ART FILM (2010 APRIL 28, 4:00 PM)

I could see her moving away

With her characteristic non chalance

Some where in that I could sense a smirk

Yet again I strained for connotations

FLASH BACK

I could see her eyes pinning me

I could feel the tension mounting

And I made up my mind

Then I saw her telling me I was a coward

CONTINUES...

Five years passed without a piece of bread and omlete

I still haven't braved her but she kisses me regularly

And reminds me I am a coward

Suddenly I became brave and burned with rave

ANGRY YOUNG MAN

I took the phone and smashed it hard

And went to market and asked for the same

Now with a refreshed courage I cleaned the house

Swept the relics and hid it fine

CLIMAX

Faced her in the nose and spoke in breaths

She couldn't flinch a brow

As I thundered my way through and ended in a high

She removed her earphone and asked me "what"

POST SCRIPT (2010 MARCH 28, 3: 59 PM)

My hairs are now white and the American President is black

Doctors discovered lip cancer and she didn't kiss me now

She now spoke in breaths and curled in my nose

And when one day she got tired of her breaths, I became a philosopher

Piss of Sicdy

As soon as I step out of the wilderness of our institute I always make it a point (eventhough I rarely triumph in that venture) to shirk off that scholarly pretensions or "intellectuall aura" and walk out with an untheoretical and uncritical temperament. Because its a fact that only an establishment like Institute can occupy such pretensions and facades . But for some months I had this great opportunity to stick to this facade even in my journey back to home . Thanks to my eggheaded junior Aravind for his erudite company. From Arts to science , From sexuality to absurdity we talk about anything and everything under the sun . Since he has got a better memmory and knowledge and above all an untiring tongue I prefer to remain taciturn most of the time. Nevertheless we do talk very candidly and that too at the top of our voice, about our angsts, desires , philosophy, experience, theories and attitudes without any embarrassment even inside the busy bus. Often we see people frowning at us unable to decipher our Greek and Latin ( for the bus would be crowded with middle aged working men and women who would be striving hard to meet the both ends ) and what is absurd for me is the very breath and crux of their existence . Eventhough little do we go easy on each other nothing embarrass us or infuriates us much . But one fine day all of a sudden he asked me a question that quickly got under my skin. He asked "cheta what is your caste?". Eventhough he attached this prelim please- dont- mind- my- question, I could feel the blood rushing to my ears. I could sense those countless ears in the bus tuning their frequency to catch my answer . I toned down my voice, to escape those countless ears waiting eagerly to catch that centuries old subservient signifier that denotes the community to which I belong. Nevertheless I was not quite sure whether I could really escape those greedy ears and that made me remain conscience stricken till the end of the journey .
Engrossed by this irksome incident I brood upon a dog that would accompany me wherever I go. Lets call this dog a subaltern- inferiority- complex- dog or abbreviate it and call sic-dog, or to be more sweet call it sicdy-yes Sicdy. Sicdy's story is pretty long. Wherever I go Sicdy would walk side by side with me and the moment I intend to do something or to start a new venture he would pull ahead of me and after few steps would lift one of his hind legs to have a jimmy. This would certainly force me to turn my head for none would stand and admire the marvel of a dog pissing. So naturally I would restrain myself from that new venture to avoid Sicdy's piss. But sometimes whatever effort I take Sicdy would certainly come and shower me with his hot and burning pee. I still remember that day when one of my friends openly expressed his fury on the reservation given for the "scheduled" entities , knowing very well that I too belong to the same group. He said "if we have to run a hundred meter sprint they can just get away with it by running sixty". Everyone laughed including me, but slowly I could feel the hot piss of Sicdy dribbling down my face damping my white uniform shirt. Sicdy didn't even bothered to turn back and look at me. But by that time I knew Sicdy very well so didn't make any complaints.
It was my parents especially father who gifted me my Sicdy when I was a child[ I can't exactly say of what age -rather a child who imbibed enough social norms and rules to play in the open grounds of civilisation ). But during my early childhood the playgrounds where not so vicious and Sicdy didn't get a chance to escort me for he [should I use she in order to be neutral ] couldn't tolerate innocence , he would rather sit at the boundary line watching the play. But as i grew up Sicdy got more and more chance to follow me and irritate me. He would come with the attendant of our school along with the memorandum informing that our grants are ready. Then the teacher would make us stand giving Sicdy a great chance to play his pranks. I didn't know if Sicdy was as vicious with others as he was with me. But one thing I did know that he was becoming more fiendish. He would piss on me when they publish the merit list with my name in separate column. He would again come to vex me when I stand totally helpless with my 'unscheduled' friends who were denied admission despite their high marks. He would piss on me with their silence, he would piss on me with their grudging smile. And his urine has an unusual acid in it that would bring invisible tears in my eyes which no hankies could wipe.
Its very difficult to steer clear of Sicdy ,for he has become an essential element of my existence. I don't know which is that hand that feeds Sicdy his pedigree, is it the plebians, or our society , my parents, or any collective unconsciousness, or my own consciousness ? Whichever hand it is Sicdy always gets enough and more though he looks like a bag of bones and it is I think pointless to ask such vexing questions. But what else can you do in a society where you need to have 'Brahmins' curry powder to get the 'traditional' taste of 'Sambhar'. Nothing yes simply nothing.
But now that I'm writing this article with a confessional tone I could see my Sicdy gaping with bafflement. He is now on top of my table goggling at my words with an expression that would conceal all his vicious plans for new pranks.

Pramod.L.S

certain yet uncertain...!!

The train has just started moving. I procured my favorite seat with a cup of coffee. The aroma of coffee took me back to warmth of memories…mamma’s coffee…her warm hugs…my first love…waves…sea…rain…
The hot wind matters no more neither do the scorching sun. I love the world of Jinn’s and Gandharvan. Dreams…Dreams…Dreams…Dreams devoured my coffee or the coffee devoured my dreams. Still bitterness and sweetness remains, clinging to the brim…afraid to shatter…yet unable to unite. The empty cup with coffee stains cling on…unable to go off…unable to let it go…it was easy bUt “NO”. The train is gathering momentum. Wind unleashed its power and Nature overpowers…I lost my grip…the cup is gone!!! Gone forever… gone with the wind… into wilderness. The transposed feeling of emptiness hammers in my head…the feeling of getting lost…losing something, anything, everything…the threat of uncertainty?? bUt am not unhappy…am waiting …awaiting for another cup of coffee…yet another…still another…to enjoy…to empty and to alienate.

A Drought Inside

On every treetop that blocks the wind,

There is an unheard cry of birth...

Cry of a bud that wanted to bloom into a flower...

A leaf smiling in the sunshine...

With its least moisterous eyes...

And a creeper peeping out to the sky...

Thirsting for a rain...

Can you hear the whispers of our land now?

The soil is translating the monologues of the souls buried inside...

A drought is about to break its shell and scatter around

Its dry chirping all over the sleeping riverside...

We are near the gateway to a graveyard...

Where rainless clouds arch a prison of darkness...

The mountains lay as silent as saints in communication with God...

Even nothingness is on its deathbed to eternity...

Its drought out here...

SOYA V. N.

Somebody's song

The blood that flows through me carries
Not just the RBCs ,the WBCs and the platelets
That communicate the happy message that
This person is ‘alive’
(Indeed it’s fascinating to be alive)

You know it carries with it my ‘legacy’,they say

I had ancestors who thought from their brains

I had ancestors who thought from their hearts as well

No wonder, I could easily riddle with myself !

Drawing up plans for the future is quite simple a task for me
Because they say,I had a great grandpa
Who charted out
An entire life of his own

Throwing them aside is much more simple a task,I think
Because my great grandma ,the eternal optimist believed in miracles.

In my smiles,they shine
In my tears,they drench

Intelligence(or the lack of it)can come from either side
Quite possible..

They are all dead and gone,you know
The rugged roots that grew deep into the earth
To bring me,the green leaf that sways in the wind,nourishment.

I wonder whether anything is left for me to fill in

Am I to be blamed for my mistakes?
Am I to be congratulated for my merits ?
Or,do I exist at all..as myself ?

Posted by Neetha at 6:07 PM

Take a break

Hey guys, get in. It has been a very lean period with your exams. In the midst of all that mugging up, take a break!!