An Evening

Self importance- the feeling of inflated pride and consequently the tormenting feel of hurt to his ego, it has happened to all of us at some point in life, but it happens to him often. Instances which dented his feeling of self importance! The reluctance to let go the consequent urge to fight back, to retaliate any which way he can. The social and other etiquette are flung away as his pride is hurt. He knows that the subject that is instrumental for the feeling is insignificant and of little importance, but his mind does not accept the little pin -prick to the ego. He hits back and makes a mountain of a trivial little mole hill. Matters then reach a stage of serious consequence. The situation threatens to explode out of his hand.

On another plain he knows that the other person was brash and offensive. And that he was directed by his 

vanity and imperious nature. He also knows that the other is strong, physically. And a brawl may be unsafe for him. But still he refuses to see the writing on the wall and retaliates. His pride is inflated and does not subside. The consequence bruised ego and bruises all over. What if he had let the other enjoy the momentary imperial satisfaction, what if we had ignored his impetuosity and turned away? The blind rage of the bull is always to the advantage of the toreador!

The fields were green with grass, there were crickets hopping around. In the setting sun the shallow brook nearby was sparkling gold. The horizon touching the hills was crimson as the sun slipped slowly beyond and below. On the field I stood, there were a few crows pecking at the buffalo droppings. The Mainas were pulling at an earth worm they managed to pick. The dragon flies were flying low and dancing a ballet. Further down the field a group of little boys were chattering away while playing football. The few water buffaloes in the stream came up and eyed the surroundings. I noticed one of them a brute of a fellow poke his horns on another, inviting a confrontation. The offended one turned around eyed the brute as if telling what and how he felt about him. He did not charge back, he moved away from the brute. Apparently he must have seen that there is space around to be at peace and not engage in the war of pride. A physical confrontation was unlikely to be in his favour. The brute looked helplessly miffed for a moment and moved to another to vent his brawn. 

He has not known , he did not foresee that his match would arrive one day!

How Candid , Candid can be?

“But of all plagues, good Heaven,thy wrath can send, save me,  oh, save me, from the candid friend”! (Quote)

While I was in college, I wrote a piece – an essay and submitted for publication in the college magazine, on a subject which the moderator who was one of the professors declined. He presumed that the topic was controversial and candid for comfort. Those were the days when the British Council Library was my favourite jaunt and there, there was no dearth of books to provoke the thought process and turn an adolescent or a teenager into persistent rebel. I do not have the copy of the essay now with me.

Over the past years I do not remember having many associates who would be comfortable if an open discussion or observation were called for and opinions are possibly straying into unconventional. There was one person who used to be open and uninhibited in discussions and that was an unlikely person, the late mother of a class mate and friend of mine. It was she who assisted, when her daughter and some of us got together and began conducting program  and discussions in the “Youth forum” of the All India Radio. Yes, indeed there was a code that could not be crossed and that was the code of being “goody, goody” as society deem. Sometimes she used to open her eyes wide and look at me which conveyed the message that my expression was stark, though she did not encourage me to refrain from expressing so.

However I do not see that in the society we live, for there is no room, space and allowance to be candid as candid can be. And that can be because of the barriers that exist and the element of hypocrisy that has eaten into the social fabric and has come to dwell in each one of us. Can anyone claim to be untouched by the trait?

Then the next best medium to vent one’s thoughts came along through the virtual medium, in the form of “Blogs”. To me it was a Utopian idea that became a fact- fortunately so! I suddenly found that I could vent myself and be not worried of what the other would say. To quote a fellow blogger, “nakedness”! The best, the wonderful, the most elegant and the most comfortable suit and it doesn't cost a nickel-it is “the birthday suit”. So, blogging for me is reflection of nakedness in spirit. I stumbled on the Blog title “Musings” and opted for that, as I felt whatever rubbish I write and post are thoughts that happen to myself and are not much encumbered by premeditation. The virtual world listens to you and that is a privilege you may be refused even by your spouse! Blogs are often stereotyped by its owner- the content, the subject etc. Many chose to wade away from controversial or uncomfortable subjects; they may not even touch some post even with a barrage pole. Well one has the right to choose any which one wants.

I do not claim or intent when I write a Post that the topic is meant to change a generally held opinion. That is not in my realm. If a reader agrees with it well -'salam'- and if someone doesn't, 'salamu allekum'. If someone decides that I have no right to disagree with his/her views, well that may not convince me, as agreement or disagreement cannot be blind like faith to many. I express these, because generally I Blog on subjects those are not tasty to the conformist.

In due course of time, I wondered should I be unhappy and disappointed when someone rebuke and tear down my postings, or silently edit or eliminate my comment, the content the idea of the subject or an observation. Heck why must I? Criticism is a healthy fodder, its fun, can provoke healthy discussion should the criticiser will and most of all it helps one to analyse an observation that one made to invite the rebuke or a disagreement. It was Voltaire who opined wisely, “I detest what you say, but I’m prepared to die for your right to say that”. I feel one must keep to oneself if one disagrees to someone disagreeing. Better go incommunicado for life if one fears strands of disagreement or a divergent view.

What if my postings are termed jeering in content, expressions and choice of words too potent for satisfying prescripts? I reminded myself that the Blog is named “Musings” and that very much denotes and empathically states that there must be no forbiddances. I noticed there will be, occasions when the state of mind, a subject, or a matter that created feeling in me getting delivered as a Blog- post. The content, words, the sentences, all may reflect the state of mind. I let it be, because it is outrageous and utterly false to claim, and make believe by writing or saying something that is pleasing when your mind says the contrary and vice versa. One cannot, unless one is a maverick who has parented the art of dominating thought, write or say something that one does not subscribe to. What I blog are mirror to my thoughts and feelings and I shall not deny that. However  when I post, even Blog posts alluding to a real life persona does not have any mention of the protagonist or antagonist by name. Perhaps people who are familiar with the story may notice through. And I see Blogging, a means to palliate stress.

Now I come to the other companions in the Blog world. Some are irregular and some are less inspiring in comments. To receive comments such as, awesome; how true; beautifully said, and many other such one word and one liner seem to be the ones less inspiring. It is waste of cloud computing space when superficial, trivial and insignificant reactions are noted in the Blog. Then there are Bloggers who keep an imperial air and seldom reciprocate a comment or a Post, though I admit that sometimes their blogs are the ones with substance and I read their postings unfailingly and also leave sincere and honest comments. Certainly it is their prerogative to reciprocate!

There are Bloggers who dislike a comment only because they perceive offense in every word. I do not find something to agree with comment moderation. That in my opinion is stifling speech and expression. When I write and post in my blog, it is in principle like leaving the doors of my house open for visitors. I, while I leave my doors open cannot pre-empt a visitor from stepping in. That is, in my opinion inappropriate. And deciding on the comment you want on your post is indeed pre-empting. If one is not receptive to a different idea then one must not be expressing it in public. Blogs are after all a public space, domain. This opinion is in spirit of the matter and not to be literally taken if someone disagrees and decides to tear it down. Postings with explicit nature are a different proposition.

However the fascination with blogging is enhanced with the “nakedness” of thoughts that are translated into Posts! And the young man Oshu is a good example. No holds barred expressions without sautéing and garnishing. B’s blog, B-log is immensely refreshing. She has the acumen to touch upon subjects that are flung apart; her comments too are a genre apart. “My Travels, My Life” is a glass prism that reflects the factual image if one looks into it carefully. Balan’s poetry – subtle and crystal like, they shatter when dropped, but the vibration of the shatter stays for long like pleasance one would refuse to let go. Kavita’s -Room is like spring with burst of flowers all the while. She seems to be well researching her subjects. I cannot understand how Shilpa Garg’s roving camera can pick up the nuances around so wonderfully. Her short fictions are quite good. Doc Antony is always ensuring the heart beats in rhythm. Arun Meethale Chirakkal has very good poetries up his sleeves, but sadly he is irregular. Pavizhamalli is as refreshing as her poetries. Thommys cartoons are thoughtful. Happy Kitten doesn't post much. And Melange seems to be always discovering and creating recipes. Sumi Mathai’s poems are as beautiful as she is, but a blue-moon visitor to blogging. KPJ would like to believe she is in her own niche world, and hardly ventures into my blog or many other blogs- perhaps she finds me often in disagreement with her and hence distasteful, but comes out with good posts herself. Jyothi Nair as Juxtaposition is in a state of reincarnation!

On the whole it has been a great experience. But honestly the extent of being candid is very much inhibited by social moorings. I wonder what reactions it would have provoked if one gets candid more than one should be, and more than one could be! So it is always the story half said. The other half may perish with me.

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Read my Lips

“Drawing on my command of language, I said nothing”. Anonymous

Quite a few postings have had emerged on the Blog scene in recent past about  the privileged   ways of the usage of  the privileged language  that only a privileged few could call their own until not so long ago- “the Anglo- Saxon  English”! There was derision, fun and fascination laced in those postings and comments that followed. Though a section of the gentry in the former colonies of the Empire and that can include India may feel outraged at the way many of us speak, write English language, there is certainly often immense jocularity and tongue in cheek comments that can enliven a situation when a faux pas is committed in the terminology and usage of that language. In fact that may be the case with all languages. Sometimes some may consider the gaffe an offense .Using language as if in an inebriated state may be sometimes inappropriate and the late Professor Sri Krishnan Nair had very often mauled such use. His comments on such matters have also put the lid to the many self styled linguistic e experts. The funny moments happen when people with less expertise or knowledge of a language use it and without the slightest iota of doubt of the correctness, or fearing no embarrassment.

However being a person with ordinary skills in language, be it English, my mother tongue ,or any other language, I find certain bumbling  very interesting to laugh over and ease stress that often shadows life.

Some funny moments and acrobatics with the use of language happened quite some time ago. The central figure in question may be referred to in pseudonym, RP. He hailed from Tamilnad and was not a safe person with neither Malayalam nor English. And he was known to me from the days I  worked in Cochin. During one of my journeys on short vacation to Thiruvananthapauram, I and C alighted at RP’s house. It was some time since I met him and his wife who was a wonderful expert of south Indian Bhramin cuisine.

The culinary fantasies she created in traditional south Indian food were a gourmet’s delight and RP used to invite me and the Directors whenever they descended from New Delhi. Often in all those dinners meetings her food was raved and lavished with praise. It was truly so! And in one of those dinner occasions RP got much carried over by the extolments showered on his wife that he made a statement that he thought was ipso facto and unquestionable. He asserted in his loud oratory voice, “My friends as you all know my wife is a good cooker”. Was there a moment of shocked agape? I do not remember.

Now going back to the brief visit, I and C was into. We were all seated in the living room and exchanging pleasantries and catching up with stories that happened since we met last. Just then a tall – well over six feet, fair and charming young man walked in. He acknowledged us with a demure nod and went in. I asked, “RP, who is that handsome fellow who went in”? He said, “Ha-ha athu nammade K ,alle.Ninaku masilayille”? (Ha-ha, did you not see, it is our K, don’t you remember).  I was indeed pleasantly shocked to know that the tall, young and hand- some fellow was the little K, whom I last saw when he was five. The 'enfant terrible' that he was! I was amazed and said loudly, “RP that is wonderful, but my goodness, I cannot help being awed-  how tall he has grown”!

RP’s retort made me freeze, and wish the ground beneath broke apart and sucked me down under and I eyed C, a bit shyly and nervously. RP’s good wife was acknowledging his statement. He said, “athu pinne ninte height alle”! (Well he has certainly taken after your height, don’t you know).

This episode when often quoted by C and I wish that she does in jest!

RP was a fast driver both of the two- wheeler and car. He has had quite a few brushes and had crashed, fortunately with little or not very serious damage, bodily. One day he was explaining to a few people his latest adventures. He had crashed his car just a few days back and he explained in a riveting statement what happened. He said, “you see, my car went and ‘hitted a tree’, I can do nothing”. (!)

The Impish kiss

She said it all began with an impish kiss on her lips and then a swift withdrawal with the dramatic air of innocence. I chose to make her believe that she could make me believe. It was like her borrowing all the light in the world to make believe it is dark.

She was always succeeded  to bring out the air of innocence ,the piteous and the prevailed. She always appeared demure, and displayed a taciturn air. However a close observation would penetrate through the veil of modesty and shy strain she displayed. Modesty, a  quality though unfortunately misplaced and identified with women who are  hail from surroundings of  conventions and traditions. And she was indeed from a background as similar as that.It could be said that a woman’s eyes are the portals into her being. And watch her eyes closely, and one may see the abyss and  the mountains that she and only she can pass over. It is fathomless repository and men know not what it beholds. She was such!

She could enthral young and old among men in the captive, enchanting regard of her eyes. And cast away women to moan in peeve and anguish emanating out of envy; make her spouse prostrate and crawl on his four, thus was the beguile and power of the enchanting sorcery of  her gaze and enamour.

So, it began, she alleged with the “impish kiss”.
The chemistry of adultery ingrained in Man like ineluctable chaff! I felt, and told him so, that it can only end up in a blame game with no end and reason in sight. The chemistry of adultery!

The room was well alighted by the sun that threw in its radiance . It was  a well lit place. The walls were pearl white and the curtain and drapes spotless in union. The snow white cotton -silky mattress laid spread immaculately on the mahogany cot .And seated on its edge lest the fabric crumble  she beckoned him to continue from where it all began. The impish kiss, genesis from her gaze that can behold men, young and old.

The' Gulags' of today

"Blow the dust off the clock. Your watches are behind the times. Throw open the heavy curtains which are so dear to you -- you do not even suspect that the day has already dawned outside".


-- Alexander Solzhenitsyn

"Udhara nimittam oru Gulf yatra" (In quest, a journey across the seas)

"Athilo mundee luncitha kesa

Kashyambhara bahukrutha vesha

Passyanapi cha na passyathi loka

Udhara nimittam bahukrutha sokha ( vesha)”.

                       “Men with hairs overgrown,

                         Men with a shaved head,

                         Men with a well- cut hair,

                         Men with ocher robes,

                         See the world,

                         But pretend they don’t,

                         And suffer all the way,

                         To fill their belly forever”!

No spiritual conceits this, or aided by exotics in spirits;

Reflections and musings,in search of spirit to move fore.

The Blood of Dracula

'The creature bent over the young woman, whom its red bloody eyes put into a trance. The Count’s mouth opened and snapped shut in a deep kiss on her neck. His teeth felt the soft skin and went in through it like a hypodermic needle. The woman writhed and moaned in ecstasy.The Count drew in the young blood for a while and held back his mouth. Blood dripped from his reddened mouth and lips. The girl was still in the trance he flung her. Dracula beamed in maverick smile  and mused in content and surveyed around ,his eyes darting like that of the  he wolf that drank to its heart’s content’

The Vampire story with the eponymous antagonist Dracula must have descriptions like these. Though I do not remember the exact words and sentences Stalker used to describe the ritual of the Count Dracula.

I happened to hear on the regional FM channel the social advert meant to encourage blood donation. The feminine voice that exhorted the virtue of donating blood, took me back into many years in the past. With all respect to the solemn virtuous deed of blood donation and without any disparaging intent let me narrate some experiences with blood donation.

The Count Dracula story was only the visual symbol of the abstract idea that came to my mind from experiences long ago. The difference was that the Count was a petite paramedical nurse and the sting of the Count’s sharp tooth was the piercing of the syringe fitted with a thin, sharp steel needle which went through the outer layer of the skin and into the vein; blood of teenaged and youthful red exuberance gushed out first in a torrent and then dripping down gently into the glass bottle!

The display of virtue, though for a token consideration was not to be publicised at that period in time. So there was a lot of stealth and secretive planning that preceded the transfusion at that private laboratory. There was in fact nothing resembling moral excellence in that transfusion of blood. It was not donation ‘per se’. The consideration was Rs 20, as the blood filling up the glass bottle being RH positive.It would fetch Rs 40 for the blood with RH factor negative.

There was no ecstasy that the pretty lady lived through when the Count Dracula bent over her and punctured his sharp teeth on to the side of her neck. This was an anxious feel of getting done with the procedure, pocket the money and slither out hoping to be not noticed by the gentry in the city to whom I was familiar to.

The extraction ritual in the little room of that laboratory got over in even time. And the lass who conducted the transfusion ensured that I lay on the cot for a while. Later she gave me a glass of fresh lemon with liberal additive of glucose and a few cream biscuits. There was no signing of vouchers and I pocketed the twenty Rupees and slid out to walk the few meters to the bus station.

All avenues that were lawful and unlawful were exhausted before some of us decided on this new means of pocketing some money for mundane indulgence like, having a coffee and vada, a few chapattis and the infamous, but tasteful beef curry at the college canteen, or a ‘Charms’ cigarette and spending on tickets to the favourite Hollywood films that were invariably released on all Fridays at the Sreekumar /Sreevisakh movie theaters.The exercise that fetched “blood money” went on over a few times over a period. It sometimes gave a feeling of chivalry to us who struck upon the idea. We even joked on it as the symbol of “Eucharistic liturgy”.

Since it has passed three decades after those eventful days, I guess that there may not be something inappropriate in mentioning the end story which became a sorry saga and the name of one of the artist. Rajan was a boisterous, trouble shooter, both in the confines of his home or out at the college or elsewhere. He had the denseness of mischievousness that one will be surprised to see, concentrated in one person and always displayed in his fair chubby face. The movie was releasing through its first exhibition on that afternoon and we took the bus straight from the laboratory. We managed to be very early in the queue for tickets and ensured that we did not miss out the first days first filming. While we were in the queue waiting for the counters to open Rajan got embroiled in the most stupid of all indulgence. Hearing the violent cacophony we looked around and saw that he was into fist fights with a group of gamblers who were squatting nearby. They were fooling people to throw money into a game of dice promising a win of three or four times the sum that was put in. This idiot put all his “blood money’” into the game and lost squarely. Rajan was standing a cropper and he tasted his own blood!