Death of a Phone

The moral of this story is crystal clear: jhagralu women are injurious to cellular health.

No, I’m not a misogynist. Neither am I one of those people who blame others without rhyme or reason, just because it happens to be convenient to pass the buck. No, I’m a reasonable, rational, sensible man who comes to an opinion after carefully weighing all possible circumstantial evidence. I have the authority of experience backing me, so I say: women are injurious to mobile phones.

First it was Cynthia. Now, it really was Cynthia who initiated me into text messaging; infact forced me into it by messaging at all sorts of inconvenient hours. I had this idea that if somebody’s taking the trouble to call or message you it’s basic human courtesy to reply.

And so I replied. Replied and replied and replied till I finally got the hang of typing a full message and successfully sending it within a minute. My speed, as she complemented me one day, was now tolerably decent.

It was, of course, this very messaging and the misunderstandings it created that led to a nice big jhagra.

So far so good. Dear beloved phone still alright. It was after reconciliation came about that weird things started happening. For about a week or so, the messages she would send would arrive dot on time but those sent by others would take hours upon hours to reach me. I consulted experts-my technologically minded brother and Mos-but to no avail. To this day I call it the B- effect.

A dark omen of things to come.

Next was a little tiff-it cannot qualify as a full blown jhagra-with the Stage Queen. Within a span of about 5 minutes I received some 10 frightening messages. Now, my phone is a simple, sasta-sundar-tikau Classic model with a set of inexorable limitations. If you’re typing a message and another one comes, you have to be extremely careful in patiently guiding the highlight to “Ignore” and pressing “Ok”. A chance mistake and all your carefully typed reply disappears. Often, even if you take all the precautions, your reply will vanish nonetheless and you’ll be left staring blankly at the black-bubble colour display. Just like me, my phone has a mind of its own that rebels at the very thought of external control and supervision.

Anyway, as I would type a reply and be about to take the highlight to send another message would come. As luck would have it, the phone was not in a mood to cooperate and so in spite of all possible precautions I was reduced to typing the same message for about 5 times. As I typed the sixth, the last nail in the coffin was hammered- I didn’t think you’d ignore me.

I was paying more attention than I have to any set of messages in my entire life.

Finally, the next morning, I got back to replying. Having learnt my lesson from last night’s disaster, I now wisely saved messages before sending them so that in case the phone became Satanic and exercised too much free will or the network played truant, I wouldn’t have to type the entire saga again.

Very wise. But phones will be phones and women will be women. Unknown to me, all the harm had already been done. The matter got resolved, but the phone took it all to heart and decided to not let go of the messages saved in its Outbox. Those 7 or 8 messages are still there, defying all efforts to open, leave aside delete, them. This was the P- effect.

‘Never mind’, I reassured myself, ‘What if the Outbox’s not functioning? Heaven help me, I can still send and receive messages!’

Sometimes, even heaven conspires for your downfall…

I must’ve been under a bad shadow, my stars under some evil influence, for how else can I explain my own Guardian Angel making a Faust of me? Alas, be it me, be it the loo, ‘twas to be, ‘twas to be! A jhagra, dramatic on a totally different plane, and my poor phone left bristling with indignation. Just as I messaged “I want you to be happy!” the K- effect went came into being: the phone decided that it had had enough of all the drama and the cheesy cheeky messages and B-grade shayari it had been exposed to throughout its career. Renouncing the world of text messaging, it relapsed into a mode of defiant sanyasa, meditating, perhaps, on the great ills of teenaged existence…

So, here I stand. This is me, this is you: there is somewhere else I’d rather be. I’d rather have my phone returned to its primal innocence, the spic and span way it was before all these falls. I’d rather have it working, cooperating with me than sulking away in silent defiance like this…

All my pleas, however, have been put on hold. The Phone Devta heeds not my calls and even as I type it networks the remaining signal of my phone’s battery to its own anant connection…

Ah well, such is life, such are phones, such are women…if anything, remember, as my mother said, this: never have a jhagra with a woman on your phone!

Me and Mine: A Plurality of Forms

To Shefali Bhakuni

*

(Because a fascinating ass would never let me be and a silly ass would never believe me)

*

What is in a name? A name shapes one’s perception of the self, of identity and communal belonging. A name places one in a socio-cultural milieu, defining one’s roots and, more often than not, neatly docketing one in ethic and racial compartments.

There is something rotten about names…

I, like a majority of us, love my name, but even as one thinks of a name (of a person one knows) one conjures certain ideas and images which one’s subconscious consciously associates with him/her. This, of course, is but natural, for it is in us humans an inherent cognitive faculty which links names and faces with certain perceptions and ideas. These perceptions, which may be acquired or inherited, perform this self same task of definition and categorisation.

So far, so good. What irks me is that after forming an opinion, a majority of people restrict themselves to that single image, idea of a person. They allow their perceptions to ossify and think of people as only this or that, as a particular, distinct and more or less unchangeable form or personality. In trying to define and compartmentalise people as neatly and efficiently as possible, they tend to forget, or overlook, the basic mutability of individual human personality.

What we are is what we choose. There is no natural or primal state- except the nothingness of a babe that is. Exploiting the building blocks of examples and precepts made available by society we create ourselves upon the foundation of inherited genetic traits. Of course, these ‘creations’ are always influenced by society in certain more or less predictable forms. There are people who are shaped directly by their surroundings and social group of family, peers and colleagues and there are people who adopt the I-don’t-care attitude and feign independence from societal pressures- for the most these latter are remarkably sensitive and are greatly affected in subtle, often contradictory ways by societal input, doing and becoming the opposite of what others around them want/suggest.

Broadly speaking, childhood, teenage and young adulthood may be considered the most dynamic years of a person’s life, physically, emotionally and intellectually. It is during these impressionable ages that the human animal evolves the most and, under influence, plants various forms and designs into his/her persona till inspired experimentation sediments into the quasi-stasis of middle age. Of course, after settling into a personality form/type a majority of us rigidify to maintain the status quo for considerable stretches of time- often lifetimes. We then experience occasional bouts when the old urge for change materialises in ‘new looks’, those small periods of experimentation which are soon absorbed into the continuum of monolithic monotony.

In face of this near-complete universality exceptions inevitably suffer. Those of us who experiment or change have to face a barrage of unwelcome criticism, most of it odiously unkind. Our inherent subconscious cultural prejudices and suspicions against change lead us to consciously browbeat this difference into submissive absorption, so much so that even those of us relatively more receptive to change often fall into this trap of inflexibility. Doing so, we forget that what we perceive as natural and given in ourselves and others are in fact our own creations and can be altered at will. Indeed, such is the malleability of human nature that it will change marvellously under pressure and though each individual has his/her own breaking point-and the range varies-but each of us does give in at some point or the other.

In light of this, it will be pertinent to consider the common (mis)conception about natural state(s). One often comes across homilies or adjuncts advising us to ‘be ourselves’, to ‘top pretending’ and be our ‘natural selves’. Social networking sites are choking with testimonials and profiles of people who’re either acclaimed by their friends for ‘being themselves’ or who openly display their intense dislike of ‘hypocrites’ who ‘pretend to be something they’re not’. What ‘being oneself’ means is something which never crosses their narrow, blinkered minds.

After all, what one perceives as one’s ‘natural state’ is just one of the infinite possibilities which has been for some time past in favour. This misguided notion leads one and all to confuse it as natural and given and consequently view any change as an unnatural disturbance to be rectified at once. Indeed, we all get so involved in the idea of being ourselves that in the constant endeavour to live up to that image we forget that the self same idol can at any time be altered, or even altogether replaced. Many people suffer under this delusion, that they cannot change themselves for the better, and mistaking the temporality of existence for the permanence of Bhagvad truth fail to try hard enough to improve their lot.

Therefore, the demise of a quasi-permanent natural order of being makes the very idea of duplicity, so heavily demonised in our cultures, patently superfluous, for one’s changed form is not as much of a detachable mask or hat as a whole skin with accompanying blood and bones- a manifestation of our boundless nature and not some extraneous addition. Furthermore, the beliefs which make us punish differences of personality are really culturally imposed barriers which cloud our vision to the unending diversity of our race, the only thing ‘natural’ to the homo sapiens.

The discovery of change-for convenience’s sake ‘form’-is often startling and the resulting recourse to charges of duplicity and perversity understandable and, to an extent, justifiable. This is not a value judgement on the ends to which perceived duplicity, or change of form, is, and may be, put to. Instead, this is an iteration of the belief that we as a species need to wake up to the undeniable reality of our mutability and so move on-rather evolve-to a more advanced state of flexibility, understanding and acceptance.

In Defense of Toilets

It’s the 100th year of the lavatory- or so says the Hindustan Times. I sure am glad that it is, even if it’s really not. My happiness stems from the realisation of the comfort which all our umpteen modern ‘conveniences’ (talk about fitting names!) have brought to our lives. Sadly, we seem to take all of them, including the humble toilet, for granted.

Arguably, the toilet is one of the single most important invention without which the progress of human civilisation would not have been possible. Without toilets life would’ve been miserable, trudging to the bush and back again every second hour. Without toilets we would never have had ample time to devote ourselves purely to work or leisure, for we would still be nicking into the nearest convenient bush to answer nature’s inexorable call. Villages would not have developed into Kingdoms, Kingdoms not into Empires; Empires would not have fallen, Kingdoms again not risen, Monarchies then not evolved into Democracies.

Considering the pivotal role which toilets have played in human history, it is surprising that so little attention has been paid to them in world literature. The near-universal silence of literature on this vital aspect of human life is as shocking as it is suspect…a gigantic consensual conspiracy of silence, transcending all socio-politico-cultural barriers and shadow lines, seems to be underway to edge out the toilet from public consciousness, thus denying it its rightful place in the annals of history as one of the most fundamental building block of human civilisation. Indeed, the degenerative mythification of the toilet as a cultural taboo unworthy of mention is one of the greatest crimes which Literature is yet to be accounted for.

A world without toilets, a world wherein we did not pee or shit is unimaginable. Yet, the evidence afforded by our Literature seems to suggest otherwise. In no work have I come across a passage wherein somebody just breaks off with a “I gotta pee”. The narratives just go on without any regard for realism. This tendency towards deliberate over-simplification and programmatic marginalisation of important life-processes is markedly prominent in ancient and medieval literature.

Consider for example Homer. The great bard versified so much, yet he could not bring himself to make any single one of his characters to relieve themselves when it’s patently obvious that all of them must’ve spent a considerable amount of time and effort doing so. By a rough estimate, there must’ve been more than 90,000 men in the Achaian army. While the high ups like Achilles must’ve had the luxury of deflating themselves in small pots in the comfort of their tents, a majority of the common soldiery would’ve had to go out, either by the sea or under cover of wooded Ida. Imagine first the sight, thousands upon thousands of men groggily tramping out of their miserable camps to ease out last night’s ration. Imagine then the cumulative stench which would have accumulated around the camp in 10 long years of continuous excreta. Imagine now the environmental degradation, the inestimable damage done to the rivers and fields of Troy. All these are important, pertinent issues, but that all too famous poet sheds no light upon them.

The additional burden of structural artificiality of irresolvable, unbelievable imbalances added on to such fantastic works as epics becomes all the more apparent when one tries to imaginatively identify with their characters. Take the Ramayana. Ramanand Sagar’s version; the final fearsome aerial battle betwixt Ram and Ravan. A volley of abuse and deadly arrows flying over to each side. The tacky ‘mahasangram’ tune blaring in the background.

(Mahasangram! Ek dharm raath par baitha, ek paap rath par baitha, do maha bali, do maha rathi sangram karte hain! Antim charan mai yudh Ravan Ram karte hain! Yudham, yudham, yudham maha-yudham!)
Ram (righteous wrath): Neech nishachar! Asahaiye striyon pe veerta dikhane vale kayar! Tu kis baat par apne ko veer kehta hai! Dharm ki maryada bhang karne vale paapi! Teere samast paapon ka dand aaj tyujhe avash milega! (lightning across the blue-red-yellow-green sky; Narad and Devtas nod in approval)
(Mahasangram! Ek dharm raath par baitha, ek paap rath par baitha, do maha bali, do maha rathi sangram karte hain! Antim charan mai yudh Ravan Ram karte hain! Yudham, yudham, yudham maha-yudham!)
Ravan (devlish sarcasm): Dand dene ka kaam raja ka hai, bhikari ka nahi! (demonic laugh) Hahaha! (more lightning; Narad and an assortment of devtas look worried)
(Mahasangram! Ek dharm raath par baitha, ek paap rath par baitha, do maha bali, do maha rathi sangram karte hain! Antim charan mai yudh Ravan Ram karte hain! Yudham, yudham, yudham maha-yudham!)
Ram (eyeballs popping out in anger; taking up his bow): He paapi, kshatriya prahar karte hain, shastron se, shabdon se nahi! Seh mera var!
(Mahasangram! Ek dharm raath par baitha, ek paap rath par baitha, do maha bali, do maha rathi sangram karte hain! Antim charan mai yudh Ravan Ram karte hain! Yudham, yudham, yudham maha-yudham!)
Ravan (casanovic carelessness; taking up his mace): Kaal tumhe pukar raha he Ram!
(Mahasangram! Ek dharm raath par baitha, ek paap rath par baitha, do maha bali, do maha rathi sangram karte hain! Antim charan mai yudh Ravan Ram karte hain! Yudham, yudham, yudham maha-yudham!)
Ram (sheepish, but with all the Iskvaku dignity): Ruko Ravan! Ruko! Shan bhar ke liye ruko! Yudh viram karo! Aaj subah se sonch nahi gaya hun: aab sheegra, ati-sheegra jana hoga! Mai abhi aya...(to Matali, the charioteer of his divine raath)…Matali, jaldi jungle chalo!
(Ravan, Lakshman, Hanuman, Sugreev, Jamvant, Narad, Devtas and others aghast)
(Mahasangram! Ek dharm raath par baitha, ek paap rath par baitha, do maha bali, do maha rathi sangram karte hain! Antim charan mai yudh Ravan Ram karte hain! Yudham, yudham, yudham maha-yudham!)

I mean, I can take dragons and walking mummies and gandharvas and fairies and daemons, but I simply cannot believe in a world where nobody never ever needs to shit and pee!

Just how simple and easy it would’ve been for us students and critics of humanities, of history, sociology, religion, politics, psychology and literature, if writers had just mentioned the toilets of the rich and famous they immortalised. Had Plutarch just dropped in a line or two about Caesar’s loo before he fell with ‘Et tu’, we could’ve have saved a whole colosseum full of money spent in archaeological excavations. Had the unknown bard of Beowulf just put in a few verses about his lavatory we would not be scratching our head with regard to early Anglo-Saxon conveniences. Had Shakespeare made Hamlet continue his trauma while letting go of his inner tensions our perception of Elizabethan hygiene would’ve been a lot less murky. Had Eliot given Maggie just a wee more room in a little loo of her own we would’ve better understood not just her but the Mill, and so the Victorian milieu, as a whole…

Had…if…the literary history of the toilet’s representation is a sad invisible chronicle of deliberately squandered opportunities, of blatant sacrifices of realism to arbitrary cultural norms in the name of a mythical purity. Of course, Literature’s reprehensible role in the formation of these norms, as for other norms, cannot be over-emphasised. The loss, however, has also been Literature’s, for the toilet’s comic, tragic and tragi-comic (things…cameras…going down the chute) potential has been largely unrealised.

Fortunately, the democratisation of Literature along with the emergence of literatures has ushered in an open-minded honesty which slightly redeems it of past atrocities. (Post) Modern writers in their depiction of reality-which is no longer thrice removed from anything-do not shy away from toilet scenes, be it escaping the police by jumping down a toilet in the Louvre in Brown’s Da Vinci Code or wild sex in an asylum’s washroom in a Bond thriller. However, what really broke the porcelain ceiling was the entry of cinema and television and its depicting of all sorts of toilet and toilet-related activities: sex, strangulation, drinking, electrocution, smoking, stabbing, graffiti, cat-fights, vandalism and so on. Posterity will be indebted to modern-and post-modern-cinema and television for an open, unbiased and healthy pursuit of lavatoric realism which does away with the restrictions of previous narrow eras...

There comes a time in every society’s history wherein it makes a tryst with destiny. Long ago, with the emergence of modernism, we did that and the time has come to redeem that pledge. At the dawn of history the toilet started its unending quest for glory and the trackless centuries are filled with its unyielding struggles. The toilet’s star has finally risen and Literature now stands at the cusp of a new age, a new dawn of equality and emancipation. Freedom and power have brought us a responsibility to correct the wrongs of the past, and we must all labour hard to give expression to our reality, to write in unison for the formation of a better, shitty world…

Padichcha Muttal

To my parents, thanking them for their good sense, for had they not been so, I would not have been able to write this at all.

*

“What is education?”, I asked P.T., my oldest-and now settled in Canada-friend.

“I guess its school and college, test and exam, certificate and degree”, he replied. “You know, all that boring stuff.”

However, as I lay down to sleep that night, that seemingly simple question haunted me and my friend’s answer got me thinking.

Is education just about school and college, test and exam? Is its purpose so shallow or is there nota higher meaning attached to it?

That a huge majority of people hold my friend’s view is more than just obvious. Society considers a matric pass to be more educated than an illiterate. Similarly, a degree holder is more educated than a matric pass and a 95% scorer is definitely more valued than a 75% one.

Society is of course right in adopting this approach, for it creates standards which must e met and which, if met, augur well for a person as far as his/her economic condition is concerned.

However, what I feel is that society cannot be justified for calling each and every degree holder or matric pass person as educated.

According to me, education has a far greater meaning than just what our parents and friends would have us believe, for just as it is about ‘all that boring stuff’, it is (or should be) also about acquainting students with the finer aspects of human nature (such as kindness, compassion and honesty), imbibing in them a sense of what is right and what is wrong and sensitising them towards the plethora of problems that mankind faces today and making them realise the individual’s role in solving them.

So perhaps what we consider as education is just the process of getting literate, partially or fully as the case may be. The wisdom and foresight that comes with education has perhaps nothing to do with the subtle art of scoring in exams. If this be the case (and I strongly feel that it is), then all of us ought to stop, introspect and pose that dreadful question to ourselves- “Am I educated?”

Let me give an example of two men whom I happened to come across.

The first one is an amiable man, ever so polite in his manner and ever so witty in his speech. He works hard, is honest and true of heart. This man is a rickshaw puller, an illiterate person from one of the lowest strata of Delhi’s many layered society.

The second is a boisterous person, vulgar in his behaviour and totally unruly in his conduct. His speech is always graced with the most unutterable of swear words that were ever made. This man is a class fellow of mine, a person from a well to do, respectable middle class family.

Who would you consider more agreeable, more likeable, in fact, the better human being- the unlettered, but yet humble rickshaw puller or the so called educated, but yet atrocious middle class lad?

There is something fundamentally wrong with a society that scoffs at the poor rickshaw puller, but showers praise on the rowdy school boy as long as he continues to score (which, considering the technological advances made in the still more subtle art of cheating, is not so difficult!).

It is clear that education and the process of getting literate are two different phenomena, though slightly inter-connected. Therefore, the question worth asking is this- If schools don’t educate, then what does?

To me, the answer lies in that most primitive of human creations that has uptill now stood the ravages of about 10,000 years worth of time and provided the foundation for human society to grow and to flourish- the family.

It is undeniable that a strong, sensible family gives a stable and fruitful environment for children to grow, and resultantly, get educated. It is also undeniable that a weak family deprives children of the essential atmosphere for their stable growth.

Therefore, if the system is churning out such mammoth proportions of uneducated literates, then it is not just the fault of the so called temples of learning that have converted into temples of Mammon, but also the current generation of parents who look inside just the report card and not the heart.

To be literate is easy enough. To be educated is what is challenging.

The Lady Farmer

(A Continuation of the mock-epic, The Borgoad)

*

To
Our Dusky Goddess,
Cynthia,
A Tribute

*

Madame,

That which with you began,
Its end the Muse to me sang!
This, therefore, my last shall be:
Accept, O! this offering divine and thus sanctify me!

*

…A Vision of Beauty…
(An Excerpt from a Diary)

…Rested on the recliners for a while. Very pleasant. Strange thing is that I opened my eyes for a while and I saw a quite stunning Ananya in some sort of robe or something. She’s generally beautiful, but she was looking quite stunning at that time. Hmmm…”

*

I

Finally awake, the Goddess dressed,
All her regalia before her spread:
Here some Wit from Lunar spheres brought,
There some soot from hell fires begot.
With these, and others, did Shri- her dress,
From head to heel, her Di to impress.
Last, round her neck she fastened,
A golden shell in silvery lands apportioned.

Once it was of a coral part,
Then under a Konkani’s hand did it smart;
Soon in Big Foot it gleaming lay,
Where the Goddess, glancing that way,
Saw it shinning in the Sun,
Lost her heart over its beauty divine, and
Took it for her own, for all time.

This the shell which the Goddess so adored,
Gracefully round her neck she wore;
Its glory great, far-reaching, wide:
Think you of crosses? Nay, ‘tis blasphemy snide!
Look but once at the shell, and,
As I do, write!

II

So fashioned, she her self issued,
Out to the world to conquer it anew,
With charms, graces and Hecate’s chosen few.
Up she went the hill, on the pinnacle stood,
Thence surveyed the masses ranged,
From all corners assembled to do her praise.

From Dibru came tea folk in numbers great,
Habung from its medieval bowels sent Chutiya tribes;
Some still from Silapa came to honour their Queen,
As did from Nalani, Goga, and Jonai green.
Last to come, yet the most, was
The marvellous Pink host.
From a world pink, curtain to commode,
Came that mighty Borrower horde!

So stood those agents ordained,
Numbering in some thousands, flooding the plain,
Calling out to their mother, their sovran liege,
Eagerly waiting for the Communion to begin.

III

Happy and pleased, mightily gratified,
At this seemly pageant before her sight,
The Goddess went further to the dais,
To address all, without any bias.
“Hear ye, my children, hark to my Word,
My vision divine, my mission bold!
To cover again this earth in greenly expanse,
To farm every inch, till all feed from my hands!
I shall be Demeter, that goddess of yore,
Holding the secret tightly for my fold-”

“Amen!” cried the Masses, their fists they shook,
In true prime ministerial fashion, with all the proper looks.
Rousing, cheering, they stood up to dance,
Yet the Goddess’s stern command broke their prance.

“Fools!” she cried, and sparks from those orbs flew,
(The very same which have devoured a zillion chickens small)
Dangerous, deadly, black now in hue:
What Belinda, what Stella divine,
Aye, what even of Eve, temptress fine?
Globes such as these eclipse all, be it in prose, or rhyme tall!

“I may not be interrupted, disturbed or questioned in between,
Lest you I make my Scullery-queen!
My mood is bad, on mushroom curry was I fed,
Be careful, therefore, lest I go back to bed!”

IV

Hearing this, the host greatly trembled,
Fearing retribution, it haltingly mumbled.
Yet her Pinkish favourites soon a plan devised,
To sacrifice at her altar things she greatly liked.
Mushrooms they gathered, onions and pans,
And lo! in a jiffy the fried delicacy was at hand!

This they carried to her towering height,
Gave it to Bhattji, who placed it by her angry side.
The Goddess, furious, in deadly silence stood,
Resisting all, in a corner her anger brooked.
Yet, when food summons, foodies must obey,
And as Flecknoe to the son, she fell to this prey.

V

The feast over, her hungry tide fed,
(the sign a burp, though to all but Poetick ears dead!)
The Goddess her congregation again addressed-
“There are things I like, things I don’t.
Know this, then, that poverty, cowardice,
Bad food do I deeply abhor.
Take me for granted, deny me my space,
Though chivalry still be alive,
By these hands you’ll be dead!”

Lightening again from those narrowed slits issue:
The earth trembled, Phoebus from the firmament flew.
Men fled home, consulted divines,
Even hostellers from their slumbers were awakened to pine!

VI

Yet, as it came, so did it die.
Indra called back the clouds, Surya timorously smiled,
Lit up her person, till she again was gay:
Now from those orbs came beatific rays,
Blessed her children, happily amazed.
“I know how it is, I am not angry now!
Therefore to my mission, on the plan concentrate.
We shall over the world, take it for our own,
From CP’s KFC to Kamakhya’s dome.
Everywhere have green rolling farms,
Stretching to the horizon, like unending yarns.
Therein, by my grace, shall grow vegetables all,
Rice, pulses and cereals tall.
Water in canals shall irrigate our lands,
Yet it shall be checked, so it breaks no dams.
Cows we shall have, chicken and goat,
Watery creatures that gracefully float.
Last of all, some mares new,
And, before I forget, piggies and ducklings few!

This my plan, this my view,
To commercialise farming, yet have a romantic hue!
When this succeeds, the world I’ll hold ransom,
To do as I bid, though I not be hairy Samson.
I will then my laws universal make,
No one then shall be brave to them brake!
First and foremost, good food shall prevail,
Succour for foodies, all mess cooks shall wail!
Then shall be banned societies all:
Beginning with Ramjas Assamese, all shall fall!
Next to go, the cult of Preachers:
Dominating men, unabashed speakers!
I am here, there’s Bhattji by my side,
We need none other to set the world right!

Finally when these, and others, are gone,
Universal peace on a dog-less world dawned,
Pax Borgana then shall reign supreme,
Then shall we my final commandment meet,
Then shall I, at long last, watch TV in peace!
Friends forever, Drake and Josh on Nick,
Silsila, Blood Diamond, Bicycle Thief,
Paradise Now, Page 3, the Ocean Series.
Last of all, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai cute:
Silly, yes, but, like me, beautiful too!”

At this the Goddess blushed and smiled,
Her queenly hair flew with pride.
Adjusted she her pose to once again declaim,
Yet with a “Cease!” was stopped that glorious dame.

VII

Suddenly before the Goddess materialised,
A triumvirate of men, noble and wise.
(Aye, so wise indeed that it dripped form their chins,
And all land round them turned to boggy gin!)
First a lama from snowy Kullu,
Chhuba clad, solemn as Athena’s ullu.
Then a monk from woods charmed,
Tonsured in grief, popishly garbed.
Finally a sage from Maya’s land,
Learned in lore, bespectacled and grand.
Each in his hand carried a staff,
Each of these ancient, of mark.
Each of these with divine power them invest,
Each of these with wit them bless.

VIII

Tell me now, O black-eyed Muse, what happened next,
Who amongst the three broke off from the rest?
‘Twas you, popish monk who came fore,
Cleared your throat, and in true debating fashion spoke-
“Cease thou O Maid, O Augustan Queen!
Thou flies too high, aims for too much!
Thy ambition strays thee from the unbeaten path,
Of balance, harmony, and much else that lasts!”

Now came forward Maya’s man,
Master-illusionist, in sketching grand.
“Knowing, unknown, thou learns naught from precepts,
Loves Icarus, follows fallen Faustus!
Forgets thou that there be a higher order,
Not of instincts, but of ideologies proper!”

Then came up that mysterious Pahari man,
Gravely shook his head, and thus began-
“Thou hast sinned, over-reached, lied,
Dreamt up artifice, taken it too high!
For this thou shalt suffer, for this be punished,
For this unto the powers shall thee be delivered!”

IX

At this was there shouting, uproariously great,
Forward pressed the masses, yet they were too late.

Cried the monk “With this, my tap,
Thy masses freeze in time,
To remain here standing, statues now of lime!
Thus!” So he tapped his staff but once,
And all that teeming crowd was to lifeless stone turned!

Cried the sage “With this, my tap,
Thy retinue morphs to shrubs and trees,
This Shri- to mango, this Bhattji to tea!
Thus!” So he tapped his staff but once,
And both of them instantly foliage bred!

Came then the lama, to this now-tragic Goddess said
“Now to you, O over-reacher Maid,
With thy own curse thou shalt be laid!
Thou to unending sleep I consign,
To dream of a candlelight dinner, for two designed:
One Ocean, Rachael the other,
You their cook, waiter, tapster,
Serve them delicacies, yet taste not a feather!
At the end of each meal, ‘twill start again,
The candles, the table, the guests twain…
This shall go on, and so shall you sleep,
Till at last comes a man, aproned and clean.

This will be a chef, of great renown:
For you shall he make duck fry, aari and chicken chow-mein,
For you shall he pluck a mango and leaves,
Turn one into shake, the other iced tea.
Finally for you shall petha he make,
And, then, these toils complete,
In the final labour engage-
To open your sealed lips and push down your throat
A spoonful each of these delicacies fine.

Thus served by your suitor, your ideal man,
You shall again rise- a better maid:
This time a girl, not a Goddess great,
This time a woman, not a Queen to hate!”

X

So pronounced that man his judgement strange;
Tapped the last, and she fell fain.
The monk uttered over her sleeping form a charm,
To keep her, like dead Hektor, from all harm.
The sage then drew near,
The stage for some maya made clear
Moved his arms in strange designs,
And lo! from his lips issued a wind fine.
It carried her up, round and round,
Till sufficiently high, it changed ground:
Now over the cliff, the frozen masses,
Over Dhillika, Awadh and Siliguri’s passes,
Till back in Axom, her own blessed land,
To a certain room, hidden, yet not bland,
It flew her in and gently deposit,
Onto the bed, this sleeping beauty,
The Lady Farmer.

*

Notes

I

Para 1-
Line 3- Things lost were, during the Augustan age, supposed to be on the Moon. The Goddess has to get some Wit for herself as she indulges in her daily "rite of pride" (Raghunathan)...
Line 8- The Department of English stayed in a hotel called Silver Sands during its trip to Goa in 2009.

Para 2-
Line 3- (Big Foot) A local tourist site with a mythical/divine history.

Para 3-
Line 4- The famous cross which Pope adores his Belinda with- "On her white Breast a sparkling Cross she wore,/Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.”
Lines 5 to 6- Sidney's Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 15- “But if, both for your love and skill, your name/You seek to nurse at fullest breast of fame,/Stella behold and then begin to indite.” While Astrophil beholds Stella and so wreaks his harms in “ink’s poor loss”, this poet but looks at this glorious shell, and writes.

II

Para 1-
Line 1- (fashioned) 'There is no merit in God-given beauty; it may be enhanced- there's nothing wrong in fashioning oneself' This the sum of the Goddess's defence of kajal.
Line 3- (Hecate) The Greek Goddess of the Night, with all its sinister associations...

Para 2-
Line 2- In that blessed land of Assam, there indeed lives a tribe called Chutiya!
Line 6- The Goddess' sanctum sanctorum, the innermost recess of her private domain.

Para 3-
Line 2- As the Brahmaputra overpowers Dhemaji, and much else in Assam, with its waters, so did these agents flood the plain.
Line 3- (mother) Mother Assam?
Line 4- In context of The Borgoad's infernal associations, Communion gives this meeting an ironic tinge.

III

Para 1-
Line 5- As God uttered the first Words, and it was as he said, so for the Goddess!

Para 2-
Line 1- (Masses) The ironical juxtaposition of good and evil continues.
Line 2- Refer to the History of the Most Ancient Borgohain Clan.

Para 4-
Line 1- This the Goddess's command to her versifier.
Line 4- Once asleep, it is prodigally difficult to awaken her, as The Borgoad conclusively established.

IV

Para 1-
Line 3- Of the self-same mysterious room referred to in Canto II.
Line 6- Mushrooms are preferred fried- this universal law.

Para 2-
Line 5- Dryden's brilliant invective of mock-epic proportions, MacFlecknoe, starts thus- “All humane things are subject to decay,/And, when Fate summons, Monarchs must obey:”

V

Para 1-
Line 1- Bhattji had once lectured on The Hungry Tide.
Line 2- The ascent of Belinda's sacred lock is noticed by none but "Poetick Eyes".
Line 8- The Goddess and this humble poet have often discussed this momentous issue, whether or not chivalry be alive.

Para 2-
Line 4- DU hostellers are, as is known all over, notorious for being late sleepers and still late risers. The Goddess, of course, is, as elsewhere, a paradigm, "the Best", here as well.

VI

Para 1-
Line 2- I come, after all, from a Hindu background!
Line 11- (unendying yarns) Like this one?

Para 2-
Line 11- Preachers like this poet...

Para 3-
Line 2- Of the few things which the Goddess and this humble mortal share in common is a marked aversion to dogs.
Line 3- A natural evolution of empire- Pax Romana, Pax Britannica, Pax Borgana...

Para 4-
Line 2- (queenly hair) The poet once had occasion to compliment the Goddess for her exceedingly beautiful hair.

VII

This triumvirate is modelled not on any Roman precedent but on the Elfish example afforded by Tolkien and on the trio of the Good fairies in Disney's version of the story of the Sleeping Beauty. The Goddess, on being complemented upon the fairy-like quality of her hair, had retorted saying that this poet must have read "horrible fairy tales". I rest my case, gracious Lady, with claims to acquaintance with the most superior fairy tales, all sweetness and light. I also hold that judgement delivered upon thy hair!

It was, therefore, fitting thought that the Goddess's chastisement should come at hands of a trio of good fairies of sense and wit.

Para 1-
Lines 3 to 4- Wisdom, like all things in excess, doth become a malice; a useless thing which irks more than instructs.

VIII

Para 1-
Line 4- Our popish monk, of course, is renowned for his rhetorical and debating skills.

Para 2-
Line 2- This sage is well-renowned for his prowess in sketching.
Line 6- Be it known to one and all that the Goddess hurts men not in accordance to some base ideology but under the sway of overpowering instincts.

IX

Para 2-
All those acquainted with Disney's Sleeping Beauty will know the beneficial curse of the Good Fairies, which puts all to sleep until Aurora be awakened by Philip's kiss.

Para 3-
Metamorphoses abides!

Para 4-
Line 1- Fallen and isolated thus, the Goddess is naught but tragic.
Line 6- George Clooney of the Ocean series fame and Jennifer Aniston of Friends legend.
Line 4 to 8- Tantalus Revisited, with a Sisyphean touch!
In Greek myths, Tantalus, for wretched greed of good food and that dastardly feast, was condemned to eternal solitary stay on a small island in a lake. He can neither taste the fruit of the solitary tree, nor drink the water of the lake. Sisyphus was condemned to eternal toil, of rolling a boulder up a hill- as soon as it reaches the top, it rolls down and he has to start again.

Para 5-
Line 7- As Hercules' Twelve Labours in mythical Greece, so these labours of our ideal chef-suitor.

Para 6-
Heed this para- the moral here is enshrined!