alchera

Practice

2010-12-01T10:49:00.000+06:30

I had had this premonition quite often. Of waking up one day and forgetting to write. This is just one of those days. I made a count - 3 edited short stories, 1 rough, 12 incomplete and 6 story ideas.

I tried to return to them and remembered.

Strange Pilgrims.

Maybe I should also start a novel.

It has been irrelevant whether I complete the starts.

2010-02-02T13:39:00.002+06:30

लिखने की इच्छा इतनी तीव्र हो रही है कि जी करता है अभी इसी वक़्त नौकरी छोड़ कर लिखने लग जाऊं।
पर फिलहाल ऐसी संभावनाएं दीगर हैं।
बाकी कुछ भी नहीं है।

विश्वास भी नहीं

2009-12-16T18:14:00.001+06:30

विदर्भ से तेलन्गाना तक

एक

एक बार समुद्र लिखा था
दस मिनट तक
फिर रेत भर थकान
बस्तर, लोकतंत्र वगैरा

इस बार
असंख्य कपड़ों की दूकानों के बीच
राह बनाती
महानगर की नंगी सड़क

कपास के बियाबान में
बूँद भर बारिश की लिखत

कौड़ियों से ज़िन्दगी बुनती
अपने मटमैलेपन में अदृश्य
पांच साल की बच्ची 'देऊ'

इस बार
मेरा सफ़र बनती
बाबुल - गाँव से हैदराबाद तक

दो

जैसे रेंगना सीख रही हो
जैसे तैरना
सड़क के बिलकुल बायें
जैसे साइकिल चलाना

रेलगाड़ी के दरवाज़े टिकी
आँचल भर लकड़ी समेटे
वह अस्सी बरस तक कुछ नहीं देखती
जैसे विदर्भ भर फैला
गोबर का काला निर्वात

सफ़ेद कपास के अबूझ विस्तार में
जैसे नदियों का खो जाना
और लापता बारिश

अपनी तय सृष्टियों में मशगूल
मैं लगातार भूलता हूँ
तेलंगाना की बसाहट का स्वर

तीन

आत्रम कुसुम राव
चौपन-गुड़ा का किसान है
वह अपनी एकड़ भर ज़मीन में
कपास के बीज बोता है

जून से दिसंबर तक
वह देना चाहता है
और नहीं दे पाता
बादलों को एक निश्चित आकार

ज़मीन से आकाश
आकाश से बाज़ार
बाज़ार से देह
मैं उतारता हूँ कमीज़

पीली दीवार में
बेरंग थकान की तरह
खूंटे पर टंगी है
कुसुम राव की ढेढ़ किलो ज़िन्दगी

चार

यहाँ उसने खोले
अपनी किलक के सारे भेद
बताया हरे को हरा, नीला, पीला
बनाये अक्षरों के सैकड़ो जोड़े
और टांग दिया उन्हें
अंतरिक्ष की गलियों में

पहाड़ की सबसे ऊंची चोटी पर
उसने बनाई बारिश
तलहटी में जमा दिए सागौन के पेड़
जिससे थोड़ी दूर बसा था उसका घर

घर से आगे
माँ, बाप, भाई, बहन
जब खेत की मेंढ़ पर खड़े
अपनी फसल निहारते

वह बनती ज़मीन
और खेलती
धान के साथ
हवा का आदिम खेल

इन दिनों

एक

घर के ऐन बाहर पान की दुकान थी
वहाँ भी
यहाँ भी

वहाँ
बिना मात्राओं का नाम
पलटन

यहाँ
ऑफिस जाते - आते
मिलती नज़रें

पलटन के पान ठेले से
हैदराबाद के खोमचे तक
फैलती स्मृति

इन दिनों
पता चला
दोनों लौट गए
मृत्यु में

दो

इन दिनों
दस्तखत किये
सुना
कहा
देखा

पहले भोपाल से गाडरवारा
फिर भोपाल से शाजापुर

कैमरे में कैद की
गोपी की फसल
तीरथ की कुम्हारी
खैरी और रयलावत की गलियां

इस वक़्त शायद
europe की बाज़ारों में
बीत रही होंगी
ये तमाम जिंदगियां

किसी विदेशी चैनल पर
इश्तहार की तरह
छप गया होगा मेरा सफ़र

तीन

इतना मैं पहले भी जानता था
कि पैसे बहुत कम हैं
गरीब की संज्ञा नहीं दी थी
हिम्मत नहीं थी

इन दिनों मैंने देखा
इनकी मदद को खुलती अजीब दिशायें
विदेश से देश तक
पगडंडियों को सड़क बनाने के कारनामे
किसानो को खेती सिखाने की हैरत में
मैंने गुज़ारे पिछले तीन साल

इस बीच, शायद नहीं देख पाया
रंगीन तकियों की ढेर से
चादर तान कर
अपने घर में
कहानियों को सुलाती
अपनी बच्ची का बड़ा होना

2009-05-02T11:21:00.001+06:30

महजिद के सामने
बन्दूक दुकान के पेवठा ऊपर
माड़ी खजुआत मरबो राज
जम्मो रस्ता यहिंच्च ले जाथे

Biceps, Nirala and etc

2009-04-27T18:54:00.002+06:30

I met this farmer in January. He touched my feet, as did many others, believing us to be people who help them.
We (I implicitly include myself with my organization) recently claim to have helped them by establishing an 'Ecocenter' at their village.
A demonstrative project, so to say, which emphasizes on optimum utilization of cow dung & urine for sustainable agriculture.
Thats another say whether I believed in this.

But as I looked into his eyes
I could see

Pains and pleasure
are not helped

He knew it, as his breaths

Worked on my leisure to remember him here

2009-02-19T10:52:00.000+06:30

और उसके बच्चे
माँ माँ कहते बिखर गए आकाश में

Two

2009-02-19T10:41:00.003+06:30

A little of yellow
As it melted from the sun
And a few brush-sticks

She announced a dawn
To my still sleeping street

For thousand years now
I can imagine
Her sounds

Smudging me
In yellow streaks
Of wakefulness

Old women
With brush sticks
Never cross my street anymore

I resign
To nauseous machinery
Of rainless sleeps

I am not in a run

2009-02-19T10:35:00.002+06:30

In between
When she asked for more
I looked out
And there they were

Thousand nights
With a single star

The writing was clear
On the wall

Black ants overtook the red

Drunk

2009-02-18T23:25:00.002+06:30

Antagonizing is simple, at least in thoughts. As is listening before hearing.
Comrade,
when do we learn from the river
which flows
all the time

Less than a month

2009-02-18T18:01:00.004+06:30

Its generally this time around a year when my stars shine. Alternatively, I assume them to shine. And its an assumption with years of conviction. Its the time when I approach Holi. Not the corollary. I approach Holi with such a premeditated redundancy that its almost like enacting a dejavu.
I see the sounds we smear ourselves with over those unbridled nights. Days are more like walking as shadows through a world which immediately seems so intimate and distant. Afternoons happen, evenings lean on it, I remember I wrote years back on such a day.

Its just not the imagery I indulge myself in that called me to write. In fact, I can escape myself for now by saying that this writing happened as a part of my approach. But apart from the euphoria, there's also something cathartic I create for myself around Holi.

I keep telling myself - its almost a re-incarnation. I believe that most of my problems reach solutions around this time. Even if I have a bad stomach ache which reminds me of malignant tumors or an imminent economic crisis, I deify Holi to erase any forebodings.

Not that all along the approach, I never get depressed. I do. But somewhere behind, I sense an unquestionable security. Its just a month away, I would say to keep myself happy.

And does this work? Are my fears allayed?

That would be the last thing I would bother about.
Comrade as we said then and now, they happen and I see them happening.

Mac Pro

2009-02-16T12:43:00.002+06:30

I managed to buy a Mac Book Pro. And I am happy for myself. Next on my cards is the 16 X manual lens for Canon XL series. And still later it has to be some portable lights & sound accessories.
Meanwhile I also need to have some registered NLEs for Mac.

Reading

2009-02-11T13:34:00.002+06:30

Reading has been restricted to the Sports page on Hindu for half a year now. The last book I read was somewhere in last July -(dont remember the time exactly) - It was the Sea of Poppies by Amitabh Ghosh.
I enjoyed reading it for the first time. But then I have this habit of immediately re-reading a thing I like. This book didnt allow me so.
The language with Amitabh Ghosh becomes too English. And though this book has a contextual relation to Britons, still I would have relished a different flavor. When I say - English - I do not intend to mean that the language is something like how writers from England would script - but rather as something of an Indian writer who overtly owes his allegiance to all that the word ENGLISH encompasses. Ghosh's affinity to the traditional English lingo (may be academic jargon terms it more Oxfordian) is apparent throughout the book despite using a much researched vocabulary on Indian colloquials on nautical terms.

Having said that - I recommend it a 'should read' for all. Especially for the story telling and for some fortunates like me who have quite recently come out of opium addiction.

UNTITLED

2009-01-29T12:52:00.002+06:30

Someday if I become a writer, whose writings get published and are read by others, I will write differently.

I will have more money

A new big house perhaps

Lots of things to stuff in in that house

May be I will be a better human being than what I am now.

Till then I remain insensitive, self-centric, and perhaps criminal

me: the other day nantu was telling that his co. might just take abhijeet

Runa: hmm when?

me: on sunday

I mean he said that on sunday

Runa: did he talk to someone?

Coz abhijit is loosing confidence now

me: he said he was not getting the time - but got reminded by our talk that he is supposed to talk to someone

i told him that - losing confidence

Runa: ok

and what did he say then?

me: he is waiting for a propitious time I guess

Runa: who is waiting?

me: such things need a specific setting - time mood etc

Runa: meaning?

I am not getting you

me: i mean he cant just go and talk to any related person for a reference - there must be some corporate protocol for it

Runa: oh ok

like that

hmm may be

me: or else if its out of his way - that is it doesnt come under his scope than he will create such a space to deliver

I dont know though

Runa: but how does nantu da know that convergys might take abhijit when he has not spoken to anyone yet?

me: i didnt say he hasnt s[oken to anyone

he must have thats why he gave that feedback

Runa: oh...I assumed

hmm ok...so it is looking a little positive from convergys then?

me: i get three such calls per day - i will forward them to abs

Runa: hopefully it converts well soon. Poor abhijit.

me: all for tech writing

Runa: yah do

Sent at 10:19 on Thursday

me: I ate a valium ten today after years

Runa: good

how are you feeling?

me: elated

only cough

Runa: ok

me: But otherwise i & my family is getting tensed with this over-lengthened stay of guests home

Runa: but then bhabhi was the one who was all gungho about getting rekha bhabhi to come to your place

me: not really tensed but apparently my wife is getting driled

thats the irony with women

of her class

Runa: not with women

in general

haan right of her kind

me: i tend to correct

Runa: who are not really clear as to wat they want and what they like

me: exactly

Runa: and just kill themselves trying to please everyone around

me: right

i wrote years back

Runa: what?

me: Rasoi me umra banati aurat ka dharma hota avasaad

avsaad means pain

Runa: hmm

me: I had a series infact

Sent at 10:25 on Thursday

me: and while I engaged in an acerbic exchange of comments regarding your blog on feminism, I cried helplessly for having got misunderstood

remembering so manhy of my such writings

Runa: when?

me: your feminism blogs - to all my male readers

Runa: hmm

me: lets talk over it at some other destined hour

Runa: haan

right now I am stuck with this time consuming, yet fruitless task

Sent at 10:28 on Thursday

me: the last statement (just in case you might forget) which I will take up in the next fracas-prone chemically catalyzed, partly-musical, partly-selfentertaining session would be a construction of yours in one of our last chats -

Runa: construction of me?

me: As I learnt of feminism - you commented - I would need clarifications on that - for my knowledge and information

Runa: I am confused and it will eat my head

so you better ask right away

because in the past few occasions you seem to talk more nonsense when drunk than I do

so better you don't ask it then

me: no no its not anything important - atleast in comparision to earning money

Runa: hmm

Sent at 10:32 on Thursday

me: the only nonsense I talked last time was about geographical distances

Runa: yah

Sent at 10:38 on Thursday

me: I was hurt by a fact that your analytical acumen prevented you from feeling a simple point that you were speaking something to a person who was emotionally charged due to a hurt inflicted his father , and to add to you seemed to be rationalizing the hurt, by comparing it to similar and definitely more grave assaults that have happened to your family by the same inflictor,

my reaction was emotional

Runa: yah...true...so was mine

me: so why were you condemning my outburst

against raju mama

Runa: I was also not liking the fact that though raju mama is what he is....your whole family was trying to play under the tag "we are helpless save us..."

which I find bullshit

me: so what alternative does my family have

give me one

Runa: deal with it like adults of the family

me: and specifically what is that

Runa: like others have done

me: what have they done tell me point

Runa: Ignore it

Ignored

me: how many times

Runa: since we all know he does not mean it.

my father has done it for very many times

but then again, it is a choice. he ignored it coz he still loves him

me: right and my papa doesnt - is the corollary right

Runa: but there is def no love when it come to raju mama, suchi nani equation

no....bade papa had it been left alone to him...would have forgotten it

me: at this point of time all have forgotten it

I am not at all bothered abt it now

Runa: yah....

me: I am bothered only about your choice of analytical lines which become egocentric to the extent of being called insensitive at times

this will show up in the arrangement of words

Runa: The thing is tukun da, for you all your behavior is to be excused on lines of emotion and blah...but sadly it does not come to be applied to us

me: Bottom line - I fault

AGREED UNCONDITIONALLY

Runa:

me: NEXT TIME YOUR FATHER IS HURT (GOD FORBID) I WILL SPEAK REAL VENOM AGAINST HIM

Runa: hmm

do that if it helps you....

me: JUST TO CHECK YOUR RATIONAL JUDGEMENTS

NOTHING HELPS ME THAN ME

Runa: just for the record....I never spoke any venom against bade papa. All I said was pitched against you and others like suchi nani, mina nani

me: AND MONEY FROM WHOMESOEVER I GET

Runa: To be sure, you can check with bulu and abhijit, if I ever said anything against bade papa.

Sent at 10:52 on Thursday

me: No need for that - i am an old dope so probability of distorted recollections are more with me

just happy to know that i am still a poet at heart ,

Runa: yah be happy.

me: thats cyclical

Sent at 10:54 on Thursday

me: i will let papa give you a call once

and let him narrate

Runa: It is....cause thing with you seen from my perspective is you always apply millions and zillions(exagerating)of conditions for yourself to be understood and not misunderstood and we are supposed to understand that and work accordingly. But when it comes to me, you do not take anything into consideration, that may be I was drunk, may be I was hurt by suchi nani and mina nani's overprojected pain....

me: I agree to that

Runa: Let Bade papa react naa...why is the whole family reacting I do not get this. I understand you all love him and all....but then let him deal with it.

Now, if I have a fight with bubloo and he abuses me ....are you going to fight for me?

me: at the first instance its not plain abuse

well lets not get along more

I take your point - if papa has a problem - let him react

I incarnate Indifference

Runa: no...that is also not what I mean

All i mean is, complain crib, be angry everything is fair....

me: How far did suchi nani & meena's cribbing reach -

Runa: but in doing all this be a little careful to not make out the other person as a monster

Bania para, our families,

especially in a place like raigarh, it matters what x, y, z is hearing and thinking

me: and how many such news do you have of raju mama's sledging towards suchi nani

Runa: if it was a bigger city relations fade...

Did I ever say that if raju mama is doing it it is fine

I am only telling you suchi nanis part, coz you empathized with them...and coz perhaps you could have a say there

when it comes to raju mama you or me have no say

and I do not have a person like you to whom I can let my venom (as you say) out

me: but these are different weapons of outburst - raju does it in ganja chowk , at public meetings, even at family drinks with us, with papa's friends in isolation - suchi meena and their kind do it in baniya para\

Runa: yah which is publis enough

public

and both of them are doing it in their capacities, in their circles

me: And who started it all

Runa: both

me: You mean to say suchi nani began speaking against raju mama some time in past to which raju mama reacted

Runa: for me both of them look playing equally cheap shots

me: Didnt I tell you the last time that - the line of we are helpless was coined by me

Runa: thing is When it comes to Suchi nani side of story there are more irritating characters attached to that side of the story....liek mina nani, which makes it more dirty....

me: Irritating to you

Runa: Yah, I know....and that is why I reacted....otherwise I would have choosen to look down on it,,,like I do most times

but I found it disgusting that it was one of your emotional liners

me: Ok fine - I took a practical decision - of snapping ties

cause there are better ways of living

Runa: yes....

do that if you think you can get even like that

me: I will give my try and effort

God has already blessed me - its for the world that the remaining blessings are left

Runa: yah if you think severing your ties with Raju mama and family is a good loss and help you personally then do it

me: Not with me

I am emotionally attached to that person

but on practical ground I will request him to severe ties with my family like he did it with Delhi ma's

Sent at 11:09 on Thursday

me: I might me wrong - But the crux of all this discussion brings me back to the feel of that day - you are defending a person who repeatedly threatened to hit my father with shoes

Runa: hmm yah good idea....if nothing comes out of it, atleast this will happen ki people who love some people from both the families, would be releaved of the whole tension in future

I am not defending or offending anyone

for me I love both of them

me: you are not intending to

Runa: I repeatedly said that day and repeating it again today, I reacted only against Suchi nani, Mina nai

nani

me: but you never know the effect an utterance in words - meanings metamorphose the moment they form words

But all this while I wanted to gain some information on your learning feminism

just that you commented on my talking nonsense over drinks that i drifted to this topic

Runa: hmmm and then you say I get egoistic

me: yes i feel that

Runa:

when you could not take one sentence well and started drifting

me: a day earlier when we still were having the same topic at your home and then at abs

your tone and constructions were different, and abhijeet uttered that he would have grown violent at such a situation while I didnt

Sent at 11:16 on Thursday

Runa: you did not?

oh not the day when we were drinking?

me: He was talking abt the incident betn raju and papa

Runa: hmm yah yah

No, I am sorry if you got a hint ki I have problems with you reacting

going forward, I will keep mu mouth shut when it comes you, suchi nani, your wife, and your kid.

When it is about bade papa i will speak personally with him

me: so when I was drunk, and the incident again started and I find someone who is trying to rationalize the hurt, I got hyper, and that perhaps made me talk all nonsense

Runa: No it is alright. I should not comment on anyones reactions....except my own....it is foolish

me: may be

Runa: especially, when it is about your wife and suchi nani you do not take it well at all

me: until it stops enriching your experience,

Runa: and about bhabhi I speak never with malice but only with concern

me: so do i

i love her out of pity

Runa: but then I caan understand you reacting emotionally

me: my mistake was - i should have understood your drunkenness that day

Runa: but then....I am reacting no different today as well

right

me: thats why i am talking this way

we could have wound things up by calling it an alcoholic mayhem

and enjoyable too

Runa: i think....it would be intelligent of me not to comment on Suchi, Mina, and your wife....you get all mixed up and extremly emotional

me: but you accused me of talking nonsense - and for most parts of my introspection i find you right

i wanted to chalk down a plan for the next session of drinks - but maybe I dont qualify

Runa: why?

me: Wasting alcohol on talking sense is not my forte - anyday

at the end of the day - let the gods decide

Runa: it is no bodys just a clarification

hmm

me: will now post this conversation on my blog

good one

Runa: hmm

Sent at 11:26 on Thursday

me: At times I feel - being so self-centric (as suggested by your comments here) how have I managed to write - may be its all a fluke for the last 25 years

all writings without a soul

Runa: You can really manage to piss me off.

me: why

Runa: because, you can use words against anyone(stressing on anyone) without any remorse, but for most of me...I cannot do that with you...

me: this again indicates another serious malfunctioning in my capacities - that of comprehension - I might have miscarried the element in your words here

Runa: Talking about soul....yes you do have one....but you sure are very self focussed....which for me is not a bad thing

but coming back to how one can be many things in one lifetime

coming back to your words "everything is temporal."

You could be both...withouth really showing any personality disorders

me: But underlining structures for others to understand me and evading all preconditions in understanding others is criminally authoritative of me

Runa: it is

so, what about it?

me: An endless hibernation

may be bharat chacha knows more of it

Runa: hmm

Sent at 11:33 on Thursday

me: I lost my already depleting confidence after this chat - not just out of self pity and remorse - but as an organic feeling - I resign to find myself a sinner against mankind

Sent at 11:34 on Thursday

Runa: very well

and I resign as one who is guilty of making a saint feel like a ghost

me: ok

different destinies

Runa: saint feel like a sinner

Sent at 11:37 on Thursday

You are no longer signed in to chat.

2009-01-12T11:29:00.001+06:30

Revisiting Democracy

There are various definitions of democracy I learned over my years as a student. I never paid much attention to any of them. Conversely they remained rather boring and ignored texts in my school books. On some occasions, I heard my friends debate over it and managed to discern some definitive features to the word. At another time, another day, I became helplessly forgetful. With worlds of beautiful things happening to my age then, it would have been foolish to attach more time to the understanding and defining of democracy. I wasted luxuriously in the company of women, music and dreams.
Fifteen years hence, at this age today, I learn of Barack Obama winning the US presidential elections. ‘Change has come to America’ one of the headlines flashes on a browser before me. My office buzzes with the breaking news as does the world, or so it seems. We start exchanging views, engage in speculations, get back to work. I think of ‘change’ and remember the word democracy.

Although a universally acceptable definition for the word is still contentious (and rightly so to be in the democratic spirit), there are a couple of principles inclusive to all its allied concepts. First that all members of the society have equal access to opportunities and second that all members enjoy universally accepted freedom and liberties. Fair enough, one must say because what’s more valid than a free society. That is to speak of a society where Mangal a sweeper sips his tea in the same hotel as Raghav a brahmin. Or Kaneez a girl studies in the same ranks as Omar a boy. Or in the same sense, Barrack Obama, a black becomes the president of America.

The change has certainly come in, I think before I write. My thoughts take me home, to that serpentine alley in Ganja Chowk, Raigarh. In the room facing the street, my daughter plays with her friends. Aged between 3-5 most of them belong to the same neighborhood. A heap of toys gathers at the center with children weaving their lives around it. At a distance, near the threshold stands Ria, our maidservant’s granddaughter. She reluctantly makes it to the swarm of children and manages to touch a plastic locomotive from the heap. A little later when all the kids are made to sit in a row to share the Puja Prasad, she involuntarily takes an obscure corner.
Born to a lower caste and relatively poorer family, Ria explains a different childhood to me. Once again I think of democratic rights.

This time the image is that of my student days. Back then in college, we generally noticed the scheduled tribe and scheduled caste students, making groups among themselves. It was noticeably rare that one of them shared time or space with us. Though theoretically we did possess the equality, but it usually felt as if we belonged to different worlds. I clearly remember the dementia of those times when during the anti-Mandal commission uproar, faces from the other world bore an expression of utter fear. Once when my girlfriend asked me about the Mandal commission and the entailing disturbance, I jokingly said – ‘it’s preventing that lovely black girl from snatching me from you’.

My girlfriend might just have supported the anti-reservation antics but coming back to my joke, I find it all the more serious. It remains a fact that for centuries the dominant class has fringed its binary, being both grossly exploitative in its intent and shrewdly manipulative in its approach. The past few decades of laissez faire have served well to widen the divide. Today in India we have fourth highest number of dollar billionaires in the planet and simultaneously we rank 126th in the Human Development Indicators which means its better to be a poor person in Bolivia (the poorest nation in South America). CEO salaries recorded an all time high last year while we have 836 million people living on less than Rs 20 a day. A new restaurant opens everyday in some city of the country, while in the last five years we added more newly hungry millions than the rest of the world. Our economic growth rate is said to attain envious proportions and yet farmer indebtedness has doubled in the last decade, from 26.2% in 1991 to 46.3% in 2001. Inequalities are bound to rise with unbridled capitalism and lack of a firm political will.
It’s as a result of this long-term uni-polarity of power that my maidservant’s granddaughter understands life from a window my daughter perhaps would never choose to peep through. Or in that case black girls would never ever snatch me from my girlfriends.

With Obama’s historic victory, the promise for a change has been agreed upon by many to arrive. My limited resources of intellectual capital prevent me to analyze the magnitude and nature of this deemed change. Secure within the laziness of a careless writer, I barely get to understand that he stops the misadventures like restoring democracy in Iraq and Afganistan and attends to rather urgent calls like re-structuring the American farm bill, where a reduction in subsidies to the cotton farmers alone could feed a million children more in Africa. Off late, sledging America on various grounds has been an order of the day in the developing world. May be the president takes account of such voices, and explores why in the first place did they arise? In short, he could re-visit the word democracy, and apply it with honesty.

As far as India is concerned, we have so many Americas within us; need to sort those out first. We need to ascertain that across the country in our homes, children like Ria have a stake, we need to gather that eyes of black women have dreams too.

2008-08-22T12:48:00.001+06:30

Will write tomorrow or day after, that is to say, I will not write now

Khamosh Adaalat Jaari Hai

2008-02-05T17:28:00.000+06:30

me: comrade free?

Amalendu: no

me: k

Sent at 16:52 on Tuesday

Amalendu: hai...

had a meeting with students...

now free...

me: how much income tax do i pay when i get a consultancy of 38000 per month

approx fig

Amalendu: aprox. income is 4.5Lakhs per annum right?

me: 4.2

Amalendu: do you have any saving in LIC, PF, PPF, ELSS

me: no chance narang saheb

Amalendu: or NSC or five yer fixed deposit in bank?

me: no darling

Amalendu: ok

Sent at 17:44 on Tuesday

Amalendu: 5k+20k+35k= about 60k

but...

me: saath hazaar

Amalendu: consultancy income has lot of loopholes...

me: ya

Amalendu: you can show quite a bit as expenditure....

me: like

house rent can i shownt be

Amalendu: all telephone expenses, travel expenses...

me: ok

Amalendu: food and lodging...

me: ok

but how did u calculate?

Amalendu: buying computer or internet or laptop...(depriciation about 50% of the cost of comp or laptop)

upto 1.1 lakh no tax

me: k

Amalendu: 1.1 to 1.5 (10%)

me: ok

Amalendu: 1.5 to 2.5(20%)

2.5 and above 30%

me: ok

so out of my 4.2

only 3.2 is getting taxed

Amalendu: yes

even you can deduct your house rent...

me: and if i invest 50000 then?

Amalendu: how much rent do you pay?

me: 4500pm

Amalendu: do all the calculation for the financial year...

don't give me monthly picture..

when did you join this job?

me: June

Amalendu: ok..

that means you have 9 months income this year..

right..

me: ya

and in my consultancy fee its written that its against 18 days every month

Amalendu: thats ok..

you dont have anyother income right?

me: no

thats not accounted i mean

Amalendu: so your this financial years income is 3.4lakhs

me: ya

Amalendu: deduct house rent from that

me: ok

Amalendu: 40K

me: just tell me if i invest 50k somewhere what happens is it deducted

Amalendu: for 9 months

remaining is 3 lakhs

me: ok

Amalendu: deduct some expenses in travel say 20K

me: ya

2.8

Amalendu: remaining 2.8 Lakhs

deduct telephne expenses say 10K

me: ok

Amalendu: 2.7 lakhs

do you have a comp or laptop?

me: office laptop

but i can show a computer

and cameras

Amalendu: yes

what is the aprox. price of both?

me: 2k

Amalendu: what?

me: 2lakh

Amalendu: take only one thing this time may be comp not camera...

me: ok

Amalendu: use camera for next year IT calculation...

me: thats only 40000

Amalendu: so 20K is depriciation of Comp

me: ok

2.5 bacha

Amalendu: so remaining 2.5K

2.5 L

me: ya

Amalendu: yes

do you have distance travel like air travel train expenses?

and lodging...

me: that was borne by office

Amalendu: did you spend anything from your pocket...like your wife and child travelling?

me: ya

not much

Amalendu: how much aprox?

in the financial year...

me: very little two trips to raigarh and back

2000

Amalendu: you dont have to produce bills./////

me: ok

thats so human

Amalendu: take 3A fair and make it about 5 or 10K

me: ok

Amalendu: remaining 2.4L

me: ya

Amalendu: now from this upto 1.1 L

no tax

me: ok

Amalendu: 1.1 to 1.5 10% i.e. 4K tax

1.5 to 2.4 20% i.e. 18K tax

total 22K tax

me: ok

and now if i do a LIC of 50000 then

Amalendu: now if you invest in section 80 ie. pf, ppf etc

say 50K

me: k

Amalendu: your tax liability will be 4k+8k = 12k

me: ok

Amalendu: I would suggest invest in tax saving mutual funds

me: ok

will do that

Amalendu: DSP ML tax saver or SBI Magnum tax gain

me: will do with SBI

Amalendu: lock in period is 3 years and growth is better...

me: ok

Amalendu: you should also buy mediclaim policy for your family

me: how much does that cost

Amalendu: being in hyderabad it may be useful

me: because my cash is so sporadic in nature

Amalendu: spend 2k you will get for about 1 lakh for the family

this is for the year

me: 2k means 2 lakhs

Amalendu: no

2000

me: 2000

Amalendu: buy from Natiaonal Insurance

me: so initially how much money does this mediclaim needs to be put in

Amalendu: govt. one

no just 2000 aprox for 1L

me: ok

fine

Amalendu: you can put 4k for 2L

this is nonrefundabale

me: and does it mean recurring at some intervals

Amalendu: every year you have to renew it...

me: ok

good

Amalendu: if there is no claim in previous year you get some bonous

it is like car insurance

me: and SBI mutual funds whom or where do they sell that

Amalendu: but necessary when you are away from your home in a big city and with a small child

me: ya

Amalendu: any agent will do that

me: ok

Amalendu: just ask your office a/c he will help you

me: ya just did that and she is calling a person

Amalendu: am I sounding like a proper finacial advisor?

me: yes very enlightening

be one u will earn more

Amalendu: still I dont file my own return...

me: OK

Amalendu: I take help of an agent...

me: FINAL QUESTION

WHAT IF I DONT FILE RETURN THIS YEAR

Amalendu: agent takes about 300 rupees and does everything for you

me: HOW MUCH AM I FINED LATER

Amalendu: how much TDS your organisation deducts from you?

me: 10%

I TAKE HOME 34K

Amalendu: which means you have already paid more than 30K tax right?

me: YA

Amalendu: you have to file the return to claim the refund...

thats first thing...

me: YA THATS WHAT MY BOSS TOLD

Amalendu: second and most important thing is if your are travelling abroad...

3 years IT return works very positivly for your visa

me: OK

Amalendu: do you have PAN?

me: YES

Amalendu: good

me: got it in June

Amalendu: will this be your first IT return?

me: yes boss

Amalendu: great welcome to Govt. of India

me: thanks I am honoured

so now i am buying this sbi mutual fund

how much does this cost

Amalendu: are you planning to invest 50K?

me: if get a salary this month or else 25

Amalendu: whatever is the amount divide it between two

me: ok

Amalendu: I would suggest some good part in DSP ML Tax saver

me: ok

Amalendu: the NAV of it is about 15

per unit

me: ok

Amalendu: and SBI Magnum Tax gain NAV is about 60 per unit

me: ok

what is DSP

Amalendu: go for 60% in DSP and and 40% in SBI

me: ok

Amalendu: DSP Maryll Lynch

me: ok

Amalendu: a company

me: ya

fir wo bazaar me mera paisa laga denge

Amalendu: yes

you can check daily NAV in business news paper

or http://myiris.com/mutual/

me: ok

so i will do this coz my ac says we are getting salaries

Amalendu: long time back I bought Reliance Diversified power sector growth at 23 rupees

me: ok

Amalendu: now it is 75

yes

me: i pumped in 50000 last month when the market crashed

Amalendu: after or before crash?

me: at the time of crash

Amalendu: good

me: now its gaining

Amalendu: nice...which companies?

me: dont know ---its a desi mutual fund concept where u have a friend whom u trust

Amalendu: he invests

me: ya

he had been my asst in Bombay

Amalendu: is he a Gujarati?

me: yes

Jatin Popat

Amalendu: good....

dont worry...they are trust worthy in money matter...

me: ya he is a raigarhiya

Amalendu: and no one can better time this market than those...

me: thats all the more untrustworthy though

In 2001 I lost 1 lac in this shares business just due to trust

Amalendu: for me also a guy advises...from Ahmedabad...

me: ok

my shares are from reliance

Amalendu: for long term banking sector seems to be good...

me: no idea

Amalendu: particularly in 2009 and 10 you can get the return if you invest today...

me: ok

Amalendu: thats my analysis

me: i just spend so much that nothing is left to invest

propensity to save is conspicuously absent

Amalendu: and I have not invested a single rupee directly in stock market...

me: GOI should subsidize liquour

and people who admire women should get tax waivers

Amalendu: match called off

me: bad

do I post this chat on my blog

Amalendu: yes

me: yes

there are so many confused souls

the other day i was reading abt taimur lane - the mongol

Amalendu: haan...

me: he was a strange character - somebody with that much violence is extraordinary

Amalendu: true...

me: gyanesh was online yesterday

and he sent me a film

Amalendu: which one?

me: soft core pornography

Amalendu: ok

me: I ate his head with hardcore messages

Amalendu: ha...ha...

me: my wife is coming on the 8th

we will plan a visit feb end

Amalendu: yes.. that would be nice...

me: bcoz tini's kid will be one year old on march 1

so that can also be attended to

Amalendu: april 11 or 13 we are planning Aadi's mundan...

me: good

Amalendu: in Subramanya temple...

me: children look beautiful with tonsured heads

Amalendu: yes...

me: that temple in puttur

Amalendu: as such he has very less hair...

like me

me: haha

Amalendu: no...

me: blore

Amalendu: it is near deepika's village a famous Kartikeya temple...

me: ok

Amalendu: even Sachin Tendulkar visited that...

me: then its good

Amalendu: its 40 km from Puttur

me: ok

i remember that temple with a fish pond

and ashwini

Amalendu: i.e. Mahalingeswara in Puttur...

me: ya

Amalendu: ashwini is in TISS Mumbai...

me: ya she scrapped around august

Amalendu: thats long time...

me: really

people should be more sensitive

Amalendu: yes..

me: all social sciences are based on that

Amalendu: what?

me: sensitivity

Amalendu: sensitivity?

me: and did u learn driving

Amalendu: which part of your body is most sensitive?

me: thighs

because they are weak

Amalendu: all social sciences are based on thighs....

me: In fact

Amalendu: this seems to be logic...

me: good

Amalendu: foundation of philosophy...

ha..ha..

me: ya

bunny had written a wonderful paper on right to philosophy

will send you that

Amalendu: send...

me: went

next month onwards i start studying fo r my MA

Amalendu: yes

me: they have a week long gap between each paper

so thats enough to read five questions

Amalendu: yes...

but will you travel every week?

me: Did you read anything by this years Eco nobel laureate couple

one of them never had formal training in economics

Amalendu: no

so also many past laureate

me: thats good

did u see sashi on saturday

Amalendu: yes

me: and beers

Amalendu: he was asking about you a

here in our Academy

me: ok

Amalendu: we had a Research Advisory Committe meeting

me: ok

Amalendu: he is one of the members

me: one of my optional papers is Research methodology

Amalendu: he asked whats your plan about that documentary...

me: I am finishing the website of my org and then i take a plunge

Amalendu: I told him about your sending a mail to Sainath...

he is interested in short films...

me: thinking of getting it funded by stakeholders and approaching somebody like raghubir yadav for the role

Amalendu: he was telling that that there lenses available where you can get the depth of film in video camera...

me: yes

Amalendu: he wants to buy those and make short films

me: In the camera format he has only one camera comes with that film look

Amalendu: he has started appreciating film from the depth of photography angel....

me: This technology is called progressive scan

Amalendu: ok

me: He has to shoot with artificial lights once to get the real film effect

Sent at 18:46 on Tuesday

Amalendu is busy. You may be interrupting.

2007-09-06T15:48:00.001+06:30

Mujhe Jhakjhorti smritiyon me
abki baar
thakaan ke alaawa
bastar aur loktantra

jaan kar maan nahi paane ka dukh
jaise dopahar do ki deewar
aur samudra ki kaid

kapde utaarte eeshwar
nange nakshatro ke alawa
yaad waali aurat ka jooda

harqat ko bazaar banate
vishwa ka anant
syah-safed
lal cheentiyon ki ankahi

translations welcome

2007-09-03T13:11:00.000+06:30

On the terrace opposite
she skipped ropes in time

as clouds made shapes of her going away
we tried

to assign
smells to touches
and colors to tastes

for years now
the streets flood
in stories of her children

one of them
as i remember
crawls to my bed

underneath pillows of stones
where are the tiny fish
that once tickled her underfeet

dried to a drop
is that my kelo

are these the stories now
that i tender
for times after her going away

2007-08-16T12:13:00.000+06:30

a butterfly lost its way through an evening crowd of returning people on and along their vehicles

6-number

2007-08-07T13:03:00.000+06:30

Chote pahad ki dhalan utaro to H block
kuch aur aage P&T colony
fir C-Block ki pehli Kataar

Ek aam, dedh aakash ke neeche
Rajan Arora ka ghar

2007-07-11T14:29:00.000+06:30

Her smells were ten thousand afternoons away from me
I remembered that I can forget
it s so easy

Rear view

2007-06-29T15:05:00.000+06:30

----Scribble-----------------------------

This is not an arrangement for winters to fall in love with women wearing red undergarments, neither is it a report on the infant mortality rates in Dantewada- SouthBastar.

Not to be precise, it has nothing to do with what Savitri’s father left for her before leaving for his seventh pilgrimage in the mid of a soaked rainy day; her mother was irrevocably sad.
In between, they were those same rogues from the Kaser Para who stole in to the courtyard before it just got dark enough to tell the roses from chrysanthemums. They were seven of them, about the same height and stature and even voices. Savitri for that matter had never been to differentiate anyone’s voice on the phone.

(Grandfather detested the phone just for this vice to it. On the days when he still had the strength to find his way into the street and knock Munshi’s door for an orgasmic vent of nostalgia, he laid out an elaborate plan for a rebellion against the Department of Telecommunications in the country. Munshi is believed to have perished under the burden of quoting the cost of the movement which by any chance had to be raised at the mercy of their sons and daughters)

“She is in” first voice
“He out” Second
“Pluck it”First
“Why was he called the father of the nation when its more like he’s the grandfather”Third
“Shut Up Tamboli”Second

Did Tamboli shut his mouth or not is a question of infinite importance for the story to continue. But for the time being readers have to console with a rather cryptic piece of information that 26 years later when Prof.Jambalendu Khotishi was to deliver a lecture on alternative agricultural practices at the University of Budapest, the student who repeatedly looked out of the window and winked his eyes 61 times a minute gestured him for a private talk.

“I need to talk to you”
“Talk” said the professor
“Not here…come with me”

“He actually had not kept his mouth shut” the nervous boy told after they journeyed to the other part of the city, far from the calm of a university, into a mesh of shops and lights.

“And why do you tell me that” the professor pretended not to look quizzed.
“Because Savitri had wanted it “
Professor knew that it was important to know about Savitri., but the students were waiting at the University, and the officials even, how embarrassed they must be feeling at the guests queries, after all those bespectacled oldies on the first row had managed to be there for his speech…But even hearing of Savitri was more important than other things…leave aside getting a path breaking information of her whereabouts…what does it matter that all this boy churns up here is trash…he seems to be uttering SAVITRI…what a solace in all these 26 years when he had been used to hear this word only in his voice…

“Savitri had wanted to undress Tamboli that night..Mishra Ji misunderstood the offer and then even the roses didn’t smell like roses, you know these hybrid types…the boy continued for exactly 3 hours 28 minutes.
Later that evening when Professor recounted the incident of meeting Savitri’s mitochondrial boy, he wept.

ZOBROED

2007-06-28T17:50:00.000+06:30

I

It has been a couple of years that I died there. Nevertheless, the place continues to be the same .
Its even true for me.
Death didnt change much of my apetitie even. I am still a small-eater.

II

BOOKS

FILMS

SMELLS

TOUCHES

HOURS

MY RIVER

HER PAINS

Maaya in Marquez - I

2007-06-28T13:54:00.000+06:30

Its time that I write about Gabriel Garcia Marquez again.(Or do I write because of him.)

‘Memories of my melancholy whores’ is Marguez’s first work of fiction in the last ten years…That’s what the introductory blurb to the book says. The previous book by him had been ‘Living to tell the tale’. Orthodox literary reviews suggest concrete autobiographical attributes to that book. In fact it has been accepted as an autobiography.

I have read them both, proudly enough within a month of their publication. The result has always been the same, an irresistible urge to fall in love. May be with words, or with that old woman announcing her presence at five in the morning through my deserted alley.

I have been seeing her for the last thirty years or so, with a basket atop her head carrying bundled sticks to brush our teeth that she barters for a handful of rice. Her skin seems far to meager to contain her body and the wrinkles identify with dunes of a great desert. Every so often I think what sounds would wake my alley up after she dies. But isn't she more than dead, walking twenty kilometers for almost a century, challenging the MNC’s like Colgate, HLL, etc. with her brush-sticks she collects in the jungle to earn a little rice; or is it life?

Garcia Marquez and the old lady raise certain simple questions. In this writing, I want to put up few points regarding the much structured definitions of Fiction and Non-fiction as two distinct genres, specifically in the case of Marquez.

Before I get into my thesis, here are a few humble and honest confessions.
This writing is purely non-academic, drawing from an organic point that it pens from someone holed up in an obscure place in semi-urban India without a scholarly attitude but a genuine interest to read and get inspired to write.
This is not a book review either.
Finally I would like to title this piece as ‘Maya in Marquez’

On his ninetieth birthday, a man decides to gift himself with a night full of wild passion with an adolescent virgin. The encounter spurs his nostalgia. He recounts and relives his past libertine excesses, only to console himself with an unavoidable truth that sex is a helpless substitute for love. This agony guides him to his solitary escape as a writer. He writes about his love in his weekly newspaper column and in turn becomes the most famous man in the town. That’s the story for us. Fiction; one may call it.

To the earlier book now- ‘Living to tell the tale’. In the first page itself, Marquez receives his mother who wants him to accompany her to sell their ancestral house. Subsequently we learn about their bizarre journey to Aracataca. Re-unions with bygone familiarities. We get informed of the author’s passion to become a writer despite considerable domestic resistance. His education. His politics. Women. Life. Music. And success. The narrative is nonlinear and is structured in concentric spirals of tense. Non-fiction; one may term it.

After reading ‘Living to tell the tale’ I realised that almost all I have read of him have had their embryos in his real life. In a sense, his writings do have a strong autobiographical basis. But the point is, whatever the case may be, autobiographical resources contrived with imagery or pure fancy interweaved with factual events, it makes a little difference. Because what ends up are printed pages bound in a book, and the grind of creating it is a different realm. It can never be comprehended by structured conceptions of the real an unreal. Just the way, one cant comprehend life in conceptions.

Art and only art has this power to transcend reality in order to comprehend it. Marquez does it by telling tales and the old lady by selling her stcks.

To be contd.

2007-06-28T13:02:00.000+06:30

For desires I would like to harness, a poem after long.

A lesser gray agianst a dark gray against the black
Hills and nights

Intimate murmurs against a silence against the wind
Rivers and nights

Old smells against her salty back against a desire
Nights and nights

Dumb-Bell & Plastic Money

2007-06-28T12:21:00.000+06:30

I bought the dumbbells and a pair of skates and even a carrom board. Significantly for me I paid by the debit card, obviously for the first time in my life. It was a nervous decision. For once, I even decided against undergoing this tech-ordeal and stepped out of the shop. Outside, by the street, vehicles threatened with their volumes and sounds. It would have been a rather foolish decision to venture into searching an ATM, withdraw cash and return back. Withdrawing cash is always a dicy proposition, you never know how much to spend and hence withdraw more than you need and the remainder evaporates mysteriously. I even came to think that when I had almost succeeded in accomplishing my task for the day (imagine I had searched a sports shop and despite its grand looks managed to step in and despite the in-crowd which seemed far too much comfortable than me, had managed to communicate my needs to a salesman) why retrace?
Should bank on the situational progress rather - I thought as my hands tremored while handing the card to the salesman. I followed him to the machine which reads such cards. A dark strip on its back tells things about my richness or poverty, the machine learns inroads to my wallet and debits the need-sum to balance the payments. I do not surprise on that. It has been long that I pride my scientific acumen.

On the way back I call Mukesh and relate him to this new achievement. Plastic money experience comes to me only months after I saw a barter trade still so much alive in south Bastar, Chhattisgarh.

Tresspassing

2007-06-26T15:43:00.000+06:30

It has just been over a year that I wrote anything on this platform. In between, I didnt actually write anything at all. This particular writing happens from a moment of absolute blankness. I am on a table with a system thats not mine, my head is oscillating between two thoughts of buying dumbells or not. A thick book, that I have been reading for the last one day is threatning to pull out its spell on me and I fear I might again relapse into that pleasure of not having to read to write anything.
And thus precisely this writng commences.
I have had this recent desire to write a political fiction on Bastar. May be about the kids with whom I spent a wonderful learning time, or about the tribal who are suddenly subject to endless urban vices and yet survive. It may also shape up like a travelogue, or a report. A short story would be what I prefer.
Then I have those aborted stories still infecting my mind. A couple of them potential ones I bet. Or should I give it a try in Hindi, has been 6 years that I wrote in that language.

Nevertheless.

I want to think this useless thought again - why to write ...or more precisely, why to write when its not happening the way I would have longed it to.

I searched the answer for hardly ten seconds - the easiest reason that comes is that its good to be typing without bothering about the language, without caring the syntax, the structure, just concentrating on the speed. And how it pleases when one entire sentences goes on correct without the finger forced to trace a back key.

Its good to be typing, honestly, without bothering for the traffic jam that sounds at the corner of this street, without bothering that this street which is more than 1700kms away from my home has been seeing me for the last 26 days and yet I find myself a stranger here. Or in that case its simply fine to be typing without considering the new sticky mass of memory thats just started growing in my guts like a freah algae cover on a decaying old wall.

I dont know if this is the reason why I should write but more importantly I would not like to know a reason for writing and understanding why Pushkala is not here with me.

POST-END

2006-07-10T12:55:00.000+06:30

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

2006-06-30T16:48:00.000+06:30

This is the last I write here

2006-06-27T15:13:00.000+06:30

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.

2006-06-26T16:21:00.000+06:30

na hota tumhara
ho jaata nadi ka

relativity

2006-06-23T15:05:00.000+06:30

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

2006-06-22T13:19:00.000+06:30

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.

2006-06-21T20:29:00.000+06:30

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

2006-06-20T16:47:00.000+06:30

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

2006-06-16T14:25:00.000+06:30

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

Sahir Saheb

2006-06-15T18:33:00.000+06:30

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

Maaya

2006-06-14T18:04:00.000+06:30

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

2006-06-12T13:22:00.000+06:30

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

2006-06-09T12:06:00.000+06:30

I LOVE MY WIFE

Redundant again

2006-06-08T17:50:00.000+06:30

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

2006-06-05T14:07:00.000+06:30

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

2006-06-02T16:42:00.000+06:30

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

2006-05-28T19:59:00.000+06:30

Theory: An arrest, a stagnation
Art: The flow

Theory: At a point of time
Art: Timeless

Theory: 'My' theory
Art: ???

COMPREHENSION - II

2006-05-13T00:54:00.000+06:30

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

2006-05-11T22:53:00.000+06:30

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

2006-04-26T16:56:00.000+06:30

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

2006-03-29T12:43:00.000+06:30

Do I need more?

To the remains of my untortured past

2006-03-04T16:35:00.000+06:30

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

2006-03-02T11:05:00.000+06:30

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

2006-02-28T18:55:00.000+06:30

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

Thirty Four Plastered Left Legs

2005-12-02T12:56:00.000+06:30

Preface: It has been almost symmetric. This process of depresion has always given me new and fresh approaches. It has been like a re-incarnation everytime I get out of it. Or may be I have mechanized myself so.
Last when I bathed in blue on my trip back from Jammu, Jaanaki happened, and now its another I sense in its nascence.

An Intriguing Night For Gangadhar Sahoo

The day must have been exceptionally bad for Gangadhar Sahoo. He seemed to be cursing any and everything at will. especially the train, which had already been late by half a day when he boarded it. its slackness only increased after he got in and now when it hiccuped and came to a stop at one thirty A.M. he was forced to think.
'this bastard shall make me lose my job before even getting it.'
he kicked the blanket and curved up to rest on his elbows. He was on the middle berth and with his awkward height of six feet three, life had been all the more miserable. He remembered the ticket collector with his ugly smile, earlier the day when he ahd reserved a seat for a bribe of two hundred rupees.
'that swine, could easily have given me an upper.' He looked up, the sudent fellow had not got down once after getting up on his berth. Must be taking pills, he thought to himself and craned down to glance at the length of the compartment. Not a thing moved in the blue hue of night lamps. 'dead souls' he cursed again.

CONTD.

2005-12-01T13:22:00.000+06:30

At times like these, I often feel, its useless to hope.
The story has already been scripted for long.

Its Maare Gaye Gulphaam, from a lost begining to an imminent end

Quote/unquote

2005-11-30T18:41:00.000+06:30

It started again, my nostalgic excursions, those that mean pain, and lots of them.
I remember a line we glorified as undergraduate students, back then in Rourkela

'freedom is a free market, and happiness a lifetime of shopping'

comrade, years that we wept together.

SOS Bunny

2005-11-22T21:15:00.000+06:30

Whenever you come back here
Bring a grey T-shirt for me

because no one ever brings anything for me

The rate of change of time.

2005-11-11T19:07:00.000+06:30

Part-1 : Dawn

Sheetal Bindra, 28 F
Software Executive
Mumbai

5 A.M. Slaps a buzzing clock

5.13 A.M. Bowels on their way to the Arabian sea.
Teeth whiter than before.

5.21A.M. A customary hug from Armaan.

5.30-6.00A.M. Brownian motion.
Kitchen…Monty…T.V. ….Armaan…

6.15 A.M. Monty waves his hands as the school bus disappears.

6.20 – 6.45 A.M. Plans for the day with Armaan
Car finance…white wash…Harry Potter…Afia’s birthday

7.13 A.M. Armaan flies a kiss before dropping her at the bus stop.
(a gesture to be taken for spousal love and care)

7.27 A.M. Exasperated by the bus-wait

7.33 A.M. Picks a rick for Andheri.

7.55 A.M. Churchgate Fast on platform no. 5

8.00-8.32 A.M. Oscillating odyssey of a Mumbai Local

8.44-9.02 A.M. Runs into Prachi in the sidewalks of Eros on her way to Fountain.
Flattered by her compliments for the new earrings.

9.32A.M. Someone stinks in that overcrowded lift

9.45 A.M. Late again. But at the desk eventually.

Bony Kosaya, 27, M
Thinker
Zobro

Before 6A.M. Off to the fields…..as merry as cricket
(Fortnightly/annum)

6.30 – 10.23 Snores (>100db)

10.41 Avoids a fleck of light incident through a chink on the roof

10.42 – 10.51 intermittent turns on the cot

10.55 First yawn of the day

11.17 Geared for Govind

11.30 – 1.00P.M. Talks over tea
…airtel’s new scheme….neighborhood adulteries….KBC….
… employment….American Imperialism…her curves…

1.30 P.M. Lunch before WWE perversions on Ten Sports

The rate of change of time intends to feel the rhythms of a place

2005-11-10T16:36:00.000+06:30

Was trying to imagine how you look with that haircut.
May be I scan the old albums now and upload some pics

2005-11-08T18:19:00.000+06:30

My printer has a magenta bias. And I remember.

She has stopped loving me.
There were days when I fixed my gaze on the turn in my street.
She appeared.
And before disappearing, turned once to wave her hands.

From my balcony, it used to be so pleasantly simple
Before a bath, we shared.

After so long and in these ugly times without even her possibility, I think of her and remind myself.
How shamelessly have I continued this.
The farce of loving her.

My dog explains through his tired breath.
Does it happen yet?

To The Remains Of My Un-tortured Past ---Part One

2005-10-26T11:52:00.000+06:30

Those who read this can send me money. Or they could go out of their houses on a winter afternoon. If their places do have a river, I would be satisfied. They could also go and make a courtesy visit to someone they haven’t been able to meet for quite sometime. Anything could have prevented them. After all it has been such a busy day so far. And its not guaranteed that you find a moment to look at the sky and wonder. How chilling the wind is. It wouldn’t be wrong if you don’t call it a wind, frozen swords cutting your face without mercy. But I wouldn’t unnecessarily hold you. Its obvious from your face that you have been riding for nearly an hour in this cold. Its good that you reach home as early as possible. So you see, how considerate and understanding I have been. That has been my way since I woke up today to a morning alarm set on my cell phone.

And the ones who don’t read it can always find me dying with moths in the last light of existence.

To a night..

2005-10-26T11:43:00.000+06:30

To a night
You promised
An echo of your laughter and miles of your brown skin

Your possible touches
And an infinity of your absence
Were all mine
After you left

I feared to think
That you might just have forgotten
There still were breaths
Floating on a nights back

And promises
To be kicked like a football

Language

2005-08-16T13:30:00.001+06:30

I have been delaying this writing for quite sometime. Often for its structure, that somehow contradicts its theme. And for the theme that seems far too obvious to me. These thoughts and reasons appear even before a third of my writing happens, and I abort the scribble for the nth time. On my bed then, with a book titled ‘Clandestine in Chile’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. A one-go reading of its 102 pages and I am up on my feet again, to the table. The pen waits to be picked up and a paper yields its blankness.

I want to write about the issue of languages. An issue, which has been paid less attention to, by most prevailing approaches to academics. I say so because, hardly any academic writing seems to register itself in my mind for long, and the little it does, doesn’t serve its purpose too good. The essential purpose of communicating its essence is materialized by creating an amalgam of extensive information and confusing contexts in my mind. And in practice I abandon the reading either with a sense of awe or a nonchalance with which I see a printed Levi carry bag. It becomes rather stifling to continue reading the research analysis on International relations or an academic report on the tribes of Central India.

I sleep in my room.
And wake up in Chile, with Miguel Littin, the exiled filmmaker, who risked his freedom to bring the world a truer picture of life under General Augusto Pinochet. That was what the book was all about. A chronicle of Littin’s underground adventure through which Pinochet’s Chile pictures before the reader. I begin knowing the landscape of Chile, her people, their expressions, and by the end of the book, meander through the streets of Santiago, identifying the Mapocho bridges, San Cristobal hill, Forestal park, and the Moneda Palace where the general dictates his country from. Garcia Marquez acts as Litten’s ghost in the book and contrives to represent and dramatize the heroic resistance of countless Chileans through that dictatorial regime of Pinochet.

In other words the writing registers. Indelibly.
What is it then that misses out in the academic writings. The report fails to assimilate me with the tribal culture of central India although I am almost a part of it.
The manner in which a text is written, a thought is thought, a speech is uttered is integral to its content. And the academic lingo neglects this integrity. Probably this non-indulgence in form and over indulgence in the subject changes its flavor. Words are treated as mere tools to represent factual events, events that have qualities of their own, independent of how we perceive them through human eyes and human speech.

For example the turbulent events of the recent Iraq war can be understood through the vocabulary of high politics, which revolves around great power relations and diplomatic negotiations; or through the vocabulary of strategic studies, which stresses military capacities, state repression, and relations of coercive force; or through the vocabulary of international political economy, which places emphasis on market performances and their impact on world order. In all these cases, the theorist sincerely tries to embody the real facts in his/her writing. One major thing, which gets left unattended, is that that what winds up finally on a sheet of paper are words, and words need to be consciously juxtaposed to mean what one wants to mean. In other words, the academician needs to allow the subjectivity of fiction to disturb the stable perceptions of the real. He/She has to couple an analytical acumen with imagination. And simultaneously has to strike a balance between information and poetry. I believe this could stretch the dissemination of any academic research to the common fry.

As I take a break from the hazardous shooting stints of Litten in Chile, I sight my grandmother, dissolved in a bland winter sun with one of her many religious scriptures. She reads them mechanically, in short mumbles, interrupted by a look she spares on every passing vehicle on the street, and then back again to flip the page. It’s as if she transcends to a different spatio-temporal frame, the Satayuga, with Lord Rama, Sita, Lakshmana…much in semblance to my times in Chile, an hour ago. What Marquez does for me, Tulsi offers her.

An offer of poetry. Poetry, which allows the reader to read as well as create. To the contrary a journalistic report, or an academic paper mostly serves as a claustrophobic sphere in which the reader is not spared a chance to explore.
For example; The seventy-sixth page of volume three of the report on tribes of central India offers the latest database of the infant mortality rates among Pahadi Korwa, a tribe threatened with demographic extinction. In the dissertation of a thesis on international market, a researcher draws up the role of developing countries. A newspaper report on the debacle of the Congress(I) in the recent assembly elections, abstrusely reasons the rise of the saffron in Chhattisgarh.
Pahadi Korwas, developing countries, or the assembly elections, very much exist in the same world which I do, and so does the author of their respective articles.
But the writing in general acutely fails to assimilate me in it’s content. It doesn’t take my grandma to Satayuga and my trip to Chile evaporates. The real happenings documented in these writings attain a prosaically fictitious territory. A domain which lacks an offer of poetry.

Thus I feel, a better rethinking and execution of academic and journalistic endeavors must engage the issue of linguistic representations. Poetry perhaps is ideally suited for such an endeavor because it revolves around a recognition that the aesthetic is inseparable from the substance. It engages the links between language and sociopolitical reality, in a manner which is comprehensible to a casual reader, and equally discursive for a scholar.

I am not sure if I have made my point clear. An example would elucidate it more. The back flap of the book I read on Chile has a red bold punchline which reads…On 28 November 1986, in Valparaiso, the Chilean authorities impounded and burned 15,000 copies of this book…
That tells something of the impact of this book. Journalism and academic writings can very well create such an impact. Perhaps only when the authors live in their writings and weave a passion which breathes through their words.

As I end this piece I tend to remember the line I started with…the structure which contradicts its theme…
I have tried to justify the engagement of linguistic habits in journalistic and academic writings and in that process I feel , I have barely produced a confusing mesh of my ideas.

Tough marriage…of the fact and the fancy. But auteurs like Garcia Marquez, or Tulsidas, make it look so easy. I learn from that. Maybe Journalism, and academics takes a lesson or two.

a sky red

2005-08-16T01:42:00.000+06:30

RAINS AND DESTINY

A sky red…

..at times far from then, I reminisced those thirteen days of demented passion for rituals, mixing up events, re-constructing a chronology, while Comrade my soul as we called each other mutually, read aloud lines in a diary, as old as his first visit to my place, almost the age of his love, lying in a bliss of amnesia till he touched a page where pains of her going away shrouded in mysterious forms of absence.

Forgetting her
After her
Is like a suffering
Asleep
In a chink between
Not finding her after returning home
And not searching her after not finding

Comrade’s gaze was fixed on the wall as he picked these lines. He had invented a habit of understanding the walls, as flakes of quicklime scraped off from it. And beyond the walls were gods. Gods of different kinds whistled boons, as mother arrived mounted on a bamboo chair. They looked at her. So did I. Painfully. I remember her frail limbs, ones that had slowly refused to work, a receding hairlines, and eyes so placid, they simply didn’t want to see anymore, all within an year of torturous ailment. The pundit awaited her, with a holy pyre ignited before him, Maha Mrutunjaya Jap it was, designed profusely to bereave death of its timeless possessions. My mother was one of them. No one ever heard what did she say in that festival of her death. People were all so busy, medically and spiritually conserving her existence on a bed with numerous pillows arranged to bate the pain. ‘this one this side’ she would say and briskly a pair of hands would move it to her wish. How easy it was to die, she explained through those placid eyes and a voice reduced to a groan. Malignant cells grow in a progression of squares. I imagined, her stomach billowing of tumors and bursting into an amalgam of red and yellow, with so much death stippled in it like cells. At a distance father talked to my aunt, a doctor by profession, a saint by practice. ‘we’ll have a fortwin’ she buzzed. Father nodded. Mother watched them silently. The morning after she had to die. She knew it perhaps, cause she talked at length, and that my father a one sided deaf could make out her speech candidly.

Death teaches intimately, I heard him remark, Comrade had understood another wall, leaning by a pillow where
Her being
In her death
Was always forgotten

And thus broke a dawn belligerent under a sun almost red, ten years after she ceased. What does the death of a woman, one’s wife and another’s mother, who served the Government mean? Nobody asked. It meant 58signatures of the husband and 23 of the son, alongwith LHF, left hand finger impressions duly attested by a gazetted officer, or a respectable person of the same area , send by registered post in triplicate copies attached to form no. X,Y, Z, of P,Q,R ministry, addressed to Mr. L,M,N, principal of U,V,W, college: where the person deceased served before he/she started existing like a void amidst a flood of people, R,S,T, who claimed to love her, care her, know her, feel her, but never talk of her, in a decade after her death.

‘obselete’ my father commented, in aversion of the country’s bureaucracy. The authorities had beleaguered him enough to obtain his wife’s death gratuity and provisional pension. Forms came as pamphlets in an ad-campaign of a new product being launched, followed by reminders and more reminders. Those sick brown envelopes containing of six to eight pages of awfully typed literature , the crux of which more abstract than a sky almost red.

‘fill it up neatly, and more importantly fill it up today’ lest we don’t run short of time, and a week later another brown envelope arrives with yet more abstraction. I was burning in a mid June heat dripping visibly in shafts of yellow from the roof , the wall, the window besides which I usually sat and constructed words on a black woman’s back, till I heard the instructions, belabored thoroughly through a timid old man’s mouth.
‘his pressure is up’ bedu pinched my elbow. Pinto da returned from the bath. We three were supposed to receive Guddu at the station. He was coming after an year. His arrival meant hard cash soaked in a week of hard booze , culminating in a hard truth of bankruptcy, when he returned back, on money borrowed from me, sought from my father, an old man , thrust upon the racks of red tapism, struggling like a galley slave, to get bequeathed of the death gratuity and provisional pension of a wife , so dear evaporating from his world like vapors of helplessness, into a sky almost red.

bony kosaya

2005-08-15T18:27:00.000+06:30

BONY KOSAYA is an attempt to feel the revels of an eternal festival...LIFEThrough the portrayal of three common persons, Mastu, Radhe, and Juaadu, their times as a barber, panwallah, and rickshawpuller respectively, it aims to documenttheir bonds with Art...an Art of Existence.

A trailer will shortly be available for download