The Scream

The element of surprise. Thats the catch phrase to any good scream. Not for others, for yourself. One must surprise one's own instincts by the scream. The sound should start from somewhere behind the head, just below the cerebellum, which almost always is the garbage bin of your life. Like a fast moving avalanche, the scream should build up in pitch and volume, reaching a maxima in below 1.5 second. That moment, that instant, everything else must be a blur in the background. There should be nothing but the scream, the scream and the scream.

You can always later experiment with the type of pitch and length of the scream. My personal favourite is a sharp shrill tone a scale above the octave lasting for 5 secs. Somehow, It feels like tearing pages and pages of paper. Writing endlessly, and the scream, and then the tearing. Nothing feels more purifying than the scream at that time.


For that one moment, that instant, I actually revel in absolute chaos.

-Palash
October'12, Lumding

The Puppet Master

Stuck?
Sewn?
or Safe?
in between the pleats of an Italian Saree,
Absurd white with plum blue streaks,

He lurks and plots,
Hides and plots,
Even parties and plots.

When the god mother goes off to mass,
praying for the prosperity of her immortal dynasty,
Queens and King makers in a sorry democracy,
He finds his solace in the pleats once again,
this time a smiling damsel,
wearing the angel moon of her tyrant grandmother.

No one dares question the crooked V of Victory,
The drugged dove of peace,
The resounding slap of the Hand,
And How the Nehrus' became Gandhis'
And with it, came how,
the country's favourite rubber stamp of recognition.
"Gandhi!"


He is now away,
hidden from stern, hopeless public eyes,
Frightened no, a trifle anxious maybe,
But, So what if the shadow of the pleats,
left a half moon on the conning scalp?
In a country of a million of millionaires,
and a billion of ragpickers,
He buys (and sells at 600%) the strings to pull,
The Wise Puppet-Master.



-Palash
October'2012, Lumding.