THEINDIAN

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Friday, April 12, 2013

John Grisham in India?

Posted on 3:28 AM by Unknown
John Grisham
Image Courtesy: Google
JohnGrisham is America’s beloved writer. He writes legal thrillers that until a certain period in my life I thought boring.

In Kerala, the southern most state in India, the land that buckles the Western Ghats with the Arabian Sea, the place where people speak a language called Malayalam and the culture where there are more people aspiring to learn English than the total population of United Kingdom, there will be at least one Grisham thriller in every library and reading room.

A quick note on the difference between libraries and reading rooms—well, libraries generally function under a trust or institution. Reading rooms are established by political parties. They will have a fairly good library inside the building, not just newspapers and magazines. But the books the reading rooms keep will always be influenced and inspired and incubated under the heat and sweat of the political propaganda the respective party deals with.   

Left or right, red or white, Grisham can surely be found in the most worn and yellowish of his forms in any of those shelves. There are those reading rooms and libraries that only serve the purpose of offering research books or even limited to newspapers and monthlies. They don’t, of course, keep Grisham, for Grisham is a writer of ‘fiction’.

When I was a little boy, I remember, a visit to one of my cousin’s. It was such a rural countryside that no one even preferred to mention the name of when asked. I did not like the visit either. During those days, they did not even have electricity there. Imagine the torture of spending the whole day there, when the adults discussed their gossips and the only children remaining in the house were my little sister and I. the only way I found to kill some time was to explore the house. Though small, the house was bright with its glass windows. So I searched out each room. My mission was to find out something readable. I loved reading. I realized quite soon that they did not keep comic books there. The three cousins I had in that house were already grownups, I resentfully realized. And comic books were kids’ stuff. How could there be comics when there were no kids? It was late 1990s. My cousins were perhaps in their late teens and early twenties—they were three, by the way. In the room of the youngest cousin, on a small table was a book. It was thick, worn out from repeated handling, with dog ears in the corners. The cousin opined that as what I was—a kid—I may not enjoy the book, so the best thing to do was to leave it where it was. He also said that he had borrowed it from the reading room in the junction, ten minutes’ walk from home.

That was my first encounter with John Grisham, popularly known as the master of the legal thriller. If my memory is not deceiving me, the book was titled; The Firm. The book I found there was a translation in Malayalam language. That tells us about the grip of Grisham. Most of his works deal with America, her cities, suburbs, countryside, people, culture and problems. Then what is it in him that makes such an impact upon the people in India, in Kerala?

John Grisham
Image Courtesy: Google
I went through the first few pages, realized that it was not my type of book because there were no kings or emperors or wizards or fairies, but humans and courtrooms. So I left it there. (Note that Theodore Boone wasn’t written then. It came much later; after the first decade of 21st century. And it has no kings or fairies, either.) I did not touch another Grisham book until much later. And when I did finally, it changed the way I looked at the world and especially at John Grisham. But now, I was no longer that little kid, was I?

Another long story, so in the next post.
Abide.    
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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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