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Showing posts from May, 2013

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The Sort of Sizes and Shapes

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Sorts and sizes and
Shapes, and then we grow into Animals and beasts






All our pursuits, from childhood to manhood,
are only trifles of different sorts and sizes,
proportioned to our years and views. 

— Samuel Richardson

Sunday Haiku: To the Unknown Summer

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sundays, the weekdays
where does the difference lies here?
Forty-five degree




no matter the day
no matter the weeks and months;
distant memories




no sunday can heal
the heart, the separation,
buy a balm monday




sundays, saturdays
we lie about our freedom
livelihood's shackles




a/c looks down on
me, the moist, water cooling
the lowly living




will it be a sin
to think about you on sundays?
daily, i do too




it is precious, no
journeys and destination
would match the day's worth




what will it look like;
sundays, a thousand years hence:
freedom illusion?




in such a short span
in such ironical ways,
different days and ages




one sunday, we will
never see the words again
relive the words, days






ⓈⓊⓃⒹⒶⓎ ⓈⓊⓂⓂⒺⓇ ⒽⒶⒾⓀⓊ





Do You Suffer from Political Liberal Impotency?

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It is nice to say we are a liberal, isn’t it?

Just as a contrast to the coercive Taliban thoughts, liberalism is about letting go, tolerance and understanding the differences of the people. It exists regardless of any mundane factor. It is certainly nice to say we are a tribe of open-minded people. However, as in the lack of the absolute thing in the universe, liberal thoughts can be relatively the worst beyond our logic in specific settings. Simply, liberalism is not an absolute entity.

It is something else, for all the awkward reasons. A manifestation of this deficiency is the political liberal impotency or PLI.

State of affairs

Our society*** is a perfect example, illustrating the fact that liberals are people who have no balls. Some people with extra balls are running the absurd show of the ruler and the ruled.

How can such an idea — of toleration and moderation, of noble values and cheerful disposition — become a fool’s refuge? The answer is not too far to seek. It is right in …

The Untitled Story of Home

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Under this tree, a story is written all over the ground;
And how long should I wait standing here—
For the last bus to take me home,
And for the road to show me the way home,
And for the home to show its happiness again?

This tree has grown full length
Now I can sit in the shade
Now I would even care very little about the sun
Even the rain and even the pain
Even the never-arriving long lost love;

The story is losing its plot
The character is becoming weak
The leitmotif is confusion
And distraction.




Pop Pain

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We grew up bashing the sissy pop bands. Though it is not something we are really proud of.

We are only concern about the pop pain in here.

Apparently, it was only in music that we get a hang of pop cultural concepts for the first time in our lives. Others were just tiny parts of life, but our choice of music. It is a thumb rule, just like a Led Zep fan, who would always sneer at those Westlife-loving, Fair & Lovely-using folks.

One thing is clear here.

Westlife's gone, so are the Backstreet Boys and Boyzone and all the boys-that-little girls-love bands. They are so ethereal and this is one prominent reason why people have reservations about pop music. The lack of depth is simply killing.

Their influence is so short that we reach climax while we are still in our pants! Boahhaha! In my hometown, those were the days of Kunjabiharis and Bidyaranis. Unsurprisingly, they did not last; their songs have gone away with their withering ages. They are gone once the passing fad is gon…

Prose and Poetry Blues

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Dead Man Talking

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Life's little ironies
Life's little absurdities
Life's little tragedies;
I'm free of overrated existence,
I'm free
of ironies and absurdities and tragedies;
And would I never care about the bullets
Freedom would be, you tell, free,
And would I never care about the masters
Would it matter they get heads bulging from their arses?
And would I never care about the fear of dying,
Riverside crematoriums, bullet-riddled bodies--riddled morgues,
Would I never care about life again.
The only thing I'm missing is my soul.
Life was uncertain, but not anymore now;
In death lies the eternal end of the world,
The end of any past stupidity
The beginning of perpetuity
It is unimaginably long and lasting, my friend.




Read Tales the dead man tells

Cover Charge

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This is a bore's approach to redesigning book covers. We have always heard of the futility in judging a book by its cover. It still holds true. However, sometimes, you might want that your most favorite books has a cover that you can easily relate to. Plus, it is a great way to play with the tools on Photoshop. Is there any book you wish it had a better cover?

Sometimes, it is much better to read a book, cover to cover, reading between its lines, learning and indulging, while leaving the digging for aesthetic sense to those guys who would do nothing but make too much effort on seeing things their way.

No one can deny, in a way, design is not how it works, contrary to what Steve Jobs's fans would like to believe. Rather, it is about making the things more meaningful by adding essence with not the words, but some sort of visual ideas. Yes, any visual can be worth 10 thousand words.







mother

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how do you feel talking not to me for nine months and more?
and it is not even some bloody metaphor
a part of me is always empty
for all the things you never tell me,
shout at me once and you can feel the echo

do you hear how much i want to fly away?
do you know i'm not coming home?
mother, do you even know i exist?





ps: when i scribble this piece a week ago, i didn't even know there's something called the mother's day. it doesn't mean anything to me now. when i hear about any 'day', i saw archies' greeting card gallery store. perhaps, in my mental revolt, there is a desire to hide my weaknesses. enough ramble... mother, i know i don't need to trust the government but do i need to be so high?!

Excrement Exchange

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—One—

Us we hurl the box
Them they give the same back,
The world is round, so we see
Charge and blame
and counter charge
and counter blame,
As there is nothing to do
As the world collapses,
As we exchange excrement.
We never know our truth
They might never know their truth
The truth we have been creating shamelessly out of lies;
As long as we keep hurling boxes of excrement
As long as we keep blaming you for all our faults
As long as you keep blaming us for all your faults,
The world's on a revolution
Of not our stupid neighbour; yes, of not your stupidity
—'Tis just a natural revolution.

—Two—

that you know so much
that you can give a lecture on cubism for 100 minutes
that you research 100 months on police investigation
everything that you can, well, articulate
all that you speak make me self-conscious;
I want to dig a hole, curl up and hide inside.

in all the situations all the while the sun is the might, in all the days
and all the moon ever do is hide amongst the cloudy…

I Have 96 Wives — How Many Can You Get?!

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............................................................................. The Dark Age of Manipur then; now we are in the Oppressively Bleak Age
Devendra [Ruling period - One year! 1850] Bhagyachandra [aka Chingthangkhomba 1764-1798 AD] Chourjit [1806-1812 AD] Marjit [1812-1819 AD] Labanyachandra [NA] Madhuchandra [1801-1806 AD] Bhadra  [1824 AD] Ananta Sai [NA] Nara [1844-1850 AD] Gambhir [aka Chinglen Nongdrenkhomba 1825-1834 AD] Pamheiba [aka Garibniwaj 1709-1754 AD] .............................................................................

What do you guess the numbers represent in the image above ? Hint: The name of the Manipuri kings, mostly from early modern period, and late medieval period are written under each box.  
Manipur, an erstwhile kingdom, was merged into the union of India in 1949 after the reign of so many powerful kings who had marked their names on stone over two millennia of recorded history. Many people are still up in arms against the merger, terming it as…

Long Distance Blues

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It is plain, the noise, as bare as in the heat of summer
In every corner as everybody speaks to one another
each other, together,
It is even more obvious,
The air inside the ball that sinks in the lake
The water is everywhere, when layers upon layers it fixates
I’ll stop thinking about what I love
I’ll stop thinking about you
I’ll be always a long way from home




The Terracotta Army or the "Terra Cotta Warriors and Horses", is a collection of terracotta sculptures depicting the armies of Qin Shi Huang, the first Emperor of China. It is a form of funerary art buried with the emperor in 210–209 BC and whose purpose was to protect the emperor in his afterlife.

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