Of Salvia

I happened to find a poem today

by a poet whose name arose,

like a flower pressed, red,
between the pages

of a book read

long ago.

(At the approach of winter,

we talked

nearing the end.)

As he spoke of the salvia,

My mind rushed for that stark red;

through clogged pipes and sewers

My hands expanded

turned and twisted

removing hair, semen,

faces, fear and desire.

There in the winding depths

it stood, aflame, bleeding,

a precise wound

cut open with love

and thus untreated.

Of Phoolgbhi ko Sabji

I cooked for the first time last night. Well, I can't take all the credit - actually not much of it - since Yams did most of the work. But I inspired her, and called mother for the recipe - and that is sufficient! Of course, I grated the tomatoes, the garlic and the ginger and occasionally gave the fluttering hag some words which she chewed upon - to no real consequence of course, but it did at times pacify her. And this is a big deal!

So, with grated tomatoes and all that, and large chunks of cauliflower we were ready to cook nepali food in a south indian household. On a large frying pan, we cooked for two people. Perhaps, it was because of the pan or my alienation from my nepali roots and eating habits, or perhaps the overwhelming south indianness of things, the phoolgobhi ko sabji took hours to cook! In the span of that hour, mails were received, sent, read and reread and lines, words and sentences exploded in the room - these explosions were far more luminous (and disturbing) than the ones flaring up in the skies to celebrate (again) india's victory... the same story that cannot be summarised because you have to watch the match for 8 - 10 hours and because magazines call it a holiday so that all the employees are kept happy - some sort of diabolical compensation!

several cups of water softened the hard cauliflower - (note: this is a metaphor). and we ate - rice, dal and phoolgobhi ko sabji with our hands, as Yams is of the opinion that it is a sensuous experience. And sensuously, we were full like bitches.

The rest of the night was spent in fluttering, between verbosity and silence, hope and despair - same thing! - holding life by the collar and displaying it on facebook - so that the night would pass.

and it did!

lovebirds

I remember the two,
While the two of us
On one tiny bed,
Squeaking with every small thrust,
Lay half asleep
From night’s sleeplessness.
They were looking to nest,
As the summer heat
Had found its way down
Into their loins,
And wanted to house
Their union.

Notes on Suffering. (December 2009)

The Escapee

If I had to answer the question, “What has been the main agenda of my life?” then I would simply say, “Escaping life”. Following which I would immediately be confronted with a why.  I know that ‘why’ is the most difficult and destabilizing of questions, the answers to which have never been truly satisfying till today (and perhaps never will be). Yet one goes on looking for answers to that fundamental ‘why’ of things, and gives answers with an implicit knowledge that those answers are unsatisfactory and will be replaced by another in the future.

Escaping life.

This agenda of my life is mainly because of that fundamental question. Escaping life is, in a way, a final answer, a putting down of the foot, a metaphorical dead-end to that ontological question. To escape would mean that one is no longer interested, that one is completely saturated and no longer cares for answers (at least within that given structure). By escaping one is not looking for or providing answers; one is simply tired and must get out or else will die of suffocation or worse, boredom. At the same time, when one escapes, one leaves a comment as a trail for those willing to follow. Those who understand the comment and decide to follow understand the plight of the escapee. They also understand the utter meaninglessness of the prison from which he escapes…