Art

You don’t do it because it’s free or cheap. It’s not because it grows on trees or that it lines your sidewalk. You don’t go there because it’s just down the road. You don’t chase it because it’s the in-thing; not because it’s pop-culture and hip.

You do it in hidden caves where bats feel their way. You did it in subterranean chambers where dragons slumber and laze. You do it in the dead of the night. You do it after lunch on Tuesday.
It’s illegal. It’s prohibited. It’s frowned upon. The government doesn’t like it. Your mom doesn’t like it. You could lose your job and wander naked in the forest alone; you could grow a beard and piss self-important people off.

Legalise it, you shout. Legalise it? Do you want it for 30 bucks at Big Bazaar? Do you want the astral plane shipped to you from Alaska? Legalise it so that you can call customer care at two in the night and complain about the lack of clarity?

If it’s for sale, it ain’t it.
If it’s over-the-counter, it ain’t it.
If it’s on discount, it ain’t it.
If it’s #1 New York Times Bestseller, it ain’t it.
If it’s fraught with significance, it ain’t it.
If you get it, it ain’t it.

It’s the naughty breeze that rides up a widow's skirt during her husband's funeral. It’s the strange shape of the big turd you just extruded. It’s the smiley face that eases the sarcasm in the text you just received on your phone. It’s a painting of white diagonal lines aesthetically slicing across a white canvas.

Martian Interlude

Burn slow, baby. Burn slow.

Rainforests, Pine forests, multiplexes and cigarettes. School buses, French kisses, video tapes and apocalypse. Fire in the mountain, run, run, run! Pyre at the count of ten, run, run, run! Run through the dirty lane, run through the street. Run through the plastic shop selling plastic beet.

Come through my open door.

Come through the fire.

Swim through the dirty soul.

Swim into desire.

Foggy breath and sweaty lips. Burning bush and seething crown. Why do we touch, why do we kiss? Is it the fire or is it the smoke?

Oil fields and broken beads – empty teats and parched feet. Jarring beats and famous cheats. Oh, how they burn! How they bleat!

They bleat and moan, pitiful and low.

But you burn slow, baby. Burn slow.

A Suicide Letter

A suicide note is an unfair way of having the last word in the argument. But it is the unimaginative that would leave the party without a punch-line. To have the screen drop without an encore seems like a betrayal of the entire act. So, forgive me for dragging the epilogue. If you are reading this, I am obviously dead. Thus, you must also know how I did it.

The most effective way to commit suicide, it seems, is to use a .38 caliber revolver and shoot the back of the head – somewhere just behind the ear. The brain bits would be all over the place, the head slumped sideways – perfectly positioned to land a slot on the prime time news channel. Utterly painless and utterly déclassé. Not my style.

I would have loved to jump off a cliff – very much like The Fool in the Tarot deck. The symbolism would have been complete – not to mention the joy of succumbing to the ultimate temptation of the precipice. But poison seemed the most aesthetically pleasing, spiritually satisfying option. I now belong to that elite company that has sipped the Shiva Merlot – I now rub shoulders with Socrates. The intentional symbolism here too was satisfying. The act of drinking to see new visions is an old, archaic practice. The ancient king Raghu drank the divine cow’s milk to see the way to the heavens. The True Guru gave Kabir bhang to open up the existential bubble.

To say that no one is responsible for my death would be to deny the interconnectedness of everything in the universe. It would have been a shame had I lived without making anyone responsible for my actions. It would have been a deliberate attempt at understating the influence of some exceptional men and women in my life. But in these paranoid times, even a dead man has to censor his words to please the frightened masses. So, let me forgo literary embellishments for political correctness. No one is responsible for my death.

The frugal setting in which my body must have been found might have given you the idea that poverty was the reason for my death. But I had never considered money to be the yardstick of the quality of life. Nor was the reason something as shockingly refreshing as a failed love affair. I believe such cases are a rarity these days. No excruciatingly painful diseases either. In fact, I could dance around here all day like Rumpelstiltskin, and you would never guess.

I did it because I wanted to be the only person to have used Rumpelstiltskin’s name in his suicide letter.

With much love,
Formerly Anonymous

You may say I'm a Dreamer

“Many, many happy returns of the day!”

 

As far as dreams go, this one was certainly lame. There was no surrealism in the events that unfolded after the pronouncement of that statement. ‘Unfolded’ seems to imply an unfurling in the past, when it actually happened outside time. And space. Our consciousness is no more limited by the now than it is limited by the skull. Thought does not happen in the corrugated alien surface of the brain. Awareness is not an electric spark that arches from the medulla oblongata. Reality is the self. The universe is an idea – and not a well thought out one at that.

 

People that know me are not surprised that I keep writing about dreams. For reasons that are perceived by various individuals simultaneously as laziness, cowardice, deviant behavior, complacency, introspection and imagination, my love for these visions of alternate realities are known to many, if not understood.

 

The fogginess of a dream is purely retrospective. Furthermore, though it is often diagnosed as a cataract in the mind’s eye brought on due to the supposed linearity of time, the haze is purely the result of ignorance and a refusal to be awed.

 

My birthday party is held in an all-girls’ school. I am slightly irked by my assumption that I would automatically enjoy revelry in the presence of pheromones flowing like tiny rivulets down a mountain hirsute with sage and oak. It is the cafeteria, and the other tables are occupied completely by teasing teams of teens tickled by the thought of testosterone. None of them look at our table, preferring to ignore the rather raucous party thrown to celebrate my birthday – which it isn’t.

 

Sitting right across me is you, happy and mischievous. You love such parties – not because you enjoy being part of such social extravaganza, but rather due to your propensity to come up with fabulous one-liners and sharp retorts. It is only the unimaginative that would leave the party without a punch-line, you think.

 

Two others are here too – but what good is it in trying to paint their faces for you? They could be anybody. They could be my brothers, or my sisters. They could be elves or Martians. Their heads could be oblong or ovoid. They are fillers – twenty-second commercials. They provide the comic relief in a humorous play. They shout and cackle like the heroine’s friends in a Hindi movie. They are here for the cake and the ambience.

 

Breezing through the throng of a million more girls entering the cafeteria is your friend. I do not know him. He is my mentor. He holds a tray full of what ought to be tequila shots. Up close, the tray is empty. And I am drunk.

 

“What whiskey was it?” asks my mentor.

 

I struggle to remember. “The name had something to do with a shore. Ivory Coast, Green label?"

 

You let out a snort. Incidentally, snorting is rather difficult to do. You can easily swallow your spittle and choke on it. And snorting is very unbecoming too. It sounds like an immoral guffaw.

 

“Mulberry Coast! How can you forget?” You are scandalized and amused that my knowledge of elite whisky is still not as incomplete as yours. The girls are laughing – like thousands of metal dishes eloping. Like millions of angry fiddles bitching about cats.

 

“And now,” says the unfamiliar mentor with a flourish. There ought to be a cape and a handlebar moustache jostling with that flourish. “And now, for your gift!”

 

A man seated amidst the gaggle of girls undergoes spontaneous combustion. If I can save the man, the girls would shower me with French kisses. I approach the burning man and he stares me down.

 

“Pitiful,” murmur the three or four comic goons at our table. The mentor shakes his cape mournfully and departs. When one is mournful, one doesn’t just leave. One departs.

 

Standing to my right is a dog. I pet him.

 

“Really?” he asks before bounding away.

 

Pitiful.

The woodpecker's dream

Inspired by the Ramayana

Stars peek in through the gaps in the living canopy overhead like curious neighbours at a poolside party.

The fire dances like a harlem queen, shamelessly.

The shaman dances on, his loincloth swaying like a fabric phallus in the presence of exquisite lingerie.

He holds a sceptre. An alabaster rod with an intricate carving of a serpent slithering through time.

The fur that he wears is singed here and there - evidences of earlier dances in front of more primeval fires.

He is ready to tell the story. Only it is not a story. It is the sound of the earth. The sound of plants crying. The sweet wailing of the jungle fowl. The cacaphony of the treepies. The wild party of the owls. He talks like the falling waters. He whispers like snakes mating.

"Winter is when woodpeckers dream. In the forests of antiquity, the woodpeckers peck away at the minds of sages. The wind tiptoes through the oaks. The gigantic pines are silent sentinels seemingly standing over an organic crypt. A city beyond human comprehension stretches and sleeps peacefully in the afternoon sunlight. It is yesterday."

A faint smell weaves its way through the layers of magic electrifying the air. The smell of burning sage.

The smell of dead angels.

A hollow pecking sound repeats from the nether regions of the dark forest. A woodpecker having a nightmare, perhaps?

"She strolls in, from everywhere. She weaves a dress from the soft grass that grows in the higher meadows. She dips a finger in the cold rushing waters and adorns her nose with a dazzling ring. She coaxes a sleeping plant to give birth to lillies in the winter. And then she sings."

Stars weep cold mist at the sad song. The trees shiver with goosebumps that startle sleeping thrushes. The cold seeps like dirty water in the lungs. She sings and she weeps, her teardrops making the earth bleed.

"There stands, across the pond, a stately figure. His body glimmers like polished ebony. His chest as broad as the unforgiving desert. His eyes sparkle like the crescent moon. He wears the forest around his waist to cover his eager organ. His countenance speaks of royal birth and a rugged life. He pledges his heart to the daughter of the earth. She returns his gaze, caressing him with her doe-like eyes. Her eye lashes tug at him, and his look threatens to incinerate her."

The sceptre is now an erect penis, thrusting at the fire. The sparks fly at every thrust, like heated spurts of semen.

"This is the woodpecker's dream, of forgotten wisdoms and broken spires. Of untold truths and elusive nymphs. The dream shatters with the hunter's arrow. Clouds weep at the wake."

I had a dream. Or do I have?

I realized that what woke me up was not the alarm but the rather unusual dream involving me and my eighth standard English teacher.

I don't usually dream about my English teacher. In fact, I would much rather fantasize about my History teacher, Ms Amudha. Now, she was a looker. Her intricate explanations of the Battle of Waterloo were often accompanied with bad pronunciation and exquisite swaying of the hips. My years of puberty were spent imagining myself being taught the philosophies of Kajuraho by her in my make-believe nocturnal tuition sessions. Fellow pimple-ridden teenagers of my age at that time would immediately connect this above-mentioned fantasy with a specific website that catered to its clientele by providing erotic literature of the lowest quality.

Sundhari, my English teacher, must have been forty when she had been teaching me. She weighed at least 90 kilos, tied her hair in a bun, would walk around with a wooden ruler to punish wrong-doers ("Show me your knuckles!"), and always held the strong belief that 'asif' was short for 'housewife'. So, now you can understand why I had woken up.

It is said that we have five minutes after waking up to try and remember whatever we can from our dreams before they shatter like dropped china. But, sadly, this dream was like a dropped bread that leaves a gooey butter mark on the floor the stench of which never goes away. I can still remember the dream.

It was a classroom. I cannot imagine meeting her anywhere else. I don't think she existed anywhere else. She was in her usual position - which was behind the desk, standing with her weight resting on her arms which were placed firmly on the table. Maybe it was because of her obscene weight or maybe it was her natural bone structure - but I have always marveled at the outward-bent arms. It usually made a sickening angle with the vertical - like the legs of a cartoon table on which Coyote's head is being smashed repeatedly by a bouncing anvil.

"Your grandfather is dead, Rajagopal."

Now, this was a curious thing to say not merely because it was a rather morbid pronouncement in such a pseudo-comic setting but also because he has been dead for ten years.

"Can I go home, then, ma'am?"

Back in school, I have always addressed all my female teachers as 'miss'. She had always been 'Sundhari Miss' or 'English Miss'. Yes, I know. I am one of those. But, thankfully, my dream-self seemed to have grown up with me.

"Your grandfather is dead, Rajagopal."

Second time around, I was getting rather agitated and pissed off with the fact that the announcement required an exclamation point that she was not yielding. She seemed to say it with the same intensity she reserved for adverbs and conjugate verbs - those being two of the many things she had had no clue about.

"Yes, ma'am. I know. Can I go home now?"

It would have been wonderful had Ms Amudha walked in at that time. But I have never been able to master lucid dreaming. Ms Sundhari just stood there with her back to a funeral pyre and said:

"Your imagination is getting rather macabre, Rajagopal."

I was getting darker and meaner and still no exclamation point. What does it take to shock this woman? Wasn't she affected by my sinister ideas? Does not the fact that her favorite student (Yes. One of those.) is now thinking a lot about mortality and is being paranoid about death shake her very core?

"I am sorry, ma'am. I will try thinking about submarines."

"You may go."

I turned to do so when I felt something hard and grainy on my shoulder. The wooden ruler. With a very audible gulp that came out as a speech bubble, I turned around.

"Your usage of tense is pathetic, Rajagopal! Show me your knuckles!"

மதிகெட்டான் சோலை

An attempt at writing fiction in Tamil.

சென்னை என்னும் பாலைவனத்தில் பல நீர்க் குளங்கள் உண்டு. பரதேசியாக திரியும் நாடோடிகளுக்கு தங்களது அனுபவங்களையும், சித்தாந்தங்களையும் ஆழமாக சமுதாயத்தின் மனதில் பதிப்பதற்காகவே நிறுவப்பட்ட இந்த ஸ்தாபனங்கள், மக்களின் மயக்கத்தை ஊக்குவிக்கும் கோவில்கள். சாராயத்துடன் ஊறுகாவுக்கு பதிலாக கம்யுனிசத்தையும், காம்போதியையும் கலக்கி நக்கும் மனித இனத்தின் ஒன்றுபட்ட இரைச்சல், மரணப்படுக்கையில் கிடக்கும் மனிதநேயத்திற்கு பாடுகின்ற ஒரு அவசர ஒப்பாரி போல் இருந்தது. இதனாலோ என்னவோ, மைல்ஸ் டேவிசின் சாக்சபோன் அந்த அசிங்கமான சத்தத்தை மறைக்கமுடியாமல் மறைத்துக் கொண்டிருந்தது. சில நிதர்சனமான நிஜங்களை பல போதைகளை கொண்டு மூட வேண்டியிருக்கிறது.

ஒரு அழகான வாக்கியத்தின் நடுவில் வரும் சந்திப்பிழையைப்போல, அந்த இடத்தில் அவனது தோற்றம் ஒரு ஆச்சர்யக்குறி. பல எழுத்தாளர்களையும்; "இன்னும் பத்து மாதங்களில் உலகம் அழியப்போகின்றது!" என்று சந்தோஷமாக தத்தம் தீர்கதரிசனங்களை கூவும் மத குருக்களையும்; லியோ டால்ஸ்டாயையும், கார்ல் மார்க்சையும், அவர்களை கரைத்துக் குடித்த அரசியல் கிழவர்களையும் வியக்க வைக்கும் அளவுக்கு அடர்த்தியான தாடி. புவியீர்ப்பு ஏதோ அவனது மேல் இமையை மட்டும் அதிகமாக தாக்குகின்றது போலும் - அந்த கண்களின் சுவடு மட்டும்தான் ஏதோ ஒரு கோணத்தில் தெரிந்தது.

அவன் முன்னே ஒரு காலி கோப்பை. ஏற்கனவே "Repeat order sir?" என்று கேட்ட சர்வரை உட்காரவைத்து, அரை மணிநேரம் CERNல் நடக்கும் Big Bang சோதனையை Bing Bang என்று தப்பு தப்பாக உச்சரித்து, விவரித்து அனுப்பி விட்டான்.

"மாடனைக் காடனை வேடனைப் போற்றி மயங்கும் மதியிலிகாள்!" என்று அவன் சொன்னது ஏதோ அந்த சர்வரின் பிறப்பையும் அவனது தாயையும் அசிங்கப்படுத்துவதுபோல் இருந்தது. "சுத்த அறிவே சிவமென்று கூறும் சுருதிகள் கேளீரோ?"

இத்தனை நேரம் மலத்தின் நடுவில் இருந்தது தெரியாமல் திடீரென்று தன்னை சுற்றி இருக்கும் அசிங்கத்தை பார்த்தவன் போல் சட்டென்று அந்த இடத்தை விட்டு எழுந்தான்.

Sodium vapor lamp - கலாச்சாரப் பதுமைகளின் அணையா விளக்குகள். தெருவெல்லாம் மங்கியதோர் சாயம். பிணங்கள் சாலையோரத்தில் கிடந்திருந்தன. ரத்தமில்லாத மரணம் - ஞானத்தின் இறுதி உர்வலம். இவன் ஒருவன் மட்டும்தான் பைக்கில் சென்றபடி அஞ்சலி செலுத்தினான்.

வீட்டில் மயான அமைதி. ஏதோ ஒரு முணகல் சத்தம். மைல்ஸ் டேவிசின் சாக்சபோன் இசையை படு கேவலமாக வாயில் முணகிக்கொண்டு, அவனது தலையணையை ஆசையாக பற்றிக்கொண்டு, அந்த காலியான ஹாலில் இரண்டு மணிவரை ஆடிக்கொண்டிருந்தான்.