Straight from the Shitpot

Distractions, Procrastination, and fleeting Contentment

2011-12-06T19:16:00.002+05:30

It’s wonderful to laugh till your stomach hurts and your eyes water, but it’s so goddamn rare.

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It recently occurred to me that I’ve been quite the asshole to a few nice people. Candid letters are in order, that’s all I can do—might not even apologize, but gestures count, right? ’Cause well, if you didn’t know already, I am a bit of a sociopath.

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Stravinsky has made me realize music is best felt with eyes closed in darkness, and with the intermittent light of a cigarette cherry. The remarkable precision—damned psychologist I’d say!

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I refuse to fight, or rather, I’ve realized I cannot fight it anymore; there’s no point, ironic eh? I give in, hope the wretched sub/unconscious follows.

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I recently identified ‘sunshine’ as my favorite word; ‘almost’ would be a distant second.

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Why are books so expensive, dead authors in particular—why must their books be expensive? Goddamn vultures of the literary world. The word must be propagated, not restricted.

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There was a time when I could be considered sympathetic to the feminist sentiment (perhaps even the cause?), but now I think feminists are stupid, even more stupid than urban pseudo-Marxists (mind you, I say ists not isms; although it could be extended).

As for the slutwalks, they ought to be titillating; otherwise, it’s not being literal enough (although symbolism should be limited to literature).

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I might not ever learn French (Baudelaire and Rimbaud), or German (Kafka and Goethe), or Russian (Dostoyevsky), or Bengali (Tagore), but at some point of my life, I intend to learn Sanskrit (Mahabharat, Puranas, Kalidas, Vedas, etc.).

Also, oil painting, music theory, violin and piano, some singular martial art, and at least once, try and discard my scepticism and delve into esoteric ideas—meditation, magic, ritual, etc.

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I give up on modern philosophy; I can neither handle it, nor tolerate it. Hair-splitting abstractions and endless jargon-filled bullshitting and dissections; I guess I’m not a scholar after all. But then I need not bother, not when there’s so much more to read instead. Things I know, things I can easily comprehend, and things I believe in.

But Psychology is interesting even if it seems all about dream-interpretation or generalized truths—vague connections—shooting arrows in the dark can be fun?

Freud: so succinct, eloquent, logical, and self-assured; sometimes cocaine decisions work.

Lacan: crazy enlightening bastard, need to read more of him.

Jung would have been fun to talk to, admire him especially ’cause he accepts the arbitrary nature and limitations of his art—yes, the way I see it, it’s more of an art than a science. But then of course, I’m still hung up on the old masters—I’m sure things have changed by now, have they?

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It’s getting too much—quite funny in a way—I’m actually flipping through books in my dreams. Obscure books that I faintly know the names of and vague lines I read in them (seem as real as always); I can actually feel my lips mumbling out the words, and they seem eloquent—if only I could remember—need a dream recorder.

And yesterday, maybe it was the mosquito coil, but I had some crazy dreams. One of them being inside a labyrinthine library where I wander about, fishing out tomes by authors such as Jack Cirouac and Willem Chaucer.

I wonder what a psychologist might say....

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Words come easier—exact ones, or else apt strings.

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Jesting Pilate by Aldous Huxley: way too much information in that head, too many opinions—gets carried away at times, but who doesn’t? Following the threads of logic—remarkably assured in his vacillations, musing-amusing over fresh experiences—speaks his mind—objective subjectivity in speculation; overwhelming breadth of knowledge and grasp, interminable scope.

Delicate irony and intrigue—subtle genius sense of humour. Outsider observations, valuable when coming from an erudite polymath like Huxley—art, music, drugs, literature, spirit, and so on. Definitely one of the best books I have ever read.

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: Not a great novel, but Joyce’s genius is undeniable—shines through in some sentences, phrases, and connections, ones that simply blow you away, especially the last chapter for its unique profundity and mode.

The idiomatic style gives me assurance but mustn’t get carried away.

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After a recent (third so far) attempt at The Wasteland, I finally began to understand it—get its essence, a bit of the vision. I had dismissed it off as deliberately obscured; while that may be true, I realized I’m no better. But really, what an elaborate poem.

But TS Eliot was quite the self-assured and opinionated bugger. Mind you, he wasn’t talking shit, but the way he talks, you can’t help but smile and shake your head sometimes.

I guess it was the time; would be fun to pluck him out and plonk him down into our postmodernist asshole of a world.

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Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf? One can only fall in love with her (from the idea one gets about her). Selfish and unfair, but as a reader I can only say her misery proved beneficial to the greater cause of humanity and literature.

From a few of her Cambridge letters, I figure it’d have been wonderful to have her as a teacher.

Mrs. Dalloway: The connections, the plan, the associations—sheer genius, profundity dealt with in such matter-of-fact fashion. She writes like a woman (duh, she’s got to, she was a woman), but in her case, it is a compliment, not a mere fact or a jibe.

And what a nice ending: “It is Clarissa, he said. / For there she was.”

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Every time I read something by Tagore, I’m further convinced that he is the only individual India could categorically be proud of. The knowledge and erudition, the assured spirit; the way he consolidates all of it into such simple profundity, wonderful. It’s clear from his words that he did find some answers; a palpable contentment, it’s quite clear, and something one cannot dismiss off.

One could disagree with him; I do, but I never want to—his worldview is so simple, true, and beautiful, that you want to believe in everything he says—a most inspiring character.

He seems to know everything, seems the one person who could really teach me something enriching and valuable, something abstract and yet entirely useful—a wonderful and unique balance he strikes. The knowledge of the world and of his own individual self, and his mastery over these; a beautiful mind indeed.

Gitanjali: Supremely beautiful and profound, but save for the few poems that weren’t as lofty and spiritual as the rest, I couldn’t appreciate it much—just couldn’t muster the association (that’s what fuels poetry right?)—too much ugly uncertainty in the head to be able to find relief in such verse. I could say it might be irrelevant in our times, but I know that’s not true. Again, I wish I could believe in what he talks about, but I cannot.

Quite a few Donne-esque sentiments—not as interesting or clever, but much more beautiful.

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The Prophet by Khalil Gibran: After a long time I was moved enough to make annotations in a book that wasn’t part of the course. A most beautiful book, profound lyrical treatise on Man and Spirit, but again, personally I couldn’t appreciate it altogether—too rooted to the perverse and material.

And well, the vain convoluted abstractions and deliberately ambiguous profundity characteristic of a ‘prophetic’ tone, the typical religious deceptions and oxymoronic conceits got on my nerves after a while. No wonder it appealed to drug-addled hippies; too spiritual for me, but the beauty was undeniable.

Of course, Gibran cannot be criticized, for the aphoristic nature is essential to the structure and vision, and talking of vision, what a glorious towering one.

Perhaps this was only a book, wonder what Gibran truly felt. Wouldn’t mind reading the complete trilogy and maybe more.

Nietzsche would have had fun though.

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Animal Farm: The only other book apart from Lolita to leave me utterly humbled, sheer genius! Another perfect novel (which Lolita wasn’t, but with regard to that one, the imperfections added a certain charm); few lines stand out in particular, but that’s the genius—simple and flowing—a comprehensive coherent perfect whole.

For a while, I actually wasn’t able to look at a dog/donkey/pig in the same way as before. Someone please make a movie out of it (if there isn’t one already, is there?), it’ll be fun to watch.

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Lord of the Flies: A book that really lived up to its hype. Being a lazy and fastidious reader, I seldom read books in one go; this happened to be one of those exceptions. The simplicity, the implications, and the vision—the dead pilot for instance—another perfect novel—terrifying, succinct, acute; psychology is observation.

So many themes packed in, natural and logical; a brilliant allegory (if you choose to focus on that aspect) at par with Animal Farm. In fact, if you think about it, they are the perfect foils to each other with mirroring themes.

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Narziss and Goldmund: no great quotes, but a unified smooth whole—scheme, plot, structure; almost (?) a perfect novel. Must read more of Hesse.

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It has been said before: nothing beats Mahabharat! Finally read C. Rajagopalachari’s version; simple, contrived, but at least one gets the story—imagine the breadth of profundity of the original, sends a shiver down the spine just to think of it.

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Intimacy: I can finally appreciate Sartre. The Wall reflected the Camus connection, and I loved Erostratus for the Dostoyevskian tone, but The Room—that’s the one, what a love story (again, a parallel could be drawn to Septimus and Rezia in Mrs. Dalloway).

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One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest: Nothing great, but a very good novel indeed. Maybe because I saw the movie first—kinda ruins it—’cause like with Audrey Hepburn in Tifanny’s, I just couldn’t shake off Nicholson’s mug every time I thought of McMurphy. But a wonderful ending—ends justify all?

Books and I

2011-10-04T21:11:00.000+05:30

Please don’t tell me I’m a good writer when you’ve only read my blog—I find it most infuriating, even though I only smile and nod. And on the flipside, don’t dismiss me off for the same reason. As I have said before, this blog is where I vomit things out, mental excretions—you get the idea.

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QBA is an amazing place (too expensive for me though). After a couple of drinks, I didn’t even mind the fancy formal setting or the generic music—a wonderful evening and candid conversations. But again, nothing beats the Tavern! Nothing—where else in Delhi would you get a decent cocktail under a hundred bucks?

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I found myself at the airport after ages—and damn, it has changed—not to mention, too damned confusing....

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All the Puja mess—the blaring bhajans and the looming festivities—fuckin’ everyone seems to be doing it.... Urgh, the only tolerable aspect is the food.

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I have given up on TV, newspapers, movies, and even music for now. Plus, I’m hardly writing (although, there’s one poem that I can truly be proud of)—there’s simply too much to read. Especially now that I have discovered my college library—it’s nothing great, but it’s good enough. And the staff is nice—more so when they recognized me as a diligent one—so yeah, it actually makes a difference, and it feels good.

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Owing to last year’s pathetic outcome (52%—again, mainly thanks to the measly IA), I have effectively discarded my great Oxford ambition, which of course, has freed me of my academic obsession. No more research essays, and no more studying like a maniac—there’s so much more besides course-books.

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Most of the DU professors who edit/compile the textbooks belong to either JMC or Hindu—Hmm, I wonder—in any case, it might have been nice.... Ah well, fuck it!

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Also, I finally deigned to involve myself with the college literary society. I was actually surprised to find decent poetry (even if it’s mostly recycled romanticism and aesthetics), and more importantly, these kids have a palpable zeal in them. Yes, I have my own selfish reasons—there’s no grand vision driving me, only a grand delusion—that I’d help these kids (and therein, feel good about myself). But come on, let’s not dissect motives—in the end, it’s the action that counts.

So yeah, I’m talking to them—trying to make them realize things, get them to experiment with forms and themes until they discover their unique voice—get them towards contemporary and relevant writing, and so on (the Prof would be helping as well). Then there’s a bit of impromptu-covert-radical theatre. So yeah, things are looking up. I’m getting over my apathy and cynicism—perhaps, I’m only deluding myself as always, but it still feels good in some way—just the idea of doing something worthwhile, and something tangible (not just the ‘obligation of an aware writer’). And yes, they seem to respect me—or again, maybe it’s just my rose-tinted glasses (remember, this one’s a Dostoevskian curse)?

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Recently, I got a common insight from three acquaintances—a bit funny even if it was meant to be complimentary. Apparently, two of them were reminded of me when they were reading about Blake. Personally, I never saw the connection (although, I have consciously emulated him, particularly the aphoristic Proverbs of Hell), although I know on what basis these people might have drawn the association. If I really had to associate myself with a poet, as of now, it has to be either Baudelaire or Ginsberg. In any case, the closest I have felt to Blake is in London. Perhaps I should read Songs of Innocence and Experience again. I always get that feeling with regard to a lot of books—that I didn’t get everything out of it, which of course is obvious—constant evolution and shite.

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Here’s the link to a brilliant short story by a friend—loved it in spite of my (ignorant) scepticism towards the fantastical: http://apostating.wordpress.com/2010/05/22/what-dreams-may-come-when-we-have-shuffled-off-this-mortal-coil/

And along with The Music of Eric Zann (again, Robi’s suggestion), I have formed a grudging respect for the genre (still quite nascent of course).

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Quitters, Inc.: For once, I actually preferred the movie—I mean No Smoking—apart from the ending, Kashyap’s effort was amazing—the surrealism, the acting, even the songs. But of course, the movie took away the novelty factor—which I guess, is the USP of any fantasy theme.

Can’t say much for King’s style, but his vision is mind-blowing.

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And talking of short stories—Ariadne by Chekhov—marvellous!

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Not to undermine Nietzsche, but after finally reading two of his books, I think there are no epiphanies (for this was my expectation from him) that he could make me realize. All the great insights that he proffers, I realized them (and without his insistent dogma) on my own over long solitary pot-smoking sessions on my terrace. And this was even before I became a reader—but then of course, the greatest truths are all common sense—one only needs to realize them.

I’m not denying his genius (I’d definitely read more of him)—in his own words, an “untimely man”. But therein, lies my point. The fact that he realized these truths back then is supremely impressive, but now in our times, these have got to be (or at least, should be) matter-of-fact observations. In fact, so strong is my conviction and self-assurance, I can’t even revel in the satisfaction of familiarity as I once could (while reading Wilde, Kafka, Camus, or Dostoevsky for instance—but of course, that is ‘fiction’).

All I’m saying is I expected much more from the man—that’s all. Damned expectations, really....

Nonetheless, among other things, Nietzsche’s belief is admirable:

“But who knows, after all, whether I even wish to be read today? – To create things upon which time tries its teeth in vain; in form and in substance to strive after a little immortality—I have never been modest enough to demand less of myself. The aphorism, the apophthegm, in which I am the first master among Germans, are the forms of ‘eternity’; my ambition is to say in ten sentences what everyone else says in a book—what everyone else does not say in a book. . . I have given mankind the profoundest book it possesses, my Zarathustra: I shall shortly give it the most independent (Revaluation of all Values).”

And yes, The Antichrist is a masterpiece—aphoristic and prophetic—this is indeed how rational thought evolved (at least a close speculation, perhaps one of the closest); this is what we (the sane ones) believe. A true philosopher in every sense, and wonderfully (maybe not for him though) aware of the same. Delightful debunking spirit:

“The old God, all ‘spirit’, all high priest, all perfection, promenades in his garden: but he is bored. Against the boredom the gods themselves fight in vain. What does he do? He invents man—man is entertaining. . . . But behold, man too is bored. God’s sympathy with the only kind of distress found in every Paradise knows no bounds: he forthwith creates other animals. God’s first blunder: man did not find the animals entertaining—he dominated them, he did not even want to be an ‘animal’.—Consequently God created woman. And then indeed there was an end to boredom—but also to something else! Woman was God’s second blunder.—‘Woman is in her essence serpent, Heva’—every priest knows that; ‘every evil comes into the world through woman’—every priest knows that likewise. ‘Consequently, science too comes into the world through her’. . . . Only through woman did man learn to taste of the tree of knowledge.—What had happened? A mortal terror seized on the old God. Man himself had become God’s greatest blunder; God had created for himself a rival, science makes equal to God—it is all over with priests and gods if man becomes scientific!—Moral: science is the forbidden in itself—it alone is forbidden. Science is the first sin, the germ of all sins, original sin. This alone constitutes morality.—‘Thou shalt not know’—the rest follows.—God’s mortal terror did not stop him from being shrewd. How can one defend oneself against science?—that was for long his chief problem. Answer: away with man out of Paradise! Happiness, leisure gives room for thought—all thoughts are bad thoughts. . . . Man shall not think. . . . And the old God comes to a final decision: ‘Man has become scientific—there is nothing for it, he will have to be drowned!’ . . . ”

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After a long time, I gave up a book midway (justified it with the same sentiment: too much to read, mustn’t waste time and effort on useless endeavours)—What is Literature by Sartre. Yes, there were genius insights—again, common sense but wonderful to encounter in such methodical manner—however, I was put off by the deliberate didacticism and communist sentiment. Plus, too convoluted and repetitive—compare Orwell’s writings, that’s the way to approach the subject.

And the man rambles—again, compare Camus (succinct; breakneck speed, and yet not a hurtling bump). If my memory serves me right, Nausea (the only other work I’ve read) had the same problem. Perhaps, Sartre underestimates his readers—after all, he wrote FOR them—perhaps, it was needed in his time.... Yet, one would expect more from so renowned a writer and philosopher, no less. However, he pre-empts these very things that I’m speaking of right now—so yeah, got to give him that—but then, I never denied his genius—only, the method and application.

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Linguistics is crazy—it’s fuckin’ hardcore! Among others, there’s Chomsky. And I have to respect him solely for the fact that I couldn’t keep up with him. After ages, one man who just went over my head, and in something of my interest—I guess it’s the combination of abstractions and technicalities—it’s fuckin’ crazy. And that’s the thing—couldn’t even dismiss him off as irrelevant, impractical, speculative, reactionary, or something (as with Marxism, feminism, most older philosophies).

And his political essays—prophetic! Such erudition, such eloquence—more so, since I could comprehend these. But again, the linguistic ones—I’d be very generous to myself in saying I grasped at least 30% of what I read.

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Confessions of an English Opium-Eater: I had been meaning to read this one for ages; and after finally finding a copy, I have to say I was disappointed. Again, the ‘expectation effect’, but here’s the thing—more than half of the book is merely a querulous journal of a desolate scholar recalling a troubled youth, and in an irritating high-flowing convoluted style. As for the opium bits, nothing special. Of course, there are a few wonderful passages every now and then, and De Quincey comes across as a most remarkable mind and a sensitive fellow—and of course, there were the limitations of time and being—but having said that, all in all, a disappointment. I’d try his essays though.

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I’m yet to read their seminal novels (Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karmazov, or Anna Karenina and War and Peace), but going by their shorter works, Tolstoy doesn’t come anywhere close to Dostoyevsky. This was my first impression, but then I read Family Happiness—that’s when I realized Tolstoy in fact, comes close, very close indeed. And yes, I have a proclivity towards first-person narratives (lazy reader, remember?). But really, the way Tolstoy portrays the female perspective—another perfect novel, so beautiful—and such a nice happy ending (I rarely respect closed happy endings).

Again, the simplistic profundity and detail so characteristic of Russian literature—it’s when I read the Russians that I realize how long a way I have to go before I can be confident enough of my prose as I’m of my verse.

And perhaps, it's time to finally read a Hemingway novel—or really?

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Waiting for Godot: it’ll be fun to watch once and then forget about it. Again, in our time, and for aware souls who are already familiar with the absurd, the play is nothing extraordinary. But once you keep the time in mind, you’d realize the sheer genius of it—such vision and execution. However, the academic interpretations are exasperating, for it’s an absolutely ambiguous play—a critical wankfest! And Beckett was a devious bastard—you can’t even criticize him. The one thing you can deride the play for is the ridiculousness—but then, that is precisely the point. Must read his novels.

I am not Anna

2011-09-13T23:52:00.001+05:30

The privatization of this blog has been deferred—I still haven’t managed to wrap up my manuscript owing to a procrastinating and punctilious nature.

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Hindsight: three years ago, I returned to Delhi a clueless, frustrated and drug-addled bastard with vague ambitions. I guess I’ve done well given my circumstances, luck and my self. Heck, I daresay I’m proud of what (maybe not how) I’ve evolved into. Considering my past ignorance, I’ve developed my intellect on an exponential scale, and more importantly I’m much saner and wiser. Reined in my demons (if not banished them altogether), and I’ve finally come to terms with what I always dreamed of doing—now, I can write, and it makes me content.

The downside: apathy continues to grow. I used to be an average sociable chap with ups and downs, now it’s just a constant state of objectivity and daydreaming. But perhaps things would work out, and it wouldn’t be all that bad—that’s all we can hope for, right?

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I wish to know someone who shares the same passion for History as I do for Literature. The association would be quite beneficial (at least for me) because there’s so much I would like to know—empires, wars, protests, the world. Only, I’m not all that enthusiastic about going through dreary fact-tomes when there’s so much to read already. However, I wouldn’t mind if a smart individual could relay the same as stories over a few drinks, and hence the musing.

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I’ve been trying to write a few essays for college, and I’ve come to the conclusion that all dead authors’ works (especially academic) should be in the public domain, at least after one generation has passed (unless the author prohibits the same in his will of course). It’s most exasperating to not find reliable (and free) material on the internet.

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John William Godward—I don’t think there ever was a greater artist than him. Fuck Picasso—really, give me a canvas, a loaded palette and a dose of LSD, and I’ll probably come up with something close.

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Mai ni Meriye by Mohit Chauhan—it’s a most beautiful song I heard in Himachal thanks to my cousins. I recently happened to remember it, and now when I listen to it and close my eyes, I could be back amidst them inside a wooden house with a view of snow-crested mountains.

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I happened to discover a couple of songs thanks to the two TV shows I currently watch—Californication and The Simpsons: Nothingman (Pearl Jam) and Jennifer Juniper (Donovan) respectively. Apart from Vedder’s voice, the former has some surprisingly evocative lyrics:

She once believed...in every story he had to tell...

One day she stiffened...took the other side...Empty stares...from each corner of a shared prison cell...One just escapes...one's left inside the well...And he who forgets...will be destined to remember

While the latter is just a nice happy song (and quite easy to play too).

And yes, Bang Bang by Nancy Sinatra—love the way she sings it.

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Someone happened to suggest Arctic Monkeys.... I have to say it was the shittiest (alright, not my kind of music—let’s just call it loud noise I guess) music I’ve heard in a while. And this woman said these buggers were “the contemporary Beatles”. Oddly, that might make sense, but it’s just sad nonetheless. It’s just like someone else who told me Porcupine Tree was “the new Floyd”—bleurgh!

Anyhow, at least I’m yet to be fed a Who comparison until now—which reminds me, Whiskey Man is THE song (yes, I rediscovered it lately)!

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And again, let’s not call Morrison a poet. He had a few moments, but in general, bleh.... Wouldn’t even call him lyrical for that matter (I do like his voice though, at least when he’s singing). The word has been endlessly raped now, but yes, he was a ‘rockstar’—nothing more, nothing less.

When it comes to that, “beedi jalailey jigar se piya, jigar maan badi aag hai” is far more poetic than “Come on baby, light my fire” (yes, I know Morrison didn’t write this one—I’m just making a point; and no, it wasn’t just an attempt at humour—pretty much a fact).

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I’ve never really felt utter gratitude towards anyone (and I mean anyone). Perhaps, I’ve never been obliged enough or maybe I’m just an ingrate (probably the latter). However, recently I came quite close—I owe it to D. H. Lawrence for writing Sons and Lovers. I wouldn’t recommend the book to everyone, for I know it’s about personal association and most people might not find it all that appealing. However, to me, it was therapy—I could feel myself heal with each page I read. Really, most wonderful.... “She was driven through the sunshine. It was just August, everything was bright and warm. Under the blue sky, they could all see she was dying.”

So now, Mr. Lawrence has been added to the list—I must read his entire corpus. Accompanying him so far are Camus and Dostoyevsky (the only writer I’ve actually managed to read entirely is Wilde).

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W. B. Yeats—an enigma; enough said. While Dario Fo seems a most impressive character. As for Brecht, simply a genius! If ever I get down to writing plays, I know it won’t be according to his idea of theatre, but just the fact that he formulized all those abstractions, and in such detail and lucidity—marvellous!

I’m glad I’m finally getting into drama (dialogue is still a weakness, so it’d help); still need to watch a play though.

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Daddy by Plath—overhyped. Maybe I just didn’t get it (call me an asshole but I could actually snigger between the lines), but yeah—I refuse to comment any further (I could, but it’s immaterial).

However, Rape Poem by Marge Piercy has got to be one of the most powerful and moving poems I’ve ever read. Definitely need to read a bit more of her.

As for Neruda’s Tonight I can Write—divine verse! So simple and yet so profound—it’s what lyrical poetry is all about, and I believe it could humble all of us contemporary poets with our abstractions and extensive tropes. In the end, it’s just about the sentiment.

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Miss Julie was a most ordinary play (it must have been relevant and delightful back then, but now it’s not) except for a few lines (e.g. “Just imagine the Alps with snow on them in the middle of summer . . . where the sun always shines, where the laurels are green at Christmas time, where the oranges glow . . .”) and the ending—oh yeah, the ending was the saving grace.

Strindberg seems a most amusing man, and his genius is undeniable in spite of his dogmatic idiocy (might be justified for his individual circumstances and time?). But yeah, sample a bit of him (I’d love to play the devil’s advocate just to scandalize certain women I know):

“Miss Julie is a modern character—not because the half-woman, the man-hater has not existed throughout the ages, but because she has now been discovered, she has emerged and has caused a stir. She is the victim of a false belief (which has seized hold of even stronger brains), namely that woman—this stunted form of human being compared to man, the lord of creation, the creator of civilization—is equal to man of might become so. Embracing this absurd ambition leads to her downfall. Absurd because a stunted form, governed by the laws of genetics, will always be stunted and can never catch up with the one that is ahead according to the formula: A (man) and B (woman) start from the same point C; A with a speed of, let us say, 100 and B with a speed of 60. Question: when will B catch up with A?—Answer: Never! Not by means of equal education, not through equal voting rights, not after disarmament, not even if men stopped drinking, no more than two parallel lines will ever intersect each other. The half-woman is a type who thrusts herself forward, sells herself today for power, decorations, honours, diplomas, as she previously did for money. The breed is degenerate and unhealthy. They don’t last. They do however, unfortunately, propagate their like through the misery they cause. . . . It is a tragic type, continuously fighting a losing battle against nature.”

Heh, isn’t he delightful?

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Oh and yes, the ‘Amusing dumbass of the month’ award goes to Mr. Aiyar....

Music and More

2011-07-29T22:45:00.001+05:30

Jaaney woh kaisey log they jinkey pyaar ko pyaar mila

Hum ne toh jab kaliyaan maangi kaanton ka haar mila

Jaaney woh kaisey log they jinkey pyaar ko pyaar mila

Bicchad gaya har saathi dekar pal do pal ka saath

Kis ko fursat hai jo thaamey deewano ka haath

Hum ko apna saaya tak aqsar bezaar mila

Hum ne toh jab kaliyaan maangi kaanton ka haar mila

Jaaney woh kaisey log they jinkey pyaar ko pyaar mila

Is ko hi jeena kehte hain toh yunhee jee lengey

Uff na karengey, lab see lengey, aansoo pee lengey

Gum sey ab ghabraana kaisa, gum sau baar mila

Hum ne toh jab kaliyaan maangi kaanton ka haar mila

Jaaney woh kaisey log they jinkey pyaar ko pyaar mila

A few years ago, ever since I discovered that a considerable number of Bollywood’s “evergreen hits” had been shamelessly ripped off The Beatles, The Kinks, The Who, Sinatra, etc., I began to treat old-school Bollywood with the utmost cynicism. But then recently, I was introduced to this absolute gem of a song thanks to a professor. Music by SD Burman, lyrics by Sahir Ludhianvi (who seems quite an enigma from the little information I managed to gather about him) and the delightful voice of Hemant Kumar. It’s a song from Pyaasa, so yes, add Guru Dutt’s stature to the mix. A bottle of whiskey and I could listen to it on an endless loop, especially that brief haunting melody between the stanzas—I guess this’d be the second movie I ever download.

--- ---

Recently, I acquired an 8GB memory card and managed to find my old JBL speakers; so well, I’ve been trying new music instead of the usual Dylan-Beatles-Dead-Zappa routine.

Anyhow, I was quite glad to finally discover an Indian band which really lived up to its hype—Peter Cat Recording Co. Groovy old-school modernized music. Many noticeable influences: Floyd, olden Bollywood, waltz, jazz; but their eventual sound is a unique amalgamation of them all, and I loved it—catchy, foot-tapping, fun music. Funny surreal lyrics and distinctive vocals—and yep, they have a hot vocalist; so yeah, pretty much the entire package.

Quite amazing, one band I’d pay to watch. Apparently they were at SF last year, but that’s all a haze, so yeah. If you ask me, PCRC has really got something going on—definitely, a band to watch out for. Talking about popular Indian bands, I’ve enjoyed a few great gigs: JF (metalhead days), TAAQ, JYG, Jazz Junction, Rainbow Bridge, Raghu Dixit Project to name a few, but I don’t think I could ever listen to them extensively; for now, PCRC seems to be the one.

So well, give them a chance and download the album (the recording might sound a bit scrappy but it’s good enough—total indie!); Pariquel might be a nice place to start:

http://petercatrecordingco.com/

Oh and turns out one of the guys is a batchmate from school. The last time I happened to talk to him (ages ago), he was a devil-worshipping metalhead—heh, I guess, we’ve all come a long way.

--- ---

Sridhar/Thayil, another band I’d want to watch live; ’cause I know it’ll be great, even though I’m not really into their kind of music.

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Down the Steps by Hope Sandoval; a recent acquaintance recommended this song, and I’ve got to say, it was quite a find. Beautiful voice; divine, tingle-inducing song.

--- ---

Not many can effectively pull off the particular juxtaposition of dark/sombre/sad sentiments to a happy upbeat tune. The Beatles were of course a class apart, but Johnny Cash is quite good at it too. Listen to Cry, Cry, Cry and you’ll know what I mean

--- ---

And the current Dylan song: Just like a woman....

And when we meet again,

Introduced as friends,

Please don't let on that you knew me when,

I was hungry, and it was your world.

        She takes just like a woman, yes she does,

        she makes love just like a woman, yes she does,

        And she aches just like a woman,

        but she breaks just like a little girl.”

== ==

I was never much impressed by Edgar Allen Poe’s poetry (yes, even The Raven) but his short stories are simply brilliant—love his style.

As for O. Henry, remarkable writer but really, too many Westerns.

Charles fuckin’ Baudelaire—he was the man!

== ==

Alright, I’ve finally given in and started watching drama series, ’cause well, I’m running out of things to watch on TV. I was somewhat sceptical of Californication (primarily because I didn’t like Duchovny’s face), but now I think I’m going to follow it. A novel called God Hates Us All turned into a movie titled Crazy Little Thing called Love—heh, a writer’s nightmare indeed!

As for Madmen, it turned out to be somewhat disappointing (I guess I was expecting too much). As of now, the only reason I still might watch it is because of the whole retro thing; Don Draper is quite the character though.

--- ---

There was a time when I used to love watching advertisements, I had some favourites too. Now, ever since I got this IPTV thing, I simply skip them (besides, most of them are shitty anyway). But recently I saw a really good one: the Amazon battery ad with a South Indian setting. So now, that makes two good ads from the current crop. The other one? The 5-Star “Ramesh-Suresh” gig—heh, I for one, find it quite amusing.

But the shitty ad prize still goes to Ranbir Kapoor’s attempts at stand-up—you’re the man, RK!

== ==

Say what you may, but I’m beginning to think there might be a chance that Rakhi Sawant is actually a smart woman—’cause well, no one can be that stupid, can they? She knows what she does for a living and she knows where she stands. She knows what she’s got to do to keep things going for her, and she uses all of this to her advantage. I have a suspicion that instead of her quips being matter-of-fact bimbo candour, they’re actually well thought out statements of a shrewd woman, used to exploit the media and people for her own end.

Look at her latest bytes about marrying Ramdev—after what now seems a conspicuous absence, it got her back in the limelight, didn’t it? And in her profession, she needs that. So yeah, I think instead of the press laughing at her, it’s the other way round—and she’s too smart to let them get a whiff of it. I’d say she’s just manipulating the ever-increasing demand for idiocy in our nation, which gets to me to this: why does the media bother itself with such people (Bal Thackeray, BJP buggers, Bollywood cheapsters, etc.); don’t they have anything better to do? Don’t they realize that they’re only encouraging such behaviour?

But I guess they do know it, they too are just giving in to the irrefutable claims of supply and demand. So well, that’s what I want to say—the problem lies in us, we crave idiocy—we’re pathetic, really!

== ==

Alright, this is why I don’t need weed anymore. One peg of whiskey and I managed to experience the acid-mirror-flashback effect all over again: saw my face dissolve into a mass of flesh once more, and blah blah blah. Hallucination on demand, yep—I’m on my way to babahood!

--- ---

Call me old fashioned but I refuse to go to college or buy my books until I get my result.

Also, I think I might finally let go of my ego and apply to the nascent literary society in college. Heck, I’ll give the interview or whatever they want; I’ll play along. Why? ’Cause well, I’m curious for one, and more importantly, I need a reason to go to college—classes are useless and intoxication doesn’t do it for me anymore, so yeah, this might be something.

--- ---

And I’m finally done with my manuscript proposal. All I need to do now is wait for my lazyass-bastard-editor of a friend to do his job, so that I can prepare the final draft and dispatch it to Penguin or HC (it’d be an unsolicited submission; anyone has a contact, agent or whatever?). And well, if about a year from now, you find a book by Jaques H. Bunbury or Ivans Mahler (I’m still undecided on the pseudonym, anyone care to vote?) somewhere, buy it! Support a penniless author, support his soirees and travels; support literature, support life, support the world, blah blah blah.

My eyes burn from pounding away on my laptop all night for weeks—at this rate, I’d soon be going blind...tch, why is the human form so wretched?

--- ---

Finally, an announcement: this shall be one of the last few posts to go up here. In a week or two (or maybe more), this blog shall be discontinued and removed from the public domain (I’d have deleted it altogether but as of now, I need to keep it as a personal archive).

Why you ask; well, ’cause I had promised myself I’d do this when I finally submit my manuscript. I have better things to do now and the blog just seems like a pointless distraction—heck, it’s almost becoming a social networking thing, and needless to say, I find that disturbing. So yep, I need to stop doing this and accustom myself to filtering out vain impressions (which I usually put in here) from my head, and focus entirely on literary pursuits.

So yes, I must deny you my great immaterial insights, ’cause in all honesty, no one could give a shit (including myself).

And not to sound the ungrateful runt that I am, let me make something clear: It has been worthwhile, it has been cathartic, it has kept me sane; but all vanity must come to an end.

Chop-chop and Cheers!

JHB

PS: I also wish to remove my virtual footprint—would anyone be kind enough to tell me how to go about it? I need an easy sure-fire way, not vague complications.

Bastard Whims, Dastard Opinions

2011-07-17T16:50:00.001+05:30

It’s actually nice meeting smart women even if they happen to drag you to a fancy mall and a fancy (an ambiguous term but a certain definition being: any place demanding more than 40 bucks for a non-alcoholic drink) coffee shop. But malls are crazy, especially when one isn’t used to them—you can’t help but find the experience immensely fascinating, amusing and pathetic, all at the same time (even a bit overwhelming at first). Another fancy coffee place, which had the following graffiti plastered on a wall: “Make Art not Malls”—I mean really, that’s the most pretentious pathetic shit even if it was supposed to be ironic.

Anyhow, I figured since I had ventured out of my tower (as a friend dubbed my room recently, keeping in mind my reclusive tendencies), might as well make the most of it. Sauntered down Nelson Mandela (damn, I love that road) for a while, before treating one of my best friends to some beer at the Tavern (you see, it happened to be one of those rare days when yours truly actually had some cash).

But really, the cost of “hanging out” in our times (and perhaps, more specifically groups)—it’s fuckin’ ridiculous, especially with all the bullshit taxes and everything. I actually feel a slight pinch at my ego (in spite of habit and shamelessness), every time some friend drags me somewhere and forces some over-priced liquor or food down my throat, especially when I know I couldn’t care less, and yet one can’t help it. It’s exasperating—all the complications about etiquette and customs—if only things could be much simpler.

No but really, the damned taxes! We ultimate consumers are like bitches. First of all, there’s the IT on our (generally speaking of course) hard-earned measly cash; followed by loads of other taxes, which I can thankfully afford to be absolutely clueless about as of now. But that’s not where it ends, is it? Eventually, we lousy bastards are the ones who’ve got to bear the brunt of all further taxations and other sugar-coated robberies of the state. Transport, food, recreation, services—anything, and it hurts when you can’t afford it; it hurts when you’re just another self-respecting proletarian bitch scratching around for survival. The damned trickle-down effect only seems to work in a negative fashion.

And why are we supposed to endure all of this? Well, ’cause we’re citizens—we get a vague hardly-existent feeling of security and a pointless sense of belonging, and some bullshit customary rights. Really, what does the government give us individuals that’s got some tangible effective value in our precious little microcosms? I can’t seem to think of anything, but then I’m a shameless ungrateful runt.

Take the damned income tax and be done with it—that should be enough for using the roads and other crap—spare us the rest, please! Let the damned industrialists choking on cash bear rest of the burden—why? Simply, because they can afford to, and because they must. The rich and the poor remain the same—and actually, the middle-class too, we continue to be buggered as always.

I’m considering becoming an illegal immigrant somewhere (those bastards don’t have to pay taxes, right?), or else migrate to some rich-ass country, somehow acquire its citizenship and then live on welfare—enough to survive, and of course the leisure!

PS: Don’t you dare call me a commie or an anarchist. I’m just an exasperated runt in an angry mood—all I can do is dream and write (and the shit goes here, I wonder why any of you even read it)

--- ---

Metros and buses have these signs about how one should offer their seat to “someone in need”, further elaborated: women (pregnant or otherwise), handicapped people, geriatrics, and kids (?). Well, I believe ‘intoxicated buggers’ must be included in the list—yep, there should be a seat reserved for drunks. Don’t give me that bullshit about conscious choice—even pregnancy and old age are conscious choices (or at least they should be); need is of the essence, and sometimes the drunken man’s need could be far greater than the rest—you know it. As for reserving seats for women (as in simply women, no intoxication or pregnancy), I find the idea absurd even if practical.

PS: Heh, it’s a whim. One can argue anything, so let’s not go there.

--- ---

I’m usually a very apathetic and accommodating person but don’t give me that crap about all art forms being equal (with regard to effort, impact, value, whatever). Photography, movies, dancing, painting, music—don’t even think of putting them on the same pedestal as literature. Literature is far greater in every sense, and of course I’m biased but I believe it’s undisputable. The only people who can have a claim to argue otherwise are the illiterate ones, but they wouldn’t bother, would they?

--- ---

The Somnambulist: Might not be called great literature (no grand philosophies or truths) but as a work of fiction, it’s simply delightful. Jonathan Barnes excels in the art of storytelling and it more than reflects in the ingenious style of narration. There are no pretensions, the man is perfectly aware of his purpose, and at times, you could just sense him laughing, having fun at the reader’s expense. A writer to look out for, and yes, make a damned movie out of this one, really!

--- ---

I happened to read a snippet in HT City about how some buggers are fighting over the credits for some song—some fuss about DK Bose/Bose DK (yep, that’s the argument I believe). Really, are you fuckin’ kidding me? Are we so depraved now? The pun-ish wordplay is quite an ancient slang—Bose DK, Run DK—anyone growing up in the 90s might be aware of it. So yeah, what assholes, really, shameless! Smoke some damned weed and get fresh ideas! Heck, someone spike these bastards!

--- ---

After seeing her in numerous promos and advertisements, I happened to catch five minutes of Simi Garewal’s latest show. All I’ve got to say is: pathetic (the show, the guest and especially the host)! And this woman was purported to be charming and eloquent—hah, bite me! But then, I was never much for talk shows anyway.

--- ---

If you’re sufficiently intoxicated and walking through dingy winding streets with your earphones blaring Gimme Shelter, you just might feel as if you’re inside a Scorsese movie.

Reader's Digest

2011-07-10T14:59:00.001+05:30

If there was any good that came out of visiting a friend (apart from some debauchery), it was that I found a copy of Lolita languishing on a table. I had to borrow it (I usually refrain, a personal motto being: “Never a lender, nor a borrower be”—a pithy quote that has stuck with me ever since I read it in some school text), and I did.

A masterpiece of solipsism—delightful imagery and impressions abound in the godlike narrative. It’s about the individual psyche of a torturously aware soul—unparalleled mental eroticism, no gratuitous vulgarity. Subtle ingrained devilish humour—sheer genius (and yes, we tend to be quite generous with the term but if ever there was a carefully compiled comprehensive list, Vladimir Nabokov is sure to figure in it)! For the first time I actually felt that clichéd tripe about being transported into a book world—yes, indeed! Maybe I’m just a poet pervert at heart, maybe we’re all poet perverts—what are the parameters anyway? Also, the first work to leave me utterly humbled; I actually contemplated giving up writing for a few minutes after finishing Part I, ’cause well, if someone has already said all these things with such skill, what’s the point? But then after downing a stiff one, the feeling thankfully subsided before snowballing into an indomitable crisis, and I consoled myself. Nonetheless, no attempts at writing a novel for now, not anytime soon—that I can be sure of.

Not that Lolita is a perfect novel—far from it, there are numerous flaws, especially with regard to the language—winding solecisms, deliberate obscurities and complications (sort of inevitable when someone happens to be writing in what is supposed to be their ‘second language’)—but all of it imparts a certain charm to the book, it only contributes to its overall grandeur. Words take on new meanings, and honestly some of the conceits are worth dying for (a hyperbole Mr. Humbert would’ve chuckled over).

Part II fizzles out a bit in comparison, for it settles into a more conventional form to expedite the plot-action process, but then of course, it is understandable. The pure solipsist fancies start disintegrating towards mundane darkness—there is a transition from the psyche to action, such that it does seem tame when juxtaposed against Part I, but like I said, it’s understandable (and somewhat unavoidable)—nonetheless, simply brilliant, right from the infamous opening paragraph:

“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.”

--- ---

“Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with!”

“And then, in the velvet of a summer night, my broodings over the philter I had with me! Oh miserly Hamburg! Was he not a very Enchanted Hunter as he deliberated with himself over his boxful of magic ammunition? To rout the monster of insomnia should he try himself one of those amethyst capsules? There were forty of them, all told--forty nights with a frail little sleeper at my throbbing side; could I rob myself of one such night in order to sleep? Certainly not: much too precious was each tiny plum, each microscopic planetarium with its live stardust. Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.”

“Please, reader: no matter your exasperation with the tenderhearted, morbidly sensitive, infinitely circumspect hero of my book, do not skip these essential pages! Imagine me; I shall not exist if you do not imagine me; try to discern the doe in me, trembling in the forest of my own iniquity; let's even smile a little. After all, there is no harm in smiling.”

“My life was handled by little Lo in an energetic, matter-of-fact manner as if it were an insensate gadget unconnected with me. While eager to impress me with the world of tough kids, she was not quite prepared for certain discrepancies between a kid's life and mine. Pride alone prevented her from giving up; for, in my strange predicament, I feigned supreme stupidity and had her have her way--at least while I could still bear it. But really these are irrelevant matters; I am not concerned with so-called "sex" at all. Anybody can imagine those elements of animality. A greater endeavor lures me on: to fix once for all the perilous magic of nymphets.”

"My only grudge against nature was that I could not turn my Lolita inside out and apply voracious lips to her young matrix, her unknown heart, her nacreous liver, the sea-grapes of her lungs, her comely twin kidneys."

"We are still groping perhaps, but we grope intelligently, like a gynecologist feeling a tumor"

"One of the latticed squares in a small cobwebby casement window at the turn of the staircase was glazed with ruby, and that raw wound among the unstained rectangles and its asymmetrical position--a knight's move from the top--always strangely disturbed me" (Whoao, sheer genius I’d say!)

"I watched being drenched with an almost painful convulsion of beauty assimilation"

"Who can say what heartbreaks are caused in a dog by our discontinuing a romp?"

"I always preferred the mental hygiene of noninterference"

"There was still that stream of pale moths siphoned out of the night by my headlights."

== ==

As I’ve often propounded (like many others before me) existentialism is in the head; it’s not some complex intellectual sophist bullshit but rather a fundamental awareness—it’s just about realizing it. Means to an end—it could be anything, a gradual reasoning or a sudden epiphany (personally, it took months of absolute joblessness and smoking grass alone on my terrace all day—and yes, this was before yours truly became a reader and evolved into a literary genius, so yeah).

Anyhow, I finally read The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays—not entirely convincing when it comes to the primary hypothesis (that suicide is unreasonable in spite of absurdity) but then that’s the thing about existentialism: “Each to their own” (an aphorism that cannot be more apt as in this case). Nevertheless, my faith in the genius of Albert Camus has been renewed, for he does provide some respite—it’s always cathartic and consolatory to find in concise analytical form, some of the murky thoughts that have been troubling you, and which you might have been superciliously (and lazily) trying to evade or write off. It brings a sense of impressionistic comfort if nothing else. If I were to go by Camus, I’m somewhere near the final stages, near the “intentional blindness” and in the process of “Describing—the last ambition of an absurd thought”. Perhaps, in a while I’d finally transcend this limbo and bring myself to that esoterichope, which in spite of the lack of a concrete belief system (but that in itself might be called a certain faith), I can somehow feel myself approaching (almost there I’d say, unless I find something else).

Of course, as all aware writers of this world, Camus too is somewhat guilty of guising harsh truths in grandiloquent sophist logic, but then we all have our flaws—flaws are what make us interesting, they make us individual human beings.

Also, apart from the inexorable piercing insights, the subtle matter-of-fact humour is quite amusing, really.

--- ---

"Beginning to think is beginning to be undermined"

"The Absurd is not in man nor in the world, but in their presence together. For the moment it is the only bond uniting them."

"The absurd has meaning only in so far as it is not agreed to."

"A man is more a man through the things he keeps to himself than through those he says"

"There is thus a metaphysical honor in enduring the world’s absurdity"

"But perhaps the great work of art has less importance in itself than in the ordeal it demands of a man and the opportunity it provides him of overcoming his phantoms and approaching a little closer to his naked reality."

"And what shall I call eternity except what will continue after my death?"

"But moving things about is the work of men; one must choose doing that or nothing."

"That permanence in the world has always had contrary charms for man. It drives him to despair and excites him. The world never says but one thing; first it interests, then it bores. But eventually it wins out by dint of obstinacy. It is always right."

"In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer."

== ==

Fyodor Dostoyevsky—another tormented soul, another master of solipsism. Notes from Underground and White Nights—it’s about the curse of awareness as I like to call it. After Camus, the only other writer as of now, that I deem worthy of devoting the time and effort to go through their entire corpuses.

--- ---

Boyhood by Coetzee: simple charming candid wonderful writing (Oedipus complex for sure—writing is a form of resolution); I think I’d read some more of his stuff.

--- ---

Bachelor of Arts by RKN: tame and simple, one of the most overhyped books that I’ve come across (maybe it’s just me, or the temporal gap or that in fundamental attitudes). Don’t get me wrong, I’m a RKN fan (I loved his short stories and the Swami series) and it is a nice novel; it has a certain charm, I can understand that—only, it fades in comparison amidst all the othergreat novels around. Although, there was one appealing concept—‘Callous Realism’, somewhat close to what I’m looking for I guess.

--- ---

Oh and after going through Part I of The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway, all I can say is: Not worth it! Really, apart from a few gems like The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber, The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Today is Friday, Now I Lay Me, Homage to Switzerland and A Day’s Wait, Hemingway’s writing is painstakingly trite to say the least. Maybe it’s just me, but all the expansive and specific descriptions are quite boring. He is a charming writer for sure, talented too—but I just can’t identify with his rambling trips, and the whole ‘Iceberg Effect’ is too farfetched—it’s an implicit part of good literature, one doesn’t need to consciously contrive it.

I could draw a parallel to RKN (although personally, I’d put RKN above Mr. Hemingway), maybe you need to be a part of America to really get what Hemingway is after...maybe.

And yeah, after all these accusations, perhaps I should read a novel of his just to be sure—but I don’t think I could bother myself (but then again, you never know)

== ==

As if any of this matters—I’m just another conceited cunt throwing my opinions in the air, but at least I’m aware of it...thankfully.

Something to chew on...

2011-07-01T20:56:00.002+05:30

Damned monsoons are here; a fresh academic year looms—might as well put some things in writing, lest I forget them; you see, the act of writing is definite, words are definite—it’s another reassurance. So yeah, III year agenda:

· Chase new experiences (and money to facilitate the same): binges, trips, travel—anything!

· Force myself to be shameless with regard to hedonistic pursuits and those regarding literary/academic ambitions

· Finish the backlog: a research essay and Candour (at least)

· Watch a good play; try and make some effort in college; avoid idiots

· Abjure tried intoxicants, and perhaps even tobacco

· Read all the books on my shelf and laptop (and then some more) before making another trip to Daryaganj

Hmm, seems simple enough, really...too simple

--- ---

Individuals who could specifically be said to have left a great legacy behind them; made a great difference to the larger equation; changed the world-psyche, for the better or worse—how many names can you think of (in spite of memory limitations and those of your own influences)

The first realization: not a single woman came to my mind, and for obvious reasons; and no that wasn’t a chauvinist statement, go figure (I wouldn’t mind it if someone could convince me otherwise).

Moving on, here are the men who I believe, left a global footprint stretching on beyond the realms of time:

Darwin and Marx were the first names, and then of course Genghis Khan; even Freud for that matter.

Inevitably, buggers like Vyasa, Jesus, Mohammed and Buddha were the next.

Personally, I’d include Albert Hoffman (bypassing Timothy Leary, Beatles, etc.), and then some more scientists out of whom Alfred Nobel, Benjamin Franklin, Faraday, Tesla, Newton and Einstein seem to jump out.

Finally, there’d be Hitler, and maybe even Gandhi.

NOTE: I’m sure I’ve missed out a few important names, but then these are the ones I could gather within the bounds of my knowledge and awareness—it’s a personal list; if anyone would care to add a few, it’ll only help the exercise.

Also, a lot of nameless-faceless people might have a had a far greater impact on the world, but then this list is not about them. It’s about individuals—symbols, if you must.

--- ---

A few words in honour of Mr. Giasuddin Biswas—for immortalizing the quintessential Indian product; for being the face of 502 Pataka biris; for giving cheap comfort to millions of despairing proletarians, students and smoke-addicts of our nation (even if it was a mere business endeavour on his part)—Cheers to you Sir!

--- ---

All this brouhaha about symbolic feminism and collective endeavour—all I’ve got to say is: Let the slutwalks begin, it’ll only be titillating!

--- ---

Every time I enter a stationers’, I realize if I was a kleptomaniac, I’d always go for those damned pens, pencils, clips, notebooks and erasers. There’s something about stationery, I just love it—all neat, shiny and functional.

--- ---

Another addition to the all-time-favourite movies list: Easy Rider! I love road movies even though they do tend to get me depressed about my current situation, but it’s still cathartic. Also, this happened to be the first movie soundtrack that I was entirely familiar with—makes a difference, it really does. And Peter Fonda—damn, he’s hot, no two questions about it. Now, I’ve got to watch The Trip.

--- ---

And the current Dylan song: It’s alright Ma (I’m only bleeding)—it’s a song, it’s a poem—it’s simply wonderful!

“And if my thought-dreams could be seen

They'd probably put my head in a guillotine

But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only”

Shit is what you came for, shit is what you'll get!

2011-06-19T22:48:00.001+05:30

I recently noticed my wallet going fat, but nah, it wasn’t the cash—it was them damned visiting cards. Well, the people around me are getting jobs/starting businesses, etc. So yeah, soon it would be time for marriage invites, then some random shit, and then finally funeral invites.

But alright, cutting the pathetic morbid shit, the visiting cards are special—I don't have any random visiting ones from random people. Each card is special, it brings memories—friends, places, strangers, faces, journeys—each card tells a story, some a bit more.

--- ---

The other day, I happened to joke about my utter uselessness to a friend, and she mistook it for modesty or something. Well, it’s true—I’m usually quite useless when it comes to practical situations. I hate confrontations, I hate transactional interactions and I’m not very enthusiastic when it comes to going out of my way to help someone. I don’t own a car, I can’t drive; I’d be pathetic in a fight; I’m usually broke; and I don’t know any ‘important’ people (do I?); plus, I don’t even know the Morse Code.

Heh, my uses are much greater, even if they lie in the realm of abstractions. But nah, apart from such consolations, what I really like about being useless is that nobody expects anything of you. I can’t handle tangible responsibilities and I believe in sufficiency, so it works. The people I meet, they meet me because they want to be with me (at least that’s what I think, ’cause like I said they don’t seem to have any other reasons)—no ulterior motives involved. It removes unnecessary complications, and that makes me both happy and relieved.

--- ---

A good terrace-scene after ages. A total blues-scene: two amazing guitarists—one a virtuoso performer, and the other an able accompaniment; a bit of cheap whiskey in a plastic bottle, some grass, and lots of cigarettes; oh and upturned paint cans for seats—total blues scene like I said.

But yeah, these two Bong buggers were just amazing—heck, all we needed was a fat black man growling into a mike...but not really, our man did quite an admirable job of it. Total jam—I’d put them on stage any day. They’re supposed to be performing somewhere in Dwarka soon—I’ve forgotten the details, but any blues fan should really check them out; I might.

--- ---

I think I’m falling in love with whiskey all over again...

== ==

The Great Gatsby—you can’t help but admire the man. He was an idiot, but a devoted idiot.

Delving more into the ‘Lost Generation’, I have been reading a lot of Hemingway’s short stories. Quite the charming writer but often tends to get carried away into his own rambling trips—the Iceberg theory gets a bit too much sometimes. I think Hemingway should have been an auteur, really, that’d have worked for him.

--- ---

I finally saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and then I had to read the book too. Another perfect novel, if I could say so, but if it’s Holly Golightly you want, the movie it is. Who wouldn’t fall for Audrey Hepburn even if she were half as true to the character?

But another thing, one must try not to watch a movie before reading the book—’cause when you start reading, the readymade scenes and actors keep popping into your head—kills some of the charm, it really does.

--- ---

Although, as a first, I finally found a case when the movie seemed better than the book—Coraline! Nothing against Neil Gaiman (for it was quite a true adaptation in spirit), it’s just that the movie was a sheer work of genius.

But I guess it’s also got something to do with my opinions regarding fantasy, which perhaps stems from the fact that I’m somewhat of a lazy reader—I’m not a big fan of extensive fantastical descriptions and then conjuring the images in head. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I prefer realism. When it comes to fantasy, I’d prefer some talented filmmaker or comic guys to present their condensed visions to me in an instantaneously comprehensible form, which doesn’t tax my brain much for frivolous purposes.

--- ---

John fuckin’ Constantine: who’d have thought Keanu Reeves could ever pull of such a badass character...but he does! I actually like his persona better than the comic one (at least of the first few issues, which I have gone so far; yep, I downloaded the entire thing straightaway), but maybe that’s because I’m not a big fan of the Sting look. But really, cough syrup and endless cigarettes—way to go!

Also, for the first time, I realized that the argument about onscreen smoking being a possible influence does have some validity—but then everything does.

--- ---

Raising Hope is actually quite a funny show. Mr. Sunshine is sort of bleh though, except for Crystal’s character. It’s just about Matthey Perry I guess—you can’t help seeing it as Chandler trying to be cool—that’s not the way it works, does it? Sad for Perry but the people (at least I) can’t help it—damned FRIENDS!

--- ---

I notice that a lot of good movies are being released—at least they seem good, but then any promo looks good. But Bheja Fry 2 and West is West are two movies which I’d really like to watch. Wouldn’t mind Shaitaan either, but then I don’t feel all too inclined to spend on movies—never did.

--- ---

Sacha Baron Cohen: Master of caricatures. He is to acting what Dryden was to poetry—a master of satire!

--- ---

Noam Chomsky and Michael Caine—if you ever wanted a grandfather, you’d want them—it’s the endearing earnest old man look.

--- ---

Television is one powerful mass medium—all we need to do is utilize it properly. Improve standards, spread information and awareness, entertainment and education unmarred by commercial motives—let’s take the idiocy out of the box—it’d be splendid, really.

--- ---

And what’s with the sudden new trend of fist bumping? Just fuckin’ stick to a hug or a handshake, will you? A smile and a simple wave would always be preferable though.

--- ---

I finally discovered the reason as to why the area around my flat is popular with pigeons. This stupid woman who lives across, scatters a large plateful of grains everyday on her balcony. And well, when the damned birds have had their full, they flutter across to our side to poop. Damned idiot birds! Damned idiots! Fuck the pigeons woman!

--- ---

Man or woman, you’d fall in love with Hiromi. Not the romantic-delusional-bullshit love, and not entirely the raw-lust love...just love, whatever you may think of it (and yes, I know that was cheesy).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-HcKrd3K8_A

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JfKY0K_NQk&feature=related

Interlude

2011-06-14T22:11:00.004+05:30

An excerpt from an untitled story, part of a larger collection titled 'Candour'--basically a collection of monologues, letters and a few verses, written in the minimalist stream of consciousness style. For as Ginsberg said, "Candour ends Paranoia"--it really does!

I was happy as I made my way through the fashionable streets of GK market. The air lacked the usual overwhelming stench of perfume; the ubiquitous patronizing glare of obnoxious oversized shades too was missing. It was late in the evening—the prim dolls in summer dresses and slick men in white shirts no longer jumped out; I saw some of them lurking about but no longer did they have the intimidating effect of sheer numbers—now they were just another bunch of people on the road.

I could say it was nice, ’cause well, I was happy. Not overjoyed or ecstatic or anything, just happy, simply happy. I could smoke my cigarette in peace without having to worry about exhaling a cloud of smoke in anyone’s face. So I walked, puffing on a king-size Honey Dew stick, two beers inside me—somewhat content, musing over the evening, and looking forward to being back in my room, thawing through some more of Hemingway’s icebergs.

A cycle-rickshaw went past—a lingering glimpse of a pink-clad rear, my companion for the evening—I stared, statuesque save for the minimal effort of leisurely nicotine drags, until she finally disappeared around the bend. And then it hit me—this ineffable sense of desolation, a certain sadness quite different from my usual melancholy—a feeling that I believed I had long gained control over. It felt like being back in Bangalore all over again, and yet as far as I remember that damned city never had any rickshaws, or did it?

If only the Tourism folks would sponsor this

2011-06-11T15:22:00.001+05:30

I wouldn’t be one of those idiots who like to say that ‘outsiders’ are polluting Himachal; ’cause one: the way things stand, outsiders are its lifeline—the entire state more or less runs on tourism; and two: the locals are as callous when it comes to tangible pollution—call it an empirical fact.

What I wish to talk about is the trend of DU kids hopping across to the foothills at the slightest opportunity ... more specifically, the demographic of DU stoners. It’d be a slanderous generalization but the words come straight from the horses—and yes, they specifically mention “Dilli Universty ke bacche” along with Chandigarh kids—ask any local business-owners around Manali or Parvati valley and they’d tell you in as many words: it’s these runts who have/are ruined/ruining the ‘scene’. ’Cause well if all of a sudden regular college kids decide to earn a quick buck through hashish arbitrage, it does tend to ruin the economics of it, especially when the trend gains an overwhelming popularity—it affects everyone and everything—kids in Delhi who dial-a-tola to be delivered at their doorstep ... now you know what I mean.

But nah, I don’t really give a shit about that—it’s exasperating commerce and I could never bother myself with it, especially now when I happen to think of myself as a junk renegade. It’s all about personal choices—it’s stupid but like I said, I don’t really give a shit. Besides, these libellous locals are themselves party to it—it’s all about supply and demand; some of the bastards have actually razed half their fields and orchards down to extensively cultivate bhang(uttered as an unstressed disyllable), ’cause well, they know that’s where the moolah is—and yet they have the nerve to go all moralistic about it—cunts!

Come to think of it, as far as I’ve seen, the Indian user-seller relationship is quite amusing—they both tend to look down upon the other. While the addict claims the amnesty of personal habit (apart from a lot of other vague bullshit reasons), for the average seller it’s just about business—the junkie is the sick one.

But nah, enough of all this drug-talk. That’s what, my grouse is against the effective objectification of my homeland. Yep, I did happen to realize an association with the place last year—and far more, no way more stronger than that of nationality. It was fascinating at first, then it became amusing, then boring, and finally frustrating—’cause well, it’s just idiotic! Yes, now I do somewhat resent the fact that Himachal has been reduced to a haven for hippie degenerates (from the burnt-out to the new-age wannabes) to wallow away. And yes, it doesn’t affect me in any way, and in fact these buggers are far better than some of the other tourist variants, but still ... it’s just pathetic at some level.

It’s this whole deadbeat hippie routine that got me bored of my birthplace—don’t you get sick of it after a while? How could you not—the sheer disillusionment is appalling when you think of it. Especially the rave scene—the damned ‘Boom Boom’ culture—don’t even get me started on that. You fuckin’ walk in to an idyllic village and all of a sudden, you hear those horrifying beats emanating from a rented hut in the corner. And then the endless and ubiquitous chillum routines—argh! All the delusions of ‘Flower Power’—clearly, the bastards don’t even understand the ideology they’re ripping off, one which was quite foolish to begin with.

Oh and here’s the thing, if it isn’t obvious already, the locals only tolerate you ’cause you bring in the cash—they don’t really like you—it’s a compromise ’cause they wish to send their kids to good schools, but then again they’re afraid that their runts would end up just like you—that’d be quite the horror, wouldn’t it? No wonder then that they always seem to flash a wry patronizing smile when you tell them you’re coming from Delhi.

Anyhow, enough of the negativity. What I wish to do is address the average DU stoner—the one who backpacks to Himachal to have a good time—does the entire Parvati-Manali routine, returns with a few pictures, memories and experiences, and maybe a damned tola too ... Why not go further and explore more of the delightful land that is Himachal? There’s so much more—it’s not just a place to get cheap hash—there’s a lot more if you’d care to find out—the places, the culture, the people, the food, and of course the natural delights.

When it comes to that, at least the firangs (even the Israelis) are way more curious about things—and they usually do their best to look around as much as they can in spite of their linguistic and financial constraints. You buggers can’t even complain of these—yes, most of you are sufficiently wealthy bastards—so what exactly is holding you up?

Instead of the same old routine of renting a cheap motel room for a few days—staying holed up inside, pumping yourself with drug-lethargy and sex, intense chillum rituals and hypnotic beats—basically all the stuff that you do in Delhi as well—why not take a deep breath and go for a long walk (literally and figuratively)?

Himachal has a rich culture like any other place—did you know that almost each village has a particular patron god and an oracle of its own? Have you ever bothered to try out the local fare instead of the continental bullshit you get in all those cafes (which is admittedly quite good)? Then there’s the local art and literature, which might not be awe-inspiring, but it’s still worth checking out. There are museums, cultural programmes ... real treks instead of the touristy adventure-sports bullshit you see around the town areas ... and Himachali weddings—if you ever get the opportunity, do check one out—quite the affair, really!

So yeah, what I’m basically saying is let go off the damned hippie track and experience the place in your own way. There’s beauty all around—all you need to do is walk out of the house. Oh and yes, be nice to the locals and they’ll be nice to you—most of them tend to be quite warm and helpful. Just ’cause you’re spending money doesn’t mean you own the damn place, much less the people—and don’t try to be over smart—no one’s an idiot when it comes to business you know, be it city-slickers or country fellows.

So yes, be nice—don’t be assholes—be nice to the environment—don’t fuckin’ litter! Stuff your used safis and beercans in a fuckin’ bag and dispose it off later—just don’t be the asshole who tosses it all into the river or in the forest—’cause well, then you’re just being an asshole.

In short, be good travellers, and not just idiotic junks who land up there for a quick convenient fix—that’s all.

DISCLAMER: Generalizations are primarily used for the purpose of convenience; sensible persons ought to know and understand this.

--- ---

http://www.bartleby.com/119/1.html

http://socalledmarvel.blogspot.com/2010/06/fresh-drink-please.html

Damned Wanderlust!

2011-06-06T22:25:00.001+05:30

“We understood that our vocation, our true vocation, was to move for eternity along the roads and seas of the world. Always curious, looking into everything that came before our eyes, sniffing out each corner but only ever faintly—not setting down roots in any land or staying long enough to see the substratum of things; the outer limits would suffice”

“My eyes traced the immense vault of heaven; the starry sky twinkled happily above me, as if answering in the affirmative to the question rising deep within me: “Is all of this worth it?””

Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara (Motorcycle Diaries)

--- ---

It’s that time of the year again—everyone seems to be running off to the mountains. I can’t follow suit and neither do I really want to this time. If I had to be on the road, I’d rather go West or East. The mountains have this infectious romantic charm—distracting and which often leaves one musing upon trifles. Right now, I need to focus on relevance—and for that I must stay amidst the harsh ugly despair of the city.

--- ---

A lot of people got their panties in a bunch over Naipaul’s statements regarding female writers. Yet again, if only they’d pause for a moment and consider whether they really got what was said. As a general statement of observation, I can’t help but agree with the old man. Never mind the glorious idealism—‘what should be’—let’s focus on what is—and that too on a generalized scale, i.e. leave the exceptions out if there are any. At some level, I guess we just aren’t prepared to face the truth—or else we’re just going nuts with the whole political correctness bullshit.

As far as my limited knowledge goes, women’s writings usually lack the individual objectivity, which is so essential to good—no great literature. Their individualism at some level always betrays a larger feminist cause, consciously or otherwise. Look at women’s poetry—you’d know what I mean. And yes, the status quo is to be blamed for it—such has been the progress of thought and perceptions due to the constructive processes of patriarchal institutions—so yes, it could always be argued that then it is inevitable for women to not reflect such sentiments in their writing—it’s like questioning the original kings of Blues as to why they sang about cotton fields and slavery, but then you do understand that it’s somewhat of a limitation for the higher literary purpose, irrespective of the pragmatic social intent. After a while, women writers have got to get over it—and in due time they would (perhaps coinciding with the large-scale dissemination of education and awareness).

And of course, I know it is a personal choice—their words, their themes. And yes, even regarding the primacy of unifying impersonal objectivity—it’s just a particular school of thought—but all I’m saying is Mr. Naipaul has a point, that’s all!

--- ---

I have a suspicion that Ramdev is somehow related to Chetan Bhagat—someone please trace their genealogies and tell me I’m right. They’re both quite amusing though—especially the baba—if he was a literary character, I’d have loved him; but since he’s all too real, it’s frustrating.

--- ---

Alright, I’ve got to admit that my concurrent History course was definitely thought-provoking to say the least—yep, it was quite wonderful. The fascinating substrata; a giant paradox—that’s what History is—and that’s what was denied to us when it was taught in school—back then it was brought forward as factual, stable and thus, extremely vapid and boring.

Take for instance the old Hindu texts—I’m sure if it’s all somehow traced back—we’d find a few buggers tripping on somarasa—and then their stories and convictions gradually led to such a monstrous yet fascinating snowball of a system. Somewhere down the line the power of indoctrination came into play—and there and then, the battle was half-lost. Yet, it’s quite remarkable—the flow of the collective human consciousness and the psyche.

As for Political Science, I’m sure there’s more to it but the way I look at it, it’s in essence but an elaborate study of human idiocy and pathetic endeavour—an insufferable mix of intangibles and reality.

--- ---

Canned Heat—my kinda blues!

“A word to the wise guy”

2011-06-01T10:27:00.002+05:30

You’ve got to hand it to old Lee—he had balls! I’d put him right up there with old Camus on my personal list—okay, slightly lower but almost level, I’d say. I finally read Naked Lunch—what a fuckin’ masterpiece! I especially liked it for it had the quality of association for me—the prose. But even otherwise: maybe, it’s the drugs and the amoral despair but I feel we can really relate to the Beat generation. But nah, you’ve got to read it to know what I’m saying. Right from the intro to the appendix—it’s one hell of a trip—breakneck speed, hurtling along—a bloody treatise on junk!

And the characters—especially Benway and AJ—heh, god! I’ll just throw around a few words: Visceral, vitriolic, Orwellian, Kafkaesque, fantastical, spontaneous, sardonic and in your face—the debauched visions, the surreal impressionism, the sickening yet delightful humour—unhinged stream of consciousness—and the imagery, damn, the imagery! The fuckin’ power of words—the damned imagery!

--- ---

"Please Boss Man. I'll wipe your ass, I'll wash out your dirty condoms, I'll polish your shoes with the oil on my nose.... "

"Catatonics decorate the parks"

"Stole an opium suppository out of my grandmother's ass."

"My asshole confounds the Louvre! I fart ambrosia and shit pure gold turds! My cock spurts soft diamonds in the morning sunlight!"

"And enough of these gooey saints (Christ, Buddha, Mohammed) with a look of pathic dismay as if they getting fucked up the ass and try not to pay it any mind."

"Hail of crystal skulls shattered the greenhouse to slivers in the winter moon...."

"The subway sweeps by with a black blast of iron"

"O'Brien was sitting on the arm of a chair smoking an Old Gold, looking out the window with that dreamy what I'll do when I get my pension look"

"Soft mendicant words falling like dead birds in the dark street"

And the insurmountable unapologetic visions....

"The writer sees himself reading to the mirror as always... He must check now and again to reassure himself that The Crime Of Seperate Action has not, is not, cannot occur.... Anyone who has ever looked into a mirror knows what this crime is and what it means in terms of lost control when the reflection no longer obeys.... Too late to dial P o l i c e...."

"The black wind sock of death undulates over the land, feeling, smelling for the crime of separate life, movers of the fear-frozen flesh shivering under a vast probability curve.... Population blocks disappear in a checker game of genocide.... Any number can play...."

"Gentle reader, we see God through our assholes in the flash bulb of orgasm...."

And these are just a few quotes—there’re entire chapters which I could put here, really!

--- ---

“The Word is divided into units which be all in one piece and should be so taken, but the pieces can be had in any order being tied up back and forth, in and out fore and aft like an innaresting sex arrangement. This book spill off the page in all directions, kaleidoscope of vistas, medley of tunes and street noises, farts and riot yipes and the slamming steel shutters of commerce, screams of pain and pathos and screams plain pathic, copulating cats and outraged squawk of the displaced bull head, prophetic mutterings of brujo in nutmeg trances, snapping necks and screaming mandrakes, sigh of orgasm, heroin silent as dawn in the thirsty cells, Radio Cairo Screaming like a berserk tobacco auction, and flutes of Ramadan fanning the sick junky like a gentle lush worker in the grey subway dawn feeling with delicate fingers for the green folding crackle... ”

Read it....Wouldn't you??

"Alone on a wide wide sea ..."

2011-05-28T18:42:00.005+05:30

Now that I look back at the past academic year, I realize it was actually quite a great one—didn’t really register, but that’s probably due to my meandering tendencies. But nah, any year in which an entire quarter is spent travelling—on the road—is bound to be a good one. And I’ve evolved—come closer to what I wanted to be—getting closer (almost there I believe?). I’m finally writing stuff that matches the intent, and it comes effortlessly—that’s one major accomplishment—I can actually finish the damn stories now (I guess I was trying too hard until last year). But what gives me the most satisfaction? I’ve finally become a reader! I’ve finally overcome the mind-blocks and the lethargy—I read for the sake of reading now—and that’s something I’m really glad about.

--- ---

Also, the other day I realized I’m actually quite adept at what is called ‘dry humour’—I’d have taken up a friend’s suggestion about joining his stand up act, but then I lack the confidence. But nah, that’s another story. Coming back to me—I’m one of those idiots who’re able to see humour where and whenever they want—it’s all about ambiguity and interpretation you know—the individual reigns ... blah blah blah! But the fact is, irony and innuendo seem ubiquitous when you get too used to observation and dwelling upon conversations inside your own head.

However, let’s leave such subjectivity aside, there’re some people who simply don’t get it—it happens a lot in the circles I move in—perhaps it’s due to the fact that everyone is wigged out or maybe, it’s just my soft-spoken passivity (deadpan, you might call it?). But seriously, what a waste for a gem to go unnoticed or worse, having to explain a scathing one-liner—it’s a damned waste, for comedy is one form which is all about performance and appreciation.

A couple of recent instances which spurred these ruminations (and these are the ones that I remember):

SCENE: ‘Friends’ talking about the last exam—about what and how much they wrote (yes, it’s sad, but that’s how it works—damned number of pages!). Soon it’s supposed to be my turn so I simply quip, “I don’t take them (extra sheets) on principle”. And really, it wasn’t even meant to be funny; what made it so were the reactions:

“What, what do you mean?” ... “That’s just weird” ... “You’ve got to use them if you need them”

Aaaaargh! If I wasn’t such a detached asshole, I could’ve torn my hair out—this is why comic observations end up being sardonic.

SCENE: I meet an old friend after ages—I offer him a cigarette and he tells me he has quit. So I go, “But how can you quit cigarettes—they’re so nice ... and harmless!” Tch, should’ve kept my wiseass wit to myself, ’cause the idiot ends up explaining to me how cigarettes are way more harmful than marijuana—I smile and nod. Sigh, I should’ve been in a damn sitcom!

But really, what’s the point of having friends when they can’t even get your jokes? You might as well talk to auto-drivers instead—they’re far more amusing.

--- ---

Alright, after two years of being appalled by trance music to becoming gradually reconciled to it—I’ve finally realized its charm: it’s meaningless! And hence universal—all working upon the individual mind. The music I generally listen to—it tends to sober one down ’cause it invites focus—however, with trance it is the opposite—the hypnotic beats just keep piling on in the background, leading to frenzied crescendos, matched by the intoxicated mind taking its course. While, it might be argued that the former is more artistic, but then I believe the latter could facilitate visions—for it lets the mind break free from the constraints of objective aesthetics and rhythm—it’s all about delving into the recesses of subjectivity—and from there might flow sheer delights of abundant thought. So yeah, now I know—not that I like it but now I know.

--- ---

I finally downloaded an anti-virus for my ailing Toshiba—AVG, it’s actually quite good. And then I ended up doing all the defragmentation-disk-repair-bullshit, which I have no clue about—and damn, it actually works—my choking hard drives suddenly have about 15GB of free space—fuckin’ amazing!

--- ---

I finally read The Rime of the Ancient Mariner—not all that great if you ask, but then I’m a 21^st century idiot with a different opinion about poetry—but having said that, there’re definitely a few moments of sheer brilliance:

“With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

We could nor laugh nor wail;

Through utter drought all dumb we stood!

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,

And cried, A sail! a sail!”

“Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,

And cursed me with his eye.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The souls did from their bodies fly, -

They fled to bliss or woe!

And every soul it passed me by,

Like the whizz of my crossbow!”

“Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on

My soul in agony.”

“An orphan's curse would drag to hell

A spirit from on high;

But oh! more horrible than that

Is the curse in a dead man's eye!

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,

And yet I could not die.”

“Since then, at an uncertain hour,

That agony returns;

And till my ghastly tale is told,

This heart within me burns.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been

Alone on a wide wide sea:

So lonely 'twas, that God himself

Scarce seemed there to be.”

“The Mariner, whose eye is bright,

Whose beard with age is hoar,

Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest

Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,

And is of sense forlorn:

A sadder and a wiser man

He rose the morrow morn.”

Sing, Terrestrial Muse...

2011-05-22T01:46:00.003+05:30

About two weeks of making notes and mugging quotes and insights—realizing my literary learning of the past academic year; an alternate routine of exigency—four hour sleep cycles, fuelled by dead-night snacks and instant coffee and tobacco—insulation—despairing over the heat and mechanic drone of cooling devices—lost ramblings and musings—spilling out the stream of consciousness in three hour intervals—and then brief respites of conversation and sedation—now it’s over, at least for some time.

I think I’ve pretty much nailed it, and unless some idiot ends up checking my papers, I believe the intent shall be corroborated in due time—it’s all luck, you know!

I type these vain words on my aging desk; through the barred window comes godlike wind, rain and thunder—the fans are switched off—it’s symbolic, you see—even the weather bends to the whims of the God of Literature—all delusions, yet amusing! A long walk—surreal and satisfying in all its obfuscation—I’m sickened by opinionated assholes, appalled by the junk abuse; I refuse to be a part of it and yet every now and then I relent—we’re all whores at some level, there’s no denying that. What I’m looking for is someone with a credit card and a pair of balls, until then I can get back to chasing cunts and alcohol.

“We’re inherently good”—never mind the sophist ramblings about subjectivity and ambivalence, the conviction continues to die with the flow of time and experience—it’s all about the inevitable centrality of self-interest and survival; I’m no better. A lost companion’s expression comes to mind: ‘chicken-shit conformists’—ah yes, that’s what!

But now, I’ve time—phases of productivity bring unavoidable dejection—so much to do, if only the inclination could be matched. The body might give up, but the mind is already entrapped—foetal despair, a choking cocoon—what’s more to do than continue the compromise and meander through existence?

--- ---

“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men: the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed—and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and, if demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!”—Arthur Rimbaud

--- ---

The world is definitely coming to an end—so much progress, how much more can we take; or rather, what more? Yep, postmodernist despair all over again—the world is mapped, demystified in a continual process—in some time we would have answered pretty much everything that can be answered—what then? We human beings are too idiotic to maintain utopia, even if we do manage to achieve it.

So yeah, destruction after all this while of creation and perversion? Self-destruct—let’s bid Kaliyuga a sweet goodbye—how long shall we survive? Perhaps, a few eternal moments—if there is an omniscient god, he’d be smiling at these words—the lucky bastard!

What’s there to do then? Live it up and fuck despair—the doom is distant and it won’t touch us in oblivion—we’re lucky in that, the luck of sham—all there is, is the immediate instant, a perpetual microcosm of its own.

For now, we’re alright, heck we’re good!

=== ===

Internet/SMS lingo and the addiction to expletives—it’s a damn menace! And so is the ‘Dude Syndrome’ (or the variants—Man/Bhai/Uncle/Aunty Syndrome). I’ve decided to make a conscious effort against such conformity—no random relations and intimacy—overused slangs are sickening. Besides, as a certain idiot said: “Don’t call me ‘dude’, I’m not a stoner anymore”

--- ---

Alright, politeness and indifference usually keep me silent but I’m now sick of people trying to convince me about a few things, so yeah, here’s what I think—I believe anyone who follows ‘drama series’ is an idiot, same for fantasy. Also, tattoos are stupid, same for piercings—yes, everything is but a vain attempt to fill the void, but these things happen to add an idiotic touch to the vanity.

--- ---

What do people have against neat side-parted hair? I just don’t like keeping it shaggy anymore, that’s all—although the damned ruff continues to become so in spite of my attempts with the comb, but that’s something I can’t help.

Also, all the self-deprecatory jokes aside, literary geniuses can never be nerds, period!

--- ---

“Candour ends paranoia”—Allen Ginsberg (Cosmopolitan Greetings)

Still Shitting!

2011-05-06T19:49:00.006+05:30

Over the past few weeks, my life has become quite eventful; I don’t really seem to mind it as of now.

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All-night friendly poker, a bottle of VAT, a few good friends and lots of cigarettes—it’s a good thing every now and then.

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I was finally on my way back after getting my damned admit card on the third day of struggle (never mind, now that’s another story)—the auto-ride was like any other, but just when we were about to take the last turn towards my colony, two cars rammed into us—all shaken but no one was hurt, and to be honest it wasn’t anyone’s fault in particular ‘cause how could the poor auto-guy have known that the signal would turn red midway; there wasn’t a single timer in sight! But of course the gaadi-wallahs would have none of it—they immediately ganged up on the poor fellow and started pushing him around. I stood looking at them for a minute before I got tired of it, gave the auto-guy his due and walked off to get some cigarettes.

All of a sudden, a near-death experience—but nothing flashed, no epiphanies—heck, it didn’t even seem to register, seemed like any other mundane event. I knew it could've been all over in that very instant, but then for some reason it didn't disconcert me—just didn’t register like I said—it’s the damned insulation and indifference, and by now I don’t even know if it’s good or bad; how could I?

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My mother was watching the royal wedding—idiots celebrating an idiocy of an idiocy of yet another idiocy—a mass feeding cycle of vacuous glorification. These things are all about ritual and ceremony—grand symbolism and iconography—propagation and ingratiation of imagery in the general psyche, conscious or as indoctrinated customs.

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I wonder what Osama’s innumerable sons and sympathizers are thinking right now. Heh, but no honestly, I’m actually an optimist at heart—keeping in mind our collective past (both tangible and intangible), I’m pretty sure progress and awareness would’ve redeemed us altogether by circa 4000 CE—yep, a near utopian emulation, i.e. if we manage to stay alive of course.

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Postmodernist despair and confused scepticism has got to end sometime—after all the deconstruction, dissection and uncertainty, we need something concrete, absolute, universal and unifying for the next phase to kick in—so yes, what shall it be? Or rather, when? For yes, it’ll definitely take some time for us to emerge out of all the postmodernist quandaries—we might be able to make vain sub-divisions but then we also know those would be mere attempts at self-consolation; but it’s alright, all the science and soul-searching is eventually bound to get us somewhere—yeah, I guess.

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With regard to Paradise Lost, here’s a piece of advice for some of you idiots—remove the words ‘god’ and ‘satan’ and replace them with common names, or if you can try, read the text without sticking to the usual associative ideas of good and evil—everything is grey then, and the real genius of PL unfolds. In fact, extend this reading approach to any epic/mythological work—I admit it might go against the original intent, but then epics are adapted with time and place, and sometimes it’s fun to delve into fantastic interpretational reading with no regard for original intent. It’s a literary epic—and its effect is as much based on the reader as the writer’s words.

“Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heav’n”

Yep, in the end, it was a work of literature—nothing more, nothing less. Milton emerged with his vision, and however excellent and admirable it might be, in the end it’s still a single mortal perspective; irrespective of its unifying nature, it’s still expressed in human form. What I mean to say is, don’t over-analyze and fuck your sacrosanct delusions—for if indeed supernal beings do exist, they sure as hell cannot be envisioned through our present consciousness.

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Malgudi Days—a compilation of short stories: The endearing simplicity of RKN is amazing—the detail, the narration, the sentiment and the psyche; a tad too explicit at times, such that the subtlety might be lost, but then it’s his style. Nonetheless, a great storyteller—if ever someone were to make a list of 'true Indian' writers who tried to reflect the 'true India', I believe RKN should always be mentioned at the top.

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I’d respect Saki for Dusk if nothing else—one of my all-time favourite short stories. Simple, ambivalent profound genius—master of the short story form when given due consideration for his time and place.

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Robert Hunter—lyrical genius—Terrapin Station says it all!

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And now, yours truly shall go underground for the travesty called examinations. Tch, ah well! Wish me luck, for in the end, it's all about that.

Immaterial-impressionist-voyeuristic-scatological Platter

2011-04-30T16:31:00.000+05:30

Yes, I got bored with the title; figured it was time for a change, for music can hardly be nominated as an intrinsic part of my life anymore. Now, I prefer silence, or at least as close I can get to it in this damned obtrusive world of ours. So yes, a more relevant blog title, that’s what I was looking for; I didn’t have to think much. It’s about the sanctity of the shit pot—the leisure of undisturbed thought that one can avail on the ceramic throne; it’s about the privacy of the bathroom; it’s about the individual’s insulated ideas, when one’s truly alone—no obligations save for the most natural function.

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I love the Haiku form for its simplicity and the scope for profundity and candour it provides.

Sometimes I get drunk on two pints of beer

Perhaps it was the company

A charming lady who wouldn’t let me pay

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Lately I decided to fish out my bulbous head from my own glorious butthole—and consequently, all of a sudden I’m finding real people quite interesting. Yes, life is funny and unpredictable.

So I recently found myself at Mocha—yet another fancy urban hangout joint (way more tolerable than a Barista or a CCD of course); they charge 150 bucks for a damn pint of beer! When I ordered I actually expected an entire bottle, but ah well, as the lines go—I didn’t have to pay, but in my defence this time I actually tried, heck, I insisted. But yeah, in the end, I’ve grown quite shameless anyway, so yeah. Besides, as I’ve lately tried to persuade myself, it’s all immaterial—it’s about the people and experiences, that’s all (yep, I mean it).

On the other hand Kwality restaurant at CP was quite nice (again, over-priced but nice). Had a delightful chicken cutlet dinner with beer thanks to the wonderful professor. Also, I realized that owing to my recent reformation, my capacity for intoxication has taken quite a tumble—I was passed out through the entire bus-journey back home.

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And my cheap-ass Motorola phone (originally my mother’s) has gone kaput. The voice calls are strange—while I have no clue what’s going on at the other end, apparently people can hear me—so yeah, I end up feeling like an idiot parroting into oblivion: “Sorry, I can’t hear you but in case you can hear me, my phone isn’t working so please message me”. So yes, I’ve been reduced to a form of communication which I absolutely detest—damned messaging!

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As my conviction regarding free verse and prose poetry grows, my skill with rhyme seems to be going down the drain—what a pity, another affliction of the brain (see what I mean?). For in the end, poesy is all about conviction so I guess I can’t help it.

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And I’m done with the course—all texts and background material duly read, annotated and ruminated upon. All that remains now is to cram details, quotes and other shite like an idiot and nail the damn exams.

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I agree, Mahabharata is probably the greatest work of literature ever—the sheer fantastical genius of it just blew me away! It encouraged me to further research Hindu mythology, and damn, I keep getting amazed at each step and at each revelation—it’s all so allegorical, absurd, profound and brilliant at the same time—hehe, Soma ras indeed!

This is one of the reasons why I love my course—it has helped me realize the great heritage of our country even if I can’t really pride myself over it owing to the simple reason that I do not feel any nationalistic associations. Yet as I said, it is simply fascinating!

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I had been itching to write a satire of my own after reading Mac Flecknoe, but I simply couldn’t find a worthy subject. I considered lots of things—professional sports, drugs, creativity, intellectualism, middle-class values, religion, photography, advertising, capitalism but nothing worth sustaining; but then the ideal subject struck me—good old MCS! Anyone who’s been there would know what I mean; and otherwise, a general lampoon on the state of education—fun fun!

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Alexander Pope—a true poet in every sense, no doubt about it! As far as I see it, the man was able to master every major aspect of poesy—prosody, vision and invention—unlike most who’re happy enough to make do with two or even one; simply genius!

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Fuckin’ summer is here! Apart from the obvious heat, it’s the constant drone of fans and coolers which really gets to me—how the hell is one supposed to concentrate? I sure do miss the productive hush of solitary winter nights; and the papers keep flying and damn cigarettes burn faster too!

So yeah, I was hoping to stay at home and finish my long due writing projects, but at this rate it seems to be unthinkable. I guess I might just end up binging on opium somewhere in Parvati or else have a peaceful vacation at my grandparents’ house in Kullu; sigh, nature and her unbearable tantrums!

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Yesterday, my mother sent me to get some eggs; now, it’s nothing out of the blue but this time, for some reason the price really registered—forty-eight freaking bucks for a dozen! I look back about five years (maybe ten?) from now and I remember I used to get them for half the price. But then, come to think about it—everything has doubled up, or even more—milk, butter, tobacco, transport, etc. Damned inflation, it’s everywhere (and yes, it does make one feel like an old man). So it was nice to come across a shop in CP which sold me a DRUM pack for 180 bucks! I mean, whoaho! I immediately purchased another, I had to.

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In the end, it’s all about self-improvement and convincing oneself. For instance I had this idiotic habit (right since childhood) of vigorously chewing on pencil-ends, but then I recently figured out the easiest solution—sharpen both ends; and it works! Sometimes all you need is a simple resolution.

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As far as I remember, I never had any nightmares, but recently I saw one—so real, random and yet plausible—quite disconcerting. I really should read Freud, ‘cause if a cokehead can’t help one sort their head, who can?

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Homelites are the best matches—“Extra long and extra strong”, just so you know.

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I finally got my Tommy DVD back from a friend. I love the damn musical almost as much as I love the album—The Who, Clapton, Jack Nicholson, Ann Margret, Oliver Reed, Tina Turner—the 60s feel, the symbolism, the old-school psychedelia and the veritable darkness—it’s all too fuckin’ good!

As for Quadrophenia, what a fuckin’ climax! A fitting end to the rising drama.

Also, I watched Coffee and Cigarettes yet again. After the last lysergic analysis, this time it happened to be a post-murderous-weed-bong deconstruction—and I’ve finally realized it: It’s an impressionist masterpiece, that’s all I’ve got to say.

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Mean Streets: Martin Scorsese, Harvey Kietel and Robert de Niro in their youth—do I really need to say anything else?

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Yes, Udaan is a nice movie; yes, it could affect a lot of people like 3 Idiots did (a much needed effect of course); yes, Bollywood is maturing—but there is still a lot to be done. Apart from everything else, the ending—one cannot help but foresee disaster; I should know. There was a point when my father could no longer bear to watch it anymore and he walked out of the room while my mother and I sat through the movie. My mother later told me that he was quite curious as to whether the protagonist indeed managed to become a writer. Heh, yes, life is funny!

And I never expected it but yeah, No one killed Jessica was actually quite a good movie.

Neither Predestined, Nor Free--just a constant absurd flow

2011-04-25T16:08:00.005+05:30

Over the past two years, I’ve often been accused of being a feminist, and I usually smile and nod at such occasions. However, to be honest, I’m all for the individual and that’s about it. Apart from the physical aspect, gender is but another label in practise; although, owing to the present status quo, it is but inevitable for a sensible-sensitive-soul to sympathize with the feminist cause. However, there is the question of construct—the gradual progression and accumulation of ideas and notions in the collective intellect of mankind and their subsequent dissemination, adaptation and sedimentation in both social and individual psyches. In simple terms, what I wish to say (and what numerous wise people before me have already said) is—we think and act the way we do because we’ve been programmed to do so, be it in accordance with the norms or against them. Our behaviour, our very thoughts and perceptions are affected right down to their essence, consciously or otherwise.

What spurred these ruminations? The DCAC journalism society farewell party, where I somehow landed up guided by simple destiny. What I’m glad about is that thanks to these buggers I finally got a taste of Blues at CP—quite overhyped to be honest (and over-priced of course)—the live artists complemented by a guitar and laptop tunes, churned out one generic rock hit after another—goddamnit, it’s supposed to be a blues bar for crying out loud (should’ve checked out Haze while it still existed)! Oh and also, you can’t smoke inside—duh (so yeah,Orient Tavern still remains the choice watering hole for me). But it’s alright, even if I believe I’d never step into Blues again, I’ve got to admit that it was fun—yep, that I cannot deny, especially when I was made to guzzle umpteen mugs of free beer thanks to a dear friend of mine.

So yeah, the DCAC gang—about two scores in number, proved to be quite a handful for the Blues staff—whether it was all the alcohol being smuggled inside or the incessant “woo-ing” or the vodka-shot girls in the throes of bestial gyrations—I’ve got to say it was a crazy party.

Anyhow, enough of contextual digressions, let’s get back to the subject—take for instance the vodka-shot girls, in this case ingénues with repressed desires bursting forth all of a sudden (it felt like being back in a law school party for some reason)—clinging to the first half-decent looking male acquaintance they run into—trying to clamber up on wobbling tables and screaming their lungs out—acting straight out of a frat-party movie scene (and I have a sneaking suspicion that’s what they were modelling themselves upon), and so on (let’s not even get to the puking and other related activities). My point is, if a guy does the same, he’d be branded a maniac, socially boycotted and not to mention, thrown out before he could say “Cheers”—but girls are “just drunk”.

And I don’t claim to be an objective god (at least not in action) myself, but let me reiterate—what I’m trying to say is we all act based upon preconceived gender notions, so intrinsic and deeply indoctrinated into our minds. For instance, what happens when a vodka-girl decides to grab you and literally molest you (even though, you honestly don’t mind it, again why? ‘Cause you’re a fuckin’ guy and that’s how you’ve been programmed!)? One half of your brain goes, “Hmmm...” while the other goes, “Nah, she’s too drunk, I shouldn’t pursue this...”. And based on the alcohol levels inside you, and your general temperament and character, it’s just about choosing either.

To further assert the view, I shall employ the example of the head-vodka-girl again, who soon enough began to parrot, “I’m not that kind of a girl” and started accusing pretty much everyone for feeling her up, when all (at least the majority of them) they were trying to do was to keep her on her struggling feet—it was ironic, and a veritable uninhibited (thanks to the vodka of course) display of the conflict of two opposing indoctrinated veins, one of society and the other of individual assertion.

By now, yours truly had had enough—prudence prevailed over the penis and once again I walked away to get more inebriated (‘cause I clearly wasn’t) with the consolation of a story and still-intact principles (Note to self—must try and curtail thought, must!).

So anyhow, coming back to the sentiment—no matter what we may think, we’re not free, we’re all guided by intangible factors, whether we realize it or not. Everything can be justified; we cannot be sure of anything; and no one can be blamed in the end. And as it is often seen, such simple universal truths are usually never recognized—we’re all undeniable products of our environment, circumstances, luck, destiny and the immutable collective past of the world, whether we appreciate it or not. ‘Cause if we were free, we wouldn’t be alive, not in this world at least.

About a Friend of Fire

2011-04-20T16:39:00.003+05:30

I had decided I won't share any poetry on this blog, but then this one's different. It's not about a particular lyrical feeling and nor do I hope to attain any literary merit by virtue of it, it's merely about trying to chronicle a life-changing experience.

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A Pilgrimage to the Court of Kuber

This is the first time that I’ve felt inspired enough to write a poem explicitly about a single individual. Dedicated to Agni Mitro, a kindred spirit separated through time and space

In the institution that had throttled my love for music, intoxication and literature by exposing me to countless travesties of the same, I learnt there was a sapient soul as desolate as I

Spurred by this strange knowledge, two young poets undertook a pilgrimage for they knew they’d rue it otherwise

Two hours in air-tight subway sardine boxes and another on rickety three-wheelers struggling against the potholes of time, we finally found ourselves at the rented shrine of the man who called himself a friend of fire.

Holed up in a microcosm in a presently gentrified suburban residential whore-block in the middle of nowhere, we found the pale pot-bellied professor prostrate on a double bed under the unobtrusive simplicity of fluorescent white light

The dreary blue walls of the derelict bedroom adorned with Rembrandt, Renoir and Van Gogh—all cheap prints but holding invaluable intent

The solace of digital music in the bleak hours of dotage—Dylan, Baez, Simon and Garfunkel alternating alongwith Bach and the genius of Tagore

Two rooms a library, a corroboration of the endless reservoir of knowledge and abundant wisdom of eclecticism—stalwarts standing skin-to-skin in glorious yellow-paged harmony

The simplicity and sentiment of Neruda, and the glorious majesty of Ezra Pound; Blake’s profound intensity whereby he married Heaven and Hell; Rimbaud’s subjective luminous candid passion and the sheer genius of Baudelaire

The paradoxical catharsis of Sartre and Camus, and then Shakespeare, Ibsen, Brecht—the usual dramatic gang and many more, much more

And amidst all of these, Agni Mitro the godlike poet still deconstructing a single Mid-May afternoon, a wistful wandering Agape kiss

Erudition reeking from the devilish tobacco-stained smile and playful azure eyes—a life devoted to academia, still thriving on an indignant pedagogical passion—a corroboration of solitary genius, now sparring against memory, mood swings and a heart ready to give up any day

A few hints of past glory in a loosely bound bully book—majestic scholastic experiences, Oxford spires and the magic of Paris, hopelessly captured in sepia prints and newspaper clippings

Now burdened by a horrifying mass of prescriptions for survival and reinforced by multiple cardiac tweaking, Lord Kuber is but another Sisyphus of our age

Yet undeterred by repressed desires, precautions and quotidian insulin shots, Kuber still smiles—a compromise with sugar substitutes, but not with life—often tormented by the insecure paranoia of solitary twilight, and yet resolute in breathing

The infectious assuredness of glorious experience—a man who could afford to have all his cards on the table all the time—no fake pride, nor convoluted sophistry—a man with no regrets; a jovial nonchalance unafraid to say, “I don’t know”; summarizing Woodstock as “Way too much drugs”

An invisible halo on the snow-string-copper-topped head withholding waves of furious knowledge and resentment for not getting his due, Kuber still yearns for a kilo of pure ghee halwa riddled with cashews and raisins

Fondly reminiscing about green fairies, now willing to settle even for a single slab of cheap chocolate, but that too denied alongwith a damn cigarette, for the devotees would want Lord Kuber to live

For a few transient devotees in awe of the savant shadow are all who remain, populating the once noble court; the mentor king abandoned by the prince; and yet a devoted Sun himself waits on Kuber, running back and forth, within and out for various mundane chores and errands, aiding the incapacitated general in the simple quest of existence

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Four outsiders, strangers and three nights and days—comforting each other to keep collective despair at bay, and when this deed was done, uninhibited expansive conversation flowed, even as they reconciled themselves to the inevitable desolation of genius and absurdity in the meagre domestic court of Kuber

A place where men could look each other in the eye—a connection transcending all vain labels of time, place and luck—all propriety, routines and insecurities forgotten under Kuber’s authority, commanding respect through sheer wisdom and candid charm

Faint intrusions of discord, tangible or intangible, chased away with due spontaneous care and courtesy—three days of languor, three nights of vigorous platonic productivity amidst all the corporeal immaterial clutter and filth—delightful jams overcoming inhibitions on a lone guitar and infinite harmonica melodies

Innumerable moments of genuine sincerity realized in the modern Gurukul—beautiful men living in the immediate instant, shunning all vain frivolity and definitions

Ritually rubbed kuber passing hands, tucked under lips to assuage the incessant yearning for nicotine juice; discussing life, the world and everything in between, as aching white china cups went back and forth, in and out of the hallowed air-conditioned bedroom right till dawn while nibbling on sugar-free biscuits

In astounding nocturnal verve, a warbling baritone of genius sprawled on the bed, in spite of being a weak echo of the past, continued a range of lectures—linguistics, history, purpose and profundity, epical prosody and literary criticism—amidst the discarded ruminated tobacco piles, myriad cigarette butts, alcohol bottles, consumed blister packs and general neglect; no need for inebriation once the association was set.

Eulogizing the Mahabharata while mocking Rama, we chewed toasted bread and eggs keeping time to heavenly old-school jazz on pleasant gloomy pre-summer noons

Wondering what the girl at the open half-door was looking at; marvelling at the intricate play of light and shadow—the curious patronizing look, one of knowing and yet unknown, kept many a divine mind captivated

Reading godly verses to tuned ears, imparting wisdom to dreamy dishabille disciples, Kuber would then ask you to toss him a cigarette to stave the intransigent craving for tobacco and life—how could fledgling mortals deny a god?

While the lord himself delighted at the prospect of passing on the torch, until the inevitable solitude returned, for the disciples had to get back to their own vital routines—Kuber smiled once more and sent them off with a sincere hug—a man condemned by fate for trying to be free in a world of idiots

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Thus, we walked out of the microcosmic contentment, surreal and still reeling—it was about getting back to reality—the cringing stench of piss-drenched streets and an obnoxious loudness in the air

The sight of the metro line brought a slight involuntary sense of relief

The tambourine man still trapped in my head, even as we made our way back to our respective ratholes through places where one must pay to take a leak

Finally the threshold, and once more all alone, I walked out into the soft Delhi drizzle

20 April 2011

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Here's a poem by the man himself

http://www.poetsindia.com/cgi-bin/view.cgi?title=Mid-may+and+the+room&firstname=Hari+Sanyal&category=Experiences&opt=viewsubject

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"Good is the passive that obeys Reason. Evil is the active springing from Energy. Good is Heaven. Evil is Hell"

William Blake (The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)

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The Stranger by Charles Baudelaire—genius if you ever saw one

In a feverish ecstasy I present:

2011-04-13T16:21:00.004+05:30

High and Low

Dedicated to HST (as if he’d have given a shit)

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About a Girl who Danced

For three days, a section of Delhi diligently contemplated jazz at Nehru Park. Now it’s over, but a few remnants of vague but fresh experiences still linger. For three days, glorious light and exuberant jazz notes reigned at Nehru Park in contrast to its usual clandestine debauchery. For three days, a few thousand Delhiites made their way to Nehru Park to sit transfixed in front of the elaborate stage set under a large tree (which seemed to exist there for this very purpose) lit up in myriad electric colours along with glimmering red pyramids. For three days, there was palpable harmony in the dark verdant environs, watched over by a dull crescent moon. Whiffs of alcohol, perfume and grass in the air, and the divine transitions of concatenating jazz notes. There seemed to be wandering laughter all around and smiles on each mesmerizing face. Whiskey in innocuous cola bottles fuelled passionate conversations and a pervading air of leisure, seen even in the long restroom queues.

There were toddlers frolicking on vigorous shoulders and energetic freaks in glorious impulsive motion. There were angelic girls in hats and geriatrics in the groove. The young and the old, the prim and shabby, the picnicking families and degenerate college kids—all ecstatic as a collective, nodding along to the ethereal alteration of flawless saxophone notes and spontaneous guitar riffs, merrily chasing each other to the stabilizing beat of godlike drummers and bassists. There was wordless poesy in flow and frenzied snippets about a relevant Woodstock emulation. An ineffable sentiment of joy everywhere—be it in the heart of the venue where throngs sat enchanted or in the peripheries where intoxication seemed to be the norm—it felt like what an actual music festival ought to feel like; and the fact that this was being realized right here in Delhi was heartening for sure.

Day I: Cesare Picco from Italy initiated the festival—beautiful, captivating, transcendental tunes—the kind one could listen to all day, making life seem like a smooth cinematic endeavour. And alongwith that, there was enough innovation and masterful improvisation—avant-garde jazz sections! Smile-inducing, foot-tapping music, and just one man with a piano unfolding his intricate and rambling compositions—heart-felt and endearing, beautiful indeed!

Next was D-Company from India—lots of skill and genius, musicians of repute. Some of the riffs on the string instruments were worth dying for—but having said that, there was the somewhat generic jazz-rock-funk feel to the entire set, which seemed a bit tame when compared to the other acts of the day. Oh and I don’t know if it was just me, but there seemed a considerable Zappa influence.

The French band Be Why was the closing act and one of the highlights of the entire festival. A flawless ensemble with a five-man brass section alongwith a virtuoso keyboardist, rhythm and the telecaster man who sure got the blues—and when you get all that live in a single spontaneous dose, it’s simply mind-blowing! Scintillating grooves, improvisation stretched to the limit, and amazing coordination and understanding—and above all, they were visibly loving it themselves!

Yes, Mrs. Dixit, those were prophetic words, people were happily dancing indeed!

Day II: I missed out on the Christine Jensen Quintet from Canada, and I’m told they were quite good. While Fractal—headed by the legendary Amyt Dutta, was just not my kind of music, so I made my way to the peripheries for some refreshments instead. However, Jump4Joy from Sweden truly lived up to their name—by the end of their set, they had everyone on their feet and there was of course the deserved thunderous applause. Upbeat folksy jazz, and if I’m not wrong, probably the only band in the festival with vocals as an indispensable component. An extremely talented bunch, particularly the pianist frontman and singer (for some reason he reminded me of Levon Helms), and the lady playing the sax—the earnest shouts for encore were but a formality.

The crowd had gotten bigger, the insanity was up a notch with libertines wandering all around—these were signs, and the final day sure lived up to it.

Day III: Again, owing to an impromptu gathering, I missed out on the first band of the day, Ekkehard Wölk Trio from Germany. However, the Amit Heri Group left me much impressed—in short, they were simply sublime! Amazing sax and bass solos, beautiful arpeggios, and mind-boggling keyboard interludes—transcendental indeed, after the first couple of songs they really began to come together. Yes, maybe it was just the weed and alcohol but I don’t know, does that really matter by the end? It’s all about how the individuals were influenced, isn’t it? To me, they were as good as gods on stage that evening. The power of live music—for it’s all about reaching out to receptive minds in a single simultaneous effort—and the fact that it could affect them with such intensity, magical really!

Somewhere to my left there was a girl in a white dress—lost in her own subjective-physical-graceful-rhythmic manifestations sculpted by the objective stimuli of jazz—dancing her heart out, and when I say dancing, I mean dancing, not just moving to the music—beautiful, intricate movements. Words sprung up in my head—freedom, liberation—without any inhibitions amidst all the people there, who in comparison seemed lifeless statues. Such a free body, mind and maybe soul? That was how it seemed, at least to a completely smashed runt standing there. As for the lady in question, was she just high on music and life? Could be, and if so (or even otherwise), it’s quite amazing!

In the middle of a twirl, some of the adjacent buggers finally stirred—they peeled their eyes away from the gods and paused to filch a digital souvenir of the cherubic nymph—yet another vain attempt to capture an experience.

But seriously, keep this up for a week or two—make it a 24 hour festival with more music thrown in with freedom of genres (blues, rock n’ roll, country, acoustic, funk, ambient, house, anything, come one, come all—no metal or psy-trance bullshit though—for then other things gain undue importance, if you know what I mean) and we have our own version of Woodstock by the end of it—one in accordance with the zeitgeist of our time and place. Yep, that’s all we need. If by the end there are helicopters throwing down food packages, we know we’ve done well—a hell of a party! Anyone with a lot of money—interested in the suggestion? I can already see it, and it’s quite possible too!

Meanwhile, Amit Heri & Group finished their set with a few earnest and candid words at the behest of the host. And while wandering around the venue sheer numbers decided to hit me again—fuckin’ everyone seemed to be there! For in spite of being the essential loner that I am, I ran into a lot of random acquaintances and old friends. And contrary to my usual indifference and bile, it felt great seeing vaguely familiar faces—yep, all about the atmosphere and the state of mind. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so happy. Also, the good thing about protean tendencies is that stale acquaintances can never recognize you—so the onus of interaction is passed on to yourself, which you can deal with accordingly depending on your mood and inclination.

Now, I’m usually sceptical of fusion but Trio AAB were superb—a fitting end to a spectacular event. These buggers were collaborating with some Indian artists, and they had jammed together for just four days—but once they got into the groove, it was simply unbelievable, for there wasn’t a moment of discord. Continuing in the sublime vein—the supernal sitar, the sarod, the flute, the sax—everything, a divine amalgamation of various ragas and melodies—a wonderful experience, no words could do justice to it.

And all of a sudden the lights went off but the men on stage remained unfazed, and to keep them going, the people suddenly rose from their joint transfixion and clapped in unison, in time with the darkness. Rising to a crescendo—nothing could mar it, not even if it was official interference or wait, did we suddenly decide to save power again?

And just like that it was finally over—abrupt but I couldn’t care less; now there was the long way back home. Ten thousand people over 3 days I heard—so I’m guessing in effect at least 5000 individuals? Damn, that’s got to be something!

10 April 2011

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Two Hours

I still remember the last time I cried, I mean really cried—uncontrollable tears and everything—it was my last day in law school, a premature exit, the loser’s way out; and popping a dozen shrooms wasn’t exactly a well-thought out plan. So there I was, making a silent valediction, blankly gazing at the walls and trees which had confined me for the past two years. I had decided I’d leave during class hours, for I too, had never been good with goodbyes. And yet, I inevitably ran into a few comforting faces, and before I knew it, the levee had been broken. I was crying—heck, I was bawling, right in the middle of Nagarbhavi street amidst a mass of hugs and dejected soon-to-be erstwhile comrades. Amma handed me my usual—a mild cigarette and a large coffee, only this time I didn’t have to pay. The cigarette was lost to oblivion a few meters down the rickshaw-ride while the coffee had mostly found its way on my ragged blue jeans. And yet, in a clear mess, I sat gazing at the surreal sights of Bangalore for one last time behind my RayBans with bleary eyes.

That time, I had a tangible reason to cry, but today—all it took was a two-hour session spent in the classroom. After yesterday’s euphoric end to the jazz festival, I should’ve known the crash would come soon enough. But then, it’d have never struck me. Typing away on my pleading laptop all night, fuelled by nicotine and Bob Dylan—I finally got up from my desk at 6am. Smoked some more, shat, shaved, brushed, took a bath, cooked myself a breakfast of bread and eggs; and then finally combed my hair and put on my crisp white shirt—white is symbolic you see, one must not forget that—it has a pervading purity to it, rising above the mundane insecurities of the self—it signifies the messiah on the street, a microcosmic delusion of the individual but then that’s all there is—white is symbolic!

The funny bit is that all it really took was 2 hours spent in a second year, literature classroom to blow up my fragile happiness into smithereens. Yep, I’m one among numerous Indian kids who are forced to undergo travesties in the name of education—another tortured helpless victim of the system and of the self; only that I was more aware of my predicament than the usual runt who goes on to put the cherry on his bulging resume with an MBA.

Yes, it only took two hours to trigger the damn depression all over again, and with such magnitude. A historical essay butchered in ten minutes with lots of extraneous bullshit and mockery and then the rape of Miltonic intent in the next hour. The sordid exhumation of poor John Milton by idiots who seemed to judge his entire acumen through a single book that was part of our course—heck, these philistines hadn’t even bothered to read the entire Paradise Lost, much less anything else. Such scholarly delusion, such ignorant conviction—at one time I used to be amused by it, now it just makes me want to drop out of the damn course (which I honestly love) and run off to the mountains. Teachers who walk into the class and read out the text aloud for an hour in the name of a lecture; teachers who when encountered by the occasional insight seem affronted by the same; literature teachers so accustomed to indoctrinated methods that they’ve even forgotten how to read—and then they have the nerve to ask me why I don’t attend their classes. Well, here’s the thing: One, ‘cause I feel that I could myself do a better job than you. Two, it’s an utter waste of my time when I should rather stay at home writing epical verses and essays. Goddamnit, I know life’s unfair and you’re all idiots; I know the system is such and you must cater to idiotic fresh-out-of-school naiveté, but hell, every now and then when you come across some genius, let them be—that’s all I ask. Live and let live, you do things your way, and let me be exempt from your idiotic methods. But no, it’s the fuckin’ plague of idiotic concern, and so I must smile at these vapid souls who’ve been mutilating Shakespeare and Chaucer for decades.

Two hours, that’s all it took to really pound in the truth once more, shattering my usual defence of indifference. The essay draft I submitted to a professor—not because I expected any great insights from her, but because I too must pander for a mark on the register lest I be held back in this sham of an institution. Goddamnit, if they do that, I too am going on a damned hunger strike—and my cause is great for it all begins from individual desolation of awareness, so intrinsic to our times. Damned two hours, heck, time spent on the shit pot is more productive, way more productive!

But now that I think about, I know there’s much more. The hellish two hours were the catalyst, but all this while the bile had been brimming and resentment boiling underneath. The deprivation, distant mocking ideals—it’s about each institution of faith and belief being crumbled under hunting eyes; it’s about not getting one’s due in a vacuous world, about not finding a single comforting selfless embrace; it’s about consciousness gnawing at your insides, it’s about desire and ambition being repressed at each step; about myriad insecurities throttling one’s sanity and it’s about all the good fortuned grotesquery in the rest of the world; it’s about losing one’s voice with each passing day and the futility of existence pounding itself in—it’s about the essential desolation of our lives, about the curse of awareness and the inevitable melancholy. It’s about not finding a single glass of cold water on a hellish summer afternoon—water is a friend, but it can also kill you, just like everything else—yes, everything has the potential to kill when you think about it.

After the long way back home under the searing Sun, I was still dazed, insulated as always—an obfuscated mind, blank and empty—gazing at passing myriad illusions, apathetic and indifferent. But then as I lay on my couch watching some inanity on the television, all of a sudden, tears started streaming down my sunburnt cheeks. I couldn’t help it, couldn’t resist it, and for a while I didn’t even realize it. It was heart-breaking but also a long overdue catharsis—for the haze of desolation had been dissolved, at least to some extent. And after a long pointless walk around the squalor of the streets, I was back to my tolerable passivity. The emotional roller-coaster has been dealt with I guess.

But really, if I wasn’t so optimistic (and perhaps deluded) and convinced about my own self and vain purpose, I’d have probably killed myself just to put an end to this desolate indignant boredom of my life.

I finally walked back home after a visit to the house of the rising sun—hair mussed, shirt hanging out and somewhat intoxicated, only still sucking on a damn cigarette. I had sought a refuge, a conversation with friends, all I found was an appalling, though well-meant dose. I was sick of it, still am—and yet I continue, taking in the ineluctable drags of life. The shirt was still white, but I no longer felt special; the essential inconsequentiality is what keeps me going in the end.

11 April 2011

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The good thing about living in inaction is that there's no scope for disappointment, all you've got to do is get used to the boredom.

I made an effort, I really did, but now I give up—fuck all of you!

Alcohol, Friendship, Poesy, etc.

2011-04-01T16:51:00.004+05:30

This was the third time I found myself at a JMC fest—it’s always been a pretty decent experience, and not just because I won some cash. There’s a general chilled out feeling without compromising on the actual program—one can take a leisurely walk around the campus, and the girls are usually cheerful and ready to help. The events too have a casual air about them; and yes, no security checks and vain procedures—it feels like an actual college fest with not much of crap thrown in.

Although, things seemed a bit lukewarm this time (but then I reached there at around 2pm), the events were something—quite a lot of creativity and jazz; I probably would have been clueless had I not been sober. So yeah, much credit to my DUB acquaintances who were running the show, and I’m not just saying this because they owe me money. But anyhow, we left cashless that day—two poets whoring themselves out at university events just to get some money to get drunk—it was while smoking a cigarette at the gate and trying to figure out rest of the scene that I yet again felt the essential desolation of our lives hit me. What now? We call fellow degenerates and get intoxicated! What if we had won? We’d have still done the same, albeit in a happier state of mind.

Yes, I know things aren’t so bad, but then they aren’t good either; and while it is so, it is but human nature to be discontented. We finally ended up having a nice cheap meal at JNU—a brief respite in its calm environs—lamenting the misery of our world, our lives and of the future. It’s not even angst, for that might lead to action—just an ineffable vain melancholy, which I can only hope to silently channel through in verse. Only, I must stop myself from obsessing upon that one damned question: To what effect?

Anyhow, next day I was woken up by a message which said that I’d won 3 grand—damn, I could get used to that. Yep, got to admit it, in spite of everything, money does make one happy, at least till it lasts. And to put it in plain pecuniary terms like the whore that I am, 3 grand for 6 stanzas feels good. Heck, that’s almost a hundred bucks for each line—damn, if only some publisher would pay me so for the epic I’m writing, I’ll be good for a while. And this one was quite a naive and explicit (in meaning) poem to be honest.

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A few days ago, a poet friend and I got drunk and read some of our poems to each other—I’ve finally realized the brilliant effect of poetry being read aloud. Prior to this, I had always felt poems should be read in private leisure, in one’s own head. But there’s something about verses being spoken, now I do agree that I had been missing out on the dramatic aspect of poesy. I have realized that the flow of words, especially when coming from the poet is a poem in its totality; for it is the poet alone who would know the true and originally intended meaning of a poem, and how to convey it best.

My friends had suggested poetry readings but somehow the idea of it never appealed to me (still doesn’t, even if I might be wrong). I’ve always felt a bit intimidated by fancy places, it’s a mindblock, can’t help it—I’ll deal with it when I can afford to on my own terms.

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Every now and then I hear a Dylan song which I’ve never heard before, and then I go crazy about it—for now it’s Shelter from the Storm—this song was the only thing which made the birthday gathering I was at, seem worth it. What a voice, what expression, what words, and what a song! I really need to download his discography, but then again my damned laptop is choked to the brim already. Oh and while I’m on the subject, Dylan was a poet, Jim Morrison was just a tripped out bugger who strung together random ambivalent phrases and borrowed ideas—things worked out for him (or maybe they didn’t). What I’m saying is—he was a rock star, not a poet (not a great one anyway). So yeah, get over it!

It was another lifetime one of toil and blood

When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud

I came in from the wilderness a creature void of form