" and i write........ "

May 6th, 1986
Yet another night as pitch-black as ever…as passive as ever…. as mundane as ever…. the same old creepy corners of the city, just one or two autos treading through the narrow lanes, shuttered shops, empty kiosks, crowd less markets, the pre-independence sodium vapor lamps trying to win over the darkness, trees lost in their slumber ……the characteristic motionless, paralyzed night in payyanur…….
A baby girl cried her way into the earth…a birth as yet another…born with her were as her kin “the expectations”…her mom’s dream of she turning into this princess to get married to some glorious king some day, her dad’s goal of she getting moulded into this ‘successful’ human specimen bringing glory to his name…

Life-tale

Then it was this mad pursuit, the struggle to escape, the raging desire to be what others wanted her to be, the moments of muteness giving up everything she loved for others who were cared for, the pall of gloom worn so that others wont be hurt because of her…a song of forced silence…

Schooling was as eventful as any other kid’s would be, chunks of homework, fear of the imminent exams, the scary progress reports, the much awaited games periods, the pangs of jealousy when her teacher hugged her friend, the sunny assembly lines where she wished she fainted to avoid it, the excitement of the 3o’clock long bell, the small lil fights, the board exams and the tiring nights………..

Then came college, the windows open to the world of adulthood but the doors still closed, the passion filled years, the youthful rebelliousness to break free, the small defeats, those emotional hangovers, those days of tearless melancholy, the re-reads of Faiz Ahmed Faiz keeping the wounds afresh, the lines of John Keats consoling about all that would have to be left behind

Heard Melodies are sweet ,but those unheard ;
Are sweeter ;therefore;ye soft pipes play on;
Not to the sensual ear ,but,more endear’d;
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone;
Fair youth ,beneath the trees,thou canst not leave;
Thy song,nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover ;never,never canst thou kiss;
Though winning near the goal-yet do not grieve;
(AN ODE TO THE GRECIAN URN)

College is drawing to an end ,its time to pack up ;when all those things that were considered to be for eternity would be packed up in the rucksack of your memory, ……… ….when there wont be anymore labs to give you one of those paranoid strikes…;when there wont be the 6.30 deadline for your active life ,….when there wont be the unending gossip sessions ,when there wont be that mad rush to snatch the morning Poori….;when there wont be the archis coming around saying how much hard-working they are and how jobless the btechs are ;when there wont be those night-out birthday parties waking up the whole hostel ;when there wont be those “high volume “ GB’ s
;when there wont be those waterless days when you would have to take a bath in Impulse-Jasmine,when there wont be days when u can steal chicken curry from the five star mess;
………….all is drawing to a close.

Its time to curtain the bright scenes…time to tread on…. time to leave…time to just be one among the myriad…. time to jus sing along..And I have decided to write about the large space that is permitted to my vision…to jus notice and just be the mute commenter….to let out all those rains that were asked not to pour out….to sing that song of silence aloud……

Between my finger and my thumbThe squat pen rests: snug as a gun.
…………..


Between my finger and my thumbThe squat pen rests.I'll dig with it.

(Seamus Heany, Digging ,1966,Death of A naturalist)