Moment

They lay close to each other. Closer than ever before. But not as close as they would get in the future. At that moment when the wave was just about to crash against the shore they were close. I want to touch the sun She said. He smiled at her as she got up and walked towards the sea. Reaching there she looked at the setting sun and the reflection of it on the water extending all the way to the shore. She kneeled down, bending down to let her lips touch the reflection of the sun on the water. Walking back to him she sat closer to him. Running her fingers through his hair she said remember this moment, the one where the wave is just about to break on the shore. Turning her head she placed her lips on his. Her lips felt hot, like a furnace run by a thousand suns. He knew that it was burning him up, though it left no marks on his body or it caused him no pain but only bliss was its outcome. Yards away from them along the shore a wave was just about to break on the shore.

The stereo in the car broke out with Morrison reciting his exploits as a spy in the house of love. Outside, the falling rain was singing a song of its own. The sound of music enveloped the intertwined bodies on the front seats of the car. The light inside the car shone in the night like a second moon.Fingers and lips, eager tourists following their guide light, exploring unknown territories. He held her in his arms and they looked at each other, the light so intense it passed through everything in its path. It revealed to them each other’s nakedness, not just of the body but something else as well, something inexplicable yet recognisable. The something that makes us who we are, but has no existence outside of us. Not even as a word. Look at this moment he said the moment just after the switch is turned and just before the light actually goes off. Remember this moment.. when we saw each other for the first time. A switch was turned off and light crawled back into the cave from where it had come, the lullaby of the rain sending it to sleep.

There was darkness. It was not the absence of light, but the absence of everything. There was no he or she, for they were so close one could not say were he ended and she began. There was an energy struggling to break free and in nothingness it felt strangled and tried to move. To and fro. To and fro. With every passing moment it moved faster and faster. The friction causing it to move faster, till a point where it was no longer possible to contain it. Bang It exploded unleashing itself. The climax. No the beginning. The beginning of everything. Of heat. Of light. The liberated energy ran in different directions at the fastest speed it could, covering as much as distance as possible. Along the way the heat slowly dissipated forming clouds, then stars and planets. On planets life began as the heat continuously reduced. They moved from the oceans to the land building hamlets, towns and then cities. Cities that became metropolises. Metropolises housing millions of houses and in one of those abodes he and she lay close to each other, locked in embrace. There they remembered those moments, the one where she burned him with a thousand suns, when they saw that inexplicable thing in each other and finally the moment when they became one. That moment, the one just before the beginning of time.

Cats

Schrödinger’s cat is in a box and he’s both alive and dead at the same time. He leaned back on the chair and pondered for a second. Others eagerly waited for what he will say next. I looked at my friend trying to reconstruct his thought palace of quantum physics. Not waiting for it be completed, I got up and slipped out of the room. I have always preferred Murakami’s cat over that of the physicist’s. As I walked up the stairs, I was complaining in my mind about how he always did this, his irresistible compulsion to vomit all the things he had ever heard of. In the past I used to think it was the alcohol in his system that led to this. Over the passage of time, I realised it was more than mere inebriation. I wished how he could remain silent like me, switched off from the world around me. Standing on the terrace in the middle of the night, I had enough silence to trade with the rest of the world.

There was something different about the sky tonight, though I could not understand what it was.The stars were visible. Out of them, two shone brightly, and I felt as if they were moving towards me. Strangely, they did not grow bigger as they came nearer. Then a piece of darkness split away from the night sky and landed on the terrace. The first thing I noticed about him was his long furry black tail. The second thing his eyes that shone like stars. Did this cat just fall from the sky? He walked toward me. Very short steps and he made them as if he had all the time in the world. Utter disregard for space and time. What could be his story? Like all other cats, he must have left his house and went for the usual solitary walk. But unlike others he never returned, roaming all over the universe, and when he felt bored his four paws made its way across the realms of time itself and now he was standing in front of me. That’s just too crazy. This is what silence does to me. Disconnecting me from the physical world. Creating stories that has no semblance of rational thought .The cat had walked over to the wall and jumped onto it. I went near him as he sat there without paying any attention to my presence. Keeping my hands on the wall, I looked down at the street below and turning to the cat I asked are you alive or dead? He responded to the question with a detached silence. I repeated my question. To this he held onto the wall with his front paws and slipped his hind ones over the wall.

There he sat. Half of his body clinging on to life and the rest just a slip away from death. He was not entirely alive or dead. Well in a physical sense, he was alive. But that does not make sense to me, only my friend understands things like that. Is that what the cat is telling me? Did he really fall from the sky? Look at the sky. It looks like a ….. I turned to the cat and asked him Am I alive or dead? To this, he jumped on to the terrace and walked to the stairs leading downstairs. As I followed him, I looked up at the sky and recollected my thoughts. Yes look at the way it curves. What I thought earlier was right. The sky.. it does look like a box. I wanted to ask the cat about what he thought about the sky. I looked for him and noticed he was walking down the stairs. Half way down, he stopped and repeatedly looked towards me and away. Then he turned to me and spoke. Yes he was speaking, answering my question. I tried to pay closer attention to what he was saying. And as the words left his mouth started, I felt heavy in the head and just before they reached my ears, I fell asleep.

Wake up. Somebody shook me. I opened my eyes and looked at my friends. What happened? I asked. You passed out some five minutes back.So tell us what’s the thing with Schrödinger’s cat? I realised I had given them a sermon on some stupid physics theory I came across recently of which I actually knew nothing. Not again.Did I go to the terrace? I smiled at my friends and laid back closing my eyes, waiting for sleep to come whisk me away. One two three up… One two three down… How many steps would there be in total? I had no idea. I was in the middle of the stairway. Sitting on my shoulder, the cat kept quiet. He had wrapped his long tail around my neck. Neither loose nor tight. Just one degree equidistant from both perfect inhalation and perfect suffocation. I looked at him and asked Where do we go? Up or down? This time he did not speak. He was also confused.

Rumours

They say the house is haunted. Who are they? One might ask. A relevant question. They are the few voices in the cacophony surrounding us that we choose to listen to, the few words on a page that we actually read, the archetypes of Jung we allow to rise from the abyss of the subconscious. So what they say is really just what you choose to hear. One might ask then, what did they actually say?

They said the house was built by a Satanist who performed rituals to appease the devil in there, the kind that finds place in your regular pulp fiction, full of paganism, drug abuse, orgies and animal sacrifice. Then others suggest that it is a meeting place for lost spirits, they come there to drink, dine, dance and debauch. Some ask that if spirits could go anywhere, why in the world would they choose to continue to exist in this dimension.There are also some who say the house was never used, like the empty vessel you buy because it looks very good, but then you don’t cook anything delicious enough to put in it. No one ever went in or came out. So like in the case of the vessel, spiders weaved intricate webs inside it, webs much like the stories around the house. Which of these stories is the true one? One might ask. Has anyone succeeded in finding which was the first thread of silk created in a cobweb?

Of the many stories surrounding the house, the one I chose to listen, the reasons for the decision unknown, is that of a boy. You may ask what his name is? Of the many versions I heard, there was not one name that was repeated. So you can call him anything you want. I choose to call him merely ‘the boy’.

Most of them say he was a very quiet boy in his childhood, the kind who is extremely social on an imaginary plane, with more friends in his brain than in the real world. Like a Thespian in character, he continued to remain quiet well into his teens. His association with the house had begun at the age of six when he first tried to enter it. It is said by young men who claimed to have been friends with the introvert that he tried repeatedly to open the door, But it never opened. He would repeat the task on a daily basis without any result. Two or three months later, he lost interest in this. This was also attributed by some to the untimely death of his mother. This event, they say pushed him further into the shell. It was on his tenth birthday he was gifted a guitar by his father. Some say it was his uncle.Some say it was a Gibson. Others go with Alvarez.

There are many at the pub who say there has not been a single day that has gone by without the boy’s father tiptoeing out of there in an inebriated state. Some say they saw bruises on the boy’s body during the very rare instances when he came to the community swimming pool. When he was asked about them, he stopped going to the pool altogether. Into his teens, there was some difference in the boy’s attitude. He looked pleasant and smiled at people occasionally. Some say he had found love. There are some who had seen him with the grocer’s daughter walking in the park holding each other’s hands. Some have seen them embracing each other and exchanging kisses behind the school playground. There are others who have seen her doing this with other boys at the same place. Some even say the boy had seen this. The workers at the coroner’s office say that when they broke the lock on the boy’s room and stepped in, his limp body hung from the hook on the ceiling by a belt. There are others who disagree and say it was a piece of rope. Some say he was 17.Others 16. One thing nobody disagreed on was that he was dead.

The boy walked into his room and lied down on his bed. He wanted to cry. Tears would give form to his pain. But he did not cry. He realised his suffering or the suffering of anyone else was too abstract that to turn them into tears would be meaningless. If suffering found a form or anything that remotely resembles a form, it can be destroyed. Tears can be wiped away. But true suffering cannot be killed. It is in our blood and we transfer it to every new life. Only the vessel carrying it can be killed. So he stood up, lifted his chair and placed it directly beneath the hook on the ceiling. Standing on the chair he tied a _____ on to the hook and kept the noose around his neck. Then he plunged into liberation. For several seconds, he struggled. Then his struggles slowly stopped. He felt very light. He reached up, untied the noose and fell to the ground. He could not feel pain anymore. He could not feel anything. He had forgotten his name.No memories belonged to him. He turned around and saw a lifeless body hanging from the ceiling. He did not know who it was. He walked out of his room and passed through the room of an older man who was snoring in his sleep. He went out into the streets and roamed without any sense of direction. As he did so, he came upon a house. It looked abandoned. He jumped over the gate and walked towards the door. The door of the house could never be opened in the past. He did not know of this. perhaps this led him to turn the knob on the door. It opened. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

I do not remember as to who exactly told me this version of the story. All I remember is that there was a hint of sorrow in that voice and somewhere in the background I could hear the sound of a guitar. So now you will want to know if this is what really happened with the boy. Did he commit suicide to liberate himself from the suffering of this world? Did he walk into the house to be greeted by a host of nameless spirits? Did he dance and drink with them in there as the other people around them slept peacefully only to wake up tomorrow merely to be haunted by their own rumours? One might ask. You see, it is an easy task to ask, knowing is the tough one. So I ask Has anyone succeeded in finding the first thread of silk created in a cobweb?

Excrement

It was when dawn broke he realised that he was shit. No, not exactly then. All he knew in the beginning was that he was a soft, sticky and slightly moist mass that flies had a lot of affinity towards. For the next few minutes he proudly exclaimed he could be whatever he wanted. Then, like how all dreamers are shown their position in the conformist world, society enlightened him. A young girl walking by noticed him, in fact his smell at first and followed to look at him with utter disdain and shrieked shit. There it was, he was shit and nothing more from that moment on. He had memories of being a fruit, a corpse, a policeman, a thief. He was not sure of the order in which he had taken those forms, so finally he dismissed them as mere hallucinations. Also, they were irrelevant now. The sound of vehicles passing near him told him his mother had birthed him on a road. He knew not if the bowels that had carried him for many hours belonged to a male or female specimen of the countless species occupying the planet. But, for him those bowels had served as a womb. Hence the irresponsible being who shat on the road was his mother. He was not even sure why he thought of himself as a ‘he’.There was certainly no anatomical evidence to arrive at that conclusion. But he continued with it nonetheless. The continuing sound of vehicles alarmed him as its intensity had increased with time progressing to the busy office hours. If one of the tyres ran over him would he die? If a part of him stuck on to the tyre would he be different? Who would be he. The remains on the road or the rest of him spinning along with the tyre spread all along the route of the vehicle? The idea of his existence being splattered all over the road scared him to death. The thought of death had an important effect on him. It made him ponder over the other certainty before him life. Everything in between life and death was him, shit. Up to this point, his life had been defined by the love offered by swarms of flies and the disgust shown by the girl. Reluctantly, he admitted that he was being defined by his smell and form. No one would ask him if he was benevolent or cruel, polite or rude. The love of the flies was important to him, but the disgust of the girl had hurt him. He wanted to be loved by her as well. So, he undertook an impossible attempt to smell better, perhaps like a rose. Like all other impossible ventures it also ended in a failure. The sorrow of failure sowed seeds of inspiration in him. He decided to be the best at what he was, emitting the foulest of smells, attracting more flies than any other excrement before him. It might have been his success that drew more attention to him, but within the hour some one had collected him on a piece of paper and dumped him in the woods adjacent to the road. His extraordinary achievements were now over, soon to be forgotten by all to whom he had caused great discomfort. Lying there, he allowed old age to slowly kill him, microbes decomposing him even slower than time, a process stretching on for days.

She was awoken from her slumber by dawn. She could feel the gentle petals spreading out slowly and dew drops bathing her skin. She wondered who she was, her petals fully spread out in all her glory. She had faint memories of being a fruit, a corpse among others. Some of them frightened her. The young girl who passed by noticed her smell at first and on seeing her exclaimed A Rose. How beautiful. The rose was delighted with the reception and thought to herself that her memories were only hallucinations and nightmares, especially the one in which she was a piece of shit.

A Pail of Water

A very common man who did not enjoy even an iota of fame in his lifetime once remarked that all legends were based on true stories, especially the fictitious ones. Over the course of time, they get refined over and over according to the popular sentiments of the period. It does not require a genius to figure out that as far as popular sentiments go, the hitherto history of mankind is the history of how he progressed from a barbaric genius to a civilised moron ( my very reliable sources tell me this is what Marx actually wrote. The whole class conflict thing was added later on by Lenin when he was tripping on opium). So we need to inspect some  path breaking works of earlier times to unravel the true meaning behind those works. The one below is a perfect specimen.

Jack and Jill went up the hill

to fetch a pail of water

Jack fell down and broke his crown

Jill came tumbling after

This elegant and complex piece of poetry throws us more questions than answers that it can deliver. Devoid of elements like motive and also the unsatisfactory climax, it is a perfect example of how great stories have been dumbed down for us. The story of Jack and Jill has been interpreted in different ways in different cultures. In Hindu tradition, Jack is a Brahmin boy who decided to share his water with a Dalit girl Jill. This enraged one of the 300 million Hindu gods ( my very reliable sources are yet to trace out all the gods let alone confirm the identity of the angry god) who cursed them causing them to fall down the hill. Schools run by Khap panchayats still use the poem to enlighten young minds about our great cultural heritage. In some other pious societies living by the desert, the poem was initially banned as the relationship between Jack and Jill was ambiguous. It was prohibited for an unmarried girl to go alone with a boy, even if the intention was as innocent as ‘fetching water’. Hence the first line of the poem was modified to Jack and his third wife Jill. I am not sure if this piece of information is pertinent to our discussion, but in the 1990s Afghanistan version of the poem, Jill is stoned to death for allowing her husband to get injured .

All these and other versions are confirmed to be false by my sources (don not forget that they are very reliable ones).For the ease of understanding I will tell their story in two parts, ascent and descent. ( Initially I had thought of mount and dismount, but discarded them due to certain carnal connotations).

The Ascent

The most important parameters to decipher the story are the ages of our protagonists. Many experts feel that if they were into their teens , the so-called motive of fetching water is suspect. The town planning office has documents that reveal there were functioning wells in the town itself. So why would they go up a hill to get some? Let me be unequivocal in saying that no aspersions should be cast on the characters of this boy and girl for they were merely the age of eight when they made the trip to the hill. It all began when Jack had a strange dream one morning. In it God appeared to him and told him that there were deposits of a precious mineral on the hill adjoining the town. Jack passed on this information to Jill and asked her opinion. You see, Jack like myself, always sought out only reliable sources of information. The kids sat by the candy shop, wondered what the mineral might be. It could be Gold. Or Oil. They said. If it is oil we can sell it to Grandpa Rockefeller in the next town, remarked Jack. Jill did not respond to it, but it was clear that she was not enthused by the idea. However, they decided to explore the hill. While some of you might feel that this is a little far-fetched, let me remind you that man, in the past has overcome his lethargy and explored difficult and dangerous terrain like the jungles of Africa or the crowded streets of Baghdad never for water but only in pursuit of Gold, Diamond or Oil.

Jack did not want to let others in on the secret. So as Jack and Jill walked through the town with a bucket and some small tools in their hand, they were constantly questioned about what they were up to. The ‘ fetching water’ was only a cover for their true intention. The elders laughed at it and admired the imaginative capabilities of innocent minds. With great effort the kids climbed the hill and reached the top. They started digging everywhere. The work continued for many hours. By evening, they were exhausted and thirsty. No gold, no oil. Oh I am so thirsty, exclaimed both of them. Jill said she wanted to rest. Relentless Jack continued to dig, and as he struck a rock, water rushed out from the crack. Both the kids went near the rock and drank water till their stomachs were full. Though quenched of thirst, the failure of their mission had left clear signs of anger and disappointment on their faces. There is nothing precious here. Only water, shouted Jack. Yes.Only water, replied Jill softly.

The Descent

It was only after many minutes of rest that Jack started tasting the remnants of water droplets in his mouth. To confirm his sensory input, he walked over to the rock and drank more water from it. Yes, the water here tasted better than the one in the town well. (Of course, my source has provided me with a document citing that the town well had arsenic poisoning among other pollution issues. But, at the age of eight and without any scientific education, this was not known to him). He reported this to Jill who after drinking the water confirmed Jack’s theory. You know we could build a pipe from here to the town. People would buy this water from us. I can be rich, suggested Jack. Jill had never thought of building a pipe or the benefits of better quality water. But, the idea that some one can get all the benefits out of a communal resource like water was not acceptable to her. I think all the workers in the town should jointly own the water.She responded. It was true that the water had not been created by Jack’s hard work but has existed for millenia in the same place. Jack knew this. But the ability to have control over a resource was so appealing. But I am the enterperener.( He was eight and could not get his spelling correct to entrepreneur even while speaking). Do you know who is John Galt?

Jill who had never before heard of Ayn Rand’s most annoying creation kept quiet for a moment. She knew they might have never found the source of water or had an idea of the pipeline without Jack, but shot back with some question right after.

The verbal duel continued for quite a long time. In the end, they realised that there was a more mature way to settle this dispute, one that had been used by our ancestors and considered to be the civilised one. So they decide to fight it out. The winner of their contest shall decide what is to be done with the water. A sloping surface which has been dug at different places is not the best place to conduct a wrestling match. Eventually, they slipped and fell down the hill.

Aftermath

The poem stops here. But we need to know what happened and my source was able to find out that there were two contrasting versions to what happened after the kids fell down the hill. In the first one, Jill organises the workers in the village and execute Jack. They go on to form a town government formed by the workers. This version had found popularity in Russia and some East European countries. But it became unpopular with the passage of time. The other version, the one that is familiar to everyone says that following the violent terrorist activities of Jill, the CIA neutralised her and established democracy in the town.

Killing Time

Bus windows are the perfect tools to stimulate the philosophical centres of your brain. Even on the pothole filled river of tar that flows beneath me. But today it fails to arouse interest, not tempting me to play Mr. Nietzche. Thoughts that appear to be more important haunt my mind scape. I open the letter in my hand. Letters dance around within the boundaries of the sheet of paper. As I concentrate harder they slow down and start falling into their respective places. The piece of paper had flew into the bus through the window dancing in the waves of wind before resting on my lap. I proceed to recheck the contents to get more clues. No address. No stamp. No name. No date on the top. My eyes scroll down to read it again hoping to find what I could have missed.

Dear Friend,

How are you? The answer to this question is not really relevant. The human state is the same always. Dictionaries do not have the word that defines the perpetual human condition. We tend to pretend we are happy or sad, ecstatic or depressed and at one point of time begin to accept it for reality. Externalities that are totally unfaithful to the true condition of ours. But yet we ask this stupid question for need of conforming to a social contract. So , how are you? Don’t bother looking for the answer. Like I said. You may or may not know about the town I am staying in. A closely knit community of a few thousand souls. The most important feature of our town is the clock tower that stands in the middle of the town. All our activities revolve around it. Many a nights I have dreamt the residents holding on to the hands of the clock tower praying they don’t lose their grip on it. It was not long before one of them slipped away and fell into the abyss that lay below. It was the day I had noticed two grey hairs on my head. Our Mayor had died owing to old age. The town mourned the death of its first son. Everyone felt that a crime had been committed. On the day of the funeral crowds gathered to bid adieu to the town’s favourite hero. In the turbulent sea of emotions, a voice towered over the rest. I do not know whose it was. But what the voice said would change our lives forever. This is murder. It cried out. And we must execute the culprit. The loud voice continued to reign over the feeble confused ones around it. Time killed him. So we should kill Time.What should have been something absurd and illogical, struck a chord with the group gathered there. The feeble voices had found a new energy, a new mission with the mist of confusion slowly clearing in front of them. All of them cried out in one voice. Kill Time. Kill Time.

The Police filed the charges the next day. The best Lawyer in town offered to appear for the prosecution. The others in the bar decided not to take up the defence of time. A week later, by when hundreds of residents had given their testimonials and the arguments where over, the Judge delivered the verdict. The evening news paper screamed in bold letters. JUSTICE PREVAILS. COURT ORDERS THE EXECUTION OF TIME. The jubilation over the verdict lasted merely for a couple of hours because at that point the Teacher from the high school had asked a question.A very important one. Where do we find Time? The celebration stopped. A blanket of silence had suddenly enveloped the town for no one knew the answer to the question. The very next day, the Police started the combing process to find Time. It went on for weeks. They tried all the tricks in their book, in vain. The Mayor’s death had set off a panic attack among the older people of the town. The doctor was examining an old man who claimed that time had tried to kill him by trying to strangle him in his sleep. Into the room walked in the Doctor’s young daughter. She walked to her father with a doll in her hand and whispered something in his ears. The old man saw the Doctor’s eyes widen. He also saw the tiny angels of disbelief standing on both of the Doctor’s cheeks pulling his eyes wide. Moments later the three of them were standing in front of the Doctor’s old mother. The child was pointing her finger at something. The Doctor noticed that if his child’s finger could magically elongate the tip of it would have been pressed between one of the wrinkles on his mothers face.

His medical training helped him to deduce that a child’s eyes are more powerful than those of adults. So he took a magnifying glass and started exploring the crevices of the wrinkles. In them he saw something resting. It had curled up into a ball sleeping quietly. He looked between the other wrinkles. The curled up figures were present there as well. He turned and started to speak. In his excitement the words were barely coming out. The old man saw the letters drifting out of the Doctor’s mouth. W.. E.. H… one by one. When all of them had come out, it appeared to sound like this. We have found it. We have found Time. The news spread like wildfire around the town. In every home, people were walking around with magnifying glasses looking in every nook and corner. Besides wrinkles, time was also found in greying hair. But the real jackpot lay in the souvenirs, the photo albums and other memorabilia. These were infested with time. Nostalgia was its safe haven. The voices of celebration had started to rise again. So did that of the Teacher. He observed that time cant be imprisoned in a normal jail. Annoyed minds turned to the killjoy. But, this time he had an useful idea. He pointed his finger in one direction. The residents noticed that if his fingers could magically elongate its tip would press against the top of the clock tower.

In a matter of hours all the residents had gathered around the clock tower with a mammoth collection of items with them. One by one, they stepped towards the tower, plucked away time from their items and threw it into the clock tower. I was the last one in the line. After all the time from my items, I removed time from the two grey hairs on my head. It was done. We stepped back as the executioner poured fuel all over the clock tower. He lit a match and threw it against the clock tower. From the matchstick, a gigantic serpent of fire was born. Starting from the bottom, she quickly swallowed the entire clock tower in the span of a few minutes. As we watched, the clock tower burned to the ground with mountains of smoke rising up against the sky. The smoke accumulated in the sky slowly getting absorbed by the clouds. The sky darkened and drops of rain were falling after that, a few drops at first and then it started pouring. I noticed the water drops. There were reflections in every one of them, each different from the other. And in those reflections, I saw the all the minuscule fragments of time, those moments that we used to take for granted. It rained for long. Once it stopped the sky was clear again. I do not whether you live in the past or the future as those words carry no meaning to me now. But I hope you can find your way to our town sometime. You might be wondering why I write this letter to you. In the final moments of the rain, just before the last drop of rain was about to hit the ground, I saw the reflection on it. It was you, sitting on the seat of a bus looking at a piece of paper in your hand. And in the corner of that image, I noticed your hair. Among the countless number of dark young hairs, two were standing out like sore thumbs for you see they were grey.

Your Friend

കണ്ണദാസൻറെ നായിക

Sketch: Sarath Narayanan

സന്ധ്യാനേരം . സൂര്യനും ചന്ദ്രനും മറയുമ്പോൾ  പകലും രാത്രിയും തമ്മിൽ അവിഹിത വേഴ്ചയിൽ ഏർപ്പെടുന്ന യാമം. ശരീരത്തിനുള്ളിലെ ജന്മസിദ്ധമായ അലാറം ഉച്ചത്തിൽ നിലവിളിച്ചു. ഒന്ന് പുറത്തേയ്ക്ക്  ഇറങ്ങാം… ഒന്ന് പുകയ്ക്കാം. കൈയ്യിലിരുന്ന തൃശൂർകാരൻറെ സാഹിത്യ സൃഷ്ടി അടച്ചു വെച്ച് ഞാൻ വീടിൻറെ ഹാളിലേക്ക് നടന്നു നീങ്ങി. പ്രിയസുഹൃത്ത്‌ ഉറങ്ങുകയാണ്‌.. കന്യകമാർ സന്ധ്യനേരത്ത്‌ ഉറങ്ങരുത്. ഐശ്വര്യകേടാണ്. അമ്മ സഹോദരിയുടെ ചെവിയിൽ സ്ഥിരമായി ഓതാറുള്ള  വാക്കുകൾ പെട്ടെന്ന് മനസ്സിലേക്ക് ഓടി വന്നു. പക്ഷെ ഇവൻ കന്യകനാണ്. ഈ വർഗ്ഗത്തിന്റെ നടപ്പുരീതികളും പെരുമാറ്റച്ചട്ടവും ശാസ്ത്രങ്ങളിൽ അധികമൊന്നും പരാമർശിച്ചു കണ്ടിട്ടില്ല. പാഴ് ജന്മങ്ങൾ. എന്ത് വേണമെങ്കിലും ചെയ്തോട്ടെ. ആർക്ക് ചേതം. കരുതൽ കന്യകമാരുടെ കാര്യത്തിൽ മാത്രം മതി. അഭിനവ ഫെമിനിസ്ടുകളെകാൽ വലിയ സ്ത്രീപക്ഷ വാദികളായിരുന്നു നമ്മുടെ ഋഷിമുനിമാർ എന്ന് തോന്നുന്നു. പതുക്കെ ചെന്ന് അവന്റെ പാക്കിൽ നിന്നും ഒരു രാജാവിനെ ഓസി. ചോദിച്ചാൽ അവൻ വിരോധം പറയില്ല. എന്നാലും വെറുതെ എന്തിനാ ശാസ്ത്രം അനുവദിച്ചിരിക്കുന്ന ചെറിയ ചെറിയ സൌജന്യങ്ങൾ ആസ്വദിക്കുന്ന അവനെ ബുദ്ധിമുട്ടിക്കുന്നത്.

തീപ്പെട്ടി എടുത്തു കൊള്ളി കൊണ്ട് ഉരച്ചു. അപ്പോൾ ഓർത്തു. ചില്ലറക്കാരനല്ല ഈ ഉരപ്പ്. മനുഷ്യവംശം തന്നെ നിലനിൽക്കുന്നത് ഇതുപോലെ ഒരു ഉരപ്പിന്റെ ഉറപ്പിൽ അല്ലെ. മുന്നിൽ  സുന്ദരമായ ആ ചെറു തീഗോളം തെളിഞ്ഞു വന്നു. അങ്ങനെ അന്നത്തെ അഞ്ചാമത്തെ യാഗം ആരംഭിച്ചു. ബാൽക്കണി ആണ് യാഗസ്ഥലം. അവിടെ ഉലാത്തുമ്പോൾ കണ്ണുകൾ വീടിനോട് ചേർന്ന് കിടക്കുന്ന വീധിയിലേക്ക് ഒന്ന് ഓടി. അവിടെ അതാ ഒരു കന്യക. കൈയ്യിലുള്ള മൊബൈൽ ഫോണിൽ കുത്തികളിച്ചുകൊണ്ട് നടക്കുന്നു. കൊച്ചു കുട്ടികൾക്കായി ഡി.സി ബുക്സൊക്കെ ഇറക്കാറുള്ള പിക്ചർ നിഘണ്ടുവില്ലേ. അതുപോലൊന്നിന്റെ 2011 പതിപ്പിൽ കാമുകി എന്ന വാക്കിനു താഴെ കൊടുത്തിരുന്ന പടമുണ്ട്. നമ്രമുഖിയായി കൈയ്യിലെ മൊബൈലിൽ നോക്കിയിരിക്കുന്ന സുന്ദരിയായ പെണ്‍കുട്ടി. കാലോചിതമായ കല്പന. അതാണ് ഓർമ്മയിൽ വന്നത്. പിന്നെ ഭാരത നാരിക്ക് ഏറ്റവും ചേരുന്ന വസ്ത്രം എന്ന് ഫെമിനാസംഹിത വിശേഷിപ്പിച്ച കൈകൾ അറ്റുപോയ ധൃതരാഷ്ട്ര ആലിംഗന ടി ഷർട്ട്‌.. കൂടാതെ ആരോഗ്യരക്ഷയ്ക്കായി അണുക്കൾ ഉള്ളിലേക്ക് കടക്കാണ്ടിരിക്കാൻ വേണ്ടി വായുവോട്ടം പൂർണമായും രക്തയോട്ടം ഭാഗികമായും തടയുന്ന ജീൻസും. സംസ്കാരമുള്ള കുട്ടിയാണ്. മനസ്സ് പറഞ്ഞു. അതുകൊണ്ടല്ലെ ശാസ്ത്രം അനുഷ്ഠിച്ചപോലെ സന്ധ്യനേരത്ത്‌ ഉറങ്ങാതെ പുറത്തിറങ്ങി നടക്കുന്നത്. ചന്ദ്രമണ്ടലത്തിൽ എവിടെയോ ഇരുന്ന വസിഷ്ടരുടെ മുഖത്ത് ഒരു പുഞ്ചിരി വിടർന്നു.

കക്ഷി കാമുകിയാണ്. അതിൽ സംശയമില്ല. പ്രിയതമനു വരാൻ വേണ്ടി കാത്തിരിക്കുകയാണ്. ഒരു വർഷം മുൻപ് വരെ ഈ സ്ഥലം കമിതാക്കളുടെ പറുദ്ദീസ ആയിരുന്ന്നു. സ്വസ്ഥമായി ഇരുന്ന് വൈകുന്നേരങ്ങളിൽ ഒന്നോ രണ്ടോ മണിക്കൂർ പ്രണയിക്കാൻ സൗകര്യമുള്ള അഭയകേന്ദ്രം. അപ്പോളാണ് സ്ഥലത്തെ നിവാസികൾ ഇവർക്കെതിരെ പരാതി നൽകിയത്. ഇവർ നമ്മുടെ സംസ്കാരം നശിപ്പിക്കുന്നു എന്നായിരുന്നു പരാതി. തെറ്റായ ധാരണ വേണ്ട. പണ്ട് ഫെബ്രുവരി 14ന് യുവകേസരികൾ പിങ്ക് ജെട്ടി അയച്ചു കൊടുത്ത ആ മഹാൻറെ പിൻഗാമികൾ അല്ല ഇവർ. വളരെ liberal ആണ്. ‘സംസ്കാരം’ എന്നത് തൊട്ടടുത്തുള്ള ഒരു ഉദ്യാനമാകുന്നു. ‘ശ്രീ നേതാജി സംസ്കാർ പാർക്ക്’ പ്രണയം നമ്മളെ അന്ധരാക്കുന്നു എന്നല്ലേ പ്രമാണം. cataractന് ശേഷം ഏറ്റവും കൂടുതൽ ജനങ്ങൾ അന്ധരാകുന്നത് ഈ രോഗം മൂലമാണെന്ന് പണ്ട് തിരുവനന്തപുരം മെഡിക്കൽ കോളേജിലെ ഒരു നേത്രരോഗ വിദഗ്ധൻ മാതൃഭൂമിയിലെ ആരോഗ്യ പംക്തിയിൽ എഴുതിയത് ഞാൻ ഇവിടെ സ്മരിക്കുന്നു. അങ്ങനെ രോഗബാധയെ തുടർന്ന് അന്ധരായ കമിതാക്കൾ ദിശാബോധമില്ലാതെ നടന്ന് റോസും ഓർക്കിടും ഒക്കെ ചവിട്ടി നശിപ്പിച്ചു. അങ്ങനെ അക്ഷരാർത്ഥത്തിൽ ‘സംസ്കാരം’ നശിച്ചു.

അതിൽ പിന്നെ വല്ലപ്പോഴും മാത്രമാണ് പ്രണയദമ്പതികൾ ഇതുവഴി വരാറുള്ളത്. ആ പെണ്‍കുട്ടിയെ ഞാൻ ഒരിക്കൽ കൂടി നോക്കി. ഒറ്റ വാക്കിൽ സുന്ദരി. നല്ല വെളുത്ത നിറം. പഞ്ചാബി ആണെന്ന് തോന്നുന്നു. പോരാത്തതിന് ഹിമവാന്റെ അനുഗ്രഹം സിദ്ധിച്ചവളാണ്. ഈ ഉള്ളവന് ഇതൊക്കെ വളരെ വിരളമായി മാത്രം കിട്ടാറുള്ള ദർശനങ്ങളാണ്. നക്കി നക്കി ഒടുവിൽ തന്റെ തുപ്പലിന്റെ മാത്രം രുചി ബാക്കിവന്നപ്പോൾ നായ ഉപേക്ഷിച്ചുപോയ തുരുമ്പിച്ച സ്റ്റീൽ പാത്രമാണ് ഇവിടത്തെ ജീവിതം. എങ്കിലും ആ കുട്ടി ഒറ്റയ്ക്ക് നടക്കുന്നത് കണ്ടപ്പോൾ ഒരു സങ്കടം തോന്നി. അവൾ ഒരു കൂട്ടിനായി യാചിക്കുന്നതുപോലെ. മഹാകവി കണ്ണദാസന്റെ നായിക കാറ്റിനോട് പറയുന്നുണ്ട്- തെന്റ്രലെ എൻ തനിമൈ കണ്ട് നിന്റ്ര് പോയ്‌ വിട്. തർജ്ജിമ ഇതാണ്- എന്റെ കാമുകൻ ഇന്നിവിടെ ഇല്ല. കാറ്റേ നീ എനിക്ക് കൂട്ടിരിക്കുമോ. ഞാനും മന്ദമാരുതനായി മാറാൻ കൊതിച്ചു. അവൾക്കു കൂട്ടിരിക്കാം. ഇനി അവളുടെ പ്രിയതമൻ എങ്ങാനും വന്ന് എന്നെ കൈകാര്യം ചെയ്യുമോ എന്ന ഭയവും ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നു. യാഗം തീർന്നിരുന്നു. ഞാൻ ചിന്തിച്ചു. വലിക്കാനായി പുറത്തേക്ക് ഇറങ്ങിയില്ലായിരുന്നെങ്കിൽ ഇവളെ കാണുകയില്ലായിരുന്നു. ധൂമപാനം ആരോഗ്യത്തിന് ഹാനികരമാകാം.

അപ്പോൾ മന്ദഗതിയിൽ കാറ്റടിച്ചു. അതിൽ അവളുടെ മുടി മനോഹരമായി നൃത്തം കളിച്ചു. മുടി ഒതുക്കി അവൾ മുഖം മെല്ലെ ഉയർത്തി എന്റെ നേർക്ക്‌ നോക്കി. മോഷണത്തിന് നടുവിൽ പിടിക്കപ്പെട്ട ഒരു കള്ളനെ പോലെ പകച്ചു ഞാൻ നിന്ന്. സുന്ദരമായ ആ മുഖത്ത് അതിലും സുന്ദരമായ ഒരു മന്ദഹാസം പ്രത്യക്ഷപ്പെട്ടു. എനിക്ക് അവളുടെ അടുത്തേക്ക് ഓടി ചെല്ലാൻ തോന്നി. ഞങ്ങൾ തമ്മിൽ ഒരു 20m ദൂരം കാണും. അത് 100m ആയിരുന്നെങ്കിൽ ബോൾടിന്റെ റെക്കോർഡ് ഞാൻ തകർത്തേനെ. ഞാൻ ഒന്ന് മടിച്ചു. എടുത്ത് ചാടിയാൽ പ്രതികരണം എങ്ങനെ ആയിരിക്കും. ഇവരുടെ വായിൽ നിന്നൊഴുകുന്ന ഉത്തരേന്ത്യൻ ഭരണിപ്പാട്ട് വളരെ പ്രശസ്തമാണ്. ഈ മാ കി രാഗ്, ബഹൻ കി രാഗ് തുടങ്ങിയ ഹിന്ദുസ്ഥാനി രാഗങ്ങളെ കുറിച്ച് കേട്ടിടുണ്ട്. അതുകൊണ്ട് ഞാൻ നീങ്ങിയില്ല. നോക്കിയപ്പോൾ ആ മന്ദഹാസം ഒരു പുഞ്ചിരിയായി പരിണാമം ചെയ്തു. എന്നിട്ട് മുഖം കുനിച്ച് ആ നശിച്ച മൊബൈലിൽ കുത്തികൊണ്ട് അവൾ നടന്നു. ഹർഷപുളകിതനായ ഞാനും ബാൽക്കണിയിൽ അവളോടൊപ്പം നടന്നു. വീഥിയിൽ അന്നനട. ഇവിടെ മദയാനനട.

ഒന്ന് സംസാരികാമെന്ന് തോന്നി. കുട്ടിക്കാലത്ത് കണ്ട  ‘ ദിൽവാലെ ദുൽഹനിയ ലേ ജായേങ്ങെ’ പോലുള്ള സിനിമകളിലെ ഡയലോഗുകൾ ആലോചിച്ചു കൂട്ടി. ഒടുവിൽ ധൈര്യം സംഭരിച്ചു കണ്ഠം ബലപ്പെടുത്തി മൊഴിഞ്ഞു. excuse me ചിന്തിച്ചത് ഷാരൂഖ്‌.. പുറത്തു വന്നത് ജഗദീഷ്. അവൾ തിരിഞ്ഞു നോക്കി. തിളങ്ങുന്ന കണ്ണുകളും തേനിൽ മുക്കിയ നാദവുമയി yes. ഉള്ളിൽ പൂട്ടിയിട്ടിരിക്കുന്ന മിർസാ ഗാലിബിനെ തുറന്നുവിടാൻ ഞാൻ ശ്രമിച്ചു. പക്ഷെ പൂട്ട്‌ വളരെ ശക്തമാണ്. ചില സാങ്കേതിക കാരണങ്ങളാൽ ഞാൻ താൽകാലികമായി ഒരു ഊമയായി മാറി. നിമിഷങ്ങൾ കടന്നു പോയി. അവൾ പിന്നെയും ചോദിച്ചു YES. ഞങ്ങൾക്കിടയിൽ വളരുന്ന അസഹനീയമായ മൗനം തകർത്തുകൊണ്ട് ഒരു ബൈക്ക് അവിടെ വന്നു നിന്ന്. അതിൽ നിന്ന് സുന്ദരനും അതികായനുമായ ഒരു യുവാവ് ഇറങ്ങി അവളുടെ അടുത്തേക് വന്നു. അതുവരെ അവൾ മുഖത്ത് ഒട്ടിച്ചു വച്ച പുഞ്ചിരി പരിച്ചുമാറ്റി രൗദ്രഭാവത്തോടെ എന്നെ നോക്കി. കമിതാക്കൾ ഒരേപോലെ ചിന്തിക്കും. കാരണം അവനും എന്നെ അതേ ഭാവത്തിൽ നോക്കി. ഒന്നുമറിയാത്ത മാതിരി ഞാൻ പതുക്കെ പിന്നിലേക്ക്‌ നീങ്ങി. അവർ ബൈക്കിലേക്ക് നടന്നു. പോകുന്ന വഴി അവൻ ചോദിച്ചു who is he ? അവൾ ഇംഗ്ലീഷിൽ അതിനു മറുപടി പറഞ്ഞത് ഞാൻ കേട്ടു.പിക്ചർ  നിഘണ്ടുവിൽ ഇല്ലാത്ത വാക്കുകൾ മാറ്റിയ തർജ്ജിമ- ഏതോ ഒരു വായിനോക്കി. കുറേ നേരമായിട്ട്‌ അവിടെ നിൽക്കുവാ. എന്നിട്ടവർ ബൈക്കിൽ കയറി ഏതോ പറുദ്ദീസ തേടി  പോയി.

ഭാരമുള്ള എന്തോ ഒന്ന് എന്നിൽ നിന്നും ആവിയായി പോയത് പോലെ തോന്നി. ഭൗതിക ശാസ്ത്രപ്രകാരം ആവിയാകുന്നത് മുകളിലേക്ക് പോകണം. ഈ യുക്തി ഉപയോഗിച്ച് എന്നിൽ നിന്നും പോയത് എന്താണ് എന്നറിയാൻ ഞാൻ മുകളിലേക്ക് നോക്കി. അപ്പോൾ ശക്തമായി കാറ്റടിച്ചു. അതിനു പിന്നാലെ ഒരു അശരീരിയും- മഹാകവി കണ്ണദാസൻറെ നായിക വരെ കാമുകൻ വന്നപ്പോൾ ഞാനാകുന്ന കാറ്റിനെ ഓടിച്ചവളാണ്. പിന്നെയാണ് അക്ഷരത്തെറ്റില്ലാതെ ഒരു വരിയെഴുതാൻ കഴിയാത്ത നിന്റെ കഥയിലെ നായിക. ഇത് കേട്ട് ഞാൻ ഉറക്കെ പൊട്ടി ചിരിച്ചു. ചലിച്ചുകൊണ്ടിരുന്ന പേന എടുത്ത് പോക്കറ്റിൽ ഇട്ടു.

Hide & Seek

It is a very interesting game. Full of suspense and intrigue, unsure of what lies in store after the next turn-right or left. Also perhaps the toughest one to play. A game he had been playing from his childhood. They had told him it would get easier as it progressed. But these walls make a challenging maze. With every successful step in solving it, it gets more complex. It is difficult to play even if you know what you are looking for. But here you also do not know what you are searching for. In the first scenario you can use run around fast burning up all your energy, but it does not help. There are always people who will tell you what are you supposed to look for with so many convincing arguments. For the ones who believe in them, the rest of the game is about searching for those things. And when they get close to these things, they slip away and go into hiding somewhere in the walls. He was not like them. The stories did not seem to be convincing for him. So he ventured out by himself to find what was hidden in these walls. In the course of his journey he met others. Almost all of them had been here for decades, yet they did not know what they were looking for. Some of them who believed they knew what they were looking for, had not found them. Then there were the ‘fakers’ who proclaimed to have figured it all out and led others to follow them into even more chaotic areas of the maze. They were ridiculed by the ‘cynics’ who said there was no maze at all. He spent years with all of them. In the beginning he was with the fakers.His rationality showed him they were wrong. Then the cynics. But his experiences showed him they were wrong.

 

He continued his journey, visiting the pleasure corners, the temples of worship, the workshops of reason. For years it continued as time indulged in his delicious youth, palatable later years and insipid twilight. But one thing he observed was as people ventured further away the maze seemed to follow them there. Strangely the maze was present there before they had reached there. It was then he decided to stop for a brief moment. It may have been all the experience that he had gained. He decided to look somewhere else for his answers. He knew what the world outside held for him, now it was time to look inwards. As he did this, In some distance he could hear the sounds of the walls breaking down. As he observed more closely he saw that they were not breaking down they were closing in merging with one another. The vast expanses they had occupied shrank to just a few square metres in a matter of seconds and it was continuing. In less than a minute they had been reduced to four walls around him. Nothing more. And the four walls continued to close in on him growing smaller as they got closer to him. When they reached near him it was just a box. The infinite maze had turned into a small box which could not contain a kilo of grain. Then it reduced in size further merging into his chest. Now it was an inifinitesimally small particle. Invisible to the naked eye. When it had finished blending into him it was nothingness. Just nothingness.

Deserter

When all this is over and the seas will be red with blood, probably an epic will be written about it. An epic that will sing praises to all the cowards and forget about all the heroes. These were the thoughts that were playing around in the mind of the captain while he waited with others in his army to listen to what their king had to say. Everybody was riding high on their spirits. Their king would step on top of the hill and address them, tell them how they are the bravest among soldiers, the fiercest among warriors. King.. Not the right word for someone who hired an assassin to kill his brother who was the greatest ruler their land had ever known. The incompetent younger one got an archer to ambush the king. And now he calls himself king. The captain would stop calling him king before all this ends. He surveyed his surroundings to find soldiers who were more than willing to lay down their lives for their king. Their king.. not his.

 

The king spoke to them about the importance of this war. Good vs evil, Right vs wrong. He called it. His brother should be turning in his grave as these words were being spit out. To the right of the king, stood the man everyone said was god himself. Many felt he had a bluish tinge to the colour of his skin. The captain did not see it. He just looked like a normal man with a bow. The very bow he used to kill their true king. If we win the war, they would make him a god. Stories of his greatness would be passed down from generation to generation. They said he was the ideal son, husband, king-in short the ideal man. His idealism had reached such heights that it had become devoid of love. Idealism without concessions is a sort of perversion. Who knows?? They would preach his ideals as a religion and centuries from now people might fight in his name again. And just like on this day they also would be ignorant as to what they were fighting for.

 

Reason.. The ruler across the seas had taken something precious from the archer. The captain would not call him god. At best a prince who was exiled from his kingdom. But a prince without his kingdom is no longer a prince. Hence the archer. Thousands of the captain’s kind had rallied here to fight for this man. To retrieve what was taken from him. His loyal servant looks on as the king continued his ramblings. This man who vowed to serve the archer can easily slip in and out of any highly guarded places in the world. And he managed to slip into the land across the sea, escape their armies and return, He could have easily brought back the lost possession back here. But that would not adhere with his master’s ideals. Most of the men who listen to this speech will not return alive from the battlefields. All because of one man’s ideals.

 

On the other side of the sea , another group of men were being given the same speech. Across the oceans of time, this speech was being given. And on both sides of boundaries impressionable souls were enthused by those venomous words to lay down their lives for causes they could never comprehend. Not me not today The captain thought. As he walked away from his camp vowing never to return again. He could see the soldiers. They were building a bridge into the sea to reach the island and the captain was building his to walk out of servitude into emancipation.

Zerkalo

 

Tarkovsky’s Zerkalo is playing on the laptop screen. Playing is not the right word to use with regard to the movement of the 24 frames every second. When it comes to this Russian filmmaker, images flow. Impossible to find out where one frame ends and the other begins. They are Tarkovsky’s dreams captured on film. I wait for my favorite sequences, like the one where the young boy runs outside his home to find a raging fire as rain falls .But, somewhere in between those frames a dream is woven in my mind. And staying true to his style, I don’t know where his dream ended and mine began. All I remember is being transplanted to a dilapidated movie hall with a 70mm screen.  Something is being screened there. The poor quality of the screen and the reel makes it difficult to identify what is being played there. However, after a few seconds it gets clearer and I understand that the image appearing on the screen is of a hospital. A newborn is being carried by a nurse.  She leaves the child in the hands of a woman resting on a hospital bed. Strangely,  she looks like my mother. It is my mother. The child looks lost, probably wondering who he is. It cuts to the next scene where the child is grown up and is attending school. His first fight. He loses. The look on his face tells me he will always remember this. How his ego that was much bigger than his little lean body was deflated. It is after this that I realise it is my life that is being played on the screen. Always a slow learner. It does not have the technical finesse of Tarkovsky’s work. The editing is crude and the cinematography is poor. It could be because most of the footage is old and some have been lost in due course of time. And like the Russian’s work there is no  plot here, no underlying theme. Just memories. It moves into my youth. I’m glad I’m above 18 or they would not have let me into see this movie. Reels change one after the other. Memories rush back. But its the credit reel that packs the twist here.  Like a Kamal Hasan movie, only my name finds place in it. It seems it was written and directed by me. I was expecting to find god, fate or society to be present there. They are not even mentioned as script supervisors. The entire cast is also played by me; my parents, friends, lovers, enemies. All of them. This was all too surreal for me. But once the credits finished I noticed something. The screen the movie was being played on was not exactly a screen. It was a mirror. Now that the movie was over, it was filled with my reflection. The cynic in me would have labelled them as the hallucinations of a successful narcissist. I decided to curtail his freedom of expression for now. The people around us are reflections of ourselves. Knowingly or otherwise, we project ourselves onto them. We often believe that our life is defined by the people around us. But the movie tells me its the other way around. I remembered the look on the baby who tried to comprehend who he was. Who am I?? I am not a soul that passes from one body to another waiting to be united with the greater being or one of the several carriers of the original sin. I am my existence,I am nothing without it. I am born into it, grew into it and above all is defined by it.

Strangely enough, the english translation Zerkalo is Mirror.