Amidst a Knight's Mares, or An Unpopular Pastiche

Sun, 27 Jul 2008 13:42:25 +0530

Lo! The Writterbug is upon us again, swingin' and shakin' its crusted haunches in a frenzy of words that dribble forth from its ugly mug. Or is it really the Writbeetle assiduously rolling a wasted lot of verbiage into a perfect sphere of offal symmetry. Whatever be the phylum of this putrid creature, it has descended in our midst and will make its repugnant way to its vile end. So be it - say no less.

Ugliness seldom lies in the eye of the beholder : a vacuous paraphrase - inane and mechanical. Yet full of meaning. For every negated puny pun doubled over in the dark, a hulking contrapositive casts an immense shadow making it difficult to tell where ignorance ends and skepticism begins. So let us all water this wee weed, in the hope that it will outwill the wily willow and positively contrary to expectations negate its very existence.

Conversational, that's what the tone should be. A tone yet forceful. That rings in the ears. Sets them aflame enough to mix a metaphor with impunity. Off with their heads, the queen figures in her speech. But then how will we communicate, says Bobby dear me no know what to do now!

Divide and Conquer! Go forth and multiply! Subtractibility of adders nullifies the powerful exponent of arithmetic. Sloganeers of the world unite - you have nothing to lose but your words!

So you think you can tell...

Long Cliched Day

Tue, 16 Oct 2007 22:09:25 +0530

Today was the day of cliches, as is every other day. What are cliches and why are they looked upon with so much scorn? Perhaps they suggest a lack of imagination, the parasitical appropriations of someone else's
thoughts.

When I was a child someone gifted me a book called 'Guide to Idiomatic English' - was it a malicious pun at my expense or an inept but genuine attempt to help educate me. I'll never know. But this is not what I want to write about - let this not degenerate into a facetious discourse on cliches in general and Indian idiom in particular.

What I do want to write about is the smell of smoke - the black, acrid smell of vehicular smoke billowing through the hot, dusty streets. They remind me of better times - of my childhood - of lazy afternoon bicycle rides from school back toward home - through similar dust filled smokey roads. Weaving through the traffic, admittedly thinner but more varied - rickshaws, bullock carts and herds of buffalo intermingled with the comparatively primitive vehicles of the eighties as we children weaved our way through them.

Today was special - I did not take the swank air-conditioned vehicle that escorts me back safely to my abode every day. I took the plebs' bus. And as I rode it back - I remembered those days. It was a long bus ride and I did not think of all that immediately. I could not, because there were people around me. People I know or am supposed to know. I was afraid that they were watching me, evaluating me and judging me - and I did not meet with their approval. So I waited. I waited while they made conversation and waited for them to get down. For I knew that they would all get down before my stop came. And true to my expectations, before long I was alone on the bus save the driver and his minions.

Once I had the bus to myself, I could breathe more freely - now I had the long aisle, all to myself and I was the king of the hot dusty street with the billowing smoke. I could observe and not be observed - not that I would try to dissect the behaviour of people I could see or try to peer into their soul from the face they wore. I would not do such a thing - I would just see them as they were, with acceptance, no not acceptance for that presumes an understanding, but with a certain apathy - a child's apathy who looks, absorbs and forgets, and yet stores it in his mind to be recalled years later as a memory - indistinct and blurred of a long and dusty street full of billowing smoke.

The Immature

Tue, 16 Oct 2007 21:45:03 +0530

Life was unbearable. No bearings, no wind in the sails, a common or garden hyperbole. Truth being what is or being is what truth is or what
is being truthful? Yes, too full of truth or fool is it?

Nothing made sense. I am sure it didn't. Life is like that only. Only sometimes it isn't. Structure, concrete and solid is needed. Mere wanderings never led anywhere - for if they did they would be called journeys. Stands to reason (lies to imagine?).

No! state it in black and white - is there purpose in this existence? Is there truth? Grandiose visions, great vistas unfold, magical expanses open up.
The Spanish conquestidors before claiming a great empire! Magniloquent, magnificent and manufactured?

A tiny doubt, a mere pipsqueak - what is it? No who is it? A mere pipsqueak squealing in the corner - wee, tim'rous beastie, thy best-laid scheme gone in a heap. Back thou reachest thy space 'twixt the logs and find nought but a directed forest of twigs.

What are you talking about - you imbecile, doddering and dithering - speak clearly or forever hold your piece? Life is orderly - there are clear
rules and regulations - unambiguous, inviolate, firm and full. There you
go again! Punitive measures will be imposed for every transgression.

A firm resolve, a jolly heaven above and a byway nigh me... Hark! What's with these juvenile airs? And the mood-swings? Do you realize the import of what you are saying? Oh, you didn't say anything, so typical na! How idiomatic!

Lost somewhere in the magic land between the 8th and the 14th. Wandering, crazy, rain-drenched, dew-eyed, sun-filled, crazy, lovely days. Where are they?

Know thy lot - a little deconstruction is a dangerous thing, drink deep
and taste yet the Pyrrhic spring.