Sunday, July 30, 2006

a Dream (in platitudes)

Yesterday I had a dream. Yes, I too had a dream. And it was beautiful and it was glorious. It was fucking stupendous for a simple dream. I was walking alone by a lake. The moon was out and all things shone bright. The ripples were calm and the trees just sighed; in the gentle breeze everything was right. Then over the water I saw someone. Floating on it and walking near. Dressed in white, the apparition moved like an angel dove in the summer sky. And a golden finger pointed to me and a silver voice called me by name. I was drawn in by intangible hands. And lifted over the baby waves. When I reached her, I saw her smile. The smile of an infant: a happy, heartwarming, a mysterious smile. I fell in love at first sight, dont blame me. I lost my heart at first sight, dont chide me. She smiled and smiled and I learnt to sigh. A hundred years we stood side by side. Then the devil appeared and whispered in my ear: Talk to her and make her yours. The lady with the dawn disappears when a hundred years of love's morbid fears have brought no word to her fawn-like ears. Ah! fool I was to take advice from wily serpent bred in vice. I opened my mouth and stammered out the uncouth syllables of an ungodly lout. A hundred times I heard myself say, a hundred times I heard myself bray(what it was I cannot say). And when I stopped for breath I saw her move. She glided from my side and soon there was darkness where she stood. The trees closed round and the lake boiled with horrible sounds like hell's turmoil. I tried to call her but no words came from the mouth that had sole cause to blame. And she smiled and smiled and soon was gone. While I started drowning in despond. A hundred years I drowned and drowned and in time I learnt that what goes, comes round. What a fucking idea I say! But of course tomorrow's another day.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

More Questions

What is the one thing that makes me trudge this weary path, full of thistles and deadweed, leading perhaps to infamy, or worse, to oblivion? Or is there any one such thing ever in anyone's life? What is it that makes me wake everyday to live again the previous day's hundred mean dreams, to hear the unforgotten music bitter, meaningless to the ears, the mindless cacophony that I wish were sweet music to someone else's ears atleast, that I wish someone else told me was sweet? Why all the sweat when it means nothing but to me; why all the tools when there is no work today that will mean anything tomorrow or the day after? What is the purpose in all that has been when there is nothing that has to be; that will be? What am I doing? Where am I headed? What is the meaning of life? What is the point of it all anyway?

Friday, July 28, 2006

Every single paisa counts

Once upon a time, in a small village by the river Kandara, there lived an old merchant with his young wife. The merchant was very pious and had done great sacrifices of cows and horses throughout his life. His wife was also a deeply religious woman who spent her time in serving her husband and praying at the temple. The couple were blessed with lots of riches and the comforts of life but they had a nagging worry: they did not have a child.

The old man looked at this misfortune with his worldly-wise eyes and decided that God had chosen not to bless him with a son. He knew all his good deeds and material wealth would go to waste without a good son but he accepted his fate patiently and lived without complaints. But his wife could not be as placid as he was. She was a woman after all and yearned to become a mother. So she prayed endlessly to the Gods to grant her the single boon of motherhood in return for everything that she possessed.

Years went by and still the prayers went unanswered. The woman had given up hope herself when, one day, the great Guruji appeared in the village. He was known far and wide as a very learned and holy man who had chosen to become an ascetic at a very young age. He had travelled across the blessed Bharatavarsha several times on foot and had cured millions of people of their diseases - bodily, mental and spiritual. The woman considered this arrival a sign of good things to come and persuaded her husband to take her to him.

The Guruji was sitting on a blanket under the banyan tree as was his wont every time he went to a village. A large group of villagers had gathered round him and were listening to his advice. When the merchant and his wife reached the tree, the Guruji smiled strangely at them and said to his audience, "Now I am going to tell you a story. It is the story of a young man who lived in a village not far from here. I want you all to listen to it carefully and when I finish, you should leave for your houses without speaking another word. Close your doors and windows and sleep, and when you wake up tomorrow morning, your world will be entirely different." And he nodded once affably at the puzzled merchant and began his story.

"Not very many years ago, beside this very same river, in a village not far from here, there lived an old merchant with his young wife. The merchant was very pious and had done great sacrifices of cows and horses throughout his life..." and so on and on and finally concluded "...and so Every single paisa counts"

"Now I want you all to leave," he said and laid himself down on the blanket he was sitting on and snored himself to sleep.

A Confession

I have a confession to make. Not too shocking as such things go but a pretty good one nevertheless. But first I want to talk about myself. I am seventeen, a boy, living in an obscure village in a small mudhut with my old mother and young sister. I work for my family, have been working the last five years, and was working for my father before that; but he died suddenly. It is not difficult work actually but it takes time to get used to it; and I get good money, enough even to go and drink spirits from the local store once a week. But I do not go often. It is bad my mother says and she nags me all the next day if I do go. There is very little else to do and the whole village, atleast the entire menfolk, gathers there and it is a nice feeling drowning out many bad feelings.

Anyway to get to my confession. I was thirteen when it happened. There is a huge well in the south-east corner of the village - I dont know why it is there. There used to be very little water and nobody used it except on special festival days when they believe they absolutely have to take a bath and then it is a very painful process getting the water out and cleaning up the entire village with what is at best mucky water; but it is there, has always been there. And when I was a kid older boys used to frighten me with tales of ghosts and demons and whatnot. I still believe in ghosts but I dont think it matters if I meet one - I know my life is already predestined.

But of course my confession. I was thirteen and father had just died. People said it was because he drunk too much, others thought a demon had stolen his will to live. I dont remember much about those days but there was continuous wailing for a couple of days in our hut and mother started wearing only white. I was frightened a bit but I had to be bold for my sister's sake, they said. Then, they burnt his body with a lot of wood and performed many ceremonies so he wouldnt wander as a ghost on earth. After a few days, mother said I couldnt work in father's shop any more and I had to start to work with my cousins.

I am drifting off from my confession. So when I was thirteen, about the time when father had just died, near the well in the south-east corner of the village which was supposedly haunted but mostly was dry, one dark night, I was walking alone. I did not go walking alone in the night those days but that one time I was feeling really bad and did not know what to do. Our village is too small and I did not want to cross its boundaries - that usually brings bad luck they say. So when I had walked long enough, without really looking where I was going, I ended up near the well. I was a little scared but I just decided to be a man, as they said I was, now that father was dead. And I kept walking, and just to show the well I wasnt afraid, I went near it.

Just around that time I felt the need to relieve myself. I had been walking around for quite sometime and fear was working on me too. I saw around for some tree or ditch nearby and then it struck me - there was a huge well below my feet and if it lacked one thing it absolutely required, that was water. And I decided to relieve myself in the well. Well it isnt a very big thing when you are a child you know but you learn things only slowly in this world. And so after doing what I had done I was very happy and tripped my way back home and slept soundly. One of the last few nights I would ever get a moment's rest.

Nothing seemed wrong then. The next few days were exactly similar to the previous few days, only a little hotter; but we were used to such spells. But when the rainy season came but no rains, people started getting worried. And then the year passed and the next year came round and still there was no water. The priest was asked for his rain charms and a hundred gods were prayed to but not a drop. And every single year till this date it has gone on. Only the well has water all the time these days but the people find it strange that it should have a salty taste. Nobody is sure if it is a curse or a miracle. But I know I cannot sleep too much any more. I dont go near the south-east corner unless I really have to.

And that is my confession.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

a day in the life

A middling moon I see out of my window
Growing shadows on its fair surface
Long, short, long, short
Swish, swish goes her skirt
And I stop my lunar dreams.

What is it, I wonder, that keeps me up
Till the light is back where it all began
Yesterday in the early dawn?
It must not be long now before
I can go back to my morning dreams.

In the middle of the day a couple of sun-rays
Sneak past my barricaded window waking me up
To start another day from where I left off
Losing a few breaths, a few minutes of my life
Every hour to the unforgiving Hour.

And then it is evening and there is no time
To remember the day that is still today
What is gone, is gone
And there is some more to come before I see
The pock-marked moon and her elegant stride.

-Shyam