Before Birth

Woman,you carving simple yet a known stranger
 on soil,faithfully laid on
 the womb,waiting to be true,
 of whom you have never been insouciance.

Why you being in bliss about him my lady,
 to let him live in heaps of misery,
 in branches of silicon,
 where humanity develops to sand-size ??

Why you longing for him,
 to be the coin roling helplessly,
 over the steak of rebarbative routine,
 dreading in each moment ??

Why you dreaming about him,
 to push him over the
 waves of the black water,
 gloomy like the black sky,
 and the darkness after it ??

And why telling your insight,
the universe beholding his instincts
are free of thirst,dirt and dust ??

My young lady,you ever thought of
 the reluctant nonpareil gods of
 wonders sighing over the land-hostages?
you must know that's sober,limpid,
 and the feel of a guilt in
 conjuring this world,its all about that.!1

Oh my child,let you not be
 true,not ever espy,
 rosary beads be blind,
 falling stars be dumb,
 11:11 be bluff,
 and you be false until the
 world ends, at least...

April Fool

B day for many,

beacon of shrill,

memento of

worthy life

they inherited.

They celebrated.

D day for many,

Incepting servitude

waiting on

hell or heaven,

they perspired.

Fool day for

the rest

mocking one

on fun,they enjoyed.

Apart from world,

at least for some

like me,

another mediocre,

mighty Monday.

Three Rains I Want To Forget

Who said rain was non-traceable??

Sitting at the edge of the balcony,gaping at the so-called phenomenon, I was in turmoil over the traceability of the rain. The raindrops from the sunshade drifted to the ground and collectively dashed like a snake, down the hill. And at the view where the flow reached the river, close to the shore, I saw Swarnamma's home. The place was a bit distant from my position, more distant than one could reach in time catalogued, yet I saw it. The self imposed verdict over the traceability of rain dropped me at the memories of Swarnamma- 'Mad Swarnamma',like the other world called. Me,for the first time in my life,wished to be thrown into rain,travel like a serpent and reach there. Why bother about the height ..!! The only difference between the topmost point and bottom ground is just that one fall.

The evening was turning the pages for the next chapter and it was soon approaching. The scent of Agarbathi's from the prayer hall lifted me. I prepared myself to fly. But some senses which were not so high,helped to adjourn the idea

I decided to walk,instead.

I was walking downhill,fully drenched in cold rain water. I heard a lot of indecent laughters all around me. My senses,whom helped me to avoid the jump once again got my back. I waved of those laughters. My fists clenched a brown cover consisting of some colored candles. I couldn't loose my grip because I needed those more than anything,for something I'm about to do today was so much sacred.

                                                              ****

I tried to roll-back my memory for quite a long bit. It was some time long ago. I was cycling back from school, on another rainy day, and I saw her standing near a shallow water channel with a stray dog. I've heard my parents,friends and neighbours blabbering about 'Mad Swarnamma' a lot,but it was for the first time I was seeing her. Thin flat body,sun-tanned cheeks,shrunken little head with glimpses of silvery hair. She was trying to drink that dirty water.

“Do you want help??” I asked her,boarding down from my cycle.

She let her dull eyes fall upon me. She smiled,an innocent smile. She was either wondering what help could this 12yr boy could shower upon her or she was thanking me in advance. I got my water bottle and passed it to her.

“I'm always thirsty my son, I don't know why,but the truth is I am”. she spoked in between gulping my mineralised water. And that day,like many other days to come, I gave her my lunch which was uneaten. I did it not because of self pity,but because I felt a bizarre affection with her. I felt I've seen her before, I couldn't remember when; maybe in some wonderful dream where she was younger,brighter and beautiful. Days followed and my lunch box briefed her appetite for a long time. One day after when I gave her the lunch box,she pulled me closer to her and asked me'

“My son,don't you think I'm mad ??”

I knew the answer,but I felt like keeping my mouth shut. She may mistook that for a question of higher standard for a child.

She smiled at me and said, “My son,I'm not mad. I am the widow of the priest who recited prayers for Lord Shiva in our village temple. He got drowned in our temple pond some 20 years back and they blamed my stars for it. And locking down the temple pond added to my woes. I lost the track of myself.”

I simply stared at her.

“These people” she continued, “they made me what I'm today-Mad Swarnamma. But I don't know why I behave like mad. You know, everybody has got a secret world inside them,you and I and all have got one. Each world is like a cave of formidable walls whose entrance is known for the soul only. No matter how dull,boring,strange they're outside,inside them,they've got wonderful,merry and unimaginable worlds. I'm acting mad sometimes,may be because I've got many of such words inside me.”

                                                               ****

I continued to stare at her. I was getting enamoured to this old lady. But as years passed,  my conscience wrapped her in my unconscious. Slowly, I started to forget her.

I was walking slowly,absorbing every drop washing me. I passed the ground, the temple and the temple pond,which no longer existed. She was drowned in it just like her husband.

                                                                 ****

I remember the last time I saw her. I was around 20 years or so and it was almost 2 or 3 years since I've seen her. It was another fiery rainy night and I was walking to home,after a second show. I saw a thin figure walking towards the temple pond compound. It was Swarnamma.

“Swarnamma,where are you going?”. I enquired.

“oh my dear son, I need to go, Lord Shiva and my late husband appeared in my dream and they said that the misery of this pond will be soon lifted up once I swim across it and look,I'm ready” She said in her weak sound,but the enthusiasm in it was astounding.

“No Swarnamma,you're not doing that.” I said harshly.

She smiled faintly and said “Son, I'm a devotee of Lord Shiva and he resides in here. He'll take care of me. You see those big lotus flowers”,she pointed to the middle of the pond. “I'll get those for you my son.” Saying this she continued her weak,yet resolute steps.

I could've stopped her. But something from my inside urged me to not do so. She entered the pond compound and I waited outside. The Trishul model gate promised me she'll come back safe.

Promise was broken. Much to the dismay of Lord Shiva and myself she drowned. I cried openly. I had never learnt to control my emotions. In case if I had,what difference could it make myself from being a totalitarian.

Her death had immense importance in our society than expected. Soon after her death,the water in the pond started to vapour out. It seemed to me like her thirsty soul sucked out the entire water in the pond.

Anyway I never missed on her. She continued to wander in the realm of my dreams. But soon I understood, I want a way out from this.

                                                               ****

I reached her house. It was a bit marshy earth and I struggled to keep up my steps. I lit the candles and the aroma of the coloured chemicals in the candle was spread.

I prayed,

“My dear old lady, I need a liberation from you. You can stop me,stop me from leaving you,stop me from the entrance of reality. But I need to go and I'm asking this out of the memory of what we've shared together,I'm asking your permission to leave. My dear friend of those worthy days,please help me leave you.”

The aroma of candles were getting thicker. It reached a stage were the smell was indistinguishable. And at last the smell turned out to be the smell of lotus flowers.

I walked back home.

ചെറുകഥ @ ഇൻസ്റ്റന്റ്

സമ൪പണം :- ചെറുകഥരചനാമത്സരവേദിയിൽ എന്റെ പിൻസീറ്റിലിരുന്ന് 'ജാങ്കോ' കോമെഡികൾ പാസാക്കിയ ലോഹിതദാസ്‌ ലുക്ക്‌ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്ന താടിക്കാരന് ..:)

നൂണ്‍ ഷോ

ചൈതൃനൈമിഷം പൂണ്ട ധ൪മ്മരശ്മി പൂതുപോഴിയുന്ന ഒരു വേനൽ പകലിൽ ഞാ൯ ഏറ്റവും സ്നേഹിക്കുന്ന ഒരാൾ എന്നോട് ചേതമില്ലാത്ത ഒരു സഹായം ചോദിച്ചു .  ഒരു സിനിമ കാണാൻ കൂടെ ചെല്ലാൻ . മാനുഷികമണ്ഡലങ്ങളെ ചങ്ങലയ്കിട്ട് വരിഞ്ഞുമുറുക്കുന്ന വാണിജ്യസിനിമകലളുടെ പുതിയ വേഷപകർച്ചകൾക്ക് ബലിയാടാകാൻ എന്റെ തലച്ചോറ് എന്നെ അനുവദിച്ചില്ല.പക്ഷേ, എന്റെ ഹൃദയം ഓരോ തവണ മിടിച്ചതും അവളോടൊപ്പം പോകാനായിരുന്നു . മനുഷ്യശരീരത്തിൽ ഹൃദയത്തിന് മുകളിലാണെന്ന പരമാർത്ഥം വിസ്മരിച്ചുകൊണ്ട്‌ ഞാ൯ സിനിമയ്ക്കുപോകുവാൻ തയ്യാറായി.

'പ്ലൂട്ടോ' എന്നായിരുന്നു സിനിമയുടെ പേര് . . കേവലം വലുപ്പമില്ല എന്ന കാരണത്താൽ ഗ്രഹങ്ങളിൽനിന്ന് അധിഷേപിക്കപെട്ട് പുറത്തായ പ്ലൂട്ടോ എന്നും എന്റെ വിഷാദപ്രപഞ്ചതിൽ വലയം ചെയ്തിരുന്നു. അതുകൊണ്ടുതന്നെ സിനിമ പതിവു മസാലകളിൽനിന്ന് വ്യത്യസ്തമായിരികുമെന്ന് എനിക്കു തോന്നി. സിനിമ കാണുവാനുള്ള എന്റെ താത്പര്യം വർദ്ധിച്ചു.

ഞാ൯ അവളുടെ കാതിൽ മന്ത്രിച്ചു "വെറുക്കപെട്ടവളെ, ,നീ എന്തിന് എന്നെ ഈ സിനിമയിലേക്ക് വലിച്ചിഴച്ചു?? ഒരു നല്ല സിനിമയുടെ വർണ്ണശഭളമായ കാല്പനികതയിൽനിന്ന് വിരസവും ജീർണ്ണിച്ചതുമായ യാഥാർത്ഥൃതിലേക്കുള്ള യാത്ര എത്ര നിരാശാജനകമാണെന്ന് നിനക്കറിയാമോ??"

ആയിരം മഞ്ഞുമലകൾ ഉരുക്കാൻ ശ്രേഷ്‌ഠിയുള്ള ഒരു ചിരി അവളുടെ ചുണ്ടിൽ വിരിഞ്ഞു.     .എന്റെ മുഴുവൻ ജന്മമെടുത്താലും ഉത്തരം കണ്ടത്താൻ പറ്റാത്ത ആ ചിരിയുടെ മുന്നിൽ ഞാ൯ മൗനം പാലിച്ചു.

സിനിമ തുടങ്ങാറായി.

തീയറ്ററിന് പുറത്തെ പകലിൽ ഞാന്‍ കണ്ടത് ഇരുട്ടയിരുന്നു.അതുകൊണ്ടുതന്നെ തീയറ്ററിനുള്ളിലെ ഇരുട്ട് എനിക്ക് പകലയായി തോന്നി.വെള്ളസ്ക്രീനിലെ ചിത്രരശ്മികളുടെ പ്രതിഫലനം എന്റെ തോന്നൽ ശരിവെച്ചു.

ബെൽ മുഴങ്ങി.

സിനിമ തുടങ്ങി.

സിനിമ തുടങ്ങിയപ്പോൾ ഞാ൯ ഒന്നു ഞെട്ടി.  .കാരണം സിനിമയിലെ നായകൻ ഞാ൯ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു. അതേസമയം അവളുടെ മുഖത്തു അമ്പരപ്പും ആരാധനയും മിന്നിമറഞ്ഞു.

സീൻ 1

ആദ്യസീനിൽ ഞാ൯ മൂന്ന് കണ്ണുനീർതുള്ളികളെ പരിചയപെട്ടു.  ആദ്യത്തെ കണ്ണുനീർതുള്ളി ഈ അടുത്ത കാലത്ത് രക്തസാക്ഷിയായ ഒരു വിപ്ലവകാരിയുടെ വിധവയുടെതയിരുന്നു. രണ്ടാമത്തേത് സമീപകാലത്ത് പീഡനതിരയായി മരിച്ച ഒരു പെണ്‍കുട്ടിയുടെ അമ്മയുടെതായിരുന്നു. മൂന്നാമത്തേത് ദൈവം എന്ന് നാം വിശേഷിപ്പിക്കുന്ന "എരപ"ന്റെയായിരുന്നു.ആ കണ്ണീർ ഞാ൯ തുടച്ചു. അതെന്റെ കൈയിൽ പറ്റിപിടിച്ചു. എന്റെ കണ്ണും നിറയാൻ തുടങ്ങി.ഞാ൯ ഏങ്ങികരയുന്ന അവളെ നോക്കി. അവളുടെ കണ്ണീർ തീയറ്ററിൽ ഒരു പ്രളയമുണ്ടാക്കുമോ എന്ന് ഞാ൯ ഭയന്നു. അങ്ങനൊരു പ്രളയത്തിൽനിന്ന് രക്ഷപെട്ടാൻ ഞാനൊരു കടലാസ്സുതോണിയുണ്ടാക്കി.

.

സീൻ 2

രണ്ടാമത്തെ സീനിൽ ഞാ൯ ഒരു രക്തതുള്ളിയെ പരിചയപെട്ടു. ടിപ്പർലോറി കയറി മരിച്ച ഒരു വീട്ടമ്മയുടെ മരണം ആഘോക്ഷിക്കാ൯ സ്ഥാപിച്ച 10' * 10' ഫ്ലെക്സ്ബോർഡിൽ ആ രക്തത്തുള്ളി പതിഞ്ഞിരിക്കുന്നുണ്ടായിരുന്നു. അവിടെയിരുന്നു അത് നാട്ടിലെ തെരുവുമക്കൽക്ക് താരട്ടുപാട്ടുകയും പുകവലികാർക്കെതിരെ കൊഞ്ഞനംകുത്തുകയും ചെയ്തു.

പൊടുന്നനെ സ്ക്രീൻ ഇരുട്ടായി. തീയറ്ററിനുപുറത്തെ അന്ധകാരം തീയറ്ററിനുള്ളിലേക്കും പടർന്നോ എന്ന് ഞാ൯ ഭയന്നു. ഞാ൯ അവളെ നോക്കി. ഈ അന്ധകാരതിനപുറത്തെ ശൂന്യതയെ താനും ഭയപ്പെടുന്നുണ്ടെന്ന് അവളുടെ കണ്ണുകൾ വിളിച്ചോതി.

സീൻ 3

സീനിൽ ഞാ൯ കണ്ടത് ഭാവിയിലെ എന്നെതന്നെയായിരുന്നു.ഭാവിയിലെ എനിക്ക് സിക്സ്പയ്ക് ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നില്ല.കാഴ്ച്ചശക്തിയും ശ്രവണശേഷിയും ചലനശേഷിയും നക്ഷ്ടപെട്ടിരുന്നു. എന്റെ വായ്‌ തുന്നികൂടിയിരുന്നു.ഞാ൯ നിഴൽപോലും ഇല്ലാത്ത ഒരു പിടി ചാരമായിമാറിയിരുന്നു.

ബെൽ മുഴങ്ങി.

സിനിമ അവസാനിച്ചു.

രണ്ടേകാൽ മണിക്കൂറിന്റെ പകൽ കഴിഞ്ഞ് ഞാ൯ വീണ്ടും ഇരുട്ടിലേക്കുപ്പോകുവാൻ മനസ്സിനെ പാകപ്പെടുത്തികൊണ്ട് അവളെ നോക്കി.അവളെ കാണാനില്ല.തീയറ്ററിൽ ആരെയും കാണാനില്ല.ഞാ൯ വേഗം തീയറ്ററിന് പുറത്തേയ്കിറങ്ങി. അവിടെ ഞാന്‍ കണ്ടത് ഒരു കോടി 'എന്നെ' തന്നെയായിരുന്നു.

ഞാന്‍ കണ്ണുകളടച്ച്‌ പകലാക്കാൻ ശ്രമിച്ചു.

The Last Thought

I knew she was bold and aggressive, but i never expected her hands to be this much hard, no, not at this point. Standing aside her at the end of this barren cliff, i thought the decision we took was a bit hard. 

"Honey, i think may be we could think about this once again.!!". 

I was about to cry this but her stern look left me with no choice. Jumping from the cliff,holding her so-hard hands, my past episodes happened to be flashing before my eyes and just before touching the bottom of the jump, I saw a one-minute trailer of my future episodes,which i would miss out on.

And i thought if only R.I.P meant "Return if Possible"

Who Was The Last Man In Tower??

As soon as I started reading ‘The Last Man in Tower’, written by the effervescent, soul-deeming and dark humor bound Aravind Adiga, I was sure, it would another spell-bound cracker and my intrusions didn't deceived me, at least not the hosiery of my 20 yr old common sense. And as soon before reaching 100 pages or so,
I was really overwhelmed by the author's efforts to implicate the never-Before-Used-Way-Of-Storytelling which I've never found in the genre of Indian authors. And well soon before I hung up the book, this story plotted by the much-talented Adiga had already baffled me with a souvenir for reading – “who was actually the Last man in tower??”

The story depicts the insurgent greed for money, salient thirst for freedom as well as, at some points, the silhouette of a common Indian. In brief, the story shows the life of some middle-class Indians living in a green-oiled, leech-stricken apartments, at the skirts of Mumbai, and how it changed when a big corporate builder Mr.Shah bullied them with a fortune of their life time. It goes like a fantasy story for all immigrants of the building, but one man stood alone from the rest of the crew and he was Mr.Yogesh Murthy, a retired teacher always deemed with the recipe of physics. He stood his ground, nevertheless from the advice, plea and menace of his neighbors and the builder. But his defiance was broken at the end as his own ‘lovely neighbors  banged his head with a hammer and pushed him from the top of the tower..!!

Now the question pops up..!! Who was actually the last man in tower??

And the cliche is “is there really a last man??”

For me, unlike the author, Mr.Murthy could’ve been a resident of the bottom floor, because his unwillingness to leave the building was his shrewd persistence of the respect he was beholding rather than his need for one to be free. With signing the permission he could’ve been saving the pleasure of all the residents.

Mr.Pinto and Mrs.Pinto was following Mr.Murthy at the beginning but later they too fell for the inceptive notions of a better standard of living, even at their late 60’s. Behind the likes of the Pintos, Mr. Kudwa, Mrs. Puri  Mrs.Rego were all on the major side of the battle so they all got a pass to the tower, but only in the lower floors

Mr.Ajwani who played the shabby melodrama of threat for Mr.Murthy at the initial stages, regretted for his actions and tried to secure the life of our old teacher at the end, but was par late. He may be getting one of the top floor.

Mr.Shah, the obese builder with gutka stained teeth was not a resident of the Vishram society but his brutal ideas of getting the ‘simple work done’ by the natives of the building leaves him in the topmost floor(along with his assistant, Mr.Shanmugam-although he’s somewhere in a middle floor).

And my fellow readers, the tower in which all these people are residing, I've named it as “The Tower of Judgement” and you may call it as “the Tower of Indian Shame”.

But there is still a paradox. Dead people cannot be outrunned. So at the terrace of this tower we may see Purnima, the late wife of Mr.Murthy. In that case, Mr.Adiga, the name of this book should be “The Last Woman in Tower”.

Mr.Reality Weds Ms.Dream

The hype was in,

Stellar maze of effervescence

Hanging all over the mind

Roses were present,

Far away,by the

Shyness deemed upon

Angels roamed around,               

Vibrant in limelight

Scavenging low,bestowing

Bliss and happiness

Man of present

Arrived,lightfaced.

Shoes of vanity

Dancing around him,

River of charisma

Flowing beneath him,

Leaves of euphoria

Flying with him,

Held his head high,

For the moment of his life.

The guest of wedding,

Arrived late.

Thunders of whispers

Tendered uniquely,

For the warmth of

The lord of realms.

It was Mr.impossible

Wait,wait,wait and wait

The abrupt laughings

Guests conjured

Wrecked the mood,

Rising the stakes of boredom,

Anxiety,fear.

But the look on

Mr.Impossible fades

The meagre notions

Of some tragedies.

Roses faded,fried,

Angels weeped,solemnly,

The scenario remained lost.

“The bride was missing”

Reports someone

Never known before.

Eyes thrown for

Mr.Impossible who’ve

Turned to Mr.Invisible,

Left there with nothing,

But the broken bangles of dream

What ‘The motorcycle Diaries” left in me…???

I was deemed up to read ‘The motorcycle diaries’ by Ernesto Che Guevara, reverently called as ‘Che’ by people all over the world for time since the day I turned to be a Communist idealist. Last Thursday, I got the latest edition of this book and as soon as I started reading this, I could picture up the tenderness and humanity behind the so called iron heart of this Rosario born Revolutionary. Courage, Intelligence, plodding behaviour, implausible ideas and there’s one thing about Che which the historians failed to inscribe on the tiles of Eternity-his love for humanity. And  This page-turner is all about those.

This humanitarian’s placid and slap-happy journey right through the heart of Latin America reveals the need for such a revolutionary at that time. The role of his fellow comrades, Alberto Granado and La Poderosa,a 500cc Norton, in this journey is indispensable as they were being something entirely else than what you could anticipate.

The book starts with handful of wits, jolly scenarios (except some rash bruises from falling of La Poderosa) and as soon the plot turns up to the harsh, pathetic and heart dropping visions of the poor Americans, especially the proletariats. Considering the setbacks Che and Granado faced during the expedition leaves such an idea impossible for the ordinary. Leaving the motorcycle behind, lack of resources, shades and shelter, deplorable fettles of transportation, vulnerable set up of funds,  and the list goes on but the highlight among those is his never ending hype of the along born Asthma.

The way of story-telling Che deployed is stone for stone and leaf for leaf. The descriptions are so mind tracing and eye catching that I got a vague feeling of sightseeing the likes of Argentina, the hospitality of Chile, The tradition of peru and not the least, the hunger of Venezuela. For sake of myself, the walk of those two through the Chilean mines not wasting the heavy sunrays, not even for their eyes, left me in a frying pan of which a break is not possible

These 160 pages guide us well thrashing the earlier set boards of brutality and hardness. And among what others don’t know, or never tried to knew, Che was a great footballer as well. And after finishing the book I sympathize for the blunt historians whom flaunt Che as a thirsty Murderer and not as a meek revolutionary.

Che is more than just those 3 letters.
.
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Why Messi is The Best ??

Analysis and stats tell truth,always. Despite his prolific edge not good enough for FCB to hold on to La Liga and UEFA Champions League,the the instincts of the Argentine won the most prestigious award in football once again.The 4th consecutive Ballon d'Or shows he'd craved himself among the all time footballing greats and there is no one at present to match the blistering talents of Messi-ah.91 goals,28 assists,9 hat-tricks,5 goals in a CL match,all in a calender year, claims he's nothing shorter to phenomenon.Only 25, Lionel Andres Messi has a lot to give in his coming peak years.

International Career-2012

For so many years,critics have blabbered the poor form of Messi for his country,regardless numerous records fell under his effervescent form. But 2012 saw Messi replicating his sensational club form to international stage as well with bagging 12 goals(matched by Batistuta's 12 goals for most goals by an Argentine in a calendar year) in 11 appearances including 2 hat-tricks,one among them coming in the soul-stirring match against Brazil.He deemed his responsibility towards his nation by relishing the role in captain's arm band under which Argentina was unbeaten in 2012,with 9 wins & 2 draws. His efforts brimmed by hard work and confidence, with the south American giants posters his worth as No.10 left by the one and only Diego Maradona.

Broken Records

Records griming under the boots of Messi,he would be overlooking to break his own records in the future.So far,Messi have written a large number of record dashboards to his name with the latest coming by thrashing Gerd Muller's 85 goals to become the leading scorer in any calendar year.At a Champions League night,he scored 5 past Bayer Leverkusen to help Catalans for an emphatic 7-1 win.being the only player to score 5 goals in a CL game. His non-mediocre career eclipsed Cesar Rodriguez's club best of 232 goals for the Blaugrana in attire of style with a hat-trick,leaving him alone for  apotheosis in football 

Catalan Diary 2012

Although the Midas touch of Messi failed to duplicate the charisma FCB has shown in past years to bring glory in Spanish and European stages,he topped the goal scoring dashboard and the Rosario borne stashed his already filled trophy board with Copa Del Rey trophy. Most of all,he continued to jaw-drop the fans with his eye-stalking performance stating ball is only a part of his legs. Given the accolades he had already handed,it is tough for the world to believe he's only 25 and the fans love him more and more as long as he keep his legs on ground.

What is Next?

Even though he'd reserved himself as the unique,critics have one last weapon in their arsenal and that is his lack of a WC medal in his show case. But the fact that he have two more WCs to play for the least,that medal is no longer seeming to slip way from him.All the fans can be assured that after all whatever they've seen, they'e yet to see the best of Messiah.....



Comparisons With Fellow Ballon d'Or Competitors