A pacific storm is story of animals and man, their together on the sea, with a gust of wind in the aft, a Bengal tiger prowling ,a sailor dead, a zebra, a hyena for not laughing ,a boy on flotation to three gods for praying.
The pi has to live off the sea air, its drinking water. The pi has no life, a variable radius with center drifting away in storm to the carnivorous islands where algae throttles lives of God-seeker boys who live in concentric circles, widening circles,the last one of which they may not complete.*
The pi has to circle around his God like a falcon or like the storm around a boat ,on its flotation. It is a story’s version that makes the difference .
(After viewing the film Life of Pi. -* Reference is to Rilke’s poem Widening Circles )
We talked of Kolkata’s garbage boys scavenging on our poverty steeped in glory ,their cheeks gone pale with knowledge amid Nobel prizes lost and not found, their brown sugar level intact in blood from their cigarettes puffed in silver rings.
This morning we have read about some Boston boys scavenging, in the forties, on mountains of putrid Western glory. Thank God we are level with the guys in the developed countries.. Now we do not carry giant size hurt egos any longer, on our drooping shoulders.
He came with a heart in body wet in eyes over other bodies that cried pain in their bones.He that went in a forest search found fingers gone ,heart beat missing over fingers in garland.Old man bent in many crooks. Man was mere body under sky.
We wear hearts on minds that beat electrocardiographs,worried sick about plumbing.
We are bodies he fretted over.
We are the ones connected on our roads and in justice courts. Our speech blares like ambulances of reverse alphabets on the rear view.
Cops in over sized knickers pay their obeisances to us under their headless caps. Hangers-on are ready with outstretched palms to gather dried flowers from our lips.
Here in this vast winter land we are connected to many faceless humans by dreams ,hardly the men and women walking their barefoot for us ,an extra mile, an extra slogan.
Now we try these blue birds drop like them in 140 chars .Our bird tweets will re-tweet to come back from the walls we have erected everywhere in the silence of your nights.
In between we buy a Tablet. At the plaza where glitz spills in the hall and the corridors of efficient silence.
The tablets abound in stories. Stories of a prude Helmer and his wife Nora ,trying to echo feminist cries in the nineteenth century. Stories of giant insects one finds oneself transformed into. A metamorphosis.
The cold weighs you down. In the head, a brandy might help lighten. But with that kind of smell one feels like a watchman looking for sorrow-escapes in the basement. Heck, this is an annual affair. The cold is a frivolous game played in the head. Nothing serious.