Sunday, 31 May 2015

A Trailer for the Next Big Rat Poem

Here is a teaser:
'Splattered on the streets
are dead rats as if caught
amidst a stretch and a yawn
Looking well-fed, they whose
lives are hidden, their death
is a revelation '

A picture of a dead rat
will serve as a poster
 for this poem
which aspires to grab a
moment not as fleeting
not as rare, if one walks
(But then, this is the New
Wave of Indian Poetry, so)
the streets at nights before
sweepers broom the roads
an hour into dawn.
So capturing a dead rat on the
smartphone camera is more
probable than sighting a lion
on a safari but probably scarier

 
To read this poem further
wait in the queue overnight
before the day of its release
Wear your warm clothes,
that winter night will make
you shiver.






Sunday, 16 March 2014

Josef K falls in love

Josef K fell in love with a girl and this time,love was reciprocated.Julie loved him indeed,yet she remained melancholy for precisely this reason as she couldn't bear the sadness that this love would bring about when it ended as it should.K consoled Julie that it would be beautiful nostalgia compared to people whose lives are empty altogether.And saying this,he would take Julie's hand and take her on a walk through the streets of Prague.The beautiful wind had her distracted into happiness but somewhere K was already disturbed and he would return to his room at night to hours of laborious solitude.Because sitting by the window ,before the last chapter of his unfinished novel,he would worry about the future that Julie said they couldn't share.A milkman would be cycling down the road below.Mrs Grubach would come out of the house,hollering at him to stop and he would stop.Milk poured out of his can into her vessel and off he went after pocketing the money,turning around the corner and perhaps disappearing into the future that Julie would talk about.Beyond K's field of vision,the milkman would weave in through the rest of the neighbourhood finishing which he would weave into another labyrinthine neighbourhood,one of whose alleys would contain the house Julie would move into,if she married someone else
The way K saw it,his days were passing by like dominoes falling,so that the fall of the last domino at the other far end of future was the result of the first domino falling.He had a pack of dominoes in his cupboard,stacked away since adolescence.This was a good omen,he thought.Tomorrow,he would tell Julie about their lives having the sweet predictability of falling dominoes.Julie wouldn't buy it,he knew but she loved these little theories he would come up with anyway.For K,it was convincing enough.But Julie thought of it as another instance of his artistic sensibilities helplessly scratching the muddier surface of real life.K was aware of her disposition and would have dismissed it had it not been for the fact that Julie was not just wiser but the better artist of the two.If K could somehow convey that he was no less interested in real life as she was,then perhaps Julie would change her stance. She often told K how her father was busy raising her at his age when he was still struggling through university.K wanted to embrace life like that but he didn't know where to begin.K decided to scrape off every burdensome deviance from his life knowing that as long as he kept writing every night,no convention,no everyday banality could consume him enough to define him.But where would K begin?He looked across the road Miss Grubach's window where it was dark already and it occured to him how Miss Grubach had earned her slumber through her tireless dedication to existence and even if he couldn't possibly chat her up about sharing the secret of her blissful life,he thought he could begin by imitating her in the simplest way possible ,to share her present -by buying milk from the same milkman as she did.K never drank milk and had weak bones.A vessel of milk everyday,and then Miss Grubach,Julie and him would perhaps healthily end up in the same future as the milkman disappeared into.
It was late in the night,K was hungry.But he avoided the temptation to finish the apple he had kept for breakfast and decided to sleep.So at around two in the night,the last lamp in Cihelna went off and a beautiful moon was aglow over a Prague that slept peacefully with no more disturbance.


Sharpening pencils

I am typing into this page after what anybody will agree,a rather long time.I remember when I first wrote here,one of my friends asked me to abstain from anything confessional as the world expects to hear about more significant things from me,or as he put it,"someone like me".That friend just sold his first start-up for a hefty amount.This was some wake-up call I mean,around the same time,I read about some call girl getting a book deal as a result of the popularity of her personal blog and I cringed at my garrulous online avatar yapping about the banalities of a life that lacked even the superficial vitality of a whore's.
I consciously avoided the sentimental and the confessional and worked towards the more philosophical and intellectual and however much of a self-fashioning it was,I liked how this blog took my contemplations about the universe seriously.
Now when I listen to myself telling the world about the absurdity of existence,I sound naive.
I know I have to write.Write a lot.Really start writing again.What will I write now?I feel lost inspite of the many moments of certainty that are accumulating these days.
I should write.No certainty like thoughts bubbling up in the brain,reaching the fingertips and conquering the screen.





Wednesday, 13 October 2010

About the man who invented the wheel

A man filed a patent for his invention
of the wheel,all rights reserved for
mankind,he was told.And then he
went to the court,soon he was
wheeled out of the courtroom ,on the
stretcher of law.
In his never-ending
dream,he saw wheels within
wheels.The wheels of the world kept
turning.

Monday, 11 October 2010

When Moses spoke to his basket

The Basket it was that has
made me me.It wasn't a complete
abandon,it couldn't have been,
ensconced in a basket woven by man
to be returned to man.How the river
that suppressed its desire to teach me
swim, to servilely carry me back to
humanity,to lead the very species that
deserted me.
And now a thousand years later,when
they talk about Apocalypse every day
on TV,
how I wish I should have leapt
out of that basket back then,learned to
swim ,grown into a Moby Dick to rule
the world once the Great Flood consumes
mankind.The water is where I have always
belonged .



Tuesday, 5 October 2010

Writing the immortal poem

Here I begin writing
my immortal poem
and I want to use words
whose meanings will not
change over the ages
-a wish I am denied as
the readers shall change
anyway,the subtleties
of today are destined to
dissolve in the cliches of
tomorrow,and now I am
perplexed as consequently
metaphor seems an impossible
ambition.A string of symbols
that echoes in the psyche of
the future-it could only be
a song that you can close
your eyes and bale out of your
throat.I should have penned the
anthem of a country or the
hymn of a new religion,but
for that I need to be a man
of some significance.
Helpless,I cry at my occasion
I shall pass this blank paper
then,carrying the fingerprint
of my failure over to posterity,
hoping that many ages hence,
someone can always read a poem
into the creases left by the hands
of history.

In-vitro imagination

You have been hooked to your
tube for my days in the tube
the spectacle of my conception
has been your favorite reality
show and when I became the
whole lucky enough to be more
than the sum of my stolen parts
you sentenced me to my term
in the womb ,a mere rite of passage,
another tube .
Soon,you will pluck me,
for your own consumption
through the tube of my life
the walls of which are as
deceptively transparent as
the one I was conceived in,
the only difference being I
now harbor a wish to break out
so that every now and then I
have run headlong onto it.