Silly!

Today.

I will tell you a story of a boy and a girl. A girl and a boy.

---

Back Then.

They walked on the streets. Long walks and shorter ones. Days and Nights and Days. Cuddling up and dreaming of a life, together. Her shyness and his anxiety. Their love. Days and Nights and Days. Her pretty face. The most beautiful thing on earth. Her tears, the worst.

He remembers them. All of them and much more. And yet, he often struggles to find the details of the moments revelled. Ask him, and he would fumble. And deep inside his heart, in his subconscious, each and every second of her time, all of it, is etched with vigour. He remembers the aroma of her hair. The touch of her hand. The feel of her fabric. The sound of her steps and yawns. God! She looks the cutest when she yawns. The pouting face of hers, he remembers. And the baby voice she makes on the phone still stirs his soul. He remembers the sight of her eyes. The cornea. And the taste of her labial commissures. Morning rays were the best. Falling on her sleepy face, they made her hold his hands, breathe calmly, open her eyes and prepare her to bless another day of his life. He today lives to get blessed for the whole of his life, every day. And he will.

I also know with great amazement how she made him fall in love with the city. Her city. He calls it. He never liked it. No, nothing of it. And she, slowly, with her magical demeanour and love, turned it to his favourite one.  He loves the many streets. He loves the shops and the alleys. And the people and dogs of it. He loves the markets, the malls and the bazaars. He wanders there to breathe the air where once she laughed with him. He loves the yellow cabs. He gets into them more often in the hope of getting into the one where once she tried to open his fist. Or the ones where she kissed him. He even loves his own house. He wanders lonely staring at the nearby lakes and the trees and the corridors of his building. He eats the same food which she ate. And he leaves half of it, because they ate together. Silly! The wrinkles of the sheet, he desires to preserve. The wrinkles of the dance and the love-fights and the hugs. He shows me a spot, on the table cloth, of ketchup. She dropped it while giving him a bite of her sandwich.  It was her sandwich, he emphasizes. I remember him keeping a broom. His room was now a dirty mess. And while he was at it, telling me his stories, he took a shirt off the hanger and found a long hair. Must have worn it while she was here.

He is getting a call from her and he must step out of his room. And beside his phone, there is a box lying. A simple box of cardboard. Simple enough to get ignored. He goes out and I am at the box. There are few long hairs, a pointed gravel just like the one that gets stuck on your sole, some very old movie tickets, a Miss Lee clothing label, a broken tip of what seems to me a Kaajal and two Kurkure pieces.

---

Today.

I have a dinner invitation and I should get going. It’s their eighth anniversary. I must also get something for their kids. A boy and a girl. A girl and a boy.

---

Prior to Back Then.

He comes back to his room after dropping her off. Opens the lock. Click. Tip. The light is on. Used plates of the sandwich that was love. They had shared in the morning. A book he read to her. It was open. A pack of Kurkure she ate. He leaps at it. Creeech-Crrrruch. The sound of the orange plastic bag. His hands dig into it. Spicy smell of the two leftover pieces. Caressing his senses. He kisses them. Preserve the love, shall we? In the box.

An Idiot in the Classroom

The sententious sermon slips through my soul like a snake in a stream,

Unaware if it’s dead or alive.

I reject to receive the rhetorical knowledge,

Like a yak in the mountains, only thinner.

Faith

I was travelling from Yumthang Valley to Yume Samdong, also called the Zero Point, in Sikkim in a Jeep. With a temperature below the freezing point, cool mountain wind caressing my face and a terrain that was bound to either take your heart away or your life, I felt blessed to be there at that moment, far away from the worries of the world, far away from expectations and deliberations, free from the sweet shackles of shimmering relations. Just me.

And then I came across these stacks of stones placed very carefully on both sides of the road. And there were many of them. I asked my driver, who was a local resident of Lachung, the nearest inhabited place, about them and what I got to hear was at one hand a very simple and straightforward explanation, and on the other hand a deeply moving expression of faith and beauty amidst the toil of nature.

“We are Buddhists. This is how we pray to our God for the Snow.”

“Ok. Tell me more.”

“This is the time when we expect snowfall in our land. Where you are going now, Sir, you will find fresh snow. You will play with it and click pictures. For us it’s the matter of livelihood. As you can see there is no snow to be seen around even here at Yumthang Valley, leave alone Lachung.”

He was right. I was waiting with baited breath to see the snow all around me but all I could see was the visage of huge naked rocky mountains.

“If we do not get the snowfall in time, our crops will die. If that happens, it will be extremely difficult for us to carry on with our livelihood. So we pray with these stones to the God for a timely snowfall.”

He said this and drove his way to Yume Samdong, dodging a few boulders that rolled their way down on our jeep. And then it struck to me. Even when you are at a place so far from worldly distractions, worries and woes, you are afraid. You are afraid of the nature and for your survival. This is what makes us a living creature. And to counter it, we have faith. Faith.

Let me be here and soak in all the pleasure, for the nature beholds the beauty.

And let me feel the fear, for everyday I used to die.

Let me live the moment and take a leap of faith.

And let me be a stone left there to pray.

I opened the window of my jeep and inhaled life.

(First published on http://shishirkc.tumblr.com)

Free to Live

I despise the rules of the game.

The game that faces play with each other.

The game that a mortal wins and loses to another mortal.

I reject the order of the world. Universe.  

The order that kills the unordered.

The order that beautifies beauty and abandons the ugly.

I ignore the grammar of the language.

The grammar that has no meaning for the uninitiated.

The grammar that not a child knows

Yet he explains with vigor, his thoughts.

I ignore the knowledge of the world.

Knowledge that makes me conscious.

Knowledge that forces me to acquire more of it without any purpose.

I abandon the rationality of humanity.

Rationality that murders the creativity.

Rationality that rapes the innocent art of children.

Picasso said – "It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child”

I hate world acknowledging Picasso.

Or for that matter Einstein or Brahma or Peacock.

Who are you to prove the existence of the illusion

That you see through your conditioned thought process.

What is Art? What is Fairness? What is Life? What is Sex?

I want to go, move, die in the womb of nature.

Nature alone beholds the truth. The truth of illusion.

I am an illusion.

Free to wander and live and die.

I am Music

I am cursed. Wherever I go, people forget everything. If they loved something, they start loving me when they meet me. My name is Musicachand Musiclal. My father Oboe Trumpet and my mother Flute Piano fell in love and created Musicachand Musiclal, in short, Music. Then they sent me all over the world. People hated me. They said – “Music is unlucky. Wherever he goes, people start liking Music and forget everything. They want everything to be turned to Music.” I had the power, my mother Flute Piano had once told me, to make clones of myself. So, I was there. So many of me. Everywhere I went, I left at least one Music behind me.

Now,everywhere Musics grew from their childhood to adolescence to adulthood. But my father had once told me – “Music, you will never die!” So, Musics never died. Each Music had my powers so they created more Music and even more Music. People threw Rock at them. They turned Rock to Music. People Beat them. They turned Beat to Music. People started Popping them. They turned Pop into Music. People tied them with wires and put them in drums. They made Music out of Wires and Drums. In this way, Musics were everywhere. I am not joking. You can still see Rock Music and Pop Music and hear Music from Wires and Drums and Beats. As you notice, I never lie. Music never lies. I used to have a friend who was really pretty. I loved her. Now she is my wife. Her name is Word. She always lies. I do not lie, never. But still I love her. We even have a child and we have named her Song. She is very sweet.

But I have to run away from them. People have started hating them because I am with them and they hate Music.

So, I run away.

------------------

“I would likes the arrangements done to turned the Queen into a music. Don’t you understood my word? I orders you to call Queen and turns him to a music! Fast, before she run away!”

“I will liked the arrangements did to turns the Queen to music. Haven’t you understand my words? I order you to bring Queen and turned her in music! Hurry, before she runned away!”

“I would like the arrangements to be done to turn the Queen into a musical note. Didn’t you get my words? I order you to bring the Queen and turn her into music! Fast, before she runs away!”

I worked in the courts of 3 Kings. As I was cursed, they started liking me. So, I had to turn their Queens to Music. I believe you all have understood what the 3 Kings said in the above 3 dialogues. Not the Word, but the meaning! Only I can understand Word. No one else can. Anyway, if you have understood the meaning why did you keep noticing the Grammar of the dialogues? Is it so important even when the meaning has been conveyed to you?

I have always hated Grammar and till now, me and all other Musics have stayed away from it. But my Word couldn't. Grammar came to know about Word and forced her to marry him. My daughter Song somehow fled from that place and now lives with me. But I feel sorry for Word. I cry everyday. Word, where are you? Please come back to me. Please. Please. Please. We will live happily here. I now live in a country called Internet. Almost one of every kind of Musics are here, Rock Music, Pop Music and some others like Jazz Music and Classical Music. I do not earn much here except when I occasionally go to work at a place called iTunes. But it’s still very nice here. Everyone loves Musics and Song is everyone’s favorite. But I miss you, Word. Please come back! I am waiting. I am pining for you. I am… (I have lost Word. Can’t say anything more.)

Two Sons of the Storyteller

Notes:
1. The content below contains major spoilers. It also contains some words (in fact, just one or two) which do not exist in English Language (or for that matter, any language) and are grammatically incorrect but have been used to depict the essence of the matter.
2. This is the exact replica of the review I submitted during the course on 'Introduction to Literature' at IIT Delhi. Therefore, please do not copy. No. Do not even think of copying a single sentence.


For once, imagine yourself in the shoes of a kid. What would you prefer? Listening to a story with characters having interesting names and styles of speaking along with an even more interesting story, or watching some other kid play a video game which, even if you wholeheartedly desire to play, ignoring all its flawed rules, you cannot do so. The dilemma here is similar to the dilemma of choosing between Salman Rushdie’s “Haroun and the Sea of Stories” and its sequel by the same author – “Luka and the Fire of Life”.

The two books revolve around storyteller Rashid Khalifa who has two sons – Haroun and Luka, the latter one being non-existent in the first book, and therefore is the younger one. It’s needless to say which book narrates the story of which son. However, what is needed to be mentioned here is the fact that Salman Rushdie also has two sons – Zafar and Milan. The first book was written for Zafar just after the declaration of Fatwa against Mr. Rushdie following the publication of ‘The Satanic Verses’. It’s quite obvious the younger son also wanted a book for himself and therefore we have, in front of us, the adventures of Luka.


In “Haroun and The Sea of Stories”, Rashid Khalifa, the Shah of Blah, the Ocean of Notions, - living with his family in a sad city, the saddest of cities, a city so ruinously sad that it has forgotten its name - loses his ability to tell stories! (Such a self-conscious plot of not being allowed to tell stories!) I won’t divulge the details of whys and hows but, yes, post this mishap, Rushdie makes Haroun embark on a spectacular and spellbinding adventure along with the readers, and, of course, Iff the Water Genie and Butt the Hoopoe.


The name of the city turns out to be Kahani.


In “Luka and The Fire of Life”, Rashid Khalifa, the Shah of Blah, the Ocean of Notions, - living with his family in a happy city, the happiest of cities, a city, as mentioned beforehand, called Kahani - falls into a deep sleep! Yet again, I won’t divulge the details of hows and whys but yes, post this mishap, Rushdie makes Luka (or was it Luka himself? After all, he wanted a Harounish adventure of his own! – or a book of his own – Milan!!) embark on a not-so-spectacular and not-so-spellbinding videogamish adventure along with the readers, and, of course, Bear the dog, Dog the bear and Nobodaddy.
It is of general opinion, and quite supported by me as well, that the second book didn’t match up to the grandeur of the first one. Both books are, without any doubt, very well written but the inherent aura is somehow missing in the latter. “Haroun and The Sea of Stories” seems highly inspired by the stories of old world fantasy tales especially Arabian Nights and therefore we have genies and giant talking birds and foolish prince and croaking princess… One can find some exact incarnations of characters specified by Vladimir Propp’s analysis of Fairy Tales – The Hero, The Villain, The Helper, The Dispatcher, The Princess and Her Father, etc.


However, even after being so similar to the much older fiction, one can clearly notice the imagination of a visionary author. The notion of supply of story water, stream and sea of stories, their pollution that has adversely affected the city of Gup (Hinting at the environmental pollution, is he?), giving each story an ID to get identified (For example, G/1001/RIM/777/M(w)I for ‘Rapunzel’) and the whole idea of stopping an alternate moon from revolving and then setting it back to motion using what he calls P2C2E (Process Too Complicated To Explain) is just stupendous. Rushdie, known for his play of words and stylized use of language, uses his skill to create a fantastic world out of his words with a freedom of choosing a Hindi, or an Urdu, or majorly an English word. The names of the characters are the words of daily usage from one of the above mentioned languages and, therefore, the readers of these languages, like me, feel more amused and somehow attached to the characters and the story. After all, how can one forget characters named Iff and Butt who speak typical of their names, Prince Bolo, Princess Baatcheat, General Kitaab, The cities of Gup and Chup, Gardener Maali, Land of Baat-Mat-Karo and a lot more. (He even borrows names of two characters from one of Satyajit Ray’s films) Pathos, Humour, Pity, Action, Adventure - Rushdie sums them all up in those wild 211 pages while keeping its soul confined to the Indian Subcontinent. The only problem I have with this book is the weak and meek image in which the female characters have been portrayed. Soraya Khalifa, Haroun’s and Luka’s mother, and Mrs. Onita Sengupta, their neighbour, have been shown extremely helpless and have not been given much importance and Princess Baatcheat is there just to be made fun of.
20 odd years pass by.


It’s the age of PSP and Wii. (or, pisps and wees, as Soraya calls them). And, of course, the age of Luka. The world is becoming global and one cannot remain confined to the Indian Subcontinent. The storyteller has to cover Indian as well as Sumerian and Egyptian and Greek and Roman mythologies. But, as we have expected, he falls into a deep sleep. Luka, go and save your father, like your brother did! And there he goes. Rushdie, after a hiatus, gets back to writing a children’s fiction. He very consciously creates a whole new World of Magic and takes a modern approach to design it – Video Games! Yes, Video Games! So when Luka steps into the World of Magic, the counter of his lives appear on the upper corner of his field of view. There are Save Buttons, Extra Lives, the animated disintegration and subsequent integration of bodies and what not. Rushdie tries well and hard, but alas, he tries too hard. He builds up the character of Soraya as the one who just cannot comprehend video games. Well, Mr. Rushdie, even after his worthy effort at understanding them, fails to create a convincing videogamish world and we can observe a reflection of Soraya in him (or the vice-versa). For instance, in video games, we lose multiple health units at a time, and if they end, we lose a life. But Luka has 999 lives and loses multiple lives in one shot of a gun. There is no notion of ‘health units’. Ok… many will say it’s a variation of the same concept but what about ‘save points’? When one loses a life, one is supposed to start from the last saved point but nothing of that sort happens here (except some exceptions) even when save points exist and have been given much importance as well. Many times, Luka loses some 100 lives, disintegrates and then integrates back at the same place and continues his fight sequence and sometimes he goes back to the saved point. Inconsistent, isn’t it? Another major factor that goes against the novel is the whole setup of you-are-watching-someone-else-play-a-game-you-cannot-play! To me, personally, watching someone else play a video game and make mistakes, add to that the inconsistent rules of the game, had always been depressing. So what, if it’s just a story! It is never just a story.


Even the charm of fairy tales, that was so prominent in “Haroun and The Sea of Stories”, is missing here, maybe because the author, in his quest to create a modern magical world, unconsciously does away with the requisite elements. The humor is almost absent. In fact, the story is much darker as compared to its prequel. There is a lot of killing, gore, betrayal, talks of death and the dead, scary Gods and Devils, etc. which I believe is too much for a children’s fiction.
However, Rushdie improves in the area of depicting women – the problem that I had with the first book. Although, there are only two women in this book, the character of Insultana is depicted as a powerful one who plays an important part in Luka’s quest. The role of Propp’s Magical Helper is quite obviously shared by her and Nobodaddy. Even, the class conflict between Respect-seeking Rats (Respectorates) and Otters (the subject of Insultana) has been depicted very well although in a deteriorating manner.


Rushdie goes beyond the Indian Subcontinent, and this is the part that I liked the most, and incorporates plots and characters from other cultures as well and we get to know that the storyteller has already told the tales of Sumerian origin, or for that matter, Japanese or Egyptian or Greek or Roman. The characters are not only named Captain Aag, Bahut-Sara, Badlo-Badlo, Jo-Hai, Jo-Hua aur (err.. and) Jo-Aiga, but also Ratshit, Insult-ana, Respectorate, Ratatat, and Gods like Huitzilopochtli (Aztec), Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli (Aztec), Kishimojin (Japanese), Sphynx (Oedipus Rex!) and Ra and Anzu speaking Hieroglyph and Sumerian. To be true, the alternate invisible moon of Haroun’s Adventure stands nowhere in front of the World of Magic of Luka’s Adventure in terms of richness in diversity and magical elements but that’s not enough. The elaboration of the explanation of the world, and more importantly, the connection with it is missing. Even the direct counterparts of certain characters in the first book were as not as memorable as them. (The Elephant-Ducks in the sequel were as if they never existed as against the rhyming fish-duo of Goopy and Bagha). How I wish the cities and creatures, over which the characters in “Luka and The Fire of Life” flew sitting on a flying carpet, would have been a part of the adventure as well.


Salman Rushdie writes on Pg. 13 (Luka and The Fire of Life) – “Life is tougher than video games” and on Pg. 130 (Luka and The Fire of Life) – “We aren’t needed anymore, or that’s what you all think, with your High Definitions and low expectations”. Brilliant comments and hats-off to them Mr. Rushdie, but if this is the concern, why to build up a half-baked extremely pretentious videogamish world when we were so happy with the old world fantasy?

Parting in Love

Feel the music. Shall we? The light tune playing in the background while we sit beside each other. Neither holding hands, nor speaking to each other. Just sitting.

I feel like cutting off my legs. So that you will weep and kiss. No, not the hands. They should be there to comfort you, and make you feel I will be there. Without legs. Weird thought, isn’t it? I know it is weird but what can I do; I just go weird with weird thoughts thinking about us in a weird way sitting beside you. I love you.

From where have you come? Which city will you go? I think this, and a lot more, astonished. A face so moon like. Hairs so night like. I feel dizzy. You are so mesmerizing. I want to spend my death with you. I don’t want to spend my life with you and then die someplace else. I want to die in front of you. Close my eyes with my last sight being your eyes.

Why am I crying? I don’t want to cry. What will they think. I am crying because I am with you? This is true but what is not true is their interpretation. Yes, you make me cry. Yes, I would have been laughing had I not been here. You are so pathetic. My heart is crying its heart out. I feel like cutting my right hand too in which, once I had held a bunch of green grass, kneeling down, and had asked you to accept me. There were no flowers in the vicinity. Not my fault. Flowers. Why are girls attracted to flowers? They are the most repulsive things on earth. Especially that red thorny foul smelling piece of shit which feels as if various thin layers of the internal part of someone’s cheek has been peeled off, colored red with blood and bunched together. I like your cheeks. They are so smooth and kissable. I have never kissed on lips. Lips of Angelina Jolie. Haah. Angelina Jolie was out there to kill people, and her husband. Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, a very Jewish one, planned to kill Hitler. Nazis. They made so many people cry. They burnt them. Cut them. I feel like cutting my left hand. Or is it right? Whatever. I regret the day I proposed you. Had that not occurred, I would not have loved you to the extent I do now. And I would have been smiling. I say smiling and not happy. Because.. you know what, you cutie-beauty, you little fluffy chocolate-pie, you moon-baby.. that I cannot ever again in my life time or till endless eternity be ever as happy as you make me. Chorus had once blathered, no man can be called happy until he dies happily. But I contradict them. I am happy, you sophoclical oedipal morons! And even if I cut all my body parts. And die. I will be called happy because in my lifetime, I got loved by this piece of moon. And, its so terrible but yes, loved her too.

We are parting baby. I cannot bear this. Please speak something. I know all the fear-of-suffering-is-worse-than-the-suffering-itself stuff, but I suffer now. I don’t know if I’ll suffer in the future but I suffer now. Please, let’s never part. Never. Never. Never. Never. Never. I will give you all my hands and legs and hats and books. But don’t go away sweetheart. We’ll meet. Right? Will we meet again baby? Haan? Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Please speak something. Something. Something. Please.

‘I Love You. Be there for me always.’

She said. Guys she said something. Please speak again. Once again please let the stream of musical words flow out of the shining glacier of that hell-of-a face. I can die thousand times to hear that, whatever you said.

‘Let’s Go. You will miss your rickety bus.’

Oh. “Let’s Go!”