Like all opium addicts, I really wish to quit, but am unable to.
I usually decide to quit when some money comes my way. Then I would buy a good amount of the best opium pedaled in our city, tell myself that this is the last trip you had, and eat the whole of it. I usually indulge in these ‘last trips’ all alone in deserted places like the litter zones or graveyards. Graveyards, I like the most. They are the strongest reminders of the transience of life, the permanence of death, and the unreasonable tyranny of fate over man. I enjoy my trips the most in the somber solemnity of a graveyard.
This time, I had enough opium to stone a horse. Never before, have I ever had enough money to buy this much of the dope; and of this good quality. I chose to sit on a tombstone that stood a bit apart from the others. A soul lonely in death too, as it might have been in life!
My deft hands quickly flew over the sachet, undoing it in the flash of a moment. The dope was strong and it hit hard—instantly. I finished the whole of it in two shots and was, before long, lost in a mysterious magic world of fantastic dreams and bizarre flights of imagination. I don’t remember when I fell asleep.
When I woke up, it was dark in the graveyard.
Now there was not even a grain of opium left with me and the withdrawals had started. The withdrawals of opium are veritable hell... so painful that an addict would stick at nothing for the next dose. Yet, a graveyard is the last place where you can find opium; that too in the night. So there was nothing I could do, but lie on the cold tombstone writhing and sighing in pain.
Suddenly, I saw a man approaching me, walking quite fast through the labyrinth of tombstones. He, in fact, came straight to me. He was a powerfully built middle-aged man of good height and a serious, no-nonsense demeanor. I sat up and greeted the stranger. He grinned—a sudden, spontaneous, boyish grin.
“Turking?” he asked cheerfully, “Well, I too am. I am hunting for a pinch of paste. Want to join me?”
I sprang up—relieved that I had met someone in my own plight and was, soon, walking beside the stranger in silence. The man seemed to be quite familiar with the place. We jumped over a wall and then walked down the road, which was dimly-lit and deserted. Before long, we saw another man coming against us.
Seeing this, the stranger exclaimed “Hey, look who is coming! John, of all! We are saved, thank God.”
When he reached us, the stranger greeted him loudly while John smiled back…a quaint, wistful smile.
“Come on, Johnny dear…give us a grain. We need it like hell! My friend over here and I.”
John smiled at me coyly and I smiled back.
“Thank you Johnny!” the stranger remarked as John handed him over what looked like a fairly big sachet of the narcotic. John nodded his head and left quietly.
“Now, let’s hit this at once”, said the stranger.
We sat on a culvert by the road and the stranger started opening the sachet, humming to himself. I though it was time I broke the ice.
‘This John,” I ventured to ask, “Is he your friend? He seems to be a good man.”
The stranger gave me a puzzled look.
“Friend he is,” he replied guardedly, kneading the dope, “But good man…well, I don’t know. For, the scoundrel was hanged for murdering me.”
“Hanged? Murdered?” I almost shouted back in shock.
This made the stranger grin… his sudden boyish grin.
“Everyone has this confusion in the beginning,” he said heartily. “Do you know who you are? You had croaked yesterday, lying on that tombstone—probably from an overdose of opium.”
V K Rajan
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Lost long ago
Towards the end of the journey, the landscape becomes sketchy…distinguishing things from their shadows becomes difficult. The horizon seems to have come within your reach. Inside you, there is complete silence…as if someone has, at last, resigned to something imminent.
The letters on this newspaper appear to me as a thick continuous line with corrugated contours. To read them, I need to wear my glasses. But the photographs are somewhat vaguely visible, even without glasses. I amuse myself by looking at them. Some of the faces remind me of persons whom I have known, loved, and lost somewhere on the way. Sometimes they take you to the bygone shores...and you see their smiles again; hear their voices.
For instance, this little photograph in today’s newspaper takes me somewhere in the distant past.
It is a university campus. The corridors are strident with the laughter and merriment of young women and men. They are the students. I see a dark young man with a sad face. Painfully thin in appearance, extremely withdrawn in his disposition. He was, I remember, mostly lonely. And I see her. Shobha a vibrant, lively little girl, always animated, always talking…who laughed like the jingling of anklets…cried like the skies of June. They liked each other a lot.
On three or four occasions perhaps, they had shared some moments of togetherness under the trees in the campus. Moments that had made the world feel like paradise.
“What will be your…I mean our son’s name?” She asked, nudging him playfully.
“He must become a poet…” He remarked meditatively.
“So let’s name him Rabindranath?” She retorted.
“Great!” He said, “And if it is a girl?”
“Mrinalini…or Meenakumari…she must become a famous dancer or actress!”
But the days of enchantment ended rather suddenly.
“I guess I am no one special to you.” There was anger in the young man’s voice, pain on his face, and desperation in his eyes. The girl stared back, obviously hurt, anguished, and upset. Youth has its own ways with men and women. Not he. Not she. Neither compromised. And they parted.
Then there were those days of guilt, dejection, and distress. She used to visit him often in difficult dreams.
She held a suitcase in her hands. Here eyes were swollen and red with crying.
“I am going” she sobbed “Why did you hurt me?”
“No!” he pleaded, “Don’t leave me!”
She wore a beautiful skirt of a strange kind. “Look, I have become a butterfly! You love this butterfly, don’t you?” She smiled mischievously. He ran after the butterfly. But the dream vanished. The butterfly disappeared.
Gradually the dreams became less frequent. Timereplaced those wounds with deeper and more severe ones. A great healer indeed, time is! And soon after, Shobha stopped visiting me altogether.
Yet, strangely enough, I dreamt her the night before, after fifty long years.
I was taking an examination. My seat was by a window. There was pin-drop silence in the hall. The paper was difficult and I was feeling uneasy. Suddenly Shobha appeared at the window, she was standing outside. “My exam is over”, she whispered, “There are certain things I did not understand. You might know the answers. I am waiting for you…at the gates.”
The dream ended abruptly and when I woke up, only a gust of cold wind swept past me, escaping into the eternal freedom outside the window.
When I wear my glasses, I can clearly see the photograph in this newspaper. The face of a vibrant, lively little girl…she laughed like the jingling of anklets and cried like the skies of June. And I read the small note under the photograph:
Obituary:
Second day of demise. Shobha Ranganathan. Sorrowing family.
Daughters: Mrinalini, Meenakumari. Grandson: Rabindranath.
V K Rajan
The letters on this newspaper appear to me as a thick continuous line with corrugated contours. To read them, I need to wear my glasses. But the photographs are somewhat vaguely visible, even without glasses. I amuse myself by looking at them. Some of the faces remind me of persons whom I have known, loved, and lost somewhere on the way. Sometimes they take you to the bygone shores...and you see their smiles again; hear their voices.
For instance, this little photograph in today’s newspaper takes me somewhere in the distant past.
It is a university campus. The corridors are strident with the laughter and merriment of young women and men. They are the students. I see a dark young man with a sad face. Painfully thin in appearance, extremely withdrawn in his disposition. He was, I remember, mostly lonely. And I see her. Shobha a vibrant, lively little girl, always animated, always talking…who laughed like the jingling of anklets…cried like the skies of June. They liked each other a lot.
On three or four occasions perhaps, they had shared some moments of togetherness under the trees in the campus. Moments that had made the world feel like paradise.
“What will be your…I mean our son’s name?” She asked, nudging him playfully.
“He must become a poet…” He remarked meditatively.
“So let’s name him Rabindranath?” She retorted.
“Great!” He said, “And if it is a girl?”
“Mrinalini…or Meenakumari…she must become a famous dancer or actress!”
But the days of enchantment ended rather suddenly.
“I guess I am no one special to you.” There was anger in the young man’s voice, pain on his face, and desperation in his eyes. The girl stared back, obviously hurt, anguished, and upset. Youth has its own ways with men and women. Not he. Not she. Neither compromised. And they parted.
Then there were those days of guilt, dejection, and distress. She used to visit him often in difficult dreams.
She held a suitcase in her hands. Here eyes were swollen and red with crying.
“I am going” she sobbed “Why did you hurt me?”
“No!” he pleaded, “Don’t leave me!”
She wore a beautiful skirt of a strange kind. “Look, I have become a butterfly! You love this butterfly, don’t you?” She smiled mischievously. He ran after the butterfly. But the dream vanished. The butterfly disappeared.
Gradually the dreams became less frequent. Timereplaced those wounds with deeper and more severe ones. A great healer indeed, time is! And soon after, Shobha stopped visiting me altogether.
Yet, strangely enough, I dreamt her the night before, after fifty long years.
I was taking an examination. My seat was by a window. There was pin-drop silence in the hall. The paper was difficult and I was feeling uneasy. Suddenly Shobha appeared at the window, she was standing outside. “My exam is over”, she whispered, “There are certain things I did not understand. You might know the answers. I am waiting for you…at the gates.”
The dream ended abruptly and when I woke up, only a gust of cold wind swept past me, escaping into the eternal freedom outside the window.
When I wear my glasses, I can clearly see the photograph in this newspaper. The face of a vibrant, lively little girl…she laughed like the jingling of anklets and cried like the skies of June. And I read the small note under the photograph:
Obituary:
Second day of demise. Shobha Ranganathan. Sorrowing family.
Daughters: Mrinalini, Meenakumari. Grandson: Rabindranath.
V K Rajan
Dream
When I tried living my dream, I had no dream to follow.
Either broken or out of reach, disturbed and lost.
Viewed past, smiled on myself, felt it could have been better,
Sat for few minutes, smiled again as I didn’t want to loose again.
Started dreaming again, only to believe, a day it could be true.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
THE JOURNEY
When i am all alone in this world of infinity,
I may find someone who is not accompanied.
Then the journey begins
To find that one destination
We sole heartedly seek
To the podium of triumph.
I am here, where are you?
Let us put our hands mutually, and
Bond for the immense skirmish called life.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
epic poetry contest 2009
epic literary council is organising a poetry competition.the The contest is open to people of all ages, regardless of prior experience or any publishing record. Authors are encouraged to restrict poems to 26 lines or less. You may enter as many poems as you like – each poem will be judged separately on its own merits. There are no fees, no costs, no subsidy payments, and no purchase obligations of any kind required to participate and win the contest.
Entries must be submitted via email [ poetry@epicliterarycouncil.com or post to reach Epic Literary Council no later than October 31, 2009.
First Prize: Rs. 1,00,000 [or US$ 2,000 or equivalent]
Second Prize: Rs. 50,000 [or US$ 1,000 or equivalent]
Third Prize: Rs. 25,000 [or US$ 500 or equivalent]
Runner-up: 50 Certificates of Commendation.
for more details contact epicliterarycouncil.com
Entries must be submitted via email [ poetry@epicliterarycouncil.com or post to reach Epic Literary Council no later than October 31, 2009.
First Prize: Rs. 1,00,000 [or US$ 2,000 or equivalent]
Second Prize: Rs. 50,000 [or US$ 1,000 or equivalent]
Third Prize: Rs. 25,000 [or US$ 500 or equivalent]
Runner-up: 50 Certificates of Commendation.
for more details contact epicliterarycouncil.com
Monday, August 10, 2009
Those Golden Memories
I just imagined myself as an old writer writing out his experiences in the form of a poem..the last para is just for the sake of a good poem...
All the mountains and fields
Where my life was spent
How those golden hours passed?
I never still could figure out!
They were the most wonderful days!
Those precious heavenly nights
Filled with green and blossoming things!
Where life flowed brilliantly around!
But now I see the world
As a blind man!
There is no awe, there is no light!
I sit still unmindful of the varying time!
SRINIDHI.R
All the mountains and fields
Where my life was spent
How those golden hours passed?
I never still could figure out!
They were the most wonderful days!
Those precious heavenly nights
Filled with green and blossoming things!
Where life flowed brilliantly around!
But now I see the world
As a blind man!
There is no awe, there is no light!
I sit still unmindful of the varying time!
SRINIDHI.R
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Solpa Adjust Maadi...
The guiding principle of life in urban India is probably best summed up by the favorite Bangalore slogan “Solpa adjust maadi” which translates to “Please adjust a bit”. This philosophy permeates every part of the daily life here in Bangalore and one is constantly surprised by the extent of adjustments required in even the simplest aspects of living here.
You travel on three lane roads to find that there are actually six vehicles abreast instead of three. In the middle of the confusion, a two-wheeler overtakes from the left and causes more misery – usually in the form of a scrape on the side of the car and zooms away without apology. If you do manage to catch the nincompoop, he merely shrugs and says “solpa adjust maadi” – yeah right!
You order 2 liters of milk from the milkman who gets his supply from the cooperative run dairy. Some of the time he says he doesn’t have the required amount of milk and gives you at least a half liter less and the rest of the time there is a good chance that the half liter packet contains only 350 ml as I found to my chagrin when I measured out a suspiciously slim looking packet (no there was no leak). The bad thing is that it happened more than once. The good thing is that after considerable argument that guy has agreed that it will never happen again and gave me some extra milk to compensate.
I got my house repainted by Berger. Why Berger? Because Asian Paints didn’t bother to even keep the appointment to come see the house. Well the Berger contractor seemed all gung ho – after all it was a very pricey deal for him. We knew the rates were inflated but hoped that there would be enough professionalism to balance it out. What happened was rather nightmarish – they splashed so much paint everywhere that even the lizards fleeing the paint fumes became spotted. There was paint all over – doors, floors, staircase - in spite of my repeated pleas to cover the surfaces. I literally broke my back cleaning up (since my maid left after taking one good look at the house) everyday and had to resort to physiotherapy after painful spasms racked me for days. But I did not make a big deal out of it till the fiasco of my bedroom happened.
After they had scraped off the old paint and applied some kind of crack filling putty on one of my bedroom walls, I asked them why it looked so lumpy – they assured me they would sand it thinner and then apply paint. At the end of the paint job, the wall looked like boiled potatoes were lurking everywhere and all the cracks reappeared with some new offspring to add to the number. I told them it was unacceptable. They redid it. The same thing happened. Then they left promising to come back and finish my room. Two months later after dire threats, they came back and this time covered my furniture and windows in dust and paint since they didn’t bother to paper over them. Also they removed three quarters of the offending wall and then redid it – the end result looked like the relief map of South America with black lines highlighting the raised edges. I broke down and told the supervisor that I would seriously hurt him physically if he couldn’t think of a solution that didn’t involve messing up but did result in a normal wall. He was stumped. So I told him to try texture painting to draw the eye away from the mess. He agreed and then went missing for three weeks. I called up the Berger customer care center and complained vociferously that there would be no more “adjust maadi” for me! He came the next day and finished it off in two hours– it looks better and I told him that I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t ever have to see him again!
I learn from reading the papers and talking to people that adjusting is the only way to live here. But I don’t agree. Unless you assert that everyone deserves value for their money, that you have a right to expect good service or good roads or adulteration-free goods, you are not doing your bit in society. Why do we accept mediocrity in all its forms in all walks of life instead of asking for, nay demanding perfection? If excellence was the norm instead of the exception, we would not have to needlessly adjust. I understand flexibility is important but bending over backwards to conform is ridiculous.
You travel on three lane roads to find that there are actually six vehicles abreast instead of three. In the middle of the confusion, a two-wheeler overtakes from the left and causes more misery – usually in the form of a scrape on the side of the car and zooms away without apology. If you do manage to catch the nincompoop, he merely shrugs and says “solpa adjust maadi” – yeah right!
You order 2 liters of milk from the milkman who gets his supply from the cooperative run dairy. Some of the time he says he doesn’t have the required amount of milk and gives you at least a half liter less and the rest of the time there is a good chance that the half liter packet contains only 350 ml as I found to my chagrin when I measured out a suspiciously slim looking packet (no there was no leak). The bad thing is that it happened more than once. The good thing is that after considerable argument that guy has agreed that it will never happen again and gave me some extra milk to compensate.
I got my house repainted by Berger. Why Berger? Because Asian Paints didn’t bother to even keep the appointment to come see the house. Well the Berger contractor seemed all gung ho – after all it was a very pricey deal for him. We knew the rates were inflated but hoped that there would be enough professionalism to balance it out. What happened was rather nightmarish – they splashed so much paint everywhere that even the lizards fleeing the paint fumes became spotted. There was paint all over – doors, floors, staircase - in spite of my repeated pleas to cover the surfaces. I literally broke my back cleaning up (since my maid left after taking one good look at the house) everyday and had to resort to physiotherapy after painful spasms racked me for days. But I did not make a big deal out of it till the fiasco of my bedroom happened.
After they had scraped off the old paint and applied some kind of crack filling putty on one of my bedroom walls, I asked them why it looked so lumpy – they assured me they would sand it thinner and then apply paint. At the end of the paint job, the wall looked like boiled potatoes were lurking everywhere and all the cracks reappeared with some new offspring to add to the number. I told them it was unacceptable. They redid it. The same thing happened. Then they left promising to come back and finish my room. Two months later after dire threats, they came back and this time covered my furniture and windows in dust and paint since they didn’t bother to paper over them. Also they removed three quarters of the offending wall and then redid it – the end result looked like the relief map of South America with black lines highlighting the raised edges. I broke down and told the supervisor that I would seriously hurt him physically if he couldn’t think of a solution that didn’t involve messing up but did result in a normal wall. He was stumped. So I told him to try texture painting to draw the eye away from the mess. He agreed and then went missing for three weeks. I called up the Berger customer care center and complained vociferously that there would be no more “adjust maadi” for me! He came the next day and finished it off in two hours– it looks better and I told him that I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t ever have to see him again!
I learn from reading the papers and talking to people that adjusting is the only way to live here. But I don’t agree. Unless you assert that everyone deserves value for their money, that you have a right to expect good service or good roads or adulteration-free goods, you are not doing your bit in society. Why do we accept mediocrity in all its forms in all walks of life instead of asking for, nay demanding perfection? If excellence was the norm instead of the exception, we would not have to needlessly adjust. I understand flexibility is important but bending over backwards to conform is ridiculous.
Monday, August 3, 2009
It isn't
It isn't
A speck of I
Reaching for a speck of you
For a moment
But an infinite I
Reaching for an infinite you
Eternally
V K Rajan
A speck of I
Reaching for a speck of you
For a moment
But an infinite I
Reaching for an infinite you
Eternally
V K Rajan
I am a river
I am a river
And I must flow
I never built my home
On these starlit shores
Nor ever slept or dreamt
On these shimmering sands
For I am a river
And I just flow
I cannot stand by your window dear
To listen to your song
And savor its scent
So set your song free
And let it flow with me
I promise I will take it with me
To eternity
And beyond
But I must flow on
For I am a river
I never stopped
Where some believe they buried me
So shed not your roses
Or your precious tears
On a tombstone
Where I am not
Fling them to the flow
And let them go
I will find them I avow
I am a river
With shores and shores to go
So just let me flow
To where I belong
Like the wind like a dream like a song
Like a thought let me flow
But a bit of your grace on me do bestow
V K Rajan
And I must flow
I never built my home
On these starlit shores
Nor ever slept or dreamt
On these shimmering sands
For I am a river
And I just flow
I cannot stand by your window dear
To listen to your song
And savor its scent
So set your song free
And let it flow with me
I promise I will take it with me
To eternity
And beyond
But I must flow on
For I am a river
I never stopped
Where some believe they buried me
So shed not your roses
Or your precious tears
On a tombstone
Where I am not
Fling them to the flow
And let them go
I will find them I avow
I am a river
With shores and shores to go
So just let me flow
To where I belong
Like the wind like a dream like a song
Like a thought let me flow
But a bit of your grace on me do bestow
V K Rajan
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The mightiest stars
Perhaps
It's the mightiest stars
That shine the faintest
So that it takes
The sharpest eyes to espy them
V K Rajan
It's the mightiest stars
That shine the faintest
So that it takes
The sharpest eyes to espy them
V K Rajan
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