chimes of a forgotten melody

- Dedicated to Surinder Koli, whose life Indian government intends to take  - It was a bright morning during the summer of 2011 when Mr. Raghunath Varma, chief investigating officer of the Jamnagar mass murder case, woke up from his sleep to find his train leaving Ahmedabad Junction. In a panic that would take over him, he would run out of the train with his bag containing details of the investigating case, twist his leg as he gets out and fall heavily on the 1st platform of the station thereby scattering the papers contained in his bag which shall bemuse the people who themselves were lying down on the station floor while leaving the seats vacant. 'I beg your pardon', he said to the audience who gathered around him as he picked up the loose papers. They lost interest after he picked himself up from the floor and seemed alright. Raghunath winced at man's desire to be part of a disaster, but it was short lived as he saw pictures of Sarfraz Mahmud, the person whose...

- 'From where I stand I could see very little of the World, but from where I dream I see a million other worlds!' - I struggled through the dense crowd of the Municipal Bus Station in Thalassery, I was in a journey to seek redemption. For days on my moods abruptly shifted - from depression to euphoria and then back again to stupefaction. It became intolerable today and I found myself disturbing all comfort zones and reaching out into brute space. Even though countless saints and scholars of the past and present came to criticize my notion of finding peace away from my soul, I was not distracted, I couldn't help but search for it from the outside. It became habitual, a rather inexcusable ritual. Through the human life that encapsulated me in angst, I searched for a way to dis-join myself from the show - to hide underneath the bed when they were calling your name on the stage! It was escapism, it was betrayal but it was also my only choice. I refused to think to...

A prowess to keep matter dark, To reduce insanity as archaic, A totalitarian world; a venal fabric, Where ideas remain unborn, And mistakes in-tolerated. There we find the power of annihilation, Matter's fear of its antithetical cousin, And unity amidst difference. We sing songs of rebellion, We feel the freedom of chaos! Ceaseless is the trust on bitter hate, Our fights usually in vain, Love is when you feel the pain of holding desire and letting go, Because the light is distant, And we have to continue.

- To the late John Abraham, the only Keralite to be free!  - In my constant walks towards self realization I have met and known people who changed the way I think. John Abraham, a film maker from Kerala, whose works still inspire countless budding film enthusiasts, remains a prolonged idol for me. It is for his anarchism, his passionate yearning to be free that I devote this work, even though I very well know it won't be anything of a tribute to his dynamic life. - Note : The character in this story is named John, but in no way is this the story of John Abraham. - John couldn't sleep that night. He woke repeatedly to claim a lonely chair by the window which looked onto the small and medieval path leading towards his home. There was an eager wait, the source of which John could not fathom. He watched the moonlit path, which for generations brought home perfect brides from all over his locality to proliferate his family population and ensure the sustenan...

A mother is not merely a woman, but holds within her a ceaseless love, within which she creates a spell of constant care. It is hard to imagine the chemical combinations which makes this love universal, all I could do is watch, spellbound, at this love and envy every child resting peacefully on their mother's arms. Courtesy : The Mag Like mist before the Sun, Like an august spirit's triumphant run, Her words for me like cautious trust, Her arms, generous and snug, In her grasp I felt numerous and warm, Within her care, in constant delight, Leaving behind truths, of disparate moods, Forgetting the World's unfamiliar rhetoric, I wish to run back to my mother's hands, I wish to be enveloped within her cordial hug, Where in I shall be a child, if so for an alluring trice!

- Dedicated to the Malala Yousufzai for inspiring countless souls and motivating them to take up education - Courtesy : Mag 240 Photo by Tom Chambers Hills of misfortune and rivers of sorrow, From the chronicles of lost privilege, Her feeble foot carried on the bout, Leaving footprints deeper than gorges of misgiving and extended malady, And when she broke the boundaries of thought, Her life glazed like colors through snow, Words of strife, now fables of time, Lest the world forget her passionate riot, Time is now to open your heart, Break the cage and follow her steps, And I shall continue to sing this immature song, To praise a woman of impeccable arm!

" The Tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao; The name that can be named is not the eternal name. The nameless is the beginning of heaven and earth. The named is the mother of ten thousand things. Ever desireless, one can see the mystery. Ever desiring, one can see the manifestations. These two spring from the same source but differ in name; this appears as darkness. Darkness within darkness. The gate to all mystery." - Lao Tzu - Inspired by Fritjof Capra's 'The Tao of Physics' - It is often said that destiny is something which happens involuntarily, often inexorably and in the end having a deep physical impact. To many, destiny was a way the world tend to remain scripted. And to even more, it was a way God enacted his hilarious anecdotes on his overly exasperated creations. Neither of those views on destiny distressed Krishna Kumar in his daily walk towards office. He didn't blame destiny when a speeding freighter collided ...

Rains in Avatti always assume a spiritual veneration. If there is anything which leaves my grandmother in sincere dread, it has always been the rains. Monsoon approaches Avatti with formidable vengeance, as if to capture a land which always had been their inheritance but which they lost in the tumult of pride. I remember sitting in our courtyard and admiring the pictures clouds used to make in the monsoon sky - as if it were a desperate lover seducing his long lost beloved. Local beliefs hold that the Durga which guards over the village, residing reluctantly in a crumbling and archaic shrine, is lustful to the rains and would open her eyes and ears once she hears the rattle of rains beating her prosaic abode. As she wakes from deafness, the world shall pour their cumbersome woes, and the temple compound abounds with prayers and accolades for their powerful Water Durga! As the rains reclaim vast paddy fields, defeats and consumes every yellowish strain of grass, Avatti would explode...

Years before my father contacted dementia, and struggled to remember my mother's name, I remember his voice turning boastful every time he spoke of my mother. It was not any calculated flatter, but rather a deep reverence to a woman who resurrected a house which would otherwise have crumbled and eaten up by wilderness. My mother, the great Savithri Amma of Ramanthali, a Communist during the great Indian freedom struggle and an authoritarian during the post-Independence period; when she was left with three children and a husband with no particular source of income, was for me a living example of the many lives an Indian woman lives. Her many fables surrounded our village like some strange and persistent virtue, which made me and my siblings live a life which commanded love and respect. I was 10 years old when my father was diagnosed with dementia. At that time, my brother had finished his schooling, my sister began the same and I was caught in the middle. My father constantly c...

Here is to Niconar Parra, who taught us the truth and the reasons for framing an anti poem, who turns 100 on Sep 5th Poetic worlds where roses evaporated into love, Besieged mercilessly by reality, Trees which gave life, From branch to roots, Spoiled by greed within hearts, No love overpowered them, No meaning governed deeds, I watched as rotten money, Eaten by rats and covered with filth, Buoyed democrats, Freedom; of thoughts and speech, Flushed down the drains of politics, I stood by as wealth proliferated, As executives and bourgeoisie continued eating into the infected rice bowls of the farmer, the leper and the beggar, I prayed to God - typhlotic in the show, Obeying commands of gold, Discerning opulence from scarcity! I remained in silence as I watched, With wrath and reason, A leech leaving behind a trail of my perfume-less blood.

Starry Night by Alex Ruiz Courtesy : The Mag A valley suspended in dreamless sleep, Sky - with thousand eyes peering, Like jewels on an inanimate face! Following green which gently pervades, Awakening clout from oblivion, As if flowers spouting from seeds. Upon nature's canvas, science draws, For man who remains in awe - I speak, Picking words from reverent fantasies, To pour accolades for an unmade artistry!

- To Arjun, for being with me all this time - When a voice from the other end of the phone woke me up to the news of the demise of Amir, my childhood friend, the world had barely risen from its deep winter slumber. There was not a trail of light to soothe my eyes, nor a sound to destroy silence - which hung heavily around my ears. The news didn't disconcert my lethargy; it couldn't disturb the shallow post-retirement period where I found myself in fond company of solitude and regret. 'Aren't you supposed to go?', Esha asked. Esha. She had been beside me - sitting where I sat, reading my thoughts before I spoke, giving me a world of abundance in a rather lonely life - for 45 years! I gazed at her. Life had stolen her numerous facets; her soft skin, the blackness of her hair, her imposing seductiveness, her fragile laughs and the exquisite music in her voice. 'Yes, I must go. Are you coming?' 'Shouldn't I? How could I forget Amir?',...

Upon this Earthly abode, Amidst madness of love, Paralysis made by drugs, And insignificant insanity, Lies salvation. There is a detour, Through a cave of gold, An idol - deprived of life, Who shall save you from strife, Oh, the mental flops!

"The world is inhabited by all kinds of people. They are isolated by land and water, religion, customs, habits. The minds and heart of these people are much alike. Under sudden or stressed emotions, they blossom forth or explode in riots, fights, dance, song, prayer. At such time they become one mind, one heart. And the world vibrates with the intensity of their feelings, emotions, angers, laughter." - Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi - There is a hymn of nature which is profound, enveloping all mankind within its arduous composition, few get a chance to taste the melody, and even less understand the meaning. Today, Aaron became one among the few who understood both. ‘Children, today we shall learn about seasons. What are your favorite seasons? Let us start with you Aaron. What is your favorite season?’ ‘Autumn!’ a delighted Aaron said. ‘Wow Aaron, now that is a good time of the year. What about you Sandra?’ However Aaron tries to remember that day, he...

Contempt grows with regret, Like unity does with remorse, Black - the genuine reminder, An intimate companion in strife, A band tied to every hand, A flag raised to muster oppression, A slogan in a white strip of cloth, Asking to continue the struggle.

Miles away I could write all I want about Gaza without making a difference, but when every word, written and spoken, unite, it may grant hope to a place which has become a contemporary battlefield. Part 1 Smell of Cast Lead poisons the air, Air crafts, one after the other, Pours hate- incessant, Onto her ruined womb. Niche of her Eden, Where colored kites flew, Now enfeebled by a holocaust, Of bombs and chemicals. Sewers pass lifeless bodies, Blood fertilize her fields, Kites never make a child smile, Flowers fail to transcend joy. Each mote of dust pray for mercy, Yet Gaza- the exhausted mother, Pray for a culminate strike, To cease her pain ever more! Part 2 Brother- valiant yet torn, Your words subdued, But awake with hope, When you feel the wave of heat, And relentlessly move on, A humanity is at your side, Whispering prayers, Sharing pain, Each night you stay stubborn, We are beside, Shouting your name, Crying your tears, Even when you fight o...

- Dedicated to my 'valyachan' who gave the subject from which this story was developed -   Tikrit, Iraq, 3rd July 2014. It was still early for the heat waves to wreak discomfort, yet, travelers and tourists nearby arid deserts of Iraq felt the Sun beating down with an aberrant and torturous swelter. God, alone and within a passive veil of dementia remained asleep in his makeshift apartment in Tikrit, an apartment built by five Sunni and six Shia Muslims. On another day, many prayers would have irked his ears, many mouths would have spelled his name and many thoughts would have asked him to appear. But today he disappeared into a world of comfort, into oblivious sleep, without problems of the world disturbing his slumber. **** Somewhere, not very far, Shamim Iqbal, a Shia Muslim, one who God knew as the 'lad who never prays for himself' began his daily routine. He sat in his prayer hall, overlooking Tikrit market, laid down his ragged prayer mat, and went...

 Its just my first year here at blogosphere and the array of people and life which I became acquainted with had no boundaries. Perhaps it is this universal nature, the one which links us together, that keeps me going here. It was just a week back that a new friend, Juhi Roy, who writes some amazing entries at SHIHT ZOOO , nominated me for the Leibster Awards. It took some googling to understand what it was all about, and frankly when I knew about it I was just surprised someone really cared to nominate my blog. It is these small pleasures of friendship that keeps me again. Thank you again Juhi!  THE LIEBSTER AWARD, OFFICIAL RULES:   If you have been nominated for The Liebster Award AND YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT IT, write a blog post about the Liebster award in which you:   1. Thank the person who nominated you, and post a link to their blog on your blog.   2. Display the award on your blog — by including it in your post and/or displaying it using...