THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

The promises of a festive season are always many. We nourish the festival and its myth in hope that it will bring into our lives some of those finest moments that we long so  much to have in the present life, as the many people in the stories from past had. When some events take place that shakes us up from the conscious sleep we conveniently choose for ourselves, we say it’s bad. I thought about saying the same when I was asked to help some of my friends to provide groceries and other goods to a home for the disabled. It was under a charity organization run by one of the Christian sects. There were poor and disabled, physically and mentally. There were kids too. One of them had lost his mother just a month back. This poem, perhaps, was inspired from my visit to that home. I would like to add some value to this poem by dedicating it to those children and homeless adults.    Image Courtesy: Google The Orphan The intimacy of your tears With the loneliness ...

Image Courtesy: Google Sometimes , we find ourselves so aligned with the rhythm of the cosmos that the fluttering wings of a distant butterfly can have its share in helping us experience some of the indelible moments. Woman’s Equality Day is commemorated each year by the people of the United States of America , on August 26 th . I published this poem on Poem Hunter.com without knowing this specific detail. One of my friends in Facebook told me about this. That was the moment I realized I was attuned with the cosmic music and that my thoughts crossed those living on the other side of the planet, unknowingly. I would like to publish the comment of my Facebook friend Sabine Schonwalder from Italy at the end of this post. The poem is here for you all to enjoy. Woman My long sari, An overlapping image with my body, Floats in front of your eyes, In a luring sensation above and below nakedness, As if I belong to the world of mathematics, Always shown for s...

Image Courtesy: Google A woman came out the house that was the biggest and luxurious on the shore of the national Highway 17 that connected Cannanore and Calicut , just at the junction before the suburban bridge. Vinod, her husband might be in his room preparing his speech to be delivered in front of the judge. Their married life would end today. It was the month of rain, but that day the sun was bright and that was good. She stood in the sunlight on the terrace. Smitha worked in the State Bank. Her husband Vinod was a real-estate broker , a term he always disliked to be addressed with. Her only daughter, Priya was in a prestigious school in Mumbai and only son, Prakash was doing his MBA from Harvard. Her husband’s second son though, studied in a much less expensive school in Kerala that taught MBA, the same subject, but included a set of extra curricular activities including student strikes, breaking the glasses of State Buses, and damaging public property. However, He...

R.I.P. Rajesh Khanna (1942-2012) Image Courtesy: Google Dear reader, this is my latest short story. I dedicate this story to the acting phenomenon, late Mr. Rajesh Khanna, the evergreen superstar of Bollywood. “Crimson,” I called the earthworm. It didn’t look up, though. Of course, it might not have learnt it that I had given him a name, yet. “Crimson,” I called it again. This time, he stopped and with what seemed a strained move, raised his long head up. “Me?” he asked. I was not shocked. Of course, I am not lying. Just because I want this story not to be about the astonishment and shock in discovering a talking earthworm, which I named “Crimson”, I wouldn’t lie. Naming him Crimson had other reasons too. His skin colour was the last of them. It was a rainy June day, but that morning, rain clouds came only after the sun rose crimson and thick. It was an off day since it was the Day of the Departed Souls for the Hindus. “Did you call me?” the earthworm asked once again. ...