A Not-Story

…………………………….
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine
…………………………….
…………………………….
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born.
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight

Some are born to endless night.
……………………………….

--------- William Blake, ‘Auguries of Innocence’

A Not-Story

Night, which has hidden and manifested its dangers and the unexplainable, is about to get thickened and I am here avoiding the world in all possible way, by denial, existence and absurdity. The appetite is almost appeased by quotidian occurrence of the desire. I don’t watch my limbs as if they exist separate than me like that French fellow. I don’t believe in dualities. “Sam karoti iti Shamakarh” (the One who causes equilibrium is Shamkara i.e. Siva) my father used to tell me, as a kid and I did not know what does that mean, as still I don’t know. To me, thickening of night is day and vice versa, of course. I say to myself loudly “Time is Continuous” and I fall therefore, of fatigue.

One must be thinking by now that I am one into myself. Yes! That is true. I am terribly self-referential existence-wise. So the reader may think why I am telling these trivial things. And I suspect the same by now, so listen to this account as trivial as particular.

The protagonist, “he” was completing his graduation at the University of Allahabad and already had been seduced by the cerebral aspects of the visible. There was a hostel where in the room he never studied a thing. The isolation was so haunting that the idea of private affairs like reading etc made him vomit. This place was reserved for his soliloquy (as he was verbose) and exam’s ex tempore one-day preparations.

So that you may not feel sleepy let me tell you this unnecessary fact that his best friend at the hostel committed a random suicide and died too. The causes were never known other than the humdrum fact that after the death of one’s God it’s he who follows. This dead fellow was not happy of course but was not as morose also as the teen with a pimple-face. That same year the dead man had topped the university and found his muse in a similarly intelligent woman of beauty, who after the demise of the dead found solace in a loud friend of the dead who found what not in ……and so on ad infinitum.

He as the best friend had died was looking forward for acceptance and therefore met this nervous fellow of warrior descent, as the later claimed. This warrior kid out of nowhere turned out to be a Marxist, ergo judgmental about human condition and ready to doctor it whenever he would have got a chance. After being together for more than a year the Marxist left him to be student’s union president at a university of repute in the capital city.

He was alone again. Lest the reader might suspect that this “he” protagonist is asexual or of lesser-known preferences, the story of her tryst with the opposite sex must be told. As a 10th grader kid he fell in love with this girl whom he could not intersect long enough so that a proposition could have taken place, as the parents sent him to a boarding school 700 kilometers away, 6000 ft up above sea level on a hilltop from the girl in question. This distance, which was geographical and physical, slightly and innocuously, blended into a mental one; felt first by the girl who consequently eloped three years later with a local businessman’s son.
So the first attempt at love was a failure.

For various years to come he was at remote end with the idea of love though gloom was not the place where he took shelter instead. There as nothing much was to be done, he started thinking over the thoughts of the others, which was to consume most of his time. Joyce was his early idea of a modernist. He saw Leopold Bloom in him to sooth his past and erstwhile present. Here absurd becomes his domain, as was suggested by Joyce. The non-conclusive nature of art pushed him to the fringes of logical reasoning and hence mistakenly to sciences, mostly social (see also pseudo sciences).

Social sciences have made fools of many and this fellow too, was not spared. He was amazed as how the utilitarians had conceptualized the idea of human rationality. He camouflaged himself in the rational utilitarian and therefore became the utilitarian rational, which was damaging as one may later recognize.

One day a bird told him that mathematics is important. This arbitrariness demanded great labour to which he exerted himself, for refuse, as pretext for deliberate existence, which is necessary if one is inhibited.

Once while going through the quanta of memories he recognized with the help of his new acquired skills that if canonical democracy, even if ethically flawless, fundamentally is an impasse then the concept of free markets might lead to inequalities of possessions even if the individuals of the society are rational (exactly in the fashion he is *) and no ones action intersect the incentives of the others at any point of exchange. Though the proposition was even orthodox to himself his intuition always resented even the vague manifestation of the contrary.

One paragraph up a notable bird was mentioned in passing, this bird that has appeared in various cases in different incarnations in great fables of the past, pushed him to think of a geometrical object, which does not exist, in the mundane life, which is a circle (in higher dimensions a Sphere). The circle (sphere) as is known to every one is a polygon (resp. polyhedron) with infinite sides/edges or also infinite vertices (corners). What he did know (/knows) was (is) that of polygon that is not of a circle, which is equivalent of saying that he did understand the concept of infinite it self, therefore the fundamental unrest starts. Until he did not approximate the circle he could not solve the problem of incentives mentioned above. Equivalently, reason of unrest was the fact that he did not understand pottery or clay modeling.

As the worldly rituals to resist the society, termed responsibilities by the civil, were ripen by this time, he could not devote much of the time the way Pascal, Zeno of Elia or Pythagoras would have; also to be emphasized here, is the fact that at the time when these men dreamt, there was no course introduced for business administration or finance. But this poor fellow’s fate transpired to lie in the age of power points, verbosity circumlocution, jugglery and the new language. So at the will and order of the society he went to a higher school to learn jugglery and con or trickster’s skills, also known as pragmatic learning. This learning, inter alia, consists of disguising the so-called lesser mortals with the grandeur of this acquired education/skill (?) so that they may be subdued intellectually and hence materially, adapting a new language for communication to divert attention from the apparent and other related items of pure magic. Here he contracted aphasia, which will turn out to be incurable, as one will perceive later. He could not understand a word of what he read of the new skill consequently turned out to be an outsider hence a failure.

Going through an approximately lunar spell (cycle) of horniness, he saw a girl who recorded his gaze in turn. He thought of not extending this programme to the limit from where the game of egos, also conceptualized and paraphrased as love, starts. But it did not materialize as the girl was in a mood to be entertained by the game. As this part of his life has a very important role to play in the times to come, the elaboration of this phase is pointless. The concern should be focused to that instance when the whole affair becomes an unforgettable event. So lets see what happens.

Two years had passed since they have been playing the game and this was the time when the results were to be made formally announced. Night time, winters, a cultural event taking place, marijuana on one side, seduction on the other, colorful people everywhere, songs-dances-music-light, people hanging out, end of academic co-existences, therefore fear, nervousness, aphasia in full manifestation on one side, confidence hence sadism, brutal desires of the winner, megalomania, callousness and indifference on the other side; and the loser beforehand knows that he is about to lose. Bravely he proceeds and tells the woman to be with her for life. And….. have you ever seen Venus? He saw Venus there at that very night in all its beauty and bitterness. What a beauty that was to him. Red eyes, a firm nose with subtle hint of sweat of anger and disgust, lips red as the petal of rose, long thick black hair till waist, pink sari and blue blouse all shining, no cold, and the beautiful bitter words of damnation and abhorrence coming out of that pretty mouth, as pure, sharp and fierce as a diamond of a brilliant cut ….those words. The whole thing was over within ten minutes and he stood mesmerized and unabashed, swathed in the beauty of embarrassment, detachment and belongingness.

Suns and moons passed away but that night resisted any physical change in his mind. They say beauty once realized loses its adjective. But the opposite happened as the bitter beauty of that night, the girl and her words never ceased to be beautiful for him.

The final attempt at love and possession was a failure.

Later he was informed by his father that La donna è mobile. He did not care and he could only preserve the beauty of failure with all its bitterness.

Afterword:

The reader might wonder out of sheer boredom that why was this fellow denied. To appease this curiousity at once, it may be informed that ugliness of this fellow was the only reason, however it is quite clear that love was denied to this fellow even before he met this woman or the other and these women or the other objects of the protagonist’s affection were mere agents to make him realise this fact from time to time. This final woman was just a ladder like ontology and therefore as the anatomy of the means are not important the woman is not important as is her reaction that night in the winters.

Inflating Virtues of Work is a Political Gimmick and your Parents are involved.

A few things one should not do in order to live a comfortable life. First is not to work hard else you might end up complaining chest pain. And a chest pain is not overtly comfortable.

Secondly, never think that getting ready-food back home after work, cooked by your mom or your wife is better alternative than eating meal on wheels. You might better afford buying food than living with a woman.

And above adventures I have already done. I am working and have got a mom back home. Two places I feel fucked up viz. home and office and these are the places where I go while I am conscious or awake.

Today I was feeling sick, so I decided not to visit the goddamn office. Happily I was listening music, lying on bed till ‘the mother’ came and told me that food, which I don’t practically want to eat at the wee hours, is ready. I told her "I am not going to the office today, it’s a no work situation". And man! She got angry. And here I am in office, unwilling, sick and full of angst.

‘Mothers are supposed to be divine sweet’ is a farce. And I am the beguiled kid of civilization with that notion.

Motivating the juvenile for work is Nationalist propaganda (remember ‘work is worship’ cliché). Parents are in the employment of the government and they are positioned as spies and ponces procuring cheap labour to the State. Leisure is precious for individuals and since whenever it occurs labour is hampered and hence the productivity, therefore national income and that is the reason the State is always whining about work.

Single Serving Acquaintances

It is all so crazy…….socializing.
You meet someone through someone at a Hard Rock Café, and voila! You are friends in the cyber space.
I made a lot of house-fly friends in that manner.

Cocooning!

My friends, all of them aspire to be future cool guys, all to get laid for the last. Some smoke pot and they deify that, others are sports-cool, some both, watching two alien football clubs fighting in the fields and then getting touchy about it, most of them don’t know shit about the game and they do not really even have a craving for that, all imposed taste, to be acceptable in the cool, their own social acceptability norm.

Natural selection in the pseudo-supra world!

Some appreciate art and culture of past especially which flourished in Europe and elsewhere, in a phony elite manner. Girls, they want to be either ladies as England once taught their servile predecessors or if they are not hot enough, the bohemian intellectual, talking boisterously about existentialism, the state, or as for as art is concerned cubism, the de stijl, minimalism; Boy! You talk about theatre Oh! Dada, the surrealists, the absurdists, don’t forget Bertolt Brecht’s (and Kurt Weill's) the Three penny Opera.

The Whores of Mensa! One dinner a throw.

Yeah! And there are beatniks too, drifters. Ask them any thing, mundane questions like “do you have ‘x’s phone number? I have to make a call to x” And the wannabe drifter answers that “I am somewhere in hills smoking a “J”,” while he is necessarily not doing so and even if he is, the interrogator doesn’t want to know details. But in cyber space a response like that means that this answer is not a particular answer of a specific question, rather the initial question becomes just a piece of induction to disseminate the boring and unwanted information to the larger populace sharing the common cyber space; your question is reduced to a pretext; just a fucking pretext.
Dude! Fuck you! Who is interested in knowing what the hell are you doing with whatever, wherever, when one only wants to know a little phone number.

Mercy! On the Road!

Then there are these girls. They might be very intelligent, rocking in studies, excelling everywhere in every class, armed with astronomical grades, getting the best fucking jobs in the biggest corporate, media or whatever, but Dude! They always are mesmerized by their boy friends, no matter how big a loser he is.
Boy! They are impressed.
One of my senior students, one of those Babas at my otherwise splendid alma matter (a provincial University, where sons of small peasants from the Indo Gangetic Plains come to become corrupt Civil Servants or something of that sort, if not the same) once told me that “Guru! Ladkiyan to paida huin hain impress hone ke liye.”. “Girls are born to be impressed of guys” is what he meant.
At that time I could not get him; I did not know many girls, unlike that Baba who was a great womanizer. Later that Baba became a Sales Tax Officer, though he never looked like one interested in Tax matters of the state.
Then, Hindi poet Raghuveer Sahay’s poems; I thought of the Baba’s statement and these poems as male chauvinist reactions. But in Delhi I came to realize those profound statements when I met, all mesmerized women of their sex-dolls.
Dude! After all their mental capabilities in cracking problems, photographic memories (that’s really helpful in Delhi University), straight forwardness towards academic matters; no compromise in studies (especially examinations) they were always looking forward to get laid and therefore being impressed with whatever piece of shit they are going to sleep with was a comfortable pretext.

Local anesthesia before a painful operation!

Now these potheads; smoking pot has been an ancient tradition in daily wage earners at construction sites, rickshaw pullers, dharma bums (not what Kerouac describes). Marijuana plant is an ordinary site in villages. Along the sugar cane fields of eastern U.P. these plants may be seen, forlorn and shabby in appearance. Except on the occasion of a Shiva Pooja, they are not considered important at all, gloomy shrub of no use from the standards of an average villager. Addicts, who are richer use alcohol or shoot Heroin.

But Dude! You should see an average pothead in Delhi University sans rickshaw pullers. They smoke worst quality weed, a total dog shit as a matter of fact, which will never give you a high unless you are pretentious enough. Some times it is not even weed, that’s some greenish soil mixed with some cheap shit medico-tranquilizer, used for operating small cysts up one’s ass or something.
And yeah! You roam around the North Campus of D.U. you will catch up a glance of wannabe Mary Pranksters (all ‘off the bus’ kids), though lacking a Ken Kesey while full of Mountain Girls and Cassadies and Dude! This country is not even waging a fucking war on some shitty country up there in the East Asia so why this self-imposed reaction.

Circumscribing a failed counterculture; no hip of any use!

And apart from the above observations of yours, one day you realize that the girl you adored is getting hooked up to a guy who is a hot-shot, unlike you. That she is getting married to this shithouse very soon. That she made you go ‘blush’ one summer night while you were confiding/convincing her about your deep, down your throat feelings. That she turned you down also on the basis of lack of manliness at that very moment of your confession. That she informed you about your being a timid piece of paranoid shit. That she made you also realize about your being an incestuous bastard. That she used the word ‘scope’ instead of ‘possibility’ to describe something about your being extraordinarily ambitious, as for as your thinking of her, as your girl was concerned.

Symptoms of terminal illness!

Zonked!

Zonked!..Ya zonked you are in the office. But you are not your elliptical counterparts at here and there. Detail and clear.
So what’s up? He says to the odd job workers. They are looking askance at him.
No reply, no salutation, cold hot white noise silence.
Red eyes blue nose, as if Neal Cassady he is in existence.
But he is not.

In the elevator this guy with his rusted iron hair slides the puzzle part of the news paper.
He is scrawling numbers all integers, the basic ones, in a space approximated by squares. They call it Sudoku. What shit! , withdrawal symptoms!

He is thinking about the big bored men at work places. Those rusted iron hair procrastinating their lives, monkey cap joggers, women after menopause in chartered carriers, those self help participations, all utility humanoids. He is going on a bondage with one of them slight highlander among the menopause women Mannn!! She is damn hot. Trigger off!

Today he has befooled a few one in the office and has exact a thousand and a half bucks. Enough of the consumer cards to swap up along little slits in a body, of iron, of flesh, of wood, even animal flesh but no those goddamn fleshes of non-dusks. Ex-ante-trigger set up!!

Oh these exclamation marks slit ‘dot’ ass hole; Underarms-texture of the slit opening shaved, tongue-clitoral hood, under lips- labia majoro/minora! The list continues.
You raise your arms to tie up a not, a tail, an itching on the scalp implies you are being continuously transformed into a porn-star spreading her little dark secret, while opening your mouth for a hilarious laugh you are being gang banged, while you lick a softy cream means you are almost practically on the shaft, further deep throat down, head, Yeah! Head..

Being zonked is being a closed system. They differ from person to person. This is your closed system.

Get out of here you will be easy!

he

When the search becomes over, he sits in rest, looks all around, finds no one worth spending time for (after his last potential effort back there at a school of pretentious animated characters who were prostituting themselves for money and whatever). His past is not important as is his future, carpe diem. He stalks women of whatever age, who has got …..

Even the slightest evidence of ‘its’ being desirable on grounds not known to him either, makes him erect, therefore pursuing.

Last minute he gets hand on this girl of dusk. She plays well, big stuff. Then she talks and talks after they have been through the regular humping. She tells lies in a serious fashion of ‘the histrionic’. He has no sympathy for her fate, which is her profession. She talks in a quantum mechanical manner; a polyglot out of volition; La Donna è mobile. He passes those acts of her in his silence; assembly line culmination of status quo of desires, here manifested as hot silence; the rough pretext to fuck her again. And he does that, ignoring her false protests. She complains pain and detests him. Then again she becomes the same fabulist she has usually been since their first after sex.

He pays no money to no one.

She takes no money either. She goes though the dealings of financial intermediaries gets the money, take a bath, not elaborate at all, goes back to fetch an anonymous (anonymity she prefers and needs; terms of trade) medium of conveyance and then vanishes.

He comes under the same spell of desire and rings her. She appears to be cheerfull with feelings of prospect and meets in front of his office at a pre-scheduled time, unanimously agreed upon. He passes regularly through the gallery full of paintings prepared by deranged kids of wherever. He greets her, she reciprocates in her uneducated manner which he shuns and squeezes her bottom, she shrugs back in fake market designed embarrassment of hers. Thereafter they involve themselves in the configured humpings at his apartment. Humpings however are boring and tiresome after some point of time to him but he knows that they are necessary siphon mechanisms meant for the sake of a priori comprehension of pleasure only. Accidentally he takes a lot of time in giving the final touch to his performing art, she complains of that with a silly causal chain starting from the pain-stuff. He does not care and continues , but then he gets bored and tired and therefore he goes back on her following the dominance rule (in industrial lingua it is rear entry), she refrains first out of the fear of getting buggered but after realization she smiles and co-operates. She later asks whether it is his favourite posture of expressing desire, he swings his head in affirmation while still one palm down in her groin; the members of the other palm holding a forlorn, out of context cigarette.

Exhausted he thinks of her as a person now that the limbs have overworked. She is a beauty, which is though “construct of culture”, (in his case) appears to be his judgement out of innate impulse; dusk, enchanting dusk, full breasted, which forces one to grope and quenches no thirst.

She borrowes from the punctured plane of linguistics when it comes to utter utterances, (her languages, as already mentioned are purely relative) but her comprehensions are linguistically full of infinite possibilities as she goes through infinite intimate languages of bodies of whosoever having purchasing power. She the proxy, for a sex-provider meeting the conformist criteria is comfortable in bed and in life sans the agony attached to the one holding a permanent position in ones life, he wonders.

She serves the purpose of one “unlovable” with Oscar winning performance.

His catharsis is complete by now.

@#$%^$#@

gagagagg

Meditation kills ergo Dance

Like pollen grains on water
Like a sunbeam crossing
Little wholes in the thatch roof,
Or the greedy anxious believer
Of chance over money
Stumbling, stuck, kicked
Exponential these moves uncanny

Classes, teaching metaphysics
Or those with the bent for analysis situs
Or when we run, run, run and run
When we play, when we laugh
And we go hip or dance
While we win when we toss
And we move on the train while this friend, just stand

In those heathen times
While we made love to our moms
Those uncouth bums only danced
To the tunes of their muse
And then night, in the dark
With those spears in their hands
That blood bath off the shore
While prevails all over this silence of the strand

But then the time passes as the truth
Not the water in a river
Come meta-humans of those books
And those kings and the queens
While the well-fed thinker thinks
It’s not done, why a father of the father?
When even we don’t need a father
He proposes only beauty
And forgets the substance

Beauty kills, creates the hunger
So you heathen! You think,
You might go any longer
But you are myopic, you so called seer
Cause you are not informed
That Euclid is dead, huh!
You still live in that world-former
But any way so was Marx
Alas! Oh! Bakunin
You were not much of a talker