I hold this lac of rupees to be quite at the disposal
of the Governor-General in Council,
for the purpose of promoting learning in India,
in any way which may be thought most advisable.
I hold his Lordship to be quite as free to direct
that it shall no longer be employed in encouraging Arabic and Sasnscrit,
as he is [free] to direct that the reward for killing
tigers in Mysore shall be diminished,
or that no more public money shall be expended
on the chanting at the cathedral.
Friday, July 22, 2011
minute points on education and etiquette
Once upon a time there was a traveling salesman. He used to tell the Vedas on retail basis. He used to prasang [indulge in discourse] at various venues, for a fee. Introduction to rig, two-hours, 3 cents for firangs. (4 annas 4 Indians). The books were for free. Merriman Webster was thrilled about the deal and booked (let us call him now and hence, Sankara) for four seasons.
In summer, Sankara fired Chile for 2 dollars an hour one season. Book signing was extra. Tattoos for free. It was like Woodstock, it was like campus life. It was like youth and love; and like the one act play called waiting for tomorrow.
Sankara used to collect only so much as he required for the day. When his bowl was full, he would say No Thanks, to anyone who offered him more. The checks for signing books and for providing private tuition went to merriman and the devil. And to Daniel Webster.
And so he lived happily ever after, in the footnotes of Gita translations. Those who love stories with a happy ending (those who love love stories with several happy endings) can sign off now.
[the following is not for the weak-willed; tune off now!]
Mainly, Sankara used to travel and talk a lot. He traveled all over India, America, and the far east. When in India, he used to call himself Sankara [good catch: I thought I was the one who named him, as the author. Not so.]; in America, despite his protests, they called him Vive! Kananda. And in the far east, they know him as the laughing Buddha. All his life he spent talking, in travel, with no time to laugh or to forget. Still some call him the clown.
He was a pensive, inexpensive traveling salesman of the Vedas: 5 cents for a two-hour discourse on desire in mid career to 2 dollars an hour at the peak of his power: 4 a.m. on days the full moon is about to sink. He talked about Maya.
when time approaches you, your grammars and styles
[duhkhinkarana-s] will not save you Wren
Boy did he preach, did he prasang!
He would preach the bible like a preacher full of ecstasy and fire
He was also such a lovely creature, women would desire
Rasputin and Lenin, russia’s greatest love makers did aspire
One day to steal promethean fire; he [them] did inspire
In his able salesmanship, the Vedas found followers in lands far afield, found favor with beautiful women; notably: Jane Fonda [yoga is action: hatha (body in action); karma (ergs/energy: therefore work and action); bhakti (knowledge-driven action)] and Julia Roberts. Of whom, more later.
Lenin is said to have been inspired by Sankara (but we are not sure about this. Perhaps it was Raj Kapoor who shaped Lenin’s imagination in an obverse fashion).
For himself, Sankara had a loin cloth, a charpai, and a kettle for boiling noodles. He was known as the two-minute chef. He was also known for his two-hour speeches. Sankara, in short (or in briefs) was a happy man. Oh well, in his loin cloth. In times when the moon shone, Sankara spoke legibly.
Those who like happy endings, love or no love, here is where you get off.
[By the way, this is a retelling of Mohandas gandhi’s story of how he went to Pitts and learnt to play the violin. If you read on, I promise you will be a wiser, if sadder human.]
One day a mouse enters the ashram. The vedic salesman did not mind sharing his abode with ganesha’s mount. And shortly after, he found that his loin cloth had holes in it. He had to get rid of the mouse, and so he gets a cat.
Now the cat needs milk so he begs the people at the prasang for a cow. To take care of the cow, especially when he is away traveling on offshore speaking engagements, the prasangis offer him a cow and a woman whom marries and ends up with four children. [Those who like sad endings can end it all here.]
And he lived happily ever after? Maybe. But is it right for a vedic salesman to retire and lead a happy life – back from vaanaprastha to gaarhasthya? Who will keep the Vedas dry until a generation of intelligent people take shape on earth, if vedic traveling salesmen were to disappear from earth? Who will take care of the cow?
Will the wisdom of yore be buried under the earth for the dearth of salesmen and wandering speakers? for want of walkers and walkmen?
==
Take a while to ponder over those questions. And be back, in a while, to listen out the story…
The whole story takes an ugly turn now. Instead of traveling around the globe, Sankara decides to speak at home. He thinks his children would take the four Vedas to the pinnacle of their applicability and productivity – in good time.
But Macaulay had other plans. He wrote a minute document that ruined Indian psyche. See the Minute on Indian Education: http://www.languageinindia.com/april2003/macaulay.html#minute
But he also said these lovely lines, did Macaulay:
"To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?"
Enough digression; back to the epic/legend of satguru sankara
So Sankara’s children did not care for saama, rk, or yajuh. The fourth child, given to technical gizmos, whom Sankara tried to put into marketing toy cars and AK 47s – even that boy did not show any interest or aptitude for adharva, the practical veda.
Sankara was disheartened and produced two daughters. One went on to become Miss India, sadly. She spent all her life selling Charity. She could have taken tie-and-dry clothes to prada and donna karan, but she chose charity shows.
Sankara, naada sareera para; veda vihara hara; what of the sisters who sell dishwashers and dishwater [pespi, or is it phanta?]
The other went over the cuckoo’s nest.
Can KG replace pound, Ezra?
In summer, Sankara fired Chile for 2 dollars an hour one season. Book signing was extra. Tattoos for free. It was like Woodstock, it was like campus life. It was like youth and love; and like the one act play called waiting for tomorrow.
Sankara used to collect only so much as he required for the day. When his bowl was full, he would say No Thanks, to anyone who offered him more. The checks for signing books and for providing private tuition went to merriman and the devil. And to Daniel Webster.
And so he lived happily ever after, in the footnotes of Gita translations. Those who love stories with a happy ending (those who love love stories with several happy endings) can sign off now.
[the following is not for the weak-willed; tune off now!]
Mainly, Sankara used to travel and talk a lot. He traveled all over India, America, and the far east. When in India, he used to call himself Sankara [good catch: I thought I was the one who named him, as the author. Not so.]; in America, despite his protests, they called him Vive! Kananda. And in the far east, they know him as the laughing Buddha. All his life he spent talking, in travel, with no time to laugh or to forget. Still some call him the clown.
He was a pensive, inexpensive traveling salesman of the Vedas: 5 cents for a two-hour discourse on desire in mid career to 2 dollars an hour at the peak of his power: 4 a.m. on days the full moon is about to sink. He talked about Maya.
when time approaches you, your grammars and styles
[duhkhinkarana-s] will not save you Wren
Boy did he preach, did he prasang!
He would preach the bible like a preacher full of ecstasy and fire
He was also such a lovely creature, women would desire
Rasputin and Lenin, russia’s greatest love makers did aspire
One day to steal promethean fire; he [them] did inspire
In his able salesmanship, the Vedas found followers in lands far afield, found favor with beautiful women; notably: Jane Fonda [yoga is action: hatha (body in action); karma (ergs/energy: therefore work and action); bhakti (knowledge-driven action)] and Julia Roberts. Of whom, more later.
Lenin is said to have been inspired by Sankara (but we are not sure about this. Perhaps it was Raj Kapoor who shaped Lenin’s imagination in an obverse fashion).
For himself, Sankara had a loin cloth, a charpai, and a kettle for boiling noodles. He was known as the two-minute chef. He was also known for his two-hour speeches. Sankara, in short (or in briefs) was a happy man. Oh well, in his loin cloth. In times when the moon shone, Sankara spoke legibly.
Those who like happy endings, love or no love, here is where you get off.
[By the way, this is a retelling of Mohandas gandhi’s story of how he went to Pitts and learnt to play the violin. If you read on, I promise you will be a wiser, if sadder human.]
One day a mouse enters the ashram. The vedic salesman did not mind sharing his abode with ganesha’s mount. And shortly after, he found that his loin cloth had holes in it. He had to get rid of the mouse, and so he gets a cat.
Now the cat needs milk so he begs the people at the prasang for a cow. To take care of the cow, especially when he is away traveling on offshore speaking engagements, the prasangis offer him a cow and a woman whom marries and ends up with four children. [Those who like sad endings can end it all here.]
And he lived happily ever after? Maybe. But is it right for a vedic salesman to retire and lead a happy life – back from vaanaprastha to gaarhasthya? Who will keep the Vedas dry until a generation of intelligent people take shape on earth, if vedic traveling salesmen were to disappear from earth? Who will take care of the cow?
Will the wisdom of yore be buried under the earth for the dearth of salesmen and wandering speakers? for want of walkers and walkmen?
==
Take a while to ponder over those questions. And be back, in a while, to listen out the story…
The whole story takes an ugly turn now. Instead of traveling around the globe, Sankara decides to speak at home. He thinks his children would take the four Vedas to the pinnacle of their applicability and productivity – in good time.
But Macaulay had other plans. He wrote a minute document that ruined Indian psyche. See the Minute on Indian Education: http://www.languageinindia.com/april2003/macaulay.html#minute
But he also said these lovely lines, did Macaulay:
"To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?"
Enough digression; back to the epic/legend of satguru sankara
So Sankara’s children did not care for saama, rk, or yajuh. The fourth child, given to technical gizmos, whom Sankara tried to put into marketing toy cars and AK 47s – even that boy did not show any interest or aptitude for adharva, the practical veda.
Sankara was disheartened and produced two daughters. One went on to become Miss India, sadly. She spent all her life selling Charity. She could have taken tie-and-dry clothes to prada and donna karan, but she chose charity shows.
Sankara, naada sareera para; veda vihara hara; what of the sisters who sell dishwashers and dishwater [pespi, or is it phanta?]
The other went over the cuckoo’s nest.
Can KG replace pound, Ezra?
Thursday, July 21, 2011
when summer comes, can monsoon be far behind
when anguish comes, can tears be far behind?
and when winter comes, can sprint be far behind...
==
very crazy, very crazy about you
yes, believe or not, love you I do
the whole entire time
at compiling and at runtime
===
Jenny is jennifer. Jenni also indeed
the one who could ride a horse at speed
i am a mere cavalier, a liar
a rogue and a layer
my donkey sally was good-looking
and chic. She derived from the bible
Rosy M Banks wrote romantic novels
rosy the elephant drank beer
==
and gutter water?
Nah, not Rosie, who likes it with soda water
and the moon shone and all that - the solitary clock in the sky
a pain in the heck and in the eye
==
Now let us translate afreen, afreen...
Not possible to praise her beauty in words
the body is like ajanta; like a poem, a fragrance
a blooming garden, the first ray of dawn; sandally
and marbly. Sandali sandali, marbly marbly...
are they eyes or dreams
it is night when the eyes look down
and dawn when the eyes look up
and what is nargisi?
oh wo weilest du mein doktor tak?
remembering salah before I go on to tell another tale.
==
==
so when I speak of my father, should I not tell you about my ma. Cool as a cucumber, ever.
two things - both funny.
Ma had a cerebral haemorrhage, a mild attack. Dr Lalli (of whom you will hear more in coming blogs), my sister, was at hand. She administered the appropriate poison, and they shifted Ma to Hyderabad nursing home. Lalli was then working there, I guess. The doctors told Lalli that she did the exact right thing needful at that minute, and that ma is safe. Cool as cucumber, as you will see.
The doctor comes to check ma the next morning. Ma is drowsy after a night of sedation. The doc wants to check her alertness: "Who is this?" (pointing at my sis). Ma says, proudly: My daughter! The doc says: What is her name? Ma turns to sis, saying - Eh, you tell him your name. Well, as it happened, there was no one on record in the hospital who did not know the charismatic Dr Lalita (and it was ma's snub to the doctor: if you don't know her, then you must be a total clown!)
Or so I think she meant. She does not explain herself. Like most mothers. Like all mothers?
==
Then there was the time when Dr Tak and I were working at good ol' OL. We had two flats in the same block in amrita enclave. The big Ashwin, then a toddler, was with us. Ma went onto the terrace, and the door got locked. She goes to the neighbors and calls up office: I confer with Tak saab. It was around 3 pm. I wrote about this before, but what the hex - I will repeat it. "Pandit," says Dr Tak. "I have to meet a printer in panjagutta at 4 pm, so I will go give keys to ma and then proceed to the printers." So he was to leave after an hour or so. A few minutes later he comes around: Hey, I will go now. Ma is locked out on the terrace and it looks like it may rain. I give him the keys and he is off.
Later that evening, Tak is rolling on the floor laughing. "You know what, pandit? Ma is so cool. When I came here, it was drizzling on the terrace (ma was under cover). Little ashwin was playing and she was watching amused. I said I got the keys. [Ma knew no Hindi or English.] She told me in Telugu to keep the keys there - indicating the top step leading to the terrace."
Dr Tak did not stop to show his concern that achwin was getting wet. Oh well, into each life, some rain must fall - right? he thought, and rolled down the stairs into his flat, forgot about the printer he was supposed to visit, and was laughing - until I got there and restored him to his senses with a bit of old monk. Then he sobered up.
==
I am fond of telling this tale, of my unshakable spirit. It was a month after the Latur earthquake. There were tremors (aftershocks) in Hyderabad. In some parts, people came onto the streets - I was told. I was shaken, too, out of sleep at least. It was after the men, women and children of the house left for their pursuits of the day. I was pursuing nothing in particular, so I was alone at home. Waking up, I remember looking at the roof wondering if it would fall. The next question was whether to get out of there or wait for some imponderable collision of plates to fall upon me.
The important thing is to give yourself time. Before I could think of logical and efficacious plans, to deal with the situation, the tremors stopped. Now, all that is moot?
===
Often have I been stirred into thinking
but never into action. never emoting
Ma tujhe salaam
and when winter comes, can sprint be far behind...
==
very crazy, very crazy about you
yes, believe or not, love you I do
the whole entire time
at compiling and at runtime
===
Jenny is jennifer. Jenni also indeed
the one who could ride a horse at speed
i am a mere cavalier, a liar
a rogue and a layer
my donkey sally was good-looking
and chic. She derived from the bible
Rosy M Banks wrote romantic novels
rosy the elephant drank beer
==
and gutter water?
Nah, not Rosie, who likes it with soda water
and the moon shone and all that - the solitary clock in the sky
a pain in the heck and in the eye
==
Now let us translate afreen, afreen...
let me see if html tags work
Not possible to praise her beauty in words
the body is like ajanta; like a poem, a fragrance
a blooming garden, the first ray of dawn; sandally
and marbly. Sandali sandali, marbly marbly...
are they eyes or dreams
it is night when the eyes look down
and dawn when the eyes look up
and what is nargisi?
oh wo weilest du mein doktor tak?
remembering salah before I go on to tell another tale.
==
==
when you speak plainly of your father...
so when I speak of my father, should I not tell you about my ma. Cool as a cucumber, ever.
two things - both funny.
Ma had a cerebral haemorrhage, a mild attack. Dr Lalli (of whom you will hear more in coming blogs), my sister, was at hand. She administered the appropriate poison, and they shifted Ma to Hyderabad nursing home. Lalli was then working there, I guess. The doctors told Lalli that she did the exact right thing needful at that minute, and that ma is safe. Cool as cucumber, as you will see.
The doctor comes to check ma the next morning. Ma is drowsy after a night of sedation. The doc wants to check her alertness: "Who is this?" (pointing at my sis). Ma says, proudly: My daughter! The doc says: What is her name? Ma turns to sis, saying - Eh, you tell him your name. Well, as it happened, there was no one on record in the hospital who did not know the charismatic Dr Lalita (and it was ma's snub to the doctor: if you don't know her, then you must be a total clown!)
Or so I think she meant. She does not explain herself. Like most mothers. Like all mothers?
==
Then there was the time when Dr Tak and I were working at good ol' OL. We had two flats in the same block in amrita enclave. The big Ashwin, then a toddler, was with us. Ma went onto the terrace, and the door got locked. She goes to the neighbors and calls up office: I confer with Tak saab. It was around 3 pm. I wrote about this before, but what the hex - I will repeat it. "Pandit," says Dr Tak. "I have to meet a printer in panjagutta at 4 pm, so I will go give keys to ma and then proceed to the printers." So he was to leave after an hour or so. A few minutes later he comes around: Hey, I will go now. Ma is locked out on the terrace and it looks like it may rain. I give him the keys and he is off.
Later that evening, Tak is rolling on the floor laughing. "You know what, pandit? Ma is so cool. When I came here, it was drizzling on the terrace (ma was under cover). Little ashwin was playing and she was watching amused. I said I got the keys. [Ma knew no Hindi or English.] She told me in Telugu to keep the keys there - indicating the top step leading to the terrace."
Dr Tak did not stop to show his concern that achwin was getting wet. Oh well, into each life, some rain must fall - right? he thought, and rolled down the stairs into his flat, forgot about the printer he was supposed to visit, and was laughing - until I got there and restored him to his senses with a bit of old monk. Then he sobered up.
==
my ma's son
I am fond of telling this tale, of my unshakable spirit. It was a month after the Latur earthquake. There were tremors (aftershocks) in Hyderabad. In some parts, people came onto the streets - I was told. I was shaken, too, out of sleep at least. It was after the men, women and children of the house left for their pursuits of the day. I was pursuing nothing in particular, so I was alone at home. Waking up, I remember looking at the roof wondering if it would fall. The next question was whether to get out of there or wait for some imponderable collision of plates to fall upon me.
The important thing is to give yourself time. Before I could think of logical and efficacious plans, to deal with the situation, the tremors stopped. Now, all that is moot?
===
Often have I been stirred into thinking
but never into action. never emoting
Ma tujhe salaam
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
let eyes meet maybe once in a time
kabhi to karib aao
--
ok then, hand to mouth...
[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I42_0nxUc54]
for a rainy day; smile and vigilante moon
it made him crazy; jimmy blew them off
baby on a door step; needs a mother for mother's day
just another hooker happens everyday [she loved the little baby]
i believe in the gods of america
I believed in the land of the free
noone told me that the gods believe in nothing
so with empty hands pray
[censored]
somebody shouted "Save me!"
hand to mouth; hind to mouth
and the big white door step
Somebody shouted "Maybe"
==
she went to the arms of another mand
and she kissed the powers that be
and they told me the gods believe in nothing; maybe
they don't?
==
what is unsaid, is difficult to understand
but is it impossible that we are crazy about you
and yet we adore you
all the while, we do
==
it takes long to happen
why is it so hard to shapen
==
humne tumko dekhtehi dil diya
and what did you do with it, yaar?
dont break me heart; we are outta our head
so meet the eyes that try to meet you, ahead
==
but the bloke is like going on:
I have seen your face in a crowed place
==
touch your hairsplitting questions
with my heartstrings; let the music play
and why are so many of us crazy about clay
come and be near, sometime if only in dreams
===
we end this section with a link to
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m50p-XScreM
--
ok then, hand to mouth...
[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I42_0nxUc54]
for a rainy day; smile and vigilante moon
it made him crazy; jimmy blew them off
baby on a door step; needs a mother for mother's day
just another hooker happens everyday [she loved the little baby]
i believe in the gods of america
I believed in the land of the free
noone told me that the gods believe in nothing
so with empty hands pray
[censored]
somebody shouted "Save me!"
hand to mouth; hind to mouth
and the big white door step
Somebody shouted "Maybe"
==
she went to the arms of another mand
and she kissed the powers that be
and they told me the gods believe in nothing; maybe
they don't?
==
what is unsaid, is difficult to understand
but is it impossible that we are crazy about you
and yet we adore you
all the while, we do
==
it takes long to happen
why is it so hard to shapen
==
humne tumko dekhtehi dil diya
and what did you do with it, yaar?
dont break me heart; we are outta our head
so meet the eyes that try to meet you, ahead
==
but the bloke is like going on:
I have seen your face in a crowed place
==
touch your hairsplitting questions
with my heartstrings; let the music play
and why are so many of us crazy about clay
come and be near, sometime if only in dreams
===
we end this section with a link to
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m50p-XScreM
when the time comes, I will talk plainly about my father...
only we make you drunk with our eyes/looks...
while there are many bar bars around the town
==
you wanna threaten this light of the sky
with a tiny storm; many a lightbug borrowed from this eye
==
oh well, if you wanna listen to the whole tune:
[and see Bhanu Rekha, Ray, darling of the masses]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXdJJvpgTvw
and this one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWK61iHYc4Y
before you get a taste of the best lines of this number...
==
To walk away with my heart - what all [minnats] appeals she made!
And then when it was all hers, how she looked away, ignoring me!
two times I had hard times: once before you came in
And twice [I mean, the second times], when you left...
==
I will leave you to prod through the text [http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=John+16&version=WE] (strange-looking URL but it gets you there), and find:
"I have told you these things by a story. The time will come when I will not talk by stories. I will tell you about my Father plainly."
I said I will talk plainly of my father; it is time for it. Much as I admire him, this one incident stands out as a pain point. God, what did you mean by that?
Around 7 a.m. my father comes to the kitchen door, with no histrionics: "Is this coffee?" he says quietly; and throws the coffee glass in the general direction of my mother. It luckily hit the wall behind her. He walks off. Mother goes on to make another coffee for him and sends me to give it to him (in the verandah). She doesn't ask, or know, what is wrong with the coffee he threw at her: too hot, not hot enough? She just makes another coffee and sends it. I hated him for that for about 20 years, until once I opened up to a friend and mentioned it: the moment I said it, I realized what a silly grudge I was holding against this one quarter god of mine: mother, father, guru, and guest making up the four quarters - not trinity - of God. Now when I look back, there was nothing else in that mild-mannered demigod-human I knew that I could fault with. But then, God is supposed to be immaculate (not demi not half crown; half human half clown)? It is hard to come to terms with the fact that your parents are human: it is heartbreaking to know that God is - in a way, human too (because we shaped Him thus).
==
you been late in coming but thanks for coming
i was not disheartened or shaken but was stirred a bit
ghabraye the: a bit anxious, a little
rays, rainbow, chhandra-ma, and clouds
stars and songs; lighting and flowers
what all is not in that hair of hers
locked in her locks! Locked up...
==
if only my dreamly youth
were to repeat briefly...
but thanks for showing up
albeit a bit late
a little late, a little lazy
a bit of business and boredom
==
it had happened to us (not hearsay nor heresy)
flowers bloom out of fire
when desire
sets one afire
==
while there are many bar bars around the town
==
you wanna threaten this light of the sky
with a tiny storm; many a lightbug borrowed from this eye
==
oh well, if you wanna listen to the whole tune:
[and see Bhanu Rekha, Ray, darling of the masses]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXdJJvpgTvw
and this one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWK61iHYc4Y
before you get a taste of the best lines of this number...
==
To walk away with my heart - what all [minnats] appeals she made!
And then when it was all hers, how she looked away, ignoring me!
two times I had hard times: once before you came in
And twice [I mean, the second times], when you left...
==
I will leave you to prod through the text [http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=John+16&version=WE] (strange-looking URL but it gets you there), and find:
"I have told you these things by a story. The time will come when I will not talk by stories. I will tell you about my Father plainly."
I said I will talk plainly of my father; it is time for it. Much as I admire him, this one incident stands out as a pain point. God, what did you mean by that?
Around 7 a.m. my father comes to the kitchen door, with no histrionics: "Is this coffee?" he says quietly; and throws the coffee glass in the general direction of my mother. It luckily hit the wall behind her. He walks off. Mother goes on to make another coffee for him and sends me to give it to him (in the verandah). She doesn't ask, or know, what is wrong with the coffee he threw at her: too hot, not hot enough? She just makes another coffee and sends it. I hated him for that for about 20 years, until once I opened up to a friend and mentioned it: the moment I said it, I realized what a silly grudge I was holding against this one quarter god of mine: mother, father, guru, and guest making up the four quarters - not trinity - of God. Now when I look back, there was nothing else in that mild-mannered demigod-human I knew that I could fault with. But then, God is supposed to be immaculate (not demi not half crown; half human half clown)? It is hard to come to terms with the fact that your parents are human: it is heartbreaking to know that God is - in a way, human too (because we shaped Him thus).
==
you been late in coming but thanks for coming
i was not disheartened or shaken but was stirred a bit
ghabraye the: a bit anxious, a little
rays, rainbow, chhandra-ma, and clouds
stars and songs; lighting and flowers
what all is not in that hair of hers
locked in her locks! Locked up...
==
if only my dreamly youth
were to repeat briefly...
but thanks for showing up
albeit a bit late
a little late, a little lazy
a bit of business and boredom
==
it had happened to us (not hearsay nor heresy)
flowers bloom out of fire
when desire
sets one afire
==
Monday, July 18, 2011
Good morning, Hyderabad...
It is about 4 30 am. [Now as I end this, it is 5 15 am here.] Since this will be on my blog, I will keep it generic.
The first thing was the article by Deepa D.
[For the benefit of late tuners, the link is: http://deepad.dreamwidth.org/29371.html]
It is all about growing up in an English literate env., "deprived" of local/vernacular culture, "un-fortunate-ly" soaked in western culture. When I go to the site, what do I see, but this gold mine: http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story.html
Listen and enjoy! Gosh, whatever the writer was who spoke of the god of small stories was brilliant. God of all things? That rings a bell.
/single stories\
\duplex stories/
all the same to a fakir
of the thoroughfare...
==
It may take a couple reads for it to sink in. I find there are nuances that I didn't appreciate the first time.
... a huge concern for the U.S. electrical infrastructure; ... the latest Scientific American.
So, for the first one: about little girls brought up among snow-whilte stories; single stories: Deepa D does bring to forth some unspoken issues. I have no locus standi on that.
Whereof we cannot talk, thereof we must remain silent.
Cut down on air travel, is what I would recommend. The U.S. is primitive! there are no buses or trains connecting the large tracts of land from california to cincinnati, as I discovered when i was in the u.s. I was eager to meet a friend there, and said how about if I hop on to a bus? He laughed and said: that will take you two days to get here!
Ho hum!
False hopes are north; reality is west
empty dreams are east
and I think Louisiana is south
-- No kaddish for Weinbrenner
The first thing was the article by Deepa D.
[For the benefit of late tuners, the link is: http://deepad.dreamwidth.org/29371.html]
It is all about growing up in an English literate env., "deprived" of local/vernacular culture, "un-fortunate-ly" soaked in western culture. When I go to the site, what do I see, but this gold mine: http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story.html
Listen and enjoy! Gosh, whatever the writer was who spoke of the god of small stories was brilliant. God of all things? That rings a bell.
/single stories\
\duplex stories/
all the same to a fakir
of the thoroughfare...
==
It may take a couple reads for it to sink in. I find there are nuances that I didn't appreciate the first time.
... a huge concern for the U.S. electrical infrastructure; ... the latest Scientific American.
So, for the first one: about little girls brought up among snow-whilte stories; single stories: Deepa D does bring to forth some unspoken issues. I have no locus standi on that.
Whereof we cannot talk, thereof we must remain silent.
Cut down on air travel, is what I would recommend. The U.S. is primitive! there are no buses or trains connecting the large tracts of land from california to cincinnati, as I discovered when i was in the u.s. I was eager to meet a friend there, and said how about if I hop on to a bus? He laughed and said: that will take you two days to get here!
Ho hum!
False hopes are north; reality is west
empty dreams are east
and I think Louisiana is south
-- No kaddish for Weinbrenner
for the uninitiated...
This is poetry composition 101.
I write one line and explain in ten lines [for my Telemachus]
"I did not realize that I carried more monkeys on my back;"
So there is this story of a monkey who dips into a bottle of peanuts, OK? And then, it fills up its fist with peanuts; now, with the fist full of peanuts (a fistful of greenbacks?)
Oh well, the monkey cannot pull her/him fist out of the bottle.
The moral of the story is: We are humans. Drop the peanuts and shake your hand off the bottle.
But how does that figure in this line? Let us say there are two monkeys trying to get out of this bottle-neck situation: let us say you feel for them; then, unless you know how to speak with them you cannot say, dahling, let go of the peanuts.
That was the ten-line paraphrase for tele0.
The following line needs no explanation:
"it is now time to say it all (oh yeah, other people are watching):"
The following might need explanation, but I am not in the mood to provide it:
"there exists, in the northerly direction, in the godly presence [once known as himalayas; since gotten into bad repair] someone praying for a 7-life promise of happiness"
OK, whatever you say, my own Boswell? Explicating mine own lines;
Did not kalidasa cry not to be in a trap where talent is shortchanged?
"there exists one who prays, who dreams; who preys: shivji, the yeti.
aka sankara
I write one line and explain in ten lines [for my Telemachus]
"I did not realize that I carried more monkeys on my back;"
So there is this story of a monkey who dips into a bottle of peanuts, OK? And then, it fills up its fist with peanuts; now, with the fist full of peanuts (a fistful of greenbacks?)
Oh well, the monkey cannot pull her/him fist out of the bottle.
The moral of the story is: We are humans. Drop the peanuts and shake your hand off the bottle.
But how does that figure in this line? Let us say there are two monkeys trying to get out of this bottle-neck situation: let us say you feel for them; then, unless you know how to speak with them you cannot say, dahling, let go of the peanuts.
That was the ten-line paraphrase for tele0.
The following line needs no explanation:
"it is now time to say it all (oh yeah, other people are watching):"
The following might need explanation, but I am not in the mood to provide it:
"there exists, in the northerly direction, in the godly presence [once known as himalayas; since gotten into bad repair] someone praying for a 7-life promise of happiness"
OK, whatever you say, my own Boswell? Explicating mine own lines;
Did not kalidasa cry not to be in a trap where talent is shortchanged?
"there exists one who prays, who dreams; who preys: shivji, the yeti.
aka sankara
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)