this morning
Posted on | January 31, 2010 | No Comments
All the things
I hoped would go away this morning.
The stuff I live with every day. What
I’ve trampled on in order to stay alive.
But for a minute or two I did forget
myself and everything else. I know I did.
For when I turned back i didn’t know
where I was. Until some birds rose up
from the gnarled trees. And flew
in the direction I needed to be going.
: Raymond Carver
This Morning
stories-redux
Posted on | January 27, 2010 | No Comments
Every minute spent with you is another page in a story which will not be written. Because all the stories worth telling are already done, and there are no new tales.
You want to be simple. Normal. And you are more complex than a system of Chinese boxes. There is always something new. Like your admission of craving normalcy. I want to be complex, and perhaps am just normal.
What does one do when one has made oneself unfit for what one craves? How do you end a story which has grown around you to involve you? How do you write a non-tragic end to a story in which you are yourself a character?
Nights are complex affairs, even in cities where you can barely see a mouthful of sky- stars form intricate patterns with other stars which you can see. And they are interwoven with the gazillion stars you know you cannot see. Are they similar to factors which govern your life? And what if you tell yourself, that you are the only factor which governs your life? That you are no mere star but a blazing sun? And what happens to the lifeless planets around you?
Stories, stories and poems. How do you know which ones are true? And what is the truth from what you would like to believe? How is I Love You different from I Think I Love You? Isn’t the first as great a camouflage of confidence as the second a farce of desire?
What if I pick consequences?
straw men
Posted on | January 25, 2010 | No Comments
In their own sweet time, the books will be read-
Stories told. Heard or unheard, who cares?
Truths and lies, disguised in fiction-and lost
Parents mixed with trees and flowers muddled with lovers?
Stories, illuminated in incense, and corrupted-
By desire of never ending- half understood,
Similars and dissimilars, stories- remittances made to uncertain futures.
You. Me. Everyone. Who understands, and who doesn’t?
Or are we merely straw men? Fathers, all,
Begotters of jealousy, illicitly betrothed to the truth?
You, Me- tied to each other- and understanding.
Madly trying to understand, you think perhaps,
And I think, ‘what if not?’ You. Me. Restricted by understanding.
Or how little we understand.
Sad little stories. Of a parent not speaking.
And of a lover speaking too much. Or maybe-
Of long silences with intermittent music.
Space quarrelling with an indeterminate time,
And we are bound with ourselves, committed to staying noncommittal.
Love. Indifference. Distrust. Unsureness.
We are human. And hope to be humane.
Straw men- bearing false witness-
To each other. Not necessarily against.
Book Reviews: Wolf Hall
Posted on | January 25, 2010 | No Comments
Hilary Mantel’s Booker winning novel, Wolf Hall is, at its best, a novel left incomplete. At its worst, it seems superfluous, a novel unneeded, retelling a story which has been told hundreds of times in history textbooks- dry as dust tomes languishing in dark, musty corners in school and college libraries the world over have told the story of the tragic love of Henry VII and Anne Boleyn (on whose fringes lay Thomas Cromwell, the hero of this novel, with his machinations), with its far reaching consequences; and they have not told it any worse than this novel.
The story, revolving round the mad infatuation of Henry VII, then king of England, for Anne Boleyn, with the regular court intrigues is not a bad one, as stories go. Throw in the historical impact of the affair- the breaking of the Church by Henry (and orchestrated by Cromwell), and the resistance he encountered from More- and it becomes a cracking good tale. Cromwell himself is a very interesting character- his rise from a common soldier to the Prime Minister of England would have been fascinating in itself, in any other hands.
Instead, despite Mantel’s monomaniacal devotion to Cromwell (if this were a movie, Cromwell would be present in almost every frame), in the end I closed the book feeling nothing for Cromwell. Apathy would probably best describe my feelings about the character of Cromwell, and as for my reaction to the novel- perhaps a faint gladness that finally it was over. I knew very little of his motivations for bringing in the English Reformation; and I cared even less. Of course, there was a faint taste of revenge in his actions- for Wolsey, his patron- but throughout, you are left wondering if that is prime motivation. Or, does he in fact have a motivation- except his self interest? He does come through as the consummate politician which he was- but even consummate politicians have motives beyond self, one would like to think.
Even if one accepts the fact that only self was the motive driving Cromwell, the story remains incomplete. For the novel ends with the redrawing by Cromwell of ‘The Map of Christiandom’- but if that is not his primary motive, then the story has not yet reached a satisfactory conclusion at this point. The novel, in this case, serving as the story of Thomas Cromwell, should then also trace his downfall- and of his schemes- first with the beheading of Anne Boleyn (in the year 1536- the novel ends in 1535) and then Cromwell’s own execution in the year 1540 by the same king.
As most historical novels, this one also has a rich collage of characters which could have provided great color, but are woefully neglected. We read of Thomas More, the primary opponent of the Reformation, but we never get to know him well- and like or hate him- as a character. Similarly, Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn are never fleshed out as personalities. Poor Henry ends up being portrayed as a headstrong and immature prince who spends most of his time in the pursuit of Anne Boleyn (which he probably did) and Anne comes across as a pretty and pretty mean calculating machine (which again she probably was). But what of the strength of character, the moral conviction required to go through with something as momentous as the break of the state from the church, and carrying through the split with Rome? In the end, most of the characters seem plastic, with events taking over the place which should have been occupied by people, and the novel ends up becoming a showcase Mantel’s knowledge of history.
But then, if wanted to read the history of the English Reformation, we already have more concise and accurate textbooks, no?
The only redeeming features are some passages when the author does try to halfheartedly focus on the character of
Cromwell, especially in the earlier parts where his relationship with Wolsey is touched upon. And a touch of sardonic humor helps to rush through the earlier pages, but that is about it.
arz hai…
Posted on | January 17, 2010 | No Comments
‘jeene ke arzoo me mare ja rahe hain log;
marne ki arzoo me jiye ja raha hiin main.’
(chaapoed from a hindi movie)
pre travel weekend
Posted on | January 16, 2010 | No Comments
1. drink three beers on friday night.
2. read till 2 am in the morning.
3. wake up at 11am on saturday.
4. ask the bai to cook chicken and rice.
5. order two beers.
6. watch a movie on laptop, forget to eat lunch till 5pm.
7. order another two beers. read a book till twelve.
8. remember to eat leftover lunch as dinner. then sleep.
9. repeat on saturday.
10. wake up 10 am on sunday. omg i have a 1pm flight to catch.
11. hastily pack and reach airport.
12. realise you remembered to take three books you will never read on the trip, but forgot to pack your shaving kit and socks.
all that is not a dream
Posted on | January 16, 2010 | No Comments
Let us forget all about her,
The weather is sultry and there is no moon,
And even the stars hide,
As if scared of looking into her eyes.
She is gone, and there will be no coming back,
And the words I should have told her-
Have been left unsaid.
Pending work, left in the in-tray, forever.
The night is clammy, and suffocating,
And the stars are absent, as if regretful,
And I remember words which were never said,
What is the word for memories of things that never happened?
The night is ugly, and I am thinking that she is gone,
And maybe she is with someone else,
That she might be happy is no longer a consolation-
Does he make her laugh? Or cry?
Does he eat chocolates? Or does she fight him over his smoking?
She is gone, and there are memories only,
Shadows of words which will never be said now,
And the thought of her in someone else’s arms,
Maybe even someone else in her heart-
The night is colourless, except when lightening streaks,
Like seeing her smile through our never-ending quarrels,
I never told her how much I loved her,
Assuming she always knew. Perhaps not.
A fan swings on the ceiling, and I stare listless at it.
She is gone, and a fire is still burning inside.
Perhaps she loved, and it is certain that I did love her,
But now only there are memories-
What is the word for words that never were spoken?
invictus (or the box of painkillers)
Posted on | January 11, 2010 | No Comments
Let us look at the world, not through it. That’s a pretty big proposition to put at the start of a conversation.
Why are people lonely? Or maybe what is loneliness? Is there an absolute like loneliness? Is it not more of the togetherness of others? Just like there is no dark, there is only the absence of light?
If that is so, what do we call a blown out lamp? Absent of light or lonely? Sometimes darkness holds a strange glow- like a worm from science-fiction, illuminating itself by its breath.
Self-perpetuating, perhaps that is what such a glow would be called. For a finite period. So. A contradiction. But a nice idea, if not a clever one. So what do we call loneliness which feeds upon itself, increasing its intensity from the lack of resistance?
And what is your face in the dark? Hallucination? That is not a nice word. Almost sounds fake.
When we have left the world behind us, we are lonely. When we are brave, we say it is solitude. Where do we draw the line between bravery and mercy upon our souls?
And this bravery- is it a victory or a defeat?
reconciliation- short story
Posted on | January 11, 2010 | No Comments
(Aching across time, we live in an endless void- you and I. There was a past once, in this void, but now there is nothing- shared memories float in the streets like derelict pieces of paper carrying upon them the scripts of endless designs, plans, and projections- abandoned futures. The void is like a ghost town where our presence is just a rumor, and time flows like the knitting of a confused spinster- forward and back upon itself in different colored patterns without necessarily having any sense or determinate shape.)
How are you?
I am fine. And you?
Just like I look. Its been a long time. You have grown even thinner, if possible.
I know. You have not put on any weight neither. I bet your husband measures his inches everyday.
…
Ok. Wrong joke, wrong time. Sorry. You know how I am.
…
You have not changed. Still those silences.
You never listened to them.
(You know, you and me always lived in a perennial state of reproach- you could never bear to have me silent, and I could never say something which did not make you go silent- personally, if you ask me, I think silences are overrated- I would prefer you bawling me out this very moment to a million years of silence, but you never do. Never did. Perhaps, that’s why…) …
You are not looking well.
Well, I was never…much of a looker, was I? Still…maybe you are right. You were always a good judge.
Do you always have to be so bitter? Its been long since we me. Do you still write poetry?
(Bitterness is there, I admit. Its not directed at you, my life- its directed at myself who could not keep you there. Or maybe at a God who pushed us away- but then I do not believe in Him, and so it must have been me- have you ever imagined how lonely it grows at times- at nights when you are lying alone in the dark, weeping your dry tears and reciting poetry to yourself or too tired or too splashed or too scared to switch on the lights lest you see your face, sobbing tearlessly, silently, trying to write a poem, trying to be bitter, hoping that there was a God somewhere, no, WISHING that there was a God somewhere and that He came between us like some jealous lover and He pulled you away from me- juggling words in the night that offer no forgiveness, just an endless alphabet-drowned deafening silence in a suffocating dark that is almost too noisy to bear? Did you know I have started eating chocolates and quit smoking? I still remember the taste of all those chocolates I went ‘ugh’ over, and I still hear you voice complaining over the number of mints I ate- yes, you were right, of course, I only took a mint when I smoked. Yes, my love, I still do write poetry). Err, yes…sometimes. Now that’s all I do- I write poems for a living.
Wow!! So finally you have a job doing what you always loved. That’s so cool, no?
(Yes, my darling, yes. Its pretty cool. Some people even think its pretty how, being a poet, you know- in those late night rave parties where I sometimes am dragged to like a rare specimen, an endangered species, a beast brought forward for inspection- the wild, vacant eyed almost-teenagers who gawk at me as if I just landed with the little green men down in the garden, the vacuous twenty somethings who try to reconcile the fact that I am a poet with the fact that I don’t have a beard, don’t wear heavy spectacles and no, no khadi, neither- yes, my love, its pretty cool. Sometimes, I do have to wonder where the rent for the next month will come, or whether the water in the seedy studio I live in is fit enough to drink- but those one-time girls who come there sometimes think that is pretty cool, too. So, yeah, the light of my life, I am pretty happy). Ohh, err yes, that’s cool, really. You tell me- do you still teach them children English literature?
Ohh me? Yeah…I do teach still. The children have grown a bit bigger. A lot bigger, in fact. I teach college students, now- English literature, yes- and by the look of things, they need to be taught alphabets and grammar too. But yes, we try. So, a poet, huh? I bet you never married.
(Oh no, I never did. But not for any of the reasons going through your mind right now.) Actually, no. How about you?
Err, no. Listen I have a class I am getting delayed for. Lucky we met in this seminar, do try to keep in touch, okay. I must leave.
(Yes, my darling, I will keep in touch. Perhaps you did not notice that with this exhortation to keep in touch, you did not give m a single contact detail- your phone number or email address or anything. But yes, I will always be in touch with you- in all those silent nights, whenever I close my eyes and let the blackness wash over myself, whenever I have a million people around me and am all alone- we will always be in touch, my love.) Sure. Will do. You take care. Bye.
Bye. (You never did understand, did you, my love? I know all the reasons you give, and know all about the silent, black darkness which washes over you noisier than a tempestuous sea, I know of the empty flat in which you spend you emptier evenings, of the bleak unkemptness which is hidden behind your neat, clean-shaven, shiny-shod exterior. But you have to get over it, my darling, why the hell are you men so weak? Did you not notice I asked you to keep in touch but gave you no contact details- no phone numbers, no email ids, no addresses nothing? I don’t want you agonizing in the night hunched in the dark, the light from your phone’s LED washing your face, agonizing, dialing my number and cutting the call before it gets through, awash in your guilt and mine? You never understood the silences, or maybe you always did, just chose not to tell me. But there is nothing now, my love, no past, no present, no future. There is just this void, a gaping, silent, mocking void which is so dark it is almost noisy, in which we- you and I- reside, at opposite ends, looking for each other, silently screaming each other’s name, our frantic need echoing across our souls for we are void in which we live, and love, and this loneliness is where we will die, this ravaged remnant of conscience- hoping that we will find each other, wishing that we would not. I love you, my sweet. You never understood, I can still taste the taste of all those chocolates you went ‘ugh’ over- did you know I have stopped eating chocolates? And learnt how to smoke? Perhaps you could tell, from my lips, maybe- bet you have quit. But I have to go, and so do you need to go, because we will always have each other. But we will never have us. So, my love, go find yourself a groupie, if you can, of other loves, if possible. Or a job and slow decay into death, if you so wish. We are too tired for our realities, now, and our souls are weary of love. But still, my sweet, I love you.)
in which i go blah, blah and blah
Posted on | January 9, 2010 | 1 Comment
well…happy late year to all and sundry, i have not made my customary new year crib this time round, and did not have much to write about or much time to write about anything as such. so there. some updates are in order: i am back in mumbai (a few hours ago- came and found a room that was dusty and flooded at the same time- was definitely not amused). the much awaited trip to shirdi was cancelled because i decided that sai baba could wait- a three hour long queue after a hard day’s dusty and tiring work is not my cup of tea, thank you.
due to aforementioned dusty and flooded room, some cleaning of the apartment has been done, and now it looks more hospitable-make that liveable. and due to said cleaning, some unpacking has been done at last, and now most of the books also have been dragged from gathering dust in a carton to gather dust on a shelf, even though i have not yet succeeded in my search for a goof bookshelf, so one carton is still there at my last home. and just cuz i feel proud of myself- a few photos of said shelf :P
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