Desicritics Category: Culture: The Writing Life

Fiction: Black

Harish C — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 11:06:21 EDT

Shyama was his name. It literally meant black, and so was he.

Born of wealthy vaishya traders who have been entrenched in their business of precious silks and diamonds since the time of King Raghu, His dad Rakhtahasa was a boisterous man who, legend has it, rode along with King Dasharatha in many of his wars. The king, and certainly lady luck, had heaped fortunes upon him. Only one worry nagged at his soul, of his son Shyama.

Shyama was black and not the fiery and subtle shade of a cloud like their Prince who was in exile ( as told by the bards who always referred to him as dark as a cloud) but literally black as an asura. In a society that measured virtue a lot by the appearance of the person, that meant that he was generally an outcast. Alienated, even though a eleven year old.

Just because he was black.

On that day of Ashadha, he was at the stables, grooming Markasha, his dad's favorite stallion. The horse was his only companion and his adoloescent mind often wondered why black was so prized in a horse while he was shunned for the same. Ah, the quirks of grown-ups!

Shunned would be harsh as the people around him, the dasis, the stable hands and usual coterie of clerks and servants could hardly be disrespectful the young master. At least not in an obvious way. But on and off, an ill placed snigger and snatches of conversation reminded him of his color.

"by Indra! is it true Durasta missed him while he was on his way to light the lamps?"
"our master, shines like lord Surya in the month of Phalguna but look at his son..."
"looks...a..Asura"

They called him an Asura or a demon. That's what irked him the most. More than the fact that his dad never used to act least bit bothered even though he was sure to be tuned to the sea of rumors. Not even during that ghastly episode during the Madira orgy where a rival trader openly questioned his mother's chastity. Rage had boiled inside Shyama but he was an unwelcome visitor feasting on savories from under the table. He was amazed at the self restraint shown by his father.

All because he was black.

He was tired of all this and he sought means to end it all. He had heard about the ill effects of Kartaraasa, the medicine for colic-ridden horses and which was kept in the apothecary's room.

A sudden roar like the ones never heard before interrupted his reverie. He was aware that it was coming from the main street of Ayodhya, which his house overlooked. He left his grooming tools in the stables and ran into the house. There was a generous amount of chaos inside the house and all along, a feverishbluster.

People were running to the front door or to any of the balconies over looking the streets as it seemed to be the cynosure of all activity.

"he's back"
"oh my lord, he has returned to be with us"
"...ruler of all.."
"Ravana is dead?"
"even Vanaras..."
"14 years...so long"

he could not make any sense of anything and he made his way to the main balcony. Surprisingly, it was crowded too, with an array of dasis waiting with thalis laden with flower petals and lamps. He tried in vain to push through the line blocking his view but settled for an audio commentary.

Soon, there was a hush among the crowd. More than a general sense of quiet, Shyama could feel the anticipation building in everyone around him and the air was heavy with it.

A loud collective cheer broke it like a thunder clap and shouts thronged the air.

"Jai ShriRam! Jai Jai ShriRam"

The dasis were showering flowers on the street and there were cries from the older ones in the balcony.

"It has been 14 years, oh god, I thought he would never come back", cried old Duvarya. One of the younger ones interjected,"but, he...he is so...I mean...------"

Shyama, who did not hear the uttered word, wondered what she could find incongruous in the prince.

"be careful about what you speak of, you young imbecile. he is the lord, reincarnate of the Lord Vishnu, heir to the Suryavamsha and true King of Ayodhya. You dare say that about him? So is our young master, isn't he?"

It was evident that they hadn't seen him yet. Else they would not be speaking about him. Still, he wondered what he had in common with the prince that drew that interjection from the dasis.

Curiosity welled up inside him as he resolutely pushed away at the line and finally got a glimpse of the road.

There were throngs of ministers, soldiers, generals, vassals, courtiers and noble men along with the Regent-King Bharata standing in front of the small party of three. The crowd all around them was chanting Rama's name and as in his balcony, all around the street, flower petals were being showered upon him. All the houses were lit up with millions of oil lamps and the whole seen shimmered like an unreal vision of Swarga.

All for Rama, the prince who came back.

Rama, who was as black as him.

He never thought about the Apothecary's room ever.

Poessay: Rosary 10 - Creating In Isolation

temporal — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 03:59:02 EDT

Is utter isolation the flip side of the intense focus necessary for creating? Some become reclusive and others maintain a public profile - guess to each his or her own. How far removed is the sculptor from the sculpture?

Know what I would be doing when this hibernation is over. Big time pruning. Will whip this into an essay. No, no I protest to myself. Will make this into an essay and a stream of consciousness piece. No, have a better idea. After I have pruned the essay will separately add these thoughts in the middle of the essay and see what emerges. But it still needs a summation, an effective round up and closing if it were an essay, I tell myself.

In the mind seas thoughts ferment, brew, overwhelm and dissipate with the ceaseless intensity of the waves hitting the shore. Some return to make their mark, others whither or whirl to strike at distant shores.

Thoughts strike alike the living and the petrified. Innocent or enigmatic contemplation provides the wind in sails, passion in emotions. The magic potion between irresistible dreams and impossible logic: cerebration. And meditation? One a wind and the other cloud? The petrified remain untouched, unharmed and unaffected.

Nothing comes between the neurons of an agile mind and the keyboard, the brush and the canvas, the chisel and the rock, when the creator is obsessed and driven. The result endeavors to capture, share and reflect the clarity of that moment of revelation.

The existential angst mixes with atomic intensity and bombards the restless mind. In desolate and hostile terrain of Living, it creates images that unblur Truth, Beauty, Appreciation, Stillness and Life. Life keeps returning. No death can keep it at bay. Disaster, calamities, dictators and ultra-orthodox firebrands do not know this.Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I
Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II

Poessay: A New Cult?

temporal — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 00:40:13 EDT

...being wired as we are...allegedly...as human beings...we profess to follow or not follow the faith we were born into as we grow up...the degree of adherence and questioning varies...and this is lifelong endeavor...the only individuals who consciously suppress this questioning and follow blindly are the born-again die-hards and they are universally despised and condemned...

...when it comes to religion (or faith's absence) in the end only this matters:do you feel good and do you spread goodness...if your faith or whatever dictum you profess to follow in life does not enhance your life and the life of those around you then it is suspect...

...this simple temporal test is applicable to all of us...those who are born into a faith or belief system and those who later in life reject, modify, or acquire another faith or value system...you must feel good and spread goodness (happiness) around...during this temporal sojourn...

when i confessed i am human
who is not she countered
[....fast forward]
why not try to curb your faults?
wondered what good was my confession
but knowing where it came from
said i, appreciate and thanks

did i change my ways afterwards
no, but it is nice to know she cared

* * *

when will this journey end?
you don't want to know dear
why?
because
life is one big journey
and when this journey ends
we stand to lie still

Poessay: Rosary 10 - Life Rosary II

temporal — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 06:07:56 EDT

cars
four wheels
vagrant

obsession
uni-directional
fretting

speech
rosary words
animating

beads
in rosary
vapid

smile
lips
puckered

smile
those lips
exhilarating

speech
conjoined words
silence

khuda
kahaan na dhooNda
dil may paya

god
found
in self

Earlier:
Poessay: Rosary 1 - Pink Sand Beach
Poessay: Rosary 2 - Fishing
Poessay: Rosary 3 - Adam and Eve Limited - I
Poessay: Rosary 4 - Adam and Eve Limited - II
Poessay: Rosary 5 - Descending
Poessay: Rosary 6 - Dinner In The Park
Poessay: Rosary 7 - Under the Jamun Tree
Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air
Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I

Poessay: Rosary 9 - Life Rosary I

temporal — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 03:25:25 EDT

friendships
alien riverbanks
doomed

desis
keyboard warriors
victimless

fusion
melting identity
fission

tears
soul diamonds
precious

delirium
defying reason
turbid

dementia
colliding neurons
bedlam

lust
function of
dysfunction

muhabbat
nigah ka takrao
irtiaash

muhabbat
a’na ka takrao
dead-end

muhabbat
jhuki nazraiN
wisaal

nazar
nazrON ka tasado'om
bilmaqsad

nazar
nazaON ka tasado'om
bilamaqsad

Poetry: hampered

temporal — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 12:51:08 EDT

Mr. P L Desi*

born free
family
city
school
college
university
friends
society
singly and collectively
pile and hamper
tint and prejudice

Mango Man*

born free
large family
hunger
no school
work
scrounge
scavenge
acquires
street smarts
succumbs
to prejudices
also without
realizing

You and I

also born free
once....

____

* P. L - Pyare Lal, PaRha Likha, Pervez Latif, Parmjit Ludhianvi
* Mango = Aam, Man = Aadmi

	Roget's II: The New Thesaurus
Main Entry:	hamper
Part of Speech:	verb
Definition:	To restrict the activity or free movement of.
Synonyms:	chain, fetter, hamstring, handcuff, hobble, leash, manacle, shackle, tie, trammel, basket, block, clog, confine, container, cramp, crate, curb, embarrass, encumber, fetter, foil, frustrate, halter, handcuff, handicap, hinder, hobble, impede, inhibit, load, manacle, obstruct, pannier, restrain, restrict, shackle, slow, stymie, trammel

Poessay: Rosary 8 - Voices In The Air

temporal — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 09:21:56 EDT

Do they hear voices? What if I write do they also hear voices? Shhh….speak softly. You know you do not hear voices out of ether. You hear and read looks, glances and thoughts. And interpolate, interpret and re-interpret. Have you forgotten who hears voices out of thin air? And what happens to them?

While in that room with monster speakers and dark-flashing strobes, heard the call. Not the grotesque rendering of fine verse and equally distorted rhythms but irresistible urges that lure you to the special peace of quiet, away from that oasis of cacophony. The headache caused by the palpitating strobes provided an excuse to leave.

The key in hand is an alien intruder in the lock. So I walk back to the front desk. 'You got the right key, Sir.' Hmmmmm. Maybe the building moved! The key works fine this time. Fetched a pen and some papers and walked back to the beach. Under a floodlight found a chair and started imprisoning fleeting thoughts.

An unbridled chasm between reality and logic bridged by words throbs.

Celestial lubrication.

But there is no PC, no laptop, just some photocopied papers where the reverse is write able. So started capturing them at random and am desperately trying to read and key in the words now.

Forget those words, focus on the thoughts. Capture the stray soldiers now, reflect upon the pincer movements later. Time enough to record the battles and wars.

What would they say?

Who cares was the first reaction. Depends on they too. Have never cared enough about them. So who cares holds.

Poessay: The Winter of Discontent

temporal — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 02:18:16 EDT

credit: katsetsuna

the winter of discontent

leaves break out…blades periscope...suddenly green waves...replace the morbid...white-grays of winter…buds splash colours…in timeless blur...lovers waltz and whirl...sparrows seemingly chuckle…leaves descend...to embrace the blades...birds flock to greener pastures...cottages are locked up...and sunbirds head for the keys...then a whiff…of piercing wind...heralds the steely winter...parkas come out…but for "xk"...the winter of discontent…continues, wonder why

the winter of discontent

leaves break out

blades periscope

suddenly green waves

replace the morbid

white-grays of winter

buds splash colours

in timeless blur

lovers waltz and whirl

sparrows seemingly chuckle

leaves descend

to embrace the blades

birds flock to greener pastures

cottages are locked up

and sunbirds head for the keys

then a whiff

of piercing wind

heralds the steely winter

parkas come outbut for "xk"

the winter of discontent

continues, wonder why

Fiction: I Am Jill's Last Wish

IdeaSmith — Sun, 10 Aug 2008 02:10:25 EDT

Julia labored up the dirt path, thinking, not for the first time, how long the years had been and how much had happened in them. Minute to minute, thunderstorm to typhoon, everything had kept changing. Of course, she admitted, the typhoon in those situations had almost always been her own will. There was so much to be lived in one life, after all! She had always enjoyed shaking people out of their complacency, out of their stereotyped ways of thinking. Sometimes people just needed another perspective. Or another person to show it to them.

These last few years she had not felt inclined to play rain-maker any more. Actually, Julia surmised, I suppose I never did like the discomfort it caused, these changes. But one does what one must. And the wheels had been rolling for ages now. How appropriate.

She sighed, a little out of breath. Almost near the top. The sight never failed to move her. An open sky spotted with pinpoint diamond-bright stars. And what was the colour of the sky? Orange? Brown? Black? Blue? An evening coloured sky with sepia undertones, she decided.

The grass was coming up from the ground in little clumps. She sat down with an undignified 'oof'. Anita would lecture her to doomsday about trampling on moths. What a thought! A moth would be there tomorrow and if not, another would be born. That was the way of life and the world would not end for the loss of one insignificant creature.

Anita was an environmental activist and may well be on her way to politics some day. Save the world, thought Julia, save it from Anita! She grinned to herself and added as an after-thought....they've done much to earn someone like her. Talk about a force of nature! Anita could run over a bulldozer. Good thing she had managed to channel that vitality into something that could only bode well. Julia was glad she had revised her original plans for Anita. There were enough of rats in the race, the capitalist world must not profit from yet another Anita. She was well placed caring for the real world.

There had been some trouble with Kenny initially. Julia frowned, thinking that his keen mind and sensitivity would have been well applied in creating something tangible. He would have been a wonderful architect. Or an urban planner perhaps. A perfect complement to his green-minded sister. And Anita needed a safety-valve like her gentle brother.

But Julia had realised that she could no more teach her shy son to turn gregarious any more than she could turn Anita into a dignified lady. Even Anita's fire could be tamed but it was hard to mould Kenny's uncomplaining persistence. Kenny was born to make music and teach it to children. Which he did well, gently coaxing out melody from restless, impatient young lungs.

It would have been nice to have him be the leader making sweeping changes to a difficult world. But well, there was always Anita for that. Anita, her brash, opinionated, hard-headed first-born. Quiet, unobtrusive Kenny was adding beauty to a world that his big sister was busy scouring with her acid speeches and protests. They could take care of themselves and the world. Julia was done with changing people's lives.

Feeling her breath relax back to normal, Julia sank back into the still-moist earth. A trickle of childhood memories seeped into her along with the delicious chill from the ground. Wandering off during games of hide-and-seek. It was fun to hide but she discovered shortly after how much more delightful it was to be the seeker. The trouble was people always wanted to tell you what and who to look for. And eventually they started dropping her from the games that her abrupt rambles would disrupt. Couldn't have the seeker going off after butterflies instead of her friends. It was annoying and it took a great deal of effort but she learnt to play their games.

Ah, well, time to indulge again, she thought with a faint smile on her lips. And she closed her eyes.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Jacques heaved out another box out of the tiny apartment. What a surprising load of stuff people kept in their houses! Potted plants - not the flowering variety but some sort of mini vegetables...what were they called? Sprouts? Herbs? All of them were being shipped off to that socialite-activist lady who was in the news recently. Something about aerosols and insects and the ozone layer. Whacko sort, he imagined, hoping to God that there was no bomb tucked away in any of the boxes. And then he smiled. Probably just a crazy old lady who collected strange plants the way some old ladies collected cats.

Plenty of books as well, he noted. He'd know, he had packed 8 cartons full of them! And these were going to an university down south. A will beneficiary, he supposed, probably a cherished and much-suffering nephew.

He stepped into the kitchen for a drink of water. Nice view, he thought, though it might seem lonely to someone living alone. Outside on the ledge, he noticed a slim notebook and cursed under his breath. Why did people leave their stuff in such unlikely places? A notebook on the window-ledge indeed! Like he was a bloody maid to pick up after them. Normally there was any amount of sentimental rubbish that people thought they just could not live without but left in all sorts of places. The odd thing was this crazy plant-lady had been fairly immaculate with her possessions.

He sighed and opened the book, wondering if he could just toss it into the trash. Who would notice one single missing notebook?

To go alone from a mountaintop on a twilight summer evening on an untended grassy patch...warm breeze turning just bearable, insects chirping and a distant stream flowing. Stars in a sky not black yet and the moon sliver-like. Incomplete. And then complete.

Suddenly he was interested. There was something about peeping into other people's lives and watching their silly idiosyncrasies. That was probably why he stuck to this crummy job. Packing people's stuff and lugging it around may not be the best job in the world but it did allow him to look into other people's lives without them realising it. He shook himself and read the next page.

Give me an evening
with the stars starting to shine
and an incomplete moon

Let me go with the vision of all that is perfect and complete
As well as the thought of all that still remains to be lived
Life and the universe will go on

I have done my share
May there always be water for every thirsty mouth
And a song for every melodious voice

No more lessons, no more games
No more fanfare, no more pomp

A celebration of one in a crowded world
Let that be my final bow.

Jacques shut the book gently. And then he did something he had never done before. He picked up the tiniest pot with a single baby basil plant in it and put the notebook into his pocket. As he walked out of the empty apartment, he tipped his hat to a lady he had never met.

Goodnight, Jill.

K2- Aloof, Alone, August

temporal — Fri, 8 Aug 2008 03:26:37 EDT

A view of K2 peak in the Himalayan Karakoram Range
in the north of Pakistan -AFP

Framed in the centre against an azure backdrop with snow capped peak magnificently majestic, mighty, aloof, alone, august, imposing, impressive, imperial, stunning, stately sublime, stood K2.

MaBi grew up in the Thar desert to the south. She was mesmerised by that picture of the K2 won by her grandfather in a mela.

She married, moved to a distant city, had children, got widowed, moved back, learned to survive, battling life - winning some, losing some. She began talking to K2.

pinnacle

you, nor i are virgins
you stand impervious
facing cosmos
you think you're potent
but in reality
you're insensitive
and inflexible
time has taught
am better
am flexible
i can move
and i can be moved
you are frozen
still and doomed
to live in pictures