Its Experi-men-tation Baby!

Colors, 

Colors they come off me,

Soak me, 

Wet me, 

Set me free.

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Sleeping Buddha

* Charcoal on Paper (32"*21")

You Are a Horse!!

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Corruption

—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.   

The Dragon of Darkness

—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

Falls toward deep sleep tonigh’

Para-Dice

Curtains Raised.

Bright lights. There is a wooden table at centre stage. Two boys (Dracoan & Dragoan) are sitting at 60 degree angles, facing the theatre. There is an ashtray, a bottle of whiskey, and some cigarettes on the table. Apart from this the entire stage is empty.

Dracoan is dressed in a loose t-shirt and tight jeans.
Dragoan is dressed in a black suit.

Dracoan: Don’t you get bored with the same old story?

Dargoan: Which story?

Dracoan: The same that’s been there for centuries.

Dargoan: Arabian Nights?

Dracoan: I’d say the dark nights.

Dargoan: Why is that?

Dracoan: You’ve been fighting for the same cause for years. Don’t you think it’s got a little boring? I mean find a new reason now, if you can’t get over the fighting. It’s sad how you just go on. For all that non-sense.

Dargoan: Why is it sad? We are fighting for a reason that surpasses man. You don’t understand the essence of it. The importance of it. God if for everyone, and people should recognize him, praise him. We are just fighting so that you can also avail of all that he has to offer. You have to look at the good side of it. No need to think of the sacrifices we make. That is in fact for god. Anything done in the name of god is just and right. God is good, and merciful, and great, and loving, and caring, and intelligent, and

Dracoan: Missing. (Abruptly adds)

Dargoan: What does that mean?

Dracoan: Only that—in whatever you said which part does god play? All those words have your soul written on them. All that blabbering about justice, and good, and the rest of the banter. Tell me truly? What is that you want?

Dargoan: I thought about it once. I want to be released from fear. I don’t know what is going to happen. I know there is a beautiful world after this. But will I go there? I am not sure. I don’t know why. But I know I will find out. I have faith in god. And he will take me into his house. I know. I know.

Dracoan: So in short you destroy other’s houses to ensure that you receive one of your own.

Dargoan: No it’s just that I want to serve god, I don’t want to be off to be damned through eternity. That too long.

Dracoan: If you die. You die my friend. Then where is the element of pain? Pain is the companion of flesh, of this world. Not of death.

Dargoan: No! you don’t understand. You have closed your heart to god. You are damned. We are not killing and we will not just die. We will be martyrs. There is a difference. Militancy is justice in its raw form. Someone has to cure mankind, and teach it the higher ways. We only bring the message of god. Of what he actually intended us to do. We have nothing for our selves, don’t you see it? Yes, may be, I want to go to heaven, but in this world, I only want to cure man of their sins. It is wrong to ignore god. He is our creator.

Dracoan: Are you sure? Where do your parents come in then?

Dargoan: They were just a vehicle. God sends his people down to help his cause. We have a very divine cause. You only need to think of all the things god has given us.

Dracoan: Yes. And man in his struggle to create so much over the years, was just fooling around. It took us 5,000 years to reach where we are. Then what about that?

Dargoan: God wanted us to learn gradually. He knows what is the right time for us to learn. He knows all and he knows best. You should not question him. Just submit to him and he will give you a place paradise.

Dracoan: Para...DICE! (Starts to laugh) Go to sleep my boy. Justice is a grand musical myth. But it is beyond man. This is not your fault. We have walked to far ahead to be cured. Let death be the silent cure then.

The Technicolor Man : Chapter 2

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!: Ill! Oo’ ans’ Ominance!

 

— 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. Me. Your. lull-a-bye

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 Tibet today? Peace? This world is a mythical beast of power. Dragons that fight not for food, but power. That might be its food, but its dangerous, for that is its fire. And it can burn cities, and countries. The dragon of mythical ages; survives. Men that crave for power. Ugly dragons, of the guile. Its funny, how people die for land. True. False. Old. Gold. What happened? To the heart. We have misunderstood ourselves as higher beings. We LoWeR BeingS.       

 

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, Delhi. They should see him sometime. Doesn’t charge much I heard.

 

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 Delhi, for land in Kashmir. Yes, they sure do want a land. To urinate on.

 

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?         

The Technicolor Man : Chapter 1

—In the grooves and between the trees of a village there are families. Through the goat paths, the straws, and the leaves there are houses — intertwined.

 

—They meet. They cheer. They greet. In the morning they meet, cheer, and greet. Through the day they work, eat, sing, and produce. They do it so that the minds of the intricate world can survive with their intricacies. Their sweat is sowed and reaped through the mingling seasons. This is the village. Cold, warm and green. Here is the house—seasoned by the lack of riches—of the family.

 

The sun came up early today, a little too early. Chintu could have used a couple of hours more of sleep. His 4 feet small fragile body could use it. Only if the fear of ‘Master Ji’ would not have been singing its songs in his drowsy heart. Did Eklavya ever fear Drona? So beautiful and complicated in mythology: heartless beasts glorified as gods.

 

His eyes were bulging with fatigue when he opened them to the strange intensity of the morning sun. It shouldn’t have been that bright, not at that hour or may be the anticipated hour was wrong. The shadow of the tree outside was growing smaller and moving away from the house. The voluptuous tree called to its shadow—stop o dear one: but who can stop the sun?

 

Chintu was late.

 

—A young bullet shot in the house and bounced clinging and clanging.

 

Geeta opened her shocked; brown and mild eyes, arose, and rushed outside. All in one movement, all in one instant. The day had dawned, and loitered ahead, leaving the walls without shadows in the wrinkles that crept from one side of the room to another. There were dark lines though. Dark lines: cracks. There was not even a reminiscence of a shadow.

 

Chintu was definitely late.

 

It hurt Geeta every time she thought of Chintu being late. It would have been all right if it was only about missing a subject or two. But today, Chintu would come back at least an inch swollen throughout. An inch.

 

—It is through fear that the children of the deprived are bred. They are powerless; their fathers helplessly father them. Crying father of dead children. The rich can dispose off the teacher himself; throw him out, like a used condom that solves its purpose. But the poor? They pay the price of being what they are—poor. Forgive the wrong, for there will be a time when you shall have your moment. So says the almighty. So says the herd. Are you sure that there is a kingdom? Another kingdom? Will we have to tolerate god again?

 

—The master went through the procedure in his youth, and repeats the actions he had once thoroughly despised. :. We become the image we most hate.

 

Tanned brown, wearing blue shorts and a starched yellow shirt that used to be white when it had been bought, Chintu rushes through the door thinking of food. He resembles a storm. Fast, ragged and furious. His legs race the ground with uncertain confidence: of course that’s a form of confidence, but it is uncertain. Two short poles evenly divided in the middle. His upper torso is a little longer then it should be. But that decisively adds to the beauty of his fragile body. His face is brown and warm. A homely nose, not too short, but pointed. A smooth face. It reminds of a Greek sea if one was to think too hard. Otherwise; its just a face. Blah Blah Blah.

 

He has missed his breakfast again. Somehow he never got his head around the idea of missing his meals. He loves to eat, just anything. But food is a scarcity for the village, and a liability for the rich. What you sow and reap is not what you eat!

 

—Where grains grow in the fertile land

And tilled by those fruitful hands,

There lavishes famine,

And there lie graves,

Of our submitting prey.

 

His feet ride him along the path, cow dung cakes and the salty smell of urine rise to greet his steps. His rushing feet and his desultory breath bathe in the senses of the village. Pure nature—welcome unhurt. The trees awaken to his heaving, as he storms through the path. The breeze comes from behind him, gently helping him to carry on, putting in some effort to help him rush. Just a gentle effort, a lulled push by nature’s arm.

 

—Let me carry you

Oh child!

Let me help your feet

To rush through your innocence

Towards the world

And worldly men

 

A broken creaking gate holds the school premises to its heart. Swinging gaily, lazily, beside a stooping clock of wood. Naughty girl with her hurried smile. She does not understand what she calls for. 30 years back when Master Ji had been a freshly appointed teacher to this school it had been conjoined to the wall under his and his student’s guidance. There had been a ceremony; a marigold garland had been put on the gate for months. It had been a subject of great pride for all concerned directly or indirectly with the school.

 

But both Master Ji and the gate had withered with time. Both had learned to creak and crow, both sulked with age and made profane gestures in sound. Master Ji had lost his temper; he had lost his life; he had lost his dream; to the unnerving antics of the village. Sometimes giving up is considered virtuous. Patrons of boredom—heralds of death. If you let your dreams die, what dream can you nurture in minds that truly deserve a dream. Compromise, animals, compromise.   

 

Chintu entered the cold building that had its walls coming off. Its paint had rotten. It rolled out an aura of a dead corpse, with a distinct source of energy. It struck with shock. But the shock was of that which leaves us unnerved. Can the house of knowledge—the house of wisdom—resemble the house of doom? Show me the kingdom! And I will show you a lie.

 

—We create images of our wisdom: not in our wisdom: with conviction. The house of knowledge resides in a word, in a mind, not in a wall.

 

—Break down the castle of the foretold

We are the children of a new breeze

Forget us if we don’t except what you preach

We shall learn from the naked trees

 

Panting and rushing he reached the door of his nightmare, and stood silently. He did not know how to react. All eyes turned to him, a gesture of sympathy, with the knowledge of the future.

 

Calm and cruel Master Ji threw the chalk from his hand and raised his voice as if to mock the idea of future itself—So here is you, my lad. Good. Very good!

 

Trembling emotions take siege. Chintu moaned a mute—Yes, Master Ji. The words came out like puberty. Fresh and unheard. You could not squeeze the untold from lime; they configure only juice.

 

Achaaa! Come late and no reply, Excuse you can give at least. But no! I thinks you need a lesson, but a different lesson, Smiled Master Ji. Red rotten teeth.

 

He rushes to his prey. His vengeance restored. Frightened eyes catch the million shadows on the ceiling. All sorts of spiders and webs. Instructors of Biology. Tangled and prostrate—beaten blue, we live as long as a sparkling dew. Sudden change of scene, his eyes see the room. There are shocking changes. Rapid changes in shape, fast moving objects, from one corner of the eye to the other. Nothing is constant. Light. Dark. Pain. There is a pleasure in pain. A very subtle pleasure, only for those who understand.

 

That will teach you not to come late now—says a bulging voice from a bulging stomach. Give it horns. Greet the lord of darkness. But: he is innocent. He knows not what he does. The devil was not wrong in what he did. The problem was he was too right. And that’s always wrong.

 

—Let’s play a subtle game

One where you, and I can blame

One where I, and you can blame

Let’s play a subtle game

 

Chintu went over to his desk. And smoothened himself on a seat. Yet again wood calls. Soft and motherly. Scroooaap. Is he going to teach history today? What book do I bring out? Or do I just shut my bag again? Who wrote history? They say we all have a hand?

 

—Sit yourself dear friend

Nature will guide you till the end.

 

—History swims like waves, crashes upon rocks. Here gems are made. Gems are made. Are made. Made. Fade. Made. Fade. Fake. Made. Fake.