A thought: II

Self indulgence is the secret of poetry. Pain and pleasure, mostly pain scratched on papyrus for others to read. The others will read your words, probably admire them, congratulate you, and leave a note of appreciation for you have successfully publicized that common gash. Poetry tries to beautify the pus. I am culprit to such foolishness. Why should I consider pain any different from pleasure? Why should I understand pleasure to be good? Should there be pain or pleasure for that matter? At the fair I shot a pellet and burst a balloon. It was my pleasure. When a similar projectile hits me, I give a name, "pain" and try to kill it by suffocating it in my poetry. I am a coward to do so. Face it. Do not hide it. Live it. Do not kill it. And if you survive...then write a verse in honor of the experience. Following this logic, poetry is a parable (in verse) narrating an experience, your experience. Poetry ought to be humanized then. Give it a life, and let it live inside you, as you. It will grow flagella, and eventually acquire perception and understand morals. If it does, you will benefit...becoming more moral. Only then will poetry be honest and useful. Cherish what you have. Do not waste it. Preserve it. You might lose it any day. Do not mourn when it is lost. It was meant to disappear. Before it is gone make poetry a brother. Give it respect. Question it when it sways from course. Learn from its answers. And share bread. You are sons of the same mother- nature that is.

A thought: I

Man is passing. So are his deeds. We fight for a legacy. But those who might remember us will eventually become null. Legacy is lost. Should remembrance be our purpose? Or should men strive to live as men, work as men, live, and then die, knowing that they have achieved completion at the ultimatum? What should our philosophy be? Not comfort. For comfort is not more than self indulgent fashion, and fashion is petty. Not beautification as the rose has to wilt one day. And not many of us can compare to the candor of a flower. I do not know what the purpose of my existence is. I will not pretend to harbor such knowledge. Although intuition tells me, life is not for a greater purpose but for living with honesty and belief in what is greater than us, creator...and let our actions be the fruit of our years. A woman gives birth. She raises the child- raising the child is her reward. She is content. So should I with my life at this moment. If satisfaction is not harnessed in the present it might never show its face in the future. Go on...as you should...and eventually turn into shadow, stone, dust, fire and return to the elements which make us.

Insomnia

A blue crane flies past my window. There are no cranes in Calcutta. But a blue crane races the air. A blue crane. I walk to my window. The bird is gone. A woman is sitting upright on my bed. She is naked. Her skin is light, burnt sunshine shade. Her hair is black. She has thin lips. Her eyes are calling me. I step towards her.

I touch her lips. They are lifeless. She disappears.

The bed is empty.

White sheets, and a green chador. A second hand wooden bed. It is clean. But I know its filth. I understand its filth. Men and women have slept on it. It is to be dirty. It has to be unclean. The sheets are dirty; haven’t been washed in a fortnight. I know it. I hide myself in the darkness beneath the chador. Darkness is strange. You do not see much. There is no future. There is no past. And present is lacking. There is no present. Time is lost in darkness. This is not science. It is my mind. My mind is not physics. My mind has more than atoms. My mind has more than gravity. My mind is…a being.

The blue crane is perched on my window. It is pecks the paint chips hanging from the drying walls. Paint dries. It is wet when applied, but loses moisture. It sticks to the wall. In time, the walls reject paint. They begin wearing. The blue crane eats the yellow paint chips from my windowsill. The bird stays.

I watch the bird. It flaps its wing twice and then stops.

Where is my chador? I want my chador.

Often we do not get what we want.

Gandhi wanted peace. He got a bullet. It must have hurt. He died. They said he died peacefully. But he found bullets in his abdomen. Bullets are metal. They kill pain. The pain we call life. He longed for peace. And Death smirked. A bullet. Godse.

My chador is on the floor.

How did it get there?

A body is beneath the chador.

I know it is a woman. Her hair is flowing out. She stirs.

Bare legs defy confines of the linen cover. Her legs are beautiful. I could make love to them. I could make love to her. She stirs. Her arms prop out. Her hands are simple. They are kind. Her hands have blood in them. They have life. She stirs. She turns towards me. She stares at me from behind the cover. The thick cloth covers her face like a veil does. Her eyes are inviting. She is inviting.

I look into the mirror. I see myself. The mirror is not helpful. Glass lies. It distorts. The reflection is not I. Throw a stone, the mirror shatters. Reflections scatter. It does not die.

The woman takes my side. Her lips move. She whispers. Her kiss is warm. I want warmth. She provides warmth. I turn towards her. We come closer. She is bare. I am hidden. She hides. I am open. She is love. I love. She sits on her knees. I follow suite. She lies down. I lie beside. Her body rubbing the floor. Her body moving towards me. I move towards her. Whisper. My mouth catches her breath. Our sighs mingle. It is a marriage.

I am nude.

We are in arms.

A comforting touch.

I cannot sleep. There is no rest.

She writes on my back. Her fingers on my body. Nails scratching skin. She has written her name. She has a name. I did not know. There is much I do not know. There is much we do not know.

Jyotsna.

Rain drums on my window. There is a crack at the bottom right. Water trickles through it. Wind pushes a way. Wind, water make a damp breeze. The breeze caresses my arms. My arms are limp. They have not blood. A heavy head was on them.

Seven. Alarm.

I bought the clock at a decorated shop.

It was meant to be a present. The red-green-blue wrapper stayed on. I threw away the card with the little laurels on the side yesterday. My relic of Japan. An alarm clock. Three hands for the hour, minute and alarm. The seconds are missing. A blue crane painted on its face. The video cassette is stuck. A man is lying on a woman. There is no confluence of colors. White sex. Her eyes are closed. She looks satisfied. I am not.

* * *

Cold soup.

The microwave counter ticking, its ping. Warm soup. A layer of cream on top. The solidified grease coagulated as one overlying mass. A camouflage for the yellow corn. I remove the thick fat with a steel spoon. Indian Airlines. I picked it up. I pick them up. Airline silver ware for personal use only.

Still cold.

Microwave humming, ticking, consuming, heating, and cooking.

The soup’s too warm. I blow on it. A thinner yellow grease layer dances to the little wind. Dance. I watch it shimmer. Stirring in the grease, I drink it spoon by spoon. A bunch of baby corn and chicken pieces are left in the end. I tilt the bowl, and collect the bottom nourishment with a spoon.

No kabuki.

Taxi cab. Meter down. Rough ride. On- time. Fare paid.

The telephone rings.

Talk. Smile while speaking. Smile at nobody. Just the grey walls frowning back. Keep smiling. It is necessary. Tone comes with facial twitches. Happy customer representative. An Indian on the line. He has time. He is fooling around. He will not fetch you a raise. But you cannot be discourteous.

Yes sir.

Yes sir.

No sir.

Talk.

You are Amanda. You have an American accent. You work at a call center. Call centers are central to economic growth. Ten thousand a month. You are independent. The money is enough. Sufficient. You have worked for six months. The average work period is fourteen. You have lesser patience. You have read the papers. The taxi driver murder. The increased protection. It is claustrophobic.

Talk.

Your father is alive. Your mother is alive. They reside together. They’ve never been apart. Your father is five years older than your mother. They love one another. They do not have sex. You know. You just know. Times are changing. Movies altering. No more rose garden dances. It’s the age of striptease. The fad hit America two thousand years ago. Its finally arrived now. News channels have quarrelsome shows. Feminists in crew cuts. Men with mascara. Straight men. Straight women. It’s a cauldron. There are no witches. The witch hunt ended two centuries ago. Salem is a sleepy town today. You don’t know where Salem is. You have Salem’s lot. Night interests you.

You undo the first two buttons of your shirt. The air conditioner is running. But the air in you is hot.

Thank you. Goodbye.

My blue crane is back. It is hopping on my table, looking at everything but me. I do not exist. I am invisible. I am air. The bird’s feet are wet. A black residue is imprinted on an office paper. The crane does not take note. A fish tries to violently catch its last few gulps of life. Thick beak inquests the fish. Sweet meat. Violence ends. Violence begins in the crane’s mouth. Violence is swallowed. The bird’s eyes twitch. She begins crafting a hole in the cubicle board that separates me from my working neighbors. I do not know her name. She does not know mine. The wound in the cheap separation might bring us closer. Blue crane logic. Human logic. Logic never was to creation.

The hole is made.

It is crude.

I bring myself to look into it.

The air is pleasant. A sweet fragrance tickles my sense. Orange sky has cupped her hands around the sunflower bed. She sways the flower heads. Suns collide. Petals fall to the ground. Brown soil turns yellow. Earth will influence solar bits into soil. Earth has always got its way in the present. There is light here therefore a present.

The blue crane graces the flowers. The occasional green stalk confides in her. She keeps their secret and does not share it with me.

In the heart of the field I want the sky to shroud around me.

Mould me floral.









Evolution is intense.

I am flora.

Jyotsna and I lie parallel on the grave of tradition. The blue crane blows air. Geometry is broken. Bird becomes one with sky. Deep orange sky sings us a lullaby…

* * *

I am in the arms of my lover. Satisfied. Asleep.

The Soothsayer's green parrot

A parrot picks a future.

He’ll have money, a beautiful wife, two children, a Maruti, and a flat in Salt-lake.

Indranil walks home.

He’ll have it all.

A parrot said so.

A wallet he stole in Shealdah lies on the table.

Plywood.

Cash.

Wonders.

Have it...but honor.

Parrots never lie.

I do not have a title for this post. Let it be unique in being without a name.

Seldom does a face- a voice- a character- a thought amuse me to a degree Amelie has done. I watched her two years ago. Two years ago, I wanted to fall in love. Two years ago a woman (girl) chipped a piece of me and pocketed in her pocket. She might skip it over a canal. I have watched "Amelie" a number of times (more than the digits on both my hands). Yet, from the very first shot she manages to tickle me. And I laugh. I am particularly sensitive around my foot. She does not have to lay a finger on my foot. Her presence is enough. I laugh. I giggle. I am amused. I am saddened. And in the end I go, "only if..."

It has been six years I have been jotting words down on the back of my notebooks, or printing them on a computer screen. In these years, I have not once written words to her. Maybe someday I will. Only the name will be different. Not Amelie. But with a similar spirit.

For Amelie I thank Jean and his cast and crew.

Tomorrow if someone asks me, "Who was your second love?" Can I say, "Amelie" without blushing at my childishness?