Let us kiss say good bye and catch the bus?

Beach is where the waves kiss the sand and leave without waiting for an answer. Had the waves not gone, the sand could melt into talk about many things of the land that waves cannot see. But he does not want to talk, he does not want to wait all he need is a touch and he must leave.

 When God created man he must have kissed on his forehead and said “it is good”. Later when Adam met his beloved, eve, walking towards him from distance he must have run and kissed her. of course, Cain knew the warmth of  his mother’s hug and kiss.

Then tell me if i don’t kiss how I can express my love. We must kiss, hug and embrace each other.

A mother kissed her child in the public and there i saw a smile on their face. It turned a frown when a boy met a girl and a kiss is planted.

Society is a monster and we must kill it

“We have gathered here to kill a monster by plucking out his eyes and by cutting off his fingers” they argued within their hearts, before they attacked.

Somebody told as i was watching, “we cannot help but attack things that does not change. “

He continued preaching,

“We want change, from others don’t change, and we wish to be the others who make the changeless laws. Also, we need nobody to control us so we control them telling what not to be controlled.

The monster wants us to be like him but we need the monster to be like us. It is just a transfer of power.

Nobody wants to change; nobody needs other men to be free. All need things to be perfect, all need his or her idea to be absolute, all need to set rules.”

If kissing is nothing special

then why should I ever kiss ?

No one has the right to tell me i should not kiss my wife. No one has the right to tell me I should not kiss my friend. I am more concerned with my logical convictions than some superficial culture or forefather’s tradition.

But it does not mean that i have to burn the beauty of kissing. It is my favourite expression of love and not to be trampled in a crowed.

Sadly people fail to understand secrets are better than scandals. I would rather kiss my wife in private, and let it be a secret between me and her. it gives me more pleasure because privacy adds its charm .

Kissing is more than placing your lips on the other cheek. When you kill its secrecy you are destroying its beauty.

If there is nothing to be hidden then we have lost the ability to wonder. Let us keep secrets to be secrets and things to hide be hidden.

Free men are dead like a trees.

Kissing is not an act of revenge. It is not a hammer to hit your enemies. You reduced the kiss to nothing to show the world that you are a rebel, to shout that you are a free man and more reasonable than others.

Why do you say that kissing must be allowed and beating must be prohibited? what is the logic behind it?

If we have the right to do anything we want then nobody has the right to ask for his rights. If kissing must be allowed because of freedom then why don’t we justify beating with the same freedom?

So who gave me the right to kiss my wife?

Freedom is doing the right thing. But if you have no definition for right then our freedom is a myth.

Mothers who defy logic

A mother kissed her child and there, at that moment, I saw a smile on the face of everyone around her. They could all feel with the child the dampness of a mothers kiss. On my way, I thought of God, kissing man on his forehead like a mother, after the creation. Samuel Taylor Coleridge says, “The love of a mother is the veil of a softer light between the heart and the heavenly Father.”

Being a fat woman with a suckling child, mothers limit themselves to the cliché of shades trailing in the kitchen. Yes, that’s the way of the world. I must confess I would rather not be a rebel. However, something prompts me to think of this novel written in 1906 by one of the Russian revolutionists, maxim Gorky.

Mother, What an ironic title to narrate a bloody revolution? That was my first reaction when I picked the book and had a quick glance. Before long I witnessed one of the brilliant characters ever penned in literature, Anna Zalomova mother of Piotr Zalomov. The writer has deconstructed the ordinary discourse of motherhood to uplift her to the status to a violent revolutionist. For me, it took some time to sink in.  Gorky, in his novel says, “Only mothers can think of the future - because they give birth to it in their children.”

Look at Ruth, who later became the wife of Boaz. A genuine reader would be at praise of her for her willingness to be thrown into a new culture, for the love she had towards her mother in law, and for the way she was fighting the perils of her life.  Being sojourners in the land of Moab, she, along with Naomi, returned to the midst of many mocking tribes, seeking shelter in the Promised Land. Her ability to withstand all the troubles made her one of the significant characters in The Bible. Later in the New Testament, as we read Mathew narrates the genealogy of Jesus Christ this Moabite woman’s name appears as the grandmother of the lord.

The thought of a radical mother, who defies the traditional notions of what she should be, also found its expression in the writings of Bertrand Brecht; yet another revolutionist. His alienated mother portrayed in the play Mother Courage gives a heavy blow to the patriarchal society. She took her children through the war front in the absence of the male figure. Mother Theresa, who founded the Missionaries of Charity, walked down the streets of Kolkata with the message of Christ imprinted on her heart, to be a mother to destitute. Once somebody commented on this mother, “it is very hard to argue against her life which is so wonderfully lived”. She visited the dirty slums of that city and told herself, “this is hungry Jesus, I must feed him,” That promoted her to the sainthood to mediate between us and God.

In spite of the sweet words, seeta the beloved wife of Ram did not return to ayodya when her honour was questioned. Turning her back to all the earthly bliss she decided to end her life knowing that her karma, to bring up her sons to maturity, is over. Do the karma and don’t be concerned about the result, that sums the whole philosophy of Ramayana. Whenever I attempt to fathom this ancient wisdom my logic points me to the living example beside me in the kitchen, that’s a mother. George Eliot once said this about the influence of mother in her life, “Life began with waking up and loving my mother's face.”

In BC 323, heaven’s gates were banged with the cries of a mother’s heart, her name was Monica and her son had gone astray. Like Hannah she poured her heart onto Lord and after a few years, the one whom she was praying for, wrote the book city of God and confessions, the two most brilliant philosophical treatises on God and religion.

In Mahabharata, Kunti, the mother of Karna and the first three Pandava brothers, also the paternal aunt of Krishna, is portrayed as an epitome of motherhood. She remained sober when everything fell apart and never lacked tactics whenever her sons were in trouble. It is her prudence that saved pandavas from the burning palace of lakshagraha.  

Above all, I have a mother, to whom I am indebted this life, each day I wake up to her prayers and before sleep covers me in the night I always sense her heart hugging me tight. The way she took care of me, who else would do? Her taste made me alive and her body kept me safe. She was even willing to fight the whole world for me.

At the back of our heads we still listen to all those values she imparted to us. In the world she is the only one who doesn’t really care how many times you hurt her. As, Arundathi Roy said, the story goes on, “My mother broke me and made me and broke me and made me, and she still does.”

These exceptional literary characters could subvert the patriarchal doctrines of motherhood and prove to us her uniqueness in being. Given a chance every mother could narrate an untold story, a tale of courage and revolution, and not the soap serial you would normally expect.

Touched

Someone touched her on her shoulder and stole her heartbeat for a moment, when she was all alone in the dark.

In a night, when silence was played on the roofs together with the dog who swayed his tail like a choirmaster’s hands.

“Manu” she fell into his arms.

“You are so cold”, he said in her ears.

He pulled her to his heart and touched her nose with his, like bulls with the horns. He made her laugh.

 “Come let’s go before someone sees us”

“The night will cover us don’t worry”

Holding his hand she said “let’s run”.

Behind them slept two homes under the watch of two glowing lights on the car porch. Now they have walked beyond the reach of lights.

“Where are you taking me?” he said with panting.

“I will show you the naked moon” she sniggered and ran.

There was no smell of humans in the air, in fact they both smelled like flowers. As they moved, the frogs climbed their legs like a tree, birds made nests on their head and soil waited for them to halt so that it can take roots from their veins.

“I can’t run i am tired” he said, also wondered how she can run so fast and feel not tired. But she didn’t hear him. Her ears were filled with music.

He doesn’t share her passion, he thought. Is there really anything that I know about her? A cold loneliness pulsated in him. For a moment he feared her. He feared her difference.

At distance he saw her fading. he began to doubt whether her light was a shadow.

The night was so thick so the light reflected back. Birds cried constantly nature didn’t allow them to sleep. He picked few stones and threw at darkness. But it remained the same.

He waited and at last he cried. “Arundhathi” he called.

He ran to find her like a leaf broken from branch and suddenly caught in the wind.

She was sitting on a rock, in front of her there was a big cliff, the moon stood near to her unclothed. She got up and walked towards the cliff and imagined her falling in and being ever lost in darkness. she is not sure if she can trust him. She is followed by darkness and she walks into darkness. She decided to jump.

Now, two hands coiled around her from behind and kissed her on her cheek.

The sum total of garbage

Our greatest mathematics professor died in a bus accident yesterday. We are all glad that he got what he deserved.

Sir what was his crime? Asked a frustrated student.

Well, he was meddling with numbers which are essentially waste. And to me..

The professor bit his tongue.

There was an old lamp burning in the pub and the cat was groaning with hunger.Hari wiped thoughts from his  forehead and felt sick .

What is wrong with mathematics? He asked

The cat turned his eyes and said. “We can’t eat numbers”

Hari picked a fishbone and threw at him. Then he said nothing.

While he drank his third peg dead man pated on his shoulder.

“professor”

“Well my child you look  very dark”

“Sir,You have poisoned me with numbers and the world no longer trusts in them. What did you do to me?”

“No it is the world lost its trust in trust. Its your blame son. why did you trust me?”

stacked papers on the table grew restless in the wind as Hari tried to mask his wrinkled face.

“What else could I have done? That was my only option.”

The air smelled brandy and the wind knocked the door.

 “Drink more and think beyond your thoughts.” Exit the old professor.

Hari walked back to home waving his bottle. whisky spilled on the road and the dust sucked the water.

On the way, He stamped on a thread and it bit him.

Alone in the room, he drank what is left and peeped through the window into street, where people flooded.

“It is a sum total of garbage” he sighed and stretched himself on the bed.

He felt better and better and he slept.

Morning he found himself in the cave of snakes, and they danced to his breaths.

Man like a frog

In the brothel, vijayan sat on the green blanket they put on the bed. As he wiped the sweat on his face he met the big clock on the wall, one and half hour to get out from here. His mind ticked fast against the backdrop of many voices of men and women shouting like frogs.

He did not have to wait longer, vijayan sighed like a boy hearing the knock on the door.

A naked woman walked into the room with her head held high, and stood in front of him like a girl in front of the tailor. She caught his eyes with hers and made him embarrassed for a moment.

“What are you waiting for?” she threw her hand at him to be hugged.

“I am not ready” his guilty soul pulled him back.

Not well pleased with the welcome, she went near as close as to his nose. And slapped him gently on his face, whispered on his ear “stop thinking”

  She then settled down on the chair restlessly, singing  an old hit in her bad voice.

“What do they call you? ” Vijayan asked still intimidated by her naked self.

“Thulasi” she said with contempt, and went on singing.

 Shame must have poked her with its long finger, she stooped to take a dirty blanket lying on the floor then wrapped it around her.

As he was unbuttoning himself he thought. He cannot really get naked

, "There are many cloths to him."

Memories of a rain

A rain showering dust 

Sleeping on the  slippery branches

Of a green tree, fever struck his thoughts,

Derailed the ants silently moved.

He fell into the lap of the rain.

“Sleep” amma pated

On his drowsy cheek ,

 she was wet.

 It was a chilly night

Lion has gone back to cage.

Drink the darkness

Until it makes you intoxicated.

In the middle of the sea

You sleep in a rocking boat.

Morning fluttered In the

jingling sounds of spoons in the kitchen .

Rain is wiped away like dust from the sky.

 How can I sleep in a noisy world?

Now, the darkness is painted

Staring at the reflection

Of a lost dream in

other’s eyes ,one asked ,

 “can you feed me love?

I have forgotten it’s taste.”

I will go to hell

   

we live with hell in our head

 Men wait  at the bottomless well of sorrows

Talking of the last sigh of love.. As she suffered

That bad cold that made her heart freeze

As hard as stones under the water.

And of  the blank eyes that thrust on the roof

When we slept last night

Somebody hanged on  that tree.

Panting chocking and silently

Screaming.. he doesn’t want to die.

I wait you at the gate of hell.

Only that much I know the way.

Should we cry with tears or without.

Who will care..? after all

much that you have ruined here
without the furnace. still you 
wanna light up our anguish.
burn it burn it
burn it down
you angry God
i don't care
see God 
if you love
your imagination cannot cook up a hell
i have had enough hell here
my bloody sins are 
the mistake of your time
you caused me suffer suffer 
i have earned my marked
and i am tired walking after a good God
who made my men dead
who killed my children
who snatched my love
who caused me to sin
who brought the hell on me

still my heart cheats me saying that
somewhere there is a good god
i l drop you the moment
i get rid of that thought
hell with this poem

somebody please stop me writing this

I fight when the war is over

I burn after the scar

After blast calmed

After the blood fell and thickened

After the smoke faded

After you wept

After

The silence churned me out

Then

I scattered

Screamed

And silent

But my silence hurts more

Because

I lived after I died.

An act on lost people

Act 1

People

Their heads rub behind the curtains

While I was waiting

For a thought to sweat out

They mummer like

a ghost’s long curls.

Trembled heart to shed

What remained

In round drops of burns

Trees which I don’t know who planted

How to push them out

People.

wreck of the night

My ailment deepens to roots,

Slackened by the uproar of distress

I sheltered a fat bubbly balloon of thoughts.

Then I busted out and shed flowers

Red, red flowers

Pain eats me with its jaws so hard

Sky with its grin shined

At loss I churned out the scum of myself,

Mind’s best pricks

Shrill aches in each throb

Hurts, everything

Your dust I trample in every thought

Your smell I sweep

This room shrinks so quickly

Breaks me

Like a black hole

I must go.

Weeping stones

To drown yourself in this stinking water is a bad thought. When you take the last breath before everything ends this foul smell would suffuse into your brain. don’t you think that moment  must be sacred. You feel the world for the last time.

Nonsense! I will rot like a vegetable after I die. I will add my part to its stink. Then what is the point in worrying about a foul smell?  Stop thinking.

If the wind could stop for a moment, he thought. Let there be no smell. If the earth could suck the air?  Make a vacuum.  Let there be nothing.

For the last time he wept within his arms and jumped .

Suku had a dream wherein Devi kissed him on his lips. Before their lips were unlocked he woke up.  

“Devi.. get  me those onions” he heard her mother in law shouting from downstairs.

“Never before” , he thought as he felt the pain of love.

What makes a woman beautiful? The hair .. the violently moving black threads around her face.

The way she look straight into your eyes would make you sink in your desire for sometime. Before you rise up she would be gone. What has she told you? You will never know.

Who cares if she is a widow? She is the woman I love. But her father in law, that dying old man, will he accept? No he will never, because he knows my past. My illness. I shouldn’t have told him.

Would she accept at the first place? is she still devoted to her dead husband?

No you are not worthy of her.

“Suku..”  someone called him from downstairs

“have lunch from here, we have prepared for you also.. come.”

After a shock treatment patient fainted on the bed. All he wants was to sleep. But each time he closed his eyes thousand faces peeped out from darkness. They laughed in his ears like the sound of flowing water.

“Your head is full of noises, stop it” one face screamed

“You are tired beyond words”

“Let us play cards, if you don’t know I will teach you”

Doctor slammed the door before he went.

A train just passed before he reached the station. When Suku sat on the bench disappointedly, Sunshine fell on his face like a slap. He moved the bench.

It was crammed up with people going to work. The exhausted train spat out smoke and panted forward.

Suku stood near the bathroom door and began to snore. The disturbed crowd muttered curses.

The sweating bodies glued together and one could feel the dampness of others chest. They unfolded the packets of burdens and threw at each other.

Suku felt a jerk that made his knees bend.

“Do you believe in God?” Devi’s father in law asked him

“Only when I suffer, to hate him.”

“What is the point in that?”

“Nothing”

“What else do you hate?”

“I hate myself”

One night suku thought he wants to dance naked under the moon. He climbed steps leaving his cloths on the floor.

From a distant house a radio played an old melody. Suku took steps as the singer reached her peek of voice and fell in to silence. Then danced to a song that lingered in his mind.

Moon looked down in amusement and showered light on him. Suku found inside the rhythm grows intense, his body moved rapidly to meet the beat.

Then he sensed he doesn’t follow the rhythm. His mind and body were drawn apart.

He fell on the ground like a wet cloth.

“Devi” suku called as she was washing her cloths. She turned in a shock. She never anticipated such a call.

Suku thought for the last time, should he tell her what he has in mind. He couldn’t think.

“Devi, I love you”

As he sighed he felt he has lost the burden that haunted him. Now if Devi reject him how will he take it? He knew what he would do?

He will hate her. For not loving him back.

Devi rushed into the kitchen. And he heard a silent cry.

He felt hurt. His mind has cheated him. Man and woman cannot love each other.

Before the ambulance could arrive, the old man , Devi’s father in law, his house owner, died. Last thing he did was to call out his dead son’s name.

Devi closed herself in a room to cry alone. Her mother in law was telling the dead man something she forgot to tell him when he was alive.

bloom..

 Suku fell into the pit that water made for him and he swam towards darkness.