With all its imperfections, the town’s end looked like George Lukacs’ Eminem performance. That doesn’t imply the town was in sync with its own order. Life in its imbecility portrayed the slurry comic side of moral policy stricken social democracy. Dhoti clad revolutionary, with its con humdrum of Area Studies, stupid whereabouts of Archival patience. The root being government and agitation hand in hand. It needed representation in west, for catching the western solipsism. Some Indian English mediocre bureaucrat, easy hand with half Soviet, half US soda water glucose. Some middle notches of Indian and Bengali who’s who, trotting round the globe with half baked tin jam Beckettian slurry ad-hocship. Solved from other hands, plane of immanence looks like stupor of nothings. Some interview the locals like half -bred figments of callousness. They play the drum of their locals, in shape of studies department. I too have mine. Hundred kilometre north point from the city. As if the town’s solipsism produced me. Delhite government stack hand in hand with Calcutta asshole, the mediocre Romeo. I broke my studies dream; north point now appeared more than geo-politics. A certain vestibule of contact, inbetweenness of becoming. Young heartful Romeo’s get the stack order from abroad, counter imperialism. They nullify the Imperial order, as they invest in them, the imbecile Romeos and Juliettes. Vasco would have treated them much better. Their showy theories, yet those theories are basically posh window shopping, to show “I also knew, but I didn’t like the elite stuff from West”. As if they are. Who cares? Imperialism needs the mediocrity to survive; for they know it well, what implies to be in a marginal studies quarter. They talk about Rimbaud in Delhi, Calcutta and Madras, but are stuck with Kalipuja in Houston. Bhadrolok studies sustains through family colloquialism. Slurry heroic admonishing of International. I paid the figments some Pounds. Who’s who vanishes. God save the thinkers. They toil to disarm the anglicized phenomena of Area studies, for they don’t know either English or even the local tribes. It is the pre-history of the future, the begger’s opera of Zonal writing. Anyway, the laughing stock of Area Studies, being in the ghetto of Indian locals, except for posing, knows no more than a succumbing rat. It is for good that the US State department understood the leech has sucked too much blood out from its vein. They are disarming the Ariatic rings, making more space for seditious lovers of thinking, from both east and west. Thus my ‘inbetween’ north point sustains, not as a space, or even as a place, but as basic ontology.
I am thankful towards Dr. Gayatri C. Spivak for the article.
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