The Game of the Thrones

Oh that one too. That one too is resuming sometime today at a screen very near you. The interrupted tussle for a faraway seat of power, too far away and too frozen to be anywhere near real in this sizzling onset of summer, but, therefore, just the fantasy that might seduce us. What’s fantasy is forever a fancy. But that’s not the game we are talking about. And that’s not the throne either. We have our own Game of Thrones underway. Not a fantasy, alas. Not a faraway thing, alas. Not a thing of the screen nearby which can be opened and shut at will, alas. It is upon us, whether we wish it or not. It is real, whether we wish it or not. It cannot be switched on and off, whether we wish it or not.

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Jaane kahaan gaye woh din

We are looking. We must look. Because we have been told there is something here to look for. And what better time there is to look but now? Not for Mahadeb, don’t get me wrong. Mahadeb has been gone a long, long time but no, we are not looking for Mahadeb. We already know he is there. Not yet on his throne of timber and tin on Sooterkin, not serving out tea and petrichor coffee in earthen bhaanrs to his loyally thirsting clientele, no. We’d have been happier for him being there, among us. But Mahadeb isn’t lost. He speaks when he needs to. He makes his presence felt on rights and wrongs. He appears through his voice which is like no other voice, and through his intangible presence which is like no other presence. Mahadeb knows he is essential to things, Mahadeb can’t be gone. There is no need to look for him because when you need Mahadeb he is there to be found. Rest assured.

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In General This Is A major Thing

Attention! Rangroots! Attention!! Rangroots! I mean, ahem, Recruits! Attention!!! Where are you? Hain? Silence? Where are you rangroots? I need you. The nation needs you. But I need you more. Didn’t you hear DhongiVivadityanath? You are my rangroots. The wonders you work, you work for me. The suffering you take, you take for me. The name you make, you make for me. What else? You know who I am? I am the Nation and the Nation is what you are sworn to. Kahan ho? Rangrooton? Kahan hoKahan mar gayeMar gaye kya? Ah, if so, no sweat. Mar gaye? Martyred?

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Leh Belaiyaa Bhool Bhulaiyaa


We are heading somewhere. But where it has become difficult to tell. In fact, more than just difficult. It’s baffling to tell where we are headed, because we seem to be heading in many directions and different people are saying very different things about what it may mean to be going in those directions. When we are told we are heading straight, other people seem to think we are heading backwards. When we are told we are heading up, other people seem to think we are heading down. When we are told we are headed sideways, other people seem to think sideways, this side or that side, is no way to head. Ki mushkil. Are we even headed? As in, do we even have heads any more? Or have we all been beheaded and are flailing about six inches shorter than we used to be? Without heads any more, and without, therefore, the ability to do what heads are meant to do. Perhaps that is what it is then, we are not headed. Continue reading “Leh Belaiyaa Bhool Bhulaiyaa”


Where Is the Chow? Kidar hai?

I am having to speak. I am. Not that I imagined I would have to. Not that I wished to. But these are not times of one’s wishing or whim. These are not times that afford the luxury of the uncertainties of would or could. These are not ordinary times. These are times that do not belong to silence. These are times that demand everyone speaks. And of course I am not everyone, do not get me wrong. I am Mahadeb. I am EVERYONE. And I am having to speak. FROM this place I am in, remote and unknown, and yet not so. I can see. From wherever I might be. I have the ThirdEye. I am the ThirdEye, the AllSeeingOne.
And yet there are some things I yet cannot see. I see the homes of people, homes settled under the dark night. Homes where the lights have been turned off and the doors and windows shuttered. Homes where they whose homes they are, peaceably sleep. Or so I assume. Or so is my wish and my blessing. And yet I cannot see… But of that in a bit. Of that in just a bit.

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Let Us Now Choose A few Good men


Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeep. Yeh aakaashwaani hai. This is All IndiaThatIsBharat Radio bringing you the news. Shhhhhh… zzzzzz… shhhhhhhhh… rrrrrrrzzzzz… The news, read by Mahadeb. The headlines… But the headlines are nonsense. They are  the same headlines. They are all about the same thing. They are all about the same man. They are all about bad news. News that is not good for us. Those are the headlines. Those have been the headlines these past years. Do you want
to hear the headlines again? I am done with those headlines. So, deshwaasiyon, I am giving you the news but I am not giving you the headlines. Enough.

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All of it’s Fake All of it’s News


There’s a teetar caught in the dogfight which is not really a fight between dogs. Wonder why they call it a dogfight when there are no dogs involved at all. Perhaps another way of giving a dog a bad name? Who can tell? But a dogfight it is and dogs are not involved. That much can be reliably said. Even Sources, those most reliable of all things, have affirmed to us that no dogs are involved in dogfights. Sources have told us so many reliable things these past days, we have been told there should be no room to question them.

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All is About to Come down Upon us


So here we are, in another slipstream, it would seem. In a time and place which is not so easily grasped, in a time and place which could be real. Or unreal. Or surreal. Tough to tell what sort of time we have arrived in. Or what sort of slipstream we are slipping into if this is indeed a slipstream. It is more likely one than less likely. Because this cannot be the thing; it can only be not the thing. Like we already know there never was any achchhe din, there was only kachchhe din — Friends, Underpants, Tatters, lend me your things. Lend me your everything. I need your things. I need your everything. The nation needs your everything. Now. Well. Well. Well. Everything. The nation needs your everything, which, translated, means I need your everything.

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Memory Of my Melancholy Lasches 

What would we do without our lasches? Ever wondered? Perhaps not, because you had no opportunity or occasion to. A world without lasches? Unthinkable. Why even wonder what we would do without lasches when there is such a cascading abundance of them all around among us? Lasches to the left of us. Lasches to the right of us. Lasches behind. Lasches in front (Or, the lasches that have not yet turned to lasches but most certainly will in the days to come, the way we are going).
And through such a blizzard of lasches we barrel on, volleying and thundering. A lasche gets flung in the air, four lasches are flung back in retort. You claimed a lasche? Here, take four lasches. Tum ek maaroge, hum chaar maarenge. Tum chaar maaroge, hum solah maarenge. And so on and on and on in cataclysmically doubling multiples until everything all around has become a mangled heap of lasches, such that my lasches are indistinguishable from your lasches.

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My Oh My, Look How They Fly. Or Flu


You know what’s flying about? The flu. I mean it’s flying about like some fantasy. Like pigs were flying. They are even calling it the swine flu. Probably because those that should know also know that it is really pigs flying. Unbelievable. But true.

It’s swine flu.

Or swine flying. Everywhere. Swine are flying. Birds are flying. Both could be flying with flu. Like that boisterous game of laughter and destruction, like them being shot out of a catapult at shaky and unshakeable things. And then all of them or at least some of them bursting into flames and flashes on impact. And we are getting plastered under the flying swine. They are pissing down all manner of pestilence as they crisscross overhead: aches and fevers, sores and welts, wheezing and coughing, nausea and its unpalatable consequences, belly rushes and its even more unpalatable consequences. It’s all bombing down the skies from their flying swine. You get hit by one of them flying swines and WHAM! You are flu.

Not a safe time to be outside under the open skies. Not a nice feeling to be impacted by one of those pig projectiles, it can quite assuredly be said. Somebody had recounted a memory somewhere — somebody who had evidently survived the widespread and absolute reduction to cinders — that when LittleBoy came to drop on Hiroshima, beings evaporated so instantaneously, their shadows took time to catch up; they lingered a trice before they vanished too.

The impact of pigs flying about may be no less surreal. Imagine only just what a defiance of gravity that must mean — bolts of leaky, malodorous lard jetting about. Doesn’t make a pretty picture getting stuck — you, your shadow, your past and future alike — in what they leak and slam down. It is one of those times you would think it a fortunate thing that Mahadeb is not out there astride his throne of timber and tin handing out cups of tea in earthen bhaanrs. Or even, when on occasion sought, coffee.

For where Mahadeb sits, or used to, there’s no protection from the skies and what may lie above and beyond. He plies his trade, or used to, under sun and rain and wind and whatever else it is they churn. But now there is none of those wondrous things about in the skies — no sun or rain or wind or whatever else it is they churn; there’s only swines flying licentiously dripping lard.

And those that are stuck in it are stuck in it, in marshy loops of lard, and those that aren’t are all panicked and stricken. Just to see the macabre sight of pigs in flight, idiom turning to epidemic and beginning to rain down in drifts of possible and painful death. It’s flying. It’s swine. It’s flu.

But believe me you, it’s not new. Pigs have been flying overhead and dropping scourges and outbreaks upon us a while now, quite a while, a fair number of years, maybe four, or a little more. It has been a time of pus and virus deliberately infused into the air, like that lard spewing down; a time of fraudulent fable and fancy falsification, of slander and vilification and revilement, of plain and brutal lies employed as instrument of animosity, of subterfuge invoked to stereotype and subjugate, of plain and laughable lies invented to brew non-existent glories — prehistoric, or ahistoric, myth as patent truth.

So we have had ancient impotence remedied with artificial insemination remotely triggered from the heavens. We have had the good god reduced as mere proof of plastic surgery. We have had eminences course across the skies in objects during times yet undated. Imagination is a many-splendoured and wondrous thing, it’s one of the things our species is blessed with; but imagination isn’t always the truth, or even what is or could be, or could have been.

Pigs have been flying a while folks,
The pigs have been flying;
Run for cover and don’t become the flu,
A lot of what’s flying is only just lying.