"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..."
Saturday, March 1, 2008
hey dear one....my blog!!!!!!!!!!!!
hey blog...
u have been of great help when i was too low in ma life..
u wer one sincere companion who stayed along durin tat trough..
n am sure u wud stay along in my ride...
now when am on top of the world n am feelin so
happy for myself....i know u too are rejoicin wimme...
but fren....
this hour i say adieu....not permanently...
am goin on a voyage...a journey to live ma dreams...
its jus for one year...
i stay apart from you ma fren...
if i succeed in ma voyage i ll be back to u
with hundreds of reasons for me n u to be happy...
n at the start of this journey i believe success is sure..
i rejoice there was a past
but i leave it behind for there has to be a better future jus for me...
i long for you ma life...
so it is a break for one year dear blog...
i willl return as a more powerful n vigorous blogger pal.....
goodbye...n remember its bye for the better..........
see ya!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
divya.ramesh
u have been of great help when i was too low in ma life..
u wer one sincere companion who stayed along durin tat trough..
n am sure u wud stay along in my ride...
now when am on top of the world n am feelin so
happy for myself....i know u too are rejoicin wimme...
but fren....
this hour i say adieu....not permanently...
am goin on a voyage...a journey to live ma dreams...
its jus for one year...
i stay apart from you ma fren...
if i succeed in ma voyage i ll be back to u
with hundreds of reasons for me n u to be happy...
n at the start of this journey i believe success is sure..
i rejoice there was a past
but i leave it behind for there has to be a better future jus for me...
i long for you ma life...
so it is a break for one year dear blog...
i willl return as a more powerful n vigorous blogger pal.....
goodbye...n remember its bye for the better..........
see ya!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
divya.ramesh
Friday, February 8, 2008
At The Brink...................
i hate shadows...
especially those that follow me through...
i remember the times when i loved all the butterflies tat
tasted the colours of me.....
i long tat they come back...
but like a strong rain they created all the deluge...
and never came back..
they remain as dark clouds in the sky...
and never pour down...
i stare into them.....
for when wil they come back into this
dry alley that i call life....
i wonder........................
especially those that follow me through...
i remember the times when i loved all the butterflies tat
tasted the colours of me.....
i long tat they come back...
but like a strong rain they created all the deluge...
and never came back..
they remain as dark clouds in the sky...
and never pour down...
i stare into them.....
for when wil they come back into this
dry alley that i call life....
i wonder........................
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
lately revolutionary...
i hv alwys thot am typical...
i am kinda passion driven...
i loved everythin tat i read...
i tried livin wat i read...
there ws sartre whom i liked ...
n i dunno ryt now am findin it all wrong
my perceptions wer really wrong...
it aint the same
i am kinda passion driven...
i loved everythin tat i read...
i tried livin wat i read...
there ws sartre whom i liked ...
n i dunno ryt now am findin it all wrong
my perceptions wer really wrong...
it aint the same
Monday, November 26, 2007
Baghdad.....a 100 dreams
Recently heard a poem somewhere...
"ithu Baghdado....
Amma parayum Arabhi kathayile Baghdado..."
(is this Baghdad????????is this the same Baghdad of Arabian Nights of which mom spoke)
Baghdad is completely ravished...Baghdad is destroyed and the innocent child is wonderstruck for baghdad in his dream was a wonderland...now it was completely destroyed..
Baghdad wud be remembered as history's worst ever sin...
the place where a hundred dreams where shattered...
"ithu Baghdado....
Amma parayum Arabhi kathayile Baghdado..."
(is this Baghdad????????is this the same Baghdad of Arabian Nights of which mom spoke)
Baghdad is completely ravished...Baghdad is destroyed and the innocent child is wonderstruck for baghdad in his dream was a wonderland...now it was completely destroyed..
Baghdad wud be remembered as history's worst ever sin...
the place where a hundred dreams where shattered...
"mushy...."
i hav alwys thot love stories are not worth writing...
i hav alwys thot they are pretty mushy...but ryt now a love story is winding its way outta me...
shud i write it or not?????????/
dunno....will it be mushy???????????
i hav alwys thot they are pretty mushy...but ryt now a love story is winding its way outta me...
shud i write it or not?????????/
dunno....will it be mushy???????????
Sunday, November 25, 2007
of death...
i imagine myself on ma deathbed,
lost in some beautiful dream,
when death woke me up,
i wished i cud sleep a lil more ,
to dream more,
to colour the landscapes that i saw,
to make the rains more fervent,
to strall the sands once more,
but death wouldn wait.
i wud ask it to wait till my garden was bloom,
i cud see the angelic butterflies wing through the plants i watered,
i cud see them pollinating my flowers,
i cud see love usher in my garden,
i cud see those leaves fallin,
but it wudn wait.
i wud ask it to wait till i cud revisit my past;
i wud remember the days when dad wud bring me chocolates;
when mom wud dress me up;
the man with whom i fell in love;
kisses of passion exchanged;
the son that i bore;
death wud drag me down the memory alley before i cud relish them;
on my flight back to deadman's land,
i wud bid adieu to all that was mine;
i wud ask my son to water my garden;
i wud ask my garden to flower a hundred;
i wud wish it rains for my son forever;
i wud be dead before i complete my prayer;
frozen and still;vacant and vapid;
i wud be dead and nothing more
lost in some beautiful dream,
when death woke me up,
i wished i cud sleep a lil more ,
to dream more,
to colour the landscapes that i saw,
to make the rains more fervent,
to strall the sands once more,
but death wouldn wait.
i wud ask it to wait till my garden was bloom,
i cud see the angelic butterflies wing through the plants i watered,
i cud see them pollinating my flowers,
i cud see love usher in my garden,
i cud see those leaves fallin,
but it wudn wait.
i wud ask it to wait till i cud revisit my past;
i wud remember the days when dad wud bring me chocolates;
when mom wud dress me up;
the man with whom i fell in love;
kisses of passion exchanged;
the son that i bore;
death wud drag me down the memory alley before i cud relish them;
on my flight back to deadman's land,
i wud bid adieu to all that was mine;
i wud ask my son to water my garden;
i wud ask my garden to flower a hundred;
i wud wish it rains for my son forever;
i wud be dead before i complete my prayer;
frozen and still;vacant and vapid;
i wud be dead and nothing more
Thursday, November 22, 2007
cravings....
i crave for something...
i jus wish accidents wud make it happen...
for this loneliness is suicidal...
for this winter is too cold...
i walk the banks of this river...
i wish patterns wud appear outta the water...
i walk amidst the crowd..
i search for a familiar face...
for it is so near...
but the ego within me never lets me go near it...
for the heat of life drives me away from it..
for nobody knows how badly i crave for it...
wat is life when it doesn give me wat i crave for?????????
i jus wish accidents wud make it happen...
for this loneliness is suicidal...
for this winter is too cold...
i walk the banks of this river...
i wish patterns wud appear outta the water...
i walk amidst the crowd..
i search for a familiar face...
for it is so near...
but the ego within me never lets me go near it...
for the heat of life drives me away from it..
for nobody knows how badly i crave for it...
wat is life when it doesn give me wat i crave for?????????
Faiz...
I have always wondered why Faiz is my favourite poet…I have read only a few poems by the poet…apart from a worn out book in my granpa’s collection and a few that I hav read on net there is nothing that I hav read of Faiz…but Faiz still is a pleasure to be read any time…I could while away hours and hours thinking of Faiz poetry…
A beautiful rain is a treat when read with Faiz,a low breeze utters hundred secrets when read along with Faiz,his lines giv you company on a lonely afternoon,gardens rustle a melancholous tune when alongside Faiz…may be am over romanticized by Faiz ..but ther is a certain difference about his poetry…
I came across Faiz during my college days,when I had become extremely wary bout the course that I had taken up and the lecture hours were becoming very boring…I used to read and re read Faiz…I would say Faiz gave me company in my lonely days…
Faiz brilliantly celebrates pain whether it be of love ,war ,separation …
He would never heal your wounds but would poke it again and keep it alive…oblivion would never be allowed to sweep over the festering memories…you spiral up along a memoryline where there has been love ,loss,separation,pain…and you have Faiz for company…his words would intoxicate you…
He would prove by each and every word that pain is inevitable…life is life only when there is pain..
For a college going youngster like me Faiz was more than company ,he kept me sane at times ,
His “prison evening” is one poem which I keep close to my heart..
Each star a rung,
night comes down the spiral
staircase of the evening.
The breeze passes by so very close
as if someone just happened to speak of love.
In the courtyard,
the trees are absorbed refugees
embroidering maps of return on the sky.
On the roof,
the moon – lovingly, generously –
is turning the stars
into a dust of sheen.
From every corner, dark-green shadows,
in ripples, come towards me.
At any moment they may break over me,
like the waves of pain each time I remember
this separation from my lover.
This thought keeps consoling me:
though tyrants may command that lamps be smashed
in rooms where lovers are destined to meet,
they cannot snuff out the moon, so today,
nor tomorrow, no tyranny will succeed,
no poison of torture make me bitter,
if just one evening in prison
can be so strangely sweet,
if just one moment anywhere on this earth.
Another Faiz favourite is “don’t ask me for that love again”
I dunno why am writing this now but at certain junctures in your life you start feeling that its poetry that keeps you going…you derive hopes from poems….i dunno why its so..
A beautiful rain is a treat when read with Faiz,a low breeze utters hundred secrets when read along with Faiz,his lines giv you company on a lonely afternoon,gardens rustle a melancholous tune when alongside Faiz…may be am over romanticized by Faiz ..but ther is a certain difference about his poetry…
I came across Faiz during my college days,when I had become extremely wary bout the course that I had taken up and the lecture hours were becoming very boring…I used to read and re read Faiz…I would say Faiz gave me company in my lonely days…
Faiz brilliantly celebrates pain whether it be of love ,war ,separation …
He would never heal your wounds but would poke it again and keep it alive…oblivion would never be allowed to sweep over the festering memories…you spiral up along a memoryline where there has been love ,loss,separation,pain…and you have Faiz for company…his words would intoxicate you…
He would prove by each and every word that pain is inevitable…life is life only when there is pain..
For a college going youngster like me Faiz was more than company ,he kept me sane at times ,
His “prison evening” is one poem which I keep close to my heart..
Each star a rung,
night comes down the spiral
staircase of the evening.
The breeze passes by so very close
as if someone just happened to speak of love.
In the courtyard,
the trees are absorbed refugees
embroidering maps of return on the sky.
On the roof,
the moon – lovingly, generously –
is turning the stars
into a dust of sheen.
From every corner, dark-green shadows,
in ripples, come towards me.
At any moment they may break over me,
like the waves of pain each time I remember
this separation from my lover.
This thought keeps consoling me:
though tyrants may command that lamps be smashed
in rooms where lovers are destined to meet,
they cannot snuff out the moon, so today,
nor tomorrow, no tyranny will succeed,
no poison of torture make me bitter,
if just one evening in prison
can be so strangely sweet,
if just one moment anywhere on this earth.
Another Faiz favourite is “don’t ask me for that love again”
I dunno why am writing this now but at certain junctures in your life you start feeling that its poetry that keeps you going…you derive hopes from poems….i dunno why its so..
Sunday, November 11, 2007
at varanasi....i din meet her....
Varanasi.....
the mighty Ganges alongside the mightier river of life...
pyres of mighty men burning....
half lifed humans dipping silently in the Ganges...
barracks of Naga saints,
the silent thread of spirituality entwining with the crude manoevres of man,
.....
i walked along ...dry alleys...crowded markets...
bangle sellers...flower vendors...sadhoos...beggars...
but i knew i was searching something...
searching her....
searching within myself for her...
the gal who had the zest for life...
the gal wh
o dreamed of star studded night...
the gal who loved the rain...
the gal who had love in her heart...
probably she hoped a dip in the Ganges would redeem her,
in fact that was the aim behind Varanasi...
but nay...
she smoked two cigarettes and the smoke burnt her frustration...
she couldn find her....
years of non-accepatance n ego ....
has made her irredeemable...
P.S:i dunno what i mean by this write up.sometimes i find myself completely lost.
i dunno why.i would picture myself wandering in different places for that sense of completeness.i dunno what i am searchin but i hav it in me...prbably am mad...
but ther is certain charm about this madness too...i don smoke too...for me a cigarette is the height of frustration(jus a personal view) and so used as a mere symbol
the mighty Ganges alongside the mightier river of life...
pyres of mighty men burning....
half lifed humans dipping silently in the Ganges...
barracks of Naga saints,
the silent thread of spirituality entwining with the crude manoevres of man,
.....
i walked along ...dry alleys...crowded markets...
bangle sellers...flower vendors...sadhoos...beggars...
but i knew i was searching something...
searching her....
searching within myself for her...
the gal who had the zest for life...
the gal wh
o dreamed of star studded night...the gal who loved the rain...
the gal who had love in her heart...
probably she hoped a dip in the Ganges would redeem her,
in fact that was the aim behind Varanasi...
but nay...
she smoked two cigarettes and the smoke burnt her frustration...
she couldn find her....
years of non-accepatance n ego ....
has made her irredeemable...
P.S:i dunno what i mean by this write up.sometimes i find myself completely lost.
i dunno why.i would picture myself wandering in different places for that sense of completeness.i dunno what i am searchin but i hav it in me...prbably am mad...
but ther is certain charm about this madness too...i don smoke too...for me a cigarette is the height of frustration(jus a personal view) and so used as a mere symbol
singer in the train
Aye,the singer in the train ;
The man with the strained throat;
Singing a melancholous note;
Carving a rhythm from the harmonium;
Holding an aluminum bowl for my coins;
Which may or may not come;
But you seldom stop;
You go on singing with the strained throat;
You the singer of the soul;
I would never see you after this journey;
But I would remember you for you gave me the song;
Aye the singer in the train;
One day you would die spewing blood on the tracks;
The train would run over the harmonium;
And you will be gone forever;
They would take you to the morgue;
And when you start decaying they would bury you among many like you;
One day even I would die;
On my soft silky mattress;
With my people crying around me;
They would burn me in ghee;
N post my pic at the corner of the dead in the drawing room;
N oblivion would make me a stranger among them;
I too will be gone forver;
In the deadman’s world;
We would meet again my singer;
N you would still have your song that would soothe the soul;
But I would not have the money of mercy to put in your bowl;
Death would have dispossessed me of my wealth;
But it cant take away the song from you;
For your song is your own;
While I was just a tenant of my wealth;
We would be equals in the deadman’s world;
N your song will be mine too;
The song of the soul….
The man with the strained throat;
Singing a melancholous note;
Carving a rhythm from the harmonium;
Holding an aluminum bowl for my coins;
Which may or may not come;
But you seldom stop;
You go on singing with the strained throat;
You the singer of the soul;
I would never see you after this journey;
But I would remember you for you gave me the song;
Aye the singer in the train;
One day you would die spewing blood on the tracks;
The train would run over the harmonium;
And you will be gone forever;
They would take you to the morgue;
And when you start decaying they would bury you among many like you;
One day even I would die;
On my soft silky mattress;
With my people crying around me;
They would burn me in ghee;
N post my pic at the corner of the dead in the drawing room;
N oblivion would make me a stranger among them;
I too will be gone forver;
In the deadman’s world;
We would meet again my singer;
N you would still have your song that would soothe the soul;
But I would not have the money of mercy to put in your bowl;
Death would have dispossessed me of my wealth;
But it cant take away the song from you;
For your song is your own;
While I was just a tenant of my wealth;
We would be equals in the deadman’s world;
N your song will be mine too;
The song of the soul….
Saturday, November 10, 2007
on a low..
feeling a low today,
a pressure butchering me,
a feeling grippin me,
am on a low,
am .............
a pressure butchering me,
a feeling grippin me,
am on a low,
am .............
"for her ...who is a widow..."
i dont have flowers to place at your altar my friend,
i dont have songs to sing for you my friend,
i dont have a shoulder to offer you,
i dont have tears to cry with you,
my hand is too sinned to hold you pure my dear,
i dont know how to excorcise the ghosts of your youth,
i dont know how to hide you from the world my dear,
probably i would only watch you with my pretended tears,
i will remember you my friend,
as the lil gal who hid behind her mom fearing the thunder,
as the lil lady who would cry fearing the witch,
how did you live widowhood my dear?????
how did you my dear lil lady take the thrash of death,
from wher did you get all this strength my friend????
did he in his last hug tell you he would not be around 4ever??
did he kiss you saying it was his last???
did he promise he would rejoin you at heaven???
i have only questions to ask,
i dont have any answers to your tears,
i dont have life to give you my dear,
i dont have flowers to offer at your altar,
i give you this clothe of white,
i watch them forbidding you from your youth,
probably i would only watch,
i pretend to pray for you my dear ,
i would pretend for a life time my friend
i dont have songs to sing for you my friend,
i dont have a shoulder to offer you,
i dont have tears to cry with you,
my hand is too sinned to hold you pure my dear,
i dont know how to excorcise the ghosts of your youth,
i dont know how to hide you from the world my dear,
probably i would only watch you with my pretended tears,
i will remember you my friend,
as the lil gal who hid behind her mom fearing the thunder,
as the lil lady who would cry fearing the witch,
how did you live widowhood my dear?????
how did you my dear lil lady take the thrash of death,
from wher did you get all this strength my friend????
did he in his last hug tell you he would not be around 4ever??
did he kiss you saying it was his last???
did he promise he would rejoin you at heaven???
i have only questions to ask,
i dont have any answers to your tears,
i dont have life to give you my dear,
i dont have flowers to offer at your altar,
i give you this clothe of white,
i watch them forbidding you from your youth,
probably i would only watch,
i pretend to pray for you my dear ,
i would pretend for a life time my friend
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
