Wednesday, December 23, 2009

The Questions in Love

The question in love is 'Yes' or 'No'. They can be answers too, but it is when they are asked, they become more significant. For they carry with them, all the vulnerability, security, instability, surety, hopelessness, hope, anxiety, and peace involved in love.

Everyone believes they fall in love or raise in love--as some like to believe-- and some live with whom they love, some die, some simply forget, never identifying what actually they felt towards the person they met. It might be an attraction for their physical appearance, liking towards their character, or feeling of comfort when they spend time with each other. Love never happens when they believe it to be. The majority will not realise when it happens. Those who realise this, may differ in their sensation of the feeling of love from the others. There are some who take it as a feeling of hatred. This is the reason that in love, some people, fight. They feel as if fighting would bring their partner closer and they feel comfortable about it. For them, love begins from hatred and it breaks all the barriers slowly and unknowingly. When they fight, they merge with each other and feel closer with each other than they never were before.

Every love story--unfortunately-- follows the same pattern and two courses, either of separation of the lovers or of their union. Every heart, in love, breaks at least once, after which it ceases to be a heart, instead, it becomes a door through which the soul comes out and searches salvation. I think it is true. I have come across a story, a very short one, in my life, which proves it. I would like to share it with you. If you are interested in reading that little cute story, hit your mouse on this link...Love Break

Or if you can wait until the next post on my blog, you are welcome.

[Formerly published in Socyberty ]

Friday, December 18, 2009

Give and Take.

[This story is also published in Authspot ]

[a story from India, dedicated to all the teachers and students in the world...]

It was my friend who told me about Raghavan master that, he is one of the greatest teachers he has ever met, and that he would be a good choice for me too.

“Why should I go searching for a teacher? I simply get them in my school.”–I said.

“If you want to be guided, you should search for your guide. It is your duty and necessity, you will understand it, my friend.”–He said, with peace in his words.

“But how can we realise that someone is the best teacher or guide? How can we find them?”–I was curious this time.

He narrated me his own experience, how he had found his teacher.

“It was I who searched for my teacher, but it was my teacher, as I now realise benefited by me.”

Seeing me rather interested in his deep philosophy, he smiled and continued. (And I like him for that, he gets me quickly).

He continued: “When I met Raghavan master, he asked me, what I wanted. I said-’I want to know about life.’ To this, he replied–’But

I don’t know what life is. Then how can I teach you about life?

I said : ‘That shows you know a great deal about life, for life is undefinable and is like an unanswerable question. You are the right person to teach me.”– I had understood that he had the abundent wealth of knowledge with him. And he took me in.”

My friend stopped talking and looked at me on my lips, which had already started moving uncontrollably.

I only said–”I understood”.

Will you wait for the one?

How many of us wait for someone? I am not talking about waiting for love to happen, but waiting for the beloved who has departed from you due to some reasons, except death. I have published a small piece carrying my views on this topic. You can read that on this link: Socyberty . I request you to write your opinions as well in the comment box below.

Saturday, December 5, 2009


Individual, the conglomerate entity, has differences rather than similarities with each other. But every individual is confined to the helplessness of generalized perception. In other words, it is a human deficiency that human beings can't afford unwanted energy expenditure as part of their increasing utility demands that leads them to generalize things to a certain extent on the basis of some perceivable common threads running through them. These threads can be observed as the major factors identified similar in the things around. This 'weakness' of identifying similarities can be a boon to the human civilization.

Read the full article on SOCYBRETY.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009


on one personal pain...

catastrophe of the night,

ravished me with a meteorite,

of the heavenly space.

I welled up, as an emotion,

unexampled, inexplicable,

I felt highly vulnerable.

The dark barbarian has his hands,

and legs and his whole body,

rested upon my flesh,

crushing it down the earth.

I cried, I spewed out my stomach,

my eyes came out of the skull,

my skin ripped off and my mind,

left alone, like an emotion inexplicable.

I cried.

Tears turned to blood.

And I knew the morning was coming.

[You can read this poem in Authspot also.]


[The poem was formerly published with Authspot ]

Just let the day pass,

and let the moon rest,

in the night's lap.

To give you hopes,

of thousands of stars.

The day will take away with it,

the rain and flaming sun.

Your bread might be wet,

from the lack of roof.

Your hearth might be damp,

and there might only be smoke.

Your children might scream in-

the sermon of hunger;

in its metamorphosis:

void in front of the eye holes.

And your wife's breasts might stick to bone,

as if your husband's time has gone.

Then you are about to have -

a gleam of truth;

It lacks that last bit of potion,

to save some lives: love;

the invaluable currency.

The world has gone crazy in growth!

Let the day pass.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009


You don't know me,

more than a stranger does.

Even strangers know that,

they don't know me.

But you have declared, in an instance that,

you know me, like I am nothing.

As if I am nothing more

than a wall notice you had read.

As if with a meter scale you can,

assess me like the stumps you had seen.

As if with a plain gaze you can see across,

like the rivers you had met.

As if with a stone you can throw me down,

like the fruits you had tasted.

You don't know me,

more than a stranger does.

Even the strangers know what epics are,

what trees, the ocean, or the stars are.

And you know me?

Did you know that I do not exist?

Or that I lied?


[This poem is previously published here]



The thing I drew was a female.
The thing was as if in a mirror,
someone standing in between-
me and my art: a female thing.
The thing was only a thing,
as it had no hands to clasp,
and no legs to part;
a torso: on which I can work-
my inmost sensuous spark.
I made her nothing short of-
an exhibition piece.
The pride I had was that of a 'creator';
But the pride died quickly,
and the corpse turned into lust.
The only thing I found in her as lack,
was the place for me to enter.
[This poem is previously published in BOOKSIE ]

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Seeing Through-2

[Story continues...]

I recollected it somewhere from my memory: "the life is not worth living, when your thoughts are slaves".

'True. They can never see what the masters of their thoughts had done to their land. They all have participation in politics in the form of student's unions, in their colleges; every student in Kerala with the "fortune" of pursuing his/her career in a government college or school has this fate. How can they see the indolence with which these politicians are running the country since they are all under the spell of these master minds'.

I sat straight, for my back had started aching, in the undulating bus. My thoughts, Which were disturbing and embarrassing, faded. Pain is a good medicine for everyone, I thought. It was then I noticed something approaching. A vehicle, a truck, from across. It crossed the bus and a huge cloud of dust, it had brought with it covered over my bus. The bus, the passengers, and the girls, everything around was swallowed by the huge and vast cloud of dust.

I felt the grains in my eyes, I blinked them and they watered. That was an easy way to get rid of the dust from your eyes in your daily journeys. A very natural solution!

The bus resumed its journey again. I thought of covering my nose by using a hand kerchief, but it was stinking from use during the day. So I didn't take up that plan. I felt the dust particles thrashing against my face. The bus couldn't attain its speed in the gutters.

Through my nostrils, I had inhaled the dirt and dust. I could tell the path of the dust through my nostrils down. I had felt the tiny grains of dust in my mouth. I had already closed my eyes after the blinking and tearing practice. I wanted to sleep, but I couldn't.

I reached home exhausted. It was dark and my mother was getting upset for I was late. She is so loving that she couldn't bear a moment's absence of mine from the every day time of my arrival. She didn't say anything for some moments, but suddenly blurted out: "It's the daily thing that you do. How many times have I told you to come early?"

"It's the daily thing. The usual." I repeated without much of the consciousness. That was the fact. This was the same every day.


[The story was first published in Authspot ]

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Seeing Through-1

What I write mostly is what I had seen or what I wanted to see in place or along with what I had seen. This is a pattern I identified with my writings. I think almost all the writers in the world are addicted to this pattern. Well, who can blind their eyes in a world like India, where everywhere, in every turn of your path, you are sure to confront one or other kind of wonder in front of your eyes, in human beings, or in culture, or in tradition, or in any of the characteristics of the civilization. And which writer can stop herself being taken into writing.

India is a wonder. It is a truth, but at the same time it is a sarcasm, as well. The story I am going to tell you proves it. It is about one of my daily journeys home from the university. I can, each day in these journeys, see stories everywhere. Some sad, some embarrassing, and some heart breaking. In some of those stories, I become a part of , and live in them, but in some others I merely take the role of an observer. The story that I am going to tell you is one among them, which I saw in one of those journeys, and living through all these days as a part of it.

You'd better have a journey through the Himalayas, or the Alps and that would be much better than journeying through the roads of Kerala. That is the condition of the roads here. The private bus I took home, swayed and hurdled through the potholes on the road. The thick dense bushes growing on both sides were painted brown with the dust from the road. Opening of the eyes was difficult. I could barely open my eyes. It was so dusty that if I opened my eyes fully, I might risk my eyesight forever. I thought I would better keep my eyes closed.

I crushed my teeth out of anger. I forgot the name of the minister of roads. I don't know why he can't see what the common folks are enduring each day? I am sure it wouldn't be a distant reality when my fellow beings and me would suffer from chronic pulmonary sicknesses. A majority of Kerala population would, I am sure.

Dust was not the only thing that made me lose my temper. I once, standing in the bus stop, had seen the minister of roads, passing through the same road, in an air conditioned car. I had thought he would be doing something. It was six or seven months now, from that day. See, the road, the dust, everything has worsened.

I had read once in my childhood that the blue colouration of the sky is due to the dust in the sky. The sunlight is scattered from the dust and the colours live in the sunlight disperses and only the blue remains. Perhaps this might be true. If this is true, then, I am sure the largest amount of dust that spreads in the sky would be coming from Kerala, from the roads of this unfortunate place.

The Communists or the United Democratic front, whoever would rule the state, the common people were the sufferers. The communists who speak of class equality and social justice, provide the common class with the worst of all situations in every day life. The other group, the United Democratic Front, who get themselves press on by liberalism and Gandhism, curse the people of the place with confinement to the perverse conditions of human life.

No one talked anything or opened their eyes. Dust. The bus stopped in front of a technical institution, from where I was sure that many girls would get in. I opened my eyes. Surveyed the bus stop, like a common Keralite would always be pleased with. As I had expected, there were many pretty faces there, chattering and chattering among each other, as if the the dust can be settled with words and letters. They seemed not very concerned about the particular problem I was suffering from.

I thought, 'in their verve of youth they might have forgotten what the wise people say about life'.


Searching story

[Formerly published in: WRITINGHOOD.]

say that stories are not reality. They believe that stories simply divert us from the, ruthless and poignant reality. They are right. Then, why are stories made? Do they have any other uses?

Stories, made, will only digress us or lead us away from what we think of where we should be. But a story teller becomes great when that one 'finds out' the stories from his environment, rather than 'makes them up'. The listeners should feel the stories inextricably linked with their five senses and in a later effort should be able to read them from around, clear, living, and pulsating. Never, a cooked up story has life, or even if it has, it will be of poisonous nature.Stories exist. One need the technique to find them and can read. No loss of reality happens in reading them-- for they are found out from the reality in which the reader lives-- but only a transportation. We are transported from one reality to another. Thus, there are realities, and not a single only 'underlined reality' on which life rests like the boats and canoes on the vast waters, vaulting and drowning, stuck on the water, as if 'escape' seems to be the last word to be called sane.

Meeting people and talking to them: is this the apt way to find stories? In front of an inspired writer, or a story teller stories themselves will appear, but when the magnetic moments of inspiration fades, stories run on the contrary, away from the story teller. It is then, the search begins.

For a fruitful search any path is allowed, except the one, which takes one, directly to the point of victory because then, the search becomes meaningless and the lessons, which otherwise one would have experienced, in the wanderings and digressions are never learned. A search is learning. It primarily provides us tools, which we can use in the attainment of victory. A story teller's search also 'only' teaches the one, how to find the story and read.

I too was in such a search, all these weeks from the start of November. But I couldn't reach anywhere in the lessons taught by my search. There are much to learn and I was eager too.

It is difficult to know exactly when your search would end. When it ends, one will simply find oneself in another reality, another world,because once your search equips you, the whole perception changes and thus you emerge in an altogether different world, a different reality. Take putting on a red glass as an example or a magnifying glass. The result is a new reality, a different perception. The search ends and no one knows when, but simply being equipped for gaining victory over the inhibitions, over the prejudices, over the limitations of sight, the one gets transported into another reality; a story teller to his or her success, the long expected, the sacrosanct, the realm of the story.

And I am hopeful about my search too that it will equip me and prepare me for having some new perceptions and new stories in the path I am moving on, and in the world I am living.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Differ Alike

[This article has formerly been published in]

Are they the similarities in us that make us think of an ideal world of unity? If yes, then what are those similarities? It is an unquestioned truth that every individual is different from the other. Even cultures, which do not acknowledge the individualism in their social set up, hardly reject this concept.

The similarities do matter and need consideration. Though wars are waged, even the war sponsors would admit the importance of peace and comfort in their own lives. In fact, it is for these basic human needs or the successful satisfaction of these needs, they wage war upon some other less privileged. (both economically and intellectually under privileged).

The division of the world by walls, political, cultural, linguistic, social, etc, is also like wars, waged. In other words, wars are a complimenting mechanism for the establishment and existence of these walls.

But isn't there something that doesn't love a wall, like Robert Frost had once remarked in his poem "Mending Wall"! And that 'something' seems to be universal for me.

History is evident that similar theories or intellectual activities or thoughts have swept many parts of the globe during the same period of time. This shows the existence of something universal in every human being, unknown to any one's reason. Sometimes it might be our differences that make us similar.

Archetypal criticism and patterns of symbols identified as archetypal symbols, in studies made by theorists like Northrop Frye, get shore on no other point. It is the universality of emotions that enable us to enjoy art, literature or movies made from any part of the world.

Now, what's the problem with your neighbour? It is only a matter with the moment, in which you see only differences between you.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Night and After Night.

The dark dome was stolen,
'but it will be replaced', sighed someone.
The pillars, painted with green,
stood unprovoked,
though a stir, a movement, a turmoil,
was seen on the ground.

It was altogether a new sight:
a scene without the dark dome.
It was unimagined,
exquisite and brand new.
It was a gift.
Every gift is special, bright;
it can only be marked with a light,
with the truest smile, silent.

The dark dome was a protection,
under the unknown designs-
of storms and thunders.
It had designs on its highest part;
shining buttons. And a hole,
which appears and disappears,
at times with fourteen days in between,
which passes the light in;
needed a repair, but none did anything to it.
The dome had been stolen.
The night by the sun,
to make something visible.

Monday, November 2, 2009

In Company.

is a kindness,
by someone,
more kind than you or me;
A palace made of golden time,
always risking stealth.
From where no one comes out,
and once came out never returns.
For, in there we'd be
in company with our-self,
our tears, our smiles, and our tastes.
For in there we'd be done with,
The nearness of people,
with whom our sorrows and joys are weaved;
who kill their sense at times,
when we need them the most;
who would ask us questions,
and questions alone;
Why, what, where and when.
But we cried, we smiled, and we tasted our- self.
Someone has shown us an unspeakable kindness,
someone more kind than you or me.
And thus we are in company;
in the company of loneliness.

The Lost and Found.

The Truth cannot be covered forever, it is true with History as well. There is a magic associated with everything, say with time or with history or even with you and me. Every time, when a truth is suppressed, the magic associated with it become activated and plots for its 'rebirth'.

It was reported recently that scientists working at the site of the Mayan city of El Mirador discovered a lost pyramid, in the Guatemalan jungle. The city was active from about 500 B.C. to A.D. 100.

The report in the CNN News says:

"The pyramid is a structure the world should know because it represents an investment of labor unprecedented in the world's history. Every single stone in that building, from the bottom to the top, was carried by human labor," said archaeologist Richard Hansen, director of the Mirador Basin Project.

The size of the pyramid is so huge that it is believed that it is compared with the Great pyramid in Giza, Egypt, which is currently the world's largest. It consists of 2.3 million stone blocks that weigh 2.5 tons to 15 tons apiece.

The archaeologists also found ancient stone carvings on the Mayan creation story. A truth, a history, a past that was buried in the flow of time, is now in the wake of resurrection into another world. A new world that doesn't understand the 'value' of truth or time.

It is said among the rural folks in Malabar, that every occurrence in the nature, has a significance, and it will always have something special to teach us.

The Fallen World.

There are fallen stars,
there are fallen angels.
Everywhere the eyes can see,
the fallen world, a burning sea.
Ramshackle cultures and kingdoms.
Being a part of this world's fallen fate,
someone gave me a name.
"A Cruel Devil".
I was alone,
but I can hear the voices.
There are invisible nearness,
which I felt everywhere.
I was alone,
but I can hear the voices,
lovely though, tearing my senses,
making me dumb, stiff, and cold.
I am no fallen star, I'm no fallen angel,
though in such a place I dwell.
There was fire outside, burning,
but now, what's burning mine inside,
my mind, my heart, my brain, my world, fallen.
A fallen world: Where I'm alone...

Friday, October 16, 2009

The Care Taker.

With hot black tea,And a news paper in hand,
Sat in his veranda, the dark brown man.

Though silver his hairs,
On the head and over the bare chest were,
He tried pompously to read,

Without his glasses put on.

He turned the page.
His wrinkled eyes met with
The news of a nun raped and murdered.

He turned the page.
His saliva dried, reading the news-
Of rising commodity prices!

He turned the page.
He was not shocked from the news of

Hindu bigotry, or Islamic terror,

Only a matter of neighbourhood.

He looked at his home and smiled.

He turned the page.

The news of Kerala’s largest river drying up,
Reminded him of his half filled well.

He turned the page.
At once his eyes stuck on a scene!
A police constable stabbed to death,
By the supporters of some political party!

He prayed for his son’s safety;
Who was a police constable;
And ran to the phone,
Dialed his son’s mobile number.
Someone said, from the other side:
“The number you are calling has been switched off.
Please try later.”

The page turned...

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

The Witch of Portobello: A Film Journey

Every experiment takes place as a human attempt to bring the angels of change to the barren ground of routine, the ordinary, the familiar. This is the story of an experiment. Mr. Paulo Coelho, the Latin American author,(The author of THE ALCHEMIST), through his film contest named 'THE EXPERIMENTAL WITCH Film Competition', has attempted an experiment with film making, where he himself selected the winners of the contest, identifying the film, which can stand close to his own conception of his novel, THE WITCH OF PORTOBELLO.

Image Courtesy:
 It was held on August 24, 2008. In the competition, a different crew filmed each of the chapters of the novel, THE WITCH OF PORTOBELLO. Out of 6,000 submissions, there were 14 winners, one for each chapter of the novel.

In the novel, the character of Athena, the protagonist, evolves through the narratives of different people; either once associated with her or knew her. Now, these fourteen films have been edited into a two-hour feature film and are premiering for the first time at the International Rome Film Festival—an experimental film first of its kind in history.

One of the readers of THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR, and my friend, writer, actor, producer, Miss. Carolena Sabah is also a part of this project. Her film had won the award for the best film, in 'THE EXPERIMENTAL WITCH Film Competition'. Her film is directed by Tadesh Daschi. The film is on the “Nabil Alaihi” chapter.

Image Courtesy: Carolena Sabah
Carolena Sabah was born, with Armenian heritage, on Aug. 15, 1974 as the second child to her mother Juliet Gevorkoff, and her father Robert Golian, in Iran, where her father was an aerospace engineer and her mother, who was a scholar of international communications, was a prominent travel guide.

Soon after Carolena and her sister Pauline's birth, her family moved out of Iran, her home country, due to the rise of fundamentalist forces in the country. The family immigrated to Greece and then to the United States. They settled in Los Angeles, California. Carolena excelled in her school activities and won many honours and awards.

In college, she was Speaker of the House, an esteemed award, graced the Dean's Honor List, was invited to be a member of the Alpha Gamma Sigma Honor Society, and graduated at the top of her class. She is a licensed Dental Hygienist, by profession.
Image Courtesy: Paulo Coelho
In 2001, she enrolled at the Stella Adler Conservatory in Hollywood as a student of the craft of Acting. Congratulations Carolena, and all the very best for the success of your new film. The premiere of the film in the International Rome Film festival will be on October 20, 2009, Tuesday at 9 pm. THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR wishes Mr. Paulo Coelho, and all the crew of this film, the very peak of success. For further details on the film, visit:

[For further reading on THE WITCH OF PORTOBELLO go to :

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Rewarded Again.

My dear Anu,

Congrats for such a nice blog!

I have to say that I'm a bit proud of you!

Your success story should act as a motivation for other bloggers in the offing!

I am a sure you will be able to make it the mouthpiece of the emerging youth of India.

I've gone through some of the old posts and found the merit of your work. For instance, id mubarak, malabari girl, etc. reveal your gift for writing and imagining.

That radical thinking also I like.



Prof. Josh Sreedharan

Head, Dept. of Studies in English, Kannur University, India.


Thank you so much Sir,
I have no more words. I am also proud that I am a student of such a great person like you. I am overwhelmed.
Thank you so much sir.

Your student,


October 7, 2009 3:53 AM


Undoing Writer's Block.

Where was my God? I was alone and there was no God near. I couldn't write. There was only a vast void, which seemed impossible to cross. I always believed that when I reach in a state of communion with God, I write. And that was what I lacked; the meeting, the communion, the nearness; the divine sharing. God was the cause of all my writings and is; though I believe it too that God never causes anything, but allows things to happen. I know. As Richard Bach says in "Illusions", his novel, we are the ones to decide what our life should be. In the process of my writing, God becomes the fulfilling experience of my efforts of communion with that Higher Power, thus the cause. I am talking about the impetus, something that I know as true, but can't explain.

Was that a writer's block that I had these recent days, blocking me from writing anything? I don't know. Though I had done thorough studies on methods of identifi cation and solution for the writer's block, I found everything, every learned knowledge, useless. I was finally resting myself on the same steps of impetus, what I always identified as the communion with God.

There is always a second chance--a voice in my mind—I don't know, when and where this voice came into my mind. Also, I had doubts on its credibility, though it seems to be true. This sentence always haunted me and this voice always peeped through thousands of other voices, and clamours in my head; I mean in my mind. There is always a second chance!

How do I come to writing this time? Is this my second chance? It is not the word 'second'--that numerical exactness-- that matters, but it is the opportunity in a time of despair that the voice conveys. This second chance, I realised that, was from God. In India, you don't have any limit to the number of Gods, or that limit is too high somewhere. The God that stretched a link to me this time, the communion that I have experienced, is perhaps Saraswathi, from the muse, the Goddess of letters and art, through a nonsensical futility; love. The love that is nonsensical and futile, as I believed it was, can be called infatuation. The infatuation I felt towards a girl, an elegant, tall, good looking girl, who I had seen, just before a few days for the first time, in my college, is what my hint is about.

She helped me once, and that was the only thing I knew about her, except her face and stature. I was holding a glass for filling water in front of the drinking water tap, in the canteen. It was crowded. She was the one before me. After taking water for herself, she opened the tap again, for me. And that was that; she helped. There are reasons to identify that, what I felt was a simple infatuation. She was not my classmate, not my neighbour, and not someone who is known to me. But all of a sudden I have started liking her and started trying vainly to picture her face in my mind. It is a truth that for someone to be your partner, the first thing you need is to know that person well. But here in this case there is no such thing happened and so it can be concluded that it is only a streak of lightning, which in other words can be identified as 'infatuation'. She was one of those many beautiful faces which attracted me. I knew that. She was just a passing mist.

Every infatuation consists within itself endless possibilities for a transformation of feelings into a true, and divine love, I believe so. But within me all those possibilities are deactivated by some of the surrounding factors. The first factor is that in Kerala, the word "love" is something to be used carefully. Most of the people take it as an obscene word in its common use.

The second factor is the unfamiliarity existing between the girl and me. The third factor is the awareness of lacks that I have. The lack of a job, lack of money, lack of a social status, lack of a luxury bike, and so on. After all, I am still a student.

Every time, if something is repressed, it will suppress the possibility of its erasure . That is, when some feeling is suppressed, it finds an expression through some other way, sometimes through art, or sometimes through different social behaviours, etc. And thus the possibility of the death of the suppressed feeling will descend. It will take a birth in another form, and in another medium. I can't forget to express my courtesy to Sigmund Freud here.

Thus the meaning is simply this: this time, the impetus or the wind, which stirred the ripples in my mind, a god that is, is nothing but my infatuation or the suppressed love; a deluge that broke the occult wall of my 'writer's block'.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009


Dear Anulal,
HEARTY CONGRATS ON THIS MOMENTOUS DAY! I went through your anniversary post. It's a very good read. I didn't know that you were given an award for your blogging efforts. Belated CONGRATULATIONS!

I am looking forward to your first attempt at fiction. I urge you to keep writing whatever you feel like. As we discussed in our Freud session, creativity feeds on the pleasure principle! So just ENJOY life doing what you love most!


Mr.K.K. Kunhammad,

Department of Studies in English Language and Literature,

Thalassery Campus,
Kannur University.
My Gratitude:


Thank you so much for your kind words. Your words, and advice are always a path light for me. And as I always say, I have no words to express my gratitude in its fullest extent, except to say 'thank you'. My limitation... my helplessness. I hope you would read my fiction in the coming posts and with your kind and valuable suggestions enrich my efforts.

Thank you once again.

Yours truly,


Monday, October 5, 2009

The October celebration.

The choice was made one year back. The choice was between being occult and becoming known. And this is a moment, a day and a month of celebrations.

Writing was always in my veins. I can recollect my first written draft. That was a short story. But I couldn't finish it. I was ten years old at that time. I feel that the same kid is rejoicing and living his dreams now, when I am writing my blog. My blog was the choice I had made. Today is the first anniversary of my blog"THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR". It was on an October, one year back, I started this journey. October 5, 2008.

My first attempt to create a blog was a success. But it failed in its contents and readership. I attempted a second time, which was out of my inner call to propagate a spiritual concept to the world. But my inability to continue and the lack of self- confidence that I felt, resulted in another demise.

After these two failures, I am still surprised, why did I hope for a victory in blogging, and how did I believe in my ability to write! I just hoped, I just believed. And thus THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR was born.

It was meant for being an observer, a commentator on things happening around; a voice of humanity, love and justice. I was (and always will be) conscious about bringing differences in each of the posts. THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR is meant not only for the serious readers, but also for people who want entertainment through reading. So everyone going through my blog, people with different tastes, all are having their tastes on the dish.

Every beginning consists of victories for those who don't quit from their path. The only thing required is the selection of the right path. This selection can be self- motivated. In my case, though the selection of path is mine own, the courage and confidence that I got to move on the chosen path was something external. Though the choices were mine, about the paths to be taken, the topics to be selected, the style to be adopted, and the genres of presentation, the self-confidence, which is the base of every choice, was the gift of many. Among them, my teachers come to the prominent place. With their valuable advice and appreciations they kept me going on my way, in my journey of self expression.

Friends. A friend means the one who knows what you are. They need no special introductions or thanks-giving. The one name I am going to mention here, is a person who not only knows what I am, but also knows what I would be. Her name is Terri, my Tia. It is from her blog BLOOMING IDEAS,, I received the "KEATIVE BLOGGER" award, an award, which helped me to know what I am, to which I am always indebted to her. The blog she keeps is an excellent example for art and designing.

Ajay--his blogs AJUS009 [] and SHOWREEL []—is the very first follower of THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR and I can't forget that friend whose SHOWREEL is an interesting place of media criticism.

There are names, so many, which for the time being I am keeping close to my heart, but not mentioning here. I would like to use this occasion for expressing my gratitude for all of them, my friends, my readers, the precious people who are following THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR and those who, with their valuable comments, always guided and encouraged me.

Let me acknowledge this fact that without all you people, my readers, I wouldn't be here writing this anniversary-post. After all, without readers what importance does an author has. It would be like singing in void.

Being a student by myself, it is a part of my life to open my eyes wide to the naked realities of this world. For me, it serves for learning as well as an expression of my 'self'. THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR is an Observer. An observer with a human eye, with all the weaknesses and strengths of being a human.

Readers, there is something special for you to come in the future posts. A novel, which I have planned to publish as fortnightly, along with all the other information and fun.

Thank you once again for being here, and being part of THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR community. Thank you for all the support and appreciations. I hope you all will continue your kind supports and appreciations in future as well.



Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Eid Mubarak.

It was the 29th day of the month of Eid. I thought the next day, there would be moon. But it didn't come. I was at home, watching every news and every other programme, sick with flu. There was nothing else to do. My eyes were on Eid special programmes on the TV.

The other day, I saw Murshid had called me on my mobile, but I didn't hear, for my cell had been in silent mode. Three missed calls. I rang back. It was hard for me to reject him. But I rejected his invitation for the Eid feast the next day at his home. He had told me before that, he would invite me to his home for this Eid. I was really excited. His Mamma's cooking, as he had said, was superb. But there was no other way for me. I was in sick bed.

My stomach was churning at times. I could not recognise whether hunger or thirst caused my stomach to move and burn. I felt like vomiting, but didn't vomit. I didn't feel thirst and hunger as I felt usually. At times, I thought I needed food and ate something. I took water at some other instincts. It was confusing and tiring. It was difficult for me to identify whether I was hungry or thirsty. All these tribulations were parts of the flu.

Another friend of mine, Saleem also invited me, but I turned him down as well. In the case of feast invitations, this year I am luckily, wealthy. The previous year on the other hand, I was not.

I celebrated this year's Eid with my flu. Hoping to be wealthy with invitations the next year and also to be able to accept them.

I would like to thank both of them for their kindness. May God bless them.

Eid Mubarak.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Malbar Girls

Someone said, when you have nothing else to do, you make love. I have doubts on the credibility of this sentence that is, on the way things turn around into, love making. It is not that I have quoted it and so I believe it. I have quoted this sentence just to show how horrible and lonely I felt, during the previous week. Isn't it horrible to be away from your work for the whole week and that too, not having a girlfriend near! My plight will not strike some if they know that I have no girlfriends at all. So how can I have a girlfriend near, if I have none!

There are many reasons not to have a girlfriend. The primary reason is the difference in the thinking of the common society and this author. The second reason is the typical Malabar girls, who are a necessary product of this conservative, orthodox, narrow- minded society. The way things run here, is really interesting. Every girl is made to believe that the reason for their existence is solely marriage. They should find their heaven or hell under the feet of their 'puruwan' or, man.

Do not misunderstand this statement as a subjugation of women. There is no such 'big deal' happening. In the case of dowry and house assaults, Malabari women suffer the least. Not only that, but after the marriage, they become, in most of the homes, the mistresses or the main decision makers. But don't you dare ask them about this because they prefer humiliating themselves and putting men as the patriarchal masters of their homes, when someone from outside is watching.

There is another truth behind this indirect male subjection. Most of the men live near or in the wife house, and build their world around them. So there is no question of opposing or ruling their wives.

But these are all after marriage phenomenon. Before marriage, these girls are the most perfect Victorian damsels, who never disobey, or trouble their parents through involving in any affairs or relationships. (Or that is what they are supposed to be.). They are taught that sex is a sin and genital is a rubbish hole through which your urine is supposed to pass when you urinate. Do not touch it, it is dirty!! They flinch and blush in the biology classes and giggle during the movie scenes.

They are taught about cast, religion, and social status. If someone approaches them with a proposal for, love, they will first, think about the religion. Then, the cast of the boy and her. If both are of equal status, they proceed.

You can also find some (not talking about prostitutes), who simply fall in love, smile, and be ready to lie with you, with the fragrance of coconut oil in their tresses and sweat in their unshaven arm pits for, they have special powers to understand whether you are a liar or not. Now, this is very important, understanding whether you are a liar or not because every relationship is supposed to end up in MARRIAGE.

And thus what else can I say, until this day, I am alone...

Monday, August 31, 2009

Happy Birthday Michael Jackson!

A man with the power over the multitude, who in his every movement can create wonders, whose voice can echo in the four corners of the earth, is nothing short of a super hero. But you can call him Michael Jackson, as well.

Being a middle class Indian, for me, Michael Jackson is a musical super hero. I have only seen and heard him through his songs and videos. I think, for so many others around the globe, MJ, would be a similar experience. And for those so many and me, around the world, MJ is still there as a dancing figure, and as the King of Pop. Why should one believe that he is dead, if his presence has still been experienced in the same way and intensity? The world is celebrating his birthday as ever.His publicity hasn't decreased even after his physical death.

They say that music has no death. It can also be said that successful musicians also survive forever. M. J was also a successful musician and so is over powering his death. It is not only true with musicians, but also true with people associated with art in general. But why do we remember Hitler and how is he still existing in our thoughts, though, as a despicable figure?The answer is, we remember the darkest nights and the brightest days with the same poignancy. The distinction, is love, which decides the intimacy.

In the journey of life, every individual covers a definite distance or steps. This distance covered, or steps climbed, decides whether they would be remembered and how. In other words, it is the journey we undertake that decides our future "after death". Even though this statement seems ridiculous, this has a varied sense of meanings. Questions like 'Is there a life after death?' Or ' Is death an end of life?', are even asked today. As I wrote in one of my early blog posts titled "Monsoon", life is a process that encompass even death. Death, thus, is not the end of it, but a new diversion that life takes,which is unknown and incomprehensible for the living beings in any other state of existence.

M. J will be remembered in the pop culture as the King. It is also true that this sentence is controversial. M. J as an individual is unbound in a cultural space. He has obviously influenced and is influencing cultures and people all over the world.

Among his works, what I always recommend are, those songs, which were dedicated for world peace and environmental justice, like "Heal the world". If any song that could be considered his master piece that one would come undoubtedly from these numbers.

M. J always stood for justice and humanity, through his songs. But what an injustice that has been showed toward his dead body. Here is a request,in the humblest voice, give him a true burial...

Happy Birthday, MJ. The World still hears you...

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

You're gonna get it soon!

"...for a pop legend, listening to himself, other than to his multi-millionaire sponsors, is a matter, less short of death. So he decided to die...

He wanted to regain something that he had lost...".

Read and feel the ground rocking tale! The Indian Commentator presents: MICHAEL: THE MIGHTIEST.

"A tale untold, yet."


A fortnightly fiction.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Swine Flu.

Dear readers, I am attempting a poem on Swine Flu this time. While writing this poem, I had one thing in my mind to share with you: hope. The disease has brought home great many troubles and hopelessness as a necessary repercussion. I wanted to make a change to this thought and to give a little comfort for the suffering lot. My poem ends with an affirmation of hope, which may seem unusual for some readers.I believe if you can conceive something, there are possibilities for that thing to happen in real. Let me remind you one more thing, the most usual things in the world, take place in a way that is mostly unusual!

Swine Flu:


While the rain harvests

the blossoms from the wild weeds,

and the retreat of the sun

behind the cloud veil becomes complete,

the invisible organisms intrude

into the skin and scions of human kind.

It is the shadow wall of protection

that had got undone.

The folks wanted to play gambler,

to test their luck to abate

the misery and pain a little.

Many parted from the families

of ever blooming flowers and smiling stars.

The unseen presence-

named, as hope and faith,

masked as flowers and stars,

had bloomed and shined

somewhere near the graves.

Drops parted form the rain,

and rays parted from the sun.

No earth existed, where any-

hiding place can be found.

None excluded from death.

The drops died, the rays died,

the stars died, also the flowers.

When The Writer's Dove, but spread its wings,

and one tempted man craved for water,

end became the beginning,

and death became life.

And the separation of the souls

became an endless, eternal union.

The fever subsided and the world lived again.