POST-END

JUST TO MENTION I MET PUSHKALA ON THE 6TH OF JULY 2006 YEARS AFTER THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF CHRIST.
COMRADE WE MUST MEET HER TOGETHER BECAUSE SHE DOESNT IDENTIFY WITH US SEPARATELY

End

This is the last I write here

Few sentences I woke up with today:

I rebel; so you are.
Albert Camus

Waiting is religious
Tukun

Life is naked
Helene Cixous

You have perfected the art of living on nothing
R.K.Narayan

fatal ignorance on my part
Papa

There are two types of people, one who shit and one who cant.
G.G.Marquez.

na hota tumhara
ho jaata nadi ka

relativity

woman:

"world is made of two colors, one she likes and the rest she doesnt" so well defined are the boundaries, she plays...

man:

"world is one color at a time" so much submerged he is

SOUNDS AT THE HORIZON

Comrade, this is the begining of my new story, have yet to tone the language, but the structure I guess shall be the same...check it out.

(1)
The hush of a simmering kettle. Clatter of two glasses on a wooden table top. Footsteps unheard in a noisy municial bus depot. Those nimble steps. The two curious eyes. Shyamalee feels her mouth watering. Chitka serves a plate of fresh smaosas each to the gentleman and the lady. Her kids busy themselves with butterscotch cornettos.
'this way girl' the lady with a basket of brush-sticks on her head drags Shyamalee, a girl of thirteen.

(2)
'make way...make way for the patient...side sir..'
Bhoori struggles to lean by a wall. Her eight months old impregnated stomach kisses a rush. In the rush: police constables with their wireless sets, an inspector of repute, men in hurry, the pale doctor, few nervous interns, those agile and beutiful nurses, three more men with mouthfuls of paan and mobile phones, a score or more of agitated youth all following a stretcher that rolls to the ICU. BHoori feels a grappling pain in her abdomen. Her cry dies in the faceless sounds of a crowd.

(3)
A paperweight over loose papers. Files, folders, pen and other stationary. On a table. In a room. The archaic ceiling fan moans as it suddenly picks up speed. Bisaahu stares at the vacant chair before him and then looks at the wall clock.
'sir is here only after lunch' the toothless peon admits. On his way back Bisaahu turns once and reads the board. "District Industrial Office(DIC)". A tractor moves past him spreading a blanket of dust and noise.

(4)
Sixty eight typewriters play percussion. Intermittent, a loud call of names. Babulal waits for his turn. Gupta the advocate rolls the platen and spits.
'Got it' he asks.
From a firm clutch of his palms, Babulal releases; two notes of hundred denomination each. A key strikes the platen again. In a cosmos of black coats and niggardly bodies a banyan invites him, Babulal settles under the luxury of an ancient shade.

(5)
As they enter Kumhari, the lady with brush-sticks and Shyamalee; Pundit Ji returns from the river, his white spotless dhoti, wet and clinging to his skin, exposing the curve of his small dark buttocks, four pairs of lifeless hands stare at the master as he instructs his labors to place the cement sacks on a rickshaw. And when her mother pulls her close by the sleeve a four wheeler whizzes past Shyamalee. In an odour of combustible gases Shyamalee hears the call.
'this way...hey Dulaari!'
Four pairs of hands lift half a quintal of cement each on their curved backs, Shyamalee helps her mother bring down the basket of brush-sticks before an animated old lady, perhaps in her eightees.

(6)
Bhoori feels her stomach, the child kicks it and then lies still. The corridor stifles with loud angry voices, those that become slogans a while later. By the closed main gate of the Govt. Hospital, Dilip the police constable thrusts a pinch of tobacco by his gums before spotting Bhoori. When their eyes meet, a man in white pyjama-kurta announces -
'B+ve boys...need atleast four bottles'
A cloud of incoherence rises from the crowd as Dilip senses a compassionate chill grow in his spine and fill Bhoori's eyes.
'May I help you' he asks.

(7)
'should've planned for a tractor..' Bisaahu broods. But they need huge securities, father might not've agreed. After 43 seconds of indecision he raises his fingers. Through two rows of table and chairs a waiter reaches him with half a glass of tea. Paan shop's not bad either for a start, Bisaahu follows the buzzing fly over his glass of tea. His thoughts befuddle him and the fly flies to invisibility. Back again, he thinks about the prospects of setting up a poultry farm in his village. Not a bad risk, but they give only a lac. 20000 minus for the security, another 10 for the official bribe, a thousand for his friends and the inaugral party, and after paying off the debts one hardly sums up 60-65 thousand.
'paan shop's my only bet' Bisaahu concludes.
Two tables across, over a plate of expensive sweets a fly smiles at him as the rich Marwaari seth farts after a sumptuous breakfast.
'work' he utters.

(8)
An anthill decays in the jet of his urine. Babulal watches the earth change colors as it soaks his water. A leaf falls, few more, on a summer morning. When the cycle stops beside him and the man gets down Babulal errs in counting his cash.
'Leebra?' the man asks
'no Tapariya' Babulal answers.
'then why not go to the tehsil court, Dharamjagarh's close enough'
'not a civil case, criminal' Babulal shies as he answers.
A pulsating siren happens followed by a white ambassador with a rotary red light on its top. He turns his head towards the court building. Gupta arranges his papers and becomes untraceable ina maze of black coats. Yards away from the building, under the shade of a giant Banyan, Babulal imagines his destiny evolve in a clamor of typewriters, mobile human forms and infinite sheets of paper. He yawns.

Mahakaal ke paridhi me faila bhaya hoon
main
Naarayan ki vishtha hoon

Organization corrupts

I wrote that phrase and thought how would you react to this.
Maybe I am just a frustrated ageing man venting out venom.

Manni

Thirteen years back on this date, Comrade you left Raigarh
A day later Manni left

Sahir Saheb

Ubharenge ek baar abhi dil ke wal-wale
mana ki dab gaye hain game zindagi se hum

Maaya

There's no escape till death.
I re-affirm myself.

Truth eludes magically.

I check my hypocrisy.
Find that its no different.

I am surrounded by hypocrites all around.
That perhaps is the only way to survive.

But somewhere obscurely within me I know my tears dont fail me

Geographies of memory

Does there live a girl, or a woman may be, called Pushkala who sings no sooner than you tell her to, as if you pressed the play button on a cassette player. On a lazy afternoon as she enters without a knock and her mellifluous voice swallows Papa in the next room. That timid old man locating his spectacles on the table as Tiki rolls up rotis for the night. At night when Feroz reminds of Kavi Pradeep and Debu exhibits himself, do you know that tall handsome boy drinking the last of the pegs.
Not far from all of them I re-write your lines;
They happen and I see them happening.

POINT BLANK

I LOVE MY WIFE

Redundant again

I consider myself to be a sensitive person-

In my life of 34 years:

I have had less than 3400hrs. of interaction with people who do not belong to my class.

I have spent less than 340hrs. in public spaces as the Govt. hospitals, Municipal bus depots and The Judicial court.

I have spent less than 34hrs. talking to a woman of tribal origin.

I have spent less than 3400hrs. contemplating the immediate presence of poverty all around me.

I have not made friends with;
a sweeper
a butcher
a prostitute
a porter
a cobbler.......
......................
......................

Friendship is class ridden

I suddenly remember Marx as he says
'one cannot desert his class'

and yet
what is true is essentially poetic
what more could it be?

MEHR-U-NNISSA

COMRADE MERI JAAN
BY 33 ONE IS NOT PRACTICALLY IN THE WHEEL CHAIR BUT DEFINITELY HEADING TOWARDS IT.

I WAS 72 YESTERDAY

WILL DRINK A PEG TO YOU TONITE

'BACHPAN KE DIN BHI KYA DIN THE, UDTE FIRTE TITLI BAN KE'

Misfit

Just finished reading an essay by Walter Bejamin - 'The work of Art in the age of mechanical reproduction'

Will try getting in with some extracts from it in the coming few days.
Have not written anything for the past one week
Almost all of my time is getting consumed by self introspection.

And I have started finding the ancient faults with me yet again.

Non-assertive
Self indulged
Urban handicap

I wonder what stories would I have written had I not been anyhow related to Raigarh

REDUNDANT

Theory: An arrest, a stagnation
Art: The flow

Theory: At a point of time
Art: Timeless

Theory: 'My' theory
Art: ???

COMPREHENSION - II

Request:
Re-read the following text till you stop taking stands for or against its content.
In other words have a first hand experience of reading it, devoid of biases, personal or political.

Crux:
This is a strictly personal article as I wouldn’t have cared to write it for any body in this world except you.

Preface:
It’s good that you are thoughtful.
Even better that you have chosen to enlighten me on what Feminism is and what it isn’t ?

Maybe with a pre-conception that I generally tend to believe and assert all those points which you note as it isn’t.
Maybe without a pre-conception, just a general trial to clarify the almost biased and cryptic concepts of feminism in a male psyche.

Your trial and the points are well convincing and eloquent.

Lecture:
Foreseeing you as an artist, I get spasms when I sense a hindrance to your advance that you are unaware off. You may ask, how is it that I come to know of something happening to you which you yourself do not realize.
May be my age and a parental concern prompts me.
May be I am altogether wrong in my apprehensions.

Coming back to the point of my foreseeing you as an artist, more specifically as a writer who writes fiction and poetry.

You may assert it now that it’s just my vision and you do not share it.
You may agree to me.

Whatever may the case be.


Would you deny to a point that you think.
You analyze.
You conceptualize.
You take stands.
You conclude.

I believe no.

This makes me term you sensitive.

And that is why I love to have a dialogue with you.

Sensitive people have their defined politics.
Some have them permanently fixed.
Some keep changing but are unaware of the change.
Some change aware.

I just want to remind you that an artist is inherently of the third kind.

With my bias of wishing to see you as an artist, I get disturbed when I find you rigid in your politics. But as I have mentioned earlier, my vision of you as an artist is solely mine, and you have all the rights to deny it.
Still when it comes to feelings, I fall helpless. I cannot satisfy myself cerebrally by saying that, fine, she is what she is, who am I to mould her?

I have already started doubting whether this essay has been communicative enough to express my feel.
Ummeed pe duniya tiki hai

So after claiming for myself that you are sensitive and believing that you are a writer, let me introduce you to few other facts of our existence that for me hold more importance than feminism.
This again does not imply that feminism is anyhow a neglected realm in my thought process.
Just that I have my priorities.


To start with let me display a little evidential data.
1: 49 children died of starvation in the month of April 2006 in the district of Janjgir.
2: In a survey of World Food Programme (for which I made a documentary) for the district of Raigarh, it was reported that the drinking water supply was just 23% of the entire need in the rural area of Raigarh.
3: 37% of the total labor in the construction sites of Raipur are children below 17 years of age.
4: 167 villages in Raigarh district do not have primary health care establishments.
5: 32 villages of Dharamjagarh tehsil do not have access to the district headquarters in rains due to lack of roads.

Interesting find I collected from an NGO.

So what I infer is that in developing and underdeveloped countries like India, the predominant binary is that of Rich/Poor. Something that overshadows the binary of Female/Male in my ideological stand.

To me thus, the issues that question my sensitivity listed in a priority basis are as follows.

I call them cosmic threats.
1: Consumerism
2: Environmental apathy
3: Animal rights
4: Child labor
5: Women exploitation
6: Poverty.

When I confront you on your stands, it is for a reason to see your sensitivity grow and embrace all such issues rather than stick to one. And then let it reflect beautifully and effectually in your works, poetry, fiction or academics.

I hope that I made myself clear.





Afterword: About me.

Well before you pronounced it for the first time in your consciousness – feminism.

I had published at least 50 poems and an article on women.
Had been always related to women.
Fancied my self as the only existent male in a women’s world.
(you remember my image of a room filled with 100girls and me)
Promised myself 400 hrs of kiss.

And now after you have evolved it in your conscious – feminism.

I co-exist with a wife who knows how caring I am.
A daughter who fascinates me no ends just by her being.

I repeat re-read it.
Tukun

COMPREHENSION

I have always been an accused.
For so many reasons.
Its better to accept them unconditionally.

Lately another got added.
To pain me initially and then laugh it off.

She says my wrtings ellude not only her but normal comprehension.

Wonder have I been writing all crap for not less than 25 years.

May be I learn writing.

Liquid desires

I remember a time while still a kid in the school; I used to be one of the types who always go unnoticed, both in the curricular and co-curricular fields. Towards the more competitive classes, when most of my friends where engrossed in pre-engineering or pre-medical preparations, I fancied myself as a writer or a filmmaker. My scholarly friends called me a dreamer and I merrily filled in the rolls of paper they needed for the prosaic assignments of subjects like History, Geography & Literature. It was then that I realized that the only thing I could do effortlessly was – WRITING.
Since those days when my writing ranged from exercise papers for curricular subjects to platonic love letters for adolescent pairs, I have reached a stage today when I write or rather I would like to write to earn.
Careerist approach…does it matter that I am just a decade late. And all for a liquid desire- MONEY

Women in Life

Do I need more?

To the remains of my untortured past

One of the thousand things we didn’t discuss while in love was the winter of Mauryan era. I don’t know if it holds anything of the slightest importance, or in that case, if it smelt different or felt amazing, I know nothing of that sort.

But comrade when we could pick up certain things straight form trivia and attach extraordinary significance to them and assume them to be love, then we could very well have attended to things that demand our imagery.

Nevertheless. Trifle is a literary paradox. It always cocoons the subtlest and the most remarkable of things.

I invite you to explore through one of such trivially significant domains.

WINTERS OF THE MAURYAN ERA

They were cold. Frosty at places. A south-eastern wind blew gently over the plains with its perennial stock of dew. It planted a drop each on infant leaves of a shrub extinct now. A courtesan at Chandragupta’s palace once told me that these winds emanated form the nostrils of maidens who had just discovered the art of love. Their mates could trace them in the dew drops, glistening on the leaves of that tiny shrub, Ria.

of smells and touches

Of smells and touches….


On a hay bed
She pretends to be asleep
As I breathe her breaths
In the dim of a lantern

On her back
What does it matter
They are not my fingers now


The cold bounces on an autorickshaw
As we stitch a night together
Between the warmth of her inner thighs

What does it matter
Those shivering palms are not mine


The asymmetry of a jungle
A sky falls in drops
To console a begging soul
She keeps a promise

What does it matter
Those geographies of Lakha remain extinct


In the adjacency of a room
I wait for papa to sleep
As she swathes my desires
With that irresistible smell of her’s

The room’s invisible
And what does it matter
Its my turn to sleep now…

we need to save

We genuinely need to save money...its draining out