ഒരു തലതിരിഞ്ഞവൻ

DISCLAIMER: The following content contains mature content, strong language, comical nudity, and profanity. Not suitable for people who have offensivitis. Reader Discretion Advised The welcome ceremony in college was grand. We were in a huge auditorium and the Late P K Das (the man with the entire alphabet as his suffix) gave us the welcome address. He never spoke to public gathering again as he passed away a few weeks after our classes started. During this ceremony is when I met Kindi. A studious "looking" bloke with spectacles the size of the medieval stained glass. Once the ceremony was over, we were asked to visit the hostel. We were escorted to the hostel with a plethora of students, some in buses and some in their own vehicles. With great expectation, I traveled behind a bus to our hostel. The buses traveled through a barren wasteland to what looked like a run-down building. Our hostel. The great Kaliyapuram Men's Hostel. From here, if someone needed to see...

Pen on paper.

Done in Note 3

The smell of outside air was refreshing to him. It felt like an eternity passed. Never did he imagine that he would forget to walk among trees or eat something besides the freedom chapatis. Viyur had changed. There were posters on the walls that looked like painted photographs. Traffic had grown immensely, with buses, bikes and auto-rickshaws. But what amazed him the most was these boxes everyone one had in their pockets. Most people were either talking to it or looking at it. Sankaran found it difficult to reach to his usual place as many of the landmarks he remembered has been now torn down or were completely different. No one had come to accompany him as well. Reaching his hometown, he went to Narayanettan; a bloke who used to sell tea in stall around the corner. The place had a few surprises waiting for him as well. A mini restaurant stood in its place. Narayanettan informed that he missed the date of Sankaran's release, on seeing him. There wasn't much excitement...

I'm an atheist. I am not an atheist who believes there is no God, rather an atheist who doesn't believe in any Gods. There is a difference. Now the reason for any rational being to be an atheist is always the same; lack of evidence to support the claim. It is the same reason why Stephen Hawkins or Kamal Haasan or E.M.S. Namboodiripad or any other atheist, is an atheist. When presented with this statement, many people have asked me to prove a God doesn't exist. Is that my duty, now? Isn't it a believers responsibility to prove to the sceptic, the existence of their claim? Well, most people say, why don't you disprove it, then. This is like me claiming that my motorcycle can fly, but only if you believe it will fly and asking you to disprove it, instead of proving that the motorcycle actually flies. Disproving a negative is impossible. It's also impossible to prove the non-existence of Santa Claus or faeries or Leprechauns or Trolls or Elves or anything out ...

Handwritten, with a Parker Calligraphy Pen. This is the elven poem about the rings from Lord Of the rings, in Black Speech of Mordor, using the Tengwar script. It says: Shre nazg golugranu kilmi-nudu Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky Ombi kuzddurbagu gundum-ishi Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, Nugu gurunkilu bard gurutu Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, Ash Burz-Durbagu burzum-ishi One for the Dark lord on his dark throne Daghburz-ishi makha gulshu darulu In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. Ash nazg durbatulûk One Ring to-rule-them-all Ash nazg gimbatul, One Ring to-find-them, Ash nazg thrakatulûk One Ring to-bring-them-all Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul and in-the-Darkness bind-them Daghburz-ishi makha gulshu darulu In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. The second and third line from the bottom are the ones found on The Ring.

Intro. Mark Gungor, a pastor in Wisconsin, once said women are extreme multitaskers . Men can concentrate only on a single task, finish it and then move to the next one but, a woman can do a hundred things together. I have had first-hand experience with these things as most of my good friends are women. My best friend could be talking to me over the phone, while riding a unicycle on a tightrope, juggling burning torches and doing calculus in her head all at the same time (which actually blows my male chauvinistic mind). Friends, netizens, bloggers, lend me your eyes. I come to bury women ; not to praise them. There is a chance I offend a few people with this blog post, but that's the point anyway. I really hope someone shows this to Anita Sarkeesian so that she can ban this blog for its sexist content. Let's just put the statement out there. Women are terrible drivers. They might multitask but when it comes to driving it's like someone put Digital Fortresses int...

Acrylic on Canvas

Done in Soft Pastels

Done in Corel Painter X

Done in Soft Pastels  

Done in Adobe Photoshop

Done in Corel Painter

കൊല്ലം 1997. തീയതി എനിക്ക് അത്ര ഓർമ്മയില്ല. ഏതായലും എനിക്ക് ആറ് വയസ്സ്. എന്റെ അനുജന് ഒരു വയസ്സാവുന്നു. വൈകുന്നേരമാണ് സംഭവം നടക്കുന്നത്. ഞങ്ങളുടെ അമ്മ ഫോണിൽ തകൃതിയായി കത...

I wait at the shore with my brother-in-law. My eyes are cast into the small island across the lake, as I wait for my son's return. The island is famous for an asylum. Yes! My son turned mad. He was haunted by a trauma. A childhood prank, that left his immature mind unbalanced; the death of his best friend. It was three years ago. The school was closed. It was summer vacation. My son and his friends were playing on the beach, when they decided to bury each other in the sand, with just their heads sticking out. They took turns to bury each other and where purely having fun. But as the sunset and it was getting dark, the waves started getting immense and they didn't realize this. Suddenly, the waves went lightning fast. My son, along with his friends, ran away from the sea but failed to get his best friend whom he just dug in. When the wave went back into the sea, all that was left there was sand. That's how my 10-year-old son ended up on the island. Now, three years later,...

ഞാൻ ഈ ഭൂമിയിലേക്ക്‌ വന്നത് അമ്മയുടെ വയറ്  കീറി  മുറിച്ചുകൊണ്ടാണ്. സിസേറിയൻ ആയിരുന്നു. അമ്മയുടെ അഭിപ്രായത്തിലെ സുഖപ്രസവം.  ഒന്ന് വലുതായി, പ്രസവത്തിന്റെ കോമ്പ്ലിക്കേഷൻ മനസിലാവുന്ന കാലത്ത്, ഞാൻ അമ്മയോട് ചോദിച്ചു, എന്തുകൊണ്ടാണ് അമ്മേ ഞാൻ സിസേറിയൻ ബേബി ആയത്. അന്ന് അമ്മ തന്ന ആ മറുപടിയാണ്, ഇന്ന് ഞാൻ എന്റെ ചെല്ലപ്പേരായി കൊണ്ട് നടക്കുന്നത്. ആ കഥയിലേക്ക് ഒരു തിരിഞ്ഞുനോട്ടം ആണിത്. ഡിസംബറിലെ ഒരു തണുത്ത വെളുപ്പാങ്കാലം. എന്റെ അമ്മ സമാധാനമായി ഉറങ്ങുകയായിരുന്നു. ഹോസ്പിറ്റലിലെ കൊതുക് ശല്യം അറിയാതെ സുഖമായ ഉറക്കം. പ്രസവത്തിനു ഇനിയും രണ്ടു നാൾ  ഉണ്ട് എന്നാണ് ഡോക്ടർ പറഞ്ഞിരുന്നത്. തിരുവോണ നാളിൽ ജനിക്കണ്ട അമ്മയുടെ സീമന്തപുത്രൻ.  ഈ ഉറക്കത്തിനിടയിൽ അമ്മയുടെ വയറ്റിൽ നിന്നോരനക്കം. അമ്മ ഉണർന്നു. വേദന.  വേദന സഹിക്കാൻ വയ്യാതായി.  ഡോക്ടറെ വിളിച്ചു. ലേബർ റൂമിലേക്ക്‌ കൊണ്ടുപോയി.  ചെറിയൊരു പ്രശ്നം. എന്റെ കാൽ ആണ് ആദ്യം വരുന്നത്. ഉടനെ ഡോക്ടർമ്മാർ വിധി എഴുതി. സിസേറിയൻ. അങ്ങനെ തിരുവോണത്തിന് പുറത്ത് വരേണ്ട ഞാൻ, നല്ലൊ...

Facebook. The wonder of the internet that connected people to the world. Hundreds of countries, millions of people log into this virtual gathering every day. I have a story that starts with this very wonder. I am Rehab and this is the story of my sister, Rehna. Where shall I begin? Let’s start with the hacking. Rehna, like everyone, has an account on Facebook. She is a very gentle soul, wouldn't hurt a fly. Her account was once hacked and the hacker posted something against the government. Needless to say, she was imprisoned for 11 days. She came back to us tortured both physically and mentally. This is her story in prison. 14 women in a cell. That is the condition here. Cramped up. No room to stretch. The cells are all full. Some protesters, but mostly innocents. Funny, I felt like one of the girls in the prison scene from the movie Schindler’s list. The girls here are mostly young and the prison guardsmen. The expected results happened here- sex. Most of these girls had ...

The shutter of the shop opens with a clanking sound of metal. Bright light enters the room blinding the eye of the observer. Screams from the crowd can be heard," 1 for 10 rupees". They all seemed busy with their bargains and debates. Light from outside seemed to embrace a figure. A dark silhouette. It looked like a man, 6 feet tall. He enters the room and shuts the shutter. The commotion from outside fades. Rooms artificial light adjusts to its surrounding. A well-lit room painted white on all four walls, ceiling and floor. Walls of this room were plain. No paintings, no photos, just plain white. There were no hooks or holders to place a bulb. Room was well lit nonetheless. The man who entered the room looked like a businessman, probably from some big MNC. He was well built, young, in his 30's, well dressed. The dress itself said a lot. He had put on an Armani suit, Gucci shoes and had an Omega dangling on his left hand, which had a briefcase, A Louis Vuitton. His...

Rugged. Destroyed. Broken. This is the new Khalidiya. The buildings that once stood tall and proud are now mere rubble. The skeletal remains of some, remain. Dust and stones everywhere. The city I grew up in, is now no more. I walk around this graveyard of homes, looking for some inspiration for my work. Oh, silly me. I forgot the introduction part. I am Waheeda, a 54-year-old painter who had once settled in Damascus, which by the way has got no homely atmosphere now. What I'm about to write here is no story. It’s something I experienced. While scouting for the said inspiration, I heard a group of people performing prayers from inside one of these run-down buildings. The instinct of curiosity kicked in. To be frank, I was a little scared. The people have grown to be intolerant to strangers these days. As I walked in, I saw a group of 30-40 people in there performing their prayers. Even in these rough times, they didn't forget their duties. I patiently waited for them to fin...

Mélanie rushes out of the house to the hills around her house. The scenic beauty of Illiat was breathtaking. The little girl had to never go to her school again,as the French were forbidden to be taught. She didn't know why she could never learn again. Her innocent psyche didn't question her teachers as well. The year was 1939. The Germans were taking over France, little by little. French was banned in the German occupied areas. Jews living here were tortured. Yet the little girl ran out to play, unaware of her surroundings. Mélanie LaPedite was the only daughter her father and mother had. The six year old girl was very fond of the yellow flowers that bloomed like hope, around her house. Colonel Ulrich Wolfgang, the Nazi soldier, better known as ' The Jew Hunter' was approaching Illiat with his troops. He had learnt that a Jewish family, LaPedite, were there. The engine of their truck was roaring as they reached Illiat. Mélanie was having a little tea party in her own ...