Apathy

Gauguin - Tahitian Landscape


That day, long-winded hands

appeared to reach in by the window

and molest the lanterns.

Even the shadows on the wall

were visibly perturbed

(oh how they shook

from side to side).

I wandered to my window

and noticed in the distance -

rows of houses swaying in silence.

Another day

the trees were struck by tropical fever

and the leaves sedulously dropped.

Hand in hand

(like quintessential commies)

they circled and drifted into the sky.

A storm had gathered among us -

a swelling congregation of whispers

carried me as I lay prostrate

ever anchored to centre.

Then one day the storm quelled.

A searchlight scanned the riverside,

Debris had rolled into a doddering sand.

Vapour

There comes a time when elaborate sentences swirl around anti-clockwise and disappear into the drain. When that is gone don't expect to find a figure, a shape, solid, palpable. Just vapour.

Sinister

Something sinister about domestic placidity.
The lady scuttling from the crackling garlic
in the frying pan to the waves of bedsheets engaged in
brutal skirmish with the pillows on the queen sized bed.
The man wrestling with the browned pages
of a tenacious constrictor, from whose tattooed body,
words and numbers burst out at the seams.
In the afternoon, there will be yarns to knit
loose ends together into an intricate mesh of memories;
an activity that requires pervasive, compound eyes
to trace and erase any semblance of unusual avidity.
In the evening there will be attempts to transgress
the bounds of moral rotundity, usually through
crinkling mugs of toothless sardonicism or a puerile
fascination for all things forbidden. At night,
bitter compunction will find comfort in clean bedsheets.

Vulnerability

Joan Miró - Person Throwing a Stone at a Bird (1926)

Then there are people who know it all, and have lots to say. They build bridges of eloquence, for us to connect an island of isolation with another. They are people with benign smiles and large bulging foreheads, with tufts of hair wiping against their pendulous ears. Utterances from their mouths are not to be heard, but seen and admired, for they are as beautiful as ancient cave paintings or Miro's mysterious drawings.

Usually their sentences are interminable chains, intricate, cohesive - converging to a point in the horizon, known universally as 'the opinion'. But sometimes they pause midsentence and wonder ...

Duplicity

Oh what did I say that slipped away,
Slithering down the staircase,
Silhouetted among the shadows,
Nodding to the gathered guests,
And winking on its way out.
Was it something that caught my eye
Moments before, or a voice lumbering
Through the corridors,
Of a smudged ancestor from faded times.

Was it merely accidental, a slight
Miscalculation of the weather that leaves
You drenched in the soaking sun,
Or was it the soft fumbling,
In the closet, of a persistent spirit
Waiting for its turn.
Was it a contradiction of a
Planted opinion,
Widely watered and gardened,
Or a corner table,
Cornered by the center,
Yet left vaguely looming around.
Was it a falsification of something
Immutable, so elegantly honorable,
Columned and arched,
Or an echo of the reality,
An abject reminder,
That words are loopy and return
To the fraternity,
Over and over again.

Jheeri Jheeri Chaitali Baatashe - 1957

Jheeri Jheeri Chaitali Baatashe - 1957
Singer - Geeta Dutt, Composer/Lyricist - Sudhin Dasgupta
(and my silly translation)

jheeri jheeri chaitali baatashe,
neel neel aakashe, jhil-mil taara je,
chupi chupi kotha koy,
chaand haashe

In this bustling breeze of melancholia
twinkling stars in the blue blue sky,
whisper words in hushed tones
while the moon smiles

jani na keno haay,
mon je taare chaay,
taare bhalo beshe,
hridoyo bhorejaay

Sheki amare go bhalo bashe?

Oh I never know why,
my mind seeks him,
and in loving him,
the heart fills to the brim

Wonder if he even loves me?

e modhu raat aaj boye jaay
tumi kothay aar aami kothay?

The sweet night, it flows by,
Oh where are you and where am i?

tumi je kache nai,
gaanero shure tai
ami je tomar,
she kotha bole jai

jodi tumi aasho mor paashe

But you are not nigh,
So through the tune of my song,
I keep saying to you,
that I belong to you

That you may come hither to my side

Lady with the accordion

Smiling lady with the accordion,
Broad lines extend from
The corners of your eyes,
Surround your cheeks,
And then subside.
Your lips so wide,
Like a chasm divide,
The curious song,
From the chatty wives.

The cavalcade of people dressed
In their Sunday best,
Search their pockets,
For faith and find no reason
To skip the charade.
Their faces are stretched
In elation, their hooves
Depressed in unison,
Da dum di dum,
They march ahead.

Immortality

Gods need to be understood. It's easy to dismiss them for what they appear to be - cold, capricious, vain, insensitive. Consider Abraham and how he is led west and then east, blessed and cursed, in a rather whimsical manner. Consider Poseidon chasing Odysseus around the seas. Or Lord Shiva's inordinate wrath and vengeance. One might contend that this is a clear case of misuse of authority; a wanton and almost sadistic subjugation of the weak by the strong.

Have you considered how much time they have on their hands? It is an eternity that they have to pass. They have tried sleeping through it, and I am sure there might be some wise Gods who lie asleep, having realized inaction is just as useful or useless as action. May be we haven't heard of them as they have been sleeping all along. Or they stay awake and conscious. Now that's a struggle - to stay occupied for an eternity. A God may spend his time chatting with other Gods, or in some form of entertainment, but even that can get repetitious, considering eternity is a long time. That is probably why they created the universe in the first place. As the bible suggests God created the universe in 6 days, and on the 7th day he rested. But surely on the 8th day, he was left with a choice. Should he rest some more or do something else?

Consider the consequences of either. Sitting by and watching could mean people doing what they pleased and we all know that means people killing themselves. Lifting a finger and interfering, could also leave people in a rather helpless state. They would realize that God would act, they would grow to fear God. And then of course they would try to appease God, by offering prayer or sacrifice. That would result in notions of duty, religion and right or wrong. Which would result in law and order, and of course depending on the interpretation of God's judgment, it could mean man acting on his behalf and dealing with the non-conformists.

Having observed the consequences of action and inaction, any God could easily work out that there is no difference in either approach. Besides even if a man suffered for a while or for years or if he lived his days happily, whatever be his circumstance, he would eventually die. In the course of an eternity, what difference does it make to anything. As a God, his primary concern would be to stay occupied and interested during his waking hours. Why would you blame Him for being insensitive or uncaring? It is not His fault - it is the curse of immortality.

Blot

The sky drenched with ochre,
Careless drops of cyan,
Blot the body with
Unfamiliarity - a sensation foreign,
As yet unknown,
Of cold fingertips on my bare back.

Each drop feeding of its centre,
Breaching the definition,
The opacity of rationale,
As worms leafing through
A parchment,
Of unspoken authority.

A mythic mouth,
With bulbous lips,
Sucking the air,
And whispering,
As a wind through
A lake of reeds.

The firmament,
Is what you see,
In human waste,
Shells, debris
Of ambiguous shape,
Imprinted on the sand.

Left

There is a portrait of my father that I drew when I was 17. It was night time, and he was sitting in the drawing room of our old home. His feet would have been on a stool. His head inclined, looking down upon a business magazine. The TV was playing a news channel. He was absorbed in what he was reading. I had drawn him lost in his book. I had drawn him in charcoal. I was probably sitting on the floor and so the portrait is from a strange angle. He looked like he didn't want to be disturbed. Though I am sure after the drawing I would have shown it to him and he would have had an encouraging smile. When my father wasn't absorbed in work, he was a collector of beautiful things. Of sculptures, paintings, strange looking furniture, wall hangings and all sorts of things you would use to fill open spaces in a showcase, cupboard, or on the floor and the walls in our room. I had once painted some deer on his bedroom wall in Mumbai. Sometimes in the darkness, the headlights of a distant car would flash upon the deer, and they would run frightened. We left that place and he was sad we couldn't take the deer with us. He was very volatile, a strange chemical that would react differently and often unpredictably under different circumstance. Sometimes he'd be full of good humor and say something so witty that we'd be laughing uncontrollably. At other times he'd be exploding in a fit of anger and turning everything around him into vapor. He had inherited that temper from my grandfather and has duly left it behind for me.

My grandfather with his frizzled white hair might have been sitting shirtless, with his thick, foggy glasses scribbling his finances religiously on a piece of paper while listening to my grandmother who would have been pacing up and down the drawing room. My mom would have been at the kitchen. Victor would have been under the bed where he liked to rest, so that I won't bother him constantly. My grandfather was a meticulous man, who started a pauper but left my grandmother a house with betelnut trees that swayed agitatedly in monsoon, and my father his values and a strange sort of pugnacity to fight off the bureaucracy that seemed to follow him like a shadow. He left me an aspiration.

In my grandfather's bedroom is the portrait of a man I have never met, neither have my father and my grandfather. He is my great grandfather - my grandfather was a posthumous child. They say he died of cholera and that he loved music.