Categories
Poetry

My Mother Does Not Awaken

My mother does not awaken
PHOTOGRAPH BY XIN.

My mother does not awaken. Mother, wake up! You must witness the lighting of the building that affirms us a walk on the moon. A profusion of colors, ceaseless fireworks, food that caters to the eyes, promising addresses by inaugurators; a cornucopia of pleasures. 

Mother does not answer. She has sunk in deep slumber. Is she dreaming? Mother, I had been wanting to go to the festival tonight. My friends boast of having heard the cackling laughter of the hyenas and the bellowing of koalas. In those rushed moments, the last tiger in the world will be on display. He bears a tiny cylinder just like the rest of us, I saw it on the large screen yesterday. It’s comical. Mother does not blink.

Mother, tomorrow is a Sunday. Can we go to flower show? I have forgotten how the lavenders smell. The last time we had been there, the machines were malfunctioning. I was so upset. Do you recall? I promise to behave this time. Mother, say something. Mother does not move despite now desperate nudges. 

Mother, I watched the last patch of the forest being cleared on the big screen at school today. We all clapped for the colossal machines. It was overwhelming to watch the last tree quiver. The leader vows to establish the largest clothing outlet at that spot. We can go shopping. We can put our “kindness” credits to use and avail discounts. Mother, are you distressed? You haven’t slept this late into the evening. 

My mother does not awaken. Mother, I will be back in a few minutes. The telecast has begun, and I must witness. Someday, we’ll stay at the building and race our way to the moon. There was picture book on the desk. I decided to shred it. It looked so ugly. Why would you have those when you can relax in the living room & watch everything on the massive screen? 

Also, mother, do not forget the oxygen cylinders. We need to refill them for the night.

The dread of watching Fifteen Million Merits, the second episode of the first series of the British science fiction anthology series Black Mirror, remains imbibed in my bones. The fancy name would be “Utopian Nightmare.” With social credit systems, surveillance cameras, extensive data collection, and leaks, we’re only a few steps away from this nightmare. With forests cleared for industries and corporations, with leaders denying climate change, with a popular culture focused on the triviality and mediocrity, with toxic media and television that tend to populate consumers with hogwash and hatred, with masses hooting for war, with nugatory automation, with the rise of machines, and with the death of consciousness we’re turning into mechanical beings devoid of emotions, intellectuality, freedom, and love. Collective consciousness threatens to be the death of knowledge, wisdom, and the ability to reason. 

For those of you who have watched “The Clockwork Orange” directed by Stanley Kubrick or read the book by Anthony Burgess, you will remember this quote. For me, these two lines changed my perspective on the preconceived ideas I had carried and the way I looked at things. I suggest you check out this piece of art if you haven’t.

Is a man who chooses to be bad perhaps in some way better than a man who has the good imposed upon him?”

– Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange

Here is a song to remind you that all is not lost. “They Don’t Own Me” by Richard Ashcroft is an ode to the joy of freedom by rejecting societal constructs, by truly believing in your values and competence, and by loving live albeit suffering and disorder.

Categories
Poetry

A Place of Quiet Objects

PICTURE BY QUOC NGUYEN

My tiny home is a place of quiet objects.
The newspapers lay scattered lazily on the old creaking sofa,
and a mug of coffee waits quietly on the table, gradually surrendering its warmth.
Mother’s half knit sweater, barely enough to cover
oneself from the winter that shows up life after life,
like an aged man endowed with immortality.
And a beach ball that rolls a little to the corner to catch some light,
before being jolted back under the pleasant sun.
Father’s umbrella, bowed against the shoe-rack, frayed,
roughly as grey as him, waiting continually for the
song of rain, and the chirping of crickets.

My tiny home is a shelter to unnamed memories,
such as the faint echoes of multiplication tables gone awry,
and the painful recital of unusually hard spellings, the stammering,
whilst the toddlers play hide and seek on balmy afternoons.
The tiny tongues tasting summer in jars of pickles,
the crates of mangoes, and juicy plums.
The blaring of the radio, the spasmodic noises of the old scooter in the yard resisting the gradual decay.
Muffled voices of father chanting the old verses,
the whistle going off in the kitchen,
mother crooning an old song from her memory in the hope of resuscitating it.

My tiny home is a shelter to ghosts of all things that retreated.
They snare at me in the hideous moments of midnight,
tiptoeing by the bedside, perchance waiting for me to sleep.
And years later, before I retire to an endless slumber, I shall leave the door ajar,
so that those who wander in search of a home are
greeted with the warmth of all that I’ve left behind.

I’ve always wondered if the objects in our home live a life of their own; wandering about in the rooms, whooshing past each other, the helter-skelter dash to their respective positions when we flick the lights on, and returning to their mischief once we’ve left.

“A Place of Quiet Objects” is an ode to childhood and the remembrance of time passed. It is an attempt to reconstruct the past from oddments of memory, an undertaking to recreate an evanescing afternoon dream that manifests in portions and fragments, random reminiscences, fitful outbursts of memory, fictitious narratives, re-encounters with loss & furtive longings. Sea of Sounds is another poem that I’d posted a few days ago where I remember quoting:

If there’s anything that you must hold on to for dear life, it is your memory. It is a reminder of a life lived, albeit etched with suffering and hardships.

SATWIK MISHRA

Here is a beautiful song I discovered a few days ago. If you’re fond of melancholic soundtracks you’ll love this.

Categories
Poetry

The Art of Drowning

PICTURE BY HEFTIBA.

I learnt the art of drowning at the delicate age of ten,⁣⁣⁣⁣
when I was neck-deep in the toilet bowl, gasping for breath,⁣⁣⁣⁣
my voice reduced to flailing arms.⁣⁣⁣⁣
In the bedtime stories, the monsters were always defeated. ⁣⁣⁣⁣
In those unforgiving moments, I figured Ma had lied.⁣⁣⁣⁣

When I was eighteen, they boxed me in, ⁣⁣sermoning that love comes with constraints—loose leaves of rules we’re bound to obey. ⁣⁣⁣⁣
Following the astrologer (soothsayer) who sits on a paternal throne,⁣⁣⁣⁣
cursing every woman who dares lifts her veil,⁣⁣⁣⁣
bellowing about how his ever-loving God would descend from heaven and bring them to book. ⁣⁣⁣⁣
When I announced that I loved a man, four priests swathed in vivid orange drowned me a holy number of times in the Ganges to cleanse and wash away my sins.⁣⁣⁣⁣

At forty, after having dropped my son to school one day,⁣⁣⁣⁣
I filled the tub to the brim. ⁣⁣⁣⁣
Sinking with remorse, catching for breath, ⁣⁣⁣⁣
I had mastered the art of drowning.⁣⁣⁣

I take this opportunity to introduce you to one of my favorite bands: Porcupine Tree. There’s a particular song of theirs that I’m leaving the link below for you to check out. This band has offered an eclectic mix of songs that remains unmatched in the quality of music and lyrics that read like poetry. I have often found solace in their melancholic music, in the knowledge of suffering that we carry, and how there is always a little light to get us going despite the darkness that waits for all of us.

In these difficult times, I hope that you’re taking good care of yourself. I’ve found that going back to old books full of colorful illustrations has helped me a lot. I will be coming up with book reviews and short essays soon. Stay safe.

Categories
Poetry

One Morning

A GLOOMY MORNING. PICTURE BY JESWIN THOMAS.

Once upon a time, a morning had chanced upon me, as I sat curled on a cold bench wishing life away.⁣
And lent a little glow to the otherwise dim and somber day. ⁣
The world swelled with newfound light and ushered those who in deep slumber lay.⁣
Thus, roused the trees, the squirrels and the flowers, heedless of time’s decay. ⁣ ⁣

On cold concrete pavements grew rebellious plants. ⁣
On tall electric poles wound creepers, ⁣
adding a little green to the dreary grey,⁣
as I sat curled on a cold bench wishing life away. ⁣ ⁣
Then flew birds from their homes, not knowing if they’d return that day. ⁣
How high they flew, through treetops and dimly lit homes, over blue lakes and busy streets,⁣
adding their little songs that they had picked up from their mothers, ⁣
while men bundled up in suits sat in gleaming cars spoke of wages, government and blood before they hurried away. ⁣ ⁣

How drowsy leaves swayed in the wind and stumbled upon my feet,⁣
and even if summer was ages away and day piled after day, ⁣
the butterflies hovered in glee, tasting flowers that in morning’s glory lay, ⁣
and awaited death at dusk, but neither seemed to care. ⁣
They danced and sailed, whirled and whooshed while there was light, ⁣
while men bundled up in suits sat in their tiny cars and spoke of wages, government and blood before they rushed away.⁣

With an ocean of data out there, it is overwhelming at times to be constantly bombarded with substandard news articles, content, and daily updates. We’re straying further away from our lives and slowly turning strangers to our selves. We constantly intrude into the lives of others, take pride in it, and feel entertained. Do we really believe we want this or are we constantly being manipulated and lured into this. There’s a book that caught my attention while I was looking for ways to resist this surge. How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy by Jenny Odell.

Here is a wonderful soul-satisfying video that I stumbled across on YouTube.

Categories
Poetry

In the Wake of War

IN THE WAKE OF WAR. A PHOTOGRAPH BY WENDELIN JACOBER.

Aircraft crowd the sky like a swarm of locusts, and what remains of the tiny villages on the edge of a green valley is rubble, soot, and serpent-like flames hissing toward the blackened sky. Where once stood a school with a flag hoisted is a gigantic pile of ash, and from it arises the unforgettable odor of burning tissue; the coppery, metallic, acrid smell of burning plastic. Who will mourn for the children? Their mothers and fathers who after a day’s toil would have waited at the verandah under the thatched roofs for their sons and daughters strolling home with tiny pink and blue bags on their shoulders have suffered a similar fate.

The flames devour the homes, the cattle barns, the stables, the weekly bazaars, the crops, and the nearby woods. There is no urgency in dousing the fires; there is nothing to be saved. All the eyes that might have had the pleasure to marvel the snow-capped mountains or the pale blue of an ocean or the tropic forests bathed in ethereal light, in lands far away from home, whose names they’d mouthed on some nights and dreamt of, are fated to stare at a cloud of smoke that floats above the ravaged land, shrouding the sun. Mornings will pass by, but not a single soul will awaken; imagine a long train chugging towards stations, waiting for passengers to board and depart as scheduled, only the train is empty and carries nothing but the sound of its approach. The evening takes on burnt orange and slowly the moon like a diseased eye appears to overlook the ruins. On another evening like this, if you were passing by the village, you’d be greeted with the faint laughter of girls playing hopscotch, the occasional barking of dogs being chased by boys, distant bleats of sheep hustled into the pen, the moo of calves, the radios, and the television sets blaring the evening news, the ruckus of drunk men playing cards, and the contained laughter of women gathered to discuss the day’s events. There is none of it now. Only an unfamiliar silence prevails.

Nothing can be said about history; torn shoes, a comb with broken teeth, a pail with a detached handle, a box of heirloom ornaments, a one-legged rocking chair, charred remains of a picture book, knick-knacks—flotsam and jetsam of ordinary lives pocketed in the ruins which will then be carefully examined, dusted and displayed in museums or auctioned to wealthy men. To whom did they belong? Who will return to claim these?

Who are we to take pride in a war that reduces homes to dust, forests to wastelands, rivers to poison, and humanity to ashes? Who are we to take pride in a war that takes so violently the lives of those who not even in the face of death could find grace?  

Perhaps this short essay helps you reflect on the consequences of war and how most of us have been taking pride in this mindless violence. With the onset of toxic news media, war has become a medium for people to project their inflated sense of pride and ego for their country— jingoism. How can we take pride in this mindless violence?

Here, I would want to share a video that has remained dear to me for years—a video by Exurb1a. I have always believed that one’s purpose is to enlighten themselves and achieve excellence in their pursuits. The mediocrity and triviality of the current generation should never be a hindrance to one’s search for meaning and wisdom.

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