This is a strange tale I heard from a member of a parish. It went on like this. All in one family except the father had converted to the cult Jehovah’s Witness. When the father died there was no one in the family to take the corpse to the church. The willing neighbors interfered and took him to the church to be buried. When the last rites were uttered and the corpse was to be lowered to the grave, there was one more ritual that is to cover the head and face with the burial cloth. Then the son appeared out of nowhere to do the ceremony and the priest stopped him on his tracks and vociferously said: ‘you have no right to do the same, since you did not cooperate with the burial of your father’.
This happened to me about a year ago. I was engaged with duty of marking answer scripts for English (general) paper. To my surprise one student put about 500 Rupees between the pages with the short message to pass him. After valuing the paper, I found it very bleak. I was able to add a half there and a half here and so on to the point of passing the candidate. I smiled at the way I got additional sources of income.
This gentleman is well known to me. One particular feature about his ears is, hair grows on it and protrudes outside, almost the shape of a leaf. I find it quite irritable and think of ways and means to cut it off. To make matters worse, I think of spitting on it. Sometimes I feel like puking on it. I don’t have the heart to tell the gentleman to cut it off.
Armed with a gun, he entered the Newspaper printing factory. He shot one on the leg and one on the hand. He wanted to change the news. One was the big lottery scam run by the government and another was his sworn enemy a financial company, a private bank now. At gunpoint he changed the frontline headings. He felt satisfied: ‘at last revenge taken’. It’s easy to guess what will happen to the people when they read the news in the morning.
He had a peculiar habit. He was fond of sending hoax messages to the Police stating the bombing of places. Till now he has not been caught. He likes to give a hard time to the police.
I wanted to get a disability certificate for my son who is having autism and so I had to go to the government hospital. The bathroom was horrible and un-cleaned with lumps of shit and urine lying all around. As I was sitting in the psychiatric ward, there was a huge notice board and on it was written—number of people with STDS counseled—number of condoms distributed. A smile broke out on my lips.
Nothing much has happened in my life. This day to day routine is trying and troublesome. I think of content to write but nothing much emerges.
I had a strange dream and in it I was going through a tunnel. I looked up at the dream dictionary and found the meaning as, going through a tunnel means solving a problem and beginning a new phase of life. I am excited at the prospects that the dream has to offer.
I wonder where life is taking me to. I dream of visiting enchanted islands like Bali, the Philippines where my significant other lives. I dream of smoking clove cigarettes and having Indonesian grilled fish and duck roast and rice with Sambal.
I nourish writing as a poetic dream. I draw writing with my pen and brush against the canvas of the paper. Form is the evolution of the ego into an aesthetic symbolism of an idealism. Content is what the pen plants as a seed and writing is an evolution of a fruit. Style of writing is a fictional utopia. Meaning is the recognition of the allegory in aesthetic semblances. I carve beautiful sculptures with my pen. Writing is the joyful exertion of freedom. The joy of writing is the liberation of the ego, the joyssance of the body. The text is the manna of celebration. Nietzsche the philosopher said: ‘a good writer is a one who is ashamed of the self’. We write in words about what is a bodily negation. Writing bears the angst of the self. Writing is the art of being a stoic epicurean and a philosophical Socrates. To write as Derrida has said: ‘is to have the passion of origin’.
My lips and teeth sank into the tender flesh…the outer covering was hairy and rough—the inner covering was smooth as flesh; its taste was salty and sweet….I drank into the rich concoction….All the way I thought it was just juicy and sweet like hers.
Thousands of pilgrims wait patiently to view the light (a so called divine light) purported to come from over the hills. For the government who got money from the pilgrims it was a fix-up-job. They are adept in burning tires and they are skilled in creating the illusion of creating the light for the hoi polloi.
I watched the illuminated cross all lit up for the church festival. I go back to history were the cross was victimized—stripped, naked and beaten and finally hung. My illumination is the cross which died for my sins.
He had a fancy to make verbs from nouns and thus he goes with the word flower. He cast his wand into its water and came up with the verb—flowerate. Yes, flowerate means a lexicon of ecstasy and catharsis. He loves to flowerate all the time.
Though art a giver
Of all Mastery
As Art and Craft—
A legacy so
In the ruler and the compass—
The G an opera
For God and Geometry—
Give me fortune’s
Nourish in me
Your art and craft
And perfect my
Ways to a sublime