Poogirl Talks!!

Unni and Me

2012-01-30T10:00:00.000-08:00

Hokai...
Time for some trivial pleasure for my regular readers are complaining about a dearth of cheer in my blogs. Some are actually worried about me. The more discerning ones have classified my writing as dark and painful..All true...All owing to the fact that I labour to write when I'm in that dark, depressed wormhole of a mental state.
Unni and me is about Unni and me ( duh!!!here is one for readers who are annoyed about treating them like dull wits).
There is an outcry from the other room where Unni is watching Cowboys vs Aliens. Me for one, cannot stand movies with aliens in them, or ghosts..or lets say any movie in which you know something is ready to strike and the director plays with an eerie quietness..Drat!!! I watched War of the Worlds with my brothers from under a table..Sherlock. I was satisfied to hear the sounds of the wretched hound from under the blankets. His love for aliens and ghosts ( my mother- in- law loves ghost movies by the way) does not stop me from loving him, for our shared love for fast cars, leggy brunettes and the street keeps us together.

Unni loves to cook. This action verb is an integral part of his repertoire. He cooks, and he cooks code. Well, he does create a mess, but unlike other people I know, he cleans up afterwords.

Unni swears like a pirate on two occasions. One, when that ridiculously unreliable internet connection of ours acts on its whims. And two, when his pings to google is not replied within the time its supposed to take. Ironically, his mood swings are often a source of amusement for me, for they are very often related to internet connectivity. Once, he even declared that when he dies he can be found in the internet. In the initial/ testing period of our courtship, I've often speculated whether he was two timing me with Google and Gmail. "No, pooche...I love you"....
"Ping" cries that selfish bitch..there
Unni does not mind sitting home out of touch with any human soul barring the virtual ones for infinite number of days. Now, you readers are privy to some potentially relationship endangering facts here. It is one of the prerequisites for my existence that I see people, go out, shop, walk, think, observe the world outside. I'm like that Hitchcockian character in the Rear Window. Often I sit in the balcony, make up stories about the people living opposite my building ( The girl and the boy who I though were siblings, later turned out to be pregnant from which I assumed they were married, and then I thought the baby died, for there were no baby clothes hung up drying on the lines and she no longer carried the bump..I still think the man, is adopted for neither he, nor the wife looks nothing like the parents...phew)
Still how can I not love Unni, when he supports all my ventures...Buys paint, nails, hacksaws for me...My request for a nail gun and an electric drill will soon be met I hope.
How can I not love him, when he eliminates my paranoia, engages with my whims and cracks me up with his semantic and situational wits.. especially when he cooks to your hearts content..

More of that later
To Unni and me....

#feverish pneumoniacal rant

Denudation

2011-11-10T07:20:00.001-08:00

This throb around my temples has been annoying me since afternoon. When sleep and a combiflam ( in that order) failed to give any relief, I was, as usual pushed into thinking about myself. Yes, the rant. I've done this so many times that I now understand the process more than I can decode the thoughts.It starts with an external stimuli, a small experience that perhaps created a tiny abrasion in your subconscious ( or the unconscious, forgive my Freud), then you begin to question yourself, the path that you have chosen but does not feel yours, the contributions you have made to the world which when weighed amounts to nothing, and yes of course, your face and your body which interacts with this world which subjects you to scrutiny.At this point, I decided to write. To set a record of what I call the denudation of my mind and my body. For I fear, like my grandmother, who has been a pillar in my life, I will once day slip into what doctors ( she was one) named insanity of the senile, dementia.Perhaps this is my contribution to the world.

My perception of the minutest detail is at its peak right now. I can look on, endlessly at a crack, a wrinkle or a particular patch of cimmerian left by a pus bag. I was always fascinated by wounds, the purple residue of shock around the edges, the whiteness of the epidermal and the yellow globules of pus. I could never stop staring at the film of sienna that later developed covering the gore and then I would score it with my nails the day it turns charcoal. What pleasure.

Grey. Like an army ready to conquer. Covered under darkness, two of them, carefully note, calculate,and measure the prospect of a conquest. Surrender seems inevitable.

Fat has found a perfect place to park, under my chin.The day is not far when it will start oscillating like a bee hive in the wind. Or like the bees, my fat friends are going to create this illusion of movement.Oh how I detest them.My resistance against them has failed many times. Denial and putting blame on an unverified thyroid activity did hold some tongues from wagging but not many. The kidney stones which I once gave birth to shrugged away all accusations.

I wonder what people want me to say. "Oh, you have put on so much weight". I choose one of these responses. a) " Yes, I agree" b) "you see, my kidney.... c) "I cook well" d) " I'm aging and my body seems to have a mind of its own"The first response has often irked some people and the last too.B and C are for people I like for they are lead on conversation prompts accompanied by a frown and a smile. But I must say I'm now familiar with the drill.to be contd:-

GGreen

2011-08-02T06:10:00.000-07:00

Sun dried flowers
Wine bottles and a tortoise on guard

Corner Column

2011-08-02T06:05:00.000-07:00

Wood and handmade paper
Diwali 2010

Forest Fire

2011-08-02T06:02:00.000-07:00

Fire wood and aluminum
September 2010

Wood, bottles and more

2011-08-02T05:27:00.000-07:00

Ohkey...so since creative writing is not happening due to a heavy work load and academic writing is put on hold (more blame on work), I switched over to a new mode. I collect wood, green bottles and aluminum scrap. They sit for a while making a scrapyard of my house until one day a muse would decide to shower her grace and lo...
It's been a very fulfilling switch I must say. The wood lets me build something that is big and bold. I let it take a shape that it demands of me for my mind would be too tired to think ( -ditto-)
A casual discovery was made the other day when I came across a book that gave me a name for the things I do: Sustainable product development. That is, if I'm able to sell something.
As of now, I sign off, leaving you with pictures of some of the pieces I've made.

Gratitude to Vinod Varghese who worked the camera and captured them in action, before they succumb to dust-full death.

Update- status

2011-07-26T07:48:00.000-07:00

Just a thought...and maybe an attempt to reinstate my presence in this virtual world.

My head spins tales that snares my soul. I can feel the spores of vexation slowly develop roots. It is only a matter of time before the meristematic cluster paces to form a million stolons that wreathe around me. I offer no resistance. My reason submits before its ire. I vegetate.
I vegetate to this unscrupulous being which has now acquired amnesia.
She forgets that she is loved, trusted and respected.
She wants to ignore, but what she actually does is impose her presence with a shroud of silence.
She has to probe, question certainties. Feign distrust.
Will they rush to her with reassurances?
Her acerbic tongue maligns more than her gelid gaze
A certain warm breath may sometimes cut a clearing...may...maybe
No, not now. Not today. Don't you see these tissues suckering around me?

Rain rape

2011-04-15T10:38:00.000-07:00

It rained...the rain lashed with vengeance on the parched red earth picking up twigs and tumble weed only to flog the earth back...trees sobbed as the rain split open their foliage but parted with their spring blossoms submitting to the clamour of their avaricious lover....fecundity...we are ready for it..
I wait.

On being inside her turtle's shell

2011-01-15T23:21:00.000-08:00

What does it mean to be a turtle?

Peeping in and out of shell,
To see a world you choose to see

Pace, while others call you slow
Pee, while they pick you up

Curl up in laundry, sleep
They come find you and feed

Not heed, not even pretend to listen
But carry on at steady speed.

- To be contd depending on the frequency of the author's observations

on art

2010-01-05T00:52:00.000-08:00

Art. Art occupied her mind today, subsuming other thoughts. Paints, patterns and the philosophy of creation passed randomly through her mind, throwing questions at her; puzzles she now had to solve. But why was she thinking about art, so much that she now started getting irritated? It began at an art exhibition. The artist, proud, cockish and eager to say that he was offended if somebody ever tried to be critical; had splashed his canvases with enamel paint. Like a little child playing with colours. Long stretches of unruly paint . She couldn’t figure out what offended her more; the immaturity of the work, or its bashfulness that made a mockery of her intellect. She was the philosopher. She was the art critique. She was the self-ascended queen of good taste. These little drops of paint now ridiculed her ego. It mocked her obsession with making meanings.

Paint, which used to give her a pleasurable high, was now taking her to the depths of embarrassment.

Drops of paint…

Red …

Pain…

Revolutionary…

Menstrual….

It was here again.

She rebelled, she called on a strike…

On herself, her body, the world. She sat in a corner, hating herself for being born with a body that punished her every month for not mating with a healthy sperm. She hated men. She cursed them.

Pain….

Paint…

Pixels…

She turned the computer on, and searched for more art. Alyce Mahon, Eroticism and Art , installations of women wearing prosthetic dildos. A Freudian desire for the other, the curator described. She understood it better now, with the betrayal of her body.

She had to sleep.

Sleep.

The natural analgesic that could heal her.

She pictured herself in the island of the lotus eaters, where a whiff of the translucent pollen took one to mesmerizing slumber.

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

With half shut eyes ever to seem

Falling asleep in a half dream

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,

Which will not leave the myrrh- bush on the height;

To hear each other’s whisper’d speech;

Eating lotus day by day,

She always wanted to paint a series of Tennyson’s poems. Whitman, with his sea of lilacs.

Read.

She took up a digest from the floor and started reading. The jokes always put her to sleep.

“the mortality rate for this operation is just one percent”, my medical college professor said as he reviewed a procedure. “ put another way mortality is one percent if it happens to somebody else. If it happens to you, it’s 100 percent”

sad…..slapstick

when I was in military intelligence, an infantry man teased me about my job. “you guys don’t even have to take any kind of physical training test”, he said. “That’s nonsense. We take one twice a year”. “yeah?” he said. We take one every six months”.

Sigh

Snore….snore…sssss

She is the artist now……her work was exhibited by a lake. The bodies on the canvas clutched closer when the cold lake breeze hit them.

She started painting a joker. Like the one in a pack of cards, acrylic on canvas, with knife and brushes.

The dog sniffed to see if she was alive. His cold muzzle tickled her.

No stupid dog…..and she snuggled back to sleep.

The pain in the lower abdomen was getting worse as if she was being raised on a hook arm by captain cook. Her work like the pack of cards, slipped into the ocean. The ticking crocodile was waiting.

Tick…tock..tttt

Trrriiinnng..

The phone rang. “Boyfriend calling”, on the display.

“Baby?”

mmmmm

“are you sleeping?”

hmmmmm

“are you okey?”

hmmmmm

“is it hurting?”

mmm

“call me when you wake up”

hmm

“sleep”

She drifted back to sleep, in his arms. She dipped her finger in some paint and started drawing on the body. A little cone of icecream, which she slowly licked.

A glowing sun on the heat of his chest.

Sun…

It was getting hotter in the room. She could feel the heat hitting her with every rotation of the rickety fan. The drool from her mouth formed a pit, and in its coolness, she sank.

Her paint was socking up. The red of the joker dissolved, the oil and the turpentine formed interferences….It coated her face…her body..she was losing blood..sweat pitted in her navel…

She woke up….the mystery of art has been solved…she experienced it.

year end post

2009-12-31T02:10:00.000-08:00

Last day of the year, and I couldn't leave without a post here..

I learned many things this year;

Like a two bottles of cheap wine shared by two, gives the most awful hangover ever.
That strangers can become friends, and you can find them just around the corner.
That redecorating someone else's house can be backbreaking for you, but can change their lives.
That you shouldn't try to be Santa and bring cheers all around;sorrow has its own pleasures.
That you always miss people more than they miss you.
That you have to figure out for yourself what will make you happy.
Trust your dad, once in a while he can come out with incredible wisdom. His best advice to me this year was "do not resist, let what is going to happen happen".
That if people tell you, you are beautiful, believe it.
That you can be your worst critic and best friend.
That your stars are strong and hence nothing can go wrong.

Now I must;
Practice on technique so that the creative can have a free play.
Not be too excited about too many things.
Switch off when in a self destructive mode.
Nurture my madness, pamper my passions....

Think,travel, paint, read, eat, drink.... more....

I love him, I hate him

2009-12-04T04:03:00.000-08:00

I told him I love him,

He said, it's complicated

I told him I love him,

He said, it's risky, lets think about it.

I moaned, I sighed

He snored and scratched his head

I touched, I trembled, I was eager to kiss

He asked me if i'm doing the right thing.

I cried, he thought I had a cold.

I parted

Now I know,

And you do

I did the right thing.

Happy b'day to me

2009-09-30T00:01:00.000-07:00

I turned quarter of a century old today...a significant chunk of a life time lived, no achievement whatsoever, no contributions made to knowledge, to art or literature....
My friend recently told me that my dear, if you have not made your masterpiece by the age of 25, you just can't do it ever.... because the task is just enormous....
Counter thought, if original thought itself is a contribution to knowledge??
I have neither....is it because I'm not thinking or because I'm not original??
Unni is about to take the plunge..i will hold his hands and jump with him...
I did not think any body would remember my b'day, and it was a sweet surprise when preethu called... She is a mood pill...she is a darling...a dose of her is enough to cure any depression you have..thank you sweetie..
Thanks to every body who wished me, and thanks to those who didn't..i mean it's not a big deal..it's just another day, except for the one who has it, thinks about life, and sighs......

wondering...

2009-09-25T09:15:00.000-07:00

wondering if i fit in the space i've created....
wondering if the role is right...
wondering why i only enjoy the company of a few while i tolerate all.....wondering if i can only be momentarily satisfied, the depression is eternal...

2009-08-02T05:34:00.000-07:00

So what have I been doing?

2009-08-02T04:08:00.000-07:00

Its been a long time since i blogged. Not that I did not want to. I even missed the rant and the post blog longing to see the comments that a blog generated.
First, it was the exams. I could waste no time in front of my computer except for the occasional mail, comment check, google routine. Then we shifted from the old place, but BSNL had its roots set deep back at the old place that it refused to move with us. So I was stuck in a new home with no network. I tried blogging from the net cafes once or twice, but words did not rush in, nor did it trickle down, with all the action that was happening around me. And finally, I had to transplant my life to an entirely new city....
All this while,I kept company with colours, something I wanted to do for so long, uninterrrupted. I drew. I painted. I experimented with form and colour.
Posting samples here....

വാട്ട്‌ ഹാവ് ഐ ബീന്‍ ടോഇന്ഗ്?

2009-07-23T05:07:00.000-07:00

Dissection

2009-03-27T10:57:00.000-07:00

I turned the soiled pages of the magazine, frugal with words.
My last connection with creativity...
Cease and I go back to the doodler I was, period

A hundred times have I been through the pages.
Finished fine prints, moving on to between the lines
Next up pointillism

My body was my canvas

The blue gel when rubbed made red skin.
.
I tried to sink a head in a bucket of water.
And failed.

Vaccum thoughts floated
Head bobbed up and down

Sigh
My heart would have....

paint in progress

2009-03-12T07:41:00.000-07:00

For Freedom

2009-03-09T01:27:00.000-07:00

Dear Mother,
There is a lot going through my mind right now and I thought I should send you this mail. I'm going through a very difficult period of time in my life right now. I have a lot of apprehensions, confusions, realizations, revelations , a matrix of thoughts which I find rather impossible to explain. The futility of the endeavor makes me almost discard it altogether but you being you, being concerned about me and all that I just had to find a computer, sit down and write.
Of topmost priority is my going to JNU. You must understand that JNU is India's first class , premier institution of higher learning. The seats are limited, almost unavailable compared to the number of people who want to get in every year. Please do not think of it as just another engineering college that mushrooms with every rain. There is no other place like JNU, academically dedicated, offering a multitude of facilities and subsidized education. That being said, think about the situation in Kerala. This place is teeming with post graduates who want to be school teachers. Good for them, spare me. Now I'm just like any other postgraduate, I have degrees from ordinary colleges, of not much academic reputation. I can do what everyone else does, go for a normal post graduation job, that does not demand any of my knowledge (which I value the most). Or consider myself far better(which i do) and aim for the best possible that I can achieve. And I have done that. I have quit ,the mundane, the mediocre job ever possible, to strive for the best. And I still stand by choice, no regrets whatsoever.I was earning a lot there but i had to spend more every month, plus the mediocrity was driving me crazy. If I had stayed, the maximum possible salary I would get is around 16000.Three years down the line, with all possibilities of further studies exhausted , I will have to keep working for peanuts the rest of my life, burnt out.I chose not to be a drone.
You must remember that I've not done engineering or medicine that is over in four years, with immediate job on offer and marriage thereafter. My settling down( i hate that term) takes years of hard work and toil and believe me its not going to be easy. And I need all the resources I can have, pool in all my talents and work hard.

There are many things about me that I myself is not sure. But one thing I can tell you for certain is that I am very creative. Whatever I do, my painting , writing, everything requires a lot of creative energy and that is frustrating. I'm always worried sick about it. And this frustrating IAS studies is not doing any good. The pressure is immense, you have no idea how much and plus on top of that dad is not helping at all. Every time I talk to him, he is reminds my responsibilities, my obligations to him, to keep him happy, to see me as an IAS officer. Yet at the same time he says that it doesn't matter if it you get or not just that you try hard. Is it??? Is it OK if I don't get it? I'm sure it is not. Well I'll try, thats all I can say.
I'm not leading a platonic, floating( to quote dad) existence. Infact I"m very much worried about my future, the money, the recognition, the respect that I wish to get. Just because I don't talk about it doesn't mean that I'm not. So don't push me off the ledge that I'm on.
Well your cousins daughters quit their jobs for further studies and are now in god forsaken corners of the country. What is the big objection in me trying to go out. Believe me, i wouldn't want to do it if there is at least a bleak chance of getting a good education here, in this town. But there is not.
About my political allegiances, they are my own. Achan cannot ask me to not "go with the SFI, or ULFA " for that matter. My field of study is literature, for me it is more than about books. It incorporates political theory along with its epistemological concerns which can be applied to wider social situations. I've learnt Marx, Hegel, Derrida,and Nietsczhe as part of the subject and it is impossible to be blind to politics. I don't intend to be an active politician, now or ever, but that doesn't mean that I don't have political views.
This period of waiting is very frustrating. Until my results come out, I need to keep my heads up. I need to prepare for the interview that is coming up ( there is an interview after the entrance exam) , work on my dissertation, cook up a research proposal, think about presenting myself at the interview in a way that they understand my serious academic intentions. At the same time, i need to keep reading up for the mains exams (ias) without wasting time. Although i keep vouching for jnu, and achan votes against it every time, I don't know for sure if they'll call me for the interview. I'm helpless. So far, i had the exams to look up to, now that is done, its just a long wait till the results come out. I don't know for sure if they'll like my answers, the perspectives that I've tried to show, my approach to solutions. This is the point of crisis. The uncertainty is annihilating.Hope comforts.

On the other hand, what do you have to offer me back home. Already the physical space is saturated with people, the intellectual with engineering. I've no space there. I've no intentions for enlightening you with my academic interests as so far I couldn't even convince dad that I'm good at what I'm doing. My work is not appreciated, my thoughts not valued. So I just retire into the shell that I built around myself once I'm home..I'm just there as your daughter, and the time I spend there I get to do nothing of my own but be the daughter I'm supposed to be. I have to shout for my voice to be heard and I cannot do that on a permanent basis.Neither can I blame achan. From a family that is all engineers, and one IAS revered like a god, there is pressure to conform. Yet i try. But being at home, with all these pegging thoughts, the housework and then finding time to study and do my work is humanly impossible.
Tell me, when have i tried to put you in old age homes? Dad says things that I swear to god, i never ever would do.He makes me feel guilty of making him feel like that.. His machiavellian subterfuge is to put words in my mouth and bring it out as I said it.As always he finds comfort in conflict, peace in war.
Please do take a print out of this mail and show it to daddy...(sans your additions). Because mother, every time I tell you something hoping that you understand, you tell him something else, and he reverts it back to me.I don't want to play this game of Chinese whispers. I guess a lot is lost in translation.
I'm coming home on Monday. Got to finish that research proposal and send it. Plus some finishing touches to that painting.
I cannot apologize for my creativity.
Hope you are still with me.
love you all
Daughter

its adieus

2009-03-05T03:48:00.000-08:00

I am sick...I mean Iam sick of these edited posts and custom items i put up in this blog. The pleasure of anonymity has long been lost. I was trying to post a blog y'day and then it hit me like cold water thrown right on my face; I write pathetically mundane pieces, that are of absolutely no value. That is not who I am. I brag to be insane, but I cannot remember the last time I was one. There is a prevalence of normalcy, of mediocrity which I believe came with this job that I do now that demands good conduct. .....Plus i'm moored to my home, the people there, and this town with familiar faces; the normalising factors.

This unrest that I feel today, is perhaps the outcome of a theoretical seminar, that raised more questions that perplex me, the paper that I presented which I thought was letting my ignorance open to the world ( i need to work on it) or the effect of the thick paint an artist lavishly used which I saw at her exhibition today, or perhaps coz it is the end of another academic year and I need to take a step now if I don't want to be stuck here again.......

This littany is to serve as my muddled goodbye. I won't stop writing...no, but not here......

I'm too out in the open ..... poogirl talks no more.

Pattern

2009-02-25T06:51:00.000-08:00

Past revealed a pattern

I was just another, redundant piece

Just another routine

In someone else's life...

So much for surprise,

For serendipity.....

So much for the words, I thought

Were written for me..

I am searching for originality

Where there is no origin.

Kochi goes red

2009-02-15T03:00:00.000-08:00

Kochi celebrated valetines's day y'day. This city which has tolerance for change and happy about recieving lovers, was exceptionally red yesterday. The red flags and banners, hung up to welcome Pinarayi vijayan, added to the magic. I saw many wearing red, some such bright red, that i almost wished for a pair of sunglasses to reduce the glare.

yeah, yeah, valentine's day is a marketing propaganda, and all the retail chains and multinational eat outs made a lot of money yesterday.

But me, Iam a sucker for love... We need more love in this world. I mean, with all the people running after money, and lost in the battle of life, a day to remember their lost love, is never too bad. Husbands have forgotten to tell their wives that they love them, and if a day helps them dote on their love, it would save a lot of marriages...And for people in love it, is a day of amourous celebration. For people who are not, it is a day of longing, wishing for once you were in love....

How can the hate sena be different from taliban, if they follow the same scare tactics? Does going back to archaic forms of society and strict community regimes, suffice to freeze culture? If past is culture, what is the amorphous flux of the present called? The goondas of the ram sena, were not old men, but youngsters, with raging blood.....like the young mujahideens of the taliban....

Call to Arms

2009-02-01T04:34:00.000-08:00

Sunday....

The four walls of my room
Close in on me, while I’m looking
The stale oil stains
The black kajal smears
And a few blots of blood
That taint the otherwise bare wall
Begin to take life
Make absurd patterns
I close my eyes
Creating patterns in my head

Bigger ones

Footmen fall in,

Tiny tin soldiers

With tiffin’s and knap sacks

And arrows poisoned with memories

Then a motorcycle cavalry

While I writhe with every vroom

Of their gutted silencer

The winner takes all privileges to my head
And all provinces of my body

The entire kingdom

FORWARD demented thoughts
CHARGE!!!!!!!
Let the battle begin...

my new sandals

2009-02-01T04:06:00.000-08:00

click!!

2009-01-17T09:03:00.001-08:00

I went for a wedding today. Typical nair wedding, women clad in expensive pattu sarees, gold, jasmine flowers, nadaswaram......the only thing exceptional about this one was that the bride's father had the good sense to arrange a violin kacheri.

For a particularly cynical observor like me, the sights were pleasing, and so were the sounds. Iam an observor, I confess. There is a fine line between watching and staring. It takes a little bit of practise to substitute a surly stare with non intrusive observation.

So I was sitting there, in repose, hoping to catch a good view of the comparitively short ceremony.

Groom arrived, and was recieved with diligence by the bride's family. The bride was escorted to the stage, maybe its all the weight of the jewellery and the artificial hair plus atleast a kilo of jasmine and bobby pins that I thought gave her a slight stoop. She sat down timidly beside the groom.

Nadaswaram ascended in strenght. The grooms party hustle up behind the bride.....and then....

And then all I could see were a few asses......

The dutiful photograhpers had lined up like a mighty Berlin wall, letting us no view...i repeat ...zero vision ...of what was happening on the other side.

For all the commotion they caused, depriving us guests who have come so far to see the wedding, I hope they got a few good pictures...

Good luck to the bride and groom......the moments have been captured, for eternity...Hope you never get tired of watching it.

2009-01-14T05:38:00.000-08:00

Aftertaste

2009-01-10T21:38:00.000-08:00

I store my memories in my gut;

not in the brain, or my heart

How else can I explain

The rise of the caustic bile

of an insolent love

a charred scar

or a cringing embarassment

That fill my mouth, soak my tastebuds

And leave an acerbic aftertaste.

Xenophobia

2009-01-04T05:41:00.000-08:00

Xenophobia is kicking in.

I was travelling in the train the other day. The book i was reading was more of an excuse to avoid conversation. The journey was long and tiresome, and the firm cushions and the incovinient space between the seats of the AC chair car only added to the discomfort. The compartment, with its white neon lights and sub zero temperature always made me feel like a corpse on the post mortum table.

The person sitting next to me, dozed, read a book, went through papers, went to talk to other friends of his in the the compartment, came back, took deep breaths, sighed, looked out, made occasional glances into the book i was reading; the journey only seemed to be getting longer.

Then we began talking. He said, " People of your generation don't talk to each other at all". Although it was a generalisation of an entire generation, I agree that it is true.

I gave up my book this time to talk, not beause I had any moral responsibility to change his perception about our generation, but because he was reading German, and I was more intrigued by Zacharia on its cover.

We talked, on and on, about his work in germany, his literary interests, common friends etc etc etc....

He is an eminent translator, and his mission is to translate the best of Malayalam literature into German. Already he has created a sufficiently large market in Germany for Zacharia's works.

The rest of the journey seemed like it got over in five minutes...

I am afraid of strangers, i still am. But i trust my instincts and judgement.

I saw a newspaper report that a muslim lawyer, a doctor and their wives were kicked off a flight in U.S as some other passenger in the plane heard them speaking about the plane's safety. The scarf and the beard only added to the trouble, panic spread. Imagine a scene like you see in hollywood movies, commandos fall in, guns pointed and the couple taken away in handcuffs.....

And all because their obvious religious allegiance, and the other person's fear of strangers. ...

Xenophobia...

je suis bleu

2009-01-02T05:12:00.000-08:00

I guess it started when Rashmi took me to Thevara ferry. It was nothing planned, just a change of route she took and the fact that I've never been there acceded another reason. Vembanadu kayal was wider there, and furrows the mainland into small islands,which the fog made almost indistinct.Sunlight falling on the infirm backwater waves set my migraine in action, the mid afternoon breeze did not help either. I felt my mind slipping into that colour of the spectrum,the colour of the lake before me, the cloudless sky and everything that consumes depth. Classes were uneventful, no shots of intellectual coke to concoct a a rainbow, no choleric encounters to mutate a red, one more day without challenges. Even voices dear to me sufficed to irritate. I am blue, le coulour bleu, still.....yet.

Satchidanandan on pencil

2009-01-01T08:38:00.000-08:00

I didn't take much time to complete this one....I need to work better on the teeth.

2008-12-19T04:56:00.000-08:00

One of my pencil portraits. I really have an affinity towards this picture of Surasu.The'madness' of his nature, the insanity only apparent in his eyes, that's what connected me to this picture.

random reads

2008-12-18T03:01:00.000-08:00

Between Cambridge History of English Literature, and Glossary of literary terms, Iam reading malayalam literature now. It was just a spontaneous decision to drop into the college main library and grab some books.

Issued, N. S Madhavan's Higuitta, Kakkanadan's 'Jappanapukayila' and Bhishm Sahni's 'Thamassu'.

N. S Madhavan was a quick snatch, as I'am a big fan of his work, Landhan Batheriyile Luthineyakal. He is a superb craftsman; his talent lies in his amazing timing. Like a batsman of the highest order, he places his characters in the network of narrative time and space, and the they inturn create a direct expression of the mobility of life. His humour is practical and of a credible kind, rather than being abstact and obstruse. Higuitta was ingenious, vanmarangal veezhumbol was a delight. So far, Madhavan's works have never disappointed me.

I picked Kakkanadan out of curiosity. In number or in depth i've not read as many books in malayalam as i've in english( not even close). I wanted to test his readability ( by my own measures). After N.S, I started Sahni and so far it has been a good read. Perhaps because of similarities in cultural signifiers, or the geographical pointers, North Indian novels appear congruent. Perhaps, its the translation that erased the subtle nuances in style..

All art is deliberate, and Iam dialectic sans resolution.

2008-12-17T02:55:00.000-08:00

I was off my jounal for the past few days. Two reasons. 1. I've picked up my books and started studying; so everytime I sit in front of the computer, I shrug, feel guilty and sign out. 2. My bro got his lab exams going and he needs the comp to simulate his Linear Integrated Circuits. So you see, i don't get to be in front of the computer in the first case.

There is another uncategorised reason for not writing. I think about the people who are reading this blog, and i try to write for them which doesn't work for me. I don't want writing to be a deliberate contrived experience. But all art is deliberate. It is the skill of the writer to delete discripancies. Make it deliberately natural, and that is craft.

There you go, the above mentioned is a typical example of my dialectics. I counter my own thoughts. Like a puff of nimbus over a humid coastal city, they dissipate into thin air, just as fast as they convened. Iam left with nothing more to write.

Not writing is not an option. I want to write. I want to paint. I want to leave a mark in this world for people to remember. I don't want to be known for my friends or relatives, but for my work, for my contributions to the art world. I want to be a classic.

Iam feeling too positive today....hence all the optimism...

Blog is just to jot my thoughts. No propaganda there...

Maybe someday i'll sew everything together and make something out of it. Rob's big picture. For now absorb till I can take no more and rain, and rain a mighty storm.

Some thoughts about life, marriage, love et.al

2008-12-11T06:52:00.000-08:00

Marriage, thats in the cards right now....or i think. I'm 24, people say its time to settle down... Managing a family is not something i've to learn from scratch as I've been doing it all my life. My parents have given me the freedom to make my choice in all matters including this one. And i've made one after experimenting, through trial and error. But the whole process of getting married, the entire drama that happens on the day is what bothers me. "Oh come on, its a once in a life time that you get to be a princess". Bullshit. Maybe a mannequin for the brand of saree and jewellry that you wear, and to me more like a pin cushion, with pins holding nearly all pieces of your attire together. "So, what, its only for a day..Pooja, your parents didn't have a ceremonial wedding, all your family is waiting for yours.Stop bullshitting everything". " yeah, maybe". Everything comes with a price. Weddings are expensive affairs. If only i had that kinda money to spend on building a family rather than spend it on feeding a thousand people, i haven't even met before...There ...counter my logic on that.
"Marriage is just an excuse for a women to buy a wedding dress", said salman rushdie. I've to agree with him there.......
I don't want to do it, only thinking about the financial crisis that i'll put my parents through...
May be I wont......

Roots

2008-12-08T05:58:00.000-08:00

I just got back from my grandmother's after a nice weekend. And I was seriously thinking about what to write here... I don't want my blog to be a drab, cob web ridden corner of the net which no one visits. Seriously, this no no popularity stunt that I want to pull, but i would be happy if people read....
Granny, she lives in N. Parur, where most of my family still lives....People who know me, and her, say that I take after her. Parur is one place I can go to get back my bearings. Long back, when when identity was a jig-saw, i found most of the missing pieces from Parur. Lets just say, i like pushing furniture around, and get tired of old arrangements fast, or like 'moru kadukuvarathatthu' and 'vadukapuli uppilittathu' and likes fragrant oils which i put a drop in my bath water like she does. Ammuma has all her 'mundu' chaotically arranged inside the kaalpetty, protected from moth and ants by moth balls which give her cloths a peculiar smell, which i just love. And I always try to reproduce those smells here in my home, which will only smell like 'snoopy'*, however much i try. I like going through her stuff, like the wooden almirahs from the old naalukettu, which now occupies much space in my maman's house where she lives. There i found, old christmas cards my amma sent achan, before they got married. Or old photographs of my very handsome muthachan who passed away very early in life leaving ammuma and her three kids destitute. Ammuma came back to live in koovakkat with her parents. There are old photographs of my muthachan, in front of an elephant, in front of their old house in namakkal, old photographs of my ammi and maman in various stages of their lives....
I showered thrice, the day i reached there. Washing away all the dirt from travel, the first time, with scented oils the second time, and finally before bed, to cool my body down..........
Now i'm back at my home in kalamassery now, writing this blog, refreshed and with more memories to relish....

* my doberman dog

teaching trauma.

2008-12-04T08:00:00.000-08:00

Yeah yeah...so i started teaching in a reputed college in situ a growing city in Kerala. It is not unusual for me that I start out doing something hoping it will update my skills and knowledge and finally end up feeling I'm doing all the dirty laundry for someone else. Teaching is not a grateful job. ( there I go.....no sugar coated pill for you reader). It is a constant battle to balance the majority against the minority.The minority consisting of those handful which actually care about being taught. I was inspired, by the complex thoughts I had about creating a society starting with one class at a time , that could think. I didn't want them to think like me, i just wanted them to start thinking, have a perspective, be affected by experiences, respond, react and raise a voice. Not all my classes are bad though, I know I've definitely created a stir in the physics class, and maths and chemistry.....and yes 2nd B.com which after the physics class is my favorite. I've almost given up on the 1st B.com class. The rich or the seemingly rich with their pretentious posh attitude( soooo fake) just don't care about anything.....neither studies, neither emotions nor life. Maybe because everything is easy for them or because their middle class parents worked their asses off to get them nike shoes and adidas rucksacks, not letting them know that life is hard. Kids.........life is always easy for them. The above statement makes me feel so old, and not belong to their generation, which by the way I do. I don't feel like a kid anymore. I've to be a grown up, and act like one and pretent to be sane when I'm going whoooooopie.......
There are people around you watching you all the time penalising you everytime you act immature....( bullshit!!!!!!!!).........And oh yeah, back to my grand statement ...Teaching is ungrateful business. The old chant " guru brahma" .................. just a pastiche.......