A passage

There is a philosopher who reading my blog posts commends me on my joy in realising in experience the many claims in Indian tradition, who advices me to work in freelance rather than in constraining environment of academia. Jubilated and intoxicated I let my guard down and stereotype a whole tradition and way of living as cynical and the philosopher stops responding.

There are two philosophers of science who are probably wondering at a new found interpretation of a principle which shaped our modern science of cosmos and are not sure to either dismiss it as trivial or consider it to be of profound import.

And there is a girl in some corner of the world surely waiting for me to knock on her door and me who doesn't understand the constraints of girlhood and wonders on the special role they have to bring life into the world and nourish and cherish it.

And then there is this passage -

"According to the National Crime Records Bureau, a crime is committed against a Dalit by a non-Dalit every sixteen minutes; every day, more that four Untouchable women are raped by Touchables; every week, thirteen Dalits are murdered and six Dalits are kidnapped. In 2012 alone, the year of the Delhi gang-rape and murder, 1574 Dalit women were raped (the rule of thumb is that only 10 percent of rapes or other crimes against Dalits are ever reported), and 651 Dalits were murdered. That's just the rape and butchery. Not the stripping and parading naked, the forced shit-eating (literally), the seizing of land, the social boycotts, the restriction of access to drinking water. These statistics wouldn't include, say, Bant Singh of Punjab, a Mazhabi Dalit Sikh, who in 2005 had both his arms and a leg cleaved off for daring to file a case against the men who gang-raped his daughter. There are no separate statistics for triple amputees." - The Doctor and the Saint, Arundhati Roy

And the world stopped and I lie almost paralysed overtaken by emotion. What dreams have I been weaving of ridding the world of all evils imagining writing, nay day dreaming, from the comforts of my parent's home. Being 30 and still with not a clue what the next day would bring. I shudder, nay I can't continue reading for I know not what would this dreamer do to me. Taking out of context, I almost dismissed Ambedkar to be too bitter and sour and taken refuge in believing that there is definite greatness in Indian civilisation. But four pages in, this tiny book holds up such a magnificent mirror.

I would have consoled myself had this been fiction but these are facts and with what matter of factness she writes the passage. And what do I but dream with no hope but to find resonance somewhere, to hit a chord somewhere and bring to end this shameful spectre we run in name of humanity. But what else can I do.

And tears have not stopped flowing.

Looking into the sky

The sky is always a sight to behold, in daytime and more so at night

Of all the elements it is the most clear, untainted by anything gross

It is boundless for what binds it are the horizons that are mere illusions

The clear blue is magnificent and more so that dotted with white strokes

There is never a dull moment in the sky except when it brings the joy of rain

That rain which so quenches the thirst of the Earth, is the act it does in some style

Slowly the clouds gather and hide the Sun, dimming the lights

And then one drop at a time, giving the sensation that it will soon start pouring

The clouds come home and disperse once again to restore the sky in its glory

The sky which inspires life to take flight and be free

Pen holder

(Written sometime during 2017.)

There is a wonderful world of art waiting for you to knock on its door.

Knock. Knock.
Who is there?
A pen holder.

You just need to know the password. Ask for a hint?
Key.
Hint.
See and you shall look.

Now, you have to see and look and look and see.
Who are you?
Speak.
Eyes.
Bingo.

Now, after you get inside use your you-know-what and do what-you-do. Now, don't wait.
Hurry up. Enter!
Oh! wait. A warning first - You cannot leave and only enter.

What a boring place it was. There were vast stretches of nothingness all about. Everywhere you look, you can only find nothing. You walk, you walk on nothing. You see nothing. You look nothing. Even your hands, your body and your you-know-what mingles with nothing and becomes nothing.
What is this world of art, wonderful or not?
Doubt arises.
And lo and behold!

There is light all around and all kinds of strange pens. There is something strange about them. They are all pointed. Moving. Towards me.
I move here and there and they move too. Always coming closer. Closer and closer. I got real tense then and when the nearest was almost on my brink I shouted a scream -
'Stop.'
Oh! And they did. Stop.
I kept on looking at the spectacle. For a long time I remember. It was the start of a wonder. Pens. So many of them. All differently colored like infinite frequencies. They seem to fill all of nothing.
Oh! How I wished they could talk to me.
And suddenly the leader made a voice.
What? I was overjoyed.

'Why do you stop us?'
'Why? surely, you were attacking me', I replied.
'But we just wanted to be holded by you.'
'But why should I hold you?'
'Surely, you are a pen holder, are you not?'

So, it must be so

(View from a plane in the feververy month of 2019)

The landscape, parched, already rocky fed with waters from shrinking veins. A sea of clouds with towaering pillars of dust and vapour bringing to mind the formations of colorful columns of smoke witnessing the birth of a star from some space documentary or a spectre from Kubrick's Odyssey.

And the Sun, his majesty, ever prompting the Eart towards itself hangs aloft in its brimming ecstasy.

And the pen, a child of Earth and water, struggling and hence scribbling to capture the essence of this moment, bring back to life the meaning which it had been robbed off.

And the heart, coming to terms with sweet pain of love, the stingings of jelly fish, still cannot stop itself from imagining the far future where only the long gaze of chaotic science can presently reach and accept its wisdom - silence, thou are and silence, thou returnest.
For it fights backs and silences all silences and yearns to make the pen glide to write - it was, it is and it will for it must.

So, it is so.

Queues

Form a line and you will be promptly served
there are just so many in front of you
your turn will come soon, have your notes ready
one by one the line will move as one by one the stairs come down

Departures

You have your ticket?
Can I check your passport / boarding pass?
Please be seated at the cross lanes of weeping lady and concerned mother,
across the candy eating chinese beside the red Turk
Write all you like gazing at the white blank paper
Still hoping - Pyaar se bula aajayegi
Love will find a way.

Love, much like truth, is not a prostitute - it doesn't come cheap, it doesn't throws itself at you - it extracts from you your secret most treasures, your deepest care, your strenuous effort..

No hurry

At the port, in the lounge, the time is set
the clouds hang in the distance, over the mountain
now a burning shadow, there a calm yellow
some wilful sounds disturb the constant hum

Like so many kites on board a jet so many lives hang
the words balm the unsatiated heart
the tight lipped eyes well up a strange shade of purple
isn't it too early to declare her a memory alone?

The ceiling is fake, the lights artificial, the sounds robotic
was this the future the child madly after?
amongst the sea of strange faces, the familiar emotions still show up
(a not so old couple engage in a casual kiss)

The heart will live the night dreaming it is we who kissed after the anxieties and uncertainity of first nights were long over.