THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

Image Courtesy: Google He was not a friend of mine but when I met him in the library I had to share a smile. He was milling his way back to the counter with a pile of books held close to his chest. “How are you Mustafa?” I asked. “Hi, nothing special, man. Just going. And you?” “Nothing much, yaar. I heard you are organizing protests for raise in the salary of Guest Lecturers.” “Oh, yeah! By the way, being a guest lecturer yourself why don’t you join us?” He asked me with a sarcastic smile upon his face. “I am a bit busy these days, yaar. I actually forgot the date of your Union formation.” I padded my response with enough diligence to keep him off suspicion. “Is that the case? Don’t worry, we still take people in; we don’t have any closing date for memberships, we never had, I mean.” Mustafa said. I was not political. It was sure he had no idea what I thought about Unions with a political nature. That moment had its hidden malignity that was unexpected and therefore unset...

Image Courtesy: Google “Come out and take a picture,” His mother called from outside. “It’s eclipse!” He heard his father’s voice. The moon was shrouded in a mysterious shadow and was visible only a little, and the leaves of coconut palms were caressing this picturesque moment endlessly in the slow breeze. It was December and the chill had increased considerably in the past three days. The smell of dust wafted from the nearby dust road and a new Malayalam song made its delusional presence from a distance in the dark. “Take your cell phone too, and click away some pictures,” mother’s voice intervened. He forced himself to focus, but felt himself confined in his room, outside his world. There was no going back and the room had no possibility of sending him into the future either. The future was a trap, a place from where he could never get back. He found no choice other than to go there and to undo the snares. “What are you doing in there?” Mother again. “It’s harmful for naked...

[Continued from the previous post ] Image Courtesy: Google I still remember the day when I saw Sachin Tendulkar for the first time. Of course, it was not in person, but in a cricket match in Doordarshan Sports. I was perhaps eight or nine and cricket in India at that time hadn’t reached the insane levels of popularity like we have today. Image Courtesy: Google I did not have a big idea about cricket at that time. Sachin was standing on a carpet of brown mud with a bat; his posture was what attracted me. He looked like my He-Man doll with his bat. Then I saw his running between the wickets and knew instantly here was the hero I can adore in ‘real’ life, not like He- Man or The Phantom, or Conan or Hanuman. Sachin mania has its crucial role on placing cricket as one of the most important commodity in the Indian media psyche. The mass was already in frenzy, and Doordarshan, the official channel in India, which once was the only television channel available inside India (mostly...

Image Courtesy: Google 16 th March, 2012 is special not just for my personal life, but also for those who love cricket. The reason is there on air in every television channel, and radio, with a sensible number of public awaiting their sports section, blaring—Sachin hits 100 runs once again; but this is not the news; the news is, this is the 100 th time Sachin has done it. For me, this day is special too, especially in my personal and professional life. After one week of silence, today I decided to write. After the junk story I wrote for my previous post, I took an off from my writing, almost entirely. No poems, non-fiction, nothing, which otherwise would have happened as a filling in, in the process of not writing fiction. Fortunately, such a block is not conscious. The unconscious mechanism of mind puts its curb whenever it is needed. I guess I needed one, well, after writing the previous story anyone can understand why. Image Courtesy: Google Such was the impact of writin...

We live in a world that instigates relentlessly the marvel of change in each of the moments we survive. There is a way in which we all read even the concept of change itself, so similar to other things that merely undergo the overwhelming impact of change. Most changes occur as a reaction to the ever poignant concern for survival. And some other changes are an expression of the self. This story will tell you the rest. Any insinuations about the meaning the story suggests are welcome. Once a young boy was walking back home from his new school. His father was a government employee and so his family had to change places according to the transfers the man received in his service. There was an old building the boy had to cross to reach the turn in the road to his house. Usually the area was deserted with not a single sign of human beings present nearby. The boy heard foot-steps that day. He looked back. There was no one. He walked but stumbled upon something and fell. It was a rope,...

For Rishik-V Rishik Courtesy: Aanchal Sharma I learned, The urgency of goodness, From your flickering smile; The power of faith, From your delicate hold. You teach me, What I lost inside. Once again, all the best to Rishik. This poem marks the end of this series of i-poems.  Blessings! 

For Rishik-IV Image Courtesy: Google When I see you look at me, I become a word that mean, Depth, love, and life. But when I cause your eyes blur, With tears, I fade, In a saline testimony- Of meaninglessness.

For Rishik-III Image Courtesy: Google When I see the kingdom you rule, The peak of the ensign, The voices you mutter, When I see you sleep; I want to be conquered too, By you and your kingdom of peace.