48. Modernity – Part I
Lost among the landmine of woods
That sigh and groan like haunted homes—
Yet the forest seems by me spooked
As if sensing the bitter ends of my means—
I trespass, deeper and deeper,
My soda aura casting aside
The birds, the dolphins, the nightingales
Even the snakes and reptiles.
As I delve into duller glades
Into duller thickets and blacker lakes
Passing hermits who watch me with wet eyes
And worn men that return from the site
I ask them if I head the right way.
“Ten leagues yonder,” they all say
And as they trudge past, in my ears I hear
The rattles and clangs of hollowed-out minds.
I march on, shrugging aside their pleas
For I am hungry, hungry for my quarry
Hungry for that heart of darkness
That swamp of unnaturality
Where no sun rays are allowed inside—
Hidden in the visage of verdant greens
That humankind has longed to find.
49. Modernity – Part II
Sirens hang like stalactites and stalagmites
Adorning the yawning cavern—
The teeth and jaws of Modernity.
They dance like grapevines in the wind
They flicker at me sweet nothings
While from the blackness of the Cave
Wafts metal music, moans and yummy scents
Inviting me in.
I must admit,
Not once did I dither.
Not once did I think that ascetics
And addle-headed hollow men
Knew the truth of it better.
Not once did I begin to hesitate.
I dropped my lyre, my book of poetry
Plunged right inside the blackness
Dived straight into the deluge
Wonderland where all wonder was moot
And drank in the gadgets, the games
The songs that sounded like each other
The craft beers and porn stars
And friends that shared similar interests
But secretly wished me dead.
I betrothed myself to Nike shoes
And necklaces that adorned my day
And fucked women till they were objects
And Ubered everything to my cave
And mocked men who wistfully sighed
After the idle pleasures of the woods.
“The crevices of the Cave are lost to you!”
I boomed, consuming my Big Mac
And quenching my thirst with a Coke.
50. Modernity – Part III
Like forlorn fumes of ash and smoke
That flee from raging flames—never the same
As the light that granted it heat and life
Yet now banishes its poor copy out of sight
Like the gutter exiled from the river Thames
I stand, superficial, stoic and bland
Aged before my age
By pressures of hipster culture
Catching up to movies that matter
Rubbing sandpaper over my traits
And networking with those I dearly hate
Whilst latching on to tired trades.
I remember I once played the flute
(Or was it a lyre?)
During the Age of Unprocessed Food.
I remember the thresholds of my desires
Simmering and fulfilling from within—
Not from thumbs, hearts, swipes, shares
Anxiety pills with low side-effects
Or the latest Android update.
I lived longer and lesser in the Cave
Till discounts on things cost me ash and smoke
Till conversations turned to what we knew
What we did, and what we shall do
And we ceased to mean our how-do-you-do’s
And shared cards of shrinks instead of our ears
And binged at bars to tolerate the years
Stimulus everywhere – data of all kinds –
Cramming the mind with depression and delight –
“Did you see her Story of seven minutes ago?” –
Just Do It! – crap, no bargain on the C-type –
Christmas Eve with the mistress and moonshine –
There goes the economy again! – oh… like, you know –
Maybe this President will save the state –
Dollar an hour, Disneyland for a quick break –
Stamping over rats in the rat race –
“Not what I mean, that is not what I mean” –
McGriddles sells more than the Cheese Supreme –
“Could I have French fries with Oreo milkshake?” –
Centuries after, I stagger to safety
Bumping into explorers along the way.
“Ten leagues yonder,” I tell them kindly:
Mind hollowed, yet heart beginning to brim
For there is none now but I, my feet that roam
And tumultuous woods that feel like home.
P.S. I hid behind the moniker of TINTA since the account was opened on Instagram. Truth be told, this has always been my natural impulse. If I had my way, none of my works would be attributed to me. I write a lot of miserable stuff, which I don’t want attributed to my character. I am proud of my writing, but it is also comfortably the worst of me—where my most cynical, nihilist and antisocial tendencies come to fruit.
For a while, I hoped I could hide behind TINTA forever. Perhaps anonymity is cowardice, but it has always been my impulse. But people tell me there’s nothing sustainable about the moniker strategy—that I must put my name, centralize my content, ensure I take credit for everything in a brutal industry, blah blah blah.
So, briefly, let me introduce myself: I am Neil Nagwekar from Mumbai, India.
I don’t plan on abandoning the moniker TINTA though. Because there is a story behind TINTA, and I think it will take quite some time for it to be completed.
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