A Child's Fairytale.



In the dark dungeon , imprisoned , the princess waits
The prince rode up the tortuous fleet in hurried steps
Many a frightening dragon had he slayed
The monotonous drone read on ,as the child wept .

'Mother sing me the lullaby of the galloping men
And the thousand Spanish fleet who fought in vain
Of the old lady who died alone on the moon
Of how the generous king succumbed to his deleterious bane.

Forgotten be the cold white December and the scarlet may
Sing me a lore of the hundred dead men with no one to weep
Of the crimson silhouette of the bloodiest day
And the boring libretto playing again and again.





The zephyr rings the happy swansong of the nightingales no more
As weed grows around, and the arboretum is dead
As discombobulated , the dead men lay
With only the hovering hungry ravens to prey.

Dark are the days of the thousand splendid suns,
Of the Ugly Duckling and the Hunchback of Notre Dame,
So sing me the song of the renegade damsel,
And prurient lust craving men , sybaritic and lame.


Sing no more of how the Messiah gave
Tell me the story of when Judas betrayed
Tell me a story of what is true
Of what transpires in men’s world ,of me and you.'

India - of cliches and more




I have been falling short on subjects to blog on recently, but as an avid blogger ,blog I must,blog I will,and in my search for inspiration ,I made a journey closer home. I decided to write on India. But writing an article on a land as diverse as India presents in itself it own fair share of problems ,the first of the many being it’s a democracy .Yes ,it does give us the right to express our own opinion but so does it give others ,some ,who are not as peaceful when it comes to voicing theirs objections .And so , I,having neither the desire ,nor the inclination to see my puppets being used as a source of alternative fuel by the insolently baneful extremists of our country ,decided to resort to every sort of cliché there exists in the book (not Mahabharat ,that’s not a documentation of history of India ,though it does have its fair share of cliches).

1. Must have land.

2. Must fight over that land.

3.Nothing can be built over that land ,unless something already has been ,in which case ,it has to be razed to the ground , dictated by directions from ancient Mythological texts.

4.You can leave a piece of arid land unused for ages , but cannot possibly have factories sprouting up on it.

5.We have to quote Tagore regarding the exploitation of the rightful owners of the land (dui bigh jami).

6. finally ,the great Indian rivalry , my land is bigger than your land.(land is an English word and not Hindi ,its Hindi translation would amount to ‘zameen’.) .

7.On days of strike (which is everyday),when theres nothing much to be done in the way of work ,play cricket on that land.




By now ,if you are sick of my mindless rambling on land ,and don’t want anything to do with it,be considerate to give it to one Mr Ratan Tata ,he is in dire need of non-cultivable land .However ,if your land is nowhere close to being as arid as the cold desert , and in its long history ,has nurtured even a single flailing cactus sapling ,it would be worldly unwise to use such land for industrial purposes .Of course , you can first give the land away , and then go on hunger strike to have it back , for you have been robbed of your food by the bloody capitalist society (cause of course , thorny shrubs and cactus is what you live on).

**************************************

When I had first expressed my desire to write a post on India, a friend adviced me to sprinkle my writing with a fair dose of Mahabharata , Ramayana , G.D.P , Mahatma Gandhi, G.D.P ,Pakistani terrosts ,British Imperialism and brutality (and how Mohun Bagan defeated them in a football match once) , G.D.P , Tagore ,Pakistani terrorists,Chinese infiltrators,Bangladeshi immigrants, G.D.P , Tansen ,Bollywood and the Gandhi family (don’t even dare to leave the last one out ,that would be sacrilege).Also mine characters might include naked sadhus , normal sadhus , modern sadhus , saffron sadhus , mainly sadhus. Ofcourse , one is free to make that passing mention of the stupid Sardar ,the nerdy suthie,the pretentiously intellectual Bengali (and he must love the rasugulla),the rowdy Delhiite , the uncouth Bihari,the artsy and Racist Marathi ,the gluttonously greedy Marwari , the avariciously parsimonious Gujrati. I was warned not to get bogged down with precise descriptions. India is big: 28 states, 150 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read my post.




He went on to add

‘Also remember , when you are writing about India ,you are not so much writing as promoting a brand .You are the custodian of that brand ,brand India , and its beneficiary. You should be aware what that brand stands for . India is a mythological land , infact people in the west ,atleast a fair population of them (well ,they are always fair ) ,hardly believe in its existence ,Pakistan is where the world ends ,and then comes Japan .You have to cater to that belief ,make it look as implausible as the Middle Earth of Tolkien . They don’t want to know about Ratan Tata ,they don’t want to read about the Ambanis .Brand India is almost like a neorealism movie ,just that its more mythological ,so what you need to depict are characters like Gollum from LOTR ,searching for bicycles a la Bicycle Thieves . They don’t want to hear about an affluent and growing middle class ,nor could they care less about IITs , so remember ,Indian population is a vastly destitute , impoverished ,poverty-stricken illiterate society .

Also do remember ,as Gautam Buddha was born in Nepal , and went on to enjoy a rockstar like status in his day and age ,Nepal is a part of India .Also , the Harappa-Mohenjodaro ,inspite of being well outside the realms of Indian jurisdiction and administration ,is more a part of India than it is of Pakistan , for Pakistanis are almost like Indians ,unless they are religious extremists and terrorists ,or like Afgans (which is almost all of them ) and so ,we have equel rights to their land (fair though ,if they can claim Kashmir to be theirs ) . However , Srilanka is not a part of India , as Ravana was born there , and pugnacious multi-headed kidnappers are not born in India . Also , remember ,India does not have a huge population , Indians are neither irresponsible , ignorant or horny .What it has is a huge ,undiminishing ,infact steeply growing manpower . Anyway, the point is that people from all over the world have come to know and love brand India for its ability to starve the shit out of its population. Whatever you write, please respect this legacy. Bear in mind that India is a market-leader. Most populated place on the face of this planet.



Also remember ,first thing we do in the morning when we wake up is not rush for the bathroom door , we do Yoga.When faced with the prospect of certain death by being mowed down by a rushing train heading headlong in our direction ,we don't run to save our damned lives , we do yoga . Actually ,apart from staying poor and going hungry ,the only other thing Indians are good at is Yoga.’

So armed with his advice , and my key board , I embarked upon writing my first detailed account of India.



So stay tuned in for my next post, The Great Indian History. Until then,goodbye.

paranoid minds.avi

a short movie by the students of NIT Durgapur on the paranoia of death....the movie essentially has three interpretations,which i leave for the audience to figure out.the first nightmare sequence itself is full of symbolism,with the car representing death,the ghosts representing paranoia and the door representing a route for escape from death.thats why,the door reopens after he exchages his right to live.

Anuva's sky


Marvelled she long at the unmoving mass
Relentlessly steady and resolutely free
Even as it changed through the varied seasons
Through arderous time,through day and night,
Decked in shades of the brightest blue,black and white.

Under the unmoving blue she strolled
The tunes harmony reaching a crescendo
Her black curls rippled down in a bristling platter of cascading sheets
And the monsoons adorned her in a vial of glistening drops
As they dripped delightfully on the perched tamarisks around her
Unaware of a greater world outside
She gazed at the bright blue sky
Her age old friend fading into the distance afar.

And then one day he came,riding on his horse pitch black
The resonating wedding bells sounded hollow today
Even as they danced in mirthful joy
And as the sun rose again,they took her away.

Carelessness of everyday replaced by wrested chores
Saw she not the blue azure anymore
Imprisoned by the fetters of the urban life
Danced she no more as the monsoons roared.

And then one day she broke free
Running up those winding fleet in tepid steps,
Limbered up into the open in palpitating beats,
As the red saree flapped behind in gyrating grates
And Anuva searched for familiarity in the unending blue
For traces of recognition in her childhood friend,
Until she felt numb and wounded,a sour rancour,
As the black chimney belched out in thick rings.
Silhouetted in that smog of distasteful grey,
Robbed of its blue splendour,childhood friend was no more.

THE STRANDED BOAT....

Of fringed decks and embroidered sails
Every drop of sweat spent so true
An everfloating dream,carved of wood
Placed on the waterfront, it stood,
Forever,Resolute and astute.

A dwindling stream of fuddled mud,
Scouring the horizons for a single floating piece of greying mass,
Anxious with wait to quench its arid thirst
Sauntering dry through the pebbles and sand.

Cries and prayers had wafted through
Falling ever so slightly on Providence’s disdainful ears
Unrelentingly merciless,hope rendered imbecile
For the peasants sweat could no more bedew the parched yards,
As i waited through times rough detour,those torrid days,
For my sculpted beauty to sail away.

And so it happened on one such mundane day of sweat and shine,
Hope pinned on a single sign,it floated it in one night,
Mad with wafting,and grief,ready to lapidate its withheld vertigo,
Roaring ,shrieking,coiling up to meet the heaven upward
In a rampant celebration of an unholy coition
Ravaging in a fury of abominable cruelty,
Their long tarried dream fulfilled,left were they now to pine.

The villagers stood,dumbfounded,terror stricken
Dilapidated ruins of their once home,entire cattle herds swept away
As the river had finally quenched its prurient thirst,
My carved dream of sails and wood had sailed away.

Sobujer Khoje

Sobujer Khoje



Jhora somoyer itihas periye progotir pothe
Nishorto krantir khoje firi bare bare
Bikkhipto jonojoware bhasi ami kon kanoner khoje
Aj bujhi shanto hobe a chonchol spondon
Khanto hobe a obiram cholachol.

Choritro guli melae aji ghono dhoasae
Pipasharto a mon byakul aj shadhin ashae
Jirno shrinkhol,unmukto dwar muhurte kori churno
Nirbak ami aj mukhor muktir bhashae.

Heri koto prantor,khuji ajo sei sobuj otit
Jibonto jibasher nae nirlojjo somae
Hatchhani dae aji mishorer nil noder kinare
Abar muhurte dheke jae jantrikotar kuashae.

Fire ashi abar sei doinondin jantrikotae
Klanto jibon fere sikto kolebor majhe
Chirayato jonojiboner nirliptotae
Tobu firi ami sei harano sobujer khoje.

The Lost Pair

This entry won me my first bogeratti contest...hope you guys enjoy it.

The Lost Pair



He looked around himself.Central wore a deserted look.The last parting rays of the sun had melted into the night sky and an all blinding darkness had crept over the town.The street lights shone dimly through the fog,forming a kind of hallowed maze around the posts on which they were mounted.Far in the distance,one could see Hydes square,dimly illuminated.A few tea stalls still remained open,and some liquor stores,housed in those old creaking apartments,still received their nocturnal visitors.But for them,all stores had closed down and the town wore a deserted look. The houses that lined Elf street bore their usual look of self of disgust at the mundane everyday ways of the world - those closed window panes in a perennial state of dreamy drowsiness,those saline infested walls in a state of perpetual moulting that tore the paint of their walls,slowly,but surely and those uninviting windowsills,laden with cobwebs forming a protective mesh in the hollow darkness.Few had dared to venture out,in the cold,preferring to retire to the warm confines of their homes.After all,Cirpet rarely had witnessed a winter this cold.

On any other day,Dustin might have felt uneasy in the eerie atmosphere,being alone in the park.But today was different.Darkness provided for him a blanket to hide his own demons.Out in the open,he was exposed to their ever so judgemental stares,their criticizing gazes.Here he was safe.Here,no one knew him,no one would recognize him.Loneliness provided a safe abode to all those who had lost.

Dustin stared at his palm,at the lines that snaked in and out of it.Here,alone,he had time to reflect,reflect on the day he had had.He thought endlessly about his shoes,those lucky pairs,about the den and about the boy.Yes,the boy.He had come into Dustin’s office,ushered in by his secretory,sweating,tired and looking lost.One could tell from a single glance that the world hadn’t been kind to him.He had come in,dressed in blue stripes,torn at places and held together by ill-stitched strings,looking for a job.Dustin had been in this office for ten years now,had got used to the luxury of the air-conditioned room,its pine wood furniture,the hardwood floors,the revolving chairs.T he boy however,did not notice all these,neither did he notice the large laminated paintings,that adorned the walls of the room he had just entered,or the large glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling.He seemed preoccupied,fidgety and nervy.Dustin noticed all these,but did not mind.What he did not like though was the boys shabby appearance.The boy introduced himself as Jimmy,and was asked to sit,upon which,he hesitated,pulled nervously at the loose ends of his shirt before,finally,taking his sit.

Dustin had realized only after a few questions,that the boy was not qualified for the job.The boy had pleaded with him for one single chance,a chance to prove himself,and had gone on endlessly about his present plight,his dead father,his long suffering and bed-ridden mother,and had virtually begged Dustin for the job.Dustin,however,knew better. Dustin’s struggles early on in his life had borne of him,an otherwise worldly discontempt for the those inferior to him.And as he had climbed the rungs of success,perhaps,partly owing to his inept and dysfunctional vision,and partly owing to the giddying heights he had reached,that they today appeared minuscule and insignificant to him,and had been,in his rather contorted vision of the world,relegated to the status of scavanging sewer rats,those slithery grimy indecent rodent forms,whose very existence,to him,was on behalf of an indignant indifference and lazy lousiness on part of Providence.And he had long considered it his duty to do,on part of Providence,the one thing He,probably owing to the hectic schedule of driving the worldly matters of this universe,had left unattended-to make the lives of these miserable miscreants unbearable.And today,as he watched Jimmy’s shaggy and unkempt form,drowsily drag himself into office,he had felt within himself the arousing of the slithering,ever so cunning feline form,ready to uncage itself,ready to play with his pray.

Dustin had narrated to him about his own life,about how he himself had gone from door to door,looking for a job,about the days he had spent on the streets,those unforgiving streets,without food,without shelter,about his lucky pair of shoes and finally,how his life had changed. ‘nobody gives it to you boy,you got to take it.Nobody laid it out on a silver platter before me.’

Jimmy,notwithstanding his present state of desperation,had retained within himself,that last remnant of self respect,which,in such situations,can often prove to be a mans undoing.And he had,quite scornfully,and inintelligently,one might add,exclaimed,as might have once,a rebellious and self-indulgent Porus in the face of an all invading Greek army,that he might not be so lucky as to find such magic shoes.And he might have known better.For Jimmy’s shabbiness,he could forgive,even his ignorance,but not his rude disregard for his achievements.

’Go on now,boy.Remember,we fall only so that we can learn to pick ourselves up again .Make yourself more capable,and your day will come.’He had learned to tell people off,nay,he had mastered it.Experience had taught him that.Experience had taught him many things.

Had he been too harsh on the boy,too cruel.He argued in his mind endlessly but reached no definite conclusion.Was his present plight,the result of his actions earlier in the day.For the rest of the day had gone from bad to worse,one downhill slope.He had walked out of his office room ,only to find his lucky pair of shoes stolen-his lucky shoes,the pair that had made him the man he was today.At least,so he believed.Ever since he had come into possession of those shoes,nothing in his life had ever gone wrong.For his part,he had never lost sight of those pairs,not for a moment,had worn them every single day of his life for the past ten years.And now,they were gone.

Going to the gambling den after work had become a kind of habit with him.And for ten years now,he hadn’t lost,only increasing his greed and addiction.Today,having lost his lucky pair,he persuaded himself to stay away from the den.But then,habits die hard,and they finally got the better of him.And,just as he had feared,he had lost a fortune at the den.And then,on his way to the market,he had been robbed.
So now,he sat in the dark,contemplating his next move.He did not feel like returning home just yet.But it was getting ever so cold.A flash of lightning streaked across the sky,lacerating the dark.Soon it would be raining.It would be impossible to stay out much longer.He looked at his watch.12’0 clock.Midnight.It was time to go.

* * * * * * * * *

The streets wore a deserted look.Only those whose work required the shelter of the night had ventured out in this cold.The street light shone in the distance through the fog like a burning pair of eyes.Women,wearing heavy makeup,stood by the sidewalks,waiting for customers.

Dustin walked along the pavement,carelessly,pondering over the happenings of the day,turning them in his mind over and over again.Had he been less preoccupied,he might have noticed the gathering crowd ahead,slowly increasing,people hastily rushing towards it.Suddenly,he found himself in the middle of that gathering.It was only then that he realised that he had trodden upon an accident site.

Blood.Red.And violent.It trickled out slow,and measured,timed to the ticking clock of his fading life.

Dustin looked at the man,bleeding,his body lying lissome against the pavement.His shirt was drenched in blood,body mutilated,his striped shirt dyed crimson in the pool of blood gushing out.His face was unrecognisable.But for the recent change in the state of his worldly affairs,he might have been tempted to relegate the incident to the desirable,even advisable termination of life of another one of those despicable sewer rodents,but today,his feelings were a lot restrained,one might even say,he felt a slight tinge of sympathy for the now lifeless corpse that lay out infront of him.

Dustin looked on.Something about the man struck him as being very familiar.Those stripes,those trousers-there certainly was something about the man,something that told Dustin,they had met before.He looked up and down,his eyes searching for the slightest clue,slightest hint of recognition.Then,suddenly,he noticed it.Those shoes.


GHOST OF THE CHRISTMAS PAST

‘So where was i’,i asked?

‘No no,you were right here,typing your blog,and you fell asleep midway through’,he said.

‘So wheres the blog?’

I don't know,i,i have no idea,i swear i did do nothing,sir,i swear on the life of my unborn children Lucy and Lu’...

And who exactly are you??

‘Ghost of the Christmas past,sir’,he answered with a kind of rekindled confidence that it might have brought the colour back to his face,had he been human,but his spiral body form betrayed the stage of his ephemeral life much like mine eyes do in an examination hall.



‘Ghost of the Christmas past,eh?’,I asked,snobbishly.’been reading too much Dickens,have you?’.

‘No sir, i really am’.

‘So,you are christian?’

‘Why sir,are you religious?i thought,it wouldn’t make much of a difference to you’.

‘R u British?’

‘Nay sir,not that too,i am Hindu,and i am Indian,and as Indian as a person can ever be’.

‘So why do you call your self ”ghost of Christmas past”?’.

‘I don't know sir,its tacky.Bengali names for ghosts are not that great.whoever wants to be called a “mamdo” or “petni”?its almost like calling a tiger “kedo”.you see sir,you have such a great name,Abhijit,but what do people at home call you?”bubai” and “babu”.Such names never allow us to conquer the great heights we are destined to.But still,they are better than the name your friends call you by.”Panu”.Now sir,thats obscene.They grind you down,and they ground you.Nay sir,i am not gonna be called a mamdo all my life.’

‘But you could have christened yourself after the Durgapuja.’

No sir.how can i,she is the Bengali incarnation of the ghost busters.Have you ever seen ma Kali,decked by a garland of skulls,my brothers skulls.No sir.Ghost of the Christmas past is what i am and will remain.Its tacky,and its powerful.

‘so why do you come?’

‘Sir,to remind you,that as a Hindu and a brahmin,you shouldn't be consuming so much alcohol,and shouldn’t be watching porn.And yes,you shouldn’t be smoking pot.And you should stop ogling at girls’.

‘You come to tell me this?oh,come on,old world,conservative you,its time to change.Look around you,its May,and its getting all steamy and torrid out there. The very worst thing we could do right now is start shaming male sluts for their promiscuous behavior! The more, the better, because who else is gonna do the job? And its not like i am unloading all the time,mere ogling never did much harm.As for the porn,all i can say is,in India,in conservative India,its the one single way of streaming our you tubes.Now,no one can possibly deny me that right,and also,its good market economics.I am helping maintain the balance of supply and demand.’

By now he looked jaded,not finding much fault in my logic.’You see sir,I never had much problem with you enjoying your life,but we do feel jealous,for we are pretty incapable of leading a similar life’
‘Why so?’i asked.
‘Sir,we are ghosts,condemned to skeletal forms,and sir you don't get bootylicious skeletons.What are we to ogle at,rib cages?oh,the pain of being a ghost.’
‘then,i thinks,you should start smoking pot’.
‘guess i should’,and he left.

I awoke a few hours later,to find an empty room,and this blog that doped me had typed in his stupor.One lesson,never smoke weed in broad daylight.

forgive and forget....




I have always wondered if Mahatma Gandhi was right in saying ‘an eye for an eye only makes the whole world blind’,but never really reached any conclusion.’Tit’ for tat,if nothing else,is at least quite an enticing option for Tat,but then,I am not Tat.Its unjust in a way,because its me who has been wronged,I am the one who should be seeking revenge,but its always Tat who gets away with the one thing i (and i am quite certain,most of you as well) have always craved for.Gandhi,therefore,realizing the fallacy of such revengeful ways,postulated his own way of dealing with with injustice.’Forgive and forget’ thus became a way of life in India.It was once said that the one trait characteristic of all humans is jealousy,and jealous we,jealous of Tat,for long reaping the fruits of our toils,resorted to ways less violent,and less energy sapping than the paths of violence.

And so we forgive everyday,and forget even more.Harsha Bhogle once said ‘public memory is very short lived in India’.Mr Bhogle,its not our fault,its the fault of our greatest vanguard,and our great forefathers.R K Narayanan once wrote,’things rarely change in little India’.And this is true for the entire nation.A recent documentary on the lives of Indians ‘Ghajjini’ does well to chronicle this forgetful nature of us,Indians.Amir khan really has a knack for capturing in his movies,the problem afflicting this great and well populated nation.But then,u cannot be blaming anybody else other than our forefathers,again,for Apna Bharat being one of the most densely populated countries in the world.Population,after all,is very much an outcome of human forgetfulness.

And therefore we forget,forget all that there is to be done,or can be done towards making this country one of the greatest nations in the world-netas forget their promises,’amlas’ forget their offices,people forget to flush after taking a piss(more so,if we are guest at somebody else’s),i forget all that i had studied the previous night in the examination hall,and professors forget to give marks.It is one big comedy of errors.and in this chain of partial amnesiac behaviour,it becomes all the more important that we learn to forgive.Or,how else,would netas contest elections again,how else would we piss again and more importantly,how else would we pass our examinations.After all,’to err is human,to forgive is divine’.
And thus we play Demi God,forgiving all the while,preserving both our eyes,and our heart in the process and depriving that great opportunist Tat of the opportunity of enjoying himself at the expense of others.But who the hell is Tat????

Ps:’Tit’ here means revenge and nothing else,so lay your mind to rest.

P.S:the Jammu Tawi train i had boarded at Bereilly on the 18th of this month met with an accident approximately about 10 kilometres from Varanasi,where a steel plate jutting out from one of the nearby electric poles chopped off the hands of 27 passengers sitting next to the window,or portions of their arms.However,the media,staying true to their Indian traits,forgot to mention them in any form of print or visual media.Whether this forgetfulness on part of the media was intentional,I know not.

THE RUNAWAY TRAIN

I wrote this poem on the request of one of my friends,whose girlfriend was leave the city the day after,as a parting gift.

THE RUNAWAY TRAIN






Stars in the night sky,lighting a thousand miles
Garlanding the dark,tracks running wild,
An empty train,whistling and shrieking through
Rattling the rails,searching for you.

And you can hear the chiming wheels on the stone
Encumbered in rust,a bereaved voice from the past
Crying but still not moaning.
And you can see me standing in your wake
Brimful to the eyes,i have already rolled the dice
Thinking,but with no move to make.

Wheels turning,churning the dust on a sultry noon
Blinding the sight in a cloudy haze
Lazy sun shining through in beads of pearl
Does my weariness amaze you.

Traversed a thousand miles to nowhere
Spinnin' swingin' madly over the rumbling waves
Across the feet of ancient cities of past
Until a hollow end,where i met not anyone.

U can see sparks flying as u rush along the tracks
Through woods that line the faraway lands
Silhouetted by the trees,too petrified to be moving.
And the blue sky up is fading into dark
Its just the azure enshrouded in a murk
And the alpine mills are standing,but still not turning.

And you can see the fog braking through,i am stranded like a stone
Been robbed of my throne,i am naked to the bone
Far removed from the Calypso times of an ever coruscating morrow.
And the fractious breakers rebel against the sand
Too blithe to stick,they are vanished from my hand
Slipping into the land,far out of the reach of crazy sorrow.

And you can see puerile youths running along the rails
With two hands waving free,an ever inquisitive gaze
Their past stolen from them but still dreaming.
And the train is fading into the mile,please turn back a while
I am a distant blot in the sky,but at least we can try
The train screeches into the night,with the sunny side still gleaming.

PICK MY DIRT....the meaning of art...

It is with much deliberation and a whole lot more introspection that i sit down to write my first proper blog in about...ummm....i dont know....about six months.And in these six months,much has come to pass,much has changed,including myself.And I have changed only as much as the society has forced me to(after all,we are all social creatures).And apart from the paradigm shifts in my artistic persuasions,not much has changed in me either.In these six months,I have tried my hand at poetry (and daresay,I have miserably failed),at directing movies(until I realized I am no Kubrick),at being a musician (until all my composed tunes started sounding the same),and finally,at being a playwright.And it is precisely in the pursuit of this last of my interests that I have won some acclaim,and a few accolades as well.

And it is precisely from that point of time that I stopped being an artist,the instant I started to evaluate my creations from the perspective of others.Picasso,in an interview,had once said – ‘An artist cannot fail, it is a success to be one.’So while his art form changed from the exquisitely elegant to extravagantly hideous,he cared little for others appreciation of his art,that his creation could satiate his urge for personal expression was enough for him.And it is for this very reason that I today disown the most appreciated of all my plays,Nabaramayan,not because the message it conveyed (power of media to shape public opinion) is not something close to my heart,it is.The reason I disown it today is because it was written for the wrong purpose,to entertain an audience,rather than gratify my own need of personal expression.And it is for this very reason that ‘Pick My Dirt’ remains a personal favourite.True,its central act is hugely inspired,but not the concept, the concept remains as original as any,the thoughts,hugely personal.The thought gave direction and meaning to an otherwise imbecile and meaningless pantomime act.And in that,it remains hugely original.

Ever since I performed ‘Pick My Dirt’ at Recstacy,I have come across many praising the act for its wonderful acting,and for the hilarious mime act,while completely overlooking the subject of the play.It was never meant to be mere entertainment for the audience,never intended to attract the claps of the judges,neither was it intended for all the prizes that it won,but rather convey the central concept of ‘remove the cause of evil,remove evil’.The inlying humour was merely a support,not the reason.Its sad that it won so many prizes without any body understanding the real meaning of the act.Nothing hurts an artist more than his creation being taken out of perspective,its almost like watching ones own son being depredated before his own eyes.

P.S : For those who have little or no idea about what ‘Pick My Dirt actually is,it is a pantomime act performed by the drama group of Chayanika at Recstacy 2kx.It starts with a person entering the stage dressed in charlie Chaplin attire,feasting on bananas and throwing the peeled off skins around.It is precisely at this point of time that a sweeper enters the stage and slips one one of the banana skins,after which an altercation ensues,ending with the sweeper rendering Chaplin unconscious and carrying him off on his shoulder instead of the garbage filled sac that he had previously been carrying.

P.S:I remember once reading about a famous American painter who had been asked to paint the walls of one of the plushest restaurants in New York .But the painter,feeling aggrieved that his creativity could be evaluated in simple materialistic terms,drew on the walls of the restaurant,his greatest,and most ghastly and hideous piece of work,so that anybody dining in that restaurant would instantly lose their appetite.Ironically,the first person to be invited to that restaurant for an honorary dinner was he himself,the day after which,he committed suicide in his studio.

HIGH HOPES 2

wrote this down,sitting in class today.....kind of a sequel to high hopes.......


high hopes





waking up to feading dusks , bare bodied on smoking grass,
starry eyed on sleepless nights
time spent on frozen wings,warmed to the smolten skin
of a thousand livid fights
running inn clusters,lost in a haze,past guarded by
a viscious fang
straining our minds,to hear the sounds of how
the division bell ever rang
imprisoned in rusty fetters,lying in murky dungeons,
waiting for the morning light
filtering through bars of steel,lacerating the dark,
escaping by a cunning slight


The grass was greener,
The light was brighter
With friends surrounded
The nights of wonder

looking beyond the misty fields of a strife torn past
lasting rays of a lusty will
looking back,but blown by the wind,
theres reason to dream still
running races,flagged by unfulfilled dreams,
climbing higher and higher still
catching storms on tattered sails,and fate turning
like wind driven mills.

The grass was greener,
The light was brighter
With friends surrounded
The nights of wonder

Encumbered forever by desire and ambition
There's a hunger still unsatisfied
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Though down this road we've been so many times

The grass was greener
The light was brighter
The taste was sweeter
The nights of wonder
With friends surrounded
The dawn mist glowing
The water flowing
The endless river......

Protibaad...

A friend of mine had requested me,sometime back,to compose a song for him,and I have finally been able to come up with one.Composed the music yesterday,and wrote the song today.Heres presenting the lyrics of the first song I have ever composed.


PROTIBAAD




It kaat balir stup,
Sohoshro manusher klanto micchil,
Soto manusher bhirer majhe
Sobai kano tobu bicchinno deep?

Shopno gulo harie jae,
Bicharer bani shlilota harae,
Laal,nil,kaalor bikkhipto obhinoe,
Taar protibadey aaj
Ami shamil hobo.

Kaalo dhoa aaj shongi amar,neel aakaash janai bidae tomae,
Rongeen shurjo ontorhito soto akankhar dhojae,
Sohoshro shopner jaal bhongur ak lohomae.

Ami ottacharer aartonaad,
ami nirbaak,muker protibaad,
tomader protibadey aaj
ami shamil hobo.

Sobbhotar shrinkhola aar noe,
Poradhinota janai tomae bidae,
Osobbho protibadey aaj
Ami shamil hobo.

HOPE




In a dark creek,guarded from all sight
Live they,the creatures of the night,
A life free from harrows,
But can it ever be free of strife.

Haggards born unto a world so dark,
They smile not,fearing forever pain
Lips mocking,breaking into an occasional smirk
Mirth held in such disdain

A gentle stir,strangers pass by
Silhouetted by the ever growing darkness
Theres no reason to fear,nor to smile
Facing each day with an unchanged face

no one sings them lullabies
sleep be an eternal Friend,come hither,embrace
of forgotten dreams,visions long tarried
no painted veil to grace...

and yet they live,for live they must
come here they not to die
hoping for a new morning every day
hope rides out on every sigh..
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...