death
The Impossibility of a Dialogue
“We live through troubling times” said Bholu the ghoda, “The world as we know today as ours will disappear from the face of this planet. Today our little island formally known as Jambudwipa is surrounded by an ever growing understanding that pretends to know better than what we always knew to be good for us. They seek to change and transform us for our own good and for the sake of our own soul, for they worry too much about the terrible fates that await us and they think in their broad wisdom that the only way we can save our misguided selves is by letting them work over it. Today we have come to doubt the very word ‘Self’. So I would invite our esteemed friend and guide the Jackal to come over here and speak to us about matters relating to our Self and what possibilities open us to a state of dialogue with forces that seek to change it with the pretence of saving us from our-own-dark-and-lost-selves.” [...]
The forgetting of Gandhi’s Challenge to the project of Modernity
The forgetting of Gandhi’s Challenge to the project of Modernity Incomplete essay written in 2001 which exist only as fragments and quotes, notes all scattered on the page so please bear with me as I hope to complete it someday, also, this time I will use Vinay Bhals article to re[frame] and repost and in [...]
Prithvi (a poetic film)
On October, 2007 Sadho Poetry Film Fest premiered my 8min film “Prithvi” (The Earth). Though it was mildly appreciated, I was asked on several occasion (quite bluntly to my embarrassment) what the film was about.
I had a short answer, “It is about earth, dwelling, passage of time and memories clustering to become being only to vanish and slip into unfathomable silence of the other, the other death” [...]
In India, death to global business – Townships vs. Naxalism
On the night of Apr 24, a group of 300 men and women, armed with bows and arrows and sickles and led by gun-wielding commanders, emerged swiftly and silently from the dense forest …
The Chudail of Banglapur
Clang, clang, fuch the knife tore through Mark Lee’s right bicep staining his white silk sleeves red.
Even from a distance I could see the 2 inch long cut gaping like parted lips vomiting blood.
We rushed him to the hospital where he was declared dead.
His last words were Chi, Chi.
People kept telling me that it was not the knife but Chi that killed him. No one ever dies of a cut on his arms. True. But then what killed him! I have wracked my brain over the matter but his death remains shrouded in mystery.
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Yami
Two lines
One runs hither, the other speaks
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