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

[kirdar singh]

I am extremely pained to read these mails which in the name of free
expression provoke people beyong their limits - as it is the sanity on
this list is hanging by a thin thread.

MRSG simply needed an excuse to bring out his latent hatred and
deep-rooted bias against Mohammad and Islam, but I would blame Inder
Salim equally for starting it all. I would humbly request you not to
continue your story any further - it would be better if you stand on
the road and narrate it to the people.

(By the way, MRSG, who told you Mohammad had a son?)

Kirdar



On 3/3/08, MRSG <mrsg at vsnl.com> wrote:
> Waiting for a story on  Mohammad who rapes his own son's wife and make
> it legal so that everybody can do that. Ofcourse his youngest wife Ayesha
> enjoys herself with others in the desert to teach him a lesson.
>
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "inder salim" <indersalim at gmail.com>
> To: <reader-list at sarai.net>
> Sent: Monday, March 03, 2008 8:55 AM
> Subject: [Reader-list] Gandu world, words, Ajay and Raju
>
>
> >    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..
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