Postscript.

Between the worlds we straddle, there is always comic relief and some conflict. But what is this peculiar trait of violence seizing everyone's collective imagination at the same time? People hacking each other to death as the psychotic death dance rages through districts, burning houses and scathing deep in collective memories: words cant do much, except perhaps eloquently narrate these gory details. Mostly writing is an elixir, a cognitive process but sometimes it feels like a mockery, of all that still happens in my land and others that you might know of. Sitting on a rooftop in Pondicherry, trying to muse aloud and rephrasing the phrase: "I am not Hamlet, This is not my play anymore", I dont know what triggers mass hysteria and communal hatred like it does right now in a stretch of land that I used to pass everytime I went to see my folks from the mainland.

Even as I write, friends make frenetic phonecalls to friends in Kyrgystan as news of a 6.8 Richter scale earthquake killing 70 people there filter in. And these same friends grapple with the violence unfolding in BTC in Assam, more specifically Udalguri, Darrang and Baksa. A conflict over resources probally and a suspicion of "the other" led to the Bodos and Muslims from Bangladesh hacking ecah other to death. But I did rather not categorise because though identity is very important, peoples lives are so much more that their identities or their mass understandings. A friend deals with the helplessness of his news producer friend being shot dead in the Indian capital with no leads yet to the thrilling "breaking news" story. And he still goes out to the field and reports from Assam, talks to the mob, takes a picture as he witnesses hatreds from totally new angles and dimensions.

And I sit here. I feel helpless and mad in my head. I recite poetries I know, I listen to the muezzin's call, I write post cards and walk all the way down along the canal to my apartment, talking to dogs, children and my alter ego. I try to find some relief in figures and movements and art. But there is no hiding away. One self wants to be back home, to my pa, who spoke to me today saying bittering that his land has no future, the questionmark in his sentence giving away his absolute helpless uncertainity about how his beautiful land and people came to this. Another self wants to go away, as usual, far far away, from this madness and civilisation.

How many madnesses should I deal in one life- within and without? And I aspire to work on areas in Peace and Conflict and another one says, you peaceniks are a bunch of loose jokers. I get angry and I call him arrogant, ignorant even. But I wish I could prove him wrong. I wish I could show him that evil isnt inherent but goodness is. Why does the world prove me wrong everytime?


In solidarity to all the people I know and am yet to know who still havent given up on humanity (sounds like rhetoric to me).

Parsely, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme,
A desire patiently waits at my footsteps
As I breathe in the moment.
Love, an emotion so potent
And self-sustaining
It bares free of conventional
Obstacles.
A guitar gently strings on
The kaleidoscopic ride through the galazies
While I admire the shining star.
Rain-showers and sounds
Of the tapering rain.



Time and space melt away
Fluidity takes its course.
20.09.08. auroville-rooftop



Featherglo’
Around lamp shades
And rooftops of tree trunks
Obscure thoughts
Surrounds the humour
And a twinkle in your eyes
From one moment to the next.



Silk and cotton dresses
narrate a story
Of vibrant ideals
and life in transition;
One object to your next
A possibility flutters
We’re living in
the Bohemian Dream.

Ying and the Yang

The skies opened up

And all the chaos became still

Time stopped

Yet things moved

Like metaphysics

And imagery-imaginative sessions

About physical circumstances resumed.

Consumerist cultures stick around

This sordid material existence;

I heard of Nietzsche’s insanity

And physical weaknesses

What did Zarathustra spoke

I am yet to know

Yet to delve on the finer aspects

Of cosmic energy.

-Ying and the Yang

Discources

A day marked by momentum,

A desire, a hunger,

Of the things that don’t exist.

White wash on empty walls

Paint, grease, paper

Only gardens, no people.

Filter coffee brewing

Girls talk away

The sun sinks unobtrusively.

Black ink

And the Concordia discordia around

The table is a treasure house of knick-knacks.

Empty unwashed glasses

The mood’s turbulent

Is there some elixir?

Playing king and queen

No one intrudes

No one observes their play.

Learning the gears and brakes

Wanting to fly.

Subjects and scrutinizers

Accolades to the smooth-talker.

And this, an unfinished exercise.

-sushmita kashyap (28.03.08/ 16.05hrs)

living, travelling, dreaming.

This is an old post, probally written a month back. I was in Kohima these last few days covering an event. Just got back. Need to write something so will chit chat sometime when it's done. Meanwhile here eet ess.

This last month(May-June 2008, actually) has been a whirlwind of a travel but it has been work and whole lot of fun too. As you probally know, I am treading the freelancer path from May onwards. There is a heady feeling about working at my space and time but yeah discipline is important, and i can hardly say that I am a disciplined person. Assignments and projects are coming in but having no access to mails this month, I have a backlog of work which is probally too late now to wrap up. Andthe heat's maddening these last 3 days here and I havent been feeling too well.

Anyways, this film shoot I had gone to took us all over Northeast.First thru Nagaland, Manipur to Moreh right next to the Burma border.By far the highlight of the whole trip. Moreh is like mini-India, ppl from all over. The Tamils are supposed to be the original settlers and traders (they came from Burma when non Burmese people were asked to evict in 1963-64) though this claim is debated and the Kukis and Nagas also lay an allegiance to the land. Supposedly, some of the mostdangerous underground outfits inhabit the hills around Moreh and theKuki-Naga clashes happen periodically.

But the most colorful images are those of the Namphalong market on theBurmese side. Man, the stuff is real cheap (though i could hardly shop, what with running about with a still camera and other equipmentsand radio recorders etc..and the heat is of a killer oven kind really)and you get everything from crockery to electronic items, to tiger beer at darn cheap rates to watermelons, etc. We did pass over to Tamu and Nassif (the director and a dear friend) and Kazu (the host of the travel docu and my housemate) posed alternately as a driver and a press photographer and accompanied the Chambers of Commerce guys tothe other side as part of a aid relief programe for Nargis cyclone victims. I strolled about Tamu town (had to leave cell fones and IDcards at entry gate) wearing a big circular cane hat with imprinted flowers, sipping mineral water, looking the proverbial tourist. We had 2 friends from Manipur who accompanied us so they helped on the communication part. There are many Burmese Nepalis in Tamu and was warm chatting with them. The town has a pretty face, with clean tiledroads and cute wooden houses. and the women are pretty charming too;)

Agartala-Bangladesh was allright though I just couldnt like Agartala much. And the trip to Bodoland was good fun too. Gelephu in Bhutan has a very provincial look to it but it is a very disciplined lil town andthe people are really hospitable. The proprietor of the restaurant we lunched at (we hogged on beef momos, pork chilly, rice etc) gifted each of the film unit a miniature bottle of alcohol with a Made in Bhutan stamp as a souvenir. Muchos gracias, i say;p

And Kohima was an exprience, as always. A visit to the warrior village of Khonoma on a rainy day made the trip complete. Just that my brew got spoilt! More about that laters.

Till than, adios and warmth!
Sukaphismo-sushimo;)

Identities

Lines,

drawn everywhere

on this map.

And every other.

Lines,

become entities

and identities.

i cease to exist.

Lines,

become fate

and religions;

The trees and rivers

are not free.

The margins,

the marks,

the signs on the doorpost,

those uniforms, those bamboo toy rifles

and filling personal information on a form.

Captivated, suffocated,

smothered by ourselves.

-sushmita kashyap (20.34 hrs. 25march 08) Identities

The concept of borders, the spaces and times involved in building one, have always enigmated philosophers and sociologists at large. In our post colonial set up, the invisible lines on the margins of land has more than ever taunted us-urged us to realize ourselves as peoples and races and civilizations. But words like “ethnic” and “tribal”, that the world at large uses to define indigenous populations and civilizations reveal so little and yet camouflage such wide worlds.

(The species has been harsh on one another- too many excesses, the ants would say. Community building, that word’s such a joke; in our more civilized (/less barbaric) and comfortable-technology generations. The ants can teach us some community building, that reminds me!)

The idea of a country, regardless of its size, without the compulsions of the harsh intrusions of development, is so liberating. So utopian also. Than maybe we will understand ethnicity and people-their lives, their desires, their habits and their workings, their gods, cultures and loyalties.

-sushmita kashyap. 25march 08

Gift

There is a veil

And you will not humor me

The suspense is

Like a zillion seconds

Ticking in my head

Crowding my sensibilities.

There is pain, remorse and desire

For a million different worlds

For the clouds to embrace me

And make me part of them.

These mementoes, souvenirs

What purpose do they serve?

The nature of this longing

Is sinister.

The mist that forms shapes

Outside

Show me vague structures

I cannot fathom them

But I finger the water

The cold breath of a winter

That took too long in coming.

The veil still pervades my understanding

And curious unbelongingness

The triviality of the occasion

Stings and nags the receiver.

Open-ended are these conversations

Without meaning or substance.

Why cant you hold the sand

So tight so tight

That I might suffocate in it

That I might drown myself

In the acute nature of this gift.

So that I’m here no more

And than you will cease to exist

All dimensions will take all shapes

Mists, veils and acronyms on paper.

6.21pm. 9.1.08