Dead men talk via the not dead

The past is nothing if it has no recall; the future a waste if it can be foretold; the present is but what passes between memory and what will become memory before this sentence earns itself a full stop. There, it's already the past, and the present has passed and the future is what it will be, que sera sera, who cares, it will be what it will be and for certain the future will come to be the past in a trice, and that will be it. Mahadeb is proof. For he is the past with indelible recall. His present is a constantly passing absence. His future, well, who can foretell, but it is a future that remains eagerly awaited: Mahadeb, back, hunched upon his cart over the earthen coal stove, brewing and serving tea, our own chaiwala. We wish him back, like a kindly prophecy fulfilled, a most valued past inhabiting the future having surpassed and surmounted the present absence. Happily, it still happens that some past things become future things. Like sunrise. Or the Ganga, since you last tore yourself away from her banks.

By Lazy Eye- Sankarshan Thakur
  • Published 14.01.18
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The past is nothing if it has no recall; the future a waste if it can be foretold; the present is but what passes between memory and what will become memory before this sentence earns itself a full stop. There, it's already the past, and the present has passed and the future is what it will be, que sera sera, who cares, it will be what it will be and for certain the future will come to be the past in a trice, and that will be it. Mahadeb is proof. For he is the past with indelible recall. His present is a constantly passing absence. His future, well, who can foretell, but it is a future that remains eagerly awaited: Mahadeb, back, hunched upon his cart over the earthen coal stove, brewing and serving tea, our own chaiwala. We wish him back, like a kindly prophecy fulfilled, a most valued past inhabiting the future having surpassed and surmounted the present absence. Happily, it still happens that some past things become future things. Like sunrise. Or the Ganga, since you last tore yourself away from her banks.

And so it is that a few weeks ago, a certain previous Sunday, whoever undertakes to fill up this space with the exact number of words that are required to fill this space up (that byline you see emblazoned at the top of this column each week is some arcane pseudonym, and I wonder each week who is the real one hiding behind that aka) wrote:

"There is nothing as loud as the sound of wrongdoing being hushed. Nor anything as revelatory as a cover-up. The more covers you commission and deploy, the bigger the body of evidence becomes. The harder you hush over something, the more you are heard. Don't believe me? Come spend a while at Mahadeb's, even though he's still gone. It's come to matter less and less that he isn't there. His air is. It's a place that all winds cross, and on their wings arrive intimations.

"Someone died. Someone important. Someone sitting over an important matter - as important as possible murder. Then it began to dawn that he may not have died. He may have himself been murdered. Everybody's talking about it at Mahadeb's: Did you know? But didn't you? But, hush, nobody's naming names because UnmentionablePeople may be involved. UnmentionablePeople meaning mention them and, well, you don't wish unmentionable things happening to you, do you? See how careful I am being. Learn. And please take due note, PuppyLove and NumberToo, I have not named any names. I am a careful character, clean as a barrel after bullets have been shot into intended places."

More bullets have been fired. And each of those bullets are intended for intended places, although those intended places are different intended places. Sundry members of the UberKhap have broken ranks with the entirety of the UberKhap and fired on the SirPunch of the UberKhap. Enough is enough, they've resolved, the system has been fixed and fiddled with far too brazenly. And so they decided to take seats alongside each other in the wide open winter sun and declare, in a never before show and with stunning unison, that some souls are up for sale, or also have been sold, but their souls are not among those willing to be sold.

Someone died. It has been a while; and many remain unsure whether he merely died or was put to sleep. That someone was sitting upon an important matter of someone else having allegedly being killed at the behest of someone altogether more important. And that death of someone possibly as a consequence of someone having been killed at the alleged instructions of someone terribly important is a matter that needs investigation. That investigation, or the plea that such an investigation be ordered, is sought to be hushed up by simple and sheer and shameful expedience of fixing UberKhap rosters. The SirPunch picks the right SubPunch and the punch is gone from the matter of who might have got who killed because someone important got killed at the behest of someone altogether more important. Well, here's the counter-punch. The UberKhap being an UberKhap has more Punches than just the SirPunch and the SubPunch and those Punches decided to land a punch.

And it is, they said, about that man

If we don't speak it will be doom

There's no convention, but neither a ban

So here we are, and we say boom!