[Reader-list] Gandu world, words, Ajay and Raju

[inder salim]

    On the banks of dead River Yamuna, a place adjacent to Nigmbodh Gaht (
    Crematorium in Delhi)

    Raju ( worker at Crematorium ): Do you know why they say Ram Ram , Ram

    Ram when they bring a  'laash' ( corpse)  for burning.

    Ajay ( another worker at Crematorium ): How do I know? I never went to
         school, But you gandu  ( Gandu is someone who get his ass screwed,
          rather relishes the act ), you also don't know.

    Raju : but I saw it on the Television. A Guru said that people call
             Ram Ram to come to take this ' laash' corpse back .

    Ajay: And he comes and takes it back.( hands over his ganja chilam to Raju)

    Raju: Yes, because everybody is a Ravana, and on behalf of the dead (
             laash ) , people say Ram, Ram. Because Ravana also uttered Ram Ram
            when he died by the arrow of Bhagwan Rama.

    Ajay: Aray Chootiya, Ravana was a Gandu. He kidnapped Sita Mata. But
             how are we Ravana then.

    Raju: I don't know, but this is how, a guru maharaj said on the
             Television. ( returns back his chilam to Ajay )

    Ajay: He too is Gandu

    Raju:  Look, we also do bad things. That is why.

    Ajay: which bad thing I do ? Ma-ki choot, ( mother's vagina), we are
            dying for a two square meals, and you say that we are bad.

    Raju: We are not bad, but this is what he said. Achha, tell me, don't
            you go to sleep with a  Gashti ( prostitute ) living just
over there.

    Ajay:  yes, of course, we both go, so what. We pay her. All the rich
            people do it, and so what is wrong with it.

    Raju: No I don't say it like that, but do you know that the girl you
              sleep with was kidnapped once.

    Ajay: How do I know? I never get time to ask the silly questions,
           behenchod, you ejaculate quickly, and that is why you get time to ask
          all these questions.

    Raju: No, I was thinking,  is not a little Ravana in all of us who
            fucks the kidnapped girl.

    Ajay: Aray, chootiaya, the prostitute we sleep with is happy,  not
            like Sita Mata who wanted to return back to meet her husband and God
          Rama.

    Raju: But, imagine, if she was kidnapped at a very tender age, and
            think who would have come to rescue her.

    Ajay: yes, you are right, I never thought like this.

    Raju: and see the unfortunate thing, Sita Mata was banished by Lord
             Rama because people questioned her purity while in
possession of evil
             Ravana.

    Ajay: And he really banished her?

    Raju: Yes, when she was pregnant, and helpless.

    Ajay: And gandu people say Ram Ram Ram Ram when some one dies.

    Raju: They should say Sita Sita Sita Sita

    Ajay: Array, behenchod, you are a mind eater, and that is why I don't
            smoke with you. Now, before we go, make one last chilam.
This world is
            a fucking place. Forget who is saying what and why.

    Raju: You are right, meray yaar ( my friend ), give me the light...

    (2)

    Just quenched my thirst,  but I am thirsty. Who am I? I am not
    thirsty, but I am about to quench my thirst. Who am I?
    Just, writing lines like these makes me a poet, you know, but poetry
    is deeper than-this-than-this known outburst of words loaded
    artificially with a deeper question on desire.

    Poetry is perhaps, oscillating between the mouth which eats bread and
    the anus which makes more space for the mouth to eat more. But it just
    happens that a mirror like thing sits in front of our eyes in such a
    way that we often end up seeing just the mouth-eating-the-bread area.

    Rest of it is often dismissed as shit, you know.

    Even now, this typing these words is at the level of a projected
    profile, the same which shows each one of us our upper frontals called
    'faces' in the mirror. So this activity of writing words at the best
    is a meaningful time pass.

    Yes, only if a plain reflector piece would accompany the bread piece I
    eat, which if smoothly journeys the alimentary canal and beyond, then
    I can expect to see the truer nature of words. But that is unlikely,
    since almost everything what we imagine is innocently handed over to
    words, which shapes it accordingly to its own set of rules, let alone
    this impossible task of devouring a mechanism that links each known
    with the each unknown; so that we can draw the circle, which is the
    wisest of all.

    It almost sounds that I want to pick up words-born-in-shit with
    forceps, like thread-worms from the lower colon, and arrange them on a
    black slate outside. They of course will dancingly speak a language,
    but sooner they will cease to be.

    By now, you saw, how desperately I try to write a good poem with the
    stock of words already available with me, which I naively believe is
    vital for the survival of a human being, Forget the poem, all I
    managed to do is to humiliate the being of words, words which perhaps,
    betrayed me in the past; so this character assassination of words. Is
    that true?

     No, the mask, has all the reasons to celebrate. If the mask jumps, so
    does the thing behind the mask. Two words written by two lovers can
    hug, kiss and make love even. One word can fall in love with other
    word.  One word can impregnate the other, and become a mother of
    children- words. The words, after a little growth, can sit around the
    mother-word and listen a bed time story even.

    So, accordingly, one can write about a daily wage labourer, who makes
    his living by working hard under the Indian exploitative conditions.
    He curses his chootiya fate for being so, but believes that God is
    supreme, and it is He who has written his destiny like that. Ah, this
    business of writing the fates of others. I  should not, if I too
    believe that God has indeed written his fate, then why on earth I need
    to imitate that silly habit of writing fates of others. But then I
    have reasons to write about this poor man. If indeed God has written
    his fate, then I should re-write his fate.  But I firmly believe that
    God does not exist, and if so, then nothing was ever written for us
    mortals on this earth.  We collectively own our past. Our misfortunes,
    if any, were written by the billions and billions of our predecessors.
    And since they are living within us as well, we are experiencing their
    fates too. Are not we a conglomeration of echoes and traces of our
    past?   Ontologically we are moving to and fro, so we may write a word
    or not even, the fact of being of our existence remains =85

    ( to be continued..