Sudeep Sen


The London Magazine - - CONTENTS -


My body carved from aban­doned bricks of a ruined tem­ple, from minaret-shards of an old mosque, from slate-rem­nants of a me­dieval church apse, from soil tilled by my an­ces­tors.

My bones don’t fit to­gether cor­rectly as they should — the sear­ing ul­tra-vi­o­let light from Aurora Bo­re­alis patches and etch-cor­rects my ori­en­ta­tion — mag­netic pulses prove po­tent.

My flesh sculpted from fruits of the trop­ics, blood from co­conut wa­ter, skin coloured by brown bark of In­dian teak.

My lungs fu­elled by Delhi’s in­sid­i­ous toxic air echo asth­matic sounds, a new vinyl dub-remix. Our uni­verse — where ra­di­a­tion ger­mi­nates from hu­man fol­lies, where con­tam­i­na­tion per­sists from mis­trust, where plea­sures of sex are merely a sport — where ev­ery­thing is am­bi­tion, ev­ery­thing is de­sire, ev­ery­thing is noth­ing. Noth­ing and ev­ery­thing.


White light ev­ery­where, but no one can rec­og­nize its hue, no one knows that there is colour in it — all pos­si­ble colours.

Body wor­shipped, not for its bless­ing, but its con­tour — ar­ti­fi­cial shape shaped by Nau­tilus.

Skin moist­ened by L’Oreal and not by sea­son’s first rains — skele­ton’s strength not shaped by earth­quakes or slow-moulded by fear­less for­est-fires.

Ice-caps are rapidly melt­ing — too fast to ar­rest glacial slide.

In the near fu­ture — there will be no wa­ter left or too much wa­ter that is un­drink­able, ex­cess wa­ter that will drown us all. Dis­em­bod­ied floats, afloat like Noah’s Ark — no gps, no pole-star nav­i­ga­tion, no fos­sil fuel to burn away — just maps with empty grids and names of places that might ex­ist.

Al­ready, there is too much traf­fic on the road — un­peo­pled hol­low metal-shells with­out brakes, swerve about di­rec­tion­less — look­ing for an elu­sive com­pass.

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