Thursday, November 22, 2007


Forgive me shower for I have been dirty. It has been nearly a week since my last visit. But you must know it wasn’t entirely my fault; I did call on you a couple of times but you were unavailable.

Please don’t get me wrong; I don’t blame you. With the tornado out on a killing spree and the blackout you could only do so much. I know you are trying your best. Besides, you came around soon enough with your generous blessing of running water and there is really no excuse for not seeing you sooner. Please forgive me. You know how easily I get tempted, develop the habit, what can I say,…keeping up the routine seems such a great deal of work…you know.

I am sorry I will stop with the lame excuses. Truth is, I would probably not come and see you even tonight if it weren’t for those damned kids. Yes, I could have easily gone through another day, in those rags, smelling that bad. (Yeah, I know, I am such a pig!) But it was not to be. Imran came and dragged us out into playground to play badminton. Its been a very long time since I played the game you know…(ok, so I wasn’t any good when I played it…big deal!). So the kids kind of caught us off balance you see…(and not like they were really kids…one looked pretty big…I’m sure he is at least 13!)

Anyhow…so they gave us a pretty good beating. But, they really didn’t have to be so mean about it, you know…I mean, I wouldn’t mind if they just made us run around the court from end to end chasing after the damned cork (slippery bastard!)…I could take that, but did they really have to make us roll on the ground like that? I mean, it was one of my best jeans and now it’s got mud all over it, and your friend the good Mr. Washing Machine will have a rough time working on it.

And it’s all their fault! Those damned 12 year olds!

booby trap

“Say, cats and dogs really like it when you scratch their neck. Don’t they?”
“So does cows.”
“Yeah? What about goats?”
“I don’t know about goats.”
“So how are you so sure about cows?”
“You know, when you try to milk them, they’d make a fuss, but if you give her a neck scratch she’d stand still. So I figure they like it.”
“So, cows are touchy when people try to touch their breasts, eh? How about that!”
“Well, of course they are. People are not her bull.”
“But bulls don’t really care about breasts. Do they? Say, none of the animals really care about breasts. It’s a man thing! Isn’t it?”

“Well….but why?”
“Well…I dunno…they look good…”
“Yeah! But why?”
“Well…they feel good”
“I know! But why??”
“Heck! I don’t care! If it bothers you so much go find a flat chested chick and marry her.”
“I never said they bother me. I like ‘em too. But why?”
“Who the hell cares?”
“What are you saying man! If we stopped asking ‘why’ we’d still be living in caves you know. Nope! We’ve got to figure this out.”
“Well…may be it’s because you can…you know…fondle them”
“You know…they are soft and you can with them and all.”
“Nope! That doesn’t make sense. Fat people are soft all over. If grabbing was the thing then everybody would be running after the fat chicks.”
“Well…I just dunno…”

We discussed the issue a li’l more over coffee but weren’t able to come to a satisfactory conclusion. So we decided to take it up with Proton, the cleverest one in the family. He heard us out and the first thing he says to me – “Tell me now, what exactly did you guys see on the way that made you think about it? Paint me a picture. Will ya?” (Told you he is clever.)

Anyway, he went on about how animals look for fitness, physical symmetry and proportions in potential mates but the issue wasn’t really resolved. (Surely, we can hardly call voluptuous women the most fit, or the most proportionate and still, they do have a universal appeal.) I guess I will just put it on my list of unsolved mysterious -

Why does the chicken cross the road?
Which came first, the egg or the hen?
How does a pair of round things drive a sane man mad so easily?

Monday, November 19, 2007

gotta post something

[Sidr made its way from the coasts to the capital killing about two thousand people on its way. The whole country blckedout during the weekends. I wrote this in candle light,…not because I had something good to write about or something that mattered. Been writing all sorts of messed things lately. Pages fter pages of crap that just wont come together. Still, I just have to put this one down or it feels my head will explode.]

What do you think of poetry? Why is it that poetry, in general, is considered impractical? People say that they discard all logic and sense and just aren’t real enough. Poets are seen as outcasts, a damaged lot trying to escape the realities of life and seeking refuge in make belief. As for the stuff they write, well,…they do score a few points every now and then within certain circles and drunken society parties but that’s as far as they are supposed to go.

I guess its not entirely their fault. ‘Poets’ do seem rather eager to assert their eccentricity. They will take great pains to get the walk, the talk, the dress and the hair right. (Now it’d be pretty awful if they are taken for commonors. Woudn’t it?) They are a delicate sort, unlike the rest and it has to show. Guess, poets are people too; they gotta eat, shit and procreate like the rest of ‘em. So, its quite natural that there will be many who’d just want to put on the uniform, strike up a few lines, wrap ‘em all nice in glossy plastic and try to sell them for more than they are worth, while they still can.

Been reading the Memoirs of Pablo Neruda

“All the esoteric philosophy of the Oriental countries, when confronted with real life, turned out to be a by-product of the anxiety, neurosis, confusion, and opportunism of the West; that is, of the crisis in the guiding principles of capitalism. In the India of those years there was little room for deep contemplation of one’s navel. ‘An existence that made brutal physical demands, a colonial position based on the most cold-blooded degradation, thousands dying every year of cholera, smallpox, fever, and hunger, a feudal society thrown into chaos by India’s immense population and industrial poverty, stamped such great ferocity on life that all semblance of mysticism disappeared.”

“…the majority exploited a cheap market where exotic amulets and fetishes wrapped in metaphysical sales talk were sold wholesale. These people were always spouting Dharma and Yoga. They reveled in religious acrobatics, all empty show and high sounding words.” [p 84]

“…Became familiar with opium…”
“…I smoked many pipefuls, until I knew…”
“…I understood why hired hands from plantations, day laborers, richshowmen who pull and pull rickshaw all day long, would lay there dazed, motionless. . . Opium was not, as painted to me, the paradise of the exotic, but an escape for the exploited…” [p 88]

- These words reflect the clarity of thoughts of a great mind, a sound mind that isn’t deceived by the smoke screens of half truths and lies.

Poetry is not about dwelling in madness and spitting out empty words that nobody gets. Even after a hundred years, every word on Tagore’s poems makes perfect sense. True ones can keep it real; they don’t bank on confusion.

There is no real conflict between poetry and facts, there never was. In fact, if one pays attention, they just might help him understand the numbers better. May be one day we’ll finally figure it and then the advancement of science will not be driven by the arms race anymore.

In any case, I wouldn’t worry too much. Poetry will survive amidst all the madness and chaos…It is the one thing that can. Poetry will keep the truth alive if the great cities go up in flames and smokes blacken the skies. Poetry will be the beacon, lighting the way for the children rising from the ashes of the dead worlds,..will tell them stories…of what it once was, and what it could be…again…

Aye! Mankind will live on…and so shall its poetry. For every human child is born with it, and secretly carries it in his heart.