Cyclone.
Whipping wind
Careers around the mango tree,
Whips up the skirts
Of an unsuspecting bamboo
And laughs wildly at the sky.
It is dark.
The clouds are heavy,
Dark, menacing.
Hush.
Whispers
And choruses of whispers
A parliament of leaves protests.
Many fall
Beneath the guillotine
Casualties by the dozen.
Brown and green and yellow.
All over the ground
Sad
Lifeless.
All over the ground.
Windows crash.
A man is hit
By a mango grenade-
Another casualty.
Now there are ripples
Across the face of the tree
And suddenly
An onslaught-
Disturbed seas
-It rears up in dismay
And wails curses
At the passive sky.
The rain is spray
A sheet
And another
Meet,
A fountain is born
In mid-sky.
Light, cold fairy- fingers
Touching warm skin
Leaving goosebumps.
The wind,
Ecstatic,
Whoops and rushes
Through this tree,
Then that;
And at last,
Tired of this,
It is gone.
The bamboo hangs limp,
Weary.
The rain
Falls straight down.
It's tired too.
An ominous silence
And then thunder,
Too late,
Rumbles low
Beneath lightning
That cracks open the sky.
A glimpse of the world beyond.
Now the rain is heavier.
Drops make leaves dance
Beneath fairy footsteps.
White house,
Pale as a ghost
In the grey,
Peeps between
Tree- silhouettes.
A lone bird
Sings in defiance
Then sinks in silence.
Creeping cold
Blankets everything.
City sounds are hushed
As though
Behind a screen.
A telephone
Shatters the moment
And the persistent patter
Fades away.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Back to before...
A drop of rain, and then sheets and sheets.
They were whipped away before they fell,
The wind stole them
To take away to another place.
But it wasn't strong enough.
It isn't, you know.
I told it so, the other day, outside.
It laughed at me,
Imp of a girl, giving it advice.
But under the scornful howl of storms I heard
A miniscule sigh
Barely audible,
But I heard it.
And then, upset with me
For hearing what he hadn't meant to say,
He fled.
The clouds stayed behind.
He forgot to take them along.
They hung about, dejected and pale grey,
All the rest of the afternoon.
They were whipped away before they fell,
The wind stole them
To take away to another place.
But it wasn't strong enough.
It isn't, you know.
I told it so, the other day, outside.
It laughed at me,
Imp of a girl, giving it advice.
But under the scornful howl of storms I heard
A miniscule sigh
Barely audible,
But I heard it.
And then, upset with me
For hearing what he hadn't meant to say,
He fled.
The clouds stayed behind.
He forgot to take them along.
They hung about, dejected and pale grey,
All the rest of the afternoon.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
What's in a name
Who am I ? I asked wildly of them.
They told me my name.
I understand now.
Then, I thought...such things of them.
Now, I understand.
I am known as many things,
Most of which I did not choose
I call myself one thing.
My name.
I did not choose that either.
But I grew to fit it.
Or did it grow to fit me ?
It was there before I was anything.
It assumed my character,
Came to mean what I was.
A mixture of all it was before me,
and me.
It is mine
More than anything else will ever be.
I came into this life
Instead of the expectation of a baby
There was the expectation
Of someone of my name.
I filled that place.
I did not choose it,
But it will be used
To remember me.
Sacred to the Memory-
Of my name.
Of what I gave it.
They say the things people do give their names a character of their own. Noone wants their child to be called Hitler, and few even venture an Adolf on their child. That is how powerful it can be. First, names help mould what we are, then they represent what we are, and then they stand for what we were or have been. This is the reality of names.
And I doubt one would even venture a sniff at a rose named, say, Rafflesia.
They told me my name.
I understand now.
Then, I thought...such things of them.
Now, I understand.
I am known as many things,
Most of which I did not choose
I call myself one thing.
My name.
I did not choose that either.
But I grew to fit it.
Or did it grow to fit me ?
It was there before I was anything.
It assumed my character,
Came to mean what I was.
A mixture of all it was before me,
and me.
It is mine
More than anything else will ever be.
I came into this life
Instead of the expectation of a baby
There was the expectation
Of someone of my name.
I filled that place.
I did not choose it,
But it will be used
To remember me.
Sacred to the Memory-
Of my name.
Of what I gave it.
They say the things people do give their names a character of their own. Noone wants their child to be called Hitler, and few even venture an Adolf on their child. That is how powerful it can be. First, names help mould what we are, then they represent what we are, and then they stand for what we were or have been. This is the reality of names.
And I doubt one would even venture a sniff at a rose named, say, Rafflesia.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
The Big Stuff
I don't understand a lot of things. In fact, I don't get almost everything in that Santa's sack labelled 'Life's Important Things'. Some you can talk about, some you can't, some Life's Great Truths, some where you're supposed to accept it, no questions asked, and some others that are generally irritating.
Great Truths are usually unfounded, Taboo things are usually the most interesting and worth discussing (by default, not bullheadedness), and generally irritating things are usually the ones that are most unquestionable and infallible. It's extremely perverse and,unfortunately, not funny at all, because it actually applies to you.
Elders are not always worth respecting, Ignorance isn't bliss a good bit of the time (for example, in an inter-school quiz) and whether Love is the greatest thing in Life is highly debatable. I really don't think it is. It doesn't make any sense.
It's tiring thinking about them. You think you get somewhere, but they're all conceptions, and so it's practically impossible to come to an absolute conclusion about it. And even if you do, you have to be utterly impervious to everything regarding that topic afterwards, or you are likely to change your mind. It's even intriguing, in a way, because you're never done thinking about them.
Inconclusive and intriguing and disputed, this is what keeps them in that sack, I guess.Or that they excite strong emotions in people- sometimes hope, sometimes rebellion, and lots of other things as well. Joy and irritation and personal strength and a lot more. So I can't give up thinking about them, because I'm hooked. So philosophers ? They aren't especially intelligent, or deep. They're just gullible, and addicted. And they started out with far too much time on their hands.
Great Truths are usually unfounded, Taboo things are usually the most interesting and worth discussing (by default, not bullheadedness), and generally irritating things are usually the ones that are most unquestionable and infallible. It's extremely perverse and,unfortunately, not funny at all, because it actually applies to you.
Elders are not always worth respecting, Ignorance isn't bliss a good bit of the time (for example, in an inter-school quiz) and whether Love is the greatest thing in Life is highly debatable. I really don't think it is. It doesn't make any sense.
It's tiring thinking about them. You think you get somewhere, but they're all conceptions, and so it's practically impossible to come to an absolute conclusion about it. And even if you do, you have to be utterly impervious to everything regarding that topic afterwards, or you are likely to change your mind. It's even intriguing, in a way, because you're never done thinking about them.
Inconclusive and intriguing and disputed, this is what keeps them in that sack, I guess.Or that they excite strong emotions in people- sometimes hope, sometimes rebellion, and lots of other things as well. Joy and irritation and personal strength and a lot more. So I can't give up thinking about them, because I'm hooked. So philosophers ? They aren't especially intelligent, or deep. They're just gullible, and addicted. And they started out with far too much time on their hands.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Calcutta buses
Calcutta is a wonderful city. I'm not sure whether dusters with dust-covered dust- covers, for example, are sold at intersections in every Indian city, but it is definitely done here.
So- all sorts of things can be found to be special about it, but one thing somewhat less noticed is the Calcuttan bus.
Public transport in Calcutta is not the most efficient or ecologically sound of systems- in fact, trams are our only saving grace in the latter quarter. but something that can be said about it is that it is certainly unique. Buses illustrate this point perfectly.
One would begin by saying that these busdrivers must needs be the most patriotic of people. Every bus that you lay eyes on has, somewhere upon its battered frame, an 'India Is Great', or a 'Mera Bharat Mahaan', or something to that effect on it.
Most everything is aware that it must look good from all sides. Consequently, the backs of buses are usually well-decorated. Sometimes one will find Advertisements- 'Meri Chai' is a common one, or used to be- or public interest messages, such as ' Register All Births And Deaths', by the Births and Deaths Registration Dept., or 'Vehicles that run on gas are dangerous' (which blissfully omits the fact that, where the environment is concerned, vehicles that don't are even more so.) Therefore, buses are definitely vehicles of public awareness.
Also, all buses are quite educational- many of the drivers here seem to learn all they know about driving rules from what they read while stuck behind a bus in one of the city's countless traffic jams. As for the fact that it's usually 'Horn Deen' or 'Awaz Karo', well, one can say that they follow the advice pretty strictly, too. And of course, who is not going to follow the dictum 'Keep Safe Distance' when it's on a huge, snorting, polluting machine three times the size of your own ? So, buses can be considered to always get the message across quite clearly.
But the messages are not the only things you will find on the backs of buses, oh dear me, no. You will very often find large numbers of grimy, plastic-lined baskets tied onto the rear grill, along with other vague objects. Also, buses reflect local superstition- Aankh mat Lagao- as you will find a large quantity of shoes, lost, dirty, streetside, or otherwise, tied on at the back. Sometimes, for variety, there are Masks with demon faces painted on, complete with red eyes, moustache, fangs dripping with blood, et al. The irony, as it turns out, is that these seem quite to draw the passer-by's eye rather than repel it..... Other forms of expressed belief are the limes and chillis dangling in front of the buses, the pictures of gods and goddesses beside the steering wheel and so on. None of which you will find elsewhere.
Next, each bus necessarily has a name or inscription on the side. Now, this is somewhat obvious, everything in the world has a name, so why not public transport ? One would certainly think so, but you will also have noticed that nowhere else- not even in other cities in India- would one find such a lot of buses with names painted flamboyantly on their sides, or, in fact, even such an array of names ! The normal ones, like Monideepa and Reeya and Beeyu, we suppose are named after the family. But world- famous objects have their due place- Mona Lisa, and sometimes, Monalisa, being quite a popular name. Religions are given pride of place- 'Jai Sri Babosa' or 'Jai Ma Tara' are often found, painted in the yellow stripe that runs along the bus, so as to be extra prominent. But, now and again, one sees truly unique and profound messages on these, such as Love Is Sweet Poison, or All Religions Are One. These certainly seem to make all the Beeyus and Papithas worth the while.
So- all sorts of things can be found to be special about it, but one thing somewhat less noticed is the Calcuttan bus.
Public transport in Calcutta is not the most efficient or ecologically sound of systems- in fact, trams are our only saving grace in the latter quarter. but something that can be said about it is that it is certainly unique. Buses illustrate this point perfectly.
One would begin by saying that these busdrivers must needs be the most patriotic of people. Every bus that you lay eyes on has, somewhere upon its battered frame, an 'India Is Great', or a 'Mera Bharat Mahaan', or something to that effect on it.
Most everything is aware that it must look good from all sides. Consequently, the backs of buses are usually well-decorated. Sometimes one will find Advertisements- 'Meri Chai' is a common one, or used to be- or public interest messages, such as ' Register All Births And Deaths', by the Births and Deaths Registration Dept., or 'Vehicles that run on gas are dangerous' (which blissfully omits the fact that, where the environment is concerned, vehicles that don't are even more so.) Therefore, buses are definitely vehicles of public awareness.
Also, all buses are quite educational- many of the drivers here seem to learn all they know about driving rules from what they read while stuck behind a bus in one of the city's countless traffic jams. As for the fact that it's usually 'Horn Deen' or 'Awaz Karo', well, one can say that they follow the advice pretty strictly, too. And of course, who is not going to follow the dictum 'Keep Safe Distance' when it's on a huge, snorting, polluting machine three times the size of your own ? So, buses can be considered to always get the message across quite clearly.
But the messages are not the only things you will find on the backs of buses, oh dear me, no. You will very often find large numbers of grimy, plastic-lined baskets tied onto the rear grill, along with other vague objects. Also, buses reflect local superstition- Aankh mat Lagao- as you will find a large quantity of shoes, lost, dirty, streetside, or otherwise, tied on at the back. Sometimes, for variety, there are Masks with demon faces painted on, complete with red eyes, moustache, fangs dripping with blood, et al. The irony, as it turns out, is that these seem quite to draw the passer-by's eye rather than repel it..... Other forms of expressed belief are the limes and chillis dangling in front of the buses, the pictures of gods and goddesses beside the steering wheel and so on. None of which you will find elsewhere.
Next, each bus necessarily has a name or inscription on the side. Now, this is somewhat obvious, everything in the world has a name, so why not public transport ? One would certainly think so, but you will also have noticed that nowhere else- not even in other cities in India- would one find such a lot of buses with names painted flamboyantly on their sides, or, in fact, even such an array of names ! The normal ones, like Monideepa and Reeya and Beeyu, we suppose are named after the family. But world- famous objects have their due place- Mona Lisa, and sometimes, Monalisa, being quite a popular name. Religions are given pride of place- 'Jai Sri Babosa' or 'Jai Ma Tara' are often found, painted in the yellow stripe that runs along the bus, so as to be extra prominent. But, now and again, one sees truly unique and profound messages on these, such as Love Is Sweet Poison, or All Religions Are One. These certainly seem to make all the Beeyus and Papithas worth the while.
Bow
I like bows. Of violins, I mean. Violins themselves are deliciously graceful, but bows. A horsehair bow at a certain angle is absolutely a work of art. And while they're playing.... quivering, imperious, up and down and slanting ever so slightly- long mournful sounds.... or when, as during a blithe jig, they seem to be both evoking the music as well as dancing to it...
I suppose the musician is really to be given the credit, but you really don't feel like it, not after you've watched the bow, run a hand along those strings and heard the music it commands...
I fell in love with a bow once... a ceremony in an air- conditioned hall, dignitaries and choirs all, but I watched it, entranced, all through. A long, dark one, with wood dark and shining like mahogany, and parchment- coloured bowstrings. The violin itself was hidden behind an anonymous white shoulder, but the bow wove its spell powerfully, up and down, in and out, inclining with a refined gentlemanlike motion...
I suppose the musician is really to be given the credit, but you really don't feel like it, not after you've watched the bow, run a hand along those strings and heard the music it commands...
I fell in love with a bow once... a ceremony in an air- conditioned hall, dignitaries and choirs all, but I watched it, entranced, all through. A long, dark one, with wood dark and shining like mahogany, and parchment- coloured bowstrings. The violin itself was hidden behind an anonymous white shoulder, but the bow wove its spell powerfully, up and down, in and out, inclining with a refined gentlemanlike motion...
Class Photograph.
I got the class photograph today. I look like a fool, as uual. Nothing new to report. But I look myself in that picture. Laughing along with Nid at some joke she cracked. The joke has passed on into infinity, but its mark remains- a memory of it stamped across our faces for the length of a human existence. Not, perhaps, as long as it would have liked, but it's something. and there we were, all together, grins on almost every cheek, giving of our best for memory's sake. So we look back and smile at our own smiles. And at our tears.
We were all feeling good standing there, the sun not quite on our faces, but making its presence felt nevertheless, after having heaped our blazers on to Ma'am Puxty's car that was parked nearby. Laughing. Clambering on to the benches, each one standing and shoving and making a little space for themselves in the universal space of the camera lens. I must be a part of that. And, naturally, noone is left out.
It would not have been the same, if we had taken photos of one person at a time ( besides being vastly impractical) and it would have been lonely there, in front of that lens with noone at my side, no familiar voice telling me to move up in decidedly indelicate terms.I would have felt small in that huge frame all by myself. Because when we stand there, we're not just people standing side by side. Not just people who share the same classroom or the same classteachers or similar schedules of living. We're comrades and allies as we pass through a particular phase of life all together, competing and discovering and understanding and laughing and being together. We see each other every day, each affecting the lives of the others in some quiet, unacknowledged way, each changing the lives of these about her in a way that is uniquely her own. We are Us. Being Us is a great deal better than being just Me or just You. I may not know much about the person next to me in that picture, but I will always know that she is in some minute capacity, a part of who I am and who I will be. And she most definitely is a part of Us.
We were all feeling good standing there, the sun not quite on our faces, but making its presence felt nevertheless, after having heaped our blazers on to Ma'am Puxty's car that was parked nearby. Laughing. Clambering on to the benches, each one standing and shoving and making a little space for themselves in the universal space of the camera lens. I must be a part of that. And, naturally, noone is left out.
It would not have been the same, if we had taken photos of one person at a time ( besides being vastly impractical) and it would have been lonely there, in front of that lens with noone at my side, no familiar voice telling me to move up in decidedly indelicate terms.I would have felt small in that huge frame all by myself. Because when we stand there, we're not just people standing side by side. Not just people who share the same classroom or the same classteachers or similar schedules of living. We're comrades and allies as we pass through a particular phase of life all together, competing and discovering and understanding and laughing and being together. We see each other every day, each affecting the lives of the others in some quiet, unacknowledged way, each changing the lives of these about her in a way that is uniquely her own. We are Us. Being Us is a great deal better than being just Me or just You. I may not know much about the person next to me in that picture, but I will always know that she is in some minute capacity, a part of who I am and who I will be. And she most definitely is a part of Us.
Friday, June 15, 2007
think
Everything can be explained. The Universe, and what came before, and what comes after. Science can explain everything- Black Holes and lightning and tears and melting polar icecaps and twinkling stars and so much else. But its latest, greatest project is the big one- people. The why and wherefore of the human mind and what goes on in there. Psychologists try- but they only get so far. If everyone just looked into their own heads and asked it questions, we'd have answers. We'd be getting somewhere. But there'd be so many answers- we'd be flooded out. Each mind is different- the way it functions is unique. So, by one person's logic, one cannot hope to judge what another is thinking or feeling at a time. You can only know for sure what you are thinking- even that, not all the time- and, if we dig deep enough, why we are thinking it. Though, as I have found out, if you spend too much time probing inside your own head, you tend to get paranoid. What you are thinking at any instant may be quite contrary to what you stand for, because you haven't really thought about it properly yet, and you wouldn't think you could have, and you're surprised by it, and you wonder about the whys of whys, and the whys of those, until your head is like one infinite Rubiks cube, and you twist and turn, but it only get worse, further and further from where you should be going, because the path gets longer because of all the detours of side questions, and a step is less than a step, because it isn't worth as much. You get wiser, your vistas expand, but you don't really get anywhere- you don't seal the business deals, or complete the assignments, but nobody asks, because they're too busy thinking too, and all of it ceases to matter, and everywhere, in homes, around tables, on rocks, in the desert, in offices and under the stars, everywhere there is conversation about what people have thought, and realised, what they have discovered, and what they never knew they knew. And the world becomes as the early philosophers were, walking about, inspired, unaffected by disease and death and the low in man and the earth about him, because the bad parts of everything aren''t so important anymore, only that there is greatness in man's mind and soul, and in what he is and can do, and there will be nothing disgusting in men, because once you love yourself, you don't need people- either to exalt them or to degrade them and feel good thereby- you and your completeness are all-encompassing, and you cease to need other people at the basic level within you, where you are and noone else should ever be. And the world is good, and there is joy in everything, and every action- every breath and movement is joy, because life is joy, and the world is great, and we stop looking to places beyond this life for our joy- we find it here itself- and the world is at peace with itself and everything that exists.
If only people stopped to think.
If only people stopped to think.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Ugh.
This is irritating me. Just putting me off. Don't like it. Fume, fume, fume. Ugh. They make technology. Then the glitches sort of make themselves. And then they peacefully coexist under coercion, because those who made the technology didn't make the glitches, and so don't know how to fix them. Ineptitude. And Murphy's Law. And all the other forces in the world, born at the void while God was wondering. How to create irritants. He didn't have to. They came by themselves. Sauntered right in, and diffused into everything. Of course, human stupidity had to wait for Adam to come along. But everything got right into it, and they're still on the case.So it was with homosapiens, so it was with Cleopatra, with Saint Peter (if he'd only been a bit more thorough, we wouldn't have to put up with all these 'ground-breaking' conspiracy theories), with Napoleon, Hitler, the British colonial Empire, and with George W. Bush.And so Osama thrives, and conspiracy theories thrive, and corrupt governments thrive, and so does the dream of the Supercomputer. The dream of the machine without glitches. Or errors. Or mistakes. or 'Page Not Found's. Or any such thing to cause a tamasha and leave you with a grinning technician with tight pants and a bright pink slip with 'To be Paid by the 14th' on it.
Damn.
Ugh.
Life.
Damn.
Ugh.
Life.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Religion.. or rather, Belief.
There is something about God and religion and that whole deal that people have never understood, and explanations have drifted about for ages and ages. I want to take a shot at it now, because I have been asked why I believe in God, if I do. I think I do, though that's the next step, first I have to know what that is. A lot of people skip straight to that step, but I don't usually take short cuts unless it is to avoid physical activity. So.
I think it all has to do with that word 'belief'. Everyone needs something to believe in, something you can't prove but you can be absolutely sure of without any proof, and the lack of proof is the point. Or the available proof may not be generally acceptable and all that.
Everyone believes in something- some in The Force, some in the Greatness of Man, some in other things, like karma and nirvana, some in just themselves, and then some in God. It is fuelled by a need or desire, utterly personal, and the belief itself is also personal. Communities and societies don't come into it at all.
Each belief has some reason to it. I guess a need for achievement is fuelled by a belief in the Greatness of man, and then maybe it's the other way around. A belief in onoeself gives confidence. And the belief in God is the need for a person who fills a certain gap. For most people, it's the comfort derived from the thought of someone who cares. For, as I read somewhere, it is God's business to care. And so the thought of someone who cares and has the power to do something about it- well, it's more comforting than most things. So we believe, and are given strength, refuelled, again and then again.
Sometimes believing in God can be for other reasons as well, like habit or tradition or no real speculation into what you need to believe in. That could make you imbue God with characters he may not have had, so that he suits your purpose. Sometimes, when you can't forgive yourself for something, you let God do it for you. God becomes multi-purpose, so to speak. And then of course, there is the fact that it's the easiest to believe in, when you think that lots of greybeards, almost all historical architecture, around 85 or 90 percent of the world's population, i.e. about 5 and a half billion people, the Vatican treasury, Raphael's works, hymns and the magnitude of the Da Vinci Code debates all exist, proving to you that God exists. So there are lots of reasons why you should believe in Him, lots of so-called reliable sources that tell you God is a good bet. Sounds quite crude when you put it that way, but it is that way.
Of course, this is all from the viewpoint of the Christian religion, which is the only viewpoint I know, and it makes plenty of sense to me. I'm not sure of exactly what I believe, but I know that I do believe in something. As I might have mentioned before, my mind is a mess, and what I believe is probably a pinch of this and a dash of that forming a senseless stew, but it seems to work. And so we all get by.
I think it all has to do with that word 'belief'. Everyone needs something to believe in, something you can't prove but you can be absolutely sure of without any proof, and the lack of proof is the point. Or the available proof may not be generally acceptable and all that.
Everyone believes in something- some in The Force, some in the Greatness of Man, some in other things, like karma and nirvana, some in just themselves, and then some in God. It is fuelled by a need or desire, utterly personal, and the belief itself is also personal. Communities and societies don't come into it at all.
Each belief has some reason to it. I guess a need for achievement is fuelled by a belief in the Greatness of man, and then maybe it's the other way around. A belief in onoeself gives confidence. And the belief in God is the need for a person who fills a certain gap. For most people, it's the comfort derived from the thought of someone who cares. For, as I read somewhere, it is God's business to care. And so the thought of someone who cares and has the power to do something about it- well, it's more comforting than most things. So we believe, and are given strength, refuelled, again and then again.
Sometimes believing in God can be for other reasons as well, like habit or tradition or no real speculation into what you need to believe in. That could make you imbue God with characters he may not have had, so that he suits your purpose. Sometimes, when you can't forgive yourself for something, you let God do it for you. God becomes multi-purpose, so to speak. And then of course, there is the fact that it's the easiest to believe in, when you think that lots of greybeards, almost all historical architecture, around 85 or 90 percent of the world's population, i.e. about 5 and a half billion people, the Vatican treasury, Raphael's works, hymns and the magnitude of the Da Vinci Code debates all exist, proving to you that God exists. So there are lots of reasons why you should believe in Him, lots of so-called reliable sources that tell you God is a good bet. Sounds quite crude when you put it that way, but it is that way.
Of course, this is all from the viewpoint of the Christian religion, which is the only viewpoint I know, and it makes plenty of sense to me. I'm not sure of exactly what I believe, but I know that I do believe in something. As I might have mentioned before, my mind is a mess, and what I believe is probably a pinch of this and a dash of that forming a senseless stew, but it seems to work. And so we all get by.
Illusion
I stood there, and she stood before me.
I raised my face, she raised hers.
I smiled slowly, deliberately, and she smiled as well.
A mirror ?
And I, that woman, with black glories of hair and the leaping fire all around ?
It must be me.
There are flames in my eyes as well.
I raise my arm.
A long straight brown arm ending in an outstretched finger. To touch the mirror. The fingertips cut through air and brush the cool mirror surface.
A second.
Then it shatters.
Splinters fly.
Shining, sparkling splinters.
Leaving gashes of red that glintin the dancing light.
I look up- at her.
At where she still stands.
Quietly.
Her arms folded gracefully.
Her quiet, understanding face.
No mocking laughter, no damning judgement.
But I hate her now.
I raised my face, she raised hers.
I smiled slowly, deliberately, and she smiled as well.
A mirror ?
And I, that woman, with black glories of hair and the leaping fire all around ?
It must be me.
There are flames in my eyes as well.
I raise my arm.
A long straight brown arm ending in an outstretched finger. To touch the mirror. The fingertips cut through air and brush the cool mirror surface.
A second.
Then it shatters.
Splinters fly.
Shining, sparkling splinters.
Leaving gashes of red that glintin the dancing light.
I look up- at her.
At where she still stands.
Quietly.
Her arms folded gracefully.
Her quiet, understanding face.
No mocking laughter, no damning judgement.
But I hate her now.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Teardrop.
She walked down the road. A tear formed. It didn't fall, but it was there. She could feel it. And she wanted to cry it, to rid herself of it. Of the great burden that is a tear that hasn't fallen. It welled and burned in her eye, but it didn't show. She kept walking. She passed a bit of footpath where a man in dirty rags was sleeping, surrounded by chalk marks in orange chalk on the footpath. She didn't stop. She passed people, who looked at her suspiciously as she hummed a sad song to herself. Accusing her with their eyes. But they didn't feel the tear. And they walked past her and disappeared into the world at which she would never turn and look. She passed a dirty roadside stall, where groups of people stood about, talking and sipping tea from little mud cups. A man, done with his tea, hurled the cup at the footpath, where it shattered into big and small pieces. They didn't notice her, she didn't notice them. She looked at the pieces, a little startled for a moment, and then went on. Past a big banyan tree, past a bilboard with a picture of a shiny- haired woman, past the cars stuck in the traffic jam, and the loud, irritating bollywood music that blared out of an open window. Past a shadow of a tree marked by fallen yellow flowers, and a white house with an open door. And an empty lot, and a sleepy security guard. The tear was insistent now, hot and wet somewhere behind her eye. She turned a corner. She looked at her shoes, and at the empty parking lot. The shoes were scorching, something she hadn't noticed before. She didn't hear anything, or feel anything, or think anything, because the tear was getting its way. It slid out from beneath her almost- shut eyelids and travelled down her cheek, leaving a cool, wet trail on the skin. It fell off her cheek and dropped away. She thought for a moment it was over, she felt relief. Then another drop followed that one, and then another.She stood for a moment and thought about it. She was crying. Why ? She didn't know. She didn't feel anything. She wondered why she needed a reason. Why she needed to justify that tear. And she found she didn't know. The last tear lingered on her chin for a moment. She felt it, and was comforted. And then it, too, fell away.
Something to do with tradition, I think
There is this thing- this intangible thing that always eludes- like a feeling, a sort of emotion I suppose it must be, though what it really is, I can't quite get hold of. It's something that's got a lot to do with culture and tradition and so I'll try to work from there.
We in India know a lot about culture and tradition. Much of it is inextricably linked with Religion in our minds, and also with Society and the Community and other such things, and we know all these things are somehow quite important, because, as Tevye, with some inkling of truth, once said- 'Because of our traditions, we know who we are and what we are to do'. Or something like that, anyway. So these are things that take us from our blind wanderings and put us somewhere- in a line, say, and when we place our hands on the shoulder of the person in front of us and feel the hand of the person behind us, and hear the shuffling feet of all the others both ahead and behind, you know you are somewhere, and there is still some reason in the chaotic world and you've got a definite something to depend on. So this framework of sorts that props us up, is held together by little rituals we perform and by the bonds that hold people together, in a group, depending on each other, and we pretend the reasons for this are many and varied, but it's just one- that we need other people. But for name's sake, we do it for Tradition.
But then, culture and tradition and all the rest of it is entirely dependent on what one is brought up to, what is familiar to one while one is still assimilating surroundings. It is all perception, nothing solid, and so it isn't absolute. Scientifically speaking, all the ideas related to this stuff are implanted in your head from when you're little so that as you grow, you accept it as inalienable truth, which it isn't. So it can change.
But when you are brought up to it, and then plunged into something different, then what ? What do you do ? Do you hold on to your concepts, which may seem silly from these new perspectives, or do you let go of the deadweight and try to make yourself fit, finding out later that you've lost your anchor ? I suppose this is the choice people make when they move out of familiar places, and become pioneers, and all that kind of thing. When Indians go abroad, and what I will feel when I leave my home. What Gogol Ganguli felt, and so on. For that matter, even here, we lose ties to this structure all too often. We let go, and then we see no point going back, it feels so good to be free..... Who gives up Coke and hepness for mishti and a sari ? Hip- Hop and Dance- Pop- Rock for Rabindrasangeet? Let it go. There will always be some kooks who go that way. They'll keep alive the tradition. We lose ourselves and find ourselves, and lose ourselves again, weaving in and out of objects and people and places, because when you can't tie yourself to one thing, you're never tied by anything. Cut one chain, and you know how to cut all the rest. And you do.
It's awfully impractical, this. Without losing a communal identity, one could probably never find an original one, and nothing can be achieved while lugging deadweight around behind you. Deadweight like who your 4th cousin twice removed was and how he's related to the Prime Minister and the Great and Grand people your parents knew, and other things like that. The funny thing is, we have the courage to want to let it go, and not quite the courage to live without it. We have the courage to cut ourselves loose, but not the ability- call it tenacity if you like- to go on living without the regrets. Or do we ? Perhaps we're just always torn in two. The desire to be secure in something, and the rebellious feeling that pulls the other way.
I am this way. Maybe when I go further it will make more sense, and I will lean in one or other of the directions. Now, I'm getting stretched rather hard both ways.
We in India know a lot about culture and tradition. Much of it is inextricably linked with Religion in our minds, and also with Society and the Community and other such things, and we know all these things are somehow quite important, because, as Tevye, with some inkling of truth, once said- 'Because of our traditions, we know who we are and what we are to do'. Or something like that, anyway. So these are things that take us from our blind wanderings and put us somewhere- in a line, say, and when we place our hands on the shoulder of the person in front of us and feel the hand of the person behind us, and hear the shuffling feet of all the others both ahead and behind, you know you are somewhere, and there is still some reason in the chaotic world and you've got a definite something to depend on. So this framework of sorts that props us up, is held together by little rituals we perform and by the bonds that hold people together, in a group, depending on each other, and we pretend the reasons for this are many and varied, but it's just one- that we need other people. But for name's sake, we do it for Tradition.
But then, culture and tradition and all the rest of it is entirely dependent on what one is brought up to, what is familiar to one while one is still assimilating surroundings. It is all perception, nothing solid, and so it isn't absolute. Scientifically speaking, all the ideas related to this stuff are implanted in your head from when you're little so that as you grow, you accept it as inalienable truth, which it isn't. So it can change.
But when you are brought up to it, and then plunged into something different, then what ? What do you do ? Do you hold on to your concepts, which may seem silly from these new perspectives, or do you let go of the deadweight and try to make yourself fit, finding out later that you've lost your anchor ? I suppose this is the choice people make when they move out of familiar places, and become pioneers, and all that kind of thing. When Indians go abroad, and what I will feel when I leave my home. What Gogol Ganguli felt, and so on. For that matter, even here, we lose ties to this structure all too often. We let go, and then we see no point going back, it feels so good to be free..... Who gives up Coke and hepness for mishti and a sari ? Hip- Hop and Dance- Pop- Rock for Rabindrasangeet? Let it go. There will always be some kooks who go that way. They'll keep alive the tradition. We lose ourselves and find ourselves, and lose ourselves again, weaving in and out of objects and people and places, because when you can't tie yourself to one thing, you're never tied by anything. Cut one chain, and you know how to cut all the rest. And you do.
It's awfully impractical, this. Without losing a communal identity, one could probably never find an original one, and nothing can be achieved while lugging deadweight around behind you. Deadweight like who your 4th cousin twice removed was and how he's related to the Prime Minister and the Great and Grand people your parents knew, and other things like that. The funny thing is, we have the courage to want to let it go, and not quite the courage to live without it. We have the courage to cut ourselves loose, but not the ability- call it tenacity if you like- to go on living without the regrets. Or do we ? Perhaps we're just always torn in two. The desire to be secure in something, and the rebellious feeling that pulls the other way.
I am this way. Maybe when I go further it will make more sense, and I will lean in one or other of the directions. Now, I'm getting stretched rather hard both ways.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Sleepy.
It's late.
Outside, it's deepest dark.
Here,
It's just me and the whirrs of the computer.
The air is heavy-
Slowing me,
Holding me down.
It is a task to breathe.
Huge, full breaths
Like a diver might take after resurfacing
Or I might take
While pondering diving at all.
They even sound heavy.
As does everything.
Not a thing is moving outside.
I might as well have been staring at a photograph
Of blackness
As out of the window.
The stillness
Is soporific
And my eyelids, insistent,
Drag me down
Into depths of murky
Sleep.
Outside, it's deepest dark.
Here,
It's just me and the whirrs of the computer.
The air is heavy-
Slowing me,
Holding me down.
It is a task to breathe.
Huge, full breaths
Like a diver might take after resurfacing
Or I might take
While pondering diving at all.
They even sound heavy.
As does everything.
Not a thing is moving outside.
I might as well have been staring at a photograph
Of blackness
As out of the window.
The stillness
Is soporific
And my eyelids, insistent,
Drag me down
Into depths of murky
Sleep.
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