Wednesday, October 30, 2019

Making Sense of Chris Marker’s La Jetée and Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival

To speak of the experience of La Jetée would be futile. For around fifty odd years, the flamboyant circles of cinephiles and critics have done just that. What leads me to speak of the infamous La Jetée is in part due to its semblance that I think I’ve witnessed to Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival.
Chris Marker’s La Jetée and Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival are the products of different eras of time, yet they highlight a transgression of the physical and temporal divide. The ideas both texts try to articulate using the language of cinema are entwined. What is remarkable about the former is that it has created an arena of expression that paves way for filmmakers like Villeneuve. In other words, Chris Marker’s La Jetée and Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival are products of different variables that bring to the foreground of cinema a common debate i.e. the filmmaker’s understanding and portrayal of time.

In the early decades of the 20th century, Soviet filmmaker Lev Kuleshov, experimented with a rather simplistic method of editing. He alternated a shot of a rather sombre faced man with that of a bowl of soup, a girl in a coffin etc. Each time the audience saw these alternating shots, they had come to varying conclusions. The face of the man followed by the bowl of soup led viewers to believe that the scene and particularly the face of the man signified hunger. The same face followed by the girl in the coffin led people to believe that the face of the man signified sadness. This little experiment cemented Kuleshov’s belief that editing did play a vital part in the creation of meaning which was further influenced by the viewer’s own emotional inclinations. This phenomenon can never be considered a technique or an invention by the Russian filmmaker, just like how Newton gave gravity a vocabulary, so did Kuleshov.

La Jetée and Arrival both exhibit the Kuleshov Effect right in the beginning of the narrative. Both films exhibit a compulsive tendency to create their own universes in the pursuit to further critique the reality of our daily lives and lived experiences and not just mirror our collective experience of reality. If most films under the science fiction genre look outward beyond star clusters and galaxies for meaning, La Jetée and Arrival have an eerie sense of looking inwards, into their own absurd selves to make sense of it all. The Kuleshov Effect for Marker and Villeneuve is not a way of justifying the narrative but a way of making sense of it. Hence the resultant effect is that in both films our understanding of time is subverted and for a brief while in our existence, we as an audience remain in awe of an experience of time that is non-linear and encompassing.

The moment any work of art is put beneath the violent gaze of the critic it bares itself in defiant submission and we see the skeleton and soul of that work, the structure and its theme. For me, the thematic or the content should be a gentle reflection of the nuances of the structure or form (for if the reflection did not complement why would Nárkissos stay so long by the pool of water in which he met himself?)

In La Jetée and Arrival the presence of the Kuleshov Effect becomes the cementing force that merges the thematic with the structural. For instance if we were to look at the early scene in La Jetée in which the narrator states that; ‘This is the story of a man marked by an image from his childhood. The violent scene that upset him and whose meaning he was to grasp only years later…’ followed by the image of the man crumpling to the ground we are led to believe everything that happens after this scene is the linear progression of time.

The same can be told of the opening sequence of Villeneuve’s Arrival as well. The montage that shows us Louise Banks and the resulting tragedy of her daughter in film followed by Banks at her school on the day of the alien’s arrival and our deductive understanding of Bank’s emotions creates the Kuleshov Effect in Villeneuve’s  Arrival.  Evan Puschak at the Nerdwriter explains this scene and goes on to say that the resulting effect forces us, the audience, to infer meaning from the two scenes and posit the character’s indifference as despondency.

For me the presence of death and the non-linear timeline that disrupts our conditioned understanding of cause and effect becomes a willing performance of the narrative in which narrative elements of the film amalgamate into the structural elements or the structural cohesion of the film.

There is no escape neither from La Jetée nor Arrival once you hit play. Both Marker and Villeneuve are in conversation with each other. It is beside the point for one to argue whether or not this homage Villeneuve ultimately pays Marker is a conscious one or not. As a movie goer, for me it is important for cinema to converse and cut across the boundaries of space and time. The ability for a film to talk back to another separated by almost half a century and a millennia of technological difference mirrors how our own thoughts exist and find voice. Ideas are never independent, and when ideas are conveyed through images why should they remain isolated?

Thomas Sterne Eliot in Tradition and the Individual Talent says ‘No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must see him, for contrast and comparison, among the dead.” In an age of where there is an ‘Epidemic of Passable Movies’ it is reassuring to see Marker and Villeneuve walk past each other amongst a crowd of filmmakers, an avalanche of images, a sea of sound and gently nod at each other with an air of subtle reassurance.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Coil


First Published in Efiction India Vol. 02 Issue 08

The air is still. The room is empty. The dim glow of the light bulb still continues to illuminate that lonely corner. The falcon still cannot hear the falconer. 

In that empty room filled with stagnant air sheltered by the darkness the light bulb so conveniently nurtures with its embers, sits an eerie figure, glasses in hand. A hand that is infected with a deadly rash dangles in front of you, in front of me.

There are worms fat, round, thin, shy, hungry, greedy feeding on her. The serpent consumes itself in the labyrinths of his mind, in the caverns of silky soil. The ground beneath his feet is infected. They tell of a tale only Samsa can hear, and Grendel and the whore of Babylon and the fallen angel…

A silhouette shifts, rises and falls to the ground. The scene acts itself out in silence, over and over again. Some stories need retelling to live. Some need to be told to be forgotten. 

‘There must be some kind of a way out of here’ the joker chants into the fallen ears of the thief. The chanting grows violently strong, my ears bleed, and the silhouette squirms like a worm. His body begins to coil.

Coils of memory unfold. The sea of stories surely gave birth to this monster. The serpent struggles to consume itself.

In opposition to the shimmering slither of scales all around, a tender, plump arm is seen. It’s fair, untouched and sways in front of you, infected with a rash of guilt, it seeks to haunt all of us. The silhouette grows feverishly scared. His scales tell of a tale. A tale grotesquely different from that of the severed nymph. Arms collide. The worm squirms. Guilt explodes. A scene unfolds.

“It’s not mine.”
“It can’t be.” 
“Grotesque, disfigured, lump.” 
“It is your fucking fault. Whore. Demon. Sorceress.” 

The phallus rises, grows, towers above the entities in the room, consumes them and annihilates them, extinguishing them in a sea of rushing blood, flesh and filth. A babe is thrown into the world, guiltless, thrown out of it, guiltless. The child hovers, the falcon hears the falconer. The second coming is almost here. The child is carried off to the bird’s den, to live among beings that harvest the quill, the land of ideas, the land of the real, it beckons her. 

Some tales are told to be forgotten. Blood rushes to its head as it falls. The ground beneath her feet is cold. 
*** 

The room is poorly lit, the silhouette rises, and moves around in frenzy. The arm itches, the body burns, the eyes rot from within. Memory haunts. 

Look who’s the grotesque, disfigured lump now. Tell me decipherer of words has anyone forgotten laughter. No, no, no! The joker induces laughter without laughing. The silhouette is caught up in the coils of memory. “Ahh! It hurts,” he screams.

The serpent devours itself. The whore sells herself. The fallen angel explodes, there is light all around. The silhouette is obliterated. The guilt remains, the shame remains. Its sole purpose is to haunt. 

Darkness sets in once again. The stage is set for another protagonist. The stage is set for another crime. The earth continues to dance around a ball of fire. Guilt prepares to rise on the third day. Redemption is a myth, salvation a bitter lie. The order of things are set. The worms are ready, fat, round, thin, shy, hungry, greedy, they all gather. The curtain rises. The lights search and find its prey. The show goes on.

Friday, June 19, 2015

The City of Lights


When night came, the city of Light shrouded by a canopy of darkness hid itself from the prying eyes of the world. Even I knew that when night came and the sun rested, each and every object in the city would have to succumb to the wishes of that familiar canopy of darkness. Tired from their uneventful routines of day, their lives that had turned into a mere habit demanded from them rest and rest in the warmth of darkness was what they got. As the dwellers of Light slept, twisting and turning in their beds caressed by darkness and stroked by slumber I sat plotting.

It was not easy choosing between the two. I must say that I had put myself in a rather awkward position in which any decision made turned out to be a paradoxical and contradictory one.

 Rebecca lay there motionless as I whispered into her ear “Are you awake?”

Silence answered. But I already knew the answer.

“Are you cold?”

The palms that had stroked my hair a million times were cold as ice.

“I know you are tired, get some rest.”

Indeed she did get some rest. Not a muscle moved and even her nostrils (thanks to my persuasion) welcomed inactivity.

When I met the Other a few days back a few sparks flew. Sparks that sought to expose the barbarian within, even Anna who was just six could see the change that took place in Daddy’s eyes.

Darkness entered the room bringing with it a kiss planted on my lips along with a wave of different scents that accompanied her. Anna was asleep and in stealth I decided to disappear, to get lost in the labyrinths of my guilt, accompanied by the Other and clothed by my sin. I stretched out my hand and found the arms of Darkness, she moved forward and I could feel her warm breath on my neck, it was ironic that not even the perfumes of Persia could hide the stench of its breath.

When I left with Darkness by my side, I had ceased to notice the little details of that all too familiar room. Anna stood there concealed from my sight as a witness to the actions that had now caused quite a few sparks to fly around the room. The sparks with time grew as my Anna watched, turning more bolder and finally breaking free like a butterfly from a cocoon. The wood work were the first to accommodate the flames that were seldom seen in the city, the upholstery next, and slowly those white hot bastards called flames started to devour the entire room, as my love watched helplessly my un-awakened half.

Apart from the homes that were consumed by flames, there were no broken homes in the city of Light. 

A Verse for Uncertainty

#1
Our lives are mere tropes on paper panes
Scattered and dog eared yellow
Scribbled and licked by tips
that spill age old tarnished ink without a name

#2
My grandfather signed very many papers
His name below wriggly lines of indigo, smothered
now he lies, grave unsigned, his skin soft
Rotting below candles and wreaths
The curse of the hungry wriggly lines deep inside

Monday, February 16, 2015

And in the End

Disclaimer
This fan fiction piece of writing is based on John "Soap" MacTavish from Activision's Call of Duty Series (video game)

Time had almost come to an end. In a moment of haste it had closed its eyes, clenched its fist and in one silent blow wiped out almost all of humanity. The average king and queen of hypocrisy had no real idea of how they were all made to walk tightropes by a select few as they parked their cars, did their hair and crossed the streets. Some things were meant never to be seen, heard or thought of but it was now all too late.

The scars of battle were still fresh. The flesh on his thighs had turned grotesque purple with each cell constantly in a battle to sustain itself and heal the wound that remained open. His memory however was affected in a way he didn’t fully understand. If the past consisted of images of gory deaths his present worked hard to remind him of how decadently close and similar a ‘non-warzone’ like the one he inhabited looked like. In the end it was all death, the grey Irish sky reiterated that hymn of sadness. The towering cathedral spire, that stood right outside the apartment he was offered after he survived his duty to his nation along with a few discordant badges for bravery, for planning a crucial charge down the flank and for persisting in a suicidal mission, saving the world and restoring ‘order’, only reminded him of how high and haughty we had become as a civilization and the plummet southwards looked rather nasty and inevitable.

The room was rather modest. A bed to his right, a study table near the window that faced St. Andrews Cathedral, a kitchen with a sink to the left of the entrance door and a bathroom to the left, and mounted on the wall in such a way that its screen was visible when one lay on the bed was a quite curious looking television unit that was rarely switched on these days. There was nothing ‘new’ that it could show him nor was there anything that could possibly be on it that he would want to consume. The cycle felt complete. The only thing on the four walls that had something to offer him every time his eyes scaled the walls was the lone photograph taken a year or two ago. Captain Price looked peculiarly young, the wars had still not gotten the better of him but something felt different during those last years of stagnation. Everything moved too quickly to comprehend now. It had to be slowed down-- there was no other way.

At eight in the morning as the bells tolled from the adjacent building and as a crowd dispersed, old Dolores would appear at his door. Her minimal existence within the building for half a century as the manager was something MacTavish looked forward to. Her wrinkles seemed to be at ease no matter what erupted beyond the confines of her decaying castle of concrete.

“I’ve brought you some coffee” she said handing over a yellowed mug with a saucer placed over it that hardly matched the former’s ceramic style. Her transactions with her tenants were overpowered with a cold impersonality that she had developed but Soap, as they called him, was someone she knew right from the time he roamed around as a child with his family in her husband’s estate hunting rabbits and roasting beef beside a warm fire place; and so when the government requested that she open up her apartment to a war veteran she was more than happy to have him. But things had changed now; the past was no longer within reach for MacTavish. The image of his father was lost among a catalogue of carcasses that resulted as a result of his tryst with his call, his duty for obscure causes prompted and dictated by obscure men at obscure costs.

When the doorbell rang the second time he was surprised at how loud a tiny electric bell could be shattering his canopy of stillness he donned every day. It was Dolores again.

“Thought you would need something to kill time.”

Death was all around. The barrel looked him right in his mind’s eye. She handed a newspaper, a few magazines that lay around the reception and a paperback.
“Thanks” he said. His usual silence to anything and everything surprised himself. “It would be nice if you could arrange for some cloth, for the curtains, the windows are too loud.”
Looking straight back at him, Dolores with the dignity of her age asked him “Loud?”             
“I meant too many people, too many things happening all at once without really knowing what exactly is happening to them or anything… I meant too bright” he said saving himself the shame of flawed logic.
“Fine” she said as she went down the dimly lit stairs.

The paperback became his companion for a few days. He sat still on his bed looking at the floor shifting his bloodshot eyes from the cover of the paperback to the floor and back to his hands and the wounds that ate his robust flesh. The grenades, the flashes that blinded his task force, the sprays of red and its salty taste from the tender arteries of the men that trained with him and shared bunkers, the bursts of gun fire from distant corners, the soot that spread across the war torn skies they all came back with vivid detail. He was an old man now though his body had not aged much; He wanted the silence that Santiago and his still seas had to offer. He wanted the freedom to glide through unexplored tracts of blue only the marlin could afford. But the boundaries of his room were well defined. The boundaries of his imagination were too well defined and that made all the difference.
The coffee today tastes different he thought. It felt overpowering and visuals of the black liquid filling his body flashed before his eyes. The liquid came to a halt somewhere at the centre of his diaphragm. Then black mixed with red and spilled out of his mouth turning his vision into a haze of colours mixing and merging. As he fell from his bed to the cold floor the gun fire grew loud, the grenades and shrapnel pounded his flesh from all sides, the flanks gave in and raised white flags, masked men charged from ambushes, flash bangs exploded turning the greys of reality into the absoluteness of white. He was a traveller of both time and space.


Words haunted him “It is good that we do not have to try to kill the sun or the moon or the stars. It is enough to live on the sea and kill our true brothers.” Death failed to escape the fangs of guilt.

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Another Publication!

My short story "A Life's Quest" published in Decades Review issue VIII !




Monday, February 4, 2013

My short fiction featured in Lakeview International Journal



The Writers Forum of  Sacred Heart College, Kochi (India) have brought out the first edition of Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts. Writers from almost 15 countries such as
Hanif Kureishi  , George Szirtes, Sudeep Sen, K Satchidanandan, Meena Alexander, Antonio Casella, Alan Summers, Michelle Cohen Corasanti etc have been featured in this edition along with 3 of my short stories (pg 98-105).
You can read them by clicking here. Have fun!

Saturday, August 18, 2012

A Drop of Liquid Hope

First published in Heart-Bytes for the Flash fiction competition.

I sat in silence. The wind grazed my hair and honoured my nostrils with the stench of the seven seas. There were others too, who were seated unmoved in a spell of inactivity sharing silence with me. The sky filled with dark smoke merged easily with the stagnant liquid of the sea, indistinguishable in colour they united and held their bond. An uneasy sight for others, but I begged to differ.

Out of the two, the one that sat away from me kept dropping rocks into the murky water. The object hit the water, no ripples formed and sunk quietly into darkness. Life was something similar, in the end all that awaited one was darkness. There was nothing more to it, we inhabitants of light in our quest to find brighter lights move into darkness.

The stranger turned her neck a few degrees bringing me into her field of vision.

“Is it always like this?”

“It gets darker”

I could tell my reply was quick to bring in anguish to her heart.

“It wasn’t always like this!”

“There were better times?”

“Times where one could sea through the water”

“Just the like in textbooks”

“Something like that”

She shifted her gaze and so did I. Her friend however did not bother to break the silence. Content with the murky water he sat there. The clouds grew darker; the source could be seen now. The colossal vessel that floated like the fishes that lost interest in swimming now came into view. Leaving a trail of blacker black, it ordered fishes to rise up and show respect. The fishes rose and the girl’s heart sank.

A few silhouettes scrambled onboard. I remained still, while one shrieked and the other dropped another rock. A rock added to the grave of blue, maybe it fell on Neptune’s tomb. I did not know, I didn’t want to know.

The beast leaked black, sons and daughters of Neptune rose in awe. I still remained unmoved but the girl got up and stood for a while. She motioned towards the edge that separated wet from dry and emptied her bottle of water. The clear liquid vanished quickly unable to fight off the evil that lurked in every corner of its new home.

 She turned towards me and said “May be that will help”


************


Sunday, July 29, 2012

Personal experience: phenomena far from argument


For Reason


The case for god on the basis of personal experience is not a credible argument yet for many centuries it has served the purpose of creating the effect or illusion of an argument. Believers around the globe have claimed to have felt, seen or heard the voice of god and many a times they act on such divine providence. Is this acceptable? But more importantly are their claims true? I hardly think so. For someone who is conditioned to accept or believe forces far greater than them any random piece of rubbish or any random event would in his/her perspective be interpreted unreasonably as divine or supernatural.

This attitude makes it quite easy for someone to thank god (not the doctor or science or reason or technology… the list goes on and on) after spending hours beneath the surgical knife. So now I’m sure you must be thinking “Then why do they do it?” What makes people not see the obvious but feel inclined (blinded by belief) to come up with stories of virgins and infants, angels and saints, fiery chariots and divided seas, cosmic forces of good and bad etc. This was something that troubled me for quite for sometime and I hope that it troubles you too. For if it doesn’t I promise you that the remaining words that I have poured onto paper are as useful as cat litter to you. To understand why people try so desperately to come up or create evidence for such fallacious oddities we must take into account the stalking process of socialization and its firm grip on our psyche. I must admit that the process of socialization has its share of let’s say virtue, innate virtue but when used by the narrow minded pompous manipulative god enforcers who take pride in their ignorance; this beautiful process becomes altogether diabolical and tends to glorify the idea of pure unadulterated belief and in worse cases belief in belief.

The inexistence of a god or for that matter any other phantom is something reason cannot prove neither can scientific enquiry, provided its objective. This is mainly because of the paradoxical fallaciousness it employs. Bertrand Russell in his article that went un-published for sometime “Is there a God?” wrote:

Many orthodox people speak as though it were the business of sceptics to disprove received dogmas rather than of dogmatists to prove them. This is, of course, a mistake. If I were to suggest that between the Earth and Mars there is a china teapot revolving about the sun in an elliptical orbit, nobody would be able to disprove my assertion provided I were careful to add that the teapot is too small to be revealed even by our most powerful telescopes. But if I were to go on to say that, since my assertion cannot be disproved, it is intolerable presumption on the part of human reason to doubt it, I should rightly be thought to be talking nonsense. If, however, the existence of such a teapot were affirmed in ancient books, taught as the sacred truth every Sunday, and instilled into the minds of children at school, hesitation to believe in its existence would become a mark of eccentricity and entitle the doubter to the attentions of the psychiatrist in an enlightened age or of the Inquisitor in an earlier time.

Reason can never convince someone obsessed with goblins and ghosts that they do not exist. This is because the subject enjoys the company of belief and imagination but fails to understand the necessity of reason and empirical evidence. Now we all agree that pixies and goblins along with the whole colourful lot are just beings of fairy tales but it is interesting to see the same “critical thinkers” (regarding pixies and unicorns and leprechauns and fire breathing dragons… this list too goes on and on) profess the reality of virgin births, resurrection, after life, eternal damnation, intelligent designers, heaven hell, transubstantiation… (another unending list). So why do we believe in some fairy tales and not others? The most obvious answer is that we are told to believe by many socializing forces to believe and hence we believe, living in constant fear to swim against the tide, even when we make a complete fool of ourselves by not doing so. Even though this is true and a common phenomena it does not answer why we try substantiate such irrational and preposterous claims. Surely we all have great amounts of doubt and skepticism in us to make it through the night? To understand the “whys” I would like to introduce to you two influential factors, something I like to call the diabolical duo-imitation and anticipation.

The reason why we imitate and anticipate is thanks to socialization. It conditions our psyche, keeping it always on the look out to fit in, to go with the crowd, for the crowd is always right and if they are wrong, well its safer and wiser to go along just as the saying goes “if you can’t beat them, join them” This works well as far as survival is concerned in most cases unfortunately this contradicts reason. In modern day theocentric societies the presence of tele-evangelists and god men are evidently felt. They tell you think that is soothing to hear, they make rules to their comfort and change them when ever god asks them to, it is strange to see that most times god dictates something, it works well to the advantage of god enforcers. Lets just say it fattens their wallets to a certain point in which it is quite hard not to let out a smile and profess the good news, and this my friends is real bad news, not just for some individuals but to the collective unconscious that forms and in time shapes the thought process of generations to come. The healing presence of god, the love and the peace are what these men in white sell. This induces a sense of personal relationship and many a time comes to the rescue of theist when they try to debate with reason and logic. Much of the popularity religion enjoys is due to the subtle process of imitation. A child from the moment he is born is labeled in order to create an identity for him and this unquenchable thirst to stick to the constraints of this imposed identity is what makes one act in ways that are strange to reason. In religion, this is exploited as it right from the start makes it clear that its provisions are what are best suited for survival. And hence just to satisfy one longing of being right and acceptable one feels inclined to imitate the acts of others.

Popular tele-evangelist Benny Hinn is known to amuse and create moments of awe using his cheap theatrics. With a wave of the hand he showers his audience with mild doses of “the holy spirit” the subjects feel inclined fall to the ground when he waves his hand, not because their muscles fail to keep them standing but because they know deep down that all good pure people fall when in contact with the Lord’s presence. They do so in order to feel an unconscious innate sense of acceptance. At times this preacher even brings down to the ground, his whole choir comprising of a few hundreds of good souls. How does he do it? How can he fool so many people at the same time and since he “fools” quite a large group shouldn’t it be true, that he does have something in him, something extraordinary? No he doesn’t he just makes people imitate others. You see these people are conditioned to think that falling to the ground or bursting out in tears is acceptable and hence right and so when the first knee bends, other around too involuntarily take part in this mass delusion and therefore within seconds they find themselves flat on the grounds and this to them is amazing and hence something supernatural.  

The second trick theists have up their sleeves is anticipation. Imitation and anticipation overlap and coexist in most instances of insanity and mass delusion. During ones stay on earth one comes to learn many things, a lot of interesting things along with a bunch of amusing things too. We see sci-fi movies, read bible stories and what not and this shapes our understanding of reality. Even in our day there are many who claim to speak with the dead, they are just exercising their belief in delusion and should not be taken seriously. Consumerism has gone to such great heights that it has even arranged for, thanks to public interest, our dialogue with the dead. All you need is a board with letters and numbers, a candle and some empty spooky space to add to the overall effect. You have all of these and in seconds, voila, you have a spirit or a ghost of someone dead. Your hand is now guided by this force and it reveals juicy information to you, name, age, cause of death etc. supernatural isn’t it? No, plain rubbish, designed to fool the gullible. The only reason your hand moves is because you anticipate it to move, because otherwise your brain deep down knows that this phantom would not be able to covey what he/she wants. In short it is safe to say that in this case it to your imagination that you are speaking to. Your deliberate yet unconscious imagination is what speaks to you and same is the case with people who claim to have been visited by their respective gods or by the spokespersons of these busy deities(whom we now call saints). This also accounts for why UFOs most times are described as flying saucers that hover through the air at the speed of light, it is thanks to the very many hours we spend listening or/and watching sci-fi fiction. There is a good deal of imitation in the process of anticipation and a lot of anticipation in the process of imitation. What we see from this is not evidence to assert the existence of the super natural but the internal conflict we all face, a conflict which subsides in order to quench our thirst of acceptance.

The existence of objects, be it gods or ghouls on the basis of personal experience is fallacious as it can never be proved. What we can say about such claims is that it is a mere manifestation of our socialization, of the environment we grow in. To think that such unsubstantiated claims are worthy of attention is truly a fault. 

****************************

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Misfit

In a world with
masks and mirrors,
sky scrapers and scars,
babies and barbers,
trees and thugs,
philosophers and priests,
romancers and rapists,
saints and swindlers,
I stand,
Dumbstruck.
Fragmented.
Disillusioned and Confused.
Not knowing,
to which
I am considered-
misfit. 

Friday, June 1, 2012

When I was Born


When I was born, I was taught that eventually I would die and in this death I would also experience a birth, a kind of confusing yet equally disturbing birth into the hands of the creator who had paradoxically given me life just so that he could have the pleasure of controlling it and in the end taking it. How wonderful these notions seem to be, but now they seem too wonderful, too surreal and too absurd. The only satisfaction I have got out of all this is the unsatisfactory satisfaction of questioning and of being puzzled. Self righteous Shepards have cursed me in hushed tones so that their daring decibels go unheard, drowned by their obsession with beads and chants. “God is way past your comprehension” “Man can never understand God” they say, and for me this is just plain old escapism.  

When I was born what I and the rest of the others who celebrated my first coming did not know was that in the very room there took place another birth, the birth of my the other. As I screamed and twisted, kicking back my legs, squinting-not wanting another drop of light to disrupt my past year of bliss I failed to notice on the wall, clothed with not light there lay peacefully cradled in the arms of a much bigger figure my very own demon. The demon or the other as I like to call it, (as it was relative to my own existence) stayed there on the scaling walls, mimicking my every movement, bathing in our combined experience of all things that surrounded me and hence it. They named me Uh so I named my the other Oh and as I grew my demon shadow grew too, it was surreal but it was never lonely. During night time we used to have quite conversations but his tone was filled a deep sense of urgency and mine had in it a calm composed passiveness. His oblivion seemed inevitable at dawn; my long lasting existence seemed invincible. But at the age of twelve when a friend of mine visited the temple he decided to stay there, I decided to return and didn’t here from him (my friend X) for 21 years and 33 days, which gave me quite some time, too much time now I realize to spend with Oh. My skin grew darker and his stayed the same, I now saw a fairy land on those scaling walls, tasted the plaster and felt ecstasy and began to paint my self on those lively walls in which Oh resided with un-holy tones of red that flowed from my body. At the end of the wait Oh whispered “It is time” and now I could feel my demon Oh and myself Uh unite. It was an inevitable moment I knew-UhOh and then darkness was what was all around. Uh and Oh were one, yes we were one and in that state of madness I could sense the nothingness into which I was dragged grow around us. It was time to hush! Uhoh!

When I was born I never expected that I would have to go through such a physiological purgatory-this state of limbo. From such a sleep I hoped to rise but now such hope failed to reassure me. It was then that another residing phantom of my thoughts (they were my only friends now, being in a coma and all) said to me “You should hope that your friend wakes you up.” “Why would he?” “He’s a good man. A bit mad but what the hell anyone can tolerate a little eccentricity as long as he’s a good fellow” And as I lay along with Oh in a state of nothingness in which there was nothing of anything and this was the everything and the sole thing and at the same time the nothing, I began to hope for my messiah. He would come for the second time in my life, maybe a bit drunk, maybe a bit tipsy but would see the hieroglyphs on the wall, immediately understand the implications, race into the void that I made and wake me up. I would see him coming, clothed in contrast to all that surrounds me and take me back up or down or wherever is it that I had come from. This would be the perfect end or the perfect beginning.

When I was born nobody told me that I would be born again into this pompous world. But when this event actually took place, after hours or days I am not sure in which I hoped and prayed that I be taken back into the world and given a second chance, I found the whole process of coming back rather tiring. The bright skies were still there, so was my scaly wall, the birds were also there, just the same as the plaster that gathered below my four walls. Everything was the same, but the people had changed. There were no more demons. All the Oh’s had disappeared and the Uh’s, they were in a frenzy, my people were panicky without their the others.  Why? I asked myself till I understood that there was no real answer. They were panicky because they were not composed. But all this drama seemed too familiar and then it struck me. I had spread the disease of hope. Yes, hope was a disease when hope was left loose it fornicated with faith just the way it had in my state of oblivion. These people around me now believed that they were going through everything that I went through. I had carried their destruction on my back and had saved them but they still felt lost and began to hope that some one would redeem them. The world with it colours seemed grim to these souls, everything began to crumble. “Save us! We are righteous” was all I could hear them say. It was too disturbing, that question and so I decided to remain silent. And as a few more years went by I saw grey headed clowns doing cheap magic tricks but this time in a comically pious manner. They began persuading people to look up at the sky, promising them that there was a better world up there and the sheep looked up but I the lamb continued to keep by glance at the ground beneath my feet. These people began to spread rumours of what was to come and these tales were narrated at public gatherings in which all of them kept staring at the skies in devotion (event though half of them had turned blind)

When I was born I was told that God had a plan and nothing goes against this plan. But what I found out was that the blind considered all possibilities and all conclusions as part of that fool-proof plan, instead of admitting that the future was something that they really had no idea about.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

You are now…


You have been trying to sleep for quite sometime now. Your eyes, they have turned bloodshot letting you know how they crave rest. Your mind is tired and still slumber shies away, maintaining an unholy distance. Adding to the intrinsic turmoil your neighbour’s cat is determined to get right one of Bach’s freakishly high notes, devoting and spending endless hours of your sleep. Yes not hard work nor patience but the feline instinct makes it smart enough to make it spend your precious pennies. How loathsome. A thing or two you should learn from the fur ball.

After a long wait you decide to get out of bed. ‘Finally’, ‘At last’ are a few adverbs that whoosh past the labyrinths of your crooked mind. But realization now comes as a shock, right when you utter the final syllables you realize that no matter how many times you perform that redeeming action of getting up you will always find yourself succumbing to the desires of your master laziness, for you are asleep and your actions count for nothing. It feels good to hide yourself beneath layers of warm blankets.

The time has come for you to try again. Just like the spider that has been re-making its web in children’s books for a long time. How long was it? 200 years I think but you are free to assume anything, for not a line of truth, have you encountered so far. Getting up sure seems challenging don’t you think? And your desire to get lost in time is not helping. Get up, now.

You are not alone. You are in the presence of a ghost. Some one three hundred years older than you is staring you right in the face and you lie there like a corpse, respect less. She looks a lot like many women from creepy old pictures that you used to find at your grand parents villa. You remember one person now. The eyes your memory digs out and put in front of your eyes are hazel in colour, but the one that you now stare back at is just a light shade of grey. Your memory is in contradiction for you quite well remember those peculiar set of eye balls. These look lifeless, like the ones at Madame Tussauds, not just lifeless but also they seem to you as resonating lie. You are troubled for her rosy cheeks are missing too. Where have they gone? Where have they gone? Do you know? No you don’t. So if you do let me know too. You don’t know.

That photograph, it deceived you.

A liar.

All that time has left behind as a shameless residue is an array of light and dark black.

You are unable to take it all in and so you raise your arm bringing it into your field of vision. You start an unending fit of comparison, the blood and colour filled flesh versus the pale miserable fragment of memory and imagination.

The comparison continues.

Life and death.

The real and the un-real.

The ghost smiles.

You stare back with dilated pupils.

Her lips stir in motion. You can see that. Her facial muscles they too are now in action. You fail to see that. Twitching and expanding and contracting they paint a silent picture, a picture of contrast. No sounds uttered still nothing bothers you because you feel an urge to pay close attention.

Yes, you pay attention, but not to her speech. You are still occupied with the HD image of yourself and the soulless image of you friend.

She is gone, never to return.

You are still in bed. It is dark and hence you are aware that a lamp is burning behind your head. The warm covers have lost its warmth. Something is dripping from your feet. The culprit that has caused the loss of warmth has finally been found. Why is water dripping from your feet? You are eager to find out. You wiggle your way out of the damp covers. Is it blood? You feel panicky but that sensation settles soon. It is neither blood nor water, it is paint. The lamp has been of good use.

Now if you were to compare like you did earlier you would be confused. Your legs are dripping away the difference. A pool of difference forms beneath your humble abode, your bed.

Without colour your legs are lifeless. The feet that took you places far and wide are now a liability for you. How sad.

You might want to chop them off!

No you shouldn’t.

They might never wake up, then what?

Let them rest.

Rebecca now enters the room. What is a Rebecca? For some odd reason you felt like saying it and so you have. You realize this too and so you begin customizing her.

She now has a rather tanned look. It is because you remember her to be pale.

You are now tempted.

She moves closer and you notice an all too vague yet familiar look of innocence even in her most ridiculous look.

She stares at the pool of colour beneath you bed.

This time you hear a voice. You are quick to recognize the voice as hers. Why? She does not speak! She does not even to try to paint a silent picture, then why? You want to hear her, that’s why.

What is she saying?

Promises.

Are you sure?

Regrets.

Yes you are sure.

Words resonate and ricochet.

You are caught right in eye with a Darling. It has gone right through you like a bullet. You feel no pain. But it pains to know that you are not worthy of pain.

You are now awake.

You are now awake. You awaken once more and once again you wake. Then again and again and again till you fall asleep.

*****





Saturday, January 7, 2012

The City of Lights

  Click here to view the post on Heart-Bytes
                                                     

Monday, December 19, 2011

My novel excerpt featured on Heart-Bytes


A month and a few weeks have passed since the day I jotted down the basic plot for my novel. The name is yet to be decided and the ending needs to be poured down onto paper and once these two things are done, I guess I can finally call myself a novelist. And since the end of this enriching task is fast approaching I find this time ideal to publish an excerpt from the novel that has taken pretty much all November. The excerpt has been featured on Heart-Bytes, The Sacred Heart College Blog and here is the blog’s link Heart-Bytes

Now a word or two about Heart-Bytes which since its inception a few months back has received good readership from across the world. Heart-Bytes has also hosted a few creative writing competitions (online) on an international level . That means that all you people who love to write should definitely check out the monthly competitions. 

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Order Less-Part 1


The sky turned red, the clouds yellow, crows white and clouds black. The green grass no longer green as it was the water that took up that soothing colour. So was the world and everything we call real turning un-real? No, that wasn’t it.

Would it be better this way, would it mean that Satan now wore a white garment? Would it mean that a slithering snake was now the international sign of peace? This morning did all these absurdities and oddities turn less odd and absurd? May be this was the long awaited paradigm shift everyone talked about, the long awaited shift which we all knew but could hardly describe. From Theo-centric to Anthropocentric to Eco-centric and now to the absurd-centric. A time when symbols were no longer symbols, cats still meowed but today, no it bowed. The crows they cawed but today what I heard was the voice of nightingales

I sat on my chair watching the splendour of this order less world. Today if some animal decided to re-work the Genesis I bet Eve would be more respected. She wouldn’t have had to come from a rib for I see no justice when one comes from a bone and ends up just like the ones that come from dust. Today she wouldn’t have been tricked by the evil one with a fruit, in a garden filled with a million other fruits. Today I think those primitive creatures would have struck up a conversation with the beast, turning it a friend and less of a foe. Eliminating evil once and for all to the dismay of good, who was rather jobless and un-needed if his enemy were to be annihilated. I think malice lies not just in the hearts of the wicked but also in the hearts of the righteous in far larger sums. Was Good worth being good in the absence of bad?

Deep down I knew that this was a day of revelations. Not the kind where the tale gets extensively abused by supernatural whores and many-headed dragons. There were no towers of Babylon nor where there going to be any temples of Jerusalem in my revelation. What I saw before my eyes when my love wore no make up was not her wrinkle laden skin nor was it her ugliness that complemented her age, but the fact that she was free; I was free, from the clutches of signs and standards that were to dictate ones existence. Right then, in the haste of the moment I realized the baselessness of good and bad. If such terms did exist I suggest it to be the material for a fairy tale. What existed was something plain, something simple, something so simple that we tend to make it un-naturally complex: Action. Yes there wasn’t anything more to it there were just actions, if it was considered good then may those naive souls remain naïve and if bad well then I remain un-affected as my un-belief has reached un-imaginable heights.

A little girl, I saw playing in the fields. She was happy; yes there was happiness in the absence of good and evil. It was now that I felt truly happy. How loathsome were the ones that for centuries professed about being rewarded with happiness for a lifetime of virtue. If one was to experience happiness I think it should be experienced within this realm. Or else it would be like trying to savour a steaming cup of coffee in a desert. She ran quite as fast as the wind that was grazing my hair, in her hand I saw a truck, not just any trucks but the ones with riffles sticking out of it on all four sides. Where is your doll? I asked. For I had seen her play on all weekends with a worn out doll with blond curly hair which looked rather scary and disturbing to me, but for her I guess that was what her mommy wanted her to play with, dolls for girls, guns for boys-the perfect formula.

I sat there sipping my glass of water. For me I found it amusing yes the change in colours, but the fact was that I couldn’t really digest this long unknowingly awaited shift. I wondered why such changes failed to affect my soul. Was I really that hopeless? Or was it that all hope (if there was any such thing) rested on my hunched time trampled shoulders?

May be I was someone special; my randomness was the one quality that outshined the rest. I felt a feeling I imagine very few feel, like Christ and Buddha. My realizations may be they were to be noted down as proof of my enlightenment. Nobody would find any worth in it, for they believed that the world had not changed a bit, for them the skies were always red, the clouds yellow, crows white and clouds black. I held the key that disguised itself as a revelation to the future of mankind no humankind. I felt empowered.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Greener beyond comprehension


Beneath a cloudless sky a man in grey walked, his feet trying desperately to adapt to the sandy path that stretched for miles and miles merging with the distant horizon. He looked as old as the ruins, a wrinkly gaze. His olive green eyes looked eager to tell a tale, maybe ones of kings and queens, conquests and failures, unfortunately his audience were all dead and gone, their only memories lay in the brick walls that time sought to destroy.

I saw him approach, the road lay empty and so paying no heed to the left or right, he crossed. I stood there, my glass of tea in one hand and the other kept wiping my temples clean of the sweat that formed instantly thanks to the unforgiving heat of the desert. “Are you a seeker?” he asked, undecipherable at first, but on his second attempt I sensed a slight Europeanized accent.

I maintained silence, not knowing what he meant.

I guess now I had turned into his much awaited lone audience.

“They say the grass is greener beyond the mountains.” He pointed east.

“Its war ridden area you point towards wouldn’t say there is any grass there at all.”

“Are you calling The Great a liar?”

Yes a delusional, no just any delusional one that was starved to eccentricity.

“I’ve seen him look over the mountains, his horses where the size of elephants and for him beyond the mountains laid the land of redemption.”

“Are you going there?”

“Yes. The grass is greener. He feared that His horses would turn into asses with so much luxury, the green grass.”

“Oh”

“So where do you come from?”

I pointed.

Our jeep was now fixed. I heard the engine roar back to life and so I decided to go take a look. The old man however remained under the merciless sun, drawing on the sand with his fingers that looked like twigs that were about to snap. I asked him if he needed a ride, but his focus remained un-wavered from the sand. During the remaining two hundred miles that was covered that day I hardly broke the silence. I couldn’t help but wonder what that old man wanted in life. He sure had a good accent, a bit un-original but good enough to pass off at any airport. Was redemption that important? For me such concepts were as real as the carrot that dangled in front of the donkey from the masters stick who sat on top of the poor animal. May be he would get shot down, or one of those missiles that poured down like rain would blow him into a million pieces. He was blinded by faith, I guess. I too felt blind but didn’t know what blinded me. May be he knew just as I knew his secret.

I would ask him if I ever got another chance, not in this life time surely. No, to find the answer I would have to swim in an ocean of sand, six feet under, losing a piece of myself in each motion to arrive at the truth spoken from the lips of a delusional.

**********

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Suitably Warm


The day outside was perfect, inside however the imperfections surfaced. Bright blue skies with crisp clouds loomed over the ones outside begging to be noticed-they went unnoticed as the inhabitants were the perfect mixture of arrogance and ignorance. I stood, digesting the stillness of the air that had occupied the room-my room. Did I invite it over? Or did it shove its way inside, unable to resist all the other elements of gloom in my box of a room.

My liberator’s odour kept getting stronger and stronger, muskier and muskier. It was time to bid adieu to the wonderful world that I found too wonderful for me. If there was a god I would beg him to come show me the splendour of his work which I had failed to notice. No he wouldn’t come, maybe because my liberator was in the vicinity or maybe he wasn’t capable of coming. I think he was lost in an un-ending game of hide and seek, where he was to hide and seek He had hidden himself so well that the hider now forgot where he was, and the seeker, well he was just too naïve.

I patted the emptiness that surrounded me, first on the back, then on the cheek. It smiled, I smiled back.

“Take me”

It continued to smile.

Out in the corridor I could hear agitated footsteps that grew louder and louder in perfect synchronization with the odour. A rap on the door, I turned with no intention of even answering. A more desperate knock which I think was more of knock down the door knock and not a let you know I am waiting knock. A dozen of Is anyone in there’s followed, then the open up’s came and a few moments later I could hear my land lady’s all to familiar curses that always ended with you lunatic.

The one I waited for had now slipped into my room amidst all the confusion outside. I was glad to be in its presence. Its eyes showed greed behind a veil of darkness and void. Its voice was silence and its fragrance intoxicated me. I was now ready. I took out a cigarette (the last one) that was on the dresser and placed it between my lips. It felt good, rejuvenating almost.

“There is a fucking gas leak you lunatic.”

I really don’t know when the stillness of the air was disrupted. Was it when I lit the match or was it when I lit the cigarette? The air around me, impatient to resist any further scorched the skin that clothed me. An inferno broke lose eager to caress me. It was a warm summer’s day outside, but inside-yes it was suitably warm.
                                              
                                                                   *********