Mill in the Wind

Eternity

2010-12-21T22:35:00.000-08:00

Who is it that gave life to me
That may take it back through death?
I have been, I am, and I will be
Life and death pass by, not I.

Owl on the milestone

2010-08-02T23:56:00.000-07:00

An owl sat on a milestone
Stiller than the milestone
I stirred not
But let them pass by.

Rajan

Saying hello

2010-07-27T11:13:00.001-07:00

Hello is the name of every other fellow.
From the stranger on the streets to your alter ego
Most-often said, at every turn heard,
Hello had perhaps begun this world.

Serve your hello with some spice in your eyes,
For a bland hello feels colder than ice.
Top your hello with some feeling on you face,
For a hello often tells more that it says.

As a gracious wave it crosses a mile,
A let-it-be nod or an I-don't-mind smile.
For hello is so very simple and cute
That it’s simple and cute even when mute.

Unseen to the seeing you might be
But unheard your hello can never be.
For the jack that turns his head that way,
A hello well twists it back this way.

Hello is sometimes the voice of the heart,
Sometimes the way a story would start.
It cares, it cures, it frees, and it binds,
And there are hellos of a zillion kinds.

Hear it come high, hear it come low,
Hear it come fast, hear it come slow,
Hear it come hot, hear it come cold,
Hear it come young, hear it come old,
Hear it come closed, hear it come open.
Here it comes, hello; here it comes, hearken!

Rajan

Communion

2010-07-27T02:40:00.000-07:00

I believed in my existence
Because I had seen myself in a mirror
And my image in the mirror
Had seen me too

I was as far away from the mirror
As was my image
The mirror used to double
The distance between us

Therefore I started approaching the mirror
Thereby getting closer to my image
At last we got so close to each other
That not even the mirror came between us

From then on
I cannot tell myself from my image
Nor can my image tell itself from me

And because I do not see any more images
I believe that the mirror
No longer exists
In fact, I doubt whether it ever existed at all.

Rajan

Ghosts

2010-07-21T11:42:00.000-07:00

If you thought that you saw an obscure shadow
Roaming in the dark or in the moonlight
Or sensed an abrupt presence beside you
Or that you heard a vague murmur
Drifting by in aimless hurry
Do not mistake it for fantasy
Or dismiss it as imagination
For it might be someone, something
On that side of the magic door

They come,
As thoughts, memories, voices, visions
For they left leaving their windows ajar
And we open some that they meant to close
Or close some that they meant to open

They come
To gaze into the mirror in which they had seen themselves
To sit by the casements through which they had looked out
To touch their walls that had held them secure

They come
To complete their castles left half-built
To listen to the rest of the story
That had kept them awake

What dam can hinder the deluge of passions?
What night can daunt the home-bound mother?
What reason can end the quest for a meaning?
What thirst what yearning can wait for another life?

So whether on this side of the door
Or that
We keep meeting and parting
Crossing past one another
As we wander listlessly
In our enchanted trance
We
Eternal performers shifting roles in a mysterious play
Fleeting forms that live and die in an endless dream

Rajan

A song to the Lord

2010-07-15T22:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, my Lord
The voices within me
Lose themselves
In the silence of your stars
And then I feel the
Sweetness of your song

Sometimes my Lord
The movements within me
Are steadied
By the stillness of your nights
And then I hear
The rhythm of your dance

Sometimes my Lord
Your gentle breath from across
Stirs the curtains on my windows
Apart for a moment
And then I see
The beauty of your colors

You touch me, my Lord
A thousand times
In my sleep
That I may wake up and realize
That I am a dream
That I dream to myself.

Rajan

Etiquettes

2010-07-14T11:07:00.001-07:00

Have you ever sprung at the nick of time
And pounced upon a nasty truth
That nearly came out
In your voice
And then
Threatened yourself that
You dare not let out such truths
And thanked the heavens
That you could mind your etiquettes?

Have you ever heard
When you had almost
Stepped out of the image
Behind which you hide
A quaint little command
As weak as a whisper
Chiding you not to
Obeyed it instantly and
Thanked the heavens
That you could mind your etiquettes?

Etiquettes are golden fetters
Shorter the better
With which we tether ourselves
To the crude little stumps
Of decorum and decency
Or perhaps silken robes
Of exotic charisma
With which we cover
The secret of our selves

Yet without etiquettes
We all will be
What we all are
And then this world
Would be
The wildest of wilderness.

Rajan

Clothe it

2010-07-13T21:54:00.000-07:00

Clothe it with a thousand words
You may
But I see it bare
In your eyes

Rajan

My room

2010-07-13T09:58:00.000-07:00

Autumn, winter, spring and summer
Perhaps, outside my closed window
Only time fills my room
And no one keeps knocking on my door.

Rajan

Graves

2010-07-05T23:19:00.000-07:00

Almost everywhere
In this city
I find a grave
Where they have buried humaneness

Rajan

Landscape

2010-07-01T20:25:00.000-07:00

It was a painted landscape

Until
A gentle breeze stirred
The ring of mountains
Into a reluctant whirl.

Rajan

Sacred land

2010-07-01T08:38:00.000-07:00

Here they had sown their silence
And reaped their screams
Here they had sown their words
And reaped their songs
This is the land
They had sung about
This is the land
They were silenced for
So when I tread this land
Let me tread gently
Lest I open these wounds
Or stifle the spark
That would light up
Tomorrow’s skies

Rajan

The passing years

2010-07-01T02:23:00.000-07:00

I clasp every passing year
To the folds of my heart
—With all my strength—
Yet they keep slithering by
On their unseen wheels
Often taking
A bit of me with them

I have urged the years
To stay back with me
Left my door open
And waited through the nights
But not a single moment
Has ever stayed back
They all have left
Some changing the mirror on my wall
Some, the meaning of my name

Yet there hasn’t been a time
When they weren’t around
Measuring me with their strides
Or smearing me with the colors
Of laughter and tears
As if I were
A picture that they paint

But at last when the hearse
Creaks to a halt by my door
And I cross the door
For the last time
I will laugh at the years
Passing by on their unseen wheels

For then, I would have proved
I am no slave of some few years
Nor a prisoner of existence
Only a mystery
That time may pick up
And amuse itself for a while
Before flinging it back
Into the infinite depths of eternity

Rajan

The ancient tree

2010-06-28T04:06:00.001-07:00

By the road, an ancient tree
The humblest see
And the blessed see
The form of God in thee

Rajan

Father

2010-06-21T23:54:00.000-07:00

When I was only a creeper
Seeking some support to grow on
I had found this tree by my side
And firmly held its twisted branches

Often I had sworn in my mind
The roughness of its bark
That almost hurt me especially when I grew too fast
But it had prevented me from falling off

Then there were those storms, those tempests,
Ruthless in their fury
This tree had braved
While I clung on to its gnarled limbs and watched the fights

Bit by bit, I had grown bolder and stronger
Yet the tree would sometimes deride me
By calling me a creeper or a sprout
And that had piqued me to become a tree too

At last I did become a tree
And let go of the tree I had held on,
Though it still never let go of me
Standing by my side it still fights the storms

Its weathered arms I hear
Crashing down one by one
And as they roar for the last time
The winds shiver and retreat with fear

Yes, you can wither, wane, or weaken
But you are, forever, my father
A place where I can always lose myself
A place where I can always find myself

Rajan

More Paintings

2010-06-14T23:23:00.001-07:00

Freedom

2010-06-09T04:48:00.000-07:00

At last I found
Freedom
When I bound myself
To the wind in the dale

Rajan

Languid leaves

2010-06-09T04:46:00.000-07:00

Languid leaves
Stirring in their siesta
Their rustling wakes up
The silence of the woods

Rajan

Night, the enchantress

2010-06-09T04:38:00.001-07:00

Night the enchantress has vanished

Beyond the hills with all her charms

And every twinkling little star

Has followed her

Rajan

I were...

2010-06-09T04:35:00.002-07:00

I were perhaps
A fire in you
That time or tide put out
Yet at times
Don’t you still hear
The embers crumble

Rajan

Creation

2010-06-09T04:35:00.001-07:00

With what passion
The creator embraced nothingness
That it crumbled into
Countless galaxies

Rajan

It isn't

2010-06-09T04:33:00.000-07:00

It isn't A speck of I
Reaching for a speck of you
For a moment
But an infinite I
Reaching for an infinite you
Eternally

Rajan

Dreamer

2010-06-09T04:32:00.000-07:00

I am a dreamer
So let me dream
And dream
Until I fall asleep

Rajan

A bit of the moonlight

2010-06-09T04:30:00.000-07:00

I nurture
A bit of the moonlight in my heart
So that once in a while
I can listen to a lark

Rajan

Enigma

2010-06-08T22:44:00.000-07:00

I am an enigma
Trapped in this earthen pot
Until time empties me
Into another

V K Rajan

The strangers

2009-08-15T08:18:00.000-07:00

Like all opium addicts, I really wish to quit, but am unable to.I usually decide to quit when some money comes my way. Then I would buy a good amount of the best opium pedaled in our city, tell myself that this is the last trip you had, and eat the whole of it. I usually indulge in these ‘last trips’ all alone in deserted places like the litter zones or graveyards. Graveyards, I like the most. They are the strongest reminders of the transience of life, the permanence of death, and the unreasonable tyranny of fate over man. I enjoy my trips the most in the somber solemnity of a graveyard.This time, I had enough opium to stone a horse. Never before, have I ever had enough money to buy this much of the dope; and of this good quality. I chose to sit on a tombstone that stood a bit apart from the others. A soul lonely in death too, as it might have been in life!My deft hands quickly flew over the sachet, undoing it in the flash of a moment. The dope was strong and it hit hard—instantly. I finished the whole of it in two shots and was, before long, lost in a mysterious magic world of fantastic dreams and bizarre flights of imagination. I don’t remember when I fell asleep.When I woke up, it was dark in the graveyard.Now there was not even a grain of opium left with me and the withdrawals had started. The withdrawals of opium are veritable hell... so painful that an addict would stick at nothing for the next dose. Yet, a graveyard is the last place where you can find opium; that too in the night. So there was nothing I could do, but lie on the cold tombstone writhing and sighing in pain.Suddenly, I saw a man approaching me, walking quite fast through the labyrinth of tombstones. He, in fact, came straight to me. He was a powerfully built middle-aged man of good height and a serious, no-nonsense demeanor. I sat up and greeted the stranger. He grinned—a sudden, spontaneous, boyish grin.“Turking?” he asked cheerfully, “Well, I too am. I am hunting for a pinch of paste. Want to join me?”I sprang up—relieved that I had met someone in my own plight and was, soon, walking beside the stranger in silence. The man seemed to be quite familiar with the place. We jumped over a wall and then walked down the road, which was dimly-lit and deserted. Before long, we saw another man coming against us.Seeing this, the stranger exclaimed “Hey, look who is coming! John, of all! We are saved, thank God.”When he reached us, the stranger greeted him loudly while John smiled back…a quaint, wistful smile.“Come on, Johnny dear…give us a grain. We need it like hell! My friend over here and I.”John smiled at me coyly and I smiled back.“Thank you Johnny!” the stranger remarked as John handed him over what looked like a fairly big sachet of the narcotic. John nodded his head and left quietly.“Now, let’s hit this at once”, said the stranger.We sat on a culvert by the road and the stranger started opening the sachet, humming to himself. I though it was time I broke the ice.‘This John,” I ventured to ask, “Is he your friend? He seems to be a good man.”The stranger gave me a puzzled look.“Friend he is,” he replied guardedly, kneading the dope, “But good man…well, I don’t know. For, the scoundrel was hanged for murdering me.”“Hanged? Murdered?” I almost shouted back in shock.This made the stranger grin… his sudden boyish grin.“Everyone has this confusion in the beginning,” he said heartily. “Do you know who you are? You had croaked yesterday, lying on that tombstone—probably from an overdose of opium.”

V K Rajan

Lost long ago

2009-08-15T08:16:00.000-07:00

Towards the end of the journey, the landscape becomes sketchy…distinguishing things from their shadows becomes difficult. The horizon seems to have come within your reach. Inside you, there is complete silence…as if someone has, at last, resigned to something imminent.The letters on this newspaper appear to me as a thick continuous line with corrugated contours. To read them, I need to wear my glasses. But the photographs are somewhat vaguely visible, even without glasses. I amuse myself by looking at them. Some of the faces remind me of persons whom I have known, loved, and lost somewhere on the way. Sometimes they take you to the bygone shores...and you see their smiles again; hear their voices.For instance, this little photograph in today’s newspaper takes me somewhere in the distant past.It is a university campus. The corridors are strident with the laughter and merriment of young women and men. They are the students. I see a dark young man with a sad face. Painfully thin in appearance, extremely withdrawn in his disposition. He was, I remember, mostly lonely. And I see her. Shobha a vibrant, lively little girl, always animated, always talking…who laughed like the jingling of anklets…cried like the skies of June. They liked each other a lot.On three or four occasions perhaps, they had shared some moments of togetherness under the trees in the campus. Moments that had made the world feel like paradise.“What will be your…I mean our son’s name?” She asked, nudging him playfully.“He must become a poet…” He remarked meditatively.“So let’s name him Rabindranath?” She retorted.“Great!” He said, “And if it is a girl?”“Mrinalini…or Meenakumari…she must become a famous dancer or actress!”But the days of enchantment ended rather suddenly.“I guess I am no one special to you.” There was anger in the young man’s voice, pain on his face, and desperation in his eyes. The girl stared back, obviously hurt, anguished, and upset. Youth has its own ways with men and women. Not he. Not she. Neither compromised. And they parted.Then there were those days of guilt, dejection, and distress. She used to visit him often in difficult dreams.She held a suitcase in her hands. Here eyes were swollen and red with crying.“I am going” she sobbed “Why did you hurt me?”“No!” he pleaded, “Don’t leave me!”She wore a beautiful skirt of a strange kind. “Look, I have become a butterfly! You love this butterfly, don’t you?” She smiled mischievously. He ran after the butterfly. But the dream vanished. The butterfly disappeared.Gradually the dreams became less frequent. Timereplaced those wounds with deeper and more severe ones. A great healer indeed, time is! And soon after, Shobha stopped visiting me altogether.Yet, strangely enough, I dreamt her the night before, after fifty long years.I was taking an examination. My seat was by a window. There was pin-drop silence in the hall. The paper was difficult and I was feeling uneasy. Suddenly Shobha appeared at the window, she was standing outside. “My exam is over”, she whispered, “There are certain things I did not understand. You might know the answers. I am waiting for you…at the gates.”The dream ended abruptly and when I woke up, only a gust of cold wind swept past me, escaping into the eternal freedom outside the window.When I wear my glasses, I can clearly see the photograph in this newspaper. The face of a vibrant, lively little girl…she laughed like the jingling of anklets and cried like the skies of June. And I read the small note under the photograph:

Obituary: Second day of demise. Shobha Ranganathan. Sorrowing family.Daughters: Mrinalini, Meenakumari. Grandson: Rabindranath.

V K Rajan

Samples of my paintings (watercolors and acrylic)

2009-07-20T08:28:00.001-07:00

The Wayside Elms

2009-07-20T08:21:00.000-07:00

The wayside elms are all my loving grannies
They draw me to their trunks
And hug me hard
With their thousand weathered arms

V K Rajan

Your Parting Words

2009-07-20T08:19:00.000-07:00

Your parting words
An endless echo in my heart
A ripple that keeps on returning
To the lonely shores of my thoughts

V K Rajan

Your Silence

2009-07-20T08:17:00.000-07:00

But one day my words will scale
The granite walls around your heart
And consign themselves to the melody
You have muted into your silence

V K Rajan

Midnight Moon

2009-07-20T08:14:00.000-07:00

The midnight moon
Like a cautious lover
Slowly and silently
Tugs the blanket of darkness
Off the sleeping earth
Until he lays her
Almost bare

V K Rajan

Journey to God

2009-06-03T21:36:00.000-07:00

At last I sprang up from the couch of indolence

Shattered my cup of distrust on the floor

And casting aside the burdening cape of doubt

Set into the unknown

My little lamp of faith

With a spark of passion lit

Book after book and seer after seer

I met on the way

Led me to the same path

The single one for every seeker

Unlit where no mile stone dares stand

That I trod alone

With steadfast strides

While an unholy presence

A shade darker and colder than the night

Stalked me a step behind

Droning a specious scripture

And whispering vaguely

A promise of paradise

Until a gale swept it away

When I let not my flame flicker

Many a shadow hurried by

The retreating seekers

Some driven into the citadels

That quivered in the winds

Some to the sheen of gold and glory

Some to the sirens waiting

In the obscure by lanes

Their gaudy wares to hawk

Along the way I strew

The treasures I had piled

And to the winds flung

My silken robes of honor and rank

And perhaps somewhere near the temple gates

I lost my self

Yet I found reason again

This time a sentinel sleeping by the open gates

Instead of guarding it

His baton of logic crushed under my feet

Two steps ahead in the dark sanctum stood

An unlit lamp with a burnt out wick

That I fed with the flame that I held

And there I saw in a gushing stream of time

A tiny transient bubble

That in the moment of its existence held

Eons of dreams

Ages of pain and travails

And the Creator

Prostrate before His creation

From there I turned back

Having seen both God and Man

V K Rajan

My beloved father

2009-05-26T08:13:00.000-07:00

Whenever
I tread an errant path
My feet falter
For I fancy I hear father
His gruff grating voice
I love I fear
Calling me from behind
By my name

Whenever
I knock on a wrong door
My knuckles freeze
For I fancy I hurt father
His rough weathered heart
I love I fear
The spring board
I leapt from

Sometimes
On the way
When they hound me
Or hurt me
Beyond I can bear
I warn the unkind Gods
Like I used to the bullies
I will tell my father

Sometimes
When I look into his
Sad distant gray eyes
I feel guilty I haven’t loved
Father enough
...I feel safe and small
I haven’t grown
Beyond being his son

V K Rajan

Dawn

2009-05-25T20:00:00.000-07:00

Dawn the milkmaid descends
From yonder hills
Her pitcher brimming with
Fresh frothing daylight

I hear the jingling
Of her bangles and her anklets
The birds in the arbor
Some in my garden

She stops by my doorstep
And measures and pours out
A pure new day into the waiting bowl
Of my time on this earth

V K Rajan

The darkness of your eyes

2009-05-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

The darkness of your eyes
Are the shadows of things
God deems not
Man to see

V K Rajan

Sleeplessness

2009-05-25T09:24:00.002-07:00

An autumn night
Tosses and turns on my bed
On which shores sleep sits
Scripting her dreams?

V K Rajan

Twilight

2009-05-25T09:24:00.001-07:00

Whose unseen hands have lit
The wick of twilight’s lamp
So that night finds his way
To his beloved earth?

V K Rajan

Song to a mistress

2009-05-25T09:23:00.000-07:00

And if it is guilt
That knocks on this door
After I have left
Make a gift, dear, to him, of
The cup of darkness that we shared
And the bed of wrongs we reveled on
Why bear them all the way to our graves
When they add no honor or wealth
To the mounds of dust you and I are to be
Nor burden them that the winds won’t toss them around!

V K Rajan

Poor Old Uncle!

2009-05-14T07:05:00.000-07:00

There is something strange about the paddy fields of Palakkad in Kerala. They seem to go on and on, like a sea of greenery. One just cannot see where they meet the horizon. They keep on approaching it as far as the eye can see. Dusk accentuates the beauty of these fields by adding a disturbingly enigmatic element to it. By nightfall, the fields and the sky together look like a dust-coated impressionist painting; more so on misty moonlit nights. Even during the day, it is quite difficult to find one’s way through these fields unless one is very familiar with the labyrinth of pathways criss-crossing the fields.

The beauty of these fields was not new to Unny, nor was the intricacy of the paths. Although it was almost dark, he was sure of the way. He walked briskly through the fields; abruptly taking a turn here or there. There was the moon, of course; but it was so faint that even a gentle gust of wind could have put it out. But Unny hardly needed the moonlight to find his way through.

He carried a cloth bag with him. It contained the contraband Uncle had ordered him to buy. Two bottles of hooch. As he neared his house, Unny could see the faint glow of a lighted beedi afar. Yes, Uncle was waiting for him. That made him walk faster.

Uncle was the black sheep of the family—an aristocratic family all of whose members—except Uncle—were intellectual people, hard-working men who were committed to their families and led quiet, disciplined lives…and women who made obliging, well-behaved wives. But Uncle was a vicious exception. He was a bachelor and led a recklessly violent, wayward life. The young men of the family hardly ever dared pass by Uncle for fear of his unreasonable anger; the elders would usually stop talking when he entered, and the women always made it a point to express an apology by mildly clearing their throats and putting their hands to their mouths if they were to cross pass Uncle.

Unny slowed down his pace and slowly approached Uncle who was sitting on the steps of the huge gate.

“Late…eh?” Uncle asked gravely.
“A bit,” said Unny. “There was some last minute emergency at the factory…you see, one of the blowers…”
“Did you get my bottles?” Uncle interrupted, luckily for Unny; for Uncle never liked what he would feel were mere excuses.
“Yes, two bottles,” said Unny lifting the cloth bag for him to see.
“Good”, said Uncle “Keep one under the chest, leave one here and get me a glass, and something to munch and something to crunch.”
Unny reverently placed one bottle before Uncle and rushed in to carry out the remaining orders.
“Sit down,” said Uncle, “here beside me and relax.”

Unny sat down, but not at all relaxed, in fact, he felt like a cat on hot bricks.

Uncle emptied almost one-fourth of the hooch into the glass, lifted up the glass, closed his eyes for a moment as if he were praying and then drank the whole of it in a single, long gulp. Then he cleared his throat and spat so loudly that Unny nearly jumped out of his skin. It was like a gun going off. Then Uncle lit a beedi, striking the match so hard that it burst like a cracker.

“You said you had some last minute emergency?”
“Yes,” said Unny dolefully, for he had though that Uncle had forgotten the uncomfortable question he had left half way; but there he was, bringing it up again. “One of the blowers went off and we had to fix it.”

“Fix!” said Uncle with a derisive guffaw “Yes, keep fixing things.”

Then he poured out another quarter of the bottle into the glass; gulped it with diabolic vengeance, cleared his throat and spat so loudly and suddenly that the explosion actually hung in the air for some time before it could find its way out into the open fields. He then lit another beedi, striking the match with such violence that Unny actually saw sparks fly off it.

“Keep fixing things…You must not become like Uncle,” Here, there was a sudden drop in Uncle’s tone. He spoke in a tone that was very nearly sorrowful. “No….don‘t become like Uncle, my dear boy…never like this Uncle. Do you know what I have done in life?” He paused and looked sadly into Unny’s eyes.

“ Nothing, my dear boy…a big zero.” Said Uncle looked intently at Unny.

Unny swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked back apologetically as if he were responsible for Uncle having done nothing in his life.

“You are right,” said Uncle, his voice dropping further to a whisper—a sad, feeble whisper. “I have done nothing in life. Not worked at all.”

He scratched his bald pate rapidly this way and that pensively.

“Yes,” he sobbed, “Nothing…not even a grain of work! First, it was my poor father’s money…I made ducks and drakes of his hard-earned money; spending it on movies, tea, snacks, cigarettes, and what not! And after that….”

Here he filled the glass a third time, drank the content in a continuous slow sip, cleared his throat softly, and spat demurely.

“After that, my dear boy, it was my sisters’ money…I squandered all of their hard-earned money; spending it on gambling, hooch, biriyaanis, and worthless women. Yes, I never worked at all…and now, do I work? No! Not at all! Even now, I don’t work. I prey on my nieces and nephews like you…my dear boy! I drink and eat and smoke and swear…not doing any work at all….but you...” He stopped abruptly.

Unny felt that there were a few drops of tear in his eyes as he emptied the hooch into the glass. But once he filled the glass, his countenance assumed a bizarre glow. He lifted the glass and looked at it with pursed lips. Then he gurgled down the drink frantically, spat with such spite as if he were spitting at the devil, struck a match with all his might, and suddenly screamed so loudly and with such a fiendish fervor that it scared Unny stiff.

“…You must not become like me. I don’t like any one in our family becoming like me. Yes, on one…work! Work hard…like Appa, like Damu, like Kuttammmaman, like Kunjunni…like that dirty old Pappan…fix blowers and move mountains….you are just forty after all, isn’t it? Don’t live like me! Work till some of your bones break. Why some? Excuse me, please! Let all your bones break…let all your nasty little bones break from hard work. Just don’t care, just keep working…Don’t ever become like me!”

Uncle stood up. He hurled the empty bottle into the fields and said through tears. In fact, he was again sobbing, this time, uncontrollably. Unny too stood up.

“Now, let’s go in” said Uncle again in a small, submissive voice. “It’s getting late….Don’t I have to eat some rice, some eggs, some curries, pappads, curd, pickles…and anything else they might have cooked; and then watch the TV and then listen to the radio before I go to bed?”

Unny picked up the glass and followed Uncle, who walked a bit unsteadily. He heard him sob again. But this time he had a doubt. Wasn’t that a gleeful laugh that he had smartly converted into a sob?

V K Rajan

The Night Sky

2009-05-10T09:30:00.001-07:00

Have you ever observed the night sky? Lain face up in an open field or the rooftop at night and gazed at the sky? If you haven’t, come on, do it! For the night sky is perhaps, the greatest book of philosophy nature has ever written for man to read.

During the day, the sky is too gaudy a blue or has too much of glare for one to gaze at it comfortably for long. So also, on the whole, the diurnal sky appears somewhat monotonous and deserted; with fluffs of cumulous clouds that are mostly static or at best, moving at an undetectably slow pace. In fact, the only interesting things in the diurnal sky are the birds—especially the eagles that go round and round too lazy even to flap their wings—and the occasional curiously comical sight of the moon appearing in the day; perhaps to prove something to the sun.

But the night sky teems with queer objects, strange sights, and mysterious phenomena.

The first thing that will strike you about the night sky is the invincible silence that prevails. A silence as formidable and solemn as could not be expected of such vastness…vastness that goes on and on, confounding human understanding. Let yourself lose in that unfathomable expanse and you will feel an ineffable serenity, an enigmatic calm fill you and gradually drown you. The earth, you will then get to know, is but a silly, ludicrous little mite of a fortuitous grain of insignificance…yet, you will feel thrilled and proud to be part of a marvelous creation of splendor and beauty.

The tiny stars that merrily wink at you from those great distances might appear to you as innocent and helpless as if they were infants abandoned on the crossroads of the universe by wayward, insensitive celestial belles. But in actuality, some of them are such ferocious balls of all-consuming fire that our own sustainer star, the sun, cannot even hold a candle to their might and immensity.

Often you will find tiny moving lights or shining objects traversing the night sky. Most of these proceed leisurely, but at a steady pace, as if bound for some predetermined destination. Some of these, you will readily recognize as being airplanes or jet planes; some, I guess, could be artificial satellites or weather gizmos, but the rest? Well, as long as you do not know what they actually are, you can amuse yourself by fancying that they are fairy lamps and flying saucers from magic worlds, sailing by on mysterious missions.

Then there are those sudden streaks of light ripping through the sky—whoosssh…and gone. If you happen to see this spectacle, well, lucky you! You saw a shooting star! So before you do anything else, touch the ground and make a wish. Your wish will be granted. You can mark my words for that!

Sometimes you will see clouds of every shape and size hurrying by as if they were late for some crucial business convocation. Now if you look at the moon—if it is there—you get the strange feeling that the clouds are at rest and the moon is racing by, while in reality it is the other way round. Why one feels so, no science or technology has been able to explain clearly to this day…some trick of the senses, I believe.

Bats are often seen in the night sky in most places; only that you might mistake them for huge moths—especially the baby bats. Owls are rarer, unless you are in a country side. And you will see a lark or a nightingale only if fastidious fate deems so. But keep looking for them.

And look! That faint glimmer afar is actually a rainbow. It means that the brave old days of bright sunshine and bygone cheer are bound to be back. So time you smiled…your lovely smile, which lights up your face so brilliantly and sets my heart singing for joy.

V K Rajan

The Scarecrow and the Field Goblins

2009-05-10T09:28:00.000-07:00

From my book 'Hurryburry and other tales for children'.

If Laggy was lazy, there were ample reasons for it. He had worked hard in his young days and now he had three big, strong sons who gave him whatever he wanted. Yet, Laggy took it to his heart whenever his wife, who had an acid tongue, called him an idler or a dreamer. This happened often and was the main reason for which Laggy went on long walks, all by himself, in the endless stretches of paddy fields that surrounded his house.

Laggy’s house was a small, yet snug one that stood on the foot of a round hill. The vast expanses of paddy fields around his house were bordered at the other end by small brown hillocks and dotted here and there with large banyan trees. Laggy spent most of his time sitting under one of these banyan trees and day-dreaming; usually imagining that he had become an immensely rich man all of a sudden; or that he had become one of those lazy eagles in the sky, slowly going round and round above the fields.

One autumn evening, Laggy’s wife scolded him more severely than usual and he went on a walk, farther away from his house than usual. For a long while, he sat on a flat piece of rock that lay under a big tree, listening to the birds and the regular mournful howling of a distant stray dog that seemed to empathize with him—and of course, dreaming that great things had happened to him. By the time he felt that he had dreamt enough and stood up to leave, it was quite late. The moon was shining like a silver saucer in the pale blue cloudless sky and a cool breeze was frolicking in the fields, creating small, briskly moving ripples in the lush green fields. Laggy stood wondering how beautiful the world was, and how miserable men’s lives were, in contrast, for which most often they themselves were to be blamed.

As he trudged back home reluctantly, Laggy paused by a scarecrow that stood in the middle of a small patch of field with out-stretched arms, staring vacantly into the fields with a broad smile on his face. He wondered how lucky scarecrows were, the only thing they had to do in life being to stand in the middle of the fields day and night. Waving at the scarecrow, he spoke his thoughts aloud. “How lucky scarecrows are! I wish I were a scarecrow; like you!”

And then, to his utter surprise, the scarecrow actually spoke to him and what was more, spoke sense.

“What an abject plight a man must be in, if he comes to wishing that he were a scarecrow.”

Laggy could hardly believe his ears. “Pray, you are a scarecrow, aren’t you?” he almost shouted at the scarecrow in disbelief, “But I thought I heard you say something…do scarecrows ever speak?”

“I am a scarecrow alright and you did hear me speak” said the scarecrow in a hoarse, grating voice. “Usually scarecrows never speak; but I am an unusual scarecrow, a prince-turned-scarecrow…to be precise. I mean I am a prince under a spell, you see.”

“A prince under a spell?” asked Laggy taking a close look at the scarecrow “But who cast the spell on you and why?”

“Well, that is a strange story,” said the scarecrow pensively, “But do you really want to hear it?”

“Of course,” said Laggy moving closer to the scarecrow, “Every bit of it.”

“I am a prince hailing from a land beyond those hills,” began the scarecrow “About a month ago, on one moonlit night like this, I was out alone, on a long walk. I crossed the hills and went further ahead to reach these fields. It was quite late by the time I turned back. In my hurry to reach home, somewhere here, I trod upon a sleeping green field goblin, I had to be more careful, I reckon. Now, nobody likes to get trampled, you see…the goblin woke up seething with anger and uttered some magic words…and I was instantly transformed into a scarecrow.”

“What a tragic tale!” exclaimed Laggy, “But because you can speak, you could have told your story to someone and asked for help?”

“Well, I can speak only after sunset” said the scarecrow “And to this day, no one has been anywhere near me after sunset. During the day I do find people working in and around these fields; but all of them leave well before sunset. That makes you the first person I have been able to tell my story and thus the first person of whom perhaps, I will venture to seek help.”

“I am at your service, prince!” said Laggy bowing before the scarecrow “Yet no way of rescuing you occurs to me right now; other than meeting that goblin and apologizing to him on your behalf.”

“Well,” said the scarecrow thoughtfully “It is nice to hear that you are willing to help me. But I do not think that it will work the way you think. For, if you go to that goblin, there is every possibility that he will transform you too into a scarecrow. I have another idea that stands a better chance of success; only that it is fraught with danger and calls for immense courage, resolve, and caution.”

“Courage, resolve, and caution?” Laggy laughed, “I have never been found lacking in these. I might be lazy as they say, but I am tough. In fact, I have an inclination for adventure… I love dangerous missions…especially if they are for a good cause, as it is in this case. Come on! Tell me what idea you have in your mind. Whether it is dangerous or not is not the issue. It must work; that’s all that matters.”

“Good’, said the scarecrow, “Then listen to me carefully. There are, you see, three field goblins that frequent these fields. Apart from the green one that cast the spell on me, there is a red one, and a yellow one. They come from the top of those hills and every night they sit there, under that banyan tree yonder—the one that has grotesquely twisted branches. They carry colored lanterns with them and sit by the light of those lanterns. What they do, I cannot really make out from here, but they spread something like a wooden board and keep looking at it after uttering some strange words and tossing something like coins or dice.”

“They must be practicing magic!” cried Laggy.

“That is what it looks like, on the face of it,” said the scarecrow “Now if you disguise as a scarecrow—for which you can use my attire— and stand still under that tree when the goblins are indulging in their nocturnal activity, I guess the goblins will take you for a real scarecrow and ignore your presence. This way, you can be near enough the goblins to learn a few magic words from them, and perhaps, with luck, you will be able to learn the words that transform scarecrows back to their original forms. But you must be smart enough to deceive them. While you can use my attire to disguise yourself as a scarecrow, you must stand as still as one.”

“What a wonderful idea!” exclaimed Laggy, “I wish my brain worked like yours! In fact I am certain that this plan is bound to succeed. There could be no better one. Well, let me begin the mission. My role begins right now.”

Soon Laggy was taking his dress off the scarecrow while the scarecrow explained to him the dangers of the mission he was about to undertake. He told Laggy that field goblins were mean creatures with sore tempers and what was more, they were powerful magicians.

“If you as much as cough or sneeze as you stand there, you will find yourself in a dreadful pickle,” warned the scarecrow, “Get caught, and you will be done for. Considering that, I feel that you are taking too much of a risk in trying to help me. It is really nice of you to volunteer to help me…but whether you want to try …well think over it twice.”

But Laggy assured the scarecrow that there was no need for any worry about him as he knew quite well to take care of himself. He wore the scarecrow’s trousers and shirt over his own. He also tried the pot the scarecrow had for head and found that it fitted him snugly; he could see quite clearly through the two holes on the pot. By the time he was ready to leave, it was quite late into the night, but there still was bright moonlight, “Which augurs well for the endeavor,” thought Laggy.

The scarecrow wished him good luck and once again, warned him to be careful before Laggy left. Laggy told the scarecrow to cheer up and vowed that he would bring the prince back to his original form that night itself.

Once he reached the place where the goblins would sit, Laggy took a good look around. The banyan tree that the scarecrow had indicated was very large. Laggy felt that there was something eerie about it. Its branches, Laggy felt, seemed to resemble exotic animals he had seen in a book. The fields in that part were of a brighter green. The hills from which the goblins would come seemed quite high and steep, now that he was very near them. The top of the hills were hazy, shrouded in a mantle of mist. Laggy felt a bit restless and excited as he waited. There was complete silence, but for the intermittent song of some blissful night bird, which however, Laggy could not locate. In the moonlight, the sketches of paddy fields, with the distant hills bordering them silhouetted against the night sky, presented a mysterious, yet enchanting, spectacle. Laggy felt that the poets were right in comparing moonlight to the sheen of silver.

After a while, Laggy reckoned that it was time for the goblins to arrive. He wore the pot over his head, stretched out his arms, and stood still. Disguising as a scarecrow was, he felt, easier than he had thought. However, he told himself not to fall asleep; for Laggy sometimes fell asleep even while he stood.

All of a sudden, Laggy espied three small lights on the top of the hills moving down slowly one after the other. One of the lights was red, the one behind it green, and the third one, yellow. The lights descended steadily and seemed to gather speed as they approached. From the pattern of their movement, Laggy guessed that the lights were coming down a meandering path; for sometimes they changed direction and sometimes disappeared altogether, only to reappear at a closer location. After a while, the lights were near enough for Laggy to make out that these were lights from colored lanterns that three small men were carrying on their heads. And soon, Laggy could see the field goblins themselves.

Laggy was struck with surprise that such strange creatures actually existed in this world.

Each of the goblins was just about a couple of feet in height. They were of different colors. The red field goblin was of a vine red color. He had thick locks of rough unkempt hair that gave him a wild, haggard look. With one hand he balanced on his head, a lantern that emitted red light. In the other hand, he held a small square-shaped board, apparently a wooden board. The green goblin carried a green lantern on his head. He wore the scowling look of a confirmed rogue. His hair stood out around his face like prickly bristles. Even the lantern that was kept on his head, Laggy noticed, had not dug into his hair; it was rather standing on its ends. He had a small tin can tucked under his arm. The holder of the yellow lantern was a coot bald, old field goblin, who had a stern, yet solemn mien and wrinkles all over his arms and face. He sported a hoary pale yellow beard that hung down to his knees in small ripples.

The first thing the goblins did was to look at Laggy. “Hey, look what a funny scarecrow!” exclaimed the green goblin as he and the red goblin went straight to Laggy. The red goblin laughed as he observed, “His head is too big for his body!” Laggy stood as still as he could; holding his breath and looking away from the goblins out of sheer fear. “They might have sown something here,” the yellow goblin remarked disinterestedly. There was, about him, an air of seriousness becoming of men of advanced ages. “Forget that scarecrow. Let’s begin business. And mind you, the stakes are going to be quite high tonight!” To Laggy’s relief, this made the other two goblins lose interest in him and they went to the yellow goblin, who had already walked away and was preparing to sit down under the banyan tree that had grotesquely twisted branches. “Whoever loses tonight must forsake some of his powers!” The red goblin declared.
“All said and done!” the green goblin retorted.

The goblins sat in a circle around the wooden board. The green goblin opened the small tin can and emptied the contents, which looked like buttons to Laggy, on the wooden board. “There you go!” he yelled and tossed a pair of dice. Then he moved some of the button-like things on the wooden board. The other goblin too did the same in turns.

Now Laggy was convinced that the goblins were there to play some game of stakes and not to practice magic as he and the scarecrow had thought. This meant that Laggy would not be able to learn any magic; which in turn meant that the liberation of the poor scarecrow was not possible. Yet, as there was nothing he could do about it, Laggy stood still, watching the goblins playing their game. In fact, he hoped that the goblins indulged in magic after their game.

After a long while, the yellow goblin suddenly stood up and declared, “I quit.”
“Better you did,” said the red goblin, “Lest you want to stake your powers”
“Oh, I rather wouldn’t,” replied the yellow goblin yawning. It gave Laggy the jitters when the hoary goblin suddenly gave him a long, sharp look; as if he had seen through the trick. But then the next moment, he looked away and lazily ambled towards a boulder that lay across the field. “The dew literally pours!” he remarked as he sat on it. But the other two goblins were too absorbed in the game to listen to him. By then, Laggy sensed that the game had heated up. The goblins threw the dice frantically and moved the button-like things on the board with violent enthusiasm. They were shouting strange threats at each other.

“You are cornered!”
“Watch me escape”
“I fire!”
“Here’s your shot!”
“Take this one too!”
“Here comes hell!”
“The monster kicks you!”

Suddenly the green goblin screamed “Cheat!” and slapped the red one. Hard. Right on his face! This was followed by a fierce fight between the red and the green goblins. They bit, and scratched, and pinched, and pummeled each other, squeaking, squealing, and screaming; rolling in a bundle, alternately one coming over the other. The yellow goblin rushed to the fighting pair; crying at the top of his voice, “Stop the fight! Stop! Stop it!” But the ferocious fight went on uninterruptedly until the yellow goblin finally succeeded in separating the two physically apart.

The goblins stood on either side of the yellow goblin, still full of fight and looking daggers at each other, each one with his fist doubled and breathing heavily in anger. Suddenly the green goblin closed his eyes and cried in a shrill voice, pointing his finger at the red one, “Gibdelly, gibdelly, scarecrow!”

At once there was a muffled report as if someone had clapped hands and the next moment, the red goblin was transformed into a scarecrow! A scarecrow that had a pot for his head and stood with outstretched arms! Upon this, the yellow goblin stared at the green one hard and long.

“A nice goblin, indeed, you are!” he snarled, “To have transformed your friend into a scarecrow! For some silly quarrel over a game of cuff buttons! You are a shameless rogue, a disgrace to the entire goblin kind!”
“It was he who started it, the cheat!” the green goblin quipped, “And look how badly he has bitten me on the ear! He deserves to be punished!”
“And you would cast nasty spells on your friends for things like that? Huh! Well, I will not have to do anything with a traitor like you! Unless you transform him back to his original form, now and here! And yes, I am going to report this to Master Majestic the Mighty. Let him judge who is right and who is wrong. And I won’t be surprised if he strips you of all your magical powers for your impertinent arrogance.”
“You mean to say, he is fair and I am not?” The green goblin demanded. However, he seemed to have relented suddenly at the mention of Master Majestic the Mighty.
“Fair and unfair!” snapped the yellow goblin, “And you speaking of that! I do not want to argue with you; and I do not know the magic words that restore scarecrows to their original forms; but for all you are worth, transform him back to his original form at once! And then, perhaps, we will try speaking about fair and unfair!”

“Well, I will do it if you insist so much—I will do it out of my regard for you—but he does not deserve it, all the same!” the green goblin mumbled sorely.
“Undo the spell!” the yellow goblin commanded fiercely.

Now Laggy was excited beyond control, for he knew that the green goblin was about to utter the words, to hear which, he had risked his life and spent the night there. He, in fact, actually moved a step closer to the goblins, unable to contain himself, but luckily for him, the goblins did not notice it.

The green goblin now closed his eyes, and pointing his finger at the scarecrow, said in a shrill voice as before “Gibdelly, gibdelly darecrow!” again, there was a muffled report, and the next moment, the red goblin was transformed into his original form!

The red and the green goblins shook hands at the instance of the yellow goblin. The yellow goblin also made them swear that they would never again quarrel, or if at all they quarreled, would not use their magical powers on each other. Now Laggy wished that the goblins were gone. He had got what he wanted to know and was feeling too excited to stand still. Moreover, he knew that he was a scatter-brain and would not be able to remember anything for long. In fact, he kept repeating the words “Gibdelly, gibdelly darecrow” in his mind so that he would not forget them by the time he reached the prince.
But the goblins were not to leave soon. They sat down under the tree and talked at length about friendship, quarrels, anger, revenge and such other things; the yellow goblin being the main speaker. After a long while, the yellow goblin declared—to Laggy’s relief—that it was time they called it a night.

The green goblin put the small button like things into the tin can and the red one picked up the wooden board. Then each goblin lifted his lantern and placing it on his head, started walking towards the hills. They went up along the same path as they had come, Laggy reckoned, judging by the pattern the lights traced. He continued to stand still until the lights vanished up in the hills. Then he threw away the pot on his head and tore through the fields crying “Gibdelly, gibdelly, darecrow”. The moment he reached the prince-turned-scarecrow, he screamed, “Prince! I did it! I got the magic words! I can undo that spell! You will be a free man tonight!”
“The sooner you liberate me, the better” the scarecrow said slowly, “I have stood long enough here, I believe.”
“Yes! Here you go!” cried Laggy.

But then, to his utter shame and horror, he discovered that he had forgotten the magic words.
“Quite simple words they were,” he told the unfortunate scarecrow, “And I had vowed not to forget them!”
“To transform me into a scarecrow, I remember he had uttered: gibdelly, gibdelly, scarecrow,” the scarecrow said dolefully.
“Gibdelly!” snapped Laggy. “Yes, those were the words. What fine memory you have!”
He then closed his eyes and pointing his finger at the scarecrow, yelled “Gibdelly, gibdelly, darecrow!” There is nothing that works like magic. There was a muffled report, and as if in a dream, the scarecrow was instantly transformed into a prince! A handsome, stately young man with a cheerful smile on his face stood before Laggy.
“Ho Laggy, you have freed me” he exclaimed, hugging Laggy in a sudden, strong grip while tears of joy welled up in his eyes. “I will reward you with all the riches you want, and will also make you a minister in my court!”
“Prince!” said Laggy “I am glad that I have been able to help you. But right now, we will go home, to my home. I am certain my wife would not believe my tale unless I take you along with me. You are my guest tonight.”
“Sure” said the scarecrow. As they began walking, Laggy said, “Let us take care not to trample on sleeping field goblins!”
“Especially the green ones” The prince added.

And the two men laughed merrily.

V K Rajan

The Giant and the Midget

2009-05-10T09:27:00.000-07:00

From my book 'Hurryburry and other tales for children'
As darkness set upon the woods, the sky assumed a somber pink hue. The merry chirping of diurnal birds started dying down gradually while the disagreeable noises of nocturnal birds started on a low note and grew bolder and louder steadily with the increasing darkness. Before long, these noises became deafeningly loud. Strange howls, growls, shrieks, and screams also came to be heard by the time it was pitch dark. It was night in the woods.

Prince Celebritus was now convinced beyond any doubt that he had lost his way in the woods. However, he made up his mind to keep on walking the whole night, if it came to that; for he had to reach home somehow or the other. Luckily for him, after a while, the moon rose and in the faint moonlight, he was able to make out at least whether he was walking along a path or straying into the canopy of shrubs and bushes. Prince Celebritus walked briskly along the paths, some of which appeared to have fallen into disuse since years together.

One of the paths that he took lead him to a large tamarind tree, from under which, two paths radiated in opposite directions. One was a very narrow path, and the other, a fairly broad one. The prince started walking along the broader path. After a while, he started feeling that someone had trodden the path not very long ago, and that the path was leading him somewhere.

Lead him somewhere indeed, it did.

The path ended rather abruptly in front of the iron gates of a huge mansion, only parts of which were visible because the walls around it were unusually high. The prince stood in front of the gates of the mansion wondering how he could find out whether some people lived there and whether they would help him in finding his way back home. Taking a closer look at the gates, he found that a bell, obviously a calling bell, hung by it. Without thinking any thing more, he pulled the rope of the bell. The bell tolled, loud and ringing. Upon this, to the prince’s surprise, a black cat squeezed itself out from under the gates.

Now this cat had such a spiteful look on its face that the prince felt that it was the meanest cat he had ever seen in his life. “Who are you and what do you want?” The cat asked him in an indignant tone.

“I am a prince and I have lost my way. Is there some one here who will help me in finding my way back home?” The prince replied calmly.

“Who is at the gate, Atrocity?” A booming voice that nearly made the prince jump out of his skin hollered from inside the mansion.

“Says he is a prince who has lost his way.” The cat called out loudly as if to make the person inside the mansion hear. A loud, roaring guffaw emanated from the mansion.

“Put the powder over him, Atrocity!” The voice commanded. This made the cat make a sudden grotesque gesture with its forepaws, balancing itself on its hindpaws. At once, a thick powdery mist started engulfing the mansion and falling all over the prince’s body. The mansion and its gates were soon completely shrouded under its cloud-like canopy. And then a strange thing happened to the prince. He started growing larger and larger and soon stood ten times a large as was, originally!

“What have I done to you that you have transformed into a giant?” The prince yelled. But the mansion was no longer visible to him, though he clearly heard the booming voice as well as the cat’s angry voice.

“Go away” The booming voice roared.

“Go away from here, at once! Lest you want more terrible things happen to you. We are not here to help people who lose their way.” The cat hissed.

The prince stood by the gates for a while, awed by the size of his own arms and legs. He had, in fact, become a giant—ten times as big as he actually was. As there was nothing else he could do now, he walked back slowly. He found that his strides were ten times as long as they used to be. He reached the tamarind tree and sat down under it. When he leaned against it, he found that even such a huge tree bent back a bit under his weight. The prince knew that some sorcerer had cast a spell on him out of anger or just for the heck of it. He thought how thoughtless he had been in seeking help from someone who lived in such a wierd, mysterious mansion deep inside the woods. He realized that he was then, in a more serious predicament than having just lost his way. If he went to his friends in the form he was in, he would become laughing stock. Yet, no way of getting rid of the spell occurred to him—perhaps because he was he was too tired and put off to think. Before long, the prince was fast asleep, sitting like that—leaning against the tamarind tree.

The prince was disturbed by something that was trying to crawl up this knee. Still asleep, he tried to beat the thing off his trousers, but the thing was so bent on crawling over him that every time the prince beat off the thing, it would crawl back over his knee. Soon, the prince was fully awake and found himself staring reproachfully at a strange little man.

The thing that was trying to crawl over him was a midget. He was a full grown man in all respects; only that he was just a tenth of a man’s average size. Although the prince had wanted to give him a piece of his mind for waking him from his sleep, a closer look at the fellow filled the prince with such fascination that he actually lifted up the little fellow and laughing at his face exclaimed, “What a funny freak of nature you are!”

Upon this, the midget writhed with all his might, trying to free himself and screamed at the prince angrily, “You too are a funny freak, come on! I have never seen a man as overgrown as you are. Are you an ogre?” Anger made the little fellow look even more ludicrous.

The prince hardly listened to him, but laughed to his heart’s content before he placed the midget on the ground and answered his query.

“Well, I am no ogre as you presume,” He said “I am a prince, now in this unfortunate form because I am under a spell. Some sorcerer has cast a spell on me and now I am ten times as big as I used to be.”

“A prince?” exclaimed the midget with disbelief, “Well, no less am I. I too am a prince and like you, I am under a spell. A witch, I think it is a witch, cast a spell on me reducing me to a midget. It happened this night, just a little while ago.”

This was indeed, news to Prince Celebritus. “Come on!” he exclaimed “tell me how it happened to you.”

The midget flung his little hat on the floor and sat down before Celebritus. He said that he was Prince Fortunus and that he was taking a walk in the woods when he lost his way. He had roamed about here and there and finally reached the tamarind tree under which they were sitting. He had walked down the narrow path that led him to the gates of a mansion that had unusually high walls. On tolling the calling bell that hung by that gate, a spiteful black cat had appeared before him and asked who he was and what he wanted. A cackling voice had asked the cat who was at the gate. When Fortunus told the cat that he was prince who had lost his way, the cackling voice had directed the cat to cast a powder on him, which the cat promptly did. That had transformed him into a midget. The cat had sent him back with the warning that unless he left that place, nastier things would happen to him. The prince was, since then, roaming around wondering how he could get back to his original form. The sight of such a huge man had surprised him and he was trying to crawl up Celebritus to shout into his ears to wake him up.

The two princes agreed that they would not go back to their homes in the comical forms they were in.

The obvious way out of the uncomfortable situation they were in struck Prince Celebritus all of a sudden as they were discussing various alternatives.

“You said you took the narrow path, isn’t it?” He asked
“Yes,” said Prince Celebritus, “What of it?”
“I had taken the broad one. Now, right now, if you take the broad path, go to the mansion I went and tell the cat that you have lost your way, there is every chance that the cat will throw the powder on you. That will make you grow ten times your present size, which means you will get back to your original form…and the same works for me. I will take the narrow path and the cat you met will cast the spell it cast on you on me too. That will reduce my size to a tenth of my present form, which means I too will become what I used to be!”

“What splendid brains!” exclaimed Prince Fortunus, “Your idea is simply great! Let us start right now; for I have heard that sorcerers and witches disappear as soon as the night ends.”

Soon the princes wished each other good luck and were on their way to the mansions. Prince Celebritus found that the narrow path also seemed to have been trodden not long ago. This path too led to a huge mansion that had high iron gates. The walls around the mansion were so high that the prince could not see much of the mansion though he stood as tall as the trees. A calling bell hung beside the gate. The prince pulled its rope and as the bell tolled, he waited anxiously. A black cat squeezed itself out from under the gates. This cat too was as spiteful as the one he had seen earlier.

“Who are you and what do you want?” The cat demanded in an inimical tone.

“I am a giant and I have lost my way. Is there some one here who will help me in finding my way back home?”

“Who is at the gate, Jeopardy?” Some one asked from inside the mansion. It was a cackling voice that sent the jitters down the prince’s spine.

“Says he is a giant who has lost his way.” The cat called out. A loud, unearthly giggle emanated from the mansion.

“Put the powder over him, Jeopardy!” The cackling voice commanded. The cat made a sudden gesture with its forepaws, balancing itself on its hindpaws. At once, a thick powdery mist started engulfing the mansion and falling all over the prince’s body. With that, the prince started becoming smaller and smaller until finally, he regained his original stature!

The mansion was soon enveloped in a thick canopy of misty powder and the prince heard the cat threaten him that worse things would happen to him if he did not leave the place at once. This, the prince did as fast as his legs could carry him! Once he reached under the tamarind tree, he breathed a huge sigh of relief. He wished that Prince Fortunus too succeeded in his adventure.

Celebritus did not have to wait for long before he was joined by Fortunus, now a man of normal size; no longer a midget.

The two princes congratulated each other for their successful transformations. They spent the rest of the night sitting under the tree narrating strange tales of such queer happenings they had heard from here and there. They perhaps thought that it was not quite wise to roam around in the woods at night.

Once night gave way to day, the princes set out to find their way out. Guided by the distant bustle of a town, they had no difficulty in doing that. They vowed to remain friends for the rest of their lives before they parted ways. Each headed straight for his own home.

V K Rajan

Landscape Painting

2009-05-10T09:26:00.000-07:00

Among the various hobbies one may pursue, painting, especially landscape painting; I believe is the most refreshing, the most exciting one. When you look at the paintings rendered by a master like Ravi Varma, Rembrandt, or Renoir, you might feel that this is a feat that calls for extensive training, relentless perseverance, and above all, super human talent. Well, for that matter, to excel in anything calls for all of these traits and perhaps, if you are of the mindset to admit it, at least a modicum of providential grace. Yet, the thrills of painting are open to anyone who cares to will. Just buy the colors and start painting; you are certain to end up painting something…someone. And if you want to improve fast, train yourself to love this earth, to admire her beauty.

Let your heart run out into the endless fields of paddy like a truant little child and your mind go chasing it, like its mother. Let it run up those barren hills that are hazily silhouetted against the sketchy horizons of the dusk, let it fly after the mustering of storks hurrying home across the indignant twilight skies of June, let it stop short and wonder at the invincibility and the wild beauty of the mighty banyan trees that have braved the ruthless fury of many a hurricanes and tempests, and let it be fascinated by the creases that form on the country belle’s skirt when a wayward gust of wind swirls it up around her and plasters it to her. That’s how you start. Before long, your mind becomes a camera that clicks every piece of beauty it comes across.

When you need to travel by train, travel in a non-air-conditioned coach so that you get to see the beauty of the landscape the lucky train chugs through. Watch the men and the women sowing and reaping; those far-off little children celebrating life; the forms of animals that would seem as significant or as insignificant as the people themselves; the clouds of different shapes and sizes in their domineering, nonchalant gait; and when it begins to get dark…the huge palm trees that seem like vaguely visible specters in the moonlight. Believe that they are actually yakshis and celestial beings standing out and drying their luscious tresses in the moonlight…believe that they are actually sirens who would ensnare lonely wayfarers with their meretricious charms…believe that the deserted landscape you are passing through will on certain nights be lit by mysterious fairy lamps…that the wistful midnight serenade of a solitary gandharva by her window will make a young woman in that distant hut a somnambulist following him to some forlorn magic world. If rationale and reason were all that were there, won’t life, won’t this earth and our existence become as clinical, bland, and matter-of-fact as an equation in thermodynamics? And then, my dear friend, won’t our lives, our travails, our aspirations, our pains, our joys, our sorrows, our hopes, our dreams, our deaths, be all ends in themselves with no subtle or noble purpose governing them? Yes, our lives are as enigmatic a phenomenon as are our advent, our departure. You can see a thousand paintings in a single journey…countless in your journey along the shores of time.

Imagine that the window of the train is a canvass and the sights you see through it, the paintings on it. Don’t you see that with a larger area of the sky inside that canvass, the expanse of land covered is larger with lesser of details, and with a lesser area of the sky, the expanse of land covered is lesser with more of details? Don’t you see that the intensity of contrasts and colors decrease with distance? That some clouds are without any blending with the sky? That those distant, colorfully clothed people in the fields make the fields seem alive? That those lazy buffaloes wallowing in the slush hardly have any distinguishable shape? (Yet, what makes you feel, impresses, that they are buffaloes?). Yes, Sisley learnt her dispositions; Vermeer borrowed her charms; and Pissarro perpetuated her moods. Click your mind’s camera. You may not get back many of the takes when you begin to paint, but you certainly will, at least a few.

Poster colors constitute a good medium to start with. They are not very expensive, are readily amenable to mixing and blending, and give a finish quite close to that of oil colors unless unduly thinned. Besides, they are suitable for mixed media paintings; especially they go well with smatterings of acrylic. And more than sticking to any professional guideline stick to the objective of capturing the beauty of nature as completely as you can. Professional guidelines are, after all just tested tricks to make things easier for you in achieving this objective. And this is true not just for painting, but for any form of art. I know persons who sing like angels, but have not learnt music—thanks to circumstances.

The delights of pursuing any art are virtually unlimited. It refreshes your mind, invigorates your spirit, and boosts your self esteem. And by painting landscapes, you might be indirectly contributing to the cause of preserving nature by drawing the attention of some people to the pristine splendor of nature—people who are so preoccupied with their own lives that they fail to notice how good this earth is.
V K Rajan

The Moving Finger Writes

2009-05-10T09:25:00.000-07:00

The moving finger writes and having writ moves on
Not all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel
Half a line; nor all thy tears
Wash out a word of it.

…Thus spake Omar Khayyam, the philosopher poet who romanticized the transience of life and the eternity of death in his literary masterpiece Rubaiyat.

When did I last write?

Somewhere, some day, I have left my pencils and pens and all those sheets of white paper on the table of oblivion in some study room of the past…and left. I have forgotten to remember them again. Where could that peacock-blue pen that used to be my cherished possession now be? It has gone quietly out of my life, unannounced and I have not even missed it to this day. My finger tips fly over a keyboard. The pens and the pencils and the white sheets of paper that were once my precious belongings have all been relegated to the limbo of long beyond.

Yet the other day, in my childhood house when I went to the attic just to explore the things there, I chanced upon this wooden chest…left there to be forgotten. It has been decades since I saw it. But I remembered it as if I had seen it, just yesterday. It belonged to a little boy. It was his treasure chest. Yes, I remember, that in the hot afternoons when the elders would be taking their nap, the little boy, instead of lying on the bed beside his grandmother and taking a rest as ordered, would sneak upstairs, open the chest and amuse himself by looking at the things he had managed to procure and hide away in his treasure box. Some of his prized possessions were still in tact—three big silver-coated vest buttons, a metallic whistle, an unusually big orange colored marble, a collection of match box labels in a cigarette case, an earthen piggy bank shaped like a curious pumpkin, and then this note book.

It has become weathered, dog-eared, and tattered. Yet, I recognized it immediately. It was my rough note book. I recognize the sprawling handwriting of a child…written in pencil. Yes, he would—or rather could—never write the letter r correctly. “Is it the letter r, or is it a pair of ears of grass?” The teacher had often asked him. “Look at this gentleman’s r!” She had held up this very rough note book for the class to see his r. The children had laughed; and he too had laughed along with them, to prevent himself from crying. The pencils were then, so heavy that his little fingers had often ached. That is why the writing is very light towards the end of the lessons. And then I remember these dark spots with small tails like comets. These are the places where the point of his pencil had broken and someone had shouted at him for writing too hard.

The rough note book, the coat buttons, the whistles, the belt buckles, the shinning bottle caps, the stolen paper weight, they all still remain though cruelly consigned to the world of things left to be lost and forgotten. And the little boy? On which shore of time did I leave him behind? Where did I lose him? Why did I? That silly little boy so full of wonder and play so readily laughing and crying? Does he still not know to count money, does he still not know friend from foe, does he still not know the meaning of revenge, spite, envy, guilt, or statuses of any kind?

Sometimes when I look through the windows of memories, through their time-tainted glass panes, I fancy I espy him afar. I try to call him back…but he is too far away to hear me…and he is engrossed in some silly little game! Or is it that he hears me, but pretends not to? Perhaps, he fears for his treasures. His pockets are full of them…little whistles, bright-colored marbles, odd-shaped pebbles, rubber bands of various widths and lengths, paper boats, and so on. No my dear boy, I won’t take any of them from you. No…but please...give me back my innocence. My innocence that I lost along with you.

And I can give you all my tears for it.

V K Rajan