A Blog of One's Own

Some journeys unexpectedly curve, turning you inward; taking you back to the womb, to the very conception of life.    In the midst of a hectic study tour in Kannur district in North Kerala, writer K.M Venugopalan, our companion during this journey, took us to Chengal wherein resides Shri. Kallen Pokkudan, lovingly called as Kandal (mangrove) Pokkudan – the man who grew mangrove forests along the Pazhayangadi River.      Exhausted as we were in the afternoon, we reached the house of Shri. Pokkudan, the tireless crusader for the restoration of the lost heritage of mangrove forests in the coastal region. What he began with a strong individual conviction in his home district, in Kannur in the 1980s, soon became a mass effort and countless mangroves have been planted in almost all parts of Kerala over the years. Kallen Pokkudan He was struggling with his lunch kept on the table, unable to eat, as sobs choked his throat in remembrance of his life part...

"I trust your Garden was willing to die ... I do not think that mine was—it perished with beautiful reluctance, like an evening star—" Emily Dickinson, in a letter to her Aunt Katie Sweetser, 1880 I stand perplexed, not knowing what to do with the few plants I had on the terrace of this house where I lived for some years now. So few, they somehow grew so beautifully in their respective containers without any special care. After a period of winter hibernation, most of them have come back with full vigor. During my short trips out of the city, some inevitably faded while others survived with incredible spirit. Time to leave the place once again, this time for a long time, may be. I say ‘may be’ because every time when I shifted out of this city in a definitive tone, I returned to it with equal speed. The city which saw more than half of my life’s doings…So, let me suffix it with a ‘may be’ this time, in all humility.  There were gardens always, wherever I lived. On ...

From the laughter of cherry blossoms We travel to the silence of pines ....       ....       .... Dhanbad - Gaya - Dehri The train grows roots In between ....   ....    .... The oak tree - We saw the humming bird nesting on it, The passing monks bowing to it   ....   ....  ....  .... Baul in tomato Pierces its heart ....   ....  .... From the white floss silk to the weeping willow- Rain makes an incessant swing for the parrots ....  ....  ....  .... In the rock garden of Jaintias We stood among the monoliths Which stood like pine trees ~SKS

  A resort where none but      Your own warmth Invades the secret zones                                                             Of your imagination        -Sreekala-                                           

As I looked down through the oval window             Endless fields lay in quiet green patches        Intervened by brown              A slender silvery spark winding through Caught my eyes- which tributary was it? Can I know by the sense it evoked in me?             No, I can’t!      I need landmarks to identify!            This is the city’s gift to me!             Does the sense come back when we become formless,          When gravity ceases to hold? or else,  How would Baba come back home?             As I looked dow...

Photo by G. Harikrishnan

Photo by Debanshu Mukherjee

You said, "I will go to another land, I will go to another sea Another city will be found, better than this Every effort of mine is condemned by fate and my heart is -- like a corpse -- buried How long in this wasteland will my mind remain Wherever I turn my eyes, wherever I may look I see the black ruins of my life here where I spent so many years, and ruined and wasted" New lands you will not find, you will not find other seas The city will follow you. You will roam the same streets And you will age in the same neighborhoods in these same houses you will grow gray Always you will arrive in this city To another land -- do not hope -- there is no ship for you, there is no road As you have ruined your life here in this little corner, you have destroyed it in the whole world -Constantine P Cavafy-

Retreat, Sanghamitra

The Wind Cuts the flute The pain, the pain *** *** *** *** Autumn Trees Opening the door When dreams die *** *** *** *** When the heart bleeds Outside You search for the facade Inside *** *** *** *** Desecend the clouds And hear O Sakura Poems of a wanderer Lie scattered on the road *** *** *** *** Yodo River Calling Siva For moon-viewing

Abhinaya’s Macbeth (dir. Jyotish M.G.; with D. Raghutaman as Macbeth, Athira as Lady Macbeth) Review by Ralph Yarrow I saw this at Abhimanch, NSD, on Jan.9 2009. Excellent use was made of inventive staging, involving large mirrors reflecting the protagonists, subtle entrances and exits, use of swathes of material, striking costumes for the chorus, simple but effective ramps and an imaginatively conceived and effectively used set of severed Banquo heads in the banquet scene. The twin video screens presented surprisingly impressive effects, mostly oblique representations of key motifs (introspection, hand-washing, birds in flight, the dagger – the latter mercifully suggestive and brief). The sound – haunting music with strong moments of intensity and menace, choric speaking amplified at appropriate moments – was also well used and contrasted effectively with the non-amplified speech of the main characters, as though they were battling the elemental forces around them. Lighting was also...

One more Keralappiravi has passed on 1st of Nov, 2008. As the govt. tirade against the Chengara struggle and the apathy of the general public to it continue in Kerala, let us remember Poykayil Appachan (1879-1939), the tireless crusader against casteism within the dominant churches and outside; he not only redefined religion but urged people to convert the dream of liberation into a reality on this earth. For Amarapuram, established under the leadership of Poykayil Appachan in 1910s, so many dalits had shed their sweat and tears and they’re not mere pieces of land, but as the name suggests the symbol of hope, an eternal city of freedom. We rejoice to reach Amarapuram Its beauty is unsurpassed Is it heaven or its peak? Is it luck or its peak! I am not the one to narrate it all! For this and translations of other songs of Poykayil Appachan by Ajay Sekher, see Unknown Subjects: Songs of Poykayil Appachan , edited by V.V Swamy and E.V Anil (Kottayam: Institute of PRDS studies, 2008)

Poem by G. Sasi (1959-2002) Soumini, You said that black is beautiful Poets have sung it Then, How did the black people get humiliated? We are not the ones who suck blood and sweat We are melting… The blazing sun and the burning earth Are not tending us Mother, There is no space for the black people To hide in your wings We are being thrown out Oh mother Kali! Your neck has been ornamented By whose heads? When you quench your anger By sucking blood On whose headless body are you standing? Soumini, Don’t say for the sake of saying That black is beautiful… Don’t sing, Black is the seed of riot in the self Mountain of turbulence Shadow of suffering The color of love (Translated from Malayalam by Sreekala Sivasankaran) G. Sasi was born in 1959 in Madhuraveli, Kottayam district of Kerala . His parents Gopalan and Kuttippennu worked as coolies and they lived in the Ayamkudi slum colony. Sasi, after completing his school education went to college but could not continue the studies. His poems...

between the mountains black tuberoses blooming between day and night distance or closeness?