In our village there lived a loan shark who charged exorbitant rates of interest. The interest ranged to 10% Per Month. Many a farmer had to suicide due to the atrocious rate of interest. Once a farmer’s father expired and then he sat on the corpse never letting it be buried in the church. Then the farmer cursed him that he will have a terrible death. When many could not pay the atrocious interest, the loan shark committed suicide. His cadaver was placed in the morgue. And then the morgue started malfunctioning. When the relatives came to claim the corpse, it was rotten and smelling foul. The hospital authorities burned the corpse with petrol. And that was his tragic end
The sun was a melody of music. Tales floated in the sky with mystic silence. Colors of the sun spread a mystic halo. I thank Jehovah Jesus for all the blessings given. The sky wrote with crayons, a tranquil dream. Life to me became a dream of passion.
I think about myself as a fictional self and a real self. The real self is a teacher teaching English in high school. The fictional self is a writer with the passion to write. Sometimes the fictional self is abounding with dialectical narcissism. Sometimes the fictional self is a passionate monument of memory. Time becomes an inner architecture releasing a manifold into letters of prose. Is writing a whimsical flower, or a stoic spear or an Epicurean indulgence? I don’t know. The consciousness of the writer blooms into a lettering of flowers. What is the consciousness of a writer? A writer is a very flexible person immersed in the garden of prose. Writing is a game of letters and words. The writer’s consciousness is brought out through streams of consciousness. Writing is an art of a cubist painting, a calypso of thought submerged in the sea of letters. As a cubist painting, writing takes on narrative shifts in time, and then it experiments with fiction caught up in the web of prose. Writing makes the heart filled with gratitude. Irony flows like a stream in disguise. Meaning slips into thoughts. The words are in a garden of veils. Writing is the canopy of trees. Plato practiced virtue in writing, so too the zealous Christians. After the end of writing, a shy writer like me, examines the body and smiles with irony. Oh what have I done? The architecture of writing is fanciful and whimsical. Writing can be fantastical too. So are the writers of magic realism. There is a writing of combining dreams with reality. Derrida has said: ‘to write is to have the passion of origin.’ Writing is a bizarre soliloquy of fetish, an overbearing waltz of a contaminated self in exaltation of narcissism. Writing is the discovery of the self. Writing is God like tabernacle made to be worshiped. Writing is poetic music. Writing is made for the deity—God to be glorified. Writing is phantasmagoria. Words are shallow streams. Who’s is the writer’s higher-self? Karl Gustav Jung had a higher self called Philemon. Writing is an art of connecting with your higher self. Consciousness is a broken personality of many fragments. Writing is an art of fondling a guitar. Writing is a therapeutic messiah. For a writer time is folded into a sculpture of the present, past and future. Writing as a cubist painting becomes convoluted prose, meandering Picasso-edges, a stream of Dali’s eye and an egg born through the prism of the pen. Isn’t that magic realism? Writing is also very Quixotic. The writer aims to shake the windmills of the mind. Every full stop is death and every new sentence is a beginning.
I met her in college when I was doing my graduation. At first we went on days and months smiling at each other. Finally I mustered the courage to speak. She came from a remote island in India and her name was Sheeba. We fell in love with each other. She was the most beautiful girl in college. One week-end she suggested that we go out and I was thrilled. We stood near the door while we were traveling. We sweet-talked with each other. After the train came to a halt, she suggested that we go for a movie. I replied yes. While the movie was going on, she offered me her hands and I fondled her palms. Her skin was so soft and smooth. I felt a passionate awakening. After that we used to go out every week end. Kissing her was as beautiful as honey. I got to fondle her shapely breasts. How I loved her. When the college got over she went back. And then I said, I will meet her there. But by the time she came to Kerala and told me to cancel the ticket. I did not! When she came back, she refused to talk to me. I felt sad and pained at her silence. She could have said to me that she was not interested. Disappointed and wearied I caught the next flight to home. I have tried searching for her on the internet, especially at Face book. But my search came to no avail. Then someone told me that she died in an accident. I feel sad and I hope I will be able to meet her in heaven. I wonder why she treated me so cruelly. What have I done to deserve her hatred? I wonder why the world as so unkind to me. I even took her to my parents and they willingly accepted her. Sometimes she visits me in her dreams. Where ever you are, may your soul rest in peace.
Morn was a tranquil dream. I watched the sun casting shadows with tremulous excitement. Fairies floated in the sky with magnificent luminous delight. I praise God Jehovah Jesus for all blessings given.
I stopped reading the Old Testament and started reading the Gospel of Mathew. The narrative is profoundly moving. The mysteries of the Bible are profound and deeply moving. I am subduing my will and asking God about his will in my life. It’s a wonder to me as to why the Jews could not accept Jesus as their savior. But today it’s a different scene. There are hordes of Messianic Jews. And that makes a difference. I was reading the story of the woman who had issues of blood, who touched the robes of Jesus and was completely healed. How moving is her childlike faith. I always ponder on the mystery of the Trinity, yes it’s quite esoteric.
The monsoon has started in Kerala and yet the rainfall has been very scanty. I hope that God won’t give a water scarcity. I remember the days when I used to make paper boats and send it through the stream. Monsoon has been a chorus of joy. Monsoon has been a poetic epiphany.
I have also started reading Salman Rushdie’s Midnight Children. The novel starts with the protagonist Saleem Sinai born at midnight 12 and strangely it is the time when India got its independence. Then the novel shifts to the past and he does a detailed narrative about Sinai’s grandfather Adam Azees.
Every day, I teach something new to the children. It could be a word or a grammatical thing. I enjoy it much now.
I spent time on the evening quietly meditating on the art of sunset. Sunset is clad with a myriad of colors—orange, pink, red and golden. They make a beautiful music, a solitary poem. The rhythm of colors in the sky forms a passionate music. God Jehovah Jesus had blessed me to appreciate the nuances of nature, the gentle, silent rhythm of poetry, the transmogrification to a soul of love. The travelers in the sky are dancing in pulchritude. Their rhythms are beauty so sweet.
I had an anxiety disorder. I am praying to God to get me rid of it. The Devil was hacking my brain severely and now I have the sweet balm of Jesus to heal it. Thank God Jehovah Jesus, I have got cured from insomnia.
I am fascinated by the way post-modern fiction is written. There are temporal shifts in time, extreme irony, and use of tropes, unreliable narrator and inter-textuality. All my works in fiction has been experimental. Yes, I am slowly getting readers to read about my work.
She invited me to make love. I went (that was of the past) before I became saved. I felt too nervous and ashamed and failed to get an ecstasy. Twice she invited me and I traveled half away and came back. Now she invited me again. She was fascinated by me the poet. I did not bother to communicate. There stands my adultery as coming to an end. I praise God for making me flee from temptations.
Master of the
To me ….
Me from danger
You are Master
I give all
Help me live
As the person
You want ….
I love thee