- Kolkata, West Bengal, India
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Thursday, 17 November 2011
[A chameleon changes colours. A mirror reflects what’s true. A somnambulist is one who walks in sleep. A monologue is one person speaking. Now what if the great Yaksha from the ‘Mahabharata’, himself walks and speaks in slumber, while changing colours from hour to hour, and metamorphosing into many a mirrors, laying bare all the lies, truths and semi-truths of civilization as different entities of different epochs! How is it when that mirror-turned Yaksha, mirrors himself as the candid witness of the history of human race? Perhaps a delirium amalgamating the rancorous vignettes of several nefarious alter egos of a paradoxalist — in absolute timelessness, through plurality of Time’s voice, allowing contradictions to emerge within the entire somnambulilogue.]
Standing in the lake on one leg,
As a crane living on tiny fish.
Conscious inertia is better!
Men cannot see the mirror when sleeping,
For they begged from God the luxury of dreaming;
After all, a man’s thought is his nostalgia.
It’s midnight now,
Street-dogs are barking at the government.
Yes, I am waiting for my friend,
The wise Yudhishthira.
I cannot give him back …
His dead brothers,
His lost kingdom,
His marooned life;
It’s a lone lone hour now,
There’s no one left to curse,
The world, unfortunately, is real.
Krishna-Dwaipayana has long forsaken his pen.
No one alive anymore to write in-between-the-lines!
No one to write at degree zero!
Take the only sperm that’s left,
And plant it up in the hole in your culture.
Give me back the November Revolution,
Give me back 14th July and 15th August,
And give me back the Language Martyrs’ Day.
Come and question me when I’m dead.
Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?
I’ll not dare to question you then,
For my bloody questions are my abandoned answers.
You know quite well I’m dead.
Thanks to my parents.
They never taught me how to father my kids,
Nor how to husband my wife.
I’ll never forget our first kiss.
That night the blind man dreamt that he was blind.
No matter if you now hate me,
I’m always as young as I was when you first hugged me.
Thanks for not marrying me, sweetheart!
Or else I would have grown old.
Hell is of this world ― Kurukhsetra, the Ground Zero!
And there are men,
The Pandavas … the Kauravas … the Yadavas …
Who are unhappy escapees from hell;
Escapees destined eternally
To reenact their escape.
When everyone lies in heaven,
Never trust the sane,
No matter whether it’s the Dwapara,
Or the two-thousand-eleven;
Once more let us plague tomorrow with a new testament,
Once more a noose in hell,
Alas, once more a suicidal game.
 cf. Fyodor Dostoevsky’s ‘Notes from Underground’ (Part-I : Underground; xi)
 cf. Albert Camus’s ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’ (Philosophical Suicide)
 cf. Vladimir Mayakovsky’s ‘The Way I Became A Dog’
 cf. Jorge Luis Borges’s pamphlet-thesis ‘A New Refutation of Time’ (culminating sentence)
 This term ‘le degré zéro de l’écriture’ (the degree zero of writing) was used by Roland Barthes to define a style of writing that offers itself as an absence of style, and to distinguish it from the usual tendency of literary writing, which is to offer the style as the constitutive quality that changes the words on the page from being mere chunks of language into literature. Where the usual tendency is to filter the events described through a preconceived network of cultural, moral and intellectual references, writing at ‘zero degree’ would achieve a kind of transparency of language enabling the ideas and events to stand alone, without added comment or meaning.
 cf. Leonard Cohen’s ‘The Future’
 cf. Kahlil Gibran’s ‘The Prophet’ (I; 30)
 cf. Jean-Paul Sartre’s ‘No Exit’ (Inez’s penultimate comment in the final scene)
 cf. José Saramago’s ‘Blindness’
 cf. Antonin Artaud’s ‘General Security : The Liquidation of Opium’
 cf. Ezra Pound’s ‘Ripostes of Ezra Pound’ (Silent)