Veggie Non Gratis

The vegeterian/non-vegeterian debate has escalated in my country to major proportions. Thanks to political backing.

Loyalities are divided now in grocery stores,delis and in kitchens.Virtues of being vegeterian or non-vegeterian are extolled in favour of establishing supremacy. Opinions are plucked out of each other’s professional expertise with doctors, scientists, yogis, lifestyle gurus and the priests, imams as well as pundits of course having a say in who is the powerful and graceful one–the elephant and giraffes of the world or the lions or tigers.

In this context, human flesh is burnt for crimes of meat-eating tendencies and cows are cut in cold blood on streets for being the meat-eater’s doe-eyed beauty who satiates like no other, and at reasonable price too.

If we break down this madness to simple logic it would read something like this– You are my meat, I am your eat. Meet me at the end of the farthest field where Krishnas and Radhas frolic because cowherds do that–romance the adulterous beauty. If you are ‘just go veggie’ then who will fund my political ambitions? After all, veggies don’t come cheap and they are oh so delicate, breaking and dissolving at the slightest application of heat and pressure. A perfect recipe for a country’s powerhouse going frozen if it doesn’t come up with fresh ideas every now and then, at much frequenter intervals than it’d have been the case had the sturdy beef filled fridge houses and tummies with longer durabilty and satiability.

Of course, there is no cure for greed. But Veggie non gratis. Thus, suffering could be the cure for greed. Meat should be just made premium and beef, given its due as a rare delicacy, since it involves the slaughter of such a useful animal.Making it common man’s food may be the real problem. As for qualms about eating an animal can be overcome simply by considering the fact that man is an animal too but the aesthetics of its survival is dependent on his innate strength to say no to things he doesn’t deserve. Become Personae gratae.


Poetry haunts me again

It haunts like an old woman who is never loved, much like my mother-in-law, never loved, never in my lifetime by me but who
does much more for my family than my whole family put together, poetry like that does to me much bigger contributions I can’t afford to love
in this bloody lifetime of mine when there are
more important things to do, like be poetry’s gentle reminder of better options at hand than loving it, it shooes me off ever so sarcastically yet gentle like an old hag about to blow her fuse, for doing so much for me
and suffering the worse for it, the ingratitudinal wretch that she makes me out as, doesnt befit my imagery of me being a poem and I
break lines, breaking its back almost, breaking the bridge of its nose too, breaking…
against it
for she haunts my inability to love so much, that one person I can’t love, ever, for being born as me and her being the way she is in my life, a poem of such useless want that it begs expression in so many words those war against each other to look better in the reflection of the relationship I paint of it and me.

The Last Emperor–movie review

The last empire may just be facebook as a kingdom that has its emperor who writes like a Lord. He lords over other entrants , guides them but at some point of his intiation he must have found a master to make him capable and able to deal with the inside and outside world.But he has to overcome a lot of kingdom blues and inability to find escape from the lordship thrust upon him frustrates him, as he is even unable to go attend his mother’s funeral.He throws his pet’mouse’ at the hallowed gates of the forbidden city and kills it. Then marries, finds a consort alongside. Lives a seemingly normal playboy life for sometime.The wife is ignored and consort addicted to opium tries to spoil the wife too, before conspiring to overthrow him and let her movie maker paramour take over. The movie-maker paramour rules for a while, then is overthrown and the emperor strikes back.The wife who lost a baby and had run away, returns to spit at every phantom of the forbidden city and locks herself up.

However, the forbidden city ie facebook lures him back towards the end of his life. He himself,meanwhile,gets into trouble because of his anti-establishment posts and wants to reform everything at first, then falls in line but rebels again only to be questioned and jailed with his phantoms.The phantoms tie his shoelaces for him, kowtow to his order and commands. The wife who lost a baby and had run away, returns to spit at every phantom of the forbidden city and locks herself up.

The emeperor turned ordinary citizen finds in the end that the teacher in jail is now at the receiving end and he wants to save him from the new regime but fails.

All this told in the context of a facebook group or blog group or corporate group in an alien land can seem true. How a son is sent away while he is still teething, having taken birth into the corporate world and lands up in alien land, away from his mother , where he’s taken care of by a gaurdian nurse (girfriend akin to a wet-nurse), where he loses her, then dreams of flying away somewhere, is unable to go back to his motherland to attend his mother’s funeral, is being honed to take over the throne in the corporate office. Is advised to get married by aunts and oldies in family in order and is given a maid too. Then the saga of feeling trapped in a jail, wanting to fly to some other land because back home, the political situation is in such a turmoil, may be even hostile. How he transforms into a playboy when he finally finds some freedom in another forbidden land, perhaps more liberal or even more distant to his roots, how the women get spoilt and drowned in the spider trap of luxury. And so on.

The Last Emperor is supposedly a movie about the last emperor of China’s kingly dynasty before China became a republic. But the goggles I wear made me believe there are kings everywhere and servants ready to kowtow too only to tie up your laces the wrong way so that you are at the receiving end when their revolution overthrows your kingdom while they smile and take your spit, only to jail you with phantoms that weave a spidery web around your existence.

The gorgeous scenes had more to do with the sets and costumes than anything else. The story and its intricacies were not so delicately dealt with in details or let’s say, it was a very bland, neutral portrayal of history, without taking sides or even making a comment. It was a careful depiction of what happens, not revealing, however, how it happens.

The actors sleep-walked through their roles and a dream sequence came to end without touching any chord in your mind or heart, as if any nerve wracking moment could bring in the floods.Or the director doesnt want you to know that drama is possible in the life of not so innocent. It could very well have been titled–The innocents.

Watch it, if you know it, otherwise you might get bored. Its an old movie, I know but I am just beginning to learn cinema.

The Man as a creature

The man is a strange creature. All this world is his impotent rage and passion’s doing. The man is the one who creates and destroys. The man is the creature. The rest are puppets. All wooden dolls on strings attached to his ten fingers which stand for his nine kinds of emotions or navarasas and the tenth one, perhaps the teeny weeny wee-wee finger on his left is the tenth emotion we are always blind to–his impotent rage. With that , he tricks us all into believing that he is actually just going to the bathroom when we all know he transforms in the bathroom to God and creates or destroys this world. When there were no toilets he had to find the privacy of a mountain top to keep his wee-wee finger’s tricks hidden from the world.

Rape! rape! rape! rape! rape! rape! rape! BOBBIT! oooohhh!

More rape, rape, rape, rape, rape…Bobbit! Shhhittt!

And still more raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaapeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Impotency, my dear friends is more dangerous an enemy trait in the man than rape because its rage is what incites men to hate women enough to incite tricks of the kind that results in rape, more rape, and more rapes.

Believe me, I think Shashi Tharoor gets it right ten times out of ten and most men do not undertsand, whether women loving or not as to whose side he is on,I will leave it for the men and women to make that judgment with their heads, not their wee wee fingers.

This is not a political comment. This is a comment on how to be a gentleman and be insulted for it lesson. I hope the people who want to teach him that lesson understand that there are working women in their houses. An eye for an eye, a wee-wee for a …?RAGE!!!! That bobbitised man is lost on the woman’s world, shrunk as it is but he will live with the kind of rage no nation will like to take on its back. Rape is a crime. Bobbiting is also a crime. Revenge crime can be forgiven hopefully. But…

She should have gone to the cops. Perhaps she couldn’t for some reason. She has to be forgiven. But the man needs compassion, he is mad and now will turn madder. Can you hang him and relieve him off his sad life hereon that might motivate more such revenge crimes? Does the media realise that the girl’s life is in danger, generation after generation? Does the media feel responsible for the kind of hype they create out of it and make her every night a nightmare? What a freak show!!!


The book–THE Cripple and his Talismans is a book worth reading, at least by poets and cripples. No, it doesn’t have a poetic language but it is a study in metaphors, similies and symbolism. That’s why I enjoyed it immensely.

Its characters are dripping with the sweat of sarcasm, their humour dry as hay in summer,and basically reflecting the grime of finding oneself in situations that were created out of a city’s rise and fall from grace in the race towards development. Left, right, center, all is symbolically explored as an issue in the book like we ambidextrously explore our own inner talents, always confused whether to go left, right or stay where we are; looking for a guide, anyone, even one as abhorrent a character as the one that the cripple in the book finds . By losing a limb, do we get denigrated to a section of society that looks at handicap as an excuse for begging? Why do we lose a limb? Do we misuse it, disuse it? How can we grow in strength after such a mishap? What are our options? Is the limb a metaphor for something else? If it is, what is your interpretation? Would you equate your limb to your talents–writing talent, labour capacity, what? Losing it creates a world of frightening and terrible phantoms who live in fringes of society and are only welcome into your society because you lost a very important part of functioning through your life–these much ignored, helplessly disfigured creatures but ones who are hell bent upon restoring their self dignity through one man’s search that we witness in this book.

This book is a cripple’s bible. It recreates everything he cannot put in mere words, it creates a symbolic world that says that there is a world beyond our normal two-legged, two-handed and normal-headed world of people that exists in those who have lost any one of those and are marginalised for that.We are compelled to think beyond our normalcy in order to grasp that world as part of our very own and I did it one night when the air was warm and humid, my head was liquid and turgid, my senses wandering in some narrow gully of darkness when I met these characters who lived away from light and reason as understood by us.

Sometimes you are not able to move forward to somewhere from where you are but you have to to avoid getting into an accidental loss of something that is normal–when I was reading the book I felt stuck somehwere from where I wanted to move and see some light, so I had to rush to the end to see what happens next and how it ends finally.I must have lost something in the process. It is about Bombay, it said in the end.


Selling the Taj

I have self or partnership published two or three books, contributed to various anthologies and done various other writerly stuff, yet commercial gains are almost negligible. Perhaps I don’t write well or that my stories are not trendy enough. What could explain my failure as a writer? A talk with my author relationship managers at publishing houses has me convinced that they take great pains to reward their writers with a good product but if it doesnt work then who can we blame? Rightly so, or writerly woes? Keep track of sales, market your books, write about it in facebook pages and blogs, mention it to every next person you meet, give it out for reviews, as gifts, be seen in literary festivals, network, be part of clubs and academies that writers frequent, what else? Dance with my book at somebody’s wedding? I will even do that if I could have made my book sell one million copies and earned one million less half a million money out of it.So there:

“umpteenth, dumpteenth sell on this blog, empty dumping syndrome of a fall(from grace), all the publishers men and all the writers horses couldnt make this story sell even a copy after it was told”

Here you go(It is like selling the Taj Mahal):


You want a sample taste? Ok…


When love turns into a clouded dream,
Moon is pale, stars are dim,
Mars not male, Venus not feminine,
Life on earth is mere science, less magic;

When love doesn’t drizzle on mind,
Flowers bloom pretty only to wilt,
No hidden message of gloom in cuckoo’s trill
Nature is routine, not ruminative poetry;

When love is given to analysis,
Flesh acts in desired intent, not an offering
Eyes plain expressive, not burning lamps
Body is an abandoned ruin, not temple;

All love stories leave an epitaph on
A mound of memories of buried feelings
Deadened by years of intimacy
Resurrected by few words of dignity.

I will write one for mine when I am eighty.
I am preparing its grave and it is quite deep.

Catching the trend–horror

Surprisingly, it seems trends are setting new trends. The corporates seem to be indulging the trendsetters like never before, cajoling the nuts to dance with them as unthinkable as it may have been earlier, letting the weird in through their haloed doors with a warm smile like they were family. Corporate social responsibility is the new trend and I wouldn’t be surprised if this trend becomes the norm.

How a trend becomes a norm isn’t up for analysis in general but how CSR becomes a trend isn’t even up for discussion. It is an enforced way of life that became a trend, and is posed to become existent till it becomes an existential problem. The corporate houses henceforth will actively function to uplift their less fortunate brethren, to play with them, indulge them and encourage them to become leaders of their own corporate houses or restrict themselves to whathever roles they choose for themselves as players. And these unfortunate brethren would love the opportunity for an alliance with the superstars and hail them as kind and very humane. So corporate houses would turn more and more empathetic till business as it is known to us ceases to function, in its place crops up several talent hunt houses that seek opportunists and provides them a platform, showcases their talents and creates a stage for them to do their gig or jig. In the end, profit sharing becomes the business, and community making becomes the trap. Everyone makes a honeycomb existence where the Queen bee rests and ideates as to how to keep the workers busy in helping each other build this empire bigger and bigger.Sweet honey gets compartmentalised and stored in its various pockets, everyone is empowered enough to develop a sting when needed for defense and the Queen is mothering them all to shine in golden hues under the shining sun’s rays oblivious to the dangers of some wild forest man with his guile or hairy bear coming to raid the kingdom with fire and smoke or simply a thrust of his big hairy arms where you cannot reach him to sting his thick skinned entity. Either that or…

…when these honeycomb corporate house residents stop being kind to each other because of its Tower of Babel causing madness in them with noise pollution, honey becoming hard to produce because of concrete invasion of wildlife, or workers turning catatonic in view of delusions of love, kindness and sweetness of their own making, things will fall apart. Then trends that stopped and became a way of life will now become chaos that dictates lives, where begging, prostitution and mad wanderings will become evident unless some selfish b**ch decides that she wants a team of players who will bring the wildlife to invade the concrete houses with its empty cubicles and overrun the concrete jungles with green dreams of lantana bushes, creepers, snakes, waterways and weeping willow trees that send adventitious roots into the water, making a Venice out of the whole world.

THIS IS A PIECE OF FICTION OF AN UNEMPLOYED SELFLESS BARD Who is fated to be the QUEEN And the B**ch in the story, because some joker thinks he rules the world and is having fun watching all this.