Hooked

I don't know what keeps me hooked on to you.
I have been to wild sojourns before, and a few roller coaster rides as well that
went nowhere, but never have I felt so high and for so long.

Why is your kick so strong? What makes you potent? Who is behind all this?
Psychology? Physiology? Chemistry? Endomorphins? God? Nonsense?

Grey wisdom, I mean science, has enriched me somewhat about psychedelic
experiences, but it never elucidated why during the course of such experiments
with truth, that's how I like to put them, we, by chance, get fixated to some and
in due course of time, that fixation becomes so compulsive that we never set
ourselves free of it.

I have this inkling that there is something heavenly we experience on those
sojourns, something that we treasure the most and would do anything to get
hold of it, so we keep reverting there to feed us more of it. The slimmer the
chances, the covetous the actions, the vicious the results.

“So, are you that? One of my experiments with truth?”

I remember vividly how we met. You had come for vacation at your cousin’s place.
He was my friend, in fact my best friend whose home I frequented often. When we
first met, you were watching some movie, but it was not Shahrukh’s; I think, it
was some old movie of Amitabh Bachchan, and you were so engrossed that when
I wished, you turned, for a second, towards me and without any response, turned
yourself again towards the screen. I must say it was not deferential, but then I was
used to such gestures from girls of my age. I have never been a hunk and going
by the glimpse I catched of yours on that day, you too didn’t look like any
ravishing princess. Yet that glimpse astonished me. There was something
transcendental in those brown eyes. Some kind of tribute to perfection.

The immaculately kohl lined eyes, somewhat big with a touch of mascara:
Oh! they got hold of me.

I have always been fond of kohl, but they never blew me away before. Yours,
on the other hand, made me wonder whether the ‘black’ that had always been
a symbol of evil had this time upended the ‘white’ from the lordship.

Later on I got to know you more. There were so many other remarkable things
about you apart from those beautiful eyes; your smile, your innocence, your vivacity,
your stupidity, your conversation style, the way you kept your ‘r’ silent before a
consonant or at the end of a word like the English do: the list is long and I shall
recount them in future.

But, on the first day, it was your eyes that got me...

Disgrace: An amateur Review

Coetzee's Disgrace has been criticized by some as racist in its portrayal of South Africa. The setting of the story, the choice of words the writer uses to describe the characters and the place hint of unfair bias in the writing, but the writer is spot on in underscoring the disturbing theme of 'assault on women' as an instrument of power projection.

The woman in the novel, I refrain from writing 'white woman', violated by three men whom she calls 'tax collectors' as if she was their due, and again I refrain from writing black men, is part of the continual narrative of triumph by force that men of unbridled power and corrupt sense are accustomed to, given a free hand to establish their rein.

Surprisingly, the woman does not offer resistance and refrains from naming the culprits, perhaps to remind us of how difficult it is for women of all race, ethnicity and parts of the world to go over the trauma all again.

The boy among the trio, he reminded me of the Juvenile of Nirbhaya case, was there to watch and learn which shows how these men are raised and partly answers why they perform such acts.

The passion, that the protagonist, the father of the woman, indulges into time to time, is another grey area to dwell upon, the moralists will never view it favorably, but at least, it's consensual though not conforming to the code of conduct of the society.
And, he knows when he puts, "It is his disgrace."

Hyperbole

The weight of vacuous concern, 
The depth of shallow heart,
The agony of schadenfreude bond,
The glitz of fleeting charm,
The sojourn of old love,
The endurance of recent distrust,
The angst of distinguished faith,
The nonchalance of surging distance
Expound
The oxymoron of her sporadic chastity,
But not
The hyperbole of my relentless fidelity. 

"शायद"

शायद हम कहानियां लिखना सिखाते हैं, जीना नहीं ।
शायद हम खुलके कभी कह नहीं पाते कि गलतियां करना भी है अधिकार हमारा ।
शायद कहानियां ढूंढते हैं हम जिंदगी में, जीना नहीं । 
शायद मासूमियत घुट जाती है हमारी सोच सोच के यही,
जीना होता है अलग, कहानियों की तरह तो बिलकुल भी नहीं ।
शायद कहानियों में ही मोहब्बत होती है सिर्फ; जिंदगी में नहीं ।

शायद ये कुछेक पड़ावों की कहानियाँ सिर्फ यादें बन रह जाएँगी ।
शायद जिंदगी की ठीक-ठाक कहानी कभी न बन पायेगी ।
शायद आज बारिश होगी रिमझिम, धरती की प्यास बुझाने ।
शायद मेरी तिश्नगी रहेगी हमेशा मेरी गलतियां बताने ।

Done with D.H. Lawrence

It's sullen, sulky, gloomy & melancholic. It's weaved in pain to make you flinch; yet it makes you covet till you are tired of it, but like an inveterate habit, it does not let you leave or set you free; like what she did to Paul. Paul Morel, never sure of what he wanted, what he stood for, could not figure out the maze she had built for him or rather I would say he had built for himself. The undercurrents were there, but never strong and direct, yet he allowed himself to slip totally oblivious to what was at stake.

It's delightful to see the array of words portrayed, the magic they weaved, the tragedy they unfurled, the class they depicted.

A letter to "Sons & Lovers"

Time flies, isn’t it?

Three years it has been since I first held you in my hands.

You were crimson red with a hint of dark on your edges all around. On the corner shelf of a dim lit room you were whispering to me, “Come. I shall be yours through misery & mystery. Hold. I shall take you through pain & pleasure. Know. I shall be your truth forever.”

I took you away.

I had dreamed of a journey together full of possibilities, but I could never be bold. My lips trembled when they took your name. My hands shivered when they felt your weight. I never dared touch you.

Perhaps, I was afraid of you; your popularity, your controversies. I never wanted others to know about our association. After all, I was a good guy.  

I put up a mask, like a veneer that hides ugly furniture. I pretended and further pretended. Every day, I waged a battle inside. A strange fear kept holding me back from giving what was duly yours.

Oh, dear! I didn’t know you were so resilient. Three long years you waited silently to let me tell this world that I had had you!

Yes, I have got you and I’m not ashamed.

 I want to know you. I want to understand you. Those 392 pages of you are mine and I shall definitely treasure you.

Truly Yours

What do you want?

Sometimes mediocrity pushes you hard, but at the end of the day, It's mediocrity and it has never taken anyone far. The words below are manifestations of acute mediocrity borne out of delinquency and smugness shown at a time when it mattered the most.

What do you want?
Do you want to cry & laugh?
Do you want to let your inside talk?

What do you want?
Do you want to confess ugly past?
Do you want to erase indelible scars?

What do you want?
Do you want to touch and keep distance as well?
Do you want to covet and detest as well?

What do you want?
Do you want to see randomness into the planned?
Do you want to decipher the life’s brand?

What do you want?
Do you want to know what ails inside?
Do you want to know what she likes?

What do you want?
Do you want to crave everything?
Do you want to be good at nothing?

What do you want?
Do you want to love hard and live grand?
Do you want to die and never want?

I was a bee
Once
Careless and free.
I Sipped love
Little by little
Swarming around trees.

I was a bee
Among
The multitude of blooms.
I Lived oblivious
In the hive
Cozy to breathe.

It was the fable
In anguish
I weaved
Insolently whenever they felt me
In places
I could not speak.

Oh! I was never a bee
Only a scarred chick
Mourning
In silence
For broken wings
And tattered dreams.

He dreamed of senorita land. 
She coveted chivalrous men. 
Fairy tales they had had
Till they acquiesced
To a matrimonial ring.

"The not so Argumentative Indian"

Someone once said, “What you see is what you believe in.” He would have died of shock if he were made to live now. (Before any conclusion is drawn, it is to be clarified that usage of ‘he’ does not reveal any intrinsic, deep seated patriarchal demons harboring inside the mind of the writer. Of course, there are demons inside, but they cannot be accessed so easily.)

We have all heard this before, “Life takes unusual turns sometimes. It allows a David to take on a Goliath.” However, in this instant age where information changes faster than the beat of a heart, this maxim offers too little too late to bring any adrenaline rush. Perhaps the story of contemporary India is more interesting, incisive and melodramatic to ponder upon. We have often found film critics using clichés like riveting to describe a movie that hold them captivated. We can borrow such banality here and say, “The story of contemporary India is highly riveting,” but to understand what makes it so, we have to deliberate earnestly upon the fad of cynosure generation (the darling age group of this country). Actually, this genre is nothing new. It has been entrenched in our psyche since long ago so much so that a noble laureate had to write a book on it, “The Argumentative Indian.” It’s just that with the advent of information age, its visibility has soared to astronomical heights.

Some of the questions that we often ask ourselves such as what makes it believable or what makes it fiery can be answered easily if we listen to them carefully and assess them dispassionately. In almost all the cases, we find them to be highly rhetorical, ideological, full of emotions (come on, we are humans!), expedient and zero-sum-game like. Of course, a few might be practical, encompassing, inclusive, full of team spirits etc, but they are rarity rather the norm.

Events of today are no different. Those who are occupying the highest places today went through the same ladder that they so vigorously denounce now. It’s the people sitting on the fence who have to understand that they were taken for a ride, are being taken for a ride and will be taken for a ride. Till then cherish this year's Oscar to our beloved Leo. 

Scion of Ikshvaku

While traversing through the corridors of mythology, one gets a feeling that this journey cannot be described as only about the ideal that millions revere; rather it is a deliberate assortment of the crux of different cultures and generations. The whole content is laced with contemporary socio-political issues. The milieu is not different from that being witnessed in this era:  social prejudices, falling status of women, misogyny, nonchalant attitude of common folks, law and order situation, rape. It appears as if by some machinations, the great lord has been made to time travel and given the charge of initiating change in the 21^st century.

In trying to sound not too preachy while staying relevant to the aspirations of current generation, some clichés do come up in the writing which could have been avoided. It’s not the best work of the writer, but this notion may simply be because the protagonist is entrenched so deep into the common psyche that any variation may attract considerable criticism. It’s really difficult to dislodge the long held beliefs about who he was and what he did; but an alternative view must always be considered and appreciated. Overall one can read it if one wishes but it never falls into that ‘must-read’ category every bibliophile so jealously ponders over for himself.

Post Script: The intimate moments are quite circumspect; one does not get to read beyond the usual flirtations of playing with fingers or hair. May be that’s how it was in those days or the writer simply did not want to offend that prude living deep down in our hearts.