events

Walking down the street
In ordinary shoes
In an ordinary suit
He’s only superman
One among us
After a busy day saving lives
And pulling creation back
From the edge of anarchy
He steps into a pub
And what does he find
A lot of pie-eyed supermen
Staring back at him
Our superhero ran out
And wondered if he should
Reappear in his trademark undies


Bang my head against the door
Let some of the matter inside
Some on the outside fall
Like the hatori hanza splitting the ball
See to it that half in your court
half in mine it drops
when the talk is past
the mincing of words
prays pinudas lord
grant my head that
unless written on it be your name
onto the floor let that crown roll
and bang my head
against your chest
against the temper of your tender breast


Some knew by rote
Some got their goat
Taken at the gates
Not in the epic
It’s not about
those who missed
the chance to vote
and decide their fate
on a day
lazier than Sunday
for surely it
is civilization to
have a say
amongst your brood
and count for one
even if not for much else
and to be able to do it
without so much as
moving a muscle
in only a slight
interruption in rest
surely that is why
the greatest man is humble
why man is great


Kathy were I to marry you
I’d carry you off
i’d tarry not a second
for the high words
the solemn pledges
and the promises for
what is to come
I’d carry you off
To the summit
Of the highest mountain
And there
in the blinding snow
and the numbing cold
I’d share with you
the world below
and the world to come

dekho dekho dekho dekho dekho

By the time he was well on his way his looks had become a major problem. He hadn’t been a particularly bonny child or a strapping lad and came upon youth with nothing that could be described as his style. But then an attitude emerged and as slow as that was it brought with itself a dressing sense that stuck to the straight and the narrow but was nonetheless adequate for that. The minimalism then became his style. He wasn’t slow to detect the incipient strokes of a personality and was automatically amenable to the idea of devoting time and effort to complete a portrait that was still only very faint to him. But in so conceptualising his mission he was inevitably transfixed by the notion of the visible as the beautiful thing and in light of the selfsame understanding became preoccupied with mephistophelean questions like what a portrait is and how a portrait looks instead of the platonic ones of what a portrait is and what a portrait should be. And now he serves his curiosity and suits his artistry by spending longer and longer in front of the mirror. Passing any reflecting surface he never misses the chance to take another look at himself, justifying what is by now indisputably a raging vanity complex with an ugly duckling-like chastity. In fact, a major chunk of the personality-building exercise consists in constantly monitoring and reviewing the status of his face and by extension appearance, which are ultimately separate things. The distinction allows him to treat the one thing with affected carelessness while being ceaselessly conscious of the other, an arrangement that upholds the lobe-structure theory of mind, giving him not so much a personality as many personas.

june no. 69

Oh it’s days away
When we’ll meet and meet
That’s easily said
But it won’t do
I need a date
A number to knock
On your door
Each time you come
Again and again

from adam

It is all
Dark to me
But I can make out
Some shapes of things
Some objects that
I will hit against
And hurt myself
Shall I wait till my eyes
Turn to sight
Or will someone come
To take my hand
Who can see herself
Says pinudas my lord
To the injured some balm send
Like an angel with a bird’s name
Hear the beggars plead
And the needy beg
Come like on the sixth
Day of light to adam you came



Further reference —
As you are
As you are
As an old enemy



We’ve been hitting
Such highs or
If you please
Plumbing such depths
It is maddening when
We are united with
Our true selves
Hare hunters and
Eaters of raw flesh
Aboriginal, savage
The dust of the bare
landscape
getting into our eyes
at sunset at the foot
of uluru
tujhe mirchi lagi to
main kya karoon
also try —
tururu tururu tururu turu
kahaan se karoon main
pyar shuru


special
tumi mowa naki
naki tumi local

know who you are

You are the pearl
Of the orient
The light of asia
The myth of creation
Older than amnesia

You are no mean feat
You are the church of wisdom
All things are of you born
And dying to enter
from you emerge

you are the horn of plenty
you are the contentment of
more in utopia
the spirit of wilderness you have
the loyalty of the beasts

you are liberty leading the people
the giant leap for mankind
you are everywhere but far says pinudas
you are napoleon fighting my war
from the lectern and the pulpit hear
you are you are

skipping stones

Now I realize that it is mostly longing. A neverland of sorts, is orissa. Except that here it is as much a land to escape into as a place that will never be mine. Insofar as to comprehend is to see things as a factor of opposites I identify in orissa all that is not the case with cal, which is the queen of hearts. But for orissa these are charms that I am talking about. So yes between the city and my roots it is a complement rather than a duality that works to confound me in a happy perplexity.
The wiles of Calcutta are well known. Orissa as I am still discovering is a different proposition altogether. Here there is an unmistakable pride that mixes with every slightest bit of amazement at humanity and all that is wrought thereof. For of course all that men do is complex and wonderful in design; in orissa I heard of god as the cosmic purveyor, the merest tossing of whose locks revealed him as endless. In the scorched landscape the rain is warm in my eyes. In orissa I go blind, and carried away if I might add with some modesty. Because the credit for that does not belong to me. But all the same devotional music. Would you believe it, from the capital of Bengal and from its capital also and of all folks the devout to sweep me off my feet.
And then I went to the beach for more of that. Puri beach, the tide coming in, the lifeguards going out, the tourists on the waterline and me, loincloth out of control, plundering the waves. Spontaneity is an attribute of the tortoise even if speed is not.
The sea breeze hits the spire and makes the flag blow with a dazzling fierceness. It is as if the lord’s chariot would now turn left into the avenue, his big courtyard, and come charging on. We enter the temple.
Here we jostle with the gods, the gods with garlands in their hands, gods with palms folded, gods with the trademark sticks at the entrances, but really wherever them gods please, touching the gods filing past to hold out a dime for the gods. We got into a scuffle with a god who was facilitating the rituals of another god and a drunk god who was he claimed, backing down instantly, temple police. But the gods altogether were smiling on us and for as little as five rupees a friendly god accepted our offering on behalf of the lord of them all.
King of puri provided lunch, against payment and much in excess but gratefully shared.
Like India, orissa too lives in its villages and the passengers would halt in one such, where it all began, at least where one half of it all began. The hamlet which provided the two sons of my great grandfather on the distaff side with brides for each of them both of whom belonged to the same family. Indeed were blood sisters. Danapara then, the name of the gram. The harvesting is over, winnowings on. The standfan whirrs at full speed and the grain dropped into the windstream is separated form the chaff. The grain is easily dehusked in fact and in small quantities is a good munchy, timepass.
Also shrooms. Oriya for mushrooms – sattu; oriya for shrooms – no balls to ask. Actually far too decent to do so. Presented more than two kilos for dinners sake in goodwill. Ah! How lovely it is here, the flower of youth speaks up. The wilted flower of youth says whats the use. It means nothing. But in that moment sounded profound. We were fooled in the villages. The feeling is mutual.
The klaxon that had been sounding got louder. The noise coming from the stadium. Bleed blue. Neelachal. And then you go ahead and win the World Cup. Inexhaustible is also the faith which is self-depleting.

root #2

Oh hell
These revolving doors
One is never sure
Whether one’s entered
or gained the road
but you see the kid
has passed inside
unmindful of me
as easily as
kids do these things
(and that is as it should be)
I am the one doing
The minding
Of the luggage also
And the lugging
Although it happens sometimes
With my feet, bags and a trip
I stumble and
With my nose on the glass
I gawp after the kid
It is a funny thing




of time that waits
flying time scuppers
that retreat for rest
to be up and gone
so many doors are closed
that were open before
tiredness is all
that remains in the end
and between
shelter and escape
a revolving door



the culprit
doesn't know it
but when
he is nearing home
he sings
songs of devotion

vitruvian woman hmmph

Angst in pants

If in layers be
The soul of depth
Then in what tangle
Are you wound
That like a kite
You soar unbound
Yet what is that spindle
That pulls you so
And from your freedom
Holds you back

Grandmama’s boy/ nani yaad hai

Oh kindly soul
Awake you’ve rowed
So long
Now sleep
I will take you ashore

For ma —

My mum
And me
On a bus

My mum
The loveliest
Creature on earth

I pick at
Earthworms
And she
Gently reminds me
They’re not
To be carried home