The receding world of man and poetry
By Manzoorul Haque
Capitulating under the pain of rigor mortis (Please don’t mind, I use this word for myself), I have decided to write this piece. After hitting the bed at 2 AM getting up at 5 AM without the prospect of winking for the whole day is the case in point, your honor. Okay I said this because I thought I was pleading my case in the people’s court.
How do we speak the unspeakable is the first question of law or fact that comes to mind? Let me begin with poetry. Some luminary raised this question and has perhaps himself gone to sleep leaving me devastated. This rigor mortis is a function of flesh that the males of a species are destined to suffer. But in the receding world of ‘man’, the healing touch is missing. We are told that homosexuality is the upcoming thing in man’s world. So my mind does wander to, ‘what kind of poetry this homosexuality can breed?’ Is the world of poetry also destined to be equally receding necessitating the clubbing of it with man’s destiny? And how do I explain to the Modern Ideologue that for some men, the ‘touch’ of a man is revolting and instead of being a healing-touch it would amount to being a death-dealing touch. I would prefer, in that case, to move back to my receding world, if that is what ‘man’ has willed for himself.
Hence my question. Where is ‘my’ healing touch? Why has the question of equality destroyed the healing touch that I so desperately needed and perhaps deserved? I have to use this word ‘perhaps’, because my confidence has already been shaken by the Modern Ideologue. I am filled with self-doubt. I have to necessarily compare myself with the diminutive ‘Jumrati’ who can doze off for eight minutes in the ten-minute break that he takes during the process of dusting my house under the command of my wife. You see this is a question of equality propounded by the Modern Ideologue and broadcast 24x7 by all the TV channels of the world. My wife, whom I consider amongst the best of her cadre, takes absolute care of my house-hold which boasts of two TV sets. The cleaning and dusting is an unending process with which her two hands are always full. Besides, why does a man need a healing touch when a woman does not? Does it not violate the TV code of which I have two sets? Followed by the next question, ‘why am I so allergic to homosexuality as not to be able to let a man ever touch my body’? Faced with this last question, I hurriedly fold up my carpet and rush to my receding world, may be to meet my Maker in this tattered condition of mine – a fate befitting to a modern man!
And mind you all, my dying words are going to be: Damned with the poetry of homosexuality.