सन्यासी शब्द

आज बहुत दिनों बाद एक बार फिर से अपने ब्लॉग की याद आई, मामूलीराम के ख़यालात.
कुछ मुख्तसर से,कुछ अपने वजूद को ढूंढते फिरते... कुछ यूँ ही आवारगी करते... उनमें से कईयों ने कहा क्यों कहते हो क्यों मुझे अपने से जुदा करते हो? कैसा लगता है जब तुम मुझे तलाशते हो अपने कहने के लिए
फिर जब इतनी जद्दो जहद के बाद मैं तुम्हे मिल जाता हूँ तो क्या तनिक भी नहीं सोचते कलम से श्याही से की-बोर्ड से पन्नो पर, स्क्रीन पर, ब्लॉग पर उकेरते हुए? क्या यह नहीं लगता कि मैं तुम्हारे जेहन से एक बार निकल जाने के बाद फिर तुम्हारा नहीं रह जाऊँगा? फिर से तुम्हे अगली बार उतनी ही या शायद उससे भी अधिक मेहनत करना परे... फिर से मैं नखरे दिखाऊं और यह भी तो हो सकता है की मैं खो जाऊं दुनिया के भीड़ में... यदि भविष्य ऐसा भी हो सकता है तो फिर लिख डालने का या आत्म विश्वास कैसा? कहीं तुम यह तो नहीं सोचते की शब्द की नियति लिखे जाने से ही है? इस भुलावे में मत रहना...
सन्यासी शब्द कब आओगे मेरी दुनिया में,
खड़े रहोगे वहीँ कच्चे रास्ते पर, शहर से दूर
या फिर
बस्ती में भरे बाजार इतराते फिरोगे...         

Sunset, Narmada bank at Kabir Bad, Gujarat 2014

movie: Mastram

yesterday watched a recently released movie Mastram written and directed by Akhilesh Jaiswal.Sometimes back, there was Miss Lovely, a film on c-grade movies by Ashim Ahluwalia. While Mastram is a fictionalised bio-pic on the mystical magical unknown author of Hindi porn booklets with which we (and various generations) grew up Miss Lovely weaves complex web of business, sleazy sex-horror films that form the deep underbelly that has sustained mumbai film industry. Mastram is unknown as the author figure has not been identified with or claimed by any individual so far (see the link below). In the film the authorial figure is given a face and a location. The face is of an individual named Rajaram (essayed brilliantly on the screen by Rahul Bagga) who aspired to go to JNU to pursue M.Phil but was lured by his mama to get married to 'the most beautiful girl of Himachal' and who aspired to be recognised as a man of letters, who adored personalities like Tagore and Premchand as their portraits completed the mise en scene of his study. The location is of a small nondescript town in Himachal in the proximity of Manali as we often come across Manali in written fonts on the walls whenever mastram travels in search of a publisher). He wanted to move to Delhi but remained in his muffasil town seduced by the charm of his wife and his padosan bhabhi. The narrative is non aggressive yet gripping and also attempts to map shifting contours of this genre called mastram with the change in the language, sexual vocabulary and metonymic figures (i.e. Sabita bhabhi). At this level, the bio-pic goes beyond and tries to capture the spirit rather than stays true to the world created in the pages of mastram. I here assume that Sabita bhabhi and mastram are two different constituencies of hindi porn world. I may be wrong entirely. Precisely at this stage, the question pertaining to the figure of an individual author crops up. We are often condemned to think about mastram through an individual writer yet, we can not separate it from the genre. This was a series without a given printer line. The writer directed says that it started as a journey to search this author. This may be a genuine impulse of a reader. Many of us wanted to meet and know about the author Mastram and his world from which characters emerged. We transposed these characters from our own environment to enter into the world of desire and pleasure. In this way we were also writing an obituary declaring the death of the author mastram in Barthes sense of the term. But, many of us also created our own porn stories and shared them with friends in high schools and college hostels. I remember those having 'experiences' were always respected in such gatherings and those who did not often took shelter in their creativity and imagination to impress upon our friends. The golden rule though was to make imagination look like real experience yet hotter and larger than a lived experience. A story that can be located and identified but that had to transcend the confinements and trappings of social world, that had to transcend here and now...opening a world imbued with bodies which can be made naked for the imagination. Do we need to remind that this was essentially a male field of imagination? Sabita bhabhi, i tend to believe offers an alternate terrain though. https://in.news.yahoo.com/why-i-went-in-search-of-the-erotica-writer-mastram-075627987.html?fb_action_ids=10152346840795266&fb_action_types=og.recommends&fb_ref=facebook_cb

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Sadan Jha
Associate Professor,
Centre for Social Studies.
Vir Narmad South Gujarat University Campus. Udhna-Magdalla Road.
Surat.395007 Gujarat. India.
blog: mamuliram.blogspot.com
http://www.css.ac.in/sadan_jha.html

rain water, a corner of an open plot, neighbourhood in Surat 2013

For the Sake of a Single Poem by Rainer Maria Rilke

 Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a lone one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)—they are experiences. For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else—); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars, and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that.You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves—only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.

For the sake of a Single Poem
—Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge in The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, edited and translated by Stephen Mitchell (Vintage International, 1989)
 

To write about here and now has always been difficult and cherished. The familiar verse (for me) is obviously "tum mere paas hote ho dusaraa nahi hota". Just read this poem and in simplicity of words and arrangement of thoughts led me to share it.
अप्रत्यक्ष के लिए
प्रत्यक्ष को अनदेखा कर
अप्रत्यक्ष को संवारने चले हैं
इस जन्म का पता नहीं
आत्मालाप
http://kavita-aatmalaap-anupamajha.blogspot.in/2014/02/blog-post.html?spref=fb