Monday, June 10, 2013

A Woman of no Importance

She had once written on my scrapbook
“I love you without problems or pride”
She was no poet. She didn’t speak much English
She never spoke much anyways other than with her eyes.
Every morning she used to cruelly chastise the stars when
The night had left us without intimation but in intimacy.
She believed that daytime is for priests and politicians
And the darkness is for lesser mortals like us. Insolvent.
I had craved to be her 1947 fountain pen that
Drafted her Sociology notes and held her hair.
She used to laugh at fate and television with the same fervor.
Her laughter always reminded me of a mountain brook
Many a night I had drowned in it my crown and composure
And had died happily in my 17 year old death of freedom.
She had once explained to me in a local train that
The best politics happened between the flowers and springtime.
In her eyes I had seen dawns that shadowed all other dawns
In her breath I had smelt death that felt like Marilyn Monroe.
Desire and envy had chained me like a Roman galley slave to her
She had made me murder my soul and sleep with the same knife
Her love was cheap and saline that fired my breath
And complemented my cheap liquor, while I felt like Bobby Dylan.
It seems she had come from a secret right wing democrats
With a search warrant for my sanity.
Hypnotizing me with the scent of springtime in her breasts
Now they smell of stale flesh…and she has reduced to just another woman.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Amar kicchu "Bhalo Cheley" bondhu der uddeshye

Tomra bolccho gorm kaalei ebar namao borsha,
Tomra bolccho Kaalighate Maa ke keno banaccho-na forsha.
Tomra bolccho indur daurey jeet tei hobey amai
Tomra bolccho ta na hole dhukte debe na parai.

Tomra bolccho money ek ar mukhey ek kotha bolo
Tomra bolccho bibek bhule shubidhey bujei cholo.
Tomra bolccho kisher puran? Ke likheche Koran
... Tomra bolccho “Raakhun Moshai! Taaka-i Allah Taaka-I Bhogoban.

Tomra bolccho moruk Banglar manush, ki jai eshey taatey
Kintu Brihonnola potol tul ley bholona buk chapratey.
Tomra shobai shubro collar parar bhalo chele
Daant Keliye chobi tolo bideshe berate geley.

Tomra bolccho rokter rong shobuj holei bhalo
Tomra bolccho Goriber petey anno pheley Coca Cola tai dhalo.
Tomader kothai ogrogoti ki bhabe hobe South City na ele?
Tomra bolcho Sarada putro Sudipto ke Keno rekhechen Jail-e?

Maa er o noi Maashir o nawo tomra birol jaati
Je khane dekhbe palla bhari, taader-I khabey laathi.
Tomader progoti ar poriborton e ebar Bangla dublo Boley
Mirzaffar hoye tomra tobu ashbe kaaley kaaley

Warning - (A Translated Poem)

Yes, I am that man
Take a good look at me.
I have blood and honor dripping from my brows.
Choked in my tears I have come from that road
Which had just seen death very close.

I have eaten from poverty ridden platters
I have stood in hopeless Employment queues.
...
I still have the smell of cheap perfumed oil in my hair.
My Breath is still filthy.

I have seen the impoverished beggar girl die in her sleep.
I had killed her.
I had killed that bureaucrat
Who was shamelessly taking bribes from that Marwari dealer.
I have laughed insolently at the imbecility of the Law.
I want to hear about Mamata’s will, that is a subject of jeer in the crowded bus.
I would not feel pity for the death of her Democracy.
I would sleep in my insecurity to wake up suddenly in love
Silently I would walk to her and kiss her eyes.
We would cry together for many different reasons.
To wake up alive again tomorrow.

I would clear my voice of all my inadequacies.
I would speak without any social punctuation.
Standing tall under the obscure sky
I would baptize myself in the holy oath
After all anger, hurt and desperation had bathed me in tears.

That I wouldn’t let the world live where I would perish

Zero Hour (A few lines on my dark side)

Come Gargee, Come my friend, come see my cubic existence.
Gargee would you call it living? Would you call it mortality?
Or is it my final game of chess
Between the dying and the dead?
I have phony page 3 smoke that glides through my scalded heart. Every Evening.
I have a banker’s blood that denies the existence to my heart.
I have sat crouched like a dog at...
the reprobate feet of this world
To find the bitch in it.
Like a roach I have walked side by side with other roaches in this city,
Like a mosquito I have flown alongside other malignant mosquitoes of the parish.
In genuine darkness I have dived longingly inside a woman
Just to find that I never did have any living quarters there.

I have gone to placid theatres in my Coca Cola dreams
Dressed like that queer columnist.
I have blown away the scenes of deceit like a weak candle.
I have no animated camphor in my sweat Gargee
That would enrage me.
What would you call this Gargee?
I have tried to crucify myself in my insignificant bedroom
I have tried to understand the suffering of Christ.
I have wanted to bloom like a flower in your landscaped garden
To see if I could fall in love with you.
I have wiped off my inheritance and hierarchy like the 6 pm sweat of a rickshaw puller
I had sadly fallen asleep at my grave instead of dying for you.
Gargee this is how I had lived with you.
Just like stray kids swimming underwater at Dhakuria lakes.
Just like a pervert begging for a life lying next to a couple nauseatingly making love at midnight.
I have four walls that have lost time and dignity.
Its worn out rabid existence is still so dear to me.
I have a dead tree carrying the memory of a long ago dead spring.
I have people calling me unforgiving names.
I have a bundle of your letters partly devoured by a team of right wing termites.
I have a curse that makes me that makes me unyielding.
I have that final possession that I have tonight put at stake at your alter
For that personal zero hour with you.

I didn’t want to tell this to you Gargee.
But my winters are slowly getting colder.
I have a covetous thirst that parches me every night that I have never felt before.
I have a rodent smeared darkness in my saline quarters.
I have a mind stained with sin and death.
For I have lost my memories at a cheap Dharmatalla bar.
I have the sound of accusing sirens when I pray or when I kill women.
I have two hands that like strangers rarely follow my commands.
Rarely do I feel that they are mine.
I have eyes that like invalids stare at their actions like a Venetian Crystal
Waiting for that zero hour with you.

A Pledge

Last night I visited the ground zero of the 20th century graveyard
In the East there was Mephistopheles with heartache and darkness
In the West Lucifer stood smiling with arson and a loss of God.
While I stood between them I took a pledge for the price of soul and sleep.
That I would be tolerant like my illegitimate society

I took a pledge
That I would be tolerant towards all the diabo...
lic ruling party mobsters
Who, every Sunday fill their empty bottles of stolen Scotch with the defeated blood
Of all those martyrs who stood in their pathway of greed and grotesque.
I decided I won’t take notice.

I took a pledge
That I would be tolerant towards the violent capitalist hunger
That had burnt Hiroshima and Nagasaki for the last hundred years
And which is still burning at schools and play grounds at Iraq, Afghanistan and Chile.
I would rather visit Starbucks to watch the NBA.

I took a pledge
That I would solemnly accept my children dying of thirst
In unfortunate villages where the cruel Cola army have usurped their waters
To be sold at foxy Supermarkets to Silicon breasted socialites.
I would escort them to the parking lot with a smile.

I made a promise
To Picasso, Ghatak, Antonionni, Blake and Sunilda
That I would sincerely relish the defunct display
Of the cross dressed pantomime and the graceless electronic diva every day.
For it is never art if it’s not on Page 3.

I made a pact
With the devil and the deep sea under a pyre lights of Keoratala
That I would slow burn my morality at the altar of sin and satisfaction.
I would even send Postcards to all vile real estate hustlers every winter.
My mother and memory have died long ago.

I took a vow
That I would not cry for me who have been dying since the last 20 years
I would rather celebrate my soulless existence for 40 odd years
And raise a toast to my socially successful friends for Health and Hypocrisy.
I would wear a suit stitched by some Italian school dropout.

I swear
I would refrain myself from painting pornography and philosophy on church walls.
“God is dead. Let us celebrate the death of God”. They said.
White house has published papers on the different shades of the blood
I would believe that their religious divide is my way to salvation.

I assured my beloved.
That I would not ever search for the scent of spring in her breasts.
I would not crave for any women who don’t wear Prada.
I would be satisfied with only the flab and flesh that she has on offer.
For I believe in social feminism.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Home is where the Bra comes off!



Lingerie Vs Underwear. There can hardly be an adequate comparison about them. In utterance the former formidably comes out as this sheer melodious waft of a Mediterranean wind blowing playfully through the ...clarinet of the Gods. You can actually close your eyes and see the true blue oceans, white pristine beaches and the aroma of the rich and famous skittering all over you like a gullible good feeling that comes rarely. Now try and say “Underwear”. Like me, most of you (even women) would surely experience aurally a blunt thud of a bag of sand being dropped at a Mid Saharan construction site from one of those vile looking construction trucks that often block your passage on the expressway. I can even compare it with the sound of a grumbling Baniya at Burra Baazar whose diet of curry daal had gone volatile inside. I have over the years given this subject a very detailed study. It had pleasurably revealed a lot of very critical aspect that can be a cornerstone in the battle of the sexes. Bras have been vital and I have been told of Rock Legends and Movie Stars had diligently evaluated performances by the number of Bras thrown on stage. Now in my adolescent years I was exposed engagingly to the Bra commercials (mainly Print) of B3, VIP and later Loveables. Not all dailies had them. They were studied with a great deal of reverie inside the Boy’s Toilets. Bikini snaps of MoonMoon Sen and Dimple Kapadia (remember Crowning Glory) were no short of a sexual nuclear attack. I was quite intrigued by its delicate engineering especially the straps and the little ring that held the straps to the body. Well that was art. Now Bras have been taken over by Engineering. I remember one of the more enterprising of the fellows in school had once smuggled in a sample. Well needless to say there was suppressed uproar inside the Boy’s Toilet during the Lunch hour. I could barely touch the material for about 2 and a half second. But when I touched and what I touched was NO BAPI JANGIYA. It was celestial. It was soft. It was supple. It was everything a 13 year old sexuality could be. There were definitely concentrated focus during monsoon when the girls shirts used to get wet outlining the Bra. However the same can never be said about RUPA GENJEE (Vests). I have had some very close women friends who were quite candid about everything but none ever mentioned even faintly eyeballing Sunny Deol in RUPA Frontline Ad inside the girl’s toilet, or ever holding the Men’s Inner with the same reverie as we did. Well vests were never handed down to boys by fathers in secret ceremonies confirming their leap from Boyhood to Manhood as were Bras. When a girl is 12-13, her mum buys her a splendidly silly article of clothing called a training bra. To train for what I wonder. I never had a training jock. And believe me, when I played football, I could have used a training jock more than any twelve-year-old needs a training bra. On looking back I can robustly say that Bras themselves held a stronger interest than what they used to cover. I am sure all would unanimously agree that the sight of Simi Garewal in a Bra was thousand times more erotic than all the Porn you have ever seen. Well since then Engineers have gone ahead and made a science out of this objet du art. Bras have been defined I feel with the same secret coding as has been used for Uranium 36C, 32D, 32E, well something that you would get to hear in 007 movies. Something I intend to master within this life time.
With the recent announcement that 600 year-old bras were found in Lemberg Castle in the Austrian Tyrol, historical romance writers of big-bosomed heroines may breathe easier. We may now confidently rig bra-like foundation garments for our ladies of the past, should they require them. For decades, writers have struggled to balance the received wisdom that bras were not used before the early twentieth century with the imagined discomfort of active heroines doing bouncy things like riding horses and running through the woods without adequate support.
Somebody said that Bras are a ludicrous invention; but if you make bralessness a rule, you're just subjecting yourself to yet another repression. Well I for one prefer my women to peel off slowly as I strongly believe that first rule of cleavage: it's not how low you go, but where and when you show. Lately this delicate and gentle object has become the objection of unruly, cowardly and some barbaric women who believe that sexual supremacy can be achieved by Burning Bras. Well Attila the Hun, Nadir Shah who destroyed art and civilization had the same philosophy I guess. I want to someday write a book called, "Bonfires and Bras," which follows around a young, braless feminist who struggles to adopt in air conditioned rooms, as her hardened nipples cause her excess embarrassment. On growing up I realized that most women wear the wrong type of Bras. Research revealed that Bras vary between styles and manufacturers, so you really need to try on any bra before you buy it. Bras come with three sets of hooks, but when you buy it should be comfortable on the largest setting. Over time the bra will stretch, and you'll use the next two sets of hooks to tighten the fit. Washing by hand is best, but you can wash bras in a lingerie bag in the washer. Use a mild detergent, like baby shampoo, to protect the lace and elastic; regular detergent is too harsh. All breast tissue should rest inside the cups, and the center point between the cups should hit you in the center of your breastbone. All this yap to prove that I did study this subject.
I guess 1994 remains a holy year for all us Bra lovers, it’s when Sam and Sara Stein released the WonderBra that made sculptures out of sagging breasts and boring socialites. Nowadays the shy and sensitive white Bra that revealed itself demurely on rain soaked actresses has become nonexistent and women nowadays are coming out of the closet Bra-wise speaking. Bras are now more loud, flashy, colourful, vivid and some really cheap (plastic straps). It is chic if your Bra strap shows provided your are wearing the right brand. Something that can’t be said when your Calvin Klein vests peek out of your Golf Tees. Bras are also becoming nefariously deceitful (Padded Bra) that can create havoc on revelation to lover’s expectation. Companies like Veronica’s Closet, Naomis, Nordstorms have made Bras more organized with optimum storage spaces and can surpass the GDP of Bangladesh. The revolution Mary Phelps Jacobs had started had really come a long way and men’s vests are nowhere to be seen artistically, sinfully, immorally and sexually. But nevertheless I love them and if I could ever be reincarnated as a fabric, I would come back as a 38 double-D bra.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Kali rules the world while Bengal succumbs to Bollywood and Dewali make over

We find Kali in Mexico as an ancient Aztec Goddess of enormous stature. Her name is Coatlicue and her resemblance to the Hindu Kali is striking. The colossal Aztec statue of Coatlicue fuses in one the image of dual functions of Mother Earth, which is both a creator and destroyer. In her different forms Coatlicue represents, “Lady of the Serpent Skirts” or “Goddess of the Serpent Skirt”, Cihuacoatl – “The Serpent Woman”, Tlazolteotl -  “Goddess of Filth” and Tonantzin – “Our Mother” who was later sanctified by the Catholic Church as the “Virgin of Guadalupe, the dark faced Madonna. La Virgen Morena, La Virgen Guadalupana, the patroness and protectress of New Spain; and who is still the patroness of all Indian Mexico. Her statue represents her head severed from her body and from her neck emerges 2 streams of blood in the shape of 2 serpents. She wears a skirt of serpents girdled by another serpent as a belt. On her breast hangs a necklace sewn with human hearts and hands bearing a human skull as a pendant. Her hands and feet are shaped like claws. From the bicephalous mass, which takes place of the head and which represents Omeyocan, the topmost heaven, to the world of the Dead, extending below her feet – The form thus embraces both Life and Death. The embodiment of the cosmic-dynamic power which bestows life and also thrives on death in the struggle of opposites.
We find Kali in ancient Crete as Rhea, the Aegean universal mother or Mother Goddess, who was worshipped in a vast area by many. Rhea was not restricted to the Aegean. Amongst the ancient tribes of southern Russia she was worshipped as Rha, the Red One. Another version of Kali as mother Time clothed in her garment of blood when she devoured all the Gods. The same mother Time became the Celtic Goddess Rhiannon, who also devoured her own children one by one. This image of the cannibal mother was typical everywhere of the Goddess of Time (Kaal), who consumes what she brings forth; or as Earth who does the same.  When Rhea was given a consort in Hellenic myth he was called Kronus or Chronos – Father Time, who devoured his own children in imitation of Rhea’s earlier activity. He also castrated and killed his own father, the Heaven God Uranus. Kronus was in turn threatened by his own son, Zeus. These myths reflect the primitive succession of sacred kings being castrated and killed by their offspring.  It was originally Rhea Kronia, Mother Time who wielded the castrating moon-sickle or scythe, a Scythian weapon, the instrument with which the Heavenly father was “reaped”. Rhea herself was the Grim Reaper.
Scotland was once called Caledonia, the land given by Kali, or Cale, or the Cailleach. “Scotland” came from Scotia, the same Goddess, known to Romans as “a Dark Aphrodite”; to Celts as Scatha or Scyth and to Scandinavians as Skadi. Like the Hindus, destroying Kalika, Cailleach was known as the “Spirit of Disease”. One Manifestation of her was the famous idol, of carved and painted wood seen at Country Cork, and described as the “Goddess of Smallpox”. As diseased persons offered sacrifices to Kali in India, so in Scotland those afflicted by smallpox sacrificed sheep to this image. It can hardly be doubted that Kali and Cailleach were the same word. According to various interpretations, Cailleach meant either an old woman, or a hag, or a nun or a veiled one. The last apparently referred to the Goddess’s most mysterious manifestation as the future, fate and Death – ever veiled from the sight of men. In medieval legend Cailleach became the black queen who ruled a western paradise in the Indies, where men were used in Amazonian fashion for breeding only, then slain.
Spaniards called her Califia whose territory was rich in Gold, Silver and Gems. Spanish explorers then gave her name to the newly discovered paradise on the Pacific shores of North America, which is how the state of California came to be named after Kali.
The Black Goddess was known in Finland as Kalma (Kali Maa), a hunter of tombs and the eater of the Dead. The Black Goddess worshiped by the gypsies of Hungary was known as Sara-Kali, “Queen Kali” till this day. Sara is worshipped in the South of France at Ste-Marie-de-la-Mer during an yearly festival.
Some gypsies appeared in 10th century Persia as tribes of itinerant dervishes calling themselves Kalenderees, “People of the Goddess Kali”. A common gypsy clan is still called Kaldera or Calderash, descended from past Kali worshippers, like the Kele-De of Ireland. European gypsies relocated their goddess in the ancient “Druid Grotto” underneath Chartres Cathedral, once the interior of a sacred mount known as the womb of Gaul, when the area was occupied by the Carnutes – “Children of the Goddess Car”. Carmac, Kermario, Kerlescan, Kercado, Carmona in Spain and Chartres itself were named after this Goddess, probably a Celtic version of Kore or Q are traceable through eastern nations to Kauri, another name for Kali. The Druid Grotto used to be occupied by the image of a Black Goddess giving birth, similar to certain images of Kali. Christians adopted this ancient idol and called her “Virgo Paritura”, which means Virgin giving Birth. Gypsies called her “Sara Kali” “The mother, the sister, the woman, the queen, the Phuri Dai, the source of all Romany blood. They said the Black Virgin wore the dress of a gypsy dancer, and every gypsy must make pilgrimage to her Grotto at least once in their life time. The Grotto was described as your mother’s womb. A gypsy pilgrim was told to shut his eyes infront of Sara the Kali, and he would know the source of the spring of life which flows over the gypsy race.
The Greek had a word Kalli, meaning beautiful, but applied to things not typically beautiful such as the daemonic centaurs called “Kallikantzari” relatives of Kali’s Asvins. The city of Kalliopolis, the modern Gallipoli was ruled by Artemis Kalliste. The annual birth festival of Eleusis was Kalligeneia. Translates as “Coming forth from the Beautiful One”. Or “Coming forth from Kali”.
Lunar priests of Sinai formerly priestesses of the Moon Goddess, called themselves “Kalu”. Similar priestesses of prehistoric Ireland were “kelles” the origin of which can be traced to a hierophantic clan who worshipped the the Goddess Kele. This was cognate with the Saxon Kale or Cale, whose lunar calendar or calends included the Spring month of Sproutkale, when Mother Earth (Kale) put forth new shoots. In antiquity Phoenicians referred to the Strait of Gibraltar as Calpe, because it was considered to be the passage to the western paradise of the Mother.
Some Buddhists identified Kalika with their “Prajnaparamita” the Perfection of Wisdom, conceived her as a multi armed Goddess of wisdom and energy. Buddhist tantrics viewed  Prajnaparamita as the original Buddha consort and over the time developed this vision further. They viewed her as saviouress Tara, “The Compassionate One”, “She who helps the devotee overcome suffering”. As the dark four armed “Ugra Tara, with the Dark Blue “Dhyani Buddha Aksobhya on her crown, she became the “wrathful saviouress”. Externally fierce to ward-off enemies and unbelievers but internally compassionate, “The Embodiment of Compassion”. Buddhists also knew the Dark Goddess or Shyama.