A bygone station

A note to past.

In Kariyilakaatu pole, P. Padmarajan writes:

Death is a step in the

journey towards growth

Or beginning must be

The numbness of death.

Death, I feel is the sibling or the twin of life. In fact death is the sole promise that life commits to. Yet we all die multiple times in a single life. Is it because we are all cowards who die a thousand times? Or is it just the shedding away of worn out skins?

One of the most prominent, defining times of our lives happen when we mourn the death of someone alive. Sometimes it must be one of our own selves, sometimes it could be someone else. Sylvia plath points poignantly in Lady Lazarus as:

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

Sometimes we sit by the windowsill looking out into the roads taken and not taken among the woods of bygone times. In the refined contentment of the granaries of past, chaff of unfinished businesses and incomplete meetings, remain bitter sweet, just like the cup of coffee that gives company to a playlist of Adele songs on a rainy day.

After heavy storms, at some point, fresh sprouts of life reawakens in the lap of our hearts. Days in the sun will come again through the cracks of our heart.Sometimes, it’s very easy to reclaim the people who we think are lost. But once, we regain them, we realize that they are not the same anymore. In their reflection, we realize that we aren’t the same.

Like Narcissus, we might have bloomed into a flower. Or we might see a horrible, hideous portrait we would wish to destroy. Either way, it is paradoxically comforting that it won’t stay, that we too are growing after the dormancy of death. Life and death echo each other, like a reminiscent of unrequited love.

A bygone station

A Birthday song

They say that today was my birthday.
Years before this was the first time
I made my mother suffer.
I’m engulfed by love this day,
Every year.
Some love stood the test of time,
Others were fragile fragrances.
Nevertheless, I spoke to the apparition
in the mirror this year too.
I congratulated him for enduring
Another year of a joke called life. All I know for sure is that I am one step closer to the gold deposit of death.

A bygone station

A Confession

Light seeped in through the meticulously carved partition. A multitude of spotlights on my face lay scattered in focus. A burden brooded inside me. The Golden sunshine, fragrant frankincense and myrrh crumbs set the ambience. I sat down to listen. “ I have sinned again.” Said the voice from the other side. “ I have given myself into the greed of gluttony, the gluttony of lust, the envious lust, the wrath of envy, the pride of wrath and the sloth of pride.” Continued the voice. “ I have broken hearts. I..I..I don’t know”. The voice quivered. “ I am a sinner.” Struggled the voice. “Me too.” I couldn’t stop myself from saying that.
“ Why did you do that?” the voice asked. I didn’t knew what to say. But that question was posed to both of us. “ When did we fail? “ the voice asked in a calm way. Was it when we smiled to resist tears? Or was it when we started to speak in spite of the ugliness in our words over the sublime beauty of our silence? Or was it when we saw the good and the bad? Or mine and not mine? Or I and you? The chaotic order of my thoughts paused for a moment at the next question. “Why did we fail?” I was paralysed and nauseated together. I knew and I didn’t knew the answer. “ wouldn’t it be because we ceased to love?” asked the voice. There was clarity in spite of my vision being blurred by tears.
“ Why did you cease to love?” I asked. Thick silence from the other side suffocated me. “ was it because, you were afraid that it would hurt you again?”. Silence persisted on the other side. Could it be because he was hurt more than once when sincere love was not acknowledged, let alone being reciprocated? Or could it be that he too had to go through a stage when his innocence and love were manipulated… or perhaps, taken for granted? Thoughts clouded in my head. “Are you alright?” “ You hurt others because you were hurt. They hurt you because they were hurt. Forgive them. Forgive yourself.” I blurted out half heartedly. “Hmm.” Said the voice. I felt better.
“Do you feel lonely?” I asked. I felt as if that lonely moment stayed to enjoy our silent company. “ Yes.” The voice replied. “It’s been so long since we last met.” Said the voice. I couldn’t resist anymore. Perhaps this is the person who’ll never hurt me . Perhaps, he could be a friend for life. Perhaps, he’ll understand. Perhaps we will grow together. Hope with all its feathers, perched high on my heart. I rushed to the other side. There, I was surprised to see a beautifully crafted mirror, reflecting me in all its grandeur. I was confused, felt disappointed and then brimmed with immense happiness. God smiled at me with so much love.

A bygone station


In search of love…to be loved and to love…

For love is a power game too among other things giving rise to

The strength in being loved and the courage to love..

But not being able to do so..

Necessity brings people..they need something and there they are..

When does people hurt..? I think when they get too close..

Stay away friends..I am mending walls..

Stay away love..I am finding me..

I shall get close but I will never let you close..I will try not to hurt..

Hence I confide in consoling silence..

Because words are weary burdens..

I must go on and on..flow..with time, life and nothingness with a tinge of solitude..

A bygone station


The enemy was trapped within the dropping delirious curtains of the mosquito net. He was struggling to get out. The primitive within me grasped the enemy. In a fraction of a second, I saw the marvellous beauty of the fragile wings on the delicate black web. A cocktail of amusement, intimidation and pride brimmed within. I released the enemy.Broken and bruised,it was still beautiful. The enemy intimidated the gentleman. The ape within the gentleman clasped the enemy, crushed him with a stale anger that had returned to him after a futile journey to random addresses. The enemy was dead and it rolled into my palm. The enemy’s proboscis touched the gentleman’s palm as if it was kissing goodbye. Startled, the man threw it away.

Far away, in a timeless land somebody shot down an albatross.

The gentleman laughed and remarked:”They spread diseases”. The man was still intimidated by the beauty of the little mosquito.

A bygone station

An Autumnal hymn

Autumn..A season that teaches you the beauty of letting go..
A season that reminds you how changes can be beautiful too..A season that shows you that life can be restarted..A season when the trees shed their leaves and introspect in silence..a gentle reminder that there is more…much more than people in life..A season when nature blush like a boy who’s in love..

Thankyou dear Autumn.

A bygone station

A note to God

Strangers who used to be friends

Nobodies who used to be somebodies.

And in the mirror,is the apparition of the unfamiliar.

All I have is a public privacy and a dozen of Everybody’s secrets.

In the sleepless nights I imbibe the reciprocating irony of uniqueness in oneness.

Love..heal me.

A bygone station

The new member.

Some things come to us once in a life time. They arrive out of nowhere.”My whole body is anticipating the arrival of the baby. The molar gum was impregnated with hope and it had been nineteen years. The gum is bulged and she is fed by my blood. My body is weak, yet I’m her man. I had shut my mouth to warm her with my silence. It wasn’t december, yet it was cold outside. Sharp words fell like snowflakes. A feverish fire was set up for her. Her good neighbours ground the bread and wine and blood fed her. Yet she was pale.. I had butterflies in my stomach. The pain had begun..

Ulcers stood guarding at the tip of the tongue and the mouth seemed like a prison. The herd of sheep near the tongue seemed like the foaming waters of Yamuna. The palate stood tall as a thousand headed snake.

One or two drops of blood might have stained the pink flesh when the bright star twinkled. A white head popped out, the wise one. The moon, the wind and the sun of the east followed the star and visited the newborn and showered blessings.And thus he was born..dividing time..reminding wisdom..

A bygone station

The flight of a bird🕊

It was March and a bird sang for the first time..
About the melancholic saudade of life and the mundane metaphors of death..
A flock of birds flew with him..beneath the scorching sun..

Rain,love and titles showered that monsoon..
His clouded heart was afraid of them, once..
Somewhere in the journey,he befriended the three..
He became the black swan in rain
He became the white swan in love
He became the brother,soul twin and other innumerable titles..

Everyone identified..yet none knew..
He ventured to know the unknown.
He was nested by love and caged by thoughts
Yet he found home within… Leaving everything behind..

The sun came, stayed and returned alone..
The moon always had the stars with him..
Fallen leaves froze beneath the snow..
With the feathers of hope,he flew to the everlasting spring..

A bygone station

Fever, Siesta, Contemplation…

It is wonderful to fall ill, once in a while. When my mind refuses to pause in a hectic life, my body echoes Neruda. It reminded me the power of a timely pause.It showed me the sublime sensuosness of silence, by keeping quiet. My body stood naked before my mind and temperature soared up. I noticed how dilated my pupil became and how red my lips turned. I trembled at my shivering heart, while the clock counted to 12. My senses became more sharp. I could see the flame in the eyes of my reflection in the mirror, flickering like a terrible fish. My nostrils widened to pick up my wild scent. Dews of perspiration garnered my moustache, with the lips below, so red like the blazing sun of the evening sky. My limbs were weak, every joint demanded rest. I could feel the muscles. My dorsal muscles are infidels-they were into an illegitimate relation with the softness of my bed whilst their solid marriage to my bones. When chill creeps through my nerves, warmth crawls through the hair in my chest and clasp the hair at the back of my head. I’d shiver, tremble and grunt like a wounded beast in the warm and soft bosom of my immunity. Lukewarm porridge and the naughty lemon pickle spiced up passion.The warmth crept over me like a Cow girl. Light and shadow lay intertwined on my body.Outside my window was a Sun who was lost in kissing the suprasternal notch of a scorching summer and climaxing into the wet monsoon. Cold air blew through the window and warm air rushed in and out rhythmically from my lungs.




I am a farmer, sowing seeds and hope, with a body promised to the Earth and a heart bound to the soil. My fever, like the Earth is round and plump..and a heart beats within her, like a fuming core.
I admire her lust for the delirium of death and the zest for the luring life..

#Celebrating fever!