Mobile Proud

We are PROUD about different things. As an interesting human behaviour this reflect our socail standing and the very character of the individual. Hosewifes were PROUD about their kitchen..the utensils...cooker...6 ltr refrigerator...6 kg washing machine etc...this Proud is called KP(Kitchen Proud). Mothers were Proud aboutt their Younger Sons...they proudfully exhibit their YS in social gathering and Proudly Praise their virtues...this is calle YSP..( Younger Son Proud) and follows Car Proud, Garden Proud, Dog Proud, Degree Proud, etc, etc.... But these days I found a new set of people who were Proud of their cell phones...Just look around...you found a guy Proudly exhibit his brand new Mobile to an admiring crowd..this is called MP - (Mobie Proud)

MINARET

Leila Aboulela's MINARET is a beautiful read. The story revolves around the life of Najwa. Born in an elite, respectful Sudanese family, Najwa falls into the pit of downtrodden life with coup of Sudanese Government, where his father was once an influential businessman and politician. After his father's arrest Najwa and her family moved to London. She found her very self in the urban, globalized England , and she starts her search for true self and faith. After her mother's untimely demise and her brother's arrest for dealing with drugs, Najwa started to work in rich Sudanese household for a living.

Bleak House

I like Gothic Literature. I like forsaken bleak houses abandoned in countrysides. Once I visited such a bleak mansion. The very house is surrounded with creepers and age-old trees, an ancient gate is ornamented with a wood nameplate which read as CHACKO VARGHESE, PUTHUPARAMBIL . I never know who is this Chacko is. But through the transparent window I had seen his families entire photo hanged in the walls. Photographs of a heavy moustache man in formal suit and a dazzling looking girl in midie and top. May be the man is Chacko and the lass is his daughter. But I never forget the piercing eyes of the girl.

HAPPINESS

Happiness is an Old Saint,
Sitting in a tavern with unhappy drunkards
Joy is a virgin
Born and brought up in a brothel
Calmness is an innocent son
Killed by his way-ward cruel father
Silence is a wife
Hanged by his husband
Me
A human
In search for Happiness, Joy, Calmness and Silence

Of Lineage

Everybody boasts 'Lineage' or ancestry or bloodline of descent but I hate this. I love Heathcliff like brats and their very struggle to exist in a fucking lineage driven world. Kings, Rulers, PMs, Musicians, Bollywood stars, Gandhi clan of Indian Politicians,Writers, Cricket Players, Actors, even whores boasts about rich lineage. Recently I had seen Cilnt Eastwood's The Good, the Bad and the Ugly...I love the pirates and their very existance. I love the great people who emerged from street and forcefully captured the power of wealth, power and fame from the hands fucking lineage sons and duaghters of this bad world. Huree to all tramps and pirates

SONGS

Working in an FM Station I am forced to listen film songs in a non-stop manner. Daily 8 hrs of Malyalam-Tamil-Hindi songs. Apparently every corner of our station is studded with blaring automated speakers, even in pantry I can't keep away from songs. Songs!!!. In malyalam lyrisists they have particular love to certain words such as Makara Manju- Winter Snow, Kalli Penne- Oh..my thief girl, Kuliru- Chill, Kinavu-Dream, Mizhithumpu-brim of the eyes, peyyuu- shower....Tamil lyristst love to write En Azhake- Oh my beauty, kathal dinam- day of love, nila- moon light, Uyiru- breath to life, Unnai- You, Penne- girl,

Book Review- The Harmony Silk Factory- Tash Aw

"Unputdownable" says Dorris Lessing about Tash Aw's debut novel- The Harmony Silk Factory is right. Tash Aw narrates the wonders of exotic east wrapped in the life of Johnny Lim- a vagabond turned hero and his mysterious wife, Snow. The story is set in the backgroud of WW 2 .Like Rashmon, the fall and rise of Johnny Lim, unfolds through the eyes of three individuals, Johnny's son , Snow and Peter Wormwood. Half of the story is told by Johnny's son, portraying the Heathcliffian character and early years of tactful Johnny, his short stinch as a miner and his entry to the valley and Snow's home. The scond part of the Story is being narrated through the diaries of Snow. The mysterios diary notes reveal their honymoon trip to Seven Maidens - island and the ghostly happenings there. Peter unveals last part of the story. The innocent and much diturbed life of Johnny.

ADVANTAGES OF A GOOD NAME

A name is a tag. A tail which follows you everywhere. Apparently I am branded with a bad name. "Jacob" that is my tag. My christian parents took this name from Bible. In Bible, Jacob is a treacherous brother, who cheated his brother and take advantages of younger-son blessings from his father. Certain times I express that biblical Jacob's treacherous trait. Oftentimes my mother used to analyse my character with biblical Jacob. But god's grace this biblical Jacob was once blessed with the angels of Jehovah. I too.
But in my Indian-Kerala existance my name embit the image of a cyrian-christain Achayan.
In Kerala the common names are Ajayan-One who can't defeat, Sathyapalan-One who always vigil truth, Arun- other name for sun, Sundaran- The beautiful...and many other names Sreekumar, Anil, Sunil, manoj...etc. All these names had a vibrant youth feel. I miss this. Jacob- the very name throw me into the pit of a bad brand name- Achayan

Muniswami- The man who peddles other men

Madurai roads is always bustling...brand new bmws to age-old cycle rickshaws honking 24 hrs in this Temple City. Coiling Circle is the shape of the city here. On our short tour we climbed Muniswami's Cycle rikshaw. Looks like a black seer the drunken Muniswami take us to the honking city. Musiswami had two wives and 12 children.Last 20 years Muniswami Peddling through the temple roads of Madurai. Yelled with the motor vehicles passed through the roadside Muniswami makes the way to his cycle and his life-cycle.

Trailing throgh the Temple City- Madurai

Trailing through the Temple City- Madurai is an enthralling experience. Myraid colors of dieties, cow-dug smelling streets, labyrinth of narrow alleies, silk-cloth shops, people carry man peddling cycles, scorching Indian sun and finally the poor south-Indian mass. Madurai-meenakshi temple is a classic example of great, intricate, much laboured Indain Architecture. The 4 tower temple is built by various king at different times. Following the Durga cult in the Indian sub-continent is an interesting thing to bhakthi travellers .

Madurai had great folkloric history, once Kannagi burned this ancient city. The story of Kannagi plays an important role in history of Madurai.
Story of Kannagi - from a website sorce
There lived a merchant by name "Maasaathuvaan" in Kaveripoompattinam. He had a son called "Kovalan". He was married to "Kannagi" who was the beautiful daughter of a merchant by name "Maanaikkan".
Later Kovalan fell in love with a dancer called "Madhavi". He became a spendthrift and soon he lost all his property. On the occasion of "Indira " festival in Kaveripoomopattinam, he had a dispute with Madhavi and he went back to Kannagi. Inorder to regain his property, he went to Madurai along with his wife kannagi to start a business. They were accompanied by "Kavunthiadigal".But she continued her journey after leaving the Kovalan and Kannagi in "Puranjery" where they were accompanied by "Madhari" who was a cowherdess. She helped the couple in all ways.Kannagi gave her Jewelled anklet ("Silambu") to Kovalan and asked him to sell it so that he can start his new business. Kovalan went to market to sell one of Kannagi's anklets. In the meantime, the queen of Pandiyan King Nedunchezhiyan,lost her anklets ("Silambu"). Actually, the court Jeweller had robbed the queen's anklets. Once the wicked jeweller happened to see Kovalan with Kannagi's anklets in the market. He seized the anklet from Kovalan and informed the king about it. The king sent gaurds to arrest Kovalan. Kovalan was accused of having stolen the queen's anklets and was killed as per the king's order. When Kannagi came to know about the news, she went out into the town,with her eyes ablaze with anger, carrying the remaining anklet in her hand as proof of her husband's innocence. She made the king realise the truth by breaking her anklet which was made of Manickam. When Pandiyan king came to know that he had punished an innocent ,he died in his throne by saying "Oh! I am the thief and he is not the thief". The queen also died at that spot.Kannagi burnt Madurai into ashes in consequence to the injustice caused to her husband Kovalan.

It is an important centere of commerce since 550 AD. The Pandyan King Kulasekarar built a great temple and created a lotus shaped city around the temple. On the day the city was to be named, as Lord shiva blessed the land and its people, divine nectar (Madhu) was showered on the city from his matted locks. This city was henceforth known as Madhurapuri.

Onam

I normally like Festivals. But the euphoria of Onam is disgusting. Images of Onam is reflection of Keralites nostalgic mind. Ksavu Glittering Onamudu remebers me the elite Kerala man and woman. And I hate the typical vegetarian Sadya ( feast) . But I like Payasams and yellow-colored banana chips. But in my childhood I partaked in onam festivities like collecting flowers from the nearby houses and cleaning the moss seaten walls to invite Maveli ( The First Communist-Socialist King in Kerala) . In my literature spirited youth I celebrated Onam Days with reading Literature filled special magazines.

Cave

In old age man dwelled in caves. He kept his hunting tools and stocks in the cave. Everybody knows the cave-age of man. Ages flashed. Man had new environs to live and work. But his old instinct of savegery still pretains. Sorry ,I hope you know all about it. Recently I am shifted to a cave-flat. In the basement I rarely met our co-cave dwellers, like two tribes dwelling in the savage forests of Amazon we parted and never tried to smile at each other.

OM MANI PADME HUM

I like this budhist chant very much OM MANI PADME HUM- BEHOLD THE JEWEL IN THE GOLDEN LOTUS...

Sunday on a Foggy Beach

Last sunday we were together at beach
We walked and talked
Nothing communicated
Fog and foam
We chated irrerelavant things
Tissue of lies
Sand, empty bottles, crushed cigarettes, wet dreams
Philosophy and pornography
Spoonful of bitter cofee
At last we found a wornout barby doll washed away
We wind up or Holiday

Zorba

Last week I struggled with Zorba. The eternal classic from Greek Master Nikos Kazathzakis, Zorba The Greek. Shivered with the mighty strength of Zorba I fell from the abyss of humanity. When I compare my life with Zorba I feel ashamed I am floating through the surf of life. But this may the happiness of human life..

Monsoon

I like cloudy evenings. It fills me with immense fear. In my boyhood our home drool when rain dance through the whisling rubber trees. I love to be sleep while fat rain drop falling in roof tops and banan leaves. Cycling to rain is great when drizzle bike through the roads is good.It is lovely to be in forest when it rains. Once we were in forest when rain started it dance in the mountain tops. It is celestial. I wish to sitting at our old ancestral home in monsoon and experiece the compete laziness . Books another treat we can slow with sip of tea in monsoon days. In this monsson i will re read God of Small Things and Wuthering Heights

SOME DEFINITIONS

HUSBAND- A HISSING SOUND OF BEND

WIFE- THERE IS ALWAYS A KNIFE IN WIFE

CHILDREN- DRILL EVEN CHILL

FARM

Normally I dislike to do any household duties but everyday I fetch milk from our nearest farm. I love to go early morning into the farm and I enjoy the vista of beautiful cows standing in the cowshed. The farm contains poultry and other animals too. Rabbits, Goats, and the like.There was always a huge Q in front of the stall. I put my can and the milkman pour white surfing milk into the can. This is the one and only domestic duty I do. One day i went early to the farm there is no cows and milk man. Desert, there is no grass in the field. And atlas I saw a board and small shop, the board as MILMA

A BABY COULD MAKE YOU A MIMICRY ARTIST

You can't make a serous man a mimicry artist. But a baby can. My 10 month old baby boy is doing such a marvelous job in our family. He emit babble sounds everybody imitate that sounds and they add new sounds to his babble vocabulary. Blu..blu...bluu...blu...bla...blaa...suck sounds. Last sunday we had a visitor in our home he is a serous middle aged man I had never ever seen his laughing face. Normally he growl and make other grotesque voice if we need any answer from him. I passed my boy to him firstly he hesitate to play with the boy. But my innocent son laugh at him and make him smile nicely. Then my son emit some sounds like bla..bla..again he smiled when I came back from kitchen I heard the serious man making grotesque BLAAAAAAAAAA.....

I lost my ability to tell stories

Once iam wish to be a writer, i imagined things that will shake my very self. I dreamt about dragons, rainbow, misty mountains. But i lost all

Green Day

I observed Green Day today. Planted 7 medicinal plants. Earth thanked me for doing such a good deed. But I killed morethan 10 earthworms. After a long period i touched wet earth, wet soil. Watering roots is a good thing. I planted kanikonna, ashokam, mandharam, nelli, madhalam, vazhana, and other plants. After rejuvenating job i went to wash soil washed away from my hands and toes, nice feeling.I sprouted with leaves

I Exist

Morning
waking to a day of possibilities
everyday new hope and new dreams
Midday
ash sky with withered dreams
Evening
setting with anguish and dismay
Night
fearing unintrepeted dreams
I exist

About Cultural Centres

We have 2 cultural centers in the city. One is Russian and other is French. Russian Cultural center is in a dilapidated situation, they stocked a good pile of old-marxist-leninist malayalam traslation books, these books were the study class material of communist party of india, kerala.
The only russianness of russian center reflects through librarian's moustache. I found a tiny spider webbed its art in the tiny russian flag lying in the desk. French people always boast themselves, wine, painting, piano they have typical things at stoke. No new books in their library only French books. And a cultureless director...we have 2 close these 2 cultural centers

No escape from Art

Devil And God is dual existance of man..I belive so. When I trail the path of artistic life of Paul Gauguin I found this truth. I had read Somerset Maugham"s The Moon and Sixpence and Mario Vargas Ilosa's The Way To Paradise , amazed by the beauty and power these two books and the artist soul these two books discussed I spellbound by the shere beauty of the Gauguin's life.Day and night I ponder over the power of artist and his very agonizing life. I found Gauguin as saddist and seducer. I found Guguin as spiritual child and spirited god. An artist with revenge.After reading Guaguin i had headaches for two days. Never-before I trail a painter like this I had surfed all his painting and download and created a folder. Black magic is the power of art Ilosa wrote in The Way to Paradise. Really Guguin spell cast on me there is no escape from art

Reading Rajanikanth sorry Rajani Cinema

We worship star gods and godesses. Like any Rajani fan I used to whistle and giggle when a Rajani movie is running on the screen. While reading Gayathri Sreekanth's THE NAME IS RAJANIKANTH I felt that irrestible instict to race my voice. Every page I clasped because Gayathri is trying to create an aura behing the star. The most funny thing in the book is that Gaythri tried to traslate some famous punch dialogues of Rajani. Example: Movie-Padayappa- En vazhi thani vazhi-My way is unique, Movie-Baasha-Naan Oru thadavu sonna, nooru thadavu sonna mathiri-If I say it once. I laughed and roared after reading the traslation..Hureeh

Haiku

Piercing Summer
Golden glow of the summer evening
A cat on the terrace
Oh god! Iam in a good mood
Rushed to the roadside teashop
Have a tea and wills

Lost

Rajesh

Gloomy Sunday was his favourite youtube video. Mario Vargos Illosa was his favourite latin american novelist. He talked a little but walked a lot. He was simple but never humble. Suicide attempts was his preferred hobby in orkut profile. His orkut album contains 6 photos with hidden faces. His writings shocked the politician and the potential reader. He was a complete mystery to his friends. He was a passive listenter in nightlong orgies. He wore cotton shirts and cotton trousers. A cap less pen was his weapon. He lodged with cheap lodges available in the city.He attended film festivals regularly. 6 attempts atlast he won the game.

ON AIR

Air, the very word is the essence of life. But dead air is a different thing, when you are on air dead air can kill you. Sorry it is the bloody jargons we using in fm radio stations. As a copywriter in a new fm radio sation literally iam on air. Clients demanding 10 second commercials 100000000000 things in the same ad. I smoke 4 cigarettes to do a concept. God is on air as we believe i think he is controlling all fm station bandwidths. In my childhood I raise my eyes to the sky and address god. These days I look into the sky in a different angle GOD DEAD AIR.

Last Xmas

Last xmas I went to home
Whithered Rubber leaves welcome me to Home
Glittering moon lead my way to home
Abandoned countryside
Whistling wind rotates
Mountain road sleeps like a drunkard
Silence
Starless night
last xmas I went to home
My childhood playmates is faraway
My sick brother is faraway
My old parents welcomes me
Dinner table with out special feast
Last xmas i went to home
Homecoming, a cruel experinece my heart mourn

Kindling Kalidasa

Last night I read Rthusamhara, Kalidasa's debut work. Recharged with Rithusamhara I regained my vista of visual senses. Verses with smell, sweet, love, pain, seasonal longings, despair, death that's what I felt with Kalidasa. Rain poured...love kindled. When I read the lines, lust of hidden energy sparked through my vains. Myraid hues of Indianness gave me the feeling of travelling through the ancient Indian Cities. Like the feeling of Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, I fell in love with Ujjayani. I fell love with dancing devadasis, dancing peacocks, fruit bearing Indian trees, street shops. Oh God in my yearly years of youth I spend reading rubbish like existentialism. Oh kalidasa my immortal poet! You regained me from the depth of ignorance. Thanks dear poet.