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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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