Macabre

Out of all the malignity on the earth, a creature was born. It lacked everything that is human, except rationality. And in every aspect of existence it was anti-human. It was called: Macabre.

On day it abducted Archangel Michael. Although, Michael could resist its powers successfully and destroy it easily, he succumbed, so that he can test it, as done by those who are wise. Macabre wanted to get a blessing: the power to consume the whole of humanity.

“I can’t give you a blessing that could result in destruction,” the Archangel said. Macabre knew what Michael said was unchangeable. He was aware of the powers of the Archangel, who could perhaps destroy Macabre with a single swirl of his sword. And he also knew that Michael was testing him. 

“Then give me a curse which though holds the power to destroy me, could satiate my desires.” Said Macabre, instantly without giving in, and what he meant was eating up the whole of humanity.

He came down to the earth to eat all the humans alive. But he could not eat them and without food for months, became tired.

He was about to die when one angel who served the Enemy, Satan, happened to visit him. “What pity had befallen upon you, my strange friend? Who caused you this trouble?” he asked Macabre. Macabre could not move. He even found it difficult to talk. But he somehow narrated the incident.

“It was Michael’s blessing.”

“But I heard it was a curse.” The angel said.

“Yes, it was,” Macabre managed saying, “it was a curse which would benefit me.”

“What was it?” the angel asked in surprise.

“He cursed my hunger to increase; I can eat as much as I want, but only humans.”

“Then what happened to you now? The earth is full of humans. Can’t you consume upon them?” the angel asked with great curiosity.

“I can eat humans, but have a problem,” Macabre said, “I can eat only those who do not love anything.” 

And he died.

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The Shout

Molecular story: A molecular story is a very short story; a very very short one, with all the impacts and effects of a real one with all the intrinsic structural peculiarities.

I want to shout out loud. And my friend asks me why? I reply-- the same reason why you talk to me: being human.

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The Fisherman

There is a story that is prevalent in the country sides of Muzhappilangad; a story in which there is a fisherman who meets mermaids in the sea when he goes for fishing. He used to tell them stories. The mermaids loved his stories very much that they became his friends.

He had taken a huge mortgage on his only boat to feed his family full of children. One day the money lender came and asked for the returns. But the fisherman was in a poor state. He did not get enough fishes every day even to meet the daily requirements of his family. Not finding enough money the money lender became furious and took his boat. The story ends by saying that the mermaids helped the old man discover a hidden treasure in the sea and get his boat back.  

I knew this story from one of my friends who belongs to this region. It was in my first visit to Muzhappilangad, I still remember, that he told me this story with a great pride for his local tradition and contempt for the advancements of the modern world. I remember he belongs to a one-of-its-kind ideology that retains its antique roots even today in this world: Communism; a dogma that exists with all its glorious paradoxes in this part of the world called Kerala. No wonder why my friend likes all the antiquities, even the stories of the Utopian ‘Mermaid socialism’.   

There is indeed a flavor of innocence over this folk tale. But what reminded me of this story is the real thing. During my second visit to Muzhappilangad, I met an old fisherman. His name was Anandan. He might be more than 75. He lived with his grown up sons, who were fishermen as well. I approached him for a ride in the sea to the nearby island, but he declined my wish saying he was old and can no longer be able to handle the oar. His sons might be ready when they are back home after work, he assured me. But I decided to reconsider the idea of visiting the island, which till this date remains un-attempted. I was not very sure about his sons. These young fisher folks could charge you far greater than what they really are worthy of; I remembered the practical wisdom whispered into my ear by my friend.

While we were discussing our plan to visit the nearby island where no-body lives the old man started recounting his old tales. He told us a story, a true story that happened in his life, and it was this story that scuffed out of my mind the story of the mermaids. He had an old boat, which he kept very dear to him on the shore under the shade of a tree, because he could not go to sea due to health reasons. He never let any one take away his beloved boat. The boat occasionally took him, though, to the sea and he tried his hand in a possible moderate catch each time.

One day he found the boat under the tree, and the tree was over the boat, broken. There was no storm the other day or rain.  He said he cried all day and night thinking about his beloved boat; the souvenir of his youth, and living; which was broken into two pieces from the middle.

Days gone by, he had almost forgotten about the boat, and one day he found a surprise on the shore, just like something straight out of a fairy tale: a boat. The boat seemed lost and wrecked. It seemed that the boat had been swept on to the shore from the river mouth.  The fisherman said he could not think about the boat alone. He thought of the owner of the boat as well. The owner of the boat might be worrying had it been swept ashore from some where, and might be searching for it, too. And that was the truth. Three days later, some people came to the old fisherman looking for the boat. Happily, the fisherman gave them the boat. In return they gave him some money.

The owner of the boat is really happy about getting it back, because the boat was his life’s achievement in setting up a boat-service across Muzhappilangad and Dharmadam, two nearby villages separated by a river that opens in to the Arabian sea; my friend was saying from behind me. I wondered if this story is so famous that he already knew it. No, he nodded. “I was the owner of that boat,” he said.          

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ICC World Cup 2011: The Last Stand

Soon the globe will shrink into one white ball. The race of life will follow a twenty feet long pitch. Enthusiasm will flow into a stadium to merge with the human sea. The cricket god will come out and embark on his journey to bless and calm the sea, with the charismatic gestures of his bat. Spells may be broken, but some might work. Life will then be known by another name: Cricket.

India will be transformed into a ritual of magic and passion, of cricket. There is nothing that can repel the magic; that can dispel the forces of this sportive madness. Indians love cricket, for it is one of their basic needs of any one born in this country, verged by sea on three sides, and the Himalayas, as the crown.

Let the sweat spill. Let the profane passion be unbridled. The time has shown itself on the gate of the fortress. Let us be prepared to cheer our warriors, for the battle is on its way. Let us remind ourselves that every Indian has one blood, like every game is played on a single pitch at a time. Be prepared.

Wishing Team India all the very best for their Final match in Mumbai.  

(taken from:The IPL Article)

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The Test

"What you know is mostly what you feel about knowing something."--Anu.

One day God found the Angel of Death lost in a deep meditation. That was unusual about the angel.

“What are you thinking; you most exuberant of my creations?” God asked.

Shaken from his thought, the Death Angel fumbled: “Master, I was studying how emotions work in human beings.”

“And why this befuddled expression on your face?”

“Father, I learned that emotions in human beings are akin to expressivity. And then I tested them to understand if they have mastered how they express their emotions.”

“I saw your test, my child. Now, tell me what did you learn from it?” God said.

“Lord, when I presented a man with precious he cried bitter tears. I heard him say ‘what have I done that the angel himself has come to me.’ Another time, when I appeared to a woman and took her elder son’s life, she had a smile on her face, and I heard her whisper; ‘my son is in heaven’s gate.’ This is the lesson I learned, Creator that different emotions are separated with a thin layer of wisdom and that anyone is prone to make mistakes in choosing the right one.”

God smiled at this. The Death Angel was left with himself once again. And once again he lost himself in the maze of his own thoughts.   

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One Sane

“Then the eyes of both of them became opened and they began to realize that they were naked. Hence they sewed fig leaves together and made loin coverings for themselves.”  — Genesis 3:7

“I came up to you risking my reputation. They will call me insane, for I consulted you, a doctor for the mind. But for my sister, I can cross the any limit. I need to save her, her mind, I mean.”

When the young girl finished talking, the psychiatrist asked: “What is her problem?”

“She finds it pleasing to expose herself, especially her legs.”

“Why have you come alone, then?”

“She doesn’t think she is out of her mind, or what she does is against the norms of our culture.”

The doctor and the young girl took a long time to reach the S. N Park. It was high traffic hour in the Kannur city.

“There she is,” the young girl pointed to a girl, who was reading under the shade of a tree, in a frock that exposed her legs from the knees. She was sitting in a gentle way, with her legs crossed.

“I cannot see anything gross about her dressing,” said the psychiatrist.

“But her legs--“the young girl was about to say something. But the doctor cut in.

“Her legs are extremely beautiful,” he said. “Don’t worry about your sister.” The doctor continued, “Do you know why we prefer such dresses that cover most of our body? It had been fed into our minds that we should use such sort of dresses to be culturally acceptable. It happened in the great past when the women of the time did not feel their legs worth showing off; they had the best reasons to hide themselves behind a piece of cloth.”

The young girl stared at him embarrassed. She could not understand the doctor. To believe a new thought is to keep your sanity at stake, and that was what happened with my sister, thought the young girl. At the distance she noticed a beautiful pair of legs existing beyond anything normal.    

Also Published in Beyond Fair

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Fragrance

This is a Molecular story: A molecular story is a very short story; a very very short one, with all the impacts and effects of a real one with all the intrinsic structural peculiarities.

The Fragrance was with a lady, one with a rose that decorated her dark tresses. The port was filled with people as the ship had lifted its sails to part with the shore. The lady too, was there to farewell someone: her beloved. Fragrance desired to enter the ship. But the lady was not leaving at all. The rose in her braids, the lady thought of gifting her lover, who was leaving for a long journey. But the lady was sad, too, because she was left in that land, alone. She knew her slightest change of emotion would give him chronic heart-aches, and now that was exactly how she wanted to avenge her love hurt. She did not give him the flower, as a silent word of frustration. But she decided to keep the flower in her diary, forever. The Fragrance could leave the flower and take the air as its accomplice to reach the ship. But it loved the flower, and it had also seen how sad the lady at losing her beloved was. So the Fragrance remained with her, waiting for the ship to comeback.    

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