Days ago, I Lost my Dog

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I lost my dog.
Passed have three choleric
and nomadic days,
together with restless, starless
and dreamless nights,
since my globes feasted the sight
of my precious.Likewise,
lost were periods
of breakfasts upon his bland barks,
sleep tangled to sleepless marks,
and prayers roped to his softness
in my toes.
Aye reader, Seen you tither he went?

Black, says people his color is,
rbbing the warmth of every eyeful,
and his honest eyes with same.
How he came of color such?
Wasn’t born so, Sure I am,
but maybe because of me?

Adorable.Amiable.Affable.
Words had leaked the premium miser tongues.
But Had he ever been so?
Before we knotted each other?
No, guess I. It was me.
Reader again, pursing eyes through lines,
look around and along,
he might be left or right to you.

Now lost is my dog and so is me.
What had If lost its identity too?
Barks. Beauty. Blackness.
How am I to spot it across the street?

Furthermore, Am I missing a point?
I missed the dog or he do me?
What if I ad been bestowed
of all greatness poetrised above
for that little of little creature,
and not the way around?
It dwells on certainity, I lost
those the moment my dog lost me.
With myself changed,
How will it run to me across the streets?

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Read Again

book of books

 

 

A pause mid busy breathings,
or quiescent midnight immensity,
time after time, pages turned slow.
A diplomatic justice to them,
as though eternal,stories are fragile,
and their birth is cautious.

Drawn were ample expanse hitherto,
tremored along yellow maplitho,
lived or died uprightly,
in dreams utopian or states dystopian,
as logic of words demanded.

Lest be said of the comfort, they showered,
likely as of in mother’s lap
which all of is known as lines of
stories or poems or plays.

Within the sentences hung to neologism,
the smell prevailed as Poe’s Raven,
or freezed as Caesar’s tableaux.
Drenching the time and space of entity obscure,
sanguine thoughts sunk in,
let duty they did, be guesswork.
In vicious tempest or tendor breeze,
pages turned slowly, and was read encore.

Page after page, truncheon ideas
cloaked amid lines, rised.
Delirium barked in, ramming
the chastity of silence, there until.
Riveted in strident stanzas,
rhymes were armours, held up.
The hushes of phrases, a revolution.
And those instants, wars fought bravely,
love stirred fervidly,
warmth won in dropped tears,
were freedom.

For inevitable cause, books may finish.
But way up from start to end,
is to begin again,
to read lines read before,
but a story, different.

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Of Lagoons

Blue Lagoon Master 1

 

Waiting alone in that aristocratic-fashioned room for the blind lady, I transfixed my vision upon the reverse aspects showcased on the walls. Paintings of Lord Krishna, goddess Lakshmi and many other deities were walled in between monotonous photographs of Karl Marx, P.Krishna Pillai and Lenin. I wondered how the images of symbols people labelled in discordance, one for sheer blindness of faith and the other for strong fists of idealism, conveyed the same semantic intimation to this blind lady. Quite a contradiction. And with each passing moment I sat there, I felt this house, not in the farthest means, depicts the aroma of blindness. This house had vision. I, once again marvelled at the enormous aptitude of this lady to relish the excellence of this house, which she can’t ever see. Sounds of the swans ebbing through the lagoon, beside which this house located helped me to adjourn the thoughts about the impossible enjoying dexterity of Divya Narkar, the blind lady for whom I was waiting for, and savored the last sip of tea, I was provided with.

‘Lagoons. Shallow bodies of water from the sea’. Her melancholy yet determined voice was heard from inside.’ You may have heard about the irrational ideologies the people of Naradamangalam holds for lagoons. A part of sea indebted by land, and employed to inherit the covert truths of sea. It preserves no lesser secrets than the sea does. Just a confined form of them. And they all are resting at the bottom. Highly composed too, awaiting return, once called for. If howled deep in, you could amass them in abundant. A tourist, who came here when I was a child mentioned the peculiar behavior of the residents of Naradamangalam with deep ecstasy. May be that was true, we are all subjects to the trace of mysteries. One way or other, we all are. We are lagoons’.
She greeted me.
‘Many had come here before you Gautam, with the same purpose’. She continued before she comforted her seating. ‘And they have all heard the story which you are about to. But just that is it. May be they all had felt this story less fascinating. Or they all thought I was mad. It’s significant to ask, but can I count on you?’

It was from a journalist friend of mine did I heard about this blind communist and the story she had, which later on surged my conscience tempted to pen down. Divya Narkar, sole daughter of a Bengali father, who triumphed in spreading the vigour communist aspirations wherever he had stayed, and a reconciled Keralite mother. But what aroused my inquisitiveness was the story she had. Story of Panchami. The 10 year old Dalit girl of Divya’s maid servant. That’s why I am here. Here at Naradamangalam, a village at the western end of Alappuzha. To hear a story.

‘She was a sweet girl. Tender, curious, but silent’. Divya said, may be cherishing the old times they had been together. She always had the symptom to be reasoned with logic. And talking about the condition she was enveloped with, I may go too well on her side. Why she saw a man that none else could? When an answer demanded, I supply logic. Conditions like this, usually prospers in the thick lack between utter ignorance, short of care, and formidable confusion. This would be immensely intense in case the one is young, young enough to be called a child. That’s what happened with Panchami too. She was neglected by many, even her parents. And her mind was short the strength to pull and authentically establish herself away from the delusions of fascination, to establish herself in reality’.

When I waited for her to continue, I felt my presence in here, beside the picturesque lagoon felt mysterious. This story. This place. This lady. Everything felt drastically mysterious. And I thought about the lagoons. It was like the lagoon muttering, in the warm sun, the gasps of secrets weathered in. Secrets about Panchami. Secrets about the invisible man. Secrets about Divya Narkar. Secrets about this lagoon itself. Panchami’s case- that she saw a man none else could and she left with him- wasn’t too different from the others deemed under the similar criteria. But it had a charisma, a charisma long invited the writer in me to expedite on the alternative routes and understand the possibilities of Panchami’s missing. Or in more sense, to learn why she went away with that man none else could see. I felt Panchami’s story was stacked up in the house. Between the rounds of slow breeze embracing us, between the sunshine that lightened us, between the differences in ethnicity of this house. Before Divya started talking about Panchami, I knew her story was genuine.

‘She was just like this lagoon’. Divya said and my mind was reeled back to her. ‘Deep with beauty and clear like the flow. When she first said about the man, whom only she could see, I took it for a fearless imagination of a child. And it was me who fertilized it. The roots buried deep. It was me who asked her more about the invisible man and compelled her to believe that man was a reality. I lied to her, and the worst part of it included cheating my own thoughts. Even I believed such a man existed. ‘What was I doing’? She let herself pause and steer her head away from me.

‘May be I still do. I remember telling her that the invisible man was certainly convenient and not to believe in him was blind, too blind to think about. I don’t know, it felt like I knew the invisible man. I knew his face. The only face I could conjure in my blind vision. I am sure she’ll come back. To take me with her. To place where she went. She’ll come’. Divya trembled while describing an impossible future, she knew sure isn’t happening anytime. I glanced more seekingly in her dusky eyes. Those were beautiful, not to mention the failure to emulate its purpose. But it had stories. A lot of them.

The story of a Dalit girl and her missing were linked up with mysticism in the initial days. But eventually, her story was substituted by more concerning ones. Now, more than four years after her missing, it subsided to deep corners of interest and in many people, it completely lashed away. Most cared less to believe her story. They just thought Panchami’s mother sent her away. But I somehow knew there had to be something of the invisible man that I could decipher to a story. I have read in a newspaper, four years back about the first time she reported about the invisible man. It was in school one day, when the students were asked to draw a picture. Unlike the rest of the class, she didn’t drew happy families or beautiful scenarios. Instead, she drew hell. With people split out in halves. Souls fried in fire. And breaths drowned in mud, upside down. She drew what possibly no other ten year old could. And when asked by her teacher, she told that she drew what a man stood by her asked her to. The teacher knew there was no man in the class. But she deliberately thought it as a passing imagination. Only, it didn’t stayed thus.

The time was getting dusky. The swans were still in the lagoon, and in hollow, mystic atmosphere, I felt they were heeding to the story of Panchami, the story they knew by heart.
‘It was a quiescent monsoon evening, when she let out herself to me’. Divya talked on. ‘She wasn’t intimidated by the invisible man, but affected. She had said how the man inclined to fill the voids she had been left with. The gaps of care and unbridled exhilaration. She said he gave her clarity. She got a company she wanted. I remember how her coal-black eyes unfolded the unblemished companionship immersed in, while she talked about him. He was sea. She was lagoon’.

There was a stagnant pause after she completed her talking. I raised to defy it and talked what I knew more about Panchami.
‘She was sent to a mental asylum, right? And I waited for her reply.

‘Barely for 3 weeks’. It took a while before she answered. ‘That part was really harsh. Real hard business. She strangled herself to stay out of it. You could ask anyone from Naradamangalam and they would remember and phrase that day only with a tinge of sympathy. Panchami cried a lot. The small body of her struggled unambiguously against the manly forces that pulled her. She feared hospitals, she always had. Of course, a ten year old shouldn’t be able to distinguish the ordeals of a disease and a mental disorder. But somehow, she did. Maybe the man no one else could see had told her’.

She adjusted herself in the chair and continued with a slight cream of smile. ‘But when she returned, she was content. She said her talks were considered justified among the people she met in the asylum. She was manifested there in a way more consolatory than she had been here. She was cared. And people dignified her for her extraordinary ability to see invisible people. “Remarkable people”, she said about them. And she also mentioned it was spurious to held them behind bars, for the asylum could only bear their bodies, their souls are more liberated than ours. How standardized for a child. Isn’t it?’

I replied with a silent smile. Indeed, she didn’t see it.
‘The invisible man may have felt his ranks seconded among the care Panchami was bestowed with, and as like she said, “The invisible man went for a holiday”. She was back home after 3 weeks of treatment. And once after days were like before, when the love and care she received was abate, the invisible man returned’.

I had a few filed photographs of Panchami, from a local newspaper which reported her missing. Her eyes were similar to Divya Narkar’s. Dusky eyes. People with same sort of eyes have same minds, I remembered the lines long ago read. Maybe that’s why Divya feels the invisible man is real.

‘When did her parents started relaying on sorcery and black magic’?

‘When the invisible man returned, he told her to do things that were perilous. Once, she tried to take a piece of burning wood and scorched herself. That was then, her parents consulted an astrologist, who, after examining her horoscope and stars, prescribed rituals and mantras as inevitable medicines, until the man is gone forever. People said it was a spirit. A bad one, who is haunting her for the sins of her previous birth’.

‘The priest- that’s how the black magic practitioners were addressed. They set unethical rituals for Panchami. Blocks of red, blue and white squares designed on floor. In their belief, the fire flames were digesting the outcomes of sins committed in her past birth. I remember her cries, huge lamentations. The priest even used whips on her, leaving her outlined like not a human. She cried more. Through red, through blue, through the whips she suffered, through the negligence she was rewarded with. She cried for the invisible man’. Abruptly, she ceased her voice to let a miniature of a weep escape. Divya more or less, was on the verge of a salient, naive cry.

‘A blind eye cannot cry without knowing, I know that part Gautam. And I know nothing about tears, except it is Feverish and salty. I don’t know its colour. I don’t know any colour. But when this ardent liquid flows out of my blindness, it feeling a portion of my blood is flown out. And when I heard Panchami screaming that day, I felt the same’.

Sitting beside her, I witnessed a drop of tear, plunging down her dusky eyes and skiing through her right cheek. It was a blind lady’s tear. But it had a part of her blood, a part of Panchami, a part of the invisible man, a part of the lagoon. I wished it would dry itself from her cheeks. Because, the moment it would lose the grip on her cheek, I feared that part of Panchami would be lost.

‘You know, the lagoons, the secrets they are confronting deep inside, they shimmers. At night, when there is full moon, it shimmers in the moonlight. Panchami is likewise. I feel her in my dreams, and the invisible man too. His face is the only one I had seen. They promises to take me away with them, to a place. Where I can see like the rest. Wonder how a blind lady can dream?’ She wiped her teardrop and through a forced smile, shot a question at me. ‘I really believe she would come’.

Night arrived, like soft and calm. Like Divya and Panchami. Like the invisible man and lagoon.

‘Gautam’, She said before I was about to bid my farewell, ‘I have never seen anything, my entire life. I don’t know any colour. People say what I only see is darkness. But in my dreams, I see a man no one else could, and a girl who went away with him.

Before I reached the door, she called me once again. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I know you may fell a bit disoriented about me and this story. Everybody had. But just think, haven’t you ever felt like you saw something that wasn’t there? or heard a sound that no one else did? I know you have’. She stood up to say goodbye. ‘Or else, you are lying’.

Walking away from her home, parallel to the lagoon, I lifted the gradient of gratification in me. Yes, she was right. I had listened to the story of Panchami that no one else had. I saw a Divya Narkar that no one else did. What outsiders talk about the people of Naradamangalam are true. They are lagoons. And they holds mystery. She didn’t ask me whether I would write this story or not. If I am, then how should I write this. As like the story of a girl who saw a man whom nobody else did or as like the story of a blind woman who is waiting for an invisible man?
Or maybe I could write this as the story of lagoons.

Honking of a boat was heard and I rushed.

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The Girl In Blue

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Pooja went missing.
One week before the missing happened, Gautam slept over a book, before reading these lines.
“Thoughts of any intensity whether discreet or loud, deliberately derives the source for a momentary realm. A realm of scant guesses and stupid confusions. And then stories bloom, veined from the moistened-slender thoughts. Stories conjured from deep emotional foundation. As humans, its an evolutionary compulsion we were taught with.
Just legacy.
Stories and magic have a lot of traits in common.What secret does the excitement furnished in magic holds?
We force ourselves to believe the deceiving tricks we see, even after knowing the gimmick beyond. We believe. Now, stories are likewise. We looms into the stories, rip down words, and we just let them sunk in.Regardless the fact that we are deceived by our own stories, we believe them. Thought-weaved stories. It is a power exhibition of magic, least to mention story makers are the greatest magicians in the world.”

Pooja.
14 yr old Pooja.
Blue-eyed, adventure savouring Pooja.
The same night, the night Gautam slept over that book, what ran through Pooja’s mind?
She full heartedly planned in on an adventure. An adventure she had longed for long. She indicated the thoughts of perpetual random sounds in the carnival, and thoughts of the diversity in stalls,trapeze players, wonder exhibitioners, comedians, gamblers. Picturesque scenario, it was. And then with a part of her daring mind, she thought of the magic show. A meagre fascination exuded in. The dark inquisitive atmosphere inside the magic hall, ears believing the soothing wonders, eyes curious about the moment next, hands applauding the brilliance of the magician. She wanted to see ‘The girl in blue’, and it stood alone in her amused mind for quite some time. She had seen it once, five or six years back, of which the memory was pale. She wanted to see it again, to feel the intangible intend of absolute magic.
That night, as told before, she planned in on adventure. The plan, that reasoned her missing.

What did her missing left Gautam with?
Fear.
Anxiety.
Regret.
Helplessness.
Before you care to answer, let me tell, this story concern less about Gautam, Or Pooja, or about her missing.This story is about magic.
                                   
            

It was long after sleep resigned from his bed, does Gautam thought of what a night’s difference could make. Last night, under the star populated sky, he was stimulated about doing something he felt adventurous. Something he thought, suffice to call so. Only an impalpable tinge of fear dipped inside, which was consoled soon after the remembrance of her words.
‘We must watch it before Venkat does’. She said some days ago, revising their common competitive hatred they reserved for Venkat. There is nothing to fear, Gautam. Nobody will know.’
After all, love is about the finding the hidden courage inside to do things that felt impossible. That night in sleep, he dreamt of a girl in blue appearing from an empty space.

And what of this night?. With a stressed mind, Gautam thought of Pooja. Where did she go? And with each ounce of thoughts about her, he felt more and more of a coward.He had let her go missing. Even if no one accused him for- which itself was a way too prediction, he knew it. It was him reasonable for her missing. He should have never left her.
And what could have happened to her ? In her thoughts, he inhaled deemed obsession and exhaled fire. Fire braced in fear.With weary eyes, he tried to remember her. It happened all of a sudden, he couldn’t remember her. Her smile. Her blue eyes. Even a momentary slice of her’s seemed to deviate from him. When he thought of her, all it was confined to was the sounds from the carnival, the whistles, welcoming sound of gamblers, shouting from volume of crowd, the scenes from the inauguration of grand food stall centre. And the silence that was disguised in the empty dark magic hall.

And Gautam did thought of the night after this. What awaits him?
Chaos, he felt. Future for him bounced chaos to his mind. He censured himself to greater degrees and wished they hadn’t gone to the carnival, bunking school. He wished he hadn’t gone trying the wagon wheel leaving Pooja alone.He wished today hadn’t happened like today.A chord of cry stacked in. Potentially, he silenced his weeping against the pillow.

Gautam heard prayer chantings from the room adjacent and realised grandma was still awake. She might be reading the beads of her rosary, he reckoned. He remembered how his grandma lamented child abductions and molestations. She, a social-worker long retired, had criticised the damaged moral virtues of the society for long. She prioritised the safety of children more than any other. He hadn’t took her’s for note ever, now there is a victim for it. The girl in blue is missing. It was little uncalled for him to think grandma’s assertions to Pooja’s missing, but such a thought was revolting inside and it let his tumult whirling, just like the magician whirls his wand, while doing magic. It can’t happen to her. Thinking the likes if it had, let him feel an eerie crawling in his already intact psyche.
                                                

‘Its not something new’. She told him.’Its certainly old, antiquated as history, that inclines us to believe its new, every time we see it. Lady in blue, is not just about magic, I can promise that. It lifts us to something extra. You may feel its impossible. Of course it is. That’s why we love it’. Despite the rock hard adeptness of Gautam, he surrendered to the compulsion. Between the school hours, the magic show on the carnival tented in the church ground,was not a peradventure possibility.
‘We can bunk the sports meet’.The Plan was finalised two days ago.

Walking to nearby bus stop, after leaving school unknowingly, Gautam and Pooja listened to Ayoob. The mad Ayoob, who sat below the laburnum. Sun-burnt, unshaven face and wrong grown hair. Like every other child, they were also taught to avoid him. But instead, Gautam liked Ayoob. Beyond the mad blabbers, beyond the irksome actions, there was something that distinguished Ayoob from the totalitarian society. People called him mad, but he was equitably different. He talked about things people less comprehend, even if taken to account that they listened. Coincidentally he talked about magic, that day.

‘Magic always want belief, magic loves eyes with belief, magic grows upon it. With belief only it gives its appealing clarity, reason and shape. Or else, its just an expanse of transient lying’. He went unperturbed. But even with belief, at the end, when thought hollow, magic is about self betrayal. Its cheating ourselves to some excitation. Its about losing something in self, than believing. Magic cheats you’.
And then his murmurings clung to those words, on and on and on.

‘It was seriously mean’. Pooja retorted later while travelling to carnival. ‘If I had tried to laughed it off, it would have been an offence. What do this mad man know about magic?’.

‘The girl in blue’. I tried to cool nerve and falter ourselves from Ayoob.’Isn’t it too trivial title for a magic trick?’

‘Maybe. But there is a story accompanying the title’. She explained what she knew. ‘Long time ago, the rule of Ottoman dynasty, it was then the invisibility magic tricks were first practised. There was an expert magician in there who made the audience  go inexplicable with the roun of his trick, “the lady in blue”.That was the reversion of his pre-eminence in craftsmanship. He crafted it well. And he had a beautiful assistant.Obviously, they were in love. Deep, mad love. Nobody knew their name. They were called red and blue for which the magician was always dressed in red and the girl in blue’.

‘During magic,She would hide herself in a stoor box. The magician will cover the box before whirling his wand over it three times, and then she was gone. Obscure. Just like that. Only the box remained,empty. She’ll reappear then, some time after, from some other side. Nobody could hypothesize where’.

‘This trick, is still conspired the old way, almost. Through ages, among the numerous mutation magic castrated, Girl in blue stayed alike.  Only men had changed his red to black. The girl remains blue, still.’

‘Have you heard about the first magic?’. She continued. ‘This happened long, long back. In distant past. Even before the Ottomans. Even before Alexander. Its some time we compel to call pre-historic. The then king, of lands and oceans sought a groom for the princess. But he had a condition, indubitably. The groom must be strong enough to forbear the whole world in his shoulders. The whole world, more or less. The king searched seven lands, and seven heavens, yet he couldn’t find a match. Even the strongest among the strong couldn’t do it. Some couldn’t carry the air, or for some, the water was difficult. Gravity, Soil, people. Everyone failed in carrying one or the other. How a world could be complete without any of these?. The King stood his ground and the princess remained single. Then came a man. With a fantasy hat and wand. He whirled his shallow piece of wood around and confined the whole world, the smell, the light, people, animals, gravity, everything inside the princess and then carried her. It was a stupendous act, the King hadn’t even dreamt of. He was convinced. The magician and princess got married. It was the first act of magic known’.
                                          
                            

Gautam remembered the eerie, timid feeling he had when walked through the vacant, dark magic hall. The half crushed plastic bottles, soft drink cans, cigarette butts and food wrappers were stretched throughout the hall.The place did smelled of devoid mystery, rather magic.

“It is too early for the show”. A dark silhouette from the dull stage had shouted. It was difficult to find the face who sourced the voice. Outside, the inauguration of a mega food mall was progressing. Some sound vibrations of the cause rooted inside the hall and it reverberated inside. Pooja later told him how she felt the place way too odd for magic.
“You could hang out for couple of hours, or” An intended pause was shot at Pooja and he continued “you could wait. May be I can show you our workshop, where we practice to entertain”.

He laughed then,It wasn’t a giggle,Gautam could remember. Nor a guffaw. It was a fiendish, voluminous laughter. Through echoes, the silhouette reached every place. Gautam grabbed Pooja’s hand and they ran to exit.
                                             

Thinking through his palpated heart, Gautam wished he hadn’t gone to the wagon wheel. The decision to try it alone, to show off the spurious bravery drawn inside him, that was biggest of the mistakes he did that day. When Gautam returned from the wagon wheel, she was gone. Intoxicated to the point of being known. The population congregated at the grand fool stall, among which she stood when Gautam went to wagon wheel, had dispersed and she wasn’t there. Just erased. Like a wand whirled, she was gone. It took him less than a moment to apprehend she was missing, and to actualize the darkness breaching his eyes. She is missing. Just like a reflection obliterate at the touch of a feather, her blue eyes were gone.

He searched, from everywhere to everywhere.He asked the crowd, from everyone to everyone.Every question he asked the people around, confused him with a reply bizarre in flow than how he asked. People seemed to take him minuscule for their interest. He wanted to ask more people. He wanted to search more places. He wanted to disclose the burden he was bearing to some one, but the fright of a response unfavourable, let him silent. He dragged his mind to believe this was part of a magic. May be like the girl in blue, she would reappear, from somewhere. He really hoped so. Only, she didn’t come.
                                        
Inevitably, the chapter ended. Evening was born. Up in the sky, placid intense of blue  was replaced by the menacing red. Down here,Pooja was gone, Gautam remained. Later, walking home drenched in heavy rain, Gautam perceived of the possibilities that could’ve embraced her. And each of them heaped more reverence in him and less hope. May be she got home safely, he endeavoured trust in his thought-weaved story. On reaching home, he tried to ring her but the rain had already paralysed the telephone lines. He wanted to talk about it. With phone dead, parents abroad, and grandma not an option, he felt alone. He felt like Ayoob. He wanted to cry. Cry like it would comfort him. He had nobody to discuss his mind with, to cry with, and with unexplainable downfall and agonising clarity, he realised what a hold she had over him.

In bed, Gautam thought what would happen tomorrow?
Chaos, it will be. He will be seized tomorrow. Accused of bunking class, and moreover of suspicion regarding her missing. He wished today hadn’t gone like today. Whatever Ayoob confronted felt legitimate to the extent. “Magic is more about losing something in self, than believing”. Gautam had lost something.

His thoughts went serene sometimes,narrowly. He thought may be he had gone too far. She must be home. She could’ve felt something wrong and went home. May that was it.But what if not?. What if something had happened to her for real?. His mind swayed like a pendulum tirelessly between both the extremities. It went on and on. And at midnight, he felt sleepy. Like snowdrops crawling the window pane, sleep conquered him.

Before dawn, Gautam had a nightmare. A wand was whirling around a box with an extreme force of motion, yielding a hissing sound. Gautam, the lone spectator was seeking the magic upcoming, closely. Suddenly, the box bounced to his feet. Inside, all left was blood. Blood with traces of blue. When Gautam woke,trembling, he was bathed in his sweat, just as was in rain some hours ago. It was Five past four. Dawn. His mind again lend space to accommodate something said by Ayoob.
“When we wake up at dawn, nightmares, insomnia, or because of anything, or if even without any reason, it is because someone remembers you, and want to be remembered back.” Ayoob had told once.
True, it is. Gautam knew no matter whatever people scorn Ayoob, when problems arise, that madman’s words were divine. Gautam left the idea to pursue sleep. He just stayed in bed, remembering Pooja. She would’ve conveying him, and wanted equivalent, he thought. It was like a telepathy expelled, but never received.

Next day, Gautam voluntarily reached school before anyone does, and waited for her. He waited at the corridor. Then in front of class. Then near the seat she usually takes. Venkat came. Other classmates came. When the live buzzing of school settled in for daily chores, her seat remained vacant. The first period started and she hadn’t come. Or she will not. Ever. Gautam felt very much of all these. He felt a distressed and tranquil hollow insidious. Sleepy, Gautam rested his head against the bench. He knew he had enough of sustained, awful time and needed rest. Effortlessly, he drowned to sleep. The teacher, with bifocal glass and less focussed eyes, bothered him less.It was over now.

Soon before the end of first period, Gautam had his certainty. He was vigorously separated from his sleep to inform he was wanted by the principal. He knew that was it. Only the interrogative inquisitiveness of what had happened to her stayed the course. He let all the curious eyes probing him to descend in. They’ll know soon. ‘I’m convicted’. He uttered silently. ‘And my judgement is near. I knew it was certain. It was just a matter of when’.

Magic, suits more with the empowered sense of utter joy and pleasurable emotion of astonishment. When Gautam turned the corridor to principal’s room, he beheld a sight of surprise. A surprise whose head hung down eyeing the uniform motion of ants. And In reply to footsteps, the surprise looked up.Then, he saw the face of a girl he couldn’t recollect past night. He saw a smile hidden pitched in the saddened face. He saw a pair of blue eyes, that he always wanted to believe at most. The girl in blue, just as in magic, had reappeared from somewhere. All of once, His body was intensifying the charisma of a moment he thought was impossible. Indeed, it was impossible. May be that’s why he loved it in abundant.
‘My dad was there yesterday, for the inauguration’.She confessed before Gautam entered the room. ‘And I had to tell him whom I was with. I couldn’t help it, Sorry’.
Her confession was short, but Gautam knew it had more apologies. It doesn’t matter now. Apologies or no apologies.

As Gautam had expected, her Parents were inside. Walking to them, the short distance to judgement, he lived a long trance of the day before.He felt his thoughts too cumbersome and silly. And foolish. ‘Thoughts are magic’, he comprehended.It had deceived him, his own thoughts. They are the most amazing magic tricks and thinkers, faint or solid are the best magicians in the worlds. And during the short walk, despite the strict and repulsive atmosphere, he was relieved. Relieved from the greatest magic he lived and only the wonder remained. He celebrated it with a silent smile. Whatever awaits him in here, explanation from parents, suspension, or even dismissal concerned him less. The girl in blue had reappeared.
                                                

Two years later, when the school auditorium opened, a magic show came to school. Among the perplexed and gratified audience, Gautam and Pooja breathed the charm of magic. Bullet catch, Dove pan, Head mover, shadow vision, and last came the girl in blue. A girl in blue attire covered herself in a box.The magician whirled his wand around it and seconds after when the was box opened, as you guessed, she wasn’t there. Some gasped, some uttered their fascination, some simply blinked, hard to believe what they have witnessed. Before claps, Pooja looked at Gautam sitting two rows behind and smiled. He paid a smile back and waited for the girl in blue to reappear.

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തോളിൽ തൂങ്ങുന്ന ലോകം

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ചെറുഞെരുക്കങ്ങളിൽ പുളകിതംപൂകും
സാക്ഷിമൊഴികളിൽ,
കയ്പ്പുനുണഞ്ഞിറക്കിയ സായംസന്ധ്യ
ചൂണ്ടികാട്ടിയ ഒന്നാമൻ,
പാലത്തിൽനിന്നുചാടി സ്വയം മരണം വരിച്ചു.

പ്രവചനനിർവച്ചനങ്ങൾ ഒന്നാമനെ പ്രകീർത്തിച്ചു.

കാരിരുമ്പായ പ്രണയത്തെ,
ഉരുകിയൊലിപ്പിച്ച എന്റെ ആണത്വം,
മറ്റൊരുനാൾ രണ്ടാമനെ
പാലത്തിൽനിന്നു തള്ളിയിട്ടുക്കൊന്നു.
നീന്തലറിയാശ്വാസങ്ങൾ
ക്ഷണത്തിൽ കുമിളകളായ്പൊങ്ങി.

കൈവരികൾ രണ്ടാമനെ വാഴ്ത്തപ്പെട്ടവനാക്കി.

വിക്കിപ്പോയ വർത്തമാനവിത്തുക്കൾ
ഞാൻ പറിച്ചുപുഴയിലിട്ടു.
പാലത്തിനുകുറുക്കെയുള്ള നദി,
തൈകൾ കുടിച്ച്വറ്റിച്ചു കാടാക്കി.
പാലത്തെ അഭ്യുദകാംഷികൾ
‘കാട്’ ചേർത്തുവിളിച്ചു.

പുണ്യാളരായിയെല്ലാവരും.
കേൾക്കാതെ നിലവിളിച്ച സദാചാരം.
കാണാതെ കരഞ്ഞ വർഗബോധം.
തൊടാതെ ഭോഗിച്ച കാമവെറി.
ഇവരെക്കൊന്ന ഞാൻമാത്രം കുറ്റക്കാരനാക്കി.

അശരീരി ന്യായംചൊല്ലി.
“നീ കൊന്ന ജന്മങ്ങളിൽ
ഒരു നിമിഷം നോക്കൂ.
പ്രേതങ്ങളായി അവരീപാലം
തോള്ളിലേറ്റുന്നു.
നീ കാണാസ്വപ്നങ്ങളിൽ
നിറങ്ങളിനിയുമുണ്ട്.
ചായംകലർന്ന പ്രേതങ്ങൾ.
കാത്തിരിക്കുന്നു,
ലോകാവസാനംവരെ നിന്നെക്കീറി
രസിക്കാൻ വെമ്പുന്ന മൂർച്ചയുമായി.”

ഭയമേറിയ അനന്തനിമിഷങ്ങളിൽ,
ഭയന്നുമരിച്ച ഞാനും
ദേഹമ്മില്ലാബാധയായി,
പാലത്തിനുമുകളിലെ
ഭാരം മറ്റൊരു ലോകമായി.
ഭാരത്തിന്റെ ഒരംശം ഞാനുമേന്തുന്നു.

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അടിമ

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ദൈവമെന്ന പൂജ്യമേ,
നീയില്ലെന്നറിഞ്ഞിട്ടുമൊട്ടുമിടറാതെ,
നീയാണെന്നാരോപ്പിച്ചുറപ്പിച്ച
കല്ലിനും കുരിശിനും കുറുകെ
നീണ്ടുയര്‍ത്തുന്ന കോട്ടകളാകുന്നു
ഭൂമിയിലെ യഥാര്‍ത്ഥ തടവറകള്‍ .

ഈരേഴുലോകത്തിലുമില്ല നീ
എന്നാ സത്യംമറച്ച്‌,
നിന്നെ പ്രതിഷ്ഠിക്കുന്ന ആള്‍രൂപങ്ങളാകുന്നു
നിരപരാധിത്വം സ്ഫുരിക്കുന്ന
അടിമയാം തടവുപുള്ളികള്‍.

നീണ്ടവരിനൂണ്ടുകയറി,
സ്വസോദരനെ തള്ളിമാറ്റിയടുതെത്തി,
ആവശ്യങ്ങള്‍,
പ്രാര്‍ത്ഥനയെന്ന ആജ്ഞാപനഭീഷണിയില്‍
ഛര്‍ദ്ദിക്കുന്ന ഈ നീചമനുഷ്യരാകുന്നു
നിന്റെ അവകാശസൂക്ഷിപ്പുകാരായ ജന്മികള്‍.

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ഭക്തനെന്ന അത്യാഗ്രഹീ,
നീകൂപ്പുമീകൈകളുമുരുവിട്ടുമീ
നാമവും നീനീല്‍ക്കുമീ
ഭക്തിച്ചന്തയില്‍ മാത്രമൊതുങ്ങുന്നു.
പള്ളി-അമ്പലങ്ങളില്‍ മാടിവിളിക്കും
ശൂന്യതയിലുമിരുട്ടിലും
തേടൂ, നീയൊരു ജന്മംമുഴുവന്‍,
കണ്ടുകിട്ടാതൊരു ദൈവത്തെ.
നീ തള്ളിമാറ്റിയ സോദരനിന്‍
നിസ്സഹായതയില്‍വസിപ്പൂ ദൈവം.
നീയാകാണും തോട്ടംനനയ്ക്കും
വയസ്സനിന്‍ പുരികത്തിലുറഞ്ഞുകൂടും
വിയര്‍പ്പുത്തുള്ളികളാണ്‌ ദൈവം.
എന്തിനേറെ,
ദൈവമിരിപ്പൂ,
ഈ പൂത്തുലഞ്ഞ പാടംകൊയ്യും
കൊയ്യ്തരിവാളിന്‍ മുനയില്‍പോലും.
തിരിച്ചറിയൂ മനുഷ്യാ,
ദൈവമില്ലായിടം ഭൂമിയില്‍,
ഈ ആരാധനാലയങ്ങള്‍ മാത്രം.

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ദൈവമെന്ന നുണയേ,
അന്യന്‍ നാമജപങ്ങള്‍ ഉരുവിട്ടുതീര്‍ത്ത
ചങ്ങലയില്‍മെരുങ്ങി,
അവന്റെ കഷ്ടപ്പാടിന്റെ
ഭാണ്ഡവുമേന്തി,
ഭണ്ഡാരപിച്ചച്ചട്ടിയില്‍ വീഴും
ഭിക്ഷമാത്രം ഭോജിച്ചുകഴിയുമടിമയേ,
ഈ കവിതയുടെ മനുഷത്വം ഒരുമാത്ര പിടയ്ക്കുന്നുണ്ട്.
ധര്‍മ്മബോധം പെരുമ്പറ മുഴക്കുന്നുണ്ട്.
എങ്കിലും, ക്ലാവുപിടിച്ച സഹതാപതിന്‍
നൊമ്പരപൊട്ടായി അവസാനിച്ചുപോകുന്നു
നീയെന്‍ നിര്‍ഭയഭാവമേ.

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ചതഞ്ഞരഞ്ഞ ശ്യൂന്യതയില്‍
ഇനിയും പ്രതീക്ഷയുണ്ട്.
ഒരുനാള്‍വരും നായകര്‍,
നിന്നെ മോചിപ്പിക്കാന്‍.
അനുനയതീക്ഷണതയില്‍ ഗാന്ധിയും
തീപന്തമേന്തി ചെ ഗുവേരയും.
അത്രെയുംനാള്‍, കാണേണ്ടയീ
പ്രാര്‍ത്ഥനാജല്പ്പനനാടകങ്ങള്‍.
കണ്ണുമുറുക്കിയടച്ച്‌ കാതോര്‍ക്കുക,
നാളെകേള്‍ക്കുമാ വിപ്ലവസൂക്തങ്ങള്‍ക്കായ്.

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Mute poem

Abstract-Angel2

Long once a saturday noon perished,
relishing forehand the memories piled.
Memories, o’ yes, of serene sights,
catching tail me, the exuberance tight.
chalk-talked we lot of all and everything,
me and this mystic mute beauty-thing.
Revives me of which a serenade,
long back once heard.

Spoke was I only of black,
furrowed rear of my back.
And of the impasse embracing
my sterile desert within.
And of all lies, built upon me,
built within me, that builts me.

Spoke she was of silence,
limpid like a new-born’s smile.
None need to be spoken of
robust truth she told
Black is other end of white“.
Spoke she as she sow seeds
of hope deep in my arid lands,
making me believe,
watelands are they not.
Paraphrase here, I her promise.

“Rain shall fall. Let it be
and fertile the soil above the seeds.
Stay ground fore and after,
and look upon for thunders,
for it may burn down the twigs.
And look beside for storms,
ever it may uproot the sprigs.
Work instead of impotent prays,
for it may only bring you glory.
Lond ahead may you see a time,
when even gods shall say-
Your lies defended you”

Each Word from her, below and above
every other words sounded silent,
alike the truth she said.
Lies are other end of truth“.

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