Thoughts induced by witnessing the death of a Dictator

"Gorte khotom Gaddafi!"

That's what the Bengali daily shouted out today morning. Muammar Al-Gaddafi, that Libyan guy with wicked looks, he's dead now. And so comes to an end of the bloodiest portion of the Arab Spring(hopefully), a string of democratic revolutions going on in the Middle-East ever since last year, around December. Among the countries in which the disruptions took place, Libya went through the bloodiest one . 9 months, almost. And now, it's over. Meanwhile, a lot of things have happened in the world scenario. Protests all across Europe, 15-M movement, London protests, Occupy Wall Street, Anti-corruption movement in India, protests carried out by the middle class. It seems like other than Latin America, the rest of the world, it's burning in some sacrificial pyre. And all this while, we, I atleast, kinda' forgot about Libya, that little country in North Africa, and whatever that was happening in there.

  As you all know already, I won't go into details and waste your time, and my finger muscles. The Libyan Civil War 2011, it all started on 15th Feb with peaceful protests, and Gaddafi, I guess he sensed something rotten in the state, decided to crash the party with his military boys. And so it all began, Libya was on fire. But unlike in neighbouring Egypt and Tunisia, where Mubarak and Ben Ali, the two rulers were disposed off without much of a fight, Libya got tangled into its own bloody mesh, and a civil war ensued between the Gaddafi loyalists, and the rest of them. And it went on for so long, that we forgot there was a country out there, getting all messed up, a bit more messed up than the others. Only maybe once or twice a month we'd see updates about Libya, how the NATO forces were doing a good job, at being the nosy bastards that they are, how the America and her allies were slowly gaining a hold on to Libyan soil, because it is rich with that liquid gold, which has kept them busy for the past two decades, and how the tug of war was continuing between the Rebels, and the Gadaffists.

  And then, bang! Yesterday, in the evening, all the news channels started announcing Gaddafi's death, how he was shot in the head and abdomen, how he shouted out asking for mercy, how it was a victory of the people. Then, videos surfaced, and all the channels, as if in a macabric sense of joy, started showing them. There was one in which he was still alive, all bloodied and tired, and in another, his limp body, already dead, most probably, was being kicked around. Rifle shots were being fired, joyous celebrations all around, it was a gory, almost surreal sense of victory.

  Now, I'm no fan of the man, and inside my mind, I wanted him dead as much as any other sane minded person out there. But to see his death, the man who was heralded once as the "King of Kings of Africa", to see that man, who was feared by the high and mighty US to have been included in their list of "Axis of Terror", to see that man, who was once a saviour, now the oppressor, lie there, on that pavement, in his own pool of blood, and all those men celebrating his death, who once bowed before him out of respect, and then out of fear, was disturbing, somehow. No, blood and gore don't disturb me much, it was something else. Just to see what the common man can do to even the mightiest of individuals, is disturbing. It is an oft quoted line, and maybe the truest one: It is us who make a ruler out of a living man, and it is us who make a dead man out of a ruler (I don't know the exact line, but you get my point). Just being conscious of one's own power, it comes as a shocker, ain't it so my friends? The common man is the one who has the power, not any politicians, not the 1% cream of the globe, not that rich man inside his posh villa, but the regular, average, generally apathetic man on the street.

  Gaddafi may be dead, but it ain't over, the battle in Libya, just like it ain't over in Egypt, in Tunisia, in Palestine, in Europe, in America, in Myanmar, in China, in India. The fire, yeah, it's burning, and there ain't enough water in the world at present to dash off that fire.

Yeah, it's burning a good deal.

Bus Ride (not a love story)

  He watched the girl get up on the bus. Hot, she was. He wished she'd come and sit beside him, it was empty, the place beside him. He wished she'd just come and sit beside him, if not, for two minutes. But no. He was on the sunny side of the road, and wasn't the sun harsh on the sunny side. He didn't want to sit there, but the other side of the bus, the dark side, all the seats were taken there. So he had to sit here. But she, she has decided to stand, instead of sitting beside him. But for how long, she'd have to choose a side at one point of time. He saw she had a backpack. He thought whether he should ask for it to hold for her. He didn't. He saw she was sweating. It was a hot day, the sun was making it evident. The conductor urged the girl to sit somewhere. Yes, that's it. Force her emotionally to sit down somewhere. He was sure about tipping the conductor now.
   The girl, she was moving now. Yes, that's it, she was moving towards his sit. Jackpot!!
She sat down beside him. And he flushed up. Must be because of the sun. Damn suns these days, make you look inappropriate at the appropriate moments. He started observing her more closely. She had pretty hair, all curly and spaghetti like. She had a really cute face. A mole, god, a mole. She had to be the perfect chick ever! Pretty eyes, oh love, pretty eyes. And those lips. He saw a few strangles of hair sticking to her wet cheeks. He sighed. Then his sight gazed down. Nice tits, man, what he wouldn't give to get a feel of them. And although she was wearing a funky tee, he thought maybe he should try get a glimpse for a bit more. He didn't though, instead, he shifted his gaze to her legs. Sexy, man, real sexy. And long. He was right, she was the perfect chick. And she should have realised he was ogling at her. He sneaked a gaze towards her eyes. They were closed. She had her eyes closed. Dear lord, this must have been his lucky day.
   Wouldn't he love to cuddle up with this bomb here. He was already imagining undressing her. It was quite a few months since he had broken up, and it wouldn't be impolite to say that he was fucking horny! His daydream suddenly got disturbed. She was resting her head on his shoulders. He could smell her hair. Oh, that hair. Every hot girl has that faint, sweet smell in their hair. The wind, it was making her curly hairs all restless. Yes, they needed to be touched, to be caressed. He wondered if she had a boyfriend. Sure he had, all cute girls have boyfriends. Still, maybe he should ask for her number when she wakes up. He could understand the weight on his shoulders increasing. God, he should just hold her tight. Oh, how he wanted to hold her tight. The sun, it wasn't that harsh anymore. It was beautiful, the  sunshine outside, the wind, the speeding bus, she, and he, and them.
  But it was time to get up. He looked outside, yuup, it was time to get up. But how, she still had her heads on his shoulder. He couldn't just push her away, could he? He moved a bit, rather squirmed in his seat. No response, she's fast asleep. Poor kid. He tapped her on the shoulder
- Umm, miss?
No respone.
- Hellooow, miss? Excuse me?
Damn. He was getting irritated now. What the heck, he just stood up, pushing her head away.

She dropped on the floor. The whole of the bus, the sunny sided people, the dark sided people, everyone gasped. Some were looking at him with suspicion.

- Ki holo dada?
- Arre, meyetar ki hoyechhe?
- Ei chhokra ke jiggesh korun na, nishchoi jaane. Prem tem korchhilo to eksathe.
- O bhai, ki case?

He was flabbergasted. What the fuck man!

- Jani na kaku, ei to etokhhon chokh bujhe boshe chhilen. Koto daklam, kichhutei shorchhilen na. Tai to ektu thela marlam, ar kirokom ekta hoye gelo.
- Kirokom ekta hoye gelo? Echore paka!
- Nishchoi chheletai kichhu korechhe.
- Arre, oke pore dekhben, agge meye take dekhun na, ki holo!
- Daran, dekhte din.
- O conductor bhai, bus ta thamao na!

A guy came up, was in suits, must be some corporated shit or something. He reached for her wrist. Then near her neck. He knew how to check pulses too. It just didn't occur to him.

- Pulse pawa jachhe na

He put his finger near her nose. He forcibly opened her eyes.

- Mara gechhe.
- Ki bolchhen ki?
- Arre o moshai, ki bokchhen, joljanto meye, ei bus e uthlo, boshte bollam, ar ei more gelo?
- Dekhun, I'm a certified doctor, and I can guarantee she's dead.
- O driver, bus ta thamao, thamao!
-Thaman dada, emergency.
- Bus thama salla, noile morbi aj!

She's dead. And he's just standing there, watching them carry her out of the bus. They're calling out for a cab or something.

She was dead. And he just let a dead body lie on him for half an' hour! And what kinda' shits were he thinking about?
He just stood there. The sun blazed up again. The sunny side, now, it was far too sunny for him.

Why Jim Morrison should have been alive

In my induction ceremony
In my dream
Inside my head
We heard him scream

"You cannot petition the lord with prayer!"

"I disagree, sir" I said

You can petition him to go away

"Only if he'd hear what you have to say

He surely would have ran away."

Lost And Found

I am what you may call
The lost boy from yesterday
Laugh, or cry
or just frown
For me you gladly may.
But I am
What you see me as
The lost boy from yesterday
One who was never lost
Some might think,
and some might say.

Chicken Soup For The Misbegotten Soul

I plan to die, once I'm over with this life
And even though I like you (a bit)
I think I'll say goodbye.
But won't you miss me
That part of the chicken soup
which you never liked
Won't you miss me
That pale, sick taste of chicken flavoured weakness
I plan to die, once I'm over with this life.

Portrait Of A Woman: Part 2, The Unforgettable

  You, you are someone I can never forget. You dwell in the alleyways of my memory lane, and when it is time for me to go back among the living, to live once again, you jump out of your solitude, you grab me by the collar, and tug me and throw me into the murkiness below your pedestal, into the reality. 

  There is very little connection between the essentials here, you, me, and the reality. It is in the moments of crisis, that you come out, only to retreat back again, like a turtle queen inside her palatial sorrow. And I beg you to come out into the sunlight, and show me my way back home, but to no use. It is not my moment of crisis, for I am one who belongs to the road, to travelling, to being rootless, and to disavowing my needs of a settlement. 

  My moment of crisis is when I stagnate, when stop and start to look around at the ground below me, trying to remember whether it had been barren or lush green the last time I traversed this age old path. My weakness, is the tendency of turning glacial, and so you exist, to stop me from being a frozen stream of consciousness.

  And that is the reason you scare the shit out of me. I know how much I need you, and so do you. But you are the turtle, dreaming inside her sorrow, so when you reach out that mouth and bite, trying to claim a piece of me all for yourself, you hurt me. It isn't that I'm not ready to give up my flesh and bones for you, but only if you'd promise to become that colourful butterfly and stop being the old turtle. I am selfish, and don't know what is right, and what is left for my own safety, and so I want you out here below the night sky, beside me.

  But no, your true place is in the palatial sorrow, a palace I built for you my Queen, inside my mind so you may stay warm. And so that you may comfort me, letting me know it wont be over soon.

 And so you dwell alone in the dark alleyways like a lone spectre, never letting me bury my own ashes, my own past, for you are the Unforgettable, and you'll never let me go.

Portrait Of A Woman: Part 1, The Undefeated

Yes. Undefeated. That's what I take you to be. And that's what you are.
  What is it with you people, huhn, that everytime I look at you, that sharp face, those eyes, that I feel so scared, and yet so proud? I know you, I know all that there is to know about, and all that there isn't, and yet I stare in awe. Awe, it is a reaction which is created in the human mind when they experience something gigantic, something which leaves the impression of a miniscular big bang inside the mind. I, myself, when I stand at the feet of an Easter Island Head, or maybe see something as giant as Gauguin's "Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?", or maybe when I listen to DSM, I feel numbed, and I know I'm in awe. But then why does this little figure, this less than overbearing image makes me feel the same way, at points? I don't know.
  As I said before, I know all that there is to know, and maybe that's why, I know all your pains, all your glories, all the mindless shitty situations you've been through, and all the mindless shitty stories you've taken part in. I hate you at points, for bearing all these, and yet, you make me proud, for bearing all these.
  Even when I see you, in that dark corner, all by yourself, withholding any kind of service others might provide to you, you seem to be magnanimous. I see you weep, cringe, wince and get molested by your own petty demons, just like any one of us out here. Or is it so? For when we make love, laugh, behave like we'd be partying even if there's a second Cuban Missile Crisis, you lament. And maybe regret too. And you cry.
  But it is not this part which makes me proud, this just makes me feel helpless, feel like a voyeuristic audience. I want to bite the heads of my fingers off, wishing to be there in time to save you. But to think it over, if you had been stopped then, you wouldn't have turned out to be what you are today, someone I admire, respect, and love. So yeah, for my own selfish reason, you needed the pain. And today, when I see you wiping those tears, and coming out into the light, a smile more bright than the light surrounding us, I feel proud, and happy. And I know, because you are, the Undefeated.