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

[Vivek Narayanan]

Dear Kirdar and Mohit Ray,

Can either of you please explain to me what exactly is so offensive and 
denigrating to Hindus in Inder Salim's post below?  Is it the use of 
varieties of language that one often hears on the street?  Or is it that 
Sita is more heroic than Ram-- as argued by the characters in the first 
section?  Please quote directly from the piece to support your argument. 

Also, I'd like to hear your analysis of the second part of this piece, 
which might be lost in the midst of hullabaloo.  What , for instance, do 
you make of or find offensive about IS's closing paragraph:

"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."

?
Vivek

kirdar singh wrote:
> 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.
>>>
>>>