In My Place

past the dawn

2014-08-07T10:40:00.000-04:00

Judgment

2014-08-04T11:38:00.001-04:00

I have made up my mind. To no longer resist the inexorable, ruthless progress of this soul-eating wall of granite eclipsing the sun of my hope and happiness. If the reality of my life is of cloister bound interiority, that is what the mirror of my soul must reflect.

Dreams die. And because these now lifeless dreams painting the future never come to pass, snuffing them out is rather like a child her mother prematurely flushes out from her womb as debris – unformed, unviable dream given away to float in eternal limbo by parents who turn their eyes firmly away, convince themselves by believing that they are, in fact, being courageous and admirably strong by being dispassionate in a manner the most ruthless grandmaster of chess would be proud of.

Love is not exempt from euthanasia. Imagination, you ask? The musician who wrote that song was shot dead in cold blood a long, long time back. Nine millimetres of lead that tore apart hope and flesh, followed soon after by a period of numb, traumatised shock that sent the dreamer unstoppably careening towards the abyss where the lonely ones walk away to die.

The scimitar cleaved. In the ecstasy of moving on, the new lovers forgot all about the tiresome and frankly boring tales that damned storyteller had told them the other evening. A lip on a lip exploring new worlds brooks no distraction.

Meanwhile, the radio no one ever listened to played a song.

'you okay?'

2014-08-01T22:39:00.003-04:00

So... when was the last time anyone asked you this?

Tejas | Indie

2014-08-01T12:44:00.003-04:00

Here's a plug for the talented and laidback Mr Menon from Bombay city. Enjoy.

1. Evidance (for BalconyTV on MTV Indies)

2. Ruby (via Soundcloud)

Teri Deewani | Kailasa

2014-07-31T14:51:00.001-04:00

प्रीत की लत मोहे ऐसी लागी
हो गई मै मतवाली
बल बल जाऊं अपने पिया को
हे मै जाऊं वारी वारी

मोहे सुध बुध ना रही तन मन की
ये तो जाने दुनिया सारी
बेबस और लाचार फिरूं मै
हारी मै दिल हारी – २

( तेरे नाम से जी लूं
तेरे नाम से मर जाऊं ) – २
तेरी जान के सदके मै कुछ ऐसा कर जाऊं
तूने क्या कर डाला मर गई मै मिट गई मै
हो री हा री हो गई मै
तेरी दीवानी दीवानी – २
तूने क्या कर डाला मर गई मै मिट गई मै
हो री हा री हो गई मै
तेरी दीवानी दीवानी – २

इश्क जुनूँ जब हद से बढ़ जाये – २
हँसते हँसते आशिक सूली चढ़ जाये
इश्क का जादू सर चढ़ कर बोले – २
खूब लगा लो पहरे रस्ते रब खोले
( यही इश्क दी मर्ज़ी है
यही रब दी मर्ज़ी है ) – २
तेरे बिन जीना कैसा
अह खुश करदी है
तूने क्या कर डाला मर गई मै मिट गई मै
हो री हा री हो गई मै

तेरी दीवानी दीवानी – ४

हे मै रंग रंगीली दीवानी – २
के मै अलबेली मै मस्तानी
गाऊँ बजाऊँ सब को रिझाऊँ
हे मै दिल ज़रम से बेगानी
के मै दीवानी मै दीवानी
तेरे नाम से जी लूं तेरे नाम से मर जाऊं – २
तेरे जान के सदके मै कुछ ऐसा कर जाऊं
तूने क्या कर डाला मर गई मै मिट गई मै
हो री हा री हो गई मै

तेरी दीवानी – ४
तेरी दीवानी

Lyric courtesy Dil Ki Awaz.

hoc opus, hic labor est

2014-07-09T11:03:00.004-04:00

Eudoxus wished, and praid to the Gods, that he might once view the Sunne neere at hand, to comprehend his forme, his greatnesse and his beautie: on condition he might immediately be burnt and consumed by it. Thus with the price of his owne life would he attaine a Science, whereof both use and possession shall therewith bee taken from him; and for so sudden and fleeting knowledge lose and forgoe all the knowledges he either now hath, or ever hereafter may have.

From Montaigne, Michel de. An Apologie for Raymond Sebond. Trans. John Florio. London, 1603.

It is difficult to keep faith. To hope, patiently, day after day – the soul yearns for knowledge, for absolution. But such is the uphill path of patience, it was never going to be easy. The descent to Avernus is easy, the gates of despair and giving up are open night and day, to climb back up to the clearer air, that is the effort, that is the agony, that is the toil.

facilis descensus Averno;
noctes atque dies patet atri ianua Ditis;
sed revocare gradum superasque evadere ad auras,
hoc opus, hic labor est.

Virgil. Aeneid. Book VI, lines 126–30.

2014-07-07T09:43:00.003-04:00

E'l silentio ancor suole,
Haver prieghi e parole.

Silence also hath a way,
Words and prayers to convey.

Torquato Tasso, via Michel de Montaigne.

Poetic theology, and singing in endless morn of light

2014-07-03T03:34:00.001-04:00

The emphasis in the idea of a ‘poetic theology’, however, is not on the actual creation of poetic verses, but on the adjectival use of the word ‘poetic’ to signify a theological activity that is imaginatively engaged in the active re-creation of divine truths. The corollary of this idea lies in the original Greek word for ‘poet’, poiētes, which derives from the verb ‘to make’, ‘produce’, ‘create’, and ultimately denotes a ‘craftsman’, someone who creates rather than writes poetic verses. Moreover, we may recall that Plato’s Timaeus describes the demiurge as the ‘maker’, poiētēn of the universe, and Pico, following most of his contemporaries, would have readily understood this to mean that God is in a profound theological sense the ultimate ‘poet’, and his language of creation the language of divine ‘poetry’. This was the basic principle behind medieval and Renaissance theories of musical world harmony (harmonia mundi) and the numerology associated with the ars aeterna of creation as emanating from the poetic mind of God and manifested in all created nature. And insofar as artists—both poets and painters—were believed to be imitating nature, art in general was seen to be imitating patterns derived from the mind of God, if not even imitating God’s very methods of creation.

Reisner, Noam. Milton and the Ineffable. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. p. 69.

Milton, John.
AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

BLESS ' D pair of Syrens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ,
Dead things, with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
And, to our high-raised phantasy, present
That undisturbed song of pure consent,
Aye sung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To Him that sits theron,
With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee,
Where the bright seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps, of golden wires,
With those just spirits, that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against natures chime, and, with harsh din,
Broke the fair music, that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd,
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with Heaven, till God, ere long
To his celestial concert us unite,
To live with him and sing in endless morn of light.

Insh'Allah

2014-07-01T01:41:00.004-04:00

Face what you choose to avoid. But careful that you do not distort reality to be worse than it actually is. There is a lot of hope, a lot of time yet left for a lot of good to happen, for a lot of good to be done. Pray that you always, always remember this.

Tyler Durden, attractive as he is, is ultimately a manic döppelganger bent on not only self, but societal destruction. In this, the lesson is that he is an instrument of evil. Do you want to destroy yourself and everyone else who loves you? The answer is a straightforward no.

So roadlost self of mine, do not lose your way anymore. Keep walking the leaf strewn zen garden path, straight as an arrow, endless, and infinite.

Strength, hope, Insh'Allah, Amen.

2014-06-25T05:40:00.000-04:00

My apologies for the month long sabbatical. Certain negativities ingrained in my psyche needed washing out. Here I am again though, and I hope you will keep visiting and reading this rambling journal of mine.

A certain lady still has my heart, as ever. Though she will no longer talk to me, I still wait for her, and for her forgiveness for my innumerable sins. I hope she reads this, although she is not the only one for whom this pen sings. Hear my song, then, dear reader, and I hope the time you spend on this page makes your days a little brighter, and your nights a little more tranquil.

Amen.

the demoniad

2014-05-09T21:46:00.002-04:00

for Mazikeen

What follows is one of the more angry, despairing, self-pitying posts I have written. I frankly do not know what to make of it. This is not how I feel. I can only guess that a spirit had possessed me when I wrote this around a month back – a demon spirit that has now thankfully taken its leave (hopefully for good) among the recesses in the darker corners of my mind. Love is a many splendoured thing, and it invariably lights up your life like nothing else quite does.

I've lately come to realise that certain kinds of people are most akin to spiders. Their selves spreading out with them at the centre, their conversations, their love, their laughter, the feel of their hand in yours as you walk down a street, around a garden with stillwater blossoms blooming under an understated steel grey sky

All are but the many intertwinings of a carefully spun web. And once their adhesive touches your skin, there is seldom escape. You will writhe for an eternity, years, aeons, minutes, seconds, yearning for freedom, but very rarely find yours.

And then, when the spider finally deigns to devour its prey, it will first sting you with a sting laced with venom that will spread instantaneously through your body, your soul, your bloodstream

Convincing you that you are now in paradise, experiencing bliss of the most sublime variety perceivable by man, even as it begins its dinner, and starts eating you, beginning with your heart.

The Fable of K, Ms Mirage

2014-05-02T18:22:00.000-04:00

This is a chronicle of nights like tonight, when every impression made on my mind by the world hearkens to an earlier universe inhabited by K. She meets me at every turn of the road, sits beside me on every bus, even looks at the stars in the sky standing by my side. I hear her laughter in the air. Like once car number plates had started reminding me of M. With M, this period of dreaming had been succeeded by a particularly violent jolt to flash me wide awake.

But this is not about M. It took time, but I have for some time now turned over that page of the book. Yet, the parallels remain uncomfortably similar. It is thanks to M that I have been blessed (or perhaps, cursed) with a kind of prescience about the future that largely looks unremittingly bleak.

At least, this time there is the dubious consolation of knowing that K is not a carefully constructed mirage, imagined into being by my mind to act in a manner that I would have found bearable. This mirage K, if she did exist, would have been the surest sign that my mind was again seeking the solace of delusions to look away from an unfolding real just too stark and visceral for me to perceive and absorb.

Both sets of memories, pleasant and unpleasant are diving into my mind pool right now. However bad the memory is, it is still a memory connected to K, and is hence excluded from filters that normally distract the mind from some of the more heavily armed of Nightmare’s militia.

2014-05-02T13:56:00.002-04:00

I feel like I've been kicked in the proverbial unmentionables. You know, just one of those spots where you are the most vulnerable.

So I counted up the demons, and saw I had one for every day;

I put the good ones on my shoulder, and drove the other ones away.

Note to self, be on guard against lurking self-pity. And yes, it is unreal to go to the other extreme and blame everything on oneself. Accept reality, try as hard as you can to not try to escape or deny it. It is bloody hard to do, because this escapist impulse has buried its roots deep into your psyche.

Please let me achieve this, Absolute One. Grant me the ability to accept.

What is this inexplicable sweetness entwined so closely with the stench of death?
Why self flagellate?

Can't the past remain the past and let the present be? Why does this process take so much time? Is it because you have woven Josef K into your being with such dexterity and thoroughness that even the most unpleasant memory lingers, because you secretly want it to?

While knowing very well meanwhile that temporary escape is pointless, as is denial? Where is peace of mind to be found?

2014-04-30T14:27:00.000-04:00

alone in the night sky
she rose like a many hued star
infinite of aspect
but one among the multitude.

piya

2014-04-28T15:28:00.002-04:00

I. Arnob & Friends Live – 'Piya Ki Najariya'

Raag Yaman
Madhyalaya Teen Taal

Piya Ki Najariya Jaadoo Bhari

Moh Liyo Mann Prem Bhari

Kawan Jatan Ab Kariye Aali

Nahin Pare Mohe Chail Ek Ghari

Piya Ki Najariya

II. Ustad Amir Khan – Bandishki Thumri in Khamaj 'Piya Ke Aavan Ki'

Raag Khammaj

Thumri In Keharawa Taal

Ustad Aamir Khan

Piya Ke Aawan Ki Main Sunat Khabariya

Laag Rahi Chahun Aur Najariya

Umang Utthat Hai Ang Ang Mein

Bajat Jiya Mein Madhur Bansuriya

Piya Ke Aawan Ki Main Sunat Khabariya

Via https://bandishein.wordpress.com.

2014-04-27T15:58:00.000-04:00

Hilary Hahn plays Bach's Violin Partita #2 In D Minor, BWV 1004.

2014-04-26T18:42:00.000-04:00

That night, I felt an intense amount of grief and restlessness. Peace of mind was nowhere to be found. I felt distinctly agitated, but when I asked myself why, my mind wouldn't answer. The agony of it was quite unbearable. The worst part about it was that it was all self-inflicted. Like a sort of perverse masochist, I whipped myself again, and again, and again. My back was now bleeding, but I was beyond caring. I calmly paused for a while in between the whipping to smoke a cigarette every fifteen minutes or so. It added up to a lot of cigarettes.

Lucifer

2014-04-20T14:46:00.000-04:00

Beyond being around old friends, few other sources of happiness appear in sight. There are the dogs, and yes, there is the peace and solitude of reading a book sitting by a window when it rains, sitting on a beach with the sand getting in between the pages – but this world never quite leaves you alone. Literally, physically, tangibly perhaps, but never within the mind.

But there are other joys, other refuges, other places where peace of mind can be found. The trek is a bit more arduous than the one where you see yourself collectively and imagine yourself together with an immense spectrum of people in a city – but there are similar cities, castles, labyrinths even of the mind to be found in your nearest library. And these conversations with souls alive, dead, remembered, and forgotten are often a lot more enlightening than the real thing.

The city saturates your senses with images, sounds, memories, stray glances, the glint of silver on a stranger’s earring ¬ – but it brings its own peace to look, like the cliché, into the middle distance, within or without, to see which of the perceptions are of the Buddha, and which of the Morningstar – who for all his fallen angel light-bringer aura, has inferno to administer and adjudge.

Ramkali

2014-04-20T04:30:00.000-04:00

আকাশে, ছড়ানো, মেঘের কাছাকাছি

দেখা যায়, তোমাদের বাড়ি

One day, in a world many sun-kissed years away, lotuses
will bloom on a lake
underfeet, and you, goddess,
will be playing your veena light as a winter stork's
fallen feather

stray flakes of
snow will play their soft-spoken
song of symmetry and light
Crystal geometry,
and perfection clear like dawn

And I will gaze at your
aura, and tell you
about a princess in a tale
I read under a flickering lamp late last night
with the muezzin
calling the faithful,
and the faithless
to prayer

and you will smile,
tell me that story ends well,

And put me to sleep.

2014-04-16T17:31:00.003-04:00

Kingdom's End: Selected Stories by Saadat Hasan Manto

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Reading these stories has helped me understand myself and my world a lot better. There is a lot of praise deserved here for a number of things – Khalid Hasan’s translations, that at times convey to the reader a whiff of the aromatic cadences of Urdu – the edition’s cover, a painting by Iqbal Hussain, in which there is a young lady in blue whose eyes by themselves speak many unspoken narratives – and above all, perhaps drunken, but in perfect command of his by turn sharp, sardonic, and impossibly tender pen, our writer, the inimitable Manto. Among the stories, I would probably mark out ‘On the Balcony’ as my favourite.

View all my reviews

dusty lighter blues

2014-04-04T19:31:00.000-04:00

As evening descends on the city with all the nonexistent foreboding of a hug from a friend you haven’t met forever along with stray clouds of potential sorrow, and rain that is yet dreamt of by you, me, us, every blade of grass, every leaf graced with a burnished sheen of dust

As morning ascends with the prescience of a sage who knows that Aurora, goddess of the dawn, and the ragini Sohini both glow with the luminescence, and solace of Sol’s early company

As dusk lingers, pushing you to drink one more cup of tea before footfalls echo in the memory and rose gardens call to you of paths we did not take

As night stretches, feline, feminine, languid, in the hour right after midnight and we sit in our respective pools of lamplit light reading of happily ever after, and occasionally despair

Here, princess, I sit writing for you these lines of weaving and unweaving
Novellas, cigarettes, glasses of wine, and letters as yet unfinished

Playlist

2014-03-11T15:55:00.004-04:00

DJ Assassin vs Charles Bukowski – The Strongest of the Strange

2014-03-09T18:42:00.003-04:00

The Strongest of the Strange

by Charles Bukowski

you won’t see them often

for wherever the crowds are

they

are not.

these odd ones, not

many

but from them

come

the few

good paintings

the few

good symphonies

the few

good books

and other

works.

and from the

best of the

strange ones

perhaps

nothing.

they are

their own

paintings

their own

music

their own

work.

sometimes i think

I see

them–say

a certain old

man

sitting on a

certain bench

in a certain

way

a quick face

going the other

way

in a passing automobile

there’s a certain motion

of the hands

of a bag-boy or a bag-

girl

while packing

supermarket

groceries.

sometimes

it is even somebody

you have been

living with

for some

time–

you will notice

lightning quick

glance

never seen

from them

before.

sometimes

you will only note

their existence

suddenly

vivid

recall

some months

some years

after they are

gone.

I remember

such a

one–

he was about

20 years old

drunk at

10 a.m.

staring into

a cracked

mirror

facing dreaming

against the

walls of

the world

where

did I

go?

Text courtesy trueoutsider.

2014-03-09T16:22:00.001-04:00

In which an otherworldly fog emerges from my monitor and begins engulfing the room accompanied by a scent of burning incense.

2014-03-04T15:03:00.002-05:00

Adi Parva - Churning of the Ocean by Amruta Patil

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Amruta Patil's artwork here is quite beautiful and otherworldly. And her writing keeps pace, lingers, surges ahead in step with the paintings (that each frame essentially is) with impeccable elegance. The book itself is printed and bound with care and attention. What's not to like?

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