amia

കഴുക്കോലില്‍  തിരുകിയ കരിപിടിച്ച  കടലാസ്സ്  തുണ്ടിലെ നിധിപോലെ  എന്‍റെ ഓര്‍മ്മകള്‍ !

നീര്‍മാതള പൂക്കളെയും നീര്‍ക്കുമിളകളിലെ  മഴവില്ലിനെയും

കണ്ടുമുട്ടുമെന്ന് വാക്ക് നല്‍കി നനയാന്‍ ബാക്കിവെച്ച മഴകള്‍

വീശിയടിച്ച കാറ്റില്‍ പറന്നെത്തിയ ഇലകളില്‍ ഞാന്‍ അന്വേഷിച്ച നിന്‍റെ പ്രണയലേഖനങ്ങള്‍ 

മഴ നനഞ്ഞൊട്ടിയ നിറമില്ലാത്ത തുണിതുരുത്തില്‍ നീ വരച്ച ഭൂപടങ്ങള്‍

മഴച്ചതുപ്പുകളില്‍ കപ്പല്‍ പായിച്ച് നമ്മള്‍ കണ്ട നാടുകള്‍ 

Where would dead people go? Whenever there is talks about death, there is a farrago of afterlife stories which tags along with it. I believed all those stories, though I was scared of ghosts. Things took a turn when I shifted to a house nearby a government run crematorium. I started noticing an odd smell reaching my home at odd times. At first I couldn't place the smell. Later one day I passed through a pocket road, and to my astonishment the smell came from the crematorium. The smell of burning dead bodies. My dad told me, there are two kinds of cremation in 'Shanthikavadam' (it was named by the malayalam author, O.N.V Kurup. 'Shanthi' means peace, and 'kavadam' means gateway. "Gateway to peace"). First kind is the usual burning of bodies with firewood, and the other one is the electric cremation. In both of the kinds, the body gets burned, and sent out smoke to the atmosphere. At the end, they are turned to smoke. The perfect product of evolut...

Where would the unwritten, forgotten stories go? I feel they revolve around us, like a hurricane of thoughts, they keep rotating us without giving our mind a chance to get them back. Like a hide and seek game. Does this hurricane revolve only around us all the time? Will it leave us, when someone else in the universe feels a greater urge to write something down? Is this how same pattern of stories occur everywhere around the world? If it is so, then there are millions of stories around us, in this thin air. Imagine how creative our air is. And she never wrote a story on her own. Ha ha. Well, she might like the role of a messenger. How wonderful would be her network. Sometimes she might be in a hurry transporting a story to one of the writer, when we decide to take a deep breath. Imagine her state of mind. she will have to pass through our lungs and then come out and travel again, like taking a wrong route because google map said so. And what if we let out a big sigh. She is pushed...

പൂക്കാലമെത്താത്ത പൂമരമെന്തിന്? പൂത്തുലയാതെ, തണലേകാതെ, പ്രകൃതിക്കൊരലംകാരമേകാതെ നിഴൽപോലെ നിൽക്കുന്നതെന്തിന്? ഭൂതകാലത്തിന്റെ ഓർമ്മ സൂക്ഷിപ്പിനായ് അല്ലാതെന്തിന്?