The rousing jingles of practised imagination
articulating her casseroled lipstick coated voice;
Seducting me at midnight with ruthless sweetness,
From prepaid to post paid was her solitary concern.
"Sir", she added with an exclamatory respectfulness
before preceding with the foreplay of my senses;
From head to heal, she covered in a minute or two
As i was led to all the holes and loop holes.
"Yes", was all my tongue could babble
in a tone of superimposed frankness;
As the equipoise of all my midnight senses
broke down to her seismic armada of promises.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
BASICALLY YOU ARE ALL GIRLS!!!!!
It was raining cats and dogs.I had no way other than to take refuge in the waiting shed till she came back from the church graveyard.I cursed my memory which always betrayed me in taking an umbrella.She was my dear friend with whom I spend seven years of my residential school life.Our school was a microcosm where we lived in an entirely different world alienated from the usual school life;where we had to make ourselves fit for the fight outside the four boundaries of our campus.
She was an extraordinary sensible girl who tried to weave her net of life like a spider but was annoyed to find herself already in the intangible mesh of fate.The strict residential school life,even from the age of eleven taught us to follow the Darwinian principle in our life.Though hostel life was amusing at first,things were different after two-three years.
Time flees away cunningly without even making others aware of the changes it make in one’s life.Like seasons change she was also changing.Transformation is somewhat terrible when it shake out the very basement of the self-made framework of presumptions and ideologies.She despised her warden who always chewed the same cud after each and every night roll call,“You know basically you are all girls” giving particular emphasis at the words “basically”and “girls”;as if it was all our fault that we were born as girls,after all she was also a woman.Hearing this we felt like dumping her into a large tumbler with boiling water in it.
It was the day when we were promoted to 9th standard.During those days it was compulsory for girls to wear “dupatta” from 9th standard onwards,for the study time during night at the school building.The echo of boys howling at very moment we entered wearing “dupatta”still reverberates in my ears and this was something she could’nt tolerate.,but I consoled her and told her to take it as a mere joke.But then,there ensued a sword play with words between my friend and one of the quarrelsome boys in our class who always found an impish pleasure in pasting the chewing gum especially in her bench.Unfortunately our warden was the duty-in- charge that day and she happened to hear her shouting at the top her voice against the boy.
After the usual night roll call ‘speech’ she was given a one hour extra ‘moralising class’ by our warden,who was not even ready to hear her arguments;but always insisted upon the fact that “basically you are all girls.”
Amidst the tough hostel life,it was her mother whom she really missed.She could never understand her mother completely and always felt that her mother completely and always felt that her mother had woven a hard shell around her which was really difficult for her to penetrate.Six hours of Parents Visiting day could’nt cement up the gap between them.But they loved each other and always wanted to say something which both could’nt tell.
Vacations were like a cool downpour in the scorching sun.She was always confused with her ‘home’and ‘hostel’.Was home her ‘hostel’or hostel her ‘home’?She felt herself like a migrating bird that always came back to spend a few days at a wonderful place.
She slept with her mother whenever her father went for night shifts and it was during such hours that she gave vent to all her emotions and thoughts.Her mother poured out her ideas about the coincidences in life,about the unconquerable Fate and about the other sides of life.Her mother always said that ‘to get a good life-partner was the same as to win a lottery.’Though she could’nt imbibe everything that her mother said,she never counter-questioned her.But time revealed all the mysteries and secrets behind her mother’s words.
It was during such a vacation that they saw an astologer who was employed in a jewelry shop for identifying one’s birth stones.After learning her birth sign he asked with surprise.”are you still living with your husband?”;for which her mother’s response was a rhrtoric smile.
She could’nt sleep that night.The astrologer’s words echoed in her ears,”its surprising that you are not divorced still.”Each word hit on her soul like a sharp sword and made deep cut wounds.Then she knew everything and realization burst upon her like a bombshell.It was all an adjustment between them.Her parents were two parallel lines living under the same roof with entirely different ideas and ideals,which she could never accept.Her mother never lost equilibrium and maintained the chord from breaking despite all the harsh realities just for the sake of her daughter.
She swithched on the light and took out the ring from the box.It was 12.30 at night.The ring which astrologer gave her mother whichn was ‘destined’ to diminish all the difficulties in her life.He also predicted that all her difficulties will come to a halt after the age of forty five. A mere stone influencing a person’s life was something indigestible for her.
Mazing motion of her stream of thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the harsh voice of her father followed by arguments which ended with her mother’s sobs.
She never dared to ask about the undercurrents in her mothre’s life which made her life a quagmire from where there was no escape unless and until all the ties were broken.
Few weeks later, one night she disclosed her first love affair[which she later told me was a mere infatuation] to her mother.A long silence ensued there after, which was broken by phone call.It brought the message of the death of her father in aroad accident and surprisingly it was a week after mother’s forty fifth birthday.
A cold hand brought me back to reality.It was she herself smilling with an umbrella in her hand.
She was an extraordinary sensible girl who tried to weave her net of life like a spider but was annoyed to find herself already in the intangible mesh of fate.The strict residential school life,even from the age of eleven taught us to follow the Darwinian principle in our life.Though hostel life was amusing at first,things were different after two-three years.
Time flees away cunningly without even making others aware of the changes it make in one’s life.Like seasons change she was also changing.Transformation is somewhat terrible when it shake out the very basement of the self-made framework of presumptions and ideologies.She despised her warden who always chewed the same cud after each and every night roll call,“You know basically you are all girls” giving particular emphasis at the words “basically”and “girls”;as if it was all our fault that we were born as girls,after all she was also a woman.Hearing this we felt like dumping her into a large tumbler with boiling water in it.
It was the day when we were promoted to 9th standard.During those days it was compulsory for girls to wear “dupatta” from 9th standard onwards,for the study time during night at the school building.The echo of boys howling at very moment we entered wearing “dupatta”still reverberates in my ears and this was something she could’nt tolerate.,but I consoled her and told her to take it as a mere joke.But then,there ensued a sword play with words between my friend and one of the quarrelsome boys in our class who always found an impish pleasure in pasting the chewing gum especially in her bench.Unfortunately our warden was the duty-in- charge that day and she happened to hear her shouting at the top her voice against the boy.
After the usual night roll call ‘speech’ she was given a one hour extra ‘moralising class’ by our warden,who was not even ready to hear her arguments;but always insisted upon the fact that “basically you are all girls.”
Amidst the tough hostel life,it was her mother whom she really missed.She could never understand her mother completely and always felt that her mother completely and always felt that her mother had woven a hard shell around her which was really difficult for her to penetrate.Six hours of Parents Visiting day could’nt cement up the gap between them.But they loved each other and always wanted to say something which both could’nt tell.
Vacations were like a cool downpour in the scorching sun.She was always confused with her ‘home’and ‘hostel’.Was home her ‘hostel’or hostel her ‘home’?She felt herself like a migrating bird that always came back to spend a few days at a wonderful place.
She slept with her mother whenever her father went for night shifts and it was during such hours that she gave vent to all her emotions and thoughts.Her mother poured out her ideas about the coincidences in life,about the unconquerable Fate and about the other sides of life.Her mother always said that ‘to get a good life-partner was the same as to win a lottery.’Though she could’nt imbibe everything that her mother said,she never counter-questioned her.But time revealed all the mysteries and secrets behind her mother’s words.
It was during such a vacation that they saw an astologer who was employed in a jewelry shop for identifying one’s birth stones.After learning her birth sign he asked with surprise.”are you still living with your husband?”;for which her mother’s response was a rhrtoric smile.
She could’nt sleep that night.The astrologer’s words echoed in her ears,”its surprising that you are not divorced still.”Each word hit on her soul like a sharp sword and made deep cut wounds.Then she knew everything and realization burst upon her like a bombshell.It was all an adjustment between them.Her parents were two parallel lines living under the same roof with entirely different ideas and ideals,which she could never accept.Her mother never lost equilibrium and maintained the chord from breaking despite all the harsh realities just for the sake of her daughter.
She swithched on the light and took out the ring from the box.It was 12.30 at night.The ring which astrologer gave her mother whichn was ‘destined’ to diminish all the difficulties in her life.He also predicted that all her difficulties will come to a halt after the age of forty five. A mere stone influencing a person’s life was something indigestible for her.
Mazing motion of her stream of thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the harsh voice of her father followed by arguments which ended with her mother’s sobs.
She never dared to ask about the undercurrents in her mothre’s life which made her life a quagmire from where there was no escape unless and until all the ties were broken.
Few weeks later, one night she disclosed her first love affair[which she later told me was a mere infatuation] to her mother.A long silence ensued there after, which was broken by phone call.It brought the message of the death of her father in aroad accident and surprisingly it was a week after mother’s forty fifth birthday.
A cold hand brought me back to reality.It was she herself smilling with an umbrella in her hand.
By,
Scorpion
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Today my mind is not right
When does the mind goes right? what is the true meaning of keeping oneself sane? These questions have always been there in my mind deep inside . But now I some times feel being sane is the most insane thing in the world.
I have wondered how some people could actually live as their heart says. Whenever I had to take a decision between the heart and the mind, I have always gone with my mind and to a large extent I was right. Those decisions never made me think the other way. But now here is one person who comes and tells me that if you think your mind you are going to ruin your life. Again my mind says , I am right.
Now arises the question is there something called a mind at all? Well , yes I believe there is, but it isn't anything different from what is called the heart. so I came to the conclusion that what I take as the mind's decision is after all what my heart says. Its just that for some the name heart is more appealing and for some the mind looks more elegant So in that person's view if I am going to ruin my life, its none other than the heart's decision
Do you guys find me in some sort of insanity? well today my mind is not right.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
EXCERPT
‘The Education of a British-Protected Child'
By CHINUA ACHEBE
Published: December 15, 2009
My Daughters
Related
'The Education of a British-Protected Child,' by Chinua Achebe: Chinua Achebe’s Encounters With Many Hearts of Darkness (December 16, 2009)
All my life I have had to take account of the million differences — some little, others quite big — between the Nigerian culture into which I was born, and the domineering Western style that infiltrated and then invaded it. Nowhere is the difference more stark and startling than in the ability to ask a parent: "How many children do you have?" The right answer should be a rebuke: "Children are not livestock!" Or better still, silence, and carry on as if the question was never asked.
But things are changing and changing fast with us, and we have been making concession after concession even when the other party shows little sign of reciprocating. And so I have learned to answer questions that my father would not have touched with a bargepole. And to my shame let me add that I suspect I may even be enjoying it, to a certain extent!
My wife and I have four children — two daughters and two sons, a lovely balance further enhanced by the symmetry of their arrivals: girl, boy, boy, girl. Thus the girls had taken strategic positions in the family.
We, my wife and I, cut our teeth on parenthood with the first girl, Chinelo. Naturally, we made many blunders. But Chinelo was up to it. She taught us. At age four or thereabouts, she began to reflect back to us her experience of her world. One day she put it in words: "I am not black; I am brown." We sat up and began to pay attention.
The first place our minds went was her nursery school, run by a bunch of white expatriate women. But inquiries to the school board returned only assurances. I continued sniffing around, which led me in the end to those expensive and colorful children's books imported from Europe and displayed so seductively in the better supermarkets of Lagos.
Many parents like me, who never read children's books in their own childhood, saw a chance to give to their children the blessings of modern civilization which they never had and grabbed it. But what I saw in many of the books was not civilization but condescension and even offensiveness.
Here, retold in my own words, is a mean story hiding behind the glamorous covers of a children's book:
A white boy is playing with his kite in a beautiful open space on a clear summer's day. In the background are lovely houses and gardens and tree-lined avenues. The wind is good and the little boy's kite rises higher and higher and higher. It flies so high in the end that it gets caught under the tail of an airplane that just happens to be passing overhead at that very moment. Trailing the kite, the airplane flies on past cities and oceans and deserts. Finally it is flying over forests and jungles. We see wild animals in the forests and we see little round huts in the clearing. An African village.
For some reason, the kite untangles itself at this point and begins to fall while the airplane goes on its way. The kite falls and falls and finally comes to rest on top of a coconut tree.
A little black boy climbing the tree to pick a coconut beholds this strange and terrifying object sitting on top of the tree. He utters a piercing cry and literally falls off the tree.
His parents and their neighbors rush to the scene and discuss this apparition with great fear and trembling. In the end they send for the village witch doctor, who appears in his feathers with an entourage of drummers. He offers sacrifices and prayers and then sends his boldest man up the tree to bring down the object, which he does with appropriate reverence. The witch doctor then leads the village in a procession from the coconut tree to the village shrine, where the supernatural object is deposited and where it is worshipped to this day.
That was the most dramatic of the many imported, beautifully packaged, but demeaning readings available to our children, perhaps given them as birthday presents by their parents.
So it was that when my friend the poet Christopher Okigbo, representing Cambridge University Press in Nigeria at that time, called on me and said I must write him a children's book for his company, I had no difficulty seeing the need and the urgency. So I wrote Chike and the River and dedicated it to Chinelo and to all my nephews and nieces.
· 1
· 2
Excerpted from The Education of a British-Protected Child by Chinua Achebe Copyright © 2009 by Chinua Achebe. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
‘The Education of a British-Protected Child'
Published: December 15, 2009
(Page 2 of 2)
(I am making everything sound so simple. Children may be little, but writing a children's book is not simple. I remember that my first draft was too short for the Cambridge format, and the editor directed me to look at Cyprian Ekwensi's Passport of Mallam Illia for the length required. I did.)
Related
'The Education of a British-Protected Child,' by Chinua Achebe: Chinua Achebe’s Encounters With Many Hearts of Darkness (December 16, 2009)
With Chinelo, I learned that parents must not assume that all they had to do for books was to find the smartest department store and pick up the most attractive-looking book in stock. Our complacency was well and truly rebuked by the poison we now saw wrapped and taken home to our little girl. I learned that if I wanted a safe book for my child I should at least read it through and at best write it myself.
Our second daughter, Nwando, gave us a variation on Chinelo's theme eight years later. The year was 1972 and the place Amherst, Massachusetts, where I had retreated with my family after the catastrophic Biafran civil war. I had been invited to teach at the university, and my wife had decided to complete her graduate studies. We enrolled our three older children in various Amherst schools and Nwando, who was two and a half, in a nursery school. And she thoroughly hated it. At first we thought it was a passing problem for a child who had never left home before. But it was more than that. Every morning as I dropped her off she would cry with such intensity I would keep hearing her in my head all three miles back. And in the afternoon, when I went back for her, she would seem so desolate. Apparently she would have said not a single word to anybody all day.
As I had the task of driving her to this school every morning, I began to dread mornings as much as she did. But in the end we struck a bargain that solved the problem. I had to tell her a story all the way to school if she promised not to cry when I dropped her off. Very soon she added another story all the way back. The agreement, needless to say, taxed my repertory of known and fudged stories to the utmost. But it worked. Nwando was no longer crying. By the year's end she had become such a success in her school that many of her little American schoolmates had begun to call their school Nwando-haven instead of its proper name, Wonderhaven.
2009
· 1
· 2
Excerpted from The Education of a British-Protected Child by Chinua Achebe Copyright © 2009 by Chinua Achebe. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Whither Left?
Salvoj Zizek to speak at Kochi Life 2010
Kochi Art and Letters Foundation is organizing Kochi Letters International Festival (Kochi Life) an annual international cultural festival on January 8th and 9th at Ernakulam Townhall.
The uniqueness of this festival is that it will be accessible to general public, reflecting the nature of the reading public for serious critical writing here. It will be open to everyone who is a bibliophile, from domains like art, theater to music and architecture.
The festival is guided by its creative directors, leading cultural activist and film maker Sashikumar and noted academic and thinker Dr. Nizar Ahmed.
Please feel free to forward ths mail to friends who might be interested
Registration fee Rs 300
For students Rs 150
For registration write to info@kochilife.in
or call at +91 9746758307
Kochi Life
Ground Floor
Kurian Towers, Banerjee Road, Kochi Kerala, India 682018
www.kochilife.in
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Hindu Metro Plus Playwright Award
Hey guys,
Here is a wonderful opportunity to win 1 lakh rupees. Have a look at the news in the link and do give ink to your imagination.
Monday, December 7, 2009
convenience
This a sudden thought that spranged up my mind when i went to see the new born baby of my cousin.That was a caeserain[ first to be done to get caeser out of her mother's womb]. In earlier times, it was believed, at least in the hindu customs, that a baby should be born by natural birth and anything that happens before the desired time is not a good omen and the baby wont be a healthy one too.I dont know how much credibility is in this statement but I am used to hear such comments.
But this has become completely out of the way. As per the doctors a child can be taken out its mother's womb when it completes 8 months growth. That means there is no point in mothers crying out the labour of 10 months carriage and there is no labour pain atall. This leads to the age old belief that eve was punished to have labour pain during the birth of a child for her disobedience.Since there is no labour what pain!!!!!!!!
Coming back to the birth of the child, as the mothers and the uncles where talking about the preparation of horoscope of the new born , it suddenly struck my mind,when its a preplanned delivery of a child what are these planets and grahas have to do with it? Its is not as said" god given". It has become "Dr. given".Many gynacologists admit that since there is the possiblity of taking the child out through operation many people nowadays prefer that and the most funny part is that they will go to astrologers and decide the most auspicious day so that the child should be born when the planets are in good mood.
The whole system is got, I dont know if I can use the word wrong but yes of course changed. Its not for the sake of the belief that God decides the time of birth , it because at least the things which can happen naturally should be allowed to be so. After all it has a natural cycle which has to be revolved.
But this has become completely out of the way. As per the doctors a child can be taken out its mother's womb when it completes 8 months growth. That means there is no point in mothers crying out the labour of 10 months carriage and there is no labour pain atall. This leads to the age old belief that eve was punished to have labour pain during the birth of a child for her disobedience.Since there is no labour what pain!!!!!!!!
Coming back to the birth of the child, as the mothers and the uncles where talking about the preparation of horoscope of the new born , it suddenly struck my mind,when its a preplanned delivery of a child what are these planets and grahas have to do with it? Its is not as said" god given". It has become "Dr. given".Many gynacologists admit that since there is the possiblity of taking the child out through operation many people nowadays prefer that and the most funny part is that they will go to astrologers and decide the most auspicious day so that the child should be born when the planets are in good mood.
The whole system is got, I dont know if I can use the word wrong but yes of course changed. Its not for the sake of the belief that God decides the time of birth , it because at least the things which can happen naturally should be allowed to be so. After all it has a natural cycle which has to be revolved.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Lost Art of Handwriting. Umberto Eco
Recently, two Italian journalists wrote a three-page newspaper article (in print, alas) about the decline of handwriting. By now it's well-known: most kids – what with computers (when they use them) and text messages – can no longer write by hand, except in laboured capital letters.
In an interview, a teacher said that students also make lots of spelling mistakes, which strikes me as a separate problem: doctors know how to spell and yet they write poorly; and you can be an expert calligrapher and still write "guage" or "gage" instead of "gauge".
I know children whose handwriting is fairly good. But the article talks of 50% of Italian kids – and so I suppose it is thanks to an indulgent destiny that I frequent the other 50% (something that happens to me in the political arena, too).
The tragedy began long before the computer and the cellphone.
My parents' handwriting was slightly slanted because they held the sheet at an angle, and their letters were, at least by today's standards, minor works of art. At the time, some – probably those with poor hand- writing – said that fine writing was the art of fools. It's obvious that fine handwriting does not necessarily mean fine intelligence. But it was pleasing to read notes or documents written as they should be.
My generation was schooled in good handwriting, and we spent the first months of elementary school learning to make the strokes of letters. The exercise was later held to be obtuse and repressive but it taught us to keep our wrists steady as we used our pens to form letters rounded and plump on one side and finely drawn on the other. Well, not always – because the inkwells, with which we soiled our desks, notebooks, fingers and clothing, would often produce a foul sludge that stuck to the pen and took 10 minutes of mucky contortions to clean.
The crisis began with the advent of the ballpoint pen. Early ballpoints were also very messy and if, immediately after writing, you ran your finger over the last few words, a smudge inevitably appeared. And people no longer felt much interest in writing well, since handwriting, when produced with a ballpoint, even a clean one, no longer had soul, style or personality.
Why should we regret the passing of good handwriting? The capacity to write well and quickly on a keyboard encourages rapid thought, and often (not always) the spell-checker will underline a misspelling.
Although the cellphone has taught the younger generation to write "Where R U?" instead of "Where are you?", let us not forget that our forefathers would have been shocked to see that we write "show" instead of "shew" or "enough" instead of "enow". Medieval theologians wrote "respondeo dicendum quod", which would have made Cicero recoil in horror.
The art of handwriting teaches us to control our hands and encourages hand-eye coordination.
The three-page article pointed out that writing by hand obliges us to compose the phrase mentally before writing it down. Thanks to the resistance of pen and paper, it does make one slow down and think. Many writers, though accustomed to writing on the computer, would sometimes prefer even to impress letters on a clay tablet, just so they could think with greater calm.
It's true that kids will write more and more on computers and cellphones. Nonetheless, humanity has learned to rediscover as sports and aesthetic pleasures many things that civilisation had eliminated as unnecessary.
People no longer travel on horseback but some go to a riding school; motor yachts exist but many people are as devoted to true sailing as the Phoenicians of 3,000 years ago; there are tunnels and railroads but many still enjoy walking or climbing Alpine passes; people collect stamps even in the age of email; and armies go to war with Kalashnikovs but we also hold peaceful fencing tournaments.
It would be a good thing if parents sent kids off to handwriting schools so they could take part in competitions and tournaments – not only to acquire grounding in what is beautiful, but also for psychomotor wellbeing. Such schools already exist; just search for "calligraphy school" on the internet. And perhaps for those with a steady hand but without a steady job, teaching this art could become a good business.
• Umberto Eco's latest book is On Ugliness. He is also author of the international bestsellers Baudolino, The Name of the Rose and Foucault's Pendulum, among others.
© The New York Times 2009 (Distributed by The New York Times Syndicate)
· guardian.co.uk © Guardian News and Media Limited 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
One for the Road
One more peg:
the road now a dizzying black
shining, silver sheets of rain
trees silhouetted drenched,
yet eerily golden, on the rocks;
springing metal and cushion and body
a whirr, a blur
a near hit;
a golden arc tracing the
asphalt, then the smell
of rubber against gravel
mixing with earthy vapours,
then a heady feel.
The road and the rain
inseparably caught in a moment
inebriate;
from drops to torrent
branching into highways of the mind
taking streets and lanes.
Faint recall of faces.
The wiper in its interval
spacing out the open gate,
the driveway, the porch;
the water flicked into darkness,
the road turned away from the open gate
The glass and the lips
arrival and departure.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Poem?
Glass, pens and rubber to eat
Buffaloes and beatles rummaging my brain
Fallen things are always kept apart
Soul's music disappoints a lot
Hard rock stuffs are eaten with sauce
Dry mind dry consciousness
But enough signifiers to bring enough signifieds
My (unintentional)experiments cease here
Now you can start with your's with meaning.
Pramod L. S.
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