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Showing posts from February, 2011

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The haiku intervention on real ideals and realistic ideas

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Carefree, a child plays 
The fickle butterflies flew
Finding happiness.


Those joys we have lost
Now we praise felicity
On misery's lap.


It's silver lining
We trust joy's old as the sun
The moon as sorrow. 


Today the dreams block
the road to Utopia
Action! They hollered!


And so the machine
And the lab, they are proving
doubting, and guessing.















______________________________________ Have you check the new tab on this blog?!Haiku Haiyoba ______________________________________








Mother: On being & becoming your son

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Mother, come see your son
I'm what I'm today,
What I can, I can do now.

One not so fine day
Mother, you called me
from the Sagolband side of the Nambul
while I was smoking grass on the QT,
on the other Uripok side,
squatting on the moist riverbank sands
with my friends who have been home
equating lifespan with the bit of bombs and bullets
loitering in the lightless leirak and leikai.

I was angry, Mother, you made me look like
a fool in front of the folks
And I was ireful you made me look like a kiddy
when I had already passed Class Twelve
when I had already passed the voting age
At least you could have waited for me at home
At least you could have gone away like you saw nothing
But you called me again, your eyes cleared
and your mouth slightly agaped
and I saw something was significant.

Mother, you gestured we had to talk at home
I was still so stoned, and was so lost mulling over
the hidden meanings in Ougri
and the origin of the universe
When I did move, dawdling behind you…

Tea off

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The flavoured tea tastes so tasteless as old age when I drink it after having balls of lal mohon, I cerebrated. When the land smells of blood and bullets incessantly, the people concluded the score of men and women dying every month in gun-shooting matches is just trifling. The organisations of the government had managed the swindle of 10 million rupees quite efficiently after handling that of 100 million. Proportion and relation were written large in our world before the gunslingers had bent their knees before the idols of easy money. 

Bad taste: Beyond decency and conformity

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How do you define certain human behaviour as acceptable while chucking others as objectionable? 

Social norms or controls dictate how we dress, talk and conduct ourselves. The textbooks identify decency in social norms: those which are recognised as a matter of communal concern, and those which are endorsed by the legal system. This issue always sticks out with a hiccup but often the words get choked behind the creatively drawn grawlixes. 
For a brief introduction, there is a theory that we are a culmination of genetic and cultural evolutions. Both of them are again a product of a Darwinian selection process, which arises from the interaction of individuals in a group/community. Now, people protest and the problems persist in the conformed belief; while the bulk of this antagonism is carried on by individualistic behaviors that affect the norms. We have a premise: the main idea behind social norms is that we are a clothed, perceptive and talking animal. No questions, but how discern…

The epic from Ougri

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When we are into them,
and into the places 
of our lasting pursuit,
The world suits an epic 
and we change our figures
as isolated dots.
The size 5 ball gets
As Brobdingnagian as
the May Day Stadium
in Pyongyang, Korea 
It even goes enceinte, 
pregnant-with-meaning way
when we go there, play there 
and study there. If not
the stadium is naught,
Only a commies' bunch  
and their broken nukes itch
our consciousness and nix.


To be is to be comprehended
The lone falling tree makes no sound
in the middle of the jungle
Yet we find a thousand reasons
why the falling of a big tree
in the middle of the market
shook the whole world. For that matter,
A million men made the needles 
A chip can store your history.
Some say the road spreads out longer
And it's true when we hit the road 
of our interest, an epos
The world slowly translates into.



A note on Ougri:

An anonymous and undated poetry in archaic 
Meeteilon, Ougri, it is believed to be written 
in the pre-Christian era. It is used as a 
ceremonial hymn and can be hear…

Sachin, a new inning

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F i r s t   i n n i n g ______________________________________________


This is a story of the days a long time ago. Inspired by one of the journals that my dear late father maintained, I had a habit of noting down the scorecard of every cricket match that India played. For more popular series, I scribbled all the scores and details on my self-binded diaries. (In school days, there were plenty of papers left unused from the school notebooks after the final examinations at the end of each year. I used to rip them off and made diaries out of these leftovers. I found another great use of these papers in making songbooks and other journals.)

    Beside the match scores, I used to save the details of every inning that Sachin Tendulkar played—runs he scored, number of balls he faced, his strike rate in a particular match, his overall stats and so forth.

    But it’s been around three years I have stopped watching cricket completely. I think it was when the 20-20 matches got going but 20-20 was n…

Chalk and cheese

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That we called a chalk
That we called a cheese
Sit deceptively on the table
Showing a shadow of evidence
And their deception so green
as truly as the words
as actual as the reality
But nothing remains when
Truth takes them to the bin.

The local science teacher
who teaches Chemistry
She would tell reliably
the subject's not
about chemicals
but the subject's the language
about chemicals.

No corporal punishment
will make us clutch on
the reality's bald head
Tho' we have the idea
how painful it was
It was the pain we feel it!

A chalk is a chalk
that we feel we can write with
A cheese is a cheese
that we feel we can eat it.

Now, there's no love lost between
what we feel and what we see
And no more will a chalk squeak
And no one will move the cheese.

_____________________________________________________
Postscript:

The paucity of truth,
it is found only in arithmetic
and trigonometry and algebra
In the end, the reality is me
it's the perception
It's all bu…

Our happiness hole

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Inside the large gallery hall:


our chef-d'oeuvre has been drawn on 
the expressive canvas of the Ideal Man
in psychedelic colours and nullity.
The square fabric has a hole, with 
tattered frills, in the centre 
to add up to its creative finish 
and we are enjoying putting in 
our head inside. Inside here, 
we can even hide from 
the gods and the giants.


And we have found this is the place more cosy
than the dark restaurant cubicles
This is the spot better
than the open fields of the night.


We will see not, come across not
Anymore, anymore
The zero-bulb fuck and its antagonists
who had measured morality
with a warm squishy condom, found
helplessly choking under the coffee table. 
But we will have the eureka moment now 
Unrestrained orgy and sheer pleasure.


Behind this canvas,
with a head painted inside the tail
and the body tinged with venom,
we will seek all surreal happiness.
The grim reality wanders listlessly
in front of this picture
and just away from this picture
and beyond. 








The Simla agreement

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A first-time experience is always memorable. A couple of weeks ago, I had a trip to Shimla and had a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of excitement. 


The snowfall, the breathtaking landscapes and other natural beauty of the place made the journey brimming with feel-good factors. We were so fortunate too. On a Saturday when we reached, there was a heavy snowfall allowing us to capture the moments alive that otherwise we see in romantic movies only. Yeah. The next day, there was sunshine all around which made our sight-seeing stroll a walk to remember. Even better!

We reached quite early in the morning but we didn't wait for long to hit the road again. A breakfast, a peg of Old Monk, and zoom—and it started snowing as we were traversing through the serpentine roads to Kufri. I had believed in the proverbial paradise for a while then realised we have created the divinity in human image. No wonder there are no god who looks like, say, an empty kheini packet. Leave the godcrap, what we saw was …

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