The rousing jingles of practised imagination
articulating her casseroled lipstick coated voice;
Seducting me at midnight with ruthless sweetness,
From prepaid to post paid was her solitary concern.
"Sir", she added with an exclamatory respectfulness
before preceding with the foreplay of my senses;
From head to heal, she covered in a minute or two
As i was led to all the holes and loop holes.
"Yes", was all my tongue could babble
in a tone of superimposed frankness;
As the equipoise of all my midnight senses
broke down to her seismic armada of promises.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
BASICALLY YOU ARE ALL GIRLS!!!!!
It was raining cats and dogs.I had no way other than to take refuge in the waiting shed till she came back from the church graveyard.I cursed my memory which always betrayed me in taking an umbrella.She was my dear friend with whom I spend seven years of my residential school life.Our school was a microcosm where we lived in an entirely different world alienated from the usual school life;where we had to make ourselves fit for the fight outside the four boundaries of our campus.
She was an extraordinary sensible girl who tried to weave her net of life like a spider but was annoyed to find herself already in the intangible mesh of fate.The strict residential school life,even from the age of eleven taught us to follow the Darwinian principle in our life.Though hostel life was amusing at first,things were different after two-three years.
Time flees away cunningly without even making others aware of the changes it make in one’s life.Like seasons change she was also changing.Transformation is somewhat terrible when it shake out the very basement of the self-made framework of presumptions and ideologies.She despised her warden who always chewed the same cud after each and every night roll call,“You know basically you are all girls” giving particular emphasis at the words “basically”and “girls”;as if it was all our fault that we were born as girls,after all she was also a woman.Hearing this we felt like dumping her into a large tumbler with boiling water in it.
It was the day when we were promoted to 9th standard.During those days it was compulsory for girls to wear “dupatta” from 9th standard onwards,for the study time during night at the school building.The echo of boys howling at very moment we entered wearing “dupatta”still reverberates in my ears and this was something she could’nt tolerate.,but I consoled her and told her to take it as a mere joke.But then,there ensued a sword play with words between my friend and one of the quarrelsome boys in our class who always found an impish pleasure in pasting the chewing gum especially in her bench.Unfortunately our warden was the duty-in- charge that day and she happened to hear her shouting at the top her voice against the boy.
After the usual night roll call ‘speech’ she was given a one hour extra ‘moralising class’ by our warden,who was not even ready to hear her arguments;but always insisted upon the fact that “basically you are all girls.”
Amidst the tough hostel life,it was her mother whom she really missed.She could never understand her mother completely and always felt that her mother completely and always felt that her mother had woven a hard shell around her which was really difficult for her to penetrate.Six hours of Parents Visiting day could’nt cement up the gap between them.But they loved each other and always wanted to say something which both could’nt tell.
Vacations were like a cool downpour in the scorching sun.She was always confused with her ‘home’and ‘hostel’.Was home her ‘hostel’or hostel her ‘home’?She felt herself like a migrating bird that always came back to spend a few days at a wonderful place.
She slept with her mother whenever her father went for night shifts and it was during such hours that she gave vent to all her emotions and thoughts.Her mother poured out her ideas about the coincidences in life,about the unconquerable Fate and about the other sides of life.Her mother always said that ‘to get a good life-partner was the same as to win a lottery.’Though she could’nt imbibe everything that her mother said,she never counter-questioned her.But time revealed all the mysteries and secrets behind her mother’s words.
It was during such a vacation that they saw an astologer who was employed in a jewelry shop for identifying one’s birth stones.After learning her birth sign he asked with surprise.”are you still living with your husband?”;for which her mother’s response was a rhrtoric smile.
She could’nt sleep that night.The astrologer’s words echoed in her ears,”its surprising that you are not divorced still.”Each word hit on her soul like a sharp sword and made deep cut wounds.Then she knew everything and realization burst upon her like a bombshell.It was all an adjustment between them.Her parents were two parallel lines living under the same roof with entirely different ideas and ideals,which she could never accept.Her mother never lost equilibrium and maintained the chord from breaking despite all the harsh realities just for the sake of her daughter.
She swithched on the light and took out the ring from the box.It was 12.30 at night.The ring which astrologer gave her mother whichn was ‘destined’ to diminish all the difficulties in her life.He also predicted that all her difficulties will come to a halt after the age of forty five. A mere stone influencing a person’s life was something indigestible for her.
Mazing motion of her stream of thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the harsh voice of her father followed by arguments which ended with her mother’s sobs.
She never dared to ask about the undercurrents in her mothre’s life which made her life a quagmire from where there was no escape unless and until all the ties were broken.
Few weeks later, one night she disclosed her first love affair[which she later told me was a mere infatuation] to her mother.A long silence ensued there after, which was broken by phone call.It brought the message of the death of her father in aroad accident and surprisingly it was a week after mother’s forty fifth birthday.
A cold hand brought me back to reality.It was she herself smilling with an umbrella in her hand.
She was an extraordinary sensible girl who tried to weave her net of life like a spider but was annoyed to find herself already in the intangible mesh of fate.The strict residential school life,even from the age of eleven taught us to follow the Darwinian principle in our life.Though hostel life was amusing at first,things were different after two-three years.
Time flees away cunningly without even making others aware of the changes it make in one’s life.Like seasons change she was also changing.Transformation is somewhat terrible when it shake out the very basement of the self-made framework of presumptions and ideologies.She despised her warden who always chewed the same cud after each and every night roll call,“You know basically you are all girls” giving particular emphasis at the words “basically”and “girls”;as if it was all our fault that we were born as girls,after all she was also a woman.Hearing this we felt like dumping her into a large tumbler with boiling water in it.
It was the day when we were promoted to 9th standard.During those days it was compulsory for girls to wear “dupatta” from 9th standard onwards,for the study time during night at the school building.The echo of boys howling at very moment we entered wearing “dupatta”still reverberates in my ears and this was something she could’nt tolerate.,but I consoled her and told her to take it as a mere joke.But then,there ensued a sword play with words between my friend and one of the quarrelsome boys in our class who always found an impish pleasure in pasting the chewing gum especially in her bench.Unfortunately our warden was the duty-in- charge that day and she happened to hear her shouting at the top her voice against the boy.
After the usual night roll call ‘speech’ she was given a one hour extra ‘moralising class’ by our warden,who was not even ready to hear her arguments;but always insisted upon the fact that “basically you are all girls.”
Amidst the tough hostel life,it was her mother whom she really missed.She could never understand her mother completely and always felt that her mother completely and always felt that her mother had woven a hard shell around her which was really difficult for her to penetrate.Six hours of Parents Visiting day could’nt cement up the gap between them.But they loved each other and always wanted to say something which both could’nt tell.
Vacations were like a cool downpour in the scorching sun.She was always confused with her ‘home’and ‘hostel’.Was home her ‘hostel’or hostel her ‘home’?She felt herself like a migrating bird that always came back to spend a few days at a wonderful place.
She slept with her mother whenever her father went for night shifts and it was during such hours that she gave vent to all her emotions and thoughts.Her mother poured out her ideas about the coincidences in life,about the unconquerable Fate and about the other sides of life.Her mother always said that ‘to get a good life-partner was the same as to win a lottery.’Though she could’nt imbibe everything that her mother said,she never counter-questioned her.But time revealed all the mysteries and secrets behind her mother’s words.
It was during such a vacation that they saw an astologer who was employed in a jewelry shop for identifying one’s birth stones.After learning her birth sign he asked with surprise.”are you still living with your husband?”;for which her mother’s response was a rhrtoric smile.
She could’nt sleep that night.The astrologer’s words echoed in her ears,”its surprising that you are not divorced still.”Each word hit on her soul like a sharp sword and made deep cut wounds.Then she knew everything and realization burst upon her like a bombshell.It was all an adjustment between them.Her parents were two parallel lines living under the same roof with entirely different ideas and ideals,which she could never accept.Her mother never lost equilibrium and maintained the chord from breaking despite all the harsh realities just for the sake of her daughter.
She swithched on the light and took out the ring from the box.It was 12.30 at night.The ring which astrologer gave her mother whichn was ‘destined’ to diminish all the difficulties in her life.He also predicted that all her difficulties will come to a halt after the age of forty five. A mere stone influencing a person’s life was something indigestible for her.
Mazing motion of her stream of thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the harsh voice of her father followed by arguments which ended with her mother’s sobs.
She never dared to ask about the undercurrents in her mothre’s life which made her life a quagmire from where there was no escape unless and until all the ties were broken.
Few weeks later, one night she disclosed her first love affair[which she later told me was a mere infatuation] to her mother.A long silence ensued there after, which was broken by phone call.It brought the message of the death of her father in aroad accident and surprisingly it was a week after mother’s forty fifth birthday.
A cold hand brought me back to reality.It was she herself smilling with an umbrella in her hand.
By,
Scorpion
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Today my mind is not right
When does the mind goes right? what is the true meaning of keeping oneself sane? These questions have always been there in my mind deep inside . But now I some times feel being sane is the most insane thing in the world.
I have wondered how some people could actually live as their heart says. Whenever I had to take a decision between the heart and the mind, I have always gone with my mind and to a large extent I was right. Those decisions never made me think the other way. But now here is one person who comes and tells me that if you think your mind you are going to ruin your life. Again my mind says , I am right.
Now arises the question is there something called a mind at all? Well , yes I believe there is, but it isn't anything different from what is called the heart. so I came to the conclusion that what I take as the mind's decision is after all what my heart says. Its just that for some the name heart is more appealing and for some the mind looks more elegant So in that person's view if I am going to ruin my life, its none other than the heart's decision
Do you guys find me in some sort of insanity? well today my mind is not right.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
EXCERPT
‘The Education of a British-Protected Child'
By CHINUA ACHEBE
Published: December 15, 2009
My Daughters
Related
'The Education of a British-Protected Child,' by Chinua Achebe: Chinua Achebe’s Encounters With Many Hearts of Darkness (December 16, 2009)
All my life I have had to take account of the million differences — some little, others quite big — between the Nigerian culture into which I was born, and the domineering Western style that infiltrated and then invaded it. Nowhere is the difference more stark and startling than in the ability to ask a parent: "How many children do you have?" The right answer should be a rebuke: "Children are not livestock!" Or better still, silence, and carry on as if the question was never asked.
But things are changing and changing fast with us, and we have been making concession after concession even when the other party shows little sign of reciprocating. And so I have learned to answer questions that my father would not have touched with a bargepole. And to my shame let me add that I suspect I may even be enjoying it, to a certain extent!
My wife and I have four children — two daughters and two sons, a lovely balance further enhanced by the symmetry of their arrivals: girl, boy, boy, girl. Thus the girls had taken strategic positions in the family.
We, my wife and I, cut our teeth on parenthood with the first girl, Chinelo. Naturally, we made many blunders. But Chinelo was up to it. She taught us. At age four or thereabouts, she began to reflect back to us her experience of her world. One day she put it in words: "I am not black; I am brown." We sat up and began to pay attention.
The first place our minds went was her nursery school, run by a bunch of white expatriate women. But inquiries to the school board returned only assurances. I continued sniffing around, which led me in the end to those expensive and colorful children's books imported from Europe and displayed so seductively in the better supermarkets of Lagos.
Many parents like me, who never read children's books in their own childhood, saw a chance to give to their children the blessings of modern civilization which they never had and grabbed it. But what I saw in many of the books was not civilization but condescension and even offensiveness.
Here, retold in my own words, is a mean story hiding behind the glamorous covers of a children's book:
A white boy is playing with his kite in a beautiful open space on a clear summer's day. In the background are lovely houses and gardens and tree-lined avenues. The wind is good and the little boy's kite rises higher and higher and higher. It flies so high in the end that it gets caught under the tail of an airplane that just happens to be passing overhead at that very moment. Trailing the kite, the airplane flies on past cities and oceans and deserts. Finally it is flying over forests and jungles. We see wild animals in the forests and we see little round huts in the clearing. An African village.
For some reason, the kite untangles itself at this point and begins to fall while the airplane goes on its way. The kite falls and falls and finally comes to rest on top of a coconut tree.
A little black boy climbing the tree to pick a coconut beholds this strange and terrifying object sitting on top of the tree. He utters a piercing cry and literally falls off the tree.
His parents and their neighbors rush to the scene and discuss this apparition with great fear and trembling. In the end they send for the village witch doctor, who appears in his feathers with an entourage of drummers. He offers sacrifices and prayers and then sends his boldest man up the tree to bring down the object, which he does with appropriate reverence. The witch doctor then leads the village in a procession from the coconut tree to the village shrine, where the supernatural object is deposited and where it is worshipped to this day.
That was the most dramatic of the many imported, beautifully packaged, but demeaning readings available to our children, perhaps given them as birthday presents by their parents.
So it was that when my friend the poet Christopher Okigbo, representing Cambridge University Press in Nigeria at that time, called on me and said I must write him a children's book for his company, I had no difficulty seeing the need and the urgency. So I wrote Chike and the River and dedicated it to Chinelo and to all my nephews and nieces.
· 1
· 2
Excerpted from The Education of a British-Protected Child by Chinua Achebe Copyright © 2009 by Chinua Achebe. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
‘The Education of a British-Protected Child'
Published: December 15, 2009
(Page 2 of 2)
(I am making everything sound so simple. Children may be little, but writing a children's book is not simple. I remember that my first draft was too short for the Cambridge format, and the editor directed me to look at Cyprian Ekwensi's Passport of Mallam Illia for the length required. I did.)
Related
'The Education of a British-Protected Child,' by Chinua Achebe: Chinua Achebe’s Encounters With Many Hearts of Darkness (December 16, 2009)
With Chinelo, I learned that parents must not assume that all they had to do for books was to find the smartest department store and pick up the most attractive-looking book in stock. Our complacency was well and truly rebuked by the poison we now saw wrapped and taken home to our little girl. I learned that if I wanted a safe book for my child I should at least read it through and at best write it myself.
Our second daughter, Nwando, gave us a variation on Chinelo's theme eight years later. The year was 1972 and the place Amherst, Massachusetts, where I had retreated with my family after the catastrophic Biafran civil war. I had been invited to teach at the university, and my wife had decided to complete her graduate studies. We enrolled our three older children in various Amherst schools and Nwando, who was two and a half, in a nursery school. And she thoroughly hated it. At first we thought it was a passing problem for a child who had never left home before. But it was more than that. Every morning as I dropped her off she would cry with such intensity I would keep hearing her in my head all three miles back. And in the afternoon, when I went back for her, she would seem so desolate. Apparently she would have said not a single word to anybody all day.
As I had the task of driving her to this school every morning, I began to dread mornings as much as she did. But in the end we struck a bargain that solved the problem. I had to tell her a story all the way to school if she promised not to cry when I dropped her off. Very soon she added another story all the way back. The agreement, needless to say, taxed my repertory of known and fudged stories to the utmost. But it worked. Nwando was no longer crying. By the year's end she had become such a success in her school that many of her little American schoolmates had begun to call their school Nwando-haven instead of its proper name, Wonderhaven.
2009
· 1
· 2
Excerpted from The Education of a British-Protected Child by Chinua Achebe Copyright © 2009 by Chinua Achebe. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Whither Left?
Salvoj Zizek to speak at Kochi Life 2010
Kochi Art and Letters Foundation is organizing Kochi Letters International Festival (Kochi Life) an annual international cultural festival on January 8th and 9th at Ernakulam Townhall.
The uniqueness of this festival is that it will be accessible to general public, reflecting the nature of the reading public for serious critical writing here. It will be open to everyone who is a bibliophile, from domains like art, theater to music and architecture.
The festival is guided by its creative directors, leading cultural activist and film maker Sashikumar and noted academic and thinker Dr. Nizar Ahmed.
Please feel free to forward ths mail to friends who might be interested
Registration fee Rs 300
For students Rs 150
For registration write to info@kochilife.in
or call at +91 9746758307
Kochi Life
Ground Floor
Kurian Towers, Banerjee Road, Kochi Kerala, India 682018
www.kochilife.in
Thursday, December 10, 2009
The Hindu Metro Plus Playwright Award
Hey guys,
Here is a wonderful opportunity to win 1 lakh rupees. Have a look at the news in the link and do give ink to your imagination.
Monday, December 7, 2009
convenience
This a sudden thought that spranged up my mind when i went to see the new born baby of my cousin.That was a caeserain[ first to be done to get caeser out of her mother's womb]. In earlier times, it was believed, at least in the hindu customs, that a baby should be born by natural birth and anything that happens before the desired time is not a good omen and the baby wont be a healthy one too.I dont know how much credibility is in this statement but I am used to hear such comments.
But this has become completely out of the way. As per the doctors a child can be taken out its mother's womb when it completes 8 months growth. That means there is no point in mothers crying out the labour of 10 months carriage and there is no labour pain atall. This leads to the age old belief that eve was punished to have labour pain during the birth of a child for her disobedience.Since there is no labour what pain!!!!!!!!
Coming back to the birth of the child, as the mothers and the uncles where talking about the preparation of horoscope of the new born , it suddenly struck my mind,when its a preplanned delivery of a child what are these planets and grahas have to do with it? Its is not as said" god given". It has become "Dr. given".Many gynacologists admit that since there is the possiblity of taking the child out through operation many people nowadays prefer that and the most funny part is that they will go to astrologers and decide the most auspicious day so that the child should be born when the planets are in good mood.
The whole system is got, I dont know if I can use the word wrong but yes of course changed. Its not for the sake of the belief that God decides the time of birth , it because at least the things which can happen naturally should be allowed to be so. After all it has a natural cycle which has to be revolved.
But this has become completely out of the way. As per the doctors a child can be taken out its mother's womb when it completes 8 months growth. That means there is no point in mothers crying out the labour of 10 months carriage and there is no labour pain atall. This leads to the age old belief that eve was punished to have labour pain during the birth of a child for her disobedience.Since there is no labour what pain!!!!!!!!
Coming back to the birth of the child, as the mothers and the uncles where talking about the preparation of horoscope of the new born , it suddenly struck my mind,when its a preplanned delivery of a child what are these planets and grahas have to do with it? Its is not as said" god given". It has become "Dr. given".Many gynacologists admit that since there is the possiblity of taking the child out through operation many people nowadays prefer that and the most funny part is that they will go to astrologers and decide the most auspicious day so that the child should be born when the planets are in good mood.
The whole system is got, I dont know if I can use the word wrong but yes of course changed. Its not for the sake of the belief that God decides the time of birth , it because at least the things which can happen naturally should be allowed to be so. After all it has a natural cycle which has to be revolved.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Lost Art of Handwriting. Umberto Eco
Recently, two Italian journalists wrote a three-page newspaper article (in print, alas) about the decline of handwriting. By now it's well-known: most kids – what with computers (when they use them) and text messages – can no longer write by hand, except in laboured capital letters.
In an interview, a teacher said that students also make lots of spelling mistakes, which strikes me as a separate problem: doctors know how to spell and yet they write poorly; and you can be an expert calligrapher and still write "guage" or "gage" instead of "gauge".
I know children whose handwriting is fairly good. But the article talks of 50% of Italian kids – and so I suppose it is thanks to an indulgent destiny that I frequent the other 50% (something that happens to me in the political arena, too).
The tragedy began long before the computer and the cellphone.
My parents' handwriting was slightly slanted because they held the sheet at an angle, and their letters were, at least by today's standards, minor works of art. At the time, some – probably those with poor hand- writing – said that fine writing was the art of fools. It's obvious that fine handwriting does not necessarily mean fine intelligence. But it was pleasing to read notes or documents written as they should be.
My generation was schooled in good handwriting, and we spent the first months of elementary school learning to make the strokes of letters. The exercise was later held to be obtuse and repressive but it taught us to keep our wrists steady as we used our pens to form letters rounded and plump on one side and finely drawn on the other. Well, not always – because the inkwells, with which we soiled our desks, notebooks, fingers and clothing, would often produce a foul sludge that stuck to the pen and took 10 minutes of mucky contortions to clean.
The crisis began with the advent of the ballpoint pen. Early ballpoints were also very messy and if, immediately after writing, you ran your finger over the last few words, a smudge inevitably appeared. And people no longer felt much interest in writing well, since handwriting, when produced with a ballpoint, even a clean one, no longer had soul, style or personality.
Why should we regret the passing of good handwriting? The capacity to write well and quickly on a keyboard encourages rapid thought, and often (not always) the spell-checker will underline a misspelling.
Although the cellphone has taught the younger generation to write "Where R U?" instead of "Where are you?", let us not forget that our forefathers would have been shocked to see that we write "show" instead of "shew" or "enough" instead of "enow". Medieval theologians wrote "respondeo dicendum quod", which would have made Cicero recoil in horror.
The art of handwriting teaches us to control our hands and encourages hand-eye coordination.
The three-page article pointed out that writing by hand obliges us to compose the phrase mentally before writing it down. Thanks to the resistance of pen and paper, it does make one slow down and think. Many writers, though accustomed to writing on the computer, would sometimes prefer even to impress letters on a clay tablet, just so they could think with greater calm.
It's true that kids will write more and more on computers and cellphones. Nonetheless, humanity has learned to rediscover as sports and aesthetic pleasures many things that civilisation had eliminated as unnecessary.
People no longer travel on horseback but some go to a riding school; motor yachts exist but many people are as devoted to true sailing as the Phoenicians of 3,000 years ago; there are tunnels and railroads but many still enjoy walking or climbing Alpine passes; people collect stamps even in the age of email; and armies go to war with Kalashnikovs but we also hold peaceful fencing tournaments.
It would be a good thing if parents sent kids off to handwriting schools so they could take part in competitions and tournaments – not only to acquire grounding in what is beautiful, but also for psychomotor wellbeing. Such schools already exist; just search for "calligraphy school" on the internet. And perhaps for those with a steady hand but without a steady job, teaching this art could become a good business.
• Umberto Eco's latest book is On Ugliness. He is also author of the international bestsellers Baudolino, The Name of the Rose and Foucault's Pendulum, among others.
© The New York Times 2009 (Distributed by The New York Times Syndicate)
· guardian.co.uk © Guardian News and Media Limited 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
One for the Road
One more peg:
the road now a dizzying black
shining, silver sheets of rain
trees silhouetted drenched,
yet eerily golden, on the rocks;
springing metal and cushion and body
a whirr, a blur
a near hit;
a golden arc tracing the
asphalt, then the smell
of rubber against gravel
mixing with earthy vapours,
then a heady feel.
The road and the rain
inseparably caught in a moment
inebriate;
from drops to torrent
branching into highways of the mind
taking streets and lanes.
Faint recall of faces.
The wiper in its interval
spacing out the open gate,
the driveway, the porch;
the water flicked into darkness,
the road turned away from the open gate
The glass and the lips
arrival and departure.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Poem?
Glass, pens and rubber to eat
Buffaloes and beatles rummaging my brain
Fallen things are always kept apart
Soul's music disappoints a lot
Hard rock stuffs are eaten with sauce
Dry mind dry consciousness
But enough signifiers to bring enough signifieds
My (unintentional)experiments cease here
Now you can start with your's with meaning.
Pramod L. S.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
This part of My Life is called Running
Ah my friends, i am told life begins by a cry, but nevertheless i too understand its after a series of squeaks ands moans and then a race. Race in the sense, a desperate marathon sprinting of those 'x' and 'y's , those worm like microscopic tweaks with a funny tail, who goes on to decide which part of the gender equity plan one belongs.
Well those of you wondering what the hell i am i trying to say, let me explain. They say, serve the nation and be a man and get yourself a NEW LIFE and well, you guessed it right, its the Army and i recently got a call letter to attend SSB in Bhopal, Madya Pradesh(thats a form of terrible psychotic interview that is modelled on the Nazi way of selecting the right officers for our forces). Hmm, so you all are gona see how i almost F****D it up..
So, i was planning for my NEW LIFE and then i decided i must get the well wishes of my grand mother before i leave and so i was bending my body so that i can reach her legs for auspicious beginnings in the 11th hour and then... i heard her cry... and cry and cry well those of you guys probing on the emotional brooding, damn you, i am getting late. It was half past 10 and my train leaves by 11 15.. and heck she is still crying.. knowing fully well that her recent emotional outfall with her body has lead to a stroke, i was not prepared to give her good old nervous system a reason to 'strike' by blurting out the fact that i was almost running out of time to catch my race vehicle. So i was trying my wits out not to be timid but in the most poignant way i managed to give her a graceful kiss and off i was in our no sense omni car, who made it a point to squeak everytime the horn was pressed and flutter when the breaks were on. So my all too no nonsense father was on the cockpit of our no sense car, preparing itself to moan and squeak as we were in the marathon sprint to our final destination(at least now) inside the ovum of the Trivandrum railway station.
Life they say is found in crisis and well i was really in one and a really bad one as i saw the digital timer matching its dots to form 11.15 am.. well hoping for the best(well at best i hoped for a 2012) i rushed on with my suitcase and packed lunch, dinner and breakfast( well courtesy my very very funny mom). And then i could see it, my life my NEW LIFE moving away in numbers as i counted the bogies one by one bursting to life deserting me to my vista of regeneration and possibly presenting me a nice little excuse to feel the thud of a moving train(which i didnt entertain, as i still have to wrote this blog, funny me)..
Well i must say i made it at the end through a endless labyrinth of railway network that almost made me travel double the distance, which i hope to share it with you guys soon..
But for now, all of you guys, take a cue from my most funny and almost tragic situation and make it a point to catch the feet of your most lovely grandmoms at 11th hour so that you can really help to develop this blog(if only you dont feel like having a taste of a really fast train)..
Well those of you wondering what the hell i am i trying to say, let me explain. They say, serve the nation and be a man and get yourself a NEW LIFE and well, you guessed it right, its the Army and i recently got a call letter to attend SSB in Bhopal, Madya Pradesh(thats a form of terrible psychotic interview that is modelled on the Nazi way of selecting the right officers for our forces). Hmm, so you all are gona see how i almost F****D it up..
So, i was planning for my NEW LIFE and then i decided i must get the well wishes of my grand mother before i leave and so i was bending my body so that i can reach her legs for auspicious beginnings in the 11th hour and then... i heard her cry... and cry and cry well those of you guys probing on the emotional brooding, damn you, i am getting late. It was half past 10 and my train leaves by 11 15.. and heck she is still crying.. knowing fully well that her recent emotional outfall with her body has lead to a stroke, i was not prepared to give her good old nervous system a reason to 'strike' by blurting out the fact that i was almost running out of time to catch my race vehicle. So i was trying my wits out not to be timid but in the most poignant way i managed to give her a graceful kiss and off i was in our no sense omni car, who made it a point to squeak everytime the horn was pressed and flutter when the breaks were on. So my all too no nonsense father was on the cockpit of our no sense car, preparing itself to moan and squeak as we were in the marathon sprint to our final destination(at least now) inside the ovum of the Trivandrum railway station.
Life they say is found in crisis and well i was really in one and a really bad one as i saw the digital timer matching its dots to form 11.15 am.. well hoping for the best(well at best i hoped for a 2012) i rushed on with my suitcase and packed lunch, dinner and breakfast( well courtesy my very very funny mom). And then i could see it, my life my NEW LIFE moving away in numbers as i counted the bogies one by one bursting to life deserting me to my vista of regeneration and possibly presenting me a nice little excuse to feel the thud of a moving train(which i didnt entertain, as i still have to wrote this blog, funny me)..
Well i must say i made it at the end through a endless labyrinth of railway network that almost made me travel double the distance, which i hope to share it with you guys soon..
But for now, all of you guys, take a cue from my most funny and almost tragic situation and make it a point to catch the feet of your most lovely grandmoms at 11th hour so that you can really help to develop this blog(if only you dont feel like having a taste of a really fast train)..
Sunday, November 22, 2009
SPEED THRILLS BUT KILLS....
Hey my dear friends...at last I also happened to be here..Actually that incident dragged me here..This incident happened just two days before. It was a very rainy day..I was just sitting in my bedroom watching those drops which quenched the thirst of my plants. As usual, the enjoyment of the beauty of the rain called me to sleep. So I decided to take a nap. After an hour, I could hear my mother’s voice very close to me calling my name Litty......with some ‘sweet additions’..Sorry I could not include those additions here as it was so SWEET..I got up suddenly with a 70 watt smile. Her motive was to send me to the stationery shop. I was happy that I could have a small trip now and for sure I would get some money too. I started my scooty and we both reached in front of the shop..I parked my scooty by the side of the road. Then I bought all the items as prescribed by amma not less or more: D ..I came back to my scooter and as all my friends know about by weakness with ‘dogs’..Oops ‘sweeties’ I caught by sight of a sweetie..To my surprise I saw that he was sitting at the middle of the road in an unusual position..Any guess??o.k..Just urinating..I actually smiled at him and he was also staring at me..May be I disturbed him. I don’t know from where it came,...a mini lorry just rushed over my sweetie..I could very well see that he was safe under the lorry. So I didn’t expect anything bad. But fate was against my sweetie..I saw the back wheels of the lorry just crushed my sweetie..I heard a big CRY from him and blood spilt from his mouth..That lorry driver drove the lorry as fast as possible and escaped from there..I was just standing beside the scene and could not do anything..I just closed my ears with my hands and I didn’t look at the spot. I saw a rally of vehicles anxiously waiting for the dead body to be removed..I started my scooter and drove very fast..For God’s sake First time in my life I could not drive smoothly because of my wet eyes!!!! When I visited the spot in the evening, the dead body of my sweetie was not there..I am thanking that man who removed sweetie from there in time..
Friday, November 20, 2009
Next Literary Club Session
Theme: ON THE ROAD
Poems, reviews on lesser known and/or translated books, interesting newspaper articles, essays, audio and video clippings pertaining to the theme, are all welcome.
Language no barrier...
Co- ordinators for the week: Pramod L. S. [II M.A]
Sulfia S. Santhosh [II M. A]
Reading Plath...
I look at her pale face..
Her birth on a scorpion star like mine..
each time she was born and died herself..
she madly loved a beast Hughes
telling every poet
not to love an another poet..
I'm not an Electra
and my daddy not a narcissist..
a gas chamber in her rotten apartment
and that holocaust of words
undone and left like her orphans
in a room deep asleep..
I'm no Plath..
am I?
By
SOYA V.N.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Hey!
This is more of a notice and less of a post. So without much ado let me come to the point straight. Dudes and dudettes at the Institute, some of us (II MA students) have been pondering about bringing out an inhouse magazine...not the handwritten manuscripts tied together kind, a proper magazine. The boys (Aravind and Pramod to be specific) have already got something up their sleeves. So all you others out there pitch in with your innovative ideas and creative products...Waiting for your response to move ahead.
And another thing that needs to be discussed is regarding the activities of the Literary Club. It's quite unfortunate that we have not been able to hold another session after screening The Pursuit of Happyness to a huge audience. So this week we need to conduct one at any cost. So as an innovation some of us were thinking of basing each session on a particular theme or idea and then reading out poems and other literary works, written by the students themselves or little known works which we think to be special or interesting. Awaiting your responses...
Cheerio!:)
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Debts and Daughters
Ramanujan may talk about the "debt and daughters". But has anybody thought about the daughters who are left with a pile of papers which has debts only and a big family to support?
Reading the poem "Obituary" one would certainly feel sympathetic toward the son who has nothing left by the father other than burdens. But there is one part of the life, where those daughters who are considered nothing but the burden of the "son" actually play the role of the SON.
A long row of uncles who would find only faults in her, a mother who may love her , but would never be happy with her conduct, a brother who will love her for the pocket money that she gives, a granny who would call her a spoiled brat; nothing other than this which probably she could ever imagine of.
There could be a happy childhood that she lost, an adolescence,which probably she never remember at all, a romantic youth when she dint have the time to love the one she liked. an adulthood, when she is busy meeting the two ends and finally a middle age, when she remains a spinster who becomes the burden of the new generation.
Has anyone cared to think about her suggestions before bursting at her courage to speak to the elders? Has anyone gave a soothing smile when she goes mad about the budget of the family? Has anyone thought of the range of questions she has to go through before she actually opens her mouth? Is there anything called happiness that she ever experiences?
I wonder, does she actually exists?
Monday, November 2, 2009
‘Cri De Cur’ of a Desperate Spirit
The other day I was standing before the entrance of a big hotel at Kovalam, which has got enough stars in its credit to be called a constellation. Twilight was slowly disappearing and my friend found her way into a bus amid that hubbub and I was left alone to contemplate nonchalantly over those universal concerns like isolation, existence and future ( What! My language smells like Hillaire Bellock? – Oh! my friends I won’t deny). But soon the grandiose entrance of that star hotel ushered in me the thoughts of my ‘recent’ ambition that has started overwhelming me ever since I decided to take it as my new ambition. But before I blurt out that noun let me take a digression to vindicate myself in picking such an ambition in my life[at least for these few months, for you know my desires, my moods, my tastes, my ambitions all these things get revised quite frequently. Now don’t expect me to trot out Emerson and his Self- Reliance].
One month is not a big bridge to cross. Particularly these days, for the time with its great pace seem to be fuelled by NO2. Hardly do we notice the ticking of clocks gather together to form days and weeks and months. And coming December we ( I mean those who ‘dared’ to take the great risk of becoming Masters of Arts) are supposed to encounter a great vexation in our life. I mean the National Eligibility Test- commonly known as NET. Being III semester students we do have the eligibility to appear for this “Eligibility Test”. People are nowadays so much obsessed with this exam that their hearts switched the rhythmic beat from lub- dub to NET- NET. But the fact remains that despite these incessant heart beats very few has really started a serious preparation. I don’t think its necessary for me to mention that I am not ‘a’ one among this “very few”, and nowadays I am so busy with my laziness that I don’t even get time to prepare a preparation. But, to be honest, my friend Joby and I had planned to plan our studies for this great exam right at the dawn of our first semester- a time when we didn’t know each other properly. He thought I would be systematic as I thought he would be. I even baptized our studies as “NET practice” ( I always have this habit of assigning proper nouns to all those things that I encounter albeit I know that to define is to limit). But then that story has no further chapter, it all ended with that baptizing. I am quite sure my friends, that each of you would certainly have a story similar to this to tell, because you know there is this thing called collective unconscious common to a race or group or community and this “beginning syndrome” is something commonly shared by all the members of the student community irrespective of age, course or intelligence (am I digressing too much friends? Sorry I’ll come back to my ambition).
So now this great exam has ceased overwhelming me much and my heart switched back to its usual rhythm. But then the question remains that what else will I do? To answer that let me list out the very very nuances of my existence.
NAME: Pramod L. S. (It has got no significance in this particular context for nobody will give you a job just for your name).
AGE: 22 (that will let you watch the adult movies publicly and put your signature on the marriage register).
SEX: MALE (since that has got something to do with my ambition lets put it in reserve)
QUALIFICATION: I’ve got many figures in my certificates that would certainly allow me to bubble certain columns in job applications. But that won’t work further for the simple reason that newspaper is something that I see only in our canteen as bits in the hands of our ‘canteen chettan’ (Hot bajjis, samosa!!! Oopz- saliva- Pavlov- Patti Pavlov)
Extracurricular: Egad! So many. I was a Jack of all trades and master of none.
THEN WHAT ELSE WOULD I DO?
And the answer for the question is my newly constructed ambition. Remember that particular detail that I left untouched in my CV? Yes that three letter word SEX (Again let me remind you that this is not a mucky attempt to be a controversial writer or a “compulsive confessioner” stuff, rather it is the “cri de cur of a desperate spirit who finds himself resourceless). I know you may be wondering what a basic instinct has got to do with one’s ambition. It’s high time you deconstruct your very notions of ambition. By ambition you always mean a mental aspiration or a passion. Sex is something very physical or biological (I hope you won’t say clinical). Let me come to the point. Friends I am talking about that age old profession of PROSTITUTION. Yup! I mean that- that’s my newly constructed ambition- to be a prostitute and since I belong to the male category I need to use the other terms- rent boy or Gigolo. I can see those immature old eyes receiving a ‘cultural shock’ (Sorry guys, I can’t help that) Why, you can’t credit this as a profession? What’s wrong with this profession- you pay money you get the service as simple and as ‘straight’ as a hotel business (ref. back to my poem “Solitary Sufferer”) Then why hang around all these morality stuff with this pure profession and tan it with contempt.
So hence, friends, I do dare to aspire for this wondrous profession, no matter how you take it and please don’t get wonderstruck or ‘cultural shock’, if chanced to meet me in that above mentioned Star Hotel in that above mentioned profession. And yes, as friends (for girls only) you can always hope for a tremendous discount.
One month is not a big bridge to cross. Particularly these days, for the time with its great pace seem to be fuelled by NO2. Hardly do we notice the ticking of clocks gather together to form days and weeks and months. And coming December we ( I mean those who ‘dared’ to take the great risk of becoming Masters of Arts) are supposed to encounter a great vexation in our life. I mean the National Eligibility Test- commonly known as NET. Being III semester students we do have the eligibility to appear for this “Eligibility Test”. People are nowadays so much obsessed with this exam that their hearts switched the rhythmic beat from lub- dub to NET- NET. But the fact remains that despite these incessant heart beats very few has really started a serious preparation. I don’t think its necessary for me to mention that I am not ‘a’ one among this “very few”, and nowadays I am so busy with my laziness that I don’t even get time to prepare a preparation. But, to be honest, my friend Joby and I had planned to plan our studies for this great exam right at the dawn of our first semester- a time when we didn’t know each other properly. He thought I would be systematic as I thought he would be. I even baptized our studies as “NET practice” ( I always have this habit of assigning proper nouns to all those things that I encounter albeit I know that to define is to limit). But then that story has no further chapter, it all ended with that baptizing. I am quite sure my friends, that each of you would certainly have a story similar to this to tell, because you know there is this thing called collective unconscious common to a race or group or community and this “beginning syndrome” is something commonly shared by all the members of the student community irrespective of age, course or intelligence (am I digressing too much friends? Sorry I’ll come back to my ambition).
So now this great exam has ceased overwhelming me much and my heart switched back to its usual rhythm. But then the question remains that what else will I do? To answer that let me list out the very very nuances of my existence.
NAME: Pramod L. S. (It has got no significance in this particular context for nobody will give you a job just for your name).
AGE: 22 (that will let you watch the adult movies publicly and put your signature on the marriage register).
SEX: MALE (since that has got something to do with my ambition lets put it in reserve)
QUALIFICATION: I’ve got many figures in my certificates that would certainly allow me to bubble certain columns in job applications. But that won’t work further for the simple reason that newspaper is something that I see only in our canteen as bits in the hands of our ‘canteen chettan’ (Hot bajjis, samosa!!! Oopz- saliva- Pavlov- Patti Pavlov)
Extracurricular: Egad! So many. I was a Jack of all trades and master of none.
THEN WHAT ELSE WOULD I DO?
And the answer for the question is my newly constructed ambition. Remember that particular detail that I left untouched in my CV? Yes that three letter word SEX (Again let me remind you that this is not a mucky attempt to be a controversial writer or a “compulsive confessioner” stuff, rather it is the “cri de cur of a desperate spirit who finds himself resourceless). I know you may be wondering what a basic instinct has got to do with one’s ambition. It’s high time you deconstruct your very notions of ambition. By ambition you always mean a mental aspiration or a passion. Sex is something very physical or biological (I hope you won’t say clinical). Let me come to the point. Friends I am talking about that age old profession of PROSTITUTION. Yup! I mean that- that’s my newly constructed ambition- to be a prostitute and since I belong to the male category I need to use the other terms- rent boy or Gigolo. I can see those immature old eyes receiving a ‘cultural shock’ (Sorry guys, I can’t help that) Why, you can’t credit this as a profession? What’s wrong with this profession- you pay money you get the service as simple and as ‘straight’ as a hotel business (ref. back to my poem “Solitary Sufferer”) Then why hang around all these morality stuff with this pure profession and tan it with contempt.
So hence, friends, I do dare to aspire for this wondrous profession, no matter how you take it and please don’t get wonderstruck or ‘cultural shock’, if chanced to meet me in that above mentioned Star Hotel in that above mentioned profession. And yes, as friends (for girls only) you can always hope for a tremendous discount.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Of Writing!!!
I've always wanted to write something,to unburden myself of the heaviness within me.But i'm not a poet, nor do my poems burn the paper.I don't force myself to weave together meaningless activity and thought.Then,where do i fit.Perhaps i'll be able to find through painful trial and error.Afterall,life is painful trial and error.
Does this make any sense?
Does this make any sense?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
LET ME
The very feeling that i was once loved,
cared, caressed n pampered,
breaks not just the mirrors of my reflections
but a long way that my soul was once chaste,
Tomorrow i may live the virtuous of lives,
stranding the plethora of evils
far from my absorbing vices,
ready to imprison my senses your conventions.
But today,
Let me break what i chose.
As i colonise myself to mine,
to free me from privy eyed expectations.
For i chose to judge me by what i can
than what i did.
cared, caressed n pampered,
breaks not just the mirrors of my reflections
but a long way that my soul was once chaste,
Tomorrow i may live the virtuous of lives,
stranding the plethora of evils
far from my absorbing vices,
ready to imprison my senses your conventions.
But today,
Let me break what i chose.
As i colonise myself to mine,
to free me from privy eyed expectations.
For i chose to judge me by what i can
than what i did.
Monday, October 19, 2009
IN DEFENCE OF MYSELF
Hei friendss…!! I’m a bit confused about what to write. I am a well known CHATTERBOX and cannot stop if I start twittering...Beware!There are 2 reasons for this long delay to write in the blog.First one is that,I am a “kanjoos” (I hate spending money at the cafe) and the second one is my laziness (whenever I go home I’ll be busy with my sleeping)…
Let me come to the point. I am what I am...Everyone considers me as a kiddie (can’t blame them).My friends say that they cannot accept me as a ‘friend’.They look upon me as a sibling,cousin or li’l sis…Someone told me that he/she can’t talk to me about serious topics because I’m not at all a serious person (actually I don’t want to be).When my dear friend calls me “aniyathi”,all the others make fun of me saying that I’m submissive to ‘patriarchy’ (effect of gender studies).The fact is that, I am a person who value and cherish such relationships. I enjoy such bondages and it has nothing to do with so called patriarchy.I like to be a free bird at the same time I like human bondages.I come from an extended family and share a common space with everyone.My problem is that I assign too much importance to people who come across me in my life,whether friends or family members.The most important factor is that my childish nature is an escapism from the world I’m afraid to face.The inner child is trying to find hideouts in the ‘grownup’ World…!!
Remya Sujit
Anathema
I crushed her with the nauseating bludgeon,
Pulling her up in time,
i cant leave her to die,
As i pierced her life with mine.
Blood, then, flowed like it never has,
Drawing just the sketches of stenching past.
I was a harlot in my love,
but, here, her blood has my anathema.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
The In'formal Meeting....
Kudos to Sulfiya chechi, don't know whether she intented it that way but your 'formal' mistake really set the tone. It just showed it was ok to make mistake. I must say the meeting really changed our perspective, like Hari sir said, to do something that will be etched in our memory.
I think the response was really nice. I guess it will really set the tone for our future activities and really those exquisite rendering of poems was really the highlight. Starting with Zoya chechi through Anu, Athira, Shanker, n that wonderful song by pramod chettan, it just shows the latent potential in us.
The interest shown by hari sir and jamuna mam was just wonderful. I only hope Sulfiya chechi will continue to make her 'formal' mistakes, as she is our lucky mascot(or mistake).
I think the response was really nice. I guess it will really set the tone for our future activities and really those exquisite rendering of poems was really the highlight. Starting with Zoya chechi through Anu, Athira, Shanker, n that wonderful song by pramod chettan, it just shows the latent potential in us.
The interest shown by hari sir and jamuna mam was just wonderful. I only hope Sulfiya chechi will continue to make her 'formal' mistakes, as she is our lucky mascot(or mistake).
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The Old Girl in the New City
9 years!!! It has been 9 years since I started living in this small city. It may not be that 'happening' a world like the metros; but you get everything thats typical of a 'city' here.
All these years life has gone through different turns, call it good or bad, for me they are all impressions(lets give it an adjective) fading impressions. I have always run along with the pace of the city. Get up, catch the bus, wander around, go to classes, come back 'before its dark'.in between, there has been remarkable moments, yet haven't been that moved as I had last monday.Its so subtle that its very common for many people. But its something clear and colourful an impression for me.
After the long discussion with my project guide, Iwalked through the pavements of the city. It was that time of the day when people rush to their nests. but I was not. I was walking slowly watching the cars at the traffic. on the other side i saw young boys playing football in the stadium. Many buses to my place passed, but ?I was enjoying the sweet breeze that tickled my curls. Was that a feeling of independence? or being myself? I dont Know. but that is the state of mind i want thats the life i want to lead.
I was curious to catch this picture of the city. It remains in me as a brand new place. The glimpses were so new so pure like those to a person who has never been these roads. Those were the roads I often walk through, but now they have a different meaning. I remember once Anuroop mentioned that there is enough and more places to see in this city before moving to the " better" ones. I would say, there is much more in those places which we often visit, yet dont 'see'.
that monday has changed the self in me, or the perception. now this is a new city for this old girl!!!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
A lame attempt to get organised
Wondered why you meet all these people in your life when apparently they don’t affect the course of your life in any tangible way. Well…I have wondered a lot of times and today the answer seems to start to take form. There are different categories…I mean the people who don’t affect you…one set comes in a flash and leave you as fast as they make their entry. Then there are these people who figure in your daily life at definite periods. Say for example the security personnel who is always the first face to greet me as I enter the University campus. I don’t know his name, but his face is as familiar to me as the faces of my classmates. Then the next category…the set of people whose presence in your life creates an unsettling feeling. Your life would not change one single bit, atleast as far as external realities are concerned, if they chose to go away from it. I purposely say that if THEY chose to go away because for some unexplainable reason you wish them to stay where they are. But their presence constantly reminds you of something that has been brewing inside for years, things which you never allow to come out of the mind’s chasms. As far as Iam concerned there are many thoughts that I choose not to articulate in speech sounds or in words because though I know that it is the truth I realise almost instantaneously that the physical reality is not going to change accordingly, for me. I thereby choose to remain and appear a practical unfeeling cynic rather than confront them (my true intuitions about stuff) and become dissatisfied and restless. You can call it my strategy for leading a happy life when I have to compromise with a lot of things.
So coming back to the people in your life who unleash all the pent up thoughts. Iam ensconced in my couch with a bag of potato chips by my side watching my favourite movie (thats not exactly my idea of a comfortable life but then for want of better metaphors i stick to it)when all of a sudden this person comes by, gives me a jerk, toppling me from my couch. I get up with difficulty and reestablish myself in my former position. The whirl wind of a person comes again! You are again left sprawled on the ground. Every time you meet this person a whirl wind strikes your mind and disorganizes it. Or rather it is more like a minor volcanic eruption. The lava frothing inside your mind gets thrown out. I say these whirl winds disorganize the mind because they don’t fit into our private space. I have been trying hard to avoid personal examples but looks like I can’t help it anymore. There is this person I know who thinks like me, who identifies the same things that I have found interesting, there is this strange and eerie feeling of camaraderie. But this person refuses to fit into my private space. I just fail to find a space that would accommodate X . X just refuses to succumb to my organizing principles. That is why I talk about whirl winds and disorganization.
My question is why do such people exist? Why should they come into our life? X does not effect any change, for that matter, in my life. But once we part after a meeting what remains is this unsettling feeling…the feeling alone. It is not even a clearly defined feeling. Its more like an all pervading sensation. Its there hovering above your head (or inside it? Iam not sure). Life goes on as usual but its there…troubling you only if you consciously try to define it. You try to get hold of the nebulous matter and mould it into a definite shape it just slips off , tiring your limbs.
Maybe this is what they call the essence of life…that chunk of the Oversoul (thats the aftereffect of one semester of Emerson and Whitman)which dwells in our body. It even makes me want to believe in such abstract stuff as platonic love…
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
A Garage Movie
You don't require a certificate from some film institute to put your ideas on screen. "The Burial of the Dead" proves that Idea is what matters. I hope more such things would happen at the institute. The rest of "The Wasteland" needs to be interpreted, and maybe the next time around someone else can step into the role of Pramod. I mean.. why not? When we made BOD it was just a group of ametures(which we still are) making an ameture movie supported by ameture movie ideas, ameture camera angles, ameture editing, ameture acting(ofcourse) and borrowed music. The whole cost excluding the mobile was just under 50rs. All you need is a producction controller like Joby. Though he didn't spend a single paisa from his pocket, without him the film would never have worked out so well. And yes an editor. But today editing softwares are available for free and it is also not that hard to find an editor. Anyone coming out form some animation institute can cheaply do it for you.
The acting part of it, i cannot explain that. I really don't know where is the acting part in BOD. I walked a few miles, I sat, I stood, I drew a few circles. The only stunt that i did was lying down in that grave(if you can call that one). I mean... these are things that anyone can do. So do the acting part for yourself. So it is not that hard, you see...nd Pramod is there always ready to help you. He might seem a little confusing, but that's no problem. There is nothing wrong in getting a little confused when you are in safe hands. So start working on it. Best of luck!!
The acting part of it, i cannot explain that. I really don't know where is the acting part in BOD. I walked a few miles, I sat, I stood, I drew a few circles. The only stunt that i did was lying down in that grave(if you can call that one). I mean... these are things that anyone can do. So do the acting part for yourself. So it is not that hard, you see...nd Pramod is there always ready to help you. He might seem a little confusing, but that's no problem. There is nothing wrong in getting a little confused when you are in safe hands. So start working on it. Best of luck!!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Talent finally recognized
Guyzzz!! Here's some news. part of it is good and part bad...The good part is that Jayakrishnan got his first book published!! , Thanks to ‘Tangled Web Publications’ and a group called ‘The Poets of Mars’, that he finally got a break. The book is titled "Once in the Wilderness" and is a collection of around 80 poems written by him, edited by Elaine.S.Paul. The bad part of it is that we might not be able to get a glimpse of the book for at least a month. That is because the book was published in the US and we are not yet clear about the date of its arrival in India. Definitely JK will get copies of the book and i will let you know about it.
visit the website http://blog.poetsofmars.com/ and go to the link "Blossoms of India" and you can read interesting poems written by Indian poets. It also has poetries written by our own Tara, Saranya and Remya Chechi!!
visit the website http://blog.poetsofmars.com/ and go to the link "Blossoms of India" and you can read interesting poems written by Indian poets. It also has poetries written by our own Tara, Saranya and Remya Chechi!!
Friday, August 21, 2009
DARKNESS INSIDE
My purple nights and the blown out candles..
Threads of smoke...
Figers burnt and sticky wax...
All is but inside my heart.
I could sense it there..
All because i lost my moon while counting stars...
All because my stars were scattered on a thorney bush..
And yes..it bleeds as they left an indelible spur on my membrane.
Embers of my fireplace have gone to sleep...
I'm in darkness silently panting,
And withdrawing to another darkness inside..
Inside me.
Threads of smoke...
Figers burnt and sticky wax...
All is but inside my heart.
I could sense it there..
All because i lost my moon while counting stars...
All because my stars were scattered on a thorney bush..
And yes..it bleeds as they left an indelible spur on my membrane.
Embers of my fireplace have gone to sleep...
I'm in darkness silently panting,
And withdrawing to another darkness inside..
Inside me.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
BURIAL OF THE DEAD- No I don't Mean the Blog!
The Burial of the Dead
I get up early (around 7) in the morning, brush my teeth and go downstairs to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Amma is not in the least bit happy with my sleeping habits. Her physiognomy reflects her disapproval. But I carry on undeterred, with my culinary task. Then my precious mobile starts making ‘noise’ (according to parent jargon). And my mother cannot control herself any longer. She lashes out at my erratic way of life (my friends would definitely roll their eyes at this since they have a different opinion).
The point is, here starts my life. The first ‘peace’ offered by the dawn of a new day is cruelly shattered as I am reminded of the harsh realities of my existence. It would be foolish of me to dismiss my mother’s advice as generation gap. Sometimes I feel that what she says is true. And then a whole lot of doubts and uncertainities regarding my life and life in general rush in. The funny thing is that I never realized it. I thought I was capable of being happy and contented with what I have. I wonder how I forgot all those moments of brooding over the insignificance of the life I lead.
So, as I was saying I was leading a content life till
He had rewrote the
But I don’t think this revelation was not coincidental. It is the power of the film. The visuals so beautifully blended with the script and created this atmosphere of uneasiness which would force anyone to do a little introspection. Here, Rahul chettan, the cast of the film, has to be mentioned. This may sound a bit prejudiced that not even in my wildest dreams did I think that he could carry it off so well…after all he has such a placid and benign face. But Ave Maria! Iam surprised again. Its now impossible for me to think of another face to portray the poignant emotions conveyed through the script. The grave being digged, the concentric circles being drawn, the constant reference to the “black book”, the pecking at the uprooted trees and its remnants…now everything seems to have attained a new meaning…thanks to Pink Flower Productions!!!
Thanks for making me realise that I can be a wastelander too.
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