Ghalib in Canada

What does it mean to say- this is Ghalib’s verse? He devised it, perhaps revised it, and did or did not include it in his published divan?
Nothing. It means nothing to say that. Why? The sentence is well formed, indeed, is wholly poetic but- ‘sher-e-khub ma'ni nah daarad’- a good poem has no meaning- none!- no, not once Ghalib’s name is invoked.
In contrast, to say- thus did ‘Ustad Ghalib’ develop our present theme- and then proceed to quote Momin (as happens here at 06.44)- is poetic, nay!, theopoetic, for that diplomatically elided ‘Momin’ qualifies, rewards and makes rewarding, ‘Ustad Ghalib’ more even than the setting- viz a Hindu temple in Canada, over-run by fractious children, to which, no doubt, for some salutary, papoose chastening, purpose, have been invited Qawwali singers from Pakistan.
To say of a bunch of words that they represent a poem by so and so is also to say that, in some sense, they are holographic of the poet’s entire oeuvre.
Ghalib, famously, is said to have wished to trade his entire Divan for one couplet of Momin’s- viz.
With me, you then appear
When no other is near.
That his wish was granted in an infidel’s idol-house, and that too by indirection- it is Momin’s ‘ Twixt you & I- what passed, do you remember or not?’ that Farid Ayaz Qawwal attributes to Ghalib- is, of course, a too-consummate-to-appear-artless touch and so, quite correctly, the Canadian little Krishnas, from-their-Saturday-morning-Cartoon-combats-too-Kansa-cruelly-kept-away, howl outrage in the background.

This is Krishna's tragedy- a nice, naughty, little person whose job is to conquer impossible demons and be the innocent consort of impassable Saints- yet trapped, by who won't outgrow him, into friendship, into philosophy, into music, into poetry- he has no choice but to accept the role of pharmakos and, by his theophany- that condign self-praise which, he tells Arjuna, is also a sinless self-slaughter- himself himself do away so only Duty remain.
Love is ontic, Faith deontic- as Ghalib said (where?)
No arrow swift outshoots this quiver
Faith is the gift of an Indian giver.

Religion and Democracy- what Mahatma Gandhi actually said.

It is not often that I find occasion to quote Mahatma Gandhi approvingly in this blog.

This is what he said to Romain Rolland-
"Since Religion is like one's own Mother, the only two possible things Democratic Politics can say about it are almost equally offensive- viz-
(1) 'Your Mom's a ho and her ass soooo fat'
(2) 'Far from being a prostitute, our Mother is a beautiful, well educated and cultured virgin, my continued pimping for whom confers such inestimable benefits on the commonweal that like just elect me already .'
"Personally, I prefer (1) coz a Mom can be a ho with a big fat ass without ceasing to be a good Mom- which is the only thing that matters, unless your name is Oedipus.
"The problem is, if you vote for people who call your Mom a ho- it emboldens them to make you their bitch."

The question we must ask ourselves is must this always be the case? Might not the defect lie in indigenous democracy as opposed to that imported or imposed under the rubric of 'when America fucks you in the ass, Democracy is the reach-around'?
Only time will tell.
Monsieur Rolland informs me that he is available to speak to Primary School Students in the West London area till the end of the week.
I trust the Local Education Authority will lose no time in snapping up so distinguished a public speaker.

Ghalib's 'Husn ghamze ki kashakash

ḥusn ġhamze kī kashākash se chhuṭā mere baʿd
bāre ārām se haiñ ahl-e jafā mere baʿd
manṣab-e sheftagī ke koʾī qābil nah rahā
huʾī maʿzūlī-e andāz-o-adā mere baʿd
shamʿa bujhtī hai to us meñ se dhuvāñ uṭhtā hai
shuʿlah-e ʿishq siyah-posh huʾā mere baʿd
ḳhūñ hai dil ḳhāk meñ aḥvāl-e butāñ par yaʿnī
un ke nāḳhun huʾe muḥtāj-e ḥinā mere baʿd
dar-ḳhvur-e ʿarẓ nahīñ jauhar-e bedād ko jā
nigah-e nāz hai surme se ḳhafā mere baʿd
hai junūñ ahl-e junūñ ke liye āġhosh-e vidāʿ
chāk hotā hai garebāñ se judā mere baʿd
kaun hotā hai ḥarīf-e mai-e mard-afgan-e ʿishq
hai mukarrar lab-e sāqī meñ ṣalā mere baʿd
ġham se martā hūñ kih itnā nahīñ dunyā meñ koʾī
kih kare taʿziyat-e mihr-o-vafā mere baʿd
āʾe hai bekasī-e ʿishq pah ronā ġhālib
kis ke ghar jāʾegā sailāb-e balā mere baʿd

Our Eyes' duel, Beauty won & haply, for I’m dead
Happy Herrenvolk, Belsen, now homestead

& demobbed, its propaganda, can go populate Uganda
Now Madness has no War Minister in my stead

When a candle dies- such hues of rue as then arise
Dyes passion’s fire that, while I lived, was red.

Could someone go tell Hali, these idols are all Kali!
White nailed for, my heart, they white bled.

She spits at her mascara, it has undone its wearer
Now on Cruelty’s koh-i-noor, to death, I have fed

Madness, to the Mad, is what my parting embrace said-
‘Will you tear yet your collar? I tore off my head!’

Passion’s Wine still flows though its paladins have all fled
My pall’s the Saqi’s call, so fuck off all youse to bed!

For Faith, faithless is to what Light, as Love, wed
Men of straw bear its tazia of lead

Whence came, Ghalib, the teary floods that you shed?
& to whose door will they go, now you're dead?

Bhajan Sing!

The Seth had ingratiated himself with the Yuv Raja, by settling his brothel bills, when the latter was a student in Calcutta. Later, after his Uncle, the Maharaja, unexpectedly died and the young reprobate came to the throne, the Seth moved to our State.
Within a decade he had ruined all the merchants of the district, the Scottish Engineer alone- who held the Water & Power contract- being immune to his machinations.
But, the day Mountbatten became Viceroy, the Scotsman called the Seth to him and told him to name his best price. Otherwise, he would sell out to a Marwari concern, Bombay side.
The Sethji scuttled hither and thither, conslulting Congressmen and Courtesans, Astrologers and Black Magicians, but neither slander nor intrigue nor bribed witnesses nor venal agitators could prevail against the Scotsman and his Bombay side, Marwari, connection.
For the first time in his life, the Seth had to pay a fair price for the assets the Scotsman was leaving behind.
On parting from the Seth, the Scotsman looked troubled. There was one thing on his conscience. It was Bhajan Singh- his driver and mechanic. He had planned to take Bhajan Singh with him, to East Africa, where he was relocating.
But without Bhajan Singh's skills, not the car merely but much of the Electrical and Water Pump machinery would soon be useless.
In any case, Bhajan Singh had put down roots in the State. He would go with the Scotsman, whose salt he had eaten, but what he really wanted was to remain behind in his accustomed place and occupation.
The Seth agreed to keep on Bhajan Singh as his driver.
However, within a few short days, the following interchange occurred between them-
Seth- (from the back seat) 'Bhajan Singh, Bhajan Singh- Bhajan sing!
Bhajan Singh- (driving the car) Jo hukum! Woh jo hum mein tum mein qaraar tha..."
Seth- That is Ghazal not Bhajan. If your name was Ghazal Singh then it is all right for you to sing Ghazal. However since name is Bhajan Singh kindly sing Bhajan only.
Bhajan Singh- Sorry, Sethji, I only know Ghazal.

The Seth dismissed him and hired a good Bhajan Singer. Unfortunately he was a bad driver and got involved in a traffic accident in which the Seth was badly injured. Worse, his patron, the Maharaja, was killed. Suddenly, the Seth found himself bankrupt and awaiting trial in prison.
Meanwhile the true culprit- viz. Bhajan Singh- had slyly fucked off to East Africa where, with the Scotsman's help he became a millionaire.

In upholidng our indigenous Gandhian-Socialist tradition of fighting Fuedalistic- -neo-Comprador-Capitalism-with-Tecnnocratic-face, of which no more saintly luminary existed than our late Chief Minister, we should never forget or forgive the perfidious treachery of Bhajan Singh which almost brought that great soul to ruin.

This is true meaning of Democracy. Mind it!

Whale cum

I was inspired to write this poem after a visit to a learned Lacanian Sufi/Buddhist ascetic, whose doormat, rather than spelling out 'Welcome' bore the impress of the ejaculate of the largest of marine animals thus pithily prompting the seeker-after-truth to question the whole of Sassurean linguistics- not the axiom of categoricity merely.

Morality is blind Samson’s pillar

& Immortality the Mind’s caterpillar

Of Barzakh’s butterfly dream

& Bardot’s Thodol scream

Which is another way to say

Isthmus ’twixt my salt tears & such wine sweet as she appears

Might not this Iyer write Sufi shite today?

Or must Pico fucking monopolize Gay?

Tell me about your period?

It has long been in my mind to write a brief guide to etiquette for Oriental sojourners in London, the Capital City of the British Empire.

Perhaps, the social custom which occasions the visitor most discomfort is that whereby, at dinner, a gentleman is seated between two ladies with whom, strictly in turn, it is obligatory to converse.

Bear in mind, it is considered unseemly to turn the conversation to abstruse metaphysical or nakedly erotic themes. Nor does it do to be very pertinacious in inquiry, or overly solicitous, with reference to such matters as fall within the ken of the female mind. A happy medium is struck by asking, in a tone of well bred indifference, the question- 'tell me about your period?'- especially given that Oriental guests are invariably seated between ladies of great antiquity who may well be flattered by the suggestion that they remain subject to that form of abject uncleanness.

My illustrious student, the late Sir Syed Ahmed Khan, improved upon my suggested opening by deploying a whole repertoire of conversational gambits such as- "Cor! that must make your eyes water!", or 'Nice weather for ducks!" and of course "Shame about that hat!" which tended to keep things humming along nicely and gained him an enviable reputation as a modern Rouchefoucauld.

In less able hands, however,- here, I am regretfully obliged to speak of a scion of the cadet branch of the distinguished Bengali family which glories in the hereditary right to hold the 'Chattri' over, H.E, the Governor General at the Calcutta Durbar- even the most rigorous repetition of the question "tell me about your period?" does not always prevent the conversation from flagging and, in consequence, young Rabindranath was obliged to cover his head in ashes and consent to rustication on his family's country estates.

In my next post I will write about the disastrous impact, on the conduct of the second Round Table Conference, of Barrister Mohandas's (not, it must be said, unprecedented) gaffe in addressing the question 'tell me about your period?' to, not the Dowager Queen Alexandra, as he supposed, but His Serene Highness, the Aga Khan.

Since Structure not Language can

Since Structure not Language can, nor its Stems to rose suppose
For paws muddy & couch, Lacan, smacked's a doggy nose
Or nuzzles forth my muzzle to but puzzle at her ear
She'd shoo me away, being drear & near to tear

E'er to growling and prowling & bitter yelping too prone
Silent I now sit as she texts him on her phone
Summer's scents still invite to its dappled delights explore
Till, diffident, a new knock on her old Daddy's door.