The other day, our editor showed me a clipping of Murli Qawwal’s performance on youtube.com. In the small clipping, the Lucknow-based qawwal demonstrates the technique and power of repetition and chanting of phrases, one of the most powerful and potent tools of the genre. Apparently, Ustad Nusrat fateh Ali Khan was a fan of Murli. This is written in the caption of the clipping that is more than thirty years old, with a bedsheet on the wall, and the singers lookingly visibly ‘not-well-off’.
The other image of a qawwal that’s struck me is that of the singers at Haji Ali in Mumbai. The blind father and his son sing in the afternoons and get some alms for their performance from the visitors. A R Rahman’s Piya Haji Ali is most probably inspired from their singing style. I spend the entire afternoon listening to them whenever I am in Mumbai.
Qawwali’s taqdeer is no longer stuck with the faqeer image; it has had its renaissance to the extent that it’s now a fad. When I met Rahat Fateh Ali Khan, he said he was happy that qawwali has entered the imagination of the elite class, so that it pervades across the society now. But when something enters the elite homes, the fear is of ‘no-return’. So an average person with an average income cannot go to Jahan-e-Khusrau now.
Everyone in the singing world who wants to be someone must have a qawwali tag these days. So Daler Pa ji came to perform Sufi at the Central Park in CP with huge posters shouting “Daler Sufi”. The park was jampacked, the atmosphere electric, the guest list included Sheila Dikshit. So Daler, in his black shirt and shiny silver overcoat started singing Sadde Naal Rahoge Te Aish Karoge. He realized it wasn’t quite Sufi, and peppered his pop songs with a few lines of Nusrat songs here and there. Na Na Na Re…Ali Da Malang…Sadde Naal…Mast Qalandar. Junta whirled with hisses, flying kisses. Rag tag hiss hass people, Shakespeare would have said. The crowd, however, had variety, with whistle blowers to oglers to foreigners to couples. After a while, after the chief guest had left, the compere announced, “I request families and children to slowly move out of the main area as we are increasing the tempo now. We want you to enjoy.” And Paa ji dropped Sufism for another day so that junta could do their dirty dancing to Na Na Na Na Re.
Sufism, one thought was all inclusive, and one also thought that Daler’s pop-Sufism is a countercultural movement to the elite Jahan-e-Khusrau. But it seems Bulle Shah’s or Amir Khusrau’s poetry cannot quite match Sadde Naal.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Nishabd with Zonko Junkies
I had gone to watch Nishabd with my ‘zonko junkie’ literary friends. The term is self proclaimed, and so I have no explanation for it. One of them remarked over Amitabh Bachchan’s predicament in the film, “Such is life and so much is life.”
“Dude, the man is a picaresque hero. Such random energy in his ageing eyes,” Markandey, popularly called makdi, butted in.
“Where is any picaresque element dude? The hero is not a picaro, he is not a rogue, neither does he go on any adventure to augur such a classification,” Sunil Kumar alias Ass Kay retorted to the idea.
“Now now,” I said mighty confused, “the picture is indeed picturesque with all the valleys and the thunder thighs of Jia Khan, but I see no Picasso anywhere.”
“Fool, Picaro not Picasso,” Makdi mocked at me, “Picaro is a Spanish hero who’s a rogue and goes on all these adventures. And Picaresque is a derivative.”
“Rogue I can’t see, but I could see that the old man had some sort of a rog. As in sickness, you see, falling for this young girl and spoiling it all,” I said.
Ass Kay was in splits, “Man this guy is too much. He is a rogue and he is sick. He is almost Kafkaesque, with his surreal humour and all, that is if he intends it.”
Ass Kay’s addition of a new ‘esque’ had totally stumped me, and Makdi added, “Yeah yeah this dude needs to be metamorphosed into a spider weaving stupid trans-lingual puns, like the hero of Kafka’s Metamorphosis.”
Ass Kay showed off some off his knowledge quoting the first line of that book, “As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.”
“Ungeziefer is the word for insect in German original by Kafka,” Makdi said not to be left behind, “and you know what, the creator of Lolita, Nabokov, was himself an entomologist.”
While I grappled with the meaning of ‘entomologist’, Makdi said, “Nabokov had researched that Gregor Samsa had got converted to no other insect but a beetle, with wings under his shell, and he could fly if only he had known this fact.”
I figured myself as Gregor Samsa, the beetle, and started looking for wings under my shell to take a long flight far away from the zonko junkies.
“Dude, the man is a picaresque hero. Such random energy in his ageing eyes,” Markandey, popularly called makdi, butted in.
“Where is any picaresque element dude? The hero is not a picaro, he is not a rogue, neither does he go on any adventure to augur such a classification,” Sunil Kumar alias Ass Kay retorted to the idea.
“Now now,” I said mighty confused, “the picture is indeed picturesque with all the valleys and the thunder thighs of Jia Khan, but I see no Picasso anywhere.”
“Fool, Picaro not Picasso,” Makdi mocked at me, “Picaro is a Spanish hero who’s a rogue and goes on all these adventures. And Picaresque is a derivative.”
“Rogue I can’t see, but I could see that the old man had some sort of a rog. As in sickness, you see, falling for this young girl and spoiling it all,” I said.
Ass Kay was in splits, “Man this guy is too much. He is a rogue and he is sick. He is almost Kafkaesque, with his surreal humour and all, that is if he intends it.”
Ass Kay’s addition of a new ‘esque’ had totally stumped me, and Makdi added, “Yeah yeah this dude needs to be metamorphosed into a spider weaving stupid trans-lingual puns, like the hero of Kafka’s Metamorphosis.”
Ass Kay showed off some off his knowledge quoting the first line of that book, “As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.”
“Ungeziefer is the word for insect in German original by Kafka,” Makdi said not to be left behind, “and you know what, the creator of Lolita, Nabokov, was himself an entomologist.”
While I grappled with the meaning of ‘entomologist’, Makdi said, “Nabokov had researched that Gregor Samsa had got converted to no other insect but a beetle, with wings under his shell, and he could fly if only he had known this fact.”
I figured myself as Gregor Samsa, the beetle, and started looking for wings under my shell to take a long flight far away from the zonko junkies.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Piggy on the Railway
Oil, fish and coal
And a billion whole
Traverse a million miles
On the parallel lines.
If there's a nerve of this country that hasn't cracked as yet, it isthe parallel lines. The parallel lines of Indian Railways, perhaps thecheapest in the world that ferries you at a rupee a kilometer even inAC coaches. The idea of going round Delhi in one and a half hours flatand covering 36 stations is a fascinating idea.
Delhi Avoided Line
The Ring rail service was introduced in the 1970s before the Asiad asa 'Delhi Avoiding Lines', to ferry passengers inside the city anddecongested the four major stations. Thirty years down the line, veryfew people know about it, and the Delhi planning website,delhiplanning.nic.in, tells that the ring rail handles only one percent of the passengers. It's become the avoided line, rather than theavoiding line. Reason? The stations are invisible, it took me half anhour to figure out the Safdarjung railway station. There are noconnecting buses, no landmarks, definitely unsafe at nights. And aboveall, there are only two trains in the morning and two in the evening.So despite amazing speed, and dirt cheap prices, it's not happening.
Ticket babu kahan hai?
We missed the ring rail service courtesy its timings and paucity, butthere was one Nizamuddin bound train waiting. We wanted the tickets,but the ticket collector didn't want us. So he was missing. Apoliceman told us that we are not supposed to click pictures.Safdargunj must be a classified station, for we haven't ever heardthis even at New Delhi. After much hue and cry, the station masterhimself gave us the tickets.The Lonely IslandThe gross underutilization can be gauged from the fact that you canalmost play cricket in the train; it's so empty. The ladies compartment doesn't obviously hold any significance and anyone sitsanywhere. Even at the station you have to hunt for people atSafdarjung. The policemen were packing children – must be for juvenilecrimes – in an auto; they were laying a red carpet for The Palace onWheels and the children were adequately removed before the VIP guestsarrived. Inside the train, the commuters are generally smallbusinessman. So you'll find a fruit seller, a utensil vendor who worksat hundred rupees a day. And Sadhus, sleeping away to glory travelingrandomly in circles. It's almost Romantic, the whole languidity of it.
The Engine Drive
My friend, the photographer, missed climbing on the train eitherbecause of his paunch or his camera, at one of the stations he'd gotdown at. So we wave at an oncoming engine and get a lift. Liaqat Khanis the driver and tells us about his grueling schedule which hasprompted him to study engineering as a part time course. Next year,he'll have a degree to get off the parallel lines. We cross SewaNagar, Lodhi Colony, Nizamuddin and they look very different from whatthey look from outside. The tracks are laid in the body of the city,and not the skin, and the body doesn't appear very healthy. They areplastic bags strewn all over, you cross all jhuggis, and see theinteriors of UP in the heart of Delhi. At the Okhla station we have nooption but to wait an hour for the next train which is an express, andwhich we miss again. In the meanwhile we roam around to see a barber'sshop full of Tere Naam and Himesh Reshammiya, a quack doctor, milkvendors. The milk vendors have a harrowing journey back to Haryanawith train upto only Palwal in the afternoon, after which they have totake tempos. There's variety here, college going girls, bidi smokinguncles, and a girl lying on the floor, with the world oblivious to herbut the flies sensitive to every inch of her body.
Years ago, I had read a very romantic account of the ring rail – thesunset, the trees in the background, the serenity. It's there, butwhat we saw, also exists, and glares.
And a billion whole
Traverse a million miles
On the parallel lines.
If there's a nerve of this country that hasn't cracked as yet, it isthe parallel lines. The parallel lines of Indian Railways, perhaps thecheapest in the world that ferries you at a rupee a kilometer even inAC coaches. The idea of going round Delhi in one and a half hours flatand covering 36 stations is a fascinating idea.
Delhi Avoided Line
The Ring rail service was introduced in the 1970s before the Asiad asa 'Delhi Avoiding Lines', to ferry passengers inside the city anddecongested the four major stations. Thirty years down the line, veryfew people know about it, and the Delhi planning website,delhiplanning.nic.in, tells that the ring rail handles only one percent of the passengers. It's become the avoided line, rather than theavoiding line. Reason? The stations are invisible, it took me half anhour to figure out the Safdarjung railway station. There are noconnecting buses, no landmarks, definitely unsafe at nights. And aboveall, there are only two trains in the morning and two in the evening.So despite amazing speed, and dirt cheap prices, it's not happening.
Ticket babu kahan hai?
We missed the ring rail service courtesy its timings and paucity, butthere was one Nizamuddin bound train waiting. We wanted the tickets,but the ticket collector didn't want us. So he was missing. Apoliceman told us that we are not supposed to click pictures.Safdargunj must be a classified station, for we haven't ever heardthis even at New Delhi. After much hue and cry, the station masterhimself gave us the tickets.The Lonely IslandThe gross underutilization can be gauged from the fact that you canalmost play cricket in the train; it's so empty. The ladies compartment doesn't obviously hold any significance and anyone sitsanywhere. Even at the station you have to hunt for people atSafdarjung. The policemen were packing children – must be for juvenilecrimes – in an auto; they were laying a red carpet for The Palace onWheels and the children were adequately removed before the VIP guestsarrived. Inside the train, the commuters are generally smallbusinessman. So you'll find a fruit seller, a utensil vendor who worksat hundred rupees a day. And Sadhus, sleeping away to glory travelingrandomly in circles. It's almost Romantic, the whole languidity of it.
The Engine Drive
My friend, the photographer, missed climbing on the train eitherbecause of his paunch or his camera, at one of the stations he'd gotdown at. So we wave at an oncoming engine and get a lift. Liaqat Khanis the driver and tells us about his grueling schedule which hasprompted him to study engineering as a part time course. Next year,he'll have a degree to get off the parallel lines. We cross SewaNagar, Lodhi Colony, Nizamuddin and they look very different from whatthey look from outside. The tracks are laid in the body of the city,and not the skin, and the body doesn't appear very healthy. They areplastic bags strewn all over, you cross all jhuggis, and see theinteriors of UP in the heart of Delhi. At the Okhla station we have nooption but to wait an hour for the next train which is an express, andwhich we miss again. In the meanwhile we roam around to see a barber'sshop full of Tere Naam and Himesh Reshammiya, a quack doctor, milkvendors. The milk vendors have a harrowing journey back to Haryanawith train upto only Palwal in the afternoon, after which they have totake tempos. There's variety here, college going girls, bidi smokinguncles, and a girl lying on the floor, with the world oblivious to herbut the flies sensitive to every inch of her body.
Years ago, I had read a very romantic account of the ring rail – thesunset, the trees in the background, the serenity. It's there, butwhat we saw, also exists, and glares.
of evenings and eve teasers
JNU's Ganga Dhaba is open till three in morning, and therefore itattracts a huge crowd, not just of students of campus, but also'elements from outside'. And some of these 'elements', seeing girls ofthe campus sip cups of coffee alone, think they are 'available.' Oreven if they don't think that, they definitely think they have alicense for cheap thrills. So there was this group of girls sippingcoffee near the condom vending machine, which serves a hundred foldmore as a coffee vendor than otherwise as the media would like theworld to believe. Anyways, there were these four guys from Ber Sarai,a place nearby that houses UPSC fighters, media persons and localloafers.So the boys winked at the girls, passed some lewd comments, asked fortheir numbers. Someone intervened and they followed the usual patternof "Do you know whose son I am? Come to Ber Sarai and we'll tell youthere" The students got incensed, the Group 4 guards were called.There is nothing unusual about this scene. It's routine. Lessons areoften taught, but never learnt. So the guards came, and now the boyswere on their guard. They begged for apology, but that too withattitude, "Yaar uncle maaf kar do." And yaar uncle unleash a volley offist fury and gave them quite a sound thrashing. Kicks, fists, headsbanged against each other. It was a spectacle. A crowd had gathered,and it seemed they'd be beaten up by everyone. They were whisked awayin the van in good time.What the guys did is abhorrent, but one wondered if the reaction isjustified. I've heard it's a deterrent – to beat them up black andblue - but how do incidents recur if it's a deterrent. If weapons area deterrent, how do wars happen? One wonders whether the crowds thatgather are themselves free of eve teasers? When these tales arerecounted by someone, One always jingoistically reeacts, "Achha kiyamaara saalon ko." But the spectacle made me rethink.I was reading Let's Kill Gandhi by Tushar Gandhi the other day.Nathuram killed the Father of the Nation amidst a crowd of eighthundred people, and lived to see his trial. I haven't heard of such acrowd ever before. The counter argument of course is, had Gandhiallowed securitymen with guns, it would never have happened.I do not have answers, but have questions for sure that need to be mulled upon.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
freaky flukes
Co-incidences never cease to amaze me though I believe they are ahabit with me. So, the other day, I had written about old movie hallsin which I had quoted an elderly gentleman saying no one named theirchildren Pran. The next day, we were chatting downstairs, teasingBarmaulah about his name. He said he's the only one with his name,unlike my name which is a common password. Panditji pan wale butted infrom behind, "His name is not the only unique one. Pran is a uniquename. Tell me one man whose name is Pran."Days before that I had declared in the office that Karan Singh, A KHangal and Mac Mohan were all born aged sixty years. Two days later,Karan Singh launched a biography on him and I was there; and two daysafter that I opened a newspaper to see a full page interview of A KHangal. Ann then there was A K Hangal all over the TV declaring MeraBharat Jawan. My features editor had declared Mac Mohan dead. Andthen I got an invite for the launch of a book called Ab Tera Kya HogaKalia, (a memory improvement technique book!) a title which has sofascinated me that I have already written about it twice. And therewas Mac Mohan, wielding a gun, in a coolie-red kurta, same beard, samepartially grey hair – back from the dead. I couldn't tell him how muchI adore him, and that his picture would become the wallpaper of mycomputer for a few days. Instead I pissed him off by questioning himabout his being the quintessential B grader and a perfect sidekick. Hedidn't know these were compliments.I was disappointed that the 'Mac' in Mac Mohan was not connotative ofa clan, like in Mc Donald or Mc Leod. In McLeodgunj, I had been to thechurch of St John, "in the wilderness". It has a graveyard that hasintriguing epitaphs. I had been grave hunting for a few days, and themost intriguing one had been of Alice, in Pune, who was "born atMelrose in Australia' and had died and was buried at the same spot.So, in St John's church, there was this grave of A. Rose fromMelbourne. A little juggling took me back to both Alice and Melrose.The church, by the way also has a memorial for James Bruce, morefamously known as Lord Elgin. So A Rose's epitaph said, just for itsintrigue value, "The flesh shall fly back to earth, and the soul shallfly off from the flesh."
Sambha, the indomitable
Samba of 69
Poore pachas baar. Samba repeated “Poore pachas hazaar” , his only dialogue in sholay, poore pachas baar for the TV ‘bites’ (I insist on the spelling). It was marketing and everything at its best at the launch of Ab Tera Kya Hoga Kaliaa. Now, now, this book is not about Kaalia or Gabbar, but a self-help book on memory improving techniques. Biswaroop Roy Chaudhary, the author, followed the launch with a Guinness Book attempt at push-ups and bettered Roy Berger’s of 138 push-ups with 198 push-ups in a minute. Samba and Kalia, that is, Mac Mohan and Viju Khote launched the book in their Sholay get up and a little advertorial gig for the book. One day matches are often won by extras.
Mac Mohan ka raaz
More about the book in our books page. Here we come back to our Samba fixation. I waited two hours to get a Samba exclusive. Two reasons. The names Samba and Mac Mohan have always been intriguing. How did Ramesh Sippy come up with a Latino Carribean whistle name? “We never thought Sholay will become what it is,” both Samba and Kaalia echoed. The surname Mac denotes clan affiliation. So, a mac Donald would mean Donald’s posterity. So I always wondered whether some Mohan decided to follow this tradition of naming his sons Mac Mohan. Samba ne paani pher diya humari theory pe, “My name was Mohan. I am from Lucknow. My pet name was Mack, so I became Mac Mohan.”
Samba forever
So, I congratulate Mac on looking the same Samba forever. He’s looked the same, and done the same roles, he is timeless. “My maintenance department is good,” says the actor who’s visibly ageing, but only when you get close to him, at 68. “Now I dye my beard, but am still the same at heart,” he chuckles.
“Sir, why couldn’t you graduate from Samba to Gabbar in all these years. Or did you choose to be this?” I ask. “See I am doing the roles of a father, a grandfather, and a policeman in a comic role now,” he replies.
Why the Indian cricket team was weak in the 70s
After etymology, I try to get into the genesis of Mac Mohan. Mac’splayed first class cricket in Up as well as in Bombay, but “could never reach Ranji”. So while studying in Jai Hind College, he acted in Haqeeqat as Brij Mohan, and has ever since acted in many films in which his characters are named either Mac or Brij Mohan! “Begaars can’t be choosers,” he says, “that’s why I did such roles.” Before Mac became Samba, he was known as Breganza after his role in Hanste Zakhm.
The morph scandalAll of a sudden he launches into a dramatic monologue, “I will sit and drink at home but not be a part of a semi porn films or B grade films.” “But sir I saw your credit in this film called Patli Kamar Lambe Baal,” I retort. “Sometimes you know what happens, these people pick our pictures and videos and morph them into their films.” Either Mac or I have been caught at the boundary line. I venture further, “Sir there was this film called Dhoti Lota Aur Chowpatty…your role was important.” Samba is pissed off and his gun his not near. “Send me a copy of your article on this address,” he says. I was too happy to get an autograph of none other than Mac Mohan. Dhoti, Lota Aur Chowpatty by the way is a pathbreaking film, for it had reverse casting. Mohan Choti, Mac, Farida Jalal were in the lead while Dharmendra and Sanjeev Kumar were Samba and Kaalia.
Poore pachas baar. Samba repeated “Poore pachas hazaar” , his only dialogue in sholay, poore pachas baar for the TV ‘bites’ (I insist on the spelling). It was marketing and everything at its best at the launch of Ab Tera Kya Hoga Kaliaa. Now, now, this book is not about Kaalia or Gabbar, but a self-help book on memory improving techniques. Biswaroop Roy Chaudhary, the author, followed the launch with a Guinness Book attempt at push-ups and bettered Roy Berger’s of 138 push-ups with 198 push-ups in a minute. Samba and Kalia, that is, Mac Mohan and Viju Khote launched the book in their Sholay get up and a little advertorial gig for the book. One day matches are often won by extras.
Mac Mohan ka raaz
More about the book in our books page. Here we come back to our Samba fixation. I waited two hours to get a Samba exclusive. Two reasons. The names Samba and Mac Mohan have always been intriguing. How did Ramesh Sippy come up with a Latino Carribean whistle name? “We never thought Sholay will become what it is,” both Samba and Kaalia echoed. The surname Mac denotes clan affiliation. So, a mac Donald would mean Donald’s posterity. So I always wondered whether some Mohan decided to follow this tradition of naming his sons Mac Mohan. Samba ne paani pher diya humari theory pe, “My name was Mohan. I am from Lucknow. My pet name was Mack, so I became Mac Mohan.”
Samba forever
So, I congratulate Mac on looking the same Samba forever. He’s looked the same, and done the same roles, he is timeless. “My maintenance department is good,” says the actor who’s visibly ageing, but only when you get close to him, at 68. “Now I dye my beard, but am still the same at heart,” he chuckles.
“Sir, why couldn’t you graduate from Samba to Gabbar in all these years. Or did you choose to be this?” I ask. “See I am doing the roles of a father, a grandfather, and a policeman in a comic role now,” he replies.
Why the Indian cricket team was weak in the 70s
After etymology, I try to get into the genesis of Mac Mohan. Mac’splayed first class cricket in Up as well as in Bombay, but “could never reach Ranji”. So while studying in Jai Hind College, he acted in Haqeeqat as Brij Mohan, and has ever since acted in many films in which his characters are named either Mac or Brij Mohan! “Begaars can’t be choosers,” he says, “that’s why I did such roles.” Before Mac became Samba, he was known as Breganza after his role in Hanste Zakhm.
The morph scandalAll of a sudden he launches into a dramatic monologue, “I will sit and drink at home but not be a part of a semi porn films or B grade films.” “But sir I saw your credit in this film called Patli Kamar Lambe Baal,” I retort. “Sometimes you know what happens, these people pick our pictures and videos and morph them into their films.” Either Mac or I have been caught at the boundary line. I venture further, “Sir there was this film called Dhoti Lota Aur Chowpatty…your role was important.” Samba is pissed off and his gun his not near. “Send me a copy of your article on this address,” he says. I was too happy to get an autograph of none other than Mac Mohan. Dhoti, Lota Aur Chowpatty by the way is a pathbreaking film, for it had reverse casting. Mohan Choti, Mac, Farida Jalal were in the lead while Dharmendra and Sanjeev Kumar were Samba and Kaalia.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Ever Had Naked Lunch?
I had to meet my namesake, Amit Rahul, at Max Muller for lunch, to getsome gyan about an academic paper I had to write. Amit's hostel roomgenerally had stacks of heavy books that could fall on your head,death metal that could ensure that you'd never hear again, and randompeople, most of them PIGs (permanent illegal guests) who even hedidn't know. So we met at Max Muller. He was sipping on pinacolada andreading a book called Naked Lunch. As I stared incredulously at thename, wondering if it was some kinky stuff, he smiled his devilishdeath metal smile, "A frozen moment when everyone sees what is at theend of the fork." Amit had been derided ever since he had been readingthe deconstructionist Jacques Derrida. "Don't look so, you uneducatedfool. This is what the writer William Burroughs said to explain thetitle."The book, I found later on, is a series of vignettes containingcharacters that are psychopaths, sociopaths and all kinds of 'paths'except those who take the regular path. "So what's about this bookthat keeps Amit the great occupied?" I asked."It has fetishes, fantasies, taboos, hell lot of a fun, and Mugwumps,"he chuckled."Mugwumps like Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter?" I asked"Shut up you asshole. Do you think I care for such shit?" he retorted.And smiled again, "You know there's a section in the book called'talking assholes' where a man teaches his you-know-what to talk andit overtakes the man. He can only eat and you-know-what."And off went Mr Baishya. He went on about Foucalult, Deluze, Derrida, Edward Said, Brthes, post structuralism and more. I thought he himself had become TalkingYou-Know-What. Now you know what to do when you are out on a date forlunch. Don't blame me for your murder but. I was compelled to dedicate a limerick to my friend:
That bathing fukolting man of Argon
Who could not speak but of Jargon
He took naked lunch at Max muller
Of madness he became fuller and fuller
That deluded derided much said man of Argon!
That bathing fukolting man of Argon
Who could not speak but of Jargon
He took naked lunch at Max muller
Of madness he became fuller and fuller
That deluded derided much said man of Argon!
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