Wednesday, 28. October 2009, 15:20:01
useless thoughts of a useless person
Ernesto Che Guevara needs no introduction, especially not from a bum like me. so without such vain attempts let me start with this- some days back i finished 'motorcycle diary' by Che Guevara. wouldn't say i was a know-nothing about him before, but this time i got to know him a whole lot better. the diary was on the eight month's journey that he had with his friend Alberto. I started with his friend's diary at first, but then i got Che's diary at hand and began reading it without second thought. i think it's worth mentioning that it took me two months to get my hand on that book.and it was worth the search.
An incredibly romantic person as he was, Ernesto also proved himself a rational and relentless thinker at a considerably young age. The diary is as fascinating as his own life- full of wisdom and sense of unabated determination, which only a great man can show.I was actually taken aback to find him so wise, sensitive, self-conscious and at the same time extremely altruistic. He possessed altogether the self-centeredness of a creative mind and the generosity of a true human being. It was the balance in his emotions that shocked me the most. At times he would rather discuss things in a subjective manner like a poet or a self-conscious bookie. Then he would take the geography, politics, economics and health issues of the place into close account and intersect and scrutinize them as a social theorist, or sometimes simply describe things as a fun loving, carefree person does. It's also evident in the book that he did not only observe and participate like some nerdy researcher but also had real fun as a 23 year old youth should.
From all this interpretation if one takes him for one of the whimsical youth who only lived their life for the time and spent time sitting glued to the comfy chair thinking what can be done to save the world, then the individual is terribly mistaken. Che did not sit back and think- and this is what separated him from those useless creatures. He read, thought and fought. And this journey evidently helped him make his mind.
Enough of interpretation. Now I want to focus on some disconcerting facts that caught me when I began the book. In the prelude, the translator almost claimed Che Guevara 'a saint', even at some point 'equivalent to christ'(!). I was pained to see a communist revolt being called a 'saint'. And shamed to see people denying to realize it. What could be more insulting for a man like him? But unfortunately very few seem to realize that to call a saint is to insult his eccentric genius. Valuing his own aptitude and not giving away the credits to something he did not believe in are the least he deserves. Che was great human being and not a selfless godsend, and he should be regarded such.
Wednesday, 16. September 2009, 16:37:24
Poem
Don't know if I should regard it as a poem- at least I tried it make it so. The background of the poem should be cleared a bit, I think. 'Song of the harp-players' is actually a poem engraved on the tombstone of an Egyptian pharaoh. The poem was an utterly pessimistic one,full of despair and darkness, reflecting the atmosphere and holding the vibe of that very age.
The poems I'm going to post now will contain similar materials, only in a more holistic manner.I'm planning to bring out a series on this theme.
Here goes the first one-
Song of the Harp-players
This is the truth.
That there is no truth.
That the nightingale will sing from the forests of mist
As ever,
while the hollow shrieks of wounded horses echo
in the immensity.
These are the lies-
Darkening skies promising fulfillment,
Singing of the long-lost hopes through all extant entities.
The sudden swell of happiness seeing the greenest leaf,
Glowing gold in the eternal sun.
The precious bond of intrepid hands,
Thought to conquer the merciless ocean.
And that Man is meant to be in peace.
That when drops fall someone is there to hold them.
That when you scream it reaches the heaven or hell.
This is the truth.
A deeper night breathes through the brightest of our days.
PhnX
14.9.'09
Thursday, 10. September 2009, 14:38:34
useless thoughts of a useless person
'What do you know about the world or life, kid?'- my mother's mocking voice challenged me. In this world people sell their body parts to keep their body and soul together, people burn others' houses and stuff to get their things done, mothers are forced to sell their own kids...oh, well, I would like you see today's paper, it will testify better.'
And again, with a reluctant hand I picked up the newspaper, as my mother murmured the page number- 'open at the feature page- Narimanchya.' I did as I was told. At first this picture captured my eyes. Aligned to the left side of the page there it was- a mother holding her child dearly, and the small infant smiling as if she was dreaming a celestial dream, as if... I don't know how, I just haven't seen any child smile like that before. So, what is it about? I started to read and I froze. This woman, the woman in the picture, was forced to sell three of her daughters(yes, mind this,daughters)and is going to make no exception with this one, that is, she is going to have to let her child(oh no, daughter)to be sold again. I kept reading, my mouth open, and the story left me out of breath. It was her husband who made her do so. When asked he straight-out said that they were very poor and that they could not bear to rear female children, as they were to be married off which would cost them a lot too and they would not repay them as sons could when they grew up. The mother, Lokkhibala, weeps silently and says- "Why am I such an ill-fated person? Why doesn't god give me a son and spare me all the pain of losing my children? Everybody hates me, says I'm a witch to do such things. But what can I do? He says he will throw me out if I want to keep daughters, because they are of no use. But where will I go? I have nowhere to go."
She, like a timid animal, watches out all the time in fear that her child could be snatched away from her any moment. The small child with all its life and love wants to hold onto her. And she cries. She timidly told her husband the other day that she wanted to keep her daughter this time, that she could not live like this anymore. The man came flying at her with a chopper to kill the daughter. Lokkhibala screamed in fear- 'Take my child away, I don't want her. But let her live.'
I don't know if the child has already been sold to some childless couple or wicked people who will manipulate her in several ways, nor do I know who to blame. I can, most obtusely, accuse the father of being a devil to do so. Or I can spit at the face of the society of our country to let these attitudes develop and alive. Or I can curse at the curse of poverty which makes people do such things. But who is it ultimately to blame?
People like us, who do nothing but sit and enjoy the show in peace, sometimes offering crocodile-tears and sighing briefly out of relief at the end of the day that, they are not 'those' people.[ /FONT] 
Friday, 24. April 2009, 06:55:37
Poem
You will not remember
but I was a part of this crowd once
and this writhing,twisting,restless crowd
was a part of me.
Remember me or not
I was also an atom in this berserk wave-
pressing and pushing conveyed the current of life
through the veins of the earth.
I was a photon in this voracious inferno,
savage and ungracious,
I feasted on all the beauty world could offer.
Recall me or not
I was too a tide in this ocean,
feeble and helpless,I also crashed on the merciless shores
and returned with nothing but more sands.
You will not remember me-
I was also a tree in this forest
unmoved and solemn, I contemplated the stars
until the winter came...
11.4.'09
PhnX
Friday, 3. April 2009, 11:10:59
Poem
This is not much of a rich poem and definitely is not the type that I write.How this one came into being is a funny story.This whole poem[if I dare to call it so]was written in parts and sent as messages while playing a poem-game with one of my friends,Mila.In the game,I played the part of a man and she played the woman.This man,whom I played,despite being in love with her,wanted to go out and explore the world rather than being shackled to her stagnant love.On the contrary,the woman had always desired as any,to hold onto him and lead the rest of their lives together. Well this drama was finally put to an end by the last para of this poem.The poem only consists the speeches of the man,who longs to merge into his beloved ocean...
The Summons Of the Blue-bard
Shush!Do you hear that faint melody?
So distant, but the caged bird within me
Still agree,that it's time it was set free.
Hark!The ocean's calling me!
Like a forlorn whale's song dreary
The more I block it,the more it grasps,
And the bird goes in frenzy,
for the ocean heavily gasps;
An unheard wail clings to the air gloomy...
The bird's battering its wings hard
To reply the melancholy serenade,
I can no longer linger,my love-
Your heaven calls you
And I'm also due
to answer the summons of the blue-bard!
Don't you weep love,love,cause when you'll do so
The sea will freeze and my sun glow no more-
Listen to my plea,for when you'll sing of me
I shall know
As the sea will wear the brightest blue
and the whale's song fill the hollow.
30.8.'07
Thursday, 2. April 2009, 09:00:40
Story
‘There he is’, I gasped, totally exhausted from running all this way from the science building of the school. I rushed at the boy in the corner, poring over some papers in his hand. “Saom”, I called out. It might come out a bit louder than intended, cause he gave a jerk and looked at me, seemingly startled. “What?”. “What what? I hope I didn’t scare you to death?” I said a bit testily. “No actually…,”he gave me an awkward smile,” Every time I hear any loud voice or sound it comes being translated to me my father grumbling-“ why do people scream all the time? Our prophet told us to always keep it quiet and calm. If they only listened…”
“Yeah, I know, your father’s a bit…whatever, are you coming or not?”
“Where?”
“You know, to the cultural program!”
“Oh, sure, I love listening to songs…I thought you’d start about that again…”
“I am starting it dear. Are you singing there or not?”
He sort of blushed and replied in a meek voice-“I told you, I have never learned music in that sense. Not that I sing well too…”
“Well,” I said patiently,” I don’t need to hear that I-don’t –sing –good thing again. It sucks. And your voice rocks- that’s all I know. Okay, let’s prove that you are the worst singer we have ever seen. So, come with me and prove it.” I took him by the hand, he shook it off. “You are not getting it. It’s not only how I sing, it’s my father too. He is the Muazzin of the mosque and just despises this kind of things. He would never let me…he’ll kill me…”
“ For singing in the program?” I couldn’t suppress the disgust. ”Don’t you think you are over reacting? I mean…come on, what could he do if he knew? He could be mad at you, throw things at you in the extreme, what more?”
“ You don’t know him. He becomes murderous at times when he’s angry.” He closed his eyes and it seemed as if he shuddered for a moment and sighed. “I am not going”. He looked stern.
* * *
“So, what do you say now?” I raised my eyebrows sarcastically.” How did it feel with the whole hall room screaming-ONCE MORE, eh?”
He just smiled in answer. ”Didn’t I tell you, man, didn’t I? That you were going to rock it, but all you knew was saying- “I am not much of a singer…” I mimicked him in a tony voice. He laughed mirthfully, his face glowing like I’ve never seen before.
“Tell me one thing,” I put a hand on his shoulder,” Where did you get this? This thirst for music? I mean, as you have always told about your family, so conservative and all…how did you grow this interest dwelling in that sort of environment?” He chuckled-“You really want to know?” I chuckled back at him and nodded.”
“It’s the azaan I got the aspirations from.” “Azaan?” I sounded confused, as I was. “Yes!” An unknown bliss swelled in his voice.” Have you ever heard it intently? It’s actually a song with an unearthly tune! It’s so gripping…no wonder people have been responding to this summon for ages…it totally grasps one…and it taught me the first lesson of music- when you do music, try to bring out your soul in your tune, your voice- to be truly heard!” He stopped abruptly. ” May be you are thinking me nuts.” He mumbled. The same old Saom was back again. “No,no…” I shook my head in a confused manner.” You just put it right,” I tried to sound thoughtful,” I never thought in that way before…I wish your father saw it that way.” And I knew at once I had made the mistake. All the colors drained from his face. ”Do you think he could know somehow?” “Of course not. How could he? He’s not going to come to the school, is he?” He didn’t answer.
Saom felt happier than ever. He felt so contented with himself that he even winked at a pretty girl while walking on the pavement; the girl gave him a scowl in turn. He was so happy. He whistled all the way home, the tunes of the songs he had sang in the program .His eyes still dreamy from the old vision- a great mob before the stage, all applauding together after each of his songs. Oh God, did that all really happen? He still couldn’t believe it…
Her mother was at the front door, standing with a pale face that he didn’t remember seeing any less pale since his birth. Or was it a bit paler than usual? Before he could figure out or his mother could speak, his father’s chilly voice came- ‘Saom, come in…’ Saom could feel the blood draining from his face. His mother seemed as if she had frozen. He quietly shoved her aside and entered the room. His father sat on a chair in the dining room, looking totally blank and stiff. “So, you sang today, huh? What was the song, the first one- “I have bound my soul with yours..” wasn’t it? ‘What a lovely song and you wouldn’t believe how beautifully your son sang,’ Maruf’s father said. Shouldn’t I be proud of my son! And what was the second-“I give you this blue-necklace, love…”,he stopped dead and looked him into the eyes. They were small and black, but now somehow they looked red. “Didn’t I tell you always to abide by the rules of the holy Quran and the Hadis? Didn’t I?” his voice shuddered in anguish.” "And you, despite all the forbidding, you sang and danced before all those mediocre people…” “Father, I didn’t dance…” “Don’t! Don’t you argue with me once, you, you…” the man lost words and to fill the deficiency took out the hand that he held behind his back all through. It was holding a chopper, sharp and shining in the dim yellow light. At the sight of that thing, Saom suddenly felt a strong urge to vomit. His head was spinning and eyes denied to focus on anything and the last thing he heard before losing consciousness was his mother’s shrill voice-“ No! Oh Allah, save my child…”
The doorbell shrieked and annoyed me as ever. I opened the door. Saom was standing at the door, barely supporting himself leaning on the wall. His face and hands looked all bruised and he wore a weird smile on his face, an eerily sick smile. “Could I stay at your house tonight?” He croaked. I stood petrified.
* * *
I met him outside the mosque one day. The same old Saom, but somehow he looked novel. I called out- Hey Saom! It didn’t startle him and he yelled back at me- Oh, Kabir! Can’t believe it man! You are really here!” I took his hands in mine and stared silently. He stared back. “Such a long time has passed…” he said almost inaudibly. Both silent, all the memories welling up inside.
“So, I heard you were teaching English in a college…” at last I found words.
“ Oh yes, yes, you heard right. And as I heard you are…” “Just running the old business of my dad, not feeling bad.” I replied. He smiled. “You certainly came for…” He cut in-“ To give the azaan.” I didn’t say anything, actually did not know what to say. “Father’s still alive and he still is working for the mosque. He gets sick sometimes and then I give the azaan in place of him.” He said in a firm voice. His face was passive and calm. “That’s good, I’d say, that’s good. So you haven’t missed the last prayer, right? I have. And won’t deny that it happens everyday, can’t help it pal…”
“No, you have forgotten. I don’t pray anymore.”
I gazed at him for a while.
“Oh, yes, I remember now. Since that day?”
“Since that day.”
Friday, 27. March 2009, 18:30:29
Poem
This was my first poem written in English that I considered to be an accomplished one. It gave me the utter pleasure of creating something after a long time.
Hell Is Where I Belong
I lift my gaze and look at the sun
She looks away,I could feel her burn.
The spirits inside my chime on-
Hell is where you belong!
The shackles restrain
barely the pain they are given,
Cut sharper in my feet
Knowing their sure defeat.
The losing souls shriek on-
Hell is where you belong!
The rushing ghouls behind me,
Howling helpless,see me flee,
Fleeter than a ray surging through,
I leave no message nor a clue;
Light lagging behind curse on-
Hell is where you belong!
The tempest roars with sheer bliss,
Assuring this time world will not exist,
I blow her softly out of my way;
Dubious deep,it sways away-
Reaching the gate,looking at my chest
I find blazing letters fire on-
Hell is where I belong!
9.7.'07
Wednesday, 25. March 2009, 16:15:05
This is why I'm always reluctant to read newspapers. All the bleakness of the world together in a few thin cheap pages,ready to grizzle all your hopes one by one- a newspaper. Well I made that mistake though yesterday,to leaf through the newspaper for a couple of minutes and after a while I found myself beneath the mound again,twisting and fumbling for a whiff of air.What was that news then?Nothing much may be,not that harsh compared to the all that horrible things taking place all over the world- Iranian blogger arrested and jailed for writing against the supreme religious leader of Iran, dies a 'mysterious' death in the jail.The Iranian authorities are of course trying to shake it off their shoulder, saying it is a suicidal case.Not only that,they are also working their arse off to shut all the people who dare to raise a finger at them.
These are the times that make me say- 'Yeah,we're civilized alright.'
Friday, 20. March 2009, 15:39:57
useless thoughts of a useless person
Just saw a movie named 'Instinct. Though I didn't find any familiarity of the name with the theme. It should have been named...I don't know what, lets just say, differently. It's a story of a man who thinks in a different manner, about history, about human being. He's an anthropologist,who had been living in Africa for a long time until he found that gang, the gang of gorillas.He observed them for months, at first from a safe distance[or should I phrase it so? Maybe an unnecessary distance, a distance that was created by human being himself], and then the distance dispersed with time, as he was accepted into the group. This could be seen as the loss of his entity,as he entered the group but he strongly insisted that it was not to be thought that way. He was still a human being, learning, wandering, and he was accepted so. And this is where the thunder lies. May be the director tried to say- we may be afraid to give into the unity,divinity of nature,in fear that it would grab away our false pride of being the possessor of the throne, the tempting satisfaction of being the lords of the world,despite this-nature is still ready to take us in,again,like we all were in the very beginning.
So,this man, who realized and abode by this truth,and therefore,referred the human kind[except for the tribal ones who are still in touch with nature]as 'the takers',since they took over the world in their false illusion of being the gods of the world, was caught and imprisoned for killing two people and was finally transferred to U.S.A from African jail. In there a brilliant psychotherapist took the charge of him as a patient and miraculously got him into talking, breaking his seemingly imperishable silence of three years. So the ape-man,as he was called by the other jailbirds,talked. He talked about the gorillas, the peace he found in that found in that jungle and among them. The peace that human beings lost long ago and have been chasing after for years and years through science,philosophy,arts. But peace is not to be found in those inventions of intelligence. It is sown only within the core of nature, where humans no longer belong.
The trials were defeated, the 'takers' ruled. 'What do we do then? Bring down all the cities and everything that civilization has ever given birth to?'-question of the inquisitive mind. 'We have to give up our dominions. We have to understand that there is not king, none has to play god.'- that was the answer of the crazy man with cold gray eyes and wrinkled skin, who killed two men for killing the members of his family, the gorillas and cried like a child over their death.
The man fled away from the prison, leaving a note to his student[the psychotherapist] that he was thankful to him for bringing his daughter back to him and for sharing the journey with him. The crazy man who left his own family to join the nature, disappeared into the jungle with all his silence, once again.
The theme of this movie is the very one that knocks me all the time and keeps staying unanswered. What can we do now, even if we understand that the path we have been walking for a thousand years is a wrong one? Isn't this how it should have been? How could it have been different, with intelligence as our demonstrator all along the path? Intelligence itself is the tendency to keep oneself in a safer,richer place than others. And to do that you have to own more, care less. This is the intention that wrecked the bondage between human and nature, isn't it? Do we then cast away our intelligence? Or, assuming it impossible, can we rejoin nature, treasuring the good things that we got from civilization and live a life of peace, with double the equipments to lead a happier one?
The wiser ones, some optimists say we can. I'd love to believe that. I really would. I may be a pessimist, but dreams of this kind appeal to me none the less.
Thursday, 19. March 2009, 16:19:27
Introduction
I have never blogged anywhere before, never was that eager for it actually. I have friends who blog, and do it much enthusiastically, and mostly in here, yes. And yet I remained impenetrable to all the gracious things that a blog has to offer- sharing your thoughts and stuff with people and meeting people from around the world etc. If you ask me why, I'll probably have to give you the common answer- 'I don't know.' Well, I won't say I'm totally ignorant of the real cause- I was reluctant to share the writings with others that i considered too immature to do so. I still consider them so. And yet I'm here, with all my finished and unfinished craps that I'd like to think 'writings', to share with others. Toll the bell if anything among these craps moves you.
WIDGETIZE