Shell

One day,
You wake up to realise,
The shiny white you have been seeing,
Was not the soaring sky
But the inside
Of a moss covered mussel shell
Whose oily black outside
Infested
With greenish filth
Is all the world is getting to see.

നാട്ടുവഴി

ഓര്‍മയിലെ

ഒറ്റയടിപ്പാതക്കരികില്‍

ഒളിച്ചിരുന്നത്‌

ഒരു പറ്റം പേടികള്‍ ആയിരുന്നു.

പഴുതാരകള്‍.തേളുകള്‍.

പാമ്പുകള്‍.

പേടികൊണ്ട് ഞാനും

വാശിപ്പുറത്ത് നീയും

വഴി മാറാഞ്ഞപ്പോള്‍

കൂടി പിണഞ്ഞത്

നിന്റെ ദാവണി തലപ്പും

എന്റെ ചെയിന്‍ വാച്ചും

മാത്രമല്ലായിരുന്നു.

പിന്നൊരിക്കല്‍

പുലര്‍മഞ്ഞില്‍

വിരല്‍ പിരിച്ച്

വശം ചേര്‍ന്ന് നടക്കാന്‍

നാട്ടുവഴിയോരത്തെ

ചപ്പിലെന്നെ ഇറക്കിയതും

എന്റെ പേടികളെ

തല്ലിക്കെടുത്തിയതും

നീ.

Eyes

Her eyes

is where,
the sea sleeps,
the fire hides,

the sorcery recides,
my doom lies.

Its her lashes were,
I drink my monsoons from.

so near, yet so far

You are the sun
I am the girl on the beach
you are all over me
I can feel your touch,
Your hugs,your kiss
Yet,
there is still
An ocean between us,
and if you come to me,
Its not just me that will burn.

*********************

As i look into your eyes,
it begins to rain in mine.
the dampness of which,
leaves my hair strands
sticking to my neck.
A cold chill spreads over me
I cross my hands and shiver
I can't breath.
And i hunger for your warmth.
But you are still
a million cold bodies away,

And to reach me,
Its not just my heart
that you need to stamp your feet on.

********************************
You are Narcissus*
I am your mirror image
I want to reach,
to touch you
There is just
A thin sheet of glass between us
But if you break it
I am lost,
destroyed forever
And it won't just be your fingers
that will bleed on to a broken me.

*******************************
You are my wish
to paint a landscape
standing in the rain.
Every time
I stroke a colour,
A drop washes it off
leaving just
a blurred splash,
bordered,
in blood red.

(image : water colour, black pen, sketch pen on paper ,
by GAYA )

മണല്‍കൊട്ടാരം

വിരലുകള്‍ക്കിടയിലൂടെ

ഊര്‍ന്നുപോയ മണല്‍തരികള്‍

കണ്ണീരു കൊണ്ട് നനച്ച്

ഞാനൊരു കൊട്ടാരമുണ്ടാക്കി.

എന്റെ പ്രണയത്തോടൊപ്പം

ഞാനതില്‍ താമസമാക്കി .

പൊള്ളുന്ന വെയിലില്‍

മണല്‍തരികള്‍ ഉണങ്ങിപ്പോയി.

കൊട്ടാരം പൊടിഞ്ഞു പോയി.

അലയടിച്ചു വന്ന തിരമാലകള്‍

കട്ടുകൊണ്ടുപോയി.

കൊട്ടാരമില്ലാത്ത , കിരീടമില്ലാത്ത

രാജാവിന്റെ വിരലുകള്‍

പ്രണയത്തിന്റെ വിരലുകളെ പരതി.

വൈകിപ്പോയിരുന്നു.

മണല്‍തരികള്‍ വീണ്ടും നനഞ്ഞു.

നനഞ്ഞു തന്നെ കിടന്നു.

Now that you are gone

Now that you are gone
I feel like
I am a newborn.

I was Atlas*
Your love
was the world on my shoulders
Now that the world lies shattered
Once again,
I can stand up tall.

I can stand up straight
Stretch my hands
And lock eyes with the sun.
Those thick roots
that covered every inch of me
Recede back.
I am naked again,
I can feel
The wind , the heat and sweat
on my pale bare skin again.

Now that you are gone
I can strum endless on my guitar
and not sing a word for you.

I can start
'thinking' again
and not dream always.

I see,
Hear and taste
The world anew.

I can cut away my veins,
The pain
would only be mine to bear,
and not share.
And if you plan to do the same,
or even just be happy,
I don't want to share either.

Call me selfish.
Cruel.
I don't care.
I feel so feathery light,
I believe I can fly.
My breaths
Are not heavy anymore.
I am Roark. **
I am free.




*Atlas
**Howard Roark

cold love

She swept inside my blanket

in what must have been

the young hours of night

and hugged me tight.

Strangely,

she wasn't warm.

She came

with a beautiful chill,

that made me curl and cuddle.

She curved into

the curves i had,

She filled into

the spaces i made,

Delicately

moulding , shaping herself

completing me.

And then she made love to me.

So gently,

she never woke me up.

Never even let me know

except for

a distant sense of bliss

somewhere in the subconscious

between a dream, an unknowing smile

and infinite void.

It was only when

I woke up wasted at dawn,

to find crushed bangles

and crumpled bedsheets

in those puddles

filled with dead fireflies,

in the soaked wet newspaper in the porch

in the dampness of my glass windows

in the drops dripping of leaflets

and in that strange unique green

that was everywhere

That i came to know,

she had been there.

What she had done to me.

That silly, naughty

beauty named rain.

The next best thing

with friends on a serene sunday night over a cold beer a thought crossed my mind Looking ahead at 24, with chapters of college, career and shattered love left behind the next best thing to happen in life would be to hold my firstborn in my own hands.. **************************** i wouldn't mind if it's a he or she, but if its a he, i want him to grow up real naughty. i want him to throw everything he lays his hands on, i want his balls to be breaking window panes. it would be so boring, if he gives me peace of mind. And when he goes to school, i wont insist him to be scoring all A's but it would be nice, if he could sing a bit and play guitar. it's ok if he is not first in class, but when he plays football with friends, he should play the best pass. at 16, he should find a girlfriend, and at 17, he should break up. he should know what heartbreak is, moreover, at 16 its never the right girl. i want him to fall in love without looking for it to fall in love without fear of legacy, caste or creed. it wouldn't be nice, without him at home, but i want him to backpack his way into the wonders of the world to sleep in the quite of the wilderness to climb mountains and smell the sky There are dreams galore, but the one thing i don't want to do, is to sell him my unfinished dreams And the only thing i really want to teach him is to dream, big and wild and bold. and i want to watch with pride as he chases his own. dreams. **************************** I wouldn't mind, if it's a he or she, but i have to confess it will be a little more special, if its really a 'she'. From the very first time i see her wrapped in a white towel, she will be the prettiest girl in the world for me, though i guess her mom won't like that much. i want to be there, when her feet dances for the first time when she feeds that barbie with a spoon when she wears her lipstick right across her cheek. I wouldn't mind if she sticks out her tongue at every annoying cousin who coaxes her to sing. I want her to grow up without any fears bold and beautiful, the freest of spirits. It would be lovely if she could dance, but it would be just as fine if she wants to race a bike, or kick someone in a fight. I don't want to miss that naughty twinkle in her eyes when she makes me shake hands with that tall dark boy from class and when i walk her down the aisle she in her lilywhite gown, i don't want her to see tears swelling up my eyes The world will keep telling her something i want her to unlearn there is nothing you can't do , dear just because you were born a girl. There are dreams galore, but the one thing i don't want to do, is to sell her my unfinished dreams And the only thing i really want to teach her is to dream, big and wild and bold. and i want to watch with pride as she chases her own. dreams. ********************

what you din't see..

that crumpled
white sheet of paper
that you found on your bed
that you threw away
had my heart written on it.

i won't blame you
for thinking
the paper was blank
because, i know
when i was writing that letter
my pen
was weeping tears

fine,
your eyes din't see
those letters in tears.

but tell me,
when your fingers felt
the cold dampness of that paper,
didn't your heart
feel the sting in my eyes?

on(ly)e night

dearest,

won't you
sleep with me for a night
before you say
good bye.

just so that
i can tell you a bedtime story,
and sing you a lullaby.
and for once,
i can kiss your forehead
on wishing you goodnight.

for one night,
so i wouldn't need to pray
to keep my nightmares away
so i wouldn't need
a crumpled pillow
to hug.

to pull the blanket over you
and stay awake all night
to watch you sleep
peacefully
in the dull glow of moonlight

to have
the sound of your breath
the knowledge of your being
to comfort me
in the eerie silence of midnight

to love you all night
and when the dawn breaks
to have your face
be the first thing to fill my eyes
one first
and last time.

dearest,
before you say good bye,
won't you
sleep with me for a night?


(image courtesy : gaya )

പ്രായശ്ചിത്തം

നീ ഉറക്കമിളച്ചു

മുട്ടുകുത്തി പ്രാര്‍ത്ഥിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ ,

ഞാന്‍ മുങ്ങിത്താഴുകയായിരുന്നു

അക്ഷന്തവ്യമായ തിന്മകളുടെ

ഉന്മത്ത ലഹരിയില്‍...

ഈശ്വരനോട്

മാപ്പ് ചോദിക്കുന്നതുപോലും

അത്യാഗ്രഹം.

നിന്നോടെങ്കിലും ഞാന്‍ യാചിക്കട്ടെ

ഉരുകിയൊലിക്കുന്ന,

ഉണങ്ങാത്ത വ്രണങ്ങളിലേക്ക്

ഒരിറ്റു തീർത്ഥജലമായി

'ക്ഷമിച്ചു' എന്നൊരു വാക്ക്..

(image courtesy: gaya )

PAINEMBER

they tell you,

alcohol is addictive

it kills you slow.

they say,

drugs

destroy you,

drives you crazy.

religion,

is for the fanatics,

and i am not one.

and suicide, they say

is for cowards

though everyone

is afraid of death.

i have just one question.

when music

makes me fight

memories i need to forget

when i drive

and miss

the other hand on the gearknob,

holding mine

when i eat

and cant see

those stifled giggles

on how i lick my plate

when i write

on the sand

my name beside her's

and watch helplessly

as the sea

swallows a dream alive

time after time

when i crave

that head on my chest,

the breath on my neck,

the taste of her cracked lips

that strand of hair

to tuck behind her ear

answer me.

tell me how.

give me a way

to numb the pain

to not to remember

a life lost.

show me how

to forget

love.

(image: water colour by gaya)

without you

I am afraid

to look by my side

where you always used to be.

i cant bear

to look back

and be haunted

by everything

we left behind

like a racing horse,

i am doomed

to look forward

to stare at

the loneliness

the emptiness that awaits.

and now

all i really want

is to sleep

to sleep deep

and never open my eyes again,

and never wake up

to knowing

i am without you.

25

I know a man

Who always wears a ray ban.

Who was expelled from his college.
For being a hippie and not cutting his hair.

Who sings the most absurd version
Of “mere angane mein” you will ever hear.

Who loves brazil,sachin,federer , arsenal
Not necessarily in that order.

Who reads 4 newspapers a day,
A diehard congressman ,
And an authority on kerala politics.

Who will never agree
Mammootty is a great actor.

Who will talk eloquently
On things he knows everything
And things he knows absolute nothing about.

I know a woman

Who traveled 180 km
In a crowded train
The day before she delivered her firstborn.

Who used to make 4 different breakfasts
and then go to work,
Before those ad companies said it was possible.

Who will never admit
She likes to watch those tv serials.

Who likes fishheads
And to finger lick her plates

Who makes the bestest fish curries.

Whose coastal accent appears out of nowhere
Whenever she reaches her native place.

Who wants her son to come home to sleep
Even if that means
She has to open the doors at 3am.

The man , who prides himself on knowing a bit about everythig,
Silently wishes he knew more about his introvert son.
The woman hopes her son goes to church more often.

they had nothing in common
attitude.lifestyle.tastes.interests.nothing.
yet 25 years ago,
on this day ,
they set sail together.
Somewhere along the way
They first carried someone
Then taught him to walk
And to run.
Once he started running,
He often forgot to look back.
Forgot they could not always catch up.

I am sorry.

Happy 25th anniversary mom and dad.
Love you .

break up

We stood
face to face
eyes locked,
thoughts shared,
For an eternity.

But i was not aware
that between us,
Bricks,
were slowly taking shape into
A stubborn wall.

From below upwards,
the wall climbed high
reached my eyeline
and hid your deep eyes from me.

But even then,
for long,
I kept staring
hoping , someday
I will see you through the wall.

But then,
In a moment of infinite transparency,
I knew
that someone had been on the other side,
held your hand ,
and walked away with you,
even as you too
had your neck turned ,
your eyes fixed on the wall.

I punched the wall,
till my knuckles smashed
I clawed on it
till my nails were ground to dust.
I kicked on it,
I broke my knees
and crushed my feet
I bit
and lost my teeth.

I banged my head on the wall,
perhaps just to forget,
But I could not
the wall still stood tall.
and I bled.

And now,
Reduced
to a heap of shapeless brokenness,
I have to crawl,
away
from the wall.
Away,
from where you were.

Good bye,
to you,
and the space that were you.

back in action.

i dont know if there is anyone out there who really cares about this tiny bit of web space, but i dont really care if anyone cares. it has been dormant for over a year now, and i intend to inject some life into it, as much life as my inherently lazy self and killing schedule permits. good luck to me..

REVIEW:: RITU

Shyamaprasad may be swapping tequila shots for a fruit cocktail in his new film Ritu, but no, I am not complaining.


Shyamaprasad loves his literature. At one point in Ore kadal, Bela (Remya Krishnan) makes a passing remark to Nathan (mammooty) about how, in Jayadevan’s Geetagovindam there is a mention of the wounds of love left by Radha on Sri Krishna’s body. Invoking this piece of ancient literature was hardly coincidental; as the film was a crazily crafted exploration of the radhakrishna legend. The film to a great extent followed that missing chapter – what happened to radha after Krishna left her- and blossomed it into a brilliant film on love, passion and literally, all the madness that comes with it.

In Ritu, he uses the exact same pointing device to give a synopsis of what he wants to narrate, though here, the markers are much more accessible. First, there is a very much visible reference to Iago of Othello, with an added monologue on betrayal, immediately after a protagonist is subject to an act of treachery. Throughout the film, there is a shadow of Iago’s green eyed monster in the interplay between the three protagonists. The innocent friendship of yesterday has given way to an invisible separation of jealousy, and it is the primary emotion that drives the people in this movie to their various actions. And Shyamaprasad captures beautifully the subsequent tension that this shadow creates in the claustrophobic spaces of IT company cubicles. this is made all the more difficult as he is not working with seasoned actors, who may more easily be able to convey understated emotions via a mere look or a subtle change in body language. Yet with careful composition of scenes and some deft handling of the debutantes, he is able to construct those emotions with minimal dialogues. In fact, in a way, the visuals-which by far overpower the conversations, are what you take away from the film. And this jealousy is by no means one dimensional, it is etched out in a highly subjective manner – while for the much more yuppie Sunny it is purely professional and all about his career, for Sharat , who is more of an old world, romantic youth, jealousy is all Shakespeare-an.

But while Othello forms the body, or better the atmosphere of the movie, the soul is referenced in the other literary work that finds a mention - Fernando Pessoa’s the book of disquiet, where he interprets the theory “‘I’ contain multitudes”. There are multiple ‘me’s within me. That is the journey that Sharat makes in the film, discovering a new facet of himself that he never realized was there inside. He arrives into his old group of friends awkwardly stuck up in a set of yesterdays, only to find out that the people in those yesterdays have moved on. Yet by the end of the film, it is Sharat who is well and truly able to make a clean break from his past. The wavelength of his relationships is suffocatingly idealistic. He is your quintessential straightforward nice guy, always empathetic, overtly sensitive. Yet when he realizes his commitment is hardly reciprocated, his course of action is not of masculine confrontation or despairing resignation, but it is one of a scheming mastermind. How he exposes sunny is quite evident, but what may escape the eye, and more significant to establish Sharat as a character is how he schemes and toys with the emotions of Varsha, again tapping into that atmosphere of jealousy integrated into the film, to get her to bed, to achieve what could only be called a revenge, and which she is made to mistake as an act of forgiveness. This act of betrayal is really the pivotal point of the film, as this is where the various elements of the movie comes together in one piece,and this is where Sharat truly gets over his past. One cannot help wondering if those portions where staged with the emphasis that was deserved.

All this theorizing may give the impression of a complex emotional potboiler, but Ritu is very much a light move. But how this lightness is defined is relative- it is a Shyamaprasad light movie and not a Priyadarsan one. The movie is pitched as a fresh take on youth, and fresh it is in a lot of ways. Most movies labeled as youth movies can be defined by just the word “LOUD”- both in colour, sound and narrative. Ritu carefully stays clear of this tedious approach. It unfolds at a mature pace, and the film has a very watered down look to it- the dominant colour here is an ashen grey (look out for the colouring of Sharat’s shirts) as if to highlight the point that both morally as well as emotionally our lives are mostly a middle of the road abstract grey, rather than a concrete black or white. Ritu stays away from any sort of nauseating melodrama, and the treatment is very much contemporary.The casting is appropriate, and the actors turn in a bit strained, yet very convincing performances. Yet, some of the caricaturing is essentially old school- like how the characters of the three friends is a laid out as a direct consequence of what their families are and where. Some of these die hard old habits are the weakest parts of the film, when the movie tries to incorporate social commentaries into the narrative – a side story about a man who lost his land when technopark was built, another one about the absence of a fulfilling family life among the corporate big shots. One can’t help wishing the valuable time and space devoted there was employed to portrait the central characters in more depth; especially sunny. Sunny is the most negative of the trio, yet his is an interesting mix, at times there are some genuine hints of sincerity, and there is also a strange mention regarding sexuality – that raises a million questions that are never answered. Shyamaprasad may have been taking his notion of making a light film a little too seriously or perhaps he was having a hang over from the intense study that was ore kadal, whatever it was, there is a reluctance to really push hard and delve into the complexities of his characters. This seeming lack of depth is not helped by an average background score. For Shyamaprasad’s craft derives a lot of inspiration from music, both in Akale and Ore kadal the music was used brilliantly used to provide a unique texture to the medium. Rahul raj’s background score is not bad, but his understanding of the situations of the movie leaves a lot to be desired and as a result, the music fails to add anything significant to our appreciation of the film (and at times, it irritatingly interferes).

It is this laid back approach that, perhaps, made me exit from the movie hall with a feeling of wanting more. No, it’s not fair to make comparisons always, and Ritu works fine on its own. No, I am not at all complaining about Shyamaprasad taking some time to just chill out. Yes, Ritu certainly has vignettes that leave you salivating. But I will certainly wait eagerly for a work for which he will have to sweat some blood.

TRANSITIONS

Form the dark nights
To the grey dawns
Into the yellow mornings

I have always loved transitions.

From lead pencils
To fountain pens
To keyboards

From cradles
To shoulders
To fingers to legs to wheels

From my class seventh shorts
To my class eighth pants

From hugs and kisses
To archies cards
To Oh god, I forgots

From the torrents
To the drizzles
Into rainbows and sunny skies.

From tom and jerrys
To blood booze and bodies
And back to tom and jerrys

From infatuations
To cravings and frustrations
To love

From loneliness to
Loneliness
To loneliness.

10/16/2008 3:11:15 AM

MASTER CARD

You gotta stand up straight
Carry your own weight
Those tears are going nowhere
You got to
Get yourself together
You got stuck in a moment
And now you can’t get out of it
Don’t say that
Later will be better
Now you are stuck in a moment
And you can’t
Get out of it

U2

For the lack of better names, in my vocabulary at least; let’s call it a ‘jingler’. And the jingler was a kid’s toy made of plastic, pink in colour, shaped like a micro version of a cricket bat. The inside of it was hollow, with a lot of small, circular steel plates arranged in stacks so that whenever you shook it, it made a sound that may perhaps be better described a rattle, but I like to stick to jingle, since it was much sweeter than what you associate with a rattle. And so, jingler.

I must have been about ten then. My uncle had bought a plot nearby my house, and we had some tapioca planted there, and I was given the tedious job of drawing water from a nearby well and watering them. I dint bother about it much then, of course the ever lazy me was working on an alternate basis; half the plants today, other half next day. Still, in two days I used to do as much exercise as I have done in last 3 months.

My sister, molu was about 7. And apart from an assortment of dolls, the jingler was one of her toys. I don’t exactly remember which uncle gave her the jingler. She was not very interested in it at first, and it lay in some corner; forgotten and gathering dust. Then one day I found it, due to its resemblance to the cricket bat more than anything else, and I started using it to play my imaginary boundaries and sixes and my imitations of sachin. And each time I played a cover drive or pull shot in the air, there was that sound, much to my annoyance. But that must have been what caught her attention. There is a thing about little sisters - they may be least interested in something, but as soon as you pick it up and they see it in your hands, it becomes the only thing in the world they want. And of course, as all elder brothers are always fated to. I had to give it to her. I didn’t make as much fuss about it as I usually would have done; it was too small for me anyway.

From then on it became a part of her, to say the least. The doll ammu/divya/maya (same doll, but I remember the names used to change on an hourly basis and these three were the usual. After all, dolls don’t grow up, and so every day they have to be reborn as someone different. And of course, with different make ups.) was already a part of her, cuddled in her right hand wherever she went. And with the jingler, which had a convenient cricket bat handle for her little fingers to grip on, she found something finally to hold on to her left. It was always nice to watch her if she had to use her hands for something else - she would place her doll and the jingler somewhere safe with as much care as my mom would have took while putting her in the cradle. I call it a jingler, but she never was interested in making any sounds with it at all. But it was always, always there, tightly held in her little left hand.

And then, this one day when I was going to the tapioca plot, she scooted along. While I watered the plants, she played in her own world, talking to herself and showing whatever she found amusing in the world around her to ammu (?). But after sometime, she started watching me closely. She came by the well and seemed quite interested with how was I drawing water. That was when I, who has always been obsessed with impressing people, had this brain wave.

“Let me show you something”

A curious questioning look.

“I will put this thing in the well and get it back for you”

I threw a leaf into the well and then with the bucket got it back. Her beaming smile encouraged me, and the leaf was soon followed by a plastic ball I had brought, some things that were scattered around the place like coconut husk, paper bits and so on. With each item, my confidence grew and her curiosity level decreased. That was when I decided to go be a bit more daring.

“Let’s give ammu a bath in the well”

She seemed doubtful, but I stripped the doll, threw it into the water and got it back.

Next my eyes were on the jingler.

She was a bit more doubtful.

And her brother, still not fully informed of the practical aspects of principals of buoyancy, threw it confidently into the well. .

And it sank.
Slowly, after bobbing up and down for once or twice,
It S-A-N-K.

“Athenthina angottitte?”
(Why did you put it there?)

Inside a ten year old’s rib cage;
Something else sank as well.
And sinks to this day, every time I remember the jingler.
……………………………………………………
………………………………………………………
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.......................

I may be filthy rich one day.
I could buy her Gucci or Vuitton or Prada.

But until I can bring back that little pink toy from the depths of a well that no longer exists , there will always a debt left unpaid.

BLESSED

Celebrated singer of yesteryears s janaki in an interview:


“Janaki enna oru aal illai. Only the singer. Pirannathe padikondu. Paadikonde irikkum. Irikkum vare paadum. Paadum vare irikkum.”
(There is no person or individual called janaki. Only the singer. I have been singing since I was born. And I have been continuing singing. I will sing as long as I live. And I will live as long as I live.”)


I think such people are the luckiest. No doubts about what to do in life. No second thoughts about with what to do with life. And absolutely no identity crisis.

SWEETER THAN A DREAM

Once,
An early morning dream
A sweet, delightful one,
Became cross with me...
He woke me up,
In the middle of a dream
Hoping,
I would miss him
And close my eyes
And beg him to complete
And so he left me
In the middle of somewhere beautiful
And kept on watching
Eager to see my plight

But to his dismay,
He was defeated, surprised..
As he saw me happier
Than he could ever make me
More content
Than he had ever seen me

And when he looked why
That was when he saw
You in my arms
In my embrace

Green with envy
He realized
That I had woken up
Only to feel you within my arms
And for me, having you by my side
Having your head on my chest
Was more precious
More delightful
Than anything he had become
To anyone…

SOUNDS OF SILENCE

SILENCE


Roaring

Screaming

Ripping

Weeping

Groaning

Moaning

Thumping


SILENCE