THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

I stand here facing the horizon, Counting the kisses, Maybe not, maybe yes What are you thinking? My hands are burning Are you still choking? Come, let's stay here a little while, You ,me and your wings of colour. Our loneliness keep us moving, Fail me not in deciphering you You still stay numb and cold Breaking the twigs Making a fuss. Maybe not, maybe yes. I showed you, The twinkling eyes of woodpecker. But you, You made me listen to the songs of nightingale. Maybe not, maybe yes. Your wild smell And the breezy air Is holding me back from return. Your wings of fruits And the choppy waters Are promising a home for me. Your wildness wonders me spilling around me After every drizzle. Come hold my hand, Let me know you, Let me walk along you, Cuddle me close Your blues and greens and yellows And their symphonies Cause the death of my body And float my soul. Maybe not, maybe yes. Your lullabies with nuances Of a spell, Make me guilty. Unleas

Somewhere between love and hate, I created a space to breathe, A space of magic and madness. Somewhere between earth and sky, There remains a time of unconditionals, Where rulebooks and laws are invisible, Where timelessness hovers in the air pridely proselytizing music of another realm. And yes, When my existence lies somewhere Between shackles and wings I run to a space where Tulips never die and Lilies never bloom And then,where will you find me? You will search me in all realms Of imperfection's journey to perfection. But how long can I stay there? I go to the labyrinth of Years of tangled emotions, Where tears get injected to smiles And death to life. Unable to differentiate them, I grow into a tree of knowledge. When the sun grows thicker and brighter, You will find me In the midway between heaven and hell. Standing between bondage and breakage of nature, Baffled and uncertain, Will you be the serpent or the God? A.C

The eyes of the stories are bulging Out of the cracked windowpane, Searching for a listener. Stories with bindis on their foreheads are striking a pose With their saree pallu. Stories are lurking From the car glasses, Waiting to bump into someone. The lost generation's stories Being trapped between the bedroom walls, Started nagging for release. Shuttered by the binding forces, Stories demand antidepressants. My stagnant love and evident hatred has different stories to tell, Like the flying kite and its manja. The breaking bones and breaching laws scream stories of torture. The multifaceted tapestry and cutlery propose stories of subjugation and indifference. Romanticised stories demand a stripping, And pink stories argue for another clothing. When King Lear laughs at his own story, Poor Tom dances at another story. The blood reaches out and shares his story, The heart beats at an umpteen number of stories. The adventurous story of runaway bride and The

To all the strangers who became family, To all the random inconveniences that I made, To all the bloody decisions that I took, To this fragile body that supported me, To all the stronger hands that offered help, To all the pains that prepared me, To all the stories with absurd unhappy endings, To all the sources of my contagious laughs, To all the distant relations that are less distant, To all my glorious gut feelings that moved me, To all the ditches that I fell, To all the mountains from which I rose, To all the wondrous eyes that searched for me, To all the applause that lifted me, To all the late night conversions that offered enlightenment, To all the aesthetic pleasures that   I experienced, To all the fading lights that made me stronger, To all the inglorious geniuses who made an impression, To all my regular energy boosters, To all my artistic capabilities that excelled, To all the roads in which I lost myself, To all the books that created an aura,

Rarely does films do the magic of lingering in your psyche even after years.Mayaanadhi holds a firm grip over the emotional and artistic level of one's mind just because of its aesthetics.Aashiqabu and Rex Vijayan did a Wonderful play of aesthetics in the movie to which most film lovers are indebted to. Mathan(Tovino Thomas)and Appu (Aishwarya lekshmi ) of Mayaanadhi are two unpredictable humans. They act according to their instincts until the end. Their love-hate relationship is what gives us an urgency to fall in love.Mathan has all the right to love Appu and Appu has all her reasons to hate Mathan. Yet they remain like the last leaves of autumn, reluctant to fall when they are unable to stay. The fall and rise of Appu are just like a phoenix from ashes and she expects Mathan to be like a phoenix. But Mathan's wings were chopped off before he could fly high, however hard Appu tried to protect him. The music of Rex Vijayan heightens the beauty of the entire film whic

When I was a kid I asked my mother What it is like To be a mother? She smiled and told That it is a promotion From human to God, A journey of discovery, Of another universe You have created. It's like writing a Story without climax, Bracing your Entire existence, This stage fakes And suck up your Strength, It challenges your Life skills And demands your  Nutrients and Shakes your roots, It builds a ghost Castle inside you Everyday you hear News of death or rape. It surrounds and seeks Drowsy cheers and Cosy hugs, When you badly need those, It's like building An empire of flowers Unsure of its foundation And roaming like a lunatic Everytime you are late And breaking like a twig Everytime you ignore And jumping like a hare Everytime you win And wiping off the sweat she toasted the bread For me the fifth time,

I dream your dreams And your dreams are so beguiling, I tried to bring out realities To yours, But you were so trapped in the world of illusion. I painted a warm picture for you, To place it in your dream. The picture of a lone nymph Whose hairs are caressed by wind, Whose feet is pedicured by the easy waters, Who doesn't seem to realise the lurking eyes behind. You were wallowing in the gold shore, Collecting shells to fill your pockets While I was drowning in the water. You were the Santa, I was the lost reindeer, You were the eminent bridge, I was the glitch, You were the charming tulip, while I was the thorn, You were the spectator's choice, I was the banned play, You were a classic tale, I was a silly poem, You were a popular author while I was an anonymous poet. This is how our dreams differed. You remained in the web of colours and aura, I tried to separate you, But the trap was very sharp and strong. You remained in the symphony of verses, G