Saturday, September 14, 2013


Invalidated is experience
When rules prevail
Underscoring non subjective
Profusion of travails

That which negates
What never existed
Despite projections
Inveterately persisted

When subjective truths
Underlie human experience
Rules are rendered ambiguous
And substituted by percipience

Yet when, in following rules
Deception and inadequacy conjoin
Identity, extracting existential slivers
Moments of restitution purloins

The trick lies in seeing
That the rule is what it is
Acknowledging constructed reality
Asseverate that incertitude is the real this.

Friday, September 13, 2013


The thought juts out
From abstruse cogitations
Meandering the fringed
Depths of nothingness.

The thought brims over the rim
Blurring memory and consciousness
Transmuting iridescent intimations
Into funnels of the unknown

The thought, gravid, deleterious
Curls up under the amniotic womb
Sifting the ebbs of circularity
To arrive at a inviolable core

The thought surges and forges
Into runnels of self consciousness
changing disembodied abstrusities
By carving veracious whorls.

The thought, thickens here, deepens there
Quickening forces of perception
Flattening out incongruous remnants
And speckle recollections with essences

The thought, after traversing these quadrangles
Negates the labyrinth it peregrinated
Through irradiating with loops of self knowledge
The thought folds back on itself.

Thursday, September 12, 2013


Memory weaves unctuous remnants around the quadrangles of consciousness wherein streaks of thoughts, tempered by retrospection dishevel tufts of linearity. Intermeshed stripes of memory, with their oleaginous specks stud remembrance with intensity and depth. What was unintelligible becomes coherent, the implacable becomes fluid and flecked with causality emblems of experience transmute into moments of being and crystallize as reminiscence.

Yet the assortment of thoughts, threaded by concatenated mnemonics , never dissever irrevocably. They hang like pendants, in inchoate loops, under the awning of memory . Recollection imbues them with reason. Each thought is indivisible yet, in its essence, as an affirmation of human consciousness, indistinguishable from its kind. Memory creases fact , fills experience to the brim and spills over, in concussions of rapture, around cognition.

Recollection is unavailing unless retroactive. Memory notches its constituents and greaves them from being sullied by negation. Yet recollection is sprinkled with nostalgia, tufted with fondness and suffused with valediction. Sometimes the visitations are painful, dispersing being into arcs of nothingness. Under the canopy of self consciousness amorphous wisps of recollections float, either intoning carillons of joy or dirges of disillusion. Though self consciousness dapples recollection with strips of knowledge and makes of ephemeral, gossamer slivers, arabesques of knowledge and modes of being.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013


He readies himself for the reading, looks at his audience and stifles a spasm of fear, as though the vision of himself doling out his inconsequentially whorled artifices will, tumbling, twisting and turning, drop plumb into the nothingness of non comprehension.

His being is suffused with unutterable anxiety. He has been gently expostulating with his publishers to circumvent the reading and to obliterate, from the deep well of insecurity, all remnants of disquiet. Yet he finds himself, unavoidably, before a bunch of listeners whose expectancy and rippling excitement intensifies his apprehension.

Yet his being quivers with excitement, vacillates between obscurity and recognition. On the verge of a plunge he watches the dark waters churning below, the waves curling, curving, enclosed yet expanding, rippling with unseizable energy. His poetry is the spar with which he hopes to sidestep submergence. His inveterate belief in his craft buoys him, supports him and he gathers himself together, as the mist concentrates itself to create a dense microclimate of impenetrability, of folding together the plumage and be inviolate and protean, holding on to vestiges of selfhood but still merging with the larger conglomeration of like minded people.

Poetry shores him up, always did against the chaos of the here and now. He can behold himself delineated, unruffled in the looking glass of his craft. Though the moment of creating fills him with inadequacy, an incertitude that what emerges will be incommensurate to what was conceived. He desires a soldering of thought with intent, intent with action. Moments of agreeable philosophic indolence and quiescence defer the process of writing, suspend self doubt and allay the excoriation which is an inevitable accompaniment to the creative process.

Despite these travails he stands. The knot of fear within him has liquefied and attenuated. Fears have been momentarily bypassed . He inhabits a realm of restfulness, in the interstice of apprehension and anticipation. He opens the page, pauses to take a breath and begins.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013


The interior has been seen as a repository both of the singular and the collective. Could a gaze into its silvered depths yield a fulcrum of being, though that fulcrum would, of necessity, be indeterminate or will it be a form of navel gazing, a profoundly solipsistic immersion in the unconscious that yields rich subject matter but proffers no larger narrative.

The individual is a combination of the contingent and the communal, as acknowledged. It logically follows that though individual experience is singular it contains within itself, nascent blueprints that would make it resonate and relatable to other people. Experience as integument sheathes but billows. Its ebbs and flows, contractions and expansions, retractions and progressions are blent with an expansive structure of continually proliferating consciousness composed of arabesques that are part of a mosaic, indivisible yet conglomerated.

Consciousness, by itself is shaped by forces, norms and ideas that precede it. Yet these phenomena are reconfigured and rendered appropriable. We shape phenomena in as much as they shape us. It is thus perhaps ineluctable that the collective consciousness is an accompaniment to the individual. Would it not follow, therefrom that the possibility of regression and advancement are contained in the individual consciousness ? The new form would locate aspects of being that arose out of a dialectic between the past and the future, underpinned by the present. It would, it channelled usefully create out of this paraphernalia a wholesome mode of being that partakes of the past, informs the future and makes the present protean and kinetic. Experience also works through negation so that should the surface be inimical to the depth it will nonetheless be, despite its opposite nature, a commentary on the very depth it negates. And especially at a time when experience itself has splintered and fragmented and alternative narratives are being explored. An erasure is exposing the power politics behind the original impulse to erase.

Yet this fragmentation is not cohering into a mosaical whole but subdividing further into more compartments. The competing need for an authenticated story has proffered the postulation that ontology is a construct but it has, in the post structuralist parlance, paused at this interstice of telling and acceptance. It hasn't progressed beyond that.

And therefore the stress of a new form would circumvent such a possibility of stasis and suspension. Consciousness is to explore not only the manifestations and workings of its coordinates but its very own nature, its very own telos. Can such a supra self consciously self conscious exploration yield any answers? It is doubtful if it would. But the cornucopia of a kaleidoscopic past, replete with its comminglings and negations, intersections and ricochetings, disavowals and acknowledgements would be a dense tapestry of various temporal points in time where various ideologies, defense mechanisms and survival possibilities reposed. If the present trend, carried to the future hypothetically is a blueprint then so is the past a blueprint, a lesson in how, with a renewed consciousness of consciousness its impulses and propensities can be registered, absorbed, understood and rendered appropriable. The newer form would not merely be content saying 'this is the truth' or that 'this irreality is our only reality. The new form would always ask - 'what next' ?


The first impulse one has on reading 'Sherlock holmes in japan' is that it is absolutely fearless. The novel is not so much a reinterpretation as a recreation. Vasudev Murthy has not merely put new wine in an old bottle. He has smashed the old bottles. The novel's adventurous spirit begins even before it starts when it is proclaimed subversively that the novel is actually being written as Akira yamashita. The idea of doubling, of splintered reflections each telling their own narrative is demonstrated here . Vasudev murthy is not a ubiquitous presence presiding over it all but a character and a narrator as much as an author. The palimpsest blurs and blots and out of its hieroglyphs emerges a concatenation of proliferating narrative transgressions which is not oft seen in contemporary literature.

The scenic locations capture the feel and cultural emblems of the landscape seamlessly. Japenese culture, its caprices, dynamics and variegated dimensions are presented authentically. The overturning of the Holmseian narrative occurs throughout the book. The book comes across as an indeterminate, unclassifiable genre in that it departs, form wise and narration wise, conspicuously from both the detective fiction narrative and the crime fiction narrative. It partakes of elements from both but manages to turn them on their heads and expose their subterranean absurdities.

The narrative is composed of a polyphony of voices . Voices insinuate themselves seamlessly, providing a fresh perspective on the kaleidoscope while keeping the storytelling impulse proceeding. The blending of propulsion and depth, action and human engagement is one of the biggest strengths of the novel. Each character and narrator is a conduit, a prism, refracting facets of the story and action that taken together become a rich, multifarious mosaic.

The language Vasudev Murthy deploys is rich and extensive, though never wordy and abstract. The words have been chosen carefully, judiciously and mostly playfully so that the ebbs and flows of language become, in their intersecting densities and deliberate facileness , a metonym for the story itself.

Vasudev Murthy hasn't, it must be confessed , written a classic. He has , however written a bold, ambitious, unafraid, gutsy and strong story. Indian literature in english is suffused with a certain banality, a certain kitsch quality and though its forms have expanded the scope has diminished. 'Sherlock holmes in japan' shines as a beacon of hope and an inspiration for younger novelists to leap forth fearlessly, experiment freely and break the barriers of what constitutes form. And for this the novel must be celebrated.