The Figures of Village

There is a village out there
So secretive and dark,
Distinguished by its long lamp shades and struggling winds.
Two thousand thoughts hovered in the sky,
while thousand bed lights still produced its daughters.
Figures outliving years are landmarks to this village.
A man with just two front teeth,
Clutches firmly to the tattered ajrak shawl,
A sleepy signpost that showed the wrong direction,
An ambulance driver stiffened by the law of death,
A local singer with no admirers,
A vintage gramophone playing
Ghost songs,
Make the artifacts of village.
An old man who lost his way to house,
Is looking up for a familiar song
And registering it in him.
To the east of the land,
There is a crack in the mountain
Through which beasts send their messengers,
Dwarfs and giants,
Irrespective of size,join their hands deciding not to quit.
There is a mother crying over the coats of her dead son,
Consoled by the prayers of the priest.
The boy who is obsessed with shadows
Finds himself in the village river,
Floating with the music of waves.
The broken bridge and devastated cemetery,
being abducted by the
Inglorious vandals of village
Cries out for help.
The falsities and truth of this place are churned by the old grandmaster,
Where truth hides inside the churn and give birth to stories.
As the stories find its way through the old chimney tower of his house,
The country dancers perform together in unison to the song,
"What comes in between us is
What holds us together".

A.C

Comments

THE SILENT CRY

Darkness ...at its zenith Silence.. at the sound 's lowest decibel.. I wrapped myself up into the blanket tears rolled down my cheeks.. I cried.. I cried in the dark silence silently.. No voice of my cry.. I bite my hands.. I cried silent loudly.. I cried for the dreams unfulfilled I cried thinking of my unpredicted future.. I cried thinking of my unknown death.. I cried thinking of my inabilities I cried thinking of the gifts not given to me I cried thinking of my people.. And I complained God Almighty for the miseries given to me.. ... I wiped off my tears.. I smiled. Perfect... Nothing is better than this silent loud cry..!! A.C

Kaathal - The Core Breaker of 2023

Kaathal - The Core is one of the movies of 2023 that left an ache in my heart. It's the kind of movie where you just sit and stare at the wall for hours after you finish it. I keep thinking about the pain of Mathew, Omana, Thankan and Chachan and it is something that continues to haunt me. Mathew’s pain is something that has become part of him by living the prime of his life pretending to be an integral part of a heteronormative society. His calm and meek personality is like a dormant volcano that is likely to erupt anytime. When he confronts his pain with Chachan and Omana, we see him peeling off his outer layer of crust and showing us his core. The core, that has carried deep wounds of fear and shame of coming out and confronting his fears, all this while. I don’t think I have seen a more compassionate and kind woman as Omana in recent movies. Despite being in a marriage that doesn’t fulfill her needs, she stays in it for years for the sake of Mathew. And when the right ...

Little Poem

My procrastination ends here, While the urge to write chokes my throat, My hands get paralysed as in a trance, I find excuses to write a little poem, I make up a lonely man, a distressed woman, a lovers’ quarrel, an unrequited love, But they are reluctant to play the part, Maybe i should give them a raise, Or throw a party at midnight, Maybe a few drinks might work, Only if they don’t puke. I can expect a little vandalism, Some damage to the property and a mini scandal, Possibly out of rage. But at the end when I bring my weapons, Sometimes they get scared and back off, Some may never come back, Others find it funny and mock at me, And opportunists, seeing my desperation, Attacks me with manipulation. And all these while, my three panic attacks talk to me in a different language, I try to write a little poem With a racing heart and flowing eyes, I write my little poem, tortured and broken, I end my little poem, Like a mighty warrior, Who had a pyrrhic victory.

THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

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