Chaos Is Truth

When we look around, there are no patterns, there is no rhythm. Nothing is in order and utter chaos exists everywhere.

All this arrangements, these numbers and symmetry are mere attempts of human imagination to take control, to quantify and selfishly devour the form and savour the beauty.

Perhaps this is the reason why the perception of beauty varies among each of us.

Think about it my friend, what looks exquisite to me would be rather repulsive to you. And of course there are established standards for beauty, Norms that are defined by our forefathers. They are the shackles that we wear as we grow up. Things get ugly as we fail to find the pattern, rather our impotence to set a rhythm.

Our whole life revolves around our perception of beauty. We like and dislike things, events and people accordingly.

The Teacher That Never Was

Coming from a family line of popular Teachers form my Mother’s side, I nurture a solid respect for the greatest profession in the world. Black sheep exit in every fraternity, and teaching is also not spared from this curse.

Thanks to this particular Maths instructor from 4th grade, who made numbers a nightmare, I chose to be in the profession that feeds me right now, totally refusing to be an Engineer like my Father and his Father before him.

She found pleasure in her humiliating ways of correcting children, who according to her was deviating from the path of light.

Kneeling down outside the class with my boys during her 47 minutes of inferno every day was nothing compared to her crazy eyes glaring at me, while she slowly unbuttoned my shirt in front of the whole class, just because I could not by heart the multiplication table.

Humiliation was complete, when I see the girl who could not decipher William Wordsworth in the previous period light up a smile as tears rolled on my cheeks.

I was a fool, who did not run to my benevolent guardians in the staffroom to report this, nor did I have the courage to reveal this madness to our Father, busy climbing the professional ladder.

Acha, if only we were good friends back then, just like now! If only you took up the role of my conscience keeper at that age, things would have been different. It’s was indeed a failure, when the almighty Kishore ettan’s little child suffered in silence.

I was afraid. I was scared. I was intimidated to reveal that the son of a numerical prodigy like him was dyslexic, or was I?

On the brighter side, I learnt to appreciate the kind words and support from all the other Chaperones of knowledge in that School. I worship them. They nurtured my little talents so well, that I make my living out of it right now.

I recognized the same lady in that crowded bakery in Thalassery a few months back, attending to her child screaming for ice cream. I hope she changed for good, before a pedophile got hold of that little thing. You know, Karma is a bitch.

Thoughts about owning a Royal Enfield

It’s more or less like getting engaged to get married (no offence). Counting days to be together with a soul mate full of lust disguised as love and love in the form of lust.(18 months, they say) Making her yours, after a long wait, all the time getting frustrated because she is not with you, but deep within the four walls of the mind, it echo’s; “She is yours and yours only, custom made from your backbone”

You face the same questions from your peers, over and over; “did you get to test-drive?” What colour, what Reg: number? Are you prepared for this? All you can do is sit there and smile, excited at the same time worried.

Finally on the date of the delivery, you shiver, your hands are cold but the flame in your heart will help you to keep your cool.

Your hand automatically moves in an instinct, to twist the keys to turn her on, she is all yours, you know that and you will take your time to examine the beauty, to stare for the first-time into those rear-view mirrors. “Objects in mirror are closer than what it appears”, true to the core. You are made for each other.

Wink at yourself in the mirror and your image winks back at you; it’s the soul of the machine responding to your desire for intense passion. Press the start button and she bursts into laughter of ravenousness.

Thug thug thug thug thug… goes the sound of her heart beat, take some time to listen and appreciate the music. When you ride or rather make love in the highway, both your heartbeats becomes a symphony, a duet of love.

You will be alone in the highway while the rest of the plastic bikers will eat your dust, because when the machine and the man becomes one, they rarely seem to notice anything else.

Away from the long straight highway, In the country road, you will never feel like moving fast, you will move in a rhythm, letting others get a glimpse of her elegance. You nod or smile at those eyes staring at the two of you with a class that you acquire due to her acquaintance.

It will be a happy love story till the end of time. Even your progeny will speak of your glory as a rider. The machine will be a token of grandeur passed on to them, which they will accept with respect.

PS: I am sick of hearing about this 18 month long booking period for a bullet classic. I grew up seeing Achan and bro getting vehicles within two days… lol. What guarantee that I be alive after 18months… WTF.

An aspiring Teacher, I am.

I had this strange dream recently where I was seated in a tightly packed lecture hall, when a fat bearded man with clear signs of baldness got upon the podium. His arrival was accompanied with applause, even from the dignitaries in the front row. He was dressed in a turtleneck, Harris Tweed jacket, khakis, and collegiate cordovan loafers like Dan Brown. He had a scarf around his neck additionally.

Silence spread as he stretched his hands like Christ the Redeemer statue. He started speaking in a voice that echoed from the walls of that large room.

“We are going on a journey together, you and I."

"Today"! (in a soft whisper)

“All you eager young minds on the very cusp of adulthood (laughing), I shall be your consort, your guide, your chaperone into the heart of modern communication. Welcome to Digital media 1.01. “

I woke up at the sound of the alarm clock and came back to the normal world. I do not wish to interpret the dream, but the recollection of this delusion of mine has prompted me to write this.

There are a lot of popular jokes about attending lectures just for the sake for attendance, powerful sarcasm to the classes that can put you to sleep. There are teachers who seem to sing a lullaby that can send you to a state of deep slumber, letting you dream of the lions of Africa or rather think of being in any hell other than the class room. Like the famous lines “Better dwell in the midst of alarms, than reign in this horrible place.”(William Cowper)

We all know that this is not true. Teaching is the best profession in the world. In ancient India, the teaching class were the priests who were on the top of the organised society, powerful enough to influence the decisions of the Kings. They believed that the Mother who is regarded as the living goddess shows you who your father is; the Father will then take you to a Guru or a teacher, who shows you who the God is. This is the divinity associated with the teaching job.

They are the ones who literally command; “let there be light”, showing us the truth that sets us free. They point us towards knowledge, the real God. They are probably our first heroes who do incredible things that make us a fan, like Albus Dumbledore from Harry Potter who utters the “lumos” spell to illuminate everything.

As an aspiring teacher myself, I was always fascinated by their ways. The best of them ruled the podium in the classrooms and huge lecture classes with their voices echoing in my mind. Like great artists performing on a stage, captivating the listeners with their awesomeness. They are true storytellers who poured ideas and inspiration into my empty mind.

In the Primary school, teachers play the role of a protective guardian who picks you up and dust you when you fall down, wiping your tears with the end of the Sari, telling you that there is no shame in tears, but never shed them for the silliest of things. They become our icons in high school and friends in the college. Obviously there are exceptions, there are teachers who could make your life a living hell, but now when I look at it from a safe distance, far away from the reach of an educational institution, I realize that I have only gained from what I have got from my teachers.

Every Day Is Mother's Day

My best friend once remarked “dude, I’m not your mother, you should do it yourself”, when i kept on pestering her with too much things. Then I suddenly realised that I tend to seek and cherish the motherly side of all the females in my life more than anything else.

This is perhaps due to the influence of the three wonderful ladies who raised me. Amma, Ammamma and Shobanechi are the most important pieces of the jigsaw that was my childhood. They became audience to my childish blabbering with patience, fed me while I was hungry, taught me with stories and played with me like friends.

It doesn’t matter that I do not fit into that small attic under the staircase to play hide and seek or that I’m too far away to come home every afternoon for a mouth-watering lunch of rice mixed with fresh coconut “chammandi” and curd. I cannot stop needing them.

On this mother’s day, I cannot stop but think about the prominence of the mother and the motherly figures around us, doing what they are best at; “making us feel safe” from a world that can be so ugly and unsympathetic at times. I tend to use “ente amme” (oh! Mother) to express shock or surprise instead of the usual OMG!! Or Ayyo!!

During a time when headlines on violence committed against women seem to increase day by day, I feel so blessed to have grown up under the shadow of motherly love that has nourished the feminist in me.

Legend has it that the invincibility of the lord of Lanka depended on the sanctity of his queen Lady Mandodari. Angadha, the monkey was given the task to rape her and ensure Ravana’s defeat in the battle.

“So you are the Son of Ruma, only her son could do such a thing” said Mandodari, as she stabbed herself to death with a dragger (Lankalakshmi, C.N Sreekantan Nair). Those words must have shocked him and brought him back to his senses for sure. Angadha must have died of remorse about attempting to do such a thing later. But Angadha raised by the mothers of Kishkintha in “Ooru Kaaval” by Sarah Joseph can never do such a thing for he has seen the world through the eyes of his mothers, and possibly will disown the Ram of Ayodhya for the sake of the abandoned Seetha.

I set myself free.

According to the ancient scriptures, the victory over our emotions or “indriyajayam” is regarded as graduating to spiritual greatness. I have always wondered if that is all about becoming beyond everything that is human or just learning to be corpse and living the afterlife before death.

Laughter is my favourite. I laugh out loud, even among a strange crowd. There is an indescribable pleasure to let out happiness and joy that fills me. The waves of laughter seems reflecting back to me from the walls around, doubling the feeling of happiness.

Love comes second; I constantly remind my Mother and Grandmother that they are the most important. Even though it requires some amount of intoxication, I tell my friends that life would be truly dry without them. There is a best friend of mine, who has to undergo the torture of picking up my phone call in the middle of the night to listen to my random thoughts and nonsense about our friendship.

I remember telling my first crush that I loved her. She has ignored my existence ever since. Even though it was a disaster, I told her about it, and best of all, I discovered drinking.

It’s been a long time that I have wept; it is either due to my obsession to project a smiling face or my disinclination to announce my sadness. I educe my childhood when it used to be my weapon to get what I wanted and get away with something.

After most of those crying sessions sitting in the comfort of mother’s, grandparent’s or a loving teacher’s lap, I used to taste the traces of the dried stream of tears by protruding my tongue to all the part of my cheeks which I could manage to reach. The saltiness was perfect, like the salted lemonade that quenches your thirst on a summer afternoon; it gave a sudden relief to my mind that was longing to shatter like a glass vase kept on the brink of the table.

It’s magical, how each of the emotions plays an equally important role in our lives. How we often long to express our emotions of love, anger, sadness, lust and happiness. These emotions are gateways, doors that set the locked up mind free. Emotions which remain unexpressed never exist. When you don’t swear at a person who behaved inappropriately, it means that you don’t feel angry at all. When you don’t remind people that you love them, it means that you don’t love them at all. It is as simple as that.

Ammamma: My own goddess of food.

Providing social media services to some of the best restaurants have put me in constant contact with some of the people who love and make great food waking up the foodie in me. It has also given me a chance to learn a great deal on the art of cooking, complementing my own passion to experiment on new tastes. Love for good food is inscribed in the human gene. Legend has it that, when the sons of Kunthi and Madri had to go undercover as a penalty of them loosing a game with the Kauravas. Bheema, Kunthi’s third son, the fiercest of them all who later killed the hundred and one Kauravas and won the war chose to be a cook due to his love for food. He could resist Draupati’s fragrance but not his hunger.

Writing about food is a matter of great pleasure. So I find it important to write about my own goddess of food. My grandmother who i call Ammamma has a distinctive style of cooking which is often very hard to replicate due to her habit of putting her own signature into each dish that she prepares. I must confess that eating from our ancestral home in Vatakara for a period of time would make people have less appreciation for others cooking, making my mother, a wonderful cook herself, angry about me constantly complaining about her culinary skills after the vacations spent with Ammamma.

It is not her popular Biryani that is made during every festivity or her celebrated Sambar, appreciated by some of the dignified guests at our ancestral home, that I am smitten by. My personal favourite is the simple “Pulingari” prepared using cucumber or papaya along with tender jackfruit seeds or yam from the backyard. A flood forms in my mouth every time I think about it.

The strong flavor created due to the topping made of onion, mustard and uluva (Fenugreek) fried in coconut oil transforms the curry into something beyond description, acting as the touch of Midas. The aroma that comes out of the kitchen during the noon is so alluring that it makes you hungry even if you were full. It is a sheer pleasure relishing it by reducing the amount of rice in the plate. At the end of the meal even the fingers would seems edible, one would not wash them without licking the memories of the lunch which ended a few seconds ago. A fried fish and Mezhukku puratti (appetizers/starters) along with some hot literary and political discussions with my Grandfather and stories by my uncles and cousin would prolong the lunch time.

I always wonder what makes her cooking unique. It is perhaps the spoon, the same one which is used to choose the spices, including the powdered chilly and turmeric or is it the unique rhythm of mixing the curry with the long ladle. I often ask Ammamma how she makes the tastes linger on the tongue and how the flavor is felt deep in the lungs. With a smile Ammamma asks me not to over react and I should stop the habit of exaggerating things. “Cook for yourself and for your favourite people”, that my boy is the secret” she once revealed.

It’s the recipes that we make ourselves that are the best ones. No one is born a good cook. It takes years of practice to perfect the art of creating a mouth-watering masterpiece. The passion for the art of course is very important. “The fish curry will not taste good even with the Malabar tamarind if you don’t attend it while it boils in the earthen vessel with love”