Unheard weeping
“i could not burn”
At the moment of last farewell
You said
Returning my loveletters
“ i will burn...”
Hearing my thses words
You sobbed
“ yes, you must do likewise
But never tell me
on which deathbank did this cremation
of my first unborn expectation...”
since then i am praiyng
whenever youe womb bears fruit
same your first unborn hope
everytime bloom in that
because telling truth
could not ash even i
your that unmarried hope
in those self written loveletters
often serch my own face
and my whole poem
is that your unborn hope’s
unheard weeping.
(translated from malchand tiwari’s rajasthani poem “ ansuni rulaee” in its hindi translation.)
Thursday, September 10, 2009
confbulation
Trishanku in Alps
Holding the half-ashed cigarette between his lips, he appeared at the door of the classroom. Probably mocking the wooden face of that “no smoking” board that hung there for no apparent effect. Suddenly a deadness of discipline engulfed the whole class that was enlivened by the gay chirping of youthful flock. Corridor was our most usual loitering space during the class intervals that we had enough as very few teachers troubled us with punctuality. There was another board that told, “Loitering in the corridor is prohibited”. We laughed on the deadness of those words but sometimes it made me to reflect. I remembered a school day story of a demon who had a big garden and it had perpetual springtime. Children from the neighborhood used to sneak into and play in his garden. One day he saw them. He drove them away, made a big boundary wall round the garden and put a big notice “transgressing the boundary is a big offence and offenders will be prosecuted”. Every time I thought who might be the demon here. My paranoia was just momentary and then I used to think what if those demons crept out from the closed world of fairytales. Anyway, the cigarette was burnt till its butt and he released it from the crab clutch of his fingers. Smoke was rushing out through his nostrils and he gave cool eye to the class. The last flame was extinguished with the shining tip of his right shoe and he entered the class with a solitude around his face. We found it quite befitting for a person who was to teach us Wordsworth. “Who are you?” the whole class was perplexed with this sudden throw. No one knew who was to catch. After floating for a while around the heads it started descending down the benches. Suddenly our smart teacher gave it a fresh blow into air. “ you don’t need giving your name or some other thing like the same. Just tell what gives you the sense of ‘ I’.” equally confusing. Or even worse for many for us. Now I understood why wordsworth was so much fond of mountains. Such deep questions could be solved only under some kind of transportation. Transported into a state of intoxication, affected by the beauty of nature or some opium. But here was none. Logical consequence: question remained unanswered. Attempts were made. “I am what I think I am.” This was the best answer I thought a student of literature could make. This is what art should offer. Unlike science that gives either right or wrong, art revels in the world of deferred judgments. And the answer was exactly that. but it was considered inadequate on the philosophical scale and he waited for some surprise package. When no answer surprised him, finally he surprised himself on the absence of some good answer. We gave a gratifying grin and he gave it a somber acknowledgement by offering us some enlightening views on self. Passing through some gentle obscurities of philosophy, we reached a sublimated level of wisdom that could be plainly termed as defamiliarization of the familiar. We had a sudden realization of the profundity that our body encompasses. If “self” could be an hour-long thing then body must be something of many times bigger importance. However, philosophy did not let it be. Personally, I felt the body of commonsense being mutilated by the cold knives of philosophy. Suddenly Descartes appeared before me, flying upon his wings and performing magical antics like in some popular belief geese do with a mixture of milk and water. separating the two apparently inseparable things. After straying for a while in the wild wisdom of some nature myths suddenly my imagination descended down into the world of reality and I found it absurdly incomprehensible. What strange creatures we humans have become that we can’t buy a single simple thing without creating a hard laboured web of wisdom around it! It took me some moments to realize the import of those words for the examination purpose and I also realized the importance of master’s degree as a career building block. Very next moment I was a most attentive student like any body else, my eyes glued on his face and my ears tuned to his lips. I was so absorbed that I forgot to open my notebook and taking any note. The incessant flow of words seemed making an unobstructed passage into my mind and occupying my soul. A sudden loud tone broke my attention and started. Dear teacher was moving in his evenly smooth tone. Probably I had fallen asleep. My friend later confirmed my guess. I was totally blank on whatever was discussed in the class and whatever I got was merely an illusion of my self. Now I had begun to understand what self clould mean. The only thing that troubled me was that even though I knew what self could be, I could not assert it without risking another fall into a mere illusion. It was after several afterthoughts that I came to conclusion that self is something for self realization, strictly not for explanation. The harder you try to crack into its core the worse it gets for your intellect to track its circumference. And then you are also vulnerable to the traps of false enlightenment. It just reminded me the case of a recently married friend. He has an average built and an average appearance. After their first night of consummation( among maithil brahmins it happens on the fourth night after the mariage) I went to meet him with some other friends. He was at his in-laws’ place as customarily the groom has to stay there till the chaturthi( the four days period of familiarization and abstinance). We went with fishes as the sagun. We found him in a room, surrounded with his sisters-in-law. They were just pulling his legs. Poor chap felt great relief when he saw us. He immediately greeted us and a stormy rush of our friendly jokes drove away the in-laws. He even called them to stay but they did not. He laughed loudly to mark his ultimate finish of the episode. We had some hearty chat and our friend was often blushing. Well, cutting a long story short, he sent our rest two frinds out on some pretext. I expected some spicy thing to come, personally for me. I must tell you, my ears were burning like anything. But a sudden wet voice cooled it like the thing you might guess. “I don’t know for sure. In fact it is slightly embarassing but I think it ok to share it with you. Well this is something I felt…” I was looking at his face unblinkingly. “ I think she was faking at night.” He spoke in a hurry as if the words were burning his tongue and he spitted it out. I dared not to ask him to repeat them. Just silent for next few moments. Quite unlike me who loves being called a chattering box. I tried my level best to fake the troubled look on his face. Honestly it was oppressive. Just to break the silnce I said, “ oye don’t bother yaar! Arre you enjoyed na?” “ well…yaa…I enjoyed. I enjoyed but you know I just felt that she was faking.” I felt his voice drowning somewhere. Pitiable, lamentable, laughable, and above all it was unresolvable. “ see bro. you enjoyed and she also did. Forget if she was faking or not. The game had a happy course. Now forget all this crap.” Supposedly my best logical consolation failed misrably. He gave me a hurt kind of look. “ how can you even talk like this man? It’s no game but a relation. Leave it, you wont understand.” I took a long breathe and repeated with a pretentious mischeviousness, “yaa. How could I understand? I am telling you man just take some gulps down and she wont be faking anymore.” I put special emphasis on the last five words and got a tired kinda smile on his face. Fish was reaaly delicious and it was a most welcome break for all of us. The taste watered my palate as we sat there waiting for our tea which abdul bhai was yet to bring. Wisdom of the day:
doubt and seriousness make a really deadly combination and it must be used with care.
Anti dotes if badly inflicted: yet to be invented.
Immunity: eat, drink, be happy.
What If it turns chronic: turn to philosophy and make the maximum of it.
Diagnosis: when you fail to answer your own questions upto your satisfaction and then try to convince others with your arguments.
What if uncared: well, that is a case study still under way. You can also contribute some data.
Holding the half-ashed cigarette between his lips, he appeared at the door of the classroom. Probably mocking the wooden face of that “no smoking” board that hung there for no apparent effect. Suddenly a deadness of discipline engulfed the whole class that was enlivened by the gay chirping of youthful flock. Corridor was our most usual loitering space during the class intervals that we had enough as very few teachers troubled us with punctuality. There was another board that told, “Loitering in the corridor is prohibited”. We laughed on the deadness of those words but sometimes it made me to reflect. I remembered a school day story of a demon who had a big garden and it had perpetual springtime. Children from the neighborhood used to sneak into and play in his garden. One day he saw them. He drove them away, made a big boundary wall round the garden and put a big notice “transgressing the boundary is a big offence and offenders will be prosecuted”. Every time I thought who might be the demon here. My paranoia was just momentary and then I used to think what if those demons crept out from the closed world of fairytales. Anyway, the cigarette was burnt till its butt and he released it from the crab clutch of his fingers. Smoke was rushing out through his nostrils and he gave cool eye to the class. The last flame was extinguished with the shining tip of his right shoe and he entered the class with a solitude around his face. We found it quite befitting for a person who was to teach us Wordsworth. “Who are you?” the whole class was perplexed with this sudden throw. No one knew who was to catch. After floating for a while around the heads it started descending down the benches. Suddenly our smart teacher gave it a fresh blow into air. “ you don’t need giving your name or some other thing like the same. Just tell what gives you the sense of ‘ I’.” equally confusing. Or even worse for many for us. Now I understood why wordsworth was so much fond of mountains. Such deep questions could be solved only under some kind of transportation. Transported into a state of intoxication, affected by the beauty of nature or some opium. But here was none. Logical consequence: question remained unanswered. Attempts were made. “I am what I think I am.” This was the best answer I thought a student of literature could make. This is what art should offer. Unlike science that gives either right or wrong, art revels in the world of deferred judgments. And the answer was exactly that. but it was considered inadequate on the philosophical scale and he waited for some surprise package. When no answer surprised him, finally he surprised himself on the absence of some good answer. We gave a gratifying grin and he gave it a somber acknowledgement by offering us some enlightening views on self. Passing through some gentle obscurities of philosophy, we reached a sublimated level of wisdom that could be plainly termed as defamiliarization of the familiar. We had a sudden realization of the profundity that our body encompasses. If “self” could be an hour-long thing then body must be something of many times bigger importance. However, philosophy did not let it be. Personally, I felt the body of commonsense being mutilated by the cold knives of philosophy. Suddenly Descartes appeared before me, flying upon his wings and performing magical antics like in some popular belief geese do with a mixture of milk and water. separating the two apparently inseparable things. After straying for a while in the wild wisdom of some nature myths suddenly my imagination descended down into the world of reality and I found it absurdly incomprehensible. What strange creatures we humans have become that we can’t buy a single simple thing without creating a hard laboured web of wisdom around it! It took me some moments to realize the import of those words for the examination purpose and I also realized the importance of master’s degree as a career building block. Very next moment I was a most attentive student like any body else, my eyes glued on his face and my ears tuned to his lips. I was so absorbed that I forgot to open my notebook and taking any note. The incessant flow of words seemed making an unobstructed passage into my mind and occupying my soul. A sudden loud tone broke my attention and started. Dear teacher was moving in his evenly smooth tone. Probably I had fallen asleep. My friend later confirmed my guess. I was totally blank on whatever was discussed in the class and whatever I got was merely an illusion of my self. Now I had begun to understand what self clould mean. The only thing that troubled me was that even though I knew what self could be, I could not assert it without risking another fall into a mere illusion. It was after several afterthoughts that I came to conclusion that self is something for self realization, strictly not for explanation. The harder you try to crack into its core the worse it gets for your intellect to track its circumference. And then you are also vulnerable to the traps of false enlightenment. It just reminded me the case of a recently married friend. He has an average built and an average appearance. After their first night of consummation( among maithil brahmins it happens on the fourth night after the mariage) I went to meet him with some other friends. He was at his in-laws’ place as customarily the groom has to stay there till the chaturthi( the four days period of familiarization and abstinance). We went with fishes as the sagun. We found him in a room, surrounded with his sisters-in-law. They were just pulling his legs. Poor chap felt great relief when he saw us. He immediately greeted us and a stormy rush of our friendly jokes drove away the in-laws. He even called them to stay but they did not. He laughed loudly to mark his ultimate finish of the episode. We had some hearty chat and our friend was often blushing. Well, cutting a long story short, he sent our rest two frinds out on some pretext. I expected some spicy thing to come, personally for me. I must tell you, my ears were burning like anything. But a sudden wet voice cooled it like the thing you might guess. “I don’t know for sure. In fact it is slightly embarassing but I think it ok to share it with you. Well this is something I felt…” I was looking at his face unblinkingly. “ I think she was faking at night.” He spoke in a hurry as if the words were burning his tongue and he spitted it out. I dared not to ask him to repeat them. Just silent for next few moments. Quite unlike me who loves being called a chattering box. I tried my level best to fake the troubled look on his face. Honestly it was oppressive. Just to break the silnce I said, “ oye don’t bother yaar! Arre you enjoyed na?” “ well…yaa…I enjoyed. I enjoyed but you know I just felt that she was faking.” I felt his voice drowning somewhere. Pitiable, lamentable, laughable, and above all it was unresolvable. “ see bro. you enjoyed and she also did. Forget if she was faking or not. The game had a happy course. Now forget all this crap.” Supposedly my best logical consolation failed misrably. He gave me a hurt kind of look. “ how can you even talk like this man? It’s no game but a relation. Leave it, you wont understand.” I took a long breathe and repeated with a pretentious mischeviousness, “yaa. How could I understand? I am telling you man just take some gulps down and she wont be faking anymore.” I put special emphasis on the last five words and got a tired kinda smile on his face. Fish was reaaly delicious and it was a most welcome break for all of us. The taste watered my palate as we sat there waiting for our tea which abdul bhai was yet to bring. Wisdom of the day:
doubt and seriousness make a really deadly combination and it must be used with care.
Anti dotes if badly inflicted: yet to be invented.
Immunity: eat, drink, be happy.
What If it turns chronic: turn to philosophy and make the maximum of it.
Diagnosis: when you fail to answer your own questions upto your satisfaction and then try to convince others with your arguments.
What if uncared: well, that is a case study still under way. You can also contribute some data.
before the camera
Before the camera
Any date
Like 20 june 1989
I took your picture
Of laughter
Laughter such was that
As fallen from hands
A bronze plate
Do you remember
The thing
I had said
To make you laugh?
You must be laughing still
Because i have been saying the same
Sitting forgotten
The flowing teary garlands
Listen
Do see once more
On that very day’s pattern
Before this camera.
(translated from the hindi translation of Malchand Tiwari’s Rajasthani poem “ camera ke saamne”.)
Any date
Like 20 june 1989
I took your picture
Of laughter
Laughter such was that
As fallen from hands
A bronze plate
Do you remember
The thing
I had said
To make you laugh?
You must be laughing still
Because i have been saying the same
Sitting forgotten
The flowing teary garlands
Listen
Do see once more
On that very day’s pattern
Before this camera.
(translated from the hindi translation of Malchand Tiwari’s Rajasthani poem “ camera ke saamne”.)
Monday, April 13, 2009
pasikhana: temple of discards
Pasikhana: temple of discards
Pulled on the bhuiyan
India Pakistan!
Yess that salla
Bahaanchoddoesn’t return
That master’s salla
My thousand rupees
God knows what shittdung
That pasi ka bachha
Never gives an extra glass
Fucks money first
Betichod gandoo
Rythming cleavage
Sweat popping from pores
Randiya smiles mad
Mouth waters
Shimmering fire
roasting litti
Ghee dripping oh fuckk
India lost
Pakistan won
one shouted AKRAM
bastards still here
born castrated
peeping through black
I bet it’s white snow
How you know
Got any ever
Gandoo tharki saala
Saali still trickles
Sitting in her pidhiya
Roasting litti
Ghee drips oh fuckk
Only if father knows
The world of sucking hopes
Redundant strutting spirits
Worthless weight of papers
J.V.G. failed
Son of my drunk piston
That master’s saala
Honourless trust traders
Crumbled
from citadel into dust
My fleeing fucked fortune
switch off radio
match is over
B.B.C. at eight
India has lost
The pulled in the bhuiyan
One more bottle please
Three litties
Drink gandoos
bhuiyan: A low caste variant of maithili language uses this term for “ground”. Maithili is a language used in mithila. Mithila is famous as the land of raja janak and his daughter sita who later married lord ram.
bahanchod: Literally translated as sister fucker. That’s again a local pronunciation of the word. Benchod is the form that many Indian authors use. Bahaan means sister.
pasi:Pasi is a caste that deals in palm juice.
Tadi is the most popular drink among the low earners. Fermented palm juice is called tadi/taree.Son of pasi. Using one’s caste identity as an abusive word. This is commonly used against the lower caste people.
betichod: Daughter fucker
gandoo:asshole
randiya:a further demeaning way of calling someone "randi", meaning Prostitute. "rand" is a word used for young widow without any child. it has an undertone of being a loose character. widow remarriage is still not approved among the upper caste people. at the same time such widows are suspected of moral transgression due to their youth and desires. they are also sexually exploited sometimes.
Tadi is usually drunk in a group, sitting in the pasikhana(the pasi’s shop or place). Pasi’s wife sits and roasts litti. Litti is made by stuffing spiced salty sattu into besan and roasting it fire. Sometimes roasted litti is put into ghee.
AKRAM: Famous Pakistani cricket player
tharki:Male counterpart of nymphomaniac. this is a new word for maithili, brought back from metros. again a low caste's thing as standard mailthili speakers dont use this word. they can use sanskritized word like "kamatur". "kama" in sanskrit means lust.pidhiya:A wooden thing used for sitting.
JVG: A non-banking company that failed. All its small investors lost their money. most of them were poor village farmers and farm labourers who invested their petty savings with plans like daughters' marriage, financial support in old age etc. Its agents were often the biggest culprit in public opinion
DISCLAIMER: MEANING MAKING IS A SUCKING HABIT OF ALL THOSE WHO ARE AFFLICTED BY THE MYTH OF INTELLECT. are you an exception!
Pulled on the bhuiyan
India Pakistan!
Yess that salla
Bahaanchoddoesn’t return
That master’s salla
My thousand rupees
God knows what shittdung
That pasi ka bachha
Never gives an extra glass
Fucks money first
Betichod gandoo
Rythming cleavage
Sweat popping from pores
Randiya smiles mad
Mouth waters
Shimmering fire
roasting litti
Ghee dripping oh fuckk
India lost
Pakistan won
one shouted AKRAM
bastards still here
born castrated
peeping through black
I bet it’s white snow
How you know
Got any ever
Gandoo tharki saala
Saali still trickles
Sitting in her pidhiya
Roasting litti
Ghee drips oh fuckk
Only if father knows
The world of sucking hopes
Redundant strutting spirits
Worthless weight of papers
J.V.G. failed
Son of my drunk piston
That master’s saala
Honourless trust traders
Crumbled
from citadel into dust
My fleeing fucked fortune
switch off radio
match is over
B.B.C. at eight
India has lost
The pulled in the bhuiyan
One more bottle please
Three litties
Drink gandoos
bhuiyan: A low caste variant of maithili language uses this term for “ground”. Maithili is a language used in mithila. Mithila is famous as the land of raja janak and his daughter sita who later married lord ram.
bahanchod: Literally translated as sister fucker. That’s again a local pronunciation of the word. Benchod is the form that many Indian authors use. Bahaan means sister.
pasi:Pasi is a caste that deals in palm juice.
Tadi is the most popular drink among the low earners. Fermented palm juice is called tadi/taree.Son of pasi. Using one’s caste identity as an abusive word. This is commonly used against the lower caste people.
betichod: Daughter fucker
gandoo:asshole
randiya:a further demeaning way of calling someone "randi", meaning Prostitute. "rand" is a word used for young widow without any child. it has an undertone of being a loose character. widow remarriage is still not approved among the upper caste people. at the same time such widows are suspected of moral transgression due to their youth and desires. they are also sexually exploited sometimes.
Tadi is usually drunk in a group, sitting in the pasikhana(the pasi’s shop or place). Pasi’s wife sits and roasts litti. Litti is made by stuffing spiced salty sattu into besan and roasting it fire. Sometimes roasted litti is put into ghee.
AKRAM: Famous Pakistani cricket player
tharki:Male counterpart of nymphomaniac. this is a new word for maithili, brought back from metros. again a low caste's thing as standard mailthili speakers dont use this word. they can use sanskritized word like "kamatur". "kama" in sanskrit means lust.pidhiya:A wooden thing used for sitting.
JVG: A non-banking company that failed. All its small investors lost their money. most of them were poor village farmers and farm labourers who invested their petty savings with plans like daughters' marriage, financial support in old age etc. Its agents were often the biggest culprit in public opinion
DISCLAIMER: MEANING MAKING IS A SUCKING HABIT OF ALL THOSE WHO ARE AFFLICTED BY THE MYTH OF INTELLECT. are you an exception!
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
poker of the patriarch
Poker of the patriarch
In an ancient land of Sindhusthan, he was the lord. He liked singing songs that created titillation in his poker and he admired his waking up father turning inside his langot. At the acme of his popularity he decided to get himself immortalized. He chose iron as the material for making his statue but his ministers proved his wisdom a bit less thought. Iron may catch rust. And then iron could never look as ancient as a great king of his stature should appear like without appearing decadent from any angle. Court astrologers made a worldwide survey of the various arts of sculpture making in their star-studded chart and finally decided to have one, which combined the best of everywhere. Whatever was thought, planned, and decided by the court officials meant nothing unless the lord approved it. And lord’s decisions were made at the dead of the night when he lied sucking toes of some beauty and she milked him into drain. Standing poker meant all approved for the next day. And if the lord refused to budge on any decision everyone knew that last night his dog refused to budge. Some new wine, new singers, new paintings and some new beauties were sent to his regal lodge with a great hope of making the gradually defuncting poker work a few more days.
The lord stood at the height of some fifteen meters and his head was held high. flowing hair like a healthy horse’s mane was just heart snaring. His chest was bared with utmost care as not to expose the impatiently peeping ribs but show the immensity of his heart which could hold all the love and care of this world. The rest of the description may look tediously boring so let’s cut it short. He was just too much in love with his beloved poker and at no cost he was to separate from it. He wanted to have that as an integral part of his statue, standing there to command equal love, adoration and awe. While his athlete body was perfectly there to be copied, his poker was putting some strain on the artist’s imagination. No one could have pointed a single snag in the whole body he had made so far. But this poker thing! He sucked all the fingers in his both hands but still without any clue. He dared not ask anyone what he needed to proceed with the same perfection. And as most of the self proclaimed artists have the enigmatic craziness for originality, he was also too reluctant to proceed with his work unless having a detailed view of the lords poker. After several rounds of meeting in the dead of the night, leaving their wives at the mercy of some unseen but expected bed-rockers, the ministers decided to tell this problem to the lord. They just decided to hold it till the opportune day. They just waited for some favourable night. Unfortunately, neither was budging.
Artists can reach beyond the reaches of the sunlight. Poor chap cursed whoever was the maxim maker every time some one repeated It before him. only imaginative peple can understand the imaginary boundaries of imagination. He always murmured with exhaling like some watered oven. Where to get the required details for making the poker. He approached all the discarded pieces of beauties from the lords lodge. But every time he got some different idea about by now the most haunting and dreaded thing. Some went on to say that he did not even have any. Some just scratched their head as if trying to remember how many times they went to pee without feeling any urgency and then declared in an unburdening tone that he had something looking like some inverted spoon. Some just yawned and said that it was like the bottom head of a bamboo stick. One told that his was like a dancing fish which is actually suffering in the absence of water and dies in a few moments. And then just stale and stuffy outside the cavern.
Even lords get worried. Mortality makes them vulnerable to commonality. Moreover, the most effective immunity against such a common fate was still not in effect. All tried in every possible way to establish some authentic ground on which the statue can get the finality of perfection, but all for almost no result. The image of the object that the artist had to copy was still not clear . and the lord was not getting his poker correct for the last many months. No new supply was proving effective enough to affect his these days defunct poker. Finally, they gave over to technology when nature failed to help.
The artist was very busy drawing all the possible sorts of positions that could fit the lords fantasy. He took several models fitting various postures as discussed in multiple techno-philosophical, bio- technological and other scholarly texts coming from different ethno-racial sources. Everyone felt impressed by his assiduous effort and irritated by his still dissatisfied artistic satisfaction. the lord was cursing his courtiers, the artists and time. The courtiers were cursing the artist and time. The artist was cursing the bloody illusive poker that was not revealing its true image. Pokerless lord kept waiting in the open and the white cloth wrapped around his waist could not hide the absence of that cloth-elevating object. The moon changed its position every night.
One night the artist woke with some bestial noise coming from the regal lodge. he smiled . it was pleasant to his ears. he just threw some clothes over himself and ran towards the sound. The long chain of heaving and moaning could end with an orgasmic cry of despair and he did not want to loose that moment. Magnitude of the lordship at its best before it starts shrinking up again.. he pushed the door in a rush and it opened with a pull. He collided with a beauty just in her natural garb and a shriek pierced into his ears and through it into him. he felt his package humiliating mauled. The beauty leapt away without giving another glimpse.
The lord was standing near his bed with his poker still and erect, making an angle of around sixty degrees at his waist. Muscles of his butt were tense, he was biting his lips and his eyes were closed. Blood was trickling down, in inches, from the top of his poker. The artist measured the length and the angle and ran out that very moment to accomplish the long-waiting job.
People still tell the story of a mad artist who roams naked at night. Who reincarnated the great lord in his superbly built statue. The lord with his blood oozing poker is still a secret cult god of all the womanizers who perform their antics n the dead of night. As story goes, the lord died after receiving a mortal injury. He was hunting in the forest I a full moon night when a tigress attacked him from behind. Even though taken by surprise, the lord thrust his spear into his adversary’s chest. Unfortunately, he held the spear on the wrong side as the bottom side was turned at the tigress and the head was at him. The jumping tigress hit against the butt and the sharp spear tore his chest apart. A defiant roar came from his mouth and frightened the whole forest and the tigress also ran away.
His statue stands with his poker pointing to the heaven. It is in divine communion with the divine powers and whenever Sindhusthan is felt to be in any kind of problem the priests perform an appeasing and pleasing ritual which restores the earlier peace and calm. While two musicians are playing trumpet and vina respectively, priests wash the poker of the lord with sacred water and then offer fresh hymenal blood mixed with the writhing pain of the sacrificed virgin. It is believed that the lord kept penetrating hymens even until he lost his appetite for food, sense of natural calls, desire of being in this world and all the rest. It was the perfection of the performance of the royal duties and the bloodstain on his poker symbolizes the perpetual proliferation of nature’s fertility. Foreign attack or famine or any other calamity can be averted by pleasing the lord. Every true patriarch of this Sindhusthan wears a garland of miniature pokers, made after the model of the poker of the lord, and it keeps his poker working and dominating his women.
In an ancient land of Sindhusthan, he was the lord. He liked singing songs that created titillation in his poker and he admired his waking up father turning inside his langot. At the acme of his popularity he decided to get himself immortalized. He chose iron as the material for making his statue but his ministers proved his wisdom a bit less thought. Iron may catch rust. And then iron could never look as ancient as a great king of his stature should appear like without appearing decadent from any angle. Court astrologers made a worldwide survey of the various arts of sculpture making in their star-studded chart and finally decided to have one, which combined the best of everywhere. Whatever was thought, planned, and decided by the court officials meant nothing unless the lord approved it. And lord’s decisions were made at the dead of the night when he lied sucking toes of some beauty and she milked him into drain. Standing poker meant all approved for the next day. And if the lord refused to budge on any decision everyone knew that last night his dog refused to budge. Some new wine, new singers, new paintings and some new beauties were sent to his regal lodge with a great hope of making the gradually defuncting poker work a few more days.
The lord stood at the height of some fifteen meters and his head was held high. flowing hair like a healthy horse’s mane was just heart snaring. His chest was bared with utmost care as not to expose the impatiently peeping ribs but show the immensity of his heart which could hold all the love and care of this world. The rest of the description may look tediously boring so let’s cut it short. He was just too much in love with his beloved poker and at no cost he was to separate from it. He wanted to have that as an integral part of his statue, standing there to command equal love, adoration and awe. While his athlete body was perfectly there to be copied, his poker was putting some strain on the artist’s imagination. No one could have pointed a single snag in the whole body he had made so far. But this poker thing! He sucked all the fingers in his both hands but still without any clue. He dared not ask anyone what he needed to proceed with the same perfection. And as most of the self proclaimed artists have the enigmatic craziness for originality, he was also too reluctant to proceed with his work unless having a detailed view of the lords poker. After several rounds of meeting in the dead of the night, leaving their wives at the mercy of some unseen but expected bed-rockers, the ministers decided to tell this problem to the lord. They just decided to hold it till the opportune day. They just waited for some favourable night. Unfortunately, neither was budging.
Artists can reach beyond the reaches of the sunlight. Poor chap cursed whoever was the maxim maker every time some one repeated It before him. only imaginative peple can understand the imaginary boundaries of imagination. He always murmured with exhaling like some watered oven. Where to get the required details for making the poker. He approached all the discarded pieces of beauties from the lords lodge. But every time he got some different idea about by now the most haunting and dreaded thing. Some went on to say that he did not even have any. Some just scratched their head as if trying to remember how many times they went to pee without feeling any urgency and then declared in an unburdening tone that he had something looking like some inverted spoon. Some just yawned and said that it was like the bottom head of a bamboo stick. One told that his was like a dancing fish which is actually suffering in the absence of water and dies in a few moments. And then just stale and stuffy outside the cavern.
Even lords get worried. Mortality makes them vulnerable to commonality. Moreover, the most effective immunity against such a common fate was still not in effect. All tried in every possible way to establish some authentic ground on which the statue can get the finality of perfection, but all for almost no result. The image of the object that the artist had to copy was still not clear . and the lord was not getting his poker correct for the last many months. No new supply was proving effective enough to affect his these days defunct poker. Finally, they gave over to technology when nature failed to help.
The artist was very busy drawing all the possible sorts of positions that could fit the lords fantasy. He took several models fitting various postures as discussed in multiple techno-philosophical, bio- technological and other scholarly texts coming from different ethno-racial sources. Everyone felt impressed by his assiduous effort and irritated by his still dissatisfied artistic satisfaction. the lord was cursing his courtiers, the artists and time. The courtiers were cursing the artist and time. The artist was cursing the bloody illusive poker that was not revealing its true image. Pokerless lord kept waiting in the open and the white cloth wrapped around his waist could not hide the absence of that cloth-elevating object. The moon changed its position every night.
One night the artist woke with some bestial noise coming from the regal lodge. he smiled . it was pleasant to his ears. he just threw some clothes over himself and ran towards the sound. The long chain of heaving and moaning could end with an orgasmic cry of despair and he did not want to loose that moment. Magnitude of the lordship at its best before it starts shrinking up again.. he pushed the door in a rush and it opened with a pull. He collided with a beauty just in her natural garb and a shriek pierced into his ears and through it into him. he felt his package humiliating mauled. The beauty leapt away without giving another glimpse.
The lord was standing near his bed with his poker still and erect, making an angle of around sixty degrees at his waist. Muscles of his butt were tense, he was biting his lips and his eyes were closed. Blood was trickling down, in inches, from the top of his poker. The artist measured the length and the angle and ran out that very moment to accomplish the long-waiting job.
People still tell the story of a mad artist who roams naked at night. Who reincarnated the great lord in his superbly built statue. The lord with his blood oozing poker is still a secret cult god of all the womanizers who perform their antics n the dead of night. As story goes, the lord died after receiving a mortal injury. He was hunting in the forest I a full moon night when a tigress attacked him from behind. Even though taken by surprise, the lord thrust his spear into his adversary’s chest. Unfortunately, he held the spear on the wrong side as the bottom side was turned at the tigress and the head was at him. The jumping tigress hit against the butt and the sharp spear tore his chest apart. A defiant roar came from his mouth and frightened the whole forest and the tigress also ran away.
His statue stands with his poker pointing to the heaven. It is in divine communion with the divine powers and whenever Sindhusthan is felt to be in any kind of problem the priests perform an appeasing and pleasing ritual which restores the earlier peace and calm. While two musicians are playing trumpet and vina respectively, priests wash the poker of the lord with sacred water and then offer fresh hymenal blood mixed with the writhing pain of the sacrificed virgin. It is believed that the lord kept penetrating hymens even until he lost his appetite for food, sense of natural calls, desire of being in this world and all the rest. It was the perfection of the performance of the royal duties and the bloodstain on his poker symbolizes the perpetual proliferation of nature’s fertility. Foreign attack or famine or any other calamity can be averted by pleasing the lord. Every true patriarch of this Sindhusthan wears a garland of miniature pokers, made after the model of the poker of the lord, and it keeps his poker working and dominating his women.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
SALMA AGHA
SALMA AGHA
dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye,
hum vafa kar ke tanha reh gaye.
zindgi ik pyas ban kar reh gayi,
pyar ke kisse adhure reh gaye .
hum vafa kar ke tanha reh gaye
dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye-2
sayad unka aakhri ho yeh sitam,
har sitam ye soch kar hi seh gaye.
khud ko bhi hamne mita dala magar..
faasle jo darmian se reh gaye...
some unknown hand wrote down these lines and besides many things which remain, often, away from common men’s knowledge, Salma Agha immortalized them in her voice . Filtering through or trickling through, a bit tricky to decide which is right, these lines entered the You Tube.
Music has some mysterious relation with human mind. I would have used ‘heart’ but many doctors are advising against this. Science is moving forward and upward.
Immediate response was the first expected thing and it happened. The Zaheer Ahmed wrote. I cannot stop listening this music. Urdu is such a beautiful language and the voice is just amazing.
Everyone knows that NIKAH was a Bollywood film and no one can mistake while guessing its location. Fine, it might be just some confusion. Some misunderstanding of history. VinayShivlal responded with paternal correction. This is hindi dude,not urdu.
Some came around with immense liking for the music but some problem with the language. Some blamed the song of being burdened with Persian. But it was with the lyric. Music was just sublime. Some one was sighing like a hot furnace. Beautiful poetry.... finds its way straight into heart....rather a beautiful dialogue between a hopeful heart and a broken heart... wonder what happens next in such a situation.
Jenab added :
Fazaa: Atmosphere, Environment
Ravaan: Move, Flow, Soul, Life
Samaa: The heavens, sky, firmament; a canopy; height, altitude, meridian, highest or uppermost part (of anything), culminating point, prime, spring.
Qaafila: Caravan
Bikhar: Scatter
Wafa: Fulfilling A Promise, Fulfillment, Fidelity, Faithful, Sincerity, Sufficiency
Qurbatein: Closeness, Nearness, Together, (Plural of Qurbat)
Visaal: Death, Meeting, Union
The zaheer ahmed probably woke up to find that some important changes had turned the course of thought and an essential issue remained unsettled. He rolled things back in order to carry them forward.
The film is called Nikah, which in Urdu means Marriage Ceremony - no part of this film is Hindi, all the words are Urdu language. Typical Hindu! in your hatred for Pakistan and Urdu every thing that You admire is Hindi and the rest is Urdu.
Sleeves must have come up.
Quasim streched his eyes to explore some more ditches of history . and his gravity was unmistakable. Before we were British India and before that the Mughals made what is today known as India, India was never a nation state. In fact most of Pakistan belonged to Iran until Alexander the great made it part of the Hellenistic empire. However, we have a shared history that’s for sure and a lot of good art and architecture came out of that ,as did literature, dance and food. to deny this is to be blind.yet we have our own unique culture too.each province, each village!
persian and urdu both belong to indo european language, thats all. yes we have persian influence but we also have turkish,arabic and of course sanskrit and hindi.
History was witnessing its making. No error should stain our role in its making. The worst part of history is that we don’t have a say in this. But that is our predecessors’ mistake. In this age of technologically democratized world one should not miss any chance of correcting or makng the history. Drills were going on. Salma is a paki. But she made her carrer in india. Some discovered that she was a sister of Rajkapoor. The immense love was creatin an enormous amount of pressure on both the parties as salma was becoming heavier and heavier. Quasim 65 came veilding a pin in his hand to diffuse the tension. yes she is pakistani but cut the crap.not all indians are aryans and south pakistan has aryans too.
Much as I commend the noble intent behind your words, I think credit must be given where it is due. Let’s preserve the individuality and co-exist rather than trying to fuse into "one". Hindu and Muslims are different and yet they CAN co-exist with affinity. Salma Agha is Pakistani and not too Indian. We'd be hard pressed to find any Dravidian roots in her. What endears and unites her and others to each other is music, talent and "the eye of the beholder". Rather a simple concept, really.
In some other corner of the world some one was quite unaware of this urgency of the situation and unable to appreciate the noble mission of setting the historical records straight.
people i beg you all,please forget about hindu-muslim crap.we all are one.i love this song like i love my life,salma aga is as much indian as she's paki.she's my fav,nobody else cud have sung this song the way it is.absolutely amazing......NO WORDS.....never had:)
several chukling sounds echoed on this naïve request. World is not merely for such trivial
things like pleasure, amazement other innocent ga ga gas. It’s the serious jobs as of theirs that keep it going. And they were doing it.
Someone bursted in with a deafening voice. Watt u sons of fucking bitches mother fuckers go and fuck ur sisters asses . its better than liking the stinking cunt of that paki whore while sitting in india. A sudden silence . it continued. The stormy course of history halted for a moment to see the immensity of this torrential outburst. And then it changed its cource.
On this new course new events were happening to guide and protect the history. Aftab had a sheet in his hand. Nice song But I hate this women. She is a home breaker. She destroyed Mahmood Sipra's house and then Javed Sheikh’s house. Both the men divorced their wives becasue of this Two dollar Whore. She is the kind of women who will do anything for money. That’s why I hate this Bitch.
Some one was more worried. He had seen an interview of salma on you tube and the anchor, a cracking masculine voice, was pouring all his humility on her while addressing her as the asset of the land.
what a shame, now under a corrupt General we are putting kanjars as our assets..........no wonder we as a nation are going down the drain...
Again the things were contextualized on the sub continental level but in an oblique manner.
Kanjroon ka kia hota hai jo marzi bulwa lo are yeh to mazze mein thee abb haal hee mein iss kee cousins daikh lo Karina & Karishma from bollywood
Someone was making another point.
Well we call this performing arts. There is nothing with to dance and sing. Its an art. Only our backward and stupid religion tells us that we should not dance or sing. Kanjar are also children of God. So dont throw stones when you live in glass house yourself.
Dins were echoing sometimes in ding dong and sometimes in silence.
Across the wall another salma was singing in a music reality show. Some bengali song on some Bangladeshi channel. Someone smiled with compassion and sent an advice.
Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Sona Nahin Chandi Nahin Yaar to Mila Chal Pyar Kar Le...stop copying songs silly cow .
Reply came quite close to the heels.
this song is our folk song and older than 100 yrs.Yaar bina chaen kaha re was tuned by Bappi Lahiri and it was sung by Runa Laila of Bangladesh.U may know Bappi Lahiri’s old home is Bangladesh,he might've copied from here or the tune worked in d back of his mind while making Pyaar bina chaen even RD Burma and SD Burman were in Bangladesh and their old home are still in Comilla Bagnladesh. we gifted to India for them you are proud now so see back past brother.
Some old voices were still wandering in search of some empathy. Finally, they sat on their bottom, waiting for some sympathetic touch of warmth.
Adiba had seen Nikah, the film, and felt moved by it. She appreciated its effort to give women some voice. At least on the silver screen. Commendable job for its period and also quite inspiring.
It is not a slap on Islam but rather how some people misuse divorce laws for their own ends; it's not about Islam abusing women but men abusing Islam against women. ABCDE had cried-
i dont understand ur comments. there is nothing 2 do with religion or so. It’s just d love for music we come here n listen or upload our favorite songs here....so just enjoy music n give positive comments.....Allah hafiz .
dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye,
hum vafa kar ke tanha reh gaye.
zindgi ik pyas ban kar reh gayi,
pyar ke kisse adhure reh gaye .
hum vafa kar ke tanha reh gaye
dil ke arman ansuon main beh gaye-2
sayad unka aakhri ho yeh sitam,
har sitam ye soch kar hi seh gaye.
khud ko bhi hamne mita dala magar..
faasle jo darmian se reh gaye...
some unknown hand wrote down these lines and besides many things which remain, often, away from common men’s knowledge, Salma Agha immortalized them in her voice . Filtering through or trickling through, a bit tricky to decide which is right, these lines entered the You Tube.
Music has some mysterious relation with human mind. I would have used ‘heart’ but many doctors are advising against this. Science is moving forward and upward.
Immediate response was the first expected thing and it happened. The Zaheer Ahmed wrote. I cannot stop listening this music. Urdu is such a beautiful language and the voice is just amazing.
Everyone knows that NIKAH was a Bollywood film and no one can mistake while guessing its location. Fine, it might be just some confusion. Some misunderstanding of history. VinayShivlal responded with paternal correction. This is hindi dude,not urdu.
Some came around with immense liking for the music but some problem with the language. Some blamed the song of being burdened with Persian. But it was with the lyric. Music was just sublime. Some one was sighing like a hot furnace. Beautiful poetry.... finds its way straight into heart....rather a beautiful dialogue between a hopeful heart and a broken heart... wonder what happens next in such a situation.
Jenab added :
Fazaa: Atmosphere, Environment
Ravaan: Move, Flow, Soul, Life
Samaa: The heavens, sky, firmament; a canopy; height, altitude, meridian, highest or uppermost part (of anything), culminating point, prime, spring.
Qaafila: Caravan
Bikhar: Scatter
Wafa: Fulfilling A Promise, Fulfillment, Fidelity, Faithful, Sincerity, Sufficiency
Qurbatein: Closeness, Nearness, Together, (Plural of Qurbat)
Visaal: Death, Meeting, Union
The zaheer ahmed probably woke up to find that some important changes had turned the course of thought and an essential issue remained unsettled. He rolled things back in order to carry them forward.
The film is called Nikah, which in Urdu means Marriage Ceremony - no part of this film is Hindi, all the words are Urdu language. Typical Hindu! in your hatred for Pakistan and Urdu every thing that You admire is Hindi and the rest is Urdu.
Sleeves must have come up.
Quasim streched his eyes to explore some more ditches of history . and his gravity was unmistakable. Before we were British India and before that the Mughals made what is today known as India, India was never a nation state. In fact most of Pakistan belonged to Iran until Alexander the great made it part of the Hellenistic empire. However, we have a shared history that’s for sure and a lot of good art and architecture came out of that ,as did literature, dance and food. to deny this is to be blind.yet we have our own unique culture too.each province, each village!
persian and urdu both belong to indo european language, thats all. yes we have persian influence but we also have turkish,arabic and of course sanskrit and hindi.
History was witnessing its making. No error should stain our role in its making. The worst part of history is that we don’t have a say in this. But that is our predecessors’ mistake. In this age of technologically democratized world one should not miss any chance of correcting or makng the history. Drills were going on. Salma is a paki. But she made her carrer in india. Some discovered that she was a sister of Rajkapoor. The immense love was creatin an enormous amount of pressure on both the parties as salma was becoming heavier and heavier. Quasim 65 came veilding a pin in his hand to diffuse the tension. yes she is pakistani but cut the crap.not all indians are aryans and south pakistan has aryans too.
Much as I commend the noble intent behind your words, I think credit must be given where it is due. Let’s preserve the individuality and co-exist rather than trying to fuse into "one". Hindu and Muslims are different and yet they CAN co-exist with affinity. Salma Agha is Pakistani and not too Indian. We'd be hard pressed to find any Dravidian roots in her. What endears and unites her and others to each other is music, talent and "the eye of the beholder". Rather a simple concept, really.
In some other corner of the world some one was quite unaware of this urgency of the situation and unable to appreciate the noble mission of setting the historical records straight.
people i beg you all,please forget about hindu-muslim crap.we all are one.i love this song like i love my life,salma aga is as much indian as she's paki.she's my fav,nobody else cud have sung this song the way it is.absolutely amazing......NO WORDS.....never had:)
several chukling sounds echoed on this naïve request. World is not merely for such trivial
things like pleasure, amazement other innocent ga ga gas. It’s the serious jobs as of theirs that keep it going. And they were doing it.
Someone bursted in with a deafening voice. Watt u sons of fucking bitches mother fuckers go and fuck ur sisters asses . its better than liking the stinking cunt of that paki whore while sitting in india. A sudden silence . it continued. The stormy course of history halted for a moment to see the immensity of this torrential outburst. And then it changed its cource.
On this new course new events were happening to guide and protect the history. Aftab had a sheet in his hand. Nice song But I hate this women. She is a home breaker. She destroyed Mahmood Sipra's house and then Javed Sheikh’s house. Both the men divorced their wives becasue of this Two dollar Whore. She is the kind of women who will do anything for money. That’s why I hate this Bitch.
Some one was more worried. He had seen an interview of salma on you tube and the anchor, a cracking masculine voice, was pouring all his humility on her while addressing her as the asset of the land.
what a shame, now under a corrupt General we are putting kanjars as our assets..........no wonder we as a nation are going down the drain...
Again the things were contextualized on the sub continental level but in an oblique manner.
Kanjroon ka kia hota hai jo marzi bulwa lo are yeh to mazze mein thee abb haal hee mein iss kee cousins daikh lo Karina & Karishma from bollywood
Someone was making another point.
Well we call this performing arts. There is nothing with to dance and sing. Its an art. Only our backward and stupid religion tells us that we should not dance or sing. Kanjar are also children of God. So dont throw stones when you live in glass house yourself.
Dins were echoing sometimes in ding dong and sometimes in silence.
Across the wall another salma was singing in a music reality show. Some bengali song on some Bangladeshi channel. Someone smiled with compassion and sent an advice.
Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Yaar Bina Chain Kahan Re Sona Nahin Chandi Nahin Yaar to Mila Chal Pyar Kar Le...stop copying songs silly cow .
Reply came quite close to the heels.
this song is our folk song and older than 100 yrs.Yaar bina chaen kaha re was tuned by Bappi Lahiri and it was sung by Runa Laila of Bangladesh.U may know Bappi Lahiri’s old home is Bangladesh,he might've copied from here or the tune worked in d back of his mind while making Pyaar bina chaen even RD Burma and SD Burman were in Bangladesh and their old home are still in Comilla Bagnladesh. we gifted to India for them you are proud now so see back past brother.
Some old voices were still wandering in search of some empathy. Finally, they sat on their bottom, waiting for some sympathetic touch of warmth.
Adiba had seen Nikah, the film, and felt moved by it. She appreciated its effort to give women some voice. At least on the silver screen. Commendable job for its period and also quite inspiring.
It is not a slap on Islam but rather how some people misuse divorce laws for their own ends; it's not about Islam abusing women but men abusing Islam against women. ABCDE had cried-
i dont understand ur comments. there is nothing 2 do with religion or so. It’s just d love for music we come here n listen or upload our favorite songs here....so just enjoy music n give positive comments.....Allah hafiz .
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
हम
हम छी एक टा खाली घैला ...
ताप संतिप्त , व्याकुल जननी के
कर्महीन , जलरहित जलधर।
जीवन के संग्राम में भटकैत
कउनु लोहित रहित जीवित धर।
घस्कैत ,तृष्णा, शुष्क ठोर सब
हमरा जीवित बुझी आबै छैथ ;
पाबि के हमरो ओतबे व्याकुल
मुंह मोरि गरियाबाई छैथ ।
हमहूँ घुराकलौं उही मुंह के
जिम्हर हरियर देलक देखाय;
रास्ता में देखनाहर हंसला
खली घैला धन्कल जाय।
हरियरी के जैर में बैठ के
सांप बजल आबू यजमान !
ई सब पुलकित जीव सब जेकाँ
अहूँ करू ई अमृत पान ।
एखनोऊ हम छी खाली घैला ,
कानू के व्यस्त कंसार में;
अप्पन सफल उपयोग करबैत
ई उपयोग जनल संसार में ।
ताप संतिप्त , व्याकुल जननी के
कर्महीन , जलरहित जलधर।
जीवन के संग्राम में भटकैत
कउनु लोहित रहित जीवित धर।
घस्कैत ,तृष्णा, शुष्क ठोर सब
हमरा जीवित बुझी आबै छैथ ;
पाबि के हमरो ओतबे व्याकुल
मुंह मोरि गरियाबाई छैथ ।
हमहूँ घुराकलौं उही मुंह के
जिम्हर हरियर देलक देखाय;
रास्ता में देखनाहर हंसला
खली घैला धन्कल जाय।
हरियरी के जैर में बैठ के
सांप बजल आबू यजमान !
ई सब पुलकित जीव सब जेकाँ
अहूँ करू ई अमृत पान ।
एखनोऊ हम छी खाली घैला ,
कानू के व्यस्त कंसार में;
अप्पन सफल उपयोग करबैत
ई उपयोग जनल संसार में ।
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