You might call me a pessimist, but I am not running away from the ritual of bitter realism which we drink like bad faith every day. You might pump yourself with film stars selling their miscellaneous products on television — ‘I love my India’ — and you might suddenly fly on the all that gas balloon of superpower, nuclear power India; but, honestly, you must be joking.
In the Revolution of Nihilism, Herman Raushning makes chilling revelations about the rise of fascism with Hitler at the helm. With a bloated megalomaniac fascist like Narendra Modi muscle-flexing his way into the faction-ridden BJP’s incomplete dream sequence, here is an extract from the book which might appear relevant in the current morally corrupt and politically/ethically disintegrating social fabric of contemporary India.
“We comfort ourselves by reliving memories of protection. Something closed must retain our memories, while leaving them their original value as images. Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams; we are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost.”
Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space: The Classic Look at How We Experience Intimate Places.
The forest wind builds appetite, enlightens your light eyes, sensitizes your numbed senses, sharpens your ears, your sound and hearing systems deadened by the constant buzz of traf
They never ask their own mirrors, how can you love and respect your own daughter, wife, sister and mother when you have raped and murdered someone else's mother, sister, wife, daughter? How can you face your own god and religion, when you have violated all that stands for godliness and purity in your religion?
Amit Sengupta Delhi
The kind of public interest marketing, shady sponsorships, five star aesthetics and blabbermouth dysentery of the mouth being showcased with such pride and pomp
Amit Sengupta Delhi
...That which is for me through the medium of money – that for which I can pay (i.e., which money can buy) – that am I myself, the possessor of the money. The extent of the power of money is the extent of my power. Money's properties are my – the possessor's – properties and essential powers. Thus, what I am and am capable of is by no means determined by my individuality. I am ugly, but I can buy for myself the most beautiful of women. Therefore, I am not ugly, for the effect of ugliness – its deterrent power – is nullified by money.
Shayad woh galtiyon ka ehsaas kar raha hai
Peeta nahin lahu ab, 'upvaas' kar raha hai
Nafrat ke jism par hai 'sadbhavana' ka chola
Reports say more than 11,000 tonnes of garbage was found at Ramlila Ground after the fast-unto-death cum indefinite fast cum free-for-all carnival reached a cathartic climax.
The white, vicious, inevitable heat arrived in concealed slow motion, like a rattlesnake in an unwinding desert with no visions or hallucinations or illusions of an oasis, slithering and gliding in