(With due apologies to a Mr. Jim Morison)
Oh, Show me the way to the next Idli shop,
Oh, don’t ask why, oh don’t ask why,
Show me the way to the next idli shop,
Oh, don’t ask why, oh don’t ask why
For if we don’t find the next idli shop,
I tell you my tongue will die, I tell you my tongue will die,
I tell you, I tell, I tell you my tongue will die.
To all this pizza and pasta,
We must say goodbye,
Helsinki don’t have any dharshini bhavanas,
And we must’ve sambhar-idly,oh, you know why
It is that pitch dark time of the night,
Dreams control the hero, sleeping tight
Dreams:::: wet <–> wild <–> blasphemy,
<->Morphed <–> vague< -> originality
But there is always a dream killer,
He lurks everywhere, surreptitious,
Here he comes, terrifying under
The garb of reality, tears ‘em asunder
Addictive =~~ power of the
However, bewarned the churn and ferment,
Dreams can be a crazy scary fuel,
Will the hero die in the eternal duel?
The dream killer sets up his henchmen,
Society&&Education&&SinsSeven
They hunt hard, Oh some do get away,
But hey just another one just fell prey ::(
It is yet another casualty
A dream turned sour and salty
Consigned forever, stifled screams
To the Graveyard of Dreams
It is the start of a new term
Despite all the resolutions firm
I know how it is gonna go
It is the same ol’ story, same bore
The new term always dawns bright,
‘Cos first month doesn’t require fight.
Then the tests and submissions start
The enthu drops by a quite a lot.
Why the bother, why the care,
Why all this hoopla on being fair.
Just give me a random number please,
Hey, I just want to lead a life of peace.
Oh yes, they have done it cleverly,
Just so you don’t give up easily,
Just in case, you don’t give a damn for CG,
You are caught by the balls because of RG.
In the Background a voice whispers
Could have opted out but chose to save face
Just do not spoil my beauty sleep.
It is like getting hammered again and again,
After a point, must learn to enjoy the pain.
You should have thought hard, now pay.
Look at that sedative, the old textbook,
Haha sucker - you are never off the hook.
Could have opted out but chose to save face
A song written at the height of The Investigation into the incidents on the Night of April 9th, 2007. :P
Lyrics: Sanjay, Popa and Middle
Based on Afroman's 'Because I got High'. Please watch the song first if you haven't seen it before. (Sanjay did a good job of fitting in the lyrics so enhance your reading experience by listening to the original first.)
(The Single releasing to a website near you. Watch this space!)
Moral of the Story: Naanga Adangavey Maatom!
*btp = B.Tech Project (FYI)
(Slightly experimental. Ever since I first came across Bhaskara's Lilavati, it has been a fancy to attempt something like this. Would love feedback on this one specially.)
In the Great Kingdom of Maharanya,
Lived the famous Princess Lavanya.
She was of marriageable age,
Thus pronounced the Royal Sage.
The Princess was the epitome of refined glamour,
Her eyes shone with diamond lustre,
The radiant, dimpled smile could cause a flutter,
In the hearts of the most chaste Bhattar.
Cascaded down to her ample derriere.
However the secret of her beauty,
Stemmed from the quiet air of authority.
As she listened to Charulatha’s narration.
The fine eyebrows were knit in concentration,
With the full red lips curled in consternation.
Had vanquished the noble Vikrama of Uttararishika.
However, he had got quite a scorch,
By the Agniastra in his sensitive crotch!”
The astute princess postulated,
“To end up drinking the divine payasa,
Just like the poor queens of Dasharatha.”
She galloped on her trusted steed, Vatsyayani,
To consult the Goddess Maheshwari.
After having obtained wisdom timely,
She came back feeling more easy.
As the day of the Swayamvara approached.
Princes came from far and wide,
To claim the hand of the fair bride.
Rather frantically, arts like horse riding,
Sword fighting, archery and just to be sure
Some even brushed up on their cooking!
The day dawned bright and clear,
Even the squirrels chirped about the ceremony near,
Coming forth the brightly decked bride,
Announced the test for the groom destined.
The Princess began her teaser
“The King decided to divide his taxes thus;
To each he gave a weight of gold,
Equal to the total number of Satraps.
This left the King with six thirty times what each got
And another seventy six for the foreign gifts.
Pray, tell me, O intelligent men here,
How much did the King keep for the year?”
The room filled with anguished murmurs,
The Princes stifled a collective curse.
“What use is thinking for one in the royal family?
Shouldn’t we be tested on things more manly?”
From somewhere came thus a squeak.
“It can be solved by application of the formula,
Propounded by Sridharacharya”
Vasudeva emerged with a quiet air of nonchalance.
The Princess, whose hands were slender like a creeper,
Garlanded the geek with a palpable ardor.
Vasudeva emerged a ruler of adequate competence,
And the couple lived happily ever after,
Not least due to all the activity nocturnal! ;)
Shots rang through the cold winter air,
The General mused on his old wicker chair,
That fateful night in the middle of June,
When he had first heard that plaintive tune.
Trudging an Alcohol life,
Living an Alcohol dream,
Blood in his Alcohol stream”
The General was hopelessly lost,
Dying in a desert night-frost,
The song from a distant inn,
Set him towards the source seeking.
He was a helpless prisoner of seduction,
To discern her concealed visage,
He willfully entered the mirage.
Lurking behind an Alcohol veil,
Waiting for his Alcohol prey,
To fall into his Alcohol snare.
This will be your best decision
Millions before have made the trip”
She whispered in a lissome lisp.
The welcome drink, for a crown,
The General unbuttoned his old parka,
He said,” Waiter, there is a mosquito in my vodka”.
In reality, there is no wrong or right,
The Alcohol Man should never be refused,
He will save you from being confused.”
Takes you in his Alcohol van,
Past the Alcohol gates,
Into the world of Alcohol ways.
No fuckin’ insurance, no fuckin’ career.
The General found himself in a floating bliss,
Slowly slipping into the alcoholic abyss.
Marching the Alcohol band,
Living the Alcohol dream,
Blood in his Alcohol stream.
Whether to rhyme or not,
The poet had often thought,
What a vetti quandary,
Dum duh-da dee!
“It is a crime, nay a blasphemy,
To use sumthin’ like vetti,
That too in English poetry,
Dum duh-da dee!”
The pundit held a forth,
“You tender an apology,
Otherwise Dum duh-da dee”
Am a veteran licensee”
The poet replied angrily,
Dum duh-da dee, Dum duh-da dee.
For I, in a drunken spree
Merely misspelt witty”
Dum duh-da dee.
With such a victory,
In his moral kitty,
The poet continued to murder poetry,
Dum duh-da dee, Dum duh-da dee
It was an evening in November
As I very well remember,
I was strolling down the street in drunken pride,
But my knees were all a-flutter,
And I landed in the gutter
And a pig came up and lay down by my side.
Yes, I lay there in the gutter
Thinking thoughts I could not utter,
When a colleen passing by did softly say
‘You can tell a man who boozes
By the company he chooses’—
And the pig got up and slowly walked away.
(I found it here)
“But isn’t writing all about letting loose, writing for yourself, a cathartic experience?”, the idle critic may ask. “And therefore, if you find rhyming poetry difficult to write, why try? Poetry which doesn’t rhyme is the hot stuff today”, the IC may continue.
Do not mistake me, at the hands of some, these experiments produce amazing results but the chances of spurious passing of as genuine are also high.
Speaking about peoms read at school, two poems by Vikram Seth’s spring to mind. One was a poetic re-telling of the Panchatantra story – The Monkey and the Crocodile and the other was The Frog and the Nightingale. Maybe since I was very familiar with the M and the C, I found the F and the N a better poem. I really loved the story and his ability to maintain rhyme and meter throughout. From then on a loyal Vikram Seth fan was born, a loyalty which strengthened after Suitable Boy and now, just slightly wavered after the publication of The Two Lives.
Frankly, I was disappointed with his latest offering. While it was a family story like the Suitable Boy, in fact, a real life story, it didn’t have the tautness of narration that Suitable Boy had. It was nice of him to write of his own family and maybe people could identify with the events in that book, but there was a certain flair missing … how shall I put it… a spark in the language which makes you turn the pages regardless of the quality of the plot or your sympathies w.r.t the characters. But I guess we can allow him a little indulgence, he has written good stuff before.
The master of this genre i.e the book which could entice the reader purely on the strength of the language was/is the one and only PGW.
I recall that we had a poem by PGW about a reporter who experiences anything before writing about it. He shoots into fame for his ‘Reality Reporting’. However, his rising career is brought to an abrupt end when he tries to write about the effects of arsenic!
But often breezy poetry/prose is dismissed as not literature. That leads one to compare the status of Literature with that of Economics; if Economics is the Dismal Science, then Literature must surely be the Dismal Art. The most celebrated books seem to be maddeningly sad and well what do you know, THAT’s why it is great!
One can picture two critics talking to each other.
“What do you think of this new Kid on the Block”
“Oh! He just writes for the plebs, a panderer!”
“Exactly! Among his other faults… he makes me laugh!”
The irony is that what they say IS correct. It is the ability to bring out emotion which is the power, the essence of writing. But there does seem to be a bias towards sadness, as if happiness were a quality to be suspected.
The point I am trying to make is that often authors seem to dwell on dark issues because that’s what the masters do, but they are not equipped to do so as they don’t have with the sensitivity that they masters have, and the end up sounding unauthentic. By authentic I mean, the ability to put down something as it occurs to you without any thought for anything else. After writing one must worry about the audience’s reaction but while writing it must be you and the thought!
For example, I often find writing by Indian authors in English authors lacking in authenticity. Such writing arises when the intellect unnecessarily interferes in an arena where the heart must rule. This was brought home to me recently when I had the opportunity to read two differently written pieces back to back. One essay by Jerry Pinto titled Death at Varanasi, and the other, a translation of a Dalit story called The Poisoned Bread by Bandhumadhav.
The essay by Jerry Pinto was in my opinion, clichéd and laboured, artificial. It was as if the author was forcing his intellect to write what it saw instead of just letting the heart write itself, instead of
The essay itself starts with an italicized “Burrning is lurrning” and it is in a sense italicized throughout – italicized by the dictates of the mind.
On the other hand the translation of the Dalit story had an authenticity, in the sense the emotions were accurately conveyed with simple words. For example, there is an instance in the story where the main character eats bread upon which there was cow dung. Now this incident is treated as evidence, a stepping stone, an argument to prove the unfairness. But it is not dwelt upon in any depth. The emotion with which this scene is dealt defines its authenticity. However, one may imagine the italicized writer to deal with this in some sort of voyeuristic detail and missing the correct emotions. That is when an author ends up being short on authenticity.
(The End)
