THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

The moment brain was installed in human body; the weird chance of not using it too was born. We define it by the word, stupidity; a moment of absence of all those intellectual capabilities that we believe we possess. In the Molecular Story below is one form of stupidity called diffidence. The absence of confidence and trust on oneself is the worst of stupidities anyone can commit. Do you know why? Because like me, you too are the best of your kind.  Lovers “There is much to say. But words may ruin what I really want to convey.” The lover said. “Then just kiss me. And I will understand.” The man hesitated, and then turned away like the clouds near a mountain. He walked away from the girl. In the evening breeze the girl’s tears scattered down and wet her cheeks.  Months later, the man’s friend asked him why he had not kissed the girl at the time of departure, when he loved her so much. The lover said: “That was exactly why I did not kiss her. I did not want her to know th...

(A hugely successful poem in Facebook.)  I let the breeze in, To cool my heated cubbyhole. It made me complacent. Then, without an omen, It became a storm, And destroyed my only home. I had forgotten to close my doors.

Once , a Hindu saint was traveling to the southernmost part of India . He was not alone. Samant, a student of his, accompanied him. Samant was not from a high family like the other disciples of the saint. Unlike his usual practices the saint had started off for his journey alone. He wanted to see India , from north to south and east to west. On his way to the land of Pandya Kings , he met a poor young farmer and asked for some water. The young farmer not only gave him water but also provided him with shelter and the best clothes he had in his house. His name was Samant. Though Samant was a Christian, the saint thought great of him. Just imagine who would give so much of service to a stranger, even if that stranger is God himself. And from that moment the saint took Samant as his Student. Infuriated by the saints decision, some local Hindus along with the priest of the nearby church protested, by saying: “This youth is from another religion and you are a Hindu. How could you take hi...

Don’t complain about the horse Running wild in the desert. It is the cause for me; I; dust in the pale air. I am a creature. But you see me as a shadow. The blindness of your eyes is The world I live in. I am the horse, the desert and The world beyond your eyes.  

Schooling in India requires a minimum age of five years for the admission in the first standard. But at the age of two I had started taking interest in books. Reading was out of question because words were untamable for me at that age. I do remember myself working through the pages, constructing my own imaginary stories from the pictures inscribed upon them, and after some time tearing those pages off in frustration or desperation. Then my father found a way to keep me from frustration. He started reading stories to me. And then my mother from her busy kitchen world encouraged me to keep this practice going by requesting the visitors and guests to help me out by reading me stories. And my reading life started off with a pair of external eyes sucking the nourishment of words for my craving soul. Before long, I learned how to read and write at school. One day in class the teacher asked what our hobbies were. Stamp collection, matchbox collection, reading, and gardening were the tren...

I am out of my senses. My logic is insane. Irrationality rules my heart beats. The night is long. Twelve hours or more. But they get short, When I see you Ballerina. Why else! I am out of my senses.   

M. F Hussain,  the painting prodigy passed away today living in exile. There was obviously nothing more to expect, no return to mother country or a transnational relation with the nation. The exile was an infinitely powerful prison where, unlike Czech novelist   Milan Kundera, who celebrates his exile, Hussain suffered his homesickness, and the desire to return to the beauty of his artistic roots. It is hardly deniable that Hussain was a victim of the Indian cultural totalitarianism, due to portraying the Hindu deities in nude. News reports say that “ he was admitted only two days ago for fluid retention in his lungs, and but had otherwise been “in fairly good health".” (Yahoo.com:9/6/2011) He was 95 and according to his friends, he was too eager to make a return trip to India . Hussain’s exile was a result of his paintings released in February 2006, which were nude portraits of Hindu gods and goddesses. In stripping its mask off the democratic promises of freedom of express...

The nomad curses sunlight, He takes shelter under a cloud, And gazes at the sky, Waiting the stars to shine. After the wind that reminded of, Shattered dreams and withered hopes, The sky rains down. The nomad looks for a shelter. Which the sky and the cloud, Are no more.   

In a half bloomed flower, The rain drops adhere, Hoping to slip inside-- In the light of coming day. The day came and the flower bloomed, But in the sunlight, The rain drops evaporated. [Also Check: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/destiny-206/# ]

Meanings dissipate, Words remain, Like skeletons… Poem a fossil skeleton, Recovered Intact. The poet: an archeologist-- Trying in futile to flesh the bones.

It’s vacation for me. Not the kind of vacation where people go to different places, explore life and nature and feel the extremes of life. The college is closed for exams and it is monsoon season in Kerala. It’s raining everywhere. Water…water…water…Thinking about the life I lived as a teacher now, I feel I miss those days. The days of teaching are days of learning too. Those bright and wide eyes fixed upon you for crossing that edge of knowledge that they feel what they are there for. It is a fascinating image; students in a classroom. The classrooms are cocoons in which the teacher and the students are roommates, or rather cocoon-mates! It is during this intellectual journey through the classroom in my memory, I thought about this story, which I found months before in Paulo Coelho’s blog. So with all due respect to the author, I publish this wonderful story here.   Is the bird alive? The young man was at the end of his training, soon he would go on to be a teacher. Like all g...