The railway line snakes along slowly, sneaking through the wild undergrowth typical of the area, dry, dull and dying. In a pleasanter clime, the rails would seem cold and lifeless, but here, they glimmer an almost hellish brown under the fierce everyday sun. The sleepers, sturdy, creosoted, rest complacent, waking every few days to a thunder that rumbles along impatient, subsiding into a distant silence, deep, dreary and deathly. Every year teams of engineers arrive to look at the bolts and the nuts that hold together this fragile, this sturdy mass of metal and wood. Then they too leave as they arrived, silent, brooding, happy, passing along the tracks, testing it mile by mile.
Of life, there is not much around: this was never a cradle that lulled an ancient child in its bosom to look up to the stars. Not enough water, the experts would say. And yet there is a village a little distance from the railway line. A village of little men, toiling at a tenuous life, trying to make something out of all the wild brush and sleepy nothingness that abounds. A little village unknown to the modern cartographers, that turns up a blot on Google Earth and Yahoo Maps: nothing here signifies. And yet there is life here.
Twenty little shacks, or maybe twenty-three, these are the scattered homesteads of the people here. Men, women and children, I mean, of all ages, the young have started leaving though, for the town some miles distant, where there is more life and more shacks on a grander scale. Each day, the people who remain find food in the scorching sun. Each day they save the water that they carry from the town each week. Each day they live as their fathers did, and before them their fathers: barely. But of course there were more people then and there will be fewer soon. Is it easier with fewer people or more, the thin, reedy man struggling to get his wild rabbit skinned, wonders when he has the time to. Is it better to bother cooking the rabbit to just eating it raw, he wonders when he is still skinning the rabbit.
There is life here still and there will still be life. There are the kids who will learn to live. There are the elders who will teach them. There is the town just beyond where things may be got and things given. There is a whole world conspiring to keep them alive. There is above all, a special Providence at work in all this, defying augury and protecting the meek. Let us visit a happier place in the meantime.
Showing posts with label Short Prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Prose. Show all posts
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Monday, January 08, 2007
a dialogue
Radio Talk Show Host(R): Hello, everybody! Welcome to our show. We'll be taking calls and.. what do you know we already have a caller.. Hello, Sir! How are you doing?
General Dude(D): Hello! This is J here from M. I am doing good. How about you?
R: Great! I am doing great! So J, tell me, how do you like our show?
D: I love it. I listen to it everyday on my way back home.
R: Wonderful! But mind the traffic, huh! We don't want you causing accidents while you are learning about life, hahaha.
D: Hahahaha.
R: So tell me how is life? I hope it is smooth.
D: Its pretty good. But I have this problem with my wife. I know its not a big deal but it worries me sometimes.
R: I must think it is not a big deal, J. Tell me about it. Let us see if we can solve it together.
D: I am not complaining about her. I mean she has always been a great wife. But she has, you know, she thinks she is really smart and sometimes she acts like, you know, one of them geniuses or something, totally wacky and weird.
R: And what makes you think that?
D: I am not bitching man, but, and I know its all a woman's thing, you know them hormones and all and they act up every now and then you know, but she just flips out sometimes.
R: You mean she goes into a rage or something. How old is she, by the way, if you don't mind me asking?
D: Not at all man. She's 24. And its not rage man. Its just acting strange. Saying strange things.
R: Tell me more about it, J. What does she say? And how often does she get this way?
D: Once every few days, man. I dont know I havent kept track. Maybe I'll keep a diary from now on.
R: That might be a good idea, J. But what does she say?
D: Its like, when I enter the door, one moment she says the nicest darned things like "Hey, you Einstein, thanks for leaving me at the mall" and I'm like God I escaped the treatment after forgetting to pick her up. And then she flips out suddenly and calls me all kind of names. I mean I can understand she must be angry but why does she have to seem all sweet one moment and flip out the next. I mean, is it some kind of madness or something?
R: Oh my God!(laughing)Oh my!
D: Is it serious, man? Do you think its really bad? I don't want to say it, but is she mad or something? 'Coz I love her and all, man.
R: No, J. Its called sarcasm. She's being sarcastic, thats all. Nothing wrong with her.(laughing).
D: Whatever it is man, is this thing serious? I suppose its one of them women things so do I take her to the doc or what?
R: No, J. You don't take her to the doctor. And its not a woman thing. Tell me, how educated are you?
D: I only went to Junior High, man. Dropped out after that. So I dont know what this sarcasm thing is. But if its not a woman thing, does it spread or something like the flu? I sure dont want to catch it.
R: No, J. Sarcasm isn't a disease. It is just a way of expressing anger or annoyance by pretending to say a nice thing when you actually mean to hurt.
D: Yea, I get it man. But then why does it come only sudden sudden you know. She's all quite normal most of the time and then suddenly she wants to say this sarcasm thing. Is it like the periods or something, a woman thing?
R: No, J. It is used when people are really mad at you and don't want to yell or use bad words. It is just a way of showing you up, embarrassing you by pretending to be nice. And both men and women use it. It is not a woman's thing. Dude, you seriously need to learn a lot.
D: Whatever, man. I don't use it ever. I mean I say what I have to say and I don't do all this you know. She just is spoiled and keeps pointing out that she dropped out of college and not out of junior high you know.
R: Maybe she just wants you to sit down and have a talk with her, J. Tell her to speak straight. Tell her you don't get all her sarcasm. Tell her you love her and want her to be honest with you.
D: I tried that man. And she said thats my problem. I just dont get it. What the it is I have no idea man.
R: Well, J, I suppose you can work it out over time. Just remember that when a person is being sarcastic, they use signs like lifting their eyebrows or modifying their tone or small things like that to say they do not mean what they say. Often you have to do the opposite of what you think the words mean when such things happen.
D: Right man. I seen that. I guess you being the guru and all you can say easily when someone's lying or passing you shit. Anyways thanks man. I'll remember what you said.
R: No problem, J. And do try and sit down with your wife and tell her to be honest and direct with you. And take some classes in your community college if you can, man. It helps really, you know, education does.
D: Thanks, man. I'll remember what you said. Goodbye.
R: Goodbye, J. And have a pleasant life... And so we move on to our next caller.. Its from P... Hello sir! How have you been today?
General Dude(D): Hello! This is J here from M. I am doing good. How about you?
R: Great! I am doing great! So J, tell me, how do you like our show?
D: I love it. I listen to it everyday on my way back home.
R: Wonderful! But mind the traffic, huh! We don't want you causing accidents while you are learning about life, hahaha.
D: Hahahaha.
R: So tell me how is life? I hope it is smooth.
D: Its pretty good. But I have this problem with my wife. I know its not a big deal but it worries me sometimes.
R: I must think it is not a big deal, J. Tell me about it. Let us see if we can solve it together.
D: I am not complaining about her. I mean she has always been a great wife. But she has, you know, she thinks she is really smart and sometimes she acts like, you know, one of them geniuses or something, totally wacky and weird.
R: And what makes you think that?
D: I am not bitching man, but, and I know its all a woman's thing, you know them hormones and all and they act up every now and then you know, but she just flips out sometimes.
R: You mean she goes into a rage or something. How old is she, by the way, if you don't mind me asking?
D: Not at all man. She's 24. And its not rage man. Its just acting strange. Saying strange things.
R: Tell me more about it, J. What does she say? And how often does she get this way?
D: Once every few days, man. I dont know I havent kept track. Maybe I'll keep a diary from now on.
R: That might be a good idea, J. But what does she say?
D: Its like, when I enter the door, one moment she says the nicest darned things like "Hey, you Einstein, thanks for leaving me at the mall" and I'm like God I escaped the treatment after forgetting to pick her up. And then she flips out suddenly and calls me all kind of names. I mean I can understand she must be angry but why does she have to seem all sweet one moment and flip out the next. I mean, is it some kind of madness or something?
R: Oh my God!(laughing)Oh my!
D: Is it serious, man? Do you think its really bad? I don't want to say it, but is she mad or something? 'Coz I love her and all, man.
R: No, J. Its called sarcasm. She's being sarcastic, thats all. Nothing wrong with her.(laughing).
D: Whatever it is man, is this thing serious? I suppose its one of them women things so do I take her to the doc or what?
R: No, J. You don't take her to the doctor. And its not a woman thing. Tell me, how educated are you?
D: I only went to Junior High, man. Dropped out after that. So I dont know what this sarcasm thing is. But if its not a woman thing, does it spread or something like the flu? I sure dont want to catch it.
R: No, J. Sarcasm isn't a disease. It is just a way of expressing anger or annoyance by pretending to say a nice thing when you actually mean to hurt.
D: Yea, I get it man. But then why does it come only sudden sudden you know. She's all quite normal most of the time and then suddenly she wants to say this sarcasm thing. Is it like the periods or something, a woman thing?
R: No, J. It is used when people are really mad at you and don't want to yell or use bad words. It is just a way of showing you up, embarrassing you by pretending to be nice. And both men and women use it. It is not a woman's thing. Dude, you seriously need to learn a lot.
D: Whatever, man. I don't use it ever. I mean I say what I have to say and I don't do all this you know. She just is spoiled and keeps pointing out that she dropped out of college and not out of junior high you know.
R: Maybe she just wants you to sit down and have a talk with her, J. Tell her to speak straight. Tell her you don't get all her sarcasm. Tell her you love her and want her to be honest with you.
D: I tried that man. And she said thats my problem. I just dont get it. What the it is I have no idea man.
R: Well, J, I suppose you can work it out over time. Just remember that when a person is being sarcastic, they use signs like lifting their eyebrows or modifying their tone or small things like that to say they do not mean what they say. Often you have to do the opposite of what you think the words mean when such things happen.
D: Right man. I seen that. I guess you being the guru and all you can say easily when someone's lying or passing you shit. Anyways thanks man. I'll remember what you said.
R: No problem, J. And do try and sit down with your wife and tell her to be honest and direct with you. And take some classes in your community college if you can, man. It helps really, you know, education does.
D: Thanks, man. I'll remember what you said. Goodbye.
R: Goodbye, J. And have a pleasant life... And so we move on to our next caller.. Its from P... Hello sir! How have you been today?
Friday, January 05, 2007
An incident
They stood there by the lamp-post, two faces, young, eager and full of light. The darkness seemed to bother her but he said, "Do you think you can manage?" and she bravely nodded slowly. He took something out from the pocket of his coat and told her, "Keep this with you. It will remind you of me." She again nodded. "I guess it is goodbye then," he leant in slowly. She was not sure if she wanted to do it but she couldn't help herself. The slap did not sting too much: her hennaed hands were so tender. "Selfish bastard," he heard the darkness wail.
Monday, September 25, 2006
A Daily Life
It had been a bad day. It was meant to be, from the beginning, what with the early morning appointment with the agent, and the afternoon class, and the headmaster's insistence on our talking that particular day about my performance these last few months in his precious little, backwoods country, primary school. And all this just the day after I had decided to tell my mother I was moving out and setting up my own place and the arguments and the long weeping harangue that followed. That I had just broken up with my longtime girlfriend and was in no state of mind to think, let alone act, intelligently seemed completely lost on one and all, as they insisted in their most impressively scholarly tones, Carpe Diem. Carpe Diem indeed! I had duly woken up late in the mess that was my friend's apartment, having moved in with my toothbrush and briefcase late the previous night, the alarm clock a long-discarded luxury in his blissfully unworkmanlike existence which needed not the least bit of the hurried step or the simplest creasing of the wrinkled forehead with worry and anxiety. Breakfast has always been a weakness and when I had to skip it to reach the agent's office only an hour late, the rumble in my stomach was merely aggravated by the incompetence of a man of professed good taste, indeed of such a disposition as to claim to be the arbiter to the mass that is the people in matters literary, and yet of such dullness as to make grey seem the most vivid of colours on a winter afternoon when the sun has mixed the slush with the snow and has hidden himself behind the passing cloud that does not pass; and he decided to irritate me with the most obtuse questions that have through all recorded history been left best unanswered by all who claim to any intelligence whatsoever. I ventured, given the befuddled state that my mind was in, to remonstrate and retorted in as educated a manner as was possible at that instant and the result was that I was thrown out most decorously after an hour's worth of nothing done. The time, having already inched towards that period, when I am in the habit of having a second and much more elaborate meal than breakfast, I decided to put the troubles of the last hour behind me and attacked the cafeteria attached to the school(the school being but ten minutes' walk from the agent's, I made that trip all too easily). As fortune would have it, the cafeteria was closed for the day and, the only person I could have hoped to avoid in the cafeteria, given the private lunches he was accustomed to having in the comfort of his own office, the headmaster, most heartily beamed at me in the middle of his serious conversation with the cook, and with all the subtlety of an ox working a sledgehammer, informed me of the pleasure with which he would evaluate(negatively - that was given) my performance in the last few months at the meeting he had scheduled that evening. Heaven forbid any child should have to sit in class when a hungry, angry, hurt, confused, bitter, desperate man, recently wounded when still smarting under old wounds, is designated the teacher. Heaven forbid doubly that such a man should have a conscience and have to teach a class of the most unruly and rambunctious bumpkins who have been selected from the wealthiest set of family fools in the county to torture to death penniless schoolmasters dreaming of discharging social obligations in all manner of saccharine asininity. And then the meeting and still the hunger. I couldn't take it much longer. This was stuff that breaks the backs of giants. So I resigned at the first comical outburst that the headmaster had practised all week long in front of the mirror, calculating on impressing and intimidating me. Little did he know I was broken already. And I limped out to the lake by the woods and grabbed my handful of grass and sat by the shore. Waiting. Of course nothing happened. Except for a little girl who came around the big brown tree, crying in that most cheering way children cry when they are merely confused at the big bad world they haven't yet understood completely, innocent with doe-eyes wide and red, dragging her little doll in the tall grass. Her nose she had lost to her friend who had run away home with it and she had to be home soon and she could not go home without her nose - her mother had always warned her not to lose anything or she would not let her play any more. Children, I thought, and placed a piece of my nose on her face, taking her to the lake to prove she had a nose now too, for she wouldn't be satisfied with touching it - it had always felt so, even when the boy had taken her nose away. Children and fools and fool headmasters; agents who did not know and people who did not care or understand; friends who did not have to go through what I had to everyday and yet ventured to advise; hunger and necessity and the trials of a nature never kind to one who was beaten and knew it; pain and the lack of release; indecision; insufficiency; doubt; a hundred other things that made a man bitter and desperate and angry and contemptible and sad. And then the girl smiled and said, "You are the awesomest" and kissed me and ran away smiling gaily. And I felt happy.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Ummmm..
Sevvai kizhamai. Saayangalam 7 mani. Sadharanama mega serial paakara neram aana innikku mattum Pavanandhiar theru Sivan koil'la peria paattimaarkootam. Avangavanga marumagalgaliyum kootindu nalla peran porakkanumnu vendudhal. Navagrahatha suthi oru pathu-irubadhu ponnunga oorvalam. Vaaravaaram nadakkaradhu dhaan. Aana ovvoru ezhettu maasamum oru gumbal varum, andha gedu mudivula oru rendu peria archana nadakkum, gumbal kalanjidum. Appuram vera oru maamiyar-marumagal gumbal adutha ezhettu maasathukku. Aana 8 mani pola, ellarum kilambi ponadhukkappuram, pakkathu therulerndhu Pankajam maamiyum ava marumagal Padmavum varuvanga. Archanai panna maami pova, Padma navagrahatha suthuva. 81 thadava suthinadhukkappuram moonji sulichunde Pankajam maami edhavadhu nachunu sollitu Padmava kootindu pova. Idhu ippo 4 varushama nadandhudu varudhu. Padmavum mudinjadhellam paani paathachu, onnum sari padala. Pankajam maamikkum porumai koranjunde irukku. Innikku paiyan kitta mudiva onnu sollidanumnu vechindirukka. Rendu perum edho avan officela partykku porangalam. Vandha udane oru kai paathudalam evvalavu mani aanalum sari.
Enna appadi oru chance kadaikkala Pankajam maamikku. Annikku 9 manikku kilambi Padmavum ava purushanum avan office New Year's Eve partykku ponavanga veetukku nera varave illa. Sumaar 2 manikku phone adichudhu. General Hospital. Edho sambavam nadandhu avanga rendu perum admit ayirukkangalam. Ore padhattam maamikku. Enna aacho enna nadakkumo theriyala. Pakkathu veetu paiyana kootindu ore ottama auto eri kalambitta. Nalla vela romba peria vibareetham onnum nadakkala. Edho murattu pasanga vazhimarichu miratti irukkanga paiyan mayangi vizhunduttan. Adha paathu Padmavum bayandu mayangi irukka. Summa vidama pasanga rendu perukkum naalanju adi pottirukkanga anga inga. Dress ellam ore ratham aana uyirukku, udambukku oru prachanaiyum illanu doctor sollitaru. Verum kattu pottu, rendu vaaram crutches'la nadandha sari ayidum. Panam, nagai ponadhukkum, scooter ponadhukkum avvalavu kashtappada mudiyuma andha nerathula - uyir thappi irukke? Edho aanadhu nalladhukkunu maamiyum avanga rendu perum thirumbi veetukku vandhuttanga. Andha sambavam Pankajam maamiyoda plan'a konjam thalli pottudhu - ippadi oru accident nadandhu konjam naal'laye raakshasiyaatum marumagala veratta mudiyadhe. Adhanala thirumbi ovvoru sevvaikizhamaiyum adhe programme thaan 8 mani saayangalam aana.
Aana poruthadhum nalladha pochu. 2 maasam kazhichu Padma nalla news kondu vandhu kudutha. Pankajam maami vendudhal niraiverinadhukkaga oru peria archanai nadathi oru peria donationum kudutha kovilukku. Appothulerndhu 8 mani aana Pankajam maami nimmadhiya serial paaka okkandhuduva. 10 maasam aanadhukkappuram dhaan therinjadhu kuzhandhai maaniramnu, Pankajam maami, Padma, rendu per veetulaiyum ellarum nalla sevappu. Kuzhandhai azhudhudha, Pankajam maami azhudhala, Padma azhudalanu theriyala, aana annikku maternity ward Room 23ukkullerndhu mattum mudhalla alaral sathamum, appuram vimmal sathamum muzhu raathiriyum kettunde irundhudhu.
Enna appadi oru chance kadaikkala Pankajam maamikku. Annikku 9 manikku kilambi Padmavum ava purushanum avan office New Year's Eve partykku ponavanga veetukku nera varave illa. Sumaar 2 manikku phone adichudhu. General Hospital. Edho sambavam nadandhu avanga rendu perum admit ayirukkangalam. Ore padhattam maamikku. Enna aacho enna nadakkumo theriyala. Pakkathu veetu paiyana kootindu ore ottama auto eri kalambitta. Nalla vela romba peria vibareetham onnum nadakkala. Edho murattu pasanga vazhimarichu miratti irukkanga paiyan mayangi vizhunduttan. Adha paathu Padmavum bayandu mayangi irukka. Summa vidama pasanga rendu perukkum naalanju adi pottirukkanga anga inga. Dress ellam ore ratham aana uyirukku, udambukku oru prachanaiyum illanu doctor sollitaru. Verum kattu pottu, rendu vaaram crutches'la nadandha sari ayidum. Panam, nagai ponadhukkum, scooter ponadhukkum avvalavu kashtappada mudiyuma andha nerathula - uyir thappi irukke? Edho aanadhu nalladhukkunu maamiyum avanga rendu perum thirumbi veetukku vandhuttanga. Andha sambavam Pankajam maamiyoda plan'a konjam thalli pottudhu - ippadi oru accident nadandhu konjam naal'laye raakshasiyaatum marumagala veratta mudiyadhe. Adhanala thirumbi ovvoru sevvaikizhamaiyum adhe programme thaan 8 mani saayangalam aana.
Aana poruthadhum nalladha pochu. 2 maasam kazhichu Padma nalla news kondu vandhu kudutha. Pankajam maami vendudhal niraiverinadhukkaga oru peria archanai nadathi oru peria donationum kudutha kovilukku. Appothulerndhu 8 mani aana Pankajam maami nimmadhiya serial paaka okkandhuduva. 10 maasam aanadhukkappuram dhaan therinjadhu kuzhandhai maaniramnu, Pankajam maami, Padma, rendu per veetulaiyum ellarum nalla sevappu. Kuzhandhai azhudhudha, Pankajam maami azhudhala, Padma azhudalanu theriyala, aana annikku maternity ward Room 23ukkullerndhu mattum mudhalla alaral sathamum, appuram vimmal sathamum muzhu raathiriyum kettunde irundhudhu.
An Elevator Story
One of the best stories I have been in :) -
I go to the library to get some books, step out at the wrong floor so have to take the elevator again. A couple of minutes' wait and the elevator door opens, only to show me it is packed with 5 other people(and it is supposed to hold something like 4 if they are real close and don't have problems with intruders in their private space). I am of half a mind to desist and take another ride up but the people inside gesture for me to come on in and share the little space there is(Oh I love thee Notre Dame already!). The girl next to me politely asks where I have to go and we find that someone else is getting off on the 9th floor. So we settle in for the all-so-short ride and the old man with the collar(to the uninitiated, this means he is one of the initiated - a priest) to my left, who seems eerily familiar, starts talking across me to the couple to my right about how someone in the Vatican stole his work and how, to this day, one can compare the thesis this Vatican guy wrote with what our man had published earlier, obviously the latter half of a conversation that I had interrupted with my rude, discomfiting entrance. The couple are like "Oh really.. So the world goes" and all those cliched clucks of the tongue that express both sympathy and disapproval. Then, as the 9th floor comes up(or should it be down) and I start walking out, I hear the last 2 classic exchanges - "So are you a professor or something here? Do you have any position here?" ask the couple, and the cleric answers "Oh I was President of this University once. I am Theodore Hesburgh. This library is named after me."
No wonder he looked familiar!!!
I go to the library to get some books, step out at the wrong floor so have to take the elevator again. A couple of minutes' wait and the elevator door opens, only to show me it is packed with 5 other people(and it is supposed to hold something like 4 if they are real close and don't have problems with intruders in their private space). I am of half a mind to desist and take another ride up but the people inside gesture for me to come on in and share the little space there is(Oh I love thee Notre Dame already!). The girl next to me politely asks where I have to go and we find that someone else is getting off on the 9th floor. So we settle in for the all-so-short ride and the old man with the collar(to the uninitiated, this means he is one of the initiated - a priest) to my left, who seems eerily familiar, starts talking across me to the couple to my right about how someone in the Vatican stole his work and how, to this day, one can compare the thesis this Vatican guy wrote with what our man had published earlier, obviously the latter half of a conversation that I had interrupted with my rude, discomfiting entrance. The couple are like "Oh really.. So the world goes" and all those cliched clucks of the tongue that express both sympathy and disapproval. Then, as the 9th floor comes up(or should it be down) and I start walking out, I hear the last 2 classic exchanges - "So are you a professor or something here? Do you have any position here?" ask the couple, and the cleric answers "Oh I was President of this University once. I am Theodore Hesburgh. This library is named after me."
No wonder he looked familiar!!!
Friday, August 25, 2006
The Old Man and the City
I am a college student trying to make sense of life in the big city. The whole place is a big, beautiful mess and getting around is one of the worst and best parts of my daily life. I have been here sometime now and still I manage to get lost every once in a while. And it is during these times that I have had the most fun ever in my life. Bumping into strange alleys with exotic shops and houses, meeting new people and long-lost friends and getting to know about life first-hand from the street and its noises directly.
It was during one of these rambles that I met Uncle P. I did not recognize him at first; he looked so old and decrepit and I had never seen that miserable look in his face - he was always smiling and happy and had a twinkle in his eye in the old times when I was still just a kid. He would tell us stories, all beautiful, and recite poems too and do all kinds of fun and crazy things. I and my cousins and all our friends just used to love Uncle P and waited for him eagerly at the doorstep every summer morning as he came down the long country lane from his cottage. No one ever knew who he was or what he did, not even his name, but every summer he would rent the cottage and he would spend everyday with us, fishing, swimming, biking, apple-picking and other stuff.
But now he seemed very tired and it looked like he was carrying a heavy burden. I started talking to him and told him about all the wonderful days he had given me. I had come to college to become intelligent and wise like him and I told him I wanted to be a writer too and write the kind of stories and poems that he had written all those days ago. He listened patiently and after a long time, smiled a little and took me by hand to a grimy window. "Listen, kid. I dont know who you are any more. But that dump is where I live now. This is my sooty, grimy life and this is all I have got. When I was younger, I had a muse and I could tell stories and write poetry. Then, one day, the muse left me and I felt sad. So I wrote more and harder and furiously, seeking sublimation. I thought I will get over all my sorrows that way. But now I am older and know I will never be any less sadder or write anything worth reading any more. I am happy you found what I wrote good and I am happy there is someone in this world who remembers me when I was not like this. But the truth is I am just done and I dont want anything any more. You take care of yourself and be happy. Never try to fall into sorrow and break yourself. Now get going and forget I ever was," he said.
I was pained a bit and sad and tried to talk him into writing something for me. But he just waved the idea away. When I said, "Maybe I will come tomorrow and see if you feel better and will write something," he just replied, "Kid, maybe you will find me better tomorrow but just hope I wont be here tomorrow. That is all I want now - that are no more tomorrows for me. I find today too difficult already." And with that he walked past me into his sad room and shut the door. And I knew he had thanked me already.
It was during one of these rambles that I met Uncle P. I did not recognize him at first; he looked so old and decrepit and I had never seen that miserable look in his face - he was always smiling and happy and had a twinkle in his eye in the old times when I was still just a kid. He would tell us stories, all beautiful, and recite poems too and do all kinds of fun and crazy things. I and my cousins and all our friends just used to love Uncle P and waited for him eagerly at the doorstep every summer morning as he came down the long country lane from his cottage. No one ever knew who he was or what he did, not even his name, but every summer he would rent the cottage and he would spend everyday with us, fishing, swimming, biking, apple-picking and other stuff.
But now he seemed very tired and it looked like he was carrying a heavy burden. I started talking to him and told him about all the wonderful days he had given me. I had come to college to become intelligent and wise like him and I told him I wanted to be a writer too and write the kind of stories and poems that he had written all those days ago. He listened patiently and after a long time, smiled a little and took me by hand to a grimy window. "Listen, kid. I dont know who you are any more. But that dump is where I live now. This is my sooty, grimy life and this is all I have got. When I was younger, I had a muse and I could tell stories and write poetry. Then, one day, the muse left me and I felt sad. So I wrote more and harder and furiously, seeking sublimation. I thought I will get over all my sorrows that way. But now I am older and know I will never be any less sadder or write anything worth reading any more. I am happy you found what I wrote good and I am happy there is someone in this world who remembers me when I was not like this. But the truth is I am just done and I dont want anything any more. You take care of yourself and be happy. Never try to fall into sorrow and break yourself. Now get going and forget I ever was," he said.
I was pained a bit and sad and tried to talk him into writing something for me. But he just waved the idea away. When I said, "Maybe I will come tomorrow and see if you feel better and will write something," he just replied, "Kid, maybe you will find me better tomorrow but just hope I wont be here tomorrow. That is all I want now - that are no more tomorrows for me. I find today too difficult already." And with that he walked past me into his sad room and shut the door. And I knew he had thanked me already.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
On a dark night in the woods by a lake
I am bored now so let us try something for fun. Let us walk around the woods in the dark and try to get to the lake. Let us make up a story for ourselves as we go along. There has to be a hero in it and a heroine and we will add a few other characters. There will be a lot of incidents, some funny, some sad, but all interesting, and our hero and heroine will experience most of these. We will place them in some place in some time and we will decide that they have certain names. Or maybe we won't name them. But still we will have to describe them. The hero has to be a tall, fair and handsome guy who steals the heart of every damsel in the vicinity. He is strong and brave and intelligent and knows a lot of things others do not. He can sing, dance and maybe we will use him in some romantic situations with the heroine where he will woo her with the most beautiful song ever sung. And he will write it too. Mind the branches.
The heroine is the prettiest lass ever of course and she is also humble and quiet and intelligent and brave. She knows sewing but can ride a horse with gusto too and sings to the birds in the most dulcet tones imaginable. Of course our hero heard her sing in the woods and lost his heart to the voice before he even saw her face. But that is a different episode and we still aren't done with our characters. So let us add the treacherous uncle who takes care of our heroine and covets the riches her parents left her. He hasn't told her all this yet but there is a magic seal on the treasure chest that only the heroine can break when she is 21. So let us make her a few days short of her 21st birthday. There are wild animals around so stick to the path.
Then there is our hero's evil stepmother who wants to get his father's kingdom for her stupid son, who is good at heart but a total nincompoop and numbskull. The father is old and weak and so our son decides to ease his burden by walking away from the kingdom and living an adventure for himself. That is how he comes to the forest and hears the heroine sing. While he is hunting. Or maybe he is just trying to get to the lake to watch the river flow. His friend is with him too. A good friend, loyal and devoted to the hero and also brave and intelligent and with a hundred other virtues. Only a bit hot-tempered so the uncle better watch out. But of course the uncle has his foolish but brawny henchmen who wield the hammer and the axe. Don't go too far out or we will lose each other.
So the hero meets the heroine and they fall in love naturally. They sing and dance and pick flowers and talk and tell each other wonderful stories and blush and kiss and do all the thousand nothings that is normal in these times. Then there is the rain. Though it is glorious and summer, there is a mild thunderstorm and these two have to find shelter in a cave. There they find the ancient witch, a good one, but with only one tooth and dark and grey and wizened and wise and ugly and frightening. She tells the hero and heroine of the story of the heroine's father who was the original king and who had been killed by the heroine's uncle, who was not her uncle actually but a wizard after a scroll in the treasure chest that will show him the way to great things. The hero's father, the general has taken care of the kingdom and good care too but he is a weak man in policy and short-sighted and without glasses too so he can't see clearly and so the wizard's sister has been able to kill the hero's pretty, good and loyal mother and marry his father. These bushes are thorny and dense - take care - but the lake is near.
So the hero and heroine come to know all the truth but they decide to wait the few days - two? three? - till it is time for the Uncle to bring out the chest so the the heroine can open it. The hero's friend will take care of the two henchmen and the hero will take out the wizard using the magic the witch has brewed for him. It all goes well until the wizard brings the chest out and sees the hero's friend disposing of his henchmen. He casts a spell that immobilizes the princess and kills the hero's friend. The hero tries to fight him but is wounded in his heart and so the wizard makes good his escape. The chest lies there and near it the frozen princess and fallen at her feet is the poor hero of ours with bleeding heart and broken spirit. And in time the forest swallows up the place and in the time of the great flood, it is cut off from the mainland and becomes an island in the lake. There it is now, the lake and the strange landmass in the centre of it. It has been a while but atleast the story kept us going. Now that we are tired enough, let us go back and catch some sleep. But no more stories on the way. I have run out of ideas.
The heroine is the prettiest lass ever of course and she is also humble and quiet and intelligent and brave. She knows sewing but can ride a horse with gusto too and sings to the birds in the most dulcet tones imaginable. Of course our hero heard her sing in the woods and lost his heart to the voice before he even saw her face. But that is a different episode and we still aren't done with our characters. So let us add the treacherous uncle who takes care of our heroine and covets the riches her parents left her. He hasn't told her all this yet but there is a magic seal on the treasure chest that only the heroine can break when she is 21. So let us make her a few days short of her 21st birthday. There are wild animals around so stick to the path.
Then there is our hero's evil stepmother who wants to get his father's kingdom for her stupid son, who is good at heart but a total nincompoop and numbskull. The father is old and weak and so our son decides to ease his burden by walking away from the kingdom and living an adventure for himself. That is how he comes to the forest and hears the heroine sing. While he is hunting. Or maybe he is just trying to get to the lake to watch the river flow. His friend is with him too. A good friend, loyal and devoted to the hero and also brave and intelligent and with a hundred other virtues. Only a bit hot-tempered so the uncle better watch out. But of course the uncle has his foolish but brawny henchmen who wield the hammer and the axe. Don't go too far out or we will lose each other.
So the hero meets the heroine and they fall in love naturally. They sing and dance and pick flowers and talk and tell each other wonderful stories and blush and kiss and do all the thousand nothings that is normal in these times. Then there is the rain. Though it is glorious and summer, there is a mild thunderstorm and these two have to find shelter in a cave. There they find the ancient witch, a good one, but with only one tooth and dark and grey and wizened and wise and ugly and frightening. She tells the hero and heroine of the story of the heroine's father who was the original king and who had been killed by the heroine's uncle, who was not her uncle actually but a wizard after a scroll in the treasure chest that will show him the way to great things. The hero's father, the general has taken care of the kingdom and good care too but he is a weak man in policy and short-sighted and without glasses too so he can't see clearly and so the wizard's sister has been able to kill the hero's pretty, good and loyal mother and marry his father. These bushes are thorny and dense - take care - but the lake is near.
So the hero and heroine come to know all the truth but they decide to wait the few days - two? three? - till it is time for the Uncle to bring out the chest so the the heroine can open it. The hero's friend will take care of the two henchmen and the hero will take out the wizard using the magic the witch has brewed for him. It all goes well until the wizard brings the chest out and sees the hero's friend disposing of his henchmen. He casts a spell that immobilizes the princess and kills the hero's friend. The hero tries to fight him but is wounded in his heart and so the wizard makes good his escape. The chest lies there and near it the frozen princess and fallen at her feet is the poor hero of ours with bleeding heart and broken spirit. And in time the forest swallows up the place and in the time of the great flood, it is cut off from the mainland and becomes an island in the lake. There it is now, the lake and the strange landmass in the centre of it. It has been a while but atleast the story kept us going. Now that we are tired enough, let us go back and catch some sleep. But no more stories on the way. I have run out of ideas.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Twenty Two Steps
Twenty-two steps. Up and down. Each a foot high, and long enough for five people to stand on comfortably next to each other. Made with the solid granite quarried in the outer districts - built to last. Sharp, jagged corners here and there but in most places well-rounded. Hot in summer, cool in winter; slippery when it rains. Crows and pigeons - lots of them - wait on these all summer, flying away when men and women walk up or down. Leading up to the one place I now dread to go - the Department of XYZ. Twenty-two days in these last three months, and each day twice, I have climbed these steps; now I know them all intimately. Still my application rests, waiting to be seen, to be sent across the room, about the Office, over it to the higher-ups and, then, taking the same mysterious route, back to me, hopefully, with the one signature that it requires below all the hundreds of meaningless words in those dusty, sweat-wetted sheets, words that will attain their final meaning in making me the sole owner of a few puny acres in the outskirts, where I will dig out more of this granite, root it out, so I can feed my family a few crumbs a day till my son gets to sit in this same Office to receive my neighbour's son in his long, tiresome pilgrimage to the centre of meaninglessness. And I could have been saved all the trouble if my father had had the twenty-two rupees that he was asked to pay as expeditionary charge twenty-two years ago - now I have the twenty-two rupees but the bribes are not so small any more.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Chronicles of the Great War, Or: How We are all Had, Then Forgotten, and Then Had Again
"Show me, O Muse! the great things that be
In the inmost caverns of bottomless thine sea
Where hidest thou from me what I most yearn to see -
Thee!"
"The answer, mate, is Forty-two"
"What, pray?"
"Shut the f*** up and let me sleep"
---------
The times are hard when people have to look back to the past for Hope and all that can inspire is buried in the cavernous deeps of Myth and Legend; much more so when they have to do it on empty stomachs and on the orders of their masters. But the Great War was not myth nor legend nor were the great kings and soldiers who fought in it mere figments of a master-storyteller's imagination. They were more real indeed than what we are now in these pitiful times and they will be too when we give way to others who may be no better than us. What is myth and legend is what has survived of that Truth in its countless retellings, as a shroud well-used is worn away in time and bears merely the superficial imprints of a hundred masters it cloaked. But as every image of the Sol partakes atleast in part of its heat and light and perfection, each myth and legend though no more than story, contains the essence that is the Universal Truth of the Great War, its Causes and Consequences, shaping the World as we know it today. All this being merely apologous with respect to the present treatment of the great subject matter, in a word, to end with all prology and, To get on with the story,
In his thirteenth year after assuming Supreme Control of the Great Zones(Mandalas in some ancient tongues), the Great King was faced with a terrible question - that ancient problem in Philosophy: How to achieve Maximum Gain with Minimum Risk. It was trying enough to manufacture gain when needs and desires were greater than the means most people possessed; but to avoid risk - that was just about impossible. This of course is inconceivable today when we have the Great Machines and the Great Mechanics but we talk not of Today but of the Lost Times and, To understand this History, one needs to understand the world the Great King and his people(and also those who were not his people) lived in. For it is easy to forget that these were not the same people we are today nor was their world the same; their culture and their economics was different and so were their actions based on their particular beliefs and ideas. But, of course, little is known about it all and so we will continue inspite of all who dissent and split hairs. For it is easy to forget that these were people too and related to us not merely in their being Men but, even more intimately, for they made us and shaped us, both causally and creatively.
Anyways, the Great King had this problem and so he summoned his people from out everywhere and decided to tell them to bugger off to the different lands that were about and around and outside of his control where people lived who cared no two hoots for him and get them all to accept that what they were doing was all wrong and to give him what little they had and get from him nothing so his people could have more in the sense that they could have something atleast from these other folks and he could get them to thank him for having brought in something from the cold where no man had cared to venture before and if these people decided not to come in all quiet and hands tied or up or whichever way was good, he could bring them his fire and brimstone and all of that and let them have it real bad and then his people will be happy for they have a great leader.
Now these folks were pretty smart and knew which way was which and said to our King's people they would not come unless they got something in return like all those other people who had come in earlier to be subjects and get something more out of it than merely being called Citizens of the Great Free Zones or whatever and this made our King go all purple, then white, then blue, finally red and he said they were all a pack of thieves and liars and robbers and what-not, which upset some of these people, who were really liars and robbers and what-else-not and they went to War.
The Great War began. It was bad at first. Lots of people were killed. Then fewer people were left. So not many were killed. There were Heroes on all sides. And many villains. The Great Zones were hit hard. The outer lands were hit even harder. People started praying again. They started trusting in Science again. And built up Laboratories to the Gods. Where they shredded pigs and cheese. It helped them understand. They made better weapons to kill more effectively. They made Laws once more and followed them. And learnt new meanings of words and so Languages multiplied. New books were written so moths and bookworms multiplied. New Colleges were built and so many things multiplied. And there was plenty again. Not many people left though.
The King saw all this. He was happy for sometime, then sad. Things were not going either way. His problem was not getting solved. But he was a good King. He wanted his people to be happy. Atleast when he forgot that that was not what he wanted. He also had a bad memory and some bad teeth. And so soon he forgot his problem and saw that his people were happy. The other people were happy too sometimes. The Great War was making things multiply. There were fewer sad people everywhere. Nobody wanted to kill his neighbour or riot on Sundays. And he was becoming very famous. So he led his people on and fought a long long War. Nobody knows how long it lasted.
But as all things do, it came to an end - hopefully. And we all know the answer to the riddle - the fox burying his grandmother under the holly bush.
In the inmost caverns of bottomless thine sea
Where hidest thou from me what I most yearn to see -
Thee!"
"The answer, mate, is Forty-two"
"What, pray?"
"Shut the f*** up and let me sleep"
---------
The times are hard when people have to look back to the past for Hope and all that can inspire is buried in the cavernous deeps of Myth and Legend; much more so when they have to do it on empty stomachs and on the orders of their masters. But the Great War was not myth nor legend nor were the great kings and soldiers who fought in it mere figments of a master-storyteller's imagination. They were more real indeed than what we are now in these pitiful times and they will be too when we give way to others who may be no better than us. What is myth and legend is what has survived of that Truth in its countless retellings, as a shroud well-used is worn away in time and bears merely the superficial imprints of a hundred masters it cloaked. But as every image of the Sol partakes atleast in part of its heat and light and perfection, each myth and legend though no more than story, contains the essence that is the Universal Truth of the Great War, its Causes and Consequences, shaping the World as we know it today. All this being merely apologous with respect to the present treatment of the great subject matter, in a word, to end with all prology and, To get on with the story,
In his thirteenth year after assuming Supreme Control of the Great Zones(Mandalas in some ancient tongues), the Great King was faced with a terrible question - that ancient problem in Philosophy: How to achieve Maximum Gain with Minimum Risk. It was trying enough to manufacture gain when needs and desires were greater than the means most people possessed; but to avoid risk - that was just about impossible. This of course is inconceivable today when we have the Great Machines and the Great Mechanics but we talk not of Today but of the Lost Times and, To understand this History, one needs to understand the world the Great King and his people(and also those who were not his people) lived in. For it is easy to forget that these were not the same people we are today nor was their world the same; their culture and their economics was different and so were their actions based on their particular beliefs and ideas. But, of course, little is known about it all and so we will continue inspite of all who dissent and split hairs. For it is easy to forget that these were people too and related to us not merely in their being Men but, even more intimately, for they made us and shaped us, both causally and creatively.
Anyways, the Great King had this problem and so he summoned his people from out everywhere and decided to tell them to bugger off to the different lands that were about and around and outside of his control where people lived who cared no two hoots for him and get them all to accept that what they were doing was all wrong and to give him what little they had and get from him nothing so his people could have more in the sense that they could have something atleast from these other folks and he could get them to thank him for having brought in something from the cold where no man had cared to venture before and if these people decided not to come in all quiet and hands tied or up or whichever way was good, he could bring them his fire and brimstone and all of that and let them have it real bad and then his people will be happy for they have a great leader.
Now these folks were pretty smart and knew which way was which and said to our King's people they would not come unless they got something in return like all those other people who had come in earlier to be subjects and get something more out of it than merely being called Citizens of the Great Free Zones or whatever and this made our King go all purple, then white, then blue, finally red and he said they were all a pack of thieves and liars and robbers and what-not, which upset some of these people, who were really liars and robbers and what-else-not and they went to War.
The Great War began. It was bad at first. Lots of people were killed. Then fewer people were left. So not many were killed. There were Heroes on all sides. And many villains. The Great Zones were hit hard. The outer lands were hit even harder. People started praying again. They started trusting in Science again. And built up Laboratories to the Gods. Where they shredded pigs and cheese. It helped them understand. They made better weapons to kill more effectively. They made Laws once more and followed them. And learnt new meanings of words and so Languages multiplied. New books were written so moths and bookworms multiplied. New Colleges were built and so many things multiplied. And there was plenty again. Not many people left though.
The King saw all this. He was happy for sometime, then sad. Things were not going either way. His problem was not getting solved. But he was a good King. He wanted his people to be happy. Atleast when he forgot that that was not what he wanted. He also had a bad memory and some bad teeth. And so soon he forgot his problem and saw that his people were happy. The other people were happy too sometimes. The Great War was making things multiply. There were fewer sad people everywhere. Nobody wanted to kill his neighbour or riot on Sundays. And he was becoming very famous. So he led his people on and fought a long long War. Nobody knows how long it lasted.
But as all things do, it came to an end - hopefully. And we all know the answer to the riddle - the fox burying his grandmother under the holly bush.
Friday, March 10, 2006
The Land of the Hippo
Prologue:
Two words - that is all I have for you. I am surprised I can manage even those after all that has happened. Not that I blame you but you should have known how it would hurt me. And it did hurt a lot. At least initially when I was still blind. I mean blind to the things of the world. Anyway it is all in the past now. The present is all I have. And the two words that I have for you.
The Argument:
The hippo lives in bloats. It spans a few decades and weighs a few tonnes metric. Though ponderous heavy, it runs fast on land, floating or propelling on water faster than man can. It uses blood sweat for protection against the sun and was mistaken for the horse by the Greeks. Later it was found to be kin of the pig whereas recent studies make a whale of it. Wars threaten extinction of the hippo but conservationists have found hippos that bond well with 100 year-old tortoises.
The Fable:
Humpty Dumpty sat on a Wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great Fall
And all the King's Horses
And all the King's Men
Did not look Humpty Dumpty in the eye again.
Epilogue:
I switched on the TV at the right moment. There was this piece about Jay Bennish, a Colorado high school social studies teacher. He had been discussing Bush's State of the Union address in class and had claimed that America was the most violent nation on earth. He had also likened Bush's statements to some of Adolf Hitler's. A student in the class Sean, clandestinely taped 20 minutes of what he calls 'all this rant' on his MP3 player and released it to authorities through his father. School authorities moved in swiftly and are now investigating if Bennish actually crossed the 'line' in the lecture. The incident has sparked a furious debate over academic freedom and differences between conservatives and liberals is beginning to show markedly. People claim it is just one of many incidents that have been sparked by the Bush administration's fear-and-alarm tactics post-9/11. Academics are afraid the overarching fear for security is cutting into First Amendment rights as much as it is placing curbs on the providing of any meaningful education to children. There seems to be no clear decision possible in the current scenario where terror attacks seem to have subsided but fear of more such attacks has increased beyond all reasonable proportions. I, for one, do not intend to fly just before Christmas out of JFK or OHare.
Questions:
Q. What are the two words?
Q. What is a hippo? How much does it weigh?
Q. Why and how did Humpty Dumpty climb the wall?
Q. When did Bush give the Union address? What MP3 player did Sean use to tape Bennish's lecture?
Two words - that is all I have for you. I am surprised I can manage even those after all that has happened. Not that I blame you but you should have known how it would hurt me. And it did hurt a lot. At least initially when I was still blind. I mean blind to the things of the world. Anyway it is all in the past now. The present is all I have. And the two words that I have for you.
The Argument:
The hippo lives in bloats. It spans a few decades and weighs a few tonnes metric. Though ponderous heavy, it runs fast on land, floating or propelling on water faster than man can. It uses blood sweat for protection against the sun and was mistaken for the horse by the Greeks. Later it was found to be kin of the pig whereas recent studies make a whale of it. Wars threaten extinction of the hippo but conservationists have found hippos that bond well with 100 year-old tortoises.
The Fable:
Humpty Dumpty sat on a Wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great Fall
And all the King's Horses
And all the King's Men
Did not look Humpty Dumpty in the eye again.
Epilogue:
I switched on the TV at the right moment. There was this piece about Jay Bennish, a Colorado high school social studies teacher. He had been discussing Bush's State of the Union address in class and had claimed that America was the most violent nation on earth. He had also likened Bush's statements to some of Adolf Hitler's. A student in the class Sean, clandestinely taped 20 minutes of what he calls 'all this rant' on his MP3 player and released it to authorities through his father. School authorities moved in swiftly and are now investigating if Bennish actually crossed the 'line' in the lecture. The incident has sparked a furious debate over academic freedom and differences between conservatives and liberals is beginning to show markedly. People claim it is just one of many incidents that have been sparked by the Bush administration's fear-and-alarm tactics post-9/11. Academics are afraid the overarching fear for security is cutting into First Amendment rights as much as it is placing curbs on the providing of any meaningful education to children. There seems to be no clear decision possible in the current scenario where terror attacks seem to have subsided but fear of more such attacks has increased beyond all reasonable proportions. I, for one, do not intend to fly just before Christmas out of JFK or OHare.
Questions:
Q. What are the two words?
Q. What is a hippo? How much does it weigh?
Q. Why and how did Humpty Dumpty climb the wall?
Q. When did Bush give the Union address? What MP3 player did Sean use to tape Bennish's lecture?
Monday, February 27, 2006
An imitation of Donne
Each man is an island, entire in himself; each man is a whole, wrought alone. In thought and deed, man does employ acquaintance; but in the entirety of his life he has but few shared moments. Whom we call a friend today becomes an acquaintance tomorrow and is forgotten the next day and a new friend comes and knocks at our hearts' doors: so little of permanence exists in our relations. As two bells that ring for the faithful at the same time, not by design or art but out of mere probability, two hearts resonate together for a while; the next day ask not if one tolled before the other - that no man knows. And if you belong to some community, desire not that it last forever, for that never may be given to things of man; ask instead that you may enjoy the company the little way it lasts and then walk your own way to your own home.
Monday, December 12, 2005
An Ode to Pain
It was a glorious world a long time ago. There were summers and springs and colours falling gently in a soothing breeze. There were smiling faces and happy thoughts and loads of cheerful things to talk about. There were merry sounds circling in the wind; but of course that was a long long time ago. Now there is only a perpetual winter and no warmth even to relieve the pain of a dead, cold monotony. But atleast the wall does not move. It is a thing of white layered over with the ashes of a hundred memories. A projector into the past and the future. A reminder of things that blur in the brain, of all the nothingness that awaits in the future. A brick wall. A wall of burnt clay. And I can stare at it and know I still am, as it is. Not much more to do now.
I am alive. I eat, breathe, sleep, shit and do all those vulgar things that make up everyday life. Or is it the daily death. And I breed maggots near the window too where the sun glances in occassionally. Of course I was not always like this. I used to believe too in movement and the frustration of hopes. I used to run and jump and conjure ideas to change the world. I remember vividly picking up my first yellow banana peel lying on the gray, cold cobblestones in a far away city and dumping it into a cold, gray dustbin on the busy corner so nobody slipped on it in their hurry to get to where they were going. It was a Sunday and I think now it was odd there were no carnivals that day. Sundays seem to remind me now of carnivals when people danced merry jigs on the streets and traipsed home jolly. But maybe I do not have a good memory. Or they just stayed in to rest from their Creations.
There were rats where I live now. Rats. Now I. Living off the refuse of the daily drones. And before the rats, there was a nightclub where people used to dance Friday nights and Saturdays too. Shows how things change. The worm that eats the king that eats the fish that eats the worm. Full circle. Men in between so things go their sweet way in a hurry. The rats were chased off of course when I still had the mind to. Now I just sit and stare.
Someone once told me I was destined for great things. He made me what I am. Not that he knew I would end up this way but still. Maybe I should just get up now and walk away. Only I have forgotten how to. Not to walk but to walk away. He taught me that too. You just don't walk away from things. You take them on. And I am still fighting the good fight, am I not? Waiting. Sitting. Refusing to walk out through the tempting door that brings in voices every now and then, voices that make me want to shout out loud sometimes, "Help" maybe, or "Save yourselves". There is no knowing what I would shout. Not when I know I will not.
I see her face often these days. A pity. I couldn't when she was near and now she will never be here. To see what I see. Those eyes in the first days were always lighted with some pretty fire. And her hands used to dance. Strange ways hands have of calling you near and pushing you away. And then slowly the light died from the eyes and the hands couldn't move any more. They could not even hold mine for support as she fell away. But there was no time then as there is now. Let the lost bury the lost. It was a time to strive, to seek and to find. And now I find her here. Strange.
Words too come to mind. Pretty poems and pointless rhymes. And the Moonlight Sonata blaring from the icecream vendor's moving cart. Painted red and blue with shades of white and gold, he used to be a favorite after school. After playtime. Before homework. I went to his funeral too. By chance. Was on the grounds for a friend's and they brought him in. Recognized the Beethoven and couldn't stop crying for a while. Red eyes. Good after a friend's funeral. Leaves an impression of trustworthiness.
The lizards on the wall make funny sounds. Not like the ones back home. They used to hide from mother. Came out only when it was really dark and I the only one to spot them. Mother was always one for order. The lizards their due and the milkman his. Cried a lot when I went off to college. Cost her a lot of second jobs. And early breakfasts. She was always there to see me off. To school, to college, to work. Had to see her off myself when the complications came. Heart troubles they said. A fist's worth of a life's pain.
Father took it pretty well considering. He had second jobs too and sometimes a third. Never was around long enough to see movies with. Friends are for seeing movies with. Fathers bring in the money to get popcorn and tickets. There were sounds at night of doors opening and the wood creaking but not much to recall from the early days. Later, he used to hold hands with Mother when the train was leaving, waving after it was out of sight. But he is out of sight now. Has been a long time since I did not see him.
There were a lot of friends in school and lots more in college. Fun to spend time and money with. Laze around, fool around, do fun things with, and then it is time to leave. Some stayed but not many. I still talked to them until it was time to move up or down - depends on who was on which elevator. And a few of them will come too if I send out invitations to my own funeral. Have to do it and see how many do come. Like Mark Twain or Huck Finn.
Then work. Lots of it. More than anything else. The great race and the big dreams. Offices all shiny and money crisp like cardboard or plastic. Thing you buy things with to do things with. Had lots of it in my time and lots of them too. Now no place to keep them. So dumped it all outside a friend's house. Might be of help to him. No use to me any more.
I came here quite by accident. Don't remember exactly when or how but I do remember not looking for this place. One of those things that strike your fancy at first sight. Draw you in and you don't want to leave. A symbol. Of what you are, what you have been, what you want to be. An old, failing place where worms breed. Eating away slowly what was once a nightclub, a dump. A memory of things that have been. I don't have much now, don't see much, don't eat much and consequently don't shit much. But I am alive. And there is the wall. In front of me. All the time.
I am alive. I eat, breathe, sleep, shit and do all those vulgar things that make up everyday life. Or is it the daily death. And I breed maggots near the window too where the sun glances in occassionally. Of course I was not always like this. I used to believe too in movement and the frustration of hopes. I used to run and jump and conjure ideas to change the world. I remember vividly picking up my first yellow banana peel lying on the gray, cold cobblestones in a far away city and dumping it into a cold, gray dustbin on the busy corner so nobody slipped on it in their hurry to get to where they were going. It was a Sunday and I think now it was odd there were no carnivals that day. Sundays seem to remind me now of carnivals when people danced merry jigs on the streets and traipsed home jolly. But maybe I do not have a good memory. Or they just stayed in to rest from their Creations.
There were rats where I live now. Rats. Now I. Living off the refuse of the daily drones. And before the rats, there was a nightclub where people used to dance Friday nights and Saturdays too. Shows how things change. The worm that eats the king that eats the fish that eats the worm. Full circle. Men in between so things go their sweet way in a hurry. The rats were chased off of course when I still had the mind to. Now I just sit and stare.
Someone once told me I was destined for great things. He made me what I am. Not that he knew I would end up this way but still. Maybe I should just get up now and walk away. Only I have forgotten how to. Not to walk but to walk away. He taught me that too. You just don't walk away from things. You take them on. And I am still fighting the good fight, am I not? Waiting. Sitting. Refusing to walk out through the tempting door that brings in voices every now and then, voices that make me want to shout out loud sometimes, "Help" maybe, or "Save yourselves". There is no knowing what I would shout. Not when I know I will not.
I see her face often these days. A pity. I couldn't when she was near and now she will never be here. To see what I see. Those eyes in the first days were always lighted with some pretty fire. And her hands used to dance. Strange ways hands have of calling you near and pushing you away. And then slowly the light died from the eyes and the hands couldn't move any more. They could not even hold mine for support as she fell away. But there was no time then as there is now. Let the lost bury the lost. It was a time to strive, to seek and to find. And now I find her here. Strange.
Words too come to mind. Pretty poems and pointless rhymes. And the Moonlight Sonata blaring from the icecream vendor's moving cart. Painted red and blue with shades of white and gold, he used to be a favorite after school. After playtime. Before homework. I went to his funeral too. By chance. Was on the grounds for a friend's and they brought him in. Recognized the Beethoven and couldn't stop crying for a while. Red eyes. Good after a friend's funeral. Leaves an impression of trustworthiness.
The lizards on the wall make funny sounds. Not like the ones back home. They used to hide from mother. Came out only when it was really dark and I the only one to spot them. Mother was always one for order. The lizards their due and the milkman his. Cried a lot when I went off to college. Cost her a lot of second jobs. And early breakfasts. She was always there to see me off. To school, to college, to work. Had to see her off myself when the complications came. Heart troubles they said. A fist's worth of a life's pain.
Father took it pretty well considering. He had second jobs too and sometimes a third. Never was around long enough to see movies with. Friends are for seeing movies with. Fathers bring in the money to get popcorn and tickets. There were sounds at night of doors opening and the wood creaking but not much to recall from the early days. Later, he used to hold hands with Mother when the train was leaving, waving after it was out of sight. But he is out of sight now. Has been a long time since I did not see him.
There were a lot of friends in school and lots more in college. Fun to spend time and money with. Laze around, fool around, do fun things with, and then it is time to leave. Some stayed but not many. I still talked to them until it was time to move up or down - depends on who was on which elevator. And a few of them will come too if I send out invitations to my own funeral. Have to do it and see how many do come. Like Mark Twain or Huck Finn.
Then work. Lots of it. More than anything else. The great race and the big dreams. Offices all shiny and money crisp like cardboard or plastic. Thing you buy things with to do things with. Had lots of it in my time and lots of them too. Now no place to keep them. So dumped it all outside a friend's house. Might be of help to him. No use to me any more.
I came here quite by accident. Don't remember exactly when or how but I do remember not looking for this place. One of those things that strike your fancy at first sight. Draw you in and you don't want to leave. A symbol. Of what you are, what you have been, what you want to be. An old, failing place where worms breed. Eating away slowly what was once a nightclub, a dump. A memory of things that have been. I don't have much now, don't see much, don't eat much and consequently don't shit much. But I am alive. And there is the wall. In front of me. All the time.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Small change
He held up the rupee coin in the light of the dying streetlamp. The light that danced off the tarnished metal in the silent gloom made him flinch but he kept looking, eyes half-closed buddha-like. No, not in greed or in triumph but in wonder; that this was all one got for braving the merciless sun overhead and underfoot, running in rags passed as heirlooms from generation to generation, begging of glum men wandering lost in the park or at the railway station in words that made little sense. There was magic in it, he understood. And those who knew how to use it, when they had drained all the magic off it, threw it away to kids like him: worthless; but it helped live. One day, he told himself, I'll get a new coin, and then I will not need to run ever in the night when the police constable comes among us drunk, venting his fury on our bare bones; and I will throw the used coin on the face of that filthy rat from the opposite bank who stole from me the red car at the traffic signal yesterday.
He held up the rupee coin in the light of the dying streetlamp. He saw in the light that danced around the edges of the coin, the laughter of the young girl in the coffeeshop. Frayed and bright, nervous, waiting to please, so sure yet so unsure. This was what she too was worth, to be held in his hand against the light. Protecting him from the light and her eyes from the ugly leer. The coin in his hand gave him the right to say so. Hadn't he earned it, with the sweat of his brow and with the work of his hands? This, finally, was the meaning of life: to hold in one's hand one's worth, honest and hard-earned, and if it be slippery, to hold it firm and feel happy in the glow of possession.
He held up the rupee coin in the light of the dying streetlamp. Not much in it, this piece of metal that sold itself, bought itself. Besides he had the job now and his new set of credit cards. The coin clattered away into a gutter, leaving in its tinkling wake the sound of a wasted silence.
He held up the rupee coin in the light of the dying streetlamp. He saw in the light that danced around the edges of the coin, the laughter of the young girl in the coffeeshop. Frayed and bright, nervous, waiting to please, so sure yet so unsure. This was what she too was worth, to be held in his hand against the light. Protecting him from the light and her eyes from the ugly leer. The coin in his hand gave him the right to say so. Hadn't he earned it, with the sweat of his brow and with the work of his hands? This, finally, was the meaning of life: to hold in one's hand one's worth, honest and hard-earned, and if it be slippery, to hold it firm and feel happy in the glow of possession.
He held up the rupee coin in the light of the dying streetlamp. Not much in it, this piece of metal that sold itself, bought itself. Besides he had the job now and his new set of credit cards. The coin clattered away into a gutter, leaving in its tinkling wake the sound of a wasted silence.
Lines without tails - 2
It was always the same old thing, the routine never changed, flat, dull and boring. Today he will take the subway.
Lines without tails - 1
Round and round they went, hand in hand, smiling, happy, winking every now and then. And then the rain started.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Darknight
I have walked down these alleys before. Each corner has known me at the midnight hour, alone and brooding, hands in pockets, head bowed, deep in thought, trudging from home or towards. A solitary streetlamp illuminates some and some are dark but that does not mean much. Light is essential when people are around or the threat of them. In silence, one finds darkness the better companion. The mind is free to ignore objects that arrest its flight, bringing it down to earth, making it the slave of ponderous, transitory phrases. What in the brightness of the noon-sun gleams, glitters, causes the eye to waver, in darkness ceases to exist, swallowed up in the oblivion to which all things unseen by human eye are condemned. This state of affairs I prefer in my midnight rambles, far from the madding press of people and things in the daily world. Aimless, the senses silenced, the mind wanders at will as do the feet, looking for nothing and finding it near the edge of existence. Yet not all who wander are lost; but come back in time to where they left from, refreshed from encounters with remoteness. I return too to the cycle that bred me, that feeds me, that will throw me away, in time, for something better; and I want to return too. For the absence of meaning tires as much as too much of it does. A night is only so long and, at daybreak, I have to take my place in the ranks. I will not be missed but I cannot have my hands in my pockets nor head bowed when the sun finds me. It ill affords me to let go the dire moment that separates me from non-existence and I do not. Dark alleys are better visited when it is dark.
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