#endlesspoetry

As I sit before my laptop to write this, I am very well aware of the days that passed. And they passed quickly too. Way too quickly. I have been in Delhi for the past one month. One whole month. Though I have always stayed away from home, I have never lived this far for this long. Well that’s no matter. After all, once you’ve been in a hostel you know how to cope with being away. What’s more important is that these days changed me in ways that’d have taken longer in a different setting. I was living alone in this relatives’ apartment. They were more than kind to throw open this entire place to me. I did my own cooking. Mom was on call whenever I did so, but I’m sure now I’m more or less self-sufficient. I wouldn’t have to starve anyway anymore wherever I am.

It was almost like running a house, you know, except that I didn’t have to pay the water and electricity bills. It was Delhi summer, it was hot, it was dusty – true, all that. But it was good. Coming home every evening after work (I was interning here) with a small packet of milk, unlocking the door myself, and having a cup of tea that I made myself – all these have been great. And educating. Not to say that this was some great thing that only great people do. That I achieved ‘greatness’ overnight. This piece I assure you is devoid of such bullshitting. Ordinary men and women of my age learnt and practiced these basic skills everyday from much before I was even sent to hostel. It is just that I am doing it, and I feel proud and happy about that. Things that you take for granted, are very costly after all.

But the best part of all was the writing. And the reading. If I should choose though, it’d be writing. My professor asked me to write ‘something’ every day. He said it will improve my writing. So, there I was, churning out some 600-ish words every day, about anything under the earth. After a week, he asked me to make these narratives more personal, to forget about the fact that I was writing. I tried, and boy, was this wonderful! I could see palpable changes. Well I can’t authorise my own writing, certainly, but after the month, I’m much more confident about it than before.

I was writing about my travel experiences in and around Delhi, and many other mundane things: once I even wrote about a frigging bucket of water. This was something that I loved, and this exercise made me love it better. The whole thing is slowly becoming spontaneous, I’m no longer using my English capacity to lengthen sentences to reach word count targets. Also gone, though it may come back (word count needs again, for class assignments), is my social science habit of complicating sentences. Like what I saw on social media some time back – the way we write something as simple as ‘I can’t’ as ‘I am unable to can’. Funny. Actually, not funny. Slight exaggeration maybe but it does have an element of truth.

ഒടുങ്ങാത്ത സ്നേഹമൊന്നുണ്ടോ പെണ്ണേ,

ഒടുക്കത്തെ വീട്ടിലെ കളിവാക്കല്ലേ ഒക്കേം?

ഒഴിയുന്ന ചാലുകൾ നിറയുമെന്നാരോ

പൊളി പറഞ്ഞതാം, കൺകളാൽ, നാവാൽ.

ഊഷരം ഭൂവിൽ മഴക്കാടുകാണും ആത്മാവിൻ

മാഹേന്ദ്രജാലം, തുടരെ, ആവോള,മേറെയും

പൊള്ളപ്പകിട്ടിൽ തിമിർത്താടിയേറ്റുന്ന

മനസ്സിന്റെ മൃതിയൊച്ച കൊട്ടുന്ന പൂരം.

വർണശൂന്യം നിലാവിനെത്തേടി നാം

ഉഴറുന്ന വഴികളിൽ, ലോലഭംഗുരം

മഴവില്ലുകഷ്ണങ്ങൾ പൊട്ടിവീണുതിരുന്ന

പനീരുബാഷ്പത്തിന്നപഭംഗം സ്നേഹം.

ഇവിടെ നിനക്കായി ഞാൻ നീറ്റിലെഴുതുന്ന

ക്ഷണികമാം കാവ്യത്തിലരിയതാം

വരിയിലെ ഒടുങ്ങാത്ത മോഹങ്ങൾ

പറയാതെപോയതാം അറിയാവികാരങ്ങൾ

വലിയോരു മഴയായ് ചാറിക്കയറി

പ്രളയമായേറി, പാടേ ഒഴിയുമ്പോൾ

കരളിലെ ചെളിപൂണ്ട, നനഞ്ഞ മരുഭൂക്കളുണ്ടാ-

ക്കുന്ന മരീചികയാവോ, ഒടുങ്ങാത്ത സ്നേഹം?

_ മാനി _