e-mo-tion

Strangle, strangle
All in different angle
Topsy-turvy
Straight and curvy
Meshed-up in a dough

Sweet and sour
In every hour
Sleeping-standing
Some are hanging
Smiling like a bow

Batter-batter
Growing fatter
Eating and gobbling
Pushing-jostling
Create a lovely hue

Holding a poster
Roller coaster
Jiving dancing
A straying boaster
Dropping every clue

Emotion, emotion
An all cure potion
Creating commotion
You are only flu

                                                                   Seeing beyond “the lover”

Keeping in mind the attributes of both oriental and occidental societies, here I will deal with the objective of Lady Chatterley-like living. The narration is a preface to the ideal of “mind-body-soul”–the crux of existentialism. The being Lady Chatterley was neither difficult nor lenient. The characters play in the tumultuous flow of either “all mind” or “all body.” Backdrop of the novel was war signifying a change – economic, political, and thereby social. Social change in a typical Brit culture marked the introduction of “new women” – independent and outgoing. The new woman was ready to take a step out from the sovereign boundaries of her “abode” – a social institution. She was more eager to bring a change not only within the boundaries of her family, but also a social structure. However, Lawrence makes it very clear that this was only a phase of transition, an interlude where the institution of womb was acknowledged by both the societal structure as well as the individual woman.

What was interesting in the novel was how men conversed on using their body for the mere act of procreation, while women’s procreation was tagged with the economic values. In an evening banter that rather tuned into a scholarly discussion; the readers were almost flabbergasted by the idea of turning spouse (women) to a trunk found in a railway platform waiting for the owner to give it a value – both social as well as economic. Here we are introduced to the idea that women were mere objects of pleasure, by which men realised a sense of completion. Even Michealis was perturbed when Constance wanted to have “it” in her way. No man can ever accept the fact his woman can ever be above him either in body or mind, or both. A sense of defeat kills the child living in the man. The child feels defeated, neglected, torn down in front of a being capable of creation.

In the very same evening, the novel went ahead to proffer a definition of power – cause-effect of both construction and deconstruction. The mind nourishes on the food of power, authority, and delegation. In the text, the crème de la crème of the then English society speaks about negation, i.e., antithesis that leads to the initiation of novel, classic concepts of literature, thesis. The etiology of “thesis and antithesis” were opined by German philosophers Hegel and later epitomized by Marx. Lawrence wanted to pen down not only a story revolving round a couple blissfully tied for a lifetime, but also the ideals, the monotony, the interlude that were taking place on different planes of living. The struggle for rights of the working class was justified for the good of the ruling class. Denials lead to upheavals; none other than a mind of a child knows it better. Accepting new transitions within the folds of the society help the structure from tumbling down like a house of cards. Rather, it guarantees the heir of the upper class to hold on to its sceptre.

Men were not satiated with the crown of the periphery alone; they wanted to reign the core too. Clifford in this context was no exception. He was all mind but to continue his jurisdiction he let go a part of Constance. His jealousy had burned, tormented, pestered, and mutilated his soul. Deep down he knew that the freedom will keep Constance in proximity. What Constance felt for her spouse was care, a sense of duty, and a living habit. What she did was her chore. Never did she ever think of being happy in the process. However, the insinuations of her desires, longings were growing. She was lost in a maze, which seemed did not have a pathway to the outside world. These thoughts were silently succumbing her; till the time she was introduced to graze the fertile pastures of the gamekeeper – Mellors. His life was also ripped due to the inconsequential, unjustified, and vague reasons. The reasons that kept him tied to Connie. Above all things, the novel brings to light the justified apprehensions of a father; the outspoken and prudent Hilda; and the subtle mutual disrespect between Mrs. Bolton and Clifford.

It was not easy for Clifford to give himself away to a woman who belongs to the working class. The demanding nature, the condescending attitude, the cold orders ultimately could not keep the necessities at bay. She had to be recognized, listened, and thereby given a stand to speak a perspective of the mundane. However, many might say that Lawrence has kept innumerable loose strings at the end. What I would like the readers to understand here is that he had to introduce the change, keeping himself within the boundaries of the acceptable. Yet, he was a pariah. Moving on to the next novel what we will find is yet another transition where body was instituted as a radiation of subjectivity. Till then, let us be satisfied with only the “lover.”

Anonymity

Nameless living with little boundaries

Nameless writings with no scurries

Battering hope with little apprehensions

Withering dreams on fragile frustrations

Living in ghettos, onto a subliminal plane

Where life breaths soot being lain

Yet, nothing but anonymity persists

Jostling and elbowing, to name, each one insists

Creating sovereign boundaries

Where battle cry devours and feasts

Another word, another ME

Every story has two sides, a truism said but hardly believed. At least I never tried to. Like the sun’s warmth, we tend to take things for granted, and when those granted things falter; however trivial, the less mortal beings make it an insurmountable issue. We tend to discern our ego and blanket reason in a make-belief aeon. Shrouded in feminine vanity and pretence, even my spirits were high. How false pride can be, how demential! Well, somewhere in every feline heart a Scarlett O’ Hara resides if I try to put with an air of pride, yes, yet again.

Mundane school commuting became enjoyable when many little souls jam packed themselves, without an option, like a colourful jumper a pleasure to the eyes of a creator. The reasonable beings in the spree of optimizing time and work never quite preconceived the idea that there might be a trade-off. Even to this day when i sit alone i ponder on two words friend-girlfriend. Does it really make a difference, probably “yes” or “no”. Eventually, those small incomplete games of hide-and-seek have metamorphosed into words. Actions when transformed to words take a different connotation; surpassing the meaning of innumerable referred lexicon.

Even with distance and time the caterpillar words turned into beautiful butterflies. Magic! Time flies, charmed i stood handcuffed by imagination. The clouds of girly pride moved on to bring a rainbow of satiation. Womanhood – was difficult, but worth living. Something that was more genuine, like a heart beating to prove life, the cry of a child when its heart first beat. Pride leads to a state of incongruity, a passé – a kind of maturity that pampers to prepare one’s heart to enjoy the bliss of immaturity. Such characters, like me, want every little thing to grow up, take the pain of knowledge; but themselves denying the corruption brought about by cognition. She wanted her hands to be held, while she will take the pride in her kind of falter.

However, things did not take the shape of what she conceived her screenplays to be. They rather took the turn of the pre ordained. De novo events, new characters were introduced in her drama. Well, to a child brimming with vanity new toys always entertained her more, however; she continued seeking home in her old poems, memories, moments, time. Days were all devoted to her engrossed endeavours, but nights, night’s-dreams were all stringed to the past. As if the light of past has beckoned her thoroughly. However, she neither belonged to her present nor her past. There was always a dichotomy in them, a clash – a debate that never sought out to look for a resolution. A fallacy that she continued to knit in her mind, this fallacy fed her pleasures as well as her ego.

Triumph of the self meant the most, here. However, prudence called it a diverse sphere of failure. More than failure it was gathering the turmoil of loss; a proud self will never recognize the idea of “walking away,” rather, she would herself turn her back with tears, with silent heart than her feelings disposed and criticized over the etherized table of society. Deep down, there was a sense gnawing her vitals, neglect was breeding a cyclone of venom. A vengeance that looked forward for destruction, a devastation that will pull down the little adoration left to her heart’s grave.

The stupid, little, proud girl grew out of her tantrums. With time, life demanded something more something that remained bare. With the dawning of the whole new world, she saw her dreams emerging. There were satisfactions, but scarce, and at times compromised. The pride took interest in taking a leap, not to face the nauseating aroma of despise. She turned her feelings into drops of words, wooing them, spun them to create poetries, essays; labouring a new realization.

The loss she felt was no loss, as the senses, bliss, peace was held at a greater value than the loss. Her pride triumphed again with knowledge, a profound one, all encompassing. The acrimonious words, biting-tearing-tormenting, gave her what she sought for years. She was reborn victorious, no defeat can touch her; no failure will be able to dull her days now. She is soaring high, high above the clouds, rainbow, she feels no gravity of getting back. Her umbilicus was consciously left to the past, to which there was no return. She smiles a thousand daffodils, scintillating life, she is happy being self-taught.

Changing Shades

Narrating life becomes a tumultuous task; a life that has molded, shaped, transformed, and yet remains in a liminal state. This night, and many other nights have raised the curtain of reality; but somehow my belief held me back-and-forth. I never quite admitted the fact, constructed-deconstructed the fantasy. Now, when the etiology of the creator is questioned what do the minimalist, I, do?



My sensibilities were pinned by a sordid gamut of pettiness. Yet, somewhere the insufferable torture began to flush away the triviality. Supposedly, the fantasy became a living reality, a place of submission.


Tarnished and soiled,

Yet emotions unfoiled,

I walked on,

To trample upon

A song called – friend

Even when, the water was low

You assured me to carry the row


The rowing became grave, with the passage of years. The years bore deep crevices, often dungeons, some infallible, some left to be discovered by eyes of maturity. Charmed, in an alien land like a traveler bereft of qualms my spirits walked toward a reflection. For years, half-hungry I burned in the bitter springs of anger and pride.



I continued without a sound

Not to fail the ground below

Before, I have found

My feelings have turned mellow

Once, I thought

My mind has brought

A sudden shiver,

A sunken wave

Now, things grew

A vintage brew

As, I know I will have my day

To all my friends

Friends who mean

Friendship isnt about opportunity, its a sweet responsibility of taking care

Its about completing each other's sentences

A Poem

                                                  from nadir, to epitome
                                                 a journey toward home
                                                 where my soul waits
                                                 sans waiting, sans frets

i tire my hands
churning words from sands
i walk this road
to tell a tale already told

                                                            my sun feels light
                                                            makes letters shine bright
                                                            i write to be heard
                                                            to face, not being furred                                                    

creation

Well, with ups and downs

With smiles and frowns

You were there,

everywhere

When heart beat twice

earned an earthly price

Longed for you

From dusk to dawn

There you stood, and made my dream come true