“through the act of living, the discovery of oneself is made concurrently with the discovery of the world around us. . ."

Monday, August 25, 2008


"It was all nothing, and a man was nothing, too...Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it was nada y pues nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee..."

If this silence lengthens

To weeks, months – why, even years

You might not learn it when I die.

If we are never to meet again,

You will never see the lines

That ravage my face.

If we are never to talk again

You will never know

That you were there

Always in my thoughts.

You shrug, says ‘so what?’

‘What if you died –

Everyone does, don’t they?

What if you got old –

Everyone does, don’t they?

What if

I don’t care whether you think of me or not?’

Nothing matters, really.

Or doesn't it?

Does ‘nothing’ – that is, having nothing, matter?

Or is it that ‘nothing’ – no thing, matter?

I say, what really matters is – nothing, the vacuum.

All that matters to you is you

And all that doesn’t relate to you, doesn’t.

Take you out of you,

Nothing remains

The way I now take me out of I …

Which is to say, the world ceases to exist when you do.

It reaffirms my belief that everything is actually

Nada, nada, nada, nada.

**************** Balachandran V, 25.08.2008

Wednesday, August 20, 2008


Its spine broken and torn

Leaves left devoured by silverfish,

Corners crumbling with age -

My hands tremble as I open the book.

Carefully, tenderly, I turn the frontispiece -

Shabby, tattered yet holding up together

With a dignity that only books can have -

I shake out the dust and faecal matter.

The book is still silent, slightly embarrassed

But not showing any -

Like my mother, paralysed

As I clean her with wet cotton blobs.

In the left corner of the first page

The book said -

‘With all good wishes to my son’

Signed, my father, forty years ago.

I run my fingers over the lines

Lift up the book to smell it deep

Rest my palm where he would have -

I am in touch with my father.

For my child, what do I leave

Would he care

Would he gratify me -

With immortality?

Would he

Standing alone in the mountains high

Would he

When snowflakes fall, kissing his face?

Would he

When winds roar past his face

Would he

When the hills fall silent?

*********** Balachandran, Trivandrum 20-08-2008

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Good Evening

There is kindness in the air today.

Sunlight bright, yet soft;

Wind strong, yet breezy;

Earth alive, yet sleepy.

There is grace in the air today.

In the shade and light

Trees sparkle and dance

Crows muse, sitting on the posts.

There is music in the air today.

The chorus of the leaves

As the wind blows through them

In rhythmic waves of love.

Through the window, across the trees

Over the high rise, the sky is blue

In unseen strings suspended,

Kites hover; swift fly past Swifts.

On the cool floor of the room,

The dogs are asleep deep

In full trust, faith and love.

I move gently; I stroke their heads.

There is gentleness in the evening today

Awaiting twilight to come

Knowing darkness would follow soon

Knowing, accepting, calmly, the end.


Balachandran, 1530 hrs, 03-08-2008, Trivandrum