THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

The question in love is 'Yes' or 'No'. They can be answers too, but it is when they are asked, they become more significant. For they carry with them, all the vulnerability, security, instability, surety, hopelessness, hope, anxiety, and peace involved in love. Everyone believes they fall in love or raise in love--as some like to believe-- and some live with whom they love, some die, some simply forget, never identifying what actually they felt towards the person they met. It might be an attraction for their physical appearance, liking towards their character, or feeling of comfort when they spend time with each other. Love never happens when they believe it to be. The majority will not realise when it happens. Those who realise this, may differ in their sensation of the feeling of love from the others. There are some who take it as a feeling of hatred. This is the reason that in love, some people, fight. They feel as if fighting would bring their partner closer and th...

[This story is also published in Authspot ] [ a story from India, ded icated to all the teachers and students in the world... ] It was my friend who told me about Raghavan master that, he is one of the greatest teachers he has ever met, and that he would be a good choice for me too. “Why should I go searching for a teacher? I simply get them in my school.”–I said. “If you want to be guided, you should search for your guide. It is your duty and necessity, you will understand it, my friend.”–He said, with peace in his words. “But how can we realise that someone is the best teacher or guide? How can we find them?”–I was curious this time. He narrated me his own experience, how he had found his teacher. “It was I who searched for my teacher, but it was my teacher, as I now realise benefited by me.” Seeing me rather interested in his deep philosophy, he smiled and continued. (And I like him for that, he gets me quickly). He continued: “When I met Raghavan master, he asked me, what ...

How many of us wait for someone? I am not talking about waiting for love to happen, but waiting for the beloved who has departed from you due to some reasons, except death. I have published a small piece carrying my views on this topic. You can read that on this link: Socyberty . I request you to write your opinions as well in the comment box below.

Individual , the conglomerate entity, has differences rather than similarities with each other. But every individual is confined to the helplessness of generalized perception. In other words, it is a human deficiency that human beings can't afford unwanted energy expenditure as part of their increasing utility demands that leads them to generalize things to a certain extent on the basis of some perc eivable common threads running through them. These threads can be observed as the major factors identified similar in the things around. This 'weakness' of identifying similarities can be a boon to the human civilization. Read the full article on SOCYBRETY .

on one personal pain... ------------------------------------ The catastrophe of the night, ravished me with a meteorite, of the heavenly space. I welled up, as an emotion, unexampled, inexplicable, I felt highly vulnerable. The dark barbarian has his hands, and legs and his whole body, rested upon my flesh, crushing it down the earth. I cried, I spewed out my stomach, my eyes came out of the skull, my skin ripped off and my mind, left alone, like an emotion inexplicable. I cried. Tears turned to blood. And I knew the morning was coming. [You can read this poem in Authspot also.]

[The poem was formerly published with Authspot ] Just let the day pass, and let the moon rest, in the night's lap. To give you hopes, of thousands of stars. The day will take away with it, the rain and flaming sun. Your bread might be wet, from the lack of roof. Your hearth might be damp, and there might only be smoke. Your children might scream in- the sermon of hunger; in its metamorphosis: void in front of the eye holes. And your wife's breasts might stick to bone, as if your husband's time has gone. Then you are about to have - a gleam of truth; It lacks that last bit of potion, to save some lives: love; the invaluable currency. The world has gone crazy in growth! Let the day pass.

You don't know me, more than a stranger does. Even strangers know that, they don't know me. But you have declared, in an instance that, you know me, like I am nothing. As if I am nothing more than a wall notice you had read. As if with a meter scale you can, assess me like the stumps you had seen. As if with a plain gaze you can see across, like the rivers you had met. As if with a stone you can throw me down, like the fruits you had tasted. You don't know me, more than a stranger does. Even the strangers know what epics are, what trees, the ocean, or the stars are. And you know me? Did you know that I do not exist? Or that I lied? ---------------------------------- [This poem is previously published here ]

A POEM. The thing I drew was a female. The thing was as if in a mirror, someone standing in between- me and my art: a female thing. The thing was only a thing, as it had no hands to clasp, and no legs to part; a torso: on which I can work- my inmost sensuous spark. I made her nothing short of- an exhibition piece. The pride I had was that of a 'creator'; conceiving, constructing, controlling. But the pride died quickly, and the corpse turned into lust. The only thing I found in her as lack, was the place for me to enter. ----------------------------------------------------- [This poem is previously published in BOOKSIE ]

[Story continues... ] I recollected it somewhere from my memory: "the life is not worth living, when your thoughts are slaves". 'True. They can never see what the masters of their thoughts had done to their land. They all have participation in politics in the for m of student's unions, in their colleges; every student in Kerala with the "fortune" of pursuing his/her career in a government college or school has this fate. How can they see the indolence with which these politicians are running the country since they are all under the spell of these master minds'. I sat straight, for my back had started aching, in the undulating bus. My thoughts, Which were disturbing and embarrassing, faded. Pain is a good medicine for everyone, I thought. It was then I noticed something approaching. A vehicle, a truck, from across. It crossed the bus and a huge cloud of dust, it had brought with it covered over my bus. The bus, the passengers, and the girls, everything ...

What I write mostly is what I had seen or what I wanted to see in place or along with what I had seen. This is a pattern I identified with my writings. I think almost all the writers in the world are addicted to this pattern. Well, who can blind their eyes in a world like India, where everywhere, in every turn of your path, you are sure to confront one or other kind of wonder in front of your eyes, in human beings, or in culture, or in tradition, or in any of the characteristics of the civilization. And which writer can stop herself being taken into writing. India is a wonder. It is a truth, but at the same time it is a sarcasm, as well. The story I am going to tell you proves it. It is about one of my daily journeys home from the university. I can, each day in these journeys, see stories everywhere. Some sad, some embarrassing, and some heart breaking. In some of those stories, I become a part of , and live in them, but in some others I merely take the role of an observer. The story...

[Formerly published in: WRITINGHOOD .] Some say that stories are not reality. They believe that stories simply divert us from the, ruthless and poignant reality. They are right. Then, why are stories made? Do they have any other uses? Stories, made , will only digress us or lead us away from what we think of where we should be. But a story teller becomes great when that one 'finds out' the stories from his environment, rather than 'makes them up'. The listeners should feel the stories inextricably linked with their five senses and in a later effort should be able to read them from around, clear, living, and pulsating. Never, a cooked up story has life, or even if it has, it will be of poisonous nature.Stories exist. One need the technique to find them and can read. No loss of reality happens in reading them-- for they are found out from the reality in which the reader lives-- but only a transportation. We are transported from one reality to another. Thus, there are rea...

[This article has formerly been published in : Authspot.com ] Are they the similarities in us that make us think of an ideal world of unity? If yes, then what are those similarities? It is an unquestioned truth that every individual is different from the other. Even cultures, which do not acknowledge the individualism in their social set up, hardly reject this concept. The similarities do matter and need consideration. Though wars are waged, even the war sponsors would admit the importance of peace and comfort in their own lives. In fact, it is for these basic human needs or the successful satisfaction of these needs, they wage war upon some other less privileged. (both economically and intellectually under privileged). The division of the world by walls, political, cultural, linguistic, social, etc, is also like wars, waged. In other words, wars are a complimenting mechanism for the establishment and existence of these walls. But isn't there something that doesn't love a ...

The dark dome was stolen, 'but it will be replaced', sighed someone. The pillars, painted with green, stood unprovoked, though a stir, a movement, a turmoil, was seen on the ground. It was altogether a new sight: a scene without the dark dome. It was unimagined, exquisite and brand new. It was a gift. Every gift is special, bright; it can only be marked with a light, with the truest smile, silent. The dark dome was a protection, under the unknown designs- of storms and thunders. It had designs on its highest part; shining buttons. And a hole, which appears and disappears, at times with fourteen days in between, which passes the light in; needed a repair, but none did anything to it. The dome had been stolen. The night by the sun, to make something visible.

Loneliness is a kindness, by someone, more kind than you or me; A palace made of golden time, always risking stealth. From where no one comes out, and once came out never returns. For, in there we'd be in company with our-self, our tears, our smiles, and our tastes. For in there we'd be done with, The nearness of people, with whom our sorrows and joys are weaved; who kill their sense at times, when we need them the most; who would ask us questions, and questions alone; Why, what, where and when. But we cried, we smiled, and we tasted our- self. Someone has shown us an unspeakable kindness, someone more kind than you or me. And thus we are in company; in the company of loneliness.

The Truth cannot be covered forever, it is true with History as well. There is a magic associated with everything, say with time or with history or even with you and me. Every time, when a truth is suppressed, the magic associated with it become activated and plots for its 'rebirth'. It was reported recently that scientists working at the site of the Mayan city of El Mirador discovered a lost pyramid, in the Guatemalan jungle. The city was active from about 500 B.C. to A.D. 100. The report in the CNN News says: "The pyramid is a structure the world should know because it represents an investment of labor unprecedented in the world's history. Every single stone in that building, from the bottom to the top, was carried by human labor," said archaeologist Richard Hansen, director of the Mirador Basin Project. The size of the pyramid is so huge that it is believed that it is compared with the Great pyramid in Giza, Egypt, which is currently the world's large...

There are fallen stars, there are fallen angels. Everywhere the eyes can see, the fallen world, a burning sea. Ramshackle cultures and kingdoms. Being a part of this world's fallen fate, someone gave me a name. "A Cruel Devil". I was alone, but I can hear the voices. There are invisible nearness, which I felt everywhere. I was alone, but I can hear the voices, lovely though, tearing my senses, making me dumb, stiff, and cold. I am no fallen star, I'm no fallen angel, though in such a place I dwell. There was fire outside, burning, but now, what's burning mine inside, my mind, my heart, my brain, my world, fallen. A fallen world: Where I'm alone...

With hot black tea,And a news paper in hand, Sat in his veranda, the dark brown man. Though silver his hairs, On the head and over the bare chest were, He tried pompously to read, Without his glasses put on. He turned the page. His wrinkled eyes met with The news of a nun raped and murdered. He turned the page. His saliva dried, reading the news- Of rising commodity prices! He turned the page. He was not shocked from the news of Hindu bigotry, or Islamic terror, Only a matter of neighbourhood. He looked at his home and smiled. He turned the page. The news of Kerala’s largest river drying up, Reminded him of his half filled well. He turned the page. At once his eyes stuck on a scene! A police constable stabbed to death, By the supporters of some political party! He prayed for his son’s safety; Who was a police constable; And ran to the phone, Dialed his son’s mobile number. Someone said, from the other side: “The number you are calling has been switched off. Please try l...

Every experiment takes place as a human attempt to bring the angels of change to the barren ground of routine, the ordinary, the familiar. This is the story of an experiment. Mr. Paulo Coelho, the Latin American author,(The author of THE ALCHEMIST ), through his film contest named 'THE EXPERIMENTAL WITCH Film Competition', has attempted an experiment with film making, where he himself selected the winners of the contest, identifying the film, which can stand close to his own conception of his novel, THE WITCH OF PORTOBELLO. Image Courtesy:http://www.biography.com   It was held on August 24, 2008. In the competition, a different crew filmed each of the chapters of the novel, THE WITCH OF PORTOBELLO. Out of 6,000 submissions, there were 14 winners, one for each chapter of the novel. In the novel, the character of Athena, the protagonist, evolves through the narratives of different people; either once associated with her or knew her. Now, these fourteen films have...

M y dear Anu, Congrats for such a nice blog! I have to say that I'm a bit proud of you! Your success story should act as a motivation for other bloggers in the offing! I am a sure you will be able to make it the mouthpiece of the emerging youth of India. I've gone through some of the old posts and found the merit of your work. For instance, id mubarak , malabari girl, etc. reveal your gift for writing and imagining. That radical thinking also I like. I WILL BE A REGULAR VISITOR IN FUTURE. WISH YOU ALL THE BEST Prof. Josh Sreedharan Head, Dept. of Studies in English, Kannur University, India. Gratitude: Thank you so much Sir, I have no more words. I am also proud that I am a student of such a great person like you. I am overwhelmed. Thank you so much sir. Your student, Anu October 7, 2009 3:53 AM

Where was my God? I was alone and there was no God near. I couldn't write. There was only a vast void, which seemed impossible to cross. I always believed that when I reach in a state of communion with God, I write. And that was what I lacked; the meeting, the communion, the nearness; the divine sharing. God was the cause of all my writings and is ; though I believe it too that God never causes anything, but allows things to happen. I know. As Richard Bach says in "Illusions", his novel, we are the ones to decide what our life should be. In the process of my writing, God becomes the fulfilling experience of my efforts of communion with that Higher Power, thus the cause. I am talking about the impetus, something that I know as true, but can't explain. Was that a writer's block that I had these recent days, blocking me from writing anything? I don't know. Though I had done thorough studies on methods of identifi cation and solution for the writer's block, ...

D ear Anulal, HEARTY CONGRATS ON THIS MOMENTOUS DAY! I went through your anniversary post. It's a very good read. I didn't know that you were given an award for your blogging efforts. Belated CONGRATULATIONS! I am looking forward to your first attempt at fiction. I urge you to keep writing whatever you feel like. As we discussed in our Freud session, creativity feeds on the pleasure principle! So just ENJOY life doing what you love most! WISH YOU ALL THE VERY BEST! KM. Mr.K.K. Kunhammad, Lecturer, Department of Studies in English Language and Literature, Thalassery Campus, Kannur University. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My Gratitude: ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------- Sir, Thank you so much for your kind words. Your words, and advice are always a path light for me. And as I always say, I have no words to express my gratitude in its fullest...

The choice was made one year back. The choice was between being occult and becoming known. And this is a moment, a day and a month of celebrations. Writing was always in my veins. I can recollect my first written draft. That was a short story. But I couldn't finish it. I was ten years old at that time. I feel that the same kid is rejoicing and living his dreams now, when I am writing my blog. My blog was the choice I had made. Today is the first anniversary of my blog "THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR " . It was on an October, one year back, I started this journey. October 5, 2008. My first attempt to create a blog was a success. But it failed in its contents and readership. I attempted a second time, which was out of my inner call to propagate a spiritual concept to the world. But my inability to continue and the lack of self- confidence that I felt, resulted in another demise. After these two failures, I am still surprised, why did I hope for a victory in blogging, and how d...

It was the 29th day of the month of Eid. I thought the next day, there would be moon. But it didn't come. I was at home, watching every news and every other programme, sick with flu. There was nothing else to do. My eyes were on Eid special programmes on the TV. The other day, I saw Murshid had called me on my mobile, but I didn't hear, for my cell had been in silent mode. Three missed calls. I rang back. It was hard for me to reject him. But I rejected his invitation for the Eid feast the next day at his home. He had told me before that, he would invite me to his home for this Eid. I was really excited. His Mamma's cooking, as he had said, was superb. But there was no other way for me. I was in sick bed. My stomach was churning at times. I could not recognise whether hunger or thirst caused my stomach to move and burn. I felt like vomiting, but didn't vomit. I didn't feel thirst and hunger as I felt usually. At times, I thought I needed food and ate something. ...

Some one said, when you have nothing else to do, you make love. I have doubts on the credibility of this sentence that is, on the way things turn around into, love making. It is not that I have quoted it and so I believe it. I have quoted this sentence just to show how horrible and lonely I felt, during the previous week. Isn't it horrible to be away from your work for the whole week and that too, not having a girlfriend near! My plight will not strike some if they know that I have no girlfriends at all. So how can I have a girlfriend near, if I have none! There are many reasons not to have a girlfriend. The primary reason is the difference in the thinking of the common society and this author. The second reason is the typical Malabar girls, who are a necessary product of this conservative, orthodox, narrow- minded society. The way things run here, is really interesting. Every girl is made to believe that the reason for their existence is solely marriage. They should find their h...

A man with the power over the multitude, who in his every movement can create wonders, whose voice can echo in the four corners of the earth, is nothing short of a super hero. But you can call him Michael Jackson, as well. Being a middle class Indian, for me, Michael Jackson is a musical super hero. I have only seen and heard him through his songs and videos. I think, for so many others around the globe, MJ, would be a similar experience. And for those so many and me, around the world, MJ is still there as a dancing figure, and as the King of Pop . Why should one believe that he is dead, if his presence has still been experienced in the same way and intensity? The world is celebrating his birthday as ever.His publicity hasn't decreased even after his physical death. They say that music has no death. It can also be said that successful musicians also survive forever. M. J was also a successful musician and so is over powering his death. It is not only true with musicians, but als...

"... for a pop legend, listening to himself, other than to hi s multi-millionaire sponsors, is a matter, less short of death. So he decided to die... He wanted to regain something that he had lost...". Read and feel the ground rocking tal e! The Indi an Commentator presents: MICHAEL: THE MIGHTIEST. " A tale untold, yet ." COMING SOON. A fortnightly fiction.

Dear readers, I am attempting a poem on Swine Flu this time. While writing this poem, I had one thing in my mind to share with you: hope. The disease has brought home great many troubles and hopelessness as a necessary repercussion. I wanted to make a change to this thought and to give a little comfort for the suffering lot. My poem ends with an affirmation of hope, which may seem unusual for some readers.I believe if you can conceive something, there are possibilities for that thing to happen in real. Let me remind you one more thing, the most usual things in the world, take place in a way that is mostly unusual! Swine Flu: .......................... While the rain harvests the blossoms from the wild weeds, and the retreat of the sun behind the cloud veil becomes complete, the invisible organisms intrude into the skin and scions of human kind. It is the shadow wall of protection that had got undone. The folks wanted to play gambler, to test their luck to abate th...