Now I feel the blues
That I missed the cues
Have not a dam muse
Now I feeeeel
Now I feel the blues
I feel all drained, As if it rained
Doomed and god-damned maimed
Yeah baby. Now.
Naaaaaaooooh
Now I fee-eeeel
Now I feel the blues
Don’t compare me with the sky
No wings that I could fly
Not alcohol make me cry
Nothing. Nothing but the blues
Naaa-aaa-oooo-w
Now I fee-eeel
Now I feel the
Now I feel the blues.
—Love is a tender emotion that gently holds the eyes and the skin above it, and turns it towards delight, that every emotion that succeeds comes as a mild surprise. Violence is not love, it is an obsession. So to speak that when spoken that one can die for love translates the foolishness of the mind: a certain sense of the fishy heroic: a mockery of the feeling itself. We seem to have forgotten to live for anything. At everything we start dying. Murder, arson and hell! Grow up!
Thud. Geeta sprang from the well, she was washing the utensils. She sees him. Gentle lonely tears fill her eyes. Misty, hurting.
—Education hurts.
Ma. Please give me some food. I am hungry. Chintu does not want much attention. He has been bestowed an eternity of attention.
Slowly she gets up. All the love that a mother feels, all of it can not be peeled. The earth is whispering something to her feet. A remark of love. Be calm.
Yes. Come and sit here. Suppressing her desire to hold him in her arms. Pour me your love, and make small bites of them. Children of birds that fly in our tender mouths. Signs of love. Sug’ga—maina.
Chintu slowly came and sat by her mother. Lightly touching her sari. She pours her love on a plate. His pain is lessened.
—Hurting faces can not chew,
“So plee-ee-ee-ee-ease,
Love me do.”
He devours the food, gulps it all down.
—The Chinese believe that one should chew their food properly. It prolongs one’s life. Ancient beliefs. Is there any food for our thoughts? There are guns now. Steel chambers of cold freedom.
—The darkness behind eternal light,
Just one shot,
Then a smile,
And let’s pass on the wine.
Take some more my love. She whispers. She does not want to wake his pain. Let them sleep.
No ma, I am done for now. I want to sleep. He says with some difficulty. A cotton sponge forms in his throat.
—How many feelings must a child feel in a day? Even a man! Negligence, hatred, fear, hurt, and then eventually love—the cure. Does love cure anything? A crying heart? Maybe a weeping heart. I have seen love cure. It cures life, once it’s gone, because then there is no death, just the absence of life. Pure and simple swarming particles of darkness.
He picks himself up and walks toward the well. The trees are shocked. There is no breeze. Dancers halt in surprise. Shock.
—The noiseless well holds in its bosom
All the tears and fears it has welcome
Over the ages of raking silence.
Chintu understands the nature of things. In his innocence he is far wiser then we are with our morbid hypocrisies. He understands that there is a cry in the wind, in the wilderness, in his heart of hearts. There is a deep anchor that holds him to life—immovable be thy destiny, only pain and agony. Reasons why melancholic poetry is far more popular then poetry that is alive. We are living lumps of pain. He does not feel any form of hatred for his Master Ji, only a sense of dumb fear with no roots, no leaves. Just a trunk of fear hanging onto the nothingness of empty spaces.
—This is where I understand why childhood and old age are the most innocent years of mans life. My book of my revelations. It so happens that when we are children we don’t know anything and hence everything is pure in its form, devoid of acid. The mind is immaculate and does not care about trivial vanities like war and glory. We are yet to learn the meaning of vile and hatred, though Freud says that we do have the Oedipus complex even at this age, but that is a sexual tendency of the animal called mankind.
And given old age, we have already understood all that corrupts the world and being. We have all the knowledge on a whole and nothing seems worth it. It’s all all-right either this way or that. We have already realized that there is nothing that can make a productive difference. We weren’t born to be productive; by nature we are destructive animals (exceptions please be left alone). There is one cause and in turn one affect—life unto death. And this is that makes us children again, because we become ignorant of all that is considered our rights and freedom: all the excuses of power.
In his beaten tired attire of the soul he wishes to sleep off the pain. He wishes to be in his room again. It hurts. His wish shall be answered with due respect.
Baba, if you are tired you can go and take a short nap. Papa might get late. Her voice echoes from the kitchen. She can not bear the burden of his swollen sight. It is painful. Neither can
—That wonderful mother of a child,
That love she conceived from her womb
How possibly can people live through death?
Without love and affection, in a tomb?
Chintu takes slow gradual steps toward his room. Fear grabs him in the throat, what if he would not wake up on time? Some more swelling—he convinces himself. He does not care.
—The Greeks were children. Wise men.
The room is lit brightly by the sun, and there is an abundant amount of stuffiness and heat. Soon he would sweat. Wet his shirt. The neat broken shelf on the wall and the broken Matka by the side of the room speak loud about the organization of the house. About Geeta. She would not get a job in a multinational. Do you know why? Not because she is unorganized. That could never be a reason. Because she does not have enough money to lie. To fake. The gems that are made by history are fake. Look behind the glitterati. Simplicity is despised, we crave for complications. We complicate things in our consciousness to evade the sense of truth. Truth defies death and horrifies life.
The wind sweeps in through the window and flaps them: imitations of a fan. Mr. Wind must have witnessed a fan when he was visiting town. To no avail. Chintu puts a thin torn sheet on the floor and lies on it. The sheet covers a little of his head, but the rest of the piece is torn in such a way that it wouldn’t make any difference at all even if he would not have put it. No difference. Where are the curtains?
The sweet dusty smell of the walls enters his nose. Casually singing a lullaby. The lullaby of nature. He is amazed. There is a surprise.
—Look when nature keeps its finger on a head
Everything by miracle turns into a comfortable bed.
A sweet dark cloud comes in at the right time, large enough to cool off the weather, small enough to not harm the crops. It moistens the floor of the house, making the bed softer. Nature is such a powerful entity that we can never predict it. It does not need to be predicted. It moves with its heart. It listens to nothing but its heart. And we strange species have not yet learnt the ways of the heart; we were too busy mastering the cunning of the mind. The irony is we faltered there as well. Flying shamans of survival: water wiser then the soul: nature, nature, nature: swoon in its name: we can swim to other horizons: love in its bosom and winter in its eyes.
—Silver petals and seven unicorns
Gliding against the sky
To greet and uphold the promise of love
Sway gaily, fly bye.
Chintu swims toward a sweet painless void. Dense and dark. Geeta comes to the door to watch his sleep. Not daring to come inside. She would have to open the door, and that could raise her son and his pain. She can not even touch him right then, a slight touch on the forehead. Promise of eternal love. A kiss on the forehead. Promise of eternal protection. She goes back to the well, to look into that dark abyss and wait for the whisper.
—Old wise whisperer
Please do tell
What is the cure?
I am so unsure
How do I react?
Teach me some tact.
But this time nature does not whisper.
—You can’t force those of the free will, they rebel. The entities of the heart speak of their own accord, of their own wish. Nothing can be beaten out of them. In times of desperation they become spectacular listeners: mute but not ignorant. Not torture—patient. The answer shall arrive, when time shall arrive. Nature has witnessed enough misinterpretations of untimely whispers: all the derelicts and their pages filled of unearthly vengeance, unleashed upon the innocence of the poor, dying and the dead. I despise the religion that man created. Shallow, short chains of disillusional freedom. I despise all those who preach the higher being, slaves and worshipers of torture and boredom. Capturers and turners of the pure. They should be hanged so that this world shall redefine power, redefine existence, redefine itself. So that we become men again. Not martyrs sucking the divine cock to get an easy entry into the kingdoms of lies. There is no heaven and no hell, no swarg! What is so damn tough to understand this simple fact? Why did Buddha die? Why did all the real men die?
He turns to his left. Agony. There is a small red spot: somewhere. It is disturbing him, running from one place to another. Faster. Faster. It grows to become a red spot on a black surface. Something starts to protrude from the spot, something with a thin end. The red spot becomes a stick. Red rotten teeth all over it. Marks of bites. The stick has jaws that open up and run toward him. He runs for his life. There are walls on his sides. They narrow the road ahead. The distance is flooded. He hurts his left hand. Red glue flows from his side; hot as lava. He is burning. The jaws close in on him. He ducks and falls into a pit the size of a dream. He swims. His left hand is about to tear from his body. He can’t breathe. Scream! He tries but fails. There is no voice. He has lost his voice. His cheeks swell and cover his eyes, he can’t see anymore.
The mud wall. Looking at him. Eyes open: his.
Chintu had slept until dinner. His father was waiting outside with surprise in his eyes.
Chintu, I was thinking if you would come with me to town next month? He asks in his gentle voice, full of the unknown. Trying to ignore the swellings on his body that now appears from the room.
Chintu looks into his eyes. No reply. Nothing. Just a smile floods his face. All the pain reassembles at the ends of the labyrinth—they have to wait until the next beating. They will have to hide from his elation. Elation kills pain.
—What a lovely end
That begins with a smile
Perishes all the pain
Nothing is more worthwhile.
What if;
Colors were flowers
And flowers were men
And men could swim to the sun?
Would it
Then be
Any different, would we
Still have,
Bombs and guns?
What if;
We were
The winds and waters
That cover this illuminant earth?
Would it
Then be
That we
Would fall
To berths that haven’t taken birth?
What if;
Tears
Had meanings and wisdom
And lips that spoke the truth absolute?
Would it
Then happen
That wars
And darkness
We spread for glory, we would mute?
What if;
The stars were hungry
And extraterrestrials
Our friends, and met us one day?
Would it
Then matter
What race
Or creed,
Or random colors our shadows went astray?
This is from the time that was about to come. I wish that this was just another memory that casually slips out of our membrane, but grotesque is the wish of fate. There are things that in my senility I wish to remember, but only their silhouettes linger, mingled with ashes of time. And there are things that I seek to eradicate from the labyrinth of my mind but they have stuck like wax in a slice in a table that in the act of being removed only make the cut wider and more prominent. I wish my memory to be erased. I wish to be erased—but without it.
***
Back in those days of the future. When things were far more bitter then the past and crueler then the present. Back in the lap of that moment which was yet to come, I can recall all the incidents quite clearly. We were four of us, May, June, July, and myself, August, sitting on the porch of June’s house. We were waiting through the solitude of time. Waiting for something. I have forgotten what it was. But I clearly remember it had something to do with the future. We were waiting for the past to come back. The fat legged creature with wings of war: Blood spilling shredders that caused earthquakes with jerks.
Young, attractive, and full of energy, we sat there staring with vivid blank thoughts at the hazy yellow streets that pushed itself in directions, our right and left. In front of our porch was a starry eyed princess of her individualistic dreams. She was pretty but there was something that was very unattractive about her. I don’t recall what. It was probably her soul that she wore on her face. Through the years that we had known her she had strongly believed that she was quite a princess. Back in school we used to call her the princess of parched dreams. But that was just children being children, and we had grown up to tolerate the vanity of her soul, the poverty of her thought, and the incapacity of her mind to tolerate anything that could be useful to the growth of knowledge in the womb of our minds. It was as if she had plucked out all of knowledge from her mind, like a
Behind her was a house made of chocolate. Pure brown chocolate. Seductive, attractive and romantic. It was the house of our dreams. It was built in the old style that in the north-eastern part of
My parents’ annoyance at the witch doctor, who cured pain with a silver slimy paste, and made bone fracture lesser painful and made it heal faster, and cured fever with small white buttons, and did all such sorts of magic, I think was well justified. She was though a nice woman, or at least we children thought so. Always wearing a smile, she used to gift us chocolates for no reason. But the wisest man of our town, who was crowned the mare of the city, once at a dinner at our house, which I think was my birthday, told us that it might be a way that she had devised to kidnap the children of our town and torture us or undertake experiments on us. And I quite clearly remember that the fact had scared us a lot at that time.
On our right was the miniature post office with its red building the size of my fathers palm although it used to be several times larger then me back in those days. Every day an old seagull would come and drop a green bag in the fire chimney and pick another that it had left the day before from the front, and just leave. I remember this one instance when the seagull, Uncle Sam we used to call him, was concentrating for the drop and just when it turned it bombed into my father’s chest. Thought he was a very nice man, my father, and so did not say anything, I could see that Uncle Sam’s beak had hurt him. He just smiled and went inside the house. Uncle Sam ashamed of his fault did not bring anymore letters to our town; instead a replacement started bringing them but he was never very welcome.
On our left was the police office. It used to be functional back in the days when my father was my size, but long before he had grown up it had been shut. There was no need for police in the town. The cemetery and the temple were good enough. The saints knew the best anyways since they were the messengers of God. So all in all it was left unto their shoulders to judge and condemn, since damnation was the only possible way that a man could be cured, and I think so will the custom even in the days that this story will be read. The wisest man, our mare, took care of the road, and cleanliness of the city and its minds. He also helped my father eradicate rumors that used to reach our town every now and then. There were also many other people that lived out of town, but were not all so important. And I only vaguely remember them.
Also, our house was made of wood and was elevated to three steps from the ground. It was here that we were sitting when the accident happened. Luckily there was no roof on top of our heads that we survived.
For some minutes the plank we had been sitting on had been vibrating. Then after sometime it started dancing. This was all alright, but then a lot of dust came from nowhere and we started sneezing quite profusely. And then it happened.
Like a thud all the city fell to pieces. A paw of the baliphants (elephants with wings of bats) had fallen somewhere near our town and caused all the tremors. The whole town was sleeping at that time, and had swum to another denser sleep from which they would not awaken again.
—A corrupt man is a victim of his own superiority.
—Corruption is the mis-constructed blend of superiority and the inability to earn respect.
A person can not, or might not, be able to earn respect that he has faltered to believe his due; it is then that a man becomes corrupt. Such people generally hide under the guise of family responsibilities and other monitory pressures. But, it is not so much a need of money as it is to impose on another his will of power. This statement I support with another that corruption does not come with power. If that would have been the case, then undoubtedly all would have been corrupt, except those that are rebellious for no good reason (and I have reason to believe that even these are many). A person becomes corrupt when he finds himself believing, much to his dissatisfaction, that he is superior. That he deserves to be, or is already elevated (in his own demeanor), but is not treated likewise by those that he has presupposed to be lower to him in all the conditions and considerations that have define this difference.
It is this misconception of two distinct platforms that injects itself into the roots of the being in conversation, thus leading to his seeking approval of all concerned in manners that he can device himself as easiest. This also states why a poor spineless thief seeks to be in the good-books of such men. Because he also thinks himself to be a deserver of such respect. Thus he gives to corruption as well.
But this elevation, as both the powerful and the thief, think it to be is not an elevation in its mathematical sense (as one might refer to it to be higher). Rather it is where a person begins to fall. It is the illusion of an elevation. Architecture has one such example of a decline, where one is made to believe that he is rising, in Lukhnow.
In the same said mind the sky is still above, but not in the conventional sense. The conscience begins to stir, but the web is intense. And one might fall never to be risen again. And in this mind it is clear that the one deed has earned him immeasurable dishonor, but to undo this deed, he fights, and it is this resistance that tightens the noose. He becomes a victim of his superiority. Corruption thus becomes an incurable disease. One that flies with the air, and stings many.
—A whiff,
Sniff, sneeze;
All disperse.
Behind the sun. Just behind; on the back of it. There are shreds and pricks. Spiky strands of hair, protruding devilishly. Conical and pointed. Fearsome and loathsome.
The dragon has not slept for ages. Mythical ages. But myth is for us. It hasn’t slept for two days. Millions of years. His eyes are drowsy. It wishes to sleep. But before sleeps, it has to sneeze.
—Discovery News
“Every 500 years the sun suspends an explosion that cleans up the unwanted particles in our atmosphere, thus preventing it from freezing (contaminate) with the other celestial and earthly waste.”
—Drowsy at heart and tired in the eye.
It might just fall off. Float in the sky.
Just one such day when we wouldn’t notice, and the stars would fail to warn. Just one such untimely evening when we would sit at our ends to warm beside a fire or a heater. Or some other device. Just that uneven geometric moment. The dragon shall close his eyes. To our cold surprise.
—O’ lord what with the skies?
Look how everyone dies!
Turn on the damn lights!
—The dragon of darkness
With sunlight in his eyes
Fake. Made. Fake. Fade. Made. Fade. Made. Are made. Gems are made. Here gems are made. In this perimeter, below the monotonous rays of the sun.
Must have reached school. I hope Master Ji won’t beat him today—Spoke Geeta to herself.
Satis was quietly washing his face by the door at the back of the house. Annoyed. He had forgotten to wake his son. How could I forget? How? What will he think of me? Will I be forgiven by god? I am a good father! So I am! And..my..son..you..shall..
Listen you are late and late you are—moaned Geeta over the stove. I don’t want you to be returning late, so you eat and be gone, and come back early. And we shall manage from tomorrow, without the two of you being late.
Husband is the burden of religion. A gift of the schizophrenic hallucinations of unpredictable ghosts. Husband. Keep him happy. He is like a god; Demi-god. To go against the husband is sin. Go against whom? Will! To man’s dominance!:
— The garden of fools sowed with saffron seeds.
Two minutes. Mumbled Satis. We over-slept. Poor boy. Oh! God make a miracle.
Oedipus here is your contradiction. Will Sigmund believe me? Or will he roll over and die again. Aa aa Chim. I will ignore him. When I meet him.
Come, you have yo’re food. Said Geeta.
No reply. He knows. Don’t remind him.
Do you think we will have a good harvest this year? Questions Geeta in a brown voice. Satis was about to seat himself next to her. Breakfast. Break your, break fast, and leave. Geeta: gentle soul, not submitting; just curious with her love. She recognizes her duty, like a child recognizes a toy. This comes from love. The other. Are you going to have a good harvest—forced to love. Questions change. Perspectives change. Frustration: Changes even the mountain: I guess.
She handed him a copper plate with upward bent edged to hold the gravy in them. Aaloo ki sabjee and nine rotis. A chilly. Green reflection on the tanned gold of copper. Shimmering brightness. The oddest; look most beautiful.
Satis sat with his legs criss-crossed on the mud floor. Put the plate. Started to swallow. All the walls saw him eat. All of them sympathized. They were aware he did not need it. He did not deserve it. The sympathy. But it was the dash that comes of respect. They knew he had kept them well. Fed them with new mud every season. They knew he wouldn’t let them crumble unless he crumble himself. Crumble. Fumble. Something of the sort. Himself. But poverty has four feet: two tied—two paralyzed.
—o’ Fortune
Sing your tune
Sing.
O’ fortune. Make me fly.
Geeta was noticing him from the corner of her eye. She adored her husband despicably. Not the most appropriate word to use. But how else do you define real love, love beyond worship? She wanted to mutter her thoughts. Wanted him to answer her according to her wishes.
Will we be able to give him something this time on his birthday?—She asked politely. Calm the mother propagates her desire of the love of her child.
He nodded. Yes. No. God knows. The fact that it’s always he, who knows, makes it pathetic. How sad that there is nothing that he can wish to know. How boring, in his wisdom. No wonder I never had a feeling for him. I don’t want to get bored by knowledge.
—Buddha never understood the system: nor his followers. They had knowledge of things beyond. The final conclusions, the final solutions. Hence, they taught never to fight. Where is
Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Slurp. Chomp. Slurp. Slurp. He finished the last of his food.
Gudak. Gudak. Gudak. Gudak. “Cling” says the brass pot as Satis puts it back on the floor. Copper returned to earth. Copper, water—embrace: harmony.
He slowly moves to get up but is held in Geeta’s eyes. Looks at the curious things that spring of those curious eyes. They are loud and questioning.
—Answer this question o’ husband of mine
Answer, answer, answer o’ husband divine
Yes, I was thinking of the same thing. Says he under his breath. I think I will take him to the city with me. And if he would like something there—let’s see.
Elation, that driver of evil. Happiness thy wings are sinned. Happiness leads to hope, to optimism—there is no scope for a person with optimism in heaven. You can’t repent when you are optimistic. Things start to fall into place, you begin to love humans. And that. Is the ultimate sin.
She loves him in this moment. She loves him. Could have just stood up and jumped in his arms. But. There are rules. You can not show your elation, your happiness. No. Not even to your husband. Does that make sense at all?
Her eyes jump and dance. The dance of Dionysus. She sits still. Her emotions reckon the surrounding particles of energy to stop in their places. They want to revel in their own beat.
Satis leaves her eyes and slowly walks towards the rear entrance to wash his hands by the well. Completely ecstatic with the expression he just saw in his wife’s eyes, he carries with him a vast smile on his face.
—Oh’ those eyes.
My prize. My prize.
Even the stony well welcomes him with especial wetness. The trees that surround the back of his house swing gaily. There is a huge plantation of nature behind the house. Dense to look at, but not frightening. They started singing and dancing in a poetic trace. Twice right and one left. Forward backward. Casually. Don’t break your backs.
—Sing they do;
Swing, swing, swinging.
He shifts the bucket to the edge of the well and pours some water on his hands. The well whispers a soft hiss as he bends close to the edge. Thanks for the promise!
Revert to your duty now. He hums a glad tune as he turns around and leaves. The sun shining brightly, unharsh. Looks over him and his son and his wife and is glad that there are still some at least that nature loves.
Satis was a decent farmer. He didn’t have much land, consequently; had difficulty in meeting ends. Ever wondered why farmers starve and packaging companies thrive? You can wonder now. He worked hard. And managed decently. The village respected him, though he was not a person who spoke much. There was not a person who had seen him angry. He was forever calm, part of the reason people came for his advice. The pundits envied him, because he gave good advice—for free. Incomprehensible. Advice is directly proportional to expensive. Really expensive. And more often then not there had been gossip. Satis was the incarnation of some evil. Oh! These idiots. Why can’t they mind their own business?
Every saint, priest, pundit had his temple of worship. They had their stone statues to keep them occupied, but no! They wanted Ayodhya as well. So what if it’s a birth place for a man who turned out to be god? He’s long gone now? This is where we forge what the Hindu religion teaches us. Crib not people. Isn’t that what it says? Anyways, isn’t there a shrine even now? Of a god. Can’t they be happy? Of some god!
Why can’t they build orphanages instead of mute shrines of dumb stupidity?
—Suppose.
—If one has only two temples, and the other, three. Who will earn more rewards?
—It’s a race for the softest cusion in the castle of boredom.
(Before the instance of death)
—Father give me a two B.H.K. I got more disciples.
—No father. I got more.
(Truth answers the dying. Nirvana is attained. Clap. Clap)
—Son. I don’t have a say.
—Who does? (Simultaneously)
—Silence shrouds the dead. The world ends when you die. That’s it!
Satis walked out of the front door that creaked and crowed in muscular pain. A reminder. Fix me soon, or I will swoon. I should fix it soon. All hearts wither if uncared for. How weird is everything. As if everything is living and breathing and withering. Even the crops. Should I run? I am really late. The crops need to be respected. Will I earn enough this season? I should make a better deal with him.
The sparkling sun lights the way through the branches and leaves of the trees. Sparkling lamps on the dusty floor. His shadow runs wild. Appearing disappearing, mingling with the shadows of the trees. Scattered minute eyes watch him go. Quietly walking, pressed in his thought. They crawl to the edges of the branches, sometimes making soft sounds. Gentle weavings of breaths. Music of the four limbed and two winged.
On some trees birds sit in varied amusement. Wondering whether they are bored or not. Strange. If a bird begins to think at any moment in time and starts to evaluate whether in that instant it is bored or not, then in that very instant by that act of rationalizing could it be considered bored or not? Strange. Tweeeet. It means bored in bird language.
He crossed a hut, much like his own. The same size and texture. But a little worse kept. His neighbors. The door was shut. Ramaram must have reached his field. Or? Is. He late as well. No.
The burnt hut passed behind him. Ramaram could not find the time to fix it. And his wife was over occupied with the children to put a new layer of mud on the walls. The cracks were visible in his hut as well. Development and infrastructure. Parliament speeches. They talk about it before they go to eat their lunch; for an hour. And then return and talk again. Sometimes fight as well, about dreams of becoming the Prime Minister. Do they think of what they would do if they became the Prime Minister? Except of course earn shit loads of money. Democracy this is called. I don’t really know if this is what it meant. If this is what they call it.
He turned to take another look. There was a small window at the side. Hidden under the shadow of a tree. Quietly sat Lila by it. She waved as he turned around to look. Ever excited. She would have jumped out in all innocence, if there would have been no grill.
Lila was a three year old pretty and naughty girl. She could twist her face in all manners possible and was treated by the other children as the cutest child ever begot by a mammal. The most pampered girl the village had ever seen, or was ever going to see. Wait until she grows up. Whirlwind with no feet. She will turn their heads and hearts.
A lot of priests had come to Ramayram with advice that she should be married off. But Ramaram was a well thought out piece of flesh. He wanted her to become an educated woman. Not a toy in the hands of men. Something the priests could not digest again. They should take some digestive pills. I can suggest a doctor if they want some advice. Dr. Dang, D-1, Hauz khas,
Satis was quite fond of Lila. An arm raised itself and swum in the air, left, right, left, right.
—Lila, O’ playful Lila
Theatre of childhood
Shake not your dreams
Shake not your moods.
He walked past a couple of more similar houses to reach at length where the fields started. His was a little farther off. First was the field of Ramayram, then came patch eyed Sikha’s field, then was Jabal’s, then I forgot whose and then his, He stood there and looked at his possession with great pride.
—No wonder men die for land.
What is it that it holds?
Promises of a sure grave.
Calm and tensed. Sensed, just replace the T with an S and see what it becomes. He moves towards his food, his life, his only means to live. To evade the clutches of death. Moves toward it in a pace. Thinking of his wife, his son, and how it was mixed with the future of this piece of land. Thinking how growing food for others gave him clothes for himself. Ramayram is struggling with his field. Waves at him from another end, and gets back to work. The others are as busy while he crosses them.
Why you late? Roared Jabal.
Satis made a gesture saying it was nothing. The hand shaking like a fit, rising and falling. Such a tense action for the arm, and signifies nothingness. We have strange ways, stranger is our understanding.
—Who created money? The Will of Man!: Arguable. You can are-gu-able yourself. I think it was money that created man, not the other way around. Before that; we were animals. We still are. Just that we deny it. Despicable creatures. Bombing in
He touched the first layer of his growth. His sweat and effort. The swaying bales of hay. All his emotions turn gay. Not eureka, but ecstasy, ecstasy, ecstasy. And elation. And something else. Something more important. More rare. Love. That’s it, that’s what he felt. Love and all its gladness. He felt love for his crops, he felt love for himself.
—Love. Isn’t violence a form of love? The strangest form. Answer me, is it?
