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.

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.

i went and saw a movie alone for the first time yesterday. the movie was hitch. and i had a great time. hold on, for some more time for my review of hitch, and a rambly sort of post on macbeth vis a vis the throne of fire.

good times, great times,and those in between times.
bad times worse times and those in between times
he's given me all those and more.

and with him i have everything i ever wanted or needed.

i love you, mr. credit card : )

gotcha, didnt i ; )

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 . . .

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

the words have dried up. for now.

i need a time out. i need some space. i want to be left alone.

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

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

(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.

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…�