THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

It is not easy to see angels. “You can see them only if you believe you can”—said the teacher--“But it’s not easy, since you will always be doubtful in your decision to believe it.” “If I meet an angel, what can I do?”—The Prince looked at his teacher, the old woman, with confusion in his eyes. The teacher replied—“It is easy. You do not need to do anything. But usually people ask, when they meet angels, what they do not possess.” The Prince smiled. Another day, the teacher saw the prince running towards him in great anguish. “What happened?”—The teacher was very caring. “I saw something. It was light. It was voice. It was miracle.” “That was an angel. You saw an angel!”—The teacher smiled in surprise. The face of the Prince was still clouded in disquiet. The teacher did not ask him why, for she knew those who see angels will suffer great effects of anxiety in their attempt to comprehend and not to doubt what they just saw in front of their eyes and ears and conscious sensory per...

When we are waylaid by a different path in front of us, other than the ones we are used to, we say we are lost. But on a day of heavy rain, clutching three hundred rupees in my right hand—the money I borrowed from the owner of the place I work at, a part of my salary—I did not feel so, even though, that day had changed my entire life registering its presence leaving its indelible colour, and transforming into a milestone. I had my umbrella in my left hand. In my right hand, keeping it safe from drenching in the rain, I had my hand bag and the money. I had a wallet. But the wallet was too much materialistic and I could not keep the money in it, as if the wallet might transform the money in it into a fistful of rubbish or mere bank notes. For me, those three hundred rupee notes were not just bank notes, or pieces of paper. They meant more than what they were meant for. The money existed beyond the language of day-to-day economics. That money was part of my soul; too abstract to be expl...

Milan Kundera, Ayn Rand, Joseph Heller, Carols Fuentes, Fernando Pessoa, Carlos Castaneda, Edward W. Said, Stephenie Meyer, and James Patterson are all not related with each other in their thematic unity. Except Edward W. Said, all the others are related, but not in their themes. What relates them is the form of artistic expression they have managed to survive in: the novel. I had a “carnal” urge to read. So I had all of these writers borrowed from my university library; something unusual, because I finished my Masters there and there were no more chances to take books from the library officially, and as many of the faculty and my class mates thought there were restrictions in any of the unofficial interactions they may make with the university. But I saw possibilities. And I saw, indeed, a lot of them. I could work somewhere and gain some money to support my life and I did not have to worry about the class hours or syllabus any more. But borrowing books from the library would be...

The wikipedia article on Madonna, the singer, contains an adjective in its title in brackets: ‘entertainer’—a title truly deserved by the singer. She is endowed with an extremely powerful personality and an equally charming talent for music. Continuing her journey of music through a great many troubles personal and professional, she has reached at a stage in her life, where, her name itself would be enough to hold the masses on to their feet. Today that is, on the 16 th of August 2010, she has turned 52 years: an age almost reminds of retirement for any of the woman singers. And, as is crystal clear, she is not going to stop it here. This would not have been possible with out hard work and extreme dedication. That is what makes her an icon for womanhood. She was always there. Her smile, her dance moves, her voice, and her songs; a half century and a whole lifetime of music. It seems as if time has ceased in the mesmerizing power of her songs; as if it has been possessed by her charm...

I am ordinary; a common man from Kerala, India. And that meant I believe, or should believe in the concepts of logic, reality, reason etc. For the common man, life under the constant influence of these factors is natural. Normality is my religion. I find myself under the comfort of “adjustments”. I know if I adjust my life for someone else, the other person will return the favours through another set of “ adjustments” at the time of need. Logic is the skeleton of reality. Reality is the ultimate sense driven out of perception; sensory and intellectual. Reason is the guide that leads one through the intricacies and extraordinary spaces situated in the verges of reality, which although counter the normal, are highly recommended for the existence of the normal on the plane of signification. In other words, the extraordinary or the not-normal is necessary for the normal to make sense. The effect of the normal is drawn from the comparison caused by the influences of the not-normal. The re...

The wall of division Of white lies Of infinite meanings Of confusion Of restrictions Of confinements Of lack of humanity Of uncivilized arrogance Of ignorance Of all the unrighteousness Fell. Now the words only remain.

The moment in which a writer searches for a story or a theme to drive forward his creative impulses and to fulfill the destiny of an artist must be great. I too was in such a moment; sitting alone in the office of the language training institute I temporarily worked for. Writing nourished my soul and gave me the sense of fulfilling the Artist's Destiny. The moment was crucial, for I was in an attempt to bring together my soul and body within the unique harmony of art. I was using the time of my job for writing. For what mattered most was the Artist's Destiny, and during those hours in the afternoon, there were no classes, either. I was asked to stay in the office until five in the evening to handle the enquiries if someone showed up. The Artist's Destiny is the inexplicable urge one feels to work in order to meet an unknown, inexplicable demand. This demand comes from nowhere and can never be met. But it exists with all it mysteriousness and absurdity in an artist'...