Road Rage

(Mother holding up photograph of her daughter, a victim of hit & run in Los Angeles)

http://www.boston.com/news/nation/articles/2009/03/31/hit_and_run_driver_kills_college_freshman_injures_another_in_los_angeles/

It is 0935 hrs today; I am on my way to office on my Bullet motorcycle. On a narrow, dipping, curved stretch, a Honda bike comes straight at me, swerves to avoid a ditch and wham! , hits my right side. I am a fast rider, but very careful one. I am at around 40kmph when the bike hits me. Because my bike is heavy and at the last moment I had swerved to the left, I escape with a torn footwear and a sprained little finger. My toes are miraculously intact, except for a little pain. He had hit my brake and footrest with his bumper; both brake pedal and footrest got twisted and jammed. The fellow stops 10 mts away, glances back at me, and rush away.

I am 53; most of my peers do not ride a bike anymore; they drive cars. I am an expert biker, so I survive these lawless roads and drivers somehow. Suddenly, I am no longer the middle-aged man; I twist my bike around and give him chase. He dances through the oncoming traffic, takes unexpected turns and is a good 200 mts ahead. I blare my horn, my bike roars. 2 kms away, I catch up with him, overtakes, cuts across his path, gets down and as he removes his helmet, slams a right hook on to his jaw that sent him tumbling down from his bike. I pick him up by the shirt front, clinically assess the vulnerable points. He is taller, bigger, younger. I ask him, why the fuck did he run away. He said I am in a hurry. Exposed midriff. I punch him right on his belly and he doubles up like a folded paper. My right elbow hammers down on his back, and as he crumbles, I straighten him up and taking up a boxer’s stance, hit him with both my fists. The fellow bellows, don’t hit me, I am sorry.

Hit and run. You read it in the newspapers every day. You see it on the roads; Kerala has the highest number of road casualties.

A crowd gathers. People try to pull me apart as I take his keys away from his bike. People are shocked by the brutal attack. They threaten me. Some try to fling a punch at me, but I am too fast. I am surprised that the crowd lets the man go and turn their wrath upon me. I show them my bike, my torn chappals, my finger that had started to swell. You shouldn’t have hit him, there is Police to take care of such things. Accidents happen on the roads, they say, but you don’t hit people. Would you hit if it were your son? Don’t think we will care if you are an old bugger, we can beat you up worse.

In spite of the adrenalin rush, I am cool. I ask them – so you would rather side with someone who drives carelessly, hits me and tries to get away?

Moderates turn up and advise me to get lost fast. I move, though not so fast. Who the fuck are you to take law unto your hands, one man asks. I grin at him wryly; he is incensed. Look at the old fart laughing, he says and advances threateningly.

Once in a while the tables can be turned. Once in a while the victim avenges. Once in a while, you deny the onlookers the satisfaction of clucking their tongues at the poor bastard who got a raw deal.

I am unable to go to office. I call them up, take my bike to a mechanic and the damage costs me Rs.1,100/- plus a new pair of footwear.

I am not gloating about the violent way I beat him up; it has been decades since I got involved in a scuffle. But everyday on the road, I see youngsters getting away with rash driving, leaving the victims without a glance of concern. Those hooks on his chin, those punches on his midriff, that elbow hammering on his back- that’s for every single one of them who have cared nought about others.

And as for the onlookers, I realize what angered them was to see a victim fighting back. It has been like that every instance. When a woman retaliates at an attempted molestation, the sympathy of the crowd goes to the molester. If she just sits down and sobs, the crowd will make appropriate noises of sympathy and covertly watch her exposed body. If an old man is pick-pocketed, they will shake their heads at the lawlessness and feel their own wallets. If a child is hit as it runs across the road, they will blame the child and not the speeding driver.

Here, I raise my middle finger in salute, onlookers!

********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 25.03.2011

Journey without Maps

(Unpublished poem, now unearthed)

Could you walk- with

Your hand in mine?

Could you see – life

The way I see?

Would you care- to

Share my pain?

Would your heart - beat

As would mine?

Would you love- the

Things I do? Would you

Trust, would you be true,

Would you have faith as I have in you?

You said yes? Then come!

There is no road no map no light to guide

Only my love to ward off the cold

It might be short or last forever,

But know, for once, we walked as one.

****************

Balachandran, Bombay 02.02.2004

Kurosawa’s Dream

Hina Matsuri, the Doll Festival, traditionally takes place in spring when the peach blossoms are in full bloom. The dolls that go on display at this time, they say, are representative of the peach trees and their pink blossoms. One boy's family, however, has chopped down their peach orchard, so the boy feels a sense of loss during this year's festival. After being scolded by his older sister the boy spots a small girl running out the front door. He follows her to the now-treeless orchard, where the dolls from his sister's collection have come to life and are standing before him on the slopes of the orchard. The living dolls, revealing themselves to be the spirits of the peach trees, berate the boy about chopping down the precious trees. But after realizing how much he loved the blossoms, they agree to give him one last glance at the peach trees by way of a slow and beautiful dance to Etenraku. After they disappear the boy finds the small girl walking among the treeless orchard before seeing a single peach tree sprouting in her place.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dreams_(film) :The Peach Orchard – from Akira Kurosawa’s ‘Dreams’

A nation that was brought down to its knees by nuclear bombs – remember ‘Little Boy’? Generations continue to suffer the ill-effects of those nuclear holocausts at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But what has that enlightened civilization that gives us the best cars and the best cameras learned from its experience? They built nuclear power stations of their own.

And then, Tsunami came.

Down the series of short movies, there is another 'dream',

Mount Fuji in Red

The film's second nightmare sequence. A large nuclear power plant near Mount Fuji has begun to melt down, painting the sky a horrendous red and sending the millions of Japanese citizens desperately fleeing into the ocean. Three adults and two children are left behind on land, but they soon realize that the radiation will kill them anyway.

****************

Balachandran V, Trivandrum 16.03.2011

See http://intermexfreemarket.blogspot.com/2011/03/japanese-disasters_15.html

Also : http://www.earthlyissues.com/nuclearweapons.htm

To you who were you

Believe me, the boy said, I did love you with all my heart.
There was a time when not even a cloud would cloud
The sunshine that you were to me.
Not a bird would dare, not a flower would bare
Its beauty before me, for
In the burning fire of my love for you
Would they turn crisp to ashes, I had loved you so.

You call me now a coward for telling you the truth
The truth that my heart no longer yearns for you.
Would you rather I lied, pretended a feeling
Smiled, held you in my arms, my mind though, with another?

True, there was a time when you were my true love,
My eternal flame, I knew you were
But how were I to know my heart?
Love, my dear, is not for the person
But for what the person means to me.
If my heart transgressed, so too would have you
For you were no longer the you, you were.
***************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 12.03.2011

This is a weak attempt at connecting to the poem of B Log.
See http://spice-n-ice.blogspot.com/2011/03/coward.html

painting courtesy: http://fineartamerica.com/featured/a-beautiful-girl-asha-sudhaker-shenoy.html

Confessions of a mean mind

Long ago, a friend of mine replied to my SMS which I had sent in a moment of self-pity; it was something like how mediocre I am. My friend replied: ‘You are not mediocre, but you deliberately make yourself so. You are surprisingly devoid of airs; comparatively, that is. Intelligent, creative, but sometimes very very mean.’ Even after 5 years, it rankles in my mind. Every time I do something mean or petty, I am reminded of the SMS saved in my mobile. Regret and shame about myself ferment in my heart. These are the moments when one glimpses the shades of ugliness in oneself.

A year ago, a close friend had asked me to sponsor a poor child’s education; it is managed by a charity that he is associated with. I gladly agreed and paid. I should have remembered that it is a life-long commitment; perhaps I forgot it conveniently. A couple of weeks back he telephoned me to remind that the next instalment was due. The amount isn’t huge; Rs.4,000/- or so. He must have caught me at the wrong moment; I said I couldn’t donate further. I told him that I am at present going through a financial crunch (which is true) and that as such I do have a lot of other charities (which is also true) to which I donate considerable sums and therefore I cannot contribute further. It was only natural that he should be miffed, but being a good and close friend he is, he said nothing else.

The matter should have ended there. I feel self-righteous when once in a while I say no to something which I feel is a no-no.

A few days back, we were chatting on phone. As good and old friends that we are, there is always a lot of ribbing each other. Do you think, young readers, that at middle age, all that we men talk about is money or spirituality? Dead wrong! We talk mostly sex, the way teenagers do, with a lot of chuckling and giggling and in between, sighing that our good old days were gone. And we talk a lot about food. And drinks. Though none of us are hard drinkers, some of us indulge in daily shots; some, like me, once or twice a month or whenever good drinking companions (read close friends) turn up.

Now, this particular friend has access to high quality liquor, much to the envy of others. Though he doesn't lavish much on us, out of our envy we tease him about the not-so above board channels through which he gets his Scotch. I ask him, ‘Dey, when are you going to get me a ‘Glenlivet’? Now, to the ignorant, Glenlivet is the holiest of holy Scotches in the world. Suddenly, there is a change of tone in his voice. It rasps. It whips as he draws it from behind. ‘No more Glenliveting for you. Its all accounted for the donation for the child. I had to shell out the money for you’.

For a moment, I was too stunned to reply. ‘But’, I asked, ‘Why? That was a one-time thing and’ – ‘No’, he cut in. ‘You had sponsored the child’s education and now they have to find another sponsor. Since it was I who introduced you, I have transferred the sponsorship to me and I have paid the instalment’. I was at a total loss for words and somehow managed to end the conversation.

It left an unpleasant taste. For one, I hadn’t honoured my commitment; two, my friend had to bear its cost; three – and the most hurting of them all – that my friend slammed me with the bottle of Glenlivet – and boy, that really hurt! Perhaps if he had insisted that I meet my commitment, I would have given him the money.

So last week, I sent him a draft for a part amount. I wrote to him that I am sorry that he had to bear the expense, so kindly accept this, but of course, the matter should end here. We even talked to each other over phone, teased and laughed about other things, everything seemed to be fine.

Then, today he returned the draft to me. Accompanying the draft was a piece of paper torn from a notebook. Written by a child, it read: ‘Respected sir, My name is Vibiya I am studing VI standerd. next I am sincerly thanked you. by Vibiya.’

And he had written me a letter – as far as my memory goes back, this could be the first ever hand-written letter I have received from him in the 25 years of our friendship. He wrote; ‘Dear Bala, I forward the thanks letter from Ms.Vibiya, the child who was under your sponsorship. I am glad you could contribute to your best for the child. Please don’t worry, we will find some other sponsor for the child. I am unable to accept any money in my name on behalf of the organization; hence I return the DD. Moreover, the organization does not accept donations as such.

I thank you very much for your goodness you have shown so far. I know you stand by me in spirit’.

I am too old now to feel anything about being defeated by myself, because it has happened so many times before. Like the Bhagavad Gita says: Aatmaiva atmano bandhu, aatmaiva ripuratmana. You yourself are your friend and foe.

I feel lost. I don’t know where to go from here. Perhaps some self-flagellation? How about cutting out alcohol totally for one year? Two years? Ha, what about stopping smoking? You spend more than 4000 f---ing bucks a year on cigarettes!

Unable to concentrate on work, I excuse myself and go out for a smoke. Smoking sometimes helps in clearing up the smoke in our minds. I always had a slight indifference to charity for humans. There are enough and more for humans; no, there is never enough, but I will more readily give to charity for animals, for nature. I will more readily donate to the indigenous people, the tribals. Yet, there is still something indigestible inside me. There is a pettiness, a streak of meanness in me that I cannot put my finger on to – or is it that I do not want to?

Perhaps I will approach the organization directly and re-sponsor Vibiya, to hell with 4000 bucks. That may soothe my mind somewhat; but would I be able to sit and drink with my friend again? For the moment, I am unable to answer, stumped, down and out.

**************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 10.03.2011

The Climax

Resting her head on his broad chest, the girl wished

It would be forever, how wonderful it’d be

If it were forever, to be with him, to feel his warmth

To listen to his heartbeat; ‘He’s mine!’

‘She sure smells nice’, the boy thought and wondered

About the next step; ‘should I rush it or not’-

Unable to control his arousal,

He was a bit embarrassed but happy –

‘Gently’, he told himself, ‘be deliberate’, but then he was ashamed

And felt guilty, his love and lust tearing him in two.

Pressing herself closer to him

The girl was a bit scared but excited –

‘he loves me, he loves me’, she thought

Triumphant at her new possession, her new puppet.

The boy re-positioned himself, moving to the second stage

As the girl wondered if this is the time to show some reluctance

Would coyness be appropriate or would it kill his passion, she wasn’t sure.

Ah, but man proposes and God disposes – leaning down to a exploratory kiss,

Eyes closed - suddenly the boy shuddered as a wave of nausea hit him

Because the girl, beautiful though she was,

Had forgotten to brush her teeth that morning!

******** Balachandran V , Trivandrum 08.03.2011

So that you know how much I had loved you

The Lovers - Painting by Andrew Osta

Do not read further; these lines are not for you.

They are just precipitates, like curdled milk

Lying, forgotten, in my frozen shelves.

I do not conceive you in my mind any more.

I do not remember your smile, the glimmer of love

That shadowed your eyes; I do not recollect your face.

Warm, was your breath; moist, your lips.

In my large palms, your breasts hardened.

Your fingers trembled as you sought me

Your legs parted, inviting, in submission.

As I ran my fingers over you, your body hair stood up

As if in protest, as if to resist, but in vain.

How was I to know that your cries were in joy

How was I to glean that you burnt in ecstasy?

I never could, you know, submerge myself

In the so-called sublimity of love.

Not untrue in my love, but I couldn’t

Accept that the sublimation of my love for you

Lay in this act of making love.

Making love? I was in love, why should I make it?

Yet I wonder, what is it that I loved in you?

Was it the person or the persona, the mind or the body,

That I had desired more; maybe both, maybe it is that

I wanted it all, with such a hunger, such an appetite

I had – I wanted to eat, if I could, suck you in

So that you spread and flowed all over and inside me,

So that I bled you, my sweat stank of you

My lips and yours one

My spittle and yours one

Me in you, you in me

Mine and thine, indistinguishable.

Now you know how much I had loved you.

*********** Balachandran V, Trivandrum 01.03.2011

The Welfare of Stray Dogs - An Abundance of Love for the Abandoned

It is a Sunday morning in Trivandrum. Anil, Christy, Dr KVS and I are standing before a house in Thirumala. The human occupants of the house had left the place a couple of weeks ago and are somewhere in North India. Gone for good. Nothing wrong here, except they have left two dogs, one a Dalmatian and the other a mongrel, whom they had kept, fed and presumably loved – and now abandoned. It seems that they have asked a maid to feed the dogs. But according to the neighbours, she hasn’t appeared since last few days .

Love for animals is perhaps an anachronism in today’s world. In the quest for riches, power and fame, humanity has discarded the very qualities which in the first place distinguished them from the rest of the animal world. In a world where man exhibits more ‘animal’ characteristics than animals, dogs are just a utility to guard our wealth or a toy for our children to play with. As our urban dwellings overflow with garbage and filth, in our streets roam stray dogs; most born on the streets, many thrown out of houses when they have become either old, sick or unwanted.

Stray dogs do not figure in any category in the country’s budget; but for the Supreme Court order banning the eradication of strays by killing, we would have continued to witness the most inhuman act of strangling, electrocuting, poisoning and such heinous methods by which local bodies had tried to cull its population. Stray dogs do create problems, but the most effective and humane way to cull their numbers is through mass sterilization and immunization against Rabies. In a country where trillions of rupees disappear into black holes, surely we can afford to spend a few lakhs for the welfare of street dogs.

Hope for humanity lies not in the billions of our fellow beings, nor in those who wield power and money, but in small groups who care for the needy. The Welfare of Stray Dogs, an organization based in Mumbai, is one such group. Established in 1985, WSD is a group of people committed to cause of strays. The organization has its own clinic where the volunteers bring dogs from the streets. They do a lot of awareness programmes in schools and colleges and urge people to adopt stray dogs. Below is an extract from their website, www.wsdindia.org

· Between 1994 and 2007, WSD has impacted the lives of 90,000 stray dogs through sterilization, vaccination, healthcare and adoption.

· Sterilization and immunization of 31,000 stray dogs between 1994 and 2007.

· On-site immunization against rabies of more than 15,000 stray dogs.

· On-site treatment for more than 40,000 stray dogs through our on-site first-aid programme.

· Rabies awareness drives in public places like railway stations and parks.

· Presentations to hundreds of children and adults on the stray dog issue, rabies and its prevention and the avoidance of dog bites.

· Adoption of more than 200 abandoned pets and stray dog.

It is so heartening and encouraging to know that there are such small bands of people who do such service without a thought for name and fame. It is so good to remind oneself that there still remain patches of greenery in this vast, barren land.

On a lighter note, I reproduce what Cyrus Broacha has said in the FAQ of the above website:

Q. I’d like to purchase a dog. Where and how could I get one?

This question really gets me mad. My blood boils and the ticks die immediately of food poisoning. Firstly, remember it’s not whether the dog’s good enough for you but if you are good enough for the dog. You must pass a test showing you have the time, patience, love and respect to look after a dog. If you are of sound mind and good character, if you are willing to give quality time to the dog, then after adequate training maybe, just maybe, you’ll be good enough for the doggie and he’ll lower his standards and let you in.

Q. I’ve had a Pomeranian for the last 7 years. Now that I’m getting married, my ma-in-law won’t allow my dog ‘China’ to live with us. What to do?

Annul the marriage. Change the mother-in-law. A pact with a dog once in place is unconditional and lifelong, and cannot, I repeat, cannot be broken. If your ma-in-law won’t bend, get rid of her. If your wife won’t bend, get rid of her too. There! Your Pomeranian has already done you two favours so what are you prepared to do for your dog? Huh?

It is midday. Blackie and Tomy, the abandoned dogs, jump around us happily. Both pee-ed for at least 5 minutes! They haven’t had any food or drinking water since 3 or 4 days. Tomy is the Dalmatian and Blackie, the mongrel. Blackie is a very intelligent and affectionate dog. Tomy has severe ear infection and there are a lot of bruises on his back, probably due to the iron railings of his cage. Though strangers, they knew we meant love; both wolfed down the meat and rice mixture Anil and I had brought. I treated them to dog biscuits too. We let them out of the cages. I have asked the local PFA chapter (People for Animals)www.peopleforanimalsindia.org/ to take them in.

************** Balachandran V, balanpnb@gmail.com 27.02.2010

PS : Please visit www.wsdindia.org. They have brought out a great calendar (Rs.150/-) with excellent photographs of stray dogs who have been adopted and now lead an enviable life. If you cannot keep a stray dog, at least support generously those people who devote their time and energy for the cause of the stray dog.

'What every Malayalee/Keralite should read

http://beta.bodhicommons.org/commentary/what-is-development-and-for-whom

Joy

Enjoying nature

Enjoying forests, birds and the breeze

Enjoying music, reading, traveling

Enjoying looking, listening, feeling, touching –

I realize -

More than this joyful spread before me

More joyous is this gift, so special,

To find joy, to discover beauty

In matters all, piddling and profound.

Deprived, denied of everything

Of riches, of senses

Even in darkness I will remember

The light, oh life, you shed on me.

I will hope and wait

With the glow of happy memories

Warming, keeping me alive.

******* Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 23.02.2011

The day I almost killed myself

It is an afternoon, with a lull in business. Many of my blog posts have been written here clandestinely and then e-mailed to myself and thence to blog. I wonder what to write about; this blogging has become an addiction. Soon, will I get tired of it?

Reading my posts, the common pattern I see is that I have always tried to link an incident in my life to a universal fact, so that readers can identify themselves with the situation I have described and gain their own insights.

In 1978, one year after graduation, I wrote the entrance test for FTII, Pune. I had become a serious movie buff; wherever there is a film show, I would be there. I was a member of all the film societies in Trivandrum, like Chalachitra and Chitralekha. I read Sight & Sound. I read books on making movies and documentaries. Though I could not afford to buy a camera, I gorged on every available book and journal on photography.

I saw life in a series of frames.

The FTII entrance test was the first ever test other than academic that I wrote. I was a naïve young boy; I thought passing the test meant an entry to FTII. I was wrong; there was a 3-day series of tests and interview to get through. At the interview, the head of the interview board was the famous film director, Hrishikesh Mukherjee. He asked me if I had any godfather in the film industry. “Then how do you expect to survive here”, he asked to my answer, “No”.

I couldn’t have done well in the tests, but I saw others who did worse get admission effortlessly. That was when the bubble burst. Undaunted, I went on to Bombay where my sister and brother-in-law lived. He was a big shot in BARC. I thought there was no point in going back home, continuing my listless postgraduate studies. I wanted a job. I wanted a job badly because I was in love and wanted to marry and I would not, I thought it wouldn’t be fair to marry when I cannot feed her on my own.

My sister and family stayed in one of the tall apartments in the BARC complex. On the first day evening of my arrival, Mr N, my brother-in-law’s colleague and his wife came to visit. Introducing me to him, my brother-in –law said – “ Vimala’s youngest brother” – then, curling his thick lips he added contemptuously in his Palakkadan accent – “ His only achievement in life is that he passed a test to Pune FTII; flunked in the interview, of course!” Mr. N and his wife looked embarrassed and changed the subject. I stood there, immobile, crushed, cringing, my heart split like a rotten log. I remember looking at my brother-in-law who overrode my wish to study English literature and forced my mother to make me accept Physics, which I hated. With father no more to guide or to decide, my mother had left such matters to her eldest son-in-law, the brilliant chemical engineer, who knew things.

Later in the night, I went up to the roof of the 20- floor apartment. Far away, I could see the blinking lights of airplanes circling to land at Santa Cruz. Looking up at the dark sky, I came to know the feeling of pointlessness of life for the first time. That my dream bubble of becoming a cinematographer had burst, that I am a failure, incapable of achieving anything, that my romance was fading away, that at 21, I was aimless, jobless with nothing to look forward to – far below I could see the cars parked.

Ever since, whenever I look down from great heights, cliff edges in the Himalayas or Western Ghats, I have this eerily calm thought in my mind – of falling through the air – and I smile to myself realizing how thin, narrow, how sharp like a razor’s edge is the bridge between life and death. I realize that how so much I may value my life, a vagrant wind can topple me down the chasm.

********* Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 23-02-2011

The Great Escapes

My old friend who is in New York rang me up at my land phone a couple of days back. P took the call. Cheriyan told her that he could not get me on the mobile phone – ‘Switched Off’ – it had said; and there hasn’t been any recent posts in the blog for someone who churns out one almost every other day. P told him that Balan has escaped from Trivandrum – for a few days.

In Trivandrum, the mercury is shooting up. To boot, we have the ‘Festival of Women’, the largest gathering of women in a single city on a single day, the event that has gained entry in the Guinness Book of Records. The Attukal Pongala.

Women come from all over Kerala and Tamil Nadu. They spill out of cars, trucks, buses and trains. They throng the street sides, houses, railway station, bus station, vying for the better locations that offer shade and quickest way out. Glamorous actresses and foreigners add colour and spice. Sitting around makeshift hearths on the roadside, they cook rice and sweetmeats in the morning, sweating out in the sweltering heat to the background din from tons of massive loudspeakers and sound boxes spewing out cacophonic music. In the afternoon, at the signal of sprinkling holy water over the Payasams and Therali appams, the grand gala festival is over. Prosperity for the next year assured, the exodus begins.

I am hardly doing justice to the event. You have to experience it to understand the magnitude of the crowds, of the ear-shattering noise, the suffocating smoke of thousands of fires, burning dried palm fronts and other such inflammable materials, the tons of waste of half-baked bricks used to keep the boiling pots over the fires, the frenzy of devotion.

For the last 5 years, I have been escaping the city during Pongala. Being in the heart of the city is no fun on the Pongala days. Since one cannot fight religion, the best option is to get away. I go to the hills where all that falls in my ears are the songs of the wind and the birds. All the chatter I hear is that of the leaves in the wind. In the morning, mist rises before my eyes.

I have nothing against these thousands of my female compatriots (including the mother of my son) who pray and offer Pongala to the Goddess Kali. I have nothing against the air pollution, noise pollution and the garbage they leave in my city. But this year, sitting in my thatched hut far away in the hills of Attappadi and gazing at the Malleesara peak and scattering rice to the Spotted Doves that crowd around me fearlessly, I thought of the 5 Kindergarten children and their Ayah who died drowning in the sewage of our City as their school van went off the road and fell into Parvathi Puthen Aar on the eve of the great day of Pongala and wondered if the tens of thousands of women who braved the sun and prayed for prosperity for their families and the Goddess Kali who benignly smiled upon her devotees – did they ever, for just a moment, think of the innocent children who lay in their little cheap coffins all dressed up in white and flowers around their heads and the heartbreaking wail of the mothers and fathers and the shocked and uncomprehending faces of the little children who stood around their dead friends…

Of course they could not have. You see, they are praying, the tens of thousands of prayers that goes up into the warm skies of Trivandrum along with the blue haze of smoke are tens of thousands of prayers, each for herself and her family, so what if a few kids died, the Pongala of life must go on…

Sitting on the bank of the stream and watching a Grey Wagtail hop and skip over the rocks, I remember the faces I saw in the newspaper, the faces of innocence and beauty, which must be now slowly changing to unrecognizable putrefying flesh beneath the soil. I remember one particular face of a little girl and my heart constricts in pain as I watch the bird disappear into the darkening woods.

********* Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 21.02.2011

http://hubpages.com/hub/Trivandrum-Nursery-Kids-Omni-Van-Accident

Birthday Brood

Standing before my bookshelves

I gaze at the books fondly.

I remember you, I tell one,

Do you, the nights we spent together?

You made me laugh, cry, you made me angry

And yet you gave me peace too, and great joy!

Yes, yes, I nod at another, you too, of course.

They all look back at me, smiling gently,

These souls who have been with me for so long.

I look at them and at those I haven’t read

Perhaps – no, quite likely - never will.

The night is quiet; silence broken only by the old ceiling fan.

Browsing through my CDs, I look at the pictures

The places I have been to, the faces I have seen.

I smile at the old files, remnants of countless attempts

At setting the world right; how wanton I have been with words!

How I had dreamt! How valorous I have been and oh, how naïve!

Here in these pages lie my words, my dreams, myself

Glittering , scattering like confetti in an evening sun.

There are so many places I haven’t seen

So many books I haven’t read

So many songs I haven’t heard

So many things I haven’t done–

Oh! There is so much, so much of love I haven’t had!

**************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 11.02.2011

painting courtesy : http://www.etsy.com/view_listing.php?listing_id=24456032

A Broken Yo -Yo Waiting for Godot

(This poem was inspired by KPJ’s ‘Abandoned’)

Inside the waste bin, I look around.

This crumpled piece of paper

Tries to imitate me like a ball.

This ant that scrambles over me

Tickles; he thinks he is

On top of the world!

Licking the wrapper of a toffee,

I muse over the places I've been-

Rather, the places I could've been to

If it were not for the Thread, and the Hand

That had held me, pulled me back.

One day, the bin would be emptied

Into the Great Heap of Waste -

A boy from the slums would find me, I'm sure!

Happy, I am, inside this cosy bin

Waiting for the happiness awaiting me!

********* Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 01.02.2011

Falling in love with Parvati

Yesterday we had been to Kottayam to attend a marriage. P had left a couple of days earlier; she wanted to reconnoiter some research project she wanted to do at Panjal. We met at the wedding and returned together. In the comfort of AC Chair Car, we dozed; outside it blazed – summer is coming up fast. Waking up, I look at P, sitting cross-legged on the reclining seat, head bent as if deeply pondering over the mysteries of life, except that the crookedly perched spectacles gave away the truth.

50 plus, both of us are getting to be real middle-aged. Several of our older generations have been passing away. Death, that of the old, is of course painful, but it comes with a rider – ‘thank God, he/she didn’t suffer much’ or , ‘he/she had suffered a lot, thank God, its over now’. Soon – or who knows when, our turns too will come, life will go on without us - perhaps we would stare balefully from a photograph on the wall or a death anniversary photo in the newspaper.

I look at P and unknowing to myself, I smile at her. Ours was a cross between ‘arranged’ and ‘love’ marriages – we had met, associating with the same NGO working on nature conservation, became great friends, found that we cherished each other’s company, discovered that we had so many common interests and perspectives – and one day, feverish and sipping a hot lemon tea, I proposed to her when she had come to visit the sick me. Parents agreed to our wish and we had a simple wedding. 30 plus, we were no kids – I had taken a few beatings in love life, she too might have – we were never curious about such things of our past. P had premature grey hair, I had started balding. Both cared nought about pretensions. P in those days walked around wearing cotton churidars except when she had to teach at the College where by convention she had to wear a sari. I always wore a corduroy jeans (my managers used to raised their eyebrows but never dared to point it out) and thick Khaddar Kurtas. She hardly wore any jewellery; I stopped wearing my wedding ring within a month of marriage.

Over the years, we had our share of fights – once we even teetered on a break, but sense of survival prevailed. Or it could be that we were mature enough to let the storm pass for the sake of our son. Tides rose and went. It was mutual affection and respect more than romantic love that sustained our relationship; we instinctively knew we kind of compensated for one another. Along with the common characteristics we shared, we were extremely opposite in many matters. Against her gregarious nature, I was a loner. Against her fiercely possessive intimacy with relatives, I had none; P was God-fearing, I didn’t know much about God. P is practical to the core, aggressive and dominating; I am a hopeless romantic , a dreamer and gives in too fast.

But the boat didn’t go down; it rocked once in a while, but we never lost the oars. We fly into terrible arguments ( K always says that he was inspired to study human psychology because of us) but after a few hours of sulking, we patch up.

I look at Parvati; her legs are a bit short to stretch and reach the foot rest beneath the seat in front of her. Sitting cross-legged and dozing and nodding, she looks like as if she is chanting and meditating at a religious gathering. A spurt of a snore escapes her mouth. I move my left hand to touch hers; a gentleman sitting on the other side of the aisle gets ups and tells me – ‘Sir, excuse me, but your wife’s Pallu (Sari’s end) is trailing on the floor. People are stamping on it as they pass’. P wakes up with a start, grabs her Pallu and goes back to sleep. She turns to her right, holds my arm and lets out another snort in her sleep. I do not move my arm away. Outside the sun is setting over the Ashtamudi lake as we pass over the scene of Perumon train tragedy.

************** Balachandran V, Trivandrum, 31.01.2011