Oh Maria!!!

I was explaining the pythagoras theorm to her. The venue is my interior design class in Ex-In, Bangalore. I was new to the place, first time out of Kerala. Apart from Neeraj, there was not a single person in the class who spoke Malayalam. And for me, all my linguistic skills depended on the limited English words i knew.

Oh. How i wish this girl knew Malayalam, i thought as i struggled to establish the connection between the sides and the hypotenuse of the triangle. My poor command over the British language made the theory look intricate. I desperately sought the help of diagrams to demonstrate the geometry to this confused chick.

Uff. it was terrible. I somehow managed to ring a few bells in her, though my English made sense only to me.

Two days later, in the class. Neeraj was being clumpsy and restless as usual. I feverishly resorted to my seat, watching the other girls and boys howl and blabber around in kannada, Hindi and English and whatever languages they knew, when i heard the sweetest word i've ever heard since i came to this class.

Over my shoulders. Loud out to him, "enthootta Neeraj?" she. In pucca Thrissur slang. OH.MY.GOD!!! I couldn't believe my ears. Only if my astonishment knew its limits. "Anne, stop keeping your mouth open," Neeraj's poking brought me back to senses.

Is this how murderers are created? Only if i had heard this two days before!! Hmm. I would have been jailed for homicide lest she had no that innocent, what-did-i-do smile of hers.

Thats how she became my sweet friend. Maria.

Aneez's, Jithu's, Sithara's, mine..

That was a fine evening. Sun couldn’t be seen because of the huge building that stood immediate outside the window, but an orange hue befell the room. The curtains did not flip. It was dark inside. And pleasant. She sat on her bed like a sage meditating.
The windows media player window on her laptop screen awaited a finger stroke. She took a deep breath. How would it be, my words, life blown into it by her voice?
She clicked the play button. The song. Music raised in a slow pace, Sithara's melodious voice started tiding the room. She closed her eyes.
...Hey rainbow, as the clouds fell like your song, my heart became a timid earthen veena. Are these red evenings getting interwoven and precipitating as mist in my silences?
Ripples glided out of the music Jithu had religiously composed.
...When the white stars smile, my heart becomes the blue moon. Like the dewdrop on a red rose, my heart starts to melt. The line of a song strokes my heart. The sting of a pain strokes my heart.
A lump clogged her throat.
Is this the inside of my soul which I myself had not known?
...The petal of a flower shed on earth like a poem.(Did you) hear the soft midnight song of the river? My dreams fly as the wings of a wind. Like waves (it) searches for shores.
She opened the windows and gazed out. Air breezed over her locks.

Clouds had gone berserk. She stood with unsteady feet, drenched, on the rock with slippery mosses. Small muddy streams drifted underfeet. The wind enveloped her silence with its cold watery locks. A lump clogged her throat. ‘Don’t coax me,’ she mumbled to the rain.

The river flowed flat and shallow. The rocks beneath its bosom were sedimented to form parallel lines. Lichens spread gorgeously on the rocks, artistically, so that it could be taken for bedsheet floral designs. She tried to dip herself wherever it was possible. It was almost like a curlew’s dive, but for the colour and size. That night, shivering from fever, she dreamt of lying supine in water, watching thousand dragon flies fledge across a clear blue sky..

When the first ray of the sun touched the leaves, the rose opened up her outer petal. The dew drop sloped out. A fragrance from her floated west. The caterpillar rose up to the morning hue..

Though an angel, her wings were too weak to fly high and long. She waited for the Noah’s ark, before the flood embraced her rooftop.. The silent waterbed extended to the horizon. Only a dead snake floated by..

You see your windows to the outside world getting narrower and narrower as you grow old and cold, and what you do is sit and watch. Motivations come from life, kin and kith, but you just see a bad knee forbidding a walk. The sky seems vaster than before, that's when you realise you've never looked at it for years. It was a placid blue at 12, but why is it so grey now when iam 72? I've realised I lived my life happily, but now I see more happier things I've missed, you think. I didnt know. I didnt know. You cry silent in your cold bed. My eyes are wide open now. Now, when its time for them to shut.

When younger days have flown
And we are older grown,
We sit and muse -
We've got the blues.

Morning and night we fret,
And, cold or dry or wet.
In petulance pout -
We've got the gout.

We have accomplished naught,
Our fight was poorly fought -
Gee whiz,
The rheumatiz.
************


RAGE; RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF LIGHT.

TO THE LOVER OF CAM..

You were like a crystal flower.
Cut with precision and beauty.
A feast to the eye.
Illumination to mind.
Sharp enough to cut me.

You were like a crystal flower.
So vulnerable.
I didn’t want to break you.
Though you bled me.

I wished light sneek into you
Drink your virtue
And exit thousand times luminant
To travel long and far.

You were a beautiful crystal flower.
I wanted to retain you as you.
You with all your virtue.
I didn’t want to break you.

That is why I hide the truth
That I was long gone.

HALLOWED

I was a Satan.
But she called me a saint.
The villagers believed her.
I choked in the saintly guise.
One day I dreamt her bright damb eyes.
In my bed she slept like a goddess.
Next day my fangs fell.
Wind blew my horns off.
Morning in the river
My halo reflected.

Well, the princess's wars are with herself.

Playing with letters and words..

My first byline story came out today. (7th June 2010). With the same title as of this blog. In the daily supplement 'Expresso' of The New Indian Express. Iam surprised Iam so rejoiced. I had thought it wont be a big deal. Feel like I've had my first baby. All my difficulties including the feet swollen from walking, has paid. I surmise this is the ecstasy of being a reporter. And I realise all the journalists experience this. Iam happy. Infact, overjoyed. May be because it is the first time. But this is the feeling i always wanted.

To a late realiser.

My arena is vaster than yours.
And my visions clearer.
Why do you try to prop me now,
You wingless bird?

I longed in vain the warmth of your plume.
While mine was not poised proper.
I pecked here and there.
And finally found my grain.

I realise I am different.I am a swan!
White and fair and elegant.
Free to fly anywhere in this primordial greenery.
Sky is nearer to me than to you.

Why do you try to prop me now,
You wingless flightless bird?

Just showing off!!

What role does pretensions play in this world? Of course it has an inevitable presence in our daily life. To stand the tide, you need to pretend that you know more than what you know. You have more than what you have. You will get more than you actually will get..

Simplicity is much acclaimed as a morality taught in small classes. Life teaches us the opposite.. how showing off gains you most of the things you set your eyes upon; and how being humble rob you off the things you really deserve.

So pretend. Pretend you have everything even when you have nothing. Pretend you have the world in your hands, even when all the earth under your feet has eroded away.

When time ceases before you..

I discovered a pastime today.

Forget yourself. Your gender. Roam about the streets. You see people. Hundred kinds of faces. Two hundred kinds of expressions. You can hear twenty five comments. Numberless businesses. Children. Women. Men. Youngsters. Beggars. Multistoreyed buildings. Shops on wheels. Bikes. Cars. Buses. Thousands of sounds. Conversations. Horns. Announcements..

Above all you can see what your soul looks like. And how sweet it sings!!!

Platonic..

The water was blue and clear.
The banyan murmured to the winds.

The hermit took the chill to his frame.
He raised the scooped water.
Sun, for you...

The sun did not pacify.
You see not what you offer.

He scorched and floated west.

The hermit felt sad.
Gods have abandoned me.

He drew his hands to bury his face.

The warrior princess of the woods beamed in the cupped water.
The hermit was freed of qualms.

He meditated the whole day under the banyan.

To Swam..

Behind my closed eyes
In the ethereal darkness
I see you lone traveller
In the road winding the valley
of our aborted dreams.

The percussions of mundane emptiness
rising in a low pace
till it finally harness
my thoughts, words, deeds
the colours of life.
Vacuum.

Like red ants
on a butterfly carcass
when they drape me
breeding with every heartbeat
Iam fallen from world material
retreating to the shell
cementing around me every second.

Even though Iam filled to the brim
And loved to the toes.
By him.

The prospect of being a journalist..

The perplexity i always had in writing was about a subject that appeals to everyone, though the intensities of interest varies. That was the confusion i had in choosing my 'strong area' too. Its of course like marriage. We choose one, and we are integrated to the name. When i saw the magician Muthukad in the judges desk at the reality show 'munch star singer' in asianet channel, i wondered what business this person has here. Blame my ignorance of his fields of expertise, but this was the first question that sprang up in my mind. So, i think this is the question of being labelled. Your nomen clature is based upon what you deliver.The output.

I was mark-scorer in school. It never was the result of a conscious study, though. I devoured sentences like a worm. May be the reason why i too got nick-named by the term, which most of voracious readers are entitled with at least once in their lives- book worm. I surmise the marks came through this channel. The reading too was not a conscious act. For i have no clue what the titles were, whose 'miserable efforts' they were or what were the famous quotes that could be used in and out of place.

I've travelled out of the box. What i try to say is that this had sown in me seeds of different interests. It be science, humanities, literature or even maths. I cant choose between. Some years of absolute dormancy had followed, which i didnt knew would have been damaging my competency. I remember my malayalam teacher who insisted me to keep on writing, because 'the gift would wean away if you dont use it.'I didnt agree to it at the moment. How can one ever confront with difficulty to write? I considered her old-fashioned. Was it arrogance that i was confident i can write anything when demanded? Miss, as you taught us in your classes, those who dont study from what is told, study from experience. I feel sorry to scorn your words.

The problem of selection always existed. In life. Selection of courses, books, garments. I liked everything and everyone. Universal love it seems. What my point was that i didnt want to get tied to any particular thing. When doing a course in English literature i was jealous of my friends in Sociology departments. I felt envious seeing the zoology and botany texts. I wondered why i didnt select a subject that would tell me of emperors and revolutions. Mine was the subject most suitable for me, but i wanted everything and everything. Hence the dilemma of selection.

So i've thought of a subject that appeals to everyone. That should be read by everyone alike. I read what others have written. The suppliments of papers. The comments received by my friends who scribbled what they wanted. I talked to people. The search had been long.

There is no universal subject. There is no universal interest. Hunger in Isthanbul is no different from that in Lucknow. Luxury appeals to the gilded in Paris, the plush in Mumbai. But not all in Turkey are starving, not all in UP. Not all in Paris are filthy rich. And so is the case in Mumbai. Poverty, wealth, knowledge, literature, science, society, sex.. not all appeals to all. Various people. Variety of pleasures. Interests. There is no an ideal, universal topic.

A journalist therefore cant sit confined to a single corner. There is no dilemma in selection when situation demands everything to fill the space. All is well. A journalist has to have everything. Iam blessed to be one. I can have all.

As one of my friends said, "Write, write and write"... "To derive your strong area", as another suggested.

Why is it that it is difficult to read a paper completely a day?
Why is it that reading literature give a sense of uselessness?
Why is the process of reading boring at 20s when it was crazy in ones and 10s?
Why is it that the events lose importance once they are happened?
Why are the importance of ideas, preachings, theories so relative?
Why is it that an incident has hundred perspectives in hundred reports?
Why is it that no book, no report or no document matters to everybody equally?
Is there a topic that can drag attention of people from all walks, age and status?
Why do a country's policies are important to another country when the latter has enough of affairs by itself to meet?
Why is loss given prominence when they cannot revived or resurrected?
What importance do a single individual have when he is integral of a larger crowd?
Why are the sentiments of some people highlighted when those of some others are unnoticed or ignored?
Why is power so corrupting?
Is there an unseen order in the world?
Who sets the norms and ideals when each individual before death can write at least one single essay, 10 para, 30 words each about the mistakes he committed?
Why is money so important?
What gives money the power to provide security to people?
Why are grandiose, incomprehensible words revered even when the advocacy is to maintain simplicity?
Is the call for morals and simplicity out of a sense of incompetence?
Why is that a lot of questions are unanswered in this world?
Why is that some obvious answers never satisfy completely forever?
Why does envy has a fair poll when awe is possible?
Why do a reporter get fine reports a time, worst another time?
Is gambling a sin?
Why are monuments needed to be protected when it is a universal cliche that everything change except change?
Why dont my one question connect to another one?
Why am I asking stupid questions?
Why am I asking these questions when my deedi's children(under age 10) would know the answers?
Why am i avoiding my report that is to be written now?

Teacher,
Tell me who was the greatest slave in history. Spartacus?
Tell me the fullest meaning of slavery.
Teacher, why is it that Iam antagonized by aggression?
Aggression, when the yearnings are for soft words and sweet smiles?


Teacher,
Is it sin to speak what you feel actually?
Is it needed always to polish your words before they are delivered?
why are my words so harsh and wounded?
Teacher, do you really see me bleeding inside my armor?


Teacher,
Can incarnation be possible?
Was Jesus incarnated because he had untold messages left on earth?
Teacher, tell me why am I disturbed so much by some incarnations?
Is there a message that was left to be delivered to me?


Teacher,
Iam thirsty for hundred thousand answers.
Tell me who has dethroned my father.
Who has exiled me from the royal citadels to bare hot sands?
Teach me how to awe the fever when breeze blows upon my wounds.
Where is the market where the magic wands are sold?
Are the inflictions to wrest me in the iron mould?
Tell me that there is a violet valley behind this mountain.
And you'd be waiting when i come..