Showing posts with label Mock-heroic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mock-heroic. Show all posts

31 March 2011

Zapak!

The hunt is not for everyone. Patience, grit, perseverance...the hunt exacts a heavy toll, a price that must be paid, paid in blood.


The hunt is not for everyone. It curdles the blood, turns the heart to stone. Life and death in the balance, existence a matter of poise, of accuracy and skill: hit, and so ends life in a flash of smoke and putrid blood; miss, and pay the price of blood.


The hunt is not for everyone. Patience becomes pain, eyes strained for the slightest movement, ears geared for the tiniest buzz. The sands of time flow by, time itself ceases to exist, but not the hunter: ever aware, ever alive, poised between life and death, the hunt goes on till the lust be satiated, the lust for blood.


The hunt is not for everyone. Bait, bait becomes blood. Blood turns blood, blood flows, flows from being to being, hunt to hunt, till hunter and hunted are as one, are one...the bait, the baited: blood.


The hunt is not for everyone. Through the dark, dense deep, each step wary of the next, each shadow a lurking danger, softly on to danger, death, blood.


The hunt is not for everyone...zaak! zrr! puff...psss...zapak!

15 October 2009

Mahavirus

To Ananya Borgohain:
Muse, friend, model

*

There are some things which are typically you…you know, things which embody your essence as an individual…like, it’s typically Jonathan to be snide…or typically Abhimanyu to crack smart one liners...things which once you do or say them, others can look up and say ‘Ah! That was so typically you!’

Typically you…

I think it was typically me to install malware on my own computer.

Yeah, well, that’s right. I installed a debilitating virus on my own system: gave it sanction with my own hands- and merrily at that!

Now now, I’m not bonkers. It’s not that bad: certainly not that simple…there’s more to it…

Simply put, the fact of the matter is that it wasn’t your everyday virus…it was quite a malignant malware…a devil in disguise…a smooth talking fiend…

A Kaliyugi virus.

Bilkul. A Kaliyugi virus to the core.

Aur kya? Is it not written that in this dark age the forces of evil will multiply to infringe upon the last remaining strongholds of good, and slowly batter them down till all righteousness disappear from the world of men? That that one quarter of piousness too shall vanish and plunge the world into the night of sin?

Ay, so has been decreed! What surprise, then, if viruses too come robed as guardian angels?

Indeed, that’s how it was! A fell design, to trick simple, gullible folk to ruin!

This is how it happened…

One fine afternoon I opened my computer and checked my email. All fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. That done, I logged out of my account and was about to shut the computer as well when a window popped out of the blue…

‘Inflow of viruses detected onto your system. Would you like to scan your computer?’

‘Hmm? Yes, ok.’

‘Preliminary scan has revealed a massive virus attack on your system. Would you like to continue?’

‘Yes, of course, go on!’

‘There are some 400 viruses on your system. Would you like to do something about it? Would you like to install Personal Antivirus?’

Personal Antivirus. How reassuring. How comforting. There’s such a soothing consonance to the term…personal antivirus: a software specially designed for you, to cater exclusively to your own needs, to resolve all your problems…

To lull you into complacency and whisk all your data.

Kaliyug mein paap bhi punyatma ki bhanti vesh dharan kar vicharega, aur sansar mein bhagwan ki satta ko nasht karega…

Nasht ho gayi meri satta mere hi laptop pe! Cha gaya andhkar, jeet gaya paap!

We had a Council then. Had to. Of course we had a council. Papa, Mamma and me, and Bhai as the conscientious objector from abroad.

‘You freaking idiot, I can’t believe it! You actually installed a frigging malware on the system!’

‘Kaam kharab karma aata he bas, aur phir baithe rehte hain yunhi maaze mein!’

‘Aap log poori baat samajhne ki koshish nahi kar rahe! Inhone…’

‘Tum hi ne bigara he! Faltu kaam karte rehte hain…’

‘Why can’t he use his brains for once? Why!’

‘Aise hi hain…’

‘Baat ko samajhne ki koshish karo…’

‘Anyway, shut it out! Can’t do anything about it now! Best to reinstall Windows now…you never know…clear away everything!’

Hmm…clear away everything…clear away everything…

Aur jab paap ka ghara bhar jayega, jab shristi mein punya aur sachai trahi trahi kar manav ka tyag kar dengi, tab mein Kalki roop dharan pralay ka tanday karunga! Tab iss shrishti na nash hoga, aur jeevan ka chakr phir aarambh hoga!

Clear away everything…clear away everything…

I could see myself rise up, go beyond and above…to godhead…

Even as the Destroyer will reduce all to glowering ash, so will I unleash the fury of my wrath on the arrayed virus! Bit by bit will each corrupted file be consumed till none be left alive! Then, just as the primeval waters will drown the dead cosmos in one overpowering deluge, so will I submerge the corrupt mother board with my missionary flood. And once this debris has subsumed into the general scheme of things, into the overwhelming torrent, then, from the dark, empty, chaotic bits shall arise a new, pure Operating System! This virginal land I alone shall people with the chosen few, the elect software and programmes which shall be the denizens of a glittering golden age!

Rudra, Narayan, Brahma and Vishnu, I shall be all! Unfurl the standard, blow the conch…let there be war! Mahaaaaaaaaaaavirus!

30 May 2009

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…

25 April 2009

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!

27 January 2009

The Council

I

Every Duke and Earl and Peer was there
Everyone who could be there was there!
Kings and Queens, Monarchs wise,
All lined up for this great enterprise.
First to come were the Scions of Kullu:
Noble, wise, loyal and true!
Then came the Chieftains from Axom’s rarefied heights,
Queen-mothers and Ladies of warrior tribes!
From Awadh, Doon and the Desert Land of Thar,
Mallu Backwaters and Lallu’s Bihar,
From all these lands, and a few other more-
Notably the ancient Oriyan jungles and Dhillika, upon Jamuna’s shore-
There came the select, the chosen, the ordained, the sceptred few:
Knights, Esquires, Marquises and a Damsel new.
Noble and high, eager to decide,
The Fate of this Land unendingly wide!
Last to come were the Bangla hordes;
Shepherds of their peoples, true bhadraloks.
Leading them, of course-
The Elder; wisest, immortal, fairest of them all!
Handsome and tall, exceeding all others in his wherewithal.
By His side His Subversive Wife,
Betwixt the Twain, Young Master Turee!
Regally progressing up the stairs
All others fawning and bowing to this pair!
This then the family, this then the assemblage,
This then that galaxy of stars, taare zameen pe!

II

Everyone assembled, everyone settled,
The noise subsided, the din fettered,
The Elder rose, a statuesque figure-
On his head that sybillic hanky,
In his hand that potent ale.
Fully erect, in total control, thus he spake-
“Friends, Ramjasians, Countrymen!
(Stay! Not countrymen!- they are but shadow lines!)
We are in this silvery sandy land amassed,
To deliberate, opine, declaim, decide,
By blessed rhetoric’s charms untwine,
A momentous skein of Herculean size!
A matter upon which rests the fate of sundry souls,
No easy task, difficult to endure!
So hark to my words, listen carefully now,
‘Tis this-
To dance or not to dance?
To party or not to party?
To move around in high Bacchic revelry or
Sit, ordained, in solemn state?
This the crisis to be solved,
This the matter to be resolved!”

III

Tell me now, O Muse, who amongst that august gathering
Was the first to speak?
‘Twas you, High Prince of Loony Doon,
The Elder’s equal in your liver’s resource,
Blessed, beloved of the Gods,
Who first addressed them thus-
“Listen to me now, O thou worthy Peers of mine!
Long ago in Thrace was our wild Madcap God born,
He came dancing down to Helas, O beauteous Helas, and
Swept through it! Swept as do
These waves in this silvery sandy realm!
None could before him withstand, none now really can,
To bow down in reverence is all we can!”
So spake he, that heir of Moony Doon, and
Many were his admirers, specially
Those Warrior Monarchs of the East:
“Well said, well said!” they all cried,
“That is the Word of the Council, and
We shall abide!”

IV
At this did our Esquire of Dhillika stand
Adjusted his thoughts, and so began-
“’Tis folly, my Lords (Ladies implied!), this sage’s advice:
To Apollo I recommend ye, to that Delphic far-shooter wise.
Learn ye from him, from his restraint be advised-
Our own self is most precious, better than any ring yet devised.
Be not solemn; certainly enjoy and dance,
Yet let not maenadic fury mingle in your prance.
To loosen a little is alright,
To loose completely prefect blight.”
At this there was uproar, shouting, wails;
(Brazen Ares would’ve had competition great!)
“Nay, nay!” cried the sovereigns, and
Their dissent decried.
Kiss my ass” quoth one, and to wrangling slide.
V
Fearing infighting and war’s dance grim,
Stood up the Elder, and thus begin-
“Listen ye now, O friends of old,
To me and mine, my words so sure.
We are of one family, of one larger fold,
Separate, yes, but united by lore.
I have heard you speak, all of you opine,
Yet I am your superior, your senior exceedingly fine!
So cease now this clashing, these quarrels base,
And abide by my words, of wisdom great!”
VI
Then was there silence, deadly still,
The Sovereigns sat afraid, and listened to Him.
“There is a time for everything, for everything a phase,
To do as one pleases is folly grave.
Modesty and balance, harmony brave-
These are the Virtues that They to us gave.
These are my words, my views confirmed,
And you’ll follow them all, for
I am the Elder still!
VII
At this they were stunned, bamboozled, amazed,
Unbelieving, shaking, they blankly gazed.
From his stony lined face took hints and
Stood up to leave, dismayed.
“Cease” cried the Elder, and they fearing stopped.
On his face suddenly broke a grin so broad,
“Hahaha! I was just joking guys!
Let’s all go party, and dance all night!

14 November 2008

The Borgoad

To Horace, Dryden and Pope; grudgingly, to Ananya Borgohain


Here me well, guide me through,
O thou Departmental Muses of Literature few:
First thou Queen Bee,
So fair and bright!
Then King G,
Homer’s seed, eternally alright.
Next you Sh-,
So stoic and composed,
Much aft the manner of noble Octavius’ nose.
You, good M, Wife not of Bath-
Possessed, perhaps, with Dryden’s great craft!
Thou Alexandrian Grandma,
Sailing in black Othello’s wake
Greenblatt’s disciple, singing in Bradley’s praise!
You, O Chughtai, our Library’s dread Queen,
Shakespearean master, beyond gender seen.
Now to thee Banger, O Pitampurian Knight,
Thy blessings in Bengali I seek with delight!
As I do with D, in her own Paradise Lost,
Trying to find, only tragic Lucifer knows what!
And finally you, O newly come S
Atwood’s delight, in theory compressed!
Listen to my song, inspire me anew,
For this once while, descend into view,
Leaving behind thy wicker-thrones few.

Unpremeditated verse I shall offer none
(Alas, old Puritan, I shall go not thy way!)
Conscious and deliberate ‘twill all shall be
Pretentious and assuming, certain disgrace to Pope’s remedy
I shall be what I am, you’ll find here no hope.

Of childhood and teenage, little can I show:
Nature’s child (one of the daredevils, y’know),
Once across the great Serpentine Blue she flew,
Much like what young Icarus thought to do,
Then there was a blast, a grievous blow;
Sooth to say, ‘tis all the Eagle knew!

Come I now to Dhillika, so fair and wide
Looking, indeed, like an Ahomya bride!
To its tree-lined avenues, perennially new,
To Sophia’s Citadel, so green and old,
To the good Rai’s college, third of the triumvirate,
To a red-as-rose building, sanctuary of the nymphs,
To a rectangular room, lofty and out of view:
Here sleeps our Queen, our heroine great!
Resplendent in her nightie, battered and frayed,
Her eyelids heavy with the old man’s sand,
Soundly does she sleep, the four-pronged world at her feet!

Slowly comes Dawn, fiery Helios’ gentle herald,
Up rise all, to toil and work;
But our sovereign Queen heeds not a blooming whit!
She tosses around, turns her beauteous face, and
Under Morepheus’ spell, falls again in place.

Seven, eight, nine, and ten pass,
The Sun to its peak rises fast,
At eleven does a spirit gently ascend,
He positions himself, careful not to offend, and,
His Master’s orders still ringing in his ears, w
hispers thus to His beloved dear:
“Awake, O Lady, our mandrake fair!
Arise thou Augustan, thou critical Virgo great!
Take up thy Pepsodent, brush thy mangled hair,
Bathe this body, this fleshy cage,
Dress in thy outfit,
(A new one, of course, for repetition thou so incurably hates!)
Apply some kaajal, that oh-so-black soot,
Paint on some lip-gloss, spray some perfume and
So attired, mascara and foundation in place, venture out!
Great things are for thee set, onerous tasks arrayed!
Thousands to vex, millions to irritate!
KFCs to plunder, D-schools to lay bare,
Springrolls to gorge, breadpakoras to gobble,
CP to terrorize, the Metro to wail!
So arise from thy slumbers, O methodically busybodic maid,
Arise now my Lady, awake!”

So quoth this Spirit, this Hell’s angel great
Watching in earnest, fearing he should fail;
Lo! Parted she her eyelids, displayed she those orbs,
Those brown-black scourges of a zillion chickens small,
Turned she her gaze to that waiting devil apace and
Lo! she set him ablaze! and
As he burned down,
She relapsed into shade…