"Its monsoon in my homeland, I am suffering from rain and wind.I need to reach my
village soon.I want to resign.Please accept my resignation"
v.k.sriraman's "resignation letter to see the rain"- Mathrubhumi weekly
date - Dont remember
"Revolution is the orgasm of history" -
e.p.rajagopalan - Mathrubhumi weekly - Oct 4 2009
Writers read recently -
Anand - "Pilgrims Progress" - Story in Mathrubhumi Weekly - Oct 4 2009
Sakariya - "Alphonsammayude maranavum shavamadakkum"- Story in Mathrubhumi Weekly - Oct 4 2009
Recent discovery -
K.R.Meera - Journalist and writer - Liked her style - Read 2 articles and one story.
Liked the grossness in emotions that she tries to portray.
ps: Off late finding nothing to write.So posting this list of readings that i made.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Chinnan’s Memory
* This is my first attempt at story writing.Praying for forgivance in case of mistakes i start this adventure.
Rain had merged in the boundaries of land , paddy fields were a virgin green, crows were announcing arrival of a distant vistor, Chinnan, the gnarled figure clad in saffron walked the narrow village lane drenched in the afternoon rain…
Manayile Thodu (a small brook ) was overflowing with waters of aeon.Chinnan got into the water , packs of small fishes swam in to relish the remnants of incomplete voyages on his feet ..Chinnan laughed at the sight … “I stayed away from the Ganges , smoked grass in that eternal land of pilgrims , I went to Kanyakumari , stayed away from the rock of Salvation ,i watched the sins of night hidden by city lights …never did I see these small fishes,these small watery beings…” .Small paper boats made in colors of dream floated past him..Children living up must have made these small floats.Years back Chinnan had left behind his small boats in search of big ships,noisy ports ,multi colored flags.
Chinnan walked past the Thodu to reach his home.
Plants of Hibiscus turned more bloody in the rains , the old Tulsi swayed in the Eastern wind , a feverish cat sat on Grandfather’s old chair , photographs of Grandfather holding his old gun , uncles in their convocation dress , wedding photos of aunts still hung on the walls , a small wicker lamp was lit at the steps ,doors were wide open..Chinnan crossed the steps to reach the inner room to see Pappachi lying on her bed ,surrounded by big bottles of herbal potions. Chinnan sat next to his elder sister in that room that smelt of herbs , reminded of bigger trees that had been uprooted from within. ..
Chinnan held her hand to take her to those days when she smelt of blooming flowers, when she sang of lands of love , when she dreamed of warriors , when on her skirts she painted white swans .
Pappachi gave up in front of death , she went away floating on colored paper boats .
Chinnan left the home .
He would never see the small fishes again.
Rain had merged in the boundaries of land , paddy fields were a virgin green, crows were announcing arrival of a distant vistor, Chinnan, the gnarled figure clad in saffron walked the narrow village lane drenched in the afternoon rain…
Manayile Thodu (a small brook ) was overflowing with waters of aeon.Chinnan got into the water , packs of small fishes swam in to relish the remnants of incomplete voyages on his feet ..Chinnan laughed at the sight … “I stayed away from the Ganges , smoked grass in that eternal land of pilgrims , I went to Kanyakumari , stayed away from the rock of Salvation ,i watched the sins of night hidden by city lights …never did I see these small fishes,these small watery beings…” .Small paper boats made in colors of dream floated past him..Children living up must have made these small floats.Years back Chinnan had left behind his small boats in search of big ships,noisy ports ,multi colored flags.
Chinnan walked past the Thodu to reach his home.
Plants of Hibiscus turned more bloody in the rains , the old Tulsi swayed in the Eastern wind , a feverish cat sat on Grandfather’s old chair , photographs of Grandfather holding his old gun , uncles in their convocation dress , wedding photos of aunts still hung on the walls , a small wicker lamp was lit at the steps ,doors were wide open..Chinnan crossed the steps to reach the inner room to see Pappachi lying on her bed ,surrounded by big bottles of herbal potions. Chinnan sat next to his elder sister in that room that smelt of herbs , reminded of bigger trees that had been uprooted from within. ..
Chinnan held her hand to take her to those days when she smelt of blooming flowers, when she sang of lands of love , when she dreamed of warriors , when on her skirts she painted white swans .
Pappachi gave up in front of death , she went away floating on colored paper boats .
Chinnan left the home .
He would never see the small fishes again.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Songs Out Of Rhythm
“It seems the devil controls the business of my life”
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
A hospital Bed
An old hospital bed , a man complaining on the sick bed
“ I get dreams of unlit lamps, dried rivers ,lightless mornings, clouded sky,withered
Petals….no one follows me into this temple where bells never clanged,I search for
Hands …but all I can see is walls ,walls laden with images of old feuds,old loves,old laurels,old rains,babies born dead, big wide walls which never talked ,walls imprinted with memories of solitary strolls….these walls scare me….i search for hands to hold….” The man never sobs.He lives his walled existence lost in his own delirium…
Railway Station
Men waiting for trains to come, men rushing out of unfinished journeys to start a new one , men sitting on the rusted benches waiting for trains that would never come, youth with maddening songs in their ears, far from the crowd, beggars with bliss of the day, drunkards with myriad thoughts , pilgrims running away ,undisturbed grey pigeons caught on the old station roofs , pitch black crows hopping to peck remnants of old journeys. The gargantuan train that barge in to disturb the stoic ness of this colorless painting.
An Old post Office
Picture postcards sent by fathers long dead in wars, government sealed letters to join jobs offered in distant lands for people who were already migrants in unknown lands, scented letters sent to old loves , sons long lost in the crowd searching their mothers , advertisement postcards of magic potions offering immortality ,magazines with images of old earthquakes that destroyed 1000 homes , letters proclaiming treasures that were won by long forgotten feuds in courts , letters from schools complaining about a naughty child who was already a mother of two …the undelivered letters forming a garden in that dark paradise of the termites in the old post office..
The Village Reading Room
Old commies reminiscing the days of AKG , the old songs of KPAC, memories of the blood shed in punapra vayalar. They refuse to read the day’s newspapers to live in those memories of yesterday , they pretend not to know of what is happening today in the party to which they gave their heart and soul…they live in that old age home of revolutionary memories .. Long live this revolution against the present.
My Old Mathematics NoteBook
Padmanabhan’s sir’s big red marks against the wrong additions and subtractions that I did as a kid in my old Mathematics Notebook, the untidy handwriting of an uninterested
Kid ,of big digits that would never add up to her imagination , the red face of my dad seeing my notebook … I don have a notebook of glaring red marks these days but I still get all my additions wrong , things never add up the way I want it to…life still is an incomplete mathematics notebook….
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
A hospital Bed
An old hospital bed , a man complaining on the sick bed
“ I get dreams of unlit lamps, dried rivers ,lightless mornings, clouded sky,withered
Petals….no one follows me into this temple where bells never clanged,I search for
Hands …but all I can see is walls ,walls laden with images of old feuds,old loves,old laurels,old rains,babies born dead, big wide walls which never talked ,walls imprinted with memories of solitary strolls….these walls scare me….i search for hands to hold….” The man never sobs.He lives his walled existence lost in his own delirium…
Railway Station
Men waiting for trains to come, men rushing out of unfinished journeys to start a new one , men sitting on the rusted benches waiting for trains that would never come, youth with maddening songs in their ears, far from the crowd, beggars with bliss of the day, drunkards with myriad thoughts , pilgrims running away ,undisturbed grey pigeons caught on the old station roofs , pitch black crows hopping to peck remnants of old journeys. The gargantuan train that barge in to disturb the stoic ness of this colorless painting.
An Old post Office
Picture postcards sent by fathers long dead in wars, government sealed letters to join jobs offered in distant lands for people who were already migrants in unknown lands, scented letters sent to old loves , sons long lost in the crowd searching their mothers , advertisement postcards of magic potions offering immortality ,magazines with images of old earthquakes that destroyed 1000 homes , letters proclaiming treasures that were won by long forgotten feuds in courts , letters from schools complaining about a naughty child who was already a mother of two …the undelivered letters forming a garden in that dark paradise of the termites in the old post office..
The Village Reading Room
Old commies reminiscing the days of AKG , the old songs of KPAC, memories of the blood shed in punapra vayalar. They refuse to read the day’s newspapers to live in those memories of yesterday , they pretend not to know of what is happening today in the party to which they gave their heart and soul…they live in that old age home of revolutionary memories .. Long live this revolution against the present.
My Old Mathematics NoteBook
Padmanabhan’s sir’s big red marks against the wrong additions and subtractions that I did as a kid in my old Mathematics Notebook, the untidy handwriting of an uninterested
Kid ,of big digits that would never add up to her imagination , the red face of my dad seeing my notebook … I don have a notebook of glaring red marks these days but I still get all my additions wrong , things never add up the way I want it to…life still is an incomplete mathematics notebook….
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Life, thoughts and the Tamarind tree
*am not this environmenl junkie.The inspiration behind this write up is something else.
This grandpa tamarind tree has been there as part of my family’s life for generations. It occupied a territory of its own at the corner of the plot on which my maternal home stands.
These are certain thoughts that I wanna jot down about this great tree.
####Scene 1 , 20 odd yrs back (My mother’s memory)
My great grandma ws reduced to this puff bag out of old age,she could hear less,see less,walk less….she stooped, ..She ws living this age when anyone old was sidelined by their family and the 90yrs of her life on earth was considered of no use and her ramblings were nothing more than senility for others…
She would walk under this tamarind and pick up all the fruits.
She would make me sit on her lap(then a mere baby of 3 yrs) and put the sour taste of the ripe tamarind on my young tongue..She would have her chunk of the tamarind ..I would cry for more but the grand old lady would deny it to the part of her that would continue to live even after she dies…
When I was having my first feeling of the sour , I never knew that this grand old lady ws having her last ….all the years that she had lived were coming to an end and she ws relishing the last feeling of sour…
“on my tiny tongue were kept the tamarind…
She sat blind next to me…
The birds would chirp..
The tamarinds would fall..
But my old lady continued with the countless beads of her rosary..
The years tat she lived were the beads…
And the prayer she sang was her life….”
###Scene 2 ,
Another sunny day,My great grandma had stopped counting the rosary,she had stopped her attempts to hear,she had stopped walking under the tamarind…she was dead..
She ws given to the fire under the tamarind…she would get released from the fire and start residing on the tamarind with my great granpa…her rosary ws taken over by my grandma ….leaving all the tamarinds for me,my lady had gone to reside on the tree of the sour…
### Scene 3 ,
My friends had come visiting from school and could not resist the ripe tamarinds.All of us thronged under the tree…competed with each other to pick the fruits and spent our day under the tamarind…
###Scene 4 ,
We shifted from our old maternal home to a new concrete house.My old maternal home ws abandoned for vermin to thrive on ,spiders to web and years to destroy…
The grandpa tamarind ws left alone with the dead souls for company…none of the living members of the family had time to visit him…my granpa leased the yield of the season to the tamarind seller ..the routine it had followed for years din happen that season…it din fruit
My granpa visited the tree disgruntled by the disappointment he had given the tamarind seller...he stood under the tree…the sole fruit that the mighty tree bore that year fell ryt in front of my granpa…The tree spoke to its son…a silent tear popped out of my granpa’s eyes and he walked back home…
###Scene 5
The neighbours put a fire to burn the rag…the mighty wind took the fire to the tamarind..
The fire caught on to the tree…The granpa ws burnt out completely…
The fire ate up the big tree…
###Scene 6
Months later …I took my time off,visited my maternal home …walked where the granpa tamarind once stood..
Rain had washed away the ash,soil was smelling fresh ,earth ws showing the first green,earthworms were writhing in the fertility…
Tats when I noticed this small light green leaf making its way out of a green tamarind seed slightly above ground..
Yesterday’s raindrops were fresh on the tiny leaf…
It ws smiling at today’s rays…
It ws green with hope…
I din dare touch that lil sprout …
Years down the lane I would sit under its shade …
Still remembering my granpa tamarind…
The new replaces the old…
The worn out is replaced by the fresh..
This is how the world goes..
But memories doesn’t go the world’s way..
***I still dunno why I got overwhelmed by a tamarind tree…
N I churned out this philosophical shit outta it…
Am sorry readers(if there is any) for this two page length boredom …
But I really meant whatever I wrote…it does make sense to me…
This grandpa tamarind tree has been there as part of my family’s life for generations. It occupied a territory of its own at the corner of the plot on which my maternal home stands.
These are certain thoughts that I wanna jot down about this great tree.
####Scene 1 , 20 odd yrs back (My mother’s memory)
My great grandma ws reduced to this puff bag out of old age,she could hear less,see less,walk less….she stooped, ..She ws living this age when anyone old was sidelined by their family and the 90yrs of her life on earth was considered of no use and her ramblings were nothing more than senility for others…
She would walk under this tamarind and pick up all the fruits.
She would make me sit on her lap(then a mere baby of 3 yrs) and put the sour taste of the ripe tamarind on my young tongue..She would have her chunk of the tamarind ..I would cry for more but the grand old lady would deny it to the part of her that would continue to live even after she dies…
When I was having my first feeling of the sour , I never knew that this grand old lady ws having her last ….all the years that she had lived were coming to an end and she ws relishing the last feeling of sour…
“on my tiny tongue were kept the tamarind…
She sat blind next to me…
The birds would chirp..
The tamarinds would fall..
But my old lady continued with the countless beads of her rosary..
The years tat she lived were the beads…
And the prayer she sang was her life….”
###Scene 2 ,
Another sunny day,My great grandma had stopped counting the rosary,she had stopped her attempts to hear,she had stopped walking under the tamarind…she was dead..
She ws given to the fire under the tamarind…she would get released from the fire and start residing on the tamarind with my great granpa…her rosary ws taken over by my grandma ….leaving all the tamarinds for me,my lady had gone to reside on the tree of the sour…
### Scene 3 ,
My friends had come visiting from school and could not resist the ripe tamarinds.All of us thronged under the tree…competed with each other to pick the fruits and spent our day under the tamarind…
###Scene 4 ,
We shifted from our old maternal home to a new concrete house.My old maternal home ws abandoned for vermin to thrive on ,spiders to web and years to destroy…
The grandpa tamarind ws left alone with the dead souls for company…none of the living members of the family had time to visit him…my granpa leased the yield of the season to the tamarind seller ..the routine it had followed for years din happen that season…it din fruit
My granpa visited the tree disgruntled by the disappointment he had given the tamarind seller...he stood under the tree…the sole fruit that the mighty tree bore that year fell ryt in front of my granpa…The tree spoke to its son…a silent tear popped out of my granpa’s eyes and he walked back home…
###Scene 5
The neighbours put a fire to burn the rag…the mighty wind took the fire to the tamarind..
The fire caught on to the tree…The granpa ws burnt out completely…
The fire ate up the big tree…
###Scene 6
Months later …I took my time off,visited my maternal home …walked where the granpa tamarind once stood..
Rain had washed away the ash,soil was smelling fresh ,earth ws showing the first green,earthworms were writhing in the fertility…
Tats when I noticed this small light green leaf making its way out of a green tamarind seed slightly above ground..
Yesterday’s raindrops were fresh on the tiny leaf…
It ws smiling at today’s rays…
It ws green with hope…
I din dare touch that lil sprout …
Years down the lane I would sit under its shade …
Still remembering my granpa tamarind…
The new replaces the old…
The worn out is replaced by the fresh..
This is how the world goes..
But memories doesn’t go the world’s way..
***I still dunno why I got overwhelmed by a tamarind tree…
N I churned out this philosophical shit outta it…
Am sorry readers(if there is any) for this two page length boredom …
But I really meant whatever I wrote…it does make sense to me…
Friday, March 13, 2009
Block....................
I don wanna be this disappointing writer.
But am not able to complete this travelogue…
Am sure I tried my best,..
The memories are still alive..but not able to write..
I dunno why tis is happening…
May be time,may be certain other thoughts overwhelming me…
May be my fears….i dunno…
Not able to figure out waat this block is all about…
Am closing the memories of one of the best trips I made in life..
Let it be inside this suitcase of my fears ,my memories,my insecurities,
My adventures, my small sorrows,my thoughts….
But am not able to complete this travelogue…
Am sure I tried my best,..
The memories are still alive..but not able to write..
I dunno why tis is happening…
May be time,may be certain other thoughts overwhelming me…
May be my fears….i dunno…
Not able to figure out waat this block is all about…
Am closing the memories of one of the best trips I made in life..
Let it be inside this suitcase of my fears ,my memories,my insecurities,
My adventures, my small sorrows,my thoughts….
Sunday, February 8, 2009
“Palette of dreams”
“To feel the rain against their faces…
To raise against the winds….
To scream against the roar…
To breathe the unknown…..
To live the dream……………”
It was yet another weekend for four software engineers in recession times ..with less work and more dreams.They decide to travel whatever be the cost….no solid plans,no resources ,no travel routes …with jus the strength and grit that only wild dreams can give..they decide to ride on aimless.
Dreamers – the characters in this travel drama
Dreamer 1 #
Current Assets – a Royal Enfield Bullet
a Rayban glass
an SLR camera
and a long list of bulleted dreams… ;)…
Tagline – Happy and High !!!!!!!!
He claims he has his moments but never witnessed one of those except when he says he is playing a mind game and accepts one of those sprees of silence.
Dreamer 2 #
Current Assets – A zero balance bank account
A Gal fren in some South Indian town
Cigars that burn out by EOD(end of the day)
Tagline – when am boozed am the philosopher in the town
Goes violent when reminded of what he did when boozed.Has hunger pangs when he knows food is nowhere available in 70km radius and thrives on highly polished bullshit and an expert in matters of the heart ;).
Dreamer 3 #
Current assets – An extremely puffy and big posterior cushion ;)
God given level of sensibility often mistaken as sense of humour or senselessness by lesser mortals
extraordinary cooking skills
Tagline – Bullshit to the extent that even u urself start realizing that u r bullshitting.
She does crazy stuff and is armed with stunning level of curiosity.Beware !!!!!...if u giv her the space(even if u dont) she might even end up asking why ur grandpa ended up with ur granma
Dreamer 4 #
Current Assets – 100 pounds of weight
Self assumed intellectualism and intelligence
Lessons from an old break up ;)
Tagline – unfortunately or fortunately I don care(tis is a lie ;))
to be frank …yet another normal gal who goes gaga over Hrithik Roshan’s new style but prefers to replace him with Marquez and Salvador Dali to radiate higher intelligence…;)
Tireless Companions—the mighty chariots
Royal Enfield Bullet –
I dunno the organic details of this bike because being a typical gal I never enquired bout the cc,mileage or anything…I was never bothered.This bullet is dream come true for dreamer #1 and an extremely sexy (;)) piece of mechanical architecture and it cruised along tirelessly on sloppy roads.A bike that allowed us to stretch our hands and feel the joy of zero gravity.Hail the manly machine….
Hero Honda Splendor -
Even here ,I am too deficient about the details of the bike but even the bike has reached a stage where its details doesn matter due to overriding.With the mighty Enfield around this bike played the extremely commited role of a co-star in those tear –jerker bollywood spins never trying to steal the show.But with the experience of an old player on roads this mighty Samaritan flew on…
Well these are the players in this drama.More details to come soon….:)
*Confessions of the author
i planned to write a travellogue and wrap up all the details in one post.
But in an overture and also cos of inexperience i hav jus started the drama.
hopin to improve in coming posts.Sorry for indulgin in too much.Well am jus a novice ...!!!!
To raise against the winds….
To scream against the roar…
To breathe the unknown…..
To live the dream……………”
It was yet another weekend for four software engineers in recession times ..with less work and more dreams.They decide to travel whatever be the cost….no solid plans,no resources ,no travel routes …with jus the strength and grit that only wild dreams can give..they decide to ride on aimless.
Dreamers – the characters in this travel drama
Dreamer 1 #
Current Assets – a Royal Enfield Bullet
a Rayban glass
an SLR camera
and a long list of bulleted dreams… ;)…
Tagline – Happy and High !!!!!!!!
He claims he has his moments but never witnessed one of those except when he says he is playing a mind game and accepts one of those sprees of silence.
Dreamer 2 #
Current Assets – A zero balance bank account
A Gal fren in some South Indian town
Cigars that burn out by EOD(end of the day)
Tagline – when am boozed am the philosopher in the town
Goes violent when reminded of what he did when boozed.Has hunger pangs when he knows food is nowhere available in 70km radius and thrives on highly polished bullshit and an expert in matters of the heart ;).
Dreamer 3 #
Current assets – An extremely puffy and big posterior cushion ;)
God given level of sensibility often mistaken as sense of humour or senselessness by lesser mortals
extraordinary cooking skills
Tagline – Bullshit to the extent that even u urself start realizing that u r bullshitting.
She does crazy stuff and is armed with stunning level of curiosity.Beware !!!!!...if u giv her the space(even if u dont) she might even end up asking why ur grandpa ended up with ur granma
Dreamer 4 #
Current Assets – 100 pounds of weight
Self assumed intellectualism and intelligence
Lessons from an old break up ;)
Tagline – unfortunately or fortunately I don care(tis is a lie ;))
to be frank …yet another normal gal who goes gaga over Hrithik Roshan’s new style but prefers to replace him with Marquez and Salvador Dali to radiate higher intelligence…;)
Tireless Companions—the mighty chariots
Royal Enfield Bullet –
I dunno the organic details of this bike because being a typical gal I never enquired bout the cc,mileage or anything…I was never bothered.This bullet is dream come true for dreamer #1 and an extremely sexy (;)) piece of mechanical architecture and it cruised along tirelessly on sloppy roads.A bike that allowed us to stretch our hands and feel the joy of zero gravity.Hail the manly machine….
Hero Honda Splendor -
Even here ,I am too deficient about the details of the bike but even the bike has reached a stage where its details doesn matter due to overriding.With the mighty Enfield around this bike played the extremely commited role of a co-star in those tear –jerker bollywood spins never trying to steal the show.But with the experience of an old player on roads this mighty Samaritan flew on…
Well these are the players in this drama.More details to come soon….:)
*Confessions of the author
i planned to write a travellogue and wrap up all the details in one post.
But in an overture and also cos of inexperience i hav jus started the drama.
hopin to improve in coming posts.Sorry for indulgin in too much.Well am jus a novice ...!!!!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
the sprinkle that i call the dream...
the 1 yr break is broken...
am back...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"rubbing my eyes...i walk into my balcony..
a few of them still remain..
the dew drops...
clinging on to the glass pane
i finger out my name on it
n i watch it dripping down...
the name getting erased..
the name disappearing in the watery labyrinth..
the prints merging in...
n i watch it...
with my poignant eyes..."
am back...!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
"rubbing my eyes...i walk into my balcony..
a few of them still remain..
the dew drops...
clinging on to the glass pane
i finger out my name on it
n i watch it dripping down...
the name getting erased..
the name disappearing in the watery labyrinth..
the prints merging in...
n i watch it...
with my poignant eyes..."
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