To Leave The Lamp Burning

The hardest part was waiting. That’s what the old man always said. He would come every evening to the tavern, smelling of dung and mud, his clothes caked with dirt and have a couple of beers and then he’d say: It’s the hardest bit. The fighting’s not that bad. It’s the waiting. You stand there in your leather vests and your ill-fitting caps, your hands clammy and sweaty inside the leather gloves they give you and you tighten and loosen your grip on the spear constantly and laugh loudly at the worst jokes because it’s the closest thing to screaming.  And then you see the enemy across the field and you tighten your hold on your weapon again and your body stiffens. And they get closer and closer and you can see their faces now through the cloud of dust they stir and you become stiffer and heavier and the sun becomes unbearable and yet you shiver as your body grows cold. And then they blow the bugle and you lower your spear and the enemy charge. You block and you thrust and you parry and dodge and cut and stab your way through, all the while growing emptier and lighter, no longer aware of the burning sun or your clammy hands or the sweat running down your brow. And it is all madness there, you are empty and lost and it is like a madness, a disease.
We listened to him because the man was old and he had been in both wars. Then he’d have some more beers and lift up his shirt to show us the scars. He’d say: These two on the shoulder here I got at Faruin, almost lost my arm. We hid in the rocks and fell upon the bastards as the Kilayans hurled rocks and arrows and taunted them from the walls. We cut them to pieces, every single one of them, and when the Kilayans shut themselves up in the city and refused to let us in we stormed the city and killed all of them too.

And he’d get very red and unsteady and loud, spilling his drink and banging on the bar-top. We’d take him back home. On the way, he’d pull free at the park and stumble on the bench. He’d say: Fuck you whoresons. You don’t know how it is. You stand there and you wait and they come rushing at you and you cut them up for the vultures. You run around the streets setting every roof on fire, heavy sacks slung across your shoulder and you stain the cobblestone red and leave the stink lingering. And you return to your farm and you till the land and sow the seeds and your arm aches in the cold and you pray for the rain and have your hands in the dung all day. You line all the men on the street and chop their head off and you round up all the women and children in chains and then you have your hands in the fucking dung. And they look at you and they say he been in the wars. Fuck yes he been. He been in the wars and he seen vultures tear at a man that he ran a sword through and kicked to the ground. And you march through the gates and they look at you and cheer and shower you with flowers and they sing in your praise and dance and you eat the finest meat and drink all night and then rut all night and then you come back and you have your hands in the motherfucking dung.

We’d pick him up and carry him back home. We’d put him in bed and cover him up with a sheet and leave quietly with the lamp still burning. He’d say: That’s how it is. You wait and you wait and you wait and then it’s all madness.

Resurrection

I guess even this guy can’t save this blog.

[Yes, it is crudely drawn on ruled paper, picture taken crudely on artist's lap. Artist is too lazy and refuses to bother with cropping. So there.]

Apples & Oranges

Apples
cartloads, oranges
cartons
Trucker
60 kmph
Crash, bang
onomatopoeia
Motherfucker
watch the road
Get outta the way
asshole
You’ll pay for these
Sure
jackass
Push and shove
Siren
Trucker
60kmph
on the way
Vendor
on his haunches
Shit
Apples
cartloads, oranges
cartons
on the road

Celebrating one year of sloth, procrastination and irregularity.

I still don’t know why I made a New Year’s post on December 29th.

Ironically, I have the same number of readers as last December. Zero.

Currently listening to: U2 – Miss Sarajevo

The Agenda Novel

In recent times, the agenda novel has emerged as one of the easiest routes to literary stardom. Simply defined, it is a novel that is written for the sole purpose of projecting an idea or philosophy, quite often at the cost of everything that constitutes literary merit. Writing fiction is an art-form and I believe it is an injustice to use it simply to shove the writer’s philosophy down readers’ throats. It makes the writer no better than a pimp.

That is my biggest problem with the works of people like George Orwell, Ayn Rand and William Golding. They sacrifice plot and characterisation for the sake of underlining their ideology in every page. Be it Fountainhead or 1984 or Lord of the Flies, all of them read like textbooks masquerading as fiction. 1984 is three hundred odd pages of bleak, anti-Soviet hyperbole. Fountainhead is worse due to it’s sheer size. The characters are like card-board cutouts. Rand doesn’t let her characters exist, like normal human beings. She uses them as vehicles for doctrines and sermons. Lord of the Flies mocks Coral Island for it’s unabashed racism but falls into the same trap itself. You do not require the assistance of face paint and strange dances for the dark side of humanity to come to the fore, as Golding would have you believe. In many ways those ’savages’ are/were more humane than the civilisation he champions.

I do not say it is wrong for fiction to have underlying meanings. Ernest Hemingway once said in reference to The Old Man and the Sea, ‘I tried to make a real old man, a real boy, a real sea and a real fish and real sharks. But if I made them good and true enough they would mean many things.’ Human existence and society is so complex that a simple, realistic representation of it will itself have many underlying meanings and it will not feel contrived or forced. Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird is an excellent example. It deals with serious issues like rape and racism but it does so in such a subtle, natural way that it does not feel preachy. The characters are multidimensional, real, breathing human beings; not ideas with arms, legs and a face. They inhabit an ever shifting matrix of grey, not two polar domains of black and white.

Meaningful writing stimulates the reader’s mind and encourages it to think. It doesn’t saturate the reader’s mind with the writer’s viewpoint or belief. That is literary despotism.

Why do these agenda books sell so much? Why do they become classics? It is because they give people a false sense of intelligence, of having had an original thought; when all they do is drill into their minds manufactured thoughts and ideas. No one dares to trash because criticism of such books is not seen as that but as criticism of the ideology at their core. One who criticises a book ‘depicting the poverty and oppression of the lower classes’ can be nothing but a cruel capitalist afterall.

I do not mean that writing should be a documentation of facts. It is necessary to make use of one’s imagination, invent characters and situations. There is, however, a threshold to preaching. One that many writers cross because they are too enamoured by their own cleverness and in love with the sound of their own voice.

No Fucking Clue

Sandee bucked up as the sloshing of rain puddles hit her ears. ‘A ray
o’ hope’ she mumbled to herself while she straightened her tank top
and stuck her chest out. It was a phrase she’d picked up from a book,
she thought it sounded rather fancy. As the sloshing neared the
silhouette of a small bear emerged in front of her. It padded slowly
towards her, huffing and puffing as if it were having an astham
attack. Under the light the bear transformed into a short,
disproportionately corpulent man in a battered coat. He was wheezing
from the strain that walking caused him. He wore a moustache that
spilled over to his upper lip, reminiscent of a walrus. His voluminous
torso bobbed like a buoy in water as he took step after heavy step.
Sandee gaped at the man bemusedly. More like a million rays o’ hope
an’ ugly ones at that, she thought. However duty beckoned and she was
one for thorough professionalism. She sidled upto the man, wearing her
version of a seductive expression. ‘Wanna have a good time buddy?’

The man turned, his body went rigid and his eyes bulged with outrage.
‘Stay away!’ he screamed. ‘Stay away you filthy whore! Keep your
diseased body away from me!’ The girl looked at him with astonishment,
she had met her share of unwilling men but none so offended as this
one. ‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ, take it easy ya bloody bear.’ she drawled
as she went back to her spot, wiping the man’s spit from her face.

The man almost ran to the other side of the road as if mere physical
proximity with the girl meant death. He walked the rest of the way
home, a distance of thirty metres from the whore, warily, frequently
glancing backwards to see if the whore was following him. He stopped
in front of a decrepit apartment building, scheduled for demolition
two decades ago but still standing as a silent testimony to greed and
ineptitude. The door was old and battered with garish green paint
peeling off it. Inside, the lobby, a space the size of a public
restroom, was lit by a tiny bulb. He climbed up the stairs and stopped
in front of a door just as old as the front door and even more
battered. The nameplate on it read ‘Ignoramus J. Really’. He opened
the door and stepped in, greeted by a smell of onions and steak and
steady snoring of. He banged the door shut and made his way to his
room. ‘Ignoramus’, his mother said drowsily from her bed, ‘is that
you?’ ‘Yes mother, go back to sleep’, he replied with the impatience
of a busy man. He plopped down on his creaking bed and dreamt of a
beautiful white horse with a flowing mane.

Sandee sat on the pavement, a cheap cigarette in her mouth, hungry,
cold and bored. She thought of the young man with the pink nose and
the huge ears who had come to her a week ago. Best sex she’d ever had.
And that was saying something for one in her line of business. I wish
that one would come again, she thought and giggled at her own
inadvertent innuendo.

He groaned in pain as the sunrays hit him through the open window.
‘Mother!’ he yelled anguishedly, ‘how many times have I told you nto
to open the windows! Close it this instant!’

‘Don’t order me around like yer the boss of me, pal.’ she replied from the living room, her voice already unsteady.’

‘Rot in hell you bitch!’

‘Don’t curse me, boy. The J in yer name don’t stand fer Jesus.’

‘You uncouth hag!’ he roared in anger and helplessness. He staggered
to the basin in his pajamas, a tear at the rear providing an ample
view of his enormous derrier and gazed at the mirror. A week’s growth
of hair adorned his cheeks and chin. I look gaunt and unhealthy, he
thought. He picked up his razor and got to work.

Fifteen minutes later he was gazing at a healthier version of his own
self in the mirror. He wiped his face on a towel and studied it
closely. His eyes widened with horror as he noticed a dull, tiny spot
of red on it. He threw the towel and hurriedly examined his face.
There it was. Right under his left cheek. A cut so small it was
invisible. But to him it magnified in size until it become the size of
a tennis ball. He let out a long, panic stricken shriek of despair
that’d have put any tenor to shame and ran to the door, pausing only
to don the battered coat. His mother gazed bemusedly as he shot out of
the door like a bullet and then shrugged and poured herself another
stiff one.

Manny skimmed through the local newspaper uninterestedly. No rapes,
no murders, no gory robberies. Damn, was last night dull. The phone
rang and he picked it up. “Hello, Dr. Rivers’ clinic’ he said dully.

‘No, the doctor’s not in.’

‘I don’t know, he comes and goes as he pleases.’

‘I don’t know if he’ll be here at five. I don’t know!’

‘Woman, how many times do I have to say this? I don’t know!’

‘I’m a bad sort of employee. I don’t even get paid for this, I have
no fucking clue why I sit here everyday.’

He banged the phone down and resumed his perusal of the newspaper. It
was at this moment that the door burst open and a wailing tornado
dressed in a pajama and a coat shot in. ‘Take my blood!’ it screamed,
thrusting out a hairy, pudgy hand. ‘Take my blood!’

Manny almost fell off his stool in surprise. He gaped at the thing in
front of him and as if the urgency in it’s  voice were contagious, he
ran and sunk his teeth into it’s hand. Manny did not function well in
emergencies. Blood splattered all over his face, adorning his pink
nose, his brown eyes and his giant ears. The thing roared in pain and
sunk it’s teeth into Manny’s neck. The last thing Manny remembered
before passing out was the goodtime he had with the whore the previous
week.

The whore was generous. She not only gave him her body but the
retrovirus inside it. Manny, of course, had no fucking clue. He never
did.

Rofl

Bharat = Karan O.o

Have you noticed how the random people who call you up from banks offering loans and savings schemes are always overwhelmingly bereft of basic intellectual faculties? If there is some cunning ploy behind this, I fail to see it. Not only are these callers profoundly dumb, they are also extremely rude. I got a call from one such specimen an hour ago. The conversation went as follows

Me: hello?

She: Hello. Sir, I am calling from ICICI bank. May I know your name, sir?

Me: Bharat.

She: What?

Me: Bharat.

She: Oh, Karan?

Me: No… BHA-RAT…

She: Okay sir, whatever.

I was so surprised by that that I didn’t know what to say for a moment. She, however, trudged on.

She: Are you interested in a housing loan?

My chance to tick her off was gone. The conversation had moved on.

Me: Um, no..

She: No? NO?

For some strange reason, she was astounded by my lack of interest in a housing loan. I guess in her world view a housing loan is the most important requirement of any sane human being. To refuse a housing loan must be akin to refusing food and water to her.

Me: Yeah, no.

She: Okay, how about a pension plan?

I felt like I was in a store buying clothes. ‘Don’t like the blue jeans? Why don’t you try the obnoxious, horribly out of fashion, flaming red bell bottoms? Look, it even has frills!’

Me: Again, no.

She: NO? *in her mind* Gawd dang it, neither loan, nor pension plan. What is this guy, a lunatic?

Me: You bet, sista.

She: How old are you?

Me: 17

She *without realising the sheer stupidity of offering pension plans to a 17 year old*: Are you sure? Are you in school? 12th?

Me: Yes. Yes. Yes. Now how is that relevant?

She: Can I have your father mother phone number?

Me *wondering what the hell a ‘father mother phone number’ is*: Oh go to hell…

How can they expect people to do business with them when they A) have trouble understanding simple, two syllable names on a clear line; and B) also lack basic courtesy. Instead of apologising or making an effort to get my name by asking me to spell it out or something, she says ‘Okay sir, whatever.’ Whatever. We are oh so touched by the care and attention you’re showering upon us. No really. How will I trust you to handle my money when you can’t pronounce my goddam name?

Secondly, she failed to grasp the simple irony of offering pension plans to a minor. She has taken the whole planning for your future thing far too seriously it appears.

Then there was the guy from the Credit Card department of the same bank who called me up one fine evening some weeks ago.

He: Good evening Mr. Kamal Mehta. I am from ICICI ba-

Me: Yeah yeah, shove it. I’m not interested.

He *in a haughty, reproachful, ha-gotcha-now-biatch voice*: What not interested? The payments on your credit card are due.

Me *genuinely surprised*: My credit card!?

He *same voice, just haughtier and more triumphant*: YES. Your credit card.

Me: I am 17 years old. I don’t even have a bank account you pillock.

He *suddenly not so sure of himself as shit deflates inside*: What? You’re 17?

Me *mimicking him*: YES. I’m 17. And my name is not Kamal Mehta, it’s Babubhai Bhanji.

And I hung up.

They’re thrusting pension plans and card payments on impoverished minors. Screw you, banks.

PS: Mr. Mehta,if you’re reading this by any chance, I hope you exhausted the credit limit on your baby. They apparently don’t have your contact information.

Currently Listening To: Kula Shaker – Grateful When You’re Dead (Jerry Was Here)

A Sort Of Homecoming

‘Out!’

‘Not out!’

‘You’re out!’

‘No, I’m not!’

And it went on for the next fifteen minutes, Darkness had descended and both teams saw preferentially. The bowler saw the ball hit the concrete slab which they used as a wicket. The batsman saw the ball go past him for a wide. His teammates were equally convinced that the bowler’s foot was out of the crease.

‘I’m going home. It’s getting late.’ the bastman announced. He picked up his bat and ball and trudged off home. The others began drifitng homewards in groups of two or three. Vinay sat on the wicket with his face cupped in his palms. Darkness awakened a quesy sense of dread inside him. He couldn’t stay in the park. No, there were too many mosquitoes and Harsh had heard from the watchman that foxes came out from the woods at night. No, he had to go home. With a sigh he got up and set off from the park.

He took the longest route he knew with street lights. He cut across the lawn to a clump of bushes and high ornamental plants. He crouched low among the plants, brandishing a gnarled, termite ridden branch in his hand. He was a hunter. He was stalking the Savannah lion. He creeped among the bushes, signalling quietly to imaginary companions. He was no ordinary hunter. He was the huntmaster. He was the best of all the tribes. But huntmasters were old. He didn’t want to be old. No. He was a lone hunter trying to make his mark. Yes, that was it. He imagined a movement in the bush and hurled his spear which splintered promptly upon impact. He lapsed into a self invented ‘tribal dance’ to celebrate the kill. He heard something move for real and ran as fast as he could to the road where the lights blazed and everything was visible.

He stood in front of the building, reluctant to go in. He was hungry and tired and itchy from playing in the grass. He crossed the courtyard to the corridor and peeked in. The door was open and he could see the shoe rack across the room. He could see his school shoes, now coated with dust; his white canvas shoes which were slowly turing a pale brown shade due to youthful carelessness on the playground; big black seude shoes but no sandals. He was home. She wasn’t. He sighed and walked back to the courtyard. He sat on the neighbour’s scooter and idly plucked a leaf from the tree beside him. He tore it slowly with relish. It was Mukund, he had kicked him at school.

Mosquitoes were swarming over his head now and they darted again and again to strike him and then flew back away from his reach. They’re Mongols, he thought. He’d read about Mongols in a book in the library.

A man cycled past him at a furious pace, lost his balance and fell. He got up swiftly, hot with embarassment and kicked  the ground and his cycle angrily. ‘Fucking slippery road’.

‘Khashayarasha!’ he exclaimed. He had read about Xerxes in the same book.

He was very hungry now. He got off the scooter and walked toards the door, each step taken with utmost reluctance. On the stairs he was Perseus and he slew the Gorgon Medusa. The stick broke when he hit the column.

With a final, heavy sigh he walked to the door. He was Theseus in the dungeon. He walked in to be greeted by that familiar strong, fruity and pungent smell and curses slurred in inebriation.

A Long Overdue Tag

Tagged by Vasudha. Here goes.

1. What have you realised recently?
No man can be an island. Not for very long, anyway.

2. Have you given your first kiss away?
Erm, no. Why must tags have these sort of questions? They belong to overdecorated slam books. :/

3. If you were to be stranded on a deserted island, who are the 11 blog buddies you would take?
I’d rather be alone, really. But yeah, if I -have- to take someone with me then there are 3-4 people I won’t mind having with me. But thassit.

4. Where is the place that you want to go the most?
Half a kilometre ahead on the main road near my house. Farms.

5. If you can have 1 dream to come true, what would it be?
Let’s not go there. Too weird for words.

6. Do you believe in seeing a rainbow after the rain?
Yes, and pots of gold, and dancing Irish leprechauns in big buckled shoes and green pointy hats.

7. What are you afraid to lose the most now?
My belt. All my pants are loose.

8. If you win $1 million, what would you do?
As I’ve previously mentioned, I’d hire ninjas.

9. If you meet someone that you love, would you confess to him/her?
Not until things reach saturation point and I can hold it back no more.

10.List out 3 good points of the person who tagged you.
Intelligent, creative and can do the hula hoop.

11. What are the requirements that you wish from your other half?
I don’t really have a checklist of requirements. I can’t be that objective about love. It’s spontaneous for me. :/

12. Which type of person do you hate the most?
I don’t think I hate anyone. I’m largely indifferent to people.

13. What is the one thing you cannot live without?
Music.

14. If you have faults, would you rather the people around you point out to you or would you rather they keep quiet?
I’d rather they told me.

15. What do you think is the most important thing in your life?
I have no clue.*shrugs*

16. Are you a shopaholic or not?
Not really, no.

17. Find a word to describe the person who tagged you.
Veird.

18. If you have a chance. Which part of your character you would like to change?
I wish I were tad bit taller. Or maybe more even tempered. I have a tendency to get very angry very fast and then say things I greatly regret later on.

19. Whats the last shocking thing you’ve seen or heard?
The baby from Eraserhead. Hell, the entire damn movie.

20. Would you rather have love but no money or money but no love?
The former. Minimalists don’t require much money.