I try to save my soul with psalms of discontent!

What should I write?

And, why must I keep this blog alive?

Sleepy towns fancy big cities. What do big cities do when their eyelids droop?

I don't know.

Thus, we grasp the immeasurable ignorance of this planet, suddenly, with a vast unwelcome.

When darkness meets darkness in a dark room-- light happens.

Words swirl, like in a mad dream, as the crooked half-turns become wonderfully crooked half-turns. Reason goes west for a spot of moonbeam.

In Defence of Decadence

The times they are-a-changing; really?

A recent exhibition of Pablo Bartholomew provoked me into thinking along these lines, where the present progressive gets smudged with the blood-red hue of a glorious sunset. Dazzling, yet bereft of the undecided fate of a flipping coin, these black-and-white photographs seem too self-contained to be true.

The photos, taken together, evoke a kind of fragmented reality, alien to people who have actually managed survive the century. There is a hint of charming sadness in Pablo's oeuvre, bordering on the lyrical. For Pablo, it must be said, he had been brutally honest with his immediate surroundings; he never even tried to cross the border of familiar resolves. There lies his greatest strength, and shall we say, a quasi-romantic lure of what could have been, a derision not unknown to a large section of our committed dilettante. A paanjaabi-clad Dhritiman Chattapadhay, frowning, while holding a cigarette, perhaps, is the best example of it.

Pablo's work, as shown in the exhibition, captures the history of a process, where the spark of rebellion dims in a bout of drunken fancy.

After all, forgoing privilege is also a privilege for the privileged.

The times, however, never change for the man harrowing clods, or even for the maid and her wight walking home. They will survive another century, though.

When darkness meets darkness in a dark room, light happens.

Words swirl in a mad dream, crooked half-turns become wonderfully crooked half-turns, and reason itself goes for a spot of moonbeam.

November

Hear,

the sound of fire

by the hour

your face melts

into mine;

And I pine

for my rose,

love, stay close,

for the kingdom

is at hand,

or is it

a nonsense flick

on a hazy screen,

I wonder, girl,

if at all,

I had touched the tip

of what lies beneath

the barren stars

and I wonder,

what colour are your lips

Deathly hallows

Tonight the stars are all gray.

Sorry, I never thought about the end;

That wide waters may drown my stone,

I would rather not see in my dreams.

My colours merge into your dull eyes,

And the curtain silently moves along

my hatred for you. I break free of my guilt,

in a moment of immense solitude.

The words turn into hyacinths, all white,

They cling together throughout the torrent of silence,

I almost smile, when the rain stops in the afternoon.

Your words, they die in your blazing chariot, like the wish of light.

Tonight I'll get to see the stars.

Long before the solace of life merged with the solace of death, healing benevolence used to be the privilege of the Gods......

Brishtir tirondaaji pawrokh korini bohukaal, computer'r pawrda roman-hawrophey aar miliye newao durlawbh. Modhye aabar daana melechhey ekraash awnichhey bhawr korey thaka aaloshyo; shawb miliye mostishko-kawndor nawrok naa hoke, guljaar toh bawtei! Chopin theke Suman chhnuye bhaabtey chawaar ichchhey ghurpaak kheye chhnuye aashchhey naa-bhabnaar shom aar tawkhkhuni mawne hochchhey, mawhoniyo awpekhkhaar praantey roddur ketey ei bujhi bidhyuter ushkaani dekhbo! Aasha kuhokinee ebong duraasha kawshtopachcho naa holeo dhnok giltey gawlaar kaachhey shomudro-mawnthoner smritituku knatar mawto bnidhey thaakey. Awgotyaa, paanshi ghaat-bondee aar belghoriao dur-awsto!

Blood is red.

Teardrops have no colour.