Disquieted and quietened we stand, the pair of us at the brink of the Internet, conjoined and disjointed at the splice of consciousness and a unique resource locator. Beguiled enough to have waited for ages, we have figured it’s time to unwait for Godot.
For many months now, I have woven ghazals out of the cobwebs clinging to the atria and ventricals of my mesolithic bosom. For many months then, I have hoped it will pass for signs of being alive and in company of a sensate soul. It has been part of the waiting game nevertheless, this masquerade of writing weblogs, and the mirage of grandeur in a non-existent horizon.
Universe churns and swells, pulled in and apart by matters dark and darkness that matters. It is said the visible light is but a shadow of the fathomless blackness of the unknown beyond. It is believed the hypersonic ambitions of generals will hit us before we can even spell ‘missile’. There is a one in a zillion chance that life as we know it exists elsewhere. And there is a one in a zillion chance that these barbarians will let life as we know it exist anywhere. Such is the smallness of our gravity. Such is the gravity of our insignificance.
The state has taken the skin off the paltry backside of the middle class to cobble shoes for legions of poor. Who was it that said only the wearer knows where the shoes pinches, for these shoes will return to pinch the exposed flesh of the onetime masters of the tissues, such is the scourge of the have-nots. And such is the naked lust of the mafia, aka politicians, that they will reward even plague and pestilence if they could plod to a polling booth. Sedulous, sensible creatures are expendables of an entrenched democracy.
Having interacted with three generations of my family at some point or other, I am inclined to believe the progression from a bicycle to the aisle of an aeroplane is a protracted process. My predecessors were ever willing to rake the farm and tend to the cattle under baking suns and bone-chilling nights while the women laboured at hand-pulled millstones so that the bread could be served to the family. My father rose through the ranks in railways and slogged in its trains and offices. Perhaps, I may be forgiven for the belief that no poor was harmed in the process.
It is inherent in the opera of destiny to be not musical to all. But riches don’t tumble upon a man overnight in a cloudburst of sorts. If the poor can’t rise over the heap of deprivation, lack of infrastructure and employment are the linchpins of that glass ceiling. Poverty and procreation are inseparable twins that feed and perpetuate the vicious circle. The solution lies in addressing the phenomenon rather than offering stepladders of doles. However, a burgeoning headcount is a blessing to the ravenous politician, and the lure to seduce the vote banks with freebies is proving to irresistible to most.
A natural corollary then is a bazaar of free lunches where hard work is the highest priced dish. Quaintly, you will still come across folks to whom hard work is the rule rather than option, and these very people have become the impure elements of the society who must be purged with excoriating cesses and levies. It is a thinly disguised Cultural Revolution with similar ulterior motives. Methodical murder of talent and intelligence has relegated us to the base of developmental totem pole for which there will be an unbearable price to pay.
You wonder where is this unceremonious rant leading me and my gramophone to? I wish I could depose in a coherent manner but I and these chronicles seem to be falling apart. So instead of loitering and waiting for a miracle to happen, I will wander off with nary a frown on my forehead:
The year’s at the beginning,
And night’s at the rise;
The clock is in mid-strike;
The notebook is in flight;
The keyboard is pearly-eyed;
Forget the gnarly old tree;
The Blog is at its URL—
All’s right with the readers.
(With apologies to Robert Browning, and my patrons)
Image Credit: Miti