Monday, December 31, 2007


What brings a new year? Candies of happiness or candles of sorrow. But I set my resolution I will be simple and more human in 2008.I will devote 1 hr to write regularly. I will be happier than the last year. I will be more creative than the last year. I will be go back to my simple rustic life. I will be contentful and resourceful. I will read 50 pages regularly.

Saturday, December 22, 2007

Turtle Family

I had seen a beautiful cinema at last IFFK. Turtle family. Apparently the so called Jury neglected the film. I like the mood, characters and the plot of the film. Uncle manuel is superb. Like most of the films screened in the festival the story revolved around a restless family.The key visual image in the film is uncle manuel's turtles. He is the key man who had connection with the family members. Turtle Family is a slow moving family. Hats off to Ruben Imanz

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

About Office Politics

These days I am subjected to a prey for office politics. If you are working with a good for nothing colleques you will face this kind of problems. Through my experience few things about this agony. First never try to give anyone in an opportunity into your office through you. Do only the jobs assigned to you.Never try to teach your boss and colleques. Dont yell to approve your ideas in the office, because let them go ahead with their mundane ideas. If you can't cope up with the group quit the firm as soon as possible. Keep mum in office meetings. Dont disclose any secret to your supporters because they turn to be your enemies soon. Always wear a false smile and always wish your colleques. Support them. otherwise you will fall in the pit like me. Go ahead.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

About Jean Genet

Last saturday I went to the old bookshop. I love to read damped dusty books. Scanning through the books I found Genet's Our Lady of The Flowers. The erotic masterpiece that shooked the corners of the solid society. I decided not to bargain for this, I take the book and asked the price. The boy told Rs.20/-. Oh god Genet worth only 20 rupees. Back with60 km in speed I start to reading...there is no word to count the experience. I went the old book shop last day again I found Genet, now it is Theifs Journal. Again 20 Rupees. Genet will never believe this.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007



Boyhood and By Cycle

Collecting the smells, sounds, songs, sorrows, tastes and the appearance of boyhood makes me nostalgic. If you look at your own nostalgia closely, you’ll find most of it relates to the place you grew up, what you were wearing at that time, which are your playmates at that time like stuff. Its mental makeover that makes everything in the past seems better.

I still wish to look over from our blue mountain top to the hazy foggy village in December days. I still wish to sit in the third bench of our country school.
In my Indian boyhood I was subjected to religious submissiveness and parental humiliations.

Our country school was situated in a hill side. In my first standard classes was end in midday. Chanting Malayalam syllables in a hoarse voice was the only activity conducted in the school. In my second standard I had writing Thara…Para.. in Malayalam.

Our head master came in a by cycle. It is our guiltiest pleasure to release the air from tire tubes. Our bald headed head master gets angry when he realizes the condition of the tubes. My first encounter with the female sex happened in the school’s open toilet.
We boys are stand still and face the wall to pee, but girls normally sit and release their bowels. Once I peep to these sitting pee girls. That was in my fourth standard.

Our back school ground was a bushy forest. Fruit trees covered the bushes and normally the forest became our favorite arena of activity. We climbed the trees and pluck the fruits from the tree top. Some of them stock it for homes. It was ruthless rustic life.

Its Jojo’s idea to hire a by cycle and travel through our village. We prefer Sundays and Saturday to this trotting. Our cycle went through narrow streams, through tall trees, through lonely homes, through foggy mountain paths, through the valley of wetting rocks, through paddy fields, through forsaken churches, through LP, and UP schools.
While this travels my senses were brooding, I became a Robert Frost in heart and a Wordsworth in mind. Once while in our expedition we smoke a beedi butt in the shadow of a big tree. On the way to back to home we chewed several leaves to ward the smell.
Apparently my friend confessed about this smoking sin in a Friday prayer. I still keep the sinful boyhood habit.
(Will Continue..)

Friday, October 26, 2007





My early years were surrounded in the home. I played with fire, earth and water. Still water is a problematic element for me. Once it tried to wash out me from life. But I can’t resist the joys of water. I danced in the pouring rain. I went to fishing in the small ponds. Still, an overwhelming well is a wonderful treat to my eyes. After that swallowing episode Father, put a strong coconut wood across the well. In rainy seasons I went to this well and measure the water level with my eyes. Mother takes me to bath in the well side under a group of banana trees. Those mornings sun was pierced through the green banana leaves. I clap my hands and laughed with the colors.

Earth also gave pain to me. Once I was playing with sand and stones, one tiny stone went to my nostril. My cousin Biji took me to the primary health center, 5 km way from our home in his bicycle. I sit in the cross bar and mother take the back seat carrier. Dr.Tharakan took the tiny stone and he patted my cheeks. After that episode I was shunned to touch the stones. Animals were my playmates at that time. Black dog was my sole companion. We sit together and wait for Father at evening. He roared to the cocks who had tried to enter the home. I wept when he died after consuming an ill meat.
I cried three days. We buried him under a rubber tree. I put large stones to remember his tomb. Later years I read, Budha confronted death in the similar way.

These days my name falls like tag into my soul and body. Everybody yelled ‘James do that and don’t do that.’ When I try to climb a tree or try to throw a stone or try to tear a book this yelling irritated me. Once I hit our small lamb with a stick Mother had seen my act and hit me by the same stick. My pleasure turns to be a sudden pain. But I wondered when a visitor came to our home Mother sadistically kill a cock .Its drooling blood dipped through the way and it eyes jutting out from the socks.

At the age of 3 I went to the house of the traveling master. Master lives in the mountain.
One day Mother took me to the mountain road and after a long walk we entered a small thatched home. I remember 4 or 5 pupils sit in the verandah and write something on a dried coconut leaf and they yelled Aa…Aaaa..Ee…Eeee…. Mother enrolled me to the class. Master smiled to me. Mother told me that this master traveled to the rich houses in the village and teaches letters to the students. We are poor so we have to come to this hut regularly. Master put some rice to the mat and I sit in his lap, both of our fingers sketch in the rice…Harisree Ganapathaye Nama.

(Will Continue…)

Thursday, October 25, 2007




Birth Pangs

His mother says “It was a rainy day. It started at the evening. His father was away. Kalikochu and the black dog were with me. It was a normal delivery. He was a small bony boy. Kalikochu midwifes me to deliver him. His father came at night. Pain and panic make me in deep slumber; I still remember he cried nightlong. Rain was pouring. Small kerosene lamp flickered in the whistling wind. In sleep I heard Kalikochu‘s hoarse lullabies.”

His father says “I am a painter. Not an artist. I paint walls and fences. That day I was away with my work. It was a huge bungalow in Thiruvalla. It was the final day of our14 day long commission work. Team leader Pappachan gave 200 Rs. to me. We were happy, on the way back we visited a toddy bar, Pappachan paid the bill. It was raining. When I reached our small hut I heard his voice.”

Kalikochu says “They are Christians, but good people. I used to do small domestic duties for them. Kunjumol considered me as her mother. It was a killing pain. There was no one in the home and in the neighborhood. I prayed to all my deities. It ended with 45 minutes. I take the baby. I washed him. He cried”

I was born in a small, poor family. My ancestors were farmers; they came in this mountain side and settled in the valley. When my mother came to this place as a new bride this place was surrounded with thick forest. Jackals and foxes were the daily visitors in the back kitchen. When my mother was conceived with me she fell in the well.
This well was a small one, surrounded with moss and green sprouting.

We had a good stock of cattle and poultry, 3 cows and 4 cubs, 2 goats, 2 dozen hens and chicks, a cat, a dog and a parrot. Mother and cattle roamed through the rustic village and neighborhoods. At night we heard howling of foxes. I cherished that lullabies.

No snuggies and no Johnson & Johnson. Visitors came to visit us. Mother talked and gossiped. Sleep and smile, which was my role. My maternal grand mother came with her home-made medicines to rejuvenate mother. My Christianizing ceremony was conducted in much gaiety. Cousin Elson carried me to the parish. A small congregation surrounded in the altar. Priest showered the holy water into my head. They called me ‘James’.
(Will Continue…)

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Old Church

In my Christian childhood I used to visit my country church usually. Its moss eaten walls were damp and green. Doves always perched its roofs. Always its altar emitted the smell of camphor. Old church is situated in a scenic hill side. Its silence always interrupted by whistling winds. Surrounded by blue misty mountains it became vanish from view in winter. Its thorny bush path is surrendered to grass sprouting. Its tall bell tolls on Sundays and call the worshipers for worship. Sin and solace…love and lust…these 4 words nailed me into a cross. Today I found 4 wounds in my body. I heard the heart piercing bell toll of our old church

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

A Love Poem and a Lollypop

A lollypop and a love poem have same ingredients. Licking a lollypop and loving a love poem is same. One comes with a stick and the other comes with a prick. One quenches the thirst of lips and other quenches the thirst of hearts. One sticks in the lip and other thick in the tongue. Swallow a lollypop and a love poem; the end result will become sweet. The shape of a lollypop and the shape of a love symbol is same, heart. Gifting a lollypop and writing a love poem will attract others. The color of a lollypop and the color of a broken heart are same, red. One helps to cherish your childhood and the other helps to recoup your romance. One helps to hanging out with friends and other helps to hang in a tree. Overeating of lollypop leads to dysentery and the rereading of the other leads to death. Both are momentary happiness. At last, a stick and a kick last.

Sunday, October 14, 2007


Long 5 years I lived in 12 lodges. Today I am longing for a lodge to sit idle and simply recollect my old agonizing life. For a bachelor a lodge room is his first love. It is his comfort place in a complex world. From this dark room he dreams his new dawn.
Loneliness in a lodge is like locking you in a large room. Loving and lodging is two different things.

When a lover is gone back from his lover’s lap to the lodge is quiet agonizing. I went through this torturing period when I was a lodge dwelling lover. When I was a student of Journalism in Press Club Trivandrum my first lodge was Bhaskara Bhavan. My classmate Thomas was my first roommate. Every lodge room has its own rotten smells. Our room stinks like an old sheet used by generations. Its floors always flourished with foamless cigarette buts. We share a small cub board. Thomas sleeps like sloth in the whole day and I went to my love’s meeting points. Every lodge has its bunch of broken humans and broken animals. We had an interesting character in our lodge, a problematic post master, in salary days this man came with food packets and feed the cats. Fish fry, chilly chicken, parotta …and other eatables, amazing thing is that these crooked cats simply sit in the wall and wait for him in the feast day. This man had no relation to other human beings in the lodge. I had never ever seen he had even smile to a human being. When we had seen this fiesta while our pockets became empty we like to transform to a black cat..mewo…mewo……mewo…..( Will Continue..)

Friday, October 12, 2007

Resurrection from Routine

Resurrection is a word connected to Christianity and Cross. For me resurrection is recouping my life from routine. Today I rise early; normally I rest in bed till 7am.
I brushed my teeth before the first milk tea. Today I walked to the farm to fetch the milk. Today I will quit smoking, the great break for the day. I will found a new route to reach my office. Today I will try to help a human being. I will try to find happiness in every given moment allotted by god. I will try to smile like a small kid. I will start my story writing seriously. I will set my goals. God help me to let resurrect. Let me resurrect in the third day. I can’t stand the smell of this rotten tomb of routine.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

My Guiltiest Pleasures

Theft ( Kleptomania)

As a kid I got kicks for shoplifting .In my childhood I stole stickers and candies from our crook old shop keeper. This shop keeper was a land lord in our village; his estates include paddy fields, coconut groves, rubber estates, banana groves…etc. Vast vicinity of these lands subjected to our playground. Exploring and excavating through these jungles we found falling coconuts, arc nuts, ripped bananas and other sellable commodities. My companions always depute me to sell the commodities to the old shop keeper. He always calculated the lowest prices to the products. After collecting the cash with a palpitating heart I feel the deepest guilt and a highest pleasure. But I left this theft pleasure.


Smoking is my greatest guiltiest pleasure. Started at the age of 16, still I had continuing this cruel, killing habit. My first smoking experience is worth writing. Once, after picking a 555 cigarette from my Papa’s packet I slip to the shade of the haystack, gazing to the cow shed I smoked. After completing the cigarette I went to my room, an alarming cry alerts me to look at the terrific scene. Haystack got fire.
I was subjected to 25 flogging. Still when I burn the cigarette I can feel the smell of burning haystack.


Sorry, you know, I can’t narrate.

( Will Continue…)

Tuesday, October 9, 2007


Dating tips, mating tips, cooking tips, fixing tips, dieting tips, traveling tips, driving tips, gardening tips, cleaning tips, jogging tips, yoga tips, planning tips, pregnancy tips, feeding tips, beauty tips, body tips, reading tips, writing tips, exhibition tips, exhibiting tips, memory tips, management tips…we are living in ‘tips’ surrounded world. I think tips are meant for easy doers. Normally it comes in 5 numbers. One of my Aunty had good collections of these tips, wherever she found a Malayalam woman magazine, especially Vanitha or Grihalakshmi she tore the ‘tips’ page and put it in her bag with a nice smile. When the situation needed she vomits her vast tips knowledge. In Malayalam language ‘tips’ is considered as Podikaikal. Normally tips are written in questionnaire form, How to erase an oil mark in your shirt, like stuff. I fed up with these tips thicken magazines.

5 Tips to avoid TIPS

Do not touch a Malayalam Magazine.

Tips are written by editors, not experts.

Experiment with tips is experience with chance.

Truths behind the tips are always false.

5. Stick to a tiny tip? Sit down and think.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

My Aunt’s Home or Wuthering Heights

Coiling roads lead the bus to the hill top. Embers of the evening sun pierced through the thick woods. Bus took sharp turn on the curves. Chilling wind circling through the woods .Bus is almost vacant. The bus has to viand two circling coil to reach my station. I had to cross a stream to catch my aunt’s home. Bus has stopped. Its headlights headed to the mountain top after a short while. I stepped in the stream, steeping through the black rocks it ended in the deep fathom. 3 years had passed. Flicker of the light gleaming from the bleak house. Instead of ‘Aruvikkuzhi’ I like to name the home as ‘Wuthering Heights’.

In my childhood my vacation visits were ended in Wuthering heights. Memory of those vacation days and its happiness was the fuel for my quick visit. I cherish that good old days, morning summer walks to the mangrove, bath in the stream, candle lit dinners. Neighborhood is an odd word here. What makes Aruvikkuzhi as Wuthering Heights? Is it its hilly existence…? Or is it its chilly winds howling through the rubber trees? Otherwise is its tumultuous Catherine like human characters? Elson is exact the copy of Catherine, I remember her rustic and at the refined passions, I remember her white frock with the blue flowers, I remember when she sings in the church coir her music reverberated in the altar.
Admirers and lovers try to tackle her.

But Aunt gave her hand to a Heathcliff. That matrimony ended in mutual distaste and divorce. Elson ended her life in the stream.

I pressed the Calling Bell. Traveling through the tunnel like rooms ring tone echoed in the mansion. I heard the rustle of frock, hand unlock the heavy latch of the wood door.
My host, ghost of Elson; welcomes me with a candle light.

Friday, October 5, 2007

Cinema Paradiso or Lakshmi Theatre

In my childhood I have to feed the cow to get permission to watch movies from our nearest country Cinema Theatre. After laboring with the lazy cow over our green pastured mountain tops I went to Lakshmi Theatre to watch the matinee show. Normally I got 2 Rupees from Amma to take the first raw ticket. There were no chairs and benches in the first raw, the spectators should sit in the mat. In those days Lakshmi Theatre was a thatched one, it walls were covered with bamboo mats for sound proof, and there is no fan to beat the heat for the first raw sitters. Still I remember the thrill of my first film. It was a Mohanlal hit, Irupatham Nootandu, the story surrounds with a under world don, Sagar Alias Jackey, emerged from a down trodden life he became the don and finally the hero turns to be a oppressor of evil forces. There is particular background score in the movie
Tu…Tu…Tudotu…Tu..Tu…Tu..Tudotu………………. For the entire movie time the first row sitters should raise their eyes and torso to catch the film. First row sitters was the perfect film buffs, they shrill at every twists and turns of the cinema. Once I had seen, when our movie house played Ahashadootu., an iron-built man sobbed with full heart.
That was the first moment I had realized and wondered that screen can make a man sob.
As a boy I had thought that these actors are acting behind the white screen, one day, after the show I went to the backside of the theatre to check the reality, but I had only found the brick wall. Lakshmi Theatre was a strong presence in our life, at nights its jarring speakers emitted hit Malayalam music, traveled through Rubber tree tops these music reached our home, lullaby to infants. My first encounter with sexuality was happened at Lakshmi Theatre, screen had showed me the enigma of white women flesh, and I shuddered. After this great revelation I revolved round to see more white flesh, screen pacified my thirst.

Monday, October 1, 2007


Last Saturday I went to home. When I sit in the train a trail of thoughts followed me. I had purchased a Doll Monkey and a Teddy Bear for my brother’s daughter. Rain and train had started at the same time. Rain drops drooling through the window panes like drooling saliva of a baby’s mouth. Yes it is home-coming. A roof and a room are waiting for me. I enjoyed the sheer pleasure of thinking up on it. My co-passengers were in deep slumber. Often a tea boy or a peddler had visited our room. A bookseller exhibited his stuff to the idle sitters. Vasthushatra, Better Sex, Gardening etc. I sipped the over sweated milk tea. Whenever I think on my home I had a deep feeling about it. When I was a kid our home was a thatched one surrounded with splendid trees. Rainy days it showers through our bed rooms. My mother had defended the dipping leaf holes to put another leaf to cover the shower. As a boy I experienced the habit of wetting in midnight with the help of rain drops. Yes it is home coming. I adore my beautiful home which situated in the mountain side. Like a Haiku I love my home

Spring rain-
Under trees
A crystal stream- Basho

Thursday, September 27, 2007

My Eco-Friendly Shoes

I had a Pair of 2 year old, rotten Reebok shoes. It is in a wretched condition. Rainy days my Reebok emit rotten smells. I hate to wear soaxes. Normally I put my shoes in the portico when Iam back from work. Every kid who visit our house had an irresistible thirst to kick my shoes to the corners. While Iam fed up with these monsters I decide to put my shoes in the dark, damp corners of the portico. I place it nicely inbetween the old jars and useless utensils. Few weeks back when I rush to put my legs into the Reebok I felt something touching in my toes. With a shrill I take my legs back. A lovely little frog jumped out, few seconds little frog looked at me and then it leap through the leaves. Few days back I found the same frog in my shoes. Last day I found a Cockroach in my Reebock.Today I found a white lizard. Tomorrow???

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

The Man Who Sells Smoke

In a market driven, man made, mad world we have to confront different products for different use in our daily life. Streets were stinking with these stray silly sellers. Recently I had met a man who sells smoke. He simply do the daily fumigation job for the street side shops.He has an interesting instrument in his hand. He put the gum frankincense and other smoke emitting herbal, small grain like powders into this insrument and finally put the burning coal. After a few seconds suddenly the sweet smelling smoke emit from the instrument.Then he simply shake the smoke emitting insrument, with this swinging action he enter into the shop and spread the smoke to the stinking corners. Now a beautiful odour stay in the shop. After this highly professional job he collects his fees and simply enter into another shop with this smoke emitting instrument with a beedi ( a typical leafmade Kerala Cigarette)
in his lips. I adore him for his odour emitting smoke and his guts to live in this globalized globe.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

How to be a Paying Guest

In Indian culture a Guest is considered to be as a God. Athidi Devo Bhava. But the status of the solitary paying guest is different. Instead of a God he is considered to be a Ghost.
Normally aged couple considered him as a solitary sentry or a god fearing guard. At morning they put yesterday’s cold ‘putt’ on his dining table. They compel him to comprehend the home rules. They govern his given timings. They considered him as a broken bachelor. At night he walks pace up the pavements to keep the peace. Otherwise
he had to confront the cruel dog. He walks like a dead man walking towards singing stairway. His jutting dwelling welcomes him like a mouse on a hole. After a shower on the stinking bathroom he changes the lid of the litter (food). At the day break they call the paying guest to fetch the grocery. At the end of the month, they crawl up the moss eaten stairways to collect the strange man’s sum. They laugh; crack a crazy joke with the junior. They bless him! Athidi Devo Bhava

Friday, September 21, 2007

A human interesed story

Last day i had met a middle aged Tamil couple at the periphery of the park. I was on my way to the wayside makeshift teashop which serve milk tea and Bonda( a ball shaped, typical Kerala snack). Usually on my wayback to home I dropped here to eat this Bonda and the over sweeted milk tea.A simple luxury.A Tamil couple pleaded me to write a petition for them to the park police station. I hesitated for a few moment after a few seconds my hand take the momemtum. Tamil woman explained me the whole story. The man is a headload worker near NGO quarters.He used to be play cards on his idle hours with idle auto-richshaw drivers like any other headload worker.This time he palyed with his Chengalchoola pal. After few rounds poor headload worker got kicks and ill words from his pal. I had wrote the words. They marched towards the park police with scrampled petion paper.I overheard the woman who says " Look, its your 133333th petion on the same matter"
Yea we are humans. I think!

Words and Images

Symbol of love
symbol of death
she got a bunch of roses from him
He got a bunch of roses from her
They nicely put a buch of roses on my coffin
They scattered withered roses on my tomb
Submerged with love and hatred I resuurrected
They pluck the rose bud from my green
( Will Continue....)

Thursday, September 20, 2007

How to be a Model

Yester evening we had a model shoot. Not a big deal. A small scale photoshoot for a jewellery job. At 3.30pm a novice model and her south-indian amma came in an auto-rickshaw.
A lolitha like figure. They had a particular walking and talking style. Lolitha smiles a lot. Her ruby red lipstick licked lips parted at every individual. Amma was exhibiting her tenderness to her baby on a nauseating way.Crew took her care and take her to the shooting spot. Oh god...Achu your hair...Amma yelled at her back. Lolitha got irritated, she muttered some words. Reflectors, Camera, Make up everything ready. She came to the spot like a model on a ramp.
Eager eyes watching. Our cap crazy art director try to teach her some arresting postures. Lolitha laughs a lot to hime. Like a typical art director cap crazy patted her back and said babe you can...just do it. All ends within a half an hour. They marched towards the parked auto-richshaw with waving hands and whitewashed mouths. After our tea-session I asked my boss
Boss how experiened is she? With a puff and whiff he told. Its her first assignment. Dear Lolitha good luck.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

How to be a Baby Sitter

Iam not an experienced babysitter but a few weeks ago I had started this idle duty to my son. Normally i do read three or four trash magazines when i sit besides him. In West you can avail the service of professional babysitters. I had try to contact my service agencies to connect with a professional babysitter. No chance. So i armored with feeding bottle and brand new Snuggies and marched to the room like a solitary sentry to a cursed solitary post. The new born is sleeping like a Maharaja of Travancore attending with bunch of bountiful service men and women.I envied him for his naive sleep.At the middle of night he starts his daily routines ,blinking to the tubelights , regular exercise and starting nightlong crying. I try to pacify him by singing horrible lullabies. Rararo...Rararo...After these horrible nights i went to the office with black circled eyes. These the colleque guys told me that they usually heard Rararo...Rararo...from my cabin. Now I became a professional babysitter. Rararo....Rararo..Rararo.......................

Being a husband

Honda Activa Diaries

Dairy 1
I think you had seen Motorcycle Diaries, the great movie which visualise the great journey of Che and his friend through L.America. Like you I also admire the movie but my Honda Activa Diary is different from their marvellous journey. After daily abolution i start my petty jorney to my petty office on a pretty Honda Activa. Normally i have to stop three signal rounds to reach my office. Office? no a dark room with two computers and three good for nothing guys. Oh great you got it is a highly creative ad agency ha ha ha. Sorry for the delay the black beauty is a gift from my F.Law. I call it a voyeristic vehicle, because normally i peep into the saree fleets of my fellow travellers beautiful wives, daughters, cousins, aunties whatever it is. I adore that beautiful white ( Honey red) underbellies. We should salute them. While i was engaging in this pleasure my voyerstic vehicle twice try to kill me. First a near death accident with KSRTC Bus. Second a chance to fell a PWD well. But I love my journeys.
( will Continue)


Once Augustine Strinberg, the great sweedish playwright wrote Fatherhood is an Illusion. I believe so. When i received my new born in my trembling hand i shudder with wonder. After some moments i regain my senses and heard whispering of Mother. 'He seems to like me'. Oh God the fucking father is out.


Imagine a solitary bench in a park. You are sitting there surrounded with rotten elders. Doing nothing. Simply watching kids and lovers. Occasionally a bird will fly over your head. Adoring the beauties of the nature. Your bench is also a rotten one, moss inflicted it damp sides, a fly rests its ugly wings to the corners. Maybe the opposite bench elder sitter would be munching some peanuts. Doing nothing. Nowhere to go and noone to come. Suddenly you will feel your bushy hair became white. Peanunts in your hand. Whispering wind. With a deep sigh you linger into the bench like a rotten leaf


Daily routine of the Reader begins with try to read his yester night’s ugly dreams.
Like a book written in an alien language most of his dreams decipher nothing to him.
He closes his Book of Dreams without a book mark. With a cup of milky tea Reader swallows the day’s first word intake. Murder, theft and other crimes is his favorite brew. He read the editorial. It is always complex to comprehend. But he still read it, like an obedient student he still remembers his English Teacher’s remedy upon his bad English. After his daily ablution, Reader ready to embark on his Black Honda Activa, it is a gift from his Father in Law. Reader is on his way to his favorite libraries, situated at the three corners of the city. On the road he tries to reread his favorite bill boards.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Now Running Booklist

The Serpent and the Rope - Raja Rao
Visitors- Anita Brookner
Essays of Elia- Charles Lamb
Buddenbrooks- Thomas Mann
Steppenwolf- Herman Hesse