pep

The waves lashed onto the limestone boulders. The cold breeze marked the winter's majestic entrance. People were busy burning off calories on the synthetic track. Aircrafts roared over them awaiting the landing signal. Speeding cars passed by the expressway. The place was a wrong choice to preach tranquillity. I sieved the pista-pinapple chunks out the drink i took to overcome the strains of the days fast. Typed a text message for my friend, 'Its Eid. People are busy around. I wish there be a Buddhist monastery around. I wish there be a friend like you to suggest me something with a note - you will like it'.

Later in the night I got a reply to prepare for an avalanche.

I was being taken to the mountains rich in reds and greens. The incense sticks, prayer wheels and prayer flags. A place familiar through Javier Moro's 'The Mountains of the Buddha'. Gayness seeped in as water through the xylem vessels. Mind relished in the enamouring joy, peace and madness. I was in search of my bodhi. Through the dark caves of stone age men, through the long corridors with wooden blocks set aside, through the vacant altars where the light was always coloured in blue, green and orange. Radiant white light drove in through the broken window panes. I was being attracted to it as the moth towards fire.

*----------------------*

These are outdated ideas. You sulk when you go for it. You have more options. Tequila, Eau-ve-de-vie, absinthe, marijuana and even more, the psychedelic beats at the discotheque.Or you can write about sex or to criticize the perverts around. We aren't monks, but the saints of insanity.










*---------------------*

Later in the night, I had more chats and discussions with my friends. I make these notes to very few ones who make me feel so important in this world. For you, the space cannot contain my words.

The picture is a collage painting I did on whirling dervishes and Buddhism.

weekend

The desert is showing signs of a climate change; from the hot sweating days to the misty cold time. This has always been always a city of extremities, the western wanderers tanning themselves on the shores of luxury, the Asian migrants with their mortgaged pockets. The blacks smoking sheesha at the Arabian cafes; they wore dresses of vibrant colours as if stitched from bedspreads. The Arabs gaming with their four wheel drives, falcons and greyhounds; their Kanturas* glistened in white tinges. Through these diverse crown I just spend a weekend out of my room. Here I should mention about my past weeks brooding before my laptop and busy writing mails for my NGO. Even the random selection of books have turned out to be waste of time, they remain in my bag with a bookmark placed somewhere in the last quarter.

I had a couple of tickets for the Autumn-Winter collection by some Indian Couturier. Though I am yet to buy a camera of my wishes, I somehow managed to click a few frames. Later I roamed through labyrinths staying amazed at few Iranian artists who made wonders with sands. I was experiencing the revelous moments of passion.

*single piece loose dress reaching from shoulders to the foot, usually worn by Arabs

The journey to my mind

Prologue


Last time when I took my pen, it was to write on the little pauses, but it was indeed followed by a great pause. Busy with work and few midnight madness, I often forgot the tiny notepads I carried all the way.I was being washed way by the gushing white water stream of time . It took me to the land of wild dreams, by the bed of yellow chrysanthemums, through the marshy lands, the poppy gardens. Thrashed to the soft rocks I nearly screamed. Gasped. Sighed. I saw my destiny flowing ahead. (Smile) You kept me moving.

Thank Lord, there were always someone to nudge me, pull me and and prompt me.

Ethereal Blues


It was Thursday, the last working day of the week. I had enough work at office, though I skimmed through a couple of blogs and the news on 'Svanubhava' arts festival in Hindu.

My room was unusually calm. Brooding over insane thoughts, welcomed the depression with a smile. I was being infected by unknown viruses of passion. I slipped into those pampered depressions. It was after long that I stood awake till the dawn with this notepad and pen. I am on the journey to my mind.

I realized, i'm restricting myself to a small circle where I'm comfortable. I have started enjoying this life in exile.

Epilogue


The day started with a Masala Dosa and Coffee from the Uduppi Hotel at the corner of the lane. This was a place where you could only find a few Mangalorean families spending their weekend outside to taste delicacies of  their native. Calm and cool, not like the rest of cafeterias where the waiters shouted to the kitchen, ek porotta-keema, dow chay usme ek pani kum.

I walked out to that small lending library. The library was run by a malayali. It had many children's books and a few malayalam novels. Probably this was established for a minor communist intellectuals who left to Dubai in  the late nineties. I see them at bedspaces with a grown hair and a few old book by their pillow. I walked by...I am on the journey to my mind..

I paused.

I paused writing.
Every moment, every day
I come across some thought
I wish, I could write upon. But I paused !!


Stories unwritten; unpublished,
of people I passed by.
Dennis, the Philippine
The fat Negro woman serving hospitality
Khum, the Nepali
I paused.


Time stands confused
The black tea stinks
Air tastes salt
I am in summer blues


It is darkness, the red
concentric circles, the shots
of marijuana, which takes my dreams
I am chased. No,
Not killed


Hell !! I shouted
No, I did not
I paused !!
I am in summer blues

Ithaca

'When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,


pray that the road is long,

full of adventure, full of knowledge



Pray that the road is long.

That the summer mornings are many, when,

with such pleasure, with such joy,

you will enter ports seen for the first time;

stop at Poenician markets,

and purchase fine merchandise,

mother-of-pearl and coral, amber nad ebony,

and such sensual perfumes of all kinds,

as many sensual perfumes as you can;

visit many Eqyptian cities,

to learn and learn from scholars.



Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

But do not hurry the voyage at all.

It is better to last it for many years;

and to anchor at the island when you are old,

rich with all you have gained on the way,

not expecting that Ithaca wil offer you with riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

Without her you would never have set out on the road.

She has nothing more to give you.



And if you found her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.
 
                                                             -Constantine Cavafy(1863-1933)
                                                                   translated by Rae Dalven
(Quoted from 'The Zahir')

Huh !! What to do?

Being away from the homeland, i'm being driven by crazy thoughts..Buddha, bodhi, dances and lovely old humans. Colours creep into my heart. i wish I could make more adventures and new legacies.."Da, shall we visit Kalakshetra sometime together?" I asked my friend.

Frames kept rolling through as if from a film reel. I was stuck at the memory of the tiny rickety tea-shops of Kerala. Its wooden benches, glass shelfs and the movie posters pasted on its wall. We had lot of its kind in our village. They were active with the business before the dawn, when the people started off for their work to make coir and to hunt fishes, when the retired men walked their way to mosques to offer the morning prayers,  I would be passing by on my bicycle for the school time ritual 'Tuition'.

These places had the radio tuned to the morning ragas of 'Akashavani', or the Sanskrit News. They never understood it, but it formed the rhythm of their life. They had their hot tea, even hotter discussions on the day-to-day politics. The intoxicating puffs of tobacco guided them through great spirits. It was dexterous I felt, to hold the 'beedi' between their teeth and talk (than how the new generation blows of the puff holding it between the fingers).

On Sundays, I too ran to these huts, holding a steel tiffin box close to my chest, to get the hot 'porottas' and 'some mouth watering curry'. I would run faster back on the way. The tiffin would be hot enough to burn my skin.

Though these tea-shops are rare to be found these days, i'm sure. i shall find one to have the strong tea and parippu vadas, once I'm back there.  I'm always bound to pondering such nostalgic memories. What to do?

* The firs snaps are from the travel blog of Mitchell Kanashkevich. The last one from Neelu's collections.

Tribute

I'm running short of title ideas...even the last entry was made just to escape from the monotony of life.

"your wings went complaining.
 great.

 but you believe in the breeze.
 great.

 yes, no one can take
 the winds away from you.
 great.

 yeah! the canvas keep changing
 but the painter remains the same.
 great."


The above are words of a person who guided me with conscience, who cared me with affection, who cheered me up with a great smile, and whom i admire for his exuberance. 

zerO, you are simply great. 

Confessions

"Evenings were never so melancholic", scribbled on her tiny red notebook which had red floral designs. She always carried it in her handbag. It was gifted to her along with a gold tipped pen by her younger cousin.

"The sparrows competed to get into the tiny holes of the withered wall of the park. Their squeaky cries filled in the atmosphere. They borrowed my evenings."

It has been not so long since she left her home and parents. They seldom called her for she dared to do quite a few things which was outside the limits decided by the society. She couldn't tolerate to live in between the tailor made decent human beings. People at times found her in a gang of guys, sometimes at pubs with few tequila glasses set on the table. It was quite hard for them not to bitch about her. But they din't dare to utter a word before her.

"Its not the moustaches and beards which make a man." She had her own definitions of gender. "I often dream Shiva, the grace, the masculinity....the stone paved path and the dancing sculptors. You know dance is of two types, Nritha and Natya. Nritha is masuline while Natya is feminine." Exuberance set fire to her words when it was about dance. She was guided by a couple of fantasy filled dance compositions, her dream project. But she really gets irritated when in the wrong crowd, and that was the reason once she decided to quit her corporate job. But she couldn't do it till now." A lot talents are stuck here. I often come across entries in the bulletin. I wonder why the don'y quit. It can be called avarice of the human race. Even to build up a career in art, we need money. Artists can't always be so poor as read in old stories."

" I can't understand why life is showing a greater tendency to be monotonous everyday.At times my watch appear stagnant to me. Is time dead ? This is suffocating. I take a different path to home everyday to escape from the sameness. These parts of the city are not that depressing, but at times it wore a strange face."

"Am I selfish? I never felt so bad being termed a cynic. The air around is so saturated that I can't vent out. I want to confess. Where are you my sparrows? I want to confess."

"They say I am confused. Am I?"

** end **
It is for the first time I am writing on a female perspective. Qualities borrowed from a few female friends I admire.

Buzz (2)

mohammed shahid - peacefully insane.. - Public

More pages of the Arabian Diary
"Your hold on language is so weak that you have no idea about what you are writing" This was a comment I recently received. Probably true. But I can't keep away from communicating. This time, let...

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1 person liked this - mer sara

mer sara - Oops that hurts, who said that. Whoever, don't take that into mind, dear. You write, and you improve. That's all to it. Ketto.. :)
Lovely snaps. And I particularly love those Arabian dumplings with sweet syrup/honey. Did you have them?26 Feb

Rejith Raj - feels good to read.27 Feb

mohammed shahid - @ pink, Yeah, I shall keep on writing...;-)

Friends, Thanks for the love you pour..I'm touched..Edit27 Feb

Ajaykumar K - Buzz - Public

To my dear brother Shahid,
Language is just a medium to communicate..........I believe not in the style of language but the soul in it. You open your mind and make the world to see through your eyes...That is what the soul does...Keep writing my dear friend. And show your HOLD ON TRUTH is far stronger than any thing else...

2 people liked this  - Sreejesh Karunakaran and amrith amar

amrith amar - baba ranchor das!!!!!!!!! ;-)1 Mar

mohammed shahid - yeah !! Shall do...Love alwaysEdit3 Mar

Sreejesh Karunakaran - Tudaruka tudaruka nirbhayam tudaruka.. Nammude sakhavalle upadeshichirikkunne.. :-)3 Mar

More pages of the Arabian Diary

"Your hold on language is so weak that you have no idea about what you are writing"

This was a comment I recently received. Probably true. But I can't keep away from communicating. This time, let pictures tell the story.
There happened something last week which kindled the spirit of wandelust in me. I met a friend of mine.     The man who guided me through the labirynths of Kutch and the lanes of Mumbai. We kickstarted a new episode of adventure.

Abra, a place where Dubai lives in the past.( A place where Dubai Government has preserved the traditional lifestyle, something which should be appreciated).

The Souk was active within the ruined walls on either sides. The wooden lamp-posts and the street hawkers. My mind perched new spirits with this time travelling.

The wooden boats took people across the creek while the sea gulls enjoyed their flights, and fighting for the fish the occasionally hunt. The yellow rays of sun pouring to the whole ambience.

My mind was guided by sheer joy when I knew about a temple by the souk. But it was quite disappointing  when I got inside, It was a moden apartment  paved with white ceramic tiles and having pictures of almost all Gods. The place was crowded. At times people need a corner for consolation, doesn't matter whether it is devoid of tranquility.

We then travelled through the town of Arabian tatses. This was a place where women cooked the traditional arabic delicacies. They were served with honey and dates syrup.

My friend was busy clicking with his Nikon D80.

We parted to our homes with a smile which contained the wish for another adventure in impromptu.

Thank Lord, there are people who think I am not bloody insensitive.

The first collage was made of snaps clicked by me while the others were clicked by my friend, Akhil.

Arabian Diaries

"Cabin Crew, please prepare for the take off ", that was an announcement from the pilot.

The mistresses of hospitality were on duty with their neatly worn smiles.

___________________________________________________________________

Welcome to Dubai. The time is 7.25 am. The sky is cloudy this morning.

Thank you for flying with Emirates, Have a nice time at Dubai.

___________________________________________________________________

The country welcomed me with an expectedly familar face. Thanks for the media and filmmakers.

____________________________________________________________________

I stay in a room with a strength of seven so called bachelors. Thought all of them are of my age, most are married and a couple of them having kids. (Don't bring a frown of your forehead and ask WTF. They are from Malabar and its quite usual in their place for men to get married at younger ages with the womenfolk who live in the middle of their teenage.). They spend their evenings sharing f**king stories with the elder and experienced one taking hold on the youngers.

I would be resting on my berth observing this with a weird smile on my face.

To be frank, all of them are really good at heart.

______________________________________________________________________

" Al mehtr quadimahia etihad "
" The next station is Union "

I take the metro train to reacgh back home from work. Its quite intersting to see the people of different origin and outfits converging into the glass cube.

The train is so beautiful amd so neatly maintained. Most days photo sessions happen here. Last day, it was two arabian nymphets and their friend, a guy who had an SLR with him.

______________________________________________________________________

" Boss,  Chale ??
  Philipene he, Irani he, Russian he,. "

For a moment I wondered what the guy was talking about. That was a pimp on wayside, the promoters of world's favourite sport*. As soon as my brain made the sense, I uttered a ' nah !! ' and walked faster through the cold night.

*Courtesy: Moods ad 
________________________________________________________________________

Will be back with more soon
Sorry that I used the same pattern as the last post. I couldn't find a better separator.

Fragmented

“Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.”


                                                                                                                                                                                    - Sylvia Plath
_______________________________________________________________________




Recently i did a painting and got it framed. I gifted it to a friend of mine.


_______________________________________________________________________




I am leaving abroad for a technical job this weekend.


_______________________________________________________________________




Mom: Can't you sell your paintings and make money ?


_______________________________________________________________________




Disgust !!


________________________________________________________________________


Pardon friends, i am quite disturbed to write continuous sentences. Sylvia Plath's words could explain my state better.

The Tree of Life

" He was born as the royal sapling.
He grew as the mighty one; Alas ! all his siblings were rickety

They never knew which tree he was?
What his fruit was? "

Tapped the keys in a lost mood.

He is accused of planting trees. 
Who the hell are you to do so? What the f**k are you doing?

He secretly watered the mango, mulberry and nutmeg at the corners.

He loved the betel leaves and pepper strings.

He inherited the sparrows on the mango trees. They lived in his stories.

He was crossed.

They still don't know which tree he is, What his fruit is.
He lived, as the tree of life.

But he always knew...

Seasonal madness

The days were less cold but dry. Afternoons were lousy as always.
I loved being in the western corridor where sun-rays kissed me hard.
I sat on the rickety chair with my legs supported on the wall.
Lazy mind wishing for a sip of black tea.
I moved to the corner were the junk is heaped up.
A few flashes of imagination.
Later I captured it on frame.
Black tea in the crystal cup is now an obsession.
Seasonal madness on sunny days.
I always intend to write something and end up in something else.

Dream

I hit the bed to dream.

It was more of a wish to see Paru's classical dance. I felt elated when she promised to perform live in my dream, beginning with slokam, varnam in atthaaana and astapadi. But I dozed off to a strange and interesting dream.

That was a cold morning and i kept walking through a wide road. The way was being filled with kaleidoscopic procession groups like the melange of tributaries into a river. It was damn vibrant with the glittery costumes and head gears. I felt like being in one of the brazilian carnivals. An air of excitement inhaled. I simply felt like being flushed away with it. Nah, I have to move in the opposite direction and to my surprise, some force kept me moving.

(It was quite funny to see a naughty elephant standing aside, unwilling to move despite of its mahout's efforts. I can hardly mention him a mahout since his glittery costumes reminded me of a clown. The elephant was waving his trunk high as like a pendulum of clock. The activity must have been funny for him.)

I kept moving.Took a left turn and got into one of the labyrinths with a concrete floor and Z shaped curves. The place felt very familiar though i could not locate how it was.On the way i met a schoolmate of mine. He seemed to be in his night dress; replied with a grin when i asked why he was there. He told there is a secret which he will disclose later.I too din't mind.

The way changed abruply from plains to a cliff. I didn't feel it hard to climb, it had many flat rocks to step on. Air of innoscence, spontaneity, not of affection. Green climbers hung over black rocks. Tiny water droplets being sprayed from above. They wet my face as i climbed. It seemed like there was a waterfall up. I could hear the whispers of gushing white waters.

Finally, i reached the top to see a small crowd. The dream shifted to a new scene.

Myself placed on one of the chairs at a hall. Some documentary film being screened there. Small white screen and an LCD projector. Lots of bearded pseudo intellects looking onto the blank screen.

I met an acqaintance there. He was busy clicking snaps with his telescopic camera.He too had a beard and a round framed spectacle, but the person known to me is far from a pseudo personality. He kept talking to me about postures. I just didn't mind when he was clicking my close-up snaps.

He took a chair, placed it opposite to the crowd and sat on it. His wife took another and sat behind him. She was a dark voluptous lady. She wore a black see-through tee shirt which covered her body but hardly the nudity. She wound her arms around him. It was then adrenalin rushed over the veins of one of the pseudos seated there. My friend was accused of blocking his view.

My eyes went on the poster on the wall. Ivory coloure letters on red background. I read.... Hey, she is my online friend. her novel is being made a cinema. But when did she write a novel?

NB: I am famous among friends for such weird dreams. I had to wake up from the dream and travel to Thiruvananthapuram. So I typed it as a text message on the way on my cell. Somewhere i missed the spirit of the dream.