The movie deserves a grade of 7 out of 10. There are two main themes: (a) writing, writer’s block and a Muse and (b) clarion call to end differences based on religion, begging for human kindness and against cruelty such as terrorism. Here, I will not let out any spoilers regarding the story or plot (available from other sources with a simple Google search I am sure). Most probably, I have given an extra point because I am biased towards writing. Also, I enjoyed the movie and I will watch it again on another night when I want to relax and think alone.
The first theme is the dream of a lot of dreamers – from school kids to geniuses in the creative world – of a Muse who crosses one’s path and inspires. At times, the Muse might bring love and reciprocate one’s own affection; sometimes, without personal attachment but with just their presence and the right words at the right time, creativity breaks free from any yoke or block; and, for some the Muse remains just an ill-defined spirit.
The second theme is about terrorism. It is now not just a headline about something that happens to others in faraway places. It happens to us and those close to us. It has two main goals: to terrorize, cause suffering and attract attention; and, to create large-scale friction in society via misunderstanding and labels such as religion and to fragment the society. This movie tries to raise a voice against these cowardly acts of terrorism and its goals.
This movie by Renjith is uncomplicated, pleasant and refreshing; and tries to deliver the message without guile and through simplicity. The simplicity of the movie might be its failing, too. I might be ready to excuse simple plots and average visuals, but I need at least one full-blooded character. Maybe, I am just being cynical. Mammootty and Khushboo have done very well on their own (are they too restrained one wonders); with Mukesh, Mammu Koya and others giving excellent support. I liked the background music and the discussions about writing.
This is not a new movie and thankfully, Moser Baer has brought out a CD/DVD of this movie.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Freedom in China & Nilekani’s IUD
“When the Chinese get freedom, this depression will end,” my great-uncle Hosappan paused with a dramatic sigh, shifted the home-rolled beedi from the left to the right molars after relighting it with his ancient Zippo lighter, and continued, “and that’s why Obama met the college kids in China and told them that information should be freely available. Which information? Whose? Glasnost. Perestroika.” He chuckled and refused to say more on the topic – every story has to stop before the end, that being his ambiguous motto.
Till the Cuban missile crisis, everyone in my village used to call him “Fibbu” for some now-forgotten reason though his name was Jose (pronounced with a J). Around the end of October 1962, he told everyone that he should henceforth be called Jose (pronounced as Hosay). Decades back, he baptized me by whispering roughly in my ear “Call me Hosappan." He seemed a nonagenarian then and still does – bald head, clean shaven, strangely black hair sticking out of his ears and nostrils, thick mat of white hair on his chest, wizened face with deep-set unblinking dark brown eyes peering through bushy black eyebrows. In my worst nightmares, I see him as the Grim Reaper.
He was a communist then – in 1962. Two shelves on the left side of his library store his collection of those days. When I was a kid, I borrowed two books from that side: the first called “Relativity and dialectical materialism” (mistaking dialectic and dielectric) and the second, a censored version of “The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer” sent to him as a wedding gift by a Jana of Brno, signed and sealed by a Party member (which I assumed then to be a sign of authenticity). It was much later that I discovered the I-love-you scene with Becky Thatcher in an uncensored copy of the book. Though Hosappan might still not know about that scene, I doubt whether that stunted his love life in any way.
He converted to capitalism in 1973 – before his second marriage. It was after he saw Godfather, some claim. The postmaster of that time confided in many that it was after the twelfth letter (without reply) to a Jana of Brno. All I know for sure is that his second wife was a spendthrift. He changed his wife once more but remained a capitalist.
During my last visit, he expressed to me his displeasure with Nandan Nilekani with hot-blooded capitalist fervour “Social security. Healthcare. My arse. It’s going to be like during the Emergency if not as in concentration camps. All names will be deleted and instead, everyone will get a unique number. It has something to do with contraception – man or woman, everyone will get an IUD.”
Till the Cuban missile crisis, everyone in my village used to call him “Fibbu” for some now-forgotten reason though his name was Jose (pronounced with a J). Around the end of October 1962, he told everyone that he should henceforth be called Jose (pronounced as Hosay). Decades back, he baptized me by whispering roughly in my ear “Call me Hosappan." He seemed a nonagenarian then and still does – bald head, clean shaven, strangely black hair sticking out of his ears and nostrils, thick mat of white hair on his chest, wizened face with deep-set unblinking dark brown eyes peering through bushy black eyebrows. In my worst nightmares, I see him as the Grim Reaper.
He was a communist then – in 1962. Two shelves on the left side of his library store his collection of those days. When I was a kid, I borrowed two books from that side: the first called “Relativity and dialectical materialism” (mistaking dialectic and dielectric) and the second, a censored version of “The Adventures Of Tom Sawyer” sent to him as a wedding gift by a Jana of Brno, signed and sealed by a Party member (which I assumed then to be a sign of authenticity). It was much later that I discovered the I-love-you scene with Becky Thatcher in an uncensored copy of the book. Though Hosappan might still not know about that scene, I doubt whether that stunted his love life in any way.
He converted to capitalism in 1973 – before his second marriage. It was after he saw Godfather, some claim. The postmaster of that time confided in many that it was after the twelfth letter (without reply) to a Jana of Brno. All I know for sure is that his second wife was a spendthrift. He changed his wife once more but remained a capitalist.
During my last visit, he expressed to me his displeasure with Nandan Nilekani with hot-blooded capitalist fervour “Social security. Healthcare. My arse. It’s going to be like during the Emergency if not as in concentration camps. All names will be deleted and instead, everyone will get a unique number. It has something to do with contraception – man or woman, everyone will get an IUD.”
Saturday, November 28, 2009
From Developing To Developed Without Being Nouveau Riche
Hans Rosling says that income per person in India and China will overtake that of the US and the UK by July 2048. Headlines in the print media never include error bars associated with data points even though Rosling himself hints at probable sources of error, for example, read the interview in the Economic Times. But, the common man on the street knows that Rosling must be right. Give or take a few rupees, onions at Rs 35/kg, jeera rice at Rs 50/kg, a sovereign of gold at Rs 14000, a cent of land in a Tier II/III city at Rs 1000000, a 25-year old with a half-baked degree earning enough to stay in a 1 bedroom flat and keep 4 servants (to wash the car, to clean, to cook, to walk the dog or the baby). In most Indian cities, if you talk about the great divide, the reply is “It trickles down” and you hope that it trickles fast fearing the birth of urban Naxalites. At least 100 years after independence, we should become developed, right?
We have nearly 40 years and there is plenty to do – for us and the government. The list is long and it is quite meaningless and too tiring to be complete here. As far as the government is concerned, they should first stop devaluing the education system. It is the most important infrastructure project and to stretch the metaphor, relying on quantity rather than quality is like building a bridge without concrete. Secondly, the government should listen to people like Enrique Penalosa (the former mayor of Bogota – read this article from the Hindu in which he says “Footpaths make all the difference”). Some time before we are developed, we will learn to walk, we will stop wanting to be a manager and we will take a degree to be educated on a subject we love.
Before we are developed, there are a few things we can do to be prepared. First, consider the case of Rahul (name changed). He was a VP in an investment bank in the US (graduate from IIT, postgraduate from an Ivy league school in the US). He faced a slump in his career out there and was given an opportunity to relocate to the Indian office and build a group or leave the firm. He made the obvious choice to be the successful “expat” in India. Within a year or so, he had nearly a dozen or more IIT graduates working for him and he was on the “fast-track”. He came and went in a posh sedan, with a driver who carried his bag from the entrance of the office to the car in true British Raj fashion. Back in the US, he must have used public transport along with his boss and probably his boss’ boss. Sure, there are snooty people out there but they are usually pea-brained or super-rich and mentally challenged. With more and more people becoming crorepatis (I am still a few zeros away from that and do correct me if that is a low denomination these days), it is important to avoid the problems of the nouveau riche (NV). In the old days, the NV were sent to prep schools to be educated on how to pretend to be born with blue blood. These days, the NV should learn from people like Obama (he might bow low to the Emperor of Japan but none, with sense, will doubt that it is due to low self-esteem). The lesson seems to be: try not to be nouveau riche.
Secondly, we should be ready for the pains associated with the developed world and the list includes higher rates of suicide, divorce; fierce competition in a meritocratic society; and, a view of being either a success story or a loser. Here, I would like to recommend a TED talk by Alain de Botton on a kinder gentler philosophy of success. He stresses that we should always allow for the haphazard in our lives – random events that could make or break us (hopefully, just for a while). For example, on Monday, if the Dubai debt crisis triggers the next wave of defaults and a black swan waddles into our life saying “I am back.”
We have nearly 40 years and there is plenty to do – for us and the government. The list is long and it is quite meaningless and too tiring to be complete here. As far as the government is concerned, they should first stop devaluing the education system. It is the most important infrastructure project and to stretch the metaphor, relying on quantity rather than quality is like building a bridge without concrete. Secondly, the government should listen to people like Enrique Penalosa (the former mayor of Bogota – read this article from the Hindu in which he says “Footpaths make all the difference”). Some time before we are developed, we will learn to walk, we will stop wanting to be a manager and we will take a degree to be educated on a subject we love.
Before we are developed, there are a few things we can do to be prepared. First, consider the case of Rahul (name changed). He was a VP in an investment bank in the US (graduate from IIT, postgraduate from an Ivy league school in the US). He faced a slump in his career out there and was given an opportunity to relocate to the Indian office and build a group or leave the firm. He made the obvious choice to be the successful “expat” in India. Within a year or so, he had nearly a dozen or more IIT graduates working for him and he was on the “fast-track”. He came and went in a posh sedan, with a driver who carried his bag from the entrance of the office to the car in true British Raj fashion. Back in the US, he must have used public transport along with his boss and probably his boss’ boss. Sure, there are snooty people out there but they are usually pea-brained or super-rich and mentally challenged. With more and more people becoming crorepatis (I am still a few zeros away from that and do correct me if that is a low denomination these days), it is important to avoid the problems of the nouveau riche (NV). In the old days, the NV were sent to prep schools to be educated on how to pretend to be born with blue blood. These days, the NV should learn from people like Obama (he might bow low to the Emperor of Japan but none, with sense, will doubt that it is due to low self-esteem). The lesson seems to be: try not to be nouveau riche.
Secondly, we should be ready for the pains associated with the developed world and the list includes higher rates of suicide, divorce; fierce competition in a meritocratic society; and, a view of being either a success story or a loser. Here, I would like to recommend a TED talk by Alain de Botton on a kinder gentler philosophy of success. He stresses that we should always allow for the haphazard in our lives – random events that could make or break us (hopefully, just for a while). For example, on Monday, if the Dubai debt crisis triggers the next wave of defaults and a black swan waddles into our life saying “I am back.”
Friday, November 27, 2009
It’s About Sex, Right?
When did she ask me that – fifteen years back? Or, is it twenty? A few days back, I saw a clip of the movie “The Unbearable Lightness Of Being” which is based on the book by Milan Kundera. And yesterday, I picked up that book from a lending library. Probably that triggered this chain of thought.
I had given that book as a birthday present to her. Two years later, I gave her “Love In The Time Of Cholera” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It was when we met a few years later that she asked me the question “It’s about sex, right?”. I did not know how to reply. That year, I got her an omnibus edition of Daphne du Maurier’s novels. I did not know then that that would be my last gift to her.
The next time I heard that same question was nearly half a decade later, and from a friend from erstwhile Soviet bloc. A mutual colleague had given to her Philip Roth’s “Sabbath’s Theatre” which I had read around that time. And by sheer coincidence, we were reading the latest from John Irving “A Widow For One Year”. Must have been around 7:45 on a winter morning, temperature well below freezing point, while we warmed our hands with a cup of hot coffee and before we got on with our work, and we were discussing the books we had read recently. And she asked me “It’s about sex, right?”. I did not know how to reply.
Even now, I wish I knew/know how to reply.
I had given that book as a birthday present to her. Two years later, I gave her “Love In The Time Of Cholera” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It was when we met a few years later that she asked me the question “It’s about sex, right?”. I did not know how to reply. That year, I got her an omnibus edition of Daphne du Maurier’s novels. I did not know then that that would be my last gift to her.
The next time I heard that same question was nearly half a decade later, and from a friend from erstwhile Soviet bloc. A mutual colleague had given to her Philip Roth’s “Sabbath’s Theatre” which I had read around that time. And by sheer coincidence, we were reading the latest from John Irving “A Widow For One Year”. Must have been around 7:45 on a winter morning, temperature well below freezing point, while we warmed our hands with a cup of hot coffee and before we got on with our work, and we were discussing the books we had read recently. And she asked me “It’s about sex, right?”. I did not know how to reply.
Even now, I wish I knew/know how to reply.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Soliloquy (Nearly) On A Honeymoon
Is this world I see, with you, today
Same as that I saw, alone, yesterday?
In stealth did it come that thought
Like that childhood game ‘I see – I see not’.
Was it by the sea? Then, the weeds were
Ghosts’ tangled tresses, with frothy gurgle
Of death from dark depths with white above.
With you, the ebb and flow of pregnant tide
And my passion tread the same measure,
From green shallows till the azure faraway.
In the train? The past’s already vague -
Inert, staring blindly through grills; now,
Pressed against you, heart’s chugging along.
Around the lake? Then, with self’s company,
With blank verse to fill blank life, mute;
Now - walking, holding, living - silence speaks.
I had to tell you, it’s late I know.
I had to see your eyes when I told you.
Tired you must be, it’s late I know,
When you turn away with “Whatever”.
Same as that I saw, alone, yesterday?
In stealth did it come that thought
Like that childhood game ‘I see – I see not’.
Was it by the sea? Then, the weeds were
Ghosts’ tangled tresses, with frothy gurgle
Of death from dark depths with white above.
With you, the ebb and flow of pregnant tide
And my passion tread the same measure,
From green shallows till the azure faraway.
In the train? The past’s already vague -
Inert, staring blindly through grills; now,
Pressed against you, heart’s chugging along.
Around the lake? Then, with self’s company,
With blank verse to fill blank life, mute;
Now - walking, holding, living - silence speaks.
I had to tell you, it’s late I know.
I had to see your eyes when I told you.
Tired you must be, it’s late I know,
When you turn away with “Whatever”.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Sketch … of you and me …
How blank this appears:
Each word seems to mar
the empty depths of truth.
From this crushed cursed cushions,
Her eyes seem to spy upon the hidden.
Image of my reflections, shy away,
Bring not shards of memory to mould,
as life prances on razor’s edge.
An apparition she certainly is?
Why do you leave your abode
of banished silence
to be by my side, to whisper, to soothe –
how it aches,
how it pains,
don’t you know?
Maiden, how careless, your hair
seems as if a thousand hands
have caressed,
tenderly tousled tangles,
wishing the one would fondle;
as early light casts a million shades
but never seems to rise,
to remove the shadow that lingers
ever growing
upon your brow –
Bruised, scarred vast expanse
that never hides
the mental torture;
each line faint upon the gentle skin,
each throb pulsates a measure –
which balm will ease you,
which hand refused,
the sacred silence shatters,
a single word would be enough
but none seems to bind
the mind
that wishes no longer
to be whole.
Cool these cheeks,
such fires burn life’s embers;
hurt not your lips so,
so swollen, so expectant;
this beauteous mould,
erase such a grimace –
sorrow by the right,
smile by the left,
place it not upon such a rack,
would understanding set it right,
would a few words do,
but what reason
could have blinded him
of this sight
of blossoming love –
how he should have plucked
and let it not wither.
There’s no place, but there
let me linger awhile –
Your hair I cannot caress,
the brow seeks balm I have not,
these cheeks I dare not hold, they burn,
these lips are not for me to kiss,
the mould of mortal clay is not for me
to mend,
to set aright;
For I am the child of your glance,
it is these depths that lure,
that which sketches more than you can tear,
Blink, little one, hold on no more,
let the tear slide along,
from furious rapids,
from scorned depths,
from discarded abandon,
from deafening silence,
from restless rest,
from love unrealized,
from innocence raped,
from time that speeds by,
from shattered mind,
from barren womb,
from bleeding heart,
let the tear slide along –
it may not mend,
it may not erase,
it may just carry
a little pain.
I shall not look further,
Blurred vision
or
hastened departure
but for sure you know,
that I will be
by you –
In mirth, let’s cast eyes;
who is within,
who is without?
Each word seems to mar
the empty depths of truth.
From this crushed cursed cushions,
Her eyes seem to spy upon the hidden.
Image of my reflections, shy away,
Bring not shards of memory to mould,
as life prances on razor’s edge.
An apparition she certainly is?
Why do you leave your abode
of banished silence
to be by my side, to whisper, to soothe –
how it aches,
how it pains,
don’t you know?
Maiden, how careless, your hair
seems as if a thousand hands
have caressed,
tenderly tousled tangles,
wishing the one would fondle;
as early light casts a million shades
but never seems to rise,
to remove the shadow that lingers
ever growing
upon your brow –
Bruised, scarred vast expanse
that never hides
the mental torture;
each line faint upon the gentle skin,
each throb pulsates a measure –
which balm will ease you,
which hand refused,
the sacred silence shatters,
a single word would be enough
but none seems to bind
the mind
that wishes no longer
to be whole.
Cool these cheeks,
such fires burn life’s embers;
hurt not your lips so,
so swollen, so expectant;
this beauteous mould,
erase such a grimace –
sorrow by the right,
smile by the left,
place it not upon such a rack,
would understanding set it right,
would a few words do,
but what reason
could have blinded him
of this sight
of blossoming love –
how he should have plucked
and let it not wither.
There’s no place, but there
let me linger awhile –
Your hair I cannot caress,
the brow seeks balm I have not,
these cheeks I dare not hold, they burn,
these lips are not for me to kiss,
the mould of mortal clay is not for me
to mend,
to set aright;
For I am the child of your glance,
it is these depths that lure,
that which sketches more than you can tear,
Blink, little one, hold on no more,
let the tear slide along,
from furious rapids,
from scorned depths,
from discarded abandon,
from deafening silence,
from restless rest,
from love unrealized,
from innocence raped,
from time that speeds by,
from shattered mind,
from barren womb,
from bleeding heart,
let the tear slide along –
it may not mend,
it may not erase,
it may just carry
a little pain.
I shall not look further,
Blurred vision
or
hastened departure
but for sure you know,
that I will be
by you –
In mirth, let’s cast eyes;
who is within,
who is without?
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Pazhassi Raja
The movie “Kerala Varma Pazhassi Raja” deserves a grade of 6.5 out of 10. It is a movie worth seeing at least once. But, will I watch it again?
One should try to bear in mind the following: (a) it is based on history (b) it is long (3 hours and 15 minutes) (c) before watching the movie, try not to be biased and try not to compare (d) forget the Hariharan-MT-Mammootty legacy.
Mammootty and the Indian co-stars are good – restrained, powerful and quite perfect for the role. Given the length of the movie, one wonders whether the characters could have been more well-formed. Is that why one does not feel like brandishing a sword at the end of the movie? Mammootty seemed a trifle stifled (especially if you know what he is capable of) and Sharathkumar who has the best role did very well. The foreign actors performed as if it was a school play and the women are unfortunately quite forgettable. At times, the scenes seemed abrupt and if I am not mistaken, by way of continuity, the second half of the movie is better than the first half. The fights could have avoided the touch of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. The orchestra in the background score seemed to lack a local flavour and the songs fitted in like fillers. The photography and the location of each scene are beautiful and picture-perfect. Since it is supposed to be Kerala, one wonders whether there is too much light and too little mud.
Can one compare this movie with Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha (OVV)? No. OVV is loosely based on a folktale and twists the tale to the extent a much-despised character (Chathiyan Chanthu) is the hero and much-adored characters (Aromal Chevakar, Unniyaarcha) are shown in bad light. Filmgoers then protested about such literary freedom but loved that product of Hariharan-MT-Mammootty. In OVV, female actors like Madhavi and Geetha impressed with intelligence and beauty and not their cleavage.
Finally, a few notes regarding the scene at the theatre. I tried the 10 a.m. morning show. The cost of the balcony ticket is INR 40, and along with INR 40 for the to-and-fro rickshaw ride and INR 15 for a packet of crisps, it is not too expensive. Since it was a morning show, there was ample leg room - quite ideal for the elderly people who kept me company. Interestingly, some elderly ladies had come alone while the old men were guided by their grandchildren. A young-turning-middle-aged man who sat two seats away in the same row reeked of alcohol - hopefully a result of a hangover rather than morning efforts. There were just a few groups of college students who hooted and whistled only a few times; lustily cheered when Mohanlal speaks in the beginning and equally well when Mammootty makes a less-than-grand entrance; and, they even shouted Bharat-ki-jai in the beginning. But unfortunately, even they did not feel like shouting that at the end. As I left, I tried to remember a scene. When I do, I might watch the movie again with the rest of my family.
One should try to bear in mind the following: (a) it is based on history (b) it is long (3 hours and 15 minutes) (c) before watching the movie, try not to be biased and try not to compare (d) forget the Hariharan-MT-Mammootty legacy.
Mammootty and the Indian co-stars are good – restrained, powerful and quite perfect for the role. Given the length of the movie, one wonders whether the characters could have been more well-formed. Is that why one does not feel like brandishing a sword at the end of the movie? Mammootty seemed a trifle stifled (especially if you know what he is capable of) and Sharathkumar who has the best role did very well. The foreign actors performed as if it was a school play and the women are unfortunately quite forgettable. At times, the scenes seemed abrupt and if I am not mistaken, by way of continuity, the second half of the movie is better than the first half. The fights could have avoided the touch of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. The orchestra in the background score seemed to lack a local flavour and the songs fitted in like fillers. The photography and the location of each scene are beautiful and picture-perfect. Since it is supposed to be Kerala, one wonders whether there is too much light and too little mud.
Can one compare this movie with Oru Vadakkan Veeragatha (OVV)? No. OVV is loosely based on a folktale and twists the tale to the extent a much-despised character (Chathiyan Chanthu) is the hero and much-adored characters (Aromal Chevakar, Unniyaarcha) are shown in bad light. Filmgoers then protested about such literary freedom but loved that product of Hariharan-MT-Mammootty. In OVV, female actors like Madhavi and Geetha impressed with intelligence and beauty and not their cleavage.
Finally, a few notes regarding the scene at the theatre. I tried the 10 a.m. morning show. The cost of the balcony ticket is INR 40, and along with INR 40 for the to-and-fro rickshaw ride and INR 15 for a packet of crisps, it is not too expensive. Since it was a morning show, there was ample leg room - quite ideal for the elderly people who kept me company. Interestingly, some elderly ladies had come alone while the old men were guided by their grandchildren. A young-turning-middle-aged man who sat two seats away in the same row reeked of alcohol - hopefully a result of a hangover rather than morning efforts. There were just a few groups of college students who hooted and whistled only a few times; lustily cheered when Mohanlal speaks in the beginning and equally well when Mammootty makes a less-than-grand entrance; and, they even shouted Bharat-ki-jai in the beginning. But unfortunately, even they did not feel like shouting that at the end. As I left, I tried to remember a scene. When I do, I might watch the movie again with the rest of my family.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Releasing blood
‘A poet’s work,’ he answers, ‘To name the unnamable, to point at friends, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it from going to sleep.’ And if rivers of blood flow from the cuts his verses inflict then they will nourish him.
From ‘The Satanic Verses’
…---…
Listen to me while I suck my own blood.
Release of that which weighs me down –
life blood!
Remember…
Her dark hair straying across that beauteous face,
Black eyes filled dim, alight yet through the full race,
Tear stained cheeks glistening like moonlit waters anew,
Long wet lashes as reaching branches dripping dew,
Blood stained lips trembling, lucky breath to kiss her tender,
Yet not touching, harming her no more but silent yearn render.
O lover! What remains of that but a jester forsaken, tear torn tear -
A letter unfolded tracing creases to be folded again – does life bear?
Fools’ fate foretold – ‘Curs’d be a lover – to tears, one on one, to pain.’
And again…
Wrong mind setting thoughts right, leaders behind the masses led,
Patient pained pawns wait for death, pray gently be bled;
Deafened by clamour, he hears not the heavy tread of Death,
Blinded by tears, he seeks solace in frightful sight’s dearth;
Laid inert by gloom, he begs his brethren to swing the sword low,
But a last hope to quench life’s thirst – a manna of love from below.
Ah hope! Where was the brother – which eye did he close: that to you or his pleasure?
Images to images, rock to rock across a river, each tread to this fancied measure –
Learn for once, survival’s silent password: ‘Do unto others as they do unto you.’
Alas…
Enmity, jealousy, agony, torture – of self and others – life a row,
Blasphemy, thraldom, hopeful – salvage of a wreck sunken low,
To little capsules: shadows flitting by, enticing gestures in misty night
Whence senses may seek repose sans alarm, darkness to tunnel of light;
Intoxicated in the dark, arm in warm waters, the other for the dagger,
Release to bonded dreams – refreshed breath, life at stake, soul to stagger –
What would this life be – in the promised hundred – if this be the remembered one?
Born to be one, the heart to pound alone – betrayal, pain, illusions: none!
Any company but solitude be folly, any thought but oneself is just to be sorry.
Yet, one dances on the razor’s edge,
Forsaking reason, hope on love’s pledge,
In a path in the wilds, round and round,
Losing, realizing the right path – yet nowhere bound,
That be the fate of souls mould in mortal clay,
Bruised or hurt, seeking unknown pain each day.
Releasing blood, sucking one’s in,
Hither to thither, but to abide within;
There’s no release, by one’s self.
From ‘The Satanic Verses’
…---…
Listen to me while I suck my own blood.
Release of that which weighs me down –
life blood!
Remember…
Her dark hair straying across that beauteous face,
Black eyes filled dim, alight yet through the full race,
Tear stained cheeks glistening like moonlit waters anew,
Long wet lashes as reaching branches dripping dew,
Blood stained lips trembling, lucky breath to kiss her tender,
Yet not touching, harming her no more but silent yearn render.
O lover! What remains of that but a jester forsaken, tear torn tear -
A letter unfolded tracing creases to be folded again – does life bear?
Fools’ fate foretold – ‘Curs’d be a lover – to tears, one on one, to pain.’
And again…
Wrong mind setting thoughts right, leaders behind the masses led,
Patient pained pawns wait for death, pray gently be bled;
Deafened by clamour, he hears not the heavy tread of Death,
Blinded by tears, he seeks solace in frightful sight’s dearth;
Laid inert by gloom, he begs his brethren to swing the sword low,
But a last hope to quench life’s thirst – a manna of love from below.
Ah hope! Where was the brother – which eye did he close: that to you or his pleasure?
Images to images, rock to rock across a river, each tread to this fancied measure –
Learn for once, survival’s silent password: ‘Do unto others as they do unto you.’
Alas…
Enmity, jealousy, agony, torture – of self and others – life a row,
Blasphemy, thraldom, hopeful – salvage of a wreck sunken low,
To little capsules: shadows flitting by, enticing gestures in misty night
Whence senses may seek repose sans alarm, darkness to tunnel of light;
Intoxicated in the dark, arm in warm waters, the other for the dagger,
Release to bonded dreams – refreshed breath, life at stake, soul to stagger –
What would this life be – in the promised hundred – if this be the remembered one?
Born to be one, the heart to pound alone – betrayal, pain, illusions: none!
Any company but solitude be folly, any thought but oneself is just to be sorry.
Yet, one dances on the razor’s edge,
Forsaking reason, hope on love’s pledge,
In a path in the wilds, round and round,
Losing, realizing the right path – yet nowhere bound,
That be the fate of souls mould in mortal clay,
Bruised or hurt, seeking unknown pain each day.
Releasing blood, sucking one’s in,
Hither to thither, but to abide within;
There’s no release, by one’s self.
Tired?
Tired, can I be? Hoping for a wish.
Staring at scrap – old photos, old life.
Staring at scrap – old photos, old life.
Scream, shall I? Mourn, maybe.
I won’t cry, mourn, seek love stupid.
O poets, I can love. And fight wars.
Brood about a world going waste.
But the traitors, where are they?
They will say it’s an old story.
Tough they are with no hope.
With wise words to soothe or sting.
Do you know the rotten cuckold?
Or the poor guy who died poor?
And the usual death and love?
Or the tale of one with no tale?
Mortals’ usual woes, not so new.
Then, is there reason to write?
I am tired. Tired being tired.
I won’t cry, mourn, seek love stupid.
O poets, I can love. And fight wars.
Brood about a world going waste.
But the traitors, where are they?
They will say it’s an old story.
Tough they are with no hope.
With wise words to soothe or sting.
Do you know the rotten cuckold?
Or the poor guy who died poor?
And the usual death and love?
Or the tale of one with no tale?
Mortals’ usual woes, not so new.
Then, is there reason to write?
I am tired. Tired being tired.
Oddity IV
A canvas for the mind – that be life –
No marred margin mourned and gilded edge shorn;
Labour be so, too – through joy or strife –
By whim or intent it’s coloured, shaded or torn.
Much could be philosophized on the above –
Much with ignorance, much for comfort thought;
How could the defeated and rejected in love
Engrave what he knew not and what he was not?
But with surety could he fill a moment of repose
Looking at the workings of the mind – his sole guide –
In loneliness company made, in silence a tune to rouse,
In gloom a smile to blossom, in dying life to be astride.
A wayward dream to be structured, sans sense, a soulmate;
A mate who merely smiled made a rack – of torture and pain;
In pain did descend dearly into depths too black – reason too late –
Too late – fiery lines slash upon lighter blue as a growing strain.
The jasmine bought do not bring a gentle sight
Nor the dying aroma a few borrowed pleasures,
The bed is cold with sweat on this winter night
No tinkling anklets, no soothing caress nor measures.
If it’s reality to be marked upon the canvas:
Weary mind, take the leave for long you sought.
The white should speak for itself, honest, unless
It would be better suited to mark the predestined dot.
No marred margin mourned and gilded edge shorn;
Labour be so, too – through joy or strife –
By whim or intent it’s coloured, shaded or torn.
Much could be philosophized on the above –
Much with ignorance, much for comfort thought;
How could the defeated and rejected in love
Engrave what he knew not and what he was not?
But with surety could he fill a moment of repose
Looking at the workings of the mind – his sole guide –
In loneliness company made, in silence a tune to rouse,
In gloom a smile to blossom, in dying life to be astride.
A wayward dream to be structured, sans sense, a soulmate;
A mate who merely smiled made a rack – of torture and pain;
In pain did descend dearly into depths too black – reason too late –
Too late – fiery lines slash upon lighter blue as a growing strain.
The jasmine bought do not bring a gentle sight
Nor the dying aroma a few borrowed pleasures,
The bed is cold with sweat on this winter night
No tinkling anklets, no soothing caress nor measures.
If it’s reality to be marked upon the canvas:
Weary mind, take the leave for long you sought.
The white should speak for itself, honest, unless
It would be better suited to mark the predestined dot.
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