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Archive for January, 2012

Cliches

are the unfortunate truths that the discerning intellectual uses to clean his backside. Honestly, I haven’t seen any other word/property so freewheelingly castigated from it’s righteous rewards.

Feb 14 is on its way. What exactly would you call the mile-long queues in front of the Archies stores as?

Impulse? Einsteinian realization about gifting your loved one something on that day? Or, well, the bare, the simple thing called ‘Love’? What’s your problem accepting the fact that you too belong to the primate Neanderthals who mated and head hunted for living on a wilder and hugely Nature-dependant planet?

Believe me. We’re just like little blip in the whole scheme. We are alike, you like it or not. We respond to the same stimuli, react with a range of expressions, because, you, my dear is simply, one of us. 

There was this India-touring travel programme I watched in passe, and there was a passing comment one of the women anchors met that I really liked. She was at the Meenakshi Temple in Madurai. Facing the fanatic crowd of worshippers whose volume increased in consistent spurts throughout the unbearably hot May Day, she faced the camera and said,

I am amazed at the collective devotion that we have.”

Take the Kolkata Book Fair for instance. You have to set foot there to believe what happens there! I was there on the first day, Jan 26th, 2012, that happened to coincide with India’s Republic Day as well.  I was there mainly to get a sneak-peak at the Kolkata Literary Meet, the first ever literary seminar of considerable capacity to be held in Kolkata. By the gracious help of one of the speakers and translator of distinguished merit, Arunava Sinha, who managed a pass for me from his own circle of friends, I reserved a seat inside the igloo of concentrated literati. I spent about 2.5 hours of memorable cerebrally invigorating talks by prominent literary figures, such as, Sunil Gangopadhyay, the famous Bengali poet and writera and Vikram Seth, of Suitable Boy fame.

It was understatedly a thrilling experience to litsen to them talk. Mr. Seth was impressive in his erudite explanations of his latest, ‘The Rivered Earth’ which is described as a literati, an operaic term used to describe the lyrical assistance provided to the opera audience to to unveil the opera chorus. As I have noticed, with almost all people with an artistic bent of mind, Mr. Seth too, displayed an irreverant passion for the arts, which ranged from poetry, music to Chinese and Arabic Calligraphy. Interestingly, he admitted to treating each in its own right, such that his diligence, grasp and knowledge in each of these artistic disciplines was absolute.

My left temple had inconveniently started throbbing, and to my dismay, I began to anticipate another of my famous ‘migraine attacks’. I was not carrying my painkillers and was miles away from home, so I rushed out to buy the books I had planned.

It was absolutely bewildering to notice the collectiveness of our love for books. The neons were up, the crowds were in. A few mute seconds in a non-migrained brain could be very revealing at the face of such a crowd. The crowd consisted of various elements.

(1) The upper class intellectuals – some of them visibly book teetotalers

(2) The famous Bengali intellectuals – disheveled hair, beard, thick rimmed specs, the unanimous sack bag et al

(3) The museum visitors – couples with their toddlers for general sightseeing

(4) Gen Y – the cool college crowd. spike haired (check), guitar (check), smoking (check)

Something bound them all. That something which is the basis on which certain books, songs, poetry, places and so on ring the right note with all. That famous Worthsworthian belief that the same force runs through us all – something which touches you may well, touch millions as well.

It may be the chocolate+roses for your beloved. Or Baywatch for the adolescent. And let’s face it, it makes things a lot simpler!

We’re so beautiful in our sameness. And so brilliant in eschewing our sameness.

Ladies, I tell you, if you aren’t really prepared for your valentine, a home made cake will be just fine!

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach!

Amen 🙂

Yours Joblessly,   The Jobless Ideator

 

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Categories: Uncategorized

The Wordmaiden

January 27, 2012 2 comments

 

 

DAY ONE

And they got her by the hair

And laid the garden fair

Her white plumed the man-zoo

Fritters and chips on the couch

Fritters and chips on the couch

 

“I think you need the doctor.”

His stubble lay coarsely on his handsome face.

“You behaved strangely yesterday.”

“I did?” a tone of feigned surprise escaped a slumped form on the dirt bed.

“Yes. We were coming on fine. You told me to undress. And then..”

“Yeah? Now that’s interesting!”

“Not funny. You doubled up and howled. You sounded like a gay jackal.”

Gay Jackal. The Jackal clutched her morning frame.

“Are you even listening? I said you’re getting depressive.”

“Need black coffee with….”

“Lemon and without Sugar. Are we going to the doc?”

“Dr. Lupe, you mean. Firstly, he’s changed his Bengali name to sound cool. Secondly, he won’t understand. How would you feel if you’re raped without love?”

“Raped without love? It’s an obvious statement darling. You need coffee.”

You sound like the girl who doesn’t work in the morning.

“You got that right. I don’t. “

 

 

I once had a girl

Or should I say, she once had me

–          The Beatles

 

 

How much time do I have?

Three days.

And then?

And then, I turn a fish waist down. And go back to the ocean.

And never come back?

Yes. As a paid woman.

What about coffee?

I’ll only be good for bed. Tail fins can be damaging.

That promise? Is it so important?

You should know that better. You summoned me. You promised me. It’s got a cost. I got to give an answer to Mama Lise. Freedom comes with a fin.

I can’t

Will the doctor help?

No. The problem’s elsewhere. The problem’s everywhere. It’s even there in that cleft of your waist.

You chose it. I thought it discomfiting. You’re curious. Men back home find home in the breasts.

The breasts are noisy. Attention seeking schemers. I can’t write for it.

Is that why you cried?

Yes. Desire’s under watch. A promise pending for three days. It’s eating me up.

Don’t worry. I don’t cost too much.

I know. Buying you is easy. Buying anything is easy. It’s the possession that’s difficult.

Why not try some other part? What about the feet?

No! I’m a coward. I can’t write there. I can’t write on a dated sheet.

 

 

He turned to face her. And the coffee coloured face shone with that plaintive smile.

Do you know what Pablo Neruda had to say about your breasts?

Neruda? The poet? He loved me too? Huh, I lose count!

Difficult people loved you darling. Your breasts were two flaming balls for him.

No wonder I used to distract the sailors perched on the coral reefs.

Sailors. Millions of them. Devastated by you.

You got to blame Mama Lise for that. I don’t see it as a qualm. I keep my promises. Those shipwrecks meant food.

Was there a treasure you never found?

Yes. One. A mossed ship. Useless with scattered poems. Nothing you can make money out of.

That ship. Lemme see..was it the Ullysses?

Yes. Mama Lise nearly knocked me dead for lingering there too much.

Why did you linger there? Was there something you were searching for?

I don’t know. I stumbled upon it in a drunken stupor. It was the day I lost my virginity to this ill-smelling lonely sailor. I bumped inside. Seemed my childhood was anchored in the fleeting words.

You’re experienced now. You know the moves. Why did you risk it with me?

I was my last chance at reality. A promise from a man.

 

 

It was nearing dusk. The Poet loved it best. This time when light and darkness made love like the gentle breeze. Sometimes like lusty cowboys. Sometimes like Krishna’s flute. And sometimes like the black slaves who returned after mining, their eyes turned red with pain-dousing cheap rum and saw their wives like Russian Dolls, only there wasn’t anything to gain once he ripped her open.

 

Something original.Straight from heavens. And I’ll be yours.

When does the day end? How much more time?

The sun’s skimming the ocean’s surface. It should be night soon. It should be one day less for you.

Carpe Diem. I get it at last. What happens at the other side of midnight?

Things end here. But for us, down under, the day’s just beginning. The hungry ocean swallows up the flaming sun. And then it fizzles out to be a different person. It courts us, the ocean ladies underneath. It’s like a mischievous truant schoolboy. It steals up our beds just when our clients are anticipating pleasure. It comes and tickles the fish scales. We end up in undeserved childhoods. It spoils business.

My promise. Why did I make it? I’m so afraid. The day’s already over.

You’re not at fault, really. I came up your lonely window one night. I stole on Mama Lise. You were lonely. Too lonely.

Can’t you punish me?

Your loneliness is punishment enough! It’s just a promise! You’ll come up with something. I suggest you forget all about it. Let’s make love.

You’re spoiling me. I’ll miss the smell of the sea when you’re gone.

Shhhhh! Litsen to my heart. A hundred wrecked ships. A thousand lost poems. And just one promise. It’s too much to bother about. The sun’s playing with my golden haired sister downstairs. Come, now. Don’t cry today.

 

 

The Poet took a sharp look at the cloud passing by. The angry cloud with the yellow cheese moon. Two more days, he thought. When the sun gets into business tomorrow, up from the comforting secrets of the ocean and up above, bringing warmth and skin cancer to the planet. It was time for love. For pain. For ship wrecked love stories. Tomorrow, something will happen.

 

 

 

DAY TWO

 

God does not play dice

–          Albert Einstein

 

 

Eisequaltoemseesquare. Even he couldn’t put it down to words.

Not like James Joyce. And you thought I wouldn’t catch you imitating.

You anger and startle me at the same time. Now, how did you know that?

Ulysses. That ship. It changed everything.

Joyce. That man must’ve suffered.

Coffee?

Yes. With…

Lemon and without sugar. You’re getting repetitive.

Is it morning already?

Yes. It’s the second day.

Damn it. Time’s never been my friend. What’s with all the research?

Time travel. I didn’t like the sound of it when you mentioned it in the first place.

Ah! Don’t let my cynicism influence you. Einstein. He won it. He kept his promise. Did you know Time’s the fourth dimension? Have you any idea that time actually slows down with speed?

How much speed?

Too much.

Nothing we laymen can do with it?

No. Nothing. How was I last night?

Okayish. But you steer clear of the spot.

Yes. Like the cat who couldn’t decide whether to die or live.

You got to face it. It’s skin after all.

Einstein couldn’t face it. He lost it to Uncertainty. The universe, the changeability. God, he said, was smarter than that. Smarter, organized. Had it all sorted out.

 

 

 

Is being half of something very difficult?

For me, it is.

And for the others?

It’s sheer fact to them. Imagination loses hands down to facts. It’s nauseating.

Don’t you wish you never came across that ship with no treasure?

No. I should be. Any sane person would curse that ship for disturbing her peace. But, it gave me the world I desired. A snatch at hope. Three days with reality.

The promise. I don’t know what to do. A poem you say. A poem. That’s too big a demand. I can’t get past pretence. I haven’t got the ship.

Maybe it’s too early for you. Maybe the challenge came too fast. But something tells me you’ll get there one day. You’ll find your ship with no treasure.

Do you know what happened to the cursed sailors of the ship?

Yes. They grew lazy and drowsy on the drug from the island’s exotic flower. The captain, he couldn’t persuade them back to the wild life of the wild seas. Most of them died in hallucination of a better life.

 

You live your life

As if it’s real

–          Leonard Cohen

 

What’s your purpose? You loll about the bed. As if you’re waiting for the ticking to stop.

Would coffee help? Coffee with…

Lemon and without Sugar. I’ll put the water to boil.

The promise. You’re never going to fulfill it. Are you?

Please! I beg you! Am not hones!. That cleft on your waist. It turns me to butter. I’m so helpless.

Exotic. Ain’t I? That’s what you thought when you dealt that blow with Mama Lise. What’s a two liner for a lifetime of immortal beauty?

Yes. I deserve all that. You’re behaving human now. I don’t like the Goddess voice of yours.

I’m not human. I’m standing on bargained legs. And Sanders loves me.

Sanders? Who’s that?

The man who loved me with no more than truth. I let him down when I came for you. Greed done the death of me. It’s night already.

I’ll come up with something. I’m a Poet. Don’t you worry. Let’s have some fun now!

It’s called making love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

DAY THREE

 

Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky

–          T.S. Eliot

 

 

I’ve got it!

Don’t do it. It’s not from your heart. You’ll be horrified by the result.

Shut up, woman! Let me write on that blasted body of yours!

It’s three minutes to midnight darling. Am rolling over. But don’t sell your soul for me.

Who’re you? Ho gave you the right to wreak ravage in my life?

Am the Wordmaiden. And you were good in bed. Striking twelve darling. Witching hour. Don’t bother yourself with the promise. It keeps me living.The unkeptness of the promise.

 

 

And before his eyes

In a slow demise

The wholeness dissolved in thin

And showed in fish scales and a tail fin

She bothered but a faint smile

And said, ‘Will you carry me home?’

The Poet lifted up the Wordmaiden

And lashed the dirt road with jaded denims

Reached the ocean and gently laid down the lady

She turned and smiled

‘Do I look alright?’

She reminded him of the coffee flask

And vanished into the blue cruel mass

Some words from her former self

Became gold and silver fishes

And played ahead

The night drank up the promise again

The Poet merely sighed and said

‘Oh! How I’ll miss her fishy smell!’

Author’s Note: The Wordmaiden managed a Consolation Prize at a short story Competition conducted by the Indian Writers Guild with the theme – Unkept Promises. Hope you enjoyed it.

Yours Joblessly,  The Jobless Ideator

Categories: Uncategorized

Hafeez Meet Shop

January 24, 2012 3 comments

Kolkata’s on fire. This time, they’re playing against the biggies – Team Jaipur! The city’s all geared up to celebrate The Kolkata Book Fair, trailing the Jaipur Literary Festival in both chronology and format. Kolkata Book Fair is to witness the first ever literary seminar in with cultural activities. The literary extravaganza is being called the Kolkata Literary Meet – an event to be lapped up by anyone remotely connected to/interested in the world of literature.

When: Jan 25th to Jan 29th, 2012  Where: Milan Mela Grounds, Kolkata

(Sigh, I didn’t get passes. I can kill myself, over and over again!)

Speaking of meets, ask any meet loyalist, where good meet is available, and more often than not, a neatly bloodied shop called Hafeez Meet Shop, will be gprsed to you.

These are some of the rave reviews I have got,

“Hafeez’s has the best cuts and sizes!”

“You go on a Sunday, and the queue stretches on forever.”

“It’s so tender, just one whistle of the pressure cooker.”

And some anti-rave reviews:

“He’s eating too much. What’ll happen to his cholestrol?”

“He always goes to his friends’ to eat and blames it on the meet. But I know he’s eying that witch. Sonali, her name is, wants to eat up my family through Hafeez’s meet!”

 

(Lord, can I steal some passes? Can I go fishing and use SONAR to find some, dropped by my competitors in some pond? Lord, are you even litsening?)

Welcome to Kolkata. The city of paradoxes. Where literature and absurd spelling reside in an illicit yet hamonious relationship! As you must have guessed by now, The meet above is meat, precisely, red meat.

[if you are a bengali and reading this past midnight where Hafeez and others in his trade have finally closed down, please keep in mind that most computer keyboards are not drool-proof.]

Take a walk around the city. Walk right into a shady little shack and demand the menu card. And don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.

photograph courtesy sajana j

This is a city where College Street assumes newer names on each of the red-yellow mini buses: Collage Street

Food gives a middle finger to Webster: Chineeese, Chiken Role, Pilen Water

Where everything is fair in love. Literally: Want to make fraanship?, I labh you, Feell my love (yeah..totally!)

Patriotism runs in the streets: India is greet!

 

A city of psychedelia. Where hidden corners croon with drug peddlars. Foreigners are sold ‘healthy Indian popcorn’ at Rs. 50/- (the non-healthy, non-Indian versions we get come at Rs. 5/- or less), where the goddess comes home every year and is moulded into ‘weird themes’ and the immersed idols are expertly rescued by kids-on-the-job, sold to the idol makers, who do a perfect job at moulding it into the what’s-your-name-goddess whose festival is coming up. (Whew!)

So, you see, bad spelling isn’t all you get here. You get passes to the Kolkata Literary festival too.

(sigh! how can u b so cruel? R u hareing me? I want some pases!)

Yours Joblessly, The Jobless Ideator

Categories: Uncategorized

The Poem

It called late at night

Just when I sleep

When the night and morning rays

Have started their bargaining

When nobody wants to give in

Nobody wants to give up

The night lazily brags about its expanse

Like an old feudal lord

It stays put on his leather backed chair

Distributing countless dreams

This is when the truant morning

Barges in out of nowhere

The poem called me then

So I was saying, the poem

Called me precisely then

And as usual I was reluctant

To pull out of my satin sheets

Submit my feet on the hard cold floor

And as a matter of fact, I hate sunrises

They remind me of how the day will

Grow old and rude

The poem called me then

The phone almost rang off the hook

I ignored about ten rings

Then it got on my nerves

I know you understand

How helpless you feel

When your pregnant wife

Wakes you up out of her chocolate craving

At unearthly hours

The poem called me then

I let out my famous grunt

The kind that so resembled

My first cognitive discoveries

I wondered who it would be

Who would care or dare

To call up a dream-petrified soul

Even my dream refused to let go

I don’t blame it

Dreams last less than mosquitoes

Only you cannot see them bleeding

The poem called me then

Clumsily, I walked to the phone

Tripped on something

The rings followed each other

Like despicable sound waves

I reached it

Hoping it wasn’t a mundane gentleman

Groping for the number of the homeopathic clinic

It never mattered to me in daylight

Whether phone calls came in relevantly

But now, I was sleeping!

The poem called me then.

“Hello! Who is this?” I was nervous

Worse than sleepwalking, this

The voice on the other side let out a giggle

A happy one, for once it did not mock

Instantly I knew it was a poem

The same one which I bragged about

The one that cared enough

Not to escape the subconscious

I was almost irritated

Naughty things, these poems are

First they give you the joys of unknown

And then, they end it with a happy giggle

As if the unearthly hour

Was just a bit of drama

Added to its appearance

Funny people.

Till now, I have never seen them behave

The poem called me then.

Angrily, I hung up

These were unknown numbers

Some mystic had given them a curious right

To disturb me in sleep

I had nothing to do now

Except burn in the frenzy of knowing

Except measuring every step to get to my table

Pick up the pen and let out

A happy giggle

Till then, I would have to curse

The poem called me then.

Yours Joblessly,   The Jobless Ideator

Categories: Uncategorized

Mothers are the last people you say ‘sorry’ to

She knows you’re having a major ego problem just saying the three words. She knows you want to. But then, what will your friends say? Aren’t you supposed to have the eff you attitude? Aren’t you supposed to be fashionably rejecting vegetables that your mother has painstakingly cooked the entire morning, famished and exhausted in the scalding heat?

Here comes another lecturer who tells me what or what not to do. She’s probably 40ish. O women!  😦

What’s hugely disturbing for me are 2 stupid words that are being stereotyped to the d. Ask the 20ish spike haired boy what being you mean and the customary reply comes – It’s about being comfortable in your skin and give the world the middle finger if it turns its back on you just because you’re different.

Will you kindly put to rest, a nagging worry of mine, Just how many of you are different? And if you really are different, then you’e simply joining the ‘different‘  crowd. So you see, you actually are no different!

Talking of mothers, Bengal remains to be the only state world over where speaking your mother language (Bangla) is looked down upon. English is the name of the game. Bangla? Well it’s what the slum dwellers speak. It’s crude, raw and has no finesse. There’s even an expression called Bangla in Bangla which translates to ‘ordinary/crude/lacking sophistication.’

I spent 14 painful years in a school that was afflicted with the English Fever. Unfortunately, I loved Bangla and still do. What brought more bad luck was the fact that, I usually topped the class in Bangla. Now, that you cannot tolerate! Aren’t you a modern girl who’s supposed to wear clothes to tease vicarious pleasures and talk fluently (preferably with a fake accent) a language that our colonizers have kindly bestowed upon us?

I was punished for it. I did not have the permission to be good in the language with which I called my mother when my first lisping word found voice. I was excommunicated and jeered at. I miss Bangla. In fact, am thinking of starting to write in that language again. Time has rusted my hold on the language. I falter at spellings. I had rejected it to belong to the popular groups. And as I already told you, saying sorry is difficult and better left that way.

Languages are vessels of various types, shape and forms. Bangla can be an earthen pot, English, a stout beer mug to a dainty wine glass, Spanish, a quirky coffee mug. Each language has some non sharable tools and senses, like human beings. Bangla smells of the rain washed earthen pot. Looks like a drenched village girl reveling in the first rains after the scorching summer days, feels like running bare foot on dewed morning grass, sounds of the fisherman returning home after a long day at work, Bhatiali songs on their lips and tastes like the mahua, a fruit that is popularly used by the santhals to brew local liquor.

There are similar ‘associative sense triggers’ in other languages. This makes translation a challenging job.  You can perhaps transfer or translate the sense, the language, the meaning. What you cannot or possibly find difficult is the essence, the little silences, the subject-mood-language correlation. It’s fate. Every language comes with its own sound, taste, smell, feeling, look. You cannot express the unsayables into an alien tongue. I salute all the translators who’ve gone closest to this.

I was almost dying today. I was almost getting hit by a bike while crossing. As usual it was completely my fault. Crossing Roads comes a close second to ‘road sense’ in my list of handicaps. The guy screeched to a halt and said haltingly: “What the hell?” For the first time, I wasn’t angry at being abused. I felt a sudden sadness. The boy was sincerely trying hard to pronounce those words: W-H-A-T   T-H-E   H-E-L-L?

I could easily make out that he was much more comfortable in Bangla. The perfect abuse would read:

Sala, chokher matha kheyecho?”

But no. He’s among the million pilgrims on the way to El Dorado: where you will not be jeered at, where your mother tongue is a nuisance to your existence, where you can pierce your body, get cozy in boisterous parties, drink yourself to idiocy and much more. Bangla? What’s that?

There’s still time guys. In fact, there always will be time.

However late you are, your mother will be awake and panicked.

Whatever you choose to wear or not wear, you’re still the naked thing that popped out of her tummy one fine day.

Your language is your mother. Your mother is who you are. Your mother is the one who makes you different.

And she knows you’re sorry.

Yours Joblessly,   The Jobless Ideator

P.S. – I leave with an eccentric and passionate voice confessing his love for his mother land, Bangla.

Categories: Uncategorized

Fuck You, Television!

To those who go to bed decked up for a party. And go to parties decked up for death by Accessory-Asphyxiation.

To those who pan cameras and show statuesque faces for a good 30 seconds and more.

To those who treat life and emotions as material for ‘just another episode’.

To those who play absurd/loud/imbecilic music in the background.

To those whose sarees weigh more than them.

To those whose slaps are followed with moments intense and meaningless airtime.

To those mega hits whose names are long enough to cure insomniacs.

To those families whose internal conspiracies can put World War II to shame.

To those who’re only too prepared to meet ‘some offspring’ from ‘some marriage/illicit relationship’ emerging from some lane and say a cool ‘Hello!’

To all of you who’ve robbed me of silences.

To all those who’ve made me hate my near ones because I think they need a rehab to help get over TV hypnotism.

To all those I’ve lost to televised myopism.

To all those who’re swimming in riches and don’t give damn to what I scribble here.

I have two words for you people.

FUCK YOU!

Yours Joblessly, The Jobless Ideator

Categories: Uncategorized

On a Hungry Diet

“I am like a sinister animal who enjoys being attacked ! Have you noticed that the alpha male always uses it’s head butt to defeat it’s opponent ? Bison, Jiraffe, Lion, elephant, Rhino, Croc, any animal with power. I survive like those animals who are at the head of a Pride. Like the lion, I am a loner. I utilize my head.”

 – Malay Roy Choudhury on himself

Malay Roy Choudhury

You have The Beatles on a crazy rooftop concert, you have Kurt Cobain signing off from life with a note to his imaginary childhood friend, Boddah, you have Amy Winehouse grooving with the microphone and spilling over to a heroine overdose, you have Allen Ginsberg being arrested for howling, there’s Shakti Chattopadhyay knocking on Abani’s door in the death of night, you have Jibananda Das eternally facing his muse, you have Freddie Mercury from Queen, Sid Viscious from Sex Pistols.

Amy Winehouse

And you have Malay Da. Malay Roy Choudhury, founder poet of the Hungryalist Movement in Bengal. Follow the hyperlinks to get information on what he is.

Here., this post is not about giving you information. I’ve stopped doing that when the exam bell rung on plus 2 exams at a posh Birla school, were invigilators ran about like ferried mice between rows of unevenly coloured, unevenly shortened blue pleted skirts. Yes, I walked out. Out of facts. It was a bitter relationship we shared. And I divorced him without alimony demands.

So who is Malay Da? Why don’t I simply go about writing an essay about how he did what and etcetera?

For two reasons:

(a) I don’t know all of it myself. I haven’t asked him either.

(b) It’s a waste of time chronicling his life, for I wasn’t there when the 60s swept by the world trying to carry a massive hurricane of rotting autumn leaves.

I can tell you he’s not much of a person. He’s unreal that way. He’s all idea,which is why I probably will be disappointed on meeting him. You cannot give shape, flesh and blood to some things. Abstract nouns have saved us the trouble to put these things into words – love, hate, violence, ecstacy. A twopenny worth word cannot explain him. I can write on and on and not point my finger at that one character/word/phrase that rounds him up. For he prefers shapelessness.

Since I have to tell you something, you might as well read on.

Malay Da is a tribal chieftain who’s trying to prove a point. He’s a hungry man, the stage preceeding Kafka’s cockroach, where his gout afflicted body and mind keeps rebelling with a single finger tapping on the keyboard. He revels in pain and attacks. A self-sadist, you may call him. He means to have the whole world condensed into his drawing board, the whole ‘system’ uncomplicatedly naked before his paintbrush, and say, in all the simplicity that true seriousness can gather,

It’s time to come home. The ventriquilists are slyly sliding up their slimy fingers up our necks. When we sit plush in cool offices, when we drink coffee in board meetings, when we hide bricks under pretty paints, we’re dying.

He’s hungry. He’s angry.

Allen Ginsberg

 

Most of us are. We’re complaining. There are nice little articles popping up like unscented hybrid flowers here and there that speak of the mechanization of humanity. How mobile phones and the internet eating away more important stuff like ‘quality time’ from our lives. But the sun rises and you cover up till your alarm reminds you that beyond this, your livelihood is on stake. You rise, crack your fingers, give your wife a systemic peck-on-the cheek aand out you go!

 

 

Malay Da ‘feels’. That’s what his problem is. He’s a sane person in a world of insanity. Hence, you mistake him for the common raggamuffin. You mistake his poetry. Pornography, you say. Publicity, you screech. For what, have you asked? What has he got out of all this except for pain, discontent and excommunication? Have you ever wondered what it is, to live each day on a negative ego boost? As a predator? An alpha male who’s sane enough to be born with a anti-normal psyche? While you cover up your disgrace and give your tie another tight knot, these are people who’re trying to show you how to loosen it once you’re back home from the unreal world.

You pick on ‘themes’, ‘obscenity, you say’. What’s so fine about the boy who died at your footstep fighting with his sister over the leftovers from your son’s grand party? It’s in your mind. Not on the papers for Malay Da or anyone of this species. It’s fine to amble around a cowherd of eleven heads you have hatched with your wife in eternal labour pain. And you come out in bright sunlight, look at words with 95% of your vision faded with myopia and give them a ‘jail sentence’ to serve.

I can happily tell you that you are serving a Life Sentence.

Yours Joblessly, The Jobless Ideator

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