Reflections

Silence

As the dusk dawned on the city and the punishing sun receded behind the wall of rooftops, leaving just enough light to make things visible to the naked eye, a sudden coolness descended on the city and Johar, like always, went and stood on his balcony. Every evening of this summer, Johar has spent more or less standing on the same spot, watching the blue sky turn darker, into deeper shades till becoming a complete black, and also, Mira, granddaughter of his newly moved, across the gali, old couple. 
Mira, a dark, shy little creature of 16, has in turn, done the same since the night after her family moved into the new house. Every evening as the flushed white sky turned from a royal blue to pitch black in color, she, standing on the balcony has been watching the million little stars twinkling innocently in the sky and the boy across the gali.
Every evening from that first evening, when Johar had seen her, from his balcony standing alone on hers, across the road, they had been coming to the same spot regularly, waving, smiling, gesturing at each other. But never did a word leave their mouth, never did a sound got across the gali.
Johar would wave his hand, beaming, and Mira would lift a limp hand, a pink blush evident on her young face, and within that gesture, Johar would guess that something was wrong and jumping his eyebrows twice slowly, lift his head too and she would slowly turn her dark eyes along with her round face to the other side. Again it would be enough for Johar to know that she was feeling lonely in the new city and he would quickly bring a broad smile on his face and gesture to come to her, at which, arching her eyebrows Mira would shake her head in negative and Johar would look deep into her eyes, and nod once knowingly, closing his eyes for a good second. And by then the sky would turn completely dark and hearing her name being shouted from inside, Mira would rush in, waving, again, the same limp hand at Johar, who would look at her with dreamy eyes.
Every evening the same thing passed, the two across the door neighbors would come to their balconies and do their silent romance, which had every component of a good romance, except sound. But then, one evening, as the bright summer was turning into a golden autumn and the trees had started shedding their dry brown leaves, Johar found Mira`s balcony vacant. Mira wasn`t anywhere to be seen. Not the next day, not even the other or the one after that, and when the day after that too, Johar was greeted by empty sleeping walls, he could not control himself anymore. Running down the steps, he unsteadily crossed the road and with calm, controlled, measured steps climbed the steps of Mira`s house, on the second floor of the building. He knocked at the door thrice, hesitatingly and it was opened by an old woman with, velvety wrinkled skin, and lead straight into a hall, where on an old red sofa, sat an old bearded man, next to her sat Mira, with a terrified look in her eyes. Johar slowly walked up to the old man and using his whole body but not making a sound gestured, which the old man rightly understood as the boy`s desire to talk to the girl. 'Haan beta' he said, noticing the palpable discomfort on his face. Mira in turn, not making a sound, nor hearing any, understood, from the look on Johar`s face and his fidgety hand movements, that he felt uneasy and how much the same he was making her feel.
Like every rejection, that precedes a heart break, this rejection and its subsequent heart break too had all the components of a perfect sad situation, expect sound. As the various colors of the setting sun danced in the sky, Mira gestured Johar to leave. 

A Call

Slowly, like someone who is tired and weary, the footsteps came closer with each desolate step and finally stopped in front of a door, at the end of the gallery, behind which, sat a bearded young man, drinking from a mug, his bloodshot eyes fixed at the door.

 Knock! a single soft rap on the pale brown plywood door was followed by a soft feminine murmur.

Slowly the young man stood up, his face showing signs of absolutely nothing, and opened the door to a young woman, with very short hair, talking on the phone.

'Oh! he opened!' she muttered softly into the mouthpiece, faking surprise, as she entered.

Prison cells are bigger than the room they were in. Four walls, against one was a single bed, next to the door was a book-rack, as was against the wall opposite it, beside which he sat, on a chair, a bottle of cheap rum placed on a table next to him. Three would have suffocated in that room. Two could manage. At least they were managing.

Taking off her jacket, she got into the bed, all the while talking into the phone, in a voice that was part audible, part incomprehensible, while he poured some rum into a transparent disposable glass, diluting it with water, handed her the drink.

'When is the exam tomorrow?....oh...shouldn`t you be..?' she mumbled into the phone, as she took the glass and sipped, slightly making a face.A bright shine came into the young man`s eyes for a moment and then passed. He picked up his mug, drained it and poured himself some more.

Everything was cold and silent, nothing could be heard, as if sound waves had frozen off, apart from the young woman`s soft murmuring and occasional gulps of the man, which increased steadily, following a rhythmic pattern, a pattern which slightly matched the tone of the woman`s voice.

'ummm...I dont know.'

 Pause. Giggle.

'Noooo.'

Giggle. Pause. 

'Okay'

She slowly looked up, the phone pasted on the side of her head, and saw him for the first time since she entered. He was looking at her, with bloodshot eyes, his face devoid of any emotion, dead pan. A light flashed through the eyes of the young woman. 

'umm...drunk'

Pause. Sip. 

'Sitting.' 

Sip.

'Usual.' 

Pause.

'Looking at me.'

She wasn't smiling but the corners of her mouth were tightly shut. He sat there, just as he had, maybe the only change was that he was gulping larger and faster.

'No.' 

Pause.

'Needs a shave. Hair cut too. Probably a bath.' 

Sip. Sip.

'No. He says, he is...' she stopped midway, and speaking a little louder, said,' Can you light me a cigarette?' Picking up a pack of Silk Cuts, he lit two, and passed one to her.

'What?' 

Puff.

'Ah..yes..you know, exhausted, drained.' 

Sip. Puff. 

A look of impatience passed his face, but it again regained its dead pan expression. She noticed it, and her upper lip curled up a little, while she went on muttering into the phone nonchalantly, and he continued looking at her, drinking, smoking.

'He..made it to JNU... yeah... HIM...went and never came back.' she said into the phone, with palpable signs of contempt and bitterness on her face.

Big sip. 

He, suddenly bringing his eyebrows together, said, for the first time, in a very serious voice, more or less talking to himself, 'It`s harder when you don't know if you have to wait or move on.'

A look of pleasant surprise came upon the woman`s face and she stopped talking, a man`s broken voice could be heard coming from the speaker of the phone, dull and digital.

'Are you gonna...haha...imagine it...he has been...close...more than a friend...heart goes out...fucker...'

But no one heard him, no one was listening. Their eyes were locked into each other`s. There was a hint of slight mischief on the young woman`s face, his remained dead pan, but slowly it was changing.

' ...amazingly apathetic...nonchalant junkie bastard...smell of his asshole..'

As if a heater had been turned on, the cold started to leave the room and the frozen sound waves came back to life. Tick of the clock. Heavy breathing sound. The dull thumping of the two young hearts. Rustling of the clothes as they both started taking them off. 

'...you know...better then fucking you...that book-rack...single bed....on the chair...'

The phone was lying on the bed, forgotten, while she stood in the middle of the room, in just her thin tee-shirt. He stood in front of her, one had on her waist and the other holding the mug, which he drained in one go, making a face, and kept back on the table.

'....there?..no?...i know...Fuck well! Make merry!'

and the line went dead. 

Un-finished/Un-rhyming Prose Poetry

I msged. She replied. Nothing weird here. It`s cool. All cool. The world works within this system. You call/text/msg. They reply accordingly. You pretend interest. They pretend sweet surprise, mixed with a smell of cunt hole. It`s normal. Everyday thing. Everybody does it.

She called. She answered. They do it every day. She told her something. Genuine surprise. Rare occurrence. They laughed. Nothing new. One pretended caring. Other being cared. Give and take. Nothing weird here. It`s cool. All cool.

He walked. Not knowing where. Just walked. A Slow cozy gait. Not a rare thing. Occurred every once and then. Happening again. He met someone weird. An acquaintance. One pretended knowing. Other being known. They went home and had wine and sex. He stayed the night. It`s normal. If not totally.

They shouted with daggers and guns. He stopped. Dead of night. They knew him ok. They made him their leader. He spearheaded an angry mob to freedom. Then they killed each other over power and money. He survived, riding the tides. He felt genuine good riddance. They were too dead to feel anything. It happens. It`s cool. All cool.

He called. She didn`t answer. He msged. She replied. You had gone for too long. Now everything has died. He cried. She pretended apathy. He hide his hostility. Happens everywhere. No surprise here.

I called. She answered. She wasn`t her msg. She was  not her voice. It happens. NO surprise. Shoes don't necessarily match faces. Nor do tits and neckties. She said she wanted me. I said so did I. Nothing happened afterwards. But how time flies. It happens. Not with everyone. But it`s cool. All cool.

He sat in his room. Wrote anthologies with whisky filled quill pens. He wrote too fast. The pages caught fire. Everything burnt. Like a funeral pyre. He danced around it. He is mad. He has done it a million times. Burnt cities with a stroke of a pen. It`s alright. Normal. It`s cool. All cool.

They haunt the streets, their dicks dangling. Nothing new. They spot a prey. They chase. She runs. They pretend nothing. Their penises are raised. Their intentions are clear. She can`t pretend anything. She knows what she is. Just a gap. Just a hole.

They sat in red roomed houses. Printing leaflets in blood. They have been waiting for long. But now their revolution has come. Its majestically normal. It happens. After a lot of hard work. But then they overslept it. What a shame. Fucked up luck.

I waited for nine long months, then a few more years, a couple more passed waiting here and there. some more, waiting for this. some more, waiting for that. finally it all ended, in a grave and now I wait to get out of there. Waiting to wait for days, months and years.

                Home, finally found one. one of many, many of one. a place for rest and for fun.      

Cycles

A belly dance of memories,
being eternally carried on in my dead head,
while some brush stroked canvases,
set the stage for them.

Cycles of time, painted in memories.
Cycles of memories, going on and off,
with every imagined laugh,
and misery.

Cycles. Cycles of joy and of pain.
Cycles, some plain as an induction plate.
Cycles, of a tiny-gigantic you.
Cycles of a lonely I looking for you.     

Existential Inquiries*

I was feeling rather vague and utterly meaningless while Vishnu stood smoking, bringing out rings of smoke through his mouth. My solemn cigarette consumed smoke and gave out the same. I abstained from listening to the ugly din of the traffic behind, and the monotonous hum of the hospital in front beyond the fence, separating the parking lot from the hospital portico. 
                                 Vishnu started saying something about the ' glare of the moon' last night, which made him tip and fall and kinda dislocate his shoulder of sorts and then he turned his gaze towards the hospital and i knew he was eyeing the girl visible through the hospital windows, dancing, laughing, singing, going crazy. 
                              Abortion. Leukaemia. Meningitis. Psychosis. Mania. Cancer. Tumour. I wasn`t feeling a lot well. 
                            - "We`ve to nail one of `em yo" said he with a glint in his eyes. I stood numb. The traffic creating a roar behind me and the girls peeping through the hospital windows were not even visible properly and I was amazed that they could live so happily there. Singing, laughing, dancing, pretending happiness in a void which they occupied. 
                            - "Damn man...one with that hollow-open-mouthed laugh looks kinda amazing, no?"
His 'no' caught my attention and I looked at him. He was holding the burnt-out-butt in one hand and his dislocated shoulder was cradled in a cotton sling. 
                            - "I don`t know,V, they all look quiet retarded to me, or why else would they be chirping the night there?"
Vishnu looked at me with a surprise in his eyes and said with a serious face, 
                           - "Whats wrong witchu nigga?! A pussy is a pussy yo! No matter how chirpy or retarded. Now tell me, you game?"

                           - " You mean, play ball?"

                            - "Haha, yeah exactly!"
Suddenly I turned back to the sound of screeching tyres and saw a huge but sleek Jaguar come to a halt just behind us. The door opened and from the drying seat, out stepped Shiva. 
                   Shiva, man of the moment, pure intention juxtaposed with harsh aptness, dressed in motley colours and heavy boots, looked nothing less than a horse-riding-gun-wielding cowboy. Although I couldn't see it, I was sure, he had a gun tucked somewhere in his person. He didn't like taking chances with retards and people in general. 
                                 - " How is it going Brahma? Vishnu? waiting to score? huh?"

                                 - "No man, we are here, Maya has gone to the gynecologist inside there." I said pointing to the left wing of the hospital.

                                  - "YOU GOT HER HERE!!!! After all that talk about the inefficacy of Government Hospitals, the absense of hygine..."

                                    - "Listen Yo..."

                                    - "...you know the torture..."
                                     
                                    - "...yo..yo..."

                                    - "...and the doctors?!"

                                    -" We went in along with her Shiva. Chill now."

                                    -"One of these days, I`m gonna nab all these fuckers in the butt!" Shiva said stressing on 'butt' and two invisible horns seemed to emerge from his bald head. Vishnu threw the butt away and looked uneasily at Shiva. 

                                   -" The gynecologist was a...."     

                                                                 A loud sustained honk of a huge LAYLAND Carrier and then a train pulling in into the station a few hundred meters away from the VAMINAS GOVERNMENTLY OWNED PRIVATE CLINIC, Hospital, made my voice inaudible. 

                                   -"...again."   I finished as the raucous died down and I saw Maya coming out of the hospital.

                                  -"I think we are good to go, yo!"

                                  -" But where, you partially functional system?"
                                     
Maya came down the steps, her dark hair flowing back towards the hospital like connecting wires, like umbilical cords. The half moons under her eyes were prominently visible and the mascara was conspicuous by its absence. She looked beautiful. She descended. She hadn`t seen us. She was caring a hospital-white package.  
                                     Vishnu was trying to move his dislocated shoulder and gave out silent screams of pain, which Shiva and I saw but did not hear. Shiva juggled the car keys in his pocket. 

                                -" FUCK YOU MAN! I ain`t partially functional! I say you are totally useless, even defunct! I was lying on the beach, glared out by the moon, I was screaming with pain and you, you just kept jogging! You miserable act of fuck! WHY did you not lift me up? give a helping hand? WHY the fuck Shiv, are you so distant"?
                           She had dumped the package in a dustbin at the foot of the steps and was waiting for us in front of the hospital. I looked at them both and again felt vague, meaningless and even tired as I moved towards the absurdly parked Jaguar. 

                                 -" You know V, you are no good, at anything. Your acting and juggling and pranking has had a toll on me and the only reason I didn't stop to help you was that I thought you were making love to the beach sand, and you KNOW you CAN do that."

                                  -" You. fuck. You."

The engine started and the car came to life. Ticking of the Amygdala came through its surround sound speaker system. Vishnu sat in the front seat and both of them kept cursing and high five-ing  each other and we stopped in front of Maya. 
                 She looked on the verge of something, a possible explosion, a release, but she held back her tears and there wasn't any other release left for her. 

                                    -" Your morning creation is in that trash can over there, V, you can collect it anytime you want and its free of copyright." she said in a voice quivering with hearted and malice. 
                                                       She lay her head on my shoulder and soon drifted off to sleep. Amygdala  kept ticking in the car. Shiva and Vishnu did not say anything and I felt my shoulder get soggy. 

                                    -"Poor Maya. Poor, poor Maya."

I thought. 


*All characters in this story are taken from the mythology of India

Ending.

Everything was like it should be. Today, today. Yesterday  like yesterday, and a million years ago things were like a million years ago.
Yet when every time, time is like that time, there are certain still moments in that time, certain differences. Maybe not everyone thinks so, but then not everyone stops to notice such things.
Whatever the case was, that day was like that day, like it should be, the dust on the ground and the footprints imprinted on it were like every day. The half torn, half chipped off poster-ads on the stems of lamp posts were no less telling a story of a destroyed civilization,  than what a civilizations has to tell after eventually getting destroyed.  The light that was emanating from a far away stree-light seemed to a myopic like me, a golden explosion, like always. The fans slowly rotating dully,  hanging from the ceilings as seen from an empty street, looked as sad and unhappy as always. Vehicles moving away and towards me were just aimlessly moving like always and the half constructed building next to me, near the Vinoba Puri subway,  was looking as beautiful as any semi-constructed building looks when compared to a constructed one. 
All this was like it should be today, but still, this today , with all its peculiarities, which should have been like today, reminded me of a million old passed yesterdays.
I don’t know why, but looked at with a certain perspective, this today and all the things in it, were boring and monotonous, to the point of being ugly. Difference was only of the nature of boredom and monotony which made one yawn for a good five seconds, and the dreadful memory one wants to relate this today to. Standing in a corner of one’s life, outside one’s skin, all this looks really very repulsive and I think we are fortunate to have more than one perspective to look at this today from, to find a beautiful strand, a meaningful stand on it . But sometimes our ability to see things from more than one perspective gets hindered and then we do what people call suicide.
I don’t know why, but this today, which is a mere shadow of many bygone yesterdays, has, along with all the still moments and differences,  something missing as well, something lacking. Something different that wasn’t there yesterday, or day before, or before that. I think it happened because of a lack of perspective, a lack of room to adjust,  K, after living a long and peaceful life of 30 years, was lying dead from a stroke in his room for about five hours...

The Prophet Pt. 2

4.

Kalyani is a calm quiet city on the banks of grey Narmada. Dusty from an evening squall, Kalyani welcomes the caravan of Ravianand with subtle modesty, at the gates the company was awaited by two monks, both bald and clad in saffron, who guides  Ravianand, Ravi and two elderly monks, through tiny trails next to brick walled houses, sometimes next to barren fields, till they reach the outskirts of the city. There in a jungle the monks lead the group to a big abandoned house which is the dwelling of saint Gyanendra. It has been dusk and the sunlight  slowly leaves the country, as the company enters the household.
                               Its a big house and as Ravi notices, well lit and provided for. Each traveler is given a separate room in the innards of the house and a modest welcome dinner awaits them in the hall. Ravi notices how happy and relaxed everybody seemed. The womenfolk, gay and chirpy, while the male population, content and fearless. 
                      It wasn't until then, that he notices the difference in the condition of the peoples and he realizes that he is away from home. Away from familiarity, a familiarity which entailed living in a constant state of fear, unsure of the future, and he  becomes uncertain whether he likes this soothing unfamiliarity or if the feeling of pain more at having left Chalal and Parvati behind.
His mind reels back in time, back to Parvati, when suddenly in his room comes Ravianand. The saint's condition, much better than before, is yet not completely healthy. He walks with a stoop and it is palpable on his face that his whole body, every cell, every molecule, is fighting, fighting a losing battle. 
The saint comes and sits near the monk, who in turn, collecting himself, sits up as well.

' Baba, kaise ho?'

' Pahele se behtar, but I can feel my body losing the battle. But how are YOU Ravi? You look distraught.'
' Baba, I am worried about tomorrow. What if the Marathas and the Deccan Sultans fail to unite against the might of Aurangzeb? Individually they are nothing in front of the northern might, and what shall pass if the emperor takes control of Dakshindesh as well? The same religious bloodshed?'
The saint listens with a grave expression and finally says, "You know, Ravi, jab maine ghar  ,I did not dare tell Ma about it, for I knew she would convince me to stay somehow, but I felt that it was my duty to tell father, I thought he'd understand, but he did not, he couldn`t understand why I had to go, leaving all the comforts behind to search for something I didn`t know anything to begin with. But as he could see that it was impossible to convince me otherwise, kissing me on the forehead, he said, ' Beta Ravianand, remember, always be a good human and whenever you are lost or can't find the path, ask yourself, '' who you are? where you come from? and where are you going?" and you ll surely see light."
Its time for you to do the same Ravi, the time has come to do the thinking, I have a task for you, think about it too.'

               The saint slowly stands up, and with the same stoop goes out of the chamber, leaving Ravi alone, with all color flushed from his face. 
5.

Parvati,

I think finally the time has come to tell you this, or maybe its too late and I shouldn`t tell you this at all. I was torn between the desire to tell and the fear of its outcome and I have waited a long time, been patient, introspective about my feelings, doubting them, feeling guilty about them, but now, right now in this moment, I am free of all the burden of good or bad, right or wrong, for I am one with the moment. 
Parvati, I have always respected you, since the day I first saw you in the ashram, when we were but little kids, I have respected you as a fellow human of higher emotional and intellectual content and whenever I have talked to you, I have felt a pull towards you, like I am being drawn towards you, by your dark, deep-set eyes, by your short thick black hair and Parvati, today I am telling you something which maybe I wouldn't have told you if baba hadn't given me this task. This particular thing which baba wants me to do is the reason I have been able to muster enough courage to tell you this.
I cannot reveal the details of this task assigned to me but I see it as an opportunity to turn all the respect and gratitude I feel for baba, into action, and maybe put all the wrongs today, right. This I believe is the only opportunity I can get in this life time to repay my debt to baba. 
But, the real reason for writing you this letter Parvati, is that I want you to know that I love you.  My life Parvati has not been a comfortable one, but whatever comfort I experienced I experienced by looking into your deep dark eyes, which have given me strength and courage in my darkest hours and Parvati, right now, I need the comfort of your eyes more than ever, I feel like a tired man, hopeless, the sun is setting on my horizon and I need you. Sometimes I wonder if we are really better off than these eagles flying in the sky, these dogs roaming in the streets, these cats that seem so satisfied? Is our consciousness a gift or a curse? But all these questions go away as soon as I think of you Parvati, you are the shining star in my night sky, you are my guiding light. 
I have come to a conclusion, I have made the decision. I believe in baba and I will do as he wills. Having said this I must tell you that I feel very hollow and empty, in a very positive way. I am ready to do what I have to do.
I leave for Agra tomorrow, and at Shangri La, I`ll wait for you.

6. 
The art of history writing is a tricky one, the reader has to gauge the intention of the author, sift through the sources and read between the lines. But what if there are contradictory stories about the same event, what if the sources are fuzzy.
                               According to some lesser known medieval Bhakti sources, the morning of 16th December 1707 was a cold and wet one. It was too cold for even that cold winter morning in Agra. The sixth Mughal ruler of the Indian Subcontinent, Muhi-ud-din-Mohhmad Aurangzeb, was stepping into his 47th regnal year and a big feast was organized in the Red fort of Agra, inviting all the local rajas and chiefs along with many monks and saints. Although the whole royal entourage had a calm composed facade, and a festive gaiety was maintained, those who were associated with the state affairs knew that things were far from either festive or gay. A tension was slowly building, with each passing hour. All the rajas and chiefs were seated in a big hall in the innards of the fort, which was well provided with food, drinks, and light music, away from the increasing activity in the fort, while discussions raged on in Ibadat Khana various religio- philosophical discourses took place amongst the monks and the saints. Once, all the guests had arrived, the gates of the fort were closed and it was not until Aurangzeb had made his appearance in the hall, with his compelling company of royal body guards, that the invited ruler elite, began to sense the tension in the surroundings. But by then it was too late, they were helplessly trapped in the fort with their horses and carriages somewhere hidden from them in the huge Agra fort. 
While all this was happening in the hall, the Ibatat Khana was having its own riot, scholars and monks were engaged in furious debates over issues of higher mental facility. 
Although, no one noticed him, there in the congregation of the learned there was a bright, bald emaciated monk too, clad in bluish white, who looked around for something with shifty eyes, not at all interested in the happenings around. In the mughal royal hall, Aurangzeb, to a highly nervous and anxious gathering, officially announced his plans for a Deccan campaign and without standing any ceremony, asked them for their support, without which he declared they couldn`t not leave. 
                              The narrative of the record is fuzzy about the incidents that followed during that cold day of December. The emperor left the local elite to discuss his proposition and come to a conclusion, locked in the royal hall. From there he went to preside over the happenings at Ibadat Khana, which became hushed like a graveyard upon his entrance. All monks gathered around the Emperor to greet him, who had spared the scholars the overpowering presence of his royal body guards and there was quite a free interaction as the Emperor wanted to project himself as a salvation of his subjects, requiring a good report with them. While the interaction was happening, the emaciated monk too made his way to the Emperor, with a sleek sharp steel blade hidden in the folds of his clothes and when, close enough, on the pretext of hugging the Emperor, stabbed him, once, neatly through his heart, killing him instantly.

Sindabad, the Sailor at Sea

looking
from the balcony,
of an Indian Airline Jet,
standing still,
somewhere,
somehow,
around kalkaji sec-46.

I imagine mehtaji
a proud kabhari of a raddiwala,
who knows his books,
but gives`em cheap, anyways.

humming motors to fill water,
heavy hearts filled with water,
high hunger seeking water

water, water and only water. 

Because a rose is a rose but not a Lotus

The privilege to delve in philosophical inquiry and nature of self, is a rare one. It involves not only a satisfied stomach, but also an inquisitive mind. A stomach, satisfied without an inquisitive deposition is more likely to pass-out than inquire anything, just as an inquisitive mind with non-satisfied physical hunger is likely to be not able to think freely. But, does this make philosophical inquiry, usually associated with lofty thoughts of a well fed and read university-goer, totally irrelevant and frivolous in the real world? Ranging from chaiwalas, rickshawalas and small time wage earners to doctors, professors and big time intellectual wage earners? I`d say, not at all, for philosophical inquiry, with all its vague metaphysics  and high sounding ideas, IS, the most immediate and physical inquiry into the motley brackets of humans, based on sound logic and reasoning of the world. In this sense, philosophical inquiry, tries to put out all absurdities and harmonizes the world, making it a better place to be in.

                                                  Picking this strand of inquiry, a highly relevant form of it is manifested in a cultural context called political philosophy. Inquiry in to the nature of a cultural entity. In today`s world it is outlined by the national boundary of a modern nation-state or a country, on a most basic level. It seeks to put straight all the complexities and bizarre within the boundary to provide an atmosphere where its body of humans can live peacefully, constantly striving toward self actualization, the highest achievable goal of a human life. And an inquiry within this, more or less imagined boundary of a culture, situated in the southern hemisphere of a little blue-green planet, third from the a star named sun, of a solar system somewhere in the lower left corner of a galaxy suspended freely in a timeless-spaceless capsule called universe, doesn’t make it meaningless or irrelevant, for it IS, aimed at making its inhabitants achieve all that limitless possibilities, that a non-starting-unending-time-space construct, essentially promises.

                                              Given the fact that this culture of India, is about to plunge itself into another political construct of this inquiry named democracy, we have to stop for a second and inquire into the nature of this construct. Democracy, which has been going on in some form or the other, for the past 50 centuries or so, is considered much saner and efficient than the remaining wide array of mostly failed human attempts to create a perfect one. And the utter inescapable duty to give a name and face to our highest decision making facility, and the most important decision making unit of it, from within and without and try to harmonize them with the present absurdities.

                                                                           Democracy, has been there on this little-third planet from sun, essentially since its ancient times of, History. Political philosophers from the Greek Aristotle to close cultural one Chankya, have all tried put it forward, where the decision making capacity is invested in a body of its cultural inhabitants, rather than a sole ruthless or enlightened inhabitant. An inhabitant-run construct which tends to turn into a perfect horror-show every modern, post modern or present time. Our memory knows How, whenever a Hitler or a Genghis Khan or even a delusional Asoka has played the show, it has ended with howls and heart-attacks.  The Present cultural memory aches with these late realizations of the faulty choices embedded in the Past. But on hindsight. Whenever a show is being put, it is for a certain brackets of humans to enjoy, who keep them running, till these brackets become so insignificant that they cannot hold the ocean-size amount of faith put in them, by the political constructs of that culture, by the entire body of humans within it.

                                                   Democracy, in this post-colonized cultural construct of the Republic of India, started evolving, post-14th August 1947. This Democracy, essentially similar everywhere, is the world`s largest one with a rendition of the universal suffrage construct, Universal Adult Franchise. This gives a power to every Adult of this culture. Without being  discriminated, based on any color/caste/creed/sect/region and religion. She has the Right to Choose the facility to make the right and meaningful kind of decisions for her, without curtailing his possibilities.   

                                                            This democracy is some mature 60 birthdays old here, after rising and falling with the tides of time. But this construct of Democracy of the Republic of India is identified with a meaningless tussle between these mindbogglingly motley brackets of humans and an increasing sense of insecurity in the much larger body of humans within the larger cultural bracket. This contradicting situation has created stark absurdities and dichotomies, just so inhumane, that one feels incredulously dizzy and downright deranged,  even while peacefully strolling down a gali on a, calm-Sunday-late-afternoon, pondering 'not really bad show, after all,eh?'.    

                                        Most of the non/metropolitan members of the various sub-political communities of this culture fight for the basic physical aspect of survival and meaningless procreation or lacking insightful inquisitive disposition. A rat in some of the many rat races going on and on without ceasing, the bracket with capacity to make decisions, in itself has become one of the most coveted pieces of cheese, for it seems the biggest, brightest, cheesiest. In a culture were, the decision making bracket of humans have become so fruitlessly insignificant that it is not able to nourish and educate even a forsaken minuscule 4 year old, who comes, trying desperately to sell some red and blue cheap ball-pens, followed by her brother, elder sister, third cousin, fourth son, fifth neighbor and some four or five equally helpless friends, at the red light in front of that burnt building on Barakhamba Road. And one need not go anywhere else within this culture to know any better about ‘possibilities’ and ‘self’ and its ‘actualization’ and whatnot, because this Barakhamba Road is at the center of the center from where Democracy is emanating here. This is just one single strand of that gigantic trichobezoar of an absurdity that this body of humans in this culture are so starkly unaware of, for the rat-race doesn't leave much scope for inquiry into any condition.  

                                 But, as the maddening timeless-spaceless capsule boils down to some mere hours, days, years on this certainty of a planet, a chance to take that small initiative that can turn millions and billions of coming possibilities actually possible, is quiet possible. And this time the body of humans of this culture, has found a totem of Change in the form of a ‘cap’. Sadly, this totemic God of a Change is already taking forms which would even make a vision-less see the future in invisible darkness. Falling off of an inactive Creator, passing to his renegade of a Messenger, the latest version of this ‘cap’ says, 'MODI for PM'.

                       A Prime Minister of this culture`s form of democracy, is the most important decision making unit and its incumbent upon that personal unit serving under a responsibility to make the geographical region within the country, at least bearable for every human being in it. And the fact that more and more inhabitants are adopting the hippest new totem of Change, (itself three generations old) makes it clear that they are being spoon-fed on a different arrangement of things rather than Change. Carbon is carbon even in its differently arranged forms of, chandan, churan or the charred remains of life in a shamshan.

                                                      MODI, who is reselling this recycled 'cap', broadly bases his viability, bordering on demanding with looming Orwellian postures everywhere, on an apparently modern notion. Within the confines of a small sub-political entity, Gujarat, within this much larger collection of some 30 such entities, this tout of change, has created a highly complex and possibly evolved mechanism which keeps throwing these tantalizingly amazing figures and stats which claim to be defeating the West at their own game. Firstly, the West is not this part of this perfect sphere of mamma Earth, at least not immediately, and stats don't create possibilities, but rather point out to where things are going. Even the basic structure of smoke, from a car or a factory or even a smoldering funeral pyre, IS, essentially carbon. But with all due respect to the ongoing oncoming fellow passengers of recent or earlier times, this culture today offers a far limited, suffocated, badly truncated, curtailed rip-off disk of a  possibility. Even some 25 centuries ago, it offered better, much better.  This is a dichotomy, which simply put means, can modern be Modern? without being meaningfully better than Ancient?                                   

                                                    But in the light of the ongoing public discourse, happening through the omnipresent channels of communication, a rather vaguely-morbid-mystery surrounds MODI. A highly complex and unprecedented list of awards and accolades never heard before, cloud that entire red-autumn which ended with a lot of non-live carbon, now in the atmosphere of this culture. MODI came to light outside the confines of that little subculture for his total lack of empathy and horror, still remaining an essential 'Why?'. Even the body of humans supporting or not supporting MODI cannot help but smart or wonder why the whole grand MODI-syndrome is grander than those little kids knocking, trying to sell the tools of evolution and enlightenment and everything along with it. They essentially remain curiously-oblivious of anything, red lights, cars, closed doors or even Life.  

                               There isn't any way to be absolutely sure what happened then, for most of the people immediately involved are either no more or are conspicuous by their absence. This, leaves us to trace the developments through the recorded but forever evolving, anthologies of History, on newspapers, on magazines, in chat rooms, on line discussions and court records. But History, essentially a collective memory of the body of humans involved in its making, remains subjective, and can change from one telling individual to another. But the essence remains, just like a lotus, in a quagmire, smiling like Truth. The horrifying news of a genocide in that sub-political unit of this culture, which was making decisions through MODI, was followed by the 'justice drive' to find a culprit. A face and name for this amazing but not unprecedented suffering and terror. The process still continues, more or less, trying to justify or denounce the phantom phenomenon, by chasing names and faces of which essentially remain nothing more than formless carbon, floating throughout this timeless-spaceless capsule, probably at peace, forgetting, forgiving.  And for all the literature/advisement/propaganda/senselessmindbog, arising out of this ‘justice drive’, we can just see one single meaningful metaphor, complete even in its isolation, like Truth,  that can possibly be the only way to understand the genesis of  this ‘cap’ we are on the threshold of placing above us. That highly ambiguous uncertain Kafka`s K of a metaphor, is a woman shrouded in black, constantly changing her statements, endlessly shuffling through the labyrinth of all local, district, state, national, ultra national courts and stalls mongering justice, all of which would probably cease to even exist, realizing their own meaningless existence based on carbon in its very primitive form,  if she could even utter a single cry of the horror she must have felt or say what really passed and not just keep proving ceaselessly, with no logic or even reason in asking. The dread she must have felt when she saw humans chopping each other like dead  bloody-black carcass of a buffalo, the essence of that red-autumn-massacre, somehow comes back. But because even a physically-satisfied-philosophically- inquisitive mind behind this construct of a construct of a construct cannot remember the name of that Woman, I think, the relevance of it is already lost on this humongous body of humans, who ARE nothing more than a fallen from grace cow of a buffalo, in today`s Republic of India, ready to exercise Choice.           

                                  But this inquiry into the essentially 'MODI for PM' discourse, will remain crooked and unsubstantiated, without the 'within' aspect of the inquiry. MODI, born Narendra Damodardas Modi, during a time when, the sub-political community of Gujarat today, was a part of the bigger Bombay state then, spent some time of his childhood selling chai in trains going in and out of the Vadnagar station, before he opened a tea stall along with his brother, near a bus terminal. As a satisfied inquisitive mind whose only knowledge of the little Narendra, comes from the few scattered literary references here and there, I cannot help but speculate. Some-were in the unending clatter of cups and kettles of this much bigger industry of a tea stall the little boy from back in theteastall days, possibly about to acquire as MODI in a few weeks, is not *actually* hiding in one of the compartments of a train going in and out the Vadnagar station in the 1950s, doing what he loves best, adding different forms of carbon and watching it magically turn into a soul-quenching-warm-cup of chai, and giving it to people making them calm and content, feeling proud of justifying his name, Narendra, the King of (wo)Men. A King, who keeps all his people happy and satisfied on an unending stressful train journey, helping them reach wherever they want to go. And if that little boy, so perfect within the constraints of this construct, can somehow shed the contradiction, Damodar-das, from his true self, this complete postmodernist horror show promoter of a MODI will dissolve and the body of humans within this culture so insignificant in the eyes of the non-starting-unending universe will bow to a little Krishna, an old fakir of a Narandra, knowing that they are in Godly hands, being lead where they will be at peace.

But, this Speculation remains to be proven right, and the minuscule 4 year old, along with her own hopeless gangs, is becoming more and more aware that she is being wronged, in every city or village, of every district, in every state of this imagined construct of a nation, so ready to plunge into just another 5 year construct, where ever day is an year in itself.

Revolution Of a Confessed Romantic.                 

Placing Life-Form

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On metro, towards work.

realized,

still two stops from C sec,

as I look up,

at the charted destiny,

which this train is for,

bound.

Multicolored milieu,

which crowd around

sleeping,dreaming,dreading,

awake, knowing, ceasing,

doesn't give me any sign of what,

they feel.

I hope, I see that, when I change the train at C sec.

for, I think, I am bound for Rajiv Chowk.

An Outcast.

My vagina is non judgmental, everyone comes and goes, but to my vagina, it really doesn't matter. My vagina just feels pleasure at having them over, without thinking of their gender/race/caste/creed/color/sect/religion/...for my vagina can`t stand loneliness; not that she is a society-slut or an attention-whore or something similar to that, because she simply lacks the intention for it,  but its because my vagina can’t give shape to her thoughts all alone, without feeling that something is horribly wrong,  her walls sweating in exasperation. Its like a nicotine craving in the gums, making `em itch.    

But my vagina has no qualms about it, she considers herself as the owner of an open house, deriving satisfaction simply in their presence and getting kicks from the ruckus they create in there. But as even the most satisfied owners of highly happening open houses can lose themselves forever and ever completely in a single moment of noiseless pensiveness, I think my vagina is secretly creating a tunnel behind the open house, for she believes she can take hold of someplace, which people never leave.

Now this can be highly dangerous, for what if this exploring vagina mine meets the dissatisfied gums, at the time when I am not smoking? And they both decide to settle down in my mouth till they actually figure out WHAT is actually wrong, leading to further horrifying possibilities, like an uncontrolled chain reaction?

I think, I will stuff my vagina with all sorts of things and people so she can never lose herself in the subsequent insistent clamor that will resound forever and ever within the confines of her walls. 

The Prophet Pt 1

1.
No known written record has been found in India medieval history about saint Ravianand Chalal, who was supposed to be influential and active in and around the Himachal region of north India. Like so many saints, who have been obscured by the clouds of history since populating the medieval Bhakti period, which stretched from early fourteenth century to mid seventeenth century before it gradually petered out under the British, Ravianand Chalal supposed to have lived during the reign of Aurangzeb, which though wasn't the best period to thrive as a Bhakti saint, was at the same time one of those high tides of time when people are ready to die for their beliefs.
It drizzles bleakly on the Chalal forest, blue and black in the night of that cold December, as a bright bald monk, clad in bluish soaked-white, waded through its rain soaked thicket. It is absolutely dark and as the monk makes his way through the bushes and shrubs, a pale faraway light comes into view. Seeing it, a new strength seeped into the monk and with renewed energy, his limp walk turns almost into an unsteady run. The look on his face remains tense and anxious while he feverishly clutches at the package he is carrying. 
A foreboding howl of a wolf echoes through the forest, as the monk enters the dwelling, in which, on a mattress, lies Ravianand Chalal. He breathes heavily, and his left hand lies limply on his chest. He wakes up uneasily as the monk enters.
' Barish kya abhi bhi ho rahi hai? '
' Haan baba.'
He gives the package to a young woman, clad in white sari, who comes forward to receive it and then recedes with it into an inner chamber.
'Ashok told me the Emperor has destroyed yet another ashram?' Ravianand manages to produce in between moans of pain.
' Haan baba, Aurangzib ko apne khilaf kisi sajish ka darr hai aur woh dharmic sthano par shak kar raha hai.
The woman comes out of the darkness she had receded into, with a bowl of steamy liquid, there is a worried look on her face but she remains silent. 
' Baba we must leave, its not safe here anymore, every day we stay here, we await our death. We have to leave Chalal.'
'What did vaidhji say?' the woman finally breaks in, not able to keep silent anymore. 
' He says we need to take him to a warmer region. He recommends somewhere in Dakshindesh.'
The look on the woman's face turns even more grave as she helps Ravianand drink the content of the bowl, who instantly passes into a childlike slumber.
'Ravi, baba's condition is serious. He vomited blood thrice today and in the morning he mistook me for his mother. We have to do something.'
' The medicine should do him good' said the monk, solemnly, he knew the hollowness of his own words. The vaidh had told him that Ravianand has contracted a rare disease which will eventually kill him in a year or so. Ravi wanted to tell this to Parvati, but he somehow couldn`t bring himself to say it and as the sound of thunder roared outside, he said, ' We leave for Kalyani, tomorrow evening.'

2.
Born into a poor weaver family little Raviananda from a very young age had shown signs of compassion, curiosity, and an obstinate resistance to authority. He wrote ornate poems in which he tried to delve into the mysteries of the world, its illusions, its discrepancies and contradictions which became common in Himachal households of that time though they have been lost in the flow of time now. Raviananda Chalal, according to the native folklore, had a circle of disciples around him, who had traveled  south during the worst atrocities of Aurangzeb. There he contributed to the regional opposition of Aurangzeb's policies and ideas. A prominent feature of Mughal governance, since the empire`s inception in the early 14th century was that the state policies were a delicate balance between the needs of a Mughal foreign minority and the wants of a motley majority of non Muslim groups inhabiting the Indian sub continent during the Medieval period, but this balance, fine and fragile was broken by Aurangzeb,  and it resulted in a cut off from other religious groups leading to a stiff politico - intellectual opposition to the Mughals.




Parvati, 

I am writing this letter to you after a long time, I know, but I had reasons not to do so before. We have safely crossed Agra, taking a detour of the city and things look brighter, at least than those cold hopeless nights at home, and its because I am a little more optimistic about this and am surer of our journey that I am writing you this letter.
Baba is better, you must be concerned, but do not worry, I know he is recuperating. I strongly believe that his is not a physical malady, it has more to do with his psyche, his intellect which is constantly revolted by the world today, the fear instilled in the hearts of people by the state, the bloodshed and the violence. 
Since executing the Sikh guru, the Emperor has murdered countless numbers of innocent sadhus and sanyasis. And all for what? Spreading his message of peace? I fail to understand what to make of all the recent developments, Parvati, but I fear the Emperor is planning a campaign against Vijaynagar and a wave of panic is already spreading in south, it seems like we are the ones who are carrying this catastrophic news with us.
But as for now, our course is set, we reach Kalyani in 45 days and there try to awaken the rajas and sultans, and unite them against the Mughal might. 
I am afraid I cannot write more for now. I hope this letter reaches you in your best health. 
I will write soon.  


3.
The relations of Aurangzeb with the non Muslim religious leaders had become very strained by the end of his reign, the symbolic act of beheading the Sikh guru, Guru Tegh Bahadur, in 1665 and many other such recorded and unrecorded incidents in Aurangzeb's life prove this, as does his popular image in the present Hindu milieu of our country. Apparently, no known reason for this sudden shift in Mughal state attitude towards these non Muslim religious and local communities, apart from the idiosyncrasies of Aurangzeb can be fathomed.

The Red Fort of Delhi has been bustling with activity. The Emperor is back from his northern campaign, and the royal red colored fort is peopled by a milieu of many colors. The whole fort looks like some curry being cooked in a big cauldron, with lots of different colored spices in it. Though there is a subdued gaiety in the womenfolk, the men look serious, solemn, at least those who are concerned or connected with the state affairs.
Emperor Alamagir's decision to start a Deccan campaign, with a bigger motive of ultimately bringing the whole of south under Mughal control, was to start with Ahmednagar and in the first wave itself the Emperor was planning to vanquish the states of Bijapur and Golkunda. There was a heavy burden of responsibility on the shoulders of the ministers to mobilize resources for the campaign. 
Muhi-ud-Din Mohammad sits on the steps of his throne, dressed in simple casual clothes, in Diwan-i-Khas, which is shining brightly in the middle of a summer night, with numerous huge lamps and candles.
The emperor is surrounded by about half a dozen ministers, who are getting visibly worried as the Emperor's mood starts to strain with overwork. 
' The Dhimmi have to pay, the ummah does its share of giving but the resources of Dhimmi have to be taxed too. We all know these temples and ashrams are not only filled with gold and silver, which can be used in paying off the debt of the empire inquired during the reign of my father, they can also be potential centers of subversion, that is the sole reason for their destruction, nothing is bigger than the Sultan who is the shadow of the almighty on this world...' 
Sultan Almagir, an efficient ruler, knew how to get his will done. A god fearing man, he was genuinely convinced that all opposition to the Mughal authority was sacrilegious and was inherently and morally wrong and considered it his duty to bring the barbarian states under the emancipating control of the Mughals. 
' The Mughal dynasty is a blessed dynasty, it is destined to go on for a thousand years, and for that we have to stop the barbarians and the outcasts from plotting against us, stop them from poisoning our roots. I have decided to embark on a campaign against Ahmednagar, Bijapur and Golcunda all at the same time, the morale of the army is high from the previous successful campaign in the north and we must utilize it. we would also need the support of the major Rajput states. It wouldnt be too easy in the light of the recent politico- religious developments, but it is has to be done.'
The Emperor takes a moment's pause, and then asks, 'How are our finances? and support?'
A rather short, cunning looking minster steps forward in response to the question and presenting a sheet of paper to the Emperor, says, ' Jahanpanah, the finances and support are not in a great shape, most Rajputs, Jat and Gujjar localities have withdrawn their support after the execution of the Sikh guru. But, hazoor, we have thought a lot and we have stumbled upon an idea.We have decided that the day of your birthday, coming winter, would serve as the perfect opportunities. we could call them all to the royal fort, and then start negotiation. We could also call some monks to give the whole thing their legitimization and a secular color.' Withdrawing to his original position he lets the Emperor mull over the prospect. 
Almagir lost in the train of his own thought, finally says after much thinking, ' I, under no circumstance want those barbarians to think that the Sultan of Hindustan, is in need of THEIR help and that they have a choice to refuse or accept to offer resources. They have to feel like hostages the moment they set foot in this fort, with no discretionary power. I want them to concede to my demands one way or the other.' and with this, calling off the meeting in Diwan-i-Khas and he retires to his chamber.