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Tuesday, 23 May 2023

A Dialogue

If only I were a house bulb,
I would shine brighter.

If only I were a street lamp,
I would shine righter.

If only I were a house bulb,
It wouldn't be an all-nighter.

If only I were a street lamp,
I would cease to be a switch-fighter.

Meanwhile,
streets widen
houses fall.

What remains is but an ignorant commuter.

Saturday, 13 May 2023

Pyre

Your bones refused to burn
when we set fire to the flesh

- Agha Shahid Ali, 'Cremation'


...Being the burning type,
he burned properly
at the cremation

- A K Ramanujan, 'Obituary'


. . .

One refuses to burn.
The other,
burns properly, and
in between the two
the world
crackles...

Life is a flight
from cremation 
to obituary,
from obituary to cremation.

At times, you refuse
to be decimated by Words.
On other occasions,
people profusely 
singe you
on the pyre of life.

too stubborn in life
we persist.

Monday, 8 May 2023

A Perceptive Heart

The heart comes with a condition that it must be given away but never sold in its entirety to the near ones.

On the contrary, it must be sold but never given away to any stranger, the condition says.

Moreover, in Love, the heart, the condition emphasizes, must be both given away and sold simultaneously, gradually at regular intervals.

It is however the last condition that complicates the thing further, it says that when one is done performing all this - giving away and selling, it must be returned, obviously not in its original condition, but still intact to the soul and sold finally to one's own body so that one may, at least, die peacefully.

No condition is applicable if one is devoid of heart, however.

Monday, 24 April 2023

About You

The sun was terrific 
and I enjoyed waiting for you,
knowing that you'd come
sooner than later.
The book, an additional comfort.

Life dispenses
few moments like these - 
clear visioned, blissful, content.
Only in retrospection does
one fully appreciate the sun, the waiting
the book - this whole mess of life.

On days, however, when I feel 
too penniless to face a moneyed day,
I snatch some air from that day and
shower it all over myself.

It ruffles my hair
as if you are just beside,
waiting to surprise me
with a greeting that resolves
the entire problem of space-time,
at least for me,
without using any mathematical equations
at all.

Monday, 20 March 2023

A Borges-Chekhov Dimension

 A ‘time-bound’ reading of Jorge Luis Borges’ ‘The Secret Miracle’[1] and Anton Chekhov’s ‘The Bet’[2]

One is a writer in prison, the other is a reader in prison. One is waiting for death, the other for freedom.

 

Borges’ character is a writer/prisoner awaiting his impending death by gunshot with a desire to finish his play before dying, so that he could justify, give meaning to his Life. With a desire to do this, he prays, and God stops time for him: the physical world stops exactly the moment the soldiers are about to shoot. He, thereafter, re-writes, edits, changes the story, characters, condenses the play, to his satisfaction, only to be killed as he is searching for the right epithet. His altered play observes the unity of time, place and action. His life, however, in the hands of he who ‘art the centuries and time itself’, doesn’t believe in these unities. Quite ironically, God provides the writer to observe his literary unities of time while dismantling, fragmenting the same in real time.

 

Chekhov’s character is a reader/prisoner awaiting his impending freedom once he completes fifteen years of his voluntary imprisonment. Unlike Borges’ character, he doesn’t have to pray to God to grant him time: the physical world has already stopped for him. Or, to put it differently, he has voluntarily stopped it for himself. While in prison, he acquires a love for Reading - the classics, history books, adventure stories, religious books etc. His imagination, as the responsible reader of these books, leads him to places - places even unknown to the free minds out there in the world, including the banker himself with whom he has betted in the first place. But after reading almost the entire literature of the World, he develops a disdain for everything – including, quite ironically, money itself. Thereafter, he leaves the confinement of the prison before the stipulated time, hence deliberately breaking the contract. In the face of death, the reader at the end of the story even disparages the books he holds in such high regard.   

 

In both the stories Time is the real protagonist. In Borges’ story, time is halted so that the character can finish his book and thereby give himself the illusion of living beyond the confines of time by carving a piece of Art from this mundane, unartful life. In Chekhov’s story, the prolonged time’s quality is further enriched by the efforts of the reader dabbling into the reservoir of knowledge, thus freeing himself from the confines of the prison-world by indulging in the perusal of literary works. Chekhov predominantly wrote in the realist genre. Borges abhorred social realism. The same trope of Time is being commented upon from two perspectives; one takes recourse to fantasy, the other tries to be as realist as possible. The outcomes vary exceptionally. Despite the differences, it is interesting to note how certain basic themes including, for example, the validity of Art, Time, Individual freedom, God, personal choices, find a common ground in their writings, especially in these two stories. Both the reader and the writer in prison, in times of crises, find recourse in Literature, or, to put it in a larger context, take refuge in ‘the prison-house of language’ itself. 


[1] Translated by Andrew Hurley.

[2] Translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky.

Sunday, 5 March 2023

Untitled

(for Joseph Brodsky)

Birds, here, fly like your whispers.
The sky seems overdrawn with mirth.
Huts, far away, feel like undone stories.
The roads curl like eyelashes.
There are no vehicles of any sort here,
as if everyone has just arrived -
or never left.
Nobody waits for no one here.
The animals seem self-sufficient 
searching something - 
maybe, the word stray.
Both the suns are
dusking farewell to pupils - 
the shrubs, here, weep 
like dewdrops on plastic.

....

I guess I'm dreaming
although I rarely dream
or else, it seems
"It is an early evening in the town of your Memory".

Tuesday, 21 February 2023

Dog Walking

Life,
like a faithful dog, barks -
drooling excitedly
at each moment.

Meanwhile,
I clutch 
onto the latch of breaths,
petending to be the owner.