KAPIL ARAMBAM • In Pursuit of Freedom •


why are you looking so red—why is it so crimson all around?
are you blushing or is it bloodstain from a roadside killing?
i can only imagine, whatsoever, the reason could be your fake name
it could be your adopted gods; it could be your hopelessness
it could be anything and your silence only makes it worse
homeland, you always pinch my ass, stop it

i’ll not write odes for you
everything, for the worst, seems to be fine with you
like my love who is so liberal
it’s okay to raise hell with gunmen
and it’s as well okay to join forces with them
the ambiguity is killing me inside slowly
even so it’s clear for me: obscurity is unsuited for odes   

i’m not even a nationalist
i’ll not go to yunnan to get the guns and fight for you
would you persist, knowing the enemies are only amongst us already?
the february winds are on our doorstep
let it blow away the veil of secrecy between us
this is too much awkward
when sporadic gunshots and bombs are the sole icebreaker

i’ll not bring you flowers
you have so soon get so many supporters on both sides of the fence
it’s hard to consider both of them and stay sane too
like the lilies that stay in the hills, let the flowers rest alive peacefully
you’re already so fake and i wouldn’t help you with more artificiality
sharp stiled bouquets, pretentious admirers, it’s so bleak and phony already

i’ll never even tell others, my episodic detestation for you
when so many people are sharing the stink and sleaze
and like the few men who told me you’re on the top
i’ll just imagine the places where you could be
—definitely not the general shithole of the majestic land
but any place repels me as do the folks
no wonder i don’t know why you are looking so red

withal i shall keep you; the connection has been marked in blood
even if it’s started appearing faded after meeting the mortals so pathetic
before i go, i want to know if the school master was correct about red soil
though all the kinds of masters have cheeks of asses stick to their faces
while the real asses are lost in a maze:
with no idea, no direction, no hope
i’ll never know why you are looking so red


~   of telling about your world   ~

who am i
i’m the shadow of a non-existing man
my mind is marked on water
but even so it’s clear and so i can tell

tell your music
the hindustani is too round for your slant eyes
the western is too much in your primitive homeland
the world will not end if you have your own, play it;
and my ears are bleeding, please understand
your songs make me insomniac

tell your cinema
the groundnut sold by lousy north indians is better
the sunflower seed from thailand is better than the melodrama
in the theatre, sorry, i’d not gone for groundnut and sunflower seed
and my sore eyes can take no more
maybe you should focus on making cinemas for indian awards

tell your family
the rich is as pathetic as the poor
the rich got dung in their heads and they are afraid
the poor got dung in their heads and they are afraid
you should go get some family lessons from your hopeless teachers,
are they busy waiting for their salaries?

tell your friends so phony
join them and watch football together
drink beer and don’t call me
i’m tired of your phony loyalty
i’d suggest in groups should you imitate the monkeys’ lives
and live forever indulging in territorial pissing loyally

tell your society
it reeks of open roadside urinals during summer
garbage dump in winter,
the society of the slaves of the slave
the slaves of the slave live on charity,
please give me a chance to like it

tell your rites and rituals
from birth to death, the fake adoption compels
you have to do, read what is written like a arse-sore stooge
when a baby grows up it is not mandatory
you don’t have to have phony ceremonies
just spending more time with the baby will just do fine

tell your religion
the gods have different looks, and you look like a bastard
the goddesses have bigger boobs than your girls
and some messengers did arrive from further foreign lands too
in the name of father, fuck your beliefs
and if i have to be specific, your god is dead

tell your festivals
those are so fake
those make your phony friends less phonier
but those do not make you and all less annoying
those continue throughout the year
and many years i got relapses throughout the year

tell your government
it has confused the placement of its body parts
it has arses for the faces, up, and real faces as arses, down,
it works like a yes-man
it lives like a yes-man
it only knows how to fuck with the people

tell your leaders
they are hellbent on looting and killing
they are taking sycophancy to a new level
a shadow like me don’t have any regard,
or are you waiting for the chance
to loot and kill, just like them, just when the time is right?

but i do like anything that is not you
and you cannot even complain
i’m just a shadow of an unknown body,
and it’s more so, because these are all true.

From a Kilometre Away from Outer Space

INTERNATIONAL SPACE STATION | Image from a public domain website

If left with any choice or not at all,
I’d just leave the bow and let the arrow shoots itself;
There’s little that can be expected from whatever spot it hits,
For it is already written in black and white, the meaninglessness

Yes, how we do expect the result will change
Our fate if at all we do hit the target,
if not for the fleeting sense of achievement in this existence
in which we label things to measure, to identify

We’re lost without the identity;
We’re lost without a sense of purpose;
We’re lost without a make-believe conviction;
We’re lost without the dead gods and egoistical yet fancifully named spirituality

Neither the kings are spared—who in each corner have
Self-styled themselves into masters and made the followers their slaves,
Just as in one invading another, conquering another
—and make the most ridiculous statements such as the world can be seen
only from economic perspectives

The filth in us and the expressionless symmetry in anything but ours,
The ridiculous merge of science and religion;
Everything is so surprisingly clear, morning-dewy clear,
What’s us and what’s around us
But not what’s to become of us

Keep Calm and Well... I Eat Eel While You Peel Eel and Keep Calm

The British Ministry of Information created the original Keep Calm and Carry On poster during the onset of WWII. See a note about the slogan on the GOV.UK blog. It is said that the copies were hardly distributed until it was rediscovered in 2000. In this age of memes, however, it is no wonder how it has spread far and wide as well as incorporated the messages of koksamlais and yongchaaks in the most peaceful of times. Here’s a collection on random statements:

Between the Past and the Present

A river flows right at the centre
And the two banks meet only in eternity,
That’s how this moment stands
Away from a moment ago;

The wheel of seconds and moments rotates endlessly,
A second before the long ennui
And the second after great motivation
It makes jumping over Earth a simple task;

A bullet in the loaded gun, a planted IED
An instant before firing and exploding,
But like the meaninglessness of gunmen and bombers
The thin line of coming apart is never clear;

It’s the second between life and death, setting the pace
For everything-two—it’s the moment between creation and destruction
In good times speak of its brightness
And almost kill oneself on the other side of the light source;

Between the one-moment past and one-second present,
History has been built from a milligram of memories at a time
Living has no essence, save that it moves—it’s just futile to dig further
Perhaps until the separation line tells us where we are exactly in the present.

Midnoon Preaching: Make This Not That

Make a song not a bong
Make deals not killings
Make a toy not destroy
Make vision not delusion
Make perks not twerks
Make metal not petal
Make mock not thok mok
Make roads not workloads
Make berries not worries
Make kelli chana not kaabuli chana
Make diaper not Justin Bieber

More on the theme

Triumph of Labour

“In proportion therefore, as the repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases.” ― KARL MARX The Communist Manifesto

“The laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day; he cannot afford to sustain the manliest relations to men; his labor would be depreciated in the market. He has no time to be anything but a machine.” ― HENRY DAVID THOREAU Walden

Evening Preaching: Make This Not That

This is a part of the series on Preaching series on Make This Not That: A random collection of words, clashes and contradictions that can be distilled from the aphorism of Make Love Not War: Check the Midnight Preaching and Midnoon Preaching. Here is the Evening Preaching:

Midnight Preaching: Make This Not That

Making love and not war has become too redundant in this bloody world. We should rather make love instead of war wathee. Here’s a list of what we can make and we should not, not particularly in order or importance: [Check the Evening Preaching & Midnoon Preaching too!]

Tales of the New Death

I saw Death today making a deal with the living gods
Nothing in this world counts as life does
But all he received was an ex-gratia
So many of its ilks had finished the deal like everything is okay

—You lose when you don’t want money, unsolicited it maybe,
To measure your worth, the gods had sighed;
Death lives forever but ever it is passionate just like the gods long to lie

When it knocked on the doors of Peace
Never can anyone, living or dead, can expect the greeting would be returned so swift
As a victim itself, begging for ultimate demise,

Just like the local poets who lurk in bamboo grooves for their masterwork
Looking for words in every leaf and un-proportionately marked stems
And to find only blood on the adjoining streets to scribble;

All the doors are closed in the town except those of the cremators
Yet it never matters—including Death and its clamour for some serenity
So now all it does is to sell stories to soulless listeners,
And so do history books come tossing, showing each empty page, on and on.

Tales the Dead Man Tells: http://kapilarambam.blogspot.in/2011/01/tales-dead-man-tell.html

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