On the National Death Day

The splitting of the January skies disturbs
The anxious corpses at the riverside crematory
Seeing no mortals in the cold, wet morning
They rise for an apparent cut and run to No Man’s Land
How long could have they been waiting for these unholy hours?

Some of them would have been surprised seeing me
But indifference marks their rush
As if it makes no difference no more, they are seen or not
As I run ahead, in front of some bullet-ridden cadavers,
To tell them they will be missed:
“You, folks, have been so close to us.”
And assuring, just in case, if they would ever return
I will welcome them, singing the national anthem;
One teenager with one side of his face cloven uglily,
He barks back all he care is a national flag.

Withal I realise what importance
All these things are of, but my own volition
—What I make of myself.

The National Gobble
Emma Goldman's journal 'Mother
Earth', Vol. 7, No. 4, San Diego
Edition. June 1912. Source: Wikipedia
On Revolution and Dustbins 

Trotsky, Zedong and others share a platform when we look up to the revolutionary ideals that has shaped human civilization through political means. It is depressing beyond expression, however, when we glance through the events and currents of our time in my native place—so much that the condition has set before us a question if it is at all worthy or useless, for that matter, to scrutinise the so-called movements for self-determination and all the proponents be damned. Thence, there should be an alternative path, obviously as opposed to all the contemporary perspectives, which can bring about the ‘maximum happiness’ in us, in our living. Our end is plain: to live a life of dignity without state terrorism and brutalities of the definition-defying insurgents, still with the ingenuity to face the onslaught of globalisation and external aggression. On hindsight this is one of our tragedies, being always compelled to take sides and fight for the basic requirements in life while no energy nor imagination is left for other formative pursuits. There is no scope for improvement but for the unscrupulous means that we resort to, through them that the precept of might is right exists and completed with gross selfishness and blunder. How do we make some room to fit ourselves in? Lest life is a roller-coaster ride to the graveyard and lies its essence in Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s words: “All that is transitory is but a metaphor.”

Kapil Arambam | 7 Jan 2012


“Seeking what is true is not seeking what is desirable.”
― Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays




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