Categories
Poetry

Eating Money

ILLUSTRATION: EATING MONEY

In the year 2040, we will eat money.
And in the night, we will hear the clink of coins and the ruffle of notes in our bellies.

We will put up hoardings of elephants and tigers, bison and beasts, deer, and polar bears.
They will illuminate every intersection of the city,
and children will have their photographs clicked.
Occasionally, a loudspeaker will echo the trumpeting of elephants and the growl of tigers.
The kids heading to school will hop in hysteria.
A few will shudder at the unexpected noise.

At supper, all of us will gather to chew crisp paper notes from our gold-plated plates.
The poor will complain of the taste of lesser denominations.
“Nothing unusual in that”, the wealthy will guffaw.
Their teeth stained light brown, and their breath smelling of nickel and zinc.
Afterward, we will consume a soup of shredded currency to wash down the aftertaste of copper coins.

In the night, when a diseased sky stained with smoke and soot hangs above us,
we will dream of green pastures and summer mornings, the croak of frogs, the chirping of crickets, and the sound of rain.
In that dream, we would be children, with flowers in our hands and knees caked with mud.
We would bathe in delicate light and trace the course of homebound birds with our tiny fingers.

In the morning, we will wake to the steady hum of machines and electronic chirping of birds.
We will put on our golden boots and adorn our favorite suitslined with gold.
At the breakfast table, the children will demand to hear the bray of zebras.
We will promise them a tour of the museum in the evening and go about our day.


Pictures by Markus Spiske

Greenwashing and other marketing gimmicks

GREENWASHING

In a world of conspiracies, political motives, corporate greed, hearsay, lack of morality and ethics in the media who serve them, it becomes your responsibility to research, verify facts, and discard any hogwash that twists narrative and denies the truth. The large corporations resort to “greenwashing” to push the sales of their products and make hefty profits. Greenwashing is when a company or organisation spends a part of its budget on marketing themselves as environmentally friendly to cater to the public who wants to be part of the ongoing fight against the climate crisis. What is surprising is those who will believe in such deceitful marketing gimmicks and convince themselves that their actions are bringing about a change. There is no limit to gullibility in the world in which we thrive. Social media ads, bright green posters, labels and stickers on appliances and products, tags on shirts claiming to be environmentally friendly (also overcharging), hoardings that scream green, pretentious minimalist hashtags, all of them pushing the agenda to make the most of the ongoing crisis and fill their pockets.

Martin Buber’s philosophy of dialogue and Marx’s concept of alienation.

ILLUSTRATION BY CRISTINA BERNAZZANI

According to Martin Buber, a renowned philosopher known for his philosophy of dialogue, there are two kinds of relations we share with our surroundings: I/thou and I/It. In an I/Thou relationship, we treat fellow humans and our surrounding nature with authenticity, love, and compassion, without objectifying them or seeking value from them. In an I/It relationship, we do the opposite. We relate to each other as objects and thus remain in a state of alienation. Buber predicted that with the rise of industrialization, the I/It relationship would be predominant and consume us. There is thus, no genuine interaction between people if each one is hell-bent on extracting value from the other.

According to Marx’s four types of alienation in a capitalist society, “alienation from nature” is one of them. We have seen nature, not as a part of ourselves, the complex eco-system that we thrive in, but as a resource to be exploited to make profits. Large industries, often driven by the motive to make quick bucks, destroy everything in their way, thus disrupting the eco-system and displacing many species that thrived there. They often force the indigenous people to evacuate with little to nothing given in the form of compensation. The same industries then employ thousands of workers, have them work under harsh conditions with meager pays, and sell the final products by branding them and then overpricing them, eventually alienating the workers from their creation, thus giving rise to the alienation of the final product from the worker. The workers/employees who create the product cannot be affectionate towards it. In a market where profit is primary, each worker regards fellow workers as a competition, alienating him from others. This process alienates each person from the self. Unable to cope with this, in a capitalist society, people often “consume” to keep themselves sane. Since production and consumption complete the cycle, there is no will for creation. These are the remaining forms of alienation. This cycle is never-ending.

Eco-Terrorism

ECO-FASCISM

While I say this with utmost sorrow, that there is not enough time left, I do not advocate “eco-fascism” which requires individuals to sacrifice their interests for the greater good. It becomes, inevitably, another form of authoritarianism. According to several trusted media outlets, the damages caused by eco-terrorists by arsons, sabotage to property, bombing, and vandalism amount up to $100 million. The anger against large corporations, organizations, and governments is understandable. Governments keep allocating protected lands, forests, and wildlife reserves to mining industries and large corporations in the name of “development”. This is not a case of black or white. Common people do not seem to be bothered by this. The problems of the present are not theirs to carry. Brush under the carpet like everything else. Right? Worshipping leaders and putting them on a pedestal is something that needs to stop. Wrong-doers must be held accountable. I read a quote somewhere that perfectly sums up this piece.

Half of the misery in this world is caused by people whose only talent is to worm their way into positions for which they have no competence.

Of course, we’re reaping the benefits of modernism, the comfort that it brings, and the safety that it ensures. To deny that would make us hypocrites. However, to view everything around us as “commodities” is something that we must ponder over.

Conclusion

I hope that this poem offers you a hand to hold on to, if you too, like me, feel lost and grieve over the destruction of trees, the poisoning of rivers and oceans, the endangering of animal species, damage to our surroundings, and the explicable loss that torments us. There’s a term coined for the grief that one feels over the changing climate and the widespread destruction to the environment – Solastalgia. Though this poem might not bring comfort to you, I hope it awakens a sense of responsibility and urgency.

There is another poem I’d written to bring to attention: “Utopian nightmare” and the “Hivemind” mentality. Find it here: My Mother Does not Awaken.

When all the trees have been cut down, when all the animals have been hunted, when all the waters are polluted, when all the air is unsafe to breathe, only then will you discover you cannot eat money.

Cree prophecy.

Categories
Poetry

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

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

One Evening

ONE EVENING. A PICTURE BY ENRICO PERINI.

The evening runs its course. What remains of the plump boys loitering in the playground are slender silhouettes that look as uneven cutouts from a cardboard sheet; contours of everyday objects further tapering off from their earlier shapes to a stream of black. Slowly, the eve yawns over tiny houses, streets, paddy fields, the river, and the mountains. Look how the stars crowd the belly of the night, emerging out of nowhere, like holes in the sky. Just before the lights flood the streets, a multitude of sounds fills the surroundings: shiftless goodbyes of home-bound children, the cry of a bird in search of its nest, the cough of motors and the ringing of bicycles, the soft wind that whooshes through open windows and doors, the blaring of televisions running the evening news, the mooing cows, and the occasional barking dogs.

However, just like everything that disappears either violently or with grace, the colours of the day do not stay for long. The pregnant moon hangs overhead like a disc hanging in space. The element of mystery disappears as lights flood the street and the homes are liteach object claiming a space of its own. That’s how evening grows into the nightfrom angst to tranquility, quietly growing into a gigantic ocean of black adorned with tiny speckles of lightday in, day out. We loosen grip on things that we hold on for dear life; animals die their slow death, people cease to exist, objects rot, and decay. With their passing are born ghosts, spirits, and wandering souls that slip into dimly lit streets and grim buildings to take shelter, to seek solace and redeem; the night is their sanctuary.

On some evenings like these I slouch on my rooftop and listen to my favorite artist: Olafur Arnalds.

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