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Showing posts with label LOVE. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LOVE. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Cricket, Films and Love

Posted on 11:40 PM by Unknown

Warning: This article is fictitious enough to appear real. Read it with a pacifist.
Image Courtesy: Google

One day in a classroom…
WhenI mentioned reading books in front of the first semester students, they laughed at me and asked; “Last week a student broke his neck by reading a book, sir.”

I enquired what happened, actually, and they said the student had fallen asleep while reading from his textbook and that caused a cramp in his neck. It became a college legend and the student was revered as the wise one, the nerd, the intellectual with a broken neck. Although his neck was not broken really, this metaphor stuck. I tried to tell them that I was not talking about reading textbooks alone. Reading indicates a constant interaction with any book. It could be a textbook, or a novel, or poem, or short story collection. It was a pity how narrow their understanding about reading was.

However, right then, I observed their drooping eyelids and suddenly changed the subject to movies. From my experience, I knew this could energize them and wake those who fell asleep with renewed enthusiasm. Films have magic, indeed. “How many of you watched Harry Potter movies?” Yeah! Most of them did! I was happy. I moved on to books and made the shocking revelation that Harry Potter is actually a book. The movie was made out of a story written by a writer called J. K. Rowling. For this, the class responded with exclamatory OH!s and AH!s. Grand! 

Another classroom candy is cricket. Suppose, as an English teacher, one has to teach ‘Critical Thinking’. Well, to tell you the truth, there is nothing to suppose in it, ‘Critical Thinking’ is part of the common course in one of the universities in the Northern part of Kerala. English teachers are pitted against the task of scrambling the pieces of quasi-critical thinking strategies from a poorly edited and misguiding textbook and puke it all in front of the poor students. So the matter is thus. I was teaching Critical Thinking, and had to tell them about ‘questioning attitude’.

At first, I explained the idea, and substantiated the whole concept. “You see…umm…when someone asks you to do something or teach you something do not blindly accept their words. A mere acceptance of what others say, without questioning the ideas or concepts, should be intellectual irresponsibility. In order to be an “intellectually responsible adult”, one has to question ideas, concepts, people and thoughts.”

For a moment, I forgot myself under the impact of the words I was delivering. Man, I was rocking!
 
Image Courtesy: Google
That was when I noticed, a boy in the backbench was nodding heavily. I thought, in the beginning, that he might be enjoying my class. That was the reason even after noticing his behavior I kept quiet. Watching his demeanour for a moment carefully changed my perspectives. He was not exactly nodding to my class, he was nodding at the fairy of sleep, and he was dozing off.

I changed the gears once again. Cricket is insanely popular in India. Even though, the recent spot fixing frauds in IPL (Indian Premiere League) has caused some damage to the ‘gentleman’s’ appeal of the game, the game of millions, still survives. So I said, “When a batsman gets LBW, what do you do?”

The boy, who was dozing off a moment before woke up suddenly, and shaking off his lethargy, started getting curious about the class. I was laughing internally, but showing any of my whims in expressions would be disastrous. Therefore, I managed my countenance at an emotionless angle. “When an Umpire is reluctant to give OUT sign to the batsman, the bowler and the other members of the opposing team would appeal to the Third Umpire. This is how we should be in life too. We should question others, but without being hurtful.” They all nodded in understanding.

I could not have explained ‘questioning attitude’ any better with any other example. There was an inherent possibility that the students might misunderstand the ‘questioning attitude’ as an aggressive stand against ideas and towards people.

“You see, it is all like falling in love with a mannerism in thinking, just like we fall in love with people, in real life.” I said. I was pushing my next strategy to keep them interested—Love. A hand went up. One of the students stood up and asked, “Sir, do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Well, I am afraid that question is out of purview with our current topic. We can talk about it on another occasion,” I said.

“No, sir, my question is…uhmm…uhmmm…that why don’t we use strategies of critical thinking in this matter?”
Image Courtesy: Google

“Ha!” I got the point! Love is another magnetic idea among the young adults we teachers deal with, in graduation classes. This is not just limited to the Indian cultural context nor within a particular age, it seems. Everyone happens to be in an urge to get intoxicated by love’s sweet tendrils.

Anyway, I am sure my students understood the point I made, as they successfully derived the idea that critical thinking can be applied in every aspect of life.         

NOTE FOR HOTHEADS****

Every event, person, university, idea and place mentioned in this article is either fictional or the conjuring of the quirky mind of the author. Consider him inflicted with a serious bout of insanity and spare yourself the pain of filing a petition for libel against him or this blog page. 
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Thursday, April 11, 2013

The Resurrection; Phase 10

Posted on 4:39 AM by Unknown
Fly Geyser in Neveda
I dedicate The Geometry of Loneliness to a very special person, for whom I dedicated a series before the previous year, titled “The Unsaid”, the well of my constant inspiration and courage.

The impetus to write these i-pomes came from my students, all of them. Therefore, I express my sincere gratitude to all my students who were always excited about my stories and poems and who support me in Facebook. I don’t think they still realize how wonderful a bunch of kids they are.

I do not know if the poems are good. Do I still have my shot, even after all these days of no poetry and only prose? As I said earlier, I did not write these poems anew, these poems were always there on my soul—along with the agonies, pain, the feeling of loss and hope in the journey—written by the same Hand that had created the Road.
Image Courtesy: Google

I travel again, sure of one thing—resurrection.    

This winds up here.
Abide.
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Wednesday, April 10, 2013

The Resurrection; Phase 9

Posted on 4:14 AM by Unknown
Image Courtesy: Google

I have work to do, I decided right there inside the bus. I had a journey to make, a journey inward. In my outward journey, it seemed I had forgotten quite a bit from my essence. Not just poetry, but also people. I do not know why I thought about this loss now. Perhaps, one realization brings with it a deluge of several others. I realized it was time to reconnect with poetry; and with this realization followed the awareness that I rarely talked with my friends and also with my beloved ones these days.

Worse still, I was not even communicating with my heart.

Then the remedy started pouring in from an unknown source. The percussions of a khawali and the vocals of some sufi music started vibrating inside my veins. Then words started to flow.

I-poems, once again blessed me. 

[This Continues]
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Tuesday, April 9, 2013

The Resurrection; Phase 8

Posted on 11:36 PM by Unknown
Image Courtesy: Google

I was proud of my student, why should I not be? That was the greatest award any teacher could get, teaching students with such extraordinary gifts of perseverance, courage and creativity. Creativity is the most important of all gifts, but without the other two former ones, the latter never stand a chance.   

As per my instructions, on the next day the girl, who wrote English poems brought another poem. A conviction dawned on me about her gift. The depth she was able to achieve through words, the dimensions she was able to reach and the possibilities of journeying into the whirlpool of the soul was remarkable. It made me think and regretfully long for the art of poetry that I stashed away in the back of my mind.

This was three weeks back.

A few days went by. Then one day I was coming back home by a jam packed private bus, and they had a nice Malayalam song playing. Although, I don’t usually listen to Malayalam songs, this song stung me in my heart. “Ee Puzhayum, Sandhyakalum…”the song went on.

[This continues] 
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Monday, April 8, 2013

The Resurrection; Phase 7

Posted on 3:15 AM by Unknown
Image Courtesy: Our Beautiful World and Universe

Had the boy knew the real meaning of the idea called success, he would not have been capable of preparing himself for the arangettam, the debutante performance in Chenda, in front of a public gathered for a festival at another temple nearby. Success would have needed a lot of tears, a lot of pain, a lot of blood, but he had not shed a drop of tear, nor did he even sweat in an attempt he never thought of any seriousness. For the boy, learning to play Chenda was just a matter of his survival. There was no competition, no goals or deadlines. There was just a heart that reminded him repeatedly about the fun in playing the drum and feeling the beats.

So the little boy went to the shack again. He had not bowed himself to the salt crystal punishment. He hid himself behind the bushes again. And in three months, he was ready for Arangettam. 
[This continues]
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Sunday, April 7, 2013

The Resurrection; Phase 6

Posted on 11:17 AM by Unknown
Image Courtesy: Google

The little boy hid himself where people thought only snakes and scorpions hid. The rotten leaves and itchy tentacles of bushes attacked him on each day of his ‘class’.

After three months, he was happy. The little boy of five did not think he’d mastered the art of Chenda. But he was happy for making the attempt and learning what he thought, was sublime music.

The priest, a person with no gifts of necromancy or supernatural eavesdropping on the unknown, with a slight itch in his eyes, realized that the boy was committing the error of disobedience.

Second chance was not in the priest’s dictionary. He summoned the traitor of the temple. He got the boy down on his knees on a layer of crystal salt on the hard surface of the temple porch. The salt crystals seared through the skin on his knees, but the boy did not cry.

[This continues] 
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Saturday, April 6, 2013

The Resurrection; Phase 5

Posted on 4:40 AM by Unknown
Image Courtesy: Google

Next, I asked the students if they have done something adventurous in their lives, or an achievement, which came to them after a hazardous struggle.

One of the boys stood up.

He said he loved Chenda, the ancient traditional drum used in temples of Kerala. Once during his childhood, when he was about five, a master came to their village temple and offered to teach the children of the village the art of playing Chenda. The little boy was very excited. He was at the time an assistant to the priest to the temple of Kaali, the pagan goddess of revenge.

Even though he wanted to learn how to play Chenda, the priest of the temple he was assisting did not permit it. His father too succumbed to the distorted argument of the priest that a priest’s assistant should not indulge in another activity. There should be focus, shradha and obeisance, bhakthi towards and only towards the goddess, the priest had explained.   

However, the little boy of five was not familiar with the idea ‘intimidation’ yet.
 
Chenda
Image Courtesy: Google
He hid himself outside the small shack where they taught Chenda.

[This continues]
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Friday, April 5, 2013

The Resurrection; Phase 4

Posted on 4:04 AM by Unknown
Image Courtesy: Google
One day, in the previous week, at the college I teach for survival, in a Computer Science class, I inquired if anyone of the students has something creative to share, just to kill time. Someone said a girl wrote poems in Malayalam. When I looked at her, she smiled and sat back shyly. There was an evident inhibition. That was their common problem and as a teacher I could not help them overcome this yet. They were not very confident to express themselves in public.

Then another name came into voice. She writes English poems…someone shouted. In order to overcome the communication gap that is built up between inhibition and thought, this is what they did—they shouted from among other students. They could shout in a crowd.  

This student of mine, however, did not show any inhibition. It was different. She was the topper in the class.

She stood up and read from her paper. Words flowed forth and blessed all the ears it touched and all the minds that drank from the stream of meaningfulness. 
[This Continues]
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Thursday, April 4, 2013

The Resurrection; Phase 3

Posted on 10:12 AM by Unknown
Image Courtesy: Google
I-poems have always been a hot candy around in my blog ever since I invented them in my own style. In conversations and talks I often compare them with the Haiku poetic form, saying ‘i-poems are haiku style small poems with some philosophic idea condensed into a very few number of lines’, though in truth I never even wanted to write a haiku or thought of calling haikus, i-poems. 

These small poems were always an intriguing mixture of spiritual connection and earthly wisdom. I always felt a Contact with the formless, the Divine Father when I attempted i-poems, not just in this series, but all of them.

There were poems in which I used only one line to tell the idea—one lined poems. I loved that expression of surprise. It is the same excitement I felt each time attempting i-poems.

Then my focus shifted to the book, WALL OF COLOURS and other stories, the first collection of my short stories.

In order to work on this project, I needed my full concentration. Poetry was slowly stashed in the back of my mind. This was the reason for a long break in i-poems in “The Indian Commentator”. The work of the book is in progress.
[This continues] 
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Wednesday, April 3, 2013

The Resurrection; Phase 2

Posted on 9:33 AM by Unknown
Image Courtesy: Facebook
What made me decide to try the series of i-poems titled “The Geometry of Loneliness:Confessions of a Lonely Traveler” is beyond any surprise. I must have done them anyway. These poems were within me, they had already been written on my soul.

Life, journey, lessons and whatever one leaves behind as part of the journey of life ended up in these words as poems with only one intention—bringing them back to life, in a resurrection.  

The Geometry of Loneliness is about the journey of life. These poems are a journey in themselves. They taught me how to feel intensely about what I, the traveler left behind and how I can look at the losses and temporary distances with a peaceful mind. The mind was anxious and tried, but was learning ways to come to terms with the reality of the journey—that is pain and joy at the same side of the coin.

There was one more reason I tried i-poems, though—I wanted to repeat my success with them. I wanted to see if my hands can still roll in cadence with the music of poetry when mostly I spend time with prose fiction; to see if I still have got the hook?

Not that prose has any music, but the music of prose is not the same as poetry. 
[This continues]
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Tuesday, April 2, 2013

The Resurrection

Posted on 9:54 AM by Unknown
Courtesy: Google Images

“Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he dies, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die.” –John 11:25-26

Phase 1                                       
I still remember, when I wrote and published the first series of i-poems in The Indian Commentator one of my best friends had asked me if I could tell her about the story behind the poems, such as what inspired me. So I sent her a detailed mail explaining some of the events that inspired me to write them.

It still did not strike me how wonderful it would be to listen to the stories of creation, the movement of the stream of life, into which merge the words, spaces, signs of pause and half closure, abrupt endings, periods and the distances between thoughts. But only until recently.

On a fine morning, a few days before Easter, I was taking a bus ride to a nearby small town Chakkarakal for buying beef and groceries for Easter celebrations. In the bus was playing an audio.

The interval between the songs was filled by a narration by the music composer.

Ilayaraja, a legendary Tamil musician was humming the tune in his own voice with arbitrary words and fragments of the song in its creative process—a direct record from the day when the song was being composed.

It was great to listen to that moment—the moment of birth, the moment of clearing the mist of inertia and achieving resurrection from death.

This event inspired The Resurrection—the story behind The Geometry of Loneliness.

[This continues]
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Monday, April 1, 2013

The Geometry of Loneliness: An Afterword

Posted on 9:34 AM by Unknown
The miracle of life unravels in a journey. The end signifies the unknown and the journey, the known. A traveler keeps one foot in the unknown and another in the known. In this journey, the traveler faces stages of exhaustion and loneliness among everything else that he or she encounters.

This journey is yours and mine. This journey has a meaning and a pace. 

The Geometry of Loneliness is about this exhaustion and the resulting loneliness—an attempt to come to terms with both. Writing i-poems is always a rejuvenating process for me.

With the previous poem, the present series, The Geometry of Loneliness has come to a closure.

Thank you all, for reading, commenting, and of course, shying from commenting as well. For those who visited these poems and blessed these words with their attention, a million thanks.

May the Path be merciful towards us all and show us the red shine of the horizon before we tire and give up the good fight.

May all the minds we hurt by leaving them behind in the journey keep us in their memories, until we return with our dreams conquered and our battles won.

Amen.
Image Courtesy: Google
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Friday, March 29, 2013

Confessions of a Traveler: Final Verse

Posted on 9:15 AM by Unknown

VI

The Geometry of Loneliness


Image Courtesy: Google
You are the sand-
At the end of the desert-
On my tiring feet.
You are the teardrop,
At the end of a days’ journey
In my eyes.

The plateau of self-realization,
Followed your fragrance,
Into the womb of memories.

And then…
Without the sensation of the sand,
Without the dampness in the eyes,
The journey I undertook,
Seemed at a loss for sense. 
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Thursday, March 28, 2013

The Geometry of Loneliness continues

Posted on 8:44 AM by Unknown

V
Image Courtesy: Google
Your anxiety was
Always funny.
I knew always
Better than you did.
I traveled.
I knew the world.
I brought its gifts
Into your world.
I was the dreamer.
The Alchemist.
I had the smile.
When you kept
The curves of pain
On your lips;
Until that day,
When my path was full shadows,
And the light to fight darkness,
Was forgotten at home. 
[To be continued]
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Wednesday, March 27, 2013

The Next Confession of a Traveler

Posted on 6:04 AM by Unknown

IV

The Geometry of Loneliness

Image Courtesy: Google

The lost star traveler,
Gazed, blinded.
The stars he thought would guide him,
Were invisible now.

No one had told him,
That he shouldn’t shed tears,
While in his quest,
Marking his way,
Gazing up at the stars.

But he cried,
Thinking of the one-
He’d left behind.

For you, my dear one. You are such a tremendous inspiration to me. You deserve this and much more.  
[To be continued] 
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Monday, March 25, 2013

Confessions of a Traveler

Posted on 9:14 AM by Unknown
III

The Geometry of Loneliness

Image Courtesy: Google
The geometry of a naïve,
Shapes with squares, triangles, hexagons,
Rectangles, half made, half broken,
Half born.
All red,
With liquid blood,
Still trying to thump hard,
As it always has been—
The shattered heart.

I stood near it,
With the candle of ignorance,
Lost on my way to those dreams
In which I thought I could see-
You, up close.  
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Sunday, March 24, 2013

I-Poems Continue

Posted on 8:39 AM by Unknown

II

The Geometry of Loneliness


Image Courtesy: Google

In the sleepless eyelids,
I found the first tear drop,
In remembrance
Of the tree
At the end of the long road;
Of the rain,
At the peak of summer;
Of the moonlight,
In the dark;
Of the fragrance of flowers,
Of the smell of the soil,
Of the pain of love,
Of the joy of dreams,
Of the love for life,
Of the truth in lies,
And of the lies I slept with,
All my days,
Seeking you. 

[To be continued]
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Saturday, March 23, 2013

New series of i-poems

Posted on 6:56 AM by Unknown

The Geometry of Loneliness


Image courtesy: Google
I

When your reminiscence arrived at me,
Like the fire on the bushes,
Like the cloud of protection,
Like the wall inside the sea,
Like the word on baked clay,
I melted and waited;

As the shadow of a bird,
In the heart of the altitude,
Moving, but static- still;

For the obtuse angle to be acute angle,
To move closer in degrees,
To your flesh and blood,
And embrace the Resurrection-
Of your closeness again.  

[To be continued]
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Friday, March 22, 2013

The Geometry of Loneliness

Posted on 10:19 AM by Unknown
Confessions of a lonely traveler, who started off for his dreamland 


“Love, hear thou / How desolate the heart is, ever calling” —James Joyce
Image Courtesy: Google
The traveler is primarily a dreamer. His dreams showed him that there was a destiny awaiting him that required his presence to achieve its fulfillment.

He trusted the dream and its call. That enabled him to revolt against his parochial family, his own homesickness, and lethargy. The dream supplied the impetus to move on.

The journey had begun.

The road was a picture of hope and the sun shining eternally above was a priceless gem. The traveler walked on.

The wind was a torrent of life. He sucked on it each time the gush of the invisible felt on his face. The traveler walked on.

All his memories were signposts reminding him where to return home. The heart of the traveler, though, felt the pull of a two tongued bate. He was missing something, someone.

Love—his heart was pulling at his beloved.

The traveler had left her in his quest for the Destiny. But he also knew that it is for this Destiny he was sent to live on this planet.

The traveler remembered the taste of togetherness and as a result, shadows of regret crossed his path.

The traveler could not walk on. The same heart that had given him the dream, now felt heaviness and sorrow for what the traveler had left behind.

Leaving someone behind—is it the same as loss? He thought. No, he said to himself. The traveler could not walk on; because his heart was struggling to give him proof that no one was lost. The heart did it through invoking all his memories.

Suddenly, the traveler realized, all his memories about his beloved existed and she was right here, inside his mind. But then, a silvery gleam slithered down his cheek—his tears.

The traveler looked around for a shoulder to cry. But there was none. He was alone. Each drop of tear was a confession. But the traveler did not know what the tear drops confessed. There was nothing to feel regretful about, there were no sins committed.

The traveler knew elaborate teaching from great masters, saying just take the next step, for beyond the next turn you might find your Destiny smiling at you.

But his tears did not stop and the loneliness demanded confessions too.

Now the traveler knew what to confess, but feared he would lose his dream forever. Still, the heart was adamant. And he said the words out loud. He knew that the road in front of him that was a picture of hope was paved on the expectations of those he left behind.

He knew that the sun that seemed a priceless gem was shining at the cost of someone else’s tears.

He knew the wind that filled his lungs with life, kept its trails on the prayers of the guardian spirits what awaited him at the place he called home.

So he confessed it all. He confessed he was feeling lonely, sad, torn, and lost and moreover afraid of losing his dream. He confessed... 

Image Courtesy: Google and Dali
[“The confessions of a lonely traveler” is my new series of i-poems. The series is titled, “The Geometry of Loneliness”.
Dear reader, please wait for the next post that will appear here tomorrow. It is difficult for me to post it today itself, as I am running short of time. I have a journey to make. Yes, you got it correct. The traveler, who started off for his dreamland is I. The traveler, who started off for his dreamland is you too.]
Chinua Achebe (1930-2013)
Image Courtesy: Google Images
I would like to dedicate this post to ‘the father of African literature’, Chinua Achebe, who died at the age of 82 when things are falling apart in a world which he paved with words and imagination, a fellow traveler.     
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