pursued by furies

Renunciation

2011-09-10T13:39:00.001+05:30

I did with deliberate design invoke you with my abnegation and yet I forsake you because my craving too was burnt in my penance.
I have betrayed and I perceive my betrayal and yet I am guiltless.
Where I myself am ceasing to exist how do I acknowledge your hurt.
As I fade into nothing what does it matter that you came into being because of me.

The Walk and Other Stories | OPEN Magazine

2010-11-07T21:26:00.000+05:30

The Walk and Other Stories | OPEN Magazine

I have never travelled so uncomfortably and never relished it more

The Living Dead | OPEN Magazine

2010-11-07T21:25:00.000+05:30

The Living Dead | OPEN Magazine

one of the most interesting characters I have ever met

Review of Reviewers | OPEN Magazine

2010-11-07T21:08:00.000+05:30

Review of Reviewers | OPEN Magazine

Half wrote this

The Fastest Indian | OPEN Magazine

2010-11-07T21:04:00.000+05:30

The Fastest Indian | OPEN Magazine

Met him in Bangalore. Interesting. Now runs a nursing college, of all things. Imagine Carl Lewis running a nursing college!

The Logic of John Abraham | OPEN Magazine

2010-11-07T21:02:00.000+05:30

The Logic of John Abraham | OPEN Magazine

here where I am

2010-09-19T10:24:00.000+05:30

This is where I am now
Under the light
Sprinkling of star dust
And rainbow drops
Under skies lit up in dots
As if by fireflies
Twinkling skies which move
Left to right, there to here
Pushed by velvet winds
Drawn by the want of earth

The time where I am
Now is still
Only an unknown unrelenting pull
Soon this time will move
Circumvolve to unwritten ends
To self-fulfilling prophesies
Or to failed destinies
It does not matter
Inks will devolve to lines
This is where I am now
It is good to be here

Why are Nanos Burning Up? | OPEN Magazine

2010-09-04T08:37:00.000+05:30

Article by me in Open magazine. Why are Nanos Burning Up? | OPEN Magazine

on compassion

2010-09-02T16:57:00.001+05:30

I weigh in my heart a stray moment of compassion and it affrights me that were there a god and were she a compassionate and fair god, then how would she carry this compassion, which must be without pause across eternities and infinities for each and every being that exists; which is the heart deep enough to hold that kindness and to brave this weight, this enormous understanding of another's existence and suffering as if it was your own; to look at them as they would be once, as tiny morsels of thought progressing infinitesimally with great anticipation and sometimes joy, through birth and childhood and youth, to the middling of age and the despair of time and the imminent apprehension of death, then to be old and die; and to watch with helplessness the inevitable going of that which you created and loved and yet to continue creating; to feel that even if there is nothing of any permanence coming out of all this there is perhaps a point to it; to feel but not to know; and also to feel but not to know what if she was wrong; how does one endure such understanding, and having arrived there what does one do; no god can survive it and that is why there is no god

On Mind and Mindness | OPEN Magazine

2010-07-17T12:52:00.000+05:30

The pain and pleasure of meditating, an essay I wrote for the magazine on the character of the mind

On Mind and Mindness | OPEN Magazine

The Scientific Case against Astrology | OPEN Magazine

2010-04-10T20:57:00.000+05:30

An article I wrote for Open.

2010-03-03T18:35:00.005+05:30

Thus we meet sometimes
In deserts and ruins of thought
Where absences are also habit
And reconciliations deliberately incomplete
Are tidied in the day's chore
In daily pilgrimages on suburban trains
And evenings rounded by grocery lists
Over the noises of the walking streets
The angry revvings of gridlocked cars
In the fixed gaze of the television screen
And the whistling of the rice cooker
The tucking in of another bedsheet
Before the terror of sleep and dream
We forget each other without pause
Disallowing memory even in generous moments

Let

2010-02-12T20:26:00.004+05:30

Let lips sieve its
meanings. Let it
speak in evasions.
Let words recede
without intent.
Let not think. Let
not know. Let not
touch or touch. Let
not await or accede.
Let no quarter for
sorrow. Let this
level incompletion
be. Let this uneasy
contentment be.

Men and Women who Hear Better than You and Me

2010-01-24T20:04:00.006+05:30

There are men and women who hear better than you and me
The notes of their certainties clear as mid-morning light
Who have no need to concede what we can’t in our erosions
Who partake without asking and are joyous in the partaking
There are men and women who happy as they are
Have eyes that see better than you and I ever will
The heart and its colours, they know, were splayed for them
They love without questioning and are completed by their love
There are men and women for whom the world was written
And in the sure embrace of their assurance it continues
We, you and I, mark time in undecided fear
Looking at them who know why they are here

2010-01-24T15:39:00.006+05:30

The epicentre today is a little, just a little, to the left of the middle, lengthwise and breadthwise, of the afflicted chest. Ordinarily, it is a faint throb or a muffled ache which is reminding of the static of radios as radios once were, with dials and needles searching for their soul along a purgatory of discord and then the notes breaking through hesitantly and, then euphony. The ache would be endurable, ignorable even, if it did not weigh so much at times. As if all the despair and hope of being was gathered together into a bullet and then shot through into flesh, ribs and heart and lies embedded there in a wait counted in eternities and infinities. Until, once every couple of ages and eons, a faint tap of footsteps is heard, treading forward in inches somewhere near, approaching. Then the static raises its tempo beginning anew a crackle, both terrifying and mesmerising, seeking either freedom or effacement. It would have been such redemption if a note or melody or even a call could be heard in that noise, and some do for a fortunate while, but today, in that epicentre, the ache is so clear that every curve and contour and depth can be felt, seen and sensed—so clearly defined because it is so clearly futile.

2010-01-15T15:47:00.001+05:30

Eyes crinkle and blaze up with glee, lips purse and pout with mirth, cheeks suffuse with red joy, eyebrows arch up in mock tease, giggles erupt like tambourine jingles, the room becomes feminine in an instant and I hold onto something solid to not be sucked into that deliciousness suddenly zigzagging from the pores of the air. And yet, nothing of any consequence happened to set this moment off into tangents dashing into each other. But there it is, an ethereality shining like a sun about to flare planets away. An almost fatal alchemy. If I was not on my guard this would be annihilation.

2010-01-12T00:21:00.003+05:30

Dark into the night where green trees roll over elephant walks
The moon sails the waters which ripple orange to its rabbit calls
One leaf falls to the wind drifting unhurried into the nightly cold
The woods stretch the shadows deeper to the frightened shore
I hold an eyelash and float to the wide sea of the saddest time
Into the aching deep around the froth of unremembered tides
Dark into the night, unbereft by the despair of all that went
Morning arrives, willed out in strands of scattered gold

2009-12-19T16:20:00.004+05:30

Who, as if this is all so ordinary,
Murmurs a rhythm that i know
Writes a certain incomprehension
Sings incomplete notes
To an unknown audience of one
The voice so cacklingly clear
So disturbingly near
Marking questions in its wake
How is it that I hear you
And why

in the full moonlight

2009-12-12T11:03:00.002+05:30

In the full moonlight there will be shadows
Kissing under the shadow of umbrella trees
Nights will be twinkling, smelling of stars
Mountains will sway like areca nut palms
Roads will whistle to the tired tap of toes
Sparrows will colour the sky with songs
Rainbows will bounce from leaf to bough
Cotton clouds will dance with cotton feet
Rivers will blush over oblong cobblestones
Coursing with gaiety like the giggle of love

Now that the minutes are beyond counting

2009-12-12T10:53:00.004+05:30

Now that the minutes are beyond counting
The tears undone, not a requiem chasing
The white of the shroud beginning fraying
The grooves of the epitaph furiously filling
Reducing lives, meanings to unread scrawl
Now in that solace of lonely unbecoming
Unchained free from the grief of forgetting
Now in that oblivion and at last knowing
What began empty, was empty, is empty
now. That is one truth and that is all

2009-12-06T12:43:00.004+05:30

We have become painless time
Journeying down the seasons
Warmed by summer’s yellow
Enveloped by easy night
Riffled by languid winds
Touched by the sprinkle of rain
Our winters come together
On this one winter day

We are beginnings fated to middles
Our stories written in riddles
We are painless time
We were born with evenings
To disappear with twilight’s last
We are silent, we are still
And clocks in anguish run past

2009-12-04T21:58:00.007+05:30

to know unknow. to unsay say. to unlook look.
to giggle. chuckle. dote. and play.
to untouch touch. to unfeel feel.
to puzzle. scoff. dismiss. and abruptly know.
and flail. bewail. pine. and yearn.
to enclose. to stay. to run. to go. far. away.
and succeed. prevail. extinguish. and fail.

God’s Own Feminists

2009-11-03T18:30:00.000+05:30

God’s Own Feminists | OPEN Magazine. An article I wrote on, of all things, ants

2009-10-07T10:45:00.003+05:30

The tea cup paused at the edges of his fingers, made up its mind, went ahead and made its descent to the tile below. Within him, an artery stretched itself full, seared a line which cleaved itself open and then exploded enveloping him in a terrific ache. But there should also have been relief. He would finally be part of that wisdom which he had pursued with such desperation and which, it had seemed, was always eluding him by a finger's breadth. He had understood it alright, at times with the clarity that only comes with great suffering and he had suffered much. It was so easy to spell it out: the only truth is the truth of nothing. And yet, he wanted more than a line. He wanted to experience this truth and not in patches but in its entirety. He wanted to know if, as he had surmised, whether in knowing it, he could in some manner overcome it. Herein also was why he knew he was certain to fail. Because how do you learn nothing. He could only do that by unlearning everything and this he had no courage for. And now, with the ebb and flow of a tea spill beside him, he was at long last in this wisdom, part of that omnipresent nothingness. But it was a futile going. Because he was dead, wasn't he?

2009-09-15T17:57:00.003+05:30

A piece I wrote for the current issue of OPEN (www.openthemagazine.com). Bizzaro bizzaro...

Not Just Another Rape Story
Madhavankutty Pillai

Late last month, one Saturday night, Rajeshwary Khanna, while on her daily walk, saw a man rape a dog in public and screamed with shock. Onlookers gathered and beat up the rapist, a taxi driver from Bihar. It was a well-deserved thrashing. Half of Mumbai wants stray dogs killed, but they would surely baulk at rape. The mob then took the rapist to the police station, and when you get the State in on something, the story has to develop many new turns.

The police were reluctant to file a complaint but that was soon overcome by the intractability of the complainant, Khanna. They then deliberated over what to charge the rapist under (our rape laws are enlightened but not that enlightened). That was when Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code, fresh from a browbeating because it persecuted gay sex, suddenly made a fresh argument for its existence—it says having sex with an animal is illegal. The rapist was so charged and later sent to a government hospital to be inspected for animal hair in his nails and telltale marks on his private parts.

Since the police were in, the newspapers followed. One afternoon tabloid, Mid-Day, broke the story, and the next day, went on a mission to get justice for the dog-victim. Another newspaper, Hindustan Times, did a follow-up piece. Among others, these reports quoted rape case prosecutors, rape case defenders, a spokesperson for the gay community, an environment and animal law expert and animal rights activists. Some of the headlines that ensued were:

‘Medical exam will be clincher in dog rape’; ‘Haan, maine kiya’; ‘Historic trial for dog rapist’; ‘My friend’s been framed’; ‘Bitch traumatised’.

Some of the news reports went like this:

– “There is no need to take the bitch to court, but, if required, we will do that too.”

– “The man is so insensitive. He is a threat to society.”

– “The dog has been listless since the incident took place.”

– “There is no bleeding and we have not found any semen in the dog’s private parts. But we have sent samples for tests.”

If all this sounds slightly surreal, then it is. Women’s rights activists say that once upon a time if there was a rape case, the courtroom would overflow with every two-bit unemployed lawyer being present for the pleasure of looking at the victim. Laws have changed and victims have a semblance of dignity and protection now. But someone always finds a way to sell the word ‘rape’ to the basest voyeuristic instinct in us in the name of news and justice. If not human beings, even dogs would do.

2009-09-05T13:00:00.002+05:30

This is how it must be: that I wake up midmorning and instantly sense that outside the closed windows the sky is bent with purple clouds and the air a lazy grey. I open the windows and instead of the branches of the mango tree edged with clumps of little golden leaves which sway to the lazy wind and rises crooked from the gentle rise of the road two storeys below, there is the flat of a meadow, like an endless green lawn. I step out and see at the far beyond a rippling stream which in this green landscape, is like a blue line curving around the edges. Except that there is no edge.
The sky is purple with monsoon clouds and since it is morning, a white sun is there behind smudging the ends of the rainsky. Except that there are no ends.
I, alone in a vastness of pure earth, waiting for the sky to pour itself down in arrows and drink me into itself. Except that there is no sky or I.

My Name Is Hitler

2009-08-20T12:23:00.001+05:30

and the third of my articles for my magazine's (OPEN) independence day special. It's on a Tamilian whose name is Hitler.

My Name Is Hitler | OPEN Magazine

Kapil's Kaplish

2009-08-20T11:57:00.002+05:30

a piece by me on the English of Kapil Dev. It's supposed to be funny, so laugh even if you dont feel like when you finish reading it

KapilÃƒÂ¢Ã‚â‚¬Ã‚â„¢s Kaplish | OPEN Magazine

Life after a Life Sentence

2009-08-20T11:52:00.003+05:30

wrote this piece for my magazine. had gone to interior Maharashtra to speak to people who had served life imprisonment. i also saw a double rainbow there, a hazy one over a perfect spectrum of seven colours. but that's not there in the piece

Life after a Life Sentence | OPEN Magazine

Within every woman was once a bird aflutter

2009-03-13T09:33:00.004+05:30

White feathers poised for possibilities
Liquid eyes wondering at the great beyond
Inciting her to that unknown flight
Over the walls of mind, womb, man and god
To whiten, in the wake of her white feather flight,
The ink of the lines that they wrote for her

Within every woman was once that bird almost free
Inside every man is a cage

How we remember with unusual calm that walk up the brown mountain path

2009-03-02T10:29:00.002+05:30

To the singing stream where the blossoms of the rainbow flowers fell
And us below the overhang of the umbrella tree and its jungle green
Cool in the black cold of its afternoon shadow in the yellow sun
That day was warm to the touch and we were dizzy velvet
We had walked through the zigzag of sheeny dragon flies
And seen a white butterfly, the only albino of that queendom
Heard the bees whimper and buzz in the pollen’s ecstasy
Watched a squirrel watch a sparrow jounce twig to twig
We kissed ascetic branches, stern, stout, gnarled and immortal
Like sylphs we talked to the birds and made the crickets call
Below us the canal was forking, it flowed blue, it filled many fields
We were like flightless clouds, astray in the languid wind
You then said: We must remember this, this walk up the brown mountain path.
And then the day fell mute, the sun blinked, twilight shimmered
We couldn't allow the night, we let ourselves go and trundled down
We rolled through the rough brown mountain road and its jutting rocks
Over the cobbles in the river’s gravelly bank and the weeds of the grey marsh
Until there was a gate, a door cut four ways, a key, a latch, a lock and a lamp
We are home, finally we are home, look we are home, I said.
But we would never be home again.

Note to self

2009-02-21T20:49:00.002+05:30

Since I landed the new job, I have been meeting interesting people. I have met an ex-pickpocket who told me that in their trade the thumbnails are grown slightly long for that extra grip; a gang of boy-thieves who rob travelers trying to grab a wink or two in the grounds off CST Terminus and who all unanimously lied to me that they were planning to go straight; a man who had been written off for dead by his relatives to grab his land in Azamgarh, Uttar Pradesh and who then struggled his way back to life and then started an association of dead people; a girl who has a genetic disorder which is trying to kill her but who is refusing to give up no matter what despite a brain surgery and a liver transplant; a man who had been abused for a decade as a child but now uses that trauma to do acts of kindness expecting nothing in return; a tribal woman from Gujarat who saw a pamphlet and then took a train to Bihar where 100 people were walking 100 kilometres in the state’s interior and in which I was one of them…you get the drift. What concerns me is my inability to empathise with any of them, of being a party to that human condition which they are all experiencing in the full. All I feel is curiosity and that is enough for the journalist, but for the writer, curiosity will take him nowhere near the truths that he must reproduce in the worlds that he should create. I find myself near such truths and completely unable to comprehend it, much alone reproduce it, much alone create worlds with it. Note to self: send imagination for servicing.

2009-02-19T13:51:00.002+05:30

As is said, has been said and always will be said: every seed sown will sprout and at some point, in that ground where it germinated, there will then be a tree with branches, trunk, roots, fruits and leaves. If you have sown that seed and then watered the soil, that tree will come up. Once the mighty tree is before you, it is pointless to repent that this was not the one you wanted, that you erred in the sowing, that that was ignorance, that that was youth, that that was passion, that that was a delusion of the mind, that that was not you. For you did plant that seed and once you unleashed cause, what could effect do but follow. You will never be forgiven for it. That is truth.

Beware, therefore, of what you sow. You plant a seed every infinitesimal moment. Seed a weed and you will get desolation. Seed a queen-of-the-night and on some distant day, you will sleep amidst calming fragrances. That is the redemption which flows from your present. That is the only redemption given to you.

blank

2009-02-12T22:20:00.004+05:30

Rub out footnotes and endnotes
Hide rulers
Force margins out
White ink page numbers
Delete date

Blank the page
Obliterate words
   letter
   by
   letter

grace

2009-02-10T18:46:00.002+05:30

Grace is man in his piety, given unto him not by god, but by that core in his soul, which he willed out from the storms which were unleashed unto him and which, instead of evading, he befriended and fostered because he knew that these were ordeals let loose, not to test him but to break him and that was something he would not do: to bend and to suffer in vain. From that unbending will he wrote his redemption and then his salvation. Man became free and in becoming free he gave grace unto himself.

Man began first and in the beginning he was one and there was no another, man alone in the wide tundra of nothingness, impregnable though inky blackness enveloped him from end to end. To left and right and up and down and east and north and south and west, there was nothing, except him and barrenness but he would not give in unto that desolation. He carries that loneliness in his soul even today but into that loneliness too, he has not given in and from it too he has conceived grace.

Man then created the world. He cleaved open his self and unfurled the elements and then split them, from which fission universes exploded and then there were galaxies and stars and planets and many suns blazing from whose light he harnessed energies and then used those furies to breathe life into planets. He watered the primeval pool from which sprung acids and bacteria and amoeba and plants and fishes and reptiles and mammals and animals of many complexions and lengths. Life after life after life he went on enumerating and making, until, like god before, he had to do nothing and could remain at a distance watching with deep compassion as the many wondrous things he had made fertilised and replicated themselves. Worlds unbidden sprung up within worlds and benign and benevolent man evoked his grace and gave it unto each of his creations and this grace was reflected onto him too.

2009-01-14T10:27:00.002+05:30

as waves and shore
meeting, parting
briefly touching
returning
you to water, I to earth
you to blue ocean calm
I to the grey of sand

2007-10-16T16:31:00.001+05:30

Labyrinth: the invisible intertwining of one road-path-lane to another, which then turns to another, and so on, till one encircles the system, and then, on a whim, veers straight into the middle of the first, and moves along with it, before branching off to another, an entirely new circuit, which did not exist before, but is now the very real ground on which she walks.

Her existence was written on this dust long before she willed herself astray but she is here now and that is what matters. Here she finds the breath of beginnings, the revivals of second comings and refuge in the going. This is however not the end, even though for every beginning there must be an end. For her, ends are not foretold.

But that is not the tragedy. The tragedy is that she knows where she came from and, despite that knowledge which few possess, is certain that she can never return there. The labyrinth has consumed her. She is an exile to herself and so has to travel on. Without end or beginning.

2007-10-01T14:59:00.000+05:30

I find,

The glitter of her teeth
Is directly proportional
To the width of her grin
And a narrowing of chin

Also,

She has shallow sparkling eyes
Of raw want and feminine whys
Like cool blue in crimson skies
Like black nights and fireflies

And then,

The softness (and so innocence)
of her wheat-and-marble skin
Belies a surprising ability
And a fine propensity to sin

i go

2007-09-26T15:08:00.000+05:30

i go
into nowheres
into surging silences
into fathomless expanses
lonely as an ocean
i row

now
limited
limitless
now
i go
i begin to know

2007-09-21T15:36:00.000+05:30

I have finished reading An Interpretation of Murder, a murder mystery novel. It revolves around Sigmund Freud's visit to the US in 1909. Good writing. Ambitious because the author is also a Shakespeare nut and so tries to weave many extras into the plot. But still, it made me turn the pages and that is the only qualification of a good book. No prizes for guessing where Joyce ranks on my scale. Eliot does not count in it because he's a poet. The only exception is Malcolm Lowry and if you ever read Under the Volcano, you will know why.

Lately, I have begun to read and like historical fiction. Bernard Cornwell's literary merit is trash, the history is suspect because his sources are usually another book (it's called a secondary source). But he makes the period easy to imagine. I liked his King Alfred books but his Sharpe series, which made him all his money, are an embarrassment. Robert Harris, an ex-political editor of a UK broadsheet, has written a book called Imperium, a biographical novel of Cicero, Rome's greatest orator and politician. Fantastic book. Couldn't put it down.

2007-08-30T13:42:00.000+05:30

we break no more to this silence
which empties to no pain
we are today resilient
we kneel to no gods
no furies chase us into us
we allow them nothing
our furies are furies no more

we are free, if not together
you are me, i am you
separate perhaps but forever

depression anthem

2007-07-03T10:33:00.000+05:30

The sky rains curdled tears
Wrenches out my scarred soul
Holds it aloft for me to see
My countless nameless fears

Only the gods can explain my shame
Yet they laugh with ruthless abandon

2007-03-02T17:00:00.000+05:30

These are horizons which extend and expand to tomorrows, land so broad and so green and so open that to be here is to be free. Here there are no hints of mountains, lakes or oceans or rivers or gutters or streets or people, just a forever carpet which is light green, the colour of wet grass, but which is not wet, only moist but whose moistness is like fresh breath, the smell of first rain and which is soft to walk on, as if you are walking on velvet. The sky is blue but now it turns grey and then dark black but it is not a forbidding black, it is the rolling of the monsoon, this wind is laden and even if you imagine grief in it, it is a wind which does not intrude; and these dark black clouds roll furiously and pass by with enormous speed, sometimes stooping to touch the soft velvet ground and then rising to kiss the heavens.

I walk under these rolling clouds, my hand holding yours, and my fingers entwined with yours, our heat mingling, our elbows apace and steps as one; we walk into the arbor of a tree whose branches and leaves multiply with incredible speed. It is a magic tree, for only by magic can something so imposing, so huge that it is a forest by itself, arise in this wide horizon which was till now spotless like the expanse of galaxies. We walk into its shelter and then there is a shower of flowers and as these flames of the forest descend in scatters, my hand and your hand, they reach out and we collect stars

All hearts open, close

2007-02-12T09:35:00.000+05:30

Because evening is the hour of sadness
The time of our melancholies
I welcome the certainty of night
(and its blackness)
Which comes with our raging despairs
(or is it mute. are our despairs mute)
I still welcome the absence of light

In all that I seek I seek me
I give chase to my shadow
And even reach it
Touch it, feel it
But
There's nothing of me in it

All that comes goes
All hearts open, close
Thrum and throb
Beat and break
Where does it all begin
Why does it all end
Who knows
All hearts open, close

2006-10-26T14:10:00.000+05:30

The warrior one of his battles done
Exhausted sits on a rivulet of words
(They were arrows he shot
And with these he made his kill
Or perhaps did not)
Watches the unimpeded flow
But still does not know
What is it that he has won

2006-10-13T16:02:00.000+05:30

the night blinks, my lonely lovely
speaks of other tomorrows
so what if day is in disdain
nothing is forever, not even pain

Forgettings

2006-09-11T20:41:00.000+05:30

Time sleeps
Later malingers
And then seeps
Like water
Through open fingers

Time shifts
Time creaks
Time strays
Then betrays
Like touch and farewell
Of wind
On downturned cheeks

2006-07-28T12:01:00.000+05:30

Here where the ghosts of love wail
Before their scars take root
And become magnificent sad trees

Here I do what I must do
I bury me and I bury you
I let other melodies through

Here unburdened, I float over the new earth
I walk tiptoe on waters which rage no more
And as the sky itself flies with me
It hums a sad but happy song too

yummmmmmmm yummmmmmmmm

2006-07-26T16:20:00.000+05:30

Rejoice, ye who read this, for the hour has cometh when Madhavankutty Pillai puts pen to paper or qwerty/asdf to keyboard and reveals once again a recipe of outstanding proportions. Recollect that I have before spelt out the secrets of the best chicken curry in the whole whole world and the sweetest sweet dish to ever caress your lip and tongue. My modest ears hear your eulogies and accept your ear deafening cries of gratitude.
Rejoice then, take heart, take cheer, sing the good song and let glee overflow for today is another such day, when there is no promise of rain and the sun unbidden is gloriously shooting off its rays to whoever wishes to collect it and that is when I, who revel in this propitious hour which is propitious for no reason, shall tell you another tastytastiertastiest dish, which reeks of calories but then that is a price we pay for succulence. To business forthwith. It's simple as hell.

You need potates, four five six whatever.

You need onions, three or four

Peel, dice potatoes, onions

Take a frying pan, let groundnut oil flow into it in large quantities, a cup maybe.

Let oil become hot.

Put in the potates, onions.

Let onions become translucent

Put salt, chilli powder, coriander powder, turmeric powder and any other masala you have in your kitchen.

Use your judgment. If I were you, I wouldnt put in more than two teaspoons of chilli powder, I wouldn't worry about the coriander powder and the turmeric powder would be about a teaspoon. If you have some kind of meat masala, I would put lots of it in and dispense with coriander powder

Mix mix mix.

You need tomatoes, two or three; green chillies two or three

Put in tomatoes, green chillies.

Put flame on simmer

Let potates become tender

Let tomatoes become tender, become paste

Mix mix mix

It must now look like some oily sinful mass of brown

Take two eggs, break eggs, pour it onto sinful mass of brown.

Mix mix mix

Till eggs are fried-like.

Bus, ho gaya.

Eat with curd rice, bread or just like that

Bus, ho gaya

The joyous mind

2006-07-24T10:29:00.000+05:30

The joyous mind is the mind without turbulence. It is the mind which is clear, the mind which wakes up in the morning and looking out of the window through the interstices of the green mango tree's umbrella, takes in the squirrel darting to no end with incredible dexterity on the tips of air, and then carries past the dancing leaves, the swaying branches and the still and stately trunk into the blue sky which has been whitewashed because it has rained overnight as if the gods themselves wept with joy. The joyous mind sees in the sky the reflection of itself and it understands, no it comprehends the enormity of it all, the supermagnificent enormity of it all. The joyous mind is happy because it is joyous. The joyous mind is the mind at peace with itself, it is the serene mind. The joyous mind is joyous for a moment or two but it is enough.

2006-06-08T15:01:00.000+05:30

the evening shrugs, fades into the quiet
night waits recumbent, she has half a smile
the sky blushes crimson, the earth lowers her eye
something is silent,
something is still

2006-06-02T14:50:00.000+05:30

The heart breaks silences
And histories are retold
They speak of other romances
And destinies unfold

...................or

The heart breaks silences
And words get strung
They explode into nuances
And poems get sung

2006-04-28T13:29:00.000+05:30

The earth speaks many stories, recites them in tones which waver, points out to the skies on fire and then in an arc sweeps its giant arms which are nothing but trunks of giant trees, brown and gnarled, resting its index finger, which is but the wind, in the direction of the man who walks alone on the edge of the delta of the black waters where the mangroves invite him into its lush but thorny folds and the waters, the black delta waters, lap on to the land's edge and seek to pull him in. Says the earth, speaking now of the man:

He walks...there...he walks under shadows so dark and wide that it stretches over and beyond even me. He walks lugging himself, his footsteps tottering, body dragging body, his face so gaunt that the scars of his bones speak; his eyes so dead like the eyes of fish who die without water, the sorrow of which only the fish can know; his eyes so dead that they see nothing, not even the soft soil on which he walks; his tongue parched but not darting because he does not want water; his...his...and so on and so on. He walks, this man, who has ruins where a heart must be and these ruins have walls which are halved by time and chipped at their edges and algae, moss, and ferns have run over these walls and within, there is nothing but the flutter of ghost rats and the sad remembrance of vultures who have left for these ruins have been exhausted of everything, including history.

But don't pity him. Don't pity him for he has invited his fate. This was not what his destiny was but man that he was, he overrode the gods and where the heart, like a royal steed should have galloped in stately grace, he let love take over and when he did that, it is well known among the scribes of heaven, his fate would be no match to the course that love would set for him and in his case, it was towards ruination.

shall this be the hour then

2006-04-10T15:32:00.001+05:30

Shall this be the hour then
The moment of all moments
The time when time gets ready
When
Fingers which tremble halt: go steady
Muscles which twitch halt: go steady
Hearts which race stop: go steady
And
I, forever paralysed by your being, now shiver: get ready
For the briefest moment of all
When it is possible no more: to stall

The sweetestest sweet

2006-04-04T08:25:00.000+05:30

Avid readers of my writings, who total the grand number two including me and professional blog reader Chinirvilasa Sinnaserthambi (Chinirvilasa Sinnaserthambi in short, who is paid for his efforts by who else, me), will recollect that a few months ago, in a moment of extreme generosity following a divine meal of curd rice and chicken curry, I Madhavankutty Pillai, aka Madhavankutty Pillai, had divulged the secret of the best chicken curry in the whole world, so far held within the confines of my lonely scarred heart and which was only to be revealed when the seven fingered sailor with a rhombus of lapis lazuli in his left hand would accost me on the steps of the Seafarers Union headquarters and say, " Chai Mein Adhrak Dalo. "

Dear Chinirvilasa Sinnaserthambi, since you are my only reader (besides me, of course) you will remember that I, who was so overcome with the taste of that chicken curry (which I made and ate all by myself as my taste buds and gastric juices leapt out and started kissing me in ecstasy) threw caution to the south-west monsoon wind then and spelt out the recipe and it remains there hidden in the archives of this blog, like gold is hidden at the end of seven coloured rainbows near the magenta band if I remember correctly but it could be near the yellow too.

Why do I recollect all this? Because time has not made me any the wiser and the seven fingered sailor is going to be disappointed again because today, I Madhavankutty Pillai, aka Madhavankutty Pillai, is going to reveal another recipe. May I preface it by stating that I am a chocolate fundamentalist who believes that anything that is sweet and worth consuming is related to chocolate and that too by no further than the third degree of consanguinity. However, this Saturday my long cherished ideal and idea took a beating because I, with my own very hands, ably helped by an LG microwave oven, made the sweetestest sweet dish in the whole world and before I change my mind, let me tell you Chinirvilasa Sinnaserthambi, how it is made.

You need Nendrapazham, also called Malabar bananas, which are, you guessed right, bananas usually found off the coast of Kerala and also in shops run by Malayalees and sometimes Tamilians. It's slightly, sorry much much, longer than your normal banana and an essential ingredient if you want to make and, more importantly, eat the sweetestest sweet dish in the whole world. If you don’t get this banana, then tough luck, eat custard you bas****.

Now slice the bananas into two and then steam it, in the microwave or pressure cooker or stove or, if you like to do it the traditional way, by beating two stones together until there's a spark and etc.

Having steamed it cut it into small thick slices and then deep fry them in lots of coconut oil. Fry them enough so that there is a hint of brown. Do not overdo it and make it crisp.

Take it out, sprinkle lots of sugar and then add a little water and toss the bananas up and down, left and right till the sugar and water melt into the hot hot fried banana slices.

All this is more or less known to every good thinking and law abiding Indian and if you didn’t know it Sinnaserthambi, you dog, it is because you are neither good thinking nor law abiding.

Now for the Madhavankutty touch. Pour some honey over it. Not too much, maybe three or four tablespoon and then toss it up and down and left and right.

That's it. Eat.

I read you

2006-03-21T16:18:00.001+05:30

I read you

right? no. wrong? no.

2006-03-21T16:18:00.000+05:30

About two years ago, after I woke up in the morning with a deadline holding a sword over my neck, and then hurried off to office in extreme haste, extreme stress boxing me on my ears repeatedly repeatedly, I got into an autorickshaw which midway went bust and then I angry and furious started walking away when the rickshaw driver angry and furious called me back and demanded his fare up to the point that the rickshaw went bust but I naturally refused to pay but he persisted and then I told him no and then he said let's go to the police station and then we both walked to the police station and in between we met two constables and put forth our points of view, mine being that since I took the rickshaw to a particular point, going halfway does not help me because I would have to take another rickshaw and thus pay more and his, the rickshaw driver's, point being that his rickshaw has used fuel up to that point and he has also given his time and labour up to that point and so he is entitled to the fare up to that point and this is how we put forth our arguments to the two constables who agreed with me and told the rickshaw driver to pay but he did not and insisted that we go to the police station and so we walked on to the police station where surrounding a table sat four constables and we put forth our arguments again and this time they sided with the rickshaw driver and asked me to pay up the fare but I refused and said that I would not pay him and then they told me to pay him at least something so that this situation is resolved and so I paid him half the fare up to the point where his rickshaw went bust and they told the rickshaw driver to accept that money and so we both, equally happy and equally unhappy, returned, he to his bust up rickshaw and me towards the deadline whose sword just got bigger thanks to the time wasted in this silliness but I am still not sure who was the right in it and therefore this is what I call a moral dilemma and I don’t think there is an answer to it and I dont think there are answers to most things in life but there are solutions

listen, for i speak

2006-03-16T17:01:00.000+05:30

My agonies are exhausted and so I have a brief moment of respite before they rear their hydra heads. I use this, this becalming moment, to speak what I otherwise cannot, will not.

Since we will never meet, since you will never be near, I shall say what I could not once and then did, yes I did, but in a language which perhaps had no existence, no future. I understand that now. I understand much now but this wisdom has not come easy. I have had to journey much, not in furlongs and miles, or moments. My travels took me through different states of misery and miseries are not understood within time and space. Every sorrow is eternal when it is happening. I have waded through much and understood this: if words will make words glitter, then words also abrade meanings but then, words, which I write to expiate another silence, other abrasions, will also echo because if there is destruction in words, then there is also redemption in it.

It is important that you hear, that you understand, that you listen. And you will listen to my words which I throw in empty space knowing well that this is empty space. I know that they shall reach you because words travel faster than me and you, and they travel farther than you will ever go from me, because they travel with the wings of thought and heart, and these wings go far.

Other thoughts, other hearts will listen to me and through them you will listen. Yes, you will listen. You will perhaps not know that these words come from me, that in my silence there was much that was said and when I spoke, there were many things silent. I so wish for that silence to return but it will not. And so I create words now and I create words for you. I craft them, I design them, slowly sculpt them, give them feature, let them flow back and forth, let them ebb and bounce and sometimes let them free to do as they will. I do this with great care so that they, these words, shall travel, not in a raging mass submerging all that they meet, rather, I wish them to go one by one, letter by letter. Perhaps then, these stray sounds will be heard by someone, who will understand and from him it will take another form, a different feature and then another will hold on to it. From another to another and thus they will travel in single files until they reach your ears and you who must have forgotten me will stop and remember hard, you will think that these words are familiar and they speak in tongues you understand, and you will know then, you will know then that you know these words and what you hear has come from you.

2006-03-14T10:54:00.000+05:30

Seek you much, oh so much, to shield yourself from chances and dangers
Even so, how will you, migrant, ward off the kindness of strangers
Which come unattended , unwanted even, reminding of other ways of being
Making you, blind so far, discover new ways of seeing, questioning:
For life could be so, then why is it not, why is it not so
I looked for it, in corners, expanses, sideroads and plateaus
While there it was all along, from the beginning, abreast
Why then did I, who sought it with so much fervour, always say no

2006-03-05T14:32:00.000+05:30

                        THE ANNOUNCEMENT

Every man is allowed to die once. We have been dying since eternity: one death for every day as one and apart.

Today is the announcement. Our ambulant dreams shall now stall. Having all assembled, we wait for the Vazir in anticipation to what he has to say and also to finally see him. Will everything change? So far we have only seen his hands on the silver screens lined on the streets from which we have always known him talking to his subjects. Those hands would gesticulate as he spoke. But when he proclaimed the announcement the hands were still as death. We could see the veins then, taut like vines in abeyance. We imagined the blue blood flow through them. A little shudder passed through us.
Later, he said that he would personally address the gathering. There was one massive shudder then followed by clamorous after-silence. Apprehension flowed through the barren streets isled by people standing in front of giant television screens watching a hand speak.
I alone was relieved.
I am not here for the announcement.
I have come to find her and having found her to look her in the eye.

                    I

Once we were always together never looking each other by eye. Afraid of truths which only the glance departs, timid at the affinity of the union which only the eye can bring (the desire so extreme to remove the final barrier but protective of the comfort that anonymity brings, alas alas). Alas alas.
These are times of unreason. People change in metaphors. We started shedding off the body. Flakes littered the path we trod (I conjecture the disorder’s infestation to be the force anti-force resulting from the conflict of our desires fears).
How is it that which we fear and do our best to avert finally end up consuming us because we tried to do so? What is this parody? Why are there only evenings in this age?
Today is like the day before she left. I remember us walking beneath the open sky with twilight eating us in its early gloom and me holding her hand tight and she letting me do it. Thus we walked till the end where we sat down and watched the palm trees sway to the molten breeze. The world was a shade of fire-brown then. Today is somewhat like that. When my palms were wet with sweat as I held her hands tight. It must have hurt her a little but she let me do it then.

                    II

I stood at the portal watching her go and she turned. At that moment of time, had I returned the look, folly would have been averted.
From folly has sprung repentance, remorse, regret -- the disorder has struck me again. That it was she who took the chance; that it was I who refused the dice. But the change is different, in that whereas previously I changed form and face to become plain (or faceless), the present transmogrification is making me grotesque. Exacerbating the pain is the realisation that she, because of her willingness to look me in the eye, must have metamorphosed to something more beautiful, like a whitewashed second sky. I want to therefore look her in the eye and return to my original form, face and feature.

                    III

I promise myself that my story shall be of hope and end in fruition. I keep promising myself that.
I was the first to come here in this large slab of land carved from the tundra to stand the living world. I wanted to stand near the gate and watch each one come in. Then I will spot her and having spotted her look her in the eye. There is a problem though.
Having never looked at her, I do not know her appearance. How do you find someone whom you never saw and who has since changed form twice? The only way is to look her in the eye because having never done so, once I do it, I will instantly recognize her. Logics must swirl or they lead you to a judgment.

                    IV

I was therefore the first to be here -- even before the shanty dwellers who were evicted to make way for the maidan. Giant siphons spouting mineral water (no less) washed the bare earth clean of the excrement which these shanty dwellers for want of space had spread. These evicted ones are also here. They are curious to their fate. They do not know whether, once the announcement done, the Vazir has decreed them to return. They miss their homes. They cannot sleep without the stench of shit.

                    V

What is better: a staff or a block of stone on the weary back?
Who is better off: a soldier in the army of notaries or a poet-who-does-not-war?
The poets-who-do-not-war carried this huge block of stone together in regiment. This is the Vazir’s stage from where he will speak. The Vazir decreed them to the bottom when he reviewed the order. They were relegated because possessing all the mannerisms, eccentricities and temperament of poets, they refused to poetise because they did not want to. They did not even serve the necessity of unfructuous dissent. So one day from the screens, the hand pointed its shaking index finger and it spoke ‘Down’. The notaries immediately rounded them up. The poets-who-do-not-war were easy to recognise – sophisticated, clean but short and three front teeth missing.

(Here, I shall interject to mention my personal poet-who-did-not-war. He had sheaves of paper on which he constantly wrote. But whenever we tried to sneak a glance, the papers were always the blank side up rustling on his lap. One day, and this was long ago, much older than this age, together we forced the papers off him, looked behind the mystery and saw
The whole U in your eyes
The whole U in your eyes
The whole U in your eyes
The whole U in your eyes
The whole U in your eyes
U for Universe. He was also rounded up. I tell you this to make you understand why it was so perilous to look her in the eye. I refused to be a poet-who-does-not war. I did not want to be rounded up)

The notaries were also short but had all their teeth intact. They carried the staff with pride. They were given it when the Vazir decided that policing is best when it rests with those who channel the protest. On the other hand, the notaries were genetically incapable of aspersions to power having for centuries only attested petitions. Up.

                    V

Once when we were always together never looking each other in the eye, we were individuals on longer. We were, I can safely say, one. Thus having given ourselves up to the togetherness, we escaped the Vazir’s plan to create a uniscient society of no self.
After she has left, I have felt my self dissolving in waves with the Vazir’s. It is a luxury that scares me. I want me to be me and for that I must find her and having found her look her in the eye.

                    VI

I was the first to be here. I wanted to stand near the gate and watch each one come in. The maidan however had no gate. It just stood there open, far and beyond. It will be difficult now. I will just have to move and keep moving, look and keep looking, for an eye that I will recognise because I have avoided it always.

                    VII

There the gypsies shorn of sleep, there the clerk with eyes always in shade, there the women of paint, there they who live with the ghosts of the dead (whom they refuse to leave and who therefore do not leave them), there the swamis of power, the seducers, the survivors, there the poets-who-do-not war, the heroes who do not dare, there the judges who pass the limited judgments, there the eunuchs of fractured dreams, there the shaking bottlemen, there beauty hidden behind seven veils, spotless white and fresh as cold water, there the women, the lamenters, the managers…so many, so many people.
There a murmur, murmurs, murmursssss. The announcement?
There the Vazir. No, not the Vazir.

                    VIII

No, not the Vazir. I should not look at the Vazir. Or should I? (What is after all the value of an eye?) No one knows what will be said. Oblivion heralded; castes reworked; return to the penury principle; termination by random numbers: what is definite is that there will be change. Does his very arrival in person not signal that. Change will follow no curve. Change has already swept me in its wake; I chose it when I decided to find her and having found her to look her in the eye. I must choose again. Shall I abandon my search and look at the Vazir and hear what he has to say? Or shall I continue it knowing well that I shall fail? It is getting late. The night is getting darker still.

Similar sounds

2006-02-16T12:22:00.000+05:30

Similar sounds erupt these days. They come through window sills, vents, ventilators, the closed door and in agitated tones seek respites. I have none to offer. To understand is not to assuage. Other sounds make their difficult way through morning mists which overlap with smog until the clear and the unclear, the pure and impure, the clean and the sullied, is all one. These sounds seek love. I dont have that too and he who has nothing can give nothing and eventually forgets to take. To understand is not to requite. I have nothing to give but they keep coming, these sounds and their soundbearers, like mendicants who know all the secrets of worlds and worlds, but yet beg for little alms and yesterday's rice.

shadows

2006-02-13T12:23:00.000+05:30

When day disgusted quit, man and woman recognised the other through shadows. Shadows with no features, only form – tall, short, wide, narrow and their many mixes. He saw her through the veil of black and she saw him through night’s grief. Their eyes sought each other but in the land of shadows only shadows met.

to whom every shade is darkness inviting

2006-02-07T15:26:00.000+05:30

to whom every shade is darkness inviting
who sees not the solace that comes with it
whose every utterance is a cry
but who denies this
and silently prays for reprieve, any reprieve
but is too proud to speak, to voice it
and too much in pain to listen
how can anyone not see her blinding ache
how can anyone not hear her silent clamour
and yet no one does
except me

who takes all to be affront
and on chariots of hurt
spurns every hand that reaches out
imagines slights where smiles are
and strikes at the arrogance of compassion
who persists in this drama of doom
this drama self-willed, abhorred but played
how does anyone get through this wall
even the happy gods, those tireless ones, give up here
not me, i do not

Madness, meditation: an essay

2006-02-02T09:26:00.000+05:30

My father's younger brother, M P Parameswaran Nair died recently, having lived as a schizophrenic for at least the last 25 years of his life. For the most part of that period he smoked beedis in a room in the house at Pulluvazhi, near Perumbavoor in Kerala. Before, he had studied engineering at Benaras Hindu University and later at Patrick Lumumba University in Moscow. He was also for a short while in the army, recruited out of turn for his knowledge of Russian. In short, he was well traveled, intelligent and productive till he gradually lost control over the mind. I remember the fragment of a conversation I once had with him which went something like this:

He: "I am going to Delhi"
I: "Why?"
He: "To meet the director of the CIA"
I: "Who is the director of the CIA?"
He: "Me"

Unlike my uncle who died of a heart attack, Chandramohan died after being run over by a truck in a suburb called Dahisar which is very near Borivali, , a northern suburb of Mumbai. Before Chandramohan died, his body was literally going into pieces. We used to see him sitting in the parapet of a bus depot hours on end staring at particularly nothing. He was usually very clean, always coming early in the morning his hair slicked back, which meant that he had had a bath or at least washed his hair. He also wore a denim jacket over his shirt and jeans. He claimed to be a poet and constantly kept writing on some pieces of paper. I looked at it once or twice and there is only one line which struck me and it went something like this: The whole U in your eyes. There was a circle on the U, which signified, if I remember correctly, Universe. I do not remember any of the other lines, which means either it was meaningless or I have a poor memory.

The first sign of Chandramohan's disintegration came when he lost three of his front teeth, I forget how. He used to sit as before in the depot but somehow, with three teeth missing, that dignity or elegance of the artist was missing. Also his denim jacket went missing and his hearing slowly faded. When we said anything to him, he would bend his ears towards us and we would shout. He refused the idea of ear plugs using a twisted logic which said that with ear plugs you have to concentrate on the particular direction from which the sounds came. I have no idea what he meant by that. One day, when we were sitting as usual at the depot, a friend came and said that Chandrmohan has died. He had not heard the truck coming behind him, was how his death was explained. Anyhow, I don't think anybody cried.

I will also tell you about another person, a gold medallist in, I think, engineering from Benaras Hindu University, who lives in the same colony as me. This man wants to make movies. Before I quit smoking, I used to run into him at the paanwallah and he would tell me about scripts he is writing for movies, of wanting to write articles about what was wrong with our society and how it could be changed. I do not know whether he ever wrote them, certainly none got printed. I don’t think he ever completed any script. Consequently he is yet to make a movie. He had been brilliant once and he could do nothing now, it was as simple as that. But at least he was coherent in speech and decent in attire unlike the man in a place called Saibaba Nagar, which is in Borivali. This man, usually nude, often gets on to the divider and thinking himself to be a traffic constable, directs the traffic. Very few take notice of him and understandably so. That is the character of insanity; this turning of the mind within itself, a turning away from the world. Consequently the world turns away from the insane, both have nothing to give to each other. There are therefore no CIA directors, no scripts, no poems, no traffic to stop, there is nothing in those minds which must have once thought like you and I do.

My father, M P Narayana Pillai, a writer, would pace up and down talking to himself. He did this so often that we thought nothing strange about it. In fact, we joked that the only difference between him and his brother was that he was socially productive – as in, he could earn money by bartering a set of skills. He would agree and was almost proud of it. However, I have come to believe that it was a bad joke. Not because it was insulting to my father (he, as I said, took pride in the sobriquet). I think it was a complete travesty of madness, a romanticisation, much like the assumption that the mad man is happy within a particular universe of his own or that courting madness is in some ways necessary for the pursuit of creativity. I came to this view after going to a meditation course for the second time in my life.

The first time I went for the ten-day course was in July 2002 at a place called Igatpuri which is on the Mumbai-Nashik route. It was a Buddhist meditation technique called Vipassana. For ten days, all you do there is meditate. You cannot speak, read newspapers or novels, write anything, watch TV, communicate using signs or anything. You can only meditate at Dhamma Giri, the name of the place where this course was conducted. The first time I had no extraordinary experiences, but at the conclusion of the course felt a serenity which was obviously due to the complete insulation of the senses.

To describe the technique -- for the first three-and-a-half days, from morning 4 am to night 9 pm, you observe the breath, without in any manner trying to control it. Then on, till the end of the tenth day, you observe sensations in the body. The sensation is defined as anything that is present at a particular spot of the body. It could be heat, cold, heaviness, dryness, etc, whatever you feel is sensation. By the end of the tenth day, your mind becomes so sharp that you feel subtle vibrations all over the body. But the rule is to just observe it without becoming happy at a pleasurable sensation or sad at a painful sensation. This, in brief, is Vipassana meditation. As you advance, it is claimed that all the mind-matter phenomena reveal themselves as vibrations. Beyond this is the stage of Nirvana or Nibbana as they call it, which cannot be described precisely because it is beyond the field of mind and matter.

The next August, I therefore went expecting a much better experience. By the end of the fifth day, I was terrified at what my mind was churning out. It came to a stage that it was not the thought or thoughts that terrified me but the fear that those thought or thoughts will arise. Which then is a surefire formula for the mind to get directed to those thought/thoughts. The trick is to focus completely on the sensations in your body. Every aversion (and fear is of course one) you harbour will then make itself apparent as an unpleasant sensation or sensations. I developed a toothache on the sixth day. You are warned that the most important thing in meditation is not to experience the sensations but to remain equanimous no matter how pleasant or painful the sensation. In my case, the hint of a toothache was enough to bury my equanimity. I say it with no especial feeling of shame – I completely lost it. In retrospect the toothache appeared very trifle and it is a very trifle thing but remember, in that silence, that there is nobody there except you and the tooth ache. It is the only thing that exists and there is no ailment in the world that you will not associate with that ache, from tongue cancer to psychosis. After I returned home…aching, I went to a dentist who apart from relieving me of 300 rupees, helped in no way whatsoever. As time passed and the mind returned to its ordinary pattern with the usual contents that fill it, the toothache gradually passed away.

I was hardly the first to go through this experience. In fact, I first heard about this reaction to meditation when I must have been 13 or 14 and went for a Chinmaya Mission retreat in Lonavala. I remember the Sanyasi who was conducting the retreat remarking that students often come to him and tell him that during meditation terrifying thoughts arise. This particular question is inevitably one which is asked to almost every person whose teaching involves meditation, from Chinmayananda to Ramana Maharshi. The answer is always the same -- unless the filth of the mind comes out, how will it become pure. But only when you experience it, does the import of the question strike.

Therefore, and this is the point I am making, your mind is hardly a friend. It hits back as soon as you explore your way through it. The minute you try to tame it, it will lead you through a fiery path. And it has enough ammunition because nothing you have done, thought, seen, heard, desired, abhorred, craved, etc, from your mother’s womb to the present minute and second, is hidden from it. This terrifying character of the mind has to be experienced to be believed. And it will not take much effort. Just lock yourself up for two days in a room and try to concentrate on your breath or try to just observe your thoughts. You will understand what I am talking about. Which is why, when I think of a Chandramohan or my father’s brother, who has witnessed the gradual erosion of control, the loss of equanimity, reason, logic and continuity of thought, I think of my toothache and multiply it by infinity. That must be the situation of a person who has lost his value as a human being, a value built over millions of years of evolution from the first single celled amoeba to mankind.

bleak

2006-02-01T09:22:00.000+05:30

bleak is the will
bleak the black sky
bleak the brown earth
bleak the night
bleak the day
and its daily rebirth
bleak is the silence
bleak the silent wind
which carries this silence
bleak the dead
bleak the living
bleak is this running sorrow
bleak is today
bleak is tomorrow
bleak is you
bleak is me
bleak are the colours
bleak the seasons
bleak is the yellow evening
bleak the red morning
bleak is the brown earth
and the dark matter of the black sky

Did you know, this junction sees it all

2006-01-27T17:22:00.000+05:30

Did you know, this junction sees it all
Every sufferance, each train of joy
This junction knows, it sees it all
It sees stray encounters sweetunsweet
Of those who meet in roads
Which do not meet
But draw close and diverge
Till the waving of the hands
Is a figure, a line, a dot and sky
This junction sees such passings
Passings tantalisingly close
Heartbreakingly so
But they pass, and this is seen
This junction sees the imprints etched
And sure enough, it sees it erased
It sees stories in the erasing
Stories which leave leftovers
Like remainders in divisions
It collects these leftovers and packs it all
Looks longingly now and then swipes it away
Everything becomes memory now
Everything is retrospect now
In retrospect so much could happen
But nothing could, nothing did
How sad

adhvaitham

2006-01-20T12:09:00.000+05:30

shantham               shantham               shantham

     adhvaitham

n'aham               n'naham               n'tvam

     adhvaitham

n'manushyam               n'maanushyam               n'dhaivam

     adhvaitham

n'jananam               n'maranam               n'punarjanmam

     adhvaitham

n'thrupthy               n'athrupthy               n'ashantham

n'shantham               n'ashantham

     adhvaitham               adhvaitham               adhvaitham

when the clock strikes ten ten

2006-01-18T11:10:00.000+05:30

when the clock strikes ten ten and i fall
into the marble of the gilded banquet hall
that is when i hear the ceiling call
through a hole in the magician's shawl
some of whose rabbits now jump at me
as i try to wrench myself free
from the floor's all embracing glee
i try hard to stand but i crawl
there is now whisky burning on the stove
fat men in white wings are flying above
one of whom has arrows and a bow
he shoots one and it becomes a shove
which takes me down by the chest
i descend thinking this is no time to rest
soon there is going to be another ball
the clock strikes ten ten then and i fall

see, night, despite us, is happening

2006-01-12T21:00:00.000+05:30

see, night, despite us, is happening
and we stand on the edge of edges
our reluctant and eager toes inch
towards the brink of another brink

look, for certain this is night happening
look, we are beginning separations
our directions ever so surely turning
and our roads are parallel, they lead away, look

watch, we walk alone this night
our fingers find no fingers, they twitch
watch, we will shed memories in our stride
i will forget you, you will forget me
and soon there will be another by our side

somedays the day is like that

2006-01-10T16:20:00.000+05:30

somedays the day flits like butterflies on aimless flight fluttering without direction moving this way that way up down flitting shooting becalming pulsating throbbing flying perspiring, if butterflies can perspire, if days can perspire
somedays the day is like that
somedays the day moves with enormous purpose like spiders on the kill moving around in intent circles moving in moving away even knowing knowing all the while that the distance is closing and the webbed fly is on the weave of death and the spider moves in moves in like the day of enormous intent
somedays the day is like that
somedays the day is like nothing and all that you do is nothing even when you do something and someone says you you have done something and you you know it is nothing because you you know everything is nothing and so the day even if it is rich rich and noble noble is nothing and you know it
somedays the day is like that

she that is lonely and who breaks the minute

2006-01-06T00:02:00.000+05:30

she that is lonely and who breaks the minute
which crumbles on her like old bread
and then rises like a wave to engulf her
she has nothing to fear
her loneliness will take her through
and someday she will sleep content
like how children sleep after long days

she who worries for her different loves
who is wife, daughter, lover, mother
her enormous heart will suffice
through repeated betrayals of her love
she has nothing to worry
for she has it in her to take it all in
and from the suffering extend pleasure

Second Comings

2005-12-28T09:34:00.000+05:30

About four years ago, during the end of my epic battle with several demons (and the war's not over), I wrote a story and in an incoherent moment submitted it to an online magazine called Sulekha, who after murdering it a little, put it up. Now Sulekha's become a blogsite of sorts where all and sundry can put up whatever they want and they have posted this there as my post. Which is a little embarrassing because now I find the piece a little juvenile and see the possibility of doing several things to it. I tried to erase the damn thing from Sulekha but the thing just wouldn't go. Moreover when I google my name this is the first thing that pops up. So I thought, since this forms part of self-history, maybe it's a good idea to let it be as is. And also, as my fourth standard teacher says, when you are ashamed of something, exhibit it flaunt it and that is how the shame demons die. So here goes to hell another demon of mine...

SECOND COMINGS

I woke up in the afternoon with a shiver in my mind; the tremors, I knew, would follow. I was not surprised. I headed for the bar. It was not a long walk and as I walked I saw the flowers, the trees, the tresses of a woman, and as I passed the pond, the man joined me.

Who are you, I asked him.

He replied, I am the translator and destroyer of histories, I build second heavens for you, I make the dreams shout at you, I make myths and I am a myth, I create you and let the dreams that I weave in you make you be. I am madness but I am also redemption and I always give you a chance to reject me, destroy me.

Destroy me, I told him.

I am also a storyteller, he said, and therefore I shall tell you another story. About the temple and the temple's door which no one could pass without knocking the head at the awning unless you want to pass not the door but enter what is inside. And this was the story that he told me:

The man and wife climbed the hill, stopped to look at the waterway winding through the fields, saw the pumpkins growing at their feet and then moved ahead to reach the temple, tried to enter the temple and got knocked on the head good and proper. They entered nevertheless, prayed to the god with a flute stuck on its mouth and then rang the bell. A single chime resulted and they remembered the time when they had come, not as man and wife then.

They remembered the bell as it had rung then, when the chimes echoed to more chimes and then more chimes and the cadence ascending to a harmony. They remembered looking at the god then and then realising that if there was only something added, everything would be complete and proper. But they were satisfied then and had returned satiated.

Now, as man and wife, complete, they had returned and not only did they find themselves incomplete but also unwanted. They returned home looking at nothing, not even the future, promising to never return. They grew up slowly together, prospered, begat children, who begat children. They grew old. They grew tired of each other but continued in the habit of their presence.

And then one day the woman fell from the bathroom and was bedridden. She was afflicted by bedsores, by memory which passed her by, by odd stenches, by unusual dreams, by terrible nightmares until she stopped to think and waited to die. Her leg healed when she was told about a terrible disease which would make her a vegetable soon. The man too waited for the woman to die, scared at the loneliness that would ensue but reconciled. He was reconciled.

One day, as he sat beside her bed and watched the television rerun a movie which they had once seen together and laughed at together and had then gone for a walk together and had laughed together as they walked, the woman told him, take me to the temple. Let us try once more, to enter the temple and see the god. Let me walk for the one last time in my life.

Yes, said the man. We shall enter it together.

And therefore they again made good the arduous climb and saw from afar the awning and the temple door and as they entered, got knocked on the head good and proper.

They did not enter then. The woman leaned against the wall of the nearby well and slumped down onto the floor, beaten and bruised, and the man sat down near her as he thought it was the proper place for him in their moment of defeat.

And he saw his wife, founder of lost battles, in wait at last for uneasy rest. Most excellent once in beauty, withered, wizened, done in by the juices of life. He saw himself, victor in everything we call life, a good life. It was a good life, led by good people. And he felt anger.

He saw the blue skies and looked at the god inside who had spurned them. No god shall spurn us, no god can spurn us: he started chanting the mantra and then he remembered, once, when he had seen and had fallen deeply, deeply in love with her in the computer laboratory where they both were students. And he remembered, in the evening, when she was away and everyone was away, he had opened her computer and had kept on typing:

Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise

Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise

Doe eyed
filter toed
Minerva in disguise

Creature of right
Little love
In easy flight

And the man as he sat watching his wife near the temple changed his mantra and started chanting: Doe eyed, filter toed, Minerva in disguise and he got up chanting and picked up his wife, she had never felt lighter before, never more beautiful, he was never as comfortable in her proximity and he carried her in his two arms towards the awning, beyond the doors which seemed to grow and grow till they touched the very heavens. The man carried his wife inside the temple and together they took the bell and swung the gong and the chimes began, and once beginning never seemed to stop. Not even, smiled the wife, for the flute which the god vainly tried to play.

The best chicken curry in the whole world

2005-12-23T11:15:00.000+05:30

Since circumstances have conspired to remind me of my chicken curry and this being the season of merriment, I will do you all a favour and post the recipe for the best chicken curry in the whole damned word. After about one and half years of trial and error, I finally settled on this. It's the best there is and dont bother to thank me, for I already hear it...

STUFF YOU WILL NEED:

1. aniseed or saunf or jeera, about a teaspoon or two

2. curry leaves or kadipatta, about ten or twelves leaves

3. onions, i usually put in about five of them but that's because i like its sweet tang

4. ginger-garlic paste, about three teaspoon

5. the chicken of course, a kilo, preferably cut into small pieces

6. chicken masala powder. now this is the tough part because you need Eastern Chicken Masala or Melam Chicken Masala for it to be the best chicken curry in the world. now both brands are big names in Kerala and is available in Mumbai in quaint little shops called Malayalee shops. any Malayalee aunty will direct you there. If you dont get it tough luck. use any chicken masala powder but dont blame me if the divinity is missing.

7. tomato, i usually go overboard, and put in about four of them

8. coconut oil, maybe half a cup

9. green chillies, about eight of them

10. salt, red chilli powder, turmeric powder

HOW DO YOU DO IT:

Here's how. Put about one tablespoon of salt and a teaspoon of turmeric powder on the chicken and mix it. Now remember, you are not marinating the fellow because, this might be news for you, chicken cannot be marinated. What you are doing is removing the chicken stench and this goes away after you wash the salty dead chicken after about five minutes. Now wash it again and again, as if the chicken is being readied for its own funeral. And now keep it aside.

Now, take a vessel, a large one, pour in the oil, let it heat and then put in the aniseed and curry leaves. Dont burn them, just enough for all that nice flavour to sink in.

Now add the onions, and turn the heat on as you make these onions very transparent like Mallika Sherawat. Once that's done, it's the turn of the ginger-garlic paste. And now this heavenly smell will come floating right onto you. Enjoy it because it wont last.

Now the chicken goes in and just fry it around for sometime and it is now time to put in the chicken masala powder but before that you have to do something to it. Listen carefully because this is very important.

Mix the chicken masala with water to make it into a paste before you add it onto the waiting dead chicken. I cant tell you how important this is. I also cant tell you why it works because it works.

Now you have got a dry sort of mixture on the fire, but dont add water. Leave the heat on medium. Maybe you can add the green chillies now after slitting them. if you like it hot add a teaspoon or two of red chilli powder

The hard work is more or less done, except for the tomatoes. Now there's a theory that the tomatoes should be added right at the end, about five minutes before you conclude and that keeps the meat tender. I personally have found that it makes no difference. So you can add the tomatoes whenever you feel like.

Now cover the vessel, go watch a TV serial or read a book and come back every five minutes to stir the chicken.

After about 30 minutes or so add some salt. And then taste it to see its fine. The thing with salt is always start low and then go on increasing because if you put excess of it, then it cant be reversed unless you have a chemistry professor near you.

Add water, if you wish for more gravy and i do wish for more gravy, so i usually add it.

After about 15 more minutes more switch off flame. Eat. Remember me as you eat.

four words

2005-12-22T09:35:00.000+05:30

good bye
take care
four words
point noted
accepted
few things rued
i am screwed

an even more perfect haiku

2005-12-21T10:00:00.000+05:30

?

?

?

?

we who early morning drink in thimbles

2005-12-19T08:50:00.000+05:30

— we one leg in the gutter by the bar
we poets all, we who do not war —

We who early morning drink in thimbles which slake like little lakes
Water our wounds and savour the ebbing of incessant shakes.
We relish the moment of this agony, the reliving of many pains
And celebrate the separation, the distance between you and I.

We who wait for shards of light seeping through the eyes of night
See — remains of one heart pulsating through the year’s stubble
And lame lovers dance to broken strings, whirl, turn and stumble.
Look — bottlemen with nothings battle through absent mornings.

We who do not war, poets all, night bereft in full blood dawn
Feast drink on little loves which matter little now
Envisioning other days, of white-washed second skies
Remembering furtive meetings and the promise of it
(her walk when she walked was somewhat hurried
her eyes her eyes had those touches of worry
she was my shadow, I was her shadow
together together like eye-black on eye)
Then the desolation of evenings, broken halfs of it
Mute with bleak yellow lights from failing lamps
Yellow lights which like futile brakes on this city’s nights
Ease into the early morning and we heart-afflicted watch it die.

the evillest rickshaw driver of mumbai

2005-12-13T15:44:00.000+05:30

He was silent when I flagged him. He nodded and shook his head pointing inwards as I gave him my location. This was evening outside Borivali station, which is as north as north Mumbai proper gets. He gunned his black and yellow chariot and we ambled along and soon reached a point where a left had to be taken in the busy thoroughfare. In front of us was another rickshaw driver, blocking our road, waiting all expectantly for a man who had just jumped over the divider and looked like he was going to get in. And while the driver waited thus, the man neared him to half an arms length and just walked past eating peanuts. My rickshawdriver saw all this with keen eyes and then all hell broke loose.

He began to laugh and then went on to laugh and laugh until he was doubling over on his steering jack. In between he turned, and his eyes full of laughter tears, he looked at me and pointing at the rickshaw upfront, he asked in unchaste Hindi, "Did you see that," and then went back to return to splits. I was getting a little worried now. I thought I had a nut on my hands. I found nothing remotely funny in it. "Ho ho he he he, you saw that. Ho ho ho he he he," he continued to gasp out through his guffaws.

The way cleared meanwhile and we started ahead but something had happened to him, my rickshaw driver. Some vent of evil had snapped. Laughing like a maniac, and driving like one too, he suddenly veered onto a bus stop where there were a bunch of people politely standing and he drove straight into them. All of them there went pell mell in all directions. At the last minute, my maniac veered again and we were back into the road's middle. "You saw that. Ho ho ho he he ho ho ho," he went. This was getting infectious and the ghost got into me too and so we both went , "Ha ha ha hah hah ahh ho ho he he ho."

He then pushed on the accelerator and deftly cut another motorcycle driver almost driving him into another scooter. "Ho Ho Hoo Hah hah hah," we went, I slapping his back now.

Now, we were at an intersection and waiting behind a Sumo for the traffic to clear. An old woman came from the left and was about to squeeze her way through from between the auto and the jeep, when my friend, noticing this, waited till the last moment, and then inched his rickshaw ahead blocking off her route. She waited, bewildered, and then slowly, all her age showing, turned back defeated to try to make a way from behind us. "You saw that," said the maniac and went, "Ho ho hoo hoo."

We went ahead and there was a cycle coming from the opposite direction and my driver went straight on to him at full speed and the cyclist flailed his arms and fell to his right. Another cyclist a little ahead, was crowded off the road and fell in a heap on the footpath. And all the while, we both went "ho ho hoo hoo ho ho ha ha. Dont ever give them room. Ho ho hoo hoo hoo"
And this continued on and on, the autorickshaw rocking left and right as we laughed all the way to my place.

We both had one final "Ho ho ha ha Hoo Hoo" before I paid him off and he disappeared from my life. I hope he had an accident on his way back.

hear us O you who hears all

2005-12-12T15:20:00.000+05:30

hear us O you who hears all
for we are people of faith and hope
burdened by much but unrelenting
silenced by grief but unbowing
hear our faith. we believe

see us O you who sees all
see that we be kind and caring
see that we be good and sharing
we live in your shadow, by your will
by your grace see that we live well

feel us O you who touches all
we are asea in tempests, you the harbour
feel our prayers, for we hymn your glory
we ask no riches nor golden grains
just faith and keep our faith growing

be with us O you who is in all and all
for we know - when there is nothing
when the path is uneven and the darkness
engulfing encompassing entwining -
you exist and that to us is enough
that, hear us O you who hears all, is everything

You pursue me

2005-12-10T22:21:00.000+05:30

you pursue me
through persuasions
of life
of love
where love is a writ
a plea an ask
a summon
where a summon
is enough

you pursue me
through rescissions
and regrets
where i rescind all
and you breathe all
back into me.
you pursue me
through evasions
you pursue
till i evade no more

we meet

amid
sullied rivers
tainted woods
bald mountains
dead valleys
desert

we meet

we levee the rivers
and shore up dreams
we blink at the night
which blinks back
and so there’s light
we colour the valleys
we colour the mountains
we colour the woods
we colour it all
we irrigate the dry desert
finally we walk
and our feet follow us
without persuasions
without evasions
the sun unbolts the way
at last, it is day

I pursue you

2005-12-09T13:57:00.000+05:30

i pursue you
through evasions
of time
where time is a word
a paragraph, a chapter
a novel
where a novel
is a line

i pursue you
through evasions
where you evade
and i evade
and glances float wrinkle
curl
where you walk i walk
and opposite sunsets
rise

i pursue you
through rivers of night
and we draw dreams
with a water wheel
these dreams run
rise and spray
and we separate each
with uneasy fingers
which mildly tremble
(because they break too soon
fragile dreams break too soon)
as we make our way
through rivers of blinding night

Things not to do and to do

2005-12-08T00:37:00.000+05:30

I am a magnet for embarrassing moments and what happened today ranks somewhere in the middle. But, still it's got news value. But before that, the background: Well, about five months ago, I am like new to this job and all eager and ready to run if anyone tells me to stand up. Alert, attentive, razor fast and aiming to please, that was what I was aiming to be. So, I get a call on my extension. "Can you come here please." It sounds to me like our head of administration and so I get up, take a left and cross a stair to head into that section of things. Turns out head of administration is with head of accounts in the latter's cabin. So maybe they both have something terribly important to do with me.

My spine straight, I barge into the cabin. And they are having a sort of round table conference except that all of them are standing. Head of accounts looks at me and lifts one eyebrow. Quick Gun Madhavan (that's me) lifts one of his own.

"Yes," he says.

"Yes," I say.

"Can I help you," he asks. I am a little fuddled now. So okay, head of administration is there. He called me after all and I lower my eyebrows and say, pointing at him, "He."

Head of administration immediately dusts his shirt. "Me. Oh, you want to talk to me. Let's go outside."

He doesn't get it. "But you called me," I tell him.

"Did I," he says. "I didn't," he adds.

I mutter sorries and then run back to my cubicle where editor, il capo, is waiting.

"Hey, I called you. Why did you go running in the other direction." I mutter more embarrassed sorries. End of recap.

NOW TODAY:

Head of administration comes and says new publishing director, a CEO of sorts, wants to meet everyone singly and do I have the time. Of course I have the time and jump and almost start running to do small talk with the il capo di capo. Hold it, says head of administration. "He's with someone else. Later. I will call you."

Five minutes later there's a call. "Madhavan, can you come here" And I get up and run to head of administration. Yes, you guessed it. That was the editor again.

So I reach my completely wrong and mistimed destination and flash a smile at him. Head of administration smiles back and I should have suspected something because he didn't say anything. So I hemmed and hawed and he offered me a seat and we just sort of sat there. He, I am sure, wondering what's wrong with me and I all agog in anticipation but puzzled that I am being made to wait. I mean I didnt have to wait a minute during my job interview. I get invited in after a long long time, in the meanwhile of which I ask head of administration about his train schedule, kids, estate prices and so forth. Small talk done with publishing director, I return to find my other boss, the editor, waiting.
"You still dont recognise my voice," he says and laughs loudly. What else could I do. I try to laugh even louder than him and act like I am revelling in all this glory.

But I decide then and there to smuggle in a spoon from tomorrow onwards and start digging a tunnel under my chair and so maybe the next time I can jump right in and get out through the other side in the night, straight onto Goa betwixt the white dunes of Benaulim beach which sparkle in the night like pearls and where I will lie and look at the full moon while mermaids, as pretty as Blue Athena, come out of the sea flipping their flippers and sing many little lyrics to me. I wouldn't look at them though. I would look at the moon and imagine the fat fellow dancing to the sea music. Later I would go on a float of these sea nymphs deep into the sea where the sea king would offer his daughter in marriage and then, sea king, sea queen, sea princess and me would lead a good sea life with sharks and sting rays, dolphins and blue whales, octopus and salmons who take a break as they migrate through vast oceans to nest and egg. Yes, one happy sea family we will all be.

My left toe

2005-12-06T21:45:00.001+05:30

Resolution made to self notwithstanding, I am yet to write even one vowel today of the 1000-word daily target. So, in the meanwhile, let me quickly tell you about my left toe while the writer's block gets bored and scrams...

MY LEFT TOE

My left toe is situated on my left leg. It is like any other left toe.

When I remember I remember

2005-12-05T22:39:00.000+05:30

When I remember I remember
Suns of no rising
No moons straddling no moons
Throwing no glare nor light
On twilghts which ran on end
Into the reaches of the year
Remaining like unwelcome guests
Who make other homes homes
Till they own it.
I remember the shutting of the door

When I remember I remember
Nights of no tomorrows
And evenings which wept
And days of no mornings
Which crept
Like age does on beauty
Until the ravishing is done
And the remains are left to wither.
I remember beginning to run

Whatever the hell this means

2005-12-02T21:47:00.001+05:30

Feng shui chimes remind me of lost and disappearing times
Half a clock tells me time is petty like petty crimes
the minute mocks and mimes, she said
the minute mocks and mimes, she said
Mosquitoes like jailbirds wave to me from the window glass
Now I remember, I wanted to be but was never topooftheclass
be strong glint like brass, she said
be strong glint like brass, she said
Calendars beat the air, their pages fluttering and shouting
The tubelight holds the night, but then months are turning
light the lamp and pray, she said
light the lamp and pray, she said
In the instant of a blink years have been evading and passing
Where was I where was I where was I when all this was ensuing
you rave and rant, pray she said
you rave and rant, pray she said
I cant I cant
I recant I recant

Sometimes death comes calling in early morning

2005-12-01T09:00:00.000+05:30

Sometimes death comes calling in early morning
When light breaks out in shards
Just before the new day begins
And the sun is about to smile
Death waiting then makes her move
She comes calling then

That is how tea cups roll over
And arteries go on strike
Blood and tea
Matching mixing
As death comes calling in early morning

Life is spent, the breath is over
Nostrils are clouded with cotton
Down below, toes are tied
All over, rose water is applied
Death is calling, dress him up
Be ready now, it is time to go

It is time to go
Let fire consume his body
Let the gods assume his soul
Let his dust swirl the wind
Let his bones in rivers flow
Death is calling
Let him go let him go

The flames rise and ashes are born
It is over: tears are futile, why try
And that is how fathers die

Leper Colony

2005-11-30T17:30:00.000+05:30

With broken bent fingers and holes of hands
We gathered the colours of the rainbow
In open palms
Scattered it over fruits, vegetables, flowers
Watched them sprout and bloom
There was this hunger we had to break
There was this thirst we had to slake

We harnessed the wind
Broke the yoke of rivers in spate
Subdued torrents, dammed their fury
We were creators of many lakes
On clear nights we kissed the stars
And they twinkled bright for us
We let the moon free from the earth
We could even douse the sun but we did not
We tilled this land, once barren once bereft
And from towering rocks on dead plateaus
We curdled water and quenched our thirst
From our threads, we saw kingdoms rise
Gods who forsook us, came beseeching now
We weaved baskets which held life
We raised our young and we gave them love
We did all this and more

The road was long and it took a while
Often we slipped but then we stood
And then we walked on a thousand legs
We knew
We knew that with every step we took
We knew that with the first step we took
We lepers of the leper colony became whole again
This mutilated journey done, we each became all again

Dreams of botox

2005-11-30T12:05:00.000+05:30

At 3:40 in the morning when I woke up with a shiver, I knew that this would not be a good day. For I had dreamt that I had had botox injections in my eyes and while the rest of my face was wrinkled and sagged like witches in fury, my eyes were smooth and straight as the sort of marble they used once to build the Taj Mahal. I could have done many things then - analysed the meaning of this nightmare, pondered on the vagaries of time, read a sad book to make me sadder or perhaps, autosuggest my way to happiness, which I am sure exists somewhere in this good earth. But I was sleepy and so I went back to sleep and overslept and missed my 7:51am Borivali local to Churchgate and with fright in my mind, fear clutching my heart, waited for the 7:57 slow sure as sure that I wouldn't get a place to sit. I jumped in, wrestled my way afore and pushing aside a stock broker, captured the third seat, the last on offer, in the first class compartment and erected my flag there.
There I sat, leafing through a copy of the Mumbai Mirror, till I came across an article on mental health. Being interested in this department, I quickly dog-leafed it, flipped through the rest of the ramble and returned to mull over the piece. It spoke of anxiety disorder and I quickly put a tick against, it spoke of depression and I quickly put a tick against it, it spoke of schizophrenia and I put a question mark against it and then it spoke of bipolar depression and I put two exclamation marks there. There the list ended and thus satisfied, with many unexplained mysteries solved, I spent the rest of my time desperately trying to get a glimpse of the sunlight through the elbows of fellow strugglers in that inferno.

The problem with dhai

2005-11-29T17:45:00.000+05:30

I am giving the muse a break and since I am pretty damn sure that no one is reading all this drivel, I am going to keep myself amused by recounting something funny. And then I will laugh all by myself and feel sorry for the whole world that they are not privy to this. So here goes...

Once upon a time, in a building of six wings reclining below a hill in a place called Borvali in the northern end of a city called Mumbai, my brother got off the autorickshaw. Us Malayalees dont pride ourselves on our know of Hindi and therefore you (or rather I, since only I am reading this) are warned to look at the following exchange with kind commiseration.
The minimum fare in those days used to be Rs 7.50 which my brother was unaware of. Having got down, he fished out a Rs five note and threw it at the rickshaw driver.

The rickshaw driver now: Saahab, dhai rupiya aur ('Rs dhai please more, sir', if you want my sorry translation)

My brother fishes out another Rs 2 note and gives to rickshaw driver. Now here comes the nub: He thinks, 'dhai' means Rs 1.50.

So, we have this situation: Both rickshaw driver and brother looking at each other, each expecting the other to donate a 50 paise coin to the other. Time passes thus.

Finally, the rickshaw driver breaks the ice: Saahab, pachas paise

And my brother, paragon of generosity, says: "KEEP THE CHANGE!!!

Because all witnesses were rolling on the ground at this point, no one knows what transpired later.

In the beginning

2005-11-28T22:33:00.000+05:30

In the beginning,
Even before the word
Were silences.

Silent gods
In Silent heavens
Whispering Silences.

And came beginnings
Order from order torn
Explosions
Creations
Divisions
Revisions

Then happened the word
All was suddenly still
And worlds were born

And I read you and think

2005-11-28T06:50:00.000+05:30

And I read you and think
When our histories are written
If our untold lives are noted
In this age of evenings:
How much of that ink will spill
And go
Or will they write on water
And watch the words flow

Will they then apologise
For all that was lonely today
Will they perhaps reason
Why so many were sad
Why did all the poets lie
Why did the divisions die
Between what was wrong
And
What was right
Why didn't the writers write

Is that how our conclusions begin:
Here lived people in healthy times
Women and men of steel
And here began the end
Of all that we remember
It's official: history stillborn is dead
All in this excellent land is henceforth myth