Milk is left over
from the calves.
Water is left over
from the fishes,
flowers from the bees.
How can I worship you,
O Siva, with such offal?
But it's not for me
to despise left-overs,
so take what comes,
lord of the meeting rivers.
(Basavanna; translated by A.K. Ramanujan)
the eke, the partial eke, and naught except,
jumps out from
the river dwindling away resource manage
naught; wait a little, friend, say a prayer in
some time, the sting of the sun is about to
nestle in any
The river has lowered itself before
The range of lifeless
Trappings that are now grimacing on
A toothless campaign
To revile what lies in the guts of
Remembered stones and
Caricatures of a truthless visage.
It climbs out, you
Will see at times of unchimed, un
Rhymed decibels, it
Takes measure of an unseen vale of
The grimace crying &
Detaching; the river is not known
To go on like this &
It is not for you to know or I to
Want to know; That's
Just how it aches, how the detached
Need to flow is armed
With a distaste for the just-past,
The yet to be known.
Coming to terms with the absurd toxicities that gird
The unreal, the unsoothing rootedness of day to day
The palanquin of musings that takes you from
Place A to place B, crisscrossing destinations that
You visited at time x and y, and as you do, you over
Run the locked out possibilities inherent in the law, in
Herent in the interpretation of misspelled law. A nicety
Of domain will allow you to gaze at the maze of endless
Possibilities, some nasty, some not. A pragmatic domain
Of actions will swear fealty to order, but order is an acrid
Reminder of iron law that runs counter to fate, counter
To the whiff of, remembrance of fate. Iron law shifts gear.
behisee ki tajalli ka koi waqt muayyin to naheeN
beKhudee ke ta’ayyun se Khauf aata hai.
jub lafz-e-pawan raakh ko sulga na sakay ga
uss tapish-e-be-hausla se Khauf aata hai.
kaun keh sakta hai aag mumkin hai ya ke naheeN
havis ki iss Khush fehm ravish se Khauf aata hai.
lo aa gaye saamnay, aankhen bhi haiN be qaaboo
is saaKht ki wehma-gehmi se Khauf aata hai.
ash ash ke samandar haiN, wah wah ki qataaraiN
kumbaKhtee-e-ta’arruf-e-be-sabab se Khauf aata hai.
Hanchi is a South Indian (Kannada) tale of young girl who is first desired by her brother leading her mother to banish her fitted with a clay mask (hanchu) over her face and golden hair. An old woman takes care of her and arranges a job for Hanchi as cook in a rich household which eventually leads to her marrying the son who falls in love with her after seeing her take a bath. But here she is the target of a lecherous old holy man, Guruswami, who is the household’s chief counselor. After three of his evil attempts are undone by the clever Hanchi, he succeeds in finally accusing her falsely of adultery and arranges for her to be put in a box. She is again saved by the same old woman, who replaces Hanchi with a mad dog in the box who fatally mauls Guruswami. The old woman then invites Hanchi’s in-laws for dinner of sweet rice that Hanchi is known for and tells the true story behind the old man’s evil designs. (summarized from A.K. Ramanujan’s “Folktales from India”).
I: The mask
That a clot of moulded clay is enough to ward off
The unwanted gaze: let it transpire and the forest
Air will gnaw at the fabric of the ground of all being
Till wrong is righted or till both mother and brother die.
II: The bath
The rules of proportion collide with rapturous dance
Precipitating unveiling as if time had nothing better
To do, nowhere else to go, but to persist in the void
Accumulating evidence of want, of balance of want.
III: The holy man
Antics of brahmanic indolence will get you only so
Far: what remains unrooted remains so; what speaks
Of being unmoored keeps the syllables of discontent
Heavy with unrepentant, unholy dollops of distaste.
IV: The mad dog
It is not the box that can contain the rabidness of
The dog; it is not the box that can reveal the inch
By inch failing of the yardstick of faith; but the seal
Of containment, the slip of tongue, the lost rhythm.
V: The sweet rice
A sugary aftertaste is the reminder of the arsenic
Undercurrent to follow soon; the lull is only as good
As the storm that will ensue; for here is maya, the
Guarantor of false positives, intended misoutcomes.
According to historian Mubarak Ali, the Abbasids (750-1258 AD) quashed political dissent using a network of spies among other means. The climate of oppression forced dissenters to develop a subculture of secret codes and identities. This culture of secrecy in turn gave rise to a tendency towards esoteric interpretation of scripture that in time led to a subversion that privileged resignation over resistance: the first Sufic orders were born.
Too long under the covers and the secret mutates;
A tampered empiricism, a secondary telling; not
Doubt but a mutilated strain of truth thirsting,
Thrusting. The scrap of disdain that informed
Fight is now the lulling of soul. Guilt of surrender
Shucks pride, takes flight. As unknowns assume
Their trajectory on a constellation of infinite riddles,
You are left wondering in a maze only the chosen
Are condemned to navigate. The secret thrives in
This maze of loopy contradictions that severs all
Links with the real, cuts out air, reeks of dark. It will
Uproot you lest you unmask it with rapture and skill.
kya shub-o-roz ki munafiqat ki aazurdgi ki
mumaaniat ka koi halka phulka sa,
seedha saadha sa hul mil sakay ga, ya phir se muNh moR
ker hum Khalish ke seenay may ja ghusaiN ge?
ke ab tak meray lahoo ka zewar taRap ke
tasveer tak raha tha, darindagi-e-
tareeKh ki uss ko kya Khabar thi, salaaKhon ki yaktarfi
ki uss ko kya Khabar thi.
magar wo lamha guzar chuka hai,
aur ab woh behiss ghaRi ki
behisee ka waqt poora hua hai; subh-e-ummeed ye keh ke
saakit ho chuki hai.
If you allow the diction of primes and moduli
To seep in, if you permit the proper allocation
Of happenstances to permute themselves
Into a blissful cohort of isomorphic wholes,
It dawns on you, allowing dawn to be a
Non-representative member of the set of
Holes warped into spacetime by the brute
Ness of a lived unwholesomeness, it dawns
On you that the primed possibilities of livid
Abundance are due to be outnumbered in
Theory, and soon in fact, so take recompense
At laudable affinities, half-lives and truth tables.
If you lisp the prime numbers till they
Sound just right, and not hesitate to
Mispronounce them oddly/evenly, they will
Slice right through your prism of angular
Hesitations and tabular premonitions such
That so and so theorem promulgated from
Above just has to be such and such, but
That is not how it goes, does it? That is
Simply the improbable trying to argue its
Hyperbole lemma into its own bit of real
Estate. Grab the primes, let loose their
Pronunciation, and they will burst into song.
“The challenge of modernity is to live without illusions without being disillusioned.” Antonio Gramsci
Also to dust off rust that clings to the hoary silences
And unbegotten riddles of a transcribed fate muted
By a plastic slogan engineered by teflon mendicants
Shy of their place in an unhinged history, that too is
The challenge, and to dust off the dry resolutions of
A tepid history, an unwoven unsung history, trapezing
Aloud, immersing inside, appeasingly indolent in yet
Another gasp of dust air, molecules devoid of zest
That pulls the neutrinos and anti-neutrinos muscled
In a tight embrace of unmanufactured, unformulated
Thick moss of what the eye sees when it is given the
Care to see. That too is the challenge, and to dust off
Caricature, puzzle, drivel, and weight from discussion.
To round off the appeasement of rain and some flakes.
– tract: land to be isolated, titled, massaged, pulverized for maximal maximality.
– pert: momentary flush of hormonal zest in an otherwise untidy emotional jungle.
– hume: portly thinker whose popping off in 1776 coincided roughly with the industrial revolution; sceptical for good reason.
– pire: French for the worst.
– battle: proof of the efficacy of slaughter.
– bitter: after-taste of 2.5 centuries of kool-aid.