Her smells were ten thousand afternoons away from me
I remembered that I can forget
it s so easy
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
Rear view
----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.
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.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
ZOBROED
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
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
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.
‘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.
Dumb-Bell & Plastic Money
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Tresspassing
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.
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.
Monday, July 10, 2006
POST-END
JUST TO MENTION I MET PUSHKALA ON THE 6TH OF JULY 2006 YEARS AFTER THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF CHRIST.
COMRADE WE MUST MEET HER TOGETHER BECAUSE SHE DOESNT IDENTIFY WITH US SEPARATELY
COMRADE WE MUST MEET HER TOGETHER BECAUSE SHE DOESNT IDENTIFY WITH US SEPARATELY
Friday, June 30, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
Friday, June 23, 2006
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
"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
Thursday, June 22, 2006
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.
(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.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
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
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
Monday, June 12, 2006
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.
Not far from all of them I re-write your lines;
They happen and I see them happening.
Friday, June 09, 2006
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