Vatican condemns Facebook

The Vatican released a statement on Halloween this year to protest against the rising influence of Facebook on today's generation. The Church condemned the popular social networking site citing that the growing obsession with Facebook has derailed the attention devout Christians should be giving to God and Good.

In his editorial piece on the Vatican newspaper the Pope also insinuated that Facebook creates walls around people, drawing them away from each other. He condemned the absurdity sometimes evident in Facebook conversations - where people sitting in adjacent rooms often exchange messages to ask if they'd like to have coffee together.

The Pope further decried what he saw as covert promotion of bad habits - like writing on the wall and poking each other endlessly. He said, "Facebook poses a new problem to Christian parents. Now that every newborn is exposed to the harmful effects of Facebook from an early age, it may become difficult to control the vile habits of little children. That day is not far away when children will want a separate wall in their rooms in which they'll write and scribble - often inanities like 'lukin ht babes, muaaahzzz!' - and, to add insult to injury, which will also be liked by his/her friends. Also, the poke functionality irks me a lot. What will these children learn? For all I know, they may poke whoever is sitting in the front seat of the bus just to draw attention!"

The Vatican's chief exorcist, Father Gabriele Amorth (who indignantly clarified that he hated the band Amon Amarth), alleged in his supportive letter to the editor that he sensed an uncanny presence of one Robert Langdon in the viral surge in popularity of Facebook. He was quoted as saying, "Think about it! Both Mr. Langdon and Mr. Zuckerberg went to the same college, Harvard. I sense something wrong. Besides, if you connect the dots, you realise that both of them have a deep grudge against religion. Mr. Zuckerberg professes atheism, and I haven't yet forgiven Mr. Langdon for his painstaking adventure that revealed one Sophie Neveu to be a blood relative of Our Saviour. I hate them both!" Off the record, he professed that he thought Audrey Tatou was hot.

Acknowledgement: Avishek Basu Mallick for the idea.

Post-script: For more on Langdon and Facebook, head here.

Senility

I had a dream today, I'll tell you about that.

I want to go up the hills again, I'm tired of lands flat.

The hills are high and clean and cold, and they are very nice.

In case you want a cooler drink, you have lots of ice.

The roads wind up and down the mountains in ways totally devious,

And flatland drivers sulk so much on wasted experience previous.

The hairpin bends are a real pain, especially in the morn.

When the air is foggy, the windscreen soggy, so please honk your horn.

In hills untraced, with roads braced, a hotel built at great height

Might prove lucrative in times unseen, but only with foresight.

The flow of travellers in the first few seasons might seem like a trickle,

But one might also turn successful, with help from chance fickle.

A good chef in the kitchen is one sure formula

To attract to the hotel guests, and to the cashbox moolah.

Keep a spacious terrace or two, and a nicely trimmed lawn,

Guests'll gather together there to watch sunrise at dawn.

Among other things, efficiency in service is a keeper.

(A small tip: People prefer hotels that are cheaper!)

Anyway, this dream of mine isn't castle-in-the-air.

After a prime well-spent, I'd like to sit idly in a chair -

Maybe read my favourites, or listen to a tune,

(I hope you'll pardon me for dreaming big so soon.)

Might even invite friends that I've gathered across years,

Sit together around a fire and share laughs and tears.

Y'see, life in the cities involves so many tricks,

I'd want to be left alone when I've had my fix.

On pleasant wintry evenings, I'll sometimes take a walk.

When there's languor in the hilly air, and also in the clock.

So if I ever meet you on one of those lonely routes,

You're welcome as ever to my place to warm your frozen boots.

Face/off: Prose and verse

If you consider them in their own places,

I think both of these have good cases.

In fact, a neutral observer should

See that both of them are good!

Poetry has its own norm,

Rhyme and rhythm are its form.

Prose, on the other hand,

Is easier to understand.

Consider for a while,

(No doubt with a wry smile)

A defendant standing before court,

And presenting in defence quote

After quote of lucid rhyme.

The judge loses sense of time,

And, next in line, logic.

(You see, the judge in question is a failed poet.

And the defendant seems to know it.)

Which only makes the verdict tragic -

The defendant did commit a crime,

He killed a poet past his prime.

Consider a surgeon removing a tumour.

He asks the nurse

In perfect verse

To pass the roll of bandage.

With the unfortunate disadvantage

That he laughs out in great humour,

Which makes his hands shake and swerve.

And the patient has a bruised nerve.

Also think of such a case.

A general in an army base

Briefing his men of their mission.

With great pride, he narrates his vision

Of defending his territory and doing his country proud.

Then he takes the fatal step, he lets emotions shroud

The driving energy of his speech, and the crowd

Follows suit. They cry out loud

As the general slips into lucid rhyme.

All the while, through mud and grime

Enemy soldiers reach the base.

Which now stands a desolate place.

As you see, even as I admire

Verse, consequences dire

Might result from the victory

Of rhymed and rhythmic poetry.

Written as a riposte to K-da's note.

Rhymes: For a few dimes more...

On the Uncommon Wealth Games:
What happened: I posted a BBC link containing embarrassing photos of the games village. Sudhang posted that conditions have improved since then, that inspite of mismanagement and corruption Delhi has drastically improved after many years. What might have been a debate got heated, and Sudhang said that he didn't want to continue the argument anymore. What follows is the poetic conclusion.

Sudhang:
I bade thee adieu.
And though you're mistaken
I remain unshaken;
I shan't start the conversation anew.
 

Me:
Since you insist so much,
I'll admit it as such.
Whatever I say
Doesn't change shit.
Why not call it a day,
And from this argument quit?

Why annoy a friend,
As I chase till the end
What has already been said?!
(Besides) For this, I'm not even paid.

You might be true.
And then I might rue
That I lost a good pal.
Can we meet up when you next come to Cal?

(The last line is, of course, my signature way of ending a rhyme on an irrelevant note.)

Double class: viewed through a looking glass
What happened: I was sitting in a double-period, a continuous drawl that went on for two hours. The experience of it.

Juggling words in weariness,
Trying to escape the dreariness
Of listening to a boorish teacher.
Grown tired of this babbling creature.
Time moves in a slow, languid manner,
Which, needless to say, throws a spanner
To my plans of having a good day,
And, while the sun shines, make hay.
All of that, I think, now goes haywire
As this man tries his best to tire
Each and everyone of us out.
Well, that's what this poem is about!

Among the various replies accumulated in the Facebook note, K-da was the only one pitching in with rhyme.

K-da:
The world of verse,
Whether pompous or terse,
Would be my forte.
'Twas a settlement reached out of court!

A small patch of grass,
Where I’ll lamely graze like the lethargic ass,
No shepherd to lord over me.
A quiet day after a full tummy!

Ambling across the lakes and leas,
A smug smile to wear,
Churning the rhymes in perfect bliss,
Ouch! the smile droops to a fear!

Who’s he? ah! no one, a small boy,
Want to learn something, ahoy!
Pithy verses, laced with wit.
Come-on, I’ll stand that little bit!

But oh! The boy or an angel coming to age,
With words and rhythm, rivaling the sage,
The good old days of the ruminant, gone!
Now it specializes in “chorbito chorbon”!

The last two words in Bengali roughly translate to "chewing what has been chewed" (I'm ignoring the implication that I might be a cow). Now I had to reply in verse, of course. Otherwise the whole fun would've gone. Came up with two.

Me:
In matters of wordplay and wit,
There are few who can quite hit
The levels of mastery you show.
That's something all of us know!

With words, you have a flair
(That) I'd be too happy to share.
But, of course, that's a wild dream!
Poetry comes slow, as ream upon ream
Of virtual paper is wasted.
And then some sort of success tasted.

So cheer up, and have a beer.
You're still the pioneer!
(Oh, assuming you like to drink!
If not, take it with a wink.)

Your verses still shine,
They're better than mine.
And if one is just short of divine,
Add a little polish and refine.
I'm sure that'll make it fine.
Oh damn, I can't write one more rhyming line!

Me, again:
An angel? Oh dear!
With every praise you gear
Towards hyperbole.
My insignificant role
Of a humourous prole
You send down the greatness-hole!

I much prefer to be the boy,
Who with his humour-sarcasm alloy,
Tears things down to bits:
From boring teachers to pop-hermits!
(I mean the celeb Guru of Yoga,
The one with stone-eye and saffron toga.)

Amusement is the only aim
And if, by chance, a little fame
Does stride up to me,
Who'm I to set it free?
And if someone does learn a slice
Wouldn't it be very nice?

But don't mourn the ruminant gone.
From its ashes, a cynic born
Shares his lop-sided worldview.
He sees the world with eyes anew.

To be honest, the ruminant was boring.
As he talked you could hear the snoring
Of those around him.
So he'd turn grim
And morose.
But then, he chose
To abandon prose.
(A chapter-close.)

 

Bogie:

What happened: This was spurred by the verbal portrait of me that Basu-da drew, while in conversation. I started with the intention of exaggerating his words. But in place of the archetypal hardboiled cynic, I ended up with the man I was modelling the poem on.
 

On his forehead, a deep frown.
A compulsive loner in tinseltown.
His utterances bitter, sardonic,
While he gulps down a gin and tonic.
Cool, steely, suave and smart,
Who's he but Humphrey Bogart?

First Crush:
Somebody wrote, "Experiencing my first crush".
Dude, I just hope you're not having your first brush
With compressive load!

#Joking civil-engg. mode

Random wisecrack on seeing someone's facebook status. Contains mild geek-humour, and complete irreverence for emotions. Be warned! Also, hashtags are wonderful, aren't they?

P.S.: Second roundup of facebook verses. Part 1 here.

A quick roundup

If you are on my Facebook friend-list and log in periodically, you might have seen some of my attempts at lighthearted, humorous poetry. Most of these are hastily typed down in a minute or two, and therefore exhibit awkward structure and meter.

Still, I'm fond of them. Lightheartedness is a good excuse for laziness - I can get away with the excuse of parodying wannabe poets.

Penny-a-word poets:

Sudipto Basu wants to create rhythm but rhyme,

but can't find a word more fitting than slime.

Boy, these rhymes for a dime 

are just not worth his time.

On falling down from a bicycle:

Sudipto Basu is having much fun.
As much as can be done
with a painful hurt arm;
A silly book's done the harm!

Footnote - a book in a big bag hanging from the handle got stuck in the wheel. Hence, a bad fall.

To this, K-da added:

And with raging fever
It’s more than a shiver
that keeps you off
from FB and all the cine blokes you dare to scoff!

But which is the buck
You’d like to pass;
That created this fuss,
the book, tyre, muck
or a little less than luck ?

So get better soon.
You can’t set for a greater boon.
A half-way spoonerism this, it’s then a spoon!
For want of an apt ender,
I’ll rather take this bender
And settle for my LB’s lampoon!

Footnote - LB is for little brother, which is how K-da often calls me. The fall was soon accompanied by high fever.


On writing infrequently:

Sudipto Basu needs to write more often,
His writing skills mustn't soften.

Sayantani added:

Love your couplets,

Nice mind-outlets.

To which I rejoined:

Writing a couplet ain't hard.

For an easy going two-line bard.

Self-referential fun:

The other day I wrote
something of eminent note:
"Writing couplets ain't hard
for an easy-going two-line bard."
A couple more I want to fix,
In place of four, now I have six.
Two lines more I want to frame.
But can't, oh what a shame!

The Basics of a Trivial Art:

A writer of lighthearted verse
Must make his lines terse.

Succumb to the prolix curse
and your rhymes become worse.

Hold your tongue tight, and your words tighter.
That adds to the humour, makes the verse lighter.

(Lines three and four contributed by Sudhang Shankar. The in-joke is that I've often been susceptible to the prolix curse. Sudhang's couplet might also be a word of warning to me.)

Bad mess food:

"How does it feel?, how does it feel?"
Well how should I feel without a meal!
The mess serves gooey broth.
Good reason for fume and froth.

The first line is of course lifted from a famous Dylan song. This is one of my laziest rhymes, which prompted Karn Kaul to announce that I'm going mad.


The Humourless:

A man who's serious and sombre
is almost as deadly as a mad bomber.
The self-serious man refuses to understand humour,
His earnest unfunny-ness keeps growing like a tumour.
In case you're wondering, this is exaggerated verse.
Don't sulk so much, it could have been worse.

Inspired by a post on Jabberwock's blog which goes by the same name. Funny thing he responded to this facebook status! Reason for writing: professors earnestly asking students to make movies with social relevance at a screening of short-films. This, when some of the films being chided were excellent parody/mockumentary stuff. And a "socially-relevant" film scripted by one of the professors in question prone to turgid seriousness. As you can see, I also did a good job of plagiarising two rhyming words from 'The Basics of a Trivial Art'.

The last one in this post is a playoff started due to a friend who called K-da "a great cine buff". Anyway, here goes Film Conversations.

Beginning with K-da:

"A great cine buff?!"
If that isn't a bluff,
I'd have to leave the place in a huff!
Lest Mr Sudipto Basu chortles
With a violent sneeze and a non-phlegmatic cough!

To which I said:

It isn't very tough
to be recognised as a cine buff.
Some acquaintance
with films of great importance
should be enough
to make you a cine buff.

And K-da replied:

Now, it's a piquant call,
when K-da's having a pit-less fall,
to try and give him a prop,
and in the process go for a crop,
of all those virtues that a buff so deserves,
Insight, vision and the mental reserves,
And, Mr Basu at this age,
Matches a feat that envies the sage,
And this is the fact without any toss
needs to be driven sure across,
to all those friends, don't be cross!

My sagacious rejoinder:

A film buff requires vision and insight
to be able to look into the plight
of fellow men and women.
All that is accepted, but then
(here to your assumption i'll say no
a true cineaste mustn't be so)
mental reserves are a dent
to a film buff's temperament.

To those confounded with this playful reverence, K-da has unusually high opinions of people he likes. Don't be fooled!

Some explanation owed for the "mental reserves" bit. A friend of K-da opined that once someone starts appreciating the masters of world cinema, locally acclaimed film-makers start looking pale in comparison. So much so that one doesn't even want to watch Indian films anymore. (Personal opinion: untrue.)

P.S. and N.B:
1.) A few of the verses begin awkwardly with Sudipto Basu because facebook statuses, as you may know, begin with the poster's name.
2.) Some lines have been modified here and there. Still there is minimum editorial interference.
3.) Prosaic explanations ironically required.
4.) Due acknowledgement to all the greats: Ogden Nash, Edward Lear, Piet Hein, Carroll and Sukumar Ray.

Dulaali's Tale

(Translated from a poem by Joy Goswami.)

Which land were we headed to

What land were we leaving behind

Crossing hills and hollows

Dew-wet trees and barbed wire

Down we went through the plains

On we went through the rice fields

My little sister, Ma, Baba

And all the village folk.

Walking beside them was I

Dulaali?

Or Priyobala?

Parents called Dulaali at home,

Priyobala was the name at school.

I had only recently begun to go to school.

Someone from the village said,

“Flee this place, ho, flee!”

So we fled.

With the entire village.

Ma, Baba, two sisters,

We fled.

Making our way through bushes and wild weeds,

Making our way through brooks and creeks,

Made our way sleepy hauling

Our sleepy thatched-roof,

Our sleepy bamboo fencing,

The sleepy bottle gourd,

Laid on the yard the sleepy cart-wheel,

The sleepy plougher.

The shiuli plant on the portico,

The moon hidden half by the limp neem tree.

We moved on without making a sound.

A twig touched down the forehead and the head,

Cold in dew, wet and calloused,

The folio of a tree is so like the folio of a hand.

After crossing so many many fields,

We rested under the shade of the trees.

Each of us unpacked our sacks,

For jaggery and puffed rice.

Eyes drooping down from slog.

There was a sudden scuttle,

Fire had broken out in villages.

“O Aaduri!”, “O Dulaali!”, “Where are you two?”

Ma, Baba called for us.

I was found.

But Aaduri was lost.

Nobody knows where she has ended up.

We all crossed the barbed wire boundary,

We all.

Heads down, necks down.

We also passed through the book.

The book of Immigration.

We travelled on the steamer,

On the train.

The path was torn into bits.

Where was the land we’re headed to,

In past?

In future?

What an age we left behind!

“Dulaali, Dulaali!” “Priyobala, Priyobala!”

The name is lost on the road.

Some part of the name is lost in the rice meadows.

Some part is lost in the waters of the streams.

Some part the school has taken away.

Some part is lost in the riots along the way.

The trees under which we rested,

Some part of the name is lost to those trees.

Some part of the name the dew-drops of the fields took away.

Some part has gone to the neighbours of the night.

Some part got caught in the bamboo fencing.

Some part is hidden away beneath the thatch-leaves.

Some part is stuck in the barbed wires.

Some part is gone to the Immigration book.

One age I left in that country,

One age was taken by my man,

One age passed by to raise my son,

It is by my son’s name that I’m known today.

I was a part-time maid,

Now full-time.

Meals and clothes I get here as part of pay,

Son has separated after marriage.

I stay here only.

Summer-rains-winter.

Sitting here, I, Nanda’s Ma,

Don’t think of my son.

Neither of my man.

I just remember,

We were going

To some land.

We all were fleeing.

Down the memory hole...

I look on a little aghast
As I erase a bit of my past.
The tyranny of small minds,
In its devious way grinds
The sweetness of yesteryears.
Blood ties confirm fears
Of being misunderstood.
On this, let's not brood
Anymore. Laugh a little
At the pettiness of moronic piffle.