In David Lean’s classic, Lawrence of Arabia, which I saw last week for the first time ever, you can see the classic long distance, high altitude desert landscapes
All Things Considered
Wrote a hunger striker in JNU, who is still going strong on the 10th day as I write this, a simple Facebook post: “Water is the elixir of life.” He would know, because he has survived just on water for the last ten days in this heat which walks on the streets like sleeping snakes. And this is water from an earthen pot with the smell of the earth and the scorching season of summer of the Hindi heartland. And, yet, he is quiet, like a poet, and he smiles, like a tree.
Seasons arrive and leave like music. They leave soundlessly, like mother’s footsteps and the sound of her bangles, like music. An ode to joy, sometimes – Beethoven’s unheard symphony. Sometimes, an ode to the hard labour of the poorest and the peasants, celebrating, with Salil Chaudhary. And yet, there is an ache in some part of the body and soul. Perhaps in the inner-most recesses of the skin. Eyes. Fingers. Eyelashes. I grow old, I grow old. I wear my trousers rolled, as TS Eliot would say.
Death is an unceasing narrative.
Predictably, despite all the hype, the Sunday ‘Singh garjana’ cut a jarring, bad record.
Even as this uncivilized creature of barbarism unleashed has yet again vitiated the atmosphere in India with his crude, crass and dehumanized language and conduct, and even as his shameless fascist
Activist Teesta Setalvad, who runs Citizens for Justice and Peace in Mumbai, sent an SOS asking why the media in Delhi is not covering the Zakia Jafri petition’s arguments, which nails Narend
Recently, legendary adivasi activist Dayamani Barla was jailed because she was protesting along with locals against village land being usurped.
Nitish looked sideways when the coffin-gate scam was raised, even while the ‘saffronisation of education’ was in full swing
Amit Sengupta Delhi
As I write this one day after Holi, April has almost arrived, but it might not really be the cruellest month, as the poem goes. The cracked lips of May might actually scorch the eyes, and fingers, and the soul, with its hot desert winds. Winter has gone, but there is still the fading, fleeting, familiar nip in the air, as the North Mountain Wind caresses the rough cotton of my long baggy white cotton shirt, and becomes longing and desire, leaving nothing but the coolness of the wind, like the smell of wet jasmine.