Drunken Rhapsody

#Ganjaeffect #Surrealart #Ramblingsofastoner

drunken-rhapsody

Do you know what does the core of the universe look like?? Do you know how you transcend past the ugly world of dead crows and run over dogs through a pyre of stateless zones, moving into the eternal world of darkness which dwells in the ultimate eternity of your mind, till your brain zones into the core, the very core where the light and ugliness of the world retreats from your memory and the innermost darkness which is your light, your purest light envelops you in a shroud of darkness??

I don’t like to talk, I make less mistakes in writing. So I closed my eyes after consuming two full balls of green explosives and I slowly felt the light of the external world fading out. I felt a second eyelid falling over my eyes and I a miniscule throbbing entity becoming one with infinity. It’s a journey in motion, a whirlwind carrying the self in to a void where the body becomes buoyant and the entire weight concentrates at the nape of the neck and the depth of the brain. A numbness entraps me as my soul escapes from the vessel and I morph into an objective voyeuristic perspective, observing the delirious, incoherent ramblings of human sub consciousness as it tumbles down like an effervescing aerated drink. I am a gramophone recorder, recording all the gyrating motions of the psyche which is spilling all over the place, corroding the floor, stinking up the bed, filling the enclosed stuffy humid airless brown black silhouetted room with incense, while I see, I see everything with dilated pupils and swaying wonder!!

There are blue lights inside my room, they emanate from little dots of fibre bulbs, half-illuminating the circle of my enclosure. There are shadows dancing on the walls as the dream-box starts trembling. The night-bird begins to call at a distance; the bulbs shatter and the liquid blue vitriolic  oceanic blue light flows down the table like blood floating down a chumming girl’s thighs; it spreads itself on the floor, welcoming, rolling, giggling; intimidated infuriated it seeps into the ground; lost gone forgotten. There will be bloodshot eyes, there will be blood rolling down one’s cheeks, there will be blue blood soaked in iron, rusty, redundant, And there will be a roaring God, a sententious priest and a pitiful deviant, with two horns and a tail and in the end the trannies and the homos and the crippled will be triumphant, because we are bored with conformity. From above my spectacles I saw blue roses blossoming from the little wires that emanated the blue light. My enclosure tilts little by little as I begin to slide, then someone snaps the wire. I die a slow death.

I’m walking down a metallic tunnel, silvery and vacant. There’s only a glaring neon light. I hear nothing but a monotonous high-pitched peeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiii sound in my brain, a sound that one hears after a radio station closes for the night. This is the only sound I hear, it has enraptured my consciousness. It’s a labyrinthine void. Friends I await you.

Sometimes when you are out of this world, living in a Freudian realm, you try to prove to people, you’re joking, seldom understanding you are the joker. You convince others “m ok! M ok”, but really you don’t know and know you have transcended your gut wrenching repulsions, repugnance, snobbish squeamishness; squirming, cringing at the vermin infested feet  of an aghori, walking the archaic, prehistoric lanes with an imaginary snake slithering down his body, plethora of human skulls dancing beneath his upturned feet, stinking, rotten, wonderful, heart wrenching. In my cultured disgust and animal desire to go near the feet I wondered who AM I?  WHAT IS MY NAME? MY NAME IS A SYMBOL that will identify me as another product amidst this clones of machines. I am so obsessed with my IDENTITY, what not have I done, will I do to thrust my Identity in the face of the world. Where WILL the I of my everyday me disappear TO after my death. How will I find myself again carrying the I of this life into the next life. Till when will I remain synchronized with my I??? M I wooden plank in a rain soaked forest, enclosed with wild flowers? M I a sponge that is slowly soaking in the dung and incense of Banaras? I see heaps, mountains, temples, synagogues of garbage on my way to Duty. I sit at a distance from the Ganga arati and I hear the ringing of bells and incantations, I unite, blend in, with the cosmos like two entwined snakes during coitus.

SONNET NUMBER NINE NINETY NINE

I see a twinkling light above my fussy black and brown head,

It’s the eye of a leopard caught in between market lights and marked darkness

Moving from one prey to another, sterilized, cautious, dead;

Emerald green is our family balcony railings

PARAKEET green wings fluttering away, blurring

Just a speck, then PUFF!!

There was seen a red light inside a burning room

The air filled with sulphur and fumes

And an angel with ebony wings and stink of old spice

Intervened from purgatory,

An unwanted outgrowth of a mushroom.

Dreamt of making it big in the big bad ROOM! Jeer up!

They see flowing rivers, floating bodies; dried rivers, bodies stuck in the mud.

Why the heck do you always nip it in the bud??

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On Praise

It’s harsh reality, but nothing is pure and unadulterated. Even admiration could sometimes be tainted with a hint of jealousy.  When a person praises another, a latent desire for acquiring the other person’s qualities come into play. This tendency of wish fulfillment is not made conspicuous by the so-called admirer to prevent exposure, after all, our pleasing social behaviour is but a facade. However, a tinge of envy lurks subconsciously. It is no wonder that too much appreciation is felt with a tremor of uneasiness. It can mar one’s possibility of excelling in life because the copiously admired person often, unknowingly, becomes a victim of the green-eyed monster.

Admirers come in various shades. There are some who are genuine in their disposition, while there are others who praise to challenge and overthrow! They will try to embellish a naturally competent person with overabundance of adulation, so that if the person fails to meet the expectations, the impact is higher. If the “admired” succeeds and proves himself/herself, worth the adulation (however plausible), the “admirer” feigns contentment; if not the “admirer” pretends dissatisfaction while being secretly satiated, because his/her motive, from the beginning, was to overestimate the peer, rendering him/her nervous and, thereby, prone to possible failure. Human beings are competitive in nature and human lives are determined by the battle for supremacy. A person who witnesses another’s lapse is often filled with a sense of relief. Civilzed society deems this kind of behaviour as unethical. However, if truth be told, human psyche is a murky realm and one compensates for his/her weaknesses by cherishing the failures of others, especially, failures of those who are naturally skilled. 

There are many people, who, by belying incompetence deliberately stay low-key. They succeed in deflecting attention from themselves, ergo, appreciation. This lot quietly flourish in their self-imposed modesty without people being keen on their whereabouts. They are the safest. There is another group of people who receive attention no matter what, owing to perhaps their amicable nature or lively personality. They remain in the most precarious position. For some reason their acquaintances consider them to be torch-bearers of success, future entrepreneurs and what not! Of course something in them inspire such expectancies, but these expectancies and beliefs often exert immense pressure on the individual.  Rather than pleasing, the praises seem bludgeoning. One feels choked by the smiling, nodding, acknowledging heads, so much so that the individual feels a numbing disappointment, a fear of losing it in the long run. 

I should like to cite an example to show that praises could be repositories of jealousy. Conrad in his novella, Heart of Darkness, portays the epitome of hypocrisy in the character of the Manager. The manager cunningly dodges any iota of suspicion by glorifying Kurtz, the esteemed administrator of the Ivory country. What he exhibits could be held as servile obsequiousness toward Kurtz. However, the narrator eventually exposes the manager’s ulterior motive, that of usurping Kurtz position. From the beginning his appreciation of Kurtz hides an undercurrent of jealousy. Another classic example is Uriah Heep from David Copperfield, whose cloying appreciation of his social betters conceals an otherwise insidious design.

There should be subtlety in appreciation too. Anything that is crude lacks legitimacy. I am not talking about praise that comes from elders or people belonging to a higher authority. Their age and already exalted position brush off any scope for rivalry with the “admired”, who is probably much younger or a novice. Their appreciation is priceless as they admire to encourage a genuinely abled junior. I am talking about admiration that a person receives from another contending peer, because let’s face the truth, between two friends, one feels bad when the other fails, but one feels worse when the friend has more success. (Thought courtesy: 3 Idiots). 

#Praise #Harshreality #Bittertruth #Randomtakeonlife #Personalobservations 


Memoirs of a Holy City

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How to begin… fragments of memories are getting all muddled, a gust of wind scatters the autumn leaves and a round surface on the ground is revealed, its circularity bringing forth togetherness, a shared feeling, cosmic reality; lucidity lurks in the fusion of things.

The heat scorched me to the bones and perspiration made my clothes stick to my body; my hands and face were covered with dirt and I could feel my mouth twisting with the metallic taste-the unpalatable pollution, I call it- as I entered the Hotel, my resort till counselling procedure was over and I secured a seat in M.A English, Banaras Hindu University

 An abysmal place where management of any sort is a distant memory, where you are dragged out of your comfort zone and thrown into a boiling pot of disarray, can repulse you; it can challenge you even! But in my first few days I made a home in this city, in that hotel. The familial hospitality of the employees, their honest keenness to make you feel at home filled me with wonder initially, and warmth, gradually. So I went back again and again in the two years of my stay to feed on some hint of familiarity, some sense of welcome and being welcomed, which reassured and reaffirmed my existence.

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A Mingled Measure

 

A Mingled Measure by something somewhere - mayukh datta photography for jelly girl sight
Image Credits:- Something Somewhere – Mayukh Datta Photography

A CRUSADE is a CURSE without a CURE, a WAR is RAW: look at those marching TROOPS, spiritually POOR, mechanically exterminating ROOTS, SOOT-covered; they could be TILLED to conjure not ART but ARTILLERIES. There will be RIFLES, FILING away LIFE with an ‘R’; there will be the ORGY of GLORY, there will be VICTORY that has a burning TROY in it, a stinking ROT and the (e)VICT(ion) of the VICT (im) and somebody will face DEFEAT, DE-FEAT, the cessation of human FEAT, debunked with violence, seizing you by the collar and throwing you down the gorge!

There are SORES in ROSES, there are songs, and there are songs of destruction SUNG by GUNS. But Stop! LIMIT the MILITARY to a minimum, I desire MUSIC that comes from the MUSES, from lofty Olympian mountains, levelling agitated hearts; MUSING, contemplating and interrogating through Rhythm, Beat and Repetition. Continue reading

Confessions of a “DÉ́LEE BAAS PASSENJAR” (This joke is race-centric and is made in a humorous light)

Riding a private/public bus in Kolkata, is analogous to being in a car chasing spree, with the driver being James Bond himself. The aforementioned public transports run by private proprietors are exempt from obeying protocols that should encompass the safety of the passengers ferried. The primary goal that motivates the drivers of these buses is arriving at the final stop at a target time, as their pay check depends upon fulfilling a marked number of trips a day. The means to that end is achieved by reckless driving with the lives of several passengers relying upon His mercy. One erroneous move entails a fatal tragedy. The Horn plays a major role in the colossal chase. It’s an instrument, whose untiring application clears the way for the bus to surge forward with more force. The horn of a bus is a weapon that is dreaded by most and whenever its thunderous roar is heard, every motorist endeavours to get out of the way as soon as possible. Continue reading

Linguistic gobbledygook

F - Word

Today I went to my College to meet a very dear grad teacher of mine and as I entered the staffroom I found myself in the middle of some kind of an administrative crisis. My teacher had a heated up cellular conversation with a colleague and blurted out the F word after hanging up, the utterance of which is considered to be very unscholarly and uncouth in an academic circle. Later she mentioned about her apparent slip and the burgeoning pressure that was behind the momentary outburst. Continue reading

Sound of Paradise

oriental magpie robin by something somewhere - mayukh datta photography for jelly girl sight
Oriental Magpie Robin (Male) at around 2:00 am

I’m an eleventh hour girl, (yes, I still consider myself a girl) and I function well under pressure; well supposedly. Last minute exam preparations usually take me deep into the night and the occasional “in-between” breaks that I take during those long hours become home to my nocturnal observations. On one such night as I was sifting through some notes which seemed interminable, my ears were pricked by a bird’s twitter. I remember it was not more than 2:15 in the morning, and as soon as I heard the avian song I closed my book and tip-toed my way to the balcony, lest my movements unsettle the bird’s peace. The sound became vivid as my eyes scrutinized the dark night. However, I couldn’t sight the bird, that night I only heard its voice. Continue reading