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.

listen to my poem "adrift"

Click here to visit VoicesNet.com to read the poem called "ADRIFT" by Baiju Raj Thuruthel, India

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.

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!

SEEKING SOME SPACE

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…

VISION IMPOSSIBLE

my generation

had a vision...

which turned out

to be a grand illusion