for more when I come again. And look they gifted me this much grass. Sam waved his palm in the air to show the quantity he received for his promise. Hey Sam it’s not fair man. You must give us some. Jaggy was showing all his front teeth as his eyes were almost closed after sipping a bitter drink. Fuck..Fuck…fuck…I think I changed my drink with somebody. He is always a late reactor. Sam and Shweta and Pal and Addy, all were laughing as Jaggy was swaying his body up and down and side and side and uttering the same four-lettered fashionable taboo word with increasing vehemence. And suddenly he ran towards a corner and holding his chest with one hand and another supporting against the wall he was puking once twice and thrice…and …and…
Water! Just one gulp and stop. Sam was holding a glass of water, Pal was stroking his back, and Shweta was saying something and sitting at some distance that shawled boy also murmured something. Music was high and bonfire was high and party was on. All were back. Shweta was watching that video and Sam was sitting, explaining certain things and jaggy was also watching that video. Addy was back into the rocking group and Pal was rolling another one and Sam was sipping from his peg and talking with Shweta and Jaggy and Pal. It’s quite a dismal scene there. I mean it’s just poverty, hunger, starvation and you know it’s just like some hell. Thankfully, I carried that much water and food. Still I had to travel back with my whole group to the nearest town, which was at least hundred kilometers. I cannot believe how one can drink that water or eat that food. Sam took another sip, his peg was finished, and he took another from pal’s hand. Rolled grass was also in his hand. Shweta just shifted a bit closer to him and Jaggy was feeling sleepy so he went to sleep. I think Paul sir will be very happy with your work this time. It is really brilliant and can move any heart. Shweta’s remark drew Sam’s attention to her as he was looking at a girl standing in a corner of that video still. He is a damned bastard. Even this time you know he will begin with oh Sam this is really a brilliant video but dubbing part is not up to level. It does not create the vibes you know. This word doesn’t go with the scene and this doesn’t give the shocking effect what is needed and then just add some more idyllic flavour. Usually this goes with general image of these sorts of rural lives. And blah… blah… blah…blupp.
She was just laughing and laughing and laughing and he was also. Anyway, who is this woman? Shweta had noticed that woman standing in that corner. A real bitch. Sam’s tone was unusual here. And Shweta noted that. She put the video on move and soon both were engrossed in the various aspects of that documentary. It had crooked legs, shrunk chests, ballooned bellies, and bulging eyes. And parallel to it ran the dubbed sound narrating the story of their poverty and diseases and superstitions. A narrative of malnutritioned maternity and irresponsible males and the oral stats of pregnancy deaths followed the hanging breasts of women covered in a strange manner that left them almost showing. How can they do this? It’s brutish I mean they simply fuck their wives into pregnancy and then leave them to rot. Bastards. Sam caressed her back above the jacket and under her jacket and cooled her. They are just like that. Almost savages. Video was running and they sat close to each other and they were so close that when they spoke they felt the warmth. Look this is a ritual that they perform with musical accompaniments. Is this a music? All those naked men howling their lungs out! One minute. Sam how can you appreciate this music that is no music at all? It’s just howling and howling and howling. Just jumping around the fire, swaying the body in such weird ways, and making these howling noise. Shweta had taken off the headphone and rested her head on his shoulder. And what these women are doing there? Standing like zombies.
It is a part of their belief. They believe that these men have got some divine spirit and whatever they are chanting are supposed to be divine sounds. It brings fertility to their land and their cattle and their women. And unmarried get husbands very quick. How dumb! Shweta felt indignant at the wretched condition of her sex and hurled as many stones as possible by the time sam switched off his laptop and put it into his car.
Bonfire was leaping into the sky, the bodies were jerking with the music’s rhythm, and that guy had fed it with some more woods and shweta stood there, waiting for sam to come. He had already taken off his jacket and now shweta also did the same and both joined the dance around that bonfire. It was some Brazilian band’s track, all bodies were swaying this way and that way, and sam and shweta were close again, feeling each other and determined to evade any distance that could creep between their bodies.
I will miss this campus very much. These bonfires, these parties, and these friends. You know journalism was my dream career and I swear this college proved to be my dream college. Just exclude the creepy teachers and it was the best place. I hope this documentary will prove a good project work. His hands were following his instincts and moving through and exploring her body. She was caressing his back and holding his hair and stroking his chest. I believe it is the best portrayal of rural poverty and backwardness and no one can see as closely. Words were flowing this way and that way, music was flowing all around, drinks were still flowing from bottles into glasses and from glasses into all the mouths and lungs, and alchoholic aroma were flowing from every mouth, as there were several aaahh…yyoo… ye…aah…yoo...yae…and whistles and shouts and whistles.
Our last wild time in this college. Both sighed. Do you want to be a bit wilder? Sam looked into her eyes as if trying to read her answer in her eyes. Fire leapt higher and higher and higher. Fire was surrounded by a thick and still growing cover of fog and at some distance from all this…
Don’t worry I have got pills.
Thank god.
The shawled guy rose again as he had to feed the bonfire.
It was leaping again into the sky and music was getting wild and people around were getting wilder and that guy shifted to another corner now. He was just waiting this party to get over. Someone may be waiting for him…probably outside this college campus…at his lodging place…or far away at a place where he might have left his wife when coming to this distant city of hopes and dreams.
I stood there, looking at this wild night and remembering many such wild and wilder nights from the past and thinking about the many that are to come and felt the warmth of leaping bonfire and jerking bodies and intertwined wildness and…and his shawl as he sat against my wall, murmuring something। I heard the music of machine and music of soul, music of flesh and music of love, music of orgasm and music of arousal, music of enlightened despair and music of blind hope. I still stand there witnessing similar nights.
(i wrote this the day i had a big debate with some of my left wing friends. it began with kabir and went till god knows what. but we had a proud end without any conclusion. issue was, as you can guess, the possibilities for revolution in our society in the post modern world. thankfully this word occured only twice, once when one of our friends mentioned it and another when i asked him to define what he understood by it. i decided to put this story as an entry piece because it got the maximum number of advices regarding my grammar and word selection. and i kept it unchanged. i am glad to share it with u. )
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Life's Theatre
Years back on an ordinary day
God concieved an idea from some clay
He moulded another human form
Not much hard work, just the usual norm
Then he devised another fable of strife
And gave me a role in the drama called 'Life'
He decided himself to be the director
And found assistants to play the various characters
So, here I am working in stereotypical divides
Sometimes playing the lead, sometimes just watching from aside
At times I don't want to be on stage anymore
Open my eyes to find it all cast on a distant shore
Existing as daughter, sister and wife
But not living the miracle of life
With consciousness came civilization's rules
Culture, language, morals and other societal tools
I too became part of the system
Sometimes my own and sometimes other's terms
People have so much venom in their heart
Only need a spark to start
Searching hidden motives in every word and action
Full of rhetoric questions
They want to put two and two together
But wonder how the answer can be four
In this play I often get the advise
From those who call themselves older but often the wise
How to dress, express or speak my lines
Why the stars in the sky shine?
Even I became a comrade, a friend
Defining, condemning and taking stand
Limitin or glorifying as much as I can
What an experience to be human!
Friday, February 27, 2009
From the unborn daughter of Kausar Bano…
Bilkees Beghum from the Godhra relief camp told a tale that seemed to confirm a recurrent pattern in the atrocities severed on the women during the Gujarat riots in 2002. She was stripped, gang-raped, her baby was killed before her, and she was then beaten up, then burnt and left to die.
Before they were finally killed, some were beaten up with rods and pipes for almost an hour. Before or after the killing, their vagina would be sliced, or would have iron rods pushed inside. Similarly, their bellies would be cut open or would have hard objects inserted into them. A 13-year old girl, Farzana, had a rod pushed into her stomach, and was then burnt. A mother reported that her three-year old baby girl was raped and killed in front of her, while elsewhere daughters reported on the rapes of their mothers, now dead.
Kausar Bano, a young girl from Naroda Patiya, was several months pregnant during the Gujrat riots. Several eyewitnesses testified that she was raped, tortured, her womb was slit open with a sword to disgorge the foetus which was then hacked to pieces and roasted alive with the mother. A day before the massacre, Sheikh, Kausar’s father, said he had taken Kausar to a hospital in Kalupur for a medical check-up. She was complaining of pain. The doctor had said she was likely to deliver in a day or two.
(Source: Internet /The Indian express)
From the unborn daughter of Kausar Bano…
Everything was perfect, amma!
The tang of the pickle you savoured,
The essence of the mud you once had
All reached me…
The radiant sun
Filtered through your womb to warm me.
I was very happy, amma!
Before long was I to breathe my own air
Before long was I to sense my own hunger
The moment for me to feel my own sun was soon to come…
I was blissful, amma!
The shadow of abba’s palm blessed me on your womb
I longed to see his face
I longed to have my abba
I longed to see for myself, the world outside your cover…
I was very happy, amma!
But one day…I gasped!
Like a fish without water
What unfamiliar touch,
Oh what was it amma?
That had desecrated,
the holy waters of my shelter?
It pained, amma!
Were you being dragged??
And then, I, nestled within you, was torn…
Torn from the lukewarm dim of your womb-
Through a blinding blaze…into a boiling furnace-
Was this to be my first sunshine?
It was a huge operation, ma!
I saw from my eyes,
The eyes, amma, that could never see,
Doctors and surgeons with tridents …
Were bent over you…and then
They shrieked…!
Why did they shriek, amma?
Were they happy on seeing me inside you?
As I came out, they gave me toys!
Toys to play with, amma.
Toys of fire!
Absorbed in my first and final play
I did not see you…
But in your cry of death
You must have sung for me, my last lullaby.
I was never born, amma!
And thus, never died.
Like the unborn hospitalized child in coloured water,
I was immortalized…
But here, there is no coloured water
Only scorching, parching, and searing heat!
How long will I have to burn amma?
(Translated from Anshu Malviya’s in Hindi)
I wish I could post the original one in Hindi (way more profoundly expressed there) but its not available on the internet and the hard copy of the poems is not in my possession.I translated it for my college magazine 2 years ago.
Those of you who were present in the recent poetry recitation in our department would be reminded of something similar that was recited there.(I think it was called ‘Lullaby’)
Before they were finally killed, some were beaten up with rods and pipes for almost an hour. Before or after the killing, their vagina would be sliced, or would have iron rods pushed inside. Similarly, their bellies would be cut open or would have hard objects inserted into them. A 13-year old girl, Farzana, had a rod pushed into her stomach, and was then burnt. A mother reported that her three-year old baby girl was raped and killed in front of her, while elsewhere daughters reported on the rapes of their mothers, now dead.
Kausar Bano, a young girl from Naroda Patiya, was several months pregnant during the Gujrat riots. Several eyewitnesses testified that she was raped, tortured, her womb was slit open with a sword to disgorge the foetus which was then hacked to pieces and roasted alive with the mother. A day before the massacre, Sheikh, Kausar’s father, said he had taken Kausar to a hospital in Kalupur for a medical check-up. She was complaining of pain. The doctor had said she was likely to deliver in a day or two.
(Source: Internet /The Indian express)
From the unborn daughter of Kausar Bano…
Everything was perfect, amma!
The tang of the pickle you savoured,
The essence of the mud you once had
All reached me…
The radiant sun
Filtered through your womb to warm me.
I was very happy, amma!
Before long was I to breathe my own air
Before long was I to sense my own hunger
The moment for me to feel my own sun was soon to come…
I was blissful, amma!
The shadow of abba’s palm blessed me on your womb
I longed to see his face
I longed to have my abba
I longed to see for myself, the world outside your cover…
I was very happy, amma!
But one day…I gasped!
Like a fish without water
What unfamiliar touch,
Oh what was it amma?
That had desecrated,
the holy waters of my shelter?
It pained, amma!
Were you being dragged??
And then, I, nestled within you, was torn…
Torn from the lukewarm dim of your womb-
Through a blinding blaze…into a boiling furnace-
Was this to be my first sunshine?
It was a huge operation, ma!
I saw from my eyes,
The eyes, amma, that could never see,
Doctors and surgeons with tridents …
Were bent over you…and then
They shrieked…!
Why did they shriek, amma?
Were they happy on seeing me inside you?
As I came out, they gave me toys!
Toys to play with, amma.
Toys of fire!
Absorbed in my first and final play
I did not see you…
But in your cry of death
You must have sung for me, my last lullaby.
I was never born, amma!
And thus, never died.
Like the unborn hospitalized child in coloured water,
I was immortalized…
But here, there is no coloured water
Only scorching, parching, and searing heat!
How long will I have to burn amma?
(Translated from Anshu Malviya’s in Hindi)
I wish I could post the original one in Hindi (way more profoundly expressed there) but its not available on the internet and the hard copy of the poems is not in my possession.I translated it for my college magazine 2 years ago.
Those of you who were present in the recent poetry recitation in our department would be reminded of something similar that was recited there.(I think it was called ‘Lullaby’)
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Few shots of Vodka
Disclaimer: I don't stake any claims to the art of poetry. If the following work looks anything like one, it must be in a purely coincidental and sordid manner.
Head swirling,
Hurling
Thoughts, images
Sudden uninvited
In eddies
A sensuous ebbing of motion
Commotion
Limbs in retreat
Limp
A random delving
Into Adam and Eve,
Women drivers,
Kangaroos,
Fork as a phallus symbol,
The bell, the loo
P.S.: This fragment (there i go indulging myself even as the Romantics turn in their graves!) was written sometime in the beginning of the last year. It's been published once elsewhere and had another stanza to it. But i did away with it here. Firstly, because i didn't like it. Secondly, i like the way this fragment ends with the word 'loo', giving it a bathetic end, if u like.
Monday, February 23, 2009
red bricks; corridor; valentine's; MA
Red brick, from the corridors.
Stillness must seep into their veins
Everyone who sits on them is waiting, bored
making the bricks sad with their weight.
the hours must leave furrows on them,
like heavy metal grinding over soft rocks, marking them down.
empty rivulets of sand,
benumbed to their own violation.
she cannot stop her boyfriend
she doesn't want to 'suck him off' but she doesn't want to upset him
its Valentine's, not worth a fight.
Where does the line of desire stop,
does it go far?
Dreams have time for questions
but she doesn't ask him.
She is Time
She dreams of red-bricks from the Department
They could be her lovers; they should be.
Damned to sharing it,
they cannot force intimacy on anyone.
Had they resisted
they might allow their aggressor the audacity
and the category of a rapist.
P.S; The corridor where everyone sits outside class, has red bricks under the concrete platform on which we sit and chat, and where, on a particular cold January afternoon, the sunlight falling on one's thighs can be more than the meaning of the word 'orgasmic'. The above poem was written on the thirteenth of February, and was put up first on my blog.
This is something I wrote for the magazine when they asked for entries on "Life before and after MA" but it couldn't be published because I was a little late. Anyway, its nothing, just a couple of lines. here goes:
So much of what we read, what we are supposed to work on, think about, is about desire. An excess or a lack of it. Either a divergence from or a convergence on it. Or love. Even pain can be derived from there. And yet people say that MA is 'depressing', that everyone is estranged from one another here.
Too much theory has made voyeurs out of lovers, deadened us to any real emotion, any real praxis. Everything can be read or written about, in a novel, play, poem or essay. Or so we think. People who deal with words, rhetoric, syllables, do not do enough to deserve a life entirely devoid of substance, or do they?
"Oppressed by the figures of beauty" is a line from Chelsea Hotel No. 2, a song by Leonard Cohen. It has more than a tangential parallel with our classroom.
-Anonymous
What I write is not mine, it belongs to tradition. Not the tradition I've read, but the tradition I am.
Stillness must seep into their veins
Everyone who sits on them is waiting, bored
making the bricks sad with their weight.
the hours must leave furrows on them,
like heavy metal grinding over soft rocks, marking them down.
empty rivulets of sand,
benumbed to their own violation.
she cannot stop her boyfriend
she doesn't want to 'suck him off' but she doesn't want to upset him
its Valentine's, not worth a fight.
Where does the line of desire stop,
does it go far?
Dreams have time for questions
but she doesn't ask him.
She is Time
She dreams of red-bricks from the Department
They could be her lovers; they should be.
Damned to sharing it,
they cannot force intimacy on anyone.
Had they resisted
they might allow their aggressor the audacity
and the category of a rapist.
P.S; The corridor where everyone sits outside class, has red bricks under the concrete platform on which we sit and chat, and where, on a particular cold January afternoon, the sunlight falling on one's thighs can be more than the meaning of the word 'orgasmic'. The above poem was written on the thirteenth of February, and was put up first on my blog.
This is something I wrote for the magazine when they asked for entries on "Life before and after MA" but it couldn't be published because I was a little late. Anyway, its nothing, just a couple of lines. here goes:
So much of what we read, what we are supposed to work on, think about, is about desire. An excess or a lack of it. Either a divergence from or a convergence on it. Or love. Even pain can be derived from there. And yet people say that MA is 'depressing', that everyone is estranged from one another here.
Too much theory has made voyeurs out of lovers, deadened us to any real emotion, any real praxis. Everything can be read or written about, in a novel, play, poem or essay. Or so we think. People who deal with words, rhetoric, syllables, do not do enough to deserve a life entirely devoid of substance, or do they?
"Oppressed by the figures of beauty" is a line from Chelsea Hotel No. 2, a song by Leonard Cohen. It has more than a tangential parallel with our classroom.
-Anonymous
What I write is not mine, it belongs to tradition. Not the tradition I've read, but the tradition I am.
What the Thunder Says?
Standing on the bridge, he was continuously looking down the turbulent water of the river Yamuna. The river water glistened every now and then by the lights of the cars which were crossing across the bridge. This hide and seek of light and darkness fluctuated his intentions. Being a graduate in English Literature, he had read Hamlet’s ‘To be or not to be...’. During those days he used to be dynamic and animated while reading his texts but he was so churned up by the critics and their obtrusive presence that he could hardly find out his own intrepretations of those lines. Thus a subject which he had chosen to chisel his creativity, interred his originiality and made him as mechanical as a student of a university, located in a metropolis.
At an age of twenty-nine, the gap between his goal - rather the goal of his parents, relatives, village and his entire community; and his efforts - seemed as distant as the abyss existing between dream and reality. ‘People say, the water of this river is no better than a drain’, he ruminates on. He cannot find it and wants to find it neither. It’s already past mid-night, and for the first time he has come here. The only question which poses before him is: can this river be a gateway to success to him, far from the utter fiasco of this world, where the boundary between success and failure per se will be as flimsy as a spider’s web.
His parents, who were basically farmers, always wanted to see him as an I.A.S. Officer. Four years ago, he came to this bustling city, having only this aim in his mind.
‘Is this the beginning of life?’
‘Is this the end of life, nothing exists outside it?’
These thoughts were hammering his mind as somewhere lightning thundered.
As an undergraduate student, he was one of the most promising students, the best one in Patna University.
‘But, was I the best one here?’
‘Perhaps not’, the answer echoed from the inside of his mind like a sharp bullet.
‘Didn’t I swot hard to be one!’
‘You did, but it continued for only a few months, afterwards you were lost in the maze of this city.’
Five years ago when his mother came to know about his second girlfriend Shamma, back in Patna, she had burst out in anger: ‘Never expect from us that you will bring a whore of any caste, who doesn’t even know how to put on clothes, and we will accept her as our bahu.’ Her tirade continued. ‘Have you any sense how your father sends you money by curtailing our daily needs? Send the boy to Delhi, he will be a Krishna Kanhaia’, she added apprehensively.
And, when he was to leave for Delhi, his mother - who was forty-five but looked fifty-five - shed tears for hours, but not before making him swear: ‘be away from sex and wine’. He felt proud, having been treated as Gandhi, going abroad. Unfortunately, he tasted both, enjoyed both, and longed more for it, and whatever was lacking, was fulfilled by his friends or foes, he couldn’t distinguish.
In the beginning, when he was focused on his studies, sometimes his friends jeered at him, rather at his naivety.
‘So, Gandhi wishes to be away from sex and wine.’
‘What! Want to be loyal to your girlfriend, who is one thousand kilometers away from here.’
‘Come on, buddy, man or ...’
Fortune’s wheel changed, and he started believing in pluralistic discourse, especially in the matter of girlfriends. He stumbled. However, tried to compensate for his past frivolousness, but the proverb, ‘It’s never too late to mend’, did not seem to be enough to exculpate him from his inevitable fall. He couldn’t cross the barrier of ‘U.P.S.C. Mains’.
‘My brother will perform some feat, which nobody has ever done in my village. He will be a big officer, earn a lot, and will pay off my dowry’, his sister kept on thinking. ‘Oh! This bloody dowry.’ Her entire hope from future perspectives rested on her brother’s success or failure. His father was one step ahead in building castles in the air. He had already dreamt how to invest the money which he was supposed to get in his son’s marriage. Had the things been under his control, he would have become another Mittal, with that money of dowry. A second Mittal, and would have sat on ‘Peacock Throne’. Another Shahjahan, or another peacock.
He loves his sister the most, as she is someone who is miles away from pretence. A thought of her brings two drops of water on his swollen cheek. But, again it’s tears or rain-water, he is unable to differentiate. He had read Keats: ‘My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains.’
Suddenly, he wants to flinch from his present invention, but what will he reply to his relatives and neighbours. They will certainly sneer at him. ‘Look! S.P. sahib is going’. More than his failure, he is afraid of these backbiters who wield more power in society than the state-owned repressive apparatus. His flow of thoughts is disrupted by the sound of another lightning, as if it were a shot to inaugurate a game, signalling the beginning of a major sport event, his jump into the river. A jump into the future, which is no future; to a new life, which is no life. Certainly, for that acrobatic feat, he needs to muster up more courage, at least more than a Chinese gymnast.
At an age of twenty-nine, the gap between his goal - rather the goal of his parents, relatives, village and his entire community; and his efforts - seemed as distant as the abyss existing between dream and reality. ‘People say, the water of this river is no better than a drain’, he ruminates on. He cannot find it and wants to find it neither. It’s already past mid-night, and for the first time he has come here. The only question which poses before him is: can this river be a gateway to success to him, far from the utter fiasco of this world, where the boundary between success and failure per se will be as flimsy as a spider’s web.
His parents, who were basically farmers, always wanted to see him as an I.A.S. Officer. Four years ago, he came to this bustling city, having only this aim in his mind.
‘Is this the beginning of life?’
‘Is this the end of life, nothing exists outside it?’
These thoughts were hammering his mind as somewhere lightning thundered.
As an undergraduate student, he was one of the most promising students, the best one in Patna University.
‘But, was I the best one here?’
‘Perhaps not’, the answer echoed from the inside of his mind like a sharp bullet.
‘Didn’t I swot hard to be one!’
‘You did, but it continued for only a few months, afterwards you were lost in the maze of this city.’
Five years ago when his mother came to know about his second girlfriend Shamma, back in Patna, she had burst out in anger: ‘Never expect from us that you will bring a whore of any caste, who doesn’t even know how to put on clothes, and we will accept her as our bahu.’ Her tirade continued. ‘Have you any sense how your father sends you money by curtailing our daily needs? Send the boy to Delhi, he will be a Krishna Kanhaia’, she added apprehensively.
And, when he was to leave for Delhi, his mother - who was forty-five but looked fifty-five - shed tears for hours, but not before making him swear: ‘be away from sex and wine’. He felt proud, having been treated as Gandhi, going abroad. Unfortunately, he tasted both, enjoyed both, and longed more for it, and whatever was lacking, was fulfilled by his friends or foes, he couldn’t distinguish.
In the beginning, when he was focused on his studies, sometimes his friends jeered at him, rather at his naivety.
‘So, Gandhi wishes to be away from sex and wine.’
‘What! Want to be loyal to your girlfriend, who is one thousand kilometers away from here.’
‘Come on, buddy, man or ...’
Fortune’s wheel changed, and he started believing in pluralistic discourse, especially in the matter of girlfriends. He stumbled. However, tried to compensate for his past frivolousness, but the proverb, ‘It’s never too late to mend’, did not seem to be enough to exculpate him from his inevitable fall. He couldn’t cross the barrier of ‘U.P.S.C. Mains’.
‘My brother will perform some feat, which nobody has ever done in my village. He will be a big officer, earn a lot, and will pay off my dowry’, his sister kept on thinking. ‘Oh! This bloody dowry.’ Her entire hope from future perspectives rested on her brother’s success or failure. His father was one step ahead in building castles in the air. He had already dreamt how to invest the money which he was supposed to get in his son’s marriage. Had the things been under his control, he would have become another Mittal, with that money of dowry. A second Mittal, and would have sat on ‘Peacock Throne’. Another Shahjahan, or another peacock.
He loves his sister the most, as she is someone who is miles away from pretence. A thought of her brings two drops of water on his swollen cheek. But, again it’s tears or rain-water, he is unable to differentiate. He had read Keats: ‘My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains.’
Suddenly, he wants to flinch from his present invention, but what will he reply to his relatives and neighbours. They will certainly sneer at him. ‘Look! S.P. sahib is going’. More than his failure, he is afraid of these backbiters who wield more power in society than the state-owned repressive apparatus. His flow of thoughts is disrupted by the sound of another lightning, as if it were a shot to inaugurate a game, signalling the beginning of a major sport event, his jump into the river. A jump into the future, which is no future; to a new life, which is no life. Certainly, for that acrobatic feat, he needs to muster up more courage, at least more than a Chinese gymnast.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
beginnings...
To speak is to commit a mistake.
-Samuel Beckett
I would like to begin with a cliche. Its men who commit mistakes, not Gods. To prove that I'm a man I'll have to err, and to err I'll have to speak. I enjoy giving expression to my pent-up feelings either by spilling ink on paper or by disturbing the peace of the classroom and the outside world, among friends. But these days after joining MA Im undergoing a huge change in order to fashion myself perfectly. Call it my vanity or whatever. These days Im learning not how to speak, but how not to; not how to smile, how not to. These are the gifts which this metropolis and this university has given me.
No matter, life is life. I have written in my profile that I want to know more people. But I am really afraid, lest people should take me as an intruding, silly fellow. I have resolved many times to be as reticent as Aruni is (he told me about the Beckett line). But as soon as I see persons are contending with their opinions I jump into the fray. Sorry, cant help, this is what I am. I feel the same as the first person who has written here. We have all confined ourselves to tortoise shells, and its really hard to break it. Or to break the ice, for that matter.
Sorry friends, will talk later. The fleeting time reminds me of the looming danger of the internals.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The beginning is the most important part of the work...
Who's quote is it? I think it was Plato...Whoever it was...He/She was spot on.So what are we waiting for...? I guess none of us know what exactly we are supposed to do or say..as the description of this blog says, we will define our purpose as we go along, so let us flow with the flow...
We dont know each other, do we? We meet everyday but the overwhelmingly huge class makes it difficult for like-minded people or not-so-like-minded people for that matter,to interact. That is why we are here,right? Sometimes when Prof.Shirshendu is teaching(no offence...err..or may be a little):), I sigh, and look around all these people sitting around me, and wonder, "something about MA is estranging." More often than not i find a few others doing the same..carelessly looking around and wondering.Though when our eyes meet, we blink, we shift in our seats and get back to Shelley.(which i was surprised to find is almost done with!!!)And usually it takes a while to locate the same person again..with whom i shared this fraction-of-a-second empathy!
You know, being students of literature, we should indulge in more interaction..more involvement, more expression! the classes rush along in supersonic speed and we barely know our seniors...and we have no projects, no hard-nosed indulgences! we are a very passive race of beings!Well...a cynical remark but not so entirely.We have to initiate...and i guess, this is a step towards the right direction.
Anyways, i am just blabbering aimlessly, but im just 'going along'..Dont worry i will soon make a point.
Okay, Lets begin with introducing ourselves...how about that?
Allow me to begin,
I am Hina Khajuria. I did my B.A Eng from Daulatram college which aint one of the top-notch ones but the faculty there is nothing less than top-notch!I am in Hindu now.One of the stephens' rejected ugly ducklings! heh heh! anyway, I love writing, I think its liberating and essential..to the extent of making you a better person.Because when you write, you think, and when you think you introspect, excogitate and that leads to self-knowledge. I genuinely feel we dont know ourselves. (and that is not because we failed to answer the 'who am I?' in Sanjay Sharma's mind-boggling Wordsworth class..no offence , really this time, it was a fun class..Its interesting to dig endlessly into a simple question till it leads you to think, "lets keep it simple" heh! "turning and turning into the widening gyre"....)
so I love writing.and reading of course!
I am a huge animal lover! dogs top the list!the most intelligent and lovable beings under the sun!and yes, all my closest friends have passed the 'If-my-pet-likes-you..' test!:)
I love nature, in the Wordsworth(though i am not a fan) and more so in the Alice Walker kind of way (The Color Purple, a must-read if you didnt take the Women's Writing paper in the 3rd year)!though i dont truly believe that if someone cuts a tree, my hand will bleed...but if someone cuts a tree, my heart will surely ache..and it aches quite often.May better sense prevail.
And though i am not much of a poet,i scribble a lot at the back of my registers...not to mention doodling which sure as hell does not make me an artist!
So, that was that I think this was a mighty and needlessly long introduction..but so be it..I have us rolling.... hopefully!
Please introduce yourselves in as much or as less words you like , so we know whom are we getting ourselves into this with!:)
See you all in class!
Hina.
We dont know each other, do we? We meet everyday but the overwhelmingly huge class makes it difficult for like-minded people or not-so-like-minded people for that matter,to interact. That is why we are here,right? Sometimes when Prof.Shirshendu is teaching(no offence...err..or may be a little):), I sigh, and look around all these people sitting around me, and wonder, "something about MA is estranging." More often than not i find a few others doing the same..carelessly looking around and wondering.Though when our eyes meet, we blink, we shift in our seats and get back to Shelley.(which i was surprised to find is almost done with!!!)And usually it takes a while to locate the same person again..with whom i shared this fraction-of-a-second empathy!
You know, being students of literature, we should indulge in more interaction..more involvement, more expression! the classes rush along in supersonic speed and we barely know our seniors...and we have no projects, no hard-nosed indulgences! we are a very passive race of beings!Well...a cynical remark but not so entirely.We have to initiate...and i guess, this is a step towards the right direction.
Anyways, i am just blabbering aimlessly, but im just 'going along'..Dont worry i will soon make a point.
Okay, Lets begin with introducing ourselves...how about that?
Allow me to begin,
I am Hina Khajuria. I did my B.A Eng from Daulatram college which aint one of the top-notch ones but the faculty there is nothing less than top-notch!I am in Hindu now.One of the stephens' rejected ugly ducklings! heh heh! anyway, I love writing, I think its liberating and essential..to the extent of making you a better person.Because when you write, you think, and when you think you introspect, excogitate and that leads to self-knowledge. I genuinely feel we dont know ourselves. (and that is not because we failed to answer the 'who am I?' in Sanjay Sharma's mind-boggling Wordsworth class..no offence , really this time, it was a fun class..Its interesting to dig endlessly into a simple question till it leads you to think, "lets keep it simple" heh! "turning and turning into the widening gyre"....)
so I love writing.and reading of course!
I am a huge animal lover! dogs top the list!the most intelligent and lovable beings under the sun!and yes, all my closest friends have passed the 'If-my-pet-likes-you..' test!:)
I love nature, in the Wordsworth(though i am not a fan) and more so in the Alice Walker kind of way (The Color Purple, a must-read if you didnt take the Women's Writing paper in the 3rd year)!though i dont truly believe that if someone cuts a tree, my hand will bleed...but if someone cuts a tree, my heart will surely ache..and it aches quite often.May better sense prevail.
And though i am not much of a poet,i scribble a lot at the back of my registers...not to mention doodling which sure as hell does not make me an artist!
So, that was that I think this was a mighty and needlessly long introduction..but so be it..I have us rolling.... hopefully!
Please introduce yourselves in as much or as less words you like , so we know whom are we getting ourselves into this with!:)
See you all in class!
Hina.
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