The truth about Jivanmuktas

My Seetha was an eight year old Iyengar whose fierce affection

Taught my Iyer alterity its grotesque reflection

Fear is that Demeter mills the World on Belief's lathe

Till, Dis, thy LSEusis graduates Faith

Po-Co aposematism

Her waist, like Spivak's of words, weighs nothing yet makes heavy the beholder's head

Her breasts, like Bhaba's books, blind the Mind yet profess Uranian braille

Her receding sashay slays the hale yet revives what dies in bed

 Bhikku, thy agandhan venom at Buddhi's vanishing tail.

Concurrency & Ontological Dysphoria

My every woman a Wendy tho' Great Pan's death my Pentecostal St. Peter

In my Fifties I've turned trendy so Holocaustal Thy Sita's Demeter

& tho' only to say 'Floreat Etona!' Hook's Sankara crocodile talks

Time yet has its Planck which Sorrow continuously walks

Envoi- 

Prince! Confessor or its Parallel Processor's Professor of record

All Concurrency is its own plangent lost chord.

Kala as a Bharadvajiya mutation

If Sorrow's essence is Solitary, Eremite

Only England is & I too am White.

 Not Kala a Bharata murmuration

Upa-nishaad to all Duration.

Notes-

Bharadvaj can be interpreted as he whose flag is the starling.

Sorrow's Cenacle

By such wind to be winnowed tho' the wheat be lost

Let Grief be the Gospel of Ruth's Pentecost

Tongues of flame all the livelong till at dusk we talk

A murmuration of starlings in sight of the hawk

Envoi-

Under Heaven, where any Two are gathered, Soteriological Resistance is the Third
Prince! Till Six or Seven define topological distance for its Bird.

Odcombe's Urs

Dom Moraes, at the Hungarian border, turning back

Reverses Coryate, in Surat, who drinking sack

Attained, for Odcombe, a Sufi Urs

Indglish the Saqi of stupid hoors.

Envoi- 

Of what's effable in Language- Hlaford hwaet!

No affable manner is a fungible twat.

Verdict on Hymen.

Because, having perfunctorily checked I was dead,
 She robbed and raped me in the grave

The Judge pronounced us wed
So predictably do brides behave

& because Darwin descended 'fore Elijah came
Amidst alien corn let Ruth repine
'Take responsibility for what you tame'
The little foxes that spoil the vine

Tho' Jacob's eyes' nacre Joseph's prison
 & Joseph's seed is Jesus risen

My Canaan's Moon, soured so soon
Wine stints me Death's benison.

Fighani's Ghanimat.

The two Worlds are a net for, not a bird,  but Beauty's deranging scent in the breeze

As, exchanging Love's bitter word, Wine & the Saqi meant but to tease

What boots the Tavern's ghanimat booty Fighani demands?

Tears for our own vintage are all Allah commands!

Envoi-

Prince! Levy Khums on Khayyam's quatrains- so red in tooth and claw
As to chill the amber wine of thy men of straw

In nimborum patriam

Tell both the truth, Meghdooth, you know I wasn't really raped by Bharatnayam.

Connect my Mum and my son, or serve Juno in nimborum patriam

Speak of the soul- since the heart is a muscle & Love its defeat
Of Ind a corpuscle, no Dehli my retreat.

A contemporary Kamala Das

Tho' clumsily conceived on their abashed but dutiful honeymoon night

No dark skinned Krishnaa precludes delight

Strangers exploring Kaama's every maddening kink & quirk

Dad doing her Math, Mum her Sanskrit homework.

Envoi-  

Prince! My raped Honeymoon as her Nabi's Milad

Is thy Guruvayur reaved by Love Jihad.

Ghalib 79 & the Taj's answer to its own mosque.

The world is a bridge- entering the great gate of Fatehpur Sikri, Sir Thomas Roe was thus epigraphically admonished four centuries ago- pass over it; build no houses on it.

Still, it would be another 150 years before us Cockneys saw sense and demolished all London Bridge's crazily piled skyward tenements and emporia as well as disassembling, that miracle of the joiner's art, Nonsuch House- hyle here so answering to Porphyry's fire- which, unlike that of lame Hephaistos, burns more like a dancer for disdaining matter's crutch- it out-dances its own Great Fire like a limber Mahasati.

What of our own Asad- Agra's child?

This is my best guess.

If you are so fucking stupid as to believe the Taj's choultry can be any Mosque's jawaab

Your own cock is the Saqi of non duality's Danaean pishaab.
Pyrhho, Ind's indalmoi as Heaven's King- of cunts composed
Ah! Ask not my dick to count each sin the stars proposed!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

{79,1}*
gar tujh ko hai yaqīn-e ijābat duʿā nah māñg
yaʿnī baġhair-e yak dil-e be-muddaʿā nah māñg

1a) if you have assurance of [God's] acceptance [of your prayer], don't ask in prayer
1b) if you have assurance in [your] acceptance [of God's will], don't ask in prayer

2a) that is, except for a single heart with no desire/object, don’t ask [for anything else] in prayer
2b) that is, without [having] a single heart with no desire/object, don’t ask in prayer

ātā hai dāġh-e ḥasrat-e dil kā shumār yād
mujh se mire gunah kā ḥisāb ay ḳhudā nah māñg
1) the number of wounds/scars of the longing/grief of the heart [habitually] comes to mind
2) from me, an accounting of my sin, oh Lord-- don't ask

Pyrrho's indalmoi

Recalling her bridal gift of lustrous cloak, lapidary clasp

Odysseus burns under a beggar's name
Pyrrho, indalmoi are a hind in a hound's grasp
Penelope weeps both are tame.

To a Po-Co Enoch Soames

Now every Hungryalist Zulieka has wrought a Po-Co Enoch Soames
& Globally gazumped, 'plain Preston men' have re-bought unknot homes
To my rue, I must close my correspondence with you

Having heard nothing kind, nothing clever, nothing true.

Bankers are poets playing possum

Carl Melchior, a frail little Jewboy, and Keynes, a thick lipped Cambridge sodomite; had cast a disturbing shadow over International Finance, over Economics's project of achieving pure ergodicity, over Enlightenment's project of turning its various National Bildungsburgertums into brokerages simply; at a time when, a respectably married, strapping, over six foot tall, Oxford man, Thomas Stearns Eliot- of sound Brahmin stock- was a couple of years into his Banking career.

Thus he wrote this-  (my, purely interpretative ,comments being given in bold)
'FEW critics have even admitted that Hamlet the play is the primary problem, and Hamlet the character only secondary. And Hamlet the character has had an especial temptation for that most dangerous type of critic: the critic with a mind which is naturally of the creative order, but which through some weakness in creative power exercises itself in criticism instead.'

Frail little Jews, who fall off their horse and are invalided out of the Regiment, are barred from Creativity; cogitations raging amongst those rootless Cosmopolitans can at best be 'Criticism'- i.e. such agitation is that of the arbitrageur merely, arbitrarily discounting things of the Blood, the Soil, and that blood Christ on the Cross shed upon the soil of the King-Emperor's new Protectorate in Palestine; thus Ruth is redeemed, Soil freed from Abrahamic bondage, and neither a pituitarily disordered & too heavily bleeding Womb, nor a hydrocephalic Trench War's anonymous for too teeming Tomb, need any longer carry a Pharaisacal and Meretricious burden of resistance to aesthetic univocity such that certain combinations of words can't cash out as wergild thus undermining a privileged Catholicism of moral fungibility.

 These minds often find in Hamlet a vicarious existence for their own artistic realization. Such a mind had Goethe, who made of Hamlet a Werther; and such had Coleridge, who made of Hamlet a Coleridge; and probably neither of these men in writing about Hamlet remembered that his first business was to study a work of art. The kind of criticism that Goethe and Coleridge produced, in writing of Hamlet, is the most misleading kind possible. For they both possessed unquestionable critical insight, and both make their critical aberrations the more plausible by the substitution—of their own Hamlet for Shakespeare’s—which their creative gift effects. We should be thankful that Walter Pater did not fix his attention on this play.
Eliot elegantly, for by elision, pays tribute to, his distinguished compatriot, Santayana's bit of Anti-Boche War Work- the latter's essay on Hamlet- but only so as to contemn Pater's, actually Hemsturhuisian not Cyrenaic, yet nevertheless bestial, for Cantabrigian, Apostles amongst whose number Keynes stood forth most vulgar and unabashed.
Pater, as Harold Bloom points out, did treat of Hamlet as rising above the mere Pharaisaical arbitrage of the Law's virtuously severed head and Libetinage's' more and more madly violated, for for aye maiden bed, to deal with the exceptional- that which defeats Carl Schmitt's lame Hecuba defence of his own traitorous misprision- by reason of incarnating Agrippa's trilemma, the impossible Trinity of Father, Son and an Unholy Ghost.

Fuck.

It occurs to me I'm writing sophomore Eng Clit type shite.

Me!

I'm 52 and got serious drinking to do!

I'd better just cut to the chase-

Your wares to mourn, Saqi, unbind your hair

What Wine, now, can my Vision impair?

Bees in black tho' in red the blossom

Bankers are poets playing possum

When I was 17

Back then tanning salons were the last word in hi-tech; their receptionists, glacially blonde & remote

I appeared a 2 O level Bank Clerk, she, a PhD, in her lab coat

'Help me, for Christ's sake! That sun-bed set off a chain reaction- I look a nigger!'

Like a headless chicken she ran, Career blown, my finger on the trigger.

Theoria's farce

On being passed the sham'ma at the one mushaira held in my flat

I open this window through which jumps a tail-erect cat

So Ganesh and Shasti's vahans re-enact Theoria's farce

Of the Saqi's eye only caught by Tabby's arse.

To a nice White Professor who likes Manto & Mahashweta

Mahashweta Devi writes of a gang-raped tribal women but not of her own more or less distant relatives being butchered, violated, and ethnically cleansed on a far wider scale and in a more systematic manner in her own ancestral homeland.

Why?

Is it that her tribals-Dravidians like me, not Aryans, like her- could, still, at that time, be presented as 'uneducated', while her own vehicle to Class Power- and claim to authorial auctoritas as a 'Progressive' even 'Post Modern' intellectual- arose wholly out of such impotent Intellectual Credentials as can only be acquired by aborting a Civilisational, that is genuine for actually and empirically socio-geographical, computationally viable Schelling focal, solution to the Co-ordination problem for- as Prof Ken Binmore might say if I got him real drunk and held a gun to his head- the de-Kanted Carafe of the House Wine of the Folk Theorem's inter-subjective, Aesthetic?

Why does dusky 'Dopti' (Draupati, in the Mahabharata, had black skin- which is why she was named 'Krishna'- i.e. Black skinned), in 'Perfectly White' Mahashweta's short story, reveal her ravaged, bleeding, nakedness to the Culture-Vulture, albeit nominally Dravidanized and Imperialistic, Counter-Insurgency Chief, Senanayak? By doing so, she is breaking a cardinal rule of the hard core Naxal- she is revealing she is either already or potentially a leader.  Obviously, the thing for  Senanayak to do is to act out a pretense of shame, quote  a densely allusive, or Hunkadori, verse from a Hungrealist poet, get some NGO do-goodnik involved, release her and then keep tabs on her contacts or simply use her nakedly as an unwitting agent provocateur of Terrorism's self destructive stupidity.

Saadat Hasan Manto, in 'khol do', has a more sensible heroine. Hearing the words 'open it'- referring to the car window in which her rescuers are conveying her- she obediently starts unknotting the draw strings of her pajamas. This battered Sakina, oozing blood and pus, is nevertheless the Ousia of the true Shekinah- it makes the (presumably atheistical) Doctor's blood run cold; it overturns her father's attachment to Patriarchal sittlichkeit in howsoever bien pensant a form.

Manto, unlike Mahashweta, dies a drunken cadger, but only because his eyes have seen the glory- it seems his filmi P.W.A,  Bombay friends had urged their own too well-paid blinkers on him in vain-but the scandal here is not that the fucker's script for Ghalib didn't contain apocryphal shite like-

ḳhudā ke vāst̤e pardah nah kaʿbah se uṭhā vāʿiz̤
kahīñ aisā nah ho yāñ bhī vuhī kāfir ṣanam nikle!

Seek not, Simoniac, by lifting our  Cybele's veil, thy sin to atone

Lest El is revealed there eating out Porn Hub's Sunny Leone!

but, rather, that a drunken descendant of Abhinvagupta's votaries, showed himself, in articulo mortis, no stranger to shame- that is Nirlajjishvara.

The Shekinah's veils are God's mercy on us Mortals.
Ponder Abihu's fate, rather than place your faith in Progressivist Pinchas' halachah vein morin kein.

I recall an incident from about twenty years back.

A middle aged Pakistani gentleman- quite pukka, Aitchison College and all that- had graced our exiguous Iftar and regaled us with the story of his father, a General, who had been accorded every courtesy by the Saudis and given special access to 'kiss the Black Stone'.

After he left, a young Bangladeshi- good East London family, but a recovering addict- asked me to come outside because he wanted to say something to me in private. I was reluctant to go. The fact is, recovering British drug addicts make free of one's ciggies and I'm miserly in small matters.

Still, such was the fire in his eyes, I went. 

'The lips of a pig have touched the Ka'ba! Find out when the General is next visiting his son. That is all I ask. You do know, don't you, he told his troops to make sure to rape and kill every single one of your people whom they rounded up?'

I said- listen mate, I'm Dravidian. Fuck I care what you Aryans cunts do to each other? You guys ever give a shit what your Sinhala cousins been doin' to my Tamil peeps? As for pig lips and the Ka'bah- not my concern at all. There are people staying here whose Asylum Claim is going through. You bring down the Police on us, we'll gut you like a hilsa.

I'm lying. I didn't say any such thing. The truth is, though six foot and weighing 14 stone, I was probably frightened of this thin little recovering addict. What I actually said was something like-

'Ka'bah can never be desecrated. Like the Church, which is 'Bride of Christ', it is, as John Donne said, 'most pleasing to Thee then/ when most embraced and open to most men'.

Meanwhile, coz back then I was the Daily Mail's Black neighbor from Hell, Sabri Bros. had started blaring out 'shab ko mera janaza' from the Tape Deck-

Only Prayer & Fasting perfected our parting from Mother's pillowy breast

 Till baby Sakina elected to sleep on Husayn's battle hardened chest!

Not Drink, nor Death, has been, to this Dervish, a Saqi true

But, niece,- thy 'Al Atash ya Ammahu!'

Fuck is wrong with me? Time was when Poverty obliged me to keep fasts, Ugliness to observe continence, Stupidity to yield some Socially Utile species of heteroclite Obedience.

A Devdas manque, I couldn't even drink myself to death, like Majaz or Manto- but that was cool coz my poems and stories were too obviously, even to my own eyes, shite fed on shite. 

Tacitus, my first instructor in Ars Moriendi, recommended the 'gentle and unforcible' method of self-starvation- Jain Sallekhana- but then an aleatory act of what is unceasing in Jain generosity revealed even that horizon to be a but faltu or filmi Fata Morgana.

Fuck am I supposed to do, this drear Ramadan dusk without darkness, with Manto's Sakina as my only Saqi?

Seriously, I'm asking you, Prof,- fuck, I'm supposed to do?

Gandhi's Proserpina

Seeing Power as the Flower, Proserpina, frighted, let fall
Jatayu's aam Janata wing needst no longer appall
For Beauty's pilot wave had Nehru study Botany

Harmonize Linnaeus & Ruskin in Secular Monotony.

(aam Janata- the great mass of the ordinary people)

Of a mightier Bharat who yet might speak

My Dark Rum is that Krishna, whose son's parrot beak,

Of a mightier Bharat yet might speak
Seeing Earth as but a picnic packed
Till Heaven, All Mother, is again attacked

Envoi- 

Since only Sir Motley and his sprog taste the Chandogya's honey.
Prince! Make the Smart do Math so the Stupid make money

Dies Irae- Armenian version

We are those Armenians whose Sultan censors the word 'sword'

Till, surd, our throats learn it from his Hamidiye horde

 Whose Judas Silver will be their own tongue proscribed

Till all Bullion is by Christ's Blood bribed.