and now i surrender myself to family. let them choose what is right and what is wrong for me.
time and time again i have proved myself incapable of making any correct judgements.
time and time again i have lost faith in myself.
it is time to retire from decision making.
it is time for me to stop thinking about myself. i make the wrong choices anyway.
maybe it is because i have lost all confidence in myself.
but it is a lesson well learnt. i do not know how to judge people. i do not know how to tell the genuine from the insincere.
i am a gullible fool.
now whatever happens to me is solely in mom's hands.
i have given up on myself.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Thursday, June 30, 2005
if i was in a humorous mood, i would smirk at the irony of human life.
when i wanted human contact, i was shunned by it. by friends who refused to see me, or take my calls. by family who looked the other way. when ever i passed. by people who chose to disown my acquaintance in crowded malls and not so crowded intersections.
barely a month has passed. and suddenly the words surges i on me, when all i want is to be left alone, to lick my wounds and crawl into myself and slowly die.
i do not want to heal myself. let this fester and teach me a lesson as long as i live.
i am now an apprecntice- novice- solipsist. and so i shaould remain.
born under an unlucky star?
when i wanted human contact, i was shunned by it. by friends who refused to see me, or take my calls. by family who looked the other way. when ever i passed. by people who chose to disown my acquaintance in crowded malls and not so crowded intersections.
barely a month has passed. and suddenly the words surges i on me, when all i want is to be left alone, to lick my wounds and crawl into myself and slowly die.
i do not want to heal myself. let this fester and teach me a lesson as long as i live.
i am now an apprecntice- novice- solipsist. and so i shaould remain.
born under an unlucky star?
Monday, June 27, 2005
blogger would not open till now.
i have given up hope. why bother, when all you get are time extensions and probations? and conditions? if this, then on, if not then off, like a leaky faucet.
i shall probably never get married...and i have reconciled myself to the darkness of my own saturnine self and solitude, that i have wrapped around me like a comfort cloth.
i am shunning people. i do not take my calls. it is voluntary. i do not care to make human contact anymore. because it always ends like this.
i and my ideas alone exist...
i am almost a solipsist already.
despair- the final sin.
malignant fate- my own ill luck- wrong choice of people?
whatever.
solitude is all i crave nowadays. and the unhappiness will become almost bearable someday.
i have given up hope. why bother, when all you get are time extensions and probations? and conditions? if this, then on, if not then off, like a leaky faucet.
i shall probably never get married...and i have reconciled myself to the darkness of my own saturnine self and solitude, that i have wrapped around me like a comfort cloth.
i am shunning people. i do not take my calls. it is voluntary. i do not care to make human contact anymore. because it always ends like this.
i and my ideas alone exist...
i am almost a solipsist already.
despair- the final sin.
malignant fate- my own ill luck- wrong choice of people?
whatever.
solitude is all i crave nowadays. and the unhappiness will become almost bearable someday.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
i believe, again.
life's on probation for six odd months.
hickory dickory dock. and the clock goes tick tock.
and i echo my character. happiness is yellow, happiness is pink. happiness is stolen time, with forbidden licks of banana-strawberry ripple icecream at the nearest baskin robbins outlet.
happiness is phone calls at stupid o clock.
happiness is frozen. you steal a few moments from eternity and freeze them in your valise of memories forever and a day.
life's on probation for six odd months.
hickory dickory dock. and the clock goes tick tock.
and i echo my character. happiness is yellow, happiness is pink. happiness is stolen time, with forbidden licks of banana-strawberry ripple icecream at the nearest baskin robbins outlet.
happiness is phone calls at stupid o clock.
happiness is frozen. you steal a few moments from eternity and freeze them in your valise of memories forever and a day.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Thursday, June 09, 2005
we are not who we are
and you are not who you are
several moons have come and gone
since that day when we collided
and left holes in our soles
a century of silence seperated us
engulfing us in its chasms
each day saw us fight
you and me, our seperate battles
i patched up my armor with kevlar
and you sheathed yourself
in a wall of indifference
and yet aeons rolled by
but then somewhere down the line
the weight of centuries pushing me down
the shields cracked from side to side
and i was left alone
waiting upon your heart was i
and did i ever know
what you were, and would mean to me
ere the new leaves dropp'd dead
...
full fathom deep i threw my heart
and saw it writhe upon the lakes
the filmy grainy sands of time
bruised, battered, and carmine
and then you come, my old hero
in slightly rusted armour bent
no steed, no sword, for the damsel fine
nothing except a war wounded self
gaping holes and clawed finery
and yet there was a sable stole
and writ on it with words of gold
i wrapt the soot around us both
and went to sleep in your arms
the ruins of time befall us both
and still we plough on together
and if i regret my ruined minstrelsy
i look down, and smile
am i not the mistress of your heart?
and you are not who you are
several moons have come and gone
since that day when we collided
and left holes in our soles
a century of silence seperated us
engulfing us in its chasms
each day saw us fight
you and me, our seperate battles
i patched up my armor with kevlar
and you sheathed yourself
in a wall of indifference
and yet aeons rolled by
but then somewhere down the line
the weight of centuries pushing me down
the shields cracked from side to side
and i was left alone
waiting upon your heart was i
and did i ever know
what you were, and would mean to me
ere the new leaves dropp'd dead
...
full fathom deep i threw my heart
and saw it writhe upon the lakes
the filmy grainy sands of time
bruised, battered, and carmine
and then you come, my old hero
in slightly rusted armour bent
no steed, no sword, for the damsel fine
nothing except a war wounded self
gaping holes and clawed finery
and yet there was a sable stole
and writ on it with words of gold
i wrapt the soot around us both
and went to sleep in your arms
the ruins of time befall us both
and still we plough on together
and if i regret my ruined minstrelsy
i look down, and smile
am i not the mistress of your heart?
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
“Lagi aaj sawan ki fir wo jhadi he…”
The rain beats down, ceaselessly. Wetting her full lips, whetting my appetite. And I burn inside.
Several years have passed since we first met. She was young then, and I was wise. Now, she is older, but I am no wiser. Yearning, puppy like, for a woman I can never have.
“Lagi aaj sawan ki fir wo jhadi he…”
There she stands, under no shelter, in this achingly sweet weather. Arms akimbo, with her umbrella thrown carelessly aside. Her black, black hair streaming rivulets only less clear than her eyes. Face uplifted, droplets adding diamonds of brilliance to her golden hoop earrings. Her eyelashes clump together, and her silky cheeks, blushing red, cooled by the wet, wet, water.
A rivulet runs down her elegant throat, and her mouth open involuntarily to catch a lucky raindrop…
And the old flame roars to life again
Scarce a flicker, it burns strong despite the torrential rains…perhaps fed by the setting as well as the sight in front of me.
“Kuch aise hi din the wo jab hum mile the…”
So many years have done their disservice by me, while time has not changed her at all! And when we first met, it was the same. I, shielded by the awning, she dancing, childlike in the downpours of a monsoon.
“wahi aag seene me fir jal padi he…”
I yearn for her, I ache for her.
But I cannot have her.
A lone teardrop sneaks past my shut lids, and pearls itself down to the ground. Unnoticed in the midst of all these saucy raindrops.
And yet, would I allow myself the luxury of pain! Every desire, every emotion, every yearning must be felt by my battered soul.
Because my bruised and crippled body can feel no more.
Come, my darling, devoted wife. It is time we were going home.
The rain beats down, ceaselessly. Wetting her full lips, whetting my appetite. And I burn inside.
Several years have passed since we first met. She was young then, and I was wise. Now, she is older, but I am no wiser. Yearning, puppy like, for a woman I can never have.
“Lagi aaj sawan ki fir wo jhadi he…”
There she stands, under no shelter, in this achingly sweet weather. Arms akimbo, with her umbrella thrown carelessly aside. Her black, black hair streaming rivulets only less clear than her eyes. Face uplifted, droplets adding diamonds of brilliance to her golden hoop earrings. Her eyelashes clump together, and her silky cheeks, blushing red, cooled by the wet, wet, water.
A rivulet runs down her elegant throat, and her mouth open involuntarily to catch a lucky raindrop…
And the old flame roars to life again
Scarce a flicker, it burns strong despite the torrential rains…perhaps fed by the setting as well as the sight in front of me.
“Kuch aise hi din the wo jab hum mile the…”
So many years have done their disservice by me, while time has not changed her at all! And when we first met, it was the same. I, shielded by the awning, she dancing, childlike in the downpours of a monsoon.
“wahi aag seene me fir jal padi he…”
I yearn for her, I ache for her.
But I cannot have her.
A lone teardrop sneaks past my shut lids, and pearls itself down to the ground. Unnoticed in the midst of all these saucy raindrops.
And yet, would I allow myself the luxury of pain! Every desire, every emotion, every yearning must be felt by my battered soul.
Because my bruised and crippled body can feel no more.
Come, my darling, devoted wife. It is time we were going home.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Single in the City
Walking down the road. Calcutta’s roads. Riddled with innumerable potholes, a private swimming pool for every crow the city harbours. This is my reality. This, the muddy, pimpled, pockmarked streets, the swarming streams of humanity that jostle me on my way to work, the little sheets of scratch paper I write my assignments on.
The station at last. Ah. Home on wheels, literally. The train. The station. Familiar warmth. Inside. Inside a cadaverous, cavernous station. Chunks of marble. Dwarfed. I feel dwarfed. Stifled. Hot and cold. Cool vents of stale air, drops of humidity everywhere. Hot lunch burning hot knees.
Train comes and goes. Shoes everywhere. Not a single one shines. Buckles gleam, leather frowns. Shuffling feet, striding feet, god, dirrrty feet. Pretty, pretty girls. Am I still a girl? Or have I metamorphosed into a metapod? Always liked Pokemon. I hum ‘gotta catch em’ all in a delicious agony. The beads of sweat, the silent sniffles. Hot and cold.
The train rumbles in. My train.
Out of the cavernous station at last. It rained incessantly last weekend. Ruined my suede shoes. The rain stopped. Umbrellas down, its enough to gouge my eye out. The rain stopped. The earth finally exhales, as the sun sullenly shines on. The earth sweats, hits me on my face. Her sweat evokes a memory. Her dampness reminds. I am suddenly reminded of my own femininity.
Office. A dungeon without irons, no grappling hooks. Invisible chains choke at me. Hello, computer. Hello, phone. Hello, colleagues. Hello, coffee. Hello work. Hello drudgery. Hullo…?
The phone rings. …
Nikkita is at work.
Me. I am Nikkita. Nikkita from Köln Informatics. A German MNC outsourcing to the city. A huge BPO. One of the best paying call centres in the city, or in the country. Tough to get a break in. Entry requirement is an admirable level of proficiency in Deutsch. I sing of the Vaterland. Getting fatter everyday with Indian workers is it. What am I doing here if it is so …German? HR Manager, Staffing Consultant, P.R.O, rolled onto one voluptuous package.
Small town girl who made it big in the big bad city. Single in the city. My city. I rule my world. I am a kingdom of one. Subject and slave to my own desires…yes, sir, I’m on the line…subject and slave to my sole self, and my work. A paid, unwanted, but necessary slavery.
Boss. A sleaze ball of the highest order. General Manager of KI. Greasy, overfed and overstuffed Punjabi. He eyes me. Fancies me. Leers at my chest. And rubs his palm against his cheek in a delicious agony. Remembering the slap he got. When he tried to paw me in an empty hallway. Dares to call me Nikki as if I were his…girl. As if my being Punjabi too gave him an illicit license. Scruffy. From the soles of his Italian lather shoes to his pinkie ring. Crass. Unclean. He makes me feel unclean.
Coffee. Explodes on my tongue, wakens every dead pore. Nerve ends come screaming to life. ‘Coffee that makes the politician wise and see through everything with his half shut eyes’. Coffee that makes a certain woman rise out of her torpor and work like a carthorse. Coffee. Brings back memories. Of early morning smiles, kisses and caresses. A lifetime ago. Pink, I was in pink. A pink bathrobe he bought me when we vacationed in Goa.
The cellphone in my hip pocket chirps. A long distance recruitment call. Oh yes, Nikki is at work.
Hours have passed. Much sweat has poured down my not so skinny back, and pooled in all the glades and vales of my body. The cooling system breaks down every summer, but of course. Linen shirt and black pants. Clammy and slightly nauseating. My phone battery is all but dead already. With no power to charge. All power to the computers. Radiating still more heat.
It’s like a private sauna, every terminal. At least I have a cubicle of my own. The niceties of power. Being the recruitment head. My team members all bunched uncomfortably in the closeness of a tiny room. With more monitors than they know what to do with. And the men all in ties. Inky, stained ties. Shirtsleeves rolled up, sodden kerchiefs spread out. A spreading, sullen, smell of too many bodies cramped together. I need to. I need. To get out.
Sensory overload. Major sensory overload.
Either puke over the ugly lime green walls, or brave a pass in the hallway.
Neither sounds too good.
Chess. Chinese checkers. Corn puffs. Olde Merry England in a basket. A breadbasket. Mirrors on the walls. Who wants to be stared at while eating… so look at yourself Madame. Here’s looking at you, kid. Cold, cold water. I take a sip. Coffee breaks, lunch breaks, tea breaks. An hour of bliss alone. Half and fifteen fifteen. Corn bursts in the mouth. Ah, lunch. Hot packs be damned. A public house is so much better. Like an eccentric artist; calculating dollars and dimes. Human resourcer. Telecaller. Placement consultant. HR Manager. Staffing supervisor. I am or have been all of these. A Jill of all trades- and mistress of none. Pun intended. Score one for Nikki, so there.
A Jill of all trades. A voluptuous bundle of brisk efficiency. My lemon dessert is good and the chocolate sinful. Pure sin. Sexy. It smells like the aftermath of lovemaking. Of kisses in the night. Cloys in the throat. Sticks there. Remembering him.
Forget him. Eat. Comfort food. Patties and pastries. I suddenly feel like throwing my mobile at the mirror. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the biggest cheesecake of them all? I grab my Venetian faux leather handbag and run. The thought of food suddenly makes me sick. Eccentric femme fatale. With zits and an over confident grin.
“Burst Joy’s grape on the palate fine...” I mumble as I climb up the stairs to work. Twelve torturous flights. That’s all that stands between me and the encroaching fat farm. A phone call already. On the seventh floor by now. Huffing and puffing like a piglet in heat.
God, what a momma of a day. Hell, no network. I toss the phone back into the drawer where it reposes from nine to five. Amazingly sexy colleagues. Office romances. Not allowed. He’s still on probation. Long, stolen kisses in the driveway, maybe a stolen caress in the elevator. In my mind. Slimy, sleazy. Suddenly, I do not care.
A message pending. A personal call at work. Momma had called from the township. Oh no. Must send her a plant to pacify her again. My dear sweet mum-umm-my. I drawl out her name. Such a flat, insipid character. Not at all assertive. Sacre bleu. I am reminded of the musky scent I always associate with her. Mum. Suddenly, I feel like regressing into a prenatal stage, warm and snug inside her engorged belly.
A day that goes as it should. And yet I feel an emptiness. A craving for some sweeter delights. Not the boss, certainly. Oh no, that would never do. But maybe that pretty probation man. A pity he is on my team. A good round of sex against the antiseptic walls of the loo. Very enticing thought. Disgusting. Like a barnyard cacophony. Errant thought, to be locked away in the pensieve of m mind. Tucked in, like a stray lock. I feel bad. Wicked. I want my mother.
Maybe a plant would tempt her to visit. It isn’t really her time to call.
Under the station. The nurseryman. He sits with his plants. Lovely rubbery green little things. Sitting on a deserted train home. hic! Lovely little patterns of air rising around all over. Begging to be touched. Teasing and tantalizing me. Suddenly, there he is. Sitting unconcerned, a newspaper separating us. I want to walk over. No. eerie projections. Avi is dead. Gone and buried. In the eyes of the court. The marriage is killed. Throttled by us. Like the child we never got around to having.
Kicked in the womb. Better to trace nothing in eternity. Swirling droplets of moist dust. I trace a pattern on the empty air in front of me. Single in the city. A muddy, lacerated city. Spewing puke green waves of toxicity everywhere. Hum of apprehension. Single in the city. The big lights of the city. Single. Again. Pain. Raw pain. Doubling over, kicked in the gut, tear-jerking pain. Wet pillows in the night. Loss of appetite. No chocolates yet. I renounce ice cream in a world-weary fit. Childish renunciation of comfort food. God. Bless. Us. Everyone.
But the train comes to a stop. And my mum’s plants call. Banshees of nature, can’t be ignored.
Prickly pears. Stinging at my thighs. As I walk flatfooted down the road. The road. Roads of the big city. The city. Ah, the city. Rain. Crystal drops hitting my cheek. It hurts. Drops on the pavement. The beauuuutiful pavements of the city. Pah...the dirty city. Bouillabaisse. I crave French food. Except chocolate? No...godiva. Dalmatian like spots on the pavement. A furred carpet. Travesty of animal rights. Will wear leopard prints to work. Travesty again. Ah. Ah work. Sexy colleagues. It’s a jungle out there. Corporate jungle. Bah...GNR again. I. will. Not. Think. About spaghetti dammit. November rain in June. Steaming sweating city. Pooling in my chest. Bosom actually.... obsolete word. Silly word. Look down at the dampness underneath. See the sway of my...giggle bosom. Hypnotic. is it not so? The plant prickles again. A gift for momma. Momma who lives a thousand miles away. FedEx. I feel like bursting into song. here comes the bride...? me?I’m single in the city.
But the mood passes. As well it might.
An indifferent attempt at pasta. No dinner. Frantic by now, a bird caged inside trembling, beating violently for release.
I want my sanctuary. I want my boudoir.
Slippery satin on smooth silk sheets. Silky skin, encased in virginal white silk and lace. A stark contrast against the midnight colored satin sheets. A room made for sensual indulgences. A girl’s bedroom. A hedonist’s delight. A boudoir full of exotic fragrances. My one indulgence. My personal space in the stark apartment. Orchids bare their deepest secrets in a multifaceted crystal vase. A room for pleasure.
One bare leg slowly writhes against the sheet. Hands trace the silken outlines of my body over the bedclothes. Harem pants. Kenny G pipes on in the background and vanilla candles scent the air. Making full eyelids drop. The aircon circulates the musky odor of the milky orchids. I am lulled. Every digit relaxes and eyelids flutter closed.
Closed eyes.
Blue slits for eyes.
Panther like gaze. Crick in the neck, I have a. So, kill me sweetly, baby blue eyes. Eyes that blazed blue flame across a deserted courtroom.
Talaq, talaq, talaq.
Signed, sealed, delivered.
Unfaithful, erring mortal.
He had eyes like diamonds.
Diamonds.
I am a chip of blue flame. Go back to the time when I was engaged to him. The ice colored diamonds on the ring that had hurt when he pressed my hand too hard.
Months have passed since the divorce. I heal slowly, or not at all.
I…shall…not…cry…again.
Do I love him still? I love him still. No I do not. Yes, I do.
Talaq, talaq, talaq.
Erasure of a relationship. A marriage. A bond. Easy is it not?
Talaq. Mentally scribble a name that no longer is on empty air.
Momma. I suddenly need my mother. I want her back. Her voluminous lap an soft bosom.
Where I could cry forever.
Ah tears.
But never cried in font of him. Never broke down. ‘Don’t bend, don’t break, baby don’t back down’. The last time we met, I too blazed fire.
Blazing fire they come.
Blazing flame. I am a phoenix. I, Nikki. I am a phoenix with flame colored wings. The thought amuses. Flame destroys water. Even salt water. Tears evaporate…
Crimson. Red wings.
I am a phoenix with a nest of aromatic, spicy essences.
My sleep is my rebirth.
And, tomorrow I will arise from this sensual nest. Eyelids flutter.
Hell-eww, sandman. Enter me. Entrez. Enter my soul.
Soul of the bird, cageless and free.
Good. Good. Ah. Good night.
Walking down the road. Calcutta’s roads. Riddled with innumerable potholes, a private swimming pool for every crow the city harbours. This is my reality. This, the muddy, pimpled, pockmarked streets, the swarming streams of humanity that jostle me on my way to work, the little sheets of scratch paper I write my assignments on.
The station at last. Ah. Home on wheels, literally. The train. The station. Familiar warmth. Inside. Inside a cadaverous, cavernous station. Chunks of marble. Dwarfed. I feel dwarfed. Stifled. Hot and cold. Cool vents of stale air, drops of humidity everywhere. Hot lunch burning hot knees.
Train comes and goes. Shoes everywhere. Not a single one shines. Buckles gleam, leather frowns. Shuffling feet, striding feet, god, dirrrty feet. Pretty, pretty girls. Am I still a girl? Or have I metamorphosed into a metapod? Always liked Pokemon. I hum ‘gotta catch em’ all in a delicious agony. The beads of sweat, the silent sniffles. Hot and cold.
The train rumbles in. My train.
Out of the cavernous station at last. It rained incessantly last weekend. Ruined my suede shoes. The rain stopped. Umbrellas down, its enough to gouge my eye out. The rain stopped. The earth finally exhales, as the sun sullenly shines on. The earth sweats, hits me on my face. Her sweat evokes a memory. Her dampness reminds. I am suddenly reminded of my own femininity.
Office. A dungeon without irons, no grappling hooks. Invisible chains choke at me. Hello, computer. Hello, phone. Hello, colleagues. Hello, coffee. Hello work. Hello drudgery. Hullo…?
The phone rings. …
Nikkita is at work.
Me. I am Nikkita. Nikkita from Köln Informatics. A German MNC outsourcing to the city. A huge BPO. One of the best paying call centres in the city, or in the country. Tough to get a break in. Entry requirement is an admirable level of proficiency in Deutsch. I sing of the Vaterland. Getting fatter everyday with Indian workers is it. What am I doing here if it is so …German? HR Manager, Staffing Consultant, P.R.O, rolled onto one voluptuous package.
Small town girl who made it big in the big bad city. Single in the city. My city. I rule my world. I am a kingdom of one. Subject and slave to my own desires…yes, sir, I’m on the line…subject and slave to my sole self, and my work. A paid, unwanted, but necessary slavery.
Boss. A sleaze ball of the highest order. General Manager of KI. Greasy, overfed and overstuffed Punjabi. He eyes me. Fancies me. Leers at my chest. And rubs his palm against his cheek in a delicious agony. Remembering the slap he got. When he tried to paw me in an empty hallway. Dares to call me Nikki as if I were his…girl. As if my being Punjabi too gave him an illicit license. Scruffy. From the soles of his Italian lather shoes to his pinkie ring. Crass. Unclean. He makes me feel unclean.
Coffee. Explodes on my tongue, wakens every dead pore. Nerve ends come screaming to life. ‘Coffee that makes the politician wise and see through everything with his half shut eyes’. Coffee that makes a certain woman rise out of her torpor and work like a carthorse. Coffee. Brings back memories. Of early morning smiles, kisses and caresses. A lifetime ago. Pink, I was in pink. A pink bathrobe he bought me when we vacationed in Goa.
The cellphone in my hip pocket chirps. A long distance recruitment call. Oh yes, Nikki is at work.
Hours have passed. Much sweat has poured down my not so skinny back, and pooled in all the glades and vales of my body. The cooling system breaks down every summer, but of course. Linen shirt and black pants. Clammy and slightly nauseating. My phone battery is all but dead already. With no power to charge. All power to the computers. Radiating still more heat.
It’s like a private sauna, every terminal. At least I have a cubicle of my own. The niceties of power. Being the recruitment head. My team members all bunched uncomfortably in the closeness of a tiny room. With more monitors than they know what to do with. And the men all in ties. Inky, stained ties. Shirtsleeves rolled up, sodden kerchiefs spread out. A spreading, sullen, smell of too many bodies cramped together. I need to. I need. To get out.
Sensory overload. Major sensory overload.
Either puke over the ugly lime green walls, or brave a pass in the hallway.
Neither sounds too good.
Chess. Chinese checkers. Corn puffs. Olde Merry England in a basket. A breadbasket. Mirrors on the walls. Who wants to be stared at while eating… so look at yourself Madame. Here’s looking at you, kid. Cold, cold water. I take a sip. Coffee breaks, lunch breaks, tea breaks. An hour of bliss alone. Half and fifteen fifteen. Corn bursts in the mouth. Ah, lunch. Hot packs be damned. A public house is so much better. Like an eccentric artist; calculating dollars and dimes. Human resourcer. Telecaller. Placement consultant. HR Manager. Staffing supervisor. I am or have been all of these. A Jill of all trades- and mistress of none. Pun intended. Score one for Nikki, so there.
A Jill of all trades. A voluptuous bundle of brisk efficiency. My lemon dessert is good and the chocolate sinful. Pure sin. Sexy. It smells like the aftermath of lovemaking. Of kisses in the night. Cloys in the throat. Sticks there. Remembering him.
Forget him. Eat. Comfort food. Patties and pastries. I suddenly feel like throwing my mobile at the mirror. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the biggest cheesecake of them all? I grab my Venetian faux leather handbag and run. The thought of food suddenly makes me sick. Eccentric femme fatale. With zits and an over confident grin.
“Burst Joy’s grape on the palate fine...” I mumble as I climb up the stairs to work. Twelve torturous flights. That’s all that stands between me and the encroaching fat farm. A phone call already. On the seventh floor by now. Huffing and puffing like a piglet in heat.
God, what a momma of a day. Hell, no network. I toss the phone back into the drawer where it reposes from nine to five. Amazingly sexy colleagues. Office romances. Not allowed. He’s still on probation. Long, stolen kisses in the driveway, maybe a stolen caress in the elevator. In my mind. Slimy, sleazy. Suddenly, I do not care.
A message pending. A personal call at work. Momma had called from the township. Oh no. Must send her a plant to pacify her again. My dear sweet mum-umm-my. I drawl out her name. Such a flat, insipid character. Not at all assertive. Sacre bleu. I am reminded of the musky scent I always associate with her. Mum. Suddenly, I feel like regressing into a prenatal stage, warm and snug inside her engorged belly.
A day that goes as it should. And yet I feel an emptiness. A craving for some sweeter delights. Not the boss, certainly. Oh no, that would never do. But maybe that pretty probation man. A pity he is on my team. A good round of sex against the antiseptic walls of the loo. Very enticing thought. Disgusting. Like a barnyard cacophony. Errant thought, to be locked away in the pensieve of m mind. Tucked in, like a stray lock. I feel bad. Wicked. I want my mother.
Maybe a plant would tempt her to visit. It isn’t really her time to call.
Under the station. The nurseryman. He sits with his plants. Lovely rubbery green little things. Sitting on a deserted train home. hic! Lovely little patterns of air rising around all over. Begging to be touched. Teasing and tantalizing me. Suddenly, there he is. Sitting unconcerned, a newspaper separating us. I want to walk over. No. eerie projections. Avi is dead. Gone and buried. In the eyes of the court. The marriage is killed. Throttled by us. Like the child we never got around to having.
Kicked in the womb. Better to trace nothing in eternity. Swirling droplets of moist dust. I trace a pattern on the empty air in front of me. Single in the city. A muddy, lacerated city. Spewing puke green waves of toxicity everywhere. Hum of apprehension. Single in the city. The big lights of the city. Single. Again. Pain. Raw pain. Doubling over, kicked in the gut, tear-jerking pain. Wet pillows in the night. Loss of appetite. No chocolates yet. I renounce ice cream in a world-weary fit. Childish renunciation of comfort food. God. Bless. Us. Everyone.
But the train comes to a stop. And my mum’s plants call. Banshees of nature, can’t be ignored.
Prickly pears. Stinging at my thighs. As I walk flatfooted down the road. The road. Roads of the big city. The city. Ah, the city. Rain. Crystal drops hitting my cheek. It hurts. Drops on the pavement. The beauuuutiful pavements of the city. Pah...the dirty city. Bouillabaisse. I crave French food. Except chocolate? No...godiva. Dalmatian like spots on the pavement. A furred carpet. Travesty of animal rights. Will wear leopard prints to work. Travesty again. Ah. Ah work. Sexy colleagues. It’s a jungle out there. Corporate jungle. Bah...GNR again. I. will. Not. Think. About spaghetti dammit. November rain in June. Steaming sweating city. Pooling in my chest. Bosom actually.... obsolete word. Silly word. Look down at the dampness underneath. See the sway of my...giggle bosom. Hypnotic. is it not so? The plant prickles again. A gift for momma. Momma who lives a thousand miles away. FedEx. I feel like bursting into song. here comes the bride...? me?I’m single in the city.
But the mood passes. As well it might.
An indifferent attempt at pasta. No dinner. Frantic by now, a bird caged inside trembling, beating violently for release.
I want my sanctuary. I want my boudoir.
Slippery satin on smooth silk sheets. Silky skin, encased in virginal white silk and lace. A stark contrast against the midnight colored satin sheets. A room made for sensual indulgences. A girl’s bedroom. A hedonist’s delight. A boudoir full of exotic fragrances. My one indulgence. My personal space in the stark apartment. Orchids bare their deepest secrets in a multifaceted crystal vase. A room for pleasure.
One bare leg slowly writhes against the sheet. Hands trace the silken outlines of my body over the bedclothes. Harem pants. Kenny G pipes on in the background and vanilla candles scent the air. Making full eyelids drop. The aircon circulates the musky odor of the milky orchids. I am lulled. Every digit relaxes and eyelids flutter closed.
Closed eyes.
Blue slits for eyes.
Panther like gaze. Crick in the neck, I have a. So, kill me sweetly, baby blue eyes. Eyes that blazed blue flame across a deserted courtroom.
Talaq, talaq, talaq.
Signed, sealed, delivered.
Unfaithful, erring mortal.
He had eyes like diamonds.
Diamonds.
I am a chip of blue flame. Go back to the time when I was engaged to him. The ice colored diamonds on the ring that had hurt when he pressed my hand too hard.
Months have passed since the divorce. I heal slowly, or not at all.
I…shall…not…cry…again.
Do I love him still? I love him still. No I do not. Yes, I do.
Talaq, talaq, talaq.
Erasure of a relationship. A marriage. A bond. Easy is it not?
Talaq. Mentally scribble a name that no longer is on empty air.
Momma. I suddenly need my mother. I want her back. Her voluminous lap an soft bosom.
Where I could cry forever.
Ah tears.
But never cried in font of him. Never broke down. ‘Don’t bend, don’t break, baby don’t back down’. The last time we met, I too blazed fire.
Blazing fire they come.
Blazing flame. I am a phoenix. I, Nikki. I am a phoenix with flame colored wings. The thought amuses. Flame destroys water. Even salt water. Tears evaporate…
Crimson. Red wings.
I am a phoenix with a nest of aromatic, spicy essences.
My sleep is my rebirth.
And, tomorrow I will arise from this sensual nest. Eyelids flutter.
Hell-eww, sandman. Enter me. Entrez. Enter my soul.
Soul of the bird, cageless and free.
Good. Good. Ah. Good night.
i was stained in you
and now, nothing remains
i've isolated myself from you
and you, you, and you
till the inks swirl around and
whirl off me
red, un couer brise, fades first
indigo leaks off my veins next
blacks and greys the last to leave
till everything is leached of color
and a dullness remins behind
white or something like it
shall i ever be so painted again?
shall i ever be so pained again?
my body-palette is smudged dry now
and no color remains
and now, nothing remains
i've isolated myself from you
and you, you, and you
till the inks swirl around and
whirl off me
red, un couer brise, fades first
indigo leaks off my veins next
blacks and greys the last to leave
till everything is leached of color
and a dullness remins behind
white or something like it
shall i ever be so painted again?
shall i ever be so pained again?
my body-palette is smudged dry now
and no color remains
Saturday, June 04, 2005
How art thou fallen, O CaffeineAddict!
It is amazing really, how fast someone can change. Especially when we take into account that several people hardly change much in the whole course of their lives.
A few salient points of change I have noticed-
Life/ future- somehow, I have lost the ability to think beyond the present. An amorphous present, a hazy tomorrow, that is all we have. All that I have. And I have no desire to even think beyond today.
Faith- it has withered away. Sure, there may be powers and cosmic energies, but I leave them for others to discover and revere. I do not doubt or believe. I simply do not care anymore. Faith doesn’t move mountains after all.
Death- my death wish revisited? No, I do not desire death anymore. I don’t think I was ever scared of death. I am not curious about it anymore. I just don’t want it to be a painful one.
Children- was there ever a time when I didn’t want a bunch of them for my own? And now, they are creatures from some alien dimension. I have come to terms with the fact that I may never have any of my own. And this has palled my enjoyment of other people’s children.
Marriage- permanence, hah. When I do not desire anything beyond the morrow, how can I ever exert myself enough to think of something as permanent as marriage? Besides, the more I see of the matrimonial state, the less I like the people who enter into it. Maybe fidelity and monogamy are fictitious traits in people.
Society- if man is a social creature, then I am a deviant. I find I can bear solitude very complacently. Most of the people I come across bore me insufferably.
Writing- perhaps losing its charm. No, not charm. It doesn’t help to express violent emotion anymore. Some things are better left inside a rotted brain, festering and unsaid. Confidences are better left unsaid.
Parents- idols with feet of clay. And their children (like me) unnatural and ungrateful offspring.
I am well aware that these are not enviable changes, or patterns of thinking. I do not claim to be an exceptionally good person either. I might be an indolent, self-seeking person and a lousy daughter –sister- friend- girlfriend, but this is me.
This is me, now.
It is amazing really, how fast someone can change. Especially when we take into account that several people hardly change much in the whole course of their lives.
A few salient points of change I have noticed-
Life/ future- somehow, I have lost the ability to think beyond the present. An amorphous present, a hazy tomorrow, that is all we have. All that I have. And I have no desire to even think beyond today.
Faith- it has withered away. Sure, there may be powers and cosmic energies, but I leave them for others to discover and revere. I do not doubt or believe. I simply do not care anymore. Faith doesn’t move mountains after all.
Death- my death wish revisited? No, I do not desire death anymore. I don’t think I was ever scared of death. I am not curious about it anymore. I just don’t want it to be a painful one.
Children- was there ever a time when I didn’t want a bunch of them for my own? And now, they are creatures from some alien dimension. I have come to terms with the fact that I may never have any of my own. And this has palled my enjoyment of other people’s children.
Marriage- permanence, hah. When I do not desire anything beyond the morrow, how can I ever exert myself enough to think of something as permanent as marriage? Besides, the more I see of the matrimonial state, the less I like the people who enter into it. Maybe fidelity and monogamy are fictitious traits in people.
Society- if man is a social creature, then I am a deviant. I find I can bear solitude very complacently. Most of the people I come across bore me insufferably.
Writing- perhaps losing its charm. No, not charm. It doesn’t help to express violent emotion anymore. Some things are better left inside a rotted brain, festering and unsaid. Confidences are better left unsaid.
Parents- idols with feet of clay. And their children (like me) unnatural and ungrateful offspring.
I am well aware that these are not enviable changes, or patterns of thinking. I do not claim to be an exceptionally good person either. I might be an indolent, self-seeking person and a lousy daughter –sister- friend- girlfriend, but this is me.
This is me, now.
Friday, June 03, 2005
a new discman. new headphones and mike. new sings to listen to. new ebooks to read.
research for my next bit of writing.
please excuse my lack of posts for some time.
in the meantime, feast your eyes on my biggest compliment
Missing a stranger
One by one
They all leave
Some known and
Most uncanny
Now a stranger
She leaves
Whom I know
Couldn’t remember
Whom I see &
Couldn’t feel
Whom I'd listen
Couldn’t talk
Stranger she is
And will be
Under many names
Lies, unblemished heart
Stranger, hers, that is
In due time
She’ll soon be forgotten
Or so but let me lie
For truth so many
I possess - bout a stranger
Belowth pile of clay
When I die..
For a stranger who will be M i s s E D ... vinod
research for my next bit of writing.
please excuse my lack of posts for some time.
in the meantime, feast your eyes on my biggest compliment
Missing a stranger
One by one
They all leave
Some known and
Most uncanny
Now a stranger
She leaves
Whom I know
Couldn’t remember
Whom I see &
Couldn’t feel
Whom I'd listen
Couldn’t talk
Stranger she is
And will be
Under many names
Lies, unblemished heart
Stranger, hers, that is
In due time
She’ll soon be forgotten
Or so but let me lie
For truth so many
I possess - bout a stranger
Belowth pile of clay
When I die..
For a stranger who will be M i s s E D ... vinod
Thursday, June 02, 2005
bunty aur babli is not meant to address any social issues. it does not have the high drama of a saathiya or the high octane thrills of a dhoom. yet, the movie stands out as a comic caper loaded with hi jinks and several costume changes. it is all about fun, kyunki duniya me do kism ke log hote he!
points to be noted-
1. bachhan senior never changes his clothes once throughout the movie. contrasted to rani and abhishek's wardrobes, this looks a little odd, but then, it reinforces his credibility as a good cop.
2. rani makes a cute jassi
3. aishwarya *in a startling guest appearance* looks vampish and cheap. contrast this to how graceful she looked in devdas, or even how sexy she looked in ishq kameena
4. rani looks good holding a baby
5. abhishek and rani have great chemistry as friends. as lovers they dont hold a candle to rani-vivek in saathiya
6. all the dance sequences are extremely well choreographed ( except ash's song). my personal fave, shiamak davar also pops in for one of the sequences. it was a sort of thrill to see my old dance instructors sharing screen space with two of the most talented actors bollywood has on offer right now.
7. did i mention the costumes? hats off to aki narula for this clothing coup!
8. the cinematography- good.
9. the music score- good. it wont have you humming in your seat, but the title track and mujhe bulaye re are memorable.
who cares if the film script is a rip off? the movie is an out and out entertainer. as good as hitch, much better than waqt, the last two movies i saw.
i give bunty aur babli a rating of 8/10. a must watch. maybe even worth watching twice!
points to be noted-
1. bachhan senior never changes his clothes once throughout the movie. contrasted to rani and abhishek's wardrobes, this looks a little odd, but then, it reinforces his credibility as a good cop.
2. rani makes a cute jassi
3. aishwarya *in a startling guest appearance* looks vampish and cheap. contrast this to how graceful she looked in devdas, or even how sexy she looked in ishq kameena
4. rani looks good holding a baby
5. abhishek and rani have great chemistry as friends. as lovers they dont hold a candle to rani-vivek in saathiya
6. all the dance sequences are extremely well choreographed ( except ash's song). my personal fave, shiamak davar also pops in for one of the sequences. it was a sort of thrill to see my old dance instructors sharing screen space with two of the most talented actors bollywood has on offer right now.
7. did i mention the costumes? hats off to aki narula for this clothing coup!
8. the cinematography- good.
9. the music score- good. it wont have you humming in your seat, but the title track and mujhe bulaye re are memorable.
who cares if the film script is a rip off? the movie is an out and out entertainer. as good as hitch, much better than waqt, the last two movies i saw.
i give bunty aur babli a rating of 8/10. a must watch. maybe even worth watching twice!
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Ricky made me do it- although he shall never know it -
Three names i go by
Caffeine Addict
PassionatePilgrim
Estemiseria
Three YM ids i have had
chutzpahgal ( several years back)
sunshine_and_sunflowers
talk2caffeineaddict (all history now)
Three Physical Things I like about myself
Full lips/smile- hey its what i like, not what others do
Eyes- even when i wear glasses
hair
Three Physical things I dont like about myself
no matter what i do, i still stay plump
i have flat feet
my nose its like a frogs arse!
three parts of your heritage
am proud to have inherited the best parts of the marwari and upite culture
music and culture- passed on by mom
my faith- although i am now an agnostic
three things that scare me
horror movies and threats of demonic invasions
visions of death by drowning
loss of my creative faculties
three everyday essentials
food- there is a reason im plump!
water- to drink, to shower in, to wash clothes etc. . .
writing- cant get through a day without it
three things im wearing right now
a bathrobe
*blush* clean underwear *blush* !
a fine layer of perspiration
three things i want in a relationship
love
trust
understanding
two truths and a lie
i'm left handed
i'm cross eyed
i've never bitten my nails in my life
three physical things about guys that appeal to me
hair- the longer the better
lips/teeth
eyes
thee things i really want to do right now
have a shower in ice water
drink cold coffee with ice cream
hold someone close
three careers i would consider
writing
teaching- as a lecturer in a university
an environmental journalist
three vacation hotspots
a tour of europe
the usual singapore/bangkok trail- i love bangkok. tis my NYC
simla -manali- kashmir- the mountains around north india
three kids names i like
naman
ashish
mansi
three things to do before i die
write a bestseller
have a dozen kids- or adopt
finish knitting the sweater im making for my sister. its been in the works for over a year now
three things i wish i hadnt done
been such a straight talker
lost touch with some old friends
erased some of my best work in a hissy fit
im laid bare now- literally!!
Three names i go by
Caffeine Addict
PassionatePilgrim
Estemiseria
Three YM ids i have had
chutzpahgal ( several years back)
sunshine_and_sunflowers
talk2caffeineaddict (all history now)
Three Physical Things I like about myself
Full lips/smile- hey its what i like, not what others do
Eyes- even when i wear glasses
hair
Three Physical things I dont like about myself
no matter what i do, i still stay plump
i have flat feet
my nose its like a frogs arse!
three parts of your heritage
am proud to have inherited the best parts of the marwari and upite culture
music and culture- passed on by mom
my faith- although i am now an agnostic
three things that scare me
horror movies and threats of demonic invasions
visions of death by drowning
loss of my creative faculties
three everyday essentials
food- there is a reason im plump!
water- to drink, to shower in, to wash clothes etc. . .
writing- cant get through a day without it
three things im wearing right now
a bathrobe
*blush* clean underwear *blush* !
a fine layer of perspiration
three things i want in a relationship
love
trust
understanding
two truths and a lie
i'm left handed
i'm cross eyed
i've never bitten my nails in my life
three physical things about guys that appeal to me
hair- the longer the better
lips/teeth
eyes
thee things i really want to do right now
have a shower in ice water
drink cold coffee with ice cream
hold someone close
three careers i would consider
writing
teaching- as a lecturer in a university
an environmental journalist
three vacation hotspots
a tour of europe
the usual singapore/bangkok trail- i love bangkok. tis my NYC
simla -manali- kashmir- the mountains around north india
three kids names i like
naman
ashish
mansi
three things to do before i die
write a bestseller
have a dozen kids- or adopt
finish knitting the sweater im making for my sister. its been in the works for over a year now
three things i wish i hadnt done
been such a straight talker
lost touch with some old friends
erased some of my best work in a hissy fit
im laid bare now- literally!!
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Walking down the road. Calcuttas roads. Riddled with innumerable potholes, a private swimming pool for every crow the city harbours. This is my reality.
This, the muddy, pimpled, pockmarked streets, the swarming streams of humanity that jostle me on my way to work, the little sheets of scratch paper I write my assignments on.
Out of the cavernous station at last. It rained incessantly last weekend. Ruined my suede shoes. The rain stopped. Umbrellas down, its enough to gouge my eye out.
The rain stopped. The earth finally exhales, as the sun sullenly shines on.
The earth sweats, hits me on my face. Her sweat evokes a memory. Her dampness reminds. I am suddenly reminded of my own femininity.
This, the muddy, pimpled, pockmarked streets, the swarming streams of humanity that jostle me on my way to work, the little sheets of scratch paper I write my assignments on.
Out of the cavernous station at last. It rained incessantly last weekend. Ruined my suede shoes. The rain stopped. Umbrellas down, its enough to gouge my eye out.
The rain stopped. The earth finally exhales, as the sun sullenly shines on.
The earth sweats, hits me on my face. Her sweat evokes a memory. Her dampness reminds. I am suddenly reminded of my own femininity.
Monday, May 30, 2005
The legend of Dr. Faustus, the German who sold his soul to the devil has filtered down to us in several forms. Probably the most well known are Goethes Faust and Christopher Marlowes Faustus.
Before taking a closer look at the characterization of Marlowes Faust, Id like to sketch, briefly, the background of the early Renaissance, when the play was written. It is important to keep in mind, that the very first folio of the play was written, not to be read but to be performed, and therefore, we must allow for several nuances and shades of character that might not be part of the, to use a colloquial term, shooting script, but could, very well have been brought out by the extremely talented crop of Renaissance actors- for, we have to remember, that there was no background or scenery, and that the creation of any atmosphere at all, depended, partly on costume, and largely on the prowess of the actor himself. Even allowing for certain later modifications on the part of editors, we must assume that a large amount of the understanding of character in action has already been lost. Therefore, we’re working slightly blind- for, due to the availability of more than one manuscript; we can’t take the printed text before us as gospel truth. Even the slightest change in syntax can alter meaning perceptibly. The literary historian, who chooses to sketch character, therefore, has a tough job at hand, especially, if the character is a conscious act of creation.
Centuries of criticism have denounced Faust as an overreacher, and in this, they choose to lump Faustus along with the other one man plays that Marlowe wrote- the Jew of Malta, and, more importantly, Tamburlaine in both its parts. This categorization is to a degree acceptable- yes the most important character is that of Faust, yes the other characters remain no more than types. Faust is not, however the same as Tamburlaine or Barrabas. Both the Scythian shepherd and the Jew are amoral characters, exulting in the spoils of their triumph, showing no concern at all for the plight of their conquered. Imagine Tamburlaine chariot, drawn by conquered kings, and I’m sure you get the picture. Both of them die, unrepentant, Barrabas disappointed because h has not been able to do more evil, and Tamburlaine, defeated only by death.
And now, spare a glance at the shrunken figure of Faustus, dreading the arrival of the hour that must take him to his doom. He dreads his fate in a way that neither Tamburlaine nor Barrabas did. Faustus is not amoral, he has a conscience that he conveniently put on the back burner, so to speak, and it only pricks him when it is almost too late to save himself. For surely, had he not possessed a conscience, he could not have spoken these lines of the finest poetry in the play-
“Christ’s blood streams in the firmament...one drop would save my soul…�
The question here is not why Faustus allows himself to fall prey to the darkest sin of despair, because of which his redemption becomes impossible. Christian notions of redemption, and grace were much stronger back in the early Renaissance when the play was written and performed. We must keep in mind that the renaissance was preceded by what we call the ‘dark ages’- the reformation, the splitting of the Catholic church, the inquisition, all in all a great age of religious upheaval had just passed by. And the earlier drama of the age (the morality plays) all had one recurrent theme- sin and salvation. In its personified vices and devils, Faustus is very much like a morality play, and yet, in a way transcends the conventions of the morality pattern. We see here, conflict. Conflict between the thirst for knowledge and the conscience- the voice of the moral soul.
A point to be noted here- Faustus does not desire knowledge for any other reason apart from its accumulation. Apart from the brief scene in which he summons Helen of Troy, what does Marlowe do to show us what Faustus has done with his unimaginable wealth of knowledge? Faust does not overthrow the ruling classes or fill his coffers with wealth. In this, he is the embodiment of the Renaissance thirst for ‘Virtu’- a great desire for knowledge for its own sake. In a way, every Renaissance man was an overreacher, because he strained beyond the boundaries of ordinary thought. Were it not for the challenging of extant norms and traditions, might we still not have believed that the earth was the centre of the universe and that it was as flat as a pancake? Any sort of advancement begins with doubt and questioning, and this is true also of art and culture. Art (particularly painting and literature) moved away from the celestial to the more mundane. This was the age of the glorification of man. A subtle shift had started to take place in the existing paradigm, and man suddenly, shared space with his God in the centre of his own universe.
However, with change too, too much too soon, can lead to disaster. Why did Faustus remain so dissatisfied with the reigning sciences of his time and turn to necromancy and magic the way a child turns from gems to coloured paper? (This thought is not original. I first came upon it in Long’s History of English Literature). Too much knowledge, too soon, without the time that knowledge needs to translate itself into wisdom. And the result- Faust sells his soul to Mephistopheles. Arrogantly, perhaps, but I see in it a childlike joy, and a dangerous naiveté- he says “had I a dozen souls to give, I’d give them all to Mephistopheles’. Indeed. And when that all too short time span granted him is up- can any of hi accrued knowledge save him? No, because he has not bothered to wait till he distils some wisdom from all the wealth of knowledge he has garnered. And he falls prey to despair- and so wreaks upon himself his own doom.
Not totally an overreacher, definitely not an apt symbol for Virtu. Faustus remains a tragic character, deluded till the end, because he lacks what all the knowledge in the world cannot give him- wisdom.
Before taking a closer look at the characterization of Marlowes Faust, Id like to sketch, briefly, the background of the early Renaissance, when the play was written. It is important to keep in mind, that the very first folio of the play was written, not to be read but to be performed, and therefore, we must allow for several nuances and shades of character that might not be part of the, to use a colloquial term, shooting script, but could, very well have been brought out by the extremely talented crop of Renaissance actors- for, we have to remember, that there was no background or scenery, and that the creation of any atmosphere at all, depended, partly on costume, and largely on the prowess of the actor himself. Even allowing for certain later modifications on the part of editors, we must assume that a large amount of the understanding of character in action has already been lost. Therefore, we’re working slightly blind- for, due to the availability of more than one manuscript; we can’t take the printed text before us as gospel truth. Even the slightest change in syntax can alter meaning perceptibly. The literary historian, who chooses to sketch character, therefore, has a tough job at hand, especially, if the character is a conscious act of creation.
Centuries of criticism have denounced Faust as an overreacher, and in this, they choose to lump Faustus along with the other one man plays that Marlowe wrote- the Jew of Malta, and, more importantly, Tamburlaine in both its parts. This categorization is to a degree acceptable- yes the most important character is that of Faust, yes the other characters remain no more than types. Faust is not, however the same as Tamburlaine or Barrabas. Both the Scythian shepherd and the Jew are amoral characters, exulting in the spoils of their triumph, showing no concern at all for the plight of their conquered. Imagine Tamburlaine chariot, drawn by conquered kings, and I’m sure you get the picture. Both of them die, unrepentant, Barrabas disappointed because h has not been able to do more evil, and Tamburlaine, defeated only by death.
And now, spare a glance at the shrunken figure of Faustus, dreading the arrival of the hour that must take him to his doom. He dreads his fate in a way that neither Tamburlaine nor Barrabas did. Faustus is not amoral, he has a conscience that he conveniently put on the back burner, so to speak, and it only pricks him when it is almost too late to save himself. For surely, had he not possessed a conscience, he could not have spoken these lines of the finest poetry in the play-
“Christ’s blood streams in the firmament...one drop would save my soul…�
The question here is not why Faustus allows himself to fall prey to the darkest sin of despair, because of which his redemption becomes impossible. Christian notions of redemption, and grace were much stronger back in the early Renaissance when the play was written and performed. We must keep in mind that the renaissance was preceded by what we call the ‘dark ages’- the reformation, the splitting of the Catholic church, the inquisition, all in all a great age of religious upheaval had just passed by. And the earlier drama of the age (the morality plays) all had one recurrent theme- sin and salvation. In its personified vices and devils, Faustus is very much like a morality play, and yet, in a way transcends the conventions of the morality pattern. We see here, conflict. Conflict between the thirst for knowledge and the conscience- the voice of the moral soul.
A point to be noted here- Faustus does not desire knowledge for any other reason apart from its accumulation. Apart from the brief scene in which he summons Helen of Troy, what does Marlowe do to show us what Faustus has done with his unimaginable wealth of knowledge? Faust does not overthrow the ruling classes or fill his coffers with wealth. In this, he is the embodiment of the Renaissance thirst for ‘Virtu’- a great desire for knowledge for its own sake. In a way, every Renaissance man was an overreacher, because he strained beyond the boundaries of ordinary thought. Were it not for the challenging of extant norms and traditions, might we still not have believed that the earth was the centre of the universe and that it was as flat as a pancake? Any sort of advancement begins with doubt and questioning, and this is true also of art and culture. Art (particularly painting and literature) moved away from the celestial to the more mundane. This was the age of the glorification of man. A subtle shift had started to take place in the existing paradigm, and man suddenly, shared space with his God in the centre of his own universe.
However, with change too, too much too soon, can lead to disaster. Why did Faustus remain so dissatisfied with the reigning sciences of his time and turn to necromancy and magic the way a child turns from gems to coloured paper? (This thought is not original. I first came upon it in Long’s History of English Literature). Too much knowledge, too soon, without the time that knowledge needs to translate itself into wisdom. And the result- Faust sells his soul to Mephistopheles. Arrogantly, perhaps, but I see in it a childlike joy, and a dangerous naiveté- he says “had I a dozen souls to give, I’d give them all to Mephistopheles’. Indeed. And when that all too short time span granted him is up- can any of hi accrued knowledge save him? No, because he has not bothered to wait till he distils some wisdom from all the wealth of knowledge he has garnered. And he falls prey to despair- and so wreaks upon himself his own doom.
Not totally an overreacher, definitely not an apt symbol for Virtu. Faustus remains a tragic character, deluded till the end, because he lacks what all the knowledge in the world cannot give him- wisdom.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Saturday, May 28, 2005
i have finally submitted my last post on chutzpah today. it feels like the end of something big. and yet, not. every created thing has its end, and a time to end gracefully.
alea jacta est
all this moonshine waxes and wanes
and nights come to a close
the last leaves swirl and fall
and flames burn out
a facade has been dropped
another stands veiled
life comes to a close
is this a new beginning
or, finally, the end . . .
alea jacta est
all this moonshine waxes and wanes
and nights come to a close
the last leaves swirl and fall
and flames burn out
a facade has been dropped
another stands veiled
life comes to a close
is this a new beginning
or, finally, the end . . .
Thursday, May 26, 2005
postless for a day?? the words had gone. i needed some time..time alone, to just be with myself. catch up on some sleep and basically hang out with my brain.
instead i went under the radiologists scrutiny.
however, true to form i have bounced back again
a promise made- to take care of myself
a promise taken
a glow added
life, love...and all that jazz
i am happy today
and i suspect i know why
instead i went under the radiologists scrutiny.
however, true to form i have bounced back again
a promise made- to take care of myself
a promise taken
a glow added
life, love...and all that jazz
i am happy today
and i suspect i know why
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
she flits and floats and haunts me. she is not a shadow or a death mask. she is the godess of discord, doubt and strife.
who am i? where do i come from? why was i born?
if cogito ergo sum, then why do i exist?
i should not
i want not to be
i have been undergoing a process of transmogrification. the outcast, the scapegoat, the cleaver and the whore.
the ripper, the stripper, the candelabra maker.
stript of all my extraneous garb- shedding my skin slowly, stripping it off, inch by painful inch. hack out my veins, see the blood flow free. out damn spot- see if you can erase these godforsaken lines.
agnostic. yes. not willing to believe.
shunted from one end of the spectrum to the other like i was fetid water. booted and rebooted.
thrown, in a million shards and splinters to the grimy sandbars of time. fed to the innumerable piranhas of decayand disillusionment.
living on borrowed time
would that i had faith for a minuscule droplet of time, to say take me away god. life me up.
god has been silent for ages now. your god is not here today priest.
would that i were a doctor.
physician heal thyself
would that i were a sage
know thyself
would that i never was nor ever would be.
i shall not inflict my sorry self on your company anymore.
no more will you see my hunted face
you're free - to go
and leave the wastelnads of my mind.
go
presume not to scan me.
i am ok alone
maktub
it is writ
tathastu
may it be
who am i? where do i come from? why was i born?
if cogito ergo sum, then why do i exist?
i should not
i want not to be
i have been undergoing a process of transmogrification. the outcast, the scapegoat, the cleaver and the whore.
the ripper, the stripper, the candelabra maker.
stript of all my extraneous garb- shedding my skin slowly, stripping it off, inch by painful inch. hack out my veins, see the blood flow free. out damn spot- see if you can erase these godforsaken lines.
agnostic. yes. not willing to believe.
shunted from one end of the spectrum to the other like i was fetid water. booted and rebooted.
thrown, in a million shards and splinters to the grimy sandbars of time. fed to the innumerable piranhas of decayand disillusionment.
living on borrowed time
would that i had faith for a minuscule droplet of time, to say take me away god. life me up.
god has been silent for ages now. your god is not here today priest.
would that i were a doctor.
physician heal thyself
would that i were a sage
know thyself
would that i never was nor ever would be.
i shall not inflict my sorry self on your company anymore.
no more will you see my hunted face
you're free - to go
and leave the wastelnads of my mind.
go
presume not to scan me.
i am ok alone
maktub
it is writ
tathastu
may it be
Life is a bildungsroman
A slow development of character. From birth, to ripening, maturity and decay.
Life is ennui and inertia
Life is such
A pale reflection of the eternal sleep
Maybe I am too morbid today
So I shall be until … waiting for a revelation
Something to jerk me out of this reverie
This indolence
This languid love affair with eternity
The byss and the abyss
Conundrums and the Corinthians
The kirk and Churchill
Sometimes I fear my own self
No, I cannot transcribe eternity
A slow development of character. From birth, to ripening, maturity and decay.
Life is ennui and inertia
Life is such
A pale reflection of the eternal sleep
Maybe I am too morbid today
So I shall be until … waiting for a revelation
Something to jerk me out of this reverie
This indolence
This languid love affair with eternity
The byss and the abyss
Conundrums and the Corinthians
The kirk and Churchill
Sometimes I fear my own self
No, I cannot transcribe eternity
Monday, May 23, 2005
(punctuation marks do not seem to show up very well on blogger. apologies for any reading difficulties)
have you ever heard the song, smoke gets in your eyes?
no, not smoke on the water.
when a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes
(the movie- rebecca)
have been wondering about flames. fire, ravage, wind, smoke, and desire. burning hot.
ravished by a hunger too deep, too basic, to be denied. prickling up, curling down.
it is not a hunger for someone- anyone's body.
this yearning goes far beyond that.
somehow, i want to burn in this heat. and yet, the moment i reach out my hand to touch the incandescent flame, it gutters out.
and all must die...
how true, you were, herbert! and yet, my soul shall not live on like seasoned timber.
fear.
extinguishing my passion for life.
slowly strangling the life force within.
fear of the unknown- who said a doctor could play god?
hippocrates?
a cryptic heaven?
an insolent mortal?
and so, if he be another mere mortal, then why am i so afraid?
i have no answers.
this is real.
the oil slicking my sweaty skin. the horn rimmed glasses. the itchy arms, and callused feet. the moles and the unshaped cuticles.
this body.
reality.
my mind.
an abstraction.
thoughts flying out of it into a virtual pensieve that stores nothing. as redundant as the dead skin i soap away.
as loose as the shorn locks.
as pallid as tired skin.
indian summer on me. heat on heat.
and yet, one day this body shall be cold.
and my voice shall sing no more.
my words shall be seen no more
the solipsist..dead.
and the world, extinguished.
have you ever heard the song, smoke gets in your eyes?
no, not smoke on the water.
when a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes
(the movie- rebecca)
have been wondering about flames. fire, ravage, wind, smoke, and desire. burning hot.
ravished by a hunger too deep, too basic, to be denied. prickling up, curling down.
it is not a hunger for someone- anyone's body.
this yearning goes far beyond that.
somehow, i want to burn in this heat. and yet, the moment i reach out my hand to touch the incandescent flame, it gutters out.
and all must die...
how true, you were, herbert! and yet, my soul shall not live on like seasoned timber.
fear.
extinguishing my passion for life.
slowly strangling the life force within.
fear of the unknown- who said a doctor could play god?
hippocrates?
a cryptic heaven?
an insolent mortal?
and so, if he be another mere mortal, then why am i so afraid?
i have no answers.
this is real.
the oil slicking my sweaty skin. the horn rimmed glasses. the itchy arms, and callused feet. the moles and the unshaped cuticles.
this body.
reality.
my mind.
an abstraction.
thoughts flying out of it into a virtual pensieve that stores nothing. as redundant as the dead skin i soap away.
as loose as the shorn locks.
as pallid as tired skin.
indian summer on me. heat on heat.
and yet, one day this body shall be cold.
and my voice shall sing no more.
my words shall be seen no more
the solipsist..dead.
and the world, extinguished.
A Battered Portmanteau
I’ve always considered myself to be average. Nothing specially different or special. Childhood, adolescence, early adulthood never did anything to dispel that certainty with which I was born. I used to have a diary of sorts inside my head, where words would automatically transcribe themselves- my life, my thoughts, writ on the blank pages of memory for easy cataloguing and later access.
I did not know that not everyone does that.
Playing with words always came easy to me. I did not know that people could actually struggle to frame a simple sentence- in any language, not necessarily English. I wrote my first verses (in honour of a friend’s birthday) when I was about eight. And back then, I never wondered that no one else in my class could conjure up a rhyme in their heads, and pin thought down onto paper.
No, I am not anything extraordinary.
But yes, I can write. It is the one thing that distinguishes me from the millions walking the pimpled streets of Calcutta. It is the one thing I am good at.
This is me. This is my identity.
A battered portmanteau. What I call my online portfolio.
Where reposes matter not open for public view. Not for copyright purposes. Not for any ostensible purpose. Just secret.
A tiny record of my love affair with words.
Words, only words. My soul is etched in shades of black, white and the deepest cyan inks.
And sometimes, all that remain are they. Words.
I like words. Any language, any context. Texts and subtexts. Words. How they twist and turn, and make sense- or nonsense.
I roll highway haiku in my mouth with the dregs of random experiences. And whistle impressions of consciousness on the jasmine scented tropical air.
I have been told that not too many understand me. My concepts of thingification, for one. My interior monologues and latent sensuality for another. And yet, I write, not attempting to modify or adapt myself.
Is this a weakness in me? Perhaps it is. And yet, when thought transcribes itself into language, a drastic process of simplification takes place. Are then, my words twice removed from reality? But my art is not mimetic. And every act of creation leaves me spent and dissatisfied. I feel flat, like day old soda.
No, I cannot simplify myself any more. Let me then, find a niche audience for my words. Before I turn into a verbose solipsist. “I and my ideas alone exist…�
I’ve always considered myself to be average. Nothing specially different or special. Childhood, adolescence, early adulthood never did anything to dispel that certainty with which I was born. I used to have a diary of sorts inside my head, where words would automatically transcribe themselves- my life, my thoughts, writ on the blank pages of memory for easy cataloguing and later access.
I did not know that not everyone does that.
Playing with words always came easy to me. I did not know that people could actually struggle to frame a simple sentence- in any language, not necessarily English. I wrote my first verses (in honour of a friend’s birthday) when I was about eight. And back then, I never wondered that no one else in my class could conjure up a rhyme in their heads, and pin thought down onto paper.
No, I am not anything extraordinary.
But yes, I can write. It is the one thing that distinguishes me from the millions walking the pimpled streets of Calcutta. It is the one thing I am good at.
This is me. This is my identity.
A battered portmanteau. What I call my online portfolio.
Where reposes matter not open for public view. Not for copyright purposes. Not for any ostensible purpose. Just secret.
A tiny record of my love affair with words.
Words, only words. My soul is etched in shades of black, white and the deepest cyan inks.
And sometimes, all that remain are they. Words.
I like words. Any language, any context. Texts and subtexts. Words. How they twist and turn, and make sense- or nonsense.
I roll highway haiku in my mouth with the dregs of random experiences. And whistle impressions of consciousness on the jasmine scented tropical air.
I have been told that not too many understand me. My concepts of thingification, for one. My interior monologues and latent sensuality for another. And yet, I write, not attempting to modify or adapt myself.
Is this a weakness in me? Perhaps it is. And yet, when thought transcribes itself into language, a drastic process of simplification takes place. Are then, my words twice removed from reality? But my art is not mimetic. And every act of creation leaves me spent and dissatisfied. I feel flat, like day old soda.
No, I cannot simplify myself any more. Let me then, find a niche audience for my words. Before I turn into a verbose solipsist. “I and my ideas alone exist…�
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