Showing posts from February, 2010

My Name is KHAN: One Life and Many Paths.

Theworld is nothing but an inter twined lace-work of roads. Everyone born here have their own paths to walk on. Every person comes to this world along with the path that he or she is destined to walk.
Though, the number of roads are enormous, one can classify all of them into two groups-- roads of hatred and roads of love, just like the two paths taken by Mandira and Rizwan Khan, in the film, "My Name Is KHAN".
Mandira, in losing her only son, was falling down the abyss of a huge loss. She wanted something to hold on, a support, something light that can help her lessen the pace of her fall. She found it in hatred against her own husband, Rizwan, a person suffering from Asperger's Syndrome, whose religious identity caused her to lose her son. He was a Muslim and the place they lived was the post -9/11 United States.
Mandira was broken terribly after the loss of her only son. She screamed eccentric to Khan asking him to leave her life, so that her dead son wouldn't be lab…


As an individual, when I perceive the childhood of the present day, I hardly make out any change in its inherent nature. Though this statement runs contrary to the conventional laments on the loss of the innocence of childhood in the present world, this suggests the inherent nature of childhood, its needs, its dreams, its way of pursuing the unknown. These are the same, years back and now.

Childhood is often pampered with the nostalgia for one of the happiest and free periods in human life, in the common understanding. Adults and even the youngsters who are just crossing their adolescence feel the same. The common understanding since the concept of understanding and reflection is something associated with the educated middle and upper middle and higher classes, often exists within the educated lot. It is, therefore, often commented through the art, education and the electronic media of the present age, incorporating the ideas of the well-learned, well-to-do population that childhood i…


I too want to be like you.
I too want to be understood.
Roosters resting on the verge trees,
are my words,
no where, any hunter can find.
Hunters are in dilemma,
the birds can fly there next door.
No one is sure.
They are now on the fence, on the margin.
You got me? No you can't.
I want them to be hunted,
I want them to be eaten;
the roosters, they are my words.
Don't make the scene more worse,
for they may try a different course.
Try it slowly. Shh. A little quiet.
Be patient and you will get them soon.
For I too want to be like you.
I too want to be understood.

Shivarathri and Valentine's Day

People stay awake all night during the day of Shivarathri. Shivarathri, the Hindu religious festival, celebrating the union of Siva, the Hindu God of Destruction with Parvathi, the daughter of Himalaya, is a day when all the spinsters fast and observe many rituals for getting a good person as husband, in Malabar. This festival has many other dimensions and patterns of rituals in many other parts of India. Even in many other parts of Kerala, this day is celebrated as the day of the dead.

In Malabar, it is a nice feeling, during Shivarathri, being a man; a good one of its kind, according to the norms and the conventions accepted for the Marriage Market in the locale. These norms and conventions range from physical appearance to education and from job to cast and creed. As for the nice feeling is concerned, it is from the thought that all these girls, with the angelic beauty, are fasting for the one who is good at heart, wealthy, and settled. And who else that one would be, other than on…

Tributes to Girish Puthanjeri.

Girish Puthanjeri,one of the prominent lyricists of the day in Malayalam film industry passed away, yesterday, 10-2-2010. The poem below is dedicated to his memories and to the melodious-verses he had created. I would like to note a strange coincidence that shook me yesterday. The poem below is not actually written after hearing the news and in no intention to give tribute to the writer. It was just after the poem was completed, I heard the news that Puthenjeri passed away.The poem exactly conveyed the same sense; a tribute to the lyricist. And I felt it really strange. The poem below—The Song-- is about a song that fades away, just like he faded away.

 The Song.
I remember forgetting the song,
and remembering
the moments just before and after
the song played.

It was the moment before the song-
I died,
from the world of noise,
and brought to the world of music.

It was the moment after the song,
I resurrected.

I tried hard to recall,
but the song no …

A Friendly Chat

Writing some thing original is always a challenge. The world, which we live in is full of detractors to originality in the form of tradition, norms, rules, and form in a work of art. In order to make a new post, I thought of doing something different. It was then I came across an incident in the very same day I made this post that is, on 5-2-2010. I have published this material for it carries, as I believe, the form and it fits itself into the norms that are set for an artistic production. (These norms and rules are many and they vary according to multiple reasons.)

This is an e-mail chat with one of my new female friends and me. 

ME: You are looking more and more beautiful each day in the picture!!

Friend: Which picture???

ME: That one in the orkut profile.
FRIEND: Thank u so liked me??hehheh
ME: Come on..shame on you.. putting an actress's picture instead of yours, and thus compromising with your own identity, unaware of the beauty that nature has gifted you with, ho…

The Myth

"The eagle controls the destiny of all living things-the eagle's gift is the chance to escape and be free."
---- Carlos Castaneda.

The Eagle needs nest,
though it is powerful,
and can endure a prolonged glide.
The nest is, but not to rest.
It is to contemplate the present,
and to hatch the future.
The nest is wide, infinite, but packed.
The nest is the World,
as the Eagle saw it through its vision-light,
It was brimming with everything.
The Eagle saw everything in it,
but void.
There was only the myth:
the myth of the void.
The Eagle dreamed to be
a part of the void and be free.
But there were the fetters,
and the non-existence of the void.

[See this poem also under-Authspot   ]