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