Of Naxalism, ideologies and . . .

They fought a war, a real one. A bloody one rather. They got caught, some people called them criminals, while some called them heroes . . . no matter what people called them, they got thrashed by the system. God ! I sound like an anarchist who is remembering history! And I know that, anarchists and utopia doesn’t make much sense.

So let me start from the top, if you are blinded by the common “perception” that after Mumbai everything is Madras,get enlightened here! now! The southern most tip of this country constitute of Kerala and Tamil Nadu ( Which you dearly call Madras). And between these two is, Karnataka. And all of them are “different” states with “distinct” cultural identities.

And now, if you do know that there is a state called Kerala and is carried away by the tourism ads as well as strongly believes that it is “The God’s Own Country” ; Well, open your eyes in this soil. it isn’t all that, it is just that in these times, when there is a sophisticated lying tool for gaining attention called “advertisement” almost everything needs to be branded. Even if that means they over romanticize that skinny old woman on the pavement selling brooms to make both ends meet into some symbol of a rustic rural muse and simplicity in the times of the invading monstrous urban rituals ( excuse my sarcasm!).

So I was speaking about a battle that few knows took place in a land which is either not recognized or is recognized for what it is not . . .

The oppressed sooner or later rises against the oppressor. There was a particular poem by a black poet concerning the same, about how all the oppressed in this world will rise and form a big question mark in front of the world.I don’t remember the name of the poet or the poem right now, but whatever he said, stayed within me.

 So when all the land lords of Northern Kerala were reaping the fruits of the bonded serf’s toil the educated revolutionary youth took up arms and showed the peasant to do the same. To the people who say Naxalism doesn’t have an ideology at all . . .to hell with ideologies! Doesn’t the thought group of youngsters forsaking everything else for the bended man with the sickle please anyone much more than speaking and debating about some intangible nothing around a coffee table!There is a selflessness in the ardent youth that everybody misses sooner or later. Today when they are reduced to nothingness, with some among them living and preaching things that the very ideology stood for, I wonder whether they miss it, the selflessness of their youth . . .



Unromanticizing a dream . . .

Understanding what is  happening inside oneself is hard, it has been for me. Writing about it, is worse. Somehow I feel like I won’t ever be able to convert into words the sudden gasp of air I need when I write. I won’t ever be able to let you feel the way I feel suffocated. But all I can write about are the things that I have gone through or witnessed. Yes, there is a good question, why do I write after cribbing so much about it? Well, I haven’t figured it out yet. Emotional release is one among the many explanations is my guess. But now, I have to write . . .

” I will grow up, be a journalist, earn on my own and then will never ever come home, ever again”, I could hear myself taking hard, deep breaths then. Not only then. My demeanor was the same the countless times I have said. Even my mother’s response was cliched, she would raise her right eyebrow and tell me, ” First study and be all that”. No offense though, Amma has been hearing and I have been saying the same thing for more than a decade now for sure. Ever since I was eight.

Today I am what they call an “almost journalist”. Final year student, placements about to happen . . . career concerns. Why am I having different nightmares now? Earlier it was just Amma discovering my report card that could make any “goose bump” effect on me. But why do I feel that those nightmares were so damn simple?

No, you have got me wrong. I don’t aspire to be any media house CEO. My dream was just the same. A person on the streets. A pen and a notebook. A degree to get by, and I should live.

Getting close to a dream that you have adored all your life is different if not difficult. Like getting close to the sun? Only it isn’t  burning down my wings ( Ok, I agree. That is one of my unpractical dreams). And certainly growing up allows anyone to be free. To be yourself (cliche).

Did I tell you about my nightmare? The one which there was neither Amma nor report card or getting caught in an awful lie? And contrary to all my nightmares this place was serene, yes it was.

It was just the beach, rocks and the moon. And I was somewhere on the shore. I was scared, not because I was alone. . .

It was the sea. Why did I heard it whisper ” I can engulf you ” every time it touched my feet? It was the moon. Why did it say with the most ungraceful grin that ” I am watching you” while seeping through my face with light? It was the rocks, why did it say ” We can crush you” even though it was lining up for me the most beautiful horizon I will eve see in my dreams?

Why do I run to the pit and cover myself with sand? Why am I letting the sand get into my mouth, into my nose, into me?

Why do I run away from death only to embrace it? . . . What am I trying to do?

Am I not ready to die? Or am I just putting up a fight?

And why do I never wake up no matter how much ever I convince myself it’s a dream . . . . .



What is on my mind . . .

I should write is what is on my mind. About what is just a subtext. Still, there is an awkward moment when you realize that sometimes subtexts are so damn important. It is right now.

Does vacuum make a good subject? Or numbness? No no, too depressing. Sunshine? Sunshine makes sense, the green grass and sunshine. . . fuck romanticism! It doesn’t work for me.

There is that boy hiding in the bushes is waiting to get to me ( No no no, don’t read the subtext in this. Not right now. These are ramblings.) He has brown eyes, he is not more than seven years old, has brown hair and has a stutter. He looks at me all the time, when I am not looking at him of course! But still he looks at me. I know, he is a kid, and I should probably ask him to come to me and be friends with him. But, I can’t.

I stutter. Only then, only there. I cannot be warm to him. No, I am not being rude to him. I am just keeping him at a distance. Because when he looks, it feels like he can feel my inside. Because he stutters, I know he won’t be bold to tell the truth. That is, if there is a truth to tell about me.

Who and what are questions that everybody would ask. I don’t want to scare you as much as I hate to scare myself. If I will ever want to ask something it would be this . . . Does this gaze mean anything to you boy? If it doesn’t, don’t run away, just stay there, keep looking . . . . One day you might find something that I haven’t.