"Alone"

Edgar Allan Poe has always been one of my favourite author-poets. He appeals to me even more when I'm in a blue or sombre mood. Not being a Literature student I'm not sure if the adjective Gothic could be applied to his oeuvre but it's certainly dark and, often, macabre. He may not be everyone's cup of tea, especially in this 'fast-food' era where reflection and contemplation are often sneered at as outdated and a waste of time. Yet I, perhaps out of step with the modern world, remain defiantly attached to such writing. I reproduce below a poem of his which is one of my personal favourites : Alone.


From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then—in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.


As an aside, the last line was used by Ruth Rendell as the title of one of her best known murder mysteries, 'A Demon In My View'for which she won the Crime Writer's Association Gold Dagger award in 1976.

Bleak picture

Now why does this picture give me an overpowering sensation of deja-vu ?

My 'Form'al illiteracy

At all other times I've absolutely no doubts about my literacy. A person who can speak, read and write ( all within reasonable limits, let me hasten to add) three languages can, I hope, lay claim to being literate, at the very least. In fact, at times, I can detect within myself a certain element of pride - you know, that thing which reputedly goes before a fall - in my 'proficiency' . This delusion lasts right upto the time I have to fill a form for anything - an account-opening form, a government form, a form to reserve tickets, online form, paper form, you name it. I just have to come face to face with a form to be reduced to a trembling, nervous wreckage of a human being. All these forms make me wonder if there exist two versions of each language - one meant for people to communicate with each other, to understand each other, and the other specifically designed to confuse them, to obfuscate issues , and to cloak facts under the garbage of legalese, bureaucratese and/or officialese - all 'languages' created by the Devil himself!

What is the matter with these people? Is it so difficult to prepare forms which ordinary people can understand without needing the services of a lawyer? Why do I have to struggle through a maze of verbiage to understand that all they are asking for is my name, age and address? I would like to be a fly on the wall when these organisations recruit the people who create these forms. It would be an educative experience. I'm sure that the men who design these forms are blood- brothers to those who devise those hellishly cryptic crosswords and spiritual descendants of Torquemada and Marquis de Sade. There must be a very strong streak of sadism and cruelty in their make-up.

You must be wondering why I've launched this diatribe today. Well, today morning an 'Office Assistant' ( we're not supposed to call them peons any longer, I'm told. Just as there are no salesmen in this world anymore, they've all been transmogrified into 'Sales Executives'. ) from a bank brought me an Account Opening form. Before I could say a word, he took out his ball-point pen, marked out the places where my signature was needed, and said simply, "Sign". Insulted, I said I would have to read it first. He permitted himself a ghost of a smile and said , " Sir, You won't understand it. " I leafed frostily through the form. He was right. But I had my amour propre to think of. ( "How many times do I have to tell you never to end a sentence with a preposition, Milind?", my venerable English teacher used to say.) To accept my 'form'al illiteracy in front of a peon would be a matter of shame. With what little dignity I had left, I told him to leave the form with me, saying that I would go through it in detail later, and that he could return in the evening to pick it up. Somehow, I don't think he was taken in by my bravado.

A conversation between me and my inner self

A conversation between me ( the party of the first part hereinafter to be referred to as 'I') and my inner self (the party of the second part hereinafter to be referred to as 'Smartypants') :

I: Nine days, seven posts and only one response.
Smartypants : I'm surprised too.
I : That's the first time in years you've agreed with me. Thanks.
Smartypants : I'm surprised you managed even one, nutcase!
I : (sotto voce) Should have known better than to ask you.
Smartypants : What's the good of whispering, fool? I'm your inner self, remember? I can read your mind.
I : Go, take a running jump at yourself.
I : People just don't appreciate good writing these days.
Smartypants : Sure they do. That's exactly why they avoid your blog like the plague. Just who do you think you are - Hemingway? Shakespeare?
I : What about the good lady who has posted an appreciative comment?Tell me that.
Smartypants : You've answered your own question, dunderhead. She's a good, kind lady who happened to stumble upon your blog by sheer accident. She just took pity on you. Don't let it go to your head.
I : And what about R's mail saying she liked my blogs?
Smartypants : She's your sis-in-law. Hardly qualifies as an unbiased opinion. Besides, what option did she have after you e-mailed her asking her to read it? She had to at least pretend ( all right, all right, I know I've split an infinitive here. Stop nit-picking, will you.) that she'd read your nonsense. Take my advice - stop this blogging. You aren't cut out for it. Better yet, delete this blog.
I : (sullenly) I won't.
Smartypants : Why not? No one reads it anyway. As Vijay Merchant had said, "It's better to go when people ask why rather than when they ask why not."
I : I'm not a cricketer.
Smartypants : No, and you're not a writer either.( snigger, snigger)
I : You're just jealous.
Smartypants : Ha ha ha. Very funny. I haven't had a good laugh like that since the 'India Shining' campaign. Now, if only you could distill some of that humour into your 'literary' efforts, you might yet have a future.