An old man and his dog… Or the commodification of time

I met with the wise old man… I couldn’t help being distracted by his sagacious-looking labrador. The dog looked sad.. Like it had seen too many years, and wished to see no more..The man looked sad too, a wife lost, a life past…And I walked afterwards. Taking in the roads, the houses, the lives within… Two boys playing gully cricket… Workers swinging cartons from hand to hand through a human chain… Rickshaw drivers huddled over playing a game with stones and squares, excitedly cheering each other on… Lives enmeshed on a street, all part of that microcosm, yet so oblivious of each others existence.

I walked past stores I had seen for years. Then, wait…Here’s one I’ve never seen before! Almost, like I needed to know that secret to see it. The secret one knows, only when one stops seeing time as a commodity  that has a transactional value. The secret that reveals itself, when one opts to walk, like there is nothing else to be done at that moment. Walk, even when the feet hurt. Walk, even if life streaks by – hurried, honking, hasty…

Except of course, the old man and his dog…With all the time in the world…

Apitcherfullofmirth Spews Vitriol

Excerpt of conversation between apitcherfullofmirth and the Universe.

Apitcherfullofmirth (spewing vitriol) : Screw you Universe! You’re an ugly place to be..
Universe:………
Apitcherfullofmirth: You’re an ugly twisted place to be
Universe (deep solemnity):……………….

Apitcherfullofmirth (a pang of guilt): Different matter there is beauty in ugliness also
Universe (almost patriarchal):…………………..
Apitcherfullofmirth (attempt at reconciliation): The tree with red berries outside my window is quite marvelous.Ok. Thank you.

Keeping it brewing..

As long as there is love in the heart, and a Gulmohar in full bloom,
As long as there is pleasure drawn from some work well done,
And an owlet staring at you from a tree in the morning.
As long as there are friends to encourage you
The mocha will brew..

Dostoevsky

“…..As a general rule, people, even the wicked, are much more naive and simple-hearted than we suppose. And we ourselves are, too.”

— Dostoevsky in The Brothers Karamazov

Delicious Ambiguity..

I just had to post this…

“…..I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity. — Gilda Radner ……”

Me day..

Bond and chotaa left early this morning..They are missed..
Watched a mind numbing movie called ‘I love you man’ till I fell asleep..Woke up at half past noon feeling much better, but numb all the same..
Avoided all contact with the rest of humanity, except the boy who delivered my lunch of daal and roti .. tipped him generously – he’s a nice regular guy ..plus he did not try to talk to me..
Watched Iqbal.. an OK movie tempered well by the presence of Girish Karnad and Naseeruddin Shah..
Wrote a bit..Stepped outside for some fresh air.. Tree outside my room greets me..
Movie again….I cannot bear the thought of having someone’s opinion shoved into my face and I do not want to risk being impolite…Avoid all conversations..
No opinions.. no thoughts.. no hatred.. no particular love..
fatigue? don’t think so ..boredom? definitely not..
I read a bit.. Write some more..
I guess it’s just a state of being..

Pretty poetry for the day.

TO A POET A THOUSAND YEARS HENCE

by: James Elroy Flecker

I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Mæonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

Haiku mode

Mango Fruit flies
Flit over my head
Warm May morning

No 5- 7- 5 syllable structure.. Pretty much freestyle..Experimenting..

The many worlds

The other day, I read a rather innocuous article in the Hindu about a mother’s relief over the verdict passed against her son’s killer. 12 years ago, her son had died of bullets wounds when the Mumbai Police, allegedly resorted to indiscriminate firing to control a mob agitating against the desecration of Dr. Ambedkar’s statue. The courts had found the Police commissioner in charge at that time guilty.

I say innocuous, in that firstly , it had appeared in the bottom left corner of the last page of the paper. Secondly, in this great country of a billion plus, murders, injustice, agitations, scapegoats, indiscriminate firing, delayed justice are de rigeur, atleast to me. Even as I say this I feel no remorse, no shame, to admit that such incidents don’t move me as much as they did once( or so, I’d like to believe) upon a long long time ago.
But what did strangely register in my mind was the old lady’s plight. For her, the question that still lurked was “who had hung the garland of chappals on the statue?”
I do not know if the issue was politicized. I’m inclined to believe it was, as the incident occurred close to the elections. However, what Dr. Ambedkar symbolized to the many who had been discriminated against is something I cannot even begin to fathom. For that matter, I cannot comprehend what it means to be discriminated against, to live life in subjugation, a second citizen in a world you create..

The many worlds around me, that I so naively believe thread into mine in some way. ..

Pointless…

Sometimes all you can do is believe..