Skip to main content

The Path Homeward


Whither home 
for those who lost their mother!

No, they don't have any.


Or 

they find home everywhere -

boondocks, desolate shopfronts,

rail stations, awnings for Satyagraha,
where orphans watched over,
songs for refugees,
dip in the ocean at Kanyakumari,
sacrifices for ancestors at Gaya, and
along the solitary trails in Himavan.


Why so many journeys?

"Journeys are all there is - Journeys are experiences that rejuvenate the cycles of birth and impart an ego-less state of mind. The culture of journey is entwined with our countless torments and meditations...I travel a lot in personal life.  Travels through many walks of life is part of me. Long journeys are but an extension of the same. Your travels to wilderness count just the same as those that you make to a clinic or an orphanage. In reality the journey inwards are many many miles more than one ever does in external world. That is what a writer supposed to do. In a way we can define writing as an act of travel towards the star of his birth. This is not turning back of any sort. But a journey to the future."


In memory of beloved poet Vinayachandran Mash.


Note:
Translated from Poet D.Vinayachandran's Veettilekkulla Vazhi and an excerpt from an interview.

Comments

Sreekumar said…
Rajeshe,

Really touching....A great tribute...

Popular posts from this blog

Padmarajan: A Loss in January

[Malayalam Movie director and writer 1945 - 1991]

Padmarajan died in a cold January, untimely. He was in a hotel at calicut, in the middle of a celebration of his latest film Njaan Gandharvan (I, the celestial enchanter), in 1991. It was as if audience of the show was subjected to a dismayed silence, and the show was stalled. I for one who had just begun waking upto adolescence and the charm of his creative genius, felt the void, instantly.

Padmarajan started his career as a writer. Unfortunately I have not read any of his books. I know him from his films. If the literary quality of his films is anything to go by, they must be a world to discover. In fact like most of the films, his first film was based on his own novel Peruvazhiyambalam (The grand roadway Inn, 1979). The movie tore down the mythical fence between popular and art house movies. He pioneered the middle of the road solution for commercially succesfull good films and began a short lived golden period of malayalam films alo…

Kunhunni maash

Kunhunni maash was an archetypal teacher of children and adults who have an open and earnest mind of a child to learn. No one has distilled knowledge and enlightenment to the degree of simplicity that he so effortlessly achieved. It spread like sunshine for decades over many generations of young kids who not only soared in their imagination about the open sky he unleashed, but learned the secrets of goodness and being kind and appreciative of mother earth.

For the twenty years I who read his(Kuttettan) editorial notes and advice to budding writers in the Children's Section (Baala-Pankthi) of Mathrubhumi magazine and having met him under a tree along with other students at school, felt the irrevocable loss of his long shadow. It's not just the charm of old world that is lost; I believe it is more than that. I doubt if we can ever find such fine folks anymore who can clear the gloom and guide your spirit to all that is worthy of life and living.

He was a short man. His poems were …

Ophelia - death by water

One of the most tragic and haunting images from Shakespeare plays that you ever read would be that of Ophelia lying drowned in the still water. She lay in the glassy stream weighed down by the viscous gravity of her tunic, unable to wade through the whirlpool of worldly woes. An image that is so earthy, erotic, deathly and saintly gleaned effortlessly from Gertrude’s soliloquy (from Act 4 Scene 7):

There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up: Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes; As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a crea…