LIMBO DAWN

LIMBO DAWN

I am suspended in between two worlds,

One clouded in dusk, other seeing dawn.

I look at them days rising to the morn

Wearing new robes, their self-endorsed

The Caribbean grows, roots in pre-identities

Its shoot of dewed new leaves, new identity,

They walk on fresh bridge-bar I hang on. I see

Them limbo-ing past me. Happy beings.

I see them and my mind meanders free

To traded souls who incepted in their misery.

Good ones upright, maimed prostrate, they

Fought agonizing life the limbo way.

Filial love pass it on believing re-assembly

From beast to man, man to better man as in

Egyptian Osiris, resurrected Son or the Kali.

Valiant, enduring they threw aside the chains

The slavery yoke transformed to limbo game,

They fought imperialism with imagination, I say.

They survived, now dawned through the limbo way.

EXPLANATION

I am suspended in between two worlds,

One clouded in dusk, other seeing dawn.

I look at them days rising to the morn

Wearing new robes, their self-endorsed

The Caribbean grows, roots in pre-identities

Its shoot of dewed new leaves, new identity,

They walk on fresh bridge-bar I hang on. I see

Them limbo-ing past me. Happy beings.

The poem is a take-away from Wilson Harris’s essay ‘the limbo gateway’ and various concerns expressed by him are represented through the means of a man who is in between two cultures or two worlds and its peoples. One world is the old Africa and its identity – burdened by slavery and degeneration, having no true essence of itself (as a result of years of servitude to others). It is “clouded in dusk”, referring to the fact that the older identity is primitive and it must give way to dawn, that is, the new world, the new Caribbean world with its new identity. People are moving towards this dawning age and the speaker is watching their progress. The speaker is the bridge here. He is hanging on a fresh bar- this fresh bar represents the gateway, the limbo gateway. People, to pass on to the rising world, have to limbo through a gap. It is not easy; it is a challenge that they face bravely and cross over to progress and happiness.

The new Caribbean is growing but its roots are still present in its tradition. They never forget who they truly are but they adapt and contribute to the new society whole-heartedly. They are progressive like new leaves and fresh like dew, they are working towards happiness. This limbo-ing becomes an important phenomenon of their progression and hence it becomes an important part of Caribbean identity.

I see them and my mind meanders free

To traded souls who incepted in their misery.

Good ones upright, maimed prostrate, they

Fought agonizing life the limbo way.

Filial love pass it on believing re-assembly

From beast to man, man to better man as in

Egyptian Osiris, resurrected Son or the Kali.

The speaker’s mind meanders. This is a reference to the importance of ‘imagination’ in Harris’s point of view. He believes that imagination is the one powerful element that has helped the slaves of Africa to come out and demand their identity, imagination has saved their race. Imagination has kept their minds intact in times of unfathomable sufferings and helped them derive a sense of themselves when they were traded like livestock or property. Here, their imagination gave birth to the famous limbo dance.

When slaves were crammed into ships, they sometimes did not have enough space (or were heavily chained) to stand and so they crawled like spiders (the reference to anancy – the spider hero in African literary tradition). Others could stand upright and to have something to take their minds off their plight, they invented the limbo dance where people move beneath a bar that is constantly lowered till people crawl like spiders, chest up, trying to cross the bar without touching or falling it. It was something original, something distinct to be saved and cherished. They passed limbo dance as a tradition.

The lowering of the body while crossing the bar and subsequent rising of the body is akin to progression from a primitive, subjugated race to being the people of the new world. It is what almost the whole world believes to be sacred like Osiris in Egypt, or resurrection of Christ, or the many-handed goddess of Hinduism- Kali who saves the world by creating a barrier between the devotees and evil, a symbol of remembrance of amputated limbs during slavery.

Valiant, enduring they threw aside the chains

The slavery yoke transformed to limbo game,

They fought imperialism with imagination, I say.

They survived, now dawned through the limbo way.

By inventing limbo dance in the circumstances of slavery, the courageous ancestors have turned the tables. They have turned their liability (of being a slave) into strength. Of all things, they have managed to bring entertainment and joy from slavery. Their imagination of limbo and seeing it as their medium of having a distinct identity and that has helped them move on from slavery to the world of progression and development. Limbo has thus become a gateway to reach the dawn from dusk, it is a bridge through which people have to pass (they have to realize it as their distinct identity) to reach the new world.

REFRENCES

·         Harris, Wilson. The Limbo Gateway.

·         McWatt, Mark. “Some observations on the notions of history, time and the imagination in the thought of Wilson Harris.”

·         http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Limbo_(dance)

·         http://www.moadsf.org/about/themes.html : MOAD - museum of the African Diaspora.

Ariel Ariel!

Ariel! Ariel! I command, do my bid.

Cast the spirits and raise the wind.

From deep bellies of the silent sea

Call out the great Eros misery.

Ariel, you minion that roamed Eden,

You who deemed first children heathen,

Gather your forces, evoke a pyre

To burn betrayal in eternal fire.

Surreal dance of destined ends,

Sense, realization, all weakened…

Be my jinn, be my wishes fulfilled.

Banish them undone with guilt.

Ariel, you see them grinning at me?

Backstabbed me in love-lust reverie

I now carry the scar a souvenir of loss

Carry it to the stump of the cross.

When skies open, I’ll bury them all

Painful, bashful or had me appalled.

Then dear Ariel, of them be alert,

Treacherous warts you must inspect,

And when I am put to the test,

Bury me along with the rest.

WEEKEND RITUAL

I look out my window, I see him sitting there,

A beer mug in his hand, surroundings austere.

The distant music fading in and out,

I follow his rhythmic movements.

He’s head banging in tandem to his tapping foot jerks.

Even at this distance the moisture rolls down the mug

And moisture shines on his sweating brow

His hair soft, refreshing like the cold beer,

Occasional smiles at change of songs so dear!

Every weekend as a ritual I sit by my window

To watch him come, enjoy beer – music, and go.

CELEBRATING DIVERSITY

Some big day indeed! I can see

The big red building colorfully alight,

Dotted with Sahibs and Memsahibs in white.

They step down from plush, sleek white cars

To velvet green, red carpet with charm.

I see, I see them, they unseeing,

Men in white but men in dark.

How different it looks out there,

Colorful but in stark contrast

To where I stand; I son of none,

I am, I was forever………here

The black-market mongrel; austere

This place, I call………….my home

Where I design my thoughtful poem.

Together as white, as brown and grey.

They shout I hear a soul-less sound-

The “Vande Mataram,Vande Mataram” rounds.

Pathetic, I pity their perilous ways

Weighed down by heavy pockets, I say.

Cuffed by chains of ‘I’, ‘Me’ and ‘Mine’.

How can they have straightened spines?

Come again, heroes to Rama’s abode

And see how white-washed it looks.

They are all united now, all together-

Fair, dark, olive, sun burnt, all forever.

They now here celebrate celebrities

But name it now “Celebrating Diversity”.

COFFEE CASE WORSENED

The aroma eases through, unlocks doors

That lead to memory’s unending source.

For the first time I close my eyes.

I look inside me and I am lax of words.

Alone in a group of people? Not nice!

Unending time, if nothing, really hurts.

Living up to my lessons, sad to say I am astray.

Mother-learnt values all lost hues.

I sometime wonder what she will think

If she saw me here, if she was near.

And then with a flinch I brush it aside.

Curse me, I say, for carrying insane pride.

Pride that I dwell amongst proofs of alienation,

Pride that is hitting me hard; no realization.

Morn come, things won’t be any the same,

I’ll be back looking at things that seem now sane.

For now, it’s me and my penetrating coffee,

Hot, sweet, bitter. Alive. Stirring within, without me.

Coffee Cases

Bidding adieu to the last dregs of my over-priced coffee,

I sink to the taste of my purple days of unabashed reverie.

From those still-fresh figurines I pick bygone ghosts that haunt.

How they make my coffee more bitter, a persistent gaunt.

Even after I leave the coffee shop, the coffee mug still hot,

The aroma tugs along. The pebbles I kick down the road

Tumble along a shivery path, as shaky as my deeds.

Akin to a sinful soul that’s accustomed to passionate feed.

The rivulets of greed and guilt that ran down the same plains,

Now extinct, dry path, signatures of past like dried rains.

How pitiful, even the most intimate caresses go uncared.

Numbness overrides humanness, chastity not spared.

I burn them all down with the last dregs of my coffee.

I sink to the taste of my purple days of unabashed reverie.

29.10.11

After much seeking I found

What is indeed worse than loneliness.

It’s not quite different, but pretty abhorrent-

Alienation, being an outcaste in a culture.

Worse so, if it is your identity de-cultured

(Or so they say) by ages of separation

From the roots. Severed into perdition.

Now an incomplete adult revisiting.

Need to learn much, cease to be as such.

Know when you turn, you are the issue.

Your dress, your speech, your friends,

All too base, so far removed from norm

That it is immoral, needless pretence.

You can try pleasing, but please, it’s useless.

You eat when they ask, drink when they say,

Sleep when they want. Dream whenever you may

Seek sanity. You get sanity in dreams alone.

And when you have dreamt enough,

Come back. It’s time for another meal.

That’s all there is. If not with sense,

Stuff yourself with food so that you live.

Evening entertainment gossips of congeniality.

Be sure, the moment you leave, you become

The new subject, target showing impropriety.

And some day, from some distant cousin

You will hear of a promiscuous mad woman,

Then you realize, it is you being spoken.

Trapped

In a sweating hillside villa

Hot and humid entourage

Peeping into the folds of the river

Fed by every evening shower

I am trapped, I am trapped.

Willing submission, not the rapt.

Stuck in a bricked room,

Windows so heavily clouded.

Lost my roots, lost my shoot,

Holding on to ward off the haunted.

I am trapped, I am trapped.

Anxious anticipation, ripped into half.

It’s killing, agonizingly slow

The river would not flow.

Jamming into a tiny orifice

Made tinier by them, I miss.

I am trapped, I am trapped.

Sluggish slumber, not vigilant act.

Forced companies, fake freedoms,

Treacherous talks and idle gossips

Weaving around lamer topics.

Should I laugh, cry or just nod?

I am trapped, I am trapped.

Second-hand speech, carefully matched.

Neither here, nor there, nowhere.

My mind hangs in between conversations.

Neither interest, nor relevance to anything sane

And they expect a courteous, eligible dame.

I am trapped, I am trapped.

Painfully poised, waiting a lapse.

Liberal living in a punctuated life

Solicited by dreams, perilous strife

Of wishes and destiny viciously played

To script the legendary days and night.

Characters in and out they move

Teetering there here strengthened too.

Gullible ease exploited oft in the run

In the mad alley the dreamers groove.

Lamed in the leap of expectations bold

Leading to cut-throat edge then sold

To future that naïve fantasies conceived

By lustrous gleam of self glory- ice cold.

Torn by gleam of heathen manifestations

Of success stories, of lauded competitions.

Racing against the clock, failure inevitable

Then what dreams, what expectations…

U n Scarlet

It’s not been all so long, but,

Why does it seem ages?

Only yesterday we loved, we argued.

Today we spoke again as strangers.

And later the day I saw you in the marketplace.

You looked perfect, you have been so always.

            Not alone, were you? Your beautiful company,

            I did not miss her, nor did so anybody.

            Scarlet against the grey world, so charming her face

            Held you in place. Does it matter? You’ve forgotten me anyways.

It’s not been all so long, but,

Why does it seem like ages?

Just now you passed me in the village fair,

You looked, turned back again and again.

Those piercing eyes following in a mad chase,

You sought me out. Remember at least those sensuous days?

            I cried the day you left there for work.

            Did I know you would never return?

            I tried to strangle your memories in different ways.

            But you brought them back, you and Scarlet in marketplace.

Always been used to these ways

Accustomed to these sultry days

Hunched sitting on an empty street

Guarding a bird wounded in feet

Tearless eyes gaze into my solitude

I know they spell immense gratitude

He knows, I know, not far is the end

His speeding heart feel in my hands.

Before you go, please, dear friend

Allow me hug you to my content,

None but you taught me to love, to live,

And now you go into the eternity.

I send you my heart, take with you,

Love it, guard it, as I did to you.

No good to keep it here with me,

I shall lose it again to some unworthy.

strange world, strange people

The house on fire, see them flames roar higher.
Men running, women crying, children silenced.
They look so tiny, with tiny buckets of few drops.
Servants servile, strong ones mobile, the house defiled.
The window on top left gushing out furious flames.
In the chaos, a parrot with clipped wings aflame.

The mistress crying out for her pet, master adamant.
“Take your mistress away!” he bellows at a servant.
Skirts, coats, hems, hair, all singed, stinking destruction
Her heart longs for the pet, not the colored man charred
In a deeper hue, beyond recognition, beyond comprehension.
Strange world, I say, strange people. They guilt and desire marred.

In all hue and cries, the child forgotten, eyes wide open
Lips forming a permanent O. Hair sweat-smoothened.
Tracks of shed tears still visible, unshed tears blocked
The smell of burning toys in a psyche permanently shocked.
The arrhythmic rise and fall of chest holding so much pain,
His only companions lost in the nursery, left humans disdain.

No love lost over the survivors. Sense of loss held high.
Mourning not for lives that went alight into the dark night.
Toys, pets and property, losing these made them so appalled!
Strange world, I say, strange people. They guilt and desire marred.

A dark sky, a darker silhouette stands stark in contrast.

A silent night ever silenced lips lip sing agonizing past.

A disturbance in distance that draws cautious eyes,

That search frantically for fear of uncanny demise.

Wide open, silent, the Indian night sky beckons,

Its children gone wild on passionate moonlit strolls.

The open enticing arms, just a step to walk into

And set free of chains that play a cacophony tune.

Pay your last scary bow to the inky night,

Past devil’s hour it’s an unblemished sight.

Rest your stance. Don a mask of innocent slumber.

Winter is gone, now season of unbearable summer.

Guard your own, watch out for scurrilous inklings

Watch it; here sulphurous summer overrides the spring.

Nights light to day, but days give in to nights again,

Beware then, you too will begin to enjoy the pain.

In tears, in recurrent fears,
In dreams and perplexed thoughts,
In pools of unruly aspirations
And in ripe moments of passion,
I feel your presence, feel you then
As sure as me, as sure as heaven.

In days insolent, in nights that never end,
In thirsts unquenched and in time unspent,
In lines unread, in paths not tread,
And in the moment you just went off ahead,
I see your shadow, it seems so real
As if you are with me now, held so dear.

In remnants of affection, in embers of rejection,
In songs of love and in words of retention,
In between indecisions, in lieu of precisions,
And in scurry of dialogues with conditions,
I felt your love; I thrived in its shade
As if it was all and I still live that way.

IN DREAMS

Your smile that colored my unkempt world

Still colors my dreams. In those dreams you

And I put back years of neglect, ignorance.

You look at me, our eyes meet…it’s a different thing.

In dreams we live every moment that time

Cheated us off, in dreams I make you mine

And in dreams we live together, we dream our life.

How hard would it be to retreat, relive?

Very difficult, I say. We are victims piteous

Of destiny cruel, Watch her flee grasping fingers

Hungry for a meaningful night, if not for life.

In dreams we live every moment that time

Cheated us off, in dreams I make you mine

And in dreams we live together, we dream our life.

I see my empty hands feeling so useless.

Once they embraced, so full of love and of you.

Now they know not how to stay put, awkward,

They grope for hideouts in meaningless routine, coz

In dreams we live every moment that time

Cheated us off, in dreams I make you mine

And in dreams we live together, we dream our life.

The heavy weight sinks me deeper, I fall

Each day into an abyss that reeks with lack.

I know the answer but seeking never stops, coz

In dreams we live every moment that time

Cheated us off, in dreams I make you mine

And in dreams we live together, we dream our life.

And if in dreams we can live every moment so serene,

Why can we not at least try to live our dreams?

You know, it is hard but possible. We can coz

We dream, and…

In dreams we live every moment that time

Cheated us off, in dreams I make you mine

And in dreams we live together, we dream our life.

PIPER

Every day after my daily drill, I return

Like a weary soldier, wanting peace within

And around me, an escape to my world;

I find him, without fail, every day waiting

To alleviate my worries, he plays; auburn

Fingers gliding over the pipe held between

His lips. Melody, melancholy, love, lust,

All flow from him to me as I sit; a cup of tea

On my lap. Easing body and mind at once.

My window wide open, lest I miss a note

He flourishes now and then. Untimely, surprising

Bundles of harmony matched with tap of

Tin with sticks, stones made by gay urchins

Who sometimes visit. I see them come and go

Like sea storms. The piper remains, playing

His soul to all. What he eats, sleeps, I know not.

Except, that is, of the food packages I accidently

Drop near his shabby blanket on the road.

He pauses, I hurry. And he begins a new tune.

People grown so used to him, he will for sure

Be missed, perhaps more than the impugn

Minister whose statue stands at the bazaar, it will soon

Rust more like the State, be rotten and doomed.

The piper pulls his blanket closer each day,

His emaciated limbs curling beneath. I am scared

Every day I return, fearing the black blanket

And the brown piper will be gone unprepared

Into the bliss. Leaving me in this untoward world.

I pray, O Lord, let the piper survive and his pipe keep playing

So that every day I shall look forward to something.

And when the ax hangs on his neck, i too shall accompany

With love of a fellow-being, prepare him for another journey.

TO YOU

Sure, I miss you; it’s so stupid to ask,

Your query transparent, a see-through mask.

How inviting, enticing, how everything,

You were always perfect, like a new morning.

You rose stronger every day, up from my heart.

Your words like melodies, songs towering Mozart.

Why then was it so short-lived, why agonizing poison

Seeping through veins, numbing my brain, why treason?

Bring back those moments; someone say I didn’t love in vain.

No one seems to hear… Can you hear? Time come!

Can I go? I know you’re not coming, can I run?

Can I live for myself finally? You can’t come, I know.

Your commitments betrayed. But can I go

Where I have no more pain, no love gone in vain.

Remember me, that I ask of you, just remember me as I am.

Alas! Realization! The worth of a hug.

Had cared little, but earlier; been ages.

When unceasingly shadows unearthed;

The piety in crusade against wantonness.

Futile fantasies ruin self-discipline and give way

To repressed, suppressed shrieks of soul, every day.

Sigh! You multi-faceted brute! You dare haunt

My innocence. A pin-prick, of emptiness, haunts.

The pain trickling down, up, all around, coloring

The embers of a wasted eruption, still smoldering.

Gnawing, barely visible under smothered façade

Of seasonal emotions. But it pulsates apart….

The feeling of being full, warm, wanted.

Had cared little, but earlier; been ages.

I wash, scrub, polish, I hide

Necessity, not want, to subside

The wounds, I have lost count

Of them. Deepening, corroding

Not just me, but all mine.

And what was mine? Not much

All there was, was and not is.

What slipped away? Not a hunch

Where I am slipping, falling

Endless. Should I cry? Laugh? What?

So many questions. Who will answer?

Incoherence caps self-pity, distraught

Me. I cannot even see myself proper.

No dreams, just sleepless haunt

Of the same face, I want to run.

Watch them and look at me. Different.

It had to be me again. The name

Does not leave my lips, succinct

Moments, memories mummify me.

See how willingly I submit…I do.

Do I have a choice? Not one.

Can I call my own? I wish…I do.

Is there anyone? Someone?

No, keep off. I am good alone.

I am for me, for my own.

SURRENDER

Dark lanes, after hours, a wet alley,

Wild search with wide eyes. Probably

A wasteful fear gripping the soul,

Slippery ground, touchy heart drumming

Wild against the psyche. The holes

Pitiless pits in shadows, humming

The knell, beckoning to a new role.

Don a hideous robe, dark

With an all-consuming lamp

Stand and ruin, embark

The ship of reek, of damp

Fortunes gone shipwrecked.

Wild wild wind, mercy!

Scarce scarce, faulty tread

On a path so lonely..pity!

What do I do? What is left?

-surrender surrender!!

Why? Am I so bereft?

-are you not, you pretender!

Evil, gone worse, down the cleft.

Remorse now, then surrender.

CHERRY TREE

Pinning, pining, sensuous wonders

It grew from earth to sky heights,

Its leaves ever-fresh, Plunder

My garden, fill it with delights.

Smiling in its shade, carefree,

I sit, I love the cherry tree.

Groomed in my loving arms,

Lullabies became my love songs

That echoed yonder to far farms,

To the old lady whom cherries belong.

But still no fear, I sing carefree

Because I love that cherry tree.

I have an eye for the woodcutter.

He has an eye on the cherry tree

His axe of death cuts like butter

And I know he would show no mercy.

Before he comes I’ll gather

And hide my precious red cherries.

And when he leaves with his axe

In my own pretty little garden

I shall plant a new cherry plant

Which will blossom with my love

And grow as my new covenant.

It will be mine, my treasure trove.

With age I will be finally free

To love my beloved cherry tree.

aahhh..

A dull thud then, now hammering,
Shallow breath blurring the glass.
Through vapor my half self shining
With droplets of a futile bath,
Marks marring the silent landscape
That never rejects,protests, escapes.
The salt of moisture rolling down
The smooth cheek, a pitiful frown,
The breathing painful, strained.
Moving ribs showing, barely concealed,
The ringing loud, the hammering
Louder, beating. finally reveal
My stature. Cover up the longing.

The door breaking.
Cover up, the world will see,
No place there for self pity.

he can live again...

He can start his life again

When i close my eyes, the images haunt
Her dejection and his tear-less gaunt
Face pacifying the tremors. She might
End all tonight and be lost, his fright;
Ah, there, i open my eyes and him
With his knees bent, soul withdrawn,
He wants to to live the lost dream
Sigh! how can this battle be won?
When there are no enemies to kill,
He and her memories, the usual drill
Of touch and go and shake to core,
His foolish heart proud being sore.

It aches coz i know he can live again,
It hurts coz there is an end to pain
Which he willingly obliterates. Why?
Are friends not a thing to live by?
You strangle your soul for a woman,
Why not give life a chance again?
Stand up, but once and you will see
Strong hands beneath your elbow. We
Will be there, today and always, and
When you walk anew, we'll make it grand
For you my friend, are meant to be
A soul to live again, to be happy.

Lord, help him, let him gather his wits,
He can live again, make him know this.

‎(To you, my friend......)

And still he waits, oblivious,
She is no more the pious
From here I see the dagger
Pierce him again and again, bigger
The hole that pours out his soul,
But no one is there to hold it whole.

And he still dreams, denying,
The betrayal not convincing him
There was never loyalty. His tears
Flow unchecked, acknowledging fears
Foretold. Hands that reach to soothe
Feel meaningless, not enough to swoon
Him away from reality, he waits
Bearing all the pain alone, he says
“She will come someday, I know”
And he picks up the dagger, slow,
He pierces his heart again now tears
Too do not show any naked fear.

THE WAR WITHIN THE PSYCHE

the war within one's psyche might go something like this-

I have a feeling that every emotion is very productive, especially if you are an artist. An artist can not only convey the feelings, but also make others feel it; can make others cry, smile, laugh, calm, enchant…can change a person, for the time being, and also forever. Art is emotion replicated, emotion produced and reproduced, has the capacity to generate new emotions that may be completely unrelated to the source emotion at the superficial level…

How then, can the emotion of rage, anger, frustration affect Art? Derogatory is the word; destructive. Feelings like rage and anger can never produce anything other than chaos – within and without the person.

When I started writing this piece, I was in blind rage, a feeling of destruction, a feeling to destruct something, and someone- a feeling so mad that it overshadowed the numbing sadness and grief all emanating from the same source- from me. Now that I have written a few words, I find the steam cooling off, but to what good? There is still the chilling grief waiting for me. I do not want to face it. I do not have the courage to face it alone but I have no sympathizer. I cannot expect anyone to pacify the drilling inside my psyche.

I have achieved what I wanted. I am no longer fuming. The agitation has now precipitated around my eyes. A sea rages below my scared eyelids that threaten to overflow its limit. But I cannot! I must be strong. Suppress it, kill it….there is no place for weakness in this world, if I have to be successful, I must sacrifice my tears, I must let go, I must learn from my experiences. But I don’t know, I really don’t know how long I can hold my wits together.

It is difficult to live life in two ways- to die within everyday and yet to live for this world, showing what you are not, what you can perhaps never be from the inside. Some say, a superficial damage can be repaired, but not the one that is corroded from within. I am scared. Earlier I had my comfort in prayers, now I have forsaken even that, and I am scared…

JUST THINK- "ALL COZ OF WHITE RUM"

(DON'T ASK ME WHY THIS..)

A leeway or a bad slip, I wonder

It was my choice to surrender

When I always prided my discipline

It slipped away, sad, broken by sin.

When fingers went numb to beautiful

Music, they danced in symphony

Ecstatic at the moment with gullible

Ease they entwined. New melody

Sneaked in the divine darkness,

Engulfing the clamor of thoughts

Sweet and burning, the harness

Held fast in mad, fitful knots.

“Don’t! No…Why?” All useless

And see now my sanity rots.

For want of foolish belongingness

Commitment was never in plot.

For fun, for this time now

And then to be parted, never

To see the other side. How

Easily said, how clever!

After all, it is just me today

And just for the time frame

I become the prize to say

Yes, I shall play your game.

And tomorrow shall never come.

And if it does (then you are a fool)

Just think, it was the white rum.

(And even then you are the fool).

Silent or Dumb?

                       
Some people just do not like to talk. not in the way of being anti-social or shy, but genuinely not liking a public show. Sadly, we have crashed on a blabbering world where whoever talks is a genius, whoever talks is knowledgeable, adorable and interesting and whoever prefers the quieter side is the polar opposite. Do note, that the quieter side referred to does not mean uninterested or mentally absent criteria. i strictly mean the section that is aware, knowing, attentive, and yet, with a preference of hearing out others' point of view and contributing only when asked. This need not necessarily even mean that the quiet are the shy ones, or lack confidence. I would like to tell about a very different reason for sealed lips. The need to allow the person in charge of the situation with some piece of mind, to become an attentive and peaceful audience.
When you push this into a classroom situation, it is hardly fair to call the silent part of class "dumb"; considering that this very "dumb" part of class is among the high scorers in academics, they do not disturb classes, have more than 90% attendance, care to stand up and wish the teacher, care to do assignments and projects in time, give sensible presentations and even help the somewhat "technically challenged" teachers set up a simple projector for their class. And on the contrary, the "non-dumb" part of class have a record of trouble making, high-teacher-BP, late assignments (or no assignments), walking out of exam halls, interrupting lectures with pranks and stupid questions that take the teacher 7 hours to explain, and so on...
Usually we have stories and movies saying "do not underestimate the fun-loving section of students, they are the real gems". But that really does not mean that you start undermining the "good-ones" as being lame, boring and dumb. it is just that the prefer partying, DJ, drinks and all after class hours. Sadly, here the situation is "ulta" and the joke is on the supposed Ideal students. sigh!

"MOM" - By and "dedicated to" my awsomest friend Nick, For his dear Mom.

I learned to walk with her, now

I walk alone, only somehow

This pain hollow walks with me

In vain I tried to kill it

And then lived in a mirage

Saying the pain is but, an envisage.

Only when it ate through my soul

I realized it won’t leave me whole

I am flipping, I need a way out

Even death would not help, I doubt.

and if death ws d only way out of it,
I want this haunting pain to end
Find solace unto my first friend
Mom would you not hold me again
"Mom" the word itself soothes the pain.
When i cry my tears lost in time,
Mom could have seen them arrive
I stand at a parting not knowing the way
"Mom" you alone can bring light today,
And forever i belong in your arms
Mom hug me again, save from all harm
I am yours forever, make me a child again
Mom come and ease my pain.

You Have a Few Years

It is bad, they keep saying,

To want for money.

To do something for yourself?

No, you are a woman, honey!

You have but a few years

Study, learn, earn, that’s it.

You have but a few years

You need to get married,

And then begins a new race.

He will want kids and They

Will want grandchildren in haste.

You will live their way.

Why you dream so tall?

You naïve! Just a few years left!

Care, so you don’t fall

Prey to ambition wretched.

Be a woman your body wants,

Move gracefully as expected.

Do not try to wear pants,

If you want to be protected.

Dear, alas! You are a woman. Do not try

To be what you want, now, don’t cry,

You have a few years left, then you cry.

FREEDOM OF PRESS (SHARING IDEAS OF CHETHAN KUMAR)

A PROFESSIONAL TAKE ON THE FREEDOM OF PRESS

(QUOTING CHETHAN KUMAR ON F.O.P)

(CHETHAN KUMAR IS A DEFENSE JOURNALIST WORKING WITH THE DECCAN HERALD, BANGALORE, AND HE HAS A GOOD EXPERIENCE AS A REPORTER.)
Freedom of press is a concept or philosophy that guarantees freedom of speech and expression through various media- both electronic and otherwise publishing. This implies to keeping the media free from the reach of an overbearing or an overreaching government. There is no exclusive clause for the “freedom of press” in the Indian constitution but the issue is covered under Article 19(i)(a) of the constitution that deals with the freedom of speech and expression. It says, “Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression, this includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.”

From the 1799 Press Regulations by Lord Wellesley to modern day cases like the case between Menka Gandhi and the Union of India, Freedom of Press has been maintained with a lot of fluidity and flexibility to suit both, the governments and the public at large. A colonial experience had made Indians understand the value of a free Press. From the time when the constitution of India provided freedom of speech and expression, till date, there have been several cases that have made the government cover the loopholes in the Law and provide increased access to the media. Thus, the guardians of the freedom of press in a democracy like India are both, the constitution and the Supreme Court.

Mr. Chethan Kumar, a staff reporter at Deccan Herald, Bangalore has been with Deccan Herald for over three years and his professional interest lies in Defense Journalism. He covers everything that happens in the Defense sector, from new policies to new planes and missiles. Having spent years as a reporter, Chethan has had a very good experience with Freedom of Press in India and has a very positive outlook towards the extent of liberty accredited to journalists in India.

He feels that Freedom of Press is an extension of the right of expression provided in the Indian constitution and an essential part of the democracy; essential because it helps in putting in place “public” checks and balances. Media acts as the fourth pillar, or the fourth estate of a democratic setup and certain provisions by the state helps it to act as a connection between the government and the public (in any form of government), to keep check on the government and also act as a vehicle of information and opinions for both, the government and the public.

In India, the scene has been very interesting. Media has made news and has been in news for all reasons. In several cases, the Press has been the pioneer of change in the society and government, for example the role of media in bringing about the resignation of Haryana minister Vinod Sharma. Especially after the privatization of the media sector, there has been a lot of improvement in media setup in the country. The government has had to have put up with a lot more scrutiny and criticism and the public is openly reaching out to the government for answers through media. Chethan Kumar says that unlike some of its immediate neighbors, India has seen increasing respect to the freedom of Press guaranteed by the constitution and in some sense, has protected the provisions made for the Press. There have been cases filed against various media organizations, but it has always brought a positive change in the scenario without much ado.

To quote Chethan Kumar, “The freedom we are talking about, as I have noted, is an extension of a right.  So more than it empowering the press, which it anyway probably does, it supplements it.” The provisions provided for the Press for its smooth functioning supplement or add on to the effective working of the press in a democracy. Today media or the Press has become a brand in itself that can be worn with pride, and media persons definitely enjoy numerous rights, benefits, access, influences and similar such causes outside the constitution that help them get hold of valuable and worthwhile information with better ease. The freedom of Press in fact helps the Press penetrate to the other side of the otherwise semi-permeable or non-permeable sections of information.

But unfortunately, Freedom of Press does not sustain the Press above political pressures. Chethan emphasizes on the effect of politics in the functioning of the Press and says that everything is politics. In democracy the politics of saving “freedom of press” to suit their (the political parties) interests and do otherwise in another context. And similarly, in other forms of governance, there are other political pressures.” Positive publicity is the need of the hour, with media becoming so vibrant, dynamic and uncontrollable, and this has to be obtained by hook or by crook. It is common knowledge about some media organizations having a slant towards a particular political party. The give-and-take relationship that media has to maintain for its survival (advertisements), and for the very reason of its physical survival (Tehelka office sabotage after it brought out bribery in Best Bakery Fire case), the organizations have to bow down to political pressures.

Excess of political pressure or excess of freedom, both could be hazardous for a democracy and hence, the reasonable restrictions in Article 19(ii) of the Indian constitution. Apart from these, there are a lot of limitations put on the people on top, the very people who frame and execute these laws. No one is above the law, as Mr. Chethan Kumar says; some of the major limitations come from within newspaper/television offices. Each organization also has its own work policies and they become laws for the media persons working as a part of that organization. This in itself is a restriction, a limitation on the freedom of speech and expression of an individual. Not only in India, nowhere in the world there exists a concept of absolute freedom of press. Indeed, absolute freedom of press is not a pragmatic ideology. There have been umpteen cases where the intervention of media has caused irreparable damage. For example, the 2008 Mumbai attacks. News channels were giving an enthusiastic chronological coverage to the terror events and were also broadcasting movements and activities of the police and the defense, conveniently forgetting that the terrorists could have easy access to all these information and that could help them. For reasons like these, there has to be a regulatory parameter that draws a line where the freedom of press ends or where the responsibility towards the country at large is more important than the responsibility as a media person.

But, we cannot completely ignore that in some cases unreasonable restrictions are imposed on the Press. So what is the solution? Indian Express filed a case, where the class legislation of Working Journalists Act was under attack, but the court ruled in favor of the government and upheld the validity of the Act. According to Chethan Kumar, “An exclusive clause of freedom of Press is not an answer to unreasonable limitations for what we have is already quite liberal, although less in comparison to certain western countries.” Countries like UK and US have a very libertarian Press. Chethan further says, “just like our bank laws that saved us during the recent recession, Press laws, restrictions or limitations will prevent the media from completely losing out to market pressures, which is a trend already being witnessed.” He also says that what we have in place as freedom of Press in India is apt and adequate. There is no need to look out for amendments as of now if only we exercise what we already have in place in an effective, efficient and honest way.

Another important thing to be considered is, do the allowances made for the Press in India help the journalists to pursue their profession without hindrances and do the media people enjoy the available freedom of press? There is a very vague distinction between what is ethical and what is necessary. Though both the categories are not mutually exclusive, the distinction remains. Then again, these criteria are not rigid. They keep on shape-shifting. What is ethical today might seem blasphemous tomorrow. Necessities too change over time and context. Chethan says that sometimes journalists do not enjoy the freedom of Press guaranteed to them, but it is a rare occurrence. And the reason why we do not have freedom in such cases is a result of varied and complex reasons that cannot be pin-pointed to a particular reason, time or context.

In India a journalist has freedom to access information of public interest, can criticize, assert and comment but his or her freedom extends only as much as that of any ordinary citizen. There are no exclusive provisions for journalists. The Press acts as a watchdog in the democracy within the limitations set by freedom of Press and reasonable restrictions. Though by international standards, the degree of freedom enjoyed by the Press in India is poor, there are plus points to that too, for it restrains media from getting out of hand and creating public unrest. In spite of restrictions and political pressure, journalists in India find the considerations given by the constitution reasonable and adequate rather than unnecessary. If only the existing clauses are exercised well, there can be smooth symbiotic functioning of the government and media.