An Uninspiring Piece of Poetry

They say, life is colourful,
Some say it's Red, does it bleed then?Or does it hurt?
Some say Life has Rainbow colours,What if it's tint less?

The colour it's  filled with fades over time,
turns into pale yellow, does it get white then?
Is white colourless?If so isn't Life colourless?

How does  one paint their lives?
If coated, does it last long?
Do they coat it with bleach?Does it reflect their own faces?
Why is your shadow dark then?
Regardless of your colour, isn't it black?
They say black is not beautiful, do you hate your shadows then?

If colourless is white, isn't your life light?
Isn't it pure? As pure as a marble, peaceful and serene.
But why is it not? Colourless isn't white then...

Malayalee Diaries

A Mallu by origin and also by traits, I always had chances of being proud when I compare and contrast myself with the kind of people I witness here, in the neighbouring state of Karnataka. Settled here for the last 18 years, even now I have chances of feeling honoured within my conscious mind. Having made it a point to learn Kannada, the mother tongue of Karnataka, both reading and writing, I had learnt speaking in the beginning years itself. My experiments in attaining perfection in the language is still on. As diction, accent, pronunciation, tone all matters for locals to identify(rectify?) me as a Mallu, throwing all my attempts to master their language into a garbage bin out of the locality, they usually start making faces, when I speak . To me, my speaking of their language isn’t that bad. I feel delighted when some admit that.

I want to make them realise(a Herculean task though) certain things, whether they take it or not. Ridiculing someone who’s better than them(for they can’t speak any of the other language or my language, as I do) is indecent. Then how can they consider themselves to be privileged? I have seen some imitating, right behind me! Just want to tell you that there are people far better than you, for they don’t ridicule someone who doesn’t know their language. Rather they try to understand the learner’s effort to learn a language which is totally new to them. Some don’t mind to publically abuse! Because of ‘them,’ that particular thing happened, ‘they’ spoiled this etc. there goes their hate phrases. I remember Hitler and his mention of the Jews as ‘they’ whenever I still see them.Times have changed and please admit, irrespective of the area, we are Indians.

A virtual truth, everyone has their own goodness and faults. Take it! The sense of togetherness, integrity and honesty Mallus possess, perhaps not many have. They don’t cheat people and unnecessarily blame them as people around me always do. They usually don’t have double standards unless situation demands. When they accept people, they respect them wholeheartedly. Moreover, they are trustworthy and sincere, unlike those who blame. If they accept one, they maintain that relationship until they go to their own graves. Their approach to life isn’t complicated, but simply straight forward.

When one starts to talk in their language, after a few seconds, they will for sure throw this this question onto their face with a pale grin at the corners of their lips, ‘Are you a Mallu? I guessed it right when you spoke, don’t feel bad.’ I rather would like to tell them, ‘Why should I, when you can’t utter any of the language I speak.’ Some give a hate speech about the state too( for its political legacy), imitating the typical accent. Others too can imitate so many of their ways and talks but, how and why to throw a stone at an empty tree? This is too common among students too, I usually advise students not to be conservative in judgements. Learn to recognise the goodness in people and respect them, they hardly realise they don’t deserve respect either.

There are a few who admire others, I revere them. On confronting a good person, they admit the visibly traceable trait in them and happily maintain a good relation with them. May God keep their good spirits on! Mallus adapt themselves to the new place very soon and start loving it as their own, perhaps people need to understand that. Amidst those sentiments if someone comes forward with such stupid comments, I swear, the kind of expression I show will be exactly of the character shown in the picture.

“I am proud to belong to a nation which has sheltered the persecuted and the refugees of all religions and nations of the earth. O Lord, the different paths which men take through different tendencies, various though they appear, crooked or straight, all lead to Thee-” Speech by Swami Vivekananda at the Parliament of Religions in Chicago. Hope the ‘well educated’ and equally ‘cultured’ understand the depth of the sentence and keep that legacy to be virtually called as an Indian! Before I quit, just one more short sentence, following the lines of Oliver Cromwell:

In the name of God, Please…

The Eyes Around Me

Solicitous, thoughtful and attentive,
a pair of close-set ring balls encircled me
everywhere I went, gazing at everything I did.
Never did while young I think more about 
those beady eyes, I grew up to be
under its vision, guessed I need not
chase it after, as I had two pairs of such.
Her suppressed silence sang within herself,
never did I understand any of her compositions.

Years after,  those focused balls I was proud about,
abandoned me, being mean still professing.
Uncertain, unaware and unmindful, my attempt
to define her shape wasn't futile. 

I recognise you now divine eyes, only you're 
left in me, not even myself.  


Clowns walk, act, speak to muse us,
He entertains while it burns inside.
When he thinks, he cries.
When he cries, the world around laughs.

How does he clean the furnace?
The echoes he hear are of the mocking birds.
When do those birds sleep?
Perhaps never, they add coal to the burner.

What is the colour of the birds' blood?
Though red, may not be thick.
Do they live very long?
Perhaps yes, that's why they manifold. 

When do they die? Do they ever?
Perhaps yes, when there is no sweat,
no tears on your skin, dear clowns.
And then they are buried, not in a graveyard.


Erring Ghosts

Erring is common, but erring always is uncommon. Also it’s uncommon that errors, forever, go unnoticed. If erring is out of ignorance, we all would have thought it to be a bliss. Sure, unacknowledged ignorance can only be considered as a bane. Errors while communicating is very common. More obvious are the errors people commit while writing. No, no, native languages aren’t free from errors, but unfortunately, English has become the victim of prejudiced minded hands. I sometimes enjoy looking at the pretension of people as encyclopedias, some, as Thesaurus.

A variety of encyclopedias I know assume that the world around them wouldn’t function without their ‘valuable contributions.’ Their list of ‘contributors’ includes not many even when the whole world knows their contribution is only towards their own pockets, which are wide enough to absorb public property. Whatever important they write belong to the bygone era, without realising that the age has come forward. Neither do they recognise the efficient. Efficiency is measured in terms of the capacity to absorb the reality of the ideas, not in performing what they think is right.

Another group of ‘experts’ believe what they write is true, others can’t be . It many times happen with you when you spot some major errors in some important drafts which gets publically posted, and out of your concern, you report the same to those individuals concerned, they simply reject you and your theory of errors! Your intention could be to save the face of that which matters, but you’re never welcome. To some, it simply doesn’t matter. How can you take the public for granted? There could be a few who choose to live out of fool’s paradise. Well, Paradise is lost to many Satans , without a fight. Getting the work done somehow may not save their reputation, it’s perfection that matters. You too may have this question, what’s wrong in asking something which one doesn’t know? There’s also this variety who will come to you politely to draft few of their things, once it’s done, pose as if it’s their self creation.

I have also come across some unauthorised translators! You simply wonder when they translate your ideas into native languages with minor modifications and get it published in some local newspapers. How long can one depend on someone else’s ideas?

You hit accidentally on some self proclaimed laureates! You need to control yourself without laughing aloud when you see them posing to be the god of literature itself and wonder yourself, well, mercy on God, they can spell literature. How can they take those who’re around to be fools? Better not to profess big sounding sentences when one actually doesn’t hold that title of being that B in Big. Another common sight is of those who think they can improve on your writing. You might have erred, if more erring is the one who improve it on, then? Think, answer and act.

Some don’t realise where they stand, the need to upgrade the quality of their thoughts, let alone they themselves. The question is, how can we set all these categories right? Few may still stand far beyond the right thoughts. The rest can think of the remedies. Learn right, think right, speak right( though the topic is left untouched), write right, teach right. When one’s doubtful, never mind to learn from a person who knows it right. Hypocrisy will be of no help in the process of learning. Let’s possess a mind to do things rightly, so that learning takes us towards the edge of perfection.


Life gave me no choice                        
where I wanted to opt.
Gave me what the rest
didn't choose. Asked 
me to bear with, without
knowing what suffering
is. Later, it gave me a
single choice to live 
the rest of what is left with.

While asking, it told me
the choice it gave was to
feel a sweet flavour of loss. 
Life's choices are true, not 
mine, not even once. 
Shall I choose, only once?

A Prolonged Wait

The cup-shaped, petal-soft, handsomely
virile hands, that awaits to caress
her cheeks that had never been patted once, 
made her dream of them often, feeling 
exotic in its tender softness. Spreading her hair on 
them, they getting nuzzled, he whispering 
love on her ears, the ears that haven't heard 
words of love, she would turn as the embodiment
of Venus herself to him. Her darting, dreamy eyes 
that sparkingly talked to him of her sorrows and 
small little moments of joy, always looked at him
 in awe with an invite to be exclusively hers.
Those long,rosy broad fingers she wishes to have
 held her when she feels falling, right on his chest
to be with him as his own shadow, cherished to
 feel her too, he adored her loving heart, her smile,
the tone of her words, her little whinings.
Her trust in herself grew, from strong to stronger
she became. Becoming a COMPLETE WOMAN
was a dream that turned true, with HIM!

Another blaze,
at those abode made of petals  ...are you 
stretching towards her every moment, every 
single day? She's seeking those outstretched 
arms around, go and embrace her soul! 

Can You Drop in ?

You, the smoky white droplets of the south west monsoon,
Pause a while, before you hurry to cross places and country sides...
Whom do you meet on your way that sometimes you become
calm and sometimes aggressive? Why do you huddle your pace 
as if you're on a mission, and then suddenly lower your pace? What do you
murmur with the hobnobber thunder that sometimes 
he laughs aloud, and sometimes just smile with a flash? 
What makes you mettlesome that you let yourself chuckle
and  suddenly downcast at times,  then howl and finally a wail?
When do you ask your companion gale to accompany you, is it when
you feel lonely or when you keep your vengeance mode on?
Why do you switch country sides, is it to bless each or just that 
you love to change your travelling gown? What makes you stay
here for long, is it that you love to stay or just to fill the granaries?
What vow do you take when you quit, is it to clear the dust and dirt
every time it accumulates in mass? 

Would you once drop in swiftly to pacify the bleak soul of mine 
with the fresh and cool bland touch of yours? Like The Phoenix   
the lost spirits in me needs the frozen warmth of your hands. 
Shall I keep the door of my heart open to receive you once you drop in?

The Lustrous Monsoon

The good old days! After taking a day’s break from work, to enjoy the arrival of the dusky lady, Monsoon, I just recollect and fondle my association with the lady for over thirty memorable years. As I could remember, our friendship started exactly like it’s portrayed in the picture. She never forgot to visit our houses and fields early in June and would depart us only after mid-September, that too unwillingly. Sometimes her friends too come along, though they are not welcomed fondly.

By May end, all the school going children would get ready for the new academic season with their new bags , books and definitely an Umbrella, usually bigger than their own sizes. Donning themselves in sometimes plain, sometimes coloured raincoats, anyone would love to have a road trip with her company. The wind that accompanies her would carry the umbrellas away to her directions. Hardly June knocks on our doors, the motherly lady too comes along, showing all her love on her children. Breakfast, lunch and for evening tea she never fails to accord her mates. Playing in the mud puddles, skating and splashing , the children too would enjoy her company. How can we forget her cool embrace just as we start to and start back? Everything in nature would respond to her call. The mango trees, laden with fruits empty her store during monsoon itself. The rivers at spate would change her white cloak into a brown one. The new song which she sings with chorus is a much awaited number any one would cherish to listen to, often.

I have special memories to myself when monsoon hits. I would sip hot tea, cover myself with a blanket, and would dream of the days when we, as children, ran to our orchards to pluck the fresh mushrooms that would sprout on the evening thunder , would imagine myself picking those fallen mangoes and smell it first, later filling it in sacks, would think of the the river by my home town which remains in spate and my trip every evening in a houseful boat for my maths tutions, our visit to see the sub merged paddy fields…all these flashes right in front of my eyes.

For hearts in love, she’s the lady love herself. With a romantic look, she recreates memorable moments in such hearts. Who wouldn’t love to have an exclusive long drive, who wouldn’t love to get wet, who wouldn’t mind to sit and talk, who wouldn’t mind to dream of their distant love, who wouldn’t love to fantasise their lives together, who wouldn’t love to cuddle with their partners? To me, monsoon has always been the epitome of love with her lustrous look. The halo she creates, with her onset is nonparallel, perhaps no other lady can recreate such aura. And I swear, I fall in love with her every time she seems appalling to me.

Monsoon was never fierce as she becomes at times these days. Her romantic, caring attitude has changed way for grudge. Flooding was never a feature she exhibited then. Everything changed over these years, except a few old hearts, I feel. Only those hearts that would hesitate to change! Can I become one among them and long for those old days to be back again?For I need to fall in love with you again!