THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

[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...