conversations

She moves her hands from the table

He looks into the swirls of coffee and taunts it with his myriad tricks

The subdued sun has just crept in, blurring the mighty origins of expressions

She fingers the lattice work; white and pristine

He looks at the chattering glances spread across the tapestry

The unctuous smiles, exaggerated compromises, laced noise he hears from far and wide

Forms gesturing meek myths

Whose identity they are borne?

She seeks imperfect habits

Her eyelashes lifted by surpassing sight

She examines and judges his contours

He is ruffled and distorted in the spring

The machines are right set in comforts of acceptance; didactic and mundane

Air meanders by their semblance

He has a lush of questions without any inform of brevity

He finds breakthrough in every little and simple chasm

Humdrum of fluid words are on wane

An empty rattle on streets of scant in night

There is little she explains, there is lack of selfsame

She doesn’t believe in checks and balances

She now glances back and forth

In course there is static juncture of gaze

Chances fatigued, outgrown reticence

He has a wonder wit to make bubbles burst

He taps his feet

She realizes he is bare; no tampering and fiddling

Still the words don’t meddle; she declines

Is he apt? Is he denying the stalemate?

Lackluster may find a culmination of preserve

Exchange of human bear through the door connotes the flimsy

The man next table breaks his fist into the wood and the girl illuminates with a chuckle

A forlorn woman behind him entrusting herself with a sip of wine

A fluttering handkerchief hanging from the banister

Whose notes are rendering tonight with applaud of virtue?

She has a niche in mine of his mind; own and nascent

She hides her vagaries of weak acknowledgments

She sullies her ability to love

She had maimed her methods of buying

She wishes to borrow like the moon

Plagued with rival rage;of meshed vices

Splinters of glint upon faces

The rumbling factory-churn on empty roads

Number thins around and beside

He bestows a word on her “yearn of this needn’t slope down, wish of us needn’t stray’

an ode to martin scorsese

Martin Scorsese makes man a phenomenon in his cinematic ruptures. The main idea is to locate a man in undignified, uncouth situations. it is the not-so-virtual potrayal.It is his endearing habit to let the actions of his characters dictate the narrative through aggression, hard-bitten feats, pugnacity and ruthlessness. Such acts constitute the heart and soul of Scorsese lineage. On other hand he would never deny the fragility residing in every man. We find copious of it in the fleeting frames. His creative manifestations are heavily reliant on the man who won’t just listen to his mother and his wife and better be the rainbow of his indiscretions. He just renders others defunct through escapades. More emphatically he never makes foray into truth. Not being a fixture truth brings dilemma to his character and steady indecisiveness. He can displace his antecedents with ease and no qualms. In the end he dilutes the stigmatic man into an infirm, indissolubly cathartic, dependant and yielding character.

Taxi driver

  Travis bickle - a recluse who veers through streets in the night. The reflection of Travis Bickle in the rearview mirror and the depiction of american streets during night is a spectacle of rare magnificence in its own right. The only movie(In my opinion) which has demonstrated equivalent allusions was Jafar Panahi’s ‘the mirror’ where camera scours the streets of Iran personifying the city through momentary insights into common man’s conversations, political discussions, family plight. Travis doesn’t wish to be a part of the entire scurry and is merely portrayed as being empathetic with the helplessness and compulsions of prostitutes. There is nothing to suggest, even a sliver by his motion and countenance that he desires to be in the same despotic position wielding indiscriminate choices. The rearview mirror captures the strength of those moments when he drives past the streets lined with the soliciting prostitutes. In simplistic parlance the rearview mirror does the talking. His conversations with himself and the rearview mirror depiction of his frigid face profusely personify his alienation in the wake of Vietnam war and persisting insulation. What is even more impelling is the way Scorsese chisels the character through four disparate stages- Travis as an eccentric lover, him as so  naïve a person as not to understand the underbelly of politics(what is the one thing about this country that bugs you the most?

‘I don't know. I don't follow political issues that closely.

There must be something.

Well, whatever it is, he should clean up this city here...

because this city is like an open sewer, it's full of filth and scum.

Sometimes I can hardly take it.

Whoever becomes the president should just...

really clean it up, know what I mean?

Sometimes I go out and I smell it. I get headaches, it's so bad.

It's like-- They never go away.

It's like the president should clean up this whole mess here.

He should flush it down the fucking toilet.

Well, I think I know what you mean, Travis.’

), him as an elusive revenge-seeking person, him as a unstinting crusader and a reckless reformer(‘someday rain will come and wash this scum off the streets’). Yes at the end we fail to decipher or we simply don’t wish to tinker much with the underlying motives and his perceptions. He makes me utter at the culmination ‘ a mirage, a firefly that flickers too much, a discretion that knows no fetters’.

Raging bull

When I foisted on the sofa for watching ‘raging bull’ I being convinced by the title and thought it would redress the same streaks of a man. There was an assemblage of few words in my mind –‘ aggressive’, ‘impetuous’, ‘undaunted’, ‘irrepressible’ and ‘unpredictable’. And there was the fiery man, a pugilist, wrenching the scenes and wreaking havoc in family life. There were cuss words galore. Who better reels it of better than Robert de Niro. He makes unthrifty employment of such words. Sometimes I feel if he could just be made the progenitor of cuss word. No other person on earth can utter the word with such inflammable propriety as him. He seems to have elevated the word to a monstrous level. it is a rare verbal design with him enjoying the indefensible copyrights. He crowns it with an easy glory. Here surprisingly the character doesn’t traverse many terrains. It experiences a great leap from being a menacingly aggressive man defined by boundless rage, wrath and recklessness to an emotionally staggering, childishly submissive and refuge seeking man

‘why are you so angry?

Be friends. You're my brother.- Your brother?

- Yeah, you bum.

Give me a break.

Kiss me. Come on.

- Let me call my wife and kids.

- You gonna forgive and forget?

It's a long time ago. Forget it.Come on.

You're my brother. Come on.

Give me a kiss.- How's everything?

- Good.

Everything all right?

Your family? Come here.

Come on, don't do this here.

We'll get together soon.

- Call me?-

I will.

- Don't forget.

- I'll call you.

All right....legitimately, and nobody can

take that away from me. Nobody.Some people aren't that lucky.like the one Brando playin "On the Waterfront,"

It wasn't him, Charlie.

It was you.You reach a peak,

then it's downhill.

It was you, Charlie.

You was my brother.

You should've looked out

for me just a little bit.

You should've

taken care of me...

instead of making me take dives

for short-end money.

You don't understand.

I could've had class.

I could've been a contender.

I could've been somebody instead of a bum.Let's face it.

Scorsese pits one extreme against another extreme tearing a character beyond our comprehension. He isn’t too comfortable with the idea of allowing a consequence flowing from one streak of the character. He borrows the contradictions obliviously keeping it unarmed by any definite conforming consequence and shielded by our varying reciprocating systems. We don’t make a hero out of him. There is nothing to eulogize, nothing to envy, nothing to rave about, nothing to emulate and nothing too delusional. And in the end when we ask ourselves ‘is or can he be remorse-smitten’ and Scorsese retorts ‘I'm the boss. I'm the boss.’(RAGING BULL)

whose witty...life or death..!!

Associating death with unfair intervention of god irks me quite often. Our body does not necessarily be perennially firm outwitting the irrepressible germs. Death is both an embodiment and disembodiment by itself. It depends on the way we wish to look at it. If you allow a persistent fear about death’s disembodiment to inhabit you the chances are that you make the entire life a disembodiment in all measures. The flagrant concept or rather notional delusion of Immortality is nurtured by those who fail to decipher the difference between the embodiment of life and disembodiment resulting from the sudden expulsion of life.it is a way to realise the wish to exercise power perpetually without any opposition. This is something rather we can put in the nomenclature of ‘delusion of grandeur’

I understand that embodiment is a variable and we better let it breathe through the mischief of different perspectives. It can be an unending glory to find the peculiar features of the ‘embodiment’. It can be the food we like to eat, the authors we extol, the frail beauty we capture in our mindscape, the dance styles that enthrall us, the wilderness that beguile us, the colour of impelling conversations, a mien, a pucker, a facial contour, designs of facial threads, the music that help morph us into better and rare insights. The more we push our foot ahead, regardless the agility factor, we unravel to ourselves the potpourri of embodiment. We must not weave the confines of embodiment as to do so will make the entire phenomenon parochial. it has great power of permeability which is further intensified by our need of interdependence and the ritual of kinship. In the pursuit of embodiment we embrace if not all and sundry but the immediate beneficiaries of our existence and vice versa. It would prove our lack of perspicaciousness if we make this grand omission of excluding them in our ‘embodiment array’. This is but denial of self vision. Hence we ought to include our family, friends and other ‘immediate’ and ‘less immediate beneficiaries’. There is no utter necessity to assert that every little thing we do or the ways we conduct with our beloved ones occupy a major place in the embodiment array. Every incident of triumph, glory, success sow its satisfying place in it alongside the traces of oddities, despondency and gory ones. Thus we see the live that lies ahead is much more multifarious and full of beams of disparate colours. It is selfish on our part to take a stroll ignoring the vastness of what we have today.

Death and renewal of life in public consiousness

To say that death dissolves a life into oblivion and make a prior existence a small mark rendering it non-existential is true in majority of the cases. Somehow I feel that this truth is open to threat for its vulnerability. In cases of persons whose lives are celebrated in pomp and glory and the scandals are treated with equal honour and sincerity we can’t disbelief the fact that post death such persons acquire a life which becomes endearing to the rumour-mongers. They are the epicenter of intense debate and deliberations. There are some extreme cases of Jim Morrison, Marilyn Monroe, john Lennon, lady Diana,Kurt cobain Netaji subhash Chandra and lately M.F Hussain . The rise and ebb of controversies gave them a new lease of live. But we in the same breathe can’t deny their popularity in their heaving moments when their names would have spread a flare among the fans.

In some manner death of artists or person of eminence create another life replete with manifold interpretations and interventions of the public. It is a larger frame and gets bigger with time because the inflation of such kind knows no limits. There is a certain reason why the life acquired post death in respect to such persons evolves more than an ordinary person. Since there is no scope of resistance, rebuttal from the origin (not including the family) the size and magnitude of such ‘acquired life’ swell uninhibited. It is their death that generates a breed of indiscriminate controversies and more so when the death is shrouded in mystery. An unsinkable ship sinking leads to more debates and investigations than a normal ship sinking. We find us to be more interested in unravelling the causes behind a sudden misfortune than behind a flicker of glory.

Immortality is engendered by the ethics of religion. In this manner religion fortifies the coward and deadpan souls. Those who fear death enjoy vigorous death and receive familial solace from religion which undertakes to preach how to surmount the inevitable. The inevitable is the ultimate occurrence which one can’t avoid despite his persistent efforts. Why they are not taught a more lucid meaning

If life and death are two opposing delineations each one must have inherent strength to withstand each other. They do not enjoy coordinate balance. If I am asked today whether I fear death or not I will vigilantly say that I have a greater thing called ‘life’ to counter “obscure death”. Why be bothered about the torrid realm which explains metaphysical in best terms? It is bereft of any possible occurrence, reasoning, overt repercussions and is a departure from the ongoing scurry that life pours on us in vividness. We miss the walk and the run on our sudden expulsion. We miss the yelling, gawking, bingeing after the cease. We miss our internal self.

Death is starvation of life. Alas no government policies or reforms, revamp can produce a fillip and avert the starvation. We therefore are in a permanent state of famine and remain pretty impervious to it. What better way to remain self-complacent.? This leads to another flimsy inquiry that whether death is a self-complacency on sly without power and pre-requisites. The ‘power of vacuum’ contributes greater clarity. Death like religion survives without a pre-ordained shape and size and it is this abstract powerlessness that renders it very intimidating. Once the stock of food is consumed and nothing remains of it we are happy presuming that it will soon be refilled. There is a sudden sense of restoration and affirmation of the same in play. However this is a possibility only in such countries which face no food grains crunch. Unlike this death doesn’t allow such likewise feeling of restoration and affirmation to precede unless we are staunch believers in irreducible immortality. We dispose to believe death as a paradigm of extinction and destruction of permanence and there is no untoward reason not to believe that. Quite strangely death can inspire a strong sense of persuasion about its nihilism than life can do with its array of designs, caprices, acts (good or nefarious), words (scathing or benign).

Immortality is a cozy umbilical word for those who believe religion is the only impelling resort outside reality. For them it is a by-product of that notional extension. Such a vapid metaphysical rationality!

The insubstantiality and inconsequentiality of death make it all the more intimidating. A incurable disease incites more fear than a curable one. An incurable disease eclipses a definite consequence leading to a barrage of uncertainty and probabilities. The habit of death is not only to expel life from a body but to expel certainty spawning precariousness. Thus we embark on deviant assumptions to find a palliative answer. The point where the assumptions befell us is the point where we become utterly restless.. it spreads undaunted. It ultimately boils down to the turbulent power of vaccum;its odious powerlessness, its unmanned truism, its discreet variant, its sheer vulnerability that have undone the grave mysticism shrouding death. There is no admissible end to what we can derive from the delusion of grandeur that death is putting our infidel assumptions into operation. And it is our unaccountable thoughts and bleary images about it that defy reason and rhyme uniformly.

hard swarthy mountain

he works through skin of night

have his kin displaced in vastness

morning glow an extinct

he isn't in the know

he asks 'is sun square'?

is sun acronym of fun?

is sun on land or water?

people do talk about sunny mornings, he self-inquires..

he wonders -if sun is a fiction ?

if sun is a man or woman?is it a meaningful entity?

he sees manifold through his own painting

a road wound along the hard swarthy mountain and a moon beaming above, he listens to the murmur and rustle of trees,a becoming part of nature bonhomie,

he signals his whims to his sole moon....

heaves and sigh traversed by kite of signs out to the world

he says too much us to know

he has no void to disperse, no rational to reckon with

he deals by dint of unstated

forbidden is a prejudice against all

road laid in sketch aglow by fireflies

he forms waves through his fingers, a terrain in drifted tapestries

labyrinth of sky bursting into vowels of colours

is that his demure in undulating designs

he is an unreasonable man, dressed in black smudged gear

lies in womb of vicissitudes of nature

reason is a stale fibre

he is two in himself unto sun displays harbinger of spree

we all play games on sly

what reminisces does he have?with whom?at what?..

nothing worth to evaporate, he has no shadow to nurture, nor a dark too murky to clandestine

a precision of whatever

the blue lady down the road redolent of all timely beauty can envy; an opportunist's peril

it is seasons of vowel colours

purplish streaked by silvery,scarlet shower sapphron curves in golden bury

a smudge of our transient moods

he sees smoke billowing out across mountain

he says 'all bitter forces digging in manifest animosity'

why we wrangle for space with sharp and spite?

why do we morph circle into small squares?

lot suppressed in bloody fissures where eyes don't perceive

those are untraceable fossils

hearts pound for those lying underneath porous linens

he gazes at the kindred spirit of sketch

clouds drifting away in golden outburst

he felt a sudden reverberation

tremors under his feet

tripod rocked by canon shot

his signs static in open air

language orphaned in frenzy

eyes dashed, yet it flickers

momentum of a vision-borne lost by heavy thud of wars

the sun barges in a single strut

his eyes open with no heave within

for whom the spectacle bears?

for whom sun burns today?

for whom the day evades?.!!