Friday, February 10, 2017
The Death of a Monarch
The old king lay dying. Away from the public eye. Alone in his vaulted bedchamber, unattended and uncared for.
At least that’s what the scullery maid told the milkman. Not that she had ever gone up to the royal chambers; or even laid eyes upon the royal residence anytime in her scullery maiding lifetime. Did it matter, though? That was just a bit of inconsequential detail, wasn’t it?
The milkman then mentioned it to the dairy farmer, who passed it on to the procurement manager of the global dairy brand, who presented his ground level insights to the regional brand manager…
By then the old king was gasping for his last breath. Coughing up bilge and brine water. His death rattle shaking the very foundations of his vaulted bedchamber, where he suffered alone. Unattended and uncared for. Not that the marketing maverick or the new age communications guru had ever laid eyes on the now-almost-dead king or his vaulted royal bedchamber (away from the public eye, unattended and you get the picture) ever in their consumerist wisdom and strategy spewing lives. But how did such an inconsequential bit of detail matter anyway?
The succession battle began in earnest. All the royal princesses and princes, half-breeds and zilch-breeds were paraded in public (fully clothed thankfully, saving grace that). Battle lines were drawn. The options were weighed by one trading guild or the other, before they decided to pool their collective strengths behind the right royal offspring (assumed by the character-in-a-crowd understudy). For there was the one that guaranteed instant mob attention; while another could ensure that at least a fourth of her original audience would come back for more. Then there were the usual new kids on the block rumoured to possess unforeseen powers over the proletariat. Breaking rules that no one was very sure had even existed. Pushing analytics into the abyss. (Unfortunate that, one would have to build blocks in the dark all over again, how beastly!).
The day of the Coronation of the Monarch finally arrived, and would have promptly left by the back door in the same breath—had the confusion on the centre stage been believed. Thankfully, no one believed it; and so there were as many Monarchs to be crowned as there were mantles, crowns, sceptres and orbs to be handed around. And then, right then, when all had been assembled to watch the most Beckettian of performances—the backdrop parted and the king walked in.
The long form is here to stay, irrespective of the Toms, Dickens and Harriets prancing down cybersphere in their progressive minimalism.
Content is still King, Queen, and the kingdom. Amen.
— Saon Bhattacharya
Labels: allegory, content is king, death, dying, long form content
Friday, December 23, 2016
And the Winter Mellows
And the winter mellows
Like mulled wine, like
Soft shards of warmth
Flavoured with citrus rinds
And cinnamon browns;
Sturdy textures knitted snug;
Impossibly blue skies
Shot with times of
Quiet reflection or
Of joyous merriment...
And the winter mellows,
Softening me round
The edges as it goes...
Monday, December 19, 2016
Pickle in the Sun
A thought left to pickle in the sun,A green seedling from the mind
Left to mature into
A full-bodied creature...
An idea caught by the neck and
Trapped into a glass jar, in
The company of salt and turmeric,
A pint of mustard oil,
The juices of a dozen limes,
Grandmama's secret spice mix,
Dollops of tender loving care, and
Just half-a-teaspoon of
Breathless anticipation—
A good tumble or two with
An old serviceable ladle of yore,
And then a sunny corner of the apartment
Dusted and prepared for the glass-topped martaban
To sit in for a fortnight or thereabouts—
And so a germinating thought is left
To pickle in the winter sun...
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
Very Short Story III
Caught a rainbow arc through a slice of the mundane everyday;
and a piece of gold from that pot at the end of it was mine
for the keeping...
and a piece of gold from that pot at the end of it was mine
for the keeping...
Labels: rainbow, very short story
Monday, October 10, 2016
Very Short Story II
The month that the clay feet of a goddess stood rejected in #Manipur; many more were created at #Rio. #vss #Twitter
Very Short Story I
A brilliant blue jay feather floats to the green grass below; and right into the lawn-mower's belly...#vss #Twitter
Thursday, September 01, 2016
Curiosity doesn't always kill the cat...
Nope it does not. That's just a myth that "mono-potentialites" would want you to believe :D
I've just learnt in the last 12 minutes that I'm what they call a "multipotentialite"... and now it's finally okay for me to "embrace my many passions, follow that 'ol curiosity down every rabbit hole, and explore my intersections"... AND that the world needs me: BIG TIME :)
Once again, all thanks to my father who's passed this "Renaissance Man" gene to me. I bet he never knew he had that bug either: so now it all makes double sense to me! :D
Labels: curiosity, intersection, many passions, multipotentialite
Friday, July 08, 2016
Moonshine
The moon scorches too
With its incandescence;
Moonshine burns you too
With its silvery essence...
With its incandescence;
Moonshine burns you too
With its silvery essence...
When the tides turn after twilight
And the old moon surfaces above,
When lakes and streams and oceans alike
To her invisible force are all drawn —
What chance, my friend, then do mortal emotions stand,
When mighty seas her silken strength can barely withstand?
