"When the blazing sun hangs low in the western sky, when the wind dies away on the high mountains, when the song of the Eurasian skylark turns still, when the field locust clicks no more in the field, and the sea foam sleeps like a maiden at rest, and twilight touches the shape of the wondering earth, I turn home. Through blue shadows and pine woods, I turn home. I turn to the place that I was born, to the mother who bore me and the father who taught me, long ago, long ago, long ago. Alone am I now, lost and alone in a far, wide, wondering world. Yet still, when the blazing sun hangs low, when the wind dies away and sea foam sleeps, and twilight touches the wondering earth, I turn home." I saw the jasmines in spring turning to ashes and their perfume into rotten flesh and clotted blood. I saw the highlands and meadows puffing smoke and burning into memorials. I saw them embarking on the shores of Damascus to the uncertain tomorrows, and I saw them drowning in the salty waters…

Butterflies Beneath the Waters

What lies beneath the water? What story it hides from the conscience of men and what archetype of mind does it mirror? I used to sit on its shores like Narcissus and contemplate the impossibilities of human capacity and the history of origin. But, every time I bowed, I saw my reflection transforming into butterflies in the water. 

There was a time beyond the boundaries of human intelligence and understanding, still unable to decipher the chaos of origin, there, the butterflies in water dance for the genesis of life and the exodus from there to mine. Life is everywhere, in every form of matter and existence. And it always finds its way. They say, even the flap of butterfly generates storm and the tears of your eyes beget torrents. An idea becomes a change and a thought becomes reality. The greatest curse of humanity, rather mine, is stagnancy; the greatest fear of a writer is the sterility of his thoughts, and the death of a lover is the enervation of his passions.

 Rage, rage, rage; I a…

Turtles of the Moon

I should've kept that anonymity until the end, we would've been much better on the horizon of unknown.
A mere possibility of your transformation into the conjured metabolism of pataphysical existence weighed my heart and mind like never. I tricked myself into a semi-demi doppelganger of Ulysses, my lifetime sabotage. 
I saw the glimpses of grace on the glint of an enchanting old ruin, of marvellous and spotless origin. Of an enchanted old ruin, I certainly sustained the illusion of yours with a marvellous grace. Struggling to regain the aesthetic manoeuvrability I sacrificed the memory of thy on the altar of the cosmological constants. Trapped in the gravity, time will lose its memory and shall forget its course.
They say, “fallen stars become the fish eyes and deep beneath the abyss of waters, you can find the star dust forming into life in the vacuum.

“As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.” 
― Franz K…

​ Cosmological constant

Dear Ruth,
I write the last page of your story before I bury you. You have made me into a human; I was wild and untamed. It was then you evolved and occurred into mine. I have seen the greatness of life and the vivacity of soul. I have also sung the utopian hallelujahs to the stories I never told. I always wonder the transformation I've gone through- you made me a poet. It was you everywhere in every form and matter; I couldn't see any other patterns other than the heavenly one. I saw my coming through the pains of thought and the flow of words. I made them into being and coloured with your life and image. Ah, such a delicate soul. It was gradual, I took years to fall in love with you, that I incubate the thoughts in time and space for eternity; nobody could love you like that. It was in your absence I found the beauty of love for the first time in great magnitude. Quite an irony! Your absence filled everywhere and suffocated my anarchist self. And, you became a continuation of…

Return of King Solomon

Exodus of king Solomon with his songs while Bathsheba plays the fiddle. Widows of war cry for the soul of desert.  "I'm a desert woman, I lament for the desert. For, I'm made of dust, I shall return to what it has taken from me" her maid wailed. Then, far across, the vultures were flying over the pyres, the offering of war. "The sky burial" his lips slipped.
It was Ruth, made him to sing the songs and composed the colours ever known to the lights. On the tomb of Ruth, he dropped his blood, and buried The Book Thief.


"ചിതയിലെ അവസാനത്തെ കൊള്ളിയും  കത്തിതീരുമ്പോള്, നീ എനിക്കാരായിരുന്നുവെന്നാണ് ഞാന് അവയോടു പറയേണ്ടത്?" ഋഷി അവന്റെ ശില്പത്തെ കൊത്തിതീര്ക്കുകയായിരുന്നു. അസ്തമയ സൂര്യന്റെ കിരണങ്ങളാവാം അവളെ അഗ്നിക്കുതുല്യമാം വിധം ജ്വലിപ്പിച്ചിരുന്നു. അവര്ക്ക്മാത്രം അറിയാവുന്ന ഭാഷയില് അവള് അവനു അതിനു മറുപടിയും കൊടുത്തിരുന്നു എന്നു ഞാന് കരുതുന്നു. ഞാന് സാക്ഷി. "അനാര്ക്കലി," അവന് എന്നോട് പറഞ്ഞ അവസാന വാക്കും ഇതായിരുന്നു. ഋഷിയെയും എന്നെയും ബന്ധിപ്പിക്കുന്ന എന്തോ ഒന്ന്. അങ്ങനെയാണ് അനാര്ക്കലിയുടെ ചരിത്രത്തിലേക്ക് ഞാന് വരുന്നതും. പക്ഷെ, അവന് പറഞ്ഞ അനാര്ക്കലി? എട്ടു വര്ഷമായിരിക്കുന്നു ഋഷിയെ എനിക്ക് പരിചയമായിട്ട്! അവന് എനിക്കുതന്നതില് വച്ചേറ്റവും കുഴപ്പം പിടിച്ച ശില്പവും അനാര്ക്കലിതന്നെ! എന്തൊക്കെയോ അതിനുള്ളില് തളക്കപ്പെട്ടതുപോലെ ഒരു തോന്നല്. എന്റെ ജീവിതത്തിലേക്ക് ഇടിച്ചുകേറി വന്നവന്നാണ് ഋഷി, ക്ഷണിക്കപെടാത്തവന്.  സൌഹൃദത്തിന്റെ  എല്ലാ അളവുകൊലുകളെയും തിരുത്തിഎഴുതി ഇല്ലതായവന്. ഒരു ഭ്രാന്തനും ഒരു അരാഷ്ട്രീയവാദിയും തമ്മിലുള്ള സൌഹൃദത്തിന്റെ ഒര്ര്മ്മപെടുതലാണ് ഇന്ന്. ഋഷി, നീ കാറ്റായും, മഴയായും, മഞ്ഞായും, അഗ…


"Up out of the lampshade, startled by the overhead light, flew a large nocturnal butterfly that began circling the room. The strains of the piano and violin rose up weakly from below." Kundera closed the book. 

I was still trying to figure out the patterns of the flight of butterfly. And he told “see the rhythm of flutter, and the heights and downs of the strains below. Every note connects the other, see, even the silence between them makes sense; eventually adds beauty to the rhythm thus maketh a perfect symphony” I was drawn to the vacuum of silence where the symphony being orchestrated.

"What are you reading?" she snatched the book from my chest.