I
seemed to have exhausted my stock of pictures, and was sitting in one of the
parks, thus landed Jungle myna. I have written about Common myna, Pied myna,
Bank myna, Brahminy myna, Hill myna, Blyth’s myna, Chestnut-headed myna, the
migrant Rosy starling so on but the ubiquitous birds seen right in the middle
of the cities like Bangalore and Mysore skipped my attention!! So here was
Jungle myna (Acridotheres fuscus) staring at me in amusement “What about
me dude?.” Next I was at the Mysore zoo and as most were keen on African
elephant –the impressive fellow leisurely masticated his grub, my eyes were on
the vicinity of his trunk where a Jungle Myna patiently waited like a cattle egret
hence African elephant myna!
Jean Cayrol: Wake up death is already on its horse
The
other day I was watching Ivan’s Childhood
(Tarkovsky’s poignant take on children trapped in war), and quite coincidently found Night and Fog (Resnais) in the
collection. I recall watching this documentary at Gandhi peace foundation
(Delhi) almost 15 years back, atleast two people in the audience fainted, I too
was nauseated for quite some time. I must have picked up the CD from the grey
market few years back and since forgot about it, so decided to watch it again.
This documentary is about the concentration camps of the Nazis, and was made
about a decade after the war, most likely the first one to show the actual
footings of the conditions inside the concentration camp in its horrifying
details. It’s not for the faint hearted the scenes of piled up bodies,
deskinned to make leather products so on can easily distress anyone. It need to
be pointed out that Corporate like Heineken and Siemens who rushed to exploit
cheap labour at the concentration camp are shockingly still around, seeing
Indians as cheap labour does have a historical framework. Clearly not everyone
was Schindler! (indeed Schindler’s List
movie also has these bodies pile up, a soldier apparently loosing it as they
are burned up. Horrifying images).
This
time around, while watched Night and Fog,
I focused my attention on the narration, the detached tone was quite haunting,
little search in the net led me to Jean Cayrol, he had escaped concentration
camp hence the authenticity in narration. I also came to know that he had also
scripted it. While reading about him I came across few of his poems,
unfortunately all in French without any translation. Now that I was riveted to
his views, I somehow had to get it translated to know what exactly he was expressing.
So finally got it translated from a multilingual German lady who has made
Mysore her home.
Are you sleeping?
Wake up the cold is
already at our doors
and the moon has
stiffened like the mouth of a corps
Wake up at your doors
they have laid
a sword like an
abandoned child
Wake up death is
already on its horse
you can hear it
gallop echoing in our daily chores
I accuse
In the name of the
dead that without name has gone
In the name of the
doors that have been barred
In the name of the
tree that responds
In the name of the
wounds and the meadows wet
In the name of the
sky on fire with our regret
In the name of the
father who's son is dead
In the name of the
book where the sage falls asleep
In the name of all
fruits that ripen deep
March song
The spike eaten grain
by grain
by the wind and by
the dogs
The heart wondering
from saint to saint
by the fire and the
knuckled fists
The hot night on your
chest
her two eyes
resembling yours
The happy past that
comes
to get dizzy with the
first wine
From my scribble pad…
It is the silly season
The
streets are decked and noisy
Children
happy and chatty
Gods
benevolent and deigning
Dogs
howl rest of the night
It
is the silly season
When
propitiating and alms can bring
Instant
and expected results
Bypassing
karma and spells
Functionalist
give reasons
While
religious have not much to say
An
explicit celebration looms the populace
Private
is public, and public is no longer
the
place to be in
Why doesn’t she suicide?
(“There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy” Camus)
Why
does a farmer suicide,
we
have reasons galore
and
solution suggesters too
But
why doesn’t a farmer’s wife suicide
Is
still a matter of speculation
Because
she lives for hope
And
care for her children
Because
she doesn’t think about things
Like
the profit and earnings
Because
she believes in sustenance
And
future in matters
Like
happiness in little things
Everyday
births and deaths
More
on emotions than mounting facts
Faith
in fate than reckless acts
