Rose in my garden

meditation

conversation

reality

love

hope

suffering

arrival

illusion

happiness

letting go

joy

nirvana

presence

true home

enlightenment

feeling

blaming

job

breath

breath

anger

death

kindness

energy

mother earth

death

Bryan Appleyard

We tell stories to ourselves; of our journey from birth to death, friends, families, who we are and who we want to be. Or public stories about history and politics, about our country, our race or our religion. At each moment of our lives these stories place us in space and time. They console us, making our lives meaningful by placing us in something bigger than ourselves. May be the story is just that we are in love, that we have to feed the cat or educate the children. Or may be it is about a lifelong struggle for salvation or liberation. Either way-however large or small the story- the human impulse is to make sense of each moment by referring it to a larger narrative. We need to live in a world not of our own making. 

More favourites

Cosmo

Kolambi poovu

By the seashore

Death

Looking back and thinking,
I cannot believe that this whole story,
Of gain and losses,
Was about a few lies hidden,
A few stupid moves across the board,
That none dares for fear,
A few blind thrashes at the unseen foe,
And desperate lunges at the seen,

You dont know what fear
When you know that it doesnt matter,
For you run far and wide across the vast spaces,
Searching for refuges,
Mirages in the scorching desert land.

You dont know fear either,
When your heart is numb and cold,
Can never raise a war-cry,
But only fight
To live or to die.

You and Me

You were the strain of music that I lost somewhere in my life. One day I just stopped singing and lost you somewhere along the way. The songs that you taught all sang of how your tears would make garlands of songs for my neck.

Yesterday, when I remembered that we had required nothing but togetherness to be happy every day and how hours of looking into each other's eyes could bring in a new life after every parting. Then the song played on my lips again; but this time I guess I know how to make garlands with tears as well.

Introduction to Daily Meditations by Omraam Mikhael Aivanhov

Old Friend

Islands

Today when I write our short, short story in words,
I want sunshine and laughter, tickles and giggles,
Naughty days and kisses, joys in our land of dreams,
But when words do come they have traces of tears,
A lost treasure, none can see or enter, a little space
A sacred space, where words are ciphers and myths,
Everyday a new script, with details added in for spice,
Beneath starry skies, on the seashore on lovely nights,
Music that heaven played with moonlight and waves,
Now silence, tears, aching hearts and burning memories,
Memories that never heal nor fade, written with fire,
Unreal, surreal, drawn with circles, colours and blood.
We wave desperate, deaf and blind, on either shore,
Having burnt boats and with tears, shout to each other.

My Roots Strangely

I belong only to you, my dreams.
I do not belong to my place that left as a child.
I do not belong to my family since it is all dead and gone,
with a few bones scattered in a churchyard long ago and far away,
I do not belong to the place where I grew up,
Beside the river green,
Where it was always fun to be playing in water,
Yet too scary to belong,
For there were rightful inheritors,
More rightful than me.

Nor do I belong to a family which calls me my own,
Though the blood that runs through my veins is hardly theirs,
Nor do I belong to some who call me by a sweet name,
They do not know me at all, am a familiar stranger,
Who nods and smiles and passes them by.

Its only you who know me, my crests and troughs,
My feminine spirit and tenderness,
My occasional clownishness in trying to belong,
To some name, some family, some tribe,
Where I do not belong.

You are where I belong, in the terrible silences
and the all engulfing tenderness that follows,
That is the space where I see myself,
As yours having a name and being
other than all these illusions.

Your Memory

Primitive, strong and wild,
This love flickers and burns,
In your eyes, near my beating heart.

Your name is my treasure,
I would never utter aloud,
And spoil it with too much use.

Your name brings blushes,
Your memory smiles as I walk,
Through the same paths.

Your smile, so innocent and fleeting,
Your face buried in my bosom,
In a season of silence.

Style is the man or is it the woman?

What is the importance of having a simple style in writing? 
A simple style signifies clarity of thought and is easy to understand. Yet every day lots of books are published that are written in an incomprehensible style. 
Do they have a reader in mind? Or are they meant exclusively for experts? 
Do people really know what they are talking about? How can a book alter the way a person thinks if the reader is not all able to understand it? 

Intermittent rain

I wish I could undo that turn in history,
I wish I could tell you how much this story means to me,
Of you being always near me and me being so blind,
Though I was always there,
Always with you in all your ramblings.

I have never called you by your name,
Or never dared to utter your name aloud,
Though this was where my mind ended,
Like a chorus in a song.

Now it’s no more I believe,
But who knows it more than us,
Who have only dreamt and believed
And did nothing else,
But remained silent.

Silence was such a crime,
Against you and me,
And the world of our possibilities, 
And this now extends across,
Not just miles, but ages as well.

Your face

Your face flashes in my mind, my love,
When I try hard day and night to erase
Erase its impression and give me
Freedom from your haunting thoughts
Yet you come back in the rain
And in the bright sunshine
In the soft peach light of the sunset
Your voice, trailing across the miles,
The distance and forgotten times
To find a chink in my coldness
Built strong to keep you out,
Out of my life to keep me free.
Yet I am a slave to your thoughts
And bound than really free.

Spring Song Sung on a Swing

Needs

What do I need from you, my love?
A little understanding for thoughtless words,
A lot of shaking laughter for my clownish deeds,
And absolute peace about old scars, yours and mine, 
The past, where I've known neither cares nor care,
When shook, can stir only poison in the stillness.
So lets only drink love wild from being us,
Let all the ghosts rest in dead silence,
While we rest in wordless bliss.

Sweet Nothings

Look my dearest,
See how the morning wears
The jewels of glittering rain,
See my love, my life,
How your tender eyes
Speaks in tongues myriad,

Singing of the words
Your tender eyes spoke,
Of blazing fires that lit,
Wet rainy mornings,
Eyes opening to delights,
Of you beside me,

Now flying away,
From bustling crowds,
Interfering noises,
Lonely hours,
Finally we have come,
Become, living stories.

Love

I never say I bring you only bouquets of joy,
Yellow flowers of sunshine and love.
Hidden beneath them may be flaws in me
Which may wound you and pierce your heart
Yet with the broken, tattered, torn, scarred flowers , 
Which call my soul, I bring you dreams
From the unknown land, where in the grass,
Little toes will step towards you with delight.

Merry Christmas!

Rose for you!

A faded rose is not a worthy gift;
Yet playfully I offered you one.
A broken heart is not ready to love;
I waited for time to heal its wounds.

With the rain, my heart danced,  
The earth blossomed into petals of joy.
But you were no longer around,
One for whom the roses bloomed.

Words in silence

I was just a child
When roots of a tree
Ancient and mighty
Came to my silences.

With a thousand limbs
Words embraced me.
Ripples in still water,
Words moved life.

This untutored heart
Without knowledge
Of rhyme or rhythm
Learned a new music.

The universe whispered,
My heart listened,
And my hand wrote
In the silence of night.

Time gifted more words
Till love came as silence
And danced in your eyes,
Leaving me without words.

Love unveiled drapes of time
To reveal and to relive
An innocence, the heart had
Before it knew words.

Boomerang

This rain and your memory  
Catapults me into whirlpools 
Of never-ending desire.

A Proper Burial

I was only ten when I learnt about unhappy endings. 
Like when I knew my grandmother had cancer, 
I kneeled in churches, for God answers a kid’s prayers, they said. 
She died and I didn’t meet her to say one goodbye. 

She looked like a horrible nightmare, 
Not the one you saw last, not the one you loved,
A swollen, ugly remnant of what was once beloved, they said. 
Once botched goodbye, an unresolved parting for a little girl, 

There were no tears for her, only numbness that didn’t feel real,
From that chirrupy girl who never gave her a proper burial, 
Who died a little that day, with prayers unanswered, 
Full of questions but never with answers or resolutions, 

Now, I’ve grown older with bungled muted loves, 
Improper goodbyes, giving up too easily, too too easily. 
  

A home on the cliffs

Conversations

When my friend speaks not,
And my ears hear not, 
Who is it to blame, 
You or I or us
For the careful words?

Whose story was it,
We all wrote together,
Amidst dreamy eras 
And slow-moving time,
Your being there always.

From two ends and spaces,
Two identities meet,
As if by written by fate,
Peels lying on the road,
It seems like accident.

Days wander and flow
Nights silent and slow,
Together we built towers,
That threaten heaven,
And touch the sky.

Then in one careless word,
The fury of heaven breaks,
Like tower of Bablyon,
Our world crumbles,
Into understood niceties.

Will you remember how we began?
The tongues we spoke together,
Drawn by puzzles and threads,
Scattered through words at edge,
We stand, like strangers again.

Rose

The Sea and you

You jolt me suddenly,
Into whirlpools of desire,
Where I drown and lose
Everything that I have.

Again your eyes sing 
Melodious songs
That lure mermaids,
In every known land,

Pulling me into you,
Making me drown,
Then tossing me back,
Innocently ashore.

The ebbs and the tides flow,
At times dashing against rocks,
Till I sit on the shore, lovingly,
Watching you sleep...

X'mas Tree

One last time before taking the Christmas tree down!

Murder, Slow and Steady

You were fast and wild,
And I was slow and steady,
The two worlds never met.

Yet one rainy morning,
Saddened by your absence,
I took up my pen and wrote.

In every word I wrote,
You cast your shadow,
Flowing with the ink.

The ink splattered on pages,
But the grief of your loss stayed,
Like dried ink on pages.

In the early morning dreams,
You come with a smile,
A kiss or an embrace.

Waking, raged at my folly,
I turn to tearing page after page,
Killing you slow and steady.

New Year Resolutions

Why Write?

A Request

Come back with the summer rain,
Come back to me, in the summer rain.
With your hair wet and eyes tender,
Come home to me in the summer rain.

In the rain, stand near to me, 
As the earth dances with the sky, 
In the rain, come back, my love, 
As the fond touch of raindrops.

Home is the best!

Pieta

Words

In 1997, Arundhati Roy won the Booker for her debut novel The God of Small Things. Little did she knew then that her proud face could trigger the desire of becoming a writer in a little girl whose only qualification to be so was the bad habit of reading every book that was not in the school curriculum and scribbling what can or cannot be called poetry.

Now two more Indians have won the Booker and what the writer has in hand is only a heap of loose sheets of paper, a few scrapbooks and this blog, which contains certain excerpts from the diary notes. I write for a muse, who visits me once in a while, upsetting my balance and sending me hurling back into loneliness, to restructure and resurrect again as a balanced person, teaching me to live life to the fullest through writing out an unfulfilled and unlived life, a mystery, a strange series of happenings having neither head nor tail and giving a sense of balance to a heart striving for love and a head that loves logic and reasoning; for the dead and the living writers, who have inspired me with the fire of their words though I may not reach their level, let my words touch their foot with respect and love, for their words have stirred and lived as passion, delight and life in my blood, in my imagination and in every word I write; for myself, to remember and certain moments of tranquil silence, when the perfect little sacred space known as the soul is a treasure-house that pours out amazing words that I love to read again and again and share with you!

The White Magnolias

The sweet scent of those blooming magnolias was growing stronger and stronger every moment. I was sitting on a stone bench with my face buried in my hands crying, broken hearted and sad. I was choked with tears watching his anger and indifference. I was going to apologise to him. But as I turned my head I heard a bell ringing continuously and on opening my eyes, instead of seeing that familiar park strewn with all sorts of fresh and dry leaves and the patches of multi-hued flowers interrupted by stone benches, what I saw was the outline of my own room. I realized that it was only a dream and to my utter disappointment it was cut short by the alarm clock ringing.

It was a recurring dream, a memory of that place. That serene park of my young days where I spent long hours in the company of my favourite poets, now haunted me throughout my sleep and my waking moments. Those tall shady trees, lichen covered walls and cool canopies kept coming back to my mind, bringing back with them memories of those happy days in harmony with nature and humanity, when a spectre, a mirage of love flashed before my sight and disappeared without a trace leaving me enticed for life.
The dream was strange because she never wanted her life to be like that.

The day I saw the white magnolias for the first time will remain etched in my memory because it was the same day I met him. As always I was engrossed in a book of poems when a passing breeze carried with it a pale ivory white blossom and placed it on the book I was reading. I held the flower closely in my hands to observe it more clearly. I saw it was soft and ivory-hued with a yellow tint on the inside.

As I smelt it a voice beside me told that the name of the flower was white magnolia. I looked up and saw that the owner of the voice to be a person whom I had met several times during my walks and who always passed me by with a friendly smile or a quiet nod. He further informed me that these flowers called chempaka in the native tongue bloomed only in the evenings. Then the surrounding air will be infused with a heavenly fragrance,, the blossom seemed to be the first to fall this season. Thus magnolias inaugurated a friendship that was to spread roots in the depths of my being forever.

Our meetings became frequent and lively with the talk of flowers and books. I found out in the meantime that he was a storehouse of knowledge of various sorts ranging from my favourite poets to philosophy and theology. A precious bond of friendship was being formed between us,. It became a source of delight and inspiration for both of us. Until the days of an irreparable rift threatened the very existence of our goodwill. A quarrel followed that once again left me alone in my favourite place reading books and lamenting the loss of a relationship which would have lasted a lifetime had I been less proud and more careful.

Years went by. We deliberately avoided each other’s society. During this time my life changed. I became just like an aimless yacht, wild and reckless, desperate and in need of a destination and thrown off the path by every galloping gust of wind. He was like an unhealed wound in my heart that bled me to death on every careless touch. But I could not forget the cherished dreams he had given me. ..the wings of hope for an unfulfilled desire of the heart- the urge for a life of bliss together with him! But these dreams were all in vain.

One day my soul pulled me towards this place with a strong force. Thus led by an inner voice, by some unknown instinct I went back to that familiar spot after years of absence, I found to my surprise that nothing had changed much. The chempaka tree by the fountain was in full bloom and there was the faint smell of fresh flowers hovering in the air. I sat there on the stone bench which I had once called mine. I closed my eyes and instantly my mind embarked on the wings of a dream, which an intimate bond of affection had gifted my heart years ago.

A gentle breeze started blowing, rustling the tree branches and scattering the dry fallen leaves everywhere. In the midst of this clamor, I heard a soft footstep on the ground and looking up I saw a familiar face gazing at me tenderly> so nothing has changed much, has it?

All these years I thought of meeting him with an indifferent manner and a courteous smile, But on seeing him hat happened to my earlier decisions. I ran towards him and buried my face on his chest. He put his arms around me and rocked me gently. There was a tranquil silence enveloping the park. Then a gentle breeze blew showering some magnolias on us. The sweet scent of those blooming magnolias was growing stranger and stronger every moment.

Masks

You and me have worn many masks with each other. Any other woman would leap and violently tear that mask of silence off your face. But I watch in silence, everyday, how far will you carry the game. You will only smile and say the same words of courtesy. But when your silence is broken by hoarse laughter that sounds so hollow, all my anger disappears and I find you the same as ever, childish and ever trying to hide your insecurity in being aloof and in being funny. After finding out how you feel, I see that I try to do the same with you.

Waiting at Twilight

What is love? Many answers, at the same time. 
As the twilight meets the dark and the light, 
Just as one rainy afternoon you bid farewell,
Talking of matters I did not understand.

Why did it have to rain on days we met and parted?
Why did a walk in the rain bring such love?
And a concealed set of desperate symptoms,
Which I'd never known was of true love.

Now another mirage, another dream choked by logic,
Gives me vision to see clearly what I have lost. 
"My love" on the afternoon you left, my heart whispered, 
Though my voice choked it with a farewell,

I still remember how tears had fallen, 
How sobs had broken for words that didnt come,
Twilight has come again and I meet you everyday,
In every face, in every word, everywhere.

Foolish heart scared of what it didnt know, 
Killed love so mercilessly without letting it live.
Nothing, nothing but you in my heart, 
Today I witness twilight and my own life.

Dreamers Beware

He moved his face close to hers and she closed her eyes. They were sitting on a stone-bench in the park. He was sitting close to her with his arms round her. She was scared of other people staring at them but she found that no one was noticing them. As he said people came there for the silence the park gave them.

It was their first meeting after months. He had turned up all on a sudden and told her: “I need to talk to you”. She screamed in delight on seeing him. She pinched him to check if he was real. He was the one who suggested the park. They walked together towards the place. He put his arm around her shoulders and chatted with her.

They chose a very quiet nook in the park. The place was really beautiful. She felt she was imagining this meeting with him. She sat near him feeling his presence. Her entire body was warm under his touch and her heart was not beating but galloping. Then he began describing the adventures he had during all these months. His left arm was around her waist and he held her hand in his right hand.

She smiled at him and they looked into each other eyes for a long time. Then he moved his face close to hers. She felt that the moment had arrived after such a long time. Their first kiss. She closed her eyes. She could feel his face near hers.

Then she heard a sound. What was that sound, she wondered? It was a ringing sound. Oh! It was her alarm clock ringing to tell her that it was 6 0’clock. She got up and said “@!#$%*.

Then again she went to bed praying for a sequel of the same dream… Oh Lord, please! No way. Sleep had deserted her. She got up and looked in the mirror. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Yet strangely she felt happy because the feel of his strong arms around her was still there. So was the smell of his perfume. She smiled and wished him a good day!

Lucky Bamboo

Sublimation

The master of all absurdities wrote,
None comes, none goes, nothing happens,
Truer of this slow-moving life,
Than of anything else heard or seen.

The hourglass looks still apparently,
Though time moves in steady moves,
And will erase, rewrite, edit whatever was
Written with much pleasure and much pain.

Now the time has come to smile and part,
A farewell that tastes of victory and tears,
Victory that never came when dying of thirst,
A stream of delight for the tired warrior.

For there is no going back in any form,
The absurd heart knows too well,
That some solids shed no tears
Those who only sublimate.

Playing in the Rain

I want to play in the rain
Till my soul is wet with love.
I want to play in the rain
Till I hold your soul in my hands.
Through the same life spirit
That binds all beings
That brings us close
I touch your hand
And you touch mine
In silence.

Enjoyment

out beyond

Out beyond

be yourself

faith

Manual of the Warrior of Light by Paulo Coelho

Do you look at life and the universe with the wonder of a child? Do you accept failure with equanimity? Do you believe in fighting for your dreams? These are some of the questions raised by Paulo Coelho’s Manual of the Warrior of Light. This gem from one of the greatest storytellers of our time is a collection of philosophical meditations spun around the image of a warrior of light .

 The Manual was published in the newspapers as ‘Maktub’without the Prologue and the Epilogue, which connects the random meditations by providing a structure. They deal with the story of a village-boy who meets a mysterious woman at the beach who talks to him about the bells ringing from a temple beneath the sea. Years later, the same mysterious woman asks him to write about the Warrior of Light.

What is a Warrior of Light? The boy asks the woman. The woman replies that a Warrior of Light is one who understands the miracle of life, one who fights for his dreams and one who follows his dreams to reach his destiny. The boy is asked to write down the life lessons of the Warrior of Light.

The mediations deal with the life and nature of a Warrior of Light. All his mental, spiritual, social and emotional battles, his victories and defeats, his relationships with God, his companions, followers and enemies, his strategies in war are all described. At times the life lessons seem contradictory. This is because a Warrior of Light understands that everything around him is subject to change and he is competent enough to adapt strategy to situation. He is open-minded and receptive to the paradoxes of life.
Paulo Coelho’s Manual of the Warrior of Light is a quest for discovering the Warrior of Light within us.

For a sapling

Thappad

A True Gift in Green

To know the mind of woman, he has to know first, the mind of the land.

Sarah Joseph is one of the celebrated women novelists of Malayalam literature and she has he has received numerous awards and honours such as Kendra Sahitya Academy Award, Kerala Sahitya Academy Award, Vayalar Award, Cherukad Award and O.V. Vijayan Sahitya Puraskaram. Her Malayalam novel Aathi was published simultaneously with its English translation Gift in Green by Valson Thampu in 2011. In her interview with Valson Thampu, Joseph speaks about how she modelled the land of Aathi on a island Valanthakkadu in Ernakulam district of Kerala. She was amazed by the lives of the people who subsisted in fishing, picking mussels and farming Pokkali rice. They earned as much as Rs. 300 a day picking mussels but never fished for more than that as they count on the fish and mussels as their fixed deposits. The author praises the subsistence perspective of the people of Valanthakkadu by basing a novel on their simple life.

The land of Aathi is pristine covered with water on all sides. The people lived the water-life, drawing sustenance from the water and the fields. Their water-life meant that their daily immediate needs were met from earth and water as they could collect enough food to feed the whole family just by working till noon everyday. The mangroves that surrounded the land of Aathi contained plenty of fish, which the people used to catch with their bare hands. During high tide, these fish and prawns were carried across to the rice fields, from where the people caught them. They also knew the secret of growing rice in salty waters. In Aathi, people from the ancient times lived the water-life, harvesting only what they need from nature.

The destruction of the pristine, land, water and its people starts with the advent of Kumaran, a business tycoon who sees in Aathi, the means of making money. With his coming, the modes of living such as the water-life and farming are replaced by construction of buildings resulting in pollution, creation of toxic waste and destruction of natural habitat. The novel also shows the environmentalist concerns of the writer as she describes the present-day issues of Kerala such as water contamination, lack of proper waste disposal systems, dumping of biomedical waste in rivers and waterbodies, the use of endosulfan to ensure profit in farming, the problems of landfilling, destruction of marshes disposal of plastic and biomedical waste and so on. However, nature cannot be exploited and contaminated forever and the waters of Aathi rise in a flood and purify the whole land.

gratitude