levi and pakeezah - life sailing in poetry

to read periodic table and see pakezaah, one cannot complain of a dissonance, for both are life sailing in poetry - the former takes us to a life having lived an experience which still resonates in Europe, the other is a sad fable about the vulnerability of dreams, the sad demise of the unbreakable --- levi makes me remember the smells of my chemistry lab, also instructs me about characters, passing on the wisdom that the genius lies in finding the majestic in the trivial, pakeezah raises her fingers towards the sky, my eyes follow, asking me to search destiny in clouds, weather, sun and the moon...

a cultural performance - la sa ra

saw a south-indian classical performer with a French artist dancing together to tunes from both countries, eyes flitting from one to the other sometimes it became difficult to follow both their movements together, as they played and fought one another, waited for their men, envied each other, their reactions varying one found one of the inevitable ways in which cultures coalesce people together, touch them unawares, the fuzzy boundaries of nations, and the beat of the inter-national or rather cross-national, if left to "la sa ra", at times during the performance, it felt god came and touched you

sarat babur golpo

S.C Chatterjee's writings have very powerful woman characters. Chatterjee has his men flitting around from here to there, engaging in a directionless meandering, seeking anchorages in places inhabited by women.The man is a wanderer, in his roaming around, in his journey one finds ambitions, also a mental quest for finding answers to questions, also perhaps a journey to understand, make sense of the mystery and depth of a woman.

"talk to her" it said and he stopped thinking about his loneliness, if not only for tonight

he felt lonely, took out the mobile from his pocket and tried his three friends - 2 males, 1 female -cold statistics. Unable to get to them - some did not connect, others kept ringing - matter of factly, he went for a walk, realized he was tired, felt his sweat and entered a conditioned library, went through a book on a "Subaltern Studies" - to be precise, and then took leave from books to roam a little further, meditated on loneliness - to have remembered, till he saw a tamil family clustered around the verandah, and then thought further about family, till he came to the sea, then he thought about gazing at the sea, singing a few songs to himself, but, there was no space, all around were couples, it was weekend time. He thought about eco-tourism, then finally he did find a place to squeeze himself, started singing, and then got up, then he took a walk back home, and saw a almodovar movie,"talk to her" it said and he stopped thinking about his loneliness, if not only for tonight

objective points through a power point presentation

Creation becomes secondary in an industry where market rules, your creation looses its subjectivity, it is reduced to objective points through a power point presentation and then it is sold as an idea, dissenting voices, voices which still try to listen to their inner voice, are silenced by efficient and smart marketeers, to say it happens in capitalism is another reductionsim

contours of imperatives a novel will try to rise upto

The novel surely engages in interrogating the individual pulse, giving it a form. In making characters reflect on what has occurred, what they have experienced, sometimes a melancholic nostalgia is associated, during other times, important realizations concomitant with a theory also get realized. At other times, contrary to held perceptions or ideologies, events and thought-processes unfold. In a world of changing trends, fashions, and technologies and post prefixed phenomena, characters think whether they are happy to be duped by the advertising market, are they actually duped into consuming, do they feel they are resigned to participate in such a consumption process, or are they happy being part of the consumer lifestyle that gets defined for them by presumably invisible forces? Does “sterility of real actions” in the face of imploding images really bother people or are they actually indifferent to it all?

One tries to chalk out the contours of imperatives a novel will try to rise upto

would also sound like an anachronism

Staying encrusted in a small town in India, reading and then interpreting Baudrillard, his despairing vision of hyper-reality, seems foreign. A distance gets created, and yet a few years of exposure to ICT, the consequent debates regarding AI, Virtual Reality, and Simulation, growing also in an India where both (pre- and post-) industrialization is simultaneously taking place, placing ones’ ideas for a not so quite distant science-fiction in India, would also sound like an anachronism, for don’t cities like Mumbai have potentials of burgeoning Simcities, attaining the status of a “Post-Metropolis”, like Los Angeles or New York, soon, very soon?

setting the goal

The frustration of youth, such a driving force, gives one an ability to fight and be the one (s)he wants

The stubborness of youth, to not hear anything except the call of ego and desires, sometimes also the super-ego, to fantasize the last image and run after it


Negative energy sets the goal for positives to act upon, and when the positives fall flacid, become lazy, they are there to give them a kick in their behind

shaved in the morning, and thought i had it all wrong yesterday

I was happy, I talked of the -isms in life, deconstructing all those thinkers, what was good and bad about them, she listened, all the time thinking me a rut and intoning the hmms...hmms...and she looked at me with her eyes so big, her signature smile conveying to me that i was so splendid and i came back crushed my pillow and thought what lovers would think, after a dream , shaved in the morning, and thought i had it all wrong yesterday because she was not there and that i could play the fool again when she would look at me with those eyes ... confessions of loverlorn lover should perhaps be relegated to a diary or should they not, a pastry filled mills & boons romantic confession can never be a blog entry, blogs are serious business, but the last three sentences make blogs self-critical, each form looks inward at itself...thats an -ism, take a guess...

love, a short process

the look in her eyes, the look in mine as i look at them, the pouting of her lips, her smile, the invisible something in the tone of my voice as i tell her an idea, we comunicate in signs, our misinterpretations, our deliberate misleading of signs --- love, a short process,

life lived between breaks

Mass Media looks for breaks in everyday life, therefore it covers life when events become a breaking news, diligently capturing the spectacle of the fight between a Narayana Murthy and Deve Gowda, it then runs the tape of repeated simulation of the captured spectacle for a few days together, then forgets, looking for some other breaks, at times remembering some spectacular breaks in the form of anniversaries. The shocks through the breaking stories are essential, they come up as stock taking situations after years of neglect but the question comes up - Who will connect the life lived between those breaks? Who will track the mercury of the silent indignation of a local as he sees his old city destroyed by rising prices, traffic jams and rowdy nightlife given vent finally as an outburst including the indifference, vulnerability and failure of the software engineer to see those signs? Can fiction be the answer?

poets do...their words make people cry and fight, remember and forget

Poets are very fond of history because they too are people who cannot forget. So when a dictatorial government comes up with its scriptwriters and tells them to write a certain kind of history for its subjects, two kinds of poets emerge - one poet who writes about the history he cannot forget, the past as he knew it, the names of streets and places that remained imprinted in his memory in a language he remembers, ...the other poet is the poet of the ruler...he writes hymns in the system's praise, he eulogises, he compares the leader with some great historical god of the past, he makes a whole nation forget, spells a charm of collective amnesia over them...what do poets do...through their words they make people cry and fight, remember and forget

antonioni , melancholy and innocence

Antonioni's films have a sense of gravitating poetry about them, the poetry is in the gaze that he offers, the innocence of the medium of cinema, its breaking from the narrative of cause and effect, the new images, new shots, lots of silences, strange characters with their adventurous foibles,their attempts to find desire and satisfaction, their melancholy, their squeamishness, their emptiness among arificial plenitude, the sheer amount of pontification over a decision which at the end is relegated to a mere instinct, and in the end an eclipse, one's hand on another's hair, brushing it , consolation and forgiving, a giving in to making love out of pity or clarity no one knows, a tiring for nothing, the characters feel it, you as a viewer feel it ....the exercise of the spectator and a discerning audience...connecting dots