CATHARSIS

Is there an end to it?

I often ask myself. And the answer leaves me astounded and silent as ever. Never… But why? A long silence. And then a sarcastic smile… It says it all. There’s nothing more to interpret. But is this what we come for? A never ending uncertainty? May be…It cannot be true. It cannot be so rude. But this is the truth. But there can be some solution or we can devise one. Try it…It says and laughs aloud. And then it goes back.

I do torture myself endless number of times. And search for the answer desperately. The last few days have been full of such queries but with no answers. It has to happen this way. It’s written. Who am I to change the destiny? But I am not even trying. I am just trying to resolve - is there an end to it? A long chain entangled at every inch complicated further by various other entangled chains intertwined at endless levels with the first one. Try unfolding one. It gets convoluted further.

I search for a happy face. I even find one but the moment I try to approach I see nails punched deep inside stretching it from both the ends. You try removing one and you get loads of skin and flesh along. I search for love. I even find one. But the moment I try to connect I find a flat glass which can shatter anytime with a slight touch. You try healing it with a patch and it gets wounded further. I search for truth. The next moment I find one but mounted proudly on a heap of lies. You cannot get inside without forging yourself. I search for tenderness. And I find it buried inside the filth and muck of several centuries. You cannot unearth it without losing your own.

As far as I can remember I only visualize myself and all the people I have known surrounded by layers and layers of sorrows all around. My mother used to tell me that I was a product of complicated and life threatening delivery. The doctors had already declared before that nobody would survive but fortunately we both did. My entire childhood passed in my mother’s illness. I received a lot of love from her but she was always sick and unhealthy. As I grew up, the troubles increased manifold. I had just stepped into puberty when I realized that we had become bankrupt. We had come under heavy debt and had to face a lot of humiliation as well. We had to leave our home and city. I had to leave my school, my friends and my childhood back in the old city. It was middle of night when we had to run away like cowards to a strange place. The problems had not even resolved when they got further complicated by my mother’s failed hysterectomy and septicemia. Finally she died. I started preparing for my medical entrance. Getting into a med school seemed an impossible dream at that time. Finally I got through. I got admitted in the best medical college of the country. The first two years went smoothly. As I stepped into third, new set of problems emerged. The system started hurting me a lot. I felt suffocated. I became too vulnerable. Even thought of running away and committing suicide. Finally I met an angel. I survived and got to the shore. Finally passed the finals and got commissioned in Indian army with a handsome salary. Suddenly I became rich. I thought the long struggle had eventually come to an end. But there was something else stored for me. The moment I realized that I was rich the next moment I was burdened with loads of responsibilities. I became poor once again. Furthermore my spiritual journey had just begun when immediately the carnal desires started hindering it altogether. It dragged me to the filthy streets where I realized that it’s a big mad world. I am not alone. I have friends as well whom I had not met till now. I look towards the future and see no variation. It’s a big cloudy, polluted and damaged world ahead. Ten years down the line I would have nothing but only remorse to gift to my kids. It would be a beginning of another struggle. My kids would someday become my enemies. And it would continue on and on.

I am not trying to prove anything by being autobiographical. Neither am I trying to gain any sympathy. There are million other victims on this planet more perturbed and damaged than me. But is there an end to all this? Is there an end to this hopelessness? Is there an end to this solitude? Is there an end to all this pain? Is there an end to this rigmarole of conflicts and disagreements? Is there an end to this poverty? Is there an ‘end’ beyond this ‘end’? Sometimes I feel that I have become bipolar in recent times. I undergo serious mood swings sometimes. For a flash of second I am very hopeful and happy but the next moment I get sucked inside my own paucity. The questions which had not even touched me in any way before have suddenly started disturbing and disconcerting me in a strange way nowadays. And believe me most of these questions have nothing to do with my personal and spiritual struggle. Most of these inquiries are pretty materialistic and worldly and this predicament increases the tension further. Am I getting older? Or am I getting ‘sane’ in a societal sense? Or Am I becoming worldly? Or am I just being illogical and crazy at the moment? I am not saying that I belong to some other planet but I am petrified that I might be getting consumed by this. There is so much to do and there is so much which I want to do but I am not able to because of some mysterious interference. And most of the time I end up doing things which I don’t want to do. Whom should I blame? Is there anybody responsible for this or is it the ‘me’ inside me responsible? There should be somebody whom I may be able to use as a punching bag for distorting my life. But I know that sadly there is nobody. People say that this is something which everybody has to go through someday. ‘You are becoming man, man’. I hate it when they throw this bullshit on my face. Why should my fate be similar to everybody’s fate? Why should I suffer for things which they had to suffer? Why should I clean their shit? Why should every generation inherit the pain and poverty of the previous generation? Why are we not able to design our lives and the world around the way we want to? Do I really have anything which I could leave to my kids? Besides a multitude of incurable syndromes and some billion dollar debts as a generation do we have anything which we could pass onto our next generations? If happiness is the ultimate aim then why does everybody end up searching and fighting for it only? I know that the world is changing and is changing fast but I have serious doubts regarding its sustainability. We must be sure that whatever we are trying to build or whatever we are building should have a self-sustainable power. It should be an ever evolving and ever progressing future. But are we actually doing this bit? Aren’t we burdening our kids with loads and loads of morality and other stuff so that they should grow dwarfs and die dwarfs? Aren’t we just creating a set of structures and counter structures and replacing it with another similar set every generation? Aren’t we making sure that like any other species on this land, it’s time for our own species to become extinct too?

Ghalib believed that life is one continuous painful struggle which can end only when life itself ends. But is death the solution? Isn’t it a form of escape? If death is the solution than rather embracing it physically all at once can’t we do it in every flash of life? Wouldn’t it open doors and doors of solutions and possibilities in every moment we live and thrive? Do we need to build another civilization? I don’t think so. But we do need to unearth the existing one. We do need to dig deeper and cling to our roots once again. Instead of building multi-storied malls stuffed with artificial air and asbestos we should build bazaars with real people filling the streets with music and magic. Rather than labeling and judging everybody with pre-defined yardsticks we must try being non-judgmental and see what difference it would make to our lives.  Rather than shouting and howling for morality all through our lives we must try to be free from this very need. Instead of hammering with contexts endeavour must be directed towards breaking those contexts and substituting all of them with a context of human understanding.

I do not see any big possibility coming my way but I do feel that something is being whispered from somewhere. ‘Search for love and meditate death in every moment’. This is what my heart says at this moment. It says this is the solution and may be this could be the one.

HOLLOW - PART III

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Tree

I planted a tree in my room. Few days back. Since it could not be planted outside. In the cozy comfort of my room, I installed it just next to my bed. Protected from sun, wind, water and other climatic hazards. Neon light of my room provided energy to the tree. Air conditioner which I purchased last year was a constant source of air exchange and chlorofluorocarbons required for the growth and survival of the tree. I also used to breathe into it few hours a day. For this purpose I even carved a small hole in the bark of the tree. I was concerned about the water supply. In the beginning I started watering it with tap water. But soon the roots became shriveled and dead due to the acidic content of the water. So I had to switch onto my own body fluids including urine, saliva and sweat. They were also acidic but less acidic than the drinking water. Within few days it showed a phenomenal growth. I consulted a lot of experts about the fertilizers. I spent thousands on purchasing some of them. Even started nourishing it with these artificial nutrients. But with experience I realized that there is nothing like human shit. Even animal shit proved to be a very good source. Gradually I started experimenting with other sources of nourishment. Once I found a dead dog lying in the street. Somebody had crushed it under his speeding vehicle. I brought it home. Tore it apart into smaller pieces. Further crushed those pieces into finer ones in the grinder. Mixed those pieces with my body fluids and made a thick paste out of them. Applied the paste in the roots and buds of the tree. Within few days the tree grew numerous branches and even bore fruits. I had to even break one of the walls of my room to give space to the growing tree. I was really happy. I had developed a father son relationship with my tree. Watching it grow inch by inch was a pleasure in itself. The tree became a voracious carnivore very soon. I started feeding it with chicken and meat. It became greener, taller and bulkier. People used to visit my house to have a look at the tree. It had been decades since they saw a phenomenon like this. After all nobody grows trees nowadays. They grow only buildings made up of bricks and cement. Anyways, within few days the tree dropped its first ever fruit on my bed. I was sleeping at the time. It hit my head and I woke up with surprise. I celebrated my success and tasted the fruit. I heard about fruits during my school days and even tasted one at my grandma’s place many years ago. But since then it had been a dream. Tasting it almost for the first time in my life was a delightful experience. Though it had no taste at all but it was indeed very rich and healthy. I had found an alternate source of business of selling fruits. I grew prosperous day by day. All was going well. But all good things come to an end someday. I was out of town for two days. It started raining heavily and within few hours turned into a storm. The water flooded into my building.

I returned home happily. I had made good money during these two days by signing important contracts. As I opened the front door, I found everything soaked in water. I immediately ran to my bedroom. And found that the tree had turned all yellow. The sulfuric and nitric acid of rain water had burnt and damaged the roots of the tree. The parched leaves and branches were lying dead scattered on the floor. The dream was over.

People say nature destroyed my tree.

I remain silent and think... it's time...

HOLLOW - PART II

THE ROYAL BLUE CARPET

I happened to meet him on a gloomy street yesterday evening. He was walking 10 steps ahead of me. It was dark, darkening with every step we were taking ahead. It was very quiet, even though thousands of vehicles were passing every second. I don’t remember the moment I started following him. I don’t remember what the hell happened that I started walking beside him and even accompanied him to his apartment. We were walking together but he didn’t take notice of it. I thought he was up to something. He walked at a constant steady calculated pace. I could hardly see his face in dark. Everything seemed animated and programmed. He opened the door and we were inside his apartment. As we entered, there was a big, dark drawing room welcoming us. The floors and the walls were heavily carpeted and the roof was made up of dotted asbestos sheet. They were all painted in royal blue. The house was absolutely sound proof. We could hear each other breathe. There was total silence. It appeared if I had entered a different planet. There were very few things filling up the drawing room. A small, circular table of steel and glass in the centre of room, one large, heavily cushioned sofa stuck to the wall and a small primitive television set of 60’s stuck to the opposite wall. Everything appeared clean and empty. And the clock on the wall had stopped ticking. There was a small bulb illuminating the entire room. I could barely see the other end. There was a small, dark passage leading to some other room, may be the living room. He lived alone. His name was Paul Anderson. He was born in 2057, graduated in 2076. It was all written in a framed graduation photograph on the wall, in black and white. Soon after, he undressed himself, removed his socks and shoes, switched on the television set, prepared a cup of coffee and settled himself on the sofa. This was probably the first time I could see his naked face clearly, as he sat facing the dimly lit bulb on the opposite wall.

He was different. Something strange. He had scanty blonde hair on his large, round head merely covering the scalp. There were no eyebrows above his small, mongoloid eyes. He didn’t blink. His eyes were blue and still. They were absolutely blank. He had a little remnant of nose, small lips with no features and almost no ears. There were holes on either side of his face with a small skin tag covering the opening. He had a prominent, scarless face. It was white, scary white. For a moment, I felt as if his face would rotate and laugh at me. There was absolutely no trace of hair on his naked body. He had thin large hands with lean, long fingers. He had slender physique and a flat belly. He had a rudimentary, minute stalk like penis with pea-sized testicles covered by small, flaccid scrotal sacs almost like a hermaphrodite. He had thin legs with no fat in thighs and calf muscles. He had thin long feet with no anatomical arches, almost like flippers, making them rest absolutely flat on the carpeted floor.

He moved very little, as if every muscle is programmed previously to move a calculated distance. There was an air of divine silence around him, frightening, deafening, astonishing. He was holding a cup of coffee in one hand and remote control in other. He showed very little movement as he brought the cup of coffee near his lips. I could hear him take a sip of coffee and bring it down his throat. He changed channels with another. He was gawking at the television set. To my surprise, when I looked there was actually nothing running on TV. There were only blank colored vertical lines on every channel he flipped with a caption in black and bold, “INCONVENIENCE IS REGRETTED”. It almost scared me to death. I touched him to make sure he was alive. There was no response. I poked him with a knife. He just blinked twice. He was definitely alive. But as good as a dead. I called him with his name. He didn’t respond at all. I even managed to shout. But he was still as always. I brought my ears close to his chest to listen him breathe. He was breathing very slightly. His chest moving few millimeters with every puff of inspired air. It was like a naked piece of flesh lying on the dead couch with few last breaths in his account. He was completely impassive to any kind of visual, auditory or tactile stimulus. I even shut down his TV to evoke some kind of response from that piece of dead flesh. He blinked again and kept on flipping channels. I wanted to go inside and search but I was scared to death. Just the idea sent shivers down my skin. After a while he finished his coffee and carefully kept the cup on table so as not to make a noise. After a while I saw him peeing sitting there on the sofa. He urinated beads of a red jelly like transparent substance of exactly the same length and width. They traveled beautifully down the stream, from his rudimentary phallus, falling like gems on the couch and finally embracing the royal blue carpet. The substance disappeared from the scene completely after few seconds. I thought it was there to stay but it was like a magic.

He sat there completely frozen for about an hour. I stood there in the corner, watching his slightest activity, motionless. Thereafter he finally stood up, walked towards the corner and settled down on the carpet with his chest facing the roof. For sometime he kept staring at the roof. Then suddenly he shut down his eyes and went to sleep. He was absolutely quiet. There was not even a slightest movement of his chest. I decided to disappear from the scene. I looked around to make sure there was nobody. As I tossed my eyes across the room, I stopped at the graduation photograph of Paul Anderson. He was dressed in all black with a piece of folded paper in his hands along with 20 other similar guys. As I looked carefully, all of them looked absolutely similar to one another. All of them had blank, blue eyes on a big animated, white face with small lips and no ears. They were like copies of one another with different names mentioned at the bottom of the photograph. It was hard to believe. 20 odd guys with similar face but different names.

How the fuck is it possible? Am I in a different time frame? Or am I in a different zone all together? Or am I doped? There is definitely wrong somewhere. But how can it be figured out? With these questions I managed to slip from his apartment. I ran as fast as I could, holding myself not to look back. Finally I reached my place, opened the door and looked in the mirror to make sure everything was in place. For a moment I saw the face of that mysterious man in my mirror. I shut down my eyes and looked again. It was me there, staring myself as if it was the first time. I picked up that day’s newspaper and found it was year 2010. I shut down the system and went to sleep. I didn’t know if I was going to be so alien and cold but one thing was sure I had decided to revisit him the following day.

HOLLOW - PART I

House

I have built a house. With rooms. A big house. With many rooms. A room for me and my wife. A room for kids. A room for mom. A room for guests. A room for maid. A room to sleep. A room to fuck. A room to shit. A room to wash. A room to dress. A room to play. A room to study. A room to think. A room to see. A room to listen. A room to speak. A room to shout. A room to cry. A room to laugh. A room to eat. A room to smoke. A room to drink. A room so warm. A room so cold. A big room. A small room. A red room. A white room. A dark room. Just rooms and rooms and rooms. Sometimes I get lost. Moving from one to another. Sometimes I enter the wrong one. But soon I realize. What a mistake I have made. Because it’s just not possible. To stay in that room. When you really want to go to another. Once I went to the room to fuck. And realize that I couldn’t think. Another time I went to the room to eat. And realize that I couldn’t speak. I also went to the room to see. And realize that I couldn’t listen. It’s very confusing. I get irritated sometimes. I keep on tossing from room to room. But I never enter the right one. I tried to label the rooms. I thought it would solve the issue. So I was looking for the room to laugh. But when I found it I had nothing to laugh. Then I looked for the room to smoke. The moment I found it I wanted to drink. Along my journey I felt an urge to shit. But when I found it I wanted to sleep. I got frustrated. I wanted to shout. But when I found it I had nothing to shout. The labeling failed. But somebody gave me a navigator. It’s the latest. And considered to be very precise. So I wanted to go to the room of my kids. I reached well. But since I was looking all into it I stumbled in the toys. Then I wanted to go to my own room to meet my wife. I started but realized that the battery had discharged. Somehow I got it charged. But when I reached my room she had gone to sleep. Frustrated as ever I went to the room to think. Reached well but just couldn’t think at all. Then I went to the room to cry. When I reached I tried but failed to cry. I just wanted to die. But realized that there is nothing such room in the big house.

Now I Wish I could have made one.

A room to live.

And a room to die…

God - part II

Horror

I've seen horrors … horrors that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that … but you have no right to judge me. It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror. Horror has a face … and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies…Colonel Walter E.Kurtz, Apocalypse Now.

I remember I was preparing for my medical entrance examinations. I was living as a paying guest in one of the households of bhathinda. As far as possible I could see myself a part of this profession only. There was only one focus. Though a second thought always used to persist and poke. What if I don’t make it to the finals? What if I lose and scatter without reaching the end? Finally, I made it. I got into a medical college and earned a degree. I got a job and started earning. Soon I realized I could buy all those things with my salary which I couldn’t afford yesterday. Yes, I could until one day when it all got shattered. I am very thankful to my friend Gaurav for causing this damage. He took me to a lane in the multiplex area of Saket, New Delhi. He introduced me to a forty something lady, a rag picker by profession sitting on a cot, surrounded by a group of 35 well fed, healthy street dogs, sleeping peacefully in the cold winter of Delhi with some fire in the centre. She was their mother. She used to feed those 35 street dogs picking up from the rags. How the fuck is it possible? It woke me up and burnt down my entire ego. It exposed a part of me which I always clothed and pampered. This was horror. Sheer fucking, nail biting horror. We have always been wrong when it has come to the portrayal of horror on screen. Horror is not some visually disturbing, ugly, brutal, torn piece of dead flesh portrayed on celluloid. Horror is something which is very alive and soulful like a piece of music or a beautiful painting. Horror is a moment of creative transformation. Horror was that second thought which persisted and sailed me through my examinations. Horror was that visual which exposed my timidity and crushed my ego. Horror is the persistent negativity which keeps us moving. Horror is a necessary destruction, a necessary murder which we are required to do. Horror is an unexplainable something which is a part of me, a part of you and a part of all of us.

Horror is the last hope.

Horror is the necessary god. Yes the god…

God - part I

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Oh god…!

This was something new after countless days of watching snow making mounds and mounds in front my shelter. Finally, it was a bright sunny day with a lot of chill factor to make it more juicy and horny. Moreover it was Tuesday and a mandir parade was organized in my battalion to apologize for the mistakes made in the past and to request nature god to be merciful throughout our tenure. And more interestingly, after a long time I was paying a serious, though forced visit to an organized religious ritual. Unlike civil, mandir is a very formal and structured event in army compulsory for all ranks and beliefs to attend. That is why I addressed it as a parade in the beginning. So there was no question of getting a day off (I deliberately got it once and still remember the chaos it brought to my mind and soul). I was having my afternoon siesta which had generously extended to an evening one. I got a call at quarter to six from a staff officer of my unit reminding me of the parade. The hell broke. I had to get ready. My eyes were swollen. I was feeling shitty getting up from my sleeping bag at +30 and going to attend mandir in -30. What the hell has happened to me? The time has made me wiser. But I was always happy insane. Anyways, I stepped inside the mandir and saw my troops lost in a mad world of devotion and deities. Religious hymns were being sung to the tunes of bollywood numbers. I was given a comfortable place to rest my arse. I sat down and met somebody. Yes, you guessed it right. It was god. Decorated and ornamented in a beautiful stone carving and a glass frame. Besides, the punditji of the battalion was sitting on the floor waving god with a bunch of peacock feathers. Indian soldiers were chanting with their closed eyes and cracked voices, ‘we are fucked, we have been raped, please help us god!’ My relationship with god has gone through many cracks and crevices. My facebook status has shifted from a believer to a non-believer and finally to an agnostic over a period of time. There is no serious animosity between us. But we have decided to remain indifferent and insolent towards each other. It’s a mutually signed agreement. I read somewhere written that there is a 99.9% probability that god doesn’t exist and there is a 99.99% probability that he doesn’t exist in the form we worship him. Though I am not sure about the first part of the statement but I definitely believe the second one. Anyhow, we were facing each other again. I tried to look straight. Into his stoned eyes. You are still the same. You haven’t changed ever since. Are you the one I was looking for so many years? Are you the answer to my questions? Are you the one I compose in my poems and dreams? Are you…Really…? But he didn’t even blink. I tried sounding desperate. Do you really breathe and eat? Do you ever fuck and sleep? But he was as cold as a stone. I closed my eyes. I saw colored patterns dancing on a black canvass. I saw the whole world, thousands of men and women, dancing, singing and making love to each other. I felt deceived. I opened my eyes. The patterns collided with each other and vanished into a thin air of trouble and longing. Are you the one responsible for this dichotomy? The question remained. I shrugged and heard people reciting hanuman chalisa. I was the most ignorant fool sitting in the whole crowd. I closed my eyes again. I saw a big zero with millions of small zeroes in front and million others following it, running and chasing each other creating a mayhem. By the time the show was over. And I had got my answer. The prashad was finally distributed and we decided to call it a day. I returned to my room, dazed and confused, logged in to my facebook account and saw some unread messages waiting for a reply.

तस्वीर

कल यूँही पन्ने फरोलते हुए,
एक दीवान में रखी एल्बम के,
तस्वीर मिली एक अपनी पुरानी,
मटमैली, कोनों से छिदरी हुई,
एक अरसा पुरानी तस्वीर,
ज़बरदस्ती जो खिचवा दी थी तुमने,
कुल्लू की वादी में,
हट भी तो कर बैट्ठी थी तुम,
और मैं सब कुछ हार जाता था
तुम्हारे आगे,
उसी चाये वाले की दुकान के आगे,
जहां हर सुबह सैर के बाद
चाये पीया करते थे हम,
दिसम्बर की धुंध में हाथ
में चाये पकड़े मेरे हँसते
हुए के पोज़ में,
तस्वीर देख हैराँ हुआ,
शायद बरसों बाद जो देख रहा था,
खुद को हँसते हुए एक तस्वीर में,
तुम गयी और हँसना जैसे
भूल ही गया मैं,
या कहलो वक़्त ही नहीं मिला
कभी हंसने का,
बस चलता ही रहा अपनी जद्दोजेहद में,
आज तस्वीर में खुद को हँसते देखा,
तो एक तमन्ना जागी है इस मन में,
फिर से इक बार हँसना चाहता हूँ खुल के,
जानता हूँ बहुत कुछ बदल चुका है,
और ऐसा मौका मिल पाना भी मुश्किल है,
फिर सोचता हूँ,
की काश कहीं से आकर फिर से तुम
हट कर बैठो,
और ज़बरदस्ती ऐसी ही एक तस्वीर खिचवा दो...

questions???

Recently some questions have begun to molest me sometimes. I ponder for hours together but then find myself in a serious dilemma. They not only question me as a person but they question my moral integrity, they question my responsibility as a human. I don’t know why but I find myself speechless whenever they knock on my door. I fail to answer them fluently, confidently. I fail to answer them from my heart. I always get entangled in the war of right or wrong. When I look around I don’t find the answer difficult but when I apply the same to myself the situation becomes tense and incomprehensible.

Given a situation if I happen to be at a position where I have a free access to money making business which in moral sense is seriously unethical and illegal, would I still resort to bank up all the money I can within a given time span of my tenure as a responsible officer?

Given a situation if I happen to get a chance when I can avenge
A person who hurt me a lot and vanish his existence from the world would I resort to stab him in the chest and go scot-free?

Given a situation if I happen to succeed myself to a higher level in terms of status and luxuries by deceiving the only friend I have, would I still resort to stake my conscience to satisfy my mortal existence?

Would I or would I not?
Should I or should I not?

I fail to answer.
I fail to comprehend.
But I find myself stained…

FACE INSIDE THE VEIL...

A veil
of apparent ignorance,
A veil
of mocking innocence,
And a long history
of violence,
Written in bold
on my very face.
Am I the doer?
Or
the sufferer?
I fail to answer every
now and then.
Am I the murderer?
Or
The murdered?
Is the question
I often ask myself.
It is I, who created the world,
It is I, who flattened the structure,
It is I, who is to be blamed
for the food of the vulture.
I know too much,
I know it all
The source, the medium
And the victim
but still I bemoan the mass
that gathers for the dictum.
What fills me inside is about
to overflow,
What withers my conscience is about
to outlaw.
Its all dark everywhere
with no day or night,
And would I be redeemed?
Or
Simply crucified?
Nothing seems to decide
my plight.
I raped and killed and robbed
And got the same in return.
Should I call myself a man?
Or
A dog in disguise?
It needs to be answered
before the tables eventually turn…

THE HOURS

In 1923 Virginia Woolf writes a philosophical masterpiece of her life ‘Mrs. Dalloway’ while going through a psychological turmoil of understanding the whole purpose and end of her life. 30 years down the line, another woman named Laura Brown married to a World War II veteran, raising a small boy, reads the same while being pregnant and finds herself in the same mental conflict. 50 years from then another woman Clarissa Vaughn, a present day version of Mrs. Dalloway so named by her one time lover and now AIDS stricken writer Richard living in New York, plans one of her renowned parties for him after he receives a prestigious poetry award.

There is a common link that joins the lives of these three modern, educated women who are going through the most difficult times of their lives. Virginia Woolf is a renowned writer, married to a caring husband and also psychologically compromised according to the physicians. May be her sexual preferences are different or may be it is just the emotional outburst which gets manifested when she kisses her sister. But one thing is sure that she is not satisfied. Her failure to convey or change the things through her writings may be the reason she decides to find a better refuge by ending her very life. Rather a better way of conveying the message she always wanted to. On the other hand the second woman having a lovely family too craves for the missing link that would complete Mrs. Dalloway’s life. She not only decides to commit suicide but also prepares hard by leaving her son crying for his mother. But she finds herself too weak for that and decides to leave her family and start the things afresh. It is a suicide in a way too though not physical but internal. The third woman nursing her terminally ill lover, living with her lesbian partner dies every second whenever she craves for the things that she can’t have or can’t change. Though, in the third story it is the male who commits suicide by jumping from the window of his sick, gloomy apartment.

The movie is a masterpiece in itself. It is too hard to understand the spiritual quest of the three women in the movie. But the message is clear. We don’t need a reason to die though we need a reason to live. The movie is a justification that one has the right to end his or her own life whatever may be the reason or whatever may be not. It is too difficult to accept that death may not be the end of one’s life but the state which is beyond the realm of understanding of mortal beings. It would be called escapism or cowardness by the people who form a society but the same society also creates the situation which forces someone to end his or her life. Whatever it is, it really was an enlightening experience watching the life unfolds and taking a new way of living – death.

this is the end...

the words stare at me
motionless;
the thoughts wait for freedom
helpless.

white pages lie ruffled on
the road;
dead corpses get crampled
and cold.

the sense is burning
in the fire of more;
the race has long started
with a purpose to explore .

the vision is scarred
the inspiration too marred;
yet a desire to conquer
survives the war.

we don't know our enemies
nor the reason to be so sore;
we don't see the light
that shines through the door.

the throats don't creak
as the swords touch the bone;
the blood doesn't gush
when the ego gets a stone.

the clock stands still
with hour hand at thirteen;
the ink has dried up and
the words have lost their sheen.

the mud is dark
and the light too dim;
the trench is deep
and the hope so thin.

morrison says that this is the end
but the story ended long ago;
the sun always shines for us
but the truth remains
that we died long before...

web of memories

I close my eyes. I saw her standing near the gate waiting for me with utmost desperation. Her eyes are full of hope. Her lips are silently moving in prayer for my well being. I try hard to wake up since it cannot be a reality anymore. The more I try the more it’s difficult. Suddenly I see myself in the scene. I am dressed as a school boy. Lost in my world of fantasies being totally innocent about her affection. She embraces me in her arms. Her face lightens up and lips utter words of adoration. The rest is nothing but a sweet lullaby. Everything seems to be like a lost world. I wake up from my sleep and get occupied within no time. No time to think no time to cherish the dream. A mad race in a mad struggle. It’s hard to imagine how it happened so fast. I cannot even think about the precise moment when the innocence gave way to materialism and vanished from my life like it was never there to begin with. I have no idea when I took a turn and got on a different road. Not even the slightest hint at all. But the realty is, it happened. I remember, as a child, I used to stare at the clock for hours together just to catch the moment when minute hand of the clock changed its direction. But I could never seize that moment. The world changes in a blink. Thousands of moments get lost in a blink and you keep staring at the dichotomy of time.

I close my eyes again. I see my friends. I see my brothers and sisters. I smile how they used to be so stupid and illogical as a child. Those little pranks lie buried in the garden somewhere. I remember when I departed from my friends after 10th class. We promised to write letters to each other every week. It seemed to be so easy at that time. I still remember the promise but have no time to make it true. Moreover who the hell write letters in 2008? Everybody has a crush in his school life on a teacher. I too had. I used to like my biology teacher a lot. These little and innocent memories lie hidden in some part of my head. Sometimes they seem to be like a web. Already its impossible to live and they make the life even more difficult.

But I do want to live the life of my memories once again. I want to stare at the clock with the same innocence once again to catch hold of the moment lost in the blink. I want to dig those pranks from the garden in the backyard. I want to say goodbye to my friends once again with a promise to write letters every week. I want to wear my school uniform and get received with same hope and affection. I want to yell I want to cry as a child. I want my innocence back. But I know I can’t go back. I also know that it’s not possible because the woman in the dream is no more…

'IDIOTS'

Sometimes honesty gives you big surprises. I saw a wonderful movie today. An honest movie by an honest team of filmmakers and actors called ‘idiots’. The movie, I would say, is not only an eye opener but an insight into the inside of the people which is full of filth and hypocrisy. This is the first film made under the label of Dogma, a Scandinavian film group inspired by the Danish director ‘Lars von Trier’, which insists that their new manifesto on how to make films, be adhered to by those who make films under their label.

This dogma consists of improvised acting and hand-held camera work, among other dogmas the film must adhere to. There are several rules which have to be followed for making ‘dogma’ film. The film is made by a hand held camera using natural light and sound effects. The use of artificial light and sound amplifications is strictly prohibited throughout the film. All this gives the film a realistic look. In short these films promise to stay away from all the clichés of commercial Hollywood cinema. And in a way the films made under this category are anti-film films.

‘Idiots’ has a bunch of middle-class cult groupies living together in a rich private house that one of their relatives gave them, as the group members seem to be either in their late teens or their 20s, whose repulsive purpose is to freak out in public and display a show of insanity and sometimes do it when together in the privacy of their house. The purpose is to bring out the inner idiot out of them. To spasse, is a Danish term, which refers to those who act like idiots even though they are not. These episodes of spassing give this film an odd look that is guaranteed to turn off a lot people and anger many, especially those who expect more conventional ways of looking at the problems young people face in society.

This blog should not be considered a film review or something like that because I am definitely in not that mood. Rather the article is a confession and declaration that I am nothing but a fucking hypocritic poser and a pseudo intellectual kind of a personality. The movie distinguishes between two kinds of people; those who pose to be different or insane or idiots but can’t do so in real crisis and life time situations and those who really are insane or different but don’t pose for the sake of proving it. And I am certainly the former one. Since I have realized what sort of a person I am, I want to apologize to all those who have been generous enough in reading my articles and give me a moral boost through their honest comments, for being fake in trying to establish my insanity when in reality I don’t have the courage to bring it out as and when the need arises. I have written a lot about insanity and at one point of time I started believing myself to be the master of this concept. But after watching the movie I feel that I am merely a beginner to this concept. There are several aspects which have to be dealt with thoroughly and viewed from a different perspective. To feel like insane and being one are two different issues which need to be considered. And the latter is more difficult. Insanity, in my view, is a weapon which has the potential to change the things and revolutionize the fucking strangulating systems; be it our fucking strangulating family systems or the ever existing demeaning political systems. To write about insanity and hope for a change would not necessarily solve the issue. It needs a hell lot of courage to be insane and fuck the society or the systems at the point where it hurts a lot. Insanity needs to be brought in everyday practice of being a human being and being among those who want to bring about a change. Only then we can hope for a generation which is not only free in its thought process but also in converting it’s thought into a viable expression.

transitory existence

It’s hard to give meaning to the thoughts which come for a moment and leave an everlasting impression.
It’s hard to pen down the images which flash for a second but remain etched in the memory forever.
It’s hard to find words when everything seems so blank.
And it’s really not easy to do justice with the words when their meaning won’t ever find a refuge.
I know that everything is transitory.
Realizing this makes it even more difficult.
It seems worthless to try when I see my transitory existence surrounded by the vultures all around.
They won’t leave me no matter how hard I try.
They won’t ever let the things change for once and for all.
But how can I be deceitful to the immortal soul?
How can I pretend knowing that I am a human being?
My thoughts define my existence.
My words stare at me for expression.
They don’t really know about my being helpless and all alone.
I try hard to hide.
But it’s really getting too complicated.
The pigs are growing day by day.
And the dogs have all always been too faithful to their masters.
And then there is always a flock of sheep to suffer and whimper.
There is no place for me in this farm.
I am merely a spectator at my own funeral.

मेरी आज़ादी का अनुभव

मैं पिंजरे की बंद चिडिया हूँ
आजाद होना चाहती हूँ
उड़ना चाहती हूँ
एक दिन पिंजरे का मालिक पिंजरा
खोल देता है
अब आजाद हूँ
उड़ना सीख रही हूँ
पंख फैला रही हूँ
पर अब बहुत हुआ
मैंने अपने पंख काट दिए
वापस पिंजरे में बंद हूँ
सपने बहुत जी चुकी
आज़ादी बहुत जी चुकी
अब आराम करना चाहती हूँ
अब भी खुश हूँ
क्या बुरा है पिंजरे की ज़िंदगी में?

my wall...

my wall...

the words glare at me every moment

the thoughts provoke me now and then

they want me to fight

the time has come

its time to win

its time to kill...

the end by doors (apocalypse now)

This is the end

Beautiful friend

This is the end

My only friend, the end

Of our elaborate plans, the end

of everything that stands, the end

No safety or surprise, the end

I'll never look into your eyes...again

Can you picture what will be

So limitless and free

Desperately in need...of some...stranger's hand

In a...desperate land

Lost in a Roman...wilderness of pain

And all the children are insane

All the children are insane

Waiting for the summer rain, yeah

There's danger on the edge of town

Ride the King's highway, baby

Weird scenes inside the gold mine

Ride the highway west, baby

Ride the snake, ride the snake

To the lake, the ancient lake, baby

The snake is long, seven miles

Ride the snake...he's old, and his skin is cold

The west is the best

The west is the best

Get here, and we'll do the rest

The blue bus is callin' us

The blue bus is callin' us

Driver, where you taken' us

The killer awoke before dawn, he put his boots on

He took a face from the ancient gallery

And he walked on down the hall

He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he

Paid a visit to his brother, and then he

He walked on down the hall, and

And he came to a door...and he looked inside

Father, yes son, I want to kill you

Mother...I want to...fuck you

C'mon baby, take a chance with us

C'mon baby, take a chance with us

C'mon baby, take a chance with us

And meet me at the back of the blue bus

Doin' a blue rock

On a blue bus

Doin' a blue rock

C'mon, yeah

Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill

This is the end

Beautiful friend

This is the end

My only friend, the end

It hurts to set you free

But you'll never follow me

The end of laughter and soft lies

The end of nights we tried to die

This is the end