Monday, February 20, 2017
Thursday, December 22, 2011
the invasion
the invasion
1
peacock
was preening his pretty plumes
when a rainbow sprouted
from behind the hills.
he stuttered in delight
and spread out his feathers;
a thousand rainbows bloomed.
he was dancing……………
suddenly-
they came;
chopped him into pieces
and threw his flesh
to a golden eagle.
2
vendor
beneath the banyan shade
was selling tender coconuts.
cool and soothing, the juice
of his lush green lands
went down thirsty throats.
sweat trickled down his
corrugated forehead:
he was smiling……….
suddenly-
they came;
bent his ebony back
and corked him inside
a pepsi bottle
3
youth
with its erudite looks
looking weird with
soft beard and glassy eyes.
neruda erupted from
tobacco tarred lips.
marx and marquez
shuttled across
cafe table tops:
they were dicussing……….
suddenly-
they came;
shaved off the young beards,
rubbed the face with old spice,
and filled their brains with
green-card dreams.
4
comrade
in his ram shackled rented room
was dusting dialects
with a red linen rag.
the bust of a baldie
with a short chin beard
stoop atop his shelf,
a streak of verdigris
had spread on that
prole-forehead
“the bust has lost its lusture”
he was thinking……….
suddenly-
they came;
mocked him,
tickled his armpits
with a sickle tip,
hammered the bust to pieces
burned the volumes of das capital
and renamed him
capital das.
5
the invasion had begun!
6
[the song of carla hills]
madame carla
tra la la
she’s out for trips
around the world.
see how she trims
the world.
“your history n’ mystery
its bullshit, its junk
your age n’ heritage
oh boy, its punk.”
madame carla
tra la la
she stops to drink
cocoa-cola
“you belong to us
your sons belong to us.
your sun n’ moon n’
skies n’ stars
they all belong to us.
even your thoughts belongs to us
your bread belongs to us
your breath belong to us
your life before
and after death
belong to us, to us.
even your dreams belong to us.
your words belong to us
your verse belong to us
this world, that world
next world, third world,
they all belong to us.
whole world belong to us.”
madame carla
tra la la
what she says
is law
“what you hear n’
what you see,
what you write n’
what you read,
what you think n’
what you feel,
are intellectual property
of uncle sam
the sole mighty.
pay royalty
to uncle sam
he’s almighty
he’s almighty”
with horror n’ chills
(sd)
carla hills
7
campus-
rock n roll n pop
are out,
break is in and
rap is here to stay.
girls are busy
burning their bra’s
boys are busy
eating pizzas.
“yehi hay right choice baby”
8
hostel walls are
infested with
offset-printed poster
rambo, with bulging biceps
and bloodshot eyes
aims his bazooka
straight at your face
madonna, with pouting lips
and colossal tits
winks at you wickedly.
up above still remains
the torn remains
of a red head band,
green green beret
and the bright brown eyes of
che!
9
streets are full of
sycophants
and yankee-fans
screaming screaming screaming
“kill the bolsheviks,
kiss the capitalists,
red is good if only it has
blue and white with it.
stars are good if only they have
stripes to go with them.”
10
a torn tricolour peeps
out its battered head
from the garbage can
and weeps, weeps, weeps.
11
signs of resentment
have started appearing
here and there.
effigies with top hats
are set ablaze.
cow-dung drips from
marlboro hoardings.
street urchins are urinating
on cowboy faces
scribblings in charcoal
sprawls across the walls
“america,
your liberty is just a statue!”
12
“we shall overcome………”
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
dry days
dry days
mondays are mundane…
the tom sawyer syndrome.
snails on watch dials.
the sloth inside
loathing about
slowness.
bubbles of
nothingness
ferments
inside the distillery
of stillness
all days are
mondays
Monday, March 8, 2010
hate summit
hate summit
the hall is filled
with holy men.
the dais, crammed
with deities
maestros of mayhem
are orchestrating
a phoney symphony
green and saffron
spotlights are on.
and then…
out of nowhere
they appear,
the gods of war!
avoiding
the eyes of cameras,
they wink at each other
wickedly
and then…
they embrace
and start to shower grace
upon the human race
amidst all this cacophony
devil descends from heaven.
he, who else,
is the master of ceremony.
after fluttering a white dove
and a black raven.
he takes over the show
“friends, moron, holy men
lend me your fears
for i have come
to bury peace
and not to praise it…”
the crowd goes crazy,
they cheer in full frenzy.
devil wags his tail
in response
and starts to announce
“this years prize
for peace
goes to…
(pause)
unfortunately
the prize for the peace
goes to…..
humanity
but…..
fortunately,
it will be given
posthumously.”
(curtain)
outside,
the devotees
had started
fratricide.
the hall is filled
with holy men.
the dais, crammed
with deities
maestros of mayhem
are orchestrating
a phoney symphony
green and saffron
spotlights are on.
and then…
out of nowhere
they appear,
the gods of war!
avoiding
the eyes of cameras,
they wink at each other
wickedly
and then…
they embrace
and start to shower grace
upon the human race
amidst all this cacophony
devil descends from heaven.
he, who else,
is the master of ceremony.
after fluttering a white dove
and a black raven.
he takes over the show
“friends, moron, holy men
lend me your fears
for i have come
to bury peace
and not to praise it…”
the crowd goes crazy,
they cheer in full frenzy.
devil wags his tail
in response
and starts to announce
“this years prize
for peace
goes to…
(pause)
unfortunately
the prize for the peace
goes to…..
humanity
but…..
fortunately,
it will be given
posthumously.”
(curtain)
outside,
the devotees
had started
fratricide.
Monday, October 19, 2009
a short short story
THREE STUPID MONKEYS
Dedicated to Dr Binayak Sen
They had no manners, the police people. They didn’t knock on the door. Instead, they knocked it down. Maybe they didn’t consider our door as a door. It was a poor door. It broke into three and a half pieces. The half piece landed near my face. I slammed my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep. If I had ear- lids, I would have shut them too. The first sound that I heard was that of a coconut falling on mud followed by the scream of Kakka. More coconuts started to fall and kakka’s screaming stopped. I got the courage to open my left eye and saw the police people kicking Kakka in the stomach. Red liquid trickled out of his mouth. It was not betel juice .Mamma started to scream when the police people started to chase her. It is better to play police and robber outside the house, I thought. Her scream came to an end when the police people stuffed her mouth with her red blouse. Mamma would have closed my eyes like she does when “grown-up-people-scenes” comes on the TV screen.
It was Doctor uncle who gifted our village with a TV.
He gave a speech about Gandhiji and then switched on the TV and everyone clapped their hands. Well almost everyone because I didn’t. But that was because I had three stupid monkeys in my hands. It was a prize for reciting Vaishnava Janato, the song that Gandhiji liked very much. When Doctor uncle gave me that statue of three monkeys, someone took a picture. Doctor uncle tussled my long hair and told me that Gandhiji was the father of our nation and I asked him who the mother of our nation was, and he laughed and the whole village started to laugh, and I felt stupid. That was one gift I didn’t like much. Why should monkeys close their eyes and ears and mouth? Monkeys are no doubt, stupid animals.
Police people are more stupid that monkeys. Otherwise why should they drag me by my hair and push my face into the photo of Doctor Uncle, and ask,
“Where are you hiding him?”
They caught Doctor uncle because he was not hiding from the stupid police monkeys.
The village people saw Doctor uncle being dragged into the blue van and they heard him say “Satyameva Jayathe”, which means Truth shall Win. But when the TV people asked them about it, they said that they saw nothing. They felt bad inside. Then the newspaper people showed the village people so many newspapers which said that Doctor uncle has won a big prize for being a goodie good man , the village people said that they have not heard anything about it. But they felt good inside.
I still have that photo of Doctor uncle smiling like a good little boy with a big long beard, giving me that stupid three monkey prize.
One day, I will go to that big jail and knock on the jail doors because I have good manners, you know, and I will ask the jail people
“Where are you hiding him? “
If they give him back to me, then I will bring him back to my village and in front of all the village people, I will give him back that stupid statue of the three monkeys, and I am sure that he will throw it into the river.
Maybe then he will tell me who the mother of my nation is.
Dedicated to Dr Binayak Sen
They had no manners, the police people. They didn’t knock on the door. Instead, they knocked it down. Maybe they didn’t consider our door as a door. It was a poor door. It broke into three and a half pieces. The half piece landed near my face. I slammed my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep. If I had ear- lids, I would have shut them too. The first sound that I heard was that of a coconut falling on mud followed by the scream of Kakka. More coconuts started to fall and kakka’s screaming stopped. I got the courage to open my left eye and saw the police people kicking Kakka in the stomach. Red liquid trickled out of his mouth. It was not betel juice .Mamma started to scream when the police people started to chase her. It is better to play police and robber outside the house, I thought. Her scream came to an end when the police people stuffed her mouth with her red blouse. Mamma would have closed my eyes like she does when “grown-up-people-scenes” comes on the TV screen.
It was Doctor uncle who gifted our village with a TV.
He gave a speech about Gandhiji and then switched on the TV and everyone clapped their hands. Well almost everyone because I didn’t. But that was because I had three stupid monkeys in my hands. It was a prize for reciting Vaishnava Janato, the song that Gandhiji liked very much. When Doctor uncle gave me that statue of three monkeys, someone took a picture. Doctor uncle tussled my long hair and told me that Gandhiji was the father of our nation and I asked him who the mother of our nation was, and he laughed and the whole village started to laugh, and I felt stupid. That was one gift I didn’t like much. Why should monkeys close their eyes and ears and mouth? Monkeys are no doubt, stupid animals.
Police people are more stupid that monkeys. Otherwise why should they drag me by my hair and push my face into the photo of Doctor Uncle, and ask,
“Where are you hiding him?”
They caught Doctor uncle because he was not hiding from the stupid police monkeys.
The village people saw Doctor uncle being dragged into the blue van and they heard him say “Satyameva Jayathe”, which means Truth shall Win. But when the TV people asked them about it, they said that they saw nothing. They felt bad inside. Then the newspaper people showed the village people so many newspapers which said that Doctor uncle has won a big prize for being a goodie good man , the village people said that they have not heard anything about it. But they felt good inside.
I still have that photo of Doctor uncle smiling like a good little boy with a big long beard, giving me that stupid three monkey prize.
One day, I will go to that big jail and knock on the jail doors because I have good manners, you know, and I will ask the jail people
“Where are you hiding him? “
If they give him back to me, then I will bring him back to my village and in front of all the village people, I will give him back that stupid statue of the three monkeys, and I am sure that he will throw it into the river.
Maybe then he will tell me who the mother of my nation is.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
spiritual awakenings
spiritual awakenings
during
bouts of boozing,
i try to brew
thought-spirits.
exotic concoctions.
cocktails of philosophy.
half a peg of marxian whisky
with a double large lenin gin
ignites your proletarian pyrotechnics.
trotskian vodka on the rocks
is insipidly sober.
but when i fill it to the brim with
social fascist soda,
the drink starts to fizz.
one gulp
wipe your stalin moustache
a lick of krushchevian ketchup
and
your cold brezh-nerves are ready
to start a prole-war.
bubbles of discontent
rise
gain size
reach the brim of your brain.
but then
hey peristro!
you become
glasnostalgic
and
the bubble bursts.
that is the real
revolutionary spirit!
ha ha ha
hangovers are forever!
during
bouts of boozing,
i try to brew
thought-spirits.
exotic concoctions.
cocktails of philosophy.
half a peg of marxian whisky
with a double large lenin gin
ignites your proletarian pyrotechnics.
trotskian vodka on the rocks
is insipidly sober.
but when i fill it to the brim with
social fascist soda,
the drink starts to fizz.
one gulp
wipe your stalin moustache
a lick of krushchevian ketchup
and
your cold brezh-nerves are ready
to start a prole-war.
bubbles of discontent
rise
gain size
reach the brim of your brain.
but then
hey peristro!
you become
glasnostalgic
and
the bubble bursts.
that is the real
revolutionary spirit!
ha ha ha
hangovers are forever!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
BOOK EATER
I was eating my Roberto Bolano for breakfast…that guy tasted good…too good…a hot and spicy latino word-blast…2666 soup mixed with CHILE sauce , whetted my alpha-beta-appetite …after swallowing some 50 odd pages, I heard a scream from my wife and a banshee-wail from my kid…oh yeah…too much Bolano for breakfast was showing its savage effects…I was transforming into a green gringo…so I stopped my breakfast after getting a promise from those two that I would be served Umberto Eco for lunch and Murakami for dinner after dark…
Friday, April 24, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
LADDER OF PROGRESS
the tragedy of the indian left is that it is only just a leftover of the ideal left...or what is left of the leftist movement...the left used to be always right in its political stands...but today...without any such stands, the left is moving towards the right...and...the danger is that...leftists are finding this shift unbearable...and yet...they obey in the name of discipline...
my motto is...DISSENT OR DESCEND
Saturday, April 18, 2009
adam
adam
first bite
on the blood red apple.
indecent exposure
of innocent flesh
in off-white.
then…
the edges turn brown
and sepia tinted sin
seeps in.
me
with a throbbing throat
watches the slimy serpent
slowly sliding out.
she
the apple of my eye
places her blood red lips
on my bulging jugular vein.
i am in heaven # 7
love is… insane
amen.
first bite
on the blood red apple.
indecent exposure
of innocent flesh
in off-white.
then…
the edges turn brown
and sepia tinted sin
seeps in.
me
with a throbbing throat
watches the slimy serpent
slowly sliding out.
she
the apple of my eye
places her blood red lips
on my bulging jugular vein.
i am in heaven # 7
love is… insane
amen.
Monday, April 6, 2009
dawn 2
stilettos of april sun
pierced the palm leaf roof
and sliced the entrails
of my ram shackled hut.
crumbled and cracked
the cow dung smeared floor
disclosed its original hues.
chrome yellow here,
forest green there,
greasy camouflage outfit
of a guerrilla warrior
dawn 1
dawn 1
at forty past five,
day broke.
millions of porcelain pieces
spewed from heaven
crash landed on
the wretched earth.
nebulous clouds like
fetid molten porridge stew
lay splattered across the sky,
offerings for the oracles of mom.
and then…
the crows came.
a cacophony of caw-caw,
waving shreds of black flags
against the breaking dawn.
silhouettes of malice and mayhem
casting chaotic shadows in motion
upon dew-dripping green floor.
at forty past five,
day broke.
millions of porcelain pieces
spewed from heaven
crash landed on
the wretched earth.
nebulous clouds like
fetid molten porridge stew
lay splattered across the sky,
offerings for the oracles of mom.
and then…
the crows came.
a cacophony of caw-caw,
waving shreds of black flags
against the breaking dawn.
silhouettes of malice and mayhem
casting chaotic shadows in motion
upon dew-dripping green floor.
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