The motto is to fake motivation. The idea is to sound profound. Even when bitterness seeps into the air all around. Even when you inhale nitrogen dioxide all the time and stand in queues to use washrooms.
Autowallahs are the new bosses, temple-priests the untiring, unbeatable, good old, very old, villains.
And then to seek poetry, to pursue sheer words all life.
"Arre oye saala beep beep beep and beep beep beep..." sayeth one bus-conductor to another, hanging from the rattled wooden vehicle in a clogged streets. Clogged streets, worse than clogged drains. But, you MUST MUST MUST seek poetry I say! Pure poetry.
To write without cynicism, to write without spite, to write with deep commitment, to write with honesty and warmth. Lets write and mock the breed of the Romantics, or lets etch realistically and defeat Zola. All that the soul needs is to pretend. Pretend Art.
Love too. And shove perhaps. And hug and smug. And then a simple mug.
What else? People. More and more, tumbling in and out of Life like a can of worms badly shut. Talk, stop, listen but do not touch them.
The Sun is shouting from somewhere in the Sky, slapping more rays on our heads. Get up and run the race. The merry-go-round awaits the beggar-kids, the woman sitting near the rail tracks and the young girl repairing her shoes again and again and again with her two-penny.
Happy New Year we shall sing in a few days!
Happy happy it must be.
And I shall write Poetry.
Autowallahs are the new bosses, temple-priests the untiring, unbeatable, good old, very old, villains.
And then to seek poetry, to pursue sheer words all life.
"Arre oye saala beep beep beep and beep beep beep..." sayeth one bus-conductor to another, hanging from the rattled wooden vehicle in a clogged streets. Clogged streets, worse than clogged drains. But, you MUST MUST MUST seek poetry I say! Pure poetry.
To write without cynicism, to write without spite, to write with deep commitment, to write with honesty and warmth. Lets write and mock the breed of the Romantics, or lets etch realistically and defeat Zola. All that the soul needs is to pretend. Pretend Art.
Love too. And shove perhaps. And hug and smug. And then a simple mug.
What else? People. More and more, tumbling in and out of Life like a can of worms badly shut. Talk, stop, listen but do not touch them.
The Sun is shouting from somewhere in the Sky, slapping more rays on our heads. Get up and run the race. The merry-go-round awaits the beggar-kids, the woman sitting near the rail tracks and the young girl repairing her shoes again and again and again with her two-penny.
Happy New Year we shall sing in a few days!
Happy happy it must be.
And I shall write Poetry.
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