Perfect One, Where Art Thou?

Picture from: http://www.wolfescape.com/Humour/MenWomen.htm

What’s with women and perfectness. I can’t help but notice all the talks about women and perfect men. Step into a clique of unmarried young women and all you hear will be the bla..bla..blas about that perfect partner. Women just can’t stop talking or fantasizing about the perfect man, who will jump right out of a storybook, come riding on his steed to woo and win them and take them away from the divinity forsaken festering Gehenna the world is becoming to a paradise called perfection. And there they will live happily ever after.

 Everywhere I go, be it out in the world, or on the social networking websites, I am haunted by talks about this mythical creature: the perfect man.  Apparently, every girl is looking for him, and those who have found him, or think they did, are trying to further perfecticize him. Blame those pieces of trashy vampire lit, or whatever is de rigueur in chick lit, but there is no getting away from the perfect-man-syndrome that all your friends are experiencing which ultimately lead to the disease called unhappy-for-life-because-of-irrational-expectations.

I may sound like an irrational prick, but open your Face book and read the wall-posts of happy and unhappy women on your friend-lists. Chances are that you will find at least five to ten posts, depending on how large your friend-list is, every day on topics like men, men’s love for women, their perfectness, and eternal faith that an unmarried women with no boyfriend must have on her stars that one day Prince Charming will come right outta his storybook world and straight up to her, and then they will go together on a junket. All the woman needs to do is to bite on wisdom cookies worth ten-pence and wait. What a load of bollocks!

Even celebrities with dolled-up figures and nose-jobs are looking for the perfect one, waiting, as I like to put it, for him to perform the above mentioned feats. And they seem to be having no luck either. Evidence: all celebrities are either divorced, or unmarried, or (un) happily married. Look at Kim Kardashian. Who thought the K-factor wouldn’t work? The point is, when celebrities with perfect fixings cannot have that perfect man, how can we, normal women with mediocre skin and ample cellulite hope to have him?

But does that mean that we should settle for less? Certainly not. I think we should have the perfect one, only we should specify in solid terms how perfect a person has to be to be called perfect. Or more exactly, what are the qualities that qualify a man as perfect: does he have to have a pair of wings or a long nose to prove he is unique? Ask a women and she would look askance, become positively irked and say all of the following: a perfect man has to be handsome, tall, well-qualified, rich, have to have a nice family, no criminal records, no past girlfriends, he has to love me more than anything in this world, and oh yes, he has to be perfect. I wonder if the speaker listens to how she sounds as she utters any or all of the above mentioned. I am sure she too will feel that such a male partner is found in fiction only, and not in real world. Then why waste your time looking for him? Why not aim a bit low and find slightly imperfect elements available readily in the market. 


And, while we are on the subj, don’t you think that men are also looking for perfection in women the same way as women. The question that rises now is whether women with sky-high expectations of perfectness willing to be all that she expects in the male half of the sketch, save for that past “girlfriend” part of course; however, I am sure a perfect guy won’t mind that eitherJ. The answer to the above question would definitely be a firm negative. We can at first be deluded and emotional and end up loving somebody beyond belief, but then we get our senses back and we distribute our love: part of it goes to regular retain therapy, part to family and friends, part to pets, a only a pizza-part to that man How can we shower all our love on one man, that’s insane, besides we have only so much love to deal with. We can’t afford to put it all in one place. As for past affairs and other important records are concerned, let’s not open that archive, okay?

As we approach the tail-end of this discussion, I suddenly feel the urge of advising all those women who are deluding themselves with visions of false perfectness. I am no expert in this matter, but I always have an opinion, and these days it’s all that matters. So babes, I think perfectness is boring. Think about it: a gal marrying a man and living happily ever after in a perfect citadel of romance. Is there anything more boring than that? With nothing to fight about, no domestic altercations, no differences of opinions you would feel you are living a subnormal existence. Imagine how boring life must have been for Cinderella, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty!

When writing fiction we are told to keep in mind the fact that hell is interesting; I say when talking about relationships a bit of hell taken in moderation add wonders to the relation. Moreover, there is more fun in perfecting, or rather customizing an imperfect specimen over a life time rather than having an already perfect one delivered on our platter. We will have no use for him.

Finally, when you are hoping to select one gander from a basket full of juicy ones, aim low. Don’t expect your gander will be the best one, or in other words the perfect one.  Do that and we will all shall live happily ever after.

Picture from:  http://elfofart.deviantart.com/art/The-Perfect-Man-197040944

The festival of lights

Some pictures of our home getting ready for Diwali:

The Kitchen Gets a Makeover

Floating Beauties

Sweet Offering

Light

Divine 

Glittery

Raja-Rani Dolls

Flavors of Bengal: A trip to the land of culture during its biggest festival, Durga Puja

The season of celebration is here with its luxuriant hues. A sudden conspiracy of lush green, slow currents of air moving; wafting with them is a smell of coolness, of shadowed tree trunks, of shady leaves, ferns. White headed Kashful nod their feather-light forms to announce that the goddess is here. The leaves of autumn, the orange-stemmed siuli flowers all herald the coming. On the early autumnal morning of Mahalaya, an auspicious occasion observed seven days before the Durga Puja, the whole of Bengal rises up in the chilly pre-dawn hours, to tune in to the “Mahisasura Mardini” broadcast on All India Radio (AIR).This two hour radio program is an exquisite audio montage of recitation from scriptural verses, devotional songs, and classical music and has overtime become an intrinsic part of the celebratory season. The legendary narrator Birendra Krishna Bhadra in soaring Sanskrit narrates the story of the annihilation of the demon Mahisasura, “Mahisasura Mardini”. His voice, immanent, inescapable, like thump of heart, invokes the demon-diminishing ‘Durgatinashini, Devi Durga’.  The goddess acquiesces.  With her four children by her side, Laxmi, Saraswati, Ganesha and Kartikeya, the divine consort of Lord Shiva, our beloved Maa Durga, descends on earth to celebrate the season of happiness with her devotees.

Although Durga puja is widely celebrated around India and abroad, it is regarded as the most significant socio-cultural event in the Bengali society. In West Bengal and Tripura, which have the majority of Bengali people, it is the biggest festival of the year. During Durga puja the face of Kolkata, the capital city of West Bengal, changes overnight. There is festive fever and frenzy. The goddess becomes the muse bringing out the best in her devotees; the city becomes a jorum of art as the goddess descends in every street pandal (the temporary structures that house the goddess and her family) and in every home that celebrate her auspicious advent.

Kolkata, being my maternal home, has always been favorite city. Having a close connection with this city, I always grab a chance of visiting the myriad hued conurbation during the season of celebration. Amidst hectic academic schedule, when the chance of attending Durga puja in West Bengal came across, I embraced the prospect with open arms.

Kolkata

Late in the afternoon of Saptami, loaded with baggage as I disembarked at the Sealdah Railway Station in Kolkata and smelled the whiff of fresh autumnal air redolent of celebratory enthusiasm, excitement reigned. When I observed the Kolkata after two and a half years of absence, it struck me as quintessential as always. The yellow taxis were there, the rush, the traffic were there, and the people, wide-eyed and excited were there too. Entering the city, I heard the unmistakable sound of dhaak (Indian drum) accompanied by the obvious smell of burning incense and caught sight of one or two of the numerous pandals, temporary structures impleached with creativity housing the goddess and her family. There in the taxi on my way home, I got reacquainted with sights and sounds of the City of Joy seeped in its celebratory joyfulness.


The elegance of Kolkata during Durga puja lies undoubtedly in the city’s artistic depictions of the goddess in her hundred different avatars. Every local club celebrating Durga puja becomes abuzz with activity months before the celebratory season incepts planning on their showcasing of the goddess, their choice of pandal decoration. Although such artistic hype have undermined the religious significance of the celebration, the true spirit of the season remains unfrayed as  more and more people take to the streets during the four days of puja inspecting the various scaffolds and the gods within them and passing their artistic judgment.


This year I had the chance of reviewing some of the famous creative seats of the goddess. From the artistically alive, snazzy theme pujas of South Kolkata to the convention oriented somber pujas of suburban West Bengal; I observed the seasonal favorites and their myriad hues.
         


         

Saptami Crowd

In the evening of Saptami, I embarked on my noctivagant journey of imbibing the festive favorites. I found the streets full of people, lovers, revelers, men, women and children walking in narrow alleys and streets thick with perfume and smell of fried foods, their new clothes sweat-pasted on their forms. As I walked my way through the crowd, I couldn’t help but wonder about the numinous energy that draws people out of their homes in the wee hours of the night and makes them traverse over-populated backstreets and passageways in the hope of catching one glimpse of the goddess and her family. What is it, I wondered, that attracts modest human beings out of their beds and into the streets to celebrate seasonal happiness? Is it the goddess, or simply the spirit of the season she unleashes in human minds that transforms all grimaces into grins and renders all routines null-and-void?  It is both I concluded, having woken up from my reverie by the blare of bhepu, a portmanteau of the Vuvuzela and a blow horn, this soft cardboard made (un) musical instrument is highly popular in the festive season among young adults.

Singhi Park

The South Kolkata puja scene being incomplete without visits to the famous duo: Singhi Park and Egdalia Evergreen Club, I began my travelling spree with the former. Singhi Park, one of the oldest and most renowned haunts of south Kolkata, dates back to 1941. The puja has always preferred to be the antithesis of theme pujas in continuing the traditional way of worshipping the goddess, and this year is no exception. Their 62-ft pandal adorned with items used during any Hindu festival like conch shells, drums, bells, etc., was a replica of the Dakhineswar Temple. It had a creamy-white facade with red borders. The goddess and her family within were as traditional as the pandal. The tall and imposing goddess, embellished in her finery observed the proceedings with her fiery eyes. Although traditional in their choice of pandal décor and idol depiction, Singhi Park experimented amply with their lighting. Massive ceremonial gates adorned with scintillating light bulbs depicting traditional and modern motifs and contemporary incidents in their dazzling canvasses were placed in the entrance and egress area.

Lights

Egdalia Evergreen Club, the cultural brethren of the aforementioned Singhi Park, took the experimental route. Established in 1943 this popular puja is known for its innovations in designs and lighting. This year they came up with an Indo-German fusion creation that touched the heights of artistic creativity in depicting the traditional concepts in the fabric of modern art. The Mandap was the replica of an urban city road with footpaths and traffic signals. World renowned artist Gregor Schneider lent his ideas and concepts to this puja.

FD Block, Salt Lake, Kolkata

As South Kolkata shuffled between traditional and modern themes, the Durga Puja at FD Block Salt Lake, Kolkata, preferred to present thing big. At the venue a 40-ft Durga idol in golden created out of fiberglass emanated her aureate aura as onlookers stood spellbound at her feet gazing at her Brobdingnagian structure. Surrounding the idols were 12 temples, symbolizing 12 jyotirlingas. On the right side of the colossal fiberglass idol was another pandal with a huge Shiva in the Nataraj form.




The Suruchi Sangha puja at New Alipore, which is among the biggest crowd-pullers for its innovative themes, incorporated the majestic state of Kashmir facing an environmentally uncertain future in their theme. Its original conceptualization of bringing to life the ecological issues and thereby inculcating the audience to be more concerned about the environment won them many accolades.

The Goddess being decorated

The cultural extravaganza of Durga puja took a tectonic shift for me when after inspecting the famous pujas of south Kolkata I headed for the home of my in-laws in Kalyani, a suburb of Kolkata. The majestic idols gave way to modest pujas, the colossal pandals to homely scaffolds, the trendy clothes to traditional attire; in short the whole festive circuit suddenly began to course on a different track.


On the morning of Ashtami dressed in my best sari as I walked into the homes of one of the acquaintances, a family that has been celebrating Durga puja in the traditional style, I realized the change for the first time. The Ashtami anjali (offering, prayer) was about to begin and the goddess was being decorated. In a small four-walled minimalistic room the brass-bodied deity was adorned with a number of garlands made of: hibiscus, orange and yellow marigold, Bel leaves, tuberose and many more. The daughter of the priest put on the adornments with conscious attention as the onlookers watched the proceedings with clasped hands and welled-up eyes. If devotion were tangible, I am sure I could locate it in that little overpopulated room.  The supreme omnipotent majesty stripped off her thematic fineries struck me for the first time as Uma, the daughter of the house; her nectariously sweet face devoid of made-up art was as natural as it could be.


The Ashtami puja terminated with the distribution of fol (fruit) Prasad and the quintessential khichri bhog. Khichri, the trademark celebratory dish of Durga puja is a blend of rice and lentils and is served in hot dollops on banana-leaf plates along with fried accompaniments like eggplant fry, thin slices of eggplant dipped in gram flour and deep fried, and cabbage curry. But festival foods for Bengalis are never complete without sweets of various kinds. Milky treats like payasam, and traditional Bengali sweets like rosogollas, sondesh and mishti doi are also served as part of the Mahastami bhog.  

Sweet Offerings

Taking about foods popular in the festive season one must never ignore the endless flavors available in the street shops. During the puja time the market for street food is certainly, unequivocally as high as home-made and restaurant made delicacies. The options are endless too: chow mein, egg-rolls, panipuri, popcorn, ice-cream, idli, dosa, biryani and many more. Pandal hopping Bengalis often slow down for a bite of fast-food and the disposable plates and ice-cream sticks that line the side-streets outside any puja pandal are a testament to the fact that people love to indulge in the scrumptious delicacies available on the go. 




I too indulged in some of the festive flavors as I made my way to the popular pandals of the Kalyani. The Central Park Durga puja is the biggest in the area and attracted a large crowd. When I walked into the pandal on the eve of Navami, Dhunuchi Nach was being performed. 'Dhunuchi nritya' or ‘the dance with effervescent smoke' is a traditional dance form Bengal, which is performed in front of the idol of the Goddess Durga to the sound of dhak, the traditional drums.

Dhunuchi Ntritya, Central Park, Kalyani

A dhunuchi is an earthen pot with a funnel base and an open top. Burning coconut shells is put inside and then powdered incense, known as Dhuno (powdered smoke producing incense), is poured over it to create the atmosphere. A sweet smelling thick white smoke spreads and engulfs your senses. Then with the Dhakis and their drum beats, the Dhunuchi dancers balance the earthen pots, with the base delicately placed on their palms, between their teeth or on foreheads. They then dance to the drum beats with the burning Dhunuchis. The deep percussion of the dhaak, embellished sometimes with long white or multi-colored feathers, and rhythmic movement of the dhaakis, is inseparable part of the Durga Puja celebrations.

As the dancer performed his steps I stared at the goddess’s face for a good five minutes. The face visible through a miasma of smoke seemed to be bursting with life. The iridal dark-brown of the goddesses eyes seem to shine with majestic brilliance, the margaric smile that lined her lips, frozen, seemed to dilate with vitality. For a moment I felt transported, elevated into a different hemisphere, into a spiritual limbo where I heard nothing but the drum beats and saw nothing but the three glittering eyes of the earthen goddess.


After taking a full dose of cultural ecstasy, indulging in finger-licking good food, and spending time with loved ones, I witnessed the finale of the festive season. Vijaya Dasmi, the last day of the Durga Puja sung the farewell paean. On the eve of her sendoff, the goddess was smeared with vermillion, fed sweets and entreated to come back once again the following year.

Bidding the goddess adieu

At the epilogue of the saga, the four days of fun and frolic, of pandal-hopping and puja greetings struck me as some photic illusion. Married women with faces and partings rubescent with vermillion, children still under the hypnotic state of joy, young men who had to return to work, and geriatrics who couldn’t wait to get their children and grandchildren back the coming year all bade the beloved Devi Durga goodbye with tears in their eyes. I too joined the crowd and prayed for divine mercy and hoped to re-indulge in the season of celebration the upcoming year.

“Asche bochor abar hobe” (It'll happen again next year)!!

Non-English Words Used in the Blog-post:

1.      Dhaak— drum

2.      Saptami, astami, navami, vijaya dasami— four days of Durga Puja

3.      Durga puja — The worship of Goddess Durga, a Hindu festival. To know more about it you may read: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Durga_Puja

References: 
1. http://isharethese.blogspot.com/2010/10/dhunuchi-naach.html
2. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahisasuramardini_(radio_programme)

The Sunday at the End of Summer

Don’t you just love this time of the year when the newly laundered earth with its starchy-white clouds come and wake you up in the morning with a warm hug? This morning I woke up and smelled the freshest air in a long time. It seemed that suddenly all the inquinated particles in the atmosphere have undergone an over-season metamorphosis and been transformed into full-bloomed red roses. The sun and its aureate rays cooked medium-rare seemed so good on the skin that I waived the idea of applying sunscreen as I went out for a morning stroll to enjoy this beautiful morning.

October is my favorite month, not because I celebrate my birthday in this month, but because it invokes the season of celebration. And for me the thought of impending joys always rubs-off the delinquent layers of sordid life-dust which gather on me layer after layer after each bad day that I face. This year I experience the pain of getting adjusted to academia, the pain of keeping up with youngsters, and the pain of walking away from writing.

In the last week I was under so much academic stress that the finale of our first minors made me go berserk. The celebration mood, nonetheless, was momentary because once I was done with the tension over the test, there came swooping in the abject tension of my performance in the skill-testing papers. I tell you, I am not good in devouring (academic) stuff created by other people; I prefer to make my own dish. However, devouring and processing stranger crafted academic abracadabra was a thing I had to do in the past week.  In the former week I felt caught up in a hysteresis loop wherein everyday exit lead to a return to the same place, the only place the following day . There were no centers, no real-exits; and I was caught in this snare like a bug unable to escape from under the heavy foot of a giant.

In the hypnopiasis of fatigue, I marched listlessly and continued marching losing all the leftover vibrancy I had in the process. And then came along this beautiful morning where directly I opened my eyes, I felt rejuvenated and refreshed.  It was like magic, a soft feather of miracle, and it made me feel like a phoenix gathering strength from her dead ashes brought to life by the alchemical touch of a bright autumn morning. What is there in Sarat, in this fallean charm of the season that it gets you relinquish all your tribulations? Is it the season of celebration it holds in its gowpen, or plainly that we have always associated this season as dearest one, the king’s favorite daughter?

Whatever it was the Sunday at the end of summer brought me so much calm that I almost rose to idylatry. In order to celebrate the spirituality I played (Mahisasur Mardini). The voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra communicated with my innate spirituality such that I almost experienced a momentary heirophany, the manifestation of the sacred before my eyes. The universe of reverberating sound waves, the solemn baritone, the chanting elevated me into a reality far above the miseries of mortal life.

Having finished my daily writing exercise, I went out to click some pictures of the beautiful day. Everything looked brighter, happier, and sunnier to my eyes. The hibiscus that blossomed in my garden seemed like a sudden flare of red, dipped in some divine blood-pot it flourished with so much glow that it made me stare at it for a moment in utter appreciation. I later analyzed that the change in perception was the result of the change of my point of view. Under the influence of the bright sunny morning that eradicated the remnant clouds of miserable downpours which harassed us in the past week, I felt new and ready for life once again.

 

Here are the pictures I took:

Sun and Shade

The flocculent clouds tangled up in the blue

Celebration 

Life

Remembering Fiaz Ahmed Fiaz: Thoughts on attending a seminar dedicated to the poet

What is Poetry? An arrangement of scenes, trivial or tragic, romantic or practical, viatic or static, homely or fantastic featuring more or less the plausible events (of life and dream) patched up with deliberate details. That is how poetry struck me when I sat a few days ago in the populated seminar hall of our institution while listening to eminent educationists and irrealists referring to the poetic work of the famous Urdu poet Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

The seminar, a gathering of intellectuals from the poetic cream of India, took place in the jorum of our contemporary designed school building. The building, however, acted as anachronism. Its brick-red facade, the glasses that some unknown mason glued to its body for modernist effect, the royal blue banner displayed next to the entrance declaring in bold yellow letters the university’s dictum that ragging in any form will be dealt as criminal offence by the institution, and the guards with thick bushy mustaches hardly exhaled poetry from me when I walked into the building around twelve in the afternoon. But all preconceived notions relating to un-poetic surroundings were dashed from my mind when the sweetly melodious voice of a singer reached me. On a stark Monday morning of abject life dear B, my friend, stood at the podium reliving the tunes of a dead poet: “Hum dekhenge, lazam hai ke hum bhi dekhenge ge.” I don’t know what she intended to see, but in her voice it was evident that she was frisking the depths of her own soul as she performed the act trying to search something, some aspect of her own self lost to her and the world about whose presence she had been enlightened by the poet’s lines.


The proceedings were already underway by the time I reached the destination. Hirsute intellectuals and young students from the school of humanities and social sciences which had organized the two-day seminar on Faiz Ahmed Faiz filled the room. I seated myself in one of the comfortable blue chairs and observed the chamber. It was a fairly sized seminar hall, well lit, the wooden desks showed no sign of wear or tear, the temperature in the room was comfortable too. As I placed myself on the settee I wondered would this room comfortable as it was evoke poetry in me. Apparently, it did not; however, as I listened to the canorous Urdu of Sheikh kaaf nizam, one of the dignitaries invited to the literary show, I realized that poetry doesn’t need a place, it needs time, time to burgeon in the mind, time to grow up from roots to shoots and saplings and then spread its massive green leaves outside the confines of all deep dark places of life that imprison us.


Poetry is all about freedom, mental freedom. I quite agree that most of the Urdu spoken by the dignitaries throughout the course of the day was lost on me mostly because of the lack of knowledge on that front, yet I somehow manage to derive subtle pleasure from the musicality of the language, the softness of the words. Urdu is indeed a gentleman’s zabaan, and Faiz had given it ample time to inflate and gradually fill-up him mind with words and expressions fit for his cause because his poetry is outstandingly musical and elite, if I may be pardoned for using the expression.


One of the things reiterated throughout the day was the constant urge to customize Faiz’s poetry to one’s own needs. Faiz has to be your own Faiz if you want to do justice to his poetry said the honorable Dean of our department. I took to his words immediately; the morsel of truth the expression held was that you can never learn to produce or appreciate good literature until you can customize it to your needs. Can poetry, or for that matter, any piece of literature be written if there is no independent mind behind the cause? Indeed this idea that one must think well and read well to write well has become universally apodictic.


The seminar continued for two days and as the first day gave way to the second the waves of poetry took shapes from winding currents of empty expressions issued in stylized Urdu to things that almost made some sense and then lost into nothingness. Like flavored smells of lavender incense sticks once burning and once exhausted they smoldered for some time and then leaving behind only a dust of ashes and a libanophorous room, they departed leaving me searching for clues to decipher their unheard codes.

There is a fine line between understanding and appreciating something, and I realized that even though I understood only a few sections of the two day discussion, I appreciated the tremendous efforts the poet paid to his art. I pictured him sitting at his desk, a wooden desk, a ledger with a coarse vermillion cover, a pen, an over-used fat bellied fountain pen with a dripping nib, and his figure, hunched up, his face with lumps of flesh pillowed under his chin grimly concentrating on poetic impulse. I see only one legible word on his papyrus: Faiz, his own name written and underlined several times. His euphuistic mind deliberating on silent musings that flutter about like lovely colored butterflies, just within reach but hard to lay hands on, while he sits there patient, stoic waiting for them to sit on his ink-dotted kurta. A massive green platter of green accessorized by the dry remains of a once-exotic temple stand like placid observers outside his open window silently reminding him of possibilities and despair, the dyadic  principles of human life.


It was this transitory image of the poet encased in my mind that made me go back and think about the seminar in a new light. Of course, I give you only a piecemeal of the two-day session, mostly a discussion of the first day mainly because it appealed to me more than the second day of the session in which the linguistically skilled instructors decided to relegate at lengths from Urdu to Hindi and English. Even though the Hindi that was spoken was as pure as the purest Hindi could be and the English as classic as it came, yet somehow I retain nothing of the discussions heard. It is only the first day impleached with reminiscent ramblings collected throughout that day that exist in the core.


As the clock strikes its way to the deep hours of night, let me leave you all with a poem of Faiz Ahmed Faiz that I translated. Although it lacks much of Fiaz’s musicality, it does bring to mind the flavor of his poetry-- a portmanteau of the altiloquent expressions mixed and dusty colloquialism--which I tried to retain.

Soch

by

Faiz Ahmad Faiz

Translated by Barnali Saha

Why blissful my heart is not

Why I keep remaining numb

O, leave the saga of my life

I am good the way I am

So what my heart is unhappy  

The whole world is woebegone

This sadness is neither thine nor mine

It is our beloved barony

Even if you become mine

The agonies of the world will remain the same

The knots of sin, the manacles of malice

Our words can never by riven

In any form pain is lethal

Be it somebody else’s or ours

Boohooing, enflaming the soul

That is also ours; that is also ours

Why not embrace the pains of the world

And later consider the debates

Later dream the happy reveries

And contrive on the dreamy arrangements.

Unperturbed rich and wealthy

Why on earth are they happy?

Let us apportion their happiness among us

They are after all akin to pain

May be we have declared conflict

Heads will be smashed, blood will flow

The pain too will afloat with the blood

I won’t be there, pain won’t be there

P.S. : Do not use translation without permission