As it peeled off
The mask revealed.
Darker skin turned darker.
Unsure of the world
the butterfy flew higher
Unaware of her flaunting colours,
And when faced to face
She recognised her innocence
But for world it was foolishness.
Category: Uncategorized
HALO
HALO. Sounds like you are saying ‘Hello’ right? It may be right because HALO is saying ‘hello’ to the world from the top of it. Well, that can be the last time one says ‘hello’ and also the last time he says ‘good bye’ to the world if things go wrong. Yes. HALO: High Altitude and Low Opening. High Altitude of 30,000 feet and Low Opening from 4000ft above the ground. HALO can make you go hollow. 30,000 feet— 100 seconds of free fall—when I pulled the ripcord the parachute did not open…
I had always travelled in my life. Not a lot but I travel. I was fortunate to have parents who takes us, if not to the foreign countries, but at least to the other states of my own country which has lots of fascinating things to see. INCREDIBLE INDIA! Both of my parents are teachers working in the same government aided school. They arrange tour on every quarterly, half early and annual vacation for staffs and their family members. Sometimes, it is a short tour and sometimes it is long. I was just five years old when I went on a fifteen days tour for the first time in my life to Delhi, Agra and Shimla. I could not remember what I saw at Taj Mahal, Qutub minar, Red Fort, Lotus temple and I don’t even know that I was in the foot hills of Himalayas. I don’t know how a child admires nature, landscapes and architectural aesthetics. But I still remember how joyful we were as children during those fifteen days. I remember wandering from the first compartment to last compartment on Tamil Nadu expresses which takes three days to reach Delhi from my home town; how I caught the attention of a white women in Taj Mahal because of a traditional dress I was wearing and she caged my fluttering child’s wings in her camera; how reluctant I was to pose for my compelling father and made monkey faces as poses. Through out my childhood, in every vacation, we go for a tour and visited various historical places and hill stations in India. And that, as I mentioned clearly, were tours. Years later when I became a traveller I realized that travelling and touring are different. I don’t want to explain it though! Of course touring involves travel. I’m leaving it for you to ponder. I’ve toured a lot but there came a point in my life in which I needed literal travel to set me off in a right position in my metaphorical travel in which I have lost my way completely. “I shall be telling with a sigh, two roads diverged in a wood and I took the one less travelled by and that made the difference”. By choosing to study literature and by aspiring to become a teacher and writer I have taken the road ‘less travelled by’. Literature had taught me about the journey of life. It had also taught about the journey in which you tread on red carpet in couple: The journey of love. I was reminded of e e cummings on the moment I saw her. “Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience”. Shifa…Shifa is her name. The word Shifa in Arabic means cure. She had been the cure for everything in my life. We set off a beautiful journey of marriage. By that time, when she was in her last trimester of her pregnancy I kept the manuscript of my first novel ready to be published. But my talisman, the prerequisite-of-my-soul-to-run, my ‘Cure’ has left me with an incurable pain in my heart with my baby too. She died in her labour. I was left alone in a dark, dungeon alley suffocating and unable to get away. That’s when I needed a literal travel to orient my position in metaphorical travel. I met Melquides, a high Bohemian. I resigned, renounced temporarily and tried to get away from the land which became strange for me without her. Living the life of Kerouac allowed me to comprehend how Wordsworth perceived the ‘Solitary Reaper’ in high land and how Arnold perceived the view of ‘Dover Beach’. I changed myself to rags and forsook all my possessions. I wandered with Melquides writing lyrics for his rhapsodies. We ate with the frugal amount gained from singing, hitch-hiked for moving, sheltered wherever we got place. What I avoided was their promiscuity because I loved and made love now no love so made no love and I avoided smoking weeds. I wonder what kind of a journey that sets you off. The whole INCREDIBLE INDIA seemed different. I understood What a person should understand after crossing through boulevards of metropolitans and cosmopolitans of India, wandering through barren sands in deserts of Rajasthan, hiking in the snowy mountains of Himalayas, burying foot in soaking swamps of Sunderbans, and walking through the dampened sands in the beaches of Arabian sea, Bay of Bengal and Indian ocean. I went with empty pockets and heavy head and came back as is if I was dissolved by drenching myself in heavy rain. But something in me was very stubborn to go away. I think I was in the last point of finding my way out of love’s labyrinth. “Enough of being Thomas Hardy, let me be Robert Browning” I thought. When I wandered in Himalayan range I met Alan Eutace. He holds the world record for sky diving from highest altitude of 135,908ft. He came there to hike Mt.Everest. He talked a lot about the ventures he did in his life apart from sky diving. He inspired me a lot. So, I thought of going for sky diving and I came here all the way to Long Island, America. One full day of instructions were given by trained and experienced sky divers. The next day, I was all set to jump. I still remember how I stood nervously at the edge of deck of back opening of the plane. 30,000 ft. I jumped gathering all my courage. I enjoyed the view of the long island during the 100 secs of free fall, for free fall is the fun part of sky diving. When I have to open the parachute, I pulled the ripcord but it did not open. I was just 4000ft and lowering and 30 seconds and counting, away from death. I closed my eyes. I saw my shifa. “Don’t worry I’m watching you” she said. When I landed I was with my Shifa. “Hello” she said. I felt like I was still falling. “what happened” I exclaimed. “Nothing Mr. I just made you cheat death” she said. The voice came from very close to my ears. I realised that I was clasped from behind by another camouflaged hands. We were both sitting on the ground. She released me. I didn’t move a bit. She got rid of the parachute and oxygen cylinder and came before me. I was still sitting on the floor like a baby who just learned how to sit. My shifa was standing before me in camouflage uniform like mine, hands on her hip and smiling. “Hey Remedy! Is he alright” shouted a man from behind. “perfectly alright” she said raising her thumb. “Remedy?!” I asked in confusion. “yes! Remedy walker” she said and put forth her hands as if to shake hands but it’s not for shaking hands but to help me stand up. I took her hands and stood up. “Remedy Walker, professional HALO jumper and trainer” she said again. It was as if my ‘Cure’ had come as a ‘Remedy’. I felt like exactly how I felt during the time of free fall. I felt very light still having the heavy camouflage cloth, oxygen cylinder and unopened parachute clutched tightly on me. I realised that I should still be in love’s labyrinth not finding my way out because it’s only difficult when you there as only person.
I easily became an American citizen (you know how). I was trained by my Remedy to become a professional HALO jumper. I have also finished my second novel which is to become my first published novel, a fictional travelogue to which this piece of meta-Story will be an autobiographic, fictional preface.
The Art of Kissing…
Dear, forget about our lips.
They have gone to meet each other. Let us stay aside and watch them.
Do you see how sweetly they hunt for one another?!
Like two butterflies flowing through the dark tunnel of the world.
From my lips, opens a lascivious moon Which has been carried as a ring by my tongue to your tongue. And then, both get sealed and stamped by the beautiful wedding of our lips, With your fluffy cheeks that gently resides like a bird in my palms.
The poetry, glow as embers and bleeds in my mouth, would come to your lips like a nomadic dog with broken dictions.
It is your lips : Where the colour of light pink and light red get vanished from the realm of painting and live as a slave in the drunkenness of your lips.
Meanwhile, my lips touched your lips with a drop of my soul. Where all my kisses run like squirrels, to bite the fruit of your mouth.
The dawn has arrived. It’s time for our lips to part each other.
But, they lay like two strawberries slept with smooch melodies.
Dear, tie your lips to mine. For that my heart will set out roots to my lips to live in profound madness under your cherry jelled saliva which would soak my lips before it get dead by your lips invincible sweetness.
Now, our life becomes red roses Where the dawn rained like sugary-snow-powder followed by our kisses, which fell as saffron threads upon our lips.
And there the smooch melodies, continues.
If you forget me…
I give you not a material called love. It is an ink stomped upon your heart.
I do not ask you to be my lady love. Instead, a perfume to make as your flower And, I then give you petals Which climbs to ripe the rare sweetness That is hidden on your silk wrapped lips.
Every day and night, you keep me wet. And, whenever your stealthy glance longs to see me The bud of my face will get enclose by the coyness of the petals.
All the women in the world, would feel envy by your cleopatric eyes…!
Picasso would faint! If he sees the painting of the black crow of your hair branched like a bough upon your celestial face.
As the flakes of wind drizzle over me, Your nicotine fingers, keeps me warm dear.
Shakespeare is a Strawberry. Neruda is a Mango. Keats is a Watermelon. Shelley is a Pomegranate. Eliot is an Apple. Pound is a Lemon. And you, the seed of all!!!
The verse of my kisses, nested as moon droplets, when it fell as feathers to your sweet body.
Now, it had remind with you as an unopened wound. And each day, each hour It will speak you of my presence Only, if you forget me.
HAMLET IN THE TIME OF CORONA
“6:00 a.m. 27/04/2025” showed the digital clock as he woke up that morning and rolled his eyes up to the wall before him, still lying on bed. He turned right to see his wife, Ophelia still sleeping peacefully. He Caressed her face and gently pecked on her glabella. His stomach continued to rumble as it had rumbled the night before, the day before, and days before that…as if he had attacked a bakery and has to attack a bakery for the second time. He went straight to kitchen, rummaged the pantry to find a big, brand new, shining butchering knife and came back to the room, stood by the her-side of the bed raising the knife. “To be or not to be” he whispered staring at her peaceful Angel. He raised his knife further back. “Singggg…..chukkk”. In a flash of a lightning, the sleeping Lamb leaped Tigerly from her bed, swinging the knife she kept ready under her pillow and KGFed him before his raised hands came down. She wiped the blood spilled out of her mouth watching TV news in which the news reader reported: THE DEATH RATE INCREASED UPTO—— AND THE QUARANTINE EXTENDS UPTO———
Don’t talk to him, I said….
It might be your mistake
It may be my mistake
Mistakes are mistakes
You mistook or I mistook
But mistakes happen.
Life is no soft petal caress
Life is no fluffy teddies
Life is no icing on the cake
Life is no sweet dream sleep
Life is no oozing beer
Many a things can’t change now
The pains have changed and modified
I have grown out and grown old
My needs were different on the go
My Acnes gone and aches begun
Little did u do, little by little
Little did I know, little by little
It dint work for us, it dint work that way
You on a steep and I on a slope
I cried out, just calling your name
You walked away just for a change
You needed him, just for a change
I needed you, just as unchanged
I warned you, just because you may change
Said you love him, the world did change
You sent me no regrets and I on cigarettes
Butts burned, my hearts in ashes
Your flimsy care then, didnt fail to surprise
I ate myself, gobbling emotions
I drank tears from memories’ cup.
Wrestling with pain, I went sleepless
Wreathing in agony, I wandered homeless
My eyes were dark, my body blue
I existed with emotional essence and
Meaningful joy vanished to heaven
Your life took a flight
You went higher and higher
Thoughts of me slower to slower
I still wonder, what was that thunder
That took my roots and all that bright
Some pages in your life and mine
Have shuffled leaves and meanings
Your’s different and mine so darker
Like a crumpled piece of paper
I went on with the gain of pain
I moved stiff and with all that butts
You never know what all, I did all stuff
But I moved and moved and moved
Far and far and far and far and far
Off the shore and into the core
For years and years we were apart
And thousands have changed
From you and me and all of us
Memories don’t haunt and flaunt now
And now nothing bothers, I only yarn
It cost my life for the mistake of yours
Those secret talks with the guy you liked
You told me you loved him twice or thrice
It doesn’t matter now , your words are cool
Your goodness I shall seek with no remorse
It took me years to come out of the hole
A dark life, built with no trust or hope
Will end on a note so low and wry
At least you reach peaks and stay on high
I will always pray and pull up a smile
My heart is dead and feels no cold
It’s warmth has given never never more
For feelings I don’t have so anymore
All that is left is words of peace
Nothing could I do than sit ashore
The heights that you have seen
And the people you have won
Teaches me something to cherish
All you have learnt not from me
But once a master I was to you
For pushing away, I have no vengeance
I am not angry, I don’t fume now
I won’t rage against nor wage war
I simply let go, you live yours and I mine
For love on you has gone for good
I am so clear, I was left betrayed
Thousand times I did say, don’t talk
You did speak to him and it tore me apart
Nothing can move me now, even your tears
I have cried a lot and won this guilt war.
Reviews of the story contest : Indianness
My Birth
The first story is about Puthuvasal a beautiful village consisting of 80 huts surrounded by costly trees like cashew nuts and teak. The story brings out the ill-effects of caste system after the release of the film Marumalarchi and shows how the intercaste marriage between the parayar community and that of vaniyar has resulted in the death of the protoganist leading his wife to widowhood which she takes it as a challenge to stand as the test of time and remain in white saree, a symbol of widowhood even after she is tempted by her close relative to get remarried.
Comment:
A vague narration of the story.
🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟
My Birth.
It had a charismatic aura blend with lush fragrance all around “Pudhu vasal”. A village of eighty abode huts, situated in the southern part of India. The huge majestic Tamarind trees stood like a pillar ahead of each huts. The sturdy Teaks and Cashew trees was highly significant and ubiquitous in our village. Even though the village was noticed for its lovely atmosphere, the people in the village would always had their own illicit doctrines when it comes to caste, a contagious disease which was innate in their blood.
Two caste is highly notorious in our village, X and Y. The former sect, would always had a repugnance over the latter, went crazy over one song from a movie called “RENAISSANCE”. This movie created a havoc, in the district of ‘Ariyalur’ at the time of its release in 1998. Love marriage was considered to be a great sin indeed in these sects. For this,
The village folks dig out the red from her husband with laughter
Which made the curse of her life to end in slaughter.
Her saree draped in white
When the blue was still in night.
The cold staccato of the white from the miniscule teat
Had burnt the blue with heat.
Then, she ran and hides like a thief into her own house out of flak.
And, the white became untouchable by the black.
The pang of fire tied her body with wire
Then, she trembled like a worm caught in fire.
As it was the time to sweep out her pregnancy
Where the same red gushed without poignancy.
The red prisoned me even I got the freedom
And, the folks invade our hut like their own kingdom.
As they were in the verge to accomplish their goal
One among them, accidentally kicks the milk bowl.
Which washed the red by its colour white
And, I lay unchained between my mother’s legs, quite.
After having lost her husband, “Jayaraman,” some of the cousins, of my mother “Kalyani,” tried to dominate her by giving vibrant orange sarees. But, she stood firmly in white. White, is the colour of valour, wings of the freedom, epitome of purity, liquid of my life and the divine light of chastity. Later, she smiles at a flower that sprouted from the heart of the earth, which was “Purple” in colour.
PIZZA AND PAZHAYA SORU
PIZZA AND PAZHAYA SORU
“She is my delicious Biriyani. The flavour of all her condiments in the rice is delicious but when I accidentally chew one of those condiments itself like cardamom for example, hidden in a morsel I take, it’s bitter” I remarked on my would-be wife’s characteristics, straddling with my half-trousers on, on the wall of a deep well in the middle of a paddy field. He, my cousin had his lungi folded up and straddled, facing me. Breeze messed his messy hair messier. Punching the wall, he stared at me for a while and then he turned away and smirked.
“She is my pazhaya soru and I’m her pacha molaga” He said. For a moment, I thought “how patriarchal! Does that mean that there is no flavour for her without him?”
“such a deadly combination” he added some moments later, answering my alleging thoughts.
“o come on man! Why do you have to say something so ‘country-related’ always countering me?” I asked.
“Do you know what Is grown in this field you are sitting in the middle of right now?” He belittled me “samba or kurunai? Three months crop or six months crop?” I pouted out my lower lip.
“Do you know W.H. Auden and W.B. Yeats?” I tackled him with a counter question. He gave a relegating look and remained silent.
“Both are great poets. And Auden was right about country people” I kindled him for response.
“what that bugger had to say about us?” he raised his eyebrow and jutted his tongue through his right cheek.
“In a homage poem to Yeats he metaphorized village to ignorance because they didn’t read Yeats’ genius”
“avan kadakiyan kena kooo” He said in his typical country Tamil dialect .
“My Tamil Selvi writes better” he said and sang in his high pitched voice.
The sun had set in the West
The mass has gone to rest
Even the waning moon hid his crescent
Why am I still lying feeling resent
It all started when this flower the spring had bloomed
Promised by the words of love and fooled
With the hand on my head I’ve been told
I’ll never be let down even when I’m old.
“Wow…but what’s between you and her” I inquired
“I couldn’t keep my promise” he said anxiously.
“Why” I asked
“engappan dhiyan” he shouted angrily.
“what Mama told?”
“avanga namma aalunga illa le” he replied very hesitantly.
Translation: “they don’t belong to us”. But I still can’t understand what that means!
Long Lost.
I begged for more
With salted eye and breaking fine.
I cursed time
and my eyelids more;
And begged for a moment more,
But where goes my prays,
Gazing Lui constantly
This’s how Adonis captured Dawn?.
But the wind swiped away utterly,
Time the wheel shair handicapped me.
Well, the moment of ecstasy ended there!
And the notes of these are imprinted .
kilk 
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