Wednesday, March 09, 2016

Are you there???

Today again there was that  fraction of a moment when somebody’s expression suddenly gave me  the illusion that I was actually talking to you. It is such a fleeting moment but in that fraction of a second , I believe you are right here – in front of me, for that fleeting moment, I experience a sense of revelry that you are still here among us. And the next moment yet again that sinking feeling emerges reminding me of the painful truth that you are not here any more. One wishes to prolong that sense of suspended belief , that delusion but it is not to be. There is a pang in the depths of the heart, an overwhelming sense of loss, a feeling of desolation, hopelessness, and futility. And yet there is a weird feeling of reassurance , a sense of absurd relief that you are still alive in our memories. Because I’m terrified of letting myself forget you. Because if I forget you then that will be the true end and that I can’t bear. When you flash in my memory, then it means that you still are, that you shall remain. And for me to go on, I need to believe that . I need to believe that you are watching, that you understand …

I like thinking about you, remembering your expressions, your chuckles, your laughter. I love talking about you... without my eyes welling up. I like to smile when I think about you, talk about you... I like to think you are watching, listening, smiling too... may be, just may be that I would have liked to see you again, talk to you again, listen to you some more, tell you a few more special things...

Tuesday, February 09, 2016

Way Beyond...

You want to chain me in words. Cage me in boxes. You want to define me. You want to claim you understand me, you have got me all figured out. You want to cross check, you want to prove, you want to analyse ,you want to dissect, you want me to fulfil criteria charted out by you- you want me to adhere to facts generated by you, to observe rules drawn out by you, to abide by regulations fabricated by you!
You want me to have me tallied- you want to quantify me- you want to have me accounted for!
You want to tether me in words, in tabular columns, in bar graphs…you are excited when you think human intellect covers me up totally- and that I cannot exist beyond that!! You pat yourself thinking you’ve got me all figured out!
But sorry- I don’t fit in- I cannot be caged or chained in words or definitions, in facts or figures, you can’t map me , you can’t chart me out- I extend beyond your x-y axes…
I stray into un-chartered territories- un-traversed by human intellect- I stretch across borders and definitions- I am invisible, I am intangible- how can you hope to catch me with your finite intellect when you can’t even see me fully?
I escape like sand in your clenched fists- I am in the air you breathe- and the air without - I’m in the void- I am in the spaces. I exist in thoughts that cannot be expressed, in feelings that cannot be understood- I am in your sighs, even in your yawns. The alphabets shall never suffice to encompass me, language shall always be found wanting.
I’m grainier than the sand grains on the seashore- saltier than all the salt in the sea. I'm colder than the ice flakes in the arctic, deeper than the tears in your eyes. I’m in the roots that meander their way under the earth, in the leaves that sprouted and then wither and fall; I'm in the buds that are yet to blossom.
I’m the colours beyond the vibgyor, the sounds beyond hearing. I’m brighter than the sparkle in a child’s eye. I go beyond learning, beyond understanding, beyond experiences- then why this craving to have me all figured out- hold me in your clasp- chain me in fetters of grammar and format?
You see, I existed before all that…

Why is it so difficult to accept that there could be things beyond language, beyond borders, beyond limits, beyond concepts, beyond definitions? Is it really so difficult to comprehend?

I am so much, so much more - beyond your reach… beyond your view… beyond the distant horizon…

Sunday, January 24, 2016

The spell has broken...

 As I walked down the only too familiar road, I very consciously and deliberately tried to coerce my sleeping memories alive. I searched for familiar sights,  I tried to breathe in familiar smells, I tried to rouse dormant sensations…I tried to retrace my steps, I closed my eyes, visualising images of the past.  

I saw nothing, smelt nothing, felt nothing. It was the same place and yet it was no longer.

 Everything felt unreal, empty. I had grieved the passage of time, yearned for lost moments. Now I had come back but found nothing that I thought I was seeking. Is there a sense of loss?  No, not even that. Just an emptiness and a numbness.

What had changed? The  place? Perhaps…

It is I who have changed. Forever. I am no longer that person.

That place in the depths of my heart no longer exists outside. Finally  I can stop looking for it every time I return. Let sleeping memories lie...

Ref: Nostalgia: thy sting

Monday, June 15, 2015

ONE too many?

                                        ( image courtesy:

It has been raining T.M Krishna all over my part of the cyber space . An overdose of T.M Krishna, though I’m not one to complain. I have been listening to his interviews, reading up about him, thrashing out all about his stand (regarding the December festival) with my cousin…and then she tells me about this movie rendezvous “ONE” featuring none but him!

Did I know what to expect? Well, I had watched “MargazhiRaga” when that hit the theatres. And I was not too averse to this concert on celluloid bit.  

So this was at BHEL Trichy- Kailasapuram club. I had heard about this venture where T.M Krishna was thrown into the wilds and left to himself to sing off the cuff. No bustle- just the skies, the waters, the wind, the birds for company.

It sounded all good. Now this screening incidentally was also out in the open , on a not too lush lawn but yes there were trees right behind, a light summer breeze and the evening moths casting their shadows across the huge screen giving the illusion of being a part of the celluloid landscape.

What can I add after all the *reviews already available online? What the makers intended to do, how they went about it, how they felt about the whole thing, all that is already out there…

Just perhaps how I felt?
Well, I am no connoisseur and am among the ones who respond to simply what they hear , not essentially what they know or what they understand. And so I watched, I heard, I liked, I enjoyed. I enjoyed the music in the musician, the exuberant voice, the sounds, the colours, the feel, as I sat there under the evening skies. I even liked the way The musician’s hands moved, they seemed to have a grace of their own gesturing to the flow of the music, directing the exuberant throw of his voice into the cosmos…

There is the performer who is inspired by a muse, an applauding audience…

And then there is the artiste who is inspired by his art, regales in the magic of his art, talks to his art, calls out to his art- listens to his art, is mesmerised by his art as if he is just a witness- and not the one initiating it… calling out to the creation around him, throwing back into the air- the waves of the swaras and the sahitya- pausing to listen, as if expecting a response from the wilderness…

And when it is over, you feel that you just had a peek into an intensely personal experience of an artiste… 

Saturday, November 15, 2014


While I’ve been singing paeans to Solitude and how much I craved solitude, how I cherished my space and ‘me time’, how I resented intrusions into my space and time. I defended my right to my space and time indignantly, vociferously  and not content, I wanted to shout myself hoarse from the roof tops…until….
One night, it dawned on me ( ironically) , that solitude was a luxury that could be enjoyed when one knew that one had people around, relatives, friends, acquaintances…just a call ( not the digital kind) away. When one had nobody then the same space and solitude would be oppressing and gnaw the insides of the soul.
When I realised this important detail, I decided to be more respectful of the people around me, more tolerant of the cramped spaces and appreciate the relevance of their presence which made solitude an enjoyable experience to be savoured if and when it becomes available.  .

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Magic of remembered moments...

Why is it that  many a time,  what we have been waiting for to happen, what we had been wishing for- when that moment finally dawns,  why does it feel so unreal, almost as if it was happening to someone else. Why does it feel so ordinary, so bland?

When the long awaited moment was in the present, I kept reminding myself , "Here is the moment you've been waiting for, watch it unfurl, be in it, hold on to it, savour it. Lock it away, for some day in the future, you will seek this moment in the casket of your memories, you'll long to be back in it, relive it"...

And then in some moment of the remote future, it becomes a miracle remembered, perhaps more magical than it had actually been when in the present.

Tuesday, June 04, 2013

M.P. Bhattathirippad's "Rithumathi" -1952

Today at lunch, amma was recounting to me about M.P. Bhattathrippad's (Premji) play: 

"*Ruthumathi". She embellished her narration with the typical "Namboothiri bhasha". 

I was appalled at the plight of the girl child of those times. Thank God it had a happy ending. A very 

poignant story that haunts you for a long time after. 

Am I glad to have been born in today's era...

Below is an excerpt from :

Similarly, Premji‟s Ritumati was a well-written work as a prose drama.
This is the story of Devaki, an orphaned Namboothiri girl, who initially stays with 

her comparatively  progressive maternal uncle who provides her with education ( 

otherwise not prescribed to a namboothiri girl).

But after attaining puberty, her education is discontinued and she is forcibly taken 

to her paternal  family. There, she‟s ordered to take off her blouse as per custom 

and change into a mere piece of cloth. On her refusal to do so, Kizhakeprathe 

Apphan Namboothiri tortures her by hiding her clothes and continuously abusing 


Devaki, thus transforms into the face of resistance in this drama as she adamantly 

refuses to change her outfit for many months at length. Though branded as a 

mentally unstable woman by family and society ( for merely voicing her desire and 

dissent),she‟s betrothed to someone without  her consent.

On the marriage day, her cousin Kuttan and her friend Vasudevan concede to her 

desperate plea to rescue her from this confining atrocity. The protagonists Devaki 

and Vasudevan succeed in the fight against their wretched life inside the 

Namboothiri community. Unlike the three earlier plays mentioned initially, Ritumati 

stands as an unflinching testimony to progressive drama. The protagonist is not 

conveniently evicted from the plot ( as in Marakkudakkullile Mahanarakam, Savitri 

Athava Vidhawa Vivaham and Adukkalayil Ninnu Arangathekku) in order to 

maintain social  normalcy‟.

The epigraph to the play:

Ritumatiyaayoru penkidaavennagi

-lathu mathi njayamn padippu nirtan.

Avallenum pinneyadukkalathannuli-

lavashamirrunnu narachidenam;kudayeduthidenam, 

kuppayamooranam-kudilasamudayaneethi nokku!

( It is all puberty that takes to discontinue a girl ‟s education/ 

from then on, she‟ll remain and rot within the walls of her kitchen/ 

A customary veil and the custom of removing her blouse is what the cruel society demands off her)

(* Rithumathi : Girl who has attained puberty)

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( pic courtesy: