Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Where authors have to be silenced

What is a state? Is it an ethical or a moral construct that is sacrosanct? Or, is it a structure of power that we agree to share and abide by?

Why is there so much moral sanctomoniousness, and Arnab Goswami's incandescent white pure rage, at Arundhati Roy's comments? Who are these custodians of state, and why don't I feel what they do: the deep rumbling sound of structures breaking down from the foundation of India?

Kids do not like to think that their parents have sex. So be it, and I am not a person who goes to a kid and rubs that fact in their eye. But, I'm sure, adults do not need to think like that. Why can't these media people and foaming-at-the-mouth retired generals and politicians accept the fact that there are a lot of people in Kashmir for whom the idea of a just and moral India is a mere charade.

Why do we have to pretend that? Kashmir is going nowhere and nor are we vacating the place. It is puerile to think that a country will give up on all these years of investments and and cartographical "prestige" in Kashmir. We might not be morally unimpeachable, but we are here to stay. Why the hell can't we accept the fact?

Why this craving for a shine of morality on the heavy boot of Indian state? I can understand the nightmares Arnab might have had if he couldn't convince himself that he is a good person before he went to sleep the night Arundhati Roy spoke. But what is Indian state doing with such individual, immature insecurities?

And look at the results. The might of the state and the media is directed against one individual, who didn't even have to lift her little finger to make the next superpower knot up its knickers in a bunch.

And how weak can a state be that it cannot withstand a single writer? Arundhati perhaps had higher hopes from India when she made those remarks. Perhaps, she is a bit depressed at ease with which the prestige of a state shattered and the shards flew everywhere, when, at worst, she might have wanted to tease.

Rather than the crazy gnashing of teeth, a little lightness of touch would add dignity to the death of the soldiers who died defending the state that everybody is trying to protect now from imaginary defilement.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Arse Poetica


Are you dying, honey?
You followed your plan,
Earned a little money,
And made sense of things.

But, is it done?
Has the path been run?
What perilous wonders, what laistragonians you saw?
The vacuum rings bells
While the cat licks its paw.

The blue bird sings.
The silence will thaw.


In the beginning, there was a PPT
Summarising the benefits of the Word.
The Good Lord could see
How slick presentations would solve the Absurd,
And give meaning to all Earth and Heaven.

But yesterday, at half-past seven
A divine aporia came to me
And asked with concern, “O Twiddle Dee,

How will you now play your card?
The file’s corrupted, haven’t you heard?”


Now is the summer of my, oh what?
What the fuck!
I have forgotten my part,
And, given my luck,
I have all of you staring at me.

Can you pretend you could see
My smokes and mirrors,
And the earnest heart?

Rhyme and rhema go in hand in hand.
I mourn the Ithaca buried in sand.


Are you dying, honey? Are you dying?
Farewell my Celia,
Time’s aflying.

Tuesday, February 09, 2010


There are ways to know.
When the finger touches the skin
Or, when in soft sinking snow
You dig deep to find the ground.

Who knows what's better:
The subcutaneous sin
Drawing the fingers to a flickering glow?
Or, the patient furrowing on ground?
Or, the shaken epiphany of a yawning sound?

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Feeling special

Do you feel special?

I mean not as in a special child/person, or that somebody has made you (or has been making you, depending on your luck) feel quote special unquote. But special in the sense that you are unique and you have some rights that you don't need to earn because you are, well, special. Do you expect things to happen a certain way (mostly according to your liking), and feel surprised if people are not , at least, mildly pleasant to you all the time? Or that you have a right to come up with the best idea/anecdote/aphorism in the room, or your loved ones will always understand and do to your bidding? Or that if you gamble, you'll win at least once against high oddd just because you are you?

I do. I mean I used to. I understand that perhaps there are tomes written on this feeling. Children have an acknowledged right to feel special, possibly along with Paris Hilton and Shahrukh Khan. These we all know, and perhaps can explain. With children it is like survival of the specieces working subliminally, and slebs are spoilt. And, more plausibly, people start considering themselves special because they have worked hard for it by acting/teaching/having sex on camera/running a country and so on.

But what about people like me? Is it some kind of residual memory of the general approval we get as kids, or is it my minds way of telling me, "Hey you are not a loser, you can live on and expect great things (possibly a nice Chateaubriand Steak) coming your way." To further my trite investigation, I may also put forward the thesis that this is some hormonal ebullience that has made human beings the hardiest and most fecund, in every way, specices ever. That also can be explained, then.

Now, there are ideologies or structures of looking at teh world that may feed this hormonal ebullience by making one feel special; religion comes to my mind, Art is another mood-lifter, and so are sports, power and many other things. My question is: why do peopel without these structures feel special and cheery about being themselves? Or do they?

Perhaps it is the ego thing, which possibly gives you character and guides you the better part of your life. Whatever.

So, to conclude this post, I don't have a point. Possible concluding sentences are:

  1. Tell me if you fee special and if you do what are your expectations from the cosmos in general.
  2. I do not feel special anymore. Not that I am depressed or anything, I miss the feeling, and now I feel a bit bland. Please make me feel special by saying nice things about me.
  3. Or, if you want, tell me if and how you stopped feeling special, and if you thought that it was a part of growing up.

If you write like a certain lady (of amethyst prose and sapphire experiences), please feel free to link to your blog and make yourself feel special. I would feel special too!

Friday, February 13, 2009

What the copulation?

ID: I enjoy it these days!

Blog posts: Not there at all.

Twitter: I am on/at/in it. Why?

Dev D: Still pining for a tragic angle. Am I pomophobic?

Anger: Blood boils when somebody suggests social learning, or prudent investments. Why?

Books: Not reading any fiction anymore.

Taste: Easily dismiss everything as banal. Okay, this is laziness.

The Big Idea: Should have had one 3 years ago. Now will do.

Friends: Not in touch with most of them.

People Who Like Me: WTC?

Thursday, July 10, 2008

How many of you have poems written on you?

Not exactly a panegyric, but some whole stanzas nevertheless. This from a colleague I am often mean to, and who returns my meanness in kind. But reality cannot stale her spirit; nor people, her compassion.

Over to her:

Busyboy busyboy,why do u always sigh
Hold ur head in ur hands
And always try try try

Busyboy busyboy look around you
The world is changing
And your youth is passing
Every second is new.

Busyboy busyboy,if you could just see,
How much someone wants you to be free,
To fly and dance and scream
Someday, busyboy,come talk to me.

Now this was sent over a messenger without any edits. But looks like a fairly good song to me.

Nobody ever has written anything on me. Apart from a semi-ridiculous article by my good friend Banerjee, who wanted to prove that he can create stories out of anything.