Necro poetry

She gently sways with the ebb and flow, 

Of a naughty draught of air.

Her toes gliding woefully close to the floor,

Her grotesque Kali tongue licking the strands of her hair.

I hold her legs and hoist her up, daintily

Freeing her weight from that murderess, gravity.

As her muscles relax from postmortem stress

She lets loose some flatulence right in my face.

The gentle purr, a sign of life,

The inelegant smell of residual vitality

Leaves her in my gentle embrace

And I am almost swooned by this lovely disgrace.

I lay her down on a bare white sheet,

Massaging her limbs out of rigor mortis.

I am tempted by her protruding tongue, blue from strain, 

To hold her, kiss her, lose my restraint.

I blacken her fingertips to record her prints

Forcibly holding each finger like a kid's.

She resists, in death, as if still around

Her face transfixed in a resolute frown.

I notice, up close, the hair in her nostril

Her moles, her folds, unguarded and still.

I pull back her pants with a jerk, as far back I wish

To reveal the growth of a flourishing bush.

Unthinking, unmindful, I pull down her undies,

And lick her thick, inglorious shrubberies.

If she were alive, she'd moan in ecstasy,

In death, she is far better at ease.

Later, at the morgue, I shave her legs, her ass, her face.

After stuffing her chest with a cotton duress.

I lick her wet and kiss her dry,

As I dress her before being burnt sky high.

Like a doll, she lets her saggy breasts,

Be reined in by my choice of vests,

I sew her mouth shut in a permanent smirk

Not before filling it to brim with my sweet cum.

Her skin heaves and falls at my tools' command.

I slip into her feet the highest heels in demand.

In her final dress, she looks elegant beyond belief,

I celebrate her dead beauty before it is defiled by grief.

Jab Harry Met Sejal movie review

Worst film ever made.

Jagga Jasoos' references

Hidden somewhere in the spit-fire lyrics of a song montage from Jagga Jasoos is what I think is a clever self-reference. 

Jagga's adoptive father encases a full year's memories in a single VHS tape he sends him annually. Sometimes he sends him life lessons, other times he is busy explaining the difference between an off-spin from an on-spin ball. In one such message, we hear him drop the following words of wisdom: 'chor ki chori jab tak pakdi na jaaye, tab tak wo artist.' ('as long as a thief's thievery isn't caught, they are an artist'.)

I think Basu is subtly referencing the controversy around the originality of his own work here. His previous film, 'Barfi', had entire sequences lifted exactly from their source materials, which range from the 2004 Hollywood drama 'The Notebook', to some of the most iconic stunts of Charles Chaplin and Buster Keaton. Of course, Basu vehemently defended himself by choosing to call it an 'homage' more than anything else. 

Once again, with Jagga Jasoos, many similarities have been drawn with the comic book adventures of Herge's young Belgian 'whippersnapper', Tintin - all of which Basu has roundly rejected. After having seen the film twice, I do feel it bears a great resemblance to the Tintin comic books, both in tone and plot. The beats and gags are also greatly similar at times. In fact, the emotional bedrock of the characters of both Jagga and Tintin is the same: finding a long-lost relative. 

Herge's personal favorite Tintin adventure was 'Tintin in Tibet', in which the young investigative reporter appears to have lost an old friend in a plane crash. He embarks on a deeply personal journey to rescue him from the snowy peaks of Tibet, the crash-site, based on a dream that convinces him he is alive. Jagga has similar motivations and beliefs as Tintin in the comic book. 

Moreover, both their globe-trotting adventures bear a great degree of sameness. Both rely on a hell of a lot of luck. Both work with fumbling, faltering side-kicks. Both take place in faraway lands with made-up names. Both have the same fucking haircut. There's a scene in Jagga Jasoos where he steals an airplane and learns to fly it on the fly (pun intended!); this is the same trick Tintin applies in The Black Island. I am sure I can pick out at least half a dozen more similarities, but that is not the point here.

The point I am making is that Anurag Basu takes a much greater inspiration from a completely different source altogether. This is neither a stylistic nor a tonal inspiration, but an even greater, spiritual one. The film keeps talking about 'the red circle', one in which people who are destined to meet must end up together at one point or the other. This quote is attributed to Gautam Buddha by Jagga as he explains the theory to an unimpressed Katrina. 

In reality, there exists no such quote by Buddha. The saying was instead coined by Jean-Pierre Melville, one of my favorite filmmakers of all time. For the benefit of those who do not know, Melville re-defined the Gangster film, the Heist film and the Neo-noir genre in the 70s, making just over a dozen films in his short career. He is considered a major influence on the stalwarts of the French New Wave. Look him up if you have not. 

In the year 1970, he made one of his three major masterpieces, a film titled, 'Le Cercle Rouge'. This translates to 'The Red Circle'. It opens with the following quote, attributed to the Buddha:

A still from 'Le Cerle Rouge' (1970)

"When men, even unknowingly, are to meet one day, whatever may befall each, whatever the diverging paths, on the said day, they will inevitably come together in the red circle."

The thing with Melville was that he liked fucking with form. He made an almost-silent gangster film when the genre was known to be loquacious. He almost single-handedly defined the concept of a 'code' among gangsters and between criminals and cops, wherein both respect each other for their respective jobs. They live and die by these rules as honorable men (rarely women, unfortunately). This would go on to inspire Tarantino in some of his best films: Kill Bill, Resevoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown, etc. Melville even fucking gave himself the suffix 'Melville' because Melville was his favorite author. Also because he could, that's why. 

Anurag Basu borrows the concept of the red circle from Melville, something I don't see a lot of critics talking about, let alone the audience. In fact, I find it hard to believe that Basu did not know the line was not spoken actually by Buddha at all. I think he really meant it as an homage to Melville, by keeping the fiction around the quotation alive.

Which brings me back to the line that started it all:

'As long as a thief's thievery isn't caught, they are an artist'.

With this single line from the film, I have a feeling Basu is being that cheeky kid who thumbs her nose at the substitute teacher in school. He is challenging critics to find all the references in his films. Or maybe he is mocking himself. Or maybe he is passing a secret note to the Melville fans in the audience. 

That, or maybe I'm overthinking. 

PS: I absolutely love the film, which is why I saw it twice. I feel it is a fiercely original piece of work despite its very many influences, because of the way it weaves them into a tapestry that is unique from all of its parts. Please go invest time and watch it! 

From dust till dust: a love poem

We see the same lights,

The same sun, the same stars.

A million shadows from the ancient past,

The reflection of everything, alive or dead.

Stardust are we, and to stars we will return,

After suffering together on this pale blue dot.

A spec of a spec of a spec in time,

Two minuscule drops in an ocean, sublime.

We float around and swim about

Without will, without tact

Attracted by ethereal bonds,

Until we come to die.

In this dying light of day,

I long for the touch of your lips.

Tired, paining, suffering bodies,

Yearn to unite for once.

While searching for meaning in faraway lands,

We forget that death does not end life.

It took us a lifetime to realize,

Non-existence is what bookends life.

As they take away your mortal shell,

Away from me, forever to be;

My very being shatters and breaks,

For one glimpse of you among the stars.

I know you’re now a cosmic entity,

Unconscious, un-living particulate matter.

I still remember looking up at the stars with you,

Until you became one and I can only wait.

Maybe a million years hence will an atom of me,

meet one of yours in the blankness of space.

Maybe a flash of recognition, or maybe not,

Will come upon what is left of the two of us. 

Anvi's protraits

Went on an overnight trip with my friend from college. Took a few experimental photos of her on my mobile phone (Moto G4). 

[Update: All photo editing has been done on my phone. No photoshop, simple CC.]

Here are a few, in pretentious monochrome: 

For a change

Corporal shell

A minor annoyance

Battle hardened

Don't look now

Hmm?

Every time I said I love you

[Writing prompt given by my friend, Aditi:

Every time you said 'I love you', and what you meant when you said it - in chronological order.]

The first time I said I love you was out of convention. It was cool to seal it with a kiss and those three magical words. Magical, not so much; but they got you in my pants, so to hell all else.

The second, third, fourth and fifth time I repeated those words, it was fashionable. It was to show we were ‘it’. I spoke it just loud enough so your friends could hear, and just low enough so my parents wouldn’t.

The next hundred thousand times I repeated those words was out of habit. Out of the fear of breaking routine. Out of competition, to defeat you at the game of saying ‘I love you’, as if to say my love is greater than yours. Almost a matter of correct punctuation.

I didn’t know it then, but the hundred thousand and sixth time I said ‘I love you’, I meant it. On a lonely night when you were shattered and I held you in my arms, alone, not out of lust but support; not out of habit, but want; not out of convention, but desire. I said it because I absolutely, balls-out, from the bottom of my fucking heart, lungs and kidneys loved you to hell and beyond, more than any other living being in the world. 

The last time I said I love you was a whisper into void. I hoped you were listening, but knew you were not. And that was the end of it. 

My idea of appreciating art by criminals - in 3 points

1. If a criminal makes good art, their talent is in now way lessened. The art-piece should be appreciated nonetheless (as in the case of Chinatown, The Triumph of the Will, Annie Hall, Last Tango in Paris and Bajrangi Bhaijaan).

2. The piece of art must not earn benefits for the artist, a criminal, unless they have served their punishment in full. Go ahead and download Annie Hall illegally if you are convinced by the allegation leveled against its creator. Don't watch Bajrangi Bhaijaan in theaters if you are convinced of its lead actor's guilt. Watch Chinatown on fmovies. 

3. The greatness of the work of art should not lessen the punishment meted out to the artist, a criminal.

In the words of Arnold Schwarzenegger, "I think that (Polanski) is a very respected person and I am a big admirer of his work. But, nevertheless, I think he should be treated like everyone else."

कल

डर कब लगता है?
जब कुछ खोने को हो।

कल मैं उससे एक साल बाद मिल रहा हूँ .
हम पिछले साल मिले थे।
सुनने में अच्छा लगता है, परी-कथा जैसी.
काश आम-कथा होती।

आज और कल के अंतराल में
ऐसा लगता है एक अर्सा झूल रहा है।
कल मैं कोई और होऊंगा, आज कुछ और।
अंत समीप आते देख, डर लग रहा है।

मुझे मृत्यु का भय है।
शायद भय से ज़्यादा शर्म।
मेरे मन में मौत सबसे बड़ी विडम्बना है:
एक पल आप पूर्ण रूपेण जीवित हो, और अगले ही पल पूर्ण रूपेण मृत।

इसलिए मैं कभी तैयारी के बिना नहीं मारना पसंद करूँगा।
मतलब महाशय घर से निकले थे ज़िन्दगी भर के ख्वाब ले कर,
पर बीच रास्ते अचानक मौत हो गयी।
आम तौर पर मैं अपनी मौत स्वीकार कर हर दिन जीता हूँ।

पर कल अपनी मौत के लिए मैं तैयार नहीं हूँ।
सोचते हुए शर्म आती है कि यदि अगले क्षण मैं मर गया, तो लोग अख़बार में headline पढ़ के कहेंगे,
'बेचारे ने मौत के ऊपर blog लिखा और मर गया'.

कल जैसे दिनों के लिए मैं जीता हूँ।

मेरी बाई मुझसे क्या कहना चाहती होगी

NOTE: This is fictional.

पिछले कई दिनों से मेरे घर में काम करने वाली बाई नहीं आई।
काफी दिन उसकी राह ताकी, अंततः सोचा कुछ मुश्किल decisions लेने ही पड़ेंगे।
अगली बार जब वह आई, तो मैंने उसको नौकरी से निकाल दिया।

रविवार का दिन था, मैं ठीक से नींद से उठा भी न था।

पिछली रात से सोई मेरी गर्लफ्रेंड भी मेरे सिरहाने हलके खर्राटे ले रही थी।
मेरी बाई की आँखों में आंसू थे, काम से निकाले जाने का खूब सारा उमड़ता दर्द, और शायद थोड़ी शर्मिंदगी...
पर क्या उसकी आँखों में मैंने कुछ और देखा? हाँ शायद...

वह कोस रही थी मुझे, और हर उस चीज़ को जिसका मैं प्रतीक हूँ।

'अविवाहिक ही किसी बाप की बेटी को घर ले आए?'
'आज तक जितनी गन्दगी तेरे नर्म बिस्तर के नीचे झुक के घुटनो के बल निकाली, उसका हिसाब भूल गए?'
'बिना 30 day notice के काम से कौन निकालता है'?

'साले तुम सो कैसे सकते हो सुबह साढ़े ग्यारह बजे तक'?

'खुद से निचलों के चेहरे पे यह एक तमाचा नहीं?
अम्बानी-बिर्ला की उत्श्रंखलताओं पर तो खूब विरोध व्यक्त करते रहते हो,
खुद का दोगलापन दिखता नहीं?

तुम गांजा-सिगरेट का कचड़ा ज़मीन पर ऐसी अदब से फैलाते हो, मानो मैं तुम्हारी बाई नहीं, दासी हूँ!

पैसे की मेरी मजबूरी का फायदा उठा के मेरी एक-एक दिन की छुट्टी का हिसाब रखते हो!
साले गरीबों की बस्ती में आ के ही क्यों तुम्हारे अंदर का तर्राट bargainer जाग उठता है?
सुपरमार्केट में जा के क्यों नहीं पाई-पाई का हिसाब मांगते?

कमीने, तुझे पता भी है मेरे घर में क्या चल रहा है?
एक पति है, नालायक, जिस से न दिन रहते काम होता है ना रात।
माँ बाप हैं जो अपना पराया धन बेच आए किसी अंजान मर्द को।
और एक है तू, जो हमेशा अपने आलिशान महल में इस सब से अंजान सोता रहता है।

अब तुम कहोगे कि तुम बहुत मेहनती हो, काम के पक्के पाबन्द हो।
दिन भर अपनी कुर्सी पर बैठ के अंग्रेजी के बड़े-बड़े शब्द type करते हो।
नौ से पांच पूरी लगन से काम करके तुम यह अपेक्षा करते हो कि सब तुम्हारे जैसे ही कर्मठ हों।
और कभी कभार कविता की भावनाओं में बह कर कुछ पंक्तियाँ समाज के दबे कुचलों पर भी समर्पित करते हो।

बहुत बहुत धन्यवाद कि तुमने मेरे बारे में इतना सोचा।
पर थोड़ा और सोचते तो पाते कि मुझमें और तुम मे फर्क सिर्फ तबके और अमीरीयत का है।
गौर करने की बात है कि यदि मेरा जन्म तुम्हारे घर और तुम्हारा मेरे घर में होता,
तो क्या आज मैं यह कविता लिख रही होती और क्या तुम रो रहे होते?'

इतना कुछ अपनी आँखों से कहकर वह घर से और मेरे सुस्त Sunday से चली गई।
मैंने आँखे मलीं, मुह धोया और वापस अपनी गर्लफ्रेंड की बाहों में लिपट के सो गया,
Sunday morning वाले खूबसूरत सपने देखने।
सपने सच्चाई को सहनीय बना देते हैं, मैंने खर्राटे लेते हुए सोचा और नींद में मुस्कुराया।