jai-mardhekarki dept.

In the water-drum, drown the hapless mice
Necks broken, and by no strangler's hands
Lip falls on lip, and without a struggle,
Their still heads , lifeless, hang

Their's, a pitiful lot -- survival in a hole
and death in a drum, with a hiccup
and the day spills down over their eyes
and washes their impotent genitals

Life is an obligation, here
And death -- an obligation too.

The gift of despondency:
A poison sight; glaring through glass eyes
Even the beeswax mildewed on their lips
Is cheap bakelite, bakelite

And again, they meet, lip touches lip
the drowning mice, bathing in the dip

-- Bal Sitaram Mardhekar

(with my sincere apologies to the deceased)

stone-cold dept.

A very interesting experience. One of my relatives recently called me stone-headed, but in a very elegant and sophisticated manner. I was visiting him (only reluctantly) with some of my other cousins, and I did not utter a word during their conversation. So while showing me out, this guy points to what looks like a tree stump and says, "And here's something of special interest to you...". So I guess its petrified wood, and to my unbounded amusement, I realise what he's implying.

back-again dept.

As with all other things, suddenly I feel myself losing the urge to continue with this thing. Being creative is so hard, there's a dull ache in my brain everytime I end up creating something. And even then, its only an amalgamation of things that I've seen before, mixed up so that it isn't very obvious.