Now that I have finished my evening repast, I can write this
article without throwing up with disgust. For gentlemen, this is about excreta.
Shit, feces, rubbish, you name it. Before I embark upon writing about the night
soil of Literature and journalism, let me tell you that you may take insult at
will and without a second thought. Who knows, it might be talking about you and
your creative moonlightings!
The musings today centre upon a website of sorts and are
quite analogous to the act of, well, emptying your bowels. My ruminations, just
like the act of defecation, are accompanied with an aching desire to expel the
suppressed contents with gay abandon till the bowels sigh with satisfaction. Both
the acts are potentially offensive to most people if they notice, smell or read
the excreted products, which shall no doubt, be trying to pervade the
environment with their characteristics that were hitherto confined perforce.
However, products from both the compared processes may be conveniently used for
good. So without tarrying, let us find what connects excreta and warmage.com.
Warmage is a repository of literary excreta. A public toilet
for those go around calling themselves young writers or journalists. A septic
tank for the putrefaction of literature that is no better than a biologically
egested organic matter. I cannot help my nose smirk whenever my Facebook wall
notifies me of an act of use of this lavatory –it is like I am hearing the
sound of the pan flushing and the water seal gurgling as the deluge cajoles the
obnoxious lump from its obdurate adhesion to the pan, into a distinctive,
thumping splash. And the story ends there.
Some people are born gifted with precocity for journalism;
they can write a well-detailed article replete with facts, comparisons and
statistical inferences even when they have little idea about what they are
talking about. They can write about apps they have never used, books they have
never read, and gadgets they have never seen, much less used. When there are a
number of great, more dependable and well-established and authentic sources for
such information, I daresay the audience which this website may receive would
be no greater than the audience enjoyed by our excreta: only ourselves, and
perhaps those reached by the stench which in any case is never way you want to
target an audience; notwithstanding the fact that it has always been the stench
on my Facebook wall that has got them my audience. Nobody gives a shit to shit.
It is beyond my humble wisdom to think as to how they do this and for what
ends, and hence when they declare sententiously about being online journalists,
entrepreneurs or special, chosen people; I accept it with equanimity, like the
Brahmins who lived during the times of Gandhi: Toilet cleaners in the twentieth
century were treated as downtrodden plebs of untouchables. However, the Mahatma
rose to their amelioration, and declared that they weren’t Untouchables, but Harijans:
Children of God. Thus, children of God they turned into. I pay the literary
counterpart of those toilet cleaners the same respect and recognition that they
were paid by Gandhi: Children of God they are, indeed.
