Love blooms while my nerves weep

The Black silks rolled itself into the meandering; wine green maze body of the branches.


1.His disheveled hair writhed and moved forward to touch its distant cousins – clumps of mignonette branches.
2. Trying to impress his botany girlfriend, our hero produces from his trouser pocket a clumsy, naked branches of Lawsonia Inermis, thinking, by naming Latin name, she will feel connected. The disheveled hair and branches of the tree, which are both clutched by him, turn into shenanigans and plan out a plan to spoil his plan. Whispering between themselves by brushing together their rough and silky body, the tuft of hair forms a ring in outstretched hands of branches, and thereby producing an optimal amount of pain and awkward frontal bend of the body of our hero. The lady who understands even the most subtle movements and calls of botanical creatures, awoke to this natural revelation – of him being a tyrant – oppressing the hair in his head and choking the plant, whose feathery leaves were razed under the iron fingers of his. So as a result of this, she snatches away the branches from him and there comes out the oppressed species oppressed for millennia, readily springing forth from his bald head and rushes to hug the branches. And there bloomed a strange love!
The Black silks rolled itself into the meandering; wine green maze body of the branches.
While our hero still stands bent forward with his arms snatching the empty air and his bald head reflecting thousand specks of light! While our girlfriend walks away holding the new couple and averting her gaze out of shyness!

The Letter Killers Club – A book review

From the book (Narrator as the To be Hamlet) :

Stern (To be Hamlet, but not to be one) : I am only a conceiver, you see, I cannot complete anything: the letters hidden inside your book—O great image—shall remain forever unread by me. 

Book: The Letter Killers Club

Author: Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky


Update on an update (isn’t reading a never ending quest?):
As on 2.11.2018

As I read Manguel’s A History of Reading recently and it has been some time since, that I have allowed it to sink in, I am wondering if The Letter killers club by Krzhizhanovsky – apart from its meta fictional layer, is “also” a homage to tradition of ancient oral narration — an anti-text, an anti-reading and writing tradition.

The line of this interpretation is of course flickered by reading Socrates advise about futility of reading a written text. Comparing a muted painting to a lifeless text, given life by imagination of a reader’s “own knowledge”. In short — nothing gained in the process.

“A reader must be singularly simple minded to believe that written words can do anything more than remind one of what one already knows”

Socrates to Phaedrus. Quoted from Alberto Manguel’s A history of Reading.

Though I had already decided to re-read certain parts of most of the books that I read this year, this book will demand a closer reading.
Let me try to write a review after doing it.

So, now to the latest position of it:
I read two stories from this book yesterday.

Before talking about those stories, let me say a few things about the general idea of the work. It is about a group of conceivers (as they call themselves), who have stopped writing stories and have turned themselves into a more like narrators (if one could use that term). Each week they meet once and engage themselves in a story telling sessions.
The protagonist of the book is an outsider, who is let into this secret anti-letter society, and he takes part as a listener in the tales narrated by these members.

The first story is a play within a play conceived as a play taking place in their room.
Taking the Shakespeare’s Hamlet as the subject, we have an actor who struggles to get into the role of Hamlet and engages in lamenting within himself, and is later led into the land of roles (hall of fame sort), where there are the past Hamlets – that is, who have earned themselves a place for being great actors who performed the role of Hamlet in the past, and he ends up swapping the place with a role. There are many references to other plays of Shakespeare too, so I couldn’t get few of those.

From the book:

STERN: But then how can we … straighten this out?
ROLE: Again, very simply. I’ll take you to Hamletburg, and you can look for the one you want.
STERN (confused): But where is that? And how do you get there?
ROLE: Where? In the Land of Roles. There is such a place. As for how you get there, that can be neither told, nor shown. I think the audience will forgive us if we … ring down the curtain.
Rar calmly surveyed us. “The Role, in essence, is right. If you’ll allow me, I’ll say: Curtain.

You would have noted the play-within-a play quality in the above excerpt!

But there happens an act of treason, on the same similar fashion as the above Socrates-Phaedrus incident. The narrator of this play in the name of Rar ( the nomenclature of this group as its own peculiarity) who in the middle of the narration takes a piece of paper which he had concealed till then, and the president of the group snatches away the paper to throw it into the fire.
The narrator without his concealed paper “describes” the future scenes of the play and ends abruptly!

From the book:

Rar reached into an inside pocket: something rustled under his black frockcoat. He fell suddenly silent and looked at us with wide eyes. Necks craned nervously. Chairs edged closer. Zez jumped up and motioned for the noise to stop. “Rar,” he snapped. “Did you smuggle letters in here? Hiding them from us? Give me the manuscript. Right now!”
Rar seemed to hesitate. Then, amid the silence, his hand darted out from under his frockcoat: in his fingers, which were trembling slightly, a notebook folded in four showed white. Zez grabbed it and ran his eyes over the symbols: he held the manuscript almost at arm’s length, by one corner, as though afraid to sully himself with its inky lines. Then he spun around to the fire: it was almost out, only a few coals slowly turning violet continued to blaze above the fender.
“As per Article 5 of the Regulations, this manuscript is committed to death: without spilling ink. Objections?”
No one moved.
With a quick flick, the president tossed the notebook onto the coals. As though alive, white leaves writhing in agony, it set up a soft thin hiss; the spiral of smoke turned blue; then, from underneath, a flame leapt up. Three minutes later, having reduced to ashes with staccato blows of the tongs what so recently was a play, Zez replaced the tongs, turned to Rar and muttered, “Go on.”

Interestingly, the narrator at one point, becomes the Hamlet himself and at another point becomes the director.

From the book (Narrator as the To be Hamlet) :

Stern (To be Hamlet, but not to be one) : I am only a conceiver, you see, I cannot complete anything: the letters hidden inside your book—O great image—shall remain forever unread by me.

Now as the Director:

Timer (Director) : I don’t recognize you, Stern: you’ve always seemed to avoid playing— even with words. Well then, two actors for one role? Why not? Attention: I’m taking the role and breaking it in two.

Many things happen above- Rar before narrating the story informs that he is breaking Guildenstern into Guilden and Stern; narrator introduces the director as a lookalike of himself; “You’ve always avoided playing, even with words” is a reference to himself, though it fits Hamlet equally, pretty well.

I feel it is more like two mirrors reflecting each other – the conceiver reflecting himself in the play, the play in turn reflecting themselves to the creator, and that too being a play, which again is a reference to the creator. This all makes it a complete round shaped structure – a sort of ouroboros – feeding and completing the cycle of creation.

The second story was difficult for me! I am not a sci-fi guy, but the story can be taken as a political allegory of the communist dictatorship, a warning of science obsessed or technology ridden world, or critic of the future capitalism. It depends on the person, as to what they read in it. But it is surely Way ahead of its time!



The little town where time stood still (Bohumil Hrabal) – A book review

Book: The little town where time stood still

Author: Bohumil Hrabapl

This book has two novellas, I think “linked” together – Cutting it short and The little town where time stood still. Set in a rural town in Czechoslovakia, it captures the town during the interwar years, war times and immediate aftermath of World war 2.

The first novella is called Cutting it short, in which we get to see Bohumil Hrabal’s mother’s perspective of the world. How far this was fictionalized or how true these are, I don’t know. In fact, Hrabal wanted to write this, feeling that, if he doesn’t tell what he had told in the book no one would know how the times were then, and he considers his father and brother as the main characters of the work.

There is a reference to Madame Bovary in the beginning of the first novella, now, I haven’t read Flaubert’s work, but Mary the mother of Hrabal, at best, only indulges in flirting, that too only once. May be, Hrabal being a son one should be, never got to show anything that can be described as adultery.

In any case, her way of looking at the world and the people’s, around her, are almost diametrically opposite. She signifies the free will, playfulness, a casual rebel with a bit of innocence to whom all it comes naturally. I was, to my surprise, enjoyed reading her view of the world and liked the character a lot ( what that says about me? No idea)

Whereas her husband (father of Hrabal) is an old bat, plays the role of moralizer (though he changes a lot towards the end) regularly to her. I have never thought, a possession of hair by a women could mean this deep. Her hair becomes the symbol of a period, mindset etc, and she proudly claims that she has found her place in history through her hair.

Hrabal’s brilliance is in his style of prose, with its unending sentences where metaphors after metaphors stacks each other, and fresh similes peg themselves to the sentences, and digressions casually illuminates the topic further, and to top it all, with a mastery of wit!

To have a taste of it:

I am a six-year-old girl with loose flowing

hair, on the crown of my head it is just caught with little

blue ribbon bows. Dad hasn’t broken a single wardrobe

on my behalf for a whole year, it’s Sunday noon and I

am walking through the little square, in the open

windows curtains flutter, you hear the chinking of

cutlery and plates, the draught draws out the savour of

food, yesterday Dad bought me a sailor suit and

umbrella, I stand in front of the water fountain, then I

lean over and look at my mirrored hair, coins gleam on

the bottom, we think if you throw some money into the

water fountain you may have a wish come true, for

safety’s sake I threw two twenty-heller bits into the

fountain and wished that I should never drown again,

never run away from home, and always be a decent

little girl, especially when Daddy bought me such lovely

clothes and an umbrella. I hopped up on the edge of the

fountain to see better how nice I looked in that sailor’s

jacket, I looked about, no one was coming, no one was

looking out of the window to complain to Daddy, I

hopped up on the fountain, and when I leaned over,

I saw the lovely pleated skirt and little white sockies and

shiny polished shoes, 1 shook out my hair, and when

I looked again at myself reflected in the water, I

overbalanced and fell into the fountain, and the water

swallowed me up like a great fish when it swallows a

tiny little one, again I tried to find the bottom with my

shiny little shoe, but the bottom of the fountain was

deeper than I was tall, and again I surfaced for air, but I

was too frightened to call for help, because Daddy

would be too cross, and I was on my way to join the

angels, again I was enveloped in a bright sweet world,

as if I were a bee fallen into honey. I saw how my head

fell slowly to the bottom, beside my eye I saw that

twenty-heller coin which I had thrown into the fountain

with the wish that I should never drown again, my skirt

welled up so grandly and my hair washed across my

face and again so slowly the hair grandly returned, and

then I wanted to sleep and only moved my legs about

very slowly, much more slowly than Mummy pedalling

on her sewing machine, and for the last time I saw the

little bubbles rising from my mouth, as if I was a bottle

of soda or mineral water . . . but again I didn’t drown,

one lady saw me, Mrs Krsenska, who had been ten

years in a wheelchair and had stomach ulcers, she had

been looking out of her window just at the moment I fell

in, and one gentleman came running over, Mr Pokomy

the photographer, who jumped in after me still with his

knife and fork and napkin tucked under his chin, and

pulled me out. I woke up on the steps of the fountain, I

had the impression it was raining, I took my little

umbrella and spread it open, but actually the midday

sun was shining and the bell finishing striking the

midday hour, Mr Pokomy was leaning over me, water

dropped from his napkin and a couple of frizzles of

cabbage with it, Mr Pokomy was threatening me with

the knife and fork in turn, saying if his dinner had got

cold he was going to see to me again, because nice little

girls if they want to drown themselves, do it at a proper

time and not on the dot of twelve, when the first of the

goose is on the table, and I looked and there in all the

windows stood the townspeople in their shirts and

waistcoats and all holding a fork in one hand and a

knife in the other and all of them were looking down at

me with annoyed expressions on their faces and

indicating that what they’d really like to do was stick

me on their forks and cut me up with their knives, and

so I stood up and so much water gushed out of me that I

thought the clouds had burst, I bowed, not that I

wanted to make fun of them, but meaning that I

recognised the point and knew I shouldn’t have done it

just when the first of the geese were on the roasting

pans on a Sunday at noon..

And there is uncle Pepin – brother of Francin (Father of Hrabal), who visits their house for a fortnight stay, but ends up staying till the very end, who claims himself as the sodger ( funnily, he is given an Scottish tongue in the “translation”) in the Austrian troops, a chattering box with a gift for narration of tales which fills most of the pages. His character was the most energetic in the whole book – hollering around with tales of his people, enticing women in the bar, tapping his leg regularly to the music, and doing odd jobs in the brewery owned by his brother.

To have a taste of the character :


expostulated Dad, “they could have got the pox or the

crabs or something, but for goodness’ sake, concentrate

for a moment, these screws I’m about to hand you, put

them on the board, and this last one too, and I’ll support

the sump on my chest while you climb out and bring

over the old gherkin tin and I’ll pour the oil out into it.”

“I know,” said Uncle Pepin, “that’s the oil from the

gearbox, right?” “Gearbox my auntie, that goes with the

differential, we’ll take a look at that next Saturday, or

tomorrow morning if you like, the gearbox and

differential are towards the back, this is the sump, from

the engine there, as I’ve just been telling you, the oil

drops down and the pump pumps it round and up

again, do you see?” “Now I see,” said Uncle, even

though he’d seen nothing, “so the oil goes back up to

the distributor, right?” “Up your arse it does!” shouted

Dad, “Up your arse and not the distributor, up your

stupid arse!” he yelled, as oil started slopping down

over his chest. “Now for the love of God concentrate,

will you, and I’ll just lower the sump down on to my

chest.” And Uncle called out delightedly, “Right you

are then, Caruso used to have books piled on his chest

to give him a better voice, and he could sing like a

right-hand ox, pure joy to hear, a throat like a fine Swiss

heifer, but d’you know what Vlasta said, that as a

barmaid she has to pay tax on her artistic earnings? And

maybe literary too? As an author or painter?” But Dad

was engrossed body and soul in the engine and only

wheezed back in excitement, “Hold up the sump, one

more screw, hold it up with both hands like this .. “I

know,” said Uncle, “to stop the carburettor falling out.”

“For Jesus Christ’s sake, don’t torment me, the

carburettor’s way up on top . . .” “I know,” said Uncle

confidingly, “that’s the cam that drives the petrol into

the distributor.” “What d’you mean, the distributor?”

Dad mewled. “Well, so as to get sparks into the

cauldron, one of the folks in the City Bar told me,

Jarunka, he’s the one that works as a station assistant,

looks terrific in uniform, just like General Gajda, d’you

know what happened to him? Once, when he fell asleep

on the job, the lassie on the telegraph took out his

privates, and the dispatcher coloured ’em with the ink

for the stamps, and when Jarunka got home that

morning, he wanted his missus’ strongest and highest

proof of love and affection while still in his uniform, and

his lady said yes, but when Mr Jarunka took out his

privates to carry out, in the words of Mr Batista’s

handbook, this marital cohabitation, alias coition, his

missus was horrified by his purple-painted privates and

she flew off to ask the stationmaster what sort of

swinish behaviour alias misdemeanours were going on

there during working hours, and as she burst into the

stationmaster’s office, she caught the stationmaster

bald-headed, with his toupee sitting on the table on a

false head, he was just combing it ready for duty, and so

the missus just had to take some soap and scrub Mr

Jarunka’s genitalia on the washboard, but it wouldn’t

come off, so she took some acid liquid she kept for

cleaning the WC, but Mr Jarunka started bellowing and

rushed off with his genitalia through the workers’ estate

all the way to the railway station and back, and people

were shocked, partly because he was in uniform, partly

because of his purple private parts, and partly because

he was bellowing so loud .. And Dad removed the

last screw, and the sump settled down on his chest, and

Dad roared out, “Stop roaring in my ear like that, or I’ll

start roaring too, go and fetch some staves and prop up

this sump for me, it’s blessed heavy.” Uncle Pepin lay

on his tummy and proffered advice: “Try singing,

brother, like J^a PospiSil, a tenor has to be trained to be

a tenor, has to be trained by a trainer …” he rambled

on and then he climbed out, but then, while still

kneeling there, he thought again and bent down his

head and enquired, “Oughtn’t I to go and pay my

organisation?” But Dad roared, “You’re not going

anywhere, bring me those props, it’s dripping in my

eyes!” “What where?” inquired Uncle. “In my eyes,

oil!” And Uncle expressed wonder: “Your eyes, oil? But

to finish my story, that Jarunka chappie, that worked

the barrier poles on the level-crossing, he also sent a

report to the Academy once, backed up by his own

observations and those of the engine-drivers and

stationmasters, saying that sparrows were taking free

rides in groups and ^ghting on empty waggons and

going on train trips to Southern Bohemia, or the spa

town of Bohdanei, once they even set off on an outing

from Kostomlaty to Vienna, with no permits, just to see

what Vienna looked like from the top of Steffi, alias St

Stephen’s Cathedral, and back they came in empty

waggons to VrSovice, switched to the milk train, and

returned to Kostomlaty in the waggons, except that

when in Prague while they were at it they nipped off to

have a quick peep at the Castle . . . but they’re going to

be closing soon, oughtn’t I to pop over and fetch my


The second novella is “The little town where time stood still”, where Hrabal, being a kid, starts narrating their town’s history. It starts out with one of the most lovely children stories I have ever read, where Hrabal wants a boat to be tatooed on his body, but the person ends up doing a grotesque mermaid. What is more interesting is that, in that chapter, we have Hrabal witness as a child, the foreplay or rather one can say, sexual mischief of the Dean in the church with his ladies (why interesting? Because it is a child’s view of it and it is unique). Anyway, I am sharing a different part of that story here :

Dean Spumy, the priest I used to help serve holy

mass, was the first person I wanted to tell of my desire,

this desire to have a boat tattooed on my chest, because

he too, to show his obedience to God, had had his hair

trimmed in a special little tonsure on the crown of his

head. Moreover Dean Spumy was a marvellous man in

every way, still speaking in his original Silesian dialect,

in fact to judge by our Dean the Lord God Himself

spoke with him in this same dialect, for our Dean used

to converse with God, at least so he thundered from the

pulpit. He would say on a Sunday, “O Spumy, Spumy,

ye hairless old bull, I commit these innocent sheep intae

yer care and ye bring ’em tae heaven like pigs sozzled

wi’ liquor. . .” Now a Dean, I said to myself, that

speaks like that, surely he’ll give me a blessing when I

kneel before him in my acolyte’s cassock, spread the

palms of my hands out before me like so, bow down my

head and tell him about such an innocent little sailing

boat. But the Dean was in a msh, he chucked off his

mackintosh, sipped at his vermouth, the Dean drank

nothing else but vermouth, when we went to

administer the rites, I had to take a little basket and in it

along with the holy oil and the paten a bottle of

vermouth . . . And so the Dean went off, and I removed

my cassock, and there I was kneeling before the

tabernacle and gazing at the golden figure of Christ

poking out of the blooms of peony and guelder rose,

and there I saw all of a sudden, that He too had a heart

tattooed on His chest, a heart encompassed by a garden

thicket of prickly briar roses . .. And so, as I emptied the

collection boxes with their offerings for the upkeep of

the church, first I took out a five-crown bit, and then I

put it right back again, but finally I borrowed it once

and for all, totally and unshakably convinced that I was

going to return it, as I said myself to the golden Christ in

the sacristy. Upon my soul and word of honour. I’m only

borrowing it. . . and I showed it to Jesus, so He should

know that that was all I was taking. Many’s the time I’ve

spoken like that to Christ, because with God the Father I

didn’t dare, especially since the day one small farmer

called Mr Farda, of whom it was said he quarrelled with

God for nights on end and shouted up at Him and God

back down at him, when this farmer one day, bringing

in his last cartload of hay, and me just out of school and

a thunderstorm brewing, when Mr Farda was urging

the horses on with his whip, to get the dry hay in out of

the rain and into the loft, as they got under the bridge it

started to drizzle, and then the downpour truly began, a

cloudburst, Mr Farda took great handfuls of wet hay

and slung them up in the air, skyward, and hollered up

to God on high, ” ‘Ere, ‘ave yourself a bellyful!” And

God answered him in the lightning, which split the

poplar on the towpath in twain, and the horses

trembled and so did I, and the onlooking regulars under

the eaves of the Bridge Inn public house fell down on

their knees, though not before God mind you, it was the

scent of the lightning overpowered them, as that bolt of

lightning zipped down the road and along the railing of

the bridge like a fiery tomcat. Today the Bridge Inn was

in a jovial mood. “Who’s the little sailor then?”

exclaimed Mr Lojza, as I stood before him in my

sailor’s jacket and white mariner’s cap with its double

black band, crossed at the back with two bows.

My only minor complaint was that in some places, Hrabal sounded more like an adult’s voice in a child’s perspective, than a proper child view of the world. Particularly, in the very same chapter where he wants to have a boat tatooed.

The times change, war comes and goes, dawn of Communism shines upon the land with its sweeping rays uplifting not only the disadvantaged, but also uprooting — not only the living, but also the cemetery of the past.

Hrabal, after the first chapter of the second novella, completely changes his style to more a sober recording of the events that unfolds in the town.

It is as if they are two separate books written during separate literary period of a writer.

Interestingly, the coming of Germans only mildly scratches the surface, but the sun of communism scorches and topples the town upside down.

And he ends with a moving portrait of his town (in a complete contrast with his earlier depiction) , richly blessed with spiritual symbolism; occupied by empty old souls, with few remnants of shining radiance of humanism; a wistful yearning of an era; a note of a renewal of hope, all imbued with sheer poignance!

If one has to describe the work in a short and sweet way, one can just say:

A swansong for a lost time!

Everything you need to know to write a work of satire in Donald Trump’s America – Book Review

Author : Manny Rayner

So as I was browsing my Goodreads’s feed after a week’s gap I saw that a new review has been written by a famous Goodreads’s reviewer(famous doesn’t always mean quality, that too in this precarious age, but it is synonymous here) of a book called “The new adventures of Socrates: An extravagance ” by Manny (another famous reviewer, but I never knew he is also a writer). The book, I understand, is a concised version of platonic dialogues written for Millennials’ consumption. More than the book, I was really interested in the writer(whose reviews I used to follow for many years).

So I went to his profile and checked the books he has written. One title caught my attention— Everything you need to know to write a work of satire in Donald Trump’s America. Intrigued by the title, I started reading the description which said the book was published only as Ebook and it is available for a free download. The best I could ask for! Also the book is 4000 pages long. Double deal!

So after reading few reviews (Another of my favorite and famous reviewer wrote a beautiful review ), which gave me an impression that it is possibly a work of Meta fiction.

I had my thoughts running now on these lines:
Perhaps, the writer will do a historical analysis of past regimes of similar nature and how writers, artists circumvented those restrictions etc etc etc.
I couldn’t find the download link in Goodreads or Google, so I messaged the writer asking the same.
The writer’s reply message was a mild surprise!

He started with a note expressing an embarrassment that the book may not live up to my expectations( who in the world will say a thing like this? That too in this age?), but he did attach the Ebook link and also mentioned that German translation is more good.

I was eager to open the link and start skimming.
Clicked the link, the Ebook started loading and I noted with joy, the number of pages ( 4000) it had.

Urgent note:
Not to hurt the readers, but the reviewer from now finds it difficult to put in words the emotions he felt while reading it. Equally culpable of a sacrilege in divulging further and of confession of incomprehension, it is better, both out of duty as a reader and a reviewer that the review is stopped at this point in time, and to persuade the readers of this review to download the book and read, to appreciate its act of rebellion— I dare say – done with such artistic finesse, flourished with such symbolism and thereby, subtly placing himself in the tradition of masters of subversion in history, if you haven’t already.

P.S: The name of the reviewers is not disclosed considering their privacy!



A surreal tryst with my boyfriend after our breakup.

Action: Voluptuous encounter with my small friend.
Place: Nebulous clouds and soot filled atmosphere in a dark room.
Result : Morbid reunion

I am a girl
A weird girl.
I am the chimney
Chimney of 1000 special hands.
No, I am the Chimney and not a girl
Chimney because of my tiny friend.

Our eyes moist from our respiration
I giggle looking at him
I can see his pink teeths
Pink by me
He can see my yellow coated teeth
Yellow because of him.
Lovely share,
Warmth of coexistence,
Unconditional love.

It is foul smell for all
Not for us.
A Camphor smell for me.
It is not stench
But it is our strength.

How have I missed him!
My hands trembled then
My body was soaked in shivery silvery bath
I perspired day in day out.
Thoughts of him came in fevered dreams
I reeked of fresh cow dung then
Whole body became a mass lump of stools
People moved away
Never to return.
Lost alone
I crooned a melancholic song
A song of our blossoming years
Bittersweet was its mood
He came through the windows floating
Floating with his slender body
I hurried to clean my room
For a decent presentation to my lover.
In my hurrying I tripped
My body came down crashing to the floor.

How lucky am I?
He swiftly gauged my fall.
Rolling himself in my dark room
How many times he has been rolled to play a role?
He came at the right moment to hold me
He is my little Krishna!
He looked at me proudly
I almost watered him with my tears
Tears of sweetened sugar,
Syrupy juicy of red flavour,
Just stopped before it turned into a melodrama!

My body became light suddenly
I guess due to his sight.

How many days was it ? before all this?
This fateful interlude.
Days turned to month, was it?
Months to years, was it?
Years to decades, was it?
Decades to century, was it?
Centuries to millennium, was it?
Millenniums to eons, was it?
Eons to supereons, was it?
Superons to uncalculable time, Was it?
Time lost its time until he came now!

We sat on the floor, squatting
An hour passed in silent reminiscence
I inhaled all his aroma.
He pinched and burned me by his mere look
I don’t feel anything now
Human sensation is ebbing away.

I am suffering from cancer
But love
Love is beyond physical limitation
I don’t care what the world will say.
But how will I say to him?
Can he hold on to it?
My separation?

How bitter life is.
We separated then and…
Now we unite.
But fate will separate us now.

Is it society which undone us?
No, I never cared for them
But nature/god behaves like society?
I doubt that.
Skepticism motioned for selfish ends!
Questioning the god, let me do it for this one small instance!

These few more hours
Before I go to ether
I want to be with my ether
I lick him
Kiss him
He shrinks on my touch
With baby soft movements.

He unfurls again
I rub my hand on his white chest
He leaves out his white breath
I open my mouth
To drink his vapory life
How gifted am I?

I think….
Only way to live together forever
Is to die together.
By death at exact moments.
Precise synchronization of Ambilateral damage.
As in a cinema or a play.
Like characters
Like enactment preplanned,
Just that without rehearsals.
Remember Mishima’s patriotism – the rite of love and death?
This will be the antithesis of Mishima’s work.
Antithesis in its act, conception and not in the feeling.

That will be immortality.
Transience turned eternal.
Actors are we now
But with freewill
Let me say why it is so, later.

But before all that happens
I need to love the way I know
For the last time
Is it amoral?
The society says so
No it isn’t!
When death is at your footstep
All becomes holy
That’s the holy contradiction of life.
Isn’t it?

I need to concentrate
Concentrate on my lover
To look at him
With vigorousness
Sharp eyes piercing him into multitudinous divisions
I convey this to him
He nods
Positions himself in upright manner.

I look now with my brown eyes
A light starts to pass out of my eye
It converges in a point.
The separate strands of particles join
Red-hot heat brightens from it all
It is directed towards him
The light gathers itself and propels into space towards him.
He wakes in this reddish flame
His eyes becomes red-hot
Enlivened by this light.
Unexpected becomes natural
But nothing new for us.
He is born instead of dying
An oxymoron couple we are!
What kills me gives birth to him!
He is just 1 minute old now
A Baby he is
Tender white body of his, fumes in bright red flame.

For his part now,

He looks at me
His breath is omen for me
I know.
He is my death god as well
I know.
The orgy kicks in
In consummate consumption of hazy clouds left by the breath of my lover.
I know this is the death blow
Final nail in the coffin!
But this is life force for me still.
I quicken to close my mouth
Choke my throat not to leave it out
This strange life force now inside me.

Let it be known
During the autopsy of my body.
Let the imprints of my lover be known in my organs.
Let a new love be known to world!

Now again,
A light starts to pass out of my eye
It converges
The separate strands join together
Red-hot heat brightens from it all
It is directed towards him
The light gathers itself and propels into space towards him.
Now it pierces him precisely
mm after mm of his body is cut in minute precision.
Like a laser blade cut.
He falls apart
His stuff spatters all around the room.
Not an inch is missed.
My whole body now is uncontrollably drenched in salty tears of mine.
Naturally isn’t it?
And my blood!
Blood boils like lava
Uncontrollablly spewed out through my volcanic vent.
Whole room boils hot with the blood boiling, tears drowning and his ashes sprinkling forth!
Toxic Fumes and volcanic ash you ask?
I laugh at those two friends hearing your words.
They reciprocate the same.

Historic moment is happening.
His stuff mixes with my tears and blood.
A new mixture is formed I hope.
Coagulation of it seals the process.
A new baby of new life and new form shall be born.

Another residue of our union
Let history record it.

History digresses to time
Time is up for us
But no regrets
Both are happy
We will be united in next world
Material love they mocked
But god is broad minded
Ever knowing
He will embrace us
I hope.
Hope is the only thing we have now.

My soul has left the body now.
We move out of our house
In gas form
He smiles since that is his natural state.
But me?
I too feel liberated by this strange state of existence.

Our future
I wish will be the same.
To enact this same event again again
Like characters trapped in a book
Like Pirandello’s “Six characters in a search of an author”.
But here it will be “Two characters in search of an author within themselves by standing in front of the mirror”.
Without any remorse whatsoever, unlike Pirandello’s characters.

Sweet fate it is
Independence is eternal there.

I speak for him
He speaks for me.
Let this be known
To the world
That a girl loved a small sized inanimate object of her wish.
My lovely object
My lovely cigarette!

– From a smoker’s manifesto

Cow’s Covam on a rainy day

Saw a blog of a person who had recently posted an interesting literary form. Well, nothing new. Still it is peculiar and I like to share it here.

Following disclosure of the material doesn’t give the author of this blog any right, the sole owner of the following words ( blog ) belongs to the concerned blogger alluded here:

The blog is a 6-word story:

The cow fell over the moon.

The story is over.

This blogger is decently famous, so it’s subscribers fate to play along and I could see many coming with their own 6 word stories.

I commented one too:
And then cow moo on moon.

My humble part in playing along!

The blogger replied saying he/she is laughing so hard. That she/he could see what I did there. Felt very proud seeing it and also at the taste of the reader/writer/blogger! (Coughs!) I didn’t stop there, wished that I had a larger reading public like that. May be for that I have to write some 6 word stories. Warning! This is my immediate and first attempt at something like this.

The experienced should pardon the flaw in the flow and other such literary mistakes.

So here goes:

Man entered a room and slept.
Woman woke to the rain’s pounding.
A bird sped to its nest.
A shutter came crashing down swiftly.
Out of coldness a penis erected.
Radio Jockeys dusted off Raja’s music.
A grandlady fried her Molagabhajjji happily.
Kids were happy knowing their holidays.
Aravindakshan surely started boring you now.
It is time to end game.
This endless 6-word stories of meaninglessness.

Ah! You see there, still I won’t have much success with this.

But the sweet thing is, I have written 11 stories. Yahoo! I aced it. Ain’t I?
Well, as quality is still the writer’s cherished aim, quantity cannot be palpitated with!

At this rate I can write 132 stories or more within an hour!

Due to peculiarity of the form, the readers may scratch their head and strain the brain muscles to come up with meanings themselves.

So that too is removed from the writer’s duty and readers too will feel quite satisfied to have flexed their cognitive muscles.

Publish as a single six word story for a page and release a 250 page book (each page having a 6-word story)

You have it!

Win win situation, ah?

Pity the cow! Always the object to be toyed with, ah!

Right Ho, Sabapathi

Not about Wodehouse work!
Not sure whether this is a pan Indian thing. May be a south Indian thing, not sure though.
But most would have noticed this with upper class Madras (there is a reason to use Madras here rather than Chennai, which will become clear soon) old timers using this most of the time.
There is a nostalgic ringing to that word “Right Ho”.
Talk to an old man here, who has crossed his 60s and 9 out of 10 times I am sure you would hear this Englishman’s expression uttered properly.
Interestingly, this is perhaps one of the few words which has retained its British essence even though spoken by Indian tongue. (I think so at least)
Most of the times, the borrowings is sprayed with Indian spittle and looses its original aural effect.
Is this used by other south Indian Gentlemen?
This surely leaves out the ladies of the elite, no doubt.
Since I am unaware of that side.
I think Elitism of this type at least is a late bloomer in the case of woman folks. So we may have our lady aunts of 30s, 40s,or even 50s using this. I can’t claim a witness to this though, just speculating on the possibility.
I read that, Americans use this right Ho as a satirical and mocking manner of the English tongue.
It isn’t so here.
I also guess more than an upper class, this is an upper caste thing. Those gentleman whose filter coffee’s aroma fills the room, as they read their Hindu newspaper and solve the crossword in the morning. (Also very age restricted thing)
Well, in any case that band of Right Ho enthusiast is dwindling.
This may seem trivial and it is rightly so. But there is a sweet nostalgia for me.
P.S: The title should have been right Ho, Jeeves, considering how it has been used without losing its English essence and Wodehouse popularity with it. But as we all know, you can’t remove the Indian-ness from the Indian, however it may not be the case. And the closest I came is Sabapathi, though that’s off the mark completely. Pardon peeps.
Yes? I hear you. Then, Right Ho, let me stop!