MONTO

MONTO -A MAN WHO REFUSES TO DIE

Monto sleeps

his body is stretched wide,

on the dunlop mattress

with slight heavy breathings.

There are sounds of washing and rustling

in kitchen at a distance

sweet tinkling and tingling

flowing water in the tap, washing of old torn out

towels and dirty linen

the telephone rings.

Monto removes the quilt,

right hand picks up the hook

and mouth says hello.

He wakes up.

He howls, rages, cries

it appears

he languished in sermons,

and like Bhishma

wishes to advise the God of Death

to come during Uttarayan,

so he avoids death

for he has done enough

and does not want a rebirth.

It is embellished with assertions

voice full and hoarse, sometimes ringing.

And gentle other times Monto knows

He pauses, listens, hears and speaks.

He knows he is an intellectual

he understands, he is a modern

no doubts, no explanations

he is gone with her train

such a hindrance slow, sluggish.

Not writhing with passion but a machine

it is love without warmth

she is wife but not a woman, Monto laughs.

II

Monto looks around, books and books

cuttings and diaries,

pens, pencils, magazines and papers

strewn over and he had read all,

he broods over.

It is lustrous it is ridiculous,

it excites many yearnings and dampens many spirits

he is a giant and watches full and eyes open,

he scatters his body,  arms and feels fresh.

He feels the spirits of a nomad

his brain tells him of a prophet,

he is a Moses.

And he launches a marathon dandi

all Gods walk into the room

they are his friends he exhorts,

his tuneful tongue hums a song

Of piety, faith and God.

Decorated fortunes around

sparkle and splatter and he looks,

the door is opened.

His house cleaner making sounds

doing odds, and he remembers tickles soothingly

her body calming him down at night,

it was her journey into a life of experience

when a virgin is made a woman over night.

He shivers not with guilt but with pleasure and victory

it was her journey Monto feels.

III

He is still thinking

he is to get up so he looks around

and hums ‘Om’ many a time

and folds hands to salute his gods

hanging on the walls.

He thinks he is a Solomon

for David is declared unfit,

this God spoke to David

and Monto remembers each of them

all blessings, smiling he feels within calmness,

his mind peaceful and swiftly flowing

from image to image.

This house cleaner was so satisfying

it was passion fulfilled

it was lust and virginity

and a virgin wittingly laughing away

to lust without recompense.

Monto smiles on her fate he pondered

she was meant to oblige him,

reasons always not clear it was her Alter.

She symbolized and failed

Monto is the strength, the society,

he boasted, spoke and wrote

in speeches and writings

such freak romances and a few jumps

hall marks of a genius he inferred.

He consoled and laughed at forays into history,

speaks of such blatant assaults

enigmatic yet clear adaptation.

Monto is my Krishna

who won Mitrawida and Lakshmana,

with Seven ‘Strong Bulls” he fought

and so was happy the king,

and Monto draws a parallel relation

with reluctance.

Monto is so cunning and finds support

from history and scripture and I alone see and lament,

for Monto has started building a Temple

for when I thought of this character.

He lives within and mocks at me

and always pushes me aside to walk ahead.

 IV

Monto needs a cup of tea

he mumbles loudly and a maid appears,

he waits, she is in front of him

shy and gentle but exposed and fact-knowing

he marks her, each contour entices him,

sends waves of thrills

he speaks out her name without a voice

there she moves and he pounces on her

another attack of unending hunger

he eats up her again, food in plenty

she wriggles out, for he live great and grand he is.

Monto thinks it was willingness

that moved him to bed and tea,

and rays of sun enter, he gets up

with a cup of tea in hand and starts.

Looks at today’s engagements

he has to speak at comrade’s meet

so he prepares a speech another hour on Marx,

his communism and Capital, for it is 10 A M

That he shall move out.

V

Such is the destiny of a man

in society he stands divided

in caste, creed and colour

in classes, there is a war, war of survival

class war shall continue

in civilized and savage societies

but survival of the fittest is the dictum, old tested result

it is said in scriptures, Gita also proclaims.

He knows no relation

no blood, no obligation

Sarthi said so.

It was cunningness practiced

Monto said loud mouthed,

for a woman arrow waged a war

Ravana was duped in a subtle way

convincingly he propounded and there were cheers,

socialism is a word for all to eat

for survival and life if poor is eliminated

who will live old worn out formulas,

all sham and falsehood, a clever move of a few rich

to hold on to power in the name of majority.

A baseless proposal that swings and lingers on

reigns deeps and carries out orders

of government majority and poor,

they remain poor in rags and hunger

homeless and spiritless they are murdered.

To fulfill a commitment women are raped

remain a property of luxury

Enjoyed by a few in the system who pronounce majority,

a sustaining contradiction.

A perpetual headache Monto spoke

cheers echoed everywhere.

VI

Monto shall root out

evil, corruption and inequality

economic disparity shall bid good bye,

he swears three cheers.

A messiah has risen from the ashes

he is standing like a liberator

a terrific experiment in liberty and equality.

He knows Isaac and laughs

he behaves like Jacob and shows blessings

for Esau is cheated and so wept

Monto makes a long sweep.

There is clamour, noise and cheer

so Monto rose to dizzy heights

of fame and glory,

it was his speech that made him a giant

a tribute to his intellect.

Monto felt amazed he is a giant

he experienced the touch

it was the grinding anguish

and interminable suffering,

a voice against gave another image

Monto chokes in fame and feels breathless,

in echoes, the crowd thins out

comrades stand by him, he laughs.

And discusses theories of Marx

how it came about

in China, Russia and such like countries,

he analyses revolutions, talks of 1917 and 1949

dates he remembers, arguments spell silence,

he is entertained, lavish tea and lunch

over soft drinks and drinks unknown

and then seminars in a hotel room

he understands the darkness of night.

There are men and women

and he falls for women,

from a maid to a princess

a genuine weakness strengthens.

His ethics give him insight into scriptures and religions

he laughs at manipulations, he succeeds, none knows

and nobody shall know when he shall concentrate in a hotel,

with a comrades’ daughter it is teaching without boundaries

he knows that, and the comrade understands,

his daughter pays the fees, an experience that remains

unforgettable, Monto is great and supreme.

He is Samson and a lover but not allow him

to be shaven by Philistines and get imprisoned,

it is enough.

That his sweet voiceless maid

and comrade’s, pretty daughter

or like them are his Delilahas.

He is stunned at his fantasy

of success and so he justifies.

VII

And discussion ends nowhere

he talks of labour on roads,

farmers working in fields, skeletons loading and unloading,

beggars in tattered clothes, children with begging bowls

of hunger and poverty, of corruption and exploitation

of sufferings and deaths, of palaces and huts.

He exploits emotions from a straw to a golden ring

of hoarders and blackmailers, of smugglers and bootleggers

of systems and sadhus.

All make a society that is corrupt and evil

he speaks fast and lucid, no mincing of words,

and stretching of meaning, all facts away from fiction

but still so intimate.

It is neither a poet’s dream nor novelists’ world

neither God visualized it nor men thought of it

Monto repeats with passion that he poured out,

on comrade’s daughter and maid

for they do not want his strength.

He knows an evil and lie but who is he to disclaim

when world digests it as a truth,

he understands the roaming pulse

and slumbering intellect of people and society.

He scans the world around

he stands around and midst legends,

and very high and tall, my Monto is a man of dreams

who went out without warning.

VIII

Now subsides noise and rumble

no piercing storm and he walks out.

Monto attends a literary symposium

he discusses men and material,

poets and fiction, culture and tradition

a great event,

writers are harbingers of a new order

torch bearers of truth and beauty,

not only Keats said but so say the seers,

a duty is enjoined upon those who write

should speak of harmony and peace.

Man is one make him classless

blood is red and casteless

emotions are similar

make man a God and no distinction,

no cleavage among men

no chasm on caste and creed,

no two religions, for the world is one

man is the same so one message of truth,

would do a long service, Monto is so sure.

He is my Monto standing lofty and talking high

he is my dream of my making,

he is lord of a charming Ahalya, no effect of any curse,

He can send Sita to exile and still laugh.

I made him what he is but he stabbed and killed me

I do not repent he is my child,

I breathe through him Monto is great.

He is an intellectual

he is leader, a writer and everything,

he knows how to live in a world

of lies and hatred.

He is my computer he organizes and prophesies

he kills, he enjoys

he is stoutly walking into eternity

world knows him and knows not,

that is his victory and my defeat

My Monto I salute who lives cleverly in this world.

IX

Poets speak of ideas they feel not

writers write of men they never met,

fiction is created without truth, it is rootless.

It teaches many things, creates vacuum

it writes of a man and berates him

writings do not create culture.

But feed sex and violence

cheap emotions, simple traditions,

writers smoke and in smoke

they see a philosophy in cozy rooms,

they think of sun burnt faces

in warm cushions talk of beggars,

such is a living of surviving ethos

it must be killed.

Omissions are there but rare

Monto enunciates new principles

and so he finishes amidst cheers,

a young poetess comes and he greets her

he discusses writers and writings

cultures and religions, all are enamoured.

My Monto grows high and moves forward

and teaches the young poetess

the art of emotions through experience

and becomes her Vatsayana,

and gives her a kiss unasked

for he has hit eye of fish and so has won her

Monto is wanton but nobody knows

He rises to the sky.

X

This is a grand dinner

Monto is the chief guest

all reformers and rascals assembled here

he meets power and politics,

generates goodwill and seeks a treaty

as if a war without reasons.

Big babus are the stream

of continuity and balance

in change and progress.

Again a contradiction

women deride him as a cast off

he ridicules the opinion maker

he is a sucker, is seductive and handsome.

Monto impresses so none argues

babus fail and he plans, brings Plato to life

eulogizes Gandhi, explains Aristotle

Monto casts a silent shroud of mystery and enigma,

that is his destiny.

Between wine and a woman

ruler and a business tycoon,

lingers a shadow.

He talks of the poor, of Das and Unto This Last

of class war and classless society

and there hinges a perpetual

Glory of man’s progress

his spiritual win and bodily death

love languishes in feelings

when Monto sees his bygone years.

Married to a big officer, she calls Monto to a corner

and professes an undying love

invites him when husband is on tour

Monto accepts her and feels happy,

he goes with the woman, unattached

and scores another point,

for he has so many lagos within.

Monto repeats words of Salieri when Pushkin said

‘I have never wept tears like these before

Both sweet and bitter’

everything transient

thoughts of sadness come to Monto

but he gives a big laugh.

XI

His laughter continues and on barren deserted streets

he finds an empty consolation

and the road provides sympathy,

he has talked much, lived a full day

without conceding a point living each moment,

in a counter point of love and argument.

Dogs bark at while stray cows meet him

cow dung spoils shoes, asses bray on the other side,

jackals roar it appears,

ghost like shadow fall on the deserted lanes

when he rolls back,

roads are empty and streets forlorn

shadows sojourn, silent houses

a thin mist slowly descends, he watches, and is gloomy.

My Monto sadly walks and I feel pity

my creation fails me I tremble and shudder.

I pull apart the strings but Monto does not respond,

he breaks the rope and thus runs amuck.

I weep without mercy, Monto walks with glory and tears

and knocks at the door as waiting maid opens,

and she asks him to make her his wife

he is shocked no, not now, he gets angry.

World is too wide and large

there is another dream, another world of facts,

lets us exist he tells her, together in these moments

shall we enjoy a perfect life.

And so duping the maid, Monto takes her to bed anew

to make her a woman again of his pleasure and her intend,

so Monto lives away from me in a world

created by him for him amidst graveyards,

and noisy forlorn cemeteries of hope and faith

of death and another life.

Life of a world that exists for everyone

and I weep and bemoan, for my Monto died,

to make me live another world of dreams

and thus I pray alone

for another Monto to rise again.