A Watery Grave

Primordial soup to primordial soup

An unexpected feast

http://youtu.be/FFez0ggbBU0

Dust to Dust

.... and the twain shall meet

Seen on Mathura-Pilibhit Highway

The Cry of Gaia

When the last tree is cut, 
The last fish is caught, 
And the last river is polluted; 
When to breathe the air is sickening, 
You will realize, 
Too late, 
That wealth is not in bank accounts and that you can't eat money. 

-Alanis Obomsawin

A good book should leave you... slightly exhausted at the end. 
You live several lives while reading it.

- William Styron

I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library.  

- Jorge Luis Borges

 

Sardonic Springer Spaniel Scratching on Speckled Surface Superciliously

New Calf

लड्ड़ू  सिंह

Independence Day 15 Aug 2014

Mystery of the Invisible PMs

What is it with Indian politicos that they vanish into an invisible realm once they become Prime Ministers of India? 

Man Mohan Singh was infamous for his rectitude – an expressionless, vocally challenged wall-flower, tasked with the onerous job of leading 1.2 billion humans. 

Now, after being subjected to Modi’s bearded visage on TV haranguing and cajoling voters to give his government a chance, we find that he too has become as elusive as the Higg’s Boson. After saturating the airwaves with his gesticulating while crisscrossing the country and surviving on just kahkra he has withdrawn into a shell, perhaps to rest and recoup. Is he reveling in the hedonistic and hi-tech luxury of BMW 7 Series 760 Li after the Spartan discomfort of indigenously manufacture Scorpios? Or is 7 RCR an autochthonous event horizon in a black-hole from where one never emerges after entering?

 

As your fan Modiji, let me remind you that we want to see and hear our leader. You may have mesmerized the Nepali Parliament, but we too want to hear your inspiring words and see you in action once again.

Mummified

Ugly fellow, but Mama's pet

Annual Tyranny

Every year, just as we are plagued by seasonal disease like dengue, encephalitis or bird/swine flu, there is the increasing menace of kanwarias every rainy season. Of course, this is restricted to the ‘hallowed’ cow-belt of North India.

This ritual of collecting water from the Ganges and anointing a शिवलिंग  used to be a personal article of faith – a paying of obeisance to the memory of one’s forefathers (strangely the ‘foremothers’ were ignored). It used to be simple affair even in the nineties – the equipment consisted of a simple bamboo stick, suspended from which on either end were two small pots of water from the Ganges. These have now evolved into weird elaborate structures that resemble the ताज़िआ  of Shias during मुहर्रम।

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Those devout persons of yore could be seen in isolation trudging quietly along the roads without any fuss and not interfering with the local populace.

The devout have been replaced by louts.

The whole process has now been institutionalized. Marauding gangs of saffron clad goons shout, yell and dance on the highways brandishing hockey-sticks or dandas obstructing traffic and threatening everyone who has the temerity to just carry on his or her business. They are a law unto themselves governed by a mob mentality with destructive propensities.

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Locals along the kanwaria route, armed with a misplaced sense of piety, bend over backwards to accommodate these ‘holy warriors’ by setting up camps and, in the process, encroaching on public space and roads. From these लंगर emanates an effluvium of rotting food, sweaty bodies infested with fungal infections, urine and excreta. Besides this mephitic miasma assaulting the olfactory senses, there is the additional auditory insult of loudspeakers belting out ear-splitting raucous parodies of Bollywood songs parading as भजन. Night and day this vulgar assault continues disrupting the lives of everyone.

Just as internet speeds are increasing, this kanwaria business has now been abridged to a gimmick called the dak kanwar. This religion at broadband speeds consists of a relay of runners accompanied by a township on wheels. The whole noisy and chaotic affair mercifully ends relatively quickly.

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 Whether Modi succeeds in setting up dedicated frrieght corridors, dedicated kanwaria corridors have come to stay.

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly

The Spider and the Fly

 “Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
  The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,
   And I've a many curious things to shew when you are there.”
“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,
 For who goes up your winding stair
     -can ne'er come down again.”
“I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
 Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,
 And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!”
“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly,  “for I've often heard it said,
 They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!”
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly,  “Dear friend what can I do,
 To prove the warm affection I 've always felt for you?
  I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice;
   I'm sure you're very welcome — will you please to take a slice?”
“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly,  “kind Sir, that cannot be,
 I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!”

“Sweet creature!” said the Spider,  “you're witty and you're wise,
 How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
  I've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf,
   If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”
“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said,  “for what you 're pleased to say,
 And bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day.”

The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly.
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
 Your robes are green and purple — there's a crest upon your head;
  Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!”
Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly,
Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue —
Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish thing!
     At last,
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlour — but she ne'er came out again!

And now dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words, I pray you ne'er give heed:
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and the Fly.

~By Mart Howitt, 1829