THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

I like to start writing a new story each day; stories without endings, stories that are born out of a sudden whim and carried forward with obsessive spontaneity. I am just like any other writer, a naive creation of God, who believes words can cure him of his solitude, when every one else around him has lost their trust on words. But his hope is miraculous, because it never tires of its mission. It urges him to write, to spend time with words—polishing them, practicing his skills, pruning his diligence to perfection, looking failure in the eyes, succeeding, dreaming—and disregard his family’s advices to look for a job with a permanent financial source. But as most of the writers who are part of the struggling community, who are not yet blessed with the gaze of the publishing industry, it is difficult for me, even now, to write about my dwindling financial situation, my struggle for a life. Perhaps I could write a story, search for a solution to this situation or just try to c...

The man who worked in the army invited me for his kid’s naming ceremony. Naming is carried out with special rituals in the presence of a priest at a temple or holy place. Nowadays, in Kerala, this ritual is not observed just among Hindus but to have their children named in the presence of a gathering Christians and Muslims too considerable effort. I was invited to one such occasion. As the man who worked in the army was a Hindu, I was supposed to be in the village temple on that momentous day, when the child would get a name chosen by his or her parents, but announced in public by the priest. That made me do something different that is usually required in my work as a lecturer in the University I work at, thinking. To put it straight, I was a bit happy and amazed of myself to be able to use once again this faculty, which was capable of inducing fantastic results in my consciousness. In the university I work at the best way to stick with the job is to pretend that one’s sensibility h...

Once, a ship named Ocean’s Dream was making its return voyage. Its crew was seeing land after a long time. But they all felt a little disappointed as the ship made little progress forward. The wind was getting weaker. Its sails shrunk as the wind that puffed it died away. It was impossible for the ship to make it to the shore with such a weak flow of wind. The sailors knew that if they reduced the weight of the ship, it could sail easily to the shore.     They approached the captain and asked if they can lighten the load of the ballast. The captain agreed. And they started throwing out the weight that steadied the ship on the surface of the sea. But just as they did it the breeze took up power. There was no ballast to steady Ocean’s Dream any more. And it sunk into the sea. Moral: Don’t unload things where you have no chance to take them back. I never tried a children’s story in The Indian Commentator . This is the first time. It is a molecular story too. I don’t know ...

A molecular story   I woke up at my mother’s voice; “Why are you not waking up? It’s night!” That was the way she always did it. She would make me feel guilty and irritated, as if I spent the whole day sleeping. It might just be six or seven in the morning, I thought. It was high time I reacted to such a negative start of a day. I found some quick expressions to vent out my resentment. “What a fine way to start off a day! Why don’t you stop it for at least once?” I said with a voice that was close to a shout, making clear I did not enjoy her comments. “What did you say?” She asked and paused for a moment in front of my bedroom door, which was open, contrary to everyday. “It’s night.” She had a blank expression on her face. And then I felt a deluge of sense rushing into my mind. “You took a nap at noon. Forgot?” she said. But I noticed, she was not mocking me, she kept her expression blank.           “Good evening viewers, welcome to news at six .” A ...

“God is love, and he that remains in love remains in union with God and God remains in union with him.”— 1John 4:16 Here is the final part of “The Unsaid” i-poems. Image Courtesy: Google You have something unsaid. I too have. The moment you find out mine, And I yours; Redemption. Love, and pray that you are being loved. One of my readers once asked me why most of my poems revolve around the idea of love. I could not answer the question then, because at that time it was a revelation to me. I was never aware of it. Every time after trying many other themes I resort to the theme of love to gain back my internal peace and spiritual gratification. Even though, many of i-poems were on topics such as “Destiny”, “Rain”, “Distances”, etc, all of them revealed the presence of a unique and at the same time universal theme, love, which often was mystic in its temperament and profane in its roots. I thank that friend for helping me lead to this realization about my own art...

“Beloved ones, let us continue loving one another, because love is from God, and everyone who loves has been born from God and gains the knowledge of God.” —I John 4:7   You looked into my eyes, And for the hundredth time, I tried. But what I said always echoed, Your words; Those unsaid. 

The Unsaid “Love carries God’s energy.” –Anu.   What the night is for the sun, What plateaus for a fish, What the depth of the blue for a bird, What you haven’t said is- For me: the hope of a revelation. 

“ I will say to the prisoners, 'Come out in freedom,' and to those in darkness, 'Come into the light.' They will be my sheep, grazing in green pastures and on hills that were previously bare .”-- Isaiah 49:9 Love is innocence, too. But once transformed, Into the unsaid, it’s sin. 

Sorry to take a quick break from i-poems series, “ The Unsaid ” . As the situations turned out to be, I have been presented with a surprise gift by someone, the wonderful header which could be seen on my blog, unique and individual. Uniqueness, what is it? How can one achieve it? Here is a story that explains it.   Once, the prince of Travancore met his teacher at the teacher’s residence. The royal student wanted to know how to achieve uniqueness of personality. He asked: “Teacher, can you suggest a place where I can live alone for some years in solitude, secluded from others, so that I could develop a unique personality and can eliminate the edgy side in me.” The astonishment of the teacher creased furrows on his forehead. “I am sorry prince, I am afraid I cannot be able to tell you about such a place.” He said. “But why?” asked the prince in a slight state of shock. “Because there is no such place on the earth, where you can be alone in absolute seclusion. Nearness by people...

The Unsaid “Possessiveness is just the other side of the coin of love” —Anu.   We are brave to build it; The bridge, between darkness and light- The unsaid. But to cross it, We spend a lifetime of cowardice. 

“Love is like a taut bow. The more you pull the string away from the bow, the more energy it gathers and when you find yourself in no situation to pull further it recoils with such power as to pierce one’s heart with an arrow.” –Anu. Stay nearby, though behind the shades. Let me build the bridge, Of my dreams across; My last chance of escape. (picture courtesy:  http://imageshack.us/ )

The Unsaid You haven’t said it yet. But I saw it on your cheeks, With the blossom of blood, Under your skin. I saw it in your eyes, Gleaming like drops of rain, With the sun behind. I saw it, In the purity of my tears, I felt it, In the fire of my breath, I heard it, In the music in my veins, And I read it, In the engravings, Of what you left unsaid. 

"I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion - I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more - I could be martyred for my religion - Love is my religion - I could die for that. " -- John Keats What the earth says, When the first drop from- Heaven pierces its heart. 

The Unsaid  “That is the true season of love, when we believe that we alone can love, that no one could ever have loved so before us, and that no one will love in the same way after us.” -- Goethe It’s like the journey, Of a drop of rain, From its birth to the- Destiny with the earth; It just glides down, Without a word.