देख

क्या देख रहे हो?

अच्छा! फोटो खीचने आये हो?

फोटो सिर्फ मोडल और मुरदो के खिचो, पैसे मिलेंगे तुमको|

ये कुदरत तुम्हारी नहीं सुनेगी, और न तूम उसकी सुनोगे!

क्या तुम्हे लगता है की कुदरत तुम्हारी राह देखती हुई, बन-थन कर बैठी रहती है?

"कब मेरा फोतुग्रफार आएगा, और मेरे हरे भरे वादियों की फोटो खीच कर छापेगा"?

क्या देख रहे हो?

मोडल को दिल दे बैठे हो क्या? या सपनो में मुरदो के चेहरे नज़र आते है

या फिर कुदरत ने धोखा दिया?

अच्छा चलो मेरा फोटो खिचो ज़रा|

अरे क्या देख रहे हो?

लेख

अरे वाह! तुम भी लिख रहे हो क्या आज कल?

क्या बात है?

लगता है लिखने से सब कुछ मिल जायेगा?

गुस्सा हो?

लिख कर क्या क्या मिलेगा? क्या मिलता है लिखने के बाद?

लिखना और अपना नाम छापना: काला अक्षर भैंस बराबर भी होता है? भूल गये क्या?

अनपढ़ भी समझ लेगा तुम क्या कहना चाहते हो लिख के|

चौराहे पर लिखता हुआ आदमी नंगा है क्या?

मुझे पता है वो नंगा ही होगा. खुद नंगा होके दूसरो को भी नंगा करता है!

और अपने नंगेपन तो इन काले अथवा रंग बिरंगी अक्षरों से छुपाने की भी कोशिश करता है|

तुम भी लिखो और अपने आप को नंगा करो सबके सामने!

I might be a plant,
seeding the need to be born again.
I might be a meteor's fading tail,
following your cosmic trail.

Yes, you heard it right
how can we write poems
When words were so scare,
and ink-pastels so rare?

So we thought of songs
to calm the streets,
bearing your weight all day long,
and yes, you heard it right.

But I might just be a little plant,
hoping to become a tree,
or just a pebble burning,
above the city sky.

Hands

Newsflash: "On an average
seventy five percent of the daily eggs
survive the wrath of failing hands,
this means that
hands fail occasionally."

You can turn the soil with your own hands,
with a sublime resolve,
and wait for the rain,
wait for the avian visitors,
wait for the decay and rebirth,
"Insects may have laid eggs on the corn cobs."

My hands were quiet that day,
they did not write,
did not persuade,
witnessing the weeping clouds,
for they hang in shame,
Not a single word from the thunder,
Not a lightning strike,
I stood transfixed with my hurricane lamp.

The dramatist's hands failed to record
the sound of the failing thunder,
of the crackling of the burning leaves,
The records were filled with muffled cries,
The barking watchdog's warning:
"You've never heard the thunder sing."

And then it rained,
It rained because she could not sleep,
Her longing for rain corresponded
with her dried bathroom taps.
She may have conjured the clouds to weep again,
She might have been a poet
perhaps locked in a metaphor,
Silent as if
she whispered to the soundless walls,
Because the Walls were her witness in longing.

"You could have cried, you know,
at least, she should have cried,"
remarked a loudmouth on her expressionlessness,
still curious, it asks:
"How can that be?
How did she censure her loneliness?"
She basks at their new found attentiveness
for her, and then she masks:
"They were just field observations,"
she thought, "I just refused to acknowledge
the presence of bees."

Her eyes whispered again to the walls:
"That some eyes perform surgery,
bend the rules for a harddisk memory,
willing to record this self-knowledge,
attesting worth to self-probity,
It might have been a small memory stick
testimonials of the voyeur's fantasies,
watching a mute screen,
of images of constricting torsos
of demi-humans,
their faces obscured,
feminine chests in surviving the plastic bloom,
with a tagline; 'waiting to be devoured'.
The police, therefore, in their most poetic retort,
wrote: 'Nude bust, voyeur arrested'.

Just how limiting is this nudity,
when my hands remain empty,
and when my underarms become your
object of affection,
My souls was still stuck in a wire mesh,
Didn't you know?", she posed.

The walls betrayed, but
they whispered her secrets to the other walls
witnessing other secrets,
The walls blamed:
"The hands never failed to exchange
notes of sadness,
for a certain poem lives under a paperweight,
and others sieze a moment from thee."

(Graffiti of the parrot and the smiley is from CEPT University, Ahmedabad, India)

Rebirth

One day, I will be born in your courtyard,
to convince you,
that I am his creation.
A clay sculpture,
dead in its own right,
but breathing from the light in your eyes.
And then all the vapours from your garden
would conspire to bring the rains,
melting my mud heart
slithering through your vineyard.
A year later, you imagine me as an end,
sipping your wine.

Vitriol

I want to be a participant
in my actions,
an authority in the responsible faction,
My cartel was busted last night,
They declared it the zone of a cat fight.

I supposed to be this fumigant,
marker of your repugnant actions,
for me, mid term polls are more interesting,
than those gaping holes of fake ozone tents.
Because the tarmac suffers under my weight.

I was holding the Queen's baton,
They called it Grizzly Sabbath Revival,
When we raised a toast to the has-beens,
clouds fled her monsoon party,
They were found in a desert, naked and bruised.

I could deal with her polarities
but my verse did not permit,
so I am pouring acid on my thumb,
hoping the kink power shall rise on this day.
Than I flunk your litmus test.

Stay here

Stay here,
you fit the 20 inch screen
so well, my surveillance becomes pure,
it is good to find you
in a single column
in a morning obscured.
did you say you have a screen name?
I bartered my old one for a new game,
I have been told its unique.
Stay here.
Fame will arrive in 15 minutes.
don't go away, even though
some stars die in 15 minutes,
and we still call them stars,
we don't remember,
but we don't forget their names.
Stay here.
You will be archived, for sure.

The song for new cushions

Dissenting since 19XX

Since when?

19XX

But cushioned since then?

Comfortable jotting lines

In the papers, doodling shapes,

And lost trails over the torn maps.

Cushioned to believe,

In the craft of willing.

And this night arrived,

Draped in her sleeveless heart,

Draining the soul out this cushioned being,

Her guileless gaze

May have stalled the sunrise.

But it was for the sake his refrain,

So she sang:

“Like mystics unraveling social theory,

Diggers hiding their penury

Between their fingers stuck

In the mud of a facile earth

Willing to recast,

This cushioned frame,

With pebbles and flowers,

Baking it slowly on a low flame."

Sales Pitch

Our processed meaty selves,
sprawled on an interdisciplinary bedspread.
This machine obeys my binary grunts,
processing 'freedom' that never arrived.

The vigilant, that monitor, spotting our signals,
distinct of our distaste
for your contextual analysis,
followed by these loud beeps
of our profound sirens.

Our silences are now weakened by our predictions
for the static monosyllabic lives of the future,
our sales pitch, echoing across the tarmac,
of our in-flight correspondences,
relayed in their no-fly zones.

Pheromonic phastasmogoria of the cynic,
philosophically unhygenic, yet this catastrophy
of our controlled fissioned being,
helping the effects of revolution to kick in,
numbing his rebellious senses.

In my darkest drunk corner,
I search for my snail-like survival kit,
slithering in the viscosity
of our discharges, rumoured
as the marriage contract of our mucus.

Cosmogonical accounts now rides the mediumwave,
emanating from a sedated star,
its guiding light blinding our TV screens.
Seducing our sausage bodies in million couches,
sprawled in the wet blanket of times.

(Photo by Devavrat Rana)

Ata left with the Japanese

The newsroom was in a mess,

Images of a sludge eroding

The plains of Okinawa in urgency,

The rice bowl tilting slowly

As if this smiling Buddha,

Wanted to laugh some more.

One death, 200 killed

Was the last toll.

Wailing newsroom telephones,

Mothers buzz soft whimpers,

Scattered brothers with flags

White, silent scrolls,

I headed for Vishnu’s stall.

Ata! Did you meet the Japanese souls tonight?

How did they handle their apocalyptic deaths Ata?

And how did you predict your own last week?

Tiniali, where three roads merged

By your shoulder, heard your footfalls Ata.

You walked past the naamghar slowly, alone,

Crossing Muhammad Ali’s mansion,

As I write this pithy little verse.

The stories you told us Ata,

Of the cigarette ghost from Bangkok,

Was true indeed, and I am him.

You clocked 50 panamas,

I smoked 10 smalls today Ata!

But then you saw Ganges embracing the sea,

Now we shed our tears over Narmada.

I missed your funeral Ata!

And Scriptures forbid me to leave

Your dwelling before the 12^th night.

My newsroom spares six days of penance,

And I am 2000 miles away from

The Basil where you prayed for us,

Reciting verses from Vishnu Puran.

May your soul rest in peace Ata!

I will remember this day,

When you went along with the Japanese.

If then else

In five finite parts after two glasses of bhang:

Hesitate and then locate
if then else,
then else,
then else,
OH! Elsewhere there is a place.
A space,
Independence,
which also called interDEEPendence,
may be an interplay.

*******

How often do we remember
prose from our past lives?
Those narratives, forgotten to last forever?
Your mockery, and my words.
Now the sun sets in confused descriptions,
As if directions were erased.

*******

Did you travel from Amsterdam to my eyes last night?
I was dazed, locked in your embrace.

*******

My roles have models now,
I have sold a word for two paise only,
and this word grew,
then there was a forest of stories,
protected by fibreglass dome,
The Tomb of our sorrows.

*******

I am a junket sage,
a crafted image,
of our eyes
that never met.
I was still wondering “if then else”.
Amid blades of summer shades,
Carpe diem.

*******

in times

in times of sedition,
children feared for their heroes,
parents forgot bedtime stories,
narration lapsed,
foundations collapsed.
...in times of sedition,
they served Molotov cocktails
to the numb,
they poured kerosene
on their cotton shirts,
to remain silent.

Untitled

How do I impress upon a mouth,
that my tongue is a snake,
locking love for hours,
in an ethereal daze.

How do I whisper to a pair of lungs,
that we could breathe free
floating as if we were landlocked islands,
on our beds, for days.

How do I tell her hands, and her feet,
that our encounters were perpendicular
to the silences of pyramids,
as we limped across a desert, till eternity.

Bed Time Poetry

son burns the foil
for the son of the soil,
his seventh son could coil
around the story of a pearl:

"the forest bled on the night,
of chlorinating cement water reservoir
to liberate new land of fresh farmer folk,
with flaccid barsoap around their necks.

he cleaned dhobi ghats,
shaved their heads,
performed rites, pissed and drank,
died.

"But the sun burnt in rage!"
for the neo cosmic sage,
space age dweller,
slave of a thread.

inviting plasticine CSR big mouths,
fake awareness shouts,
tout of the future
wrath-trade.

when the warriors narrate,
they bled till death,
in their courtyards,
of dung mopped gates."

On being asked where i lived?

I live in between the semblances
of ancient coastlines and mountains,
between an ethereal crease that appears
on a hermit's meditative face.

I live under a motor car's lamp,
Pilfering grease for their piercing glances.
I live in a garage of ideas, and chat messages,
of a book known for its faces.

I live above the snowline in the mountains,
when hunting season is about to come an end.
I live with foxes, and porcupines,
under the stone huts, counting flakes for a widow.

I live in a barn, reading Animal Farm -- often charmed
by the bovine's indifference to a printed letter,
I live also amid the shadows, threatening them with a light beam
from my electric torch, sold while they were 'loadshedding'.

(Pic: Chakratirth, Diu, India with Sanjana)

Four phone calls = Four paragraphs

I need a source.
A mole or a deep throat,
someone high up there,
perhaps someone in government,
I need a source,
Then I would make four phone calls,
four phone calls = four paragraphs,
four different sides of same coin,
a story, perhaps.
I need a source,
not an inspiration,
I dont trust it,
It doesn't trust me,.
But we have promised,
that we will speak truth.
Connivance of comfort, if you think.

Nomad Song by The Stolen Cat

in three parts:

1.
You called her fallen,
with your swollen eyes,
... her stolen gaze
defied your lies.

the angel who fell
left a trail for you,
the angel who fell
left a song:

2.
But we were trapped in the lines,
in the numbers and words,
in your cardboard boxes,
that said "fragile",
we were shifting
sands from home to homes
to the domes of martyrs
to the shanty tombs
for a candlelight dinner
on a tabletop mountain,
but leaving the undistributed middle,
untouched and unpacked.
the joy of giving
wasn't the politics of trade,
but wait, we just traded your soul
for a domes and chime,
and the temple next door.

3.
Back to where it all began on the tabletop mountain:

"where's the mirth?" said the candle to fly
and the fly burnt with joy, and left
a trail of soot on the table for two.

time's up

filter forest,
pilfer wood,
cobalt warm,
molten gold,
"gabriel's eyes",
the salesman wails,
leftover rice
mark carbon trace.
torrid riddance
is a baked apple,
hold your fire,
the steeple's feeble.
river rhyme,
flooded pine
its time its time

feather glow

feather glow feather glow,
why are you such a lather blow?
your bubbles have caused pain,
those floating faces of disdain.

...Revel slow, isn't too early?
what do we know?
the cross and the plough?
love's a warm burrow.

Finding Devi

the ever expanding space,
was wearing a facade,
of rhizobium and nicotine,
...and that agro cement real estate thing,

charm of my town,
trapped in her body,
she wore not clothes,
but romantic history of her eyes,

sadly the dawn came,
wearing inter galactic glitter,
spattering the milky white yolk
de-flowering my pagan spirit.

they gave me a cross,
an extension of your swastika,
they gave me self doubt,
and a pile of books to trace her image.

there she was,
for a moment,
burning in the liturgy
of a lost portal.

Mada Dayo

Not yet,
there is still time for us to drown,
Not yet,
This heat is still bearable,
Not yet,
We are happy consoling each other.
Not yet,
We congratulate on her loss.
Not yet,
She's just jumping the gun (filled with bullets)
Not yet,
We might be called insecure,
Not yet,
We need more oil for blood,
Not yet,
When the train left on the ripe time.

a pop up

"pop" - when the primordial bliss got disturbed,
"pop"- when i almost ODied over this idea of big bang,
"pop" said the corn inside the microwave,
"pop" -- said a bubble on being launched to the surface from the bed of a distant marsh full of methane,
"pop" goes the seed mistakenly meshed between burning strands of the sweet leaf because this moron was desperate,
"pop" -- the sound of the last drop of water released from a sarkari water supply connection, "pop" -- on the junk tapes bearing the 'philips top ten' label,
"pop" -- is what a puff is called in assamese,
"pop", a consumer degradable grade for everything else that wasn't so popular,
"pop", said the husband to his wife on the morning after,
"pop", goes the cork when sparkly wants to set herself free for your thirsty throats,
"pop", is not about Karl Popper,
"POP" -- nightmare for the fish waiting for idols.

(Screen grab: Panicware)

The Tamarind Tree Replacement

They ran for Krautrock,
they ran for hymns,
with calibrated consciousness,
replacing this hazy wakefulness.

They purchased cars,
Origami cards, mud lamps
for their concrete hearts,
replacing the haunted Tamarind.

They looked at the East
By the West -- a hollow transformation?
If they wrote blank papers,
they drew blank drafts.

They made love,
in their imagined vineyard.
Shouting, as if believing,
once again.

Pagemaker's Panic Poetry

Moot now!
Else grind
No! churn,
Enough! just burn.

Throw?
A three letter word?
No! just trim,
we need a paper tiger.

Ponder?
just say KISS.
page heavy,
but sight dim.

Glottal stops?
Speech therapy
to face a mic, and
achieve accent distortion.

Paste it, no time
for word carpentary,
suffer slip tongue,
so just say KISS.

(pic: www.boyet.com/Articles/FixingEzdslForUnicode.html)

KISS: Keep It Short and Simple

God in exile

Nightwalker or Forest Spirit from Princess Mononoke


On a fine morning, my god was assaulted,
bruised and battered, he
surrendered his will to science,
they found his secrets,
told everyone about them.
My god stood naked and defeated,
no chirping of birds, no rainbows,
my land of mist slowly turned into a coal mine.

The defeated God was locked in a temple or
may be at a mosque, but mostly under the veil of reason,
his statues -- replicated, recast, resold,
his songs were now were written and recorded,
And his messengers bask in his glory,
while he was imprisoned in time,
by an urgent need of ours to exceed ourselves,
to defend us from ourselves, and to save us from us.

My injured god is exiled now,
when reason of man took over his throne,
the rulers praise my god, praise his creation,
and tell us how miserable we are in his glory of greatness
Our rulers did speak the truth,
for it was the cause of our devotion.
Some of knew while others fought,
as we were supposed to be mute spectators.

After eons, by a waterfall in the heart of an ancient mountain,
the exiled god perched on the last tree of the forest.
A forest spirit, as they called him,
lived amid the beings dressed in the light itself,
danced around him -- the glowing honeycomb of a million fireflies.

Tiller's song

spill the bean,
let the sprouts grow,
earth needs fire,
but fire needs fire alarms,
just like cows need bells,
and cats become mothers,
we go round and round,
and almost rotund,
till o of the val turns into an office,
and the hubris descends down

Avenger the scavenger

a life spent on avenging,
the mangled remains of our tribe,
meet me sans my mistaken laughter,
behind your favourite scrapyard.
A ruthless desert road, countless skulls,
robbers and lepers, the ills and wrongs,
consuming all for this appetising triumph,
the lonely scavenger has arrived.

I stay inside a box of rain,
Filled with charms and essences,
In the overlapping groves of memories,
As moments testify their presence.

No! These are not archives of my thoughts,
For they are breathing droplets,
Consistent like rhythms of my chaotic heart,
Alive and dead – but only for this moment.

If I were to pen down my thoughts,
Like the way it rains inside this box,
A flood would consume you, and me too.
Shall we just keep it quiet then?

You are welcome to my box of rain,
You could get your raincoat
But I sit naked, and I dare others to lie beside me,
To know the warmth of these globules.

hypothesis

if i am in two minds,
one has me in my mind,
the other is my mind,
settled in a subset,
of agonizing similarities

and you say instant coffee tastes like mud...

In instant fame we drown,
And between instant love and hate,
Riotous thoughts tear this being apart,
Into a friend, a foe, a lover and a god,
(I wish I knew the others)
But conflicts are now harbingers,
Of this new consciousness,
Of the instant being,
Apparently in disguise
Of a crooked fate,
Predicting storms,
While others believe and seek,
This instant association,
With gods and the good.

Terse in verse

Jacques Andre Boiffard, Big Toe series, Untitled, 1929

Pride of the cartel,
Was a lost cause,
He swerved to his right,
Fell for the gloss.

Blank noise from the sun,
Blackened her hopes.
She stuck to the pole,
Like silhouettes of gods.

The bride loved her mother,
But She fell onto their arms,
The wolf and his other,
Half brother, the lover.

The prisoner smelt freedom,
Died an instant death,
Poisoned air, they say,
Is free and easy, these days.

Feral

Your brilliance will never cease
This unease in the equilibrium,
Your potent countenance, fiery,
Oblivious of the veils of myth,
Yearning to cover your face.

The spirit disowned you,
The day universe exploded
Like a sun starved by its own force,
You fell from grace,
Into a loop called time.

You, now on the threshold of light,
Traverse through this twilight,
Like an urgent nomad,
An impulsive streak,
A forgotten truth, a persistent lie.

autobiographia

Listless, but he survived the odds,
Eager and wanting to believe,
The line that blurs the fate,
Of a child lost in a storm.

Aspire, she said, and she
Walked out of the room,
To become an elusive mean,
for an amnesiac inside a maze.

Lament, but he fought them,
With a half hearted smile,
In defence of the weak,
Between the lines of print.

Shy, he wrote in bold,
Of his own death,
He punished himself,
With a tear and a poem.

Untitled

Rustic bliss I seek you,
Soil smeared on my palms,
Shrouded by the rough-uncut,
Face of the earth.

Trees, undergrowth, the misfit in me,
We are all one today.
One of the same,
For you it’s a naming game.

Linguistic cannibal

A cannibal called language,
Feasts on my tongue,
As I hang upside down
From the tree of life.

This drudgery of speech,
Should it exist, it
Will send me to the last dungeon
Of unfathomable feelings.

Now I am a thoughtless traveller
Lost in the last fold of knowledge,
And beyond it lays the bliss of death.

But If I eat your words before I die,
You can still smile at me.

For the Grapevine's trail

I am not a poet,
There are no verses,
No rhyme or reason,
For me to exist.

I do not have a heart,
To write and wail
all the good words,
For the grapevine’s trail.

Dragonfly

Her billion eyes burnt in rage,
She had died many deaths before,
When violence of her wingspan brewed a storm.

Somewhere in distant time, we were swimming in the air,
Kissing the floating anthers and sleepy fireflies,
As if they were fairies from our past.
Our union caused amazement,
Followed by shouts and murmurs,
Another poet died of his prophetic lust.

Freedom of spring followed,
While she was locked up in winter’s prison,
She raced down a stairway,
Her wings buried beneath her coat,
Made of her velvet dreams.
An open window had cast its spell,
She surrendered her wings,
To all the blue of my sky.

Heart of the matter

They shouted and screamed,
Arrested Causality from her bedroom,
Locked her behind the bars of reason,
Charged her for deviance and treason.

They poured boiling blood on her that night,
demanding the confession;
about the double murder of Space and Time.
But how would causality know?

She is a tool of Knowledge,
and Knowledge is absconding,
Driving a nail inside Causality’s fingers,
They asked: “What’s your modus operandi?”

The judge pronounced her as guilty,
No eyewitnesses, except Guilt himself,
Dressed in black and white, this time
In front of the blind Law.

“What a joke!” cried the beggar,
Displaying his wounds for alms.
Space and Time were alive.
While Causality was lost in pages of Crime.

Sculpture by Melodee Loyer

Falling in Love

So you came and conquered,
You saw what you wanted to see,
Invading me, keeping me awake,
Like how mothers stay up.

You named me the overbearing child,
Trusted me but for your plight.
Now that you are leaving with a smile,
Should I close my door?

Burdened, I am with your pithy little messages,
Shall I keep them close to me?
I won’t bury them in my backyard,
What will I do with my demons then?

So love is a sign,
For a fortune teller,
For a fool, it’s wine.
I am such a fool.

Warning

This house is jinxed,
Don't come around here no more.

The Swell

A river runs through me,
She caresses me, and takes me in her arms,
She keeps me afloat, awake, cleansing me like a mother,
Caring yet oblivious to my presence,

The days when dark clouds surround her,
She twists and turns,
And finally she smiles as she swells,
Breaking a million hearts.

My misery, my love

A piecemeal solution to my misery,
Will burn my skin,
I rush to make amends,
She gathers but scatters like the sparrows,

Helpless yet odious,
I rue over her loss.
These distances are witnesses,
To my misery, to my love.

Ancient reminders

My new shoe served to the dog on a platter.
Mirrors the clouds hanging above the sea.
(As it poured) Your storm water drainage its lost relevance,
He fled with his borrowed pedigree.

O tiller! the lord of margins,
Why don’t you harvest quick? They are all ripe!
And you must die tonight,

O Flatterer of the earth,
O son of the soil,
Leave the green fields,
And the poppies will be yours.

Let the song of the dawn
Echo across the mountain peaks.
The peace of the valley
May rise like the warm breeze.

There were just ancient reminders,
And pounding of the grandfather clock.

Post-oblivion

Stranded in the island of nothingness,
There is no unity of thought,
Just a random blob,
As if my existence is a fraught.

There were ample hands but not one finger raised,
Passions rise, but in a trivial haste.
“Let the light decide your fate!”
said God, waking up again.

“I now rise above oblivion”, said the mendicant friar,
“How much can one bear to bear?” said he,
The friar fought his own,
Your sins, he said, are mine.

Organise

(Courtesy: Barbelith Underground, The Adventures of the Little People)

Let’s organise ourselves,
Slash and burn,
Tease and turn,
No one can cause us harm.

Let’s organise ourselves,
Attack the stranger,
The lonely lion,
And march in one single file.

Let’s organise ourselves,
Be it my craft or your God,
Commonness shall dictate,
We won’t live and let you die.

Let’s organise ourselves,
No two thoughts for one,
That I have died eons ago,
So now we live and fight.

a poem written in the first hospital stay

i die a thousand deaths,
pierced by million needles,
i bleed death.

shivers in the nighttime,
showers of sweat in the day,
sickness sounds like summer days,

teeming with life and longing.

i shall survive,

to bleed more and cry,
become even weaker.

facing pain,
twisting my nerves, numbness sets it,
bringing freedom from existence.

666

a friend of mine tagged me for this little game:

The rules:
1. pick the 6th picture from your 6th photos folder
2. tell the story around it.
3. pass it on to 6 people

it is indeed a weird coincidence that the sixth picture of my sixth photos folder happens to be, ladies ... hold your breaths ... Lord Ganesha.
this is september 2007, ganesh chaturthi. people in Baroda going mad over the designs of Ganesha. this one's designed like how Odissi craftsmen portray Jagannath. I was a little apprenhensive about taking pictures about these idols. Infact, I am scared of idols as I am an agnostic. Such a blatant assertion of reverence towards a mythical being sometimes make me a little worried about the representations of anti-christ in the Bible. If i dissolve the religiousity of these idols and take them as mere works of art, then i am slightly comfortable. the sixth folder is full of ganesha's pix in my computer, some collected and some i captured while visiting various mandaps in Vadodara. i was disturbed because a week before i got this pictures mobs clashed in the city in the name of this god so that they get their share of 'blessings' . one person was killed in police firing -- all in the name of this idol.

People:
apurva
ridhi
priyanka
barun
tiki
ankita

Non-State Actor

You owned me for all these years,
Counted me all this while,
Trashed me when I chose to speak.

You addressed my parents, my hopes
Helped me cry, while I born.
Tossed me up in the sky, when I held my hand high.

“Count me in”, I said,
But I was being mocked,
Conspiring with the shadows, you called me the non-state actor.

There is more blood than all the reds,
While she hides me like that protective hen,
I was being called that hideous egg.

“Own up!” I begged,
“Shoot him”, the state growled.

Answers

The end of Khudiram Bose.

Hurl a couple of grenades,
Try me in your courts,
Would you find an answer?

Join me in my forces,
Toss me up on a steel coffin,
Would you like an answer?

Flog me out of my skin,
Pay my kin as they see me die,
Would you buy my answer?

Expose me with my defences,
Label me as your rotten apple,
Are you really looking for an answer?

Now graveyards are my safe haven,
You have ransacked my trees and my cave,

For this calamity, there were never answers.

Illustration courtesy: marriedtothesea

“I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills till the landslide brought me down” – from “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac

All jokes apart, two of my best friends have been given pink slips by their employers. Initially, we were all very happy with this idea of getting pink slips. It meant that our living standards in certain ways were similar to Americans, therefore it would not be wrong to assert that India has progressed. By the evening, after they had downed a couple of drinks they bought from their savings, they were depressed. They were missing the female colleagues. The idea of a pink slip is so unbearable, so huge in proportion, so terribly capitalist, that a guy whose father was one of first businessman in Assam to have started working on the public sector power projects in Bhutan turned his father into a staunch leftist. Now my friend wants to join the naxals. Peace, be with him.

Therefore to cheer him up on a bright November morning, I decided to mail them these ideas, with which they can pick up a spray paint and makes these announcements to the public. The email:

Dear Amit and Dhrubo,

For three years you have assessed the quality of this establishment and its people. I feel sorry for the company. Let’s see what can be done. I have prepared a list of these announcements that might create more confusion in the market:


Seen as a Google chat status message: Availbabble

The Hunters Caterers sponsored Flintstones’ party.

Stoned Macintosh is an Ipothead.

Jim Morrison and William Shakespeare’s apparent heir would be the Bard of Prey.

Al-Qaeda member who hijacked this French jet told me that he name is Mirajjudin.

Board in front of National Labour Union Office: Beware of Cogs

And you won’t believe this: Murdoch owns Time Warnings.

See, you feel so connected with the global events now my friend. Now before you nurse the hate against the system and all that jazz, you must believe in guerilla tactics that would be deemed peaceful (even by Gandhi). I hope the hate doesn’t subside but takes new forms. Don’t blast the bombs, for your company might just earn a big profit from it. I am sorry that I not with you all in these hard times.

Love and loads of luck
Pompom

Update

Lets take a peek into my world:

For a change, I get up early in the morning. There’s a lot of chaos, as I often do not find the right clothes. Friends, office folks and even our photographer have artfully described my clothing as hoboistic. Apurva donated his washing machine, but my clothes are so dirty that a permanent layer of muck has settled in the drainage trough. It is lying unused for the last one month. I tried drycleaning my clothes. A friend described it as elitist. I tried the dhobi – he damaged an expensive shirt that I stole from my brother. So getting up early in the morning helps me to sort out the chaos. I saw in some Russian movie about this art of wearing dirty clothes using a ‘recycle method’. I usually employ it in the morning.
I need a woman in life. But then, it is so hard to be with them all the time man! I mean I won’t be me. So what is the point? People have also asked if I was gay. It seems sexuality in times of consumerism ends up like stock options. The idea behind this point was to illustrate that I can’t do it with a guy, man or male specimen. At the same time, I don’t enjoy the company of women anymore. They are utterly boring, bitchy, self-piteous and other such things. Also they are better organisers, have better memory and can drink more alcohol than you can. So go die looser!
I have been listening to a lot of good stuff since I have come to Baroda. The only reason is and I hope you can try this at home: Let others play their music. I discovered 80s reggae yet again. I thought there were just Inner Circle and couple of Bob Marley followers, who ruled the 80s Reggae. But then Ujjwal introduced me to Eek A Mouse and even, Boney M’s private jamming sessions. They have redefined da reggae. Then, this whole trip about New Subcontinental Alternative (I have just created a new music genre), comprising of Mekaal Hassan Band, Sushila Raman, Mohit Chauhan have just changed my outlook about fusion. All this while, I thought its just Mrugya and Indian Ocean (thanks to Harmony organisers in college, who decided if its fusion its gotta be Indian ocean). Then off course, Barodian rock and all that jazz about Banana Planters, Bunny and the Boundless Spirit and Dev, Siby and Priyanka. Also, it was Kaustubh who introduced me to the Bauls from Bengal. Then, at office, everyone’s suddenly started talking about Sidis from Bharuch. It doesn’t stop here. Yohan and Perakath’s blog is always there when I have nothing to do. Now to top it all, there’s Jethro Tull performing with Anoushka Shankar in five cities.
For food, I am yet to start cooking. But then I have been eating a lot of non-Gujju and Gujju food. I like the way I am asked which Dal would I prefer? Meethi or Teekhi? I like the masala-pappad here. But I don’t like Dhoklas, Theplas and all the Las, except when “La” is used in typical Barodian lingo among friends. I was amazed by the immense popularity of sizzlers in Gujarat (basically Surat, Ahmedabad and Baroda). All the good restaurants make sumptous sizzlers. Sushi is yet to reach Gujarat (my advice is cut down on those Pure ghee laced with Hindutva calories and try the new Gujju chefs). Jayesh Jani, who spent years in Goa, Chad, Nigeria, Switzerland and now Baroda, has a small café called JJ’s. His lamb shaslik makes mu crazy. An exhaustive menu coupled with mocktails is just what I need at the end of the day. I may even quit my job to learn making food soon. Then, there’s Upper Crust in Ahmedabad and San’s Sizzlers in Baroda. The caramel custard pie is jussst too yummy at Upper Crust. I love the fact that I am in the milk booth of the nation. I thought Delhi’s curds were the best. But here, the curd and the sour cream are made of heavenly milk. For chai, I prefer Maasi ki Laari in Vadodara because chai is anyway freely available in the office. I odied on it several times, but I prefer Maasi for the people I meet there.
Travel: When this reporter from DNA asked me, why are you in Baroda, with full ‘angle’ I told him: “You know! I am a tourist here. Kucch din kam karne ka phir kat lene ka.” He was impressed and he treated me to some booze, like you do when you meet a tired traveller. It is a completely different case, that he went off to Ahmedabad and I continued staying pretending to be a tourist. To make it all real, I act touristy too. Every time I see a tree or a crocodile in middle of nowhere in Gujarat, I saw “wow”.
Reporting: I am tired writing news. Because most of what I have been writing has been written several thousand times. The only progress I have made on this front is to report in more colourful ways. Believe me, I was being sent to write about a pup stuck inside an electric pole. Why? Because it was a spot story. When I reached the site, some bemused people standing at a distance in the slums were looking at the fire officials trying to severe the electric pole into three parts. I had to ask them, was the pup mewling or was it screaming? “No, mewling.” Do you know the pup? “No, it’s a stray”. And then I thought I would ask this question: “Are you happy that the pup is getting so much attention?” But I stopped myself.
Am I philosophically active? No I am dead. Philosophical activism is something that belongs to the radical groups. I am not a radical. Not even a non-conformist. Now I just trip on the language games that people play. Laugh at it and try my best to not to pay any attention to thousands of ideas that come into my head. It is not required to make money, to get laid, or to just exist. My transition is complete now. I don’t want to question texts or priests or intellectuals. More I question about ideology, I would provoke more people to react. The question that whether we should react doesn’t hold anything for me. Let’s say I don’t want to react to Raj Thackeray’s comments, or to Modi.

The picture above is from Sarnath Banerjee’s first draft of Corridor, which he had submitted to Sarai. Why have I included this picture on my post? I am not a big fan of his works but I can relate to his characters.

Downfall

Scene from cult Japanese anime movie, Akira (1988)

I had a choice,
Not an option but a stand,
To beg for mercy,
For food and toys.

I chose a path,
To dissent,
To dwell,
On the corpse called Change.

I brought down the heavens,
To free this earth.
Here comes my downfall,
My end.

But your silver feathers never melted,
Your wings eclipsed the sun,
They deemed you as evil,
Shot you with my gun.

They prayed me for my vengeance,
Them priests of the stone,
I was framed for being just,
By millions holding placards.

I want my downfall,
I want to resign,
Desecration, I seek thee,
To hell with all things divine.

The Mumbai ATS files, Icarus, Japanese anime, critical comments from a dear friend who usually confuses me a lot by either calling me an escapist or blaming me that that I am intrusive, then some folk lore may be behind this piece (I miss Han though). Really pleased now after writing it, unlike the doomed experiment with “Love Prone”, which I thought would invoke the Ghrina Rasa – one of the poetic moods that is supposed to invoke hate. But my friend explains that the verses were so disconnected that it is impossible to comment on them, therefore the “hate” :)

Revisiting Zabrieski Point

A scene from Michealangelo Antonio's Zabrieski Point (1970)

If there’s a dream, there’s a way.
If there’s shame, then I must be joking.
Naked under the sun, we bask in its glory,
Wishing for someone to tie us to the ground,
To feel overwhelmingly small.

If words and lives were the same,
Shining placards would still make sense.
Like when you confess, I understand.
You kill, I detest.

Safe in my bubble,
I sacrifice a tear,
For those who left for the distant shore.
Now I am stranded in my universe,
Feeling infinitesimally small.

I could just do away with this one movie. There was no need for me to think of it. But I was helpless and hellbent at the same time. It was not the "trippy" Pink Floyd soundtrack, or the student protests in an American college, not even the imaginary orgy of selves in the lazy succession of Antonioni's frames, nor the protagonist's last ride on the airplane that was painted to vilify the institution or her wish to destroy, nullify objectivity (see the pic), Zabrieski Point is a dream sequence that keeps playing in my head. Waking me up every night.I hope I see no more of it, now that I have finished this ritual of penning down my thoughts.

Love prone

My bones my bones,
Will make your little throne,
Rome’s full of stones
But she never felt ‘lone.

I would be your dial tone,
If you kiss me on the phone,
But if you throw me out,
I’d be gone.

Smoke blown,
Seeds sown,

But you never moaned

Silence of the Gods

I welcome the wrath of gods,
No more celebration of their silence,
I welcome the death and destruction,
For once, let Him speak.

You falsified Armageddon,
We never fought for truth,
A stolen glimpse and a chunk of brick,
Is all I need to save my God?

My silent God never spoke,
But I kept waking my neighbours.
My fire, my wind, my stone, my tears,
Are now my fears?

Between demons and angels,
Lies the insecure man.
Unsure of the silent God,
He burns his own hands.

I need a head check

Here's what i think of bomb blasts and how it will shape our future. the idea of a bomb blast has been imposed on me since i was a kid. I wouldn't let the reporter's objectivity come into this perspective. pure, biased subjective views on bomb blasts:

1. stay home. dont step out. forget about escape routes. there are none. you be home, stay safe...eat home-delivered food. a private security guard from a giant supermarket would come where you have invested tonnes of money will deliver your lunch. the private security guard also has a camera his eyes, not just to make sure that the 'right' transaction is taking but also to make sure if you are not assembling any explosive. (if you are a pyromaniac, get a license to burn yourself when you feel like)

2. for that bonus feeling of security, dont keep a gun. tell the state that you have been a tax payer, so you need security, you want all the unwanted, wretched people to be removed from your vicinity. there should be a garden of eden right before your eyes (even if it is virtual)

3. religion should be banished. all the temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras, references of god. of spirituality, of devotion, of adoration, of simplemindedness should be bombed. or better still let religious leaders openly declare that they have invested in the shares, and then dont buy their shares. economics decides religiousity.

4. call your neighbours and find that strange looking man/woman hovering near your house. he has no rights to be there. call the bomb detection squad. make sure you remove the word "detection" from this squad. they are meant to legitimise your rumour. not detect any goddamn bomb.

5. when the bomb squad comes with the sniffer dog, check the pedigree. blame the cops for not maintaining the dog. feed the dog and dont forget to collect the dog's sperm for your future pet. your ideas about cloning needs to be checked. (plus it will be your own homegrown weekend experiment)

6. if the bomb squad is not friendly. you have media. call the local channel reporter. dont believe what he/she says, check their cameras (oh! how come you are not using a tape :))

7. shout when the prime minister or any favourite leader comes and addresses your nation on TV. your shrieking would wake up the other neighbours. please assume that they will also do the same thing.

8. stay away from young people. they doubt and you doubt too. when two different sets of people doubt, there is more ignorance. ignorance leads to bombings.

9. hurl abuses at local website asking your views on terror. tell them how you love to hate. sing a couple of Rammstein songs.

11. believe in death. this is how it operates: five deaths on a road will get you a speedbreaker. 20 - a divider, the road becomes wider too. 30 -- a manned traffic signal. 40 -- automatic traffic signal. 50 -- CCTV cameras in the traffic signal. 60 -- a flyover. 100 -- amusement or a traffic park or a memorial for the dead which turns into a swank dating spot for lovebirds ( the road did not follow the contour map of the city. this place doesnt need a road, it needs peace may be in form of an amusement..thank you)

10. dont call yourself a fascist. you are not a fascist. you dont want any more bombs. because you know bombs are these interesting devices to make a propaganda come true. they can be planted anywhere..anyone can make a bomb and do it for you. you just need that post-modern courage. (laughter ...painful shrieks)

I flunked idealism

I just flunked idealism,
I did not finish reading,
I refused to go by book,
Could not cook up an excuse.

I failed to theorise my thoughts,
Lost in jargon,
And misplaced metaphors.

My tastes are crass,
Though I could not acquire too much.
Always tangled between
Love and living.

My compadres deserted me,
Called me insolent and numb.
Oh! My trivial existence, Clichéd and real.

Threads

Threads

Threads, they were, from a distance. When I got close to the gates, they turned out to be ropes connecting two poles.

He was right there standing on the threshold of his imagination. What does one do when you on threshold. He felt like a bureaucrat/politician/celebrity/social activist dying to cut the ribbons. But hell no! They are merely ropes … red ropes.

I crossed the threshold, untangled the ropes bound to the poles that resembled a noose, now tightened to form a knot. When I first saw the gate, from a far, I was convinced that they were a bunch of red threads, which probably formed the red rope.

You told me that ropes are made of threads, and threads are made of smaller strands – and strands are made of fibres. I do remember we simply spoke about our lives. Disintegrating every aspect, dismantling our thoughts to reach a simple truth – unbiased, uncoloured like plain white tees.

But you said you need colours. You needed those threads to weave my dreams. Didn’t you?

So I returned with those ropes, red ropes. Red ropes to weave our dreams. Red ropes for his red robes, or for someone’s shirt or my old shorts. But these were mere threads that bind them all.

When I went to get the ropes, they were shouting at me, so I entered the big edifice. I confronted with its corporeal self. The descending hubris cascading from the heavenly lit chambers of the guardians of justice, truth and all other such big things.

I went to ask: Should I bow down before you – the assembly of wise men or on second thoughts, the parliament of owls. I have no intention of bombing this edifice. Please do not see me as a threat. I just wanted the red ropes to make red thread so that my wife could weave her dreams and mine.

Upon asking, you may make a stone talk to you – or assume that it would communicate its silence by not responding. But O Denizens of this great edifice, in this confrontation you almost revealed your real self, in an instant. You told me to go and that I do not have any place in this garden of truths. But rules, that you make and clothes, she weaves still are true to me.

*******
You broke the first rule: you blinked at me recognising my presence. The stone would not have broken the first rule, it would remain inexpressible, silent and not recognising anyone’s presence.

The stone is an ancient reminder of silence that surrounds you. The quiet, heavy and unresponsive stone, but performing the functions of a witness. Nobody venerates it, unless someone decides to adorn it with metaphors. Metaphors for the stone’s material cause. Perhaps, that’s why I never thought of going to any stone for solace – adorned or unadorned. I was just looking for threads, so that she can weave.

She told me last night that with the red threads made from the rope that I brought for her, she would adorn the stones. To my surprise, she also told me that she was weaving a red ribbon, so that the keepers of the truth-garden could inaugurate their latest chambers of secrets. Then she said, Oh! I forgot to keep a secret. I told you the truth. The red ribbon is mine.

She weaved the ribbon. She had her set skills. Her eyes were so fierce that could tear apart that ribbon to shreds – but she was working so that could weave my dreams. Her ribbon had an extra-embossed lining running across the sheer length of it. Let them know that it is not so easy to cut the ribbon, she said. She was happy.

Isn’t it strange that with rest of the red rope, she would weave our dreams and a little hand towel for my mother and me?

Drift

Keep drifting,
Severe all bonds,
For Permanence is a myth.

Keep drifting,
You’ll be safe,
It’s not a race.

Keep drifting,
You’ll never lose sight,
And They won’t see you.

Keep drifting,
For there’s redemption,

After these pangs of separation.

And the heroes don't come easy

"Hey! I made it to Manekshaw house," I screamed as if it was as important as being in Gryfinddor at Hogwarts. Though, I did not feel like Harry Potter. Instead, we, at Manekshaw house in Army School, Guwahati, situated in, perhaps, the greenest cantonment in India -- Narangi, swelled with pride, as the new academic session began. I repeated in my head: "Sam Manekshaw – the last man standing".

In the northeastern corner of Arunachal Pradesh, the only hero we knew was Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw and how he stood for Bangladesh – how he defended Assam and other north-eastern states. Then in the evening, wielding our Leo guns – sometimes even broken twigs from the trees to enact imagined war sequences from the Bangladesh. So that everyone gets to be Manekshaw, we would take turns.

If that were not enough, in our childish adaptation of a war, we would often mix up Manekshaw and Colonel Boogey from Bridge on the River Kwai. In a manner, perhaps more innocent than crafty, we would also imagine Manekshaw coming all the way to the mountains of Arunachal Pradesh and take the sweet revenge of 1962.

With the pantheon of gods, goddesses, actors, rockstars, leaders, laureates marching across the sands of time, Sam Manekshaw remained like a constant – inspiring and waking me up. When my parents moved to Guwahati, a bigger urban whole, I would often think of Manekshaw. But in Guwahati, other kids wouldn't know about it, so it was just me and my cousin reading Commando graphic novels during our summer holidays and our plans doing something similar with Manekshaw in the centre. This project never materialized.

Amid the mundane enquiries of Geography and complicated calculus of school education, we would just relive the moment of Manekshaw's glory. Somehow, joining the army seemed to me like the best profession in the world. Somehow this idea of being a soldier who never quits till he is dead, appealed to me. It was not an overrated jingoistic assertion that I want to fight for a particular construct called India, but a way to connect with the larger whole called India with my own beliefs.

I changed schools, and joined an institution run by Indian Army. There was Manekshaw House to start with. There were students who knew about Manekshaw. For most of them, he was the star attraction of the Indian Army but for me he was an unsung hero. I took this opportunity to rediscover him amid the school competitions. It was not conscious decision but there was always something in my mind: that I belonged to Manekshaw house.

It has been eight years now. Someone whispered to me that pen is mightier than the sword and then, another one, the meek shall rule. I am in Vadodara, 400-odd kilometers from Manekshaw's hometown. "Sam Manekshaw? Army General right?" said a friend looking at the news headline. It did not surprise me.

In transit?

My house is a reminder,
Of broken wings,
Of God and Evil,
Of promises and feats.

My house is a reminder,
Of my dreams,
Of magnitudes and rules,
Of that irresistible universe.

Now I wait, in transit,
My young friends hide in shame.
My leaky roof bears these fruits of doom.



(At least 5000 people remain internally displaced in the state of Gujarat, India after Godhra Riots 2002. The state government is yet to recognise these colonies. The administrative hubris usually descend to hunt for terrorists. In Picture: Nazneen Bano, a resident of K.G. Park riot resettlement colony shows her ‘ticket’ – the residence proof. Your friendly neighbourhood bank give her any loan, because of this ‘ticket’. In India, people with tickets may not get a seat in the bus. Photo By: Bhupendra Rana)

Seeking Sati

("Suttee", James Atkinson, 1831)

MY anime and your grime
No! I want to date Time
Divine, as it may sound,
but I’m left with
Shards of my wind chime.

My brine and your Ganges,
But, putrid notions never rhyme,
Silhouettes are just shadows,
Most of me is blind.

In Fine Print

Ink from Ankleshwar,
Newsprint from Nepanagar,
Editors from 'Subversia',
Freedom cries the media,

Wardrobe malfunction,
disoriented demolitions,
Sops for all,
Nano for nothing at all?

Holy underbelly,
Jello bellydancing in telly,
escaping Australian quagmires,
"Mother Superior, pump up the jam"
Goa's Troubled hippy,
drowned in ecstasy,
Are you into People's Democracy?

But there's Saffron in red tape,
with encounters of the fourth kind,
"Drink, my baby, drink,
drink the blood from the Canal,"

Crop Circles

I lay awoke in the heart of my sowing
Counting the nights, saving the dots and dashes,
I lay awoke, like the owl
Witnessing the murmurs in the undergrowth.

Nocturnal, they call me, they,
Who sold their fields for gold,
Refused I, for no crop circles,
No math, no ink for this little pledge,
Would make me sleep, as He opens the door.

Been here before?

Meeting your old pals from school is a feeling that we all look forward to. Strange, but from the first glance itself your friends try and notice the changes in your personality. Some of these changes are commended and some bluntly criticised. You start rolling a joint and here comes out the skeletons from their closets, as if the person just sneezed.

“Hey, even you…eh?” one of my mates says, with that I-just-caught-you-in-the act expression on his face. “Well, that’s the best I could ever afford. You know, they call it the poor man’s drug.” I say, still trying to be on my guard but failing every second as pretentiousness starts subsiding.

“Why do you use so much paper man?” asks another. I think he was trying to showcase his hidden talent but wait, here comes the revelation. “Man, I used to smoke through the papaya stem in school.” What? Papaya stem? People smoke weed thorough papaya stems. But he didn’t stop here. “You reckon the time when I used to steal this poor dame’s lunch box, I used to be really hungry ‘cause I was stoned,” he says and now he’s got that I-am-such-big-stud look.

“Yeah, I remember you running with her tampons while you were searching for her lunch box, you moron.” Laughter, almost infectious, rocks my little room while this other friend cracked up. “So, you were stoned all through out, even when you took out the packet of tampons?” the same guy asks my was-a-dopehead friend.

“‘Course I was. But I really didn’t understand the fuss about it. All the women thought, I was a pervert but I never had a girlfriend who could educate me about all these things.” He said looking at me, and I could sense some kind of spite, as if we were the guys who dated all the women in school.

He lit up the joint. He obviously didn’t know that it was hashish that came all the way from Manali. He thought it to be the good old ganja we smoked since school. This was probably his first time. He took a drag.

“Shit, what the heck is this? This is not ganja that I smoke,” he says. “Yeah, this is not your papaya-flavoured thing. This is hashish,” I say.

“Fuck…fuck, you guys are making me do drugs. I want to puke now. You guys are still evil.” He kept on cursing and swore that he would not come to see us on a dry day when booze is scarce. But like old school pals and for old times’ sake, he helped us finish the joint.

So here it was, my sweet revenge. My war against those of you, who just carry a pretentious been-there-done-that type of an expressionless face, has just started. I am sure you haven’t been and haven’t done that.

Just another diwali musing

You are too old for these firecrackers. You could have written a story about the purple goblins and their filthy habits. You could have waited for these goblins to attack you from the Northern Ridge but you wanted to burst firecrackers. Now you wait for your companions to tell you that your imaginary friends are just as mischievous as you.

But haven’t you played this game before? Say when your favourite team wins the match, you open a case of beer and after getting little tipsy, you start looking for firecrackers. Same goes with the national victories. Wars and marriages too. For all that you know, you love that burgeoning pyromaniac to come out of your head in its true avatar. There is something primeval in you that force you to burst firecrackers. If there are no firecrackers, or say you a warlord, then you start shooting in the air. It is form of expression that lacks all aesthetic clarity and cannot be predicted.

Firecrackers are a big industry now. Newspapers tell you that there exists a competitive market with Chinese crackers making its presence felt in the narrow lanes of Punjabi Bagh or Lajpat Nagar in Delhi. Some of the firecrackers look pretty, some without the noise and some don’t burst firecrackers at all. The credit for the evolution of this new species of human beings goes to the forests and the greenery (more primeval than man but under threat).

This new species of human beings who do not burst firecrackers have a heightened sense of civility. They know that the burgeoning pyromaniac comes from that stage of human evolution when all the folk and the kin wielded weapons at each other and participated in mass loots. Those were different times.