The unfailing genius of Murakami to draw me back

I spent over four months reading 1Q84 and while the journey was magical and intriguing, the conclusion was undramatic and predictable. I was broken, for this was the first time in over a year of continuously reading him that I’d been disappointed with Murakami. There were scathing reviews of 1Q84 that bashed him and his motifs and in particular his treatment of women.

I had absolutely fallen in love with his writing in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and Men without Women in 2019, and none other has come close to the pure magic in exhibited in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

But I still picked Kafka on the Shore having heard so much about it, and it was a better experience, although the conclusion can be accused of being highly abstract. However Murakami employed quite cleverly the usage of metaphors, and declared so beforehand via philosophical discussions between characters (a signature of Murakami), thereby equipping us with the right tool to analyse the chapters which took place in the most random of settings with no particular link to the story. These Metaphors are symbolic of the trial of man (and woman), resulting in definite actions taken to resolve conflicts, depicted in the book as stationary places affording time to the character to make a definite choice. The apparent abstraction of those chapters concentrated at the end of the novel are perhaps one of the most elaborate and long metaphors to be employed in works of literary fiction.

In an interview in The Paris Review, Murakami quotes John Irving and says that a writer must make addicts our of his/her readers. I for one am said addict.

Tanmay

red on green

pleas to sustain and spare the pain

we’re bared to you for your gain

no cloak no quilt

only a mother’s guilt,

watching the glee with which

my green roots and shoots

trembled under your creaky boots;

grumbling old men with jittery teeth

that clatter and grind over beetle leaves

and worms in gums that chatter together

leaving big stains and a cancerous pane

of crimson and brown and blood and hound.

grumbling old men that don’t hesitate

to strike check mate-

and bring my fate,

axes and picks and saws- a dozen

only to kill all millions heathens.

grumbling old men that use the knife

to kill all of their wives

it’s similar to that don’t you see?

I served them too with brilliant tea.

so life is cut and life is eased

life is cut and life is eased

for deserted plains that resemble grey

desperation and dismay

-Tanmay

cut the crap and work

we’re all grasses in a field

different shades

swaying in the wind

caressed by a dogs furs

or dumped on by his shit

and we let ants pass through

and let our earth be churned by worms

enjoying the minutest tectonic shift to the actual earth

still it’s important for our life

the adversity offered by the soil turners

helps in growth

or character

I don’t know

they say something along those lines,

but let’s go ahead swaying under

the winds of the city

carrying with them the ashes of, dreams-

fulfilled

and crushed.

we sense it all in an attempt

to make sense

and realise that

our soil is poor

we could have done more

but we were stuck with thinking

the grass is greener on the other side

the grass is greener on the other side…

-Tanmay

tsunami

I entered yesterday’s first class right at the moment I got up. It was a swift movement of the legs propelling me out of bed as a bunny would, and I jumped straight to my plywood table covered with an off white sunmica. I log in immediately for it is 2020, the year my generation is going through its first pandemic holed up in their homes, scared, bored, uncertain. Too much changed this year to make sense of. And the changes being so drastic their consequences are much more difficult to fathom. But I guess those with money are lucky. It’s not tough. Upholding the safety norms is enough. There’s enough time to indulge in myriad experiences, provided you’re in a city with low regulations. Experiences that’ll help cope with the tsunami of unknown consequences that’ll follow.

-Tanmay

bathroom bedlam and drugs

leaky faucets dripping incessantly

birthing a river; home to invisible creatures

I

on the pale commode

with my feet on the cheapest tiles we could afford ten tears ago

see transparent squids through silent eyes

tentacles warping in all directions

touching toes

touching souls

to transfer a message

between species, a message from the sea

of salt and petals and sharks and seagulls

the water calls

me

and I feel it on my head

the water

“Yes! I feel it!

A few drops! Like rain!”

but it’s only my slumber

that has me forgetting that

the electric geyser up there also leaks

-Tanmay

brown

Everyday we drink tea, resting the tea cups on round jute coasters on a large brown wood coffee table with an even larger brown tinted glass surface.

The tint makes the newspapers below look 30 years old- as if they were fished out from our storage room, but of course they bear today’s day and date- neat and crisp.

The rusk often drips into the tea as we stare into our respective screens on quiet mornings of days’ that we know entail toil. The unuttered desperation for rest adds to the silence, broken periodically by the stunted cries of stunted sparrows. The sparrrows are smaller than they used to be 20 years ago. Their plumage pathetic now, dirt-like instead of the browns that we have preserved in our eyes.

A three-some of green parrots show up at the window near the dining table, overlooking the cemetery. Always in threes, and always silent for the fear of attracting a predator who’d claw them down.

Only once have I sighted a large hawk in our skies, gawking over the cemetery as if it was its land. How would I explain to it that that land is disputed property…

-Tanmay

who the fuck put a dead snake on my plate?!

The snake opened its wide sharp knife laden mouth, the orifice big enough to consume my-self entirely, I entered with a certain risk, a kid in the background yelled “Basilisk”,

“Ah shut up, I want this journey”.

The snake’s body lay open for me to inspect, the scales absent inside, a hollow rib and an elongated gut, put up lights at the top and it’s no different than the tunnel I drive through everyday for work. Could smell the reek of venom and a dead rat, somewhere deeper I could encounter its death, not mine, I plan to live longer.

The body seemed to coil inwards, dead snakes writhe for a while, no problem; I could just shrink further and go on, as I said I wanted this journey.

The mucus on the walls signaled directions further into the belly to the bag of gold, yes there was gold and other treasures at the end, you could say the dragon had eaten the treasure it was supposed to guard, only the dragon here is a snake.

Ten steps further I found some gold coins strewn on the floor, I kept on walking, and walking and walking…

-Tanmay

kids and poetry

Been a busy three days tending to poetic desires. It is a relief to know that if you keep your head down and put in the work, it’ll pay off.

Writing has offered a steady support for a long time. It’s an exercise that if done for pleasure will furnish peace. There’s endless possibilities of the magic that can be crafted through pen and paper. Once an idea strikes I translate it into an image, and I describe it as best as possible. Slowly I feel that the poem itself dictates how it’ll turn out to be and I am just a medium.

There’s a lot of exploration to do and I will keep sharing what I find as I find it.

-Tanmay

muse solaire

*

what hesitation do I hold, when the sun broke through me

how do I stop when you already hallowed mine pen with thy lips, and so I wrote on

the papyrus too thin, letting the letters suspend in the air- a curtain for your face

nestled in hair that beamed of spring in monsoon, evident of misplaced power commandeered by

the eyes, the eyes capable of inciting cold blooded murder and vanishing into sage like meditation,

altering the course of comets and destinies,

but lip service is all I am providing now, hoping that the letters be assimilated and drunk, hoping that there’s more…

*

-Tanmay

PS: I am in the mood for writing poetry only these days. Please bear with me.

nightmare

These serpentine dreams of mine

latch onto me,

dragging me down

long after I’ve woken up,

it’s the incubus of epic proportions

reminding me of sins that were

the poison dilutes my blood

and I hallucinate- an extension of nightmares- a contorted scarecrow’s screaming cries

ringing in my ears

the rustling summer wind gives me cotton mouth

sweat drops like a river from my hair to my chin

and then the pounding of the earth

with no time to turn around

all I see from the corner of my eye-

vile wolves with red eyes jumping on me…

-Tanmay