Monday, 27 April 2015

A threnody for Oberon Waugh- by an Indian changeling

Like every whilom Conspiracy against the Common Weal
Class is a gradient we too gratingly feel
Pitiable is Vatsalya, by stealth, to hoard
A Heritable Wealth, Mums scant afford

Ilk to what Columbus sought and Da Gama found
 Recking not restive Tuatha De underground
Phantom gelt, a Faerie Queene
A Virgin yet so her abortions preen.

Friendship, we are counselled to, for but Fathers, feel
Else bare devotion earns Karma's burning wheel
Fate Ixions fake propter quia patrem
So 'Monstra, Saqi, te esse Matrem'

Prince Auberon! too briefly tho' your wit had play
For three decades it kept Old Etonians at bay.

Monday, 20 April 2015

A green ghost & Chief Justice V.R Krishna Iyer

    I had the privilege of meeting the late Chief Justice in Moscow, where my father was posted, in 1982. I had just graduated from the L.S.E and so could pass for an orthodox Tambram Leftist like my maternal grandfather. My elder sister on the other hand was in a rebellious mood and initially insisted on appearing before the great man in her hip St. Stephen's/ JNU jhollawallah uniform of khadi kurta and blue jeans. Mum was furious and rushed out of the kitchen to force my sister to put on a green saree and large bottu. Sister became resentful. She stalked silently into the drawing room, where the learned Judge was holding me enthralled with anecdotes of Soviet advances in E.S.P and Parapsychology, and sat opposite him glowering intently.
The Chief Justice, who had come to Moscow for medical treatment for his eyes, frowned a little but chose to ignore my sister. Silently, she stood up and departed darting at the old man many a dark and louring glance.
Clearly this Tambram patriarch was a misogynist. 
Later, the Chief Justice had a word with my Mum. 'There is an evil presence in this house,' he said, 'A misshapen entity manifesting as a hulking greenish presence.'
My sister was greatly delighted to hear this. She immediately changed into her jeans and came outside to have her photograph taken with the avuncular Judge who cooed and purred over her Amazonian stature and Stakhanovite indifference to feminine adornment.

Thus, it turned out, Krishna Iyer was no patriarchal misogynist. Like other men of  his generation, he had been deeply in love with his wife and had been devastated by her passing. Indeed, the wife of a brother Judge (a Rightist North Indian Hindu) found a way to influence the great man by pretending to have received messages from his departed spouse chiding him for his incorrigible Leftism.

His faith in what Mendelev called 'Spiritizm' too was not reactionary at all but innocently progressive- the truth is, the childish mischief of the Fox sisters, though both ended as alcoholics, was a benign tutelary Genius for the, alas not eternal quite!, adolescence of the Left.

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

Cast a cold eye

That Tolkein's ring Sir Mortimer Wheeler found
Fits no severed hand below Mohenjo Daro's mound
& Ekalavya suffers Khandava's pain
No upa-Nishaad, let Nala explain

Milesian misprision the Aos Sí detect
Nature is a Resource must defect
& Lob's theorem, by Zorn's lemma
Proves Puissance the Prisoner of its own dilemma.

Prince! That thy silver hand its sword outlast
A but cold eye in that Smithy is cast.

Monday, 30 March 2015

Ganga Ma

Can Indra's wing-shorn salients capture every Schelling focality?
Or Tara's tear born Buddhas forever renew non-locality?
That all sons she drowns till her true mate reminds
Shekinah's spate not saves but binds.

Sunday, 15 March 2015

Ghalib 53

āmad-e ḳhat̤ se huʾā hai sard jo bāzār-e dost

dūd-e shamʿ-e kushtah thā shāyad ḳhat̤-e ruḳhsār-e dost

ay dil-e nā-ʿāqibat-andesh ẓabt̤-e shauq kar

kaun lā saktā hai tāb-e jalvah-e dīdār-e dost

ḳhānah-vīrāñ-sāzī-e ḥairat tamāshā kījiye

ṣūrat-e naqsh-e qadam hūñ raftah-e raftār-e dost

ʿishq meñ bedād-e rashk-e ġhair ne mārā mujhe

kushtah-e dushman hūñ āḳhir garchih thā bīmār-e dost

chashm-e mā raushan kih us bedād kā dil shād hai

dīdah-e pur-ḳhūñ hamārā sāġhar-e sarshār-e dost

ġhair yūñ kartā hai merī pursish us ke hajr meñ

be-takalluf dost ho jaise koʾī ġham-ḳhvār-e dost

yih ġhazal apnī mujhe jī se pasand ātī hai āp

hai radīf-e shiʿr meñ ġhālib z bas takrār-e dost

This adolescent lucubration so stinks of the lamp as to make a fugitive of Truth 
Like a Platonic pederast back pedaling from a now sooty chinned youth.

Oh my heart! Be thou, no mountebank Moses, but Mt. Tur to the vision of that face
As Ganga to Himavant; Torah's graven terrors let Shekinah's tears erase

So fleetly fled from that foot-print, mine eyes still mirror in amaze
No Adam's peak, far to seek, but a dazzled Arafat all my days

See how the envy of my rival, my one resource of survival, with mimetic unfairness fails
Now my death is at his door, all Hope's revival defames the eidetic plague Love entails

So her heart know Hedon, mine eyes grow bright & all arterial gout
Blood red wine to her cup over-brim & callow humanity rout

Ghalib, Tho' She is ever with thee... NOT!, she is far
Such be-takkalluf Borats is all Friends are

Friday, 6 March 2015

Ghalib's Parrondo game

Even if Love is only ever either Puerile or Profane
& Faith the Loss by which but Book-makers Gain
 A Ghalib can yet sequence as a Parrondo's game
Vigils at her door & Prayer's Walk of Shame.