Ghosts, memories, landscapes become potent forces inhabiting absence.
The writer's gaze reveals deeper truths, even those that are always in flux.
A meditation on the impact of time and violence in a fractured world.
Imagine a narrow road. With flickering lamps from a different age. Gingerly placed atop tall posts. Shadows against the sky. Just before their demise at the hands of the morning light. Night into day. A cross fade. Stretching uphill into a horizon gradually coming to life. Its silver beginning to make its presence known. The dew washed cobblestones rubbing their eyes. Stretching sideways. Waking up. Becoming aware of the dawn light caressing them. Aslant. The road paved in silver. A feast of glitter. A scene that started like a silhouette as in shadow plays as the dawn made way for the first rays of the sun. And the sounds of the morning. For which I find I am responsible. Though I know not how. Or why. I cannot choose the sound track. The effects. I need the horse drawn milk cart. What with cobblestones and flickering lamps. I keep hitting the wrong buttons. Honking trucks and cars in a hurry. The cycles and the morning joggers their dogs running beside them. A confused set of cues. In the midst of this growing irritation I am stopped dead in my tracks by a falling body. Just like that. Not a single tall building in sight. This being a small town at the edge of the world where the strictest of architecture laws prevail. One plus one. That’s it. A ground floor and a first floor. Tiled roofs. Wood and earth. From where did this thing this body fall? Nothing to be done. I stop in my tracks.Go over to the body. White. Covered in a body suit. Familiar but not known.
Bend over it. Gently straightening its twisted wings. Lifting the weight of the torso to free the left one. The legs are splayed and need straightening. The feet bare. Showing signs of burns. I cradle the body in such a manner that the face and head are leaning against my chest as I sit on the road. The narrow road that walks into the horizon. The one with cobblestones. No longer silver. I notice the face. The shut eyes. The nose. The mouth. The ears. Something tells me I have seen this person with the wings before. Not in a dream. Nor in a painting. Elsewhere. But I cannot remember where.
I see no visible signs of injury. The breathing is gentle. I know he is alive. I touch the forehead. Then gently try and open each eye with my fingers. I notice that the first one has a vivid dream playing under the eyelids. Compelling. Grand. Evocative. I shut it hurriedly.Feeling a sense of guilt. I am intruding. I slowly open the other eye. Recoiling as from an electric shock. Burning my fingers and being thrown backwards by the force of a shattered dream. The eye behind the eyelid raging. In fury. Destroying everything evocative. Grand. Compelling in the other eye. Dream into nightmare.
an acutely disturbed state of mind characterized by restlessness, illusions, and incoherence, occurring in intoxication, fever, and other disorders. [‘Other’otherudderothering that word again which signals a different type of madness. One that the world is overtaken by. You Other and then you Smothertheother. This order. Dis Order. Disorderthis.]
This being a small town at the edge of the world where the strictest of architecture laws prevail.
I keep calling it delirium
a fog induced cloud easily closeable eyes slip
into a state of ‘droopiness’.
a state of near-unconsciousness or insensibility.
This
how dictionaries describe
the ‘state of stupor’.
A state that best describes
the ‘delirium’ that has overcome me.
To be even more precise
I am in a stupor
in a dream
talking to those who
do not dream.
A small procedure’ is what the urologist said. ‘Twenty to forty minutes. Max’, he added. Having avoided this for a year or more it seemed almost a relief. My over-heated mind looked my anxiety in the eye and said ‘yes’ while all the while screaming ‘no’.
You admit yourself on a Sunday evening so that the surgery can happen early the next morning giving you the rest of the day to find your way out of the fog the spinal injection will hurtle you into. Silencing your spine and legs and feet. A void waist down. You will need three nights in hospital. I make too much of something that the doctor does at least six times a day three times a week. Black head on a stick. Struck sharp. The needle not once but twice into the ‘bony’ part of your spine and a hot flush of numbness enters your lower body like a contradiction. The fire. Burning. Devouring. My mother Prem was not a midnight’s child. Animated assassin. Tongue lashing. Lizard like.
Though she may have quietly fitted into the pauses between Salman Rushdie’s lines if she had wanted to. Flames sprouting from the floor. Like a nightmare. Prem’s girl child on the other hand was. Born. At the stroke of midnight. Almost. 1947, 20 June. Prem in labour. The eyes of the fire.
Searching. For the little girl. Alone except for the woman who would assist the birthing in a city called Lahore. The curfew made sure her husband her soon to be born daughter’s father was kept confined elsewhere.
She sees clearly the imagined-real mob outside the hospital because of the fear in the nurse’s eyes. And the smell of burning tyres. Raging through the rooms.
The rest is pain.
Black head on a stick.
Struck sharp. The fire. Burning. Devouring.
Animated assassin.
Raging through the rooms.
Tongue lashing. Lizard like.
Flames sprouting from the floor.
Like a nightmare.
The eyes of the fire
Searching.
For the little girl.
It had taken a liking for.
And to think.
It had begun life as a tiny match.
. . . in a dream talking to those who do not dream voices softened hushed muted fade into silence.
gone one by one
the happy musicians abruptly
like laughter
Orange, peaches, mango, cantaloupe, cherries, papaya, guavas, blackcurrant.
Blow over
blow over red dust storm of delirium
swirling refusal
to settle
blind eyes
shutting out dreams
throat parched
at the finishing line
choking
unable to cross over
blow away blow away
white shapes painted into an otherwise placid landscape disturbing altering the serenity of the blue snapping the comfort of the eyes perhaps an advance warning of a storm
apprehension in a work of art anxiety a nagging tension caused by the manner in which the paint colonizes the loneliness of a once immaculate canvas
in art or literature, it is always good to disturb
unless the purpose is to create a deliberate prosaic and calm effect which in itself could hint at a disturbance lying beneath simmering waiting to erupt
a work that is at first glance simple enough till you look again and begin to sense the suggestion of an impending imbalance or
havoc waiting in the wings
Nothing makes sense in this time of ‘unreason’. Not this jumbled up upside-down poem for sure!
a wasted night that promised one more dream about stitching
I confess to extreme exhaustion
or the presence of a wisp of smoke from a cigarette unsuccessfully stubbed not sure I recall clearly when I returned home to the smell of fish being cooked elsewhere
and planning to get away for an unplanned length of time
somewhere in these lines above there is a mention about rinsing one’s mouth
someday soon you will wake up to the sour taste of unrequited poetry
my desire to seek intimacy? not quite right but not worth getting angry
would you agree with this? or should I rephrase the thought?
meanwhile my desire to seek intimacy in the midst of so much suspicion is in itself suspicious
I wonder if I meant seasoned reasoning in the earlier observation?
one wishes there was intense thinking behind each question
trouble with questions when they manage to arrive is their lack of reasoned reasoning
or planning to get away for a vacation on an impulse
like rinsing one’s mouth
One begins to forget so much these days
or was it something to do with unwelcome guests?
an odd observation this in the midst of an attempted poem about the nature of dreams
those that arrive naked do not face this dilemma of the ‘crumpling’
I am not sure why though
dreams that often come fully clothed often wear them crumpled
once begun the dream had no place left to go
outlived its welcome the dream watched the threads unravel stitch by reluctant stitch
Or for that matter the ‘way-it-should-appear-to-be-read’:
outlived its welcome the dream watched the threads unravel stitch by reluctant stitch
once begun the dream had no place left to go
dreams that often come fully clothed often wear them crumpled
I am not sure why though
those that arrive naked do not face this dilemma of the ‘crumpling’
an odd observation this in the midst of an attempted poem about the nature of dreams
or was it something to do with unwelcome guests?
One begins to forget so much these days
like rinsing one’s mouth
or planning to get away for a vacation on an impulse
trouble with questions when they manage to arrive is their lack of reasoned reasoning
one wishes there was a degree of intense thinking behind each question
I wonder if I meant seasoned reasoning in the earlier observation?
meanwhile my desire to seek intimacy in the midst of so much suspicion is in itself suspicious
would you agree with this? or should I rephrase the thought?
my desire to seek intimacy? not quite right but not worth getting angry
someday soon you will wake up to the sour taste of unrequited poetry
somewhere in these lines above there is a mention about rinsing one’s mouth
and planning to get away for an unplanned length of time
not sure I recall clearly when I returned home to the smell of fish being cooked elsewhere
or the presence of a wisp of smoke from a cigarette unsuccessfully stubbed
I confess to extreme exhaustion
a wasted night that promised one more dream about stitching
each dream shot through the head
at point blank range
Not quite awake. ‘Sleep’ filled with thoughts. Those that accompany a ‘wake’. Other thoughts and images that lend themselves to memory’s interpretation. We are at a giant ‘wake’ are we not? Seeing our world plunge into mourning. Throw an entire population ‘overboard’. A deliberate drowning. A woke ‘listening’ that is akin to eavesdropping. A perceived ‘non’-listening that hears even when it folds upon itself in a desperate effort to not listen. A ‘deafening’ across cultures languages even time as in ‘across the ages’. Linked by this vast de-humanizing that is unfolding even as we see-hear or its opposite, non-seer. What do we see when our eyes are drowning in sleep? Our ‘hearing’ made blind in a world hurtling towards self-destruction? What happens to our ‘within’ when it folds upon itself?
Involuntary introspection? I return in my dream to an oft repeated phrase ‘bear witness’. Here too the word ‘in vol un tar(r)y’ because what the listening does is to store that which we cannot out-worldly enact put into words. Our external testimonies find utterance in the silence within. I return to ‘survivors’ who will refuse to talk. Be witness.
piece of mirror he had made his weapon for the daypiece of mirror he had made his weapon for the daypiece of mirror he had made his weapon for the day
‘Involuntary poetry in a healthy state’, says Kant. Rings a chord. This old poem within which I attempt to conceal a new one.
Blind light of afternoon in the hands of a child sharp ragged mirror of impish delight
afternoon light
shining glittering mesmerizing aiming rainbow darts at the bulls eye lips sucked by
late summer blur
lower teeth in concentration as eyes follow eyes shutting twisting wincing against
melt shimmer sizzle hiss
one end of the sky to another cloud free and without any sign of rain or shade
tar tread barefoot street
completely devoid of shadow as you and I are made to dance much against our
upon the coal-simmering mind of yours
whim but nevertheless in rhythm yours mine ours the steps weaving in and out of
exhaustion even as the child twirled and warbled like a bird of mirth disdainfully
[shadowless fakira]
tossing back the long jet black strands of hair from his eyes in a gesture of extreme
remember the sun
dexterity calculated to raise an admiring laugh from the sun and the sky and the
about to shed its skin
piece of mirror he had made his weapon for the day
Child’s play
[The fakira I place within square brackets is a word that has been handed to me through many cultures through song through philosophy through time. A thinking being who is a seer; practicing asceticism. One who ‘lowers’ the Self in a manner that defeats the ego and makes virtue of humility. A monumental effacing of the Self achieved through a life long devotion to the practice of self less ness. Another form of ‘a wakening’.]
At the writer’s edge. Untamed ruins. An abyss into which the bones of giant alphabet lie unburied. A helterskeltering of babel made deaf by its own volume. I am a man asleep and from the centre of my head grows a trunk its stands of hair inherited from the Medusa tree hissing in the wind and coiling around my neck ruining that last song lurking within me.
A thought about theatre:
We enter the stage space from the wings
We exit eventually after having ‘lived’ our part
Into the wings
Depending on our purpose we may enter again
Exit / re enter
What if we were to only exit from the wings into a space of performance and then exit into that ‘other’ space
The waiting room
Wings as a space of ‘transit’ (or punishment?)
The performance as transition (purgatario?)
Or transformation?
What happens to the clock between these exits?
How does time enact its own passing?
It gathers rust and clutches at dreams
In a dream about a banquet the word itself suggesting theatre. Not quite the Last Supper. I cannot see an end to the dining table which stretches into a painted horizon hanging from the furthest batten before disappearing into the black flies. Not a single guest. Only waiters on stilts with their heads in the clouds so all I can see are torsos hobbling on wooden legs. Every now and then a hand attached to an arm comes down from the clouds and puts a silver tray with raw meats on the table. There is a tearing sound as the top of the horizon begins to rip down the middle till it splits the entire tablecloth into half racing towards the head of the table where I sit strapped to a three-legged chair that resembles a throne.
Nothing out of the ordinary had happened
No feast is complete without the ghost. The one that most people do not see. Or sense. Except the host. It is always the Host whose presence summons the spirit to make his absence visible. Like a chess game between one who thinks he has won and the elusive one incapable of losing.
Ghosts are figments of an imagination. Active. Creative. On edge. Restless. Prone to fantasy. Therefore real. Ghosts are also a result of work half done. A guilt filled mind that has been unable to complete its task. Unfinished business. You murder the king. Usurp the throne through foul means. That’s a job half-done. The other half left incomplete is what makes the crown quiver with unease. The conscience. You failed to look it in the eye. Hold your own. Without blinking. Defeat the coward and take your rightful place amongst the unpunished. For guilt is defeating. And merciless.
To rid yourself of ghosts you first need to cleanse the blood that will not be removed by any amount of water. It is the strangling of conscience that will complete the job. The exorcism. That and arrogance. Extreme arrogance.
So. Choose.
Then let the curtain rise on Macbeth playing a magnificent host after ridding the world of Duncan. A banquet so desperately fit for kings. And Banquo fails to turn up. The feast carries on into the early hours of the morning. The church bells ring in the dawn. And yet. No Banquo.
Macbeth will have won the first round.
That of defeating his guilt. It is the arrogance that will do him in. When the woods gather in strength and uproot themselves to go against the natural order of things and conspire against him.
shadow less this
shadow
fingers tentative
seeking a hold
palms grazed
cindered as
it slithered down
down the mountain
gossamer wings
in tatters
frayed
torn to shreds
its skin
translucent thread
beginning to unravel
charred
charred by flying sparks
stripped to a bone less ness rebounding
hurtling
with speed
a terrain so rocky jagged
uneven its fall
unbroken
broken
the angel
lay struggling
in a nightmare designed
for this particular purpose
a divine entrapment
There is a space for the sublime to enact its own ‘birthing’. For a man of theatre and of photographic practice I seek moments that can only make their presence felt in the ‘aftermath’ of what has just taken place. The climax as aperitif. For those who wish to linger in the post-climactic moment when nothing ostensibly happens. Even if ‘risking’ the emptiness of a stage vacated by momentous rage or tragedy or loss. A moment, when the after-aura of a ‘moment’ finds visibility in quite the way we sense poetry. There is a silence that begets meaning. It affects the body and the mind in the way one recognises the joy of a sudden insight a kind of warmth running through the veins. It vanishes as soon as it appears. You know you imagined it. And yet the gush the physical sensation and the one in the mind are evidence enough to a different truth.
An image that ‘captures’ its own subtext by setting it free. You sense its presence by its absence.
What does it mean to have a choice? And it’s opposite non-choice. What if the choices are stripped one humanity at a time. Till there is nothing left of us except a shell that drag’s itself into the non-hope.
We have witnessed these ‘manshells’. Throughout History.
Thought stripped. Unclothed. Made bare. Forcibly? Or as the ‘unclothed’ hints, by choice. Its own.
A dream about flowers dahlias in particular some as large as one foot in diameter with unstable green stems as thick as a stubby finger that has known manual labour but is now no longer steady on its feet
the sunshine is deceptive as if borrowed for the scene from an early fifties film shot in Kashmir where this dream is being played out
something large and camouflaged in khaki comes out of the frame on the left I can hear its metallic grating against the field which is now no longer lush green a field of grey fist sized stones
I find myself running towards the dahlias that are no longer there having snapped at the neck leaving behind a landscape of beheaded stems
Deeper. Much deeper.
The image as afterthought. Or as a prologue. That which you see is only the beginning of all that is to follow. This ‘following’ needs the viewer to first connect with the subject and then Reverie. I use the word as an invitation to explore their selves in the manner of a rap singer’s improvising with simultaneous thoughts images as they unfold and find song.
The prologue as epilogue therefore. Afterthought. The thought arrived at. After exploring that which is frozen within the frame. And following the clues the signs that are suggested in a manner that leads your gaze ‘outside’ the frame. At this point your imagination takes over. You find our way into whatever direction the image now a mere starting point leads you.
Shyness. All the photographs taken over so many years have the unguarded gaze. The person or persons in the image are neither startled nor wearing their mask; I recall images that are in the shadow of ‘not aware’ but the subject suggests anxiety even fear; a moment of complete innocence both by the subject and the photographer. Even objects or streets vacated by people are caught in a moment that can best be described as un prepared therefore revealing that moment between nudity and clothed ness. One cannot rehearse this. It is intuitive. This is accident as grace. Or. Invisibility. The disappearance of the lens the eye perhaps the self. Something.
How much may one reveal?
Re ve all as an act of surrender. Of one’s inherited inhibitions. Of norms. Of structures put into place over centuries. Conditioning.
The instinct is simultaneous, oddly enough.
It leans. At the same moment-in-time towards caution. And abandonment.
I want to tell you things. How else will you sense glimpse briefly into what I believe to be
my self?
This may be an oblique description of friendship.
This see-saw of revelation and hesitation in/is togetherness.
A dream about listening. One that has continued to haunt our exchanges. In which conversation just happens. Without the aid of the ‘audible’. We sit cross-legged in the style of mendicants at a home-purifying ritual about to be fed on freshly cleansed banana leaves. Expecting the courteous volunteers to go past us with tiny copper buckets containing different kinds of food lentils fish meat as they ladle a little of each variety on to our leaf-plate. Strangely though we sit facing each other. In closeness. Unlike the customary rows where we would be sitting side by side on the floor. I look to the left and then the right and find we are the only two guests. Nobody comes to feed our silence.
the once furious and swift-flowing tears have dried up the early autumn leaves have fallen prey
to silence
hanging down from a blue sky
the lake of flowers
It’s pain wise beyond its years
the city
shrouded in rust
no longer recognizes itself Intent.
Translating intention into a promise. Then allowing the spaces between the two highly laudable emotions to shrink edge towards each other. This leads to a blurring that further translates into a ‘disability’. One that cripples intent. Forgetting promise.
Well-meaning affections enact this play without meaning to. What can memory know of regret? The young person on a zoom call about my kind of publishing hides behind the black and wishes to know what would I do differently if I had started Seagull today.
Or to digress like a meandering poem embrace wind with twisted toes hands that lash at window frames wind with its keenkeening wind that spits your name into the wind bellowing loudly while she stumbles from one dream to another shattering panes leaving a trail of glass in her wake
Which Virgil can possibly be summoned in the time of Gaza to guide us through the infernos that have been unleashed?
The angel walked on bare feet scattering the ashes underfoot.
The night sat garlanded at the shrine like a God abandoned.
The candle burnt itself into submission.
Somewhere at the end of the evening the angel raised his head full of hair and let out a deep sigh.
The stones had promised not to indulge in gossip or to whisper their secret.
It was a long walk and a lonely one but she had decided to undertake the journey regardless.
The dead anxiously awaiting resurrection.
Over time the icy wind had gone rancid becoming stale putrid and foulsmelling.
I stand at the door watching with eyes of glass and just waiting.
Only two dreams left to go
