THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

"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.

"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. 

"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.

"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 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.

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 t...

"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.

“Tell her that there is a person, in the moments of her presence, in the moments in which she takes breath, in every blink of her eyes and, in the movement of her hairs, who lives a lifetime…”-- Anu 3  My love is transformed- Into something I desired: Distance; To justify the existence, Of the words- I never uttered; To understand the smiles- That never bloomed on your lips; To justify my tears; And with the flowers of mortal agony to- Dress my bleeding heart. [Picture Courtsy: Dustjacket Attic. ]

"True love is always unrequited. True love manifests itself in unique ways from individual to individual. And it cannot be understood in the pre-expected eminence about its effects and nature."   --Anu 2 I fought the battle and lost. What met me was your lengthened shadow, Fear, agony, pain and a life time of bitterness. But there was a miracle, too: What I fought the battle for- Remained with me: love!

"I wanted to ask something to life, but life said: you already know what the answers for your questions are: Love, Love, Love. Then I thought my question would be insufficient, inept. And I kept silence."-- Anu   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. It exists in the space between abundance and absence, waiting to be explored and taken in. However, it imprisons you in a space where language of any sort is an unwanted vanity, and understanding any thing including love or the loved ones, doesn’t possess justified existence. In love, that means, nothing is to be understood—neither the partners nor love itself. And there arises the paradox of knowing and still living naïve. Love shows itself to you, but still you are far apart from knowing its true abundance. You live in an awareness of not knowing what you do not have, unable to understand that you possess every thing on earth, whe...

There was an unpleasant emotion spurting in my veins as I returned from the unforeseen confrontation. I had confronted disappointment, but the resultant emotion had nothing in common with the usual hormone inducements after a disappointment. The ordinariness from my reflex was surprisingly absent. It was extraordinary. I did not feel dejected, but I counted my money, the cash in my wallet, instead. And that was the reaction I—surprisingly—showed towards the event. I was coming after my hectic visit to the Library where I owed some books to return. But I had found the library closed, there, kilometers away from my real destination, the cinema house in the city centre. I had to travel double distance, to and from, and that too without any crucial gain. It was, in plain terms, just a waste of time and money, or dejection. My bag was too heavy, loaded full with thick volumes of books.   I thought of my hunger that a few moments before was suppressed by two dry Porottas. That was not ...

The freedom to read a book ends When I think. Thoughts are, Unwelcome guests in the reading room. They are intruders, though. When they peek in, No book remains a book alone, And no freedom remains innocent.

"Is there any answer for the question what is love? If yes, then you know what tears are." -- Anu. [Published in Facebook: 8/08/10] Photo By: Eve Love Cher Tears The pain is to divide us into you and me, The rest is just a few drops of tears.

Mario Vargas Llosa is well known for his playful narrative technique and crafty imagination. His personality is marked not just as a novelist but also as a journalist and a politician. A novelist, primarily, his trenchant criticisms on the Communist dictatorships in Latin America, have ultimately reached the day of global recognition through the Literature Nobel, 2010. Swedish Academy in declaring one of the most sensible decisions in the post modern times, has posited an opportunity for readers and students of literature to explore Llosa’s universe more close and with significance haunting beyond the linguistic limits. “Aunt Julia and the Script Writer” is yet another testimony of his narrative talents. The novel is published in 1977. As in all his major works, the background of the novel is Peru and life in Peru. The novel is set in the 1950s. Llosa consecrates the novel with its pleasant and exuberant openness to possibilities. In other words, the art of fiction in Llosa becomes m...

“ I was a smart person in the past. But now, it is all gone. I am just all rubbish.”—the young woman said to her neighbour. Her neighbour was a blind old lady. “You love Greece.”—the old lady remarked. The young one with the expectation of the obvious, the consolatory paraphrase of some old cliché, started with the remark of the lady. She could not utter any expression other than a piece --“What?” “You love Greece.”—the old lady who was blind, but doesn’t seem blind now, smirked and held an open challenge for the young blood: not very common with a blind woman who is supposed to live on others mercy and kindness to play the smart. The young blood got heated, and wanted a reproach but it was wise too, so decided to remain calm. The girl asked—“what do you mean I love Greece? I am born and brought up in India, and I have never been to Greece, ever.” “Haven’t you ever heard of Greece?”—asked the old lady. “Yea, I have heard of Greece, but I know Greece more for its ancient civilization,...

                       The time of the day that we call morning, when we open our eyes and cherish the moment into which we pour our self and which marks the moment of the transformation of sleep into wakefulness, deserves Acknowledgement from us. Morning is a door that exists for us. And that benevolence should be given consideration. When I was traveling by bus early in the morning towards my daily destination, again the thought of Acknowledgement came to me. I looked outside. It was unique: the nature, as if peeled off from its previous self and bestowed with a novel life, it exerted its luminous presence through blinding my sight to green but every other colour. Then the vision changed into gold and then into the conglomerate bliss of the flowers: Transformation. I looked around outside the bus, in acknowledgement. We open our eyes to the morning, and we acknowledge the p...

The schooner moves forward. It knows what moving forward means. It is the way; the only way it has, To show its gratitude to the wind, To the omen of the seagull, To the waves that parted for its keel, To the soul of the sea, that- Blessed it with signs, By reflecting upon it its own presence, By making it, feel its very own existence, Just like my pen pushing forward, In your gratitude, my Tia, Terri. This poem is a gift to Blooming Ideas , for rewarding me with the Versatile Blogger Award . Did I miss the moment? Did I delay this post a bit? Perhaps, but I wanted to make it worthwhile, with this little poem. And I would like to share this award too, with some of my Blogger friends. But for sharing this award, as I learned it from Blooming Ideas , I have to confess seven truths about myself. And then only I can propose seven winners for the award. Though it was difficult, I tried to locate seven truths about myself. The truth then could be of two types, too: the o...