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"My Life"

December Story-6


“And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth—but that all is truth without exception; And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am, And sing and laugh and deny nothing.”
--Walt Whitman [Leaves of Grass]

“Life is not always what we expect. So it is not always different too. Because sometimes, even though we expect things to happen differently, nothing changes and everything follows the routine. And therefore, it falls within the limits of the attainable, to make life secured,” the girl said with a well-learned air. The young man looked at her, in her eyes, bluntly. The girl did not stop.“You must not waste your life idle in front of books within the closed doors of a library. Learning happens not in closets but in the vastness of nature. Be open that is what I want to tell you, be open and try to mingle with others. Take things lightly as much as possible. You always jump into things. Never.
“Be patient. Never do what your mind says. Follow you…

The Shepherd

"It is December, it is Christmas. Here is a Christmas gift for all my readers, a Christmas story. Happy reading."--Anu
Once upon a time there lived a shepherd in a small village, where no one cared about shepherds. They were the poorest, the miserable, the illiterate and the hopeless. But Yaakov, the shepherd was different. He had a dream—a dream to meet angels. Like every one of us, he too didn’t know how and where the bud of this dream came to be rooted in his soul. And like every one of us, he too attempted to find out where and how, tried to recollect, this dream took its roots in his soul. Then he decided it might be far in his childhood. But that was just the way he explained it to his friends and fellow villagers. He was not at all sure. Perhaps, he had dreamed of angels when he was in his mother’s womb; a place where his memory failed to reach. Therefore, whatever he said was an imagination, something he attempted to justify himself for having dreamed such a terrible …

December Memories

This is a true story.
I was in Jawaharlal Nehru Public Library, Kannur. It was a Friday evening. Time—almost 5.30. I had made the visit to the library a habit from that very week after I started scribbling down something that made me feel as writing my first novel. Writing that story something that, I felt, could extend into a book was highly delightful and relaxing.
After my daily classes where I was working as a lecturer, I would reach the library at around four in the evening, and engage in reading and writing until six. Then I would catch my bus home. For almost four days, these two hours of exclusive literary activity rejuvenated my soul that was decaying from the lack of time I was able to devote to any literary deed, sometimes due to my hectic schedules and at times due to the one step I could not take—daring to challenge time.
I challenged time this time and, I won—or that was what I thought, until I had my other experience in the Friday evening about which I began. I opened my…

Lessons in the Snow

"There is no season, no time, and no etiquette to tell a story"--Anu.
December Story-3 He had no doubts about what constitutes reality, Subedar Singh thought. In the part of the world which they were in—the three of them, the Lieutenant, the soldier and him—reality was the most unpredictable aspect of existence; slippery, shocking and horrible. The place they were in was the Himalayas, in one of the obscure mountains. There was snow every where. It was December and therefore more snowy. It was not the thick, white, blinding snow that constructs and coagulates reality here, the Subedar thought, but the red, sticky fluid that leaks from the bullet burnt skin-holes and spreads on the white serenity of the snow—blood.   
The three of them were standing at the Indo-Pak border area. It was then the Lieutenant told them a story. ‘There is no season, no time, and no etiquette to tell a story.’—the Subedar thought.
“Friends,”—the Lieutenant’s voice raised above the serenity, maligning i…

The Poison

December Story-2
"Poison kills poison."--Anu The old man’s eyes were on the young girl. She seemed in her early twenties. The girl was sitting in a corner of her room, on the floor, with her forehead covered with knees, alone. Her beautiful tresses, dark and shiny, were spread over her shoulder. She was crying silently.
‘My child, I know you are crying. And I know this too that the reason that made you cry has its roots in your soul, and you do not want any one else to see your bleeding soul.’—the old man thought. Suddenly, he felt his body weakening. He was over 70. The girl was his grand daughter. He wanted to move forward, console his grand child, but he felt his legs giving way. Turning away from the scene, he walked out to the verandah and deposited himself in a huge chair, which was the throne; the symbol of authority that he held over that large house, and big family, which no longer mattered. He was the head of the family; however, his two sons were the decision makers…

The Dew Collector

December Story-1 Oneof my seasonal hobbies is strolling through the country side, exploring the nature, the people and their lives, during December. December helped this yearly endeavour in many ways. The weather, which in Kannur is usually hard during rainless time, in December gets a little mild and cold and the availability of time due to the one-week Christmas vacation after the schools and colleges close for holidays: a factor that is supported by the weather. I was a student of literature, who believed himself to be miraculously close to the identity of a writer.  
I remember reading somewhere that the basic quality of being a writer is to find a sense of wonder in the world around oneself. But, let me tell you my friend, it is very difficult, unless some wonderful encounter pushes you though a door—a door that exists every where but one that you would never notice to have the ability to take to the world of wonders.
One of such visits was through a village called ‘Nayattupara’ or…

Welcome December

December has approached us, with its chill and humid air in this part of the world, and its multi-dimensionalities against all odds, the entire humanity. December, for different people, for different cultures, conveys different meanings. But the most important aspect of December is immersed within the sweet word—Christmas. Well, things get sweeter with the New Year celebrations. I, certainly, am aware that you have opinions that occupy a drastically shifted space than the one explained here, or some times you are one who agrees with it as well. So I do not want to give you an impression that I am attempting an essay on Christmas and/or New Year Celebrations. 
It doesn’t matter who you are or what your Faith is. Here, in The Indian Commentator, you are in the celebration of reading. And in this month of December, I have something special for you, my reader. Although, I began the month with a couple of new poems, the celebration I intent is to be with stories. But why stories? There is a…

Failure

"It is not necessary in a heart breaking cry, for everyone to see your tears."--Anu
Where my poetry failed, And my silence devastated, My tears won.

Dreams-2

My blood is rain. My body is the earth. My soul is garden. My feelings are dust. My thoughts are shades. My being is creation. One thing still left: My dreams—and I live in them.

Soul Shower

You see the rain. You see the lingering hue. You smile. I, in the distant sky, Was playing the joker’s part, In showering you with my soul, Hoping you will understand, That I am hopelessly- In love with you. But you smiled, And just walked away.

True Love

‘The only way to make this over is to kill the person before me.’—the prince thought.
He thought of his restless hands and how they are trying hard to create a barrier of defensive deliberation around his body, the left one with a shield and the right one with a gory sword tied with it. He was in a battle field: a war for political reasons between his country, the southern part of India and its neighbour, another South Indian Nation State. But in his mind there was something that persisted as an irremovable, unignorable pang: a gossip that he caught from somewhere.
The gossip was about the reason of the war in which now he was fighting harder, half to save the war for his country and half for saving his own life from the enemy soldier in front of him. The gossip accused him and his love affair with the princess of the neighbouring kingdom of being the ‘real’ reason for the war. There are people who want to manipulate political reasons as personal flaws. They are the ones who make poli…

Dreams and Disbelief

"When the words are powerful there will be echoes and after-words. Dreams are the after-words or echoes of the word called Life. Experience them and live them."--Anu.


Everything guarded is precious. Every garden, Every woman, Every path, Every prisoner, Just like every- Dream Guarded by the veil of disbelief.

After Word

Kay is a wonderful poet and my reader too. She surprised me with a comment she made for my previous post under the title “The Fateful Road”. I decided after reading the comment that this comment should be a part of the thought about which I talked in “The Fateful Road”.Here is part of her comment that made me rethink about the step I had taken—my previous post.
“We too often think the road has been created for us and we fall into a complacent thought process of everything needing to be easy. However, I don't believe the road has already been built. It is up to us, to devise the plan, engineer our own path, build it and look back at the path we, ourselves have created!

It's just too easy to fall into the paths of others, take the easy way out and look back in regret.

And making our way, building that course, is no easy task! It takes hard work, diligence, sweat and above all faith.”
Thank you Kay!

The Fateful Road

“One of the questions that perplexed me these days was asked by one of my friends. 'What shall I do sir; I lost him, my love? I have no one else. I am alone.' –she was my student. All my students are friends of mine, as well.”—Said the teacher as if to gain an upper hand over me, his colleague. The young man (but aged than me) worked in the same college as I did, but in the Malayalam Department. I worked in the English Department. I thought of the situation he described of his student.
He immediately switched on to a different philosophy; he started talking about fate. He spoke as if he was the Great Master of Fatalism. “It was the fate of the girl. Now she must try to cope with the situation. And perhaps she may need counseling, sooner or later.” –he said.
I never believed in silently accepting the so-called fate. Every human being is capable of fighting his or her own good fight. For those who know how to conquer the day, every night is a possibility. Understanding the delic…

James Patterson, Jack and Jill

Sometimes at the end of the day we end up in something that we hadn’t thought or imagined of in the morning. When I write this, I too am struggling with the need to capture this phenomenon of unpredicted events in words, because I had such an experience today. I do not want to register the date, it doesn’t matter.
James Patterson was no where in my thoughts or in wild imagination in the morning. In the evening, I returned home from the town with a copy of Patterson’s novel Jack and Jill from a discount sale. One of my colleagues had recommended me to visit the book store where there was a discount sale. Of course I was happy—when I found Patterson there, though not his latest book, I Alex Cross—to buy Jack and Jill. I loved Patterson’s exuberant style and his mastery of the genre of suspense thrillers.
Does it mean such an event of unpremeditated urgency would always bring happiness? May be or may be not. But these unexpected moments whether we name them or not fill our lives with feeli…

Weather Worries

They talked about the weather; a middle aged man and a boy. The middle aged man was worried that the rain was lacking this year that this summer would be harsher than the previous one, and that the reasons are many, from globalization to deforestation. But all the while the boy was looking into something that didn’t exist for any one else there: a void—that the boy only felt in front of his eyes. He was fifteen. His eyes were that of some one with some one else to dream of; he loved a girl from the same school in which he too studied. ‘I used to spend all my spare time dreaming of her’—the boy thought—‘and now here I am wasting my time with this man.’ What useless things is he talking about? The boy couldn’t understand. For him the only truth perched in the two gleaming eyes of the beauty he admired, dreamed of, tried and failed to understand, his distant fantasy. But he could not talk to her yet.
It was three months from now that he first saw her, away, standing in the doorstep of th…

Sorrow Bird

The best way to ‘enjoy’ pain is to feel it. And, my friend, ‘to enjoy’, remember, doesn’t mean to take something lightly, but deep, very deep so that it fills each and every pore of one’s soul. Don’t think about happiness when you are experiencing pain. Suck all the depth of your pain and get transported into another world where there would be no pain but ecstasy.

Is sadness a bird? If it can take us to another world, is it then not a bird; the Sorrow Bird? I hate to see the Sorrow Bird approaching my abode. I know that my abode is lonely, and could provide a comfortable spot for the Sorrow Bird. The bird would love to perch on my house. And so I grow more cautious, restless. But as I said I know the bird will take me away somewhere; to a much more beautiful place. That is why I stay put, waiting for the bird to take me over. I wait my eyes closed, focusing completely, and hopeful to find myself in a new place when I open them. But I know the bird will wait until its prey is fully und…

Rain

"Most of the times what leads us towards a discomforting end of a relationship is the urge to make the other person a replica of ours."--Anu.

The girl was walking away. She then stopped and turned and said: “Every sorrow will vanish like anything.” Those were her last words (probably of consolation).The young man couldn’t help himself adding: “if you are with me.”
The girl looked at him with sad eyes, or that is what he felt. Sadness seemed to be his lot more than the girl’s. She had said she did not love him. He did not ask her the reasons; what ever the reasons were they had the right to be there. Let the reasons be there, he thought.

The young man wanted only one thing: he did not want to cry. Or even if tears overflowed, he would not want any one else to notice it. And then it rained. And so no one saw the tears in the eyes of the young man.

The Indian Commentator Group

There was a question in my mind: what is the difference between existence and absence? Then I thought of a comparison that was mentioned once by one of my teachers; some one who follows an ancient Indian philosophical tradition. Though he suggested this example for another occasion, I felt it would be useful in this context too. No advise from great teachers die, they exist and traverse continents, cultures and minds. The comparison offered by my teacher was for advising me about the worth of my being and the significance of being with others. When we talk to someone, we are locating his presence in the world of existence, through gestures, words, and emotions, which would then be continued through memories. But non-living things, such as rocks or fire never do this, my teacher had said.

When some one communicates with us, we are brought into the realm of existence. But when we keep away from communication with others, or confine ourselves inside the barrier of seclusion, we create a…

The Trespasser

This story must take place far from the present, the immediate and the real, because it requires a certain believability that could only be acquired if placed in a space and time distant from the normal reality. Therefore I decided to keep a time that is far back from the present and a space or place, which doesn’t invoke the necessity of being located in any of the maps. It could be anywhere. I chose it this way because we can meet some people only beyond time and space and that is what I meant by believability. People might not think this way in the present world. Or do they?

In this story you can meet a prince, who had even made his enemy’s spy his soul friend. He was wise, kind and meek. In the absence of the king, he was the one responsible to carry out the official duties. The prince was in his durbar hall. The durbar hall was full with an assemblage of different authorities from the Kingdom. There were two others too, that day: a young girl and a person accused of breaking into…

Mazha

I; in a bus

Shutters closed

Evening journey back home

The acoustics of the outside

Embellished at times by

The scream of an ambulance

Open air snack bars closed

People hiding

Umbrellas struggling

To spread wings

An evening rain in Kannur

["Mazha" is the word for rain in Malayalam language.]

The Night Drizzle

The night was brilliant, thought someone from somewhere, alone. But the girl was irritated. She was at her home, chatting with her classmates through her mobile phone. The night sky was clouded, and it was drizzling too, she thought. Even though she was in the company of her friends, the girl felt bored. She felt sad too. The boredom or the sadness was not due to anything bad, or may be that was, she thought. She had no idea why she felt sad. Now she started feeling irritated too. The weather might be the reason, but she had never felt such a way under similar conditions before. She felt all her moments are shrinking into single urge, one emotional necessity: to search out the reason for her unhappiness.

Then she saw someone banging on her Orkut community page which was attached with her mobile connection. At first she felt a little awkward to accept the chat request regarding her irritated mood that night. But then the other person was her new friend. She did not want to give him a n…

Heart of Hope

"Hope is a part of God’s soul. It exists in everything within our perception. But to know it, to read that exotic poem, one should have a Heart of Hope. Here is a poem for Joann, who has a surgery tomorrow for the removal of cancer cells. You can find more detail on this blog:.http://terrisbloomingideas.blogspot.com/"

Joann, blessings for you. Here is God’s soul for you.



The sun is not born-

To be drowned in the sea.

The moon has its destiny-

Far from the veiling clouds.

The breeze never fears confinement.

I send you what the sun has,

What the moon brings from behind the clouds,

What makes breeze free-

To wander in the depths of your soul:

The Heart of Hope.

Love Poems

"I know these days you are reading about something that has no end, at least according to the normal extends of our conscious cognition—love, I mean—in any of the attempts to write about it. But ah! The blessing of physicality of the art of poetry, I am able to content the feeling that in itself is the journey and destination. So with this i-poem the series titled Love is coming to an end. Bless me with Love oh, unknown eye caressing these words… Lots of Love,"

Anu
9
I wrote a poem,
Then another,
Then a third one,
And then paused and read them all,
One at a time;
They meant every thing,
Though written in just three words:
I love you.

Love Sea

"I can see only one way out: You; so that the tears of sorrow in my eyes get transformed into the magical smile of diamonds, in your shining nearness."--Anu 8
 Waves are no disorder-

For the sea,

But the sign of its soul.

No pain is pain,

And no tears burn-

In love.


Billet Doux

"Everything here is for me and I transform into everything when you are here."--Anu
7 Look at me.

Please talk to me.

Touch me.

I am this poem,

Just before its birth.

Write me down.

You are love.

Negotiations

"I know you are nowhere here, but my eyes still search for the unseen traces you left in the air, knowing the failure in the next blink."--Anu                                                                           
6 I live among mingled shadows,

Of bonds that bind.

Out of the blue you came to me.

I looked down not to lose my way.

Then I saw the distance,

From me to you.

I fell in love with it,

Hoping I would never be bound by you.

Love and the Binary.

"Love denies what is to be spoken. And still there is an undeniable urge to talk about it. But to use words in love is to desecrate it."--Anu
5 I know it is you who is-

Awake in my sleep.

I know it is you who is-

Present in my absence.

I know it is you who

Lives in my death,

My knowledge in ignorance.

I know this too that-

You never know,

How much I desire,

Not to know you.

A.Ayyappan Passed Away.

The Quest.

The poem decided to take birth.
It looked for the poet.
It found him.
But he was buried-
Under the irrevocable presence-
Of his absence.
The poem took birth,
As a red flower on his grave.

Adieu Unknown Poet
Once upon a time, there was a poet. No one knew him. Yet the generations that shared time and space with him admired his poems greatly. They sung those poems and kept those lines in the depths of their hearts. The people did not feel bad or awkward to engrave the poems in the depths of their hearts, to make those lines a part of their existence, because those lines were the same blood and flesh as theirs. Their body and soul, therefore, did not reject the poetic transplantation.

One day the people saw an old man lying on the ground. He was taken to the hospital so that he could find ease in dying. Until some one found from the folded sleeves of his shirt a piece of poem, he was a strange old man devoid of relationships, family and friends. The moment after their realizat…

Love and Existence

"You gifted me a flower. I smiled. Why didn't it occur to me that the flower is something cut off from its life, the plant, dead, and I smiled at some thing dead?" --Anu.
4 Justify my existence by extending your hand.
Come running to me,
And write something on my soul.
I am a word with four letters;
Let me mean something.