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
Rolling
Rolling
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
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
Sternly
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
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

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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!
71EpdNYNeSL

The Unknown Craftsman – Film Look

Film: The Unknown Craftsman

Director: Amit Dutta

Year: 2017

 

Steeped in Hindu philosophy of Shilpa Sastra, this a journey of a craftsman or craftsmen who travel through Himalayas to find their inspiration, to synchronize with the macrocosm. It is almost like a fictional documentary of various stages of the ancient architectural creation, but what differentiates is its film treatment which doesn’t situate it within the usual documentary field or a purely fictious work, just like Mani Kaul’s experimental documentary “Siddeshwari”.
Interestingly, I also thought of the film Nainsukh (which I watched years back) while watching this film(same Kashmir and Himalayan locale, philosophy of Indian art, and experimental docu style), which happens to be a film from the same director.

P.S: Interestingly, the uploader of the film thought it is Bengali language, I found it is not Bengali, but thought, with some reserve, it is some form of Hindi. But eventually found out that language is Gaddi spoken by a tribe called Gaddi from Himachal Pradesh. But I am thinking, was that tribe one of the exclusive community associated with medieval Indian architecture?
And Himalayas is indeed a paradise!

 

Sita: Warrior of Mithila – Book Review

Be warned, this may not be my usual review type!

 

Couldn’t finish more than 100 pages. It is too much for my small brain! Such high intellectual and profound mythological and historical writing, that my peanut brain can’t handle!!!
The below is what I wrote after I touched 100 pages yesterday:

Isn’t it always fun to read Sita acquainting herself with Hanuman at the age of 10 and calling him Hanu Bhai?, or Vishwamitra by his sharp wisdom finding Sita to be the next Vishnu ( no not Lord Ram) and saying that she has to protect INDIA?, or author confusing his theories and contradicting while trying to write multiple thread of stories?, Or that revelation that the Shudras were doctors! and sculptors?,
Or a jibe at liberals, saying to restrain yourself from being too liberal? Or Sita discussing about eradication of rigid caste system, while in essence discussing the Varna system and its ills?

Just touching 100 pages. If u can bite through the melodramatic drivel, stilted scenarios and static narration, pedantic English you can savour those above jewels.

Yet to come to the point where Game of thrones is mentioned in the book (after all isn’t English speaking Indians don’t know anything about Ramayana and need these reference thrown into to pique our interest? Even let’s assume this is Adbhutha Ramayana’s modern twist with its female predominance, let’s give the benefit of doubt to the author there, since I haven’t read Adbhutha Ramayana)
I will hold myself a bit , after all I need something to say after i finish fully…

I will leave with a quote from the book which appears at the start of the book.

From the Adbhuta Ramayana
(Credited to Maharishi Valmikiji)

Yadaa yadaa hi dharmasya glaanirbhavati suvrata
Abhyutthaanamadharmasya tadaa prakrtisambavah
O keeper of righteous vows, remember this,
Whenever dharma is in decline,
Or there is an upsurge of adharma;
The sacred feminine will incarnate

She will defend the dharma.
She will protect us.

Is this twisting of the famous Krishna words or it does appear in Adbhuta Ramayana, or is it the essence of Adbhuta Ramayana ?

Now, ramayana or any mythological work can have an alternative perspective ( a feminine in this case), but does it need to pander to today’s imagined upper class or middle class English speaking public, to this extent that too? If one wants feministic perspective on Indian myths/history one needs to just read a small, regular column on the Hindu newspaper ( I forgot the column name and the lady who writes). If this was targeted towards school kids (English medium), then sorry there are better good books on mythology for starters, abridged versions. This in no way, even introduces any topics of the original myth. So that too cannot be the purpose of this book. Then what it is that drove the author to write such careless sleep inducing, constipated stuff? You guessed it right. Money. That magical thing! The author is IIT alumni! Coming from a prestigious institution of our country , can one even come up with a stuff like this? Which even a normal student of 10th or 12th standard student can outsmart!
I really don’t know, why many go crazy over these types of books.

Yeah, it is not right to review and rate a book without finishing, but there are wonderful exceptions and one such book is this.

51aNpJTq7-L._SX335_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg

 

Pahla Adhyay – Film Review

Pahla Adhyay (The First Chapter)

Dir: Vishnu Mathur

Year:1981

 

FTII has produced many great filmmakers who are known for their art house films in India. The whole Indian new wave which includes Mani Kaul, Shahani, Aravindan, and others, all had a direct or indirect connection with FTII. The filmmaker Vishnu Mathur is no exception to that list. The only feature film made by this lesser known director is one of the most obscure Indian films. Two or three years back it had a private screening in Mumbai and it has never gone beyond film schools to reach the right audience it deserves.

 

This is a film on urban/college alienation and the disillusionment of campus politics. The Character sketching is done very beautifully and subtly. Ravi, the protagonist is doing his PHD on history and his thesis gets slackened by professor’s nonchalance. Shot in Bombay, the film uses very minimum dialogues. There is much noise to give you the urban quintessence atmosphere— Sounds of Cars, buses, train, people chattering (in college hostel) etc.

 

He is an introvert and whenever he tries to start a conversation with his friends/college mates he couldn’t do it properly and there is ample amount of awkward moments of silence in the film. They never get to into any scholarly discussions, neither does the professors in lectures, who evades and turns down genuine questions as polemics.

 

There is a beautiful sequence where we see the protagonist goes to watch a Hindi film. We see him cross the roads and reach the theatre. But the very next shot we see him sitting in an empty canteen. The shot is lengthy and it is complimented by the sounds of buses and taxis from the outside. In the next scene we learn that he was taken by his friend. Conveying and hyperbolizing the alienation of an introvert in a film has never been this beautiful!

 

There are some lyrically composed sequences like protest that is done by students for their rights, which turns out mildly violent (captured in a beautiful slo-mo shot – of a glass broken into shards inside a huge hall) and in the next scene we have the protagonist in his room walking past the two wings of the frame and then move to the opposite side, to the outside of the room and the scene ends when

he goes towards the centre of the frame, as a distant shot of the outside of his room on the corridor! Mapping the character’s motion we will get a long Y from the static camera position. The subtle spatial and political symbolism in this scene is stunning!

 

There is another such beautifully crafted scene with emphasis on space. When he sits in the middle of a gathering of college mates, who are busy talking to their own groups and he looks around without any one to talk.

 

The average shot length touches almost 40 seconds! Exquisite camera work by Navaroze Contractor (who worked in Mani Kaul’s Duvidha). The exploration of space, time as well as usage of sound is a staple of new wave films and this film does explore that in an urban milieu so beautifully.

 

PS: Forgot to add, it’s an adaptation of a story called Milechan by Ambai (who is an important feminist writer from India). Apart from this, he has made few documentaries and acted in a small role in Mani Kaul’s Aashad Ka Ek Din (One Day Before the Rainy Season).

A man jumps out of an airplane – Book Review

Author: Barry Yourgrau

Barry Yourgrau is an unique voice in literary world. Whose world observes the fantastic in the mundane with heightened vividness and also observes the natural world with its peculiar absurdity. You get a dichotomy. One may take sometime to get used to this world, but once you are taken into it and respond to its rhythms, you will crave for more. Though I write under “A man jumps out of an airplane”, I am also thinking about “Wearing dad’s head” while I write this. Perhaps the duality of his writing content is best shines in one story according to me.

Check this:

Ars Poetica

A man comes in. He has a glass throat. You can see his larynx in there: a microphone
disk, a little speaker horn. A mailman comes in with his big bag. He opens the small transparent
hatch in the man’s throat and pushes in a couple of blue air letters. The man begins to recite — a
wonderful poem about being jealous of the clouds; then another poem, not quite as good, about a
forbidden voyage.
“So this is how poetry is made,” I think. “What are some other ways?”
A man in a baggy checkered suit climbs down a ladder from the ceiling. He carries a
bucket. In the bucket, beautifully colored fish are swimming. They have been painted. The water
rumbles with their brightness. The man crouches and rolls his eyes about and manipulates his
hands mysteriously over the bucket. He murmurs in a strange tongue. Nothing at all happens, but
it’s really quite marvelous just the same.

His world is like some knead, where humans turn into opposite sexes, shrinks, expands, animals take life, inanimate changes to animate. Reality dissolves. perhaps dissolves isn’t the right word. There is no yardstick to match his world with the reality we live.

Check this beautiful story:

Primavera

I go for a walk at night in a school yard in the country. It’s early spring. I come around the
corner of one of the old wooden buildings, and this is what I see: a hurricane lamp hangs glowing
from a tree. In its light a naked man is bent over a naked young girl whose head is in a metal
washtub. At first I think, blushing, that they’re doing some sex thing bobbing for apples, and I
turn to go away; but then I see the guy is in fact holding down the girl’s head in the tub: she
squirms around, like she’s choking.
I hurry towards them yelling. The guy turns around. He smiles as I come up. He’s
middle-aged and healthy-looking. He holds one hand on the girl’s neck and gestures with the
other. “It’s a fertility rite,” he explains pleasantly. “Are you kidding?” I tell him. The girl’s hair is
spread out in the water, and she squirms and grunts and paws softly at the grass. I reach out for
his wrist to make him let go, and he gives a cry and tries to ward me off, and we get involved in
an awkward, shifting, tugging struggle, made all the more bizarre there under the lamp by his
nakedness. Finally we lose our balance together and sprawl violently over the girl and the tub,
knocking everything all over the place.
I manage to pull free out of the tangle and get to my knees. The tub is upended on its side
in front of an expanding, glistening pool; the girl droops in the grass, hacking, her skinny chest
heaving. I stare at her, dumbfounded: with each watery cough of hers, the air fills with tiny fruits
and flowers. They sift around her onto the grass, pale and stunted, a garden of puny litter.
“See what you’ve done?” the guy says. He sits next to me, rubbing his shoulder. He looks
miserable. “Will you look at that measly stuff! Man,” he groans, “don’t you know anything about
the seasons?”

And is there better way to portray Texas (I have never read one like this) :

Texas

Some guys are driving through Texas. They’re groggy and dazed from all the hours, the
awesome monotony. On all sides, they see nothing: scrub plain, as if the earth were flat. There is
a smooth line drawn in the dust under the sky. It’s the horizon. They drive towards it. The engine
drones. Sometimes, a small, single shape appears in the distance. They watch it as it grows,
mysteriously. It reproduces. It enlarges, upwards, in creeping increments. Suddenly, it acquires
detail: it becomes buildings: a city. For a few strange minutes, they’re in it. The fact of scale
dazzles them. They crane their necks, watching through the rear window as first the details go.
They watch the shapes begin to sink, by gradual increments, all the way into the distance — until
there’s only the horizon, smooth, dusty, and they’re back in the center of a flat world.
This is Texas. Their eyes glaze. They look at each other. They stare blankly and rub their
cheeks. They have nothing to say. They see miles of scrub desert in the windows. They stare off
ahead, stupefied, waiting for the next speck to appear, to start to reproduce and rise.
Way down near Galveston, a scrawny, crewcut kid in Levis and pointed boots gets tired.
The sun’s high. His hands are all torn up from turning the big crank handle. He decides to sneak
off and go swimming. He pulls off his clothes and jumps into the Gulf. He floats on his back,
spouting water. His blisters sting. He thinks: “To hell with those guys in the car!”

Have a good laugh at this:

Domestic Farce

A man comes home and finds his wife in bed with a squirrel. He stands in the bedroom
doorway, gaping at them. The wife stares back in fright over the covers, which are drawn up over
her nose. The squirrel’s little head peeps out similarly beside her. The culprits look so idiotic
together that the man can’t help himself, he bursts out laughing. He sees the nuts strewn all over
his wife’s clothes on the floor and the sight makes him positively howl so he has to clutch onto
the door frame to support himself. The wife and the squirrel exchange wide-eyed glances; but
then they catch the bug themselves, and slowly they start to chuckle — the wife in fearful,
whimpering surges, the squirrel in its high, hysterical tweeting. Soon all restraints are by the
boards; the room rocks with the jangle and din of mirth going full blast.
Then abruptly the husband stops laughing. His face turns ashen. He disappears from the
doorway. The wife sits up; she calls out his name. There’s no answer. She darts a look of terrible
concern at the squirrel and she clambers out of bed and rushes naked out the door. The squirrel
twitches in the bedclothes. It hears voices, shouts, and it hops up onto the pillow, down onto the
floor, grabs up an armful of nuts, leaps onto the window sill, pauses dead still in attentive silence,
and then hops onto the fire escape. At this exact instant the blade of an axe crashes down onto the
window ledge. The squirrel bolts onto a nearby tree limb, spraying nuts everywhere. “You and
your goddamned pets!” the man screams in the bedroom, above the caterwaul of sobbing. The
squirrel races from tree to tree until it is far away down the block. It fetches up finally in some
top branches to catch its breath. Its little heart pitter-patters. The wind carries up to it the scraps
of agitated voices; the sunlight makes a glinting speck of the axe head in the distant window. The
squirrel sits among the leaves, switching its tail back and forth. It thinks, “Where the hell does he
get off calling me a ‘pet’!”

The title story:

Soup bone

A man jumps out of an airplane. Sobbing, he empties a shoe box of love letters into the
whooshing air. The letters shoot up and stick against the puffy bottoms of some clouds. The man
looks, and groans unhappily, but then gets caught back up in the tumult of falling. He gulps and
clutches at his head but his hat is long since gone. A cloud rushes up under his feet and the man
cringes and crashes into it. The cloud flings him up into the air, as if it were foam rubber. He
sprawls back down onto it in a heap. It’s a tiny cloud and the man clings to it, desperately, like a
shipwreck survivor hanging on to the side of a barrel.
He looks around. Out of nowhere, something hits right next to him and bounces away into
the sky: it’s a big soup bone, the kind dogs love. The man looks up and sees the looming,
onrushing image of a dalmatian hurtling towards him. The dog barks and flails as if skidding on
vertical ice. Its tongue trails up over its nose, its ears stream straight up. The man gives a shout
and frantically flaps his feet to try to maneuver out of the way. The dog crashes right on top of
him. The cloud heaves violently. The man almost loses his grip. The dog scrambles and slides
down the man’s leg and hangs on to an ankle. “Let go, let go,” the man shouts at it. He kicks
furiously with the leg but the dog hangs on for dear life, whining, eyes shut tight. “You dumb
mutt, let go!” the man screams. He feels his aching fingers slipping. He gives a terrific leg shake
and then frantically lets go with one hand to deliver a wild, desperate punch. He misses. The
cloud capsizes and pops loose. Screaming and whining and barking, the man and the dog tumble
headlong into the wide blue sky.

 

These are just few drops from the strange ocean!