Reminiscing our Days as a Republic

Sixty years of being a democratic republic, and we don't seem to have matured at all. Democracy is supposed to empower each citizen of a nation purely for the reason that they are a citizen. I find our citizens, however, choosing to be matchsticks ready to light up at the slightest indication of a flame, and that too, ready to colour their flames to match their source just because - I don't know the real reason.. Is it because it looks trendy? Perhaps they feel important when they participate? Do they feel left out if they don't participate? They get nice pictures though.

We seem to have grown downwards like roots, but, ironically seem to  destroy the roots that keep the administration steady. The calm of the population seems to be upon a razor's edge, ready to slip and fall at the slightest touch. And they're proud to be so. Our sensitivity is at a peak and we seem to be ready to react to the most trivial of affairs, to the silliest of words spilled out by a seemingly important person, to every single move made, or not made by our ministers, why, even our celebrities.

Our country became a chaotic mess long back, and I've always wondered, touching the little wood that's left, of course, as to how we've managed to sustain the peace that exists, still staying at the top of the list of large democracies, and I feel it was because people knew to mind their own business. We knew to respect our leaders - for the post they hold, at least, if not for the person(s) they are, knowing fully well that the government cannot function without the aid of its people. Non awareness of the possibly less intellectual (forgive me for saying so) played its part too, with the foolishness of some raising its despicable head only during elections. In spite of all this, we've been able to pull it through.

The current generation is marked with the advent of social media and its infiltration into every intricate portion of our lives so much so that it seems like we have taken a headfirst plunge into it, to never come out. In the past decade, we have developed gills to get acclimatised to this aquatic life. While this has given opportunities for recognition of genuine talent, providing them with audience from this ever increasing population, thereby not letting them get lost and unnoticed in this anarchic realm. On the darker side, however, social media has given microphones to the most pathetic of voices, amplifying the gabble of idiots and even providing them with listeners, even followers who are flexible enough to let themselves be swayed by their nonsense.

The heavy magnetic field of craziness we live in eventually induces its field upon every soul which dwells in it, sucking our every last ounce of sanity left and rendering them all oriented towards the twisted directions it points towards. Even the most sensible among us go by the outcry of angry tweets and offensive memes, falling for the loudness of their voices, no matter how senseless their claims might be.

Such immaturity and childishness cannot be the result of a change in medium of communication - it can only imply that we have been foolish all along. Our silence has tricked us into considering ourselves to be rational. I regret the unrest that is rising, the narrow mindedness that is spreading (ironically, yes) and the outbreak of this political epidemic of pointless loud-mouthedness upon this great soil, but perhaps it is a positive sign after all. Perhaps it is a sign for us to retrospect and deepen our roots.

For starters, each citizen of this country should begin to realise that we are, indeed one country. Yes, we are a place where even the people of the smallest minority feel at home - they consider this land as home as much as any other world, but we need to take another step forward. We must defend and take pride in every single aspect of Indian culture - we must embrace the literature, the art, the language, the beauty of every single region of this country. Oh we needn't spend years learning about it, but the mention of it must fill us with pride and a sense of belonging. Let our spirits feel that every grain of this soil is ours, and that our hearts beat as one no matter what our differences are. Let other people sit and argue as to whether we deserve to be one country, but politically there's no denying it. We are one country as much as Pakistan's states aren't ours. Our citizenships speak for us.

Logic isn't half as effective upon humans as examples are - we are indeed descendants of the monkey clan. So let us step in front as role models for the future generations, holding hands and breeding peace and unity opon the completion of this 67th year as a Democracy!

Jai Hind!

Another rant

Facebook seems to have become more of a threat than I'd ever imagined.. Madness can spread across it like wildfire...

The jallikkatu thing is something I'm still not very clear about, but it is very clear that some anti national statements were made with ease, sprouting State-istic (read: Nationalistic towards State) feelings in a manner that it threatened the linguistic and political secularity of the country..

Faceless meme makers of popular sites have received enormous public support and do not understand its value.. It is always the norm that when one finds people listening to them, they think can get away with saying anything..

Perhaps the sound of applause injects madness into lesser minds..

Meme makers are supposed to be comedians, not leaders. I wouldn't have used the term "lesser minds" if they had made good use of their popularity..

There is a difference between using freedom of speech to criticize a politician and merely speaking against the government.. The government is more than a political party. We, the governed, are a part of it. It is a system that can work only if we cooperate. Along the lines, it was blasphemous to speak against the PM. Criticism during the tenure must be constructive. Such maturity is expected from people of a democracy and ours send to have become demo-crazy..

We may be mature as individuals but we are childish blabbermouths and utter idiots as a society..

If memes are going to be the next youth inspirers, so be it, but we want a self conscious, aware bunch of leaders who know the repercussions of each step they take and are sensitive to the interests of the country at large and specific regions too.

We have forgotten that the Indian Army helped us during the floods - which state does each of those soldiers belong to?

(India saw opport)

Poetry and Me

My heart, I find, is a kettle,

In which, boils water of emotions,

Ready to form vapour and steam of words,

When prodded the slightest,

It brims, I find,

With fluid ready to flow over,

Which quivers at the slightest touch,

Of sight, of other words or ideas,

A picture speaks a thousand words, they say,

But I find that a picture brews even more from me,

Stirring the fluid that has large bubbles,

Ringing music in my ears and heart,

Oh it gets heavy at times, consuming me whole,

And holds my work, until I stop,

To pick a pen,

And put it down in record,

While spilt liquid stains my sheets forever,
It touches me never upon leaving my pen,

But the heat raises the level within the kettle,

Ready to spill out more.

Written between 10:09pm and 10:11pm, 22.1.2017 at C504, IIT Bombay

Retrospection

I realise that a note, quote or poem scribbled in some notebook and put away is a lot better than one staying on an active blog page - it might've been written in a state of mind that might have changed now, but it stands as a pointing finger directed at me.

I feel responsible for every word I write on my blog - and I shudder to think of its implications.

The advent of poetry - a genre that started nearly a year back has drilled holes upon the walls of my literary world, and built doors that I'd never dreamt of - I have come a long way from considering poems as utter melodrama to appreciating the emotions that words embody - writing poems has fueled me with boldness to touch upon such sensitive topics with ease - topics that one would cringe to think of - I have done so, with an arrogance that gloats when I am praised, and there are times when I wonder if I deserve it. Perhaps this isn't boldness, perhaps it is foolishness.

I have been told by an experienced writer that even my innocent, seemingly harmless writing can touch a life, perhaps more, and that I should be careful with the solutions I provide for problems, but I fret not for the impact it might have on another's life, but on my own..

The writing on my blog seems to stare at me like a bag of karma with fearsome eyes.. My more recent writings have been backed by a greed for recognition, hiding behind the emotions that stimulate them, and I am constantly haunted by the fear of its repercussion - the repercussions of boldly writing about emotions that I pretend to have understood. Words once spilt are indeed unpickable, and I dread the result of my blind (deaf?) talk.

I will try to think twice before I put something in writing but that isn't easy either - when words come gushing out your fingers, they itch to capture it upon a film of paper, to be read, admired and enjoyed, not only by a set of readers, but by yourself, particularly on a day when you cannot remember writing it down - the surprise that you were the one who wrote something beautiful is one of the most pleasant feelings in the world.

A Poet's Tale

Prologue

They caught me unawares, those women,
Surrounding my meek self,
With fierce eyes and the motive to kill,
But behind that, I saw sad remains,
Of a beauty that'd once been,

But my sympathy was short-lived,
And pity changed to terror,
When they sprang at me with outstretched hands,
Wielding nameless arms,
That sought to tear my throat,

I tried to run, but there was nowhere to go,
And being a weak man with a little wisdom,
And a coward too,
I chose to give in and not struggle,
For at least my fall'd be painless,

They came at me, mercilessly,
With fiercer looks and gritted teeth,
Two went behind, to hold me in place,
While the rest drew closer and took their stance,
They raised their swords and I closed my eyes,
But they went not for my head or heart,
Instead for a part that I'd never seen coming,

I looked down to see them point at my wrist,
With red vengeance dripping from their eyes,
Perplexed I asked them, forgetting my fear,
As to who they were,
And why they wished to chop off my arm,

They answered with evil laughter,
One that has haunted me for years,
And they began a recount,
Of a kind I'd never known,

The Revelation

We are innocent women you sold,
You wretched pimp, they said,
The emotions you suckled from,
To spit out words your readers sought,

Victims we are, of your thirst to write,
Of your consuming desire to win hearts,
And as you kindled the fire with your pen,
You threw us in, as fuel to set it ablaze,

You prison'd us in your head,
Not even your heart,
And kept us there for days in that darkness,
Drawing words out of our supple skin,

In your arrogance and your greed,
Your milked our breasts till they bled,
And you filled your pages with what we shed,

Selling the purity that our bodies leaked,

Your readers and fans, they love your work,

For it touches their souls, they connect, they say,

But we know your words are empty,

They lack beating hearts they need,
To speak out to souls who read,
In a tongue the spirit alone can hear,

They lie there as carcasses,

In the graves of your books,

They may be preserved, yes,

But they lack the life they deserve,

You are a cheat in the guise of a poet,

A fraud here, faking to know experience,
A pseud, forging depths you never possessed,

Merely a seller of false goods,

To dupe your readers of their praise,

We tell you now, and to all who hear,
That to know an emotion is to feel it,
To know pain is to undergo it,
To understand suffering is to suffer itself,

You twisted our physique for literature,
Robbing us of our beauty,
And now you shall suffer,
Those very tragedies you wrote,

Composition is a gift you never deserved,
And one that you hoodwinked for praise,
Prepare yourself now, for we are here,
To take sweet revenge upon your culpable soul

Epilogue

As they advanced, I saw clearly,
That the space around was Time Itself,
And that this room was my life,
That my wrist wasn't what they solicited,

That their revenge was my entire life,
Every pain, every heartbreak I'd ever faced,
Was a lifeless poem mocking at me,

It crushed me to know that all this pain,
Was a repercussion of thoughtless action,
I'd been convinced beyond doubt,
I'd held an arrogance that wouldn't hurt,

I turned to them, kneeling down,
And begged them to take,
My life, not just my wrist,
And they smiled at me,
Tears trickling down their eyes,

I realised, as I bent my head down,
This trip was deliverance, not aggression,
They'd taken pity on me,
And were here, to put me out of my misery.

Completed by 4:17pm on 3.1.2017 at C504, H13, IIT Bombay


Note:

1. I intended to write this as an article, and I've been jotting points down since 22nd December, 2016. Today I decided to write it as a poem, since the words seemed poetic.

While I pride myself with being able to compose vicarious poetry, to be able to summon emotions that aren't even remotely connected to me, I have been haunted by the guilt that I've been using sufferings of others as tools to produce words to string to my writings.

Of course, a handful of my poems and articles are based on, or at least have a little connection to something that happened to me, but several of my pages are filled with empty words. As the personified emotions put it, words need to have beating hearts - to reverberate, vibrate, live talk - words should speak in a tongue understood by the heart that reads/listens to it. I am aware that all this objectivity wouldn't help me when I go through the pain I so easily portray here, and I hold the fear that I might receive a strong blow to the head some day - the portrayal here, of course, is extraneous, but what I wish to convey through it is genuine. Of course, writing comes to me and it would be unwise to stop it as well, but it would do me good to nurture some humility and to not let it get to my head.

I hope these words shall serve as a reminder not only to me but to every reader who writes on pain and tragedy so easily.

2. Upon retrospection, I find that this is similar to Shah Rukh Khan's film, Fan, in a weird sense. I do remember now, that I found that the thought that had gone into the film was of a similar nature and was very inspired when I watched it about six months ago. It was a blow to Khan's ego as a film star, and while I do not have the audacity to draw a parallel to myself as a writer, I merely note this down as an observation - that this poem is a blow I give to my own ego.

3. My recent poems (particularly on Eccentric Thoughts, have been more of a flow of words and are largely unstructured, without rhyme or tune, since I haven't had the time to review them - and for some reason I'd like to leave them that way. These are unedited, and a handful of them were typed straight on blogger and published even without a second read. While this one is of a similar kind in the literary sense, I'd like to point out that it is unconventional in a different sense. Often, my vicarious poems (yeah the name itself suggests that) consist of me getting into shoes of people in particular situations, but this one is about getting out of my own shoes and objectively looking at myself as a poet/writer. While I stop to observe myself while writing my articles, this one is something I am not at all used to in the field of poetry.

For this reason, I consider this a milestone in my time with poetry. I intended to title it "Heartless Poetry" but later titled it "A Tragic Tale" to avoid spoiling the course the tale was taking. I finally changed it to "A Writer's Tale" at 1:05am, 4.1.2017