• Home
  • Posts
  • Comments
  • Edit
Blue Orange Green Pink Purple
Don’t forget there are two ways of being yourself…you can either show the straightforward picture, or else what is called the negative.

In the latter, light and shade are reversed; To the unaccustomed eye it seems ugly; But the likeness is in that, too, all the same.

undefined undefined

Shoelaces



i peer
at the crooked little teeth
behind the big ones
between wrinkles and weird maps
On your dark fair blue red skin
and i sleep so well.

I who have no god
am warmed
by the soft glow of your faith.

my father brother lover tormentor
my sin my fever my death my delight.
my shoelaces.

But
for you, a show
a hymn, a dress
cleansed of my blood.
for them, my bloodless virtue.

I shall dance to their song
I shall play the part.
I shall dance till my laces break.
Read More 17 comments | Posted by Peer Gynt edit post
undefined undefined

thli hur



He’s different, this one is. not the usual welcome gust of fresh air. though he does act fresh with you. 'fact, it would be safe to say that fresh is his middle name.

We’re all familiar with him. ask any skirt-clad school girl (current and ex)...or, if you ever get so lucky, marilyn’s ghost. she should know - he was her greatest asset. he's hardly ever ignored and is most widely met with exclamations of embarassment, indignation, (pleasure?), very often followed by peals of laughter and a flush of blush that stays on for a good bit.

ol' TH loves skirting up hillsides, through lonely, random stretches if the faintest possibility of catching a whiff of perfume, or even tanakha presents itself. he likes to flirt with the hem of a nun's habit, and has made many a pious monk lose his cool and his colour. i'm told the pundits in haridwar and banaras appeal to him daily, with flattering chants like "O Great TH, the ever-Humbling and Ever-powerful! Accept our humble offerings and leave our chaste dhotis alone (and unexposed) and O, p.s. have mercy especially at pujo and aarti..we are yours to do with as you please after (go bother our Naga brothers till then, surely they shouldn't mind?)" or some such incantation. and woe befall the monk who ignores this ritual. a tango with the great TH ensures that he doles out a lot more than just the desi ghee, if you get my *drift.

I have no idea how he does it, but his timing is always perfect. and don't get me started on his sense of humour. muahaah. he’s our one connection and don't you deny it. he's the tie that binds us all. my friends swear by him. his is the one mizo name they call out with unmatched relish, and at any random hour of the day.

He loves the beach, the pier, waterskiing, skydiving?, skating...well basically just about everything that you or i could do. he just does it better. and with oodles of oomph. a nice thing about him is that he don’t discriminate. not the great TH. he ain’t daunted by the young, the old, the devout or the sacrilegious. cos he bin ‘round for a long, long, long time. and if you're feelin lonely, he’ll be gracious enough to frequent your grave and blow over your pyre.

He’s worthy of a poem or two, and he's sho to inspire a few pretty soon, as the monsoon gives this country a last wild *blast.

Oh and don't ever forget that above all, he’s a Murakami zephyr.

(hopefully he’ll take this as a tribute and leave the nice people in pariong well alone. i know you’re watching you wicked old devil you).


note: the Mizo thli hur may be euphemistically translated to wind in heat. and yes, its a certified honest-to-goodness Mizo phrase :}
Read More 15 comments | Posted by Peer Gynt edit post
undefined undefined

blue




you’re the colour of the two-headed dragon
the colour of lemma’s horns
of death
addiction
of frightening little pills
of a warholized world

the colour of love
unrequited and quitted
the colour of my mother’s thumb
sewed with the needle of a sewing machine
of the little bald patch on her scalp

what would you say if I told you
you make me want to go colour blind.
Read More 17 comments | Posted by Peer Gynt edit post
undefined undefined

tears for hollywood



dripping lashes
unfiltered for you, Tutsi child
like vinegar on your red chopped salad.

Heavy fag drags in an auto rickshaw.

Redlight and the little beggar boy.
stumps for arms
stumps for alms
Reach in. make love to your adrenalin.
plug ears. sexy music.
Whole Lotta Love
on repeat.

tears for hollywood
but none for thee, beggar boy.
Read More 15 comments | Posted by Peer Gynt edit post
undefined undefined

A Ray of Song



She knocked gently on our door one bleary-eyed morning at 8 am and whispered in my ear ... seems the landlady told her i was looking for someone who'd do some of the chores. My heart skipped a beat. I can barely keep up a bed, let alone a 1½ room house. But i was still apprehensive as the last one started bunking so much that she started coming in less than once a week (much as i love bunking, i don't like being bunked on). She was also a little scary. She even frightened Joe a little, though he wouldn’t admit to it.

Gita is a Bangladeshi refugee. Her name, literally translated, means 'song'.

She works for my neighbour upstairs. A neighbour without a face and a name. She plays rough with her maid so i'd rather keep her faceless and nameless. For Gita's sake. She might not be able to read this, but maybe her children will one day.

She told me she was staying as a permanent house maid upstairs and that she needed to make more money as her brother at home was sick. Personally, i think its because she wants to elope with her man - the electrician who comes round to fix things up and whom she can't help flirting shamelessly with. There's something special goin on 'tween those two. And like an old maid i look on indulgently as he, from high up his ladder flirts back while fixing my burnt wires. Real Chemistry. or should i say, Electricity. My wires are happy and so am i.

My humdrum life has brightened up not a little because this little refugee bird breezed in with her cheery chatter and near-compulsive obsession with cleanliness. Her eyes glaze dangerously when tackling a particularly stubborn spot on the floor. Pardon me, Gita. I'm bigger (read: larger) than you, physically. But you're far from little when it comes to the things that count.

Joe and I knew it'd catch up on us sooner or later. Either our friends would mention it, or worse, any of our folks who’d come a-visiting. At first we'd talk about them. Hem. Haw. Fret. Fuss. And finally we discreetly shelved them aside...hoping they'd help themselves. And they did. Or rather, Gita did. And how. Seems they were the first things she noticed. She borrowed her boyfriend's ladder and rid our two fans of all the grime and smoke and ashes they'd been forced to wear for the better part of the year. As she gave each blade a thorough scrubbing while Joe and I balanced her rickety old ladder to keep her from toppling over (it was a classic piece this, with twine keeping the rungs together), I felt tempted to tell her that once, a bit of shit possibly did hit the fan. But i doubt if a bit of shit would stop Gita the Dynamo.

Separately, Gita and i can barely hold up a conversation in Hindi. But between her Hindi laced generously with Bangla and my half-mizo half-bengali half-baked Hinglish, we communicate perfectly.

I'd been so possessive of my solitude that i was a little nonplussed when I found that she couldn’t stop chattering. And its not all the time that i understand her. Gita, who smiled bashfully and turned a purple red when she met Joe for the first time, did nothing to hide her disapproval when she found me sleeping while she did the dishes. I guess she thought she could ‘snap me out of it' by chattering loudly. When that didn't work, she improvised - true to her name, by breaking loudly into song using the dishes as cymbals. I'd grunt and groan but wouldn't give in. So she'd make more noise by picking up shoes and, by way of arranging them, aim them at the shelf from three feet high. She'd 've aimed from a lot higher up had her horizons been less challenged. vertically.

I'd throw her a sly peeved peep from the corner of my eye. She'd catch it, grin and say "OooOOh Didi so rahi hai" and make mock attempts at keeping it lower. But this turned out to be far more excruciating because then she'd surprise you when you least expected it. But I was resolute. It now took three pillows to drown out her 'morning music'.

So Gita finally decided to address the sleeping elephant in the room directly. I braced myself, muttering under my breath that i wouldn't go down (or in this case, get up) without a fight. But i'd underestimated her. She's subtle. And oh is she sly! She said she was convinced that the mattress needed airing - up on the terrace. But because didi's so tired, would she mind shifting to the other room for a while? I fumed. I fretted. Turned my back to her and blinked furiously at the wall. I could feel a lump of tearful indignant anger choking me at the thought of every precious minute of sleep i had to give up. There is nothing the insomniac guards more jealously than her few winks of sleep in the morning. I felt like firing her. Felt like a stupid baby.

But i decided that two could play at the same game. So i asked her to air the mattress every day. It took a toll on us both. On the fourth day, i summoned the little (koff) dignity i had left and told her (quite self-righteously), that that was quite enough. That surely the sun was seeing more of my mattress than i was and so forth. Gita of course acquiesced. She knew she'd won and when to shut up. I've given up on sleep while she's around...which not surprisingly, has done wonders for my insomnia and acidity. I now breakfast nearly every second morning.

When i'd sunk myself so deep in my pathetic self-pitying misery that i stopped looking upward altogether, it was Gita who pointed out that we had cobwebs up on the ceiling. Gita who doesn’t blink an eye while I light up my nth cigarette and help myself to my nth glass of red, looks on protectively while i deal with every man who comes by the house in Joe’s absence...be it the newspaper guy or the milkman. The money I have to pay them even, has to first pass through Gita's hands. But not before she counts it again and hands it over...with an extra dose of 'suspicious' in her look. Gita who picks my clothes off the terrace and into her little bucket so they still have the smell of the sun in them. She’d sneak down to give them to me...footsteps of her Memsaab leaving the house still echoing on the stairs below. More than anything, I really think she enjoys her daily dose of espionage. She would love Agatha Christie. I should expand my Bangla-Hindi and try translating some of it for her.

I suppose it’s the solitude that makes me feel nurtured with Gita around.
And with results. Over the weeks ’ve become tidier. Alarmingly so. I’ve become this little kid all over again who can’t wait for mother to see the room clean for once. 've lain in wait this weekend for her to see the kitchen I’ve taken pains to tidy up. Its my little surprise for her. And also just to show her that this here lady can also do her bit of housework...some of the time. Can’t wait for her to look below the rice container on the shelf and see that ‘ve spread fresh newspaper on it.

've got to think of a fitting adjective that starts with a G, for her. And all I’ve come up with so far is Dynamic. I can’t very well call her Gynamic Gita as the word faintly suggests gyration and others, also gynae-related. Garrulous Gita? maybe. But that doesn’t do her justice enough. It has to have more spunk to it. Oh dear. There it goes again. The totally unintended pun .

I selfishly hope she doesn't save enough to elope too soon.

I also hope I can have the honour of becoming god-mother to her (future) children.

If I ever get so lucky, I’ll name the girl Thumbelina and the boy, Thumble. With their mother's permission, of course.

Read More 15 comments | Posted by Peer Gynt edit post
undefined undefined

Chronically MonoChromatic


[This post may be taken as a belated response to the comment(s) made by a few people (oh who are we kidding? > let’s narrow it down to say, comment #2 in particular) on March 17, 2009 of http://www.misual.com/2009/03/17/barack-obama-is-31pc-irish/ regarding the purported dubiousness of Barack Obama's image owing to his err...mixed lineage, also referred to as ‘thlahpawlh’ in Mizo. In this particular comment, mixed lineage has most unfortunately, (to echo Blind Dayze's sentiments on the subject) been crudely associated with significantly reduced trustworthiness or in Mizo, ‘rinawm nep’. Other colourful options have also been underlined in some of the comments under the same link. As my post awaits moderation at the said site, i have gone ahead and posted it on MY blog].

Extract:
chawnghilh Says:
March 17th, 2009 at 8:18 pm

"Lai tawng chuan KAHPIAH, Zotawngin THLAH PAWLH … a dum leh var inchawhpawlh a nih miau avangin Artist huang atanga sawi fiah dawn chuan ‘Obama is GREY’ kan ti thei ang —GREYHOUND ni em lovin! Photographical takin ‘Obama is Monochrome’ a tih theih bawk awm e..
Tin, BLACK leh WHITE hi art lam atang chuan COLOR an ni lo ve ve a; kan Celebrity thenkhat, “Eng kawr rawng nge i ngainat zawng?” tia zawhna A DUM, A VAR tia chhang maiho hian Lemziakna Sikul an la dai lut hman rih lo tih a tarlang chiang!
>> DUM chiah lo, VAR chiah lo hi “an rinawm nep” tiin an lo insawi ve tho mai! Thlah pawlh an engemaw deuhva hnam tinin kan sawi ang tho hian!”


————————————————————————————

Though one is very rarely inclined to wax offensive, comments like these can appeal to one's baser, more defensive instincts, making one quite favourably disposed to spout expletives of the foulest water, though preferably, one would perhaps want to rise above the mud and dirt and maintain an austere silence. But it has been decided that austerity, at this point, just does not cut it. So one shall do neither.

Ye-es, one shall soil one's hands a little by offering a few (to spurn a better word)... recommendations.

Think Tiger Woods and Halle Berry, Pushkin and Dostoevsky, Norah Jones and Bryan Clay, Marley and Hendrix, Alicia Keys and Harry Belafonte, Malcolm X and Ben Kingsley, Naomi Campbell and The Rock, Vin Diesel and Tina Turner. This is recommended for blogger chawnghilh (and his ilk)…though one is left in serious doubt as to whether this would be sharp enough to pierce, putting it bluntly, this surface of singular bluntness...will one succeed where Obama has failed to make a dent? Makes one wonder if perhaps the pure of blood are also thick of skin...not to rule out exceptions of course.

But let us proceed nonetheless.

So to continue with chawnghilh, his comments and the prescriptive recommendations, if he hasn’t heard of either Pushkin or Clay, of Malcolm X or Dostoevsky, it is recommended that he take the time to look them up. Their half bred lives have moved many a soul, sung many a song, told many a tale and run many a race - literally and otherwise, than many of the lives led by the so-called ‘pure’ of blood. Not that one is trying to make this in any way a contest. It is entirely up to him, but it would be appreciated if he were to take this as pure, unadulterated retaliation. Yes, it is rather hoped that it would have the effect of water on smoldering charcoal...or hybrid Nirvana to the hitherto insensitive mind.

It is also keenly prescribed that he exercises this freedom and one might go so far as to further advise him to test the efficacy of this exercise on the intelligence of his off-spring (though this may regretfully have profound, untold repercussions…as one shudders to think of what yardstick may be employed for this purpose). But studies have shown that such ‘exercise’ oft begets heightened intelligence and beauty – speaking largely in terms of future progeny...and yes, the intended albeit thinly veiled pun.

It is also requested of the aforementioned blogger that he kindly elucidate - to the few here who have been left yearning for enlightenment, as to what is meant by his rather embarrassingly prejudiced comment… “thlah pawlh an engemaw deuhva hnam tinin kan sawi ang tho hian!”, and what exactly is “engemaw deuh” and lastly, who exactly he means/includes when he says ‘kan’ in ‘‘kan sawi ang tho hian” (??!) This we ask of you because mentioning Obama and “engemaw deuh” in the same breath does not exactly prove the stupefying point you were trying to make...that is indeed, if you were trying to make one at all.

P.S. One would also like to add that monochrome photography yields a range of no less than 256 beautiful shades – otherwise called the ‘Grayscale’...or, at the obvious risk of sounding redundant, different shades of gray. But this is another very telling scent you’ve allowed us to pick up - that for some people out there, gray is just not a colour or an option (and perhaps not the most “happening” place to be). So to speak in figurative terms, it is either black Or white, and hardly ever black AND white. Tsk. Tsk. Dear chawnghilh (and ilk), I fear I am getting to know you all too well. Do remember that Monochrome basically means the resulting blend of many, many bright colours…and that gray can be beautiful - to the polychromatic eye.

P.P.S. If we take this point a tad further, the symptomatic condition ‘Monochromacy’ also means total colour blindness – the complete inability to distinguish colours…more food for thought. One is compulsively led to think...‘now doesn’t that ring an awfully familiar bell?’ And while delving into the recesses of one’s memory, the mind is allowed to wander for just a bit…and pop forth a juicy, tempting question: What would happen if we, or at least the few of us who find it beyond ourselves to take in too much “colour” at a time, were all Monochromatic...??

...with this last afflatic spurt, our rusty old bell finally hits home with startling clarity. Old Hippocampus and her sisters tremble with the once forgotten, newly remembered, resounding clang of ....World Peace!

Disclaimer: The addressee is requested to kindly not be misled...by this seemingly innocuous conclusion, into taking this as a peaceful, conciliatory post.
Read More 11 comments | Posted by Peer Gynt edit post
undefined undefined

The First of a Thousand and One Nights





My King,


How does one begin with you? I've clothed you and christened you with magical names so we can both fly to lands unknown and see sights never before seen...and yet, a part of me feels hesitant to give you anything in writing because the 'world' is going to see it sooner or later and deliver its judgement. And of this last, i am terrified.


But therein lies your charm...you've aroused my curiosity enough for me to take my first few steps up on the 'feeling friendly on the www' ladder. As i suck in that department. Perhaps we won't last, you and I. You might find me too tiresome and chop off my head. Then again, perhaps you'll have me playing Scheherazade to your Shahryar - for the first thousandandone lonely nights at least.


And you for your part, woo me. Woo me with love and pain, with loneliness and all the things that a lover and king demands of his servant and I'll come back to you, weave for you a thousandandone magical tales and together, your canvas could take us to lands unknown and sights never before seen...


Read More 3 comments | Posted by Peer Gynt edit post
Newer Posts Home

In the Hall of the Mountain King

  • Wanderlüst in Hard-Boiled Wonderlünd..
      .
  • letters

    • illusionaire
      Chp 908. Reunion venue!
      3 months ago
    • Travel Blog | PedalledPennings
      A tough Goodbye to a Dear Friend
      9 years ago
    • The Twilight zone
      A spring time study
      10 years ago
    • Angel Dust and Bones
      A Guide to the Aircraft of Tintin Volume 1
      11 years ago
    • Learning to Live | Blind Dayze
      Of Beginnings and Endings
      11 years ago
    • bottle broke
      14 years ago

    old books

    Shelfari: Book reviews on your book blog

    Labels

    • a thousandandone arabian nights (1)
    • beggar (1)
    • blessing (1)
    • blue (1)
    • Different shades of Gray (1)
    • first blog (1)
    • Gita (1)
    • song (1)
    • the Hybrid Hangover (1)
    • thli (1)
    • tutsi (1)
    • wind (1)

    Blog Archive

    • ►  2013 (1)
      • ►  February (1)
    • ►  2012 (2)
      • ►  November (1)
      • ►  June (1)
    • ►  2010 (4)
      • ►  October (1)
      • ►  March (1)
      • ►  February (1)
      • ►  January (1)
    • ▼  2009 (7)
      • ▼  November (1)
        • Shoelaces
      • ►  September (2)
        • thli hur
        • blue
      • ►  August (1)
        • tears for hollywood
      • ►  July (1)
        • A Ray of Song
      • ►  April (2)
        • Chronically MonoChromatic
        • The First of a Thousand and One Nights
  • Search






    • Home
    • Posts RSS
    • Comments RSS
    • Edit

    © Copyright In the Hall of the Mountain King. All rights reserved.
    Designed by FTL Wordpress Themes | Bloggerized by FalconHive.com
    brought to you by Smashing Magazine | Distributed by Deluxe Templates

    Back to Top