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Optimism begins with a look.

To be able to see what is in plain sight

Untie the blinders

Of pretense...

Of hurried half hearted self assurance…

Sometimes its in the shaking of the head,

An acknowledgment of one's own silliness

Or in the shrug of the shoulders,

Of not caring about what others',

Once you've made up your mind

And after all that, if you find yourself wrong

Optimism is in acceptance

And a sheepish grin.

And it is in trying out as many new paths

As the maps can plot

And then to plot some of your own

Sometimes it is in the belief:

That friendship can "happen" to you

That optimism is a shared drug

A group hallucination,

That works...

Sometimes it is in stories

In listening

In keeping quiet

And being a witness to optimism.

There is optimism in dejection

Because it is a true picture

Of human frustration,

Of being alive...

In a room full of sunlight

One doesn't notice a spark

It needs to be dark enough within, and around

To pay attention to a single spark of light

To see the tiniest capsule of beauty

To have one's breath taken away,

And be surprised by its presence

And cherish it

That must be optimism...

A Bit of Pirate Magic

'tis a story of the great Dark Lord
His might and prowess met no retort
His eyes are crimson, his head is bald
He hath no nose, you  ought to be appalled

He beholds his vision, a specter he is
He's hiding in a girls' college, is something amiss?
Alas! His envy knows no bounds
For jack sparrow is around
He has hair and black eyes
And its voldy that the girls despise

So voldy tricked sparrow and captured his soul
He trapped him in the damned triangle in a teapot strong hold
He took away his parrot and left him undone
Now sparrow's got to outsmart voldy, the game has begun

He chants and he dances and summons his pet
And at once the Cheshire joins the duet
They scheme and they dream, there is hope again
They bargain with the devil and welcome the leviathan

The titanic's here, out of Poseidon's great home 
Sparrow is free and the spirits are reborn
The captain's spirit enters sparrow's parrot
The Cheshire's grinning like he's had a single malt
Together the Cap'n , the parrot and the cat
Make way for the castle with the tall turret

Voldy hides in LSR,
they can see from afar
In their magic lamp
That shows where he camps

Voldy and Sparrow match their magic
No one knows the end, it might be tragic
The world watches in awe
Even the brave withdraw
As rings and horcruxes, powders and mist
Meet each other at destiny's wrist
Voldy's anger meets Sparrow's wit
It is a story retold to the listener's writ

How sparrow split voldy's mirror in two
How the last bit of voldy's soul flew
Into the parrot where titanic's captain waits
To keep him company each time it sinks
For it's hell to be resunk each day
For a ship is the captain's last stay

You must have heard the old pirate song
Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Why do you think sailors need spirits
Tis to keep at bay, Voldy's shrieks
On a cold dark night, when rain crashes
As Sparrow stays awake... as the memory lashes...



(submitted at the Authors Anonymous Creative Writing Event of Tarang- LSR)

Origin of Thoughts

Are any of our thoughts our own?
Do we disguise it under inspiration, learning and wisdom passed on.
when do we say, "in my opinion," when do we contest it with our own truth?
If we do argue and surrender and reform, and conclude a revised but clear judgment,
Are we sure that it wont take a cycle of its own to cloud our minds through others' repetition. 
And thus we do make friends and foes when different languages sculpt the same opinion.
Sculptures of stone, marble, wood and jade. Gifting symbols without that story retained.
Wit and rhythm may dress it fine, with varied colors and forms sublime. 
But if u still want to sing your refrain 
Shower arguments escalated ,in vain
Be my guest comment and pass by
Ill be sure to see it and collect it as mine.

We don't need no eDUcation?

The first time I heard of Delhi university cut offs were a year before I had to be bothered by them personally. I admit, I didn't follow the “college-speak” in the newspapers, nor the witty repertoire of RJs every morning. I knew that I wanted to study psychology. I knew which colleges were offering it. Neither me nor my parents were college hopping because we never imagined the need for it, no offense intended, no arrogance assumed. There just wasn't any time to spare. When the cut offs came, I remember wondering how the hell did I clear them. LSR had a first cut off of 96.5 or something (I forgot what it was as soon as I knew I got through), for psychology and I had cleared it miraculously I still maintain. 

DU is in the heart of the city and thus puts its students at an advantage when it comes to placements and exposure to multiple avenues for molding your talent whatever they are. But the fact remains that this is a geographical and political advantage that Delhi has, not Delhi University per se. it sees a variety of immigrant students who find freedom and comfort in exploring their interests and expanding their identities through the medium of their college activities. It is an exciting and challenging place to be where one figures out whether the beliefs and opinions they hold are their own and how much. 

Now, there are differences between colleges within the university, to deny that would be foolishness. Differences in the effectiveness of faculty, the discipline in college, the values it chooses to uphold, infrastructure, student bodies etc make it difficult to describe the university uniformly. Therefore even when you do pass out with a degree from DU, the kind of student you are is not automatically established. 

Friends told me how lucky I am to get into LSR, why, I was to know later. And I think my reasons would differ from theirs a little. First of all as Tanushree, my classmate and friend said correctly, LSR is hardly a good representation of DU because the culture, the expectations and the peer group is quite different from the rest of DU. I am saying different not necessarily better always. Here, I’ve found that, the presence of DU is ghost–like. We follow the rules, guidelines and basic syllabus set by the university, but the way the students and teachers handle themselves within the college is more to do with the space created by their own ideas. There is individuality within the collective identity of LSR. 

The marks might be a criterion that got many of us through here. But it’s certainly not a decisive factor in determining how we get educated. But the kind of discrimination meted out to the rest of the colleges within DU except a few is disheartening. I am not sure whether I am right but if each college were to maintain a unique cultural identity of its own, and if students themselves be active participants in it rather than consider themselves handed out leftovers from the “Happy Meal”, we can have a space where students create standards of their own. It the harshest of verdicts upon a student’s future when he or she is made to believe they are less than worthy or have less potential than others just on the basis of marks in the 12th grade. 

I think the poor chaps pursuing a course with the tag B. Tech deserve a separate paragraph at the very least. Not only is the degree losing its value by the batch, but the situation of students in private institutions offering a b tech is even worse. As more and more parents and students are trapped in the illusion that a b. tech will end all their problems and fulfill all desires, what we as a nation are losing out is a workforce with specialized skills and training in multiple avenues that are far far more crucial to us as a society. This is apart from the huge crime of ignoring their interests and aptitudes. 

I feel worse when I think that my juniors are receiving a B. Tech in Psychological Sciences. I cannot get into the details of that without being traumatized. But there is another interesting point to note which my friend told me, is whenever a B Sc or a B. A. degree is modified into a B. Tech, admission rates increase. So are the increasing reforms of course/degree structure a technique to grab more admissions? As more and more students pour into classrooms, is the quality of teaching being compromised? For me these are rhetorical questions now since I've seen what bad course structure and examination policies can do to the best of student-teacher relationships.

In the end, as far as my education is concerned, it has been more to do with things I learnt outside the classroom than within it. It is to do with the kind of people who raise standards of excellence in critical reasoning, in awareness of social realities and in values important in life. It is hardly about perfection, getting the highest marks or being well placed right after graduation, though these are also achievable. I know that a large part of it has been due to my being in the college that I am in, but I think every student deserves and can make for themselves a unique education on their own. No matter where they are, they can choose to learn things that matter. Because more often than not, such things neither come with ready-made syllabus, nor are they time-bound, but when we are tested at crucial points in our life, it is our education not our qualifications that determine our “grades” as a person, and as a scholar.

LSR- Lady Shri Ram College for Women

Like a Moth to the Flame

“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”  ― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

***

May, 2013

Outskirts of Delhi

He heard noises coming from downstairs, of course they were quarrelling again. He looked out and the rain had stopped and that’s when he had left home for the theatre. He was walking down the street, his gazed fixed at the sharp stones on the path ahead of him when he heard an announcement from a nearby tea stall. It had rained, and the air was full of the excited whisperings of unknown adventures and the fragrance of the red mud he had come to love. He tried paying a little attention to people but couldn’t. As he walked on, tucked under his arm was his scrapbook, in which earlier in the evening he had scribbled a few paragraphs. "For much greater heights I am made, for my name is more than what I am now… my dream is costly, and all that I am left to do is to make it come true. This grand dream… No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.” 

"Jharoka" was an old theatre, not a multiplex, not a masterpiece of light and color but a rundown theatre with hardly 50 seats, functioning under its unwilling patron. It was said that the old man who was a great admirer of movies and had finally decided to close his beloved "jharoka" that had been eating away the last of his savings. When Ritwik went to him to ask for a job, he smiled sadly. He knew this young man from his past and so he welcomed him into his humble life.  

The dozen people snoring in the darkness were hardly there to appreciate the nuances of the story playing, but to escape from the unexpected downpour. Some were relieved lovers whose search for a spot had ended successfully and some were those who felt living the story on screen was better than their own realities. Only Ritwik was following the story of the boy who wanted to live and rule the city of glamour. Ritwik was not bothered with his father's jibes about his failure in studies or that his time was spent mostly in this dark coop and amongst his collection. He had put to good use, his wit and scarcely used charm to collect, in a typical magpie- like fashion, old film rolls from the old theatre owner and the last of his living friends. Doomed to die in grinding poverty, the dream sellers of the bygone era had fallen over themselves to pass on their last legacy to Ritwik. And that night he wrote, “I was within and without. Simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.” 

He read a lot, borrowing from friends and the wizened shopkeeper who obliged him. Mostly it was about the movies. His parents had migrated to this place. At 17, he constantly felt like he lived at the edge of a new found world. A world he could physically live in but for all real means and purposes was barred from entering or changing. His father was grateful to be able to hold a job that kept the family steady and as the years passed, he increasingly looked towards Ritwik for support. As more and more of his friends moved into the heart of the city, Ritwik moved into the heart of cinema. Whatever he earned from his job as a caretaker of the cinema was enough for him. He stopped going home and lived where he loved to be. Where others saw a wasted youth, he saw dreams playing out on the screen. When he could, he still wrote in his scrapbook, “At the enchanted metropolitan twilight I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others—poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.” 

Once he went along with his employer, the old man, to the shooting of a film. He had been paid hundred rupees, and in return been immortalized as a faceless extra in a background crowd scene of a movie with a hotshot actor somewhere in the foreground. He taught himself, only for the sheer joy of being familiar, the language of cinema, of all the work that goes behind the camera, into the colors and music and stories. Ritwik still had to work odd jobs to be able to feed his hunger for the movies, and he was delighted to be able to do so. He still remembers the first movie that he saw. What thrill did the laughter of the actress inspire! What fame an unknown boy from a village could aspire to! What greatness waited for those who showed the world a new way of living! “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” 

Some words by a writer couldn’t reach everyone, their message was carried by another voice to resonate with the thousands watching them on screen. Few weeks back he felt his identity and his existence to be real for the first time when in a film “Hugo”, he heard George Melies with his enigmatic smile say,

 “As I look out at all of you gathered here, I want to say that I don't see a room full of Parisians in top hats and diamonds and silk dresses. I don't see bankers and housewives and store clerks. No. I address you all tonight as you truly are: wizards, mermaids, travelers, adventurers, and magicians. You are the true dreamers.” 

He thought about the Lumiere brothers who apart from the cinemagician Melies, had also inspired another ambitious dreamer called Phalke much nearer home. 1913 was the year, a century ago from now, when the first Indian feature was released. The gods and heroes who existed on picture story books and in grandma’s stories had come alive on screen. Just as people had screamed when they saw Lumiere brother’s movie of a train coming into station, they bowed fervently in movie theatres. Phalke had staked everything that he owned and whatever his identity was worth, and borrowed money to fund his desire. He got equipment from London and cameramen from Calcutta to shoot. Such was the norm of society then, that no proper respectable women were allowed to or agreed to act in his films. He gathered funds by showing ingenious mini films that captured the interest of his patrons and kindled a desire not unlike his, of creating magical moving pictures. People started to call his studio a factory!  Ritwik had taken great pains to get to know where he could watch the movie on Phalke’s life. In the back row of a big and famous cultural centre which hosted film festivals, Ritwik sat huddled and watched with fascination the founder of his religion, in “Harischandrachi factory.” This was the year 2009:

“If you've ever wondered where your dreams come from when you go to sleep at night, just look around. This is where they are made. ” 

In 2013, Ritwik had a chance to go to Kerala. He paid respects to the last links to his estranged family and told them that he had found his place in the scheme of things. His mother sighed and gave her blessing. His father was no more. The relatives mocked his mother, and when he was packing they looked at him like he had been given the death sentence. He was more interested in finding out about J C Daniel, the father of Malayalam cinema, from a movie called ‘Celluloid’. Ritwik  hadn’t seen another man who had lost more in his life than him. All through his life, he risked his family’s well being and twice his fortunes, in the name of his obsession for cinema (there was no other word for it). When life and the powers that be laughed in his face and with a flick tossed his and his crew’s work away, he couldn’t muster any more courage. The first malayali actress who was ever captured on Daniel’s film, fled for her life when the caste-proud elite audience threw sticks and stones at her for daring to portray a high caste character on screen. She was never heard of again. This was the cruel face of cinema. But when one man sacrificed, others invested and reaped the yield too. Music in cinema moved to a whole new level with socio political ideologies and rebellion disseminated through lyrics. The tumultuous response that the trio of Devarajan, Vayalar and Yesudas received was unparalleled. Movies had then become musical masterpieces on the canvas of social drama. Daniel’s name faded away and was only recognized way after he died, abandoned by all his family and friends except his wife. Celluloid touched Ritwik in a different way; somehow, he realized that dreams bore a heavy price that sometimes had to be paid with life.

“Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.” 

In a hundred years much has changed, thought Ritwik, but not the thirst for one’s name being immortalized, not the desire to breathe life into fantastic and fanatic characters. The price that one paid was still heavy, it was a leap to the unknown with honor at stake, but there was still some respect left. Not the alluring worship by the masses but more. He saw more. He saw the need in people to watch and to feel and live real stories. And when he examined the fabric of the world in which he was allowed to exist but barred to live, he could see others weaving the yarn of their lives just like him. He had but to be open, he had but to look for his window of opportunity. He just had to take the risk all those who came before him had taken. It was a demand from the future. Was it worth his life? A million times over. And whenever he saw someone like him on the streets he smiled.

“He smiled understandingly-much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced--or seemed to face--the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.”  

***

the italicized quotes are from the Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzegerald and the bold face quotes are from "Hugo", though in this story Ritwik is their creator.

photo credits: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/cinema-lover-103952979

Philosophy of The Matrix

 “Have you ever had a dream Neo, that you were so sure it was real? What if you were unable to wake from that dream, how would you know the difference between the dream world and the real world?” - Morpheus

This is the first quote from the Matrix shown in a video called “Return to the Source: Philosophy & the Matrix”, a must watch if you are interested in philosophy or even if your just trying to figure out what the hell does the Matrix series mean anyway.

To say that I had an interesting semester would be an understatement. What I’m trying to do in my spare time between the next one is to keep fresh in mind the overwhelming amount of insight that me and my friends received. What the Matrix series did in short was to tie up our entire syllabus neatly into this awesome trilogy which was even more delightfully explained in the hour long video I mentioned. So the paper we have is called emergence and growth of psychology which basically is to do with the origin of conventional psychology as a discipline from its roots in physiology and philosophy to cognitive neuroscience. This disciplinary evolution has to do with differences in approaches to basic questions regarding life, death, choice, the nature of reality and morality; which are exactly the questions the Matrix series deals with.

The success of the matrix is to do with a lot of things. The special effects of bullet time technology and the martial art stunts are I believe the least of them. The strength of the movie is its plot itself. It presents the most intricate metaphor for the human condition. The idea that we are all trapped in a prison of illusory reality and are being manipulated by someone or something like puppets on strings is a powerful image. It echoes with humanity’s increasing disillusionment with the idea of control at an institutional level.  In the movies, it might be the machines who exploit the energies of humankind, but it is an indicator of how increasing violence against all forms of life is a result of a vacuum of what is essentially humane in humanity.

Another ontological question posed through the characters to the viewer is whether what we believe to be real is true. While the movies talk about the matrix as a programmed reality, a trap, the real question here is to do with the nature of the self. As the matrix is governed by laws of the matrix, so is our world governed by the laws of physicality thus as the Merovingian aptly puts it, “ You see there is only one constant. One universal. It is the only real truth. Causality. Action, reaction. Cause and effect. ” the Merovingian is the typical supporter of determinism. He explains that in determining the antecedents of any event lies the key to control. When that is lost, choice is lost. “What is the reason? Soon the why and the reason are gone and all that matters is the feeling. This is the nature of the universe. We struggle against it, we fight to deny it; but it is of course a lie. Beneath our poised appearance we are completely out of control… Choice is an illusion created between those with power and those without.”

And yet, it is Morpheus’ faith that gives them the power to get a hold of the Keymaker and helps Neo to reach the Architect. Faith though blind but aware of the fact that even if they are happy in their state of slumberous dream-reality and even if it is with consent it is an untrue reality they are living in. The choice of taking a red or blue pill in this context refers to the extent to which we as active and responsible individuals become aware of our purpose in the reality that we have constructed for ourselves. Do we choose to deal with the difficult consequences of doing what we know is right in the face of the perennially easy and shortcut alternative? Are we blissfully ignorant?

The second movie in contrast shows how Neo despite understanding the reality and knowing it at a very direct experienced sense still fails because he is in love. His status as “the one” demands that he let go of his personal identity for the sake of the group. He still chooses to save Trinity. The ritualistic dance that’s shown in the second movie is a celebration of the uniformity of the human body; it is public and a means to summon the energies towards the better of all. Tantra is a branch of theology which focuses on instrumentation rather than the consciousness. Thus transcendence of the body using the body is achieved through sex.

Adding intrigue to the recipe is the interesting selection of names all carrying mythological, biblical or spiritual connotations. Neo whose name is actually Anderson, comes from Andros, Greek for Man. So Neo is like the son of man, who is resurrected, can perform miracles and thus is a character rooted in the Hebrew bible which speaks of a Messiah and also prophecies. Similarly trinity is symbolic of the Hindu concept of the trinity of gods Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva together in charge of creation preservation and destruction of the cosmos. Logos means "word" or "wisdom", and it is the name of the ship that Neo and Trinity take to the machine city. 

The concept of gaining freedom from the restraints of the machines is a symbol for evolution of the soul. Interestingly in a theological sense, the Gnostic Christianity and the Indian Advaita Vedanta arrive at a consensus as to the incorporeal nature of the mind as well as the impermanence of the body. The common ground is that of the fundamental problem of ignorance and the journey towards enlightenment. Of recognizing that the narrow identities that we adopt are transient and to realize ourselves as a singular source of pure consciousness is the concept of “return to the source.”

There’s a lot more in the video, so check it out.

The ending may seem to many, as preachy, but as far as morality is concerned, it’s not a given in any situation what good or bad is. Morality is a principle that is in place to ensure that everybody gets a chance at realizing their purpose in life. To transcend the polar opposites of the material world by perceiving them wholly in oneself. to return to the source and complete a cycle. The movie talks about karma and love as the distinction between machines and humans. But it is a love that transcends, that drives ego destruction, that unites. So is love, as Dumbledore put it that holds the deepest of magic?

It is for each to figure out for themselves…

here's the video: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LgkBE4Kgq5Q

YELLOW CONFESSIONS

He walked around a lot. He couldn't stay indoors anymore. Not after that conversation. How did they hide something this big? He was disgusted. Ashamed. Repelled by them. No! not her… never her. She was the only one who seemed sane in that house. The look his parents had when he confronted them was hideously comical. As if he had caught them stealing kid's toy... He couldn’t look back at her window anymore. He stormed out. She had always talked in lyrics . Of course she walked alone. When words would not come out, she hummed. And all the unspoken conversations she had or wished to have reminded her of him. She would have smiled but she won't, she decided. Some may applaud her daring plan of escaping the bars, the chains at her window, through which she spoke to her world outside. And she thought about all the conversations she heard. The ones outside her door, her parents'. Who spoke in hushed whispers or sometimes shouted. Of course it was always about her. About how much they cared for her. How much was too much? She looked right below her window. There was a laburnum tree. Too bright, like the rude awakening from an incomplete dream. A half heard familiar call. A child was sitting there. He was also talking to himself like she did. Why did they scold only her then? She closed her eyes, leaned back and wished with all her might for him to come back. She had a lot to tell him... Of the women at the neighbors' terrace. How normal their conversation was. How absurd! How lucky. Lucky that people don’t fidget around them. People don’t peep from the corner of their eyes to look at them when they speak… Of the boys at the house next to the fat uncle's place. How they sneaked around and scaled walls to drink something strange which made them fearless. And how they would shout and dance and curse and cry their way aback into the same house they had so carefully escaped from… How the fairies above the starts came into her room at night and taught her new songs. How lovely their voice was… where was he? Why didn't he come back sooner??? He walked until he could not take it. then he let himself feel the miracle of some tears. He looked back to the conversation that changed his life. This afternoon. Was it just hours earlier. Seems like days. His sister was not well they told her. After 15 years of having her! They couldn't have her anymore? So? she would be left at the orphanage. The arrangements were being made in secret before he returned from the city. It had to be done then, he had to be kept in the dark. He shouldn't know. He reached a day earlier than expected...That's when he caught them by surprise... Then he walked back to the shy laburnum and sat there calling out silently to god and cursing him for witnessing his shame. mocking his ignorance. That too was silent. His answer was waiting for words. This conversation was reserved for later. For now, he needed to answer his parents. Yes, he would take care of her. She was his sister. She was sane enough to wait for him. They were the ones insane enough to give her up to strangers...

OF GOD AND GOD'S MEN

"Unniyetta!!!"… He was preparing a paste out of colors that he would need later in the evening, when his brother Hari called him. His sight was gradually getting clouded with moss like blobs. He squinted to see what the matter was which made him look much older than the 45 years that had passed him by. "People from the newspaper have come to see you! They say when your story gets published you will be called to big cities," Hari said. Unnimaya his mother had named him strangely, after the village Goddess. The deity was to give him sustenance after all. Unni thinks about what his brother said, and as always surrenders his will to the divine plan. He finishes his preparation and goes out to the courtyard where two men were standing and talking. He asks them to sit on the sole piece of furniture available, the rope cot he sleeps in at night. They greet him and the smile he gives in return reveals his stained teeth. His expression still had something youthful about it, perhaps it was the eyes. They ask him about the trade he plies. He humbly narrates how his own father had been in the same line of profession before him, just like his father and grandfather. He was the member of one of the castes who had been given the right to perform Theyyam for the welfare of the people of his land by Lord Parsuram himself. They ask him how he feels playing "god". His smile flickers. He turns silent and after a while replies, “It’s not me playing god, it’s the gods that play through me. I am just the vehicle." They ask him about all the preparation that goes into his performance. He tells them… about the elaborate costume, the folk tales, and how for 4-6 months of the year he travels to places where people gather to see the deity that he transforms into. He tells them that the drawings on his face are made using red clay or stone called the “Chayillam,” his eyes lined with homemade kohl; other materials used in coloring include rice powder, turmeric, and limestone. The frame of his elaborate headgear is made using the wood of the drumstick tree. The costume is then decorated with tender buds of the coconut tree called “kuruthola.” He then uses beeswax to stick all the different components of the decorations onto the frame. Its hard work, and often he has no help. The guests are satisfied; they had traveled a long way down south in search for this man. Later, at night, along with the footage of his performance, they will take home to Delhi this interview, to show how the ancient art form of “Theyyam” is still alive and how culturally rich their native state, Kerala is. After they leave, Unni groans as he gets up from the floor. His knees aren’t what they used to be. Arthritis has set in. His brother’s two young boys are in the backyard learning the folk songs that they will sing along with their father in the evening. They look bored and the younger one is paying more attention to the football game going on in the field afar. His father stops and sighs. He exchanges a look with Unni before clipping the young one on his ear for his carelessness. He had been summoned to pick the coconuts from the tharavadu (ancestral household) and he was late. When he reaches there, the kaaryasthan (caretaker) sneers at him, “what is it that I hear; your brother wants to take you to Big Cities?? Isn’t the fame that you get here enough for you?” "It’s is nothing like that, emmaane, some people wanted to know about Theyyatom…” “Hmm... Sheri Sheri… do your work.” His modalali (employer), the owner of the house, didn’t know who picked his coconuts. He had no reason to. Nobody knew his name. They all called him ‘eda’ (roughly same as eh, you), or ‘vannan’ (by his caste name). ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Evening is going to set in. With a bit of tobacco, and a swig of his usual, Unni walks to the kaavu (grove) along with the men in his family, where the unnimaya temple is. They occupy a shed behind the temple and start getting ready for the performance. His family has always been known to play the character of Chamundi, the goddess. The kaavu is not silent as usual now. It is the month of Dhanu (December), and the trees are whispering their secrets to the misty air. The temple deep in the grove is filled with people who have lit the lamps. He can hear the silent anticipation of the crowd beckoning. They are waiting for their Goddess. As he adjusts his headgear, he thinks about his life. He is a bit surprised at the unusual direction his thoughts have taken today. Perhaps it was because those people asked him about his dreams. He thinks about the three families had rejected to marry their daughters to him because his livelihood and health wasn’t hopeful or stable. When he sees his brother’s children, he thinks it is for the best. He would have never been able to give them a good life, free from oppression or the grinding poverty. Yet, he had dreams, of having someone to whom he could pass on his only mortal legacy. His identity and his capacity to tell the stories of god and then become the god himself... His brother disrupts his musing, and offers him a drink of water. He accepts it gratefully. He cannot consume anything until his twelve hour performance finishes late at night. That is, with the exception of the sacrificial blood of the chicken he would behead and the offering of the local toddy in little mud pots that the devotees would bring him. And in return, the deity would listen to all their problems and give what She thought were solutions to those. He thinks of all the mighty modalalis who break down and sob in front of the deity in supplication or devotional ecstasy. They would be mocking him the next day, unaware of his divine identity. It is dark now. His body is dependent on the alcohol. His back is already aching and his joints are stiff because of the way the costume has been tied. He is ready now, with the color of blood on his face, and eyes dark enough to frighten the devil itself, he swishes the dirt off his skirt made of palm fronds. The bells of ghungroo tied on his knees shudder quietly. A mirror is brought to him… he looks at it… and the deity has arrived...

THE LAND OF HIS SUN

He was sitting at the rocking chair in the courtyard of his ancestral house, pondering, nostalgic, and slightly feverish. There was a book on the table by someone called Kavish… The coffee was unusually hot n scalded his tongue and the skin of his teeth. He shivered, and then smiled a little. He found himself tugging the strands of his waning memory to recall the phrase that was used by his friend to refer to this jittery shivery feeling. Vikram was one of those people who lived in a world estranged by the present day mechanisms of their life and driven only by nostalgia. The phantoms from his past were haunting him again. Not openly, but hiding in the nooks and crannies of happy moments. He has a family who he loves beyond everything and he looks like any middle class family man from the outside. But our world is a world of stories where everyone’s story is a thread in the human fabric. If you look at the human fabric, you will find that the pattern that each thread weaves out of the victories and failures of life is a unique story. Vikram was retired and more tired from all the work he did not do anymore. Not that his work gave him much joy before. He was more of a people-person who thrived in conversations. Nowadays, hardly anybody approached him like before or even called. His wife had gone to work, his daughter was studying and his son married. His days now made him feel there wasn’t much to do except wait. He did not know for whom or why he was waiting but was intriguingly and painfully sure he had to. Of late Vikram had started thinking of his childhood and in his attempts, often lost track of reality… ``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` It is morning around 6.30 a.m. Vikram wakes up at the call of Mahesh his cousin and both shoot to the pond nearby for their bath where all the boys of the family could be seen. Theirs was a matriarchal family where five women led their married lives in the ancestral home. Vikram’s mother was the eldest sister. In a uniquely and heartwarmingly simple set up, everyone ate together, cooked together, stayed together and for Vikram at the age of eleven, it meant everyone lived and played together. After school he would wait for Mahesh who was two years elder to him beneath the peepal in front of their school, sometimes joining in the cricket match going on in the field or sometimes talking to the other children in the market nearby. Life was simple at eleven eat with Mahesh, play, sleep, go to school (never study at home), and come back to play again. Time was not measured by anybody around him. One could stand under a tree and think aimlessly, not making any plans and doodle with a twig and nobody would worry your head off with alarming queries about the wastage of time. In summer there would be endless entertainment as the mango trees inside their compound wall would have to be defended against hordes of children from outside. In the lazy afternoons when only the children could sustain energy to resist a nap, they made statues and figurines of deities from the pleasantly pliable mud in their yard. In the rains, water would come up till the first step of his courtyard, while the rest of the village was under it. Then the light and speedy boats would be put out from the attic and used to acquire provisions and transport people who had to travel in emergencies. Basically the monsoons were to hear horror stories, scare each other and of course for boat racing competitions amongst the elder cousins, even girls. And in the autumn, as if the tangerine trees were tired of carrying the burden of green, shed their leaves all together. The skeleton branches of those trees were a favorite spot for Vikram and Mahesh for their bird spotting ventures. Winter meant 23 degrees max. Dew glistened on the small red and yellow blossoms in their garden and the morning mist would mark the beginnings of festivals of the winter. And spring, wasn’t it the most beautiful time of the year? The farmer’s New Year blessed with nature’s bounty, the festive cheer evident in the market where handmade crafts and utilities were exchanged in barter was a time when the two friends were never at home. School would have finished for the year by then and their world was limited to the market and the field nearby. The family deity’s festival coincided with the New Year and the celebrations lasted a full week. Both of them being avid followers of the percussionist performances, they would hang about in the temple threshold to listen and follow the rhythms of the drums… Meanwhile, the rhythm of their own hearts was taking them on separate journeys. It was books and more books for Mahesh while for Vikram it was cricket and music. But they had sworn a pact, to be together throughout life. How easily everything changed! It was just another simple day when responsibilities had only begun making an appearance in Mahesh and Vikram’s lives. They were at the temple grounds chatting; Mahesh told him that he was leaving home. Vikram was aghast at the news. Mahesh’s family had ostracized him because of his constant differences with them. He never listened to them in matters of education. He defended the servants; he fought with his uncles in the matters of his career. Matters had become unacceptable for his parents when he expressed his decision to marry someone from his college. So without much ado, Mahesh exited Vikram’s life as quietly as he had entered it. He never heard from him again and their parting was at a juncture where Vikram couldn’t fathom the reasons of Mahesh’s decisions or for that matter his family’s wrath about them. He was neutral in his opinion, young in age and genuinely very confused… so he didn’t speak. He didn’t dissuade him, neither did he support. He could see that Mahesh expected a response. But he couldn’t. So he kept his silence. How much he regretted it now… 10 years later, after he finished his graduation, his father died and Vikram’s world came crashing. Everyone he knew was grasping at whatever means to earn a living of their own. No longer was time left unmeasured, no longer did his homestead symbolize comfort. Everyone left at home was either old, or earning to support their own families. Their land had been redistributed and suddenly the leisure inherent in their lifestyle could no more be taken for granted. He worked hard as soon as he got a job, never looked back. He took care of his mother and his brothers and sisters. He travelled a lot, stepping out of the boundaries of his home for the first time to see the world in all its frailties and harshness. On one of his trips back home, he found himself married. His wife was a bright young woman who slipped into his life and understood his little quirks and habits as easily as if it was meant to be. They shared each others’ dreams, they built some together. Time sped past at a speed that shocked him sometimes when he saw himself in the mirror. Age had hidden the clever glimmer in his eyes. The grays made him appear wiser than he thought he was. He often thought of how easily silence at one point in time can make a difference throughout people’s lives. He always did take his promises too seriously and his silence was his only transgression. `````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` Something apart from the silence echoed in his heart still… drums? The knocking sound was not drums but somebody on the door. A graying man with crinkly eyes and round spectacles was standing there, wearing a forgotten smile that made his heart ache with the burden of its silence. They spoke less about the past and more about the present, Vikram being embarrassed of the mundane course his life had taken. They shared a smoke in their beloved courtyard. He furnished an apology for not being in contact with difficulty. Of course that wouldn’t ease the burden of guilt that ate at his heart all these years but it broke the silence he had been carrying… he broke down and cried like the child he felt he was. Vikram started and opened his eyes; he had been dreaming or was it the delirium of the fever??? Mahesh had smiled a little and pulled out something from his bag and put it on the table. It was a book. It was a memoir called the “the land of my sun”. The author was someone who went by the pseudonym Kavish. Vikram picked it up and looked at its second page. There was a short poem and a dedication: In my travels I might have been alone Only my body might have the battle scars borne But my spirit was in the land of my sun I am a child again, my journey just begun My friend, the sun had pledged his heart to me The rains watered my earth in perfect symphony I and my sun will meet someday To farm the dreams that we sowed yesterday Until then let the sun shine silently afar Neither distance nor time can keep us apart” “To the stealer of all my miseries… and my mangoes... My brother, my friend, my sun: Vikram”