Sunday, April 25, 2010

Web of Life

Web of Life

Those who spin the web of life

May have never thought about strife

That exists between man and man

When every man gives the best he can

Little knots of this web

Loosened by the lessee itself

Who has never pondered himself

The shelter service the web provides

And yet he is hell bent

On destroying the creation

Of owner of heaven

Those who spin the web of life

© Tarun Mitra

May 6, 2005

Thursday, April 22, 2010

For the one last time

It have being callous not to write about it. But what to write about, Dantewada represented all what is wrong with India's security apparatus. The 'MASSACRE' of 76 Jawans is the grim reminder of fact that the nation is still not united and there is still a fire in the belly. But I am more or less appalled with the general reaction of blogging community, who failed to mention it. When bomb exploded at the Bangalore stadium, we sprang into action writing pieces, when Pune happened we where shattered, but why on earth our reaction is so different when it comes to massacre in Dantewada, Silda or Orissa. Why are we such callous about maoist violence. Just because it doesn't affects us directly or it is just not glamorous. In this incident of Dantewada I have seen many news pieces but not a good reaction of city slickers. We are too busy with IPL tamasha.

Now, after this short but true lecture, I present the poem I wrote about the slain Jawans, not the only ones who died at Dantewada, but the one at Silda, Orissa, J&K and any other part of the country fighting the insurgents. It is the least I can do.

For the one last time

For the one last time

Her cell-phone rang

“Take care of kids” he said

And the line went dead.

For the one last time

He unlocked his gun

Aiming for the target

Bullets have him overrun

For the one last time

He prayed to god

He thought of his loved one’s

Till a bullet stuck his jaw

For the one last time

He took a deep breath

Taking cover under a tree

Landmine tore his leg

For the one last time

He took an aim

Killing a few

Then he was slain

For the one last time

He hurled the grenade

The usual thud

Then he found six coming

For the one last time

He took her picture out

Holding it to his heart

Falling! His hand held it tight

For the one last time

He feared for his life

Firing at all direction

One got is balls out

For the one last time

His life went through his eyes

Childhood, youth, manhood

Laid there, in blood

For the one last time

He wished to live

Amongst the dead

He gathered his ‘tines

For the one last time

He gathered his dreams

He wanted to be an artist

Battlefield became his sheet

For the one last time

He wept to live

The battlefield’s sympathy

Bullet through his brain

For the one last time

He waited for death

Miles away from home

His brothers made him bled

For the one last time

He saw his blood

Nothing was different

Between their flag and his blood

For the one last time

He blew the whistle

The final attack

Bayonets on barrel

For the one last time

They called for help

And nobody came

Laying their bodies to rest

For the one last time

The class war claim

The lives of poor

Whom the class represents

For the one last time

They came back home

Draped in flag, packed in coffin

The dead were somber

For the one last time

Their widows cried

The future was bleak

The promises hollow

For the one last time

They were criticized

For their tactics and strategy

Their sacrifice unnoticed

For the one last time

The Nation outrage

The dust settled

On wilderness came IPL

For the one last time

They turned in grave

Asking for the vengeance

Crying on decadence.

© Tarun Mitra

Sunday, April 18, 2010

Legal Tangle

While waiting at a government office for getting the work done I wrote these few lines just for passing my time. The work was not done and the lines are before you.

Legal Tangle

It is something called legal tangle

Size more confusing than woman’s bangle

If the problem is countered at wrong angle

It becomes difficult to untangle the tangle

It’s much easier to break the bangle

© Tarun Mitra

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Inner Strength

Another old one from me, can't help. Sunday is the only holiday. This one was written way back in 2007. Hopefully by next week will be able to add something new.

Inner Strength

My eyes look tired

My face look wrinkled

It gives an older than age looks

However my determination is not broken

Nor did my inner strength

© Tarun Mitra

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Yet another week..

It is Thursday night 2330hrs, tomorrow is few minutes away, and I sit here, with drowsy eyes and drained out mind trying to write something, or least of it meaningful, to keep my this blog atleast alive. Indeed it is difficult.

Is it poverty of thoughts? Or drought of ideas? Or, is it just another plain laziness which had plagued me earlier? No, neither of them, I am just tired. After spending close to 10 hours at the office and 3 hours in commuting and that to by using public transport (even it is Delhi Metro) what is left of a poor soul of 24 year old. And to add a cherry to this cake I don't have Saturday off, with Sunday comes and goes life seems to be struck a High Tension wire.

Enough of whining, I chose it, or it was a hobsons choice. Whatever it was, decision is entirely mine. Anyhow coming to penning my thoughts, I think I have already explained why the idea don't get converted, not an excuse, but try walking in my shoes.

Be careful what you wish for, because some where in past I might have prayed for this and the Higher Power seems to be using LIFO in granting wishes. Anyhow, coming to the point.

But what point, this point has no point at all, just varied coordinates which I joining with my eyes closed. So excuse me if you had gone through this torture, Good bye for now, and hopefully we will see you on Sunday

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Divided they Stand

Life is like million loose blocks

Divided they stand, united they fall

So don’t make your life with loose blocks

Cement it with good cement stock

© Tarun Mitra

This piece was originally written on November 9th, 2004. Do share your views. The picture you see was Clicked by me January 5th, 2010.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest: Book Review

On the very onset I must admit I am not a great reviewer of books, or any other thing for that matter. As I do believe since no five fingers are same, things are different from other. However, I also believe that nothing is always or never, hence this article.

I should say I have being forced to write this article by two compulsions, first is the compulsion of writing and of not posting for a considerable part of time and second one is the compulsion book itself. Many of you might be aware about the movie with the same name “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” starring Jack Nicholson, which won him his first Oscar. The movie was based upon this book by the same name written by Ken Kesey.

A little googling and you will easily find the story and other detailed research about this book and the movie also. But as I said, I am not a reviewer, I can only try to make you see but made me pick up this book and ultimately read it.

Picking up this book was not easy, with few bucks to spare, I was thinking about the return which I should expect. It was book fair, and as I had already explained in previous article I was not in a great mood to roam around. I decided to stick it out within few stalls, and for this one it was Penguin. This book, along with few others was under an offer, and as far as I can remember it was under Rs.200, a tempting offer for something which is marked £9.65. And secondly, the words “anti-establishment” commented in the back of the book. I gave it a second minute thought and decided to go ahead and make the last purchase for the day.

Something which attracted me towards this book was not the cover but the halo surrounding the story which was actually established by the movie itself. Though I haven’t seen the movie, but the reviews I read, and the other such supporting proofs made my mind tick that there must be something about it. And when I saw the book and corroborated the facts I knew, it seemed to be prudent enough to give it a try.

Who is insane? Who is mad? Who decides the conduct in the society and conduct of the society? Is it you, me or the society? What type of conduct is actually thought to be desirable in fitting into the society? There are no straightforward answers to these questions. This book does not provide those answers; this book only reinforces those questions. It puts those questions in a manner that either you will put the book down in disgust or you will be compelled to ask your own conscience these questions. And the answers are not easy.

This book in a manner ask those questions, not through the tongues of the persons whom we called ‘sane’ or ‘good’ but through the mouths of ‘insane’ and ‘criminal’. It asks question about the value of laughter in the gloomiest of the situation. It asks question of being free from any type of bondage. It asks question about being different. It asks question of being free and being non-submissive. It asks question of masquerading autocracy in the veil of participation. And finally it asks the question of the price one has to pay for being different.

This book is narrated by a person who has being displaced by the state, from his traditional and ancestral living, for some hydroelectric project, this person has gone through the trauma of seeing his tribe and family disintegrating and the tragedies of second world war as a conscript in Europe, and finally ending up in asylum. The repeated use of shock treatment and other such method makes his speech and views confined to him.

But this book is not about the narrator. It is about a criminal, who wishes to seek change for others. Because what he sees and feels is wrong. This book is about a nurse, which rules her ward with a toffee enameled iron-fist. It is about humiliation in public which she dishes out by just mere use of words in order to correct the patients. It is about her who feels an asylum is institution for insane.

Finally, this book is not about the asylum itself. Only through the context of place, it raises questions about what I called is ‘hound mentality’

I am a no great reviewer. But I must recommend giving this book atleast one shot. This book is written by Ken Kesey.

© Tarun Mitra