Sunday, June 28, 2015

Beauty in Sky!

(I haven't taken it as the peace for ever.)

Cotton bundles in
 Sky, spell of beauty in eye
Mind clicks the figure .

Mesmerizing scene
Allows not mind to away go.
This is Ecstasy.

Unties who the fine
Bundle and scatters cotton
here-there? Still pretty.

Feel like lying there
And roll on cotton  sprinkled;
Rest in comfy way.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015


(Somehow I managed to post this.I was so engaged that I was not able to write or read anything. I'll read  all the works that I regularly do.A short story, the English version of  my Malayalam story.)

 “I know you all are eagerly awaiting the results of the literary contests conducted in connection with ‘Mother’s Day’. Here are the results," the Malayalam teacher’s voice very cogent entered the pairs of ears in attendance there.

"The third prize goes to……."
"The second prize is bracketed by two children. They are……"
“And now let’s us see who the first position-holder is. The first prize is bagged by none other than ‘Shraddha, Shraddha of Xll grade, B section. Congratulations, the winners. All of you give them a big hand.”

Shraddha could not believe her ears and so she pinched her hand to prove she was not dreaming. She never thought her article would fetch her any accolade and that too the foremost one. The topic ‘My Mother’ stimulated her interest in participating. And hence she took out the pen and according to her scribbled something on the foolscap sheets provided for the extempore.

 The winners all received the accolades from the chief guest’s spouse. Thunderous acclaims resonated in the hall. Shraddha,a girl with humility a lot stooped down and touched the feet of the Chief Guest before receiving the prize.

“With the permission of the chief guest Shraddha will read her article here as an encouragement to others."
 In response to the teacher’s remark Shraddha proceeds to reading her article.

“Esteemed elders and my endearing friends,
Writing an article was never in my mind till I heard this topic ‘My Mother’. Actually I didn’t know how to start and what to write. So I chose to write something on my own mother. Here it goes….”

‘My Mother’

‘There is none in this whole world tantamount to my mother, who I very dearly call Amma. Or at least I love to believe so. My Amma delightfully adorns me with a very meaningful name Shraddha. Shraddha senses care, concentration, focus and so on. I think I haven’t spoiled my name’s essence.

 When the clock rings the rouse-call at five, my mother’s eyes pull apart their shutters and her legs seek the cuisine-corner. Then a wonderful folk dance takes place in the kitchen. Amma, oven, vessels, vegetables, cutlery, crockery, grocery etc enter into a hullabaloo. And by eight her cookery-show is ready on the table that spreads around the fine odour of idly, dosa, coffee, tea and lunch packet for father and me or whatever is required.

If I search for things in the reminiscences shelved in my mind’s corner-chest, those from the age of four are somewhat apparently visible. Whenever I fall prey to even a small common cold, she is the mother whose eyelids refuse to cover the eye-balls. Whenever I lie lazy on bed at study hours, she is the mother who permits me to do that for a little while even now also.This act of hers holds me stand on foot from bed. Whenever I move back and forth on swing, she is the mother who stands behind me without a wink. Whenever I try to pluck flowers, she is the mother who fills my hand with a bunch. Whenever I run after butterflies, she is the  mother who averts me from hurting them. “Mole,if somebody hurts you, won’t it be painful? So we should never hurt any beings,” Amma’s. advice.

 By seeing the mother and child affection in us, the Nature even rejoices with me during my play hours. She strokes me tenderly and fans me fondly with her wind-hand. Her sons, the Trees pamper me softly rubbing with leaves on my cheeks. Her daughters, the Flowers gently touch me and smile in glee. Birds sing rhythmic jingles and bees hum melodious tunes for me.
Though my Amma’s education had met its conclusion by tenth grade, her signature is felt in all the aspects of my day to day life. In selecting the apparel and footwear of my preference, in cooking food and snacks of my option and in selecting subjects of my choice in 11th grade and in such-such matters she had her footing. 

Nowhere is she a hard taskmaster, though she keeps fixity in resolutions. Always my welfare is her priority. She is an affectionate guide, a modest advisor and a leader full of meekness. 

Might be her might mixed with meekness the reason for my being an offspring with reason in handling hitches. If I go on portraying her here, this paper won’t be sufficient to show all her features in detail. You may ask me, “Is your mother that just and right?” Yes, I will tell you, “Ayes are always the answers for that.”

 She is a perfect person without flaws and faults. She has mastered the art of child-rearing and spouse-caring. It is a Universal truth that none and nothing we can find in this world without a shady facet. Yes, she may not be exclusion, but the values and virtues that merge in her character are vast enough to conceal her dirty deeds if she has any.

An interrogation may appear,as I have cited nothing about my Achchan(father) here. Of course I shouldn’t be constrained in bringing him to the forefront. That part I will touch later.

What I have highlighted above is nothing but things of my cravings Iisted by me in my dreams in succession.

 After I completed the age of eight my Amma was not at all what I narrated here now. She was not ready to lend a hand to heed to my needs. She sought her ease away from Achchan), Ammoomma(granny)and me. The poor eight-year-old noticed something fishy in the situation prevalent at home.

“Amma, don’t go, don’t go,” I don’t know how and why I was crying holding my Amma’s both the legs with my both the hands. At times the eight-year-old troubled her Ammoomma rather went adamant to see and be with her Amma.

“Mole, look at the sky. See the bright star winking at you. That is your Amma,” Ammoomma was fondling me. When all the seasons rotated four times, Ammoomma joined Amma in the sky.

Rainy days doubled my little mind’s distress, for l thought, “Amma is bed-ridden due to fever. That is why she isn’t seen.” And I prayed, “O! God, be with my Amma. High fever only took her away from me. Don’t take her away from the sky also.”

 From the age of eight to this eighteen I devote some time to watch my Amma in the sky, I know the sooth though. I wear my Amma’s sari and look into the mirror, “Was she like me?” I remember her but can’t make it sure if she was like me. The very reminiscence of hers sometimes conquers my mind casting the shadow of glum over it.

   So whatever reveries I recounted here are all a reality or my much loved Achchan shapes them into reality. He spares none an occasion that provides me pleasure. No matter what my Amma could do, my Achchan does it a degree ahead for me. So now say, “Who is now my mother? Isn’t it my Achchan?”

 Yes, my Achchan is my Amma and my Achchan too.’

“Thank you all for lending me a patient hearing.”