Skip to main content

Waste Land



This is a silly post though I dare to call it a poem.  Read it at your own risk.

“In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.”

T S Eliots’ Prufrock had at least the consolation of women coming and going talking of Michelangelo.
 
I’m back to regular routine tomorrow.  And women will come and go talking of duties, workshops and seminars.  They call themselves experts.  They will dictate the terms and conditions.  They have the backing of a religious sect.

And I will sing along with T S Eliot:

Weialala leia
Wallala leialala

The winter break is over.  The real break is going to begin. Religious break?

Or feminine break?

I’m looking forward to Madame Sosostris with her Tarot cards.  She will determine the future.

The future of her staff.  She has started by terminating the services of the redundant. 

Who is not redundant in this world?
Is the expert essential?
Is the Swami ji essential?
Is the Manager essential?

In this “Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,”
the crowd is thinning down the sullied Yamuna’s banks.

Old Delhi.
Too old.  Dying. 

Dying in Khooni Darwaazas.

Died long ago at India Gate and Raj Path.  Only Jan Paths may remain open.

At Jantar Mantar.

Sighs, short and becoming infrequent, are still exhaled.

Sita lila. In Ram lila grounds.

Satis.
Satis coming as sirens.  As queens. And then?

Back to square one.
Back to duty. to life and its routine obligations.

To patriarchy?
Or promised matriarchy?  Where paternity will be an opinion
and maternity will be the only fact of identity?

Nevermind.

Life is.

I am not at all a masculinist.



Comments

  1. somehow i loved this chaotic poem or what you call.. i favour disorder sometimes.. that's what you got here.. it says much more between the lines that the lines themselves... wonderful effort..

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. When our life has been thrown into chaos, what can we do, Deepak?

      Order has to be discovered, I know. This is an exercise in the course!

      Delete
  2. I liked this surrealistic piece!
    We sometimes need raw things without make-up:)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Raw, exactly, Amit. When it's cooked, it will become a regular post - like what I normally write :)

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Adventures of Toto as a comic strip

  'The Adventures of Toto' is an amusing story by Ruskin Bond. It is prescribed as a lesson in CBSE's English course for class 9. Maggie asked her students to do a project on some of the lessons and Femi George's work is what I would like to present here. Femi converted the story into a beautiful comic strip. Her work will speak for itself and let me present it below.  Femi George Student of Carmel Public School, Vazhakulam, Kerala Similar post: The Little Girl

Indian Knowledge Systems

Shashi Tharoor wrote a massive book back in 2018 to explore the paradoxes that constitute the man called Narendra Modi. Paradoxes dominate present Indian politics. One of them is what’s called the Indian Knowledge Systems (IKS). What constitute the paradox here are two parallel realities: one genuinely valuable, and the other deeply regressive. The contributions of Aryabhata and Brahmagupta to mathematics, Panini to linguistics, Vedanta to philosophy, and Ayurveda to medicine are genuine traditions that may deserve due attention. But there’s a hijacked version of IKS which is a hilariously, if not villainously, political project. Much of what is now packaged as IKS in government documents, school curricula, and propaganda includes mythological claims treated as historical facts, pseudoscience (e.g., Ravana’s Pushpaka Vimana as a real aircraft or Ganesha’s trunk as a product of plastic surgery), astrology replacing astronomy, ritualism replacing reasoning, attempts to invent the r...

Waiting for the Mahatma

Book Review I read this book purely by chance. R K Narayan is not a writer whom I would choose for any reason whatever. He is too simple, simplistic. I was at school on Saturday last and I suddenly found myself without anything to do though I was on duty. Some duties are like that: like a traffic policeman’s duty on a road without any traffic! So I went up to the school library and picked up a book which looked clean. It happened to be Waiting for the Mahatma by R K Narayan. A small book of 200 pages which I almost finished reading on the same day. The novel was originally published in 1955, written probably as a tribute to Mahatma Gandhi and India’s struggle for independence. The edition that I read is a later reprint by Penguin Classics. Twenty-year-old Sriram is the protagonist though Gandhi towers above everybody else in the novel just as he did in India of the independence-struggle years. Sriram who lives with his grandmother inherits significant wealth when he turns 20. Hi...

The Ugly Duckling

Source: Acting Company A. A. Milne’s one-act play, The Ugly Duckling , acquired a classical status because of the hearty humour used to present a profound theme. The King and the Queen are worried because their daughter Camilla is too ugly to get a suitor. In spite of all the devious strategies employed by the King and his Chancellor, the princess remained unmarried. Camilla was blessed with a unique beauty by her two godmothers but no one could see any beauty in her physical appearance. She has an exquisitely beautiful character. What use is character? The King asks. The play is an answer to that question. Character plays the most crucial role in our moral science books and traditional rhetoric, religious scriptures and homilies. When it comes to practical life, we look for other things such as wealth, social rank, physical looks, and so on. As the King says in this play, “If a girl is beautiful, it is easy to assume that she has, tucked away inside her, an equally beauti...

The Lights of December

The crib of a nearby parish [a few years back] December was the happiest month of my childhood. Christmas was the ostensible reason, though I wasn’t any more religious than the boys of my neighbourhood. Christmas brought an air of festivity to our home which was otherwise as gloomy as an orthodox Catholic household could be in the late 1960s. We lived in a village whose nights were lit up only by kerosene lamps, until electricity arrived in 1972 or so. Darkness suffused the agrarian landscapes for most part of the nights. Frogs would croak in the sprawling paddy fields and crickets would chirp rather eerily in the bushes outside the bedroom which was shared by us four brothers. Owls whistled occasionally, and screeched more frequently, in the darkness that spread endlessly. December lit up the darkness, though infinitesimally, with a star or two outside homes. December was the light of my childhood. Christmas was the happiest festival of the period. As soon as school closed for the...