THE INDIAN COMMENTATOR

VI When you are alone and feel like holding on to something, you’d better look for yourself. I was alone there, then, at the bus shelter. Yet, I was visible and present. For me, being present meant something else too, other than just breathing, eating talking with people and writing exams: painting. I found myself in that pale and lonely night doing graffiti on the wall of the bus shelter. The following morning brought some admirers with its first light for the graffiti; the picture of a man standing in front of a dark box within a pale background. For the ones who looked more closely there was a surprise too. Within the dark box, there was a pair of secret eyes, addressing directly at the admirers, leaving the observers with a horrible sense of vulnerability. But no, no artist is sure of what he had achieved with his work of art. His success is that single moment when he realizes his finished work. But I was sure of one thing; my father would come to the bus shelter for getting hi...

V “Prakash Pacha is dead!” “Artist Pacha passed away.” I visualized these headlines in my mind. One was more proximate, the first headline. The second seemed much far away; the artist, which I could never be. Though the visualization itself had no material grounding and just a hypothetical exercise in order to find an answer to a question that never existed, the process of imagining these titles gave me some sort of satisfaction. Peace. But then an acute sense of tragedy overwhelmed me. I was the tragedy. If I die now, my death would be a suicide. And suicides would be reported as ‘suicides’ not “death” or “passed away”, moreover, which news paper would cover my death. I was nothing, which I still am, for that matter. The sense of this tragic nothingness pushed me even harder than my genitor. “What are you saying? Are you hoping God would help you? Then spread your hands and wait; let me see who would come to help you.” My ears never rang, but that day. My self had been divided in...

The essential ingredients for writing a best selling chick lit are: a feisty protagonist, some personality quirks that would essentially land her into troubles, her misadventures, and as the final nail, an exotic setting. In Live from London , you find nothing. In this grossly irritating Indian English misadventure, the writer has pathetically failed to strike any cords with the readers. Parinda Joshi sets her story--I mean if we can presume what is described in the book a story-- in London . The novel lacks a well structured plot, good characters, fine dialogues, events that show some sort of connection with each other and anything else that can be worthy of pursuing in the process of reading a novel. This is not due to my frustration of wasting time reading this worthless crap of a book, but rather a sort of brotherly and friendly warning to all those who decide to spend a couple of hundreds to buy this book from market and investing their precious time reading. The book costs Rs...

IV Painting: "Contemplation"By Kramskoy Suggested by: Sarath Krishnan I always disliked spiritual talk. Reading self-help books and philosophizing life were worst in my hate list. I hated writers like Paulo Coelho and all his sort of spiritual journeys. I had never dared to face the spirit, in fact. I knew my friend John Varghese had embarked upon a journey that would inevitably invite me to one of those maddening fancies that appear in all those books that many read, and say changed their lives. For me life had been unchangeable. Then he said something that irritated me to hell and I was right about him too. There he was, telling me a story. “Once upon a time,” he started; “In a small country, there lived a young girl. One day she read a book and liked it. She liked it so much that she decided to meet the author who lived in another city in the same nation. She met the writer and asked him if she can help him sell his books in other languages, as well.   “She moved ...

My father decided it; I, his invisible son, will write the bank test. He bought the application, paid the fee and asked me to attend for a coaching class that prepares candidates for the test for bank clerks. It just happened so, as if I never existed, not the ‘I’ my father’s psychopathic mind could see now, but the ‘I’ who is an artist, who is always a vaguely reflective crystal surface in front of him.   I found no reason why I should tell him I could spend my time and money in a better way somewhere else. I was invisible. My voice would only seem wind-howls which meant nothing. It was quiet on the day, my mind. It had stopped communicating with me. I was in my room looking blankly at my new painting which I titled the “Impossible Flight”, where I depicted a pigeon flying with a jet airplane. The impossible pace the pigeon took in the picture had given it a look that was close to an eagle. It was a pigeon transformed into an eagle. “It’s time to go. Are you not dressed up y...

II Beautiful days are like books, they smell good. It was a perfect day. After skipping the exam, I wandered around the city and got inspired. I did not attempt another Eligibility Test till this day, due to the sheer aversion to the process of testing one’s abilities with respect to someone else’s standards. It’s for a teacher, not for an artist. But how can a teacher teach art if he or she knows art in terms of its history alone? As all contracts end, my contract with the private institution too ended one day. And a state came upon me, which is generally not very comfortable for parents; called joblessness. I remained jobless for the next four months until the local university needed an art teacher and my ill luck decided to favour me. Teaching in the university offered a new set of artistically stimulating period in my life. And like all artistically stimulating experiences this too was an ordeal. Ask any artist, the best of one’s works would be the product of the worst days of ...

Writing memoir is like talking to oneself with frequency  that is impossible for anyone else to decode. People might read but will see only words and stories, their meanings hidden deep behind somewhere in the chasm of the writer’s soul. A memoir is like a painting. Behind the bright and dull, there exists a world which only the blessed ones can occupy. Below is the memoir by my artist friend Prakash Pacha. He shared it with me after my incessant requests ever since I came to know he had dared to write, partly to satisfy my sense of superiority through judging the work, and partly due to my curiosity. It’s a long one for my blog, to be included in a single post. So I am dividing it into parts, hoping my friend Pacha would not mind.    Aiming the Impossible I I never tried this; writing. I feel insecure. This is not my thing. It is after the advice of my writer friend, that I am trying this. I had been teaching at a private art institute in Kannur, after my post graduati...

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.