Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Yanthiran; The Robot.

This piece of laugh drug was sent to me by my friend Aswathi, who is now in Germany with her husband. I am a great fan of Rajnikant and this mail gave me a good belly laugh, and obviously for those too who would love to have some harmless fun out of the Living Legend. His fans are awaiting his new film Yanthiran, The Robot. The Indian Commentator wishes him all the very best on this occasion. I request his fans not to take this post as any sort of attempt to disgrace the Super Star, and I remind you all that I myself am a great fan of him.

Here is the mail I received from Aswathi:

4 Those Who Don’t Know Who Rajnikanth is?

1. When Rajinikanth does push-ups, he isn't lifting himself up. He is pushing d earth down.

2 .Rajnikanth can divide by zero.

3. Rajinikanth can delete d Recycle Bin.

4. Rajinikanth can slam a revolving door.

5. Rajinikanth once kicked a horse in d chin. Its descendants are today cald giraffes.

6. Rajinikanth can make onions cry.

7. Rajnikanth can drown a fish.

8. When Rajnikanth looks in mirror d mirror shatters, bcoz not even glass is stupid to get in betwn Rajnikanth & Rajnikanth.

9. Rajinikanth never wet his bed as a child. The bed wet itself in fear.

10. Rajinikanth doesn't breathe. Air hides in his lungs for protection.

11. Bermuda Triangle was previously known as Bermuda Square, until Rajinikanth kicked one of the corners off.

12. Rajinikanth can pick up missed calls

13. Rajinikanth's every step creates a mini whirlwind. Hurricane Katrina was a result of his jog.

14. The ONLY things that run faster and longer than Rajinikanth are his films.

15. Rajinikanth gave Mona Lisa that smile.

16. Rajinikanth doesn't wear a watch. HE decides what time it is.

17. If you Google search "Rajinikanth getting kicked", it will show zero results. It just doesn't happen.

18. Finally the best - Rajinikanth counted to infinity – twice

19. At last his email-id:

Thank you Aswathi.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Don Delillo and ONV. Kurup

You call my today as: 24th September 2010 in India. And it is important for this day to be specified. For this day has given me an opportunity to cross the barrier of the normal or the ordinary. For me, the ordinary consists of the consistent flow of the present time. But today, I experienced a juxtaposing of the past and the present, in my intellectual environment—something that undid my ordinary relationship with the present time. The evening news of the day and an internet news paper reminded me of two great figures in literature, who were my inspiration and figures of respect in two different periods of my life. Mr. Don Delillo, and Mr. ONV. Kurup; the former belongs to my present literary career as a part of my understanding of world literature and the latter belongs to a stage in my life that could be called the beginning of my understanding of literature, during my teenage and youth; have now once again registered their presences not just in my subjective environment but also in the news streams of the busy media, at a time.

In the literary awards announced by PEN, Don Delillo secured a niche with the Saul Bellow Award for Achievement in American fiction. In a different prize-news, the famous Malayalam poet O.N.V Kurup won the Jnanapidha Award, the most prestigious among the literary awards in India. Delillo's first book, Americana was published in 1971; his most recent Point Omega was released this year (2010). For the novel The White Noise he was conferred with the National Book Award in 1985.

O.N.V Kurup popularly known as ONV, was a lecturer at Maharaja’s College Ernakulum, University College - Trivandrum, Arts and Science College - Kozhikode, and Brennen College - Thalassery. He joined Government Women's College - Trivandrum as the Head of Malayalam Department. He was also a visiting professor at Calicut University. He retired from service in 1986. Lyricism was the literary trait that he followed successfully through his writings.

One crucial contradiction that can be identified between the two is Delillo’s attack on Communism as the white terrorism in his Falling Man, “which meant godless, Western white” (page: 195); and ONV’s lyricism that supported and watered Communism in the southern part of India, in Kerala. As communism assumed its withdrawal from the political ideology in Kerala and inflicted the cultural life, poets and writers who embellished the communist propagandist literary scenario became “Poet Laureates” of the cultural life of Kerala. But ONV, maintaining his position as a communist sponsored writer, transcended his limitations and achieved a unique position in the Kerala-culture through his sublime poetry, just like his own lyrics, maintaining the commitment towards reality and dreaming for the fantastic.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

The Four and the Sea

Muzhappilangad beach is one of the best driving beaches in India. But driving at the beach causes a lot of environmental problems. The mollusks and crabs that washed ashore along with the waves are crushed under the wheels of the vehicles. Speed is just another thing that fascinates people apart from the waves and the healthy sea breeze. And speed is the only such thing that even being part of their unalterable fascinations, they can create and experiment with. So every one reaching the beach with a vehicle, be it an auto rickshaw, tests their speedometers at least once.

But the four were that day to explore the natural destination. We—Ajay Sangeeth, Adarsh, Chiyan, and I—were the four. We had been invited. Our invitee was a very special entity—nature. It is the rejuvenating natural beauty of the beach that lured us, pulled us, or in more ‘civilized’ terms invited us to that spot. But the fact was that none of us had any idea about what we were going to experience at the beach, except Sangeeth. Being the leader of the group, it was Sangeeth who arranged the trip. And he had a smirk when the other three in the group were baffled by the beauty of the place.

Sangeeth and I reached there by bus. Chiyan and Adarsh agreed to precede us riding Chiyan’s bike. From the highway there was a half kilometer walk to the beach. There was a pocket road connecting the beach and the highway. Sangeeth and I walked the road. The road was not in a good condition, as any one can expect in Kerala. We saw electric posts painted with the face of Cheguvera, the revolutionary. We also saw a cremation house—a place where dead bodies are cremated, as the Hindu religion suggests—something that verges every one of the beaches I visited in Kerala. What significance do beaches have for dead bodies?—I asked Sangeeeth. He smiled and said—The dead too must need a place to live. And we had a hearty laugh on that.

But slowly something was wrapping both of us tightly into its spell. We both realized it. And we knew Chiyan and Adarsh too might be under the same situation, because we had seen them a little further away standing beside the bike entirely drowned into that influence—the coconut palms, the grassy green ground lined by the gleaming white sand, the breeze, the hills at the distance, the distant small island, the dark rocks surfing eternally on the water, the waves that die over the rocks and disappear at the horizontal sand stretch—it was magic; it was nature in its magical charm that bewitched us. And it was then I manipulated the hypothesis of “invitation”: we were invited by nature. Yes we are—I said.

Chiyan had one thing to add to it—something that every one of us would love to cherish throughout. The sea reaches to our soul and opens its inner windows, right?—he asked. I said yes. The nature seemed blushing with the evening slant of the sun. It was beauty. It was rejuvenation. It was nature, all over, every where.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

The Psychotic

“I am absolutely sure about the rising of the sun, the phases of the moon, the seasons, the time tables, the school schedules, but I am surprisingly naive about my self.” [Anu Lal-- Published in Facebook: Friday at 20:18.]
I felt my mind losing its final threads with life. There was a region of darkness developed around me. I could not see beyond it. I could not hear beyond it. I could not understand anything beyond it. The region of darkness existed within my hand’s reach. It was tangible. But it had obliterated the world, the life, and the perception that I believed, existed out side it. I knew it existed, because I had seen it before the enveloping of the dark veil.

Then, I could here voices—assertive and imperative. They asked everything out of me. I decided to communicate with them. But they did not seem to listen to me. I suspected the dark veil might be the reason why they could not hear me screaming. Their voices became louder and louder. It started blaring. My ears burst.

Then, I saw some one. They were staring at me. And they pointed at me with ferocious expressions. It was hard not to look at them. Did you see this is me: I wanted to shout. I cried. I wanted them to see, and save me from the prison of the dark veil, which was transforming now into a wall of glass. It looked rather like a glass ball. I was in its centre; but not in the air. I was on the ground. But I could still see the lower portion of the balloon reaching still far below from my feet. This made me feel doubtful about my own sensitivity, understanding, and my cognitive powers. I was on the ground, but still in the air. I looked up at them. I needed help at least to understand what the situation I am in was. But then they walked away. My eyes became blear. I could no longer make out anything.

Death sometimes is a better friend than the best of your friends. It stays with you from the very moment of your birth and reminds you that it is always near to console you by taking you into its tranquil bosom, when ever you need it, just like one of your best friends should have done, had they not forgotten your need.

The ‘I’ in this story had a name. It starts with the letter A and ends with the letter L, in English language. Let us call him AL. AL logged on to the internet connection, his only resort—the virtual world—where he spends hours and hours, intending to occupy every bit of his minute from life. That is his one window to the world outside—the only breach in the glass wall turned dark veil. After the life time he spent in front of the window, he decided to meet the most trusted friend—death. He searched in the Google to find out some painless ways to end up his life; to commit suicide. He did not hate his body. So there were no plans to hurt the body during the process of the communion with death.

One link somewhere held his attention. It was a website for stress management. It read:

Stress Management: How to Reduce, Prevent, and Cope with Stress

Learn how to successfully manage stress by changing the way you respond to stress, making time for relaxation, and learning healthier coping strategies. - Cached - Similar

AL entered the site. It explained many methods that could be adopted to manage the daily stress. What he found surprising was that he could relate many of the symptoms of stress described in the site. Then he stared into the box, showing the unhealthy strategies adopted to cope with stress. And he found himself there. AL read:

These coping strategies may temporarily reduce stress, but they cause more damage in the long run:

• Smoking

• Drinking too much

• Overeating or undereating

• Zoning out for hours in front of the TV or computer

• Withdrawing from friends, family, and activities • Using pills or drugs to relax

• Sleeping too much

• Procrastinating

• Filling up every minute of the day to avoid facing problems

• Taking out your stress on others (lashing out, angry outbursts, physical violence)

AL found all his problems listed there. And he felt as if some one is listening to his problems. He smiled. The scroll button lead him to some measures that will helpful cope with the stress problems without much of the harmful side effects. Then some thing else held his attention.

• Share your feelings. Talk to a trusted friend or make an appointment with a therapist. Expressing what you’re going through can be very cathartic, even if there’s nothing you can do to alter the stressful situation

• Reframe problems. Try to view stressful situations from a more positive perspective. Rather than fuming about a traffic jam, look at it as an opportunity to pause and regroup, listen to your favorite radio station, or enjoy some alone time.

• Learn how to say “no” – Know your limits and stick to them. Whether in your personal or professional life, refuse to accept added responsibilities when you’re close to reaching them. Taking on more than you can handle is a surefire recipe for stress.

Then he saw something that surprised him to the bones. The glass wall, that was once the dark veil, started to crumble down. He could see life. He could hear songs. And he felt something else too—the lost link with life being restored. Death was smiling at him from a distance, just like a friend, who was leaving his best friend after helping him find out the solution to deal with the crucial turn in his life.

Thursday, September 16, 2010


We met at a distance of a stretched hand.

We parted.

But the day I recovered your image-

In my dreams,

You were near,

Like the memory of a stretched dream:

Far away though,

Close to the distance of my eyelids.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

The Journey Downward.

“This is our strength, to love death to feel the claim of armed martyrdom.”—Says one of the terrorist characters in Don DeLillo’s novel Falling Man. On this year marking the 9th anniversary of the September 11 attacks this piece of literary imagination seems holding a crucial ground. DeLillo’s novelistic endeavor captures the flutter and fury of the unforgettable moment in the history of the most powerful nation on earth. Though the novel fails to raise any crucial existential issues, as the family shown as the central concern of the novel deals with issues and concerns that could be seen in any other good chick lit, coming to its ending pages, this work of fiction captures some real action and raises significant questions.

The novel stretches its lines from philosophical reflections ranging from God, and Communism to the religion of Islam and racism. Apart from that what makes the novel crucial in the socio-politico-cultural context of the present day world, is its backdrop. The novel has taken the background of the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center, 2001. It uses recurrently the image of the falling man that had captured the attention of the whole world, as a photograph that reveals the entirety of hopelessness and desperation of human life met with the vastness of the unknown, the boundary of life; death.

The protagonist, Keith has survived the attack from the North Tower. Keith lives alone after separating from his wife. Covered with glass and blood he walks back home. He reaches home, not the house he was living alone but the house where his wife Lianne and child lives. The visit to a terrain near death brings him back to his family. But there is more life has to offer him.

As the main story of the novel runs alongside the life of Keith and Lianne in their changed circumstances there is another story that runs parallel--the story of the terrorist; Hammad. Hammad involves himself in the planning and operation of the plane crash on the Towers. The progression of this story is reverse to the main story if Keith and Lianne. Hammad’s story ends with the plane crash—his martyrdom, which he meets with in the end of the book. Though these two stories follow a distinct path, the main story supports the second story through out the end part. The novel ends with Keith’s recollection of his experiences during the fall of the twin towers. He sees a shirt falling down. “Then he saw a shirt come down out of the sky. He walked and saw it fall, arms waving like nothing in this life”—says the closing sentence of the novel. Thus the novel begins and ends with the same picture of suffering and death.

The war on terror that the USA started before nine years has already faced unprecedented criticisms from allies and critics alike concerning the real aims of the war, the causalities in the army taking part on the operations, etc. But still, the war on terror remains a battle between the one who finds it his ultimate delight to register his mortality in the war, and the one whose fear for death is total and utmost. The enemy and his war strategies are as new to the Western allies as the barbarism in the valleys of the Middle East are primitive. On the ninth year of the terror strikes, the reactions that followed one of humanities most naïve actions, the Twin Tower attack, is a point that every one who considers himself or herself a member of the global community should rethink.
The ending part of the novel showcases a carnival of death. It portrays humans dying. The endless pain and torturous reality presents itself as if the dead specimen of an animal preserved in a paraffin jar unable to let lose its ferocity even after its death; its life before death captured and kept in tact inside the jar; the same way the attacks remain in our minds with the same morbidity, even after these long nine years.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

A Journey: Tony Blair's Literary Nonsense.

The stain from blood is not very easy to remove especially, by selling books. Do not doubt the sanity of this statement. This statement is completely part of my conscious thinking and understanding about Tony Blair’s new book. The sanity of the human state is not necessarily a self evaluation, but an identity, a label, by the society or a part of the space that one occupies in the society.

In a human life, sanity and insanity never juxtapose or lay side by side. There is therefore, no dividing line between both. There is only a battle, just like the one happened in Afghanistan. And then, there is only one result too, victory or failure—sanity or insanity. One conquers the other; ravishing, destroying and tearing apart the loser. But you or I will never realize what rules us; sanity or insanity. Yes, some one will shout at us from the corner of the street—there goes the mad one! Then in the darkness imposed by the momentary consciousness, we realize a faint glint: only those who are sane enough to understand that they are insane will survive.

The discrepancy in Tony Blair’s case had started with his decision to send the troops to the hell like place: Afghanistan. The publisher’s argument about the donation of money to Blair is that buyers of the book won’t feel bad even if they dislike Blair, to pay their money because the money is not going to Blair. After all, Blair is making some amendments for the suffering of the soldiers. But then, is it not he that sent those soldiers to meet their doom. His tears might be briny, but with the soldier’s sweat. And a crucial question to which none of the Western media or the critics keep any care to, is about the lives of the many a women and children perished in the war against terror.

A war cannot be fought in preserved environments. It is all destructive and ever threatening. However, the losses the war on Afghanistan cost were those exactly wanted by the anti-human forces like Osama Bin Laden—destruction, death, confusion.

For you or me, it becomes an effort less short of impossible to maintain the state of sanity. But to what extent some one, calling us insane affects us? The threat in the situation lies in the fact that you and I are perfectly aware of our states of sanity. In a society that has gone mad, the only struggle, the only rebellion is to prove ourselves sane—something that you and me are forced to do. The multimillion-pact will no doubt continue the recent boom in publishing industry. And especially, Tony Blair’s book will provide us some of the great scenes from the world that tries to find its state of sanity.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

September 11: The Life of the Dead

This year marks the 9th anniversary of the September 11 attacks.The endless pain and torturous reality presents itself as if the dead specimen of an animal preserved in a paraffin jar unable to let lose its ferocity even after its death; its life before death captured and kept in tact inside the jar; the same way the attacks remain in our minds with the same morbidity, even after these long nine years.

The war on terror that the USA started before nine years has already faced unprecedented criticisms from allies and critics alike concerning the real aims of the war, the causalities in the army taking part on the operations, etc. But still, the war on terror remains a battle between the one who finds it his ultimate delight to register his mortality in the war, and the one whose fear for death is total and utmost.

The enemy and his war strategies are as new to the Western allies as the barbarism in the valleys of the Middle East are primitive. On the ninth year of the terror strikes, the reactions that followed one of humanities most naïve actions, the Twin Tower attack, is a point that every one who considers himself or herself a member of the global community should rethink.

The paradox is that even before the attack on the US, India has been a constant victim of the evil of terrorism. But it took too much time for the world to realize the threat. But there are people who seem indifferent on the threat posed by countries like Pakistan even after coming across many solid evidences proving the involvement of the government of that nation in terrorist activities. Britain, one of the allies of the anti-terror legion, continues its unhindered supplies of weaponry and wealth to Pakistan, just like China. Then who is the real threat to the world, countries like Pakistan, who directly support terrorism or countries like Britain and China, who indirectly and secretively help the terrorists?

May those departed souls rest in peace.

Friday, September 10, 2010

kate Humble Seen.

Kate Humble, the world renowned BBC anchor, was seen at one of the beautiful beaches in Malabar, known as Muzhappilangad. She was with a crew directed by the well-known director of Lion TV, Paul Sapin, for a programme for BBC, named “Spice Trail”.

The six member crew was busy with shooting. And then a group of four young people arrived at the beach, which before a few minutes was deserted to the total. There was concern on the face of the crew. If the prominent faces in the team attracted attention and the beach became crowded, they would not be able to continue their work. They had no special security guards or experts of crowd handling there, as they always had when shooting in big cities like NY, or London. Their complacency in this relatively obscure place could lead them into danger?

They stopped working and discussed their concerns and finally decided to move on with the shooting as the very next day they had to catch the airplane to UK. Moreover, the four did not seem to be troublesome. They seemed to understand the situation and were showing cooperation with the team. The team showed them a ‘namaste’ and told them move back from the camera range, and gestured them keep silence, as their powerful microphones could catch even the breathing sound around. The four were affable. They smiled, with surprise in their eyes, perhaps on seeing the technology, as a silly guess goes. The four moved away. And now they were busy with their own preoccupations, the sea, the beautiful beach and the wind. One of them was spreading his arms as if to fly. Obviously, they were people with creative souls, full of humanity, minds to see and feel nature.
Read more from: Side Walk

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Life and War

For a moment, mind halts from its race. It turns quickly back. It stares at me. “Why did you do this?”—it asks. “Why did you make your life a place for permanent agony; constant conflicts, a battlefield?” The questions seem to echo through my skin and through each of the bones that gives me the thought of permanence and the classical solace of a structure. I look for an answer. Then find there is no answer, as always happened with me. In order to dilute the situation, to be attentive, or at least as an attempt to prove myself truthful to the human community, I invented a way—I decided to give a justification.

It would be easy to deal with something complicated, full of unpremeditated urgency, like life, when it is conceived as war; a battle for survival: I said.

And there in the backdrop of that thought, reined a fear—the fear of being caught in the game of make belief, in the war. Because like life, the war too, is a complicated system of things with the only surety in offer—the binary of victory or failure. On the other hand, in life, the assumed results could be on the half way or in the territory alien to the ordinariness of human perception—in between the binary. It is a space between victory and loss, between good and bad, between vague and the vivid. And therefore, in order to less complicate my perception, I thought of playing with it in the realm of binary, to conceive life as war.

And in such a battle, it is often usual forgetting who we are and where we are intended to. But there are people who remind us of our missions, of those dreams that we think we have already lost. They remind us that the dreams are not yet all lost, but the distance that we feel ourselves separated from them, is just another way of learning the significance of having a dream. In my life there are many, for God’s grace, like my Tia Terri, who remind me of what I am, always fills me with confidence, courage to move forward, and by her slightest reminders I am always brought back to my real path. But there is another one, who I have not acknowledged for a long time for his kindest attention towards my works of art: Jingle.Jingle has awarded me as THE MOST PERFECT POET and THE MOST CONFIDENT POET, some days past itself however; I postponed its publication in my blog page due to many reasons. But I feel now is the time. Thank you Jingle for the award that you bestowed upon me. Apologies for delaying the acknowledgement.

Sunday, September 5, 2010


Image Courtesy:: Google
I swirl my sword,
While the last breath of
Life flutters away.
I won’t accuse you any more,
For mistaking my deed
As arrogance I keep.
I expect you’ll understand,
I live a warrior’s death.

Saturday, September 4, 2010


I accused you,
You accused me back,
Mine was a lament,
A question… “Why?”
But yours was-
Blindness by the sorrow,
I know you bled tears.
But between us there was-
Silence; among all the condescension,
As the indelible mark-
Of love left behind.

Friday, September 3, 2010


There is only one thing in this world that is at once desired and despised for its deeply influential powers. From Barak Obama to Osama Bin laden, you and me, every one is the same in front of its invincible power; bewildered, hoping for the best to come out, praying for the moment to hold. That thing, my friend, as you might have already guessed, is change. Here is a beautiful poem that talks about one such instance.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

"Change Upon Change"
Five months ago the stream did flow,
The lilies bloomed within the sedge,
And we were lingering to and fro,
Where none will track thee in this snow,
Along the stream, beside the hedge.
Ah, Sweet, be free to love and go!
For if I do not hear thy foot,
The frozen river is as mute,
The flowers have dried down to the root:
And why, since these be changed since May,
Shouldst thou change less than they.
And slow, slow as the winter snow
The tears have drifted to mine eyes;
And my poor cheeks, five months ago
Set blushing at thy praises so,
Put paleness on for a disguise.
Ah, Sweet, be free to praise and go!
For if my face is turned too pale,
It was thine oath that first did fail, -
It was thy love proved false and frail, -
And why, since these be changed now,
Should I change less than thou.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010


“Eli, Eli, la’ma sabach.tha’ni?”—Matthew 27:46
I accuse you of betrayal,
I get peace, exhausted.
You accuse me back:
"You too!"
May be the stupidity of the moment,
That we believe accusations console.