The New Blog..

During my quest to clear my mind of unexpressed opinions and unformed ideas that plagued my daily rituals, it would seem I overlooked that rather obvious fact - emotions are inseparable from the intellectual aspects of our minds, in terms of causal and formative factors. And it therefore becomes necessary, in the pursuit, of a  'clutterless' consciousness to give credence and an outlet to the colorful emotional faces of the larger theater of cognition as well.. (ഞാൻ ഒരു വികാരജീവിയാണെന്ന്... hehe)

So, I have launched a new blog to specifically address the blatantly evident and subtly indicated feelings manifested within me, through fiction and non-fictional means.

Click the tab in the upper right corner named "The Emotional" or the link below to visit my new attempt at the craft of writing:

"Chronicles of Emotional Fervour"

Colors of Omission

Bright colors yet to be painted everywhere.. the beige-grey walls of my spinning, humming prison cell screaming out to me, beckoning my senses in seductive whispers and commanding screams holding my transient glances hostage with their mocking bare surfaces. Cold, bland, flawed surfaces.....inviting the touch of my soft, poison stained fingertips, conniving creations that emerge in glorious insolence and bastard pride, vengefully magnificent now.. forgetting the cautious and careful movements of my trembling, cracked hands making them whole brick by brick, as the music of my languishing youth played sweet nothings from the hot, shiny light outside.. flickering flames of elusive smiles and spiteful tears burning away against the short, warm breezes of inadequacy and contempt as the walls came to life or birthed themselves in death - brick by brick.. by my drunk, wiry arms.. moving numb to the sway of my wet, drowning memories of slithering dissent against the snide, reproachful words of passionate love and sneering fury crawling out of the thin slits in the white masks of shadows that danced around me.. the glowing embers of my dark visions now ashen in the corners of my cell, lying smoldering and fuming with unsaid red, and breathless blue of careless kisses, fading green of naked envy.. silken brushes of cruel shards breaking away from thoughtless moments dipping in them, moist strands poised to paint the hopeful crevices with insidious desires.. 

Its Only Words...

I'm not an artist. Not in the true sense of the word. Never was, it now seems. After reading up a little on the subject, I've compiled a definition of  art (including within its scope 'Art' and 'The Arts').

Beauty is something that elicits a response of pleasure in someone who perceives it, without arousing desire. Art, then can be broadly and conveniently be defined as something that manifests beauty, in a permanent object or a passing action, through creating or manipulating lines, colors, words, sounds or the body (of the artist or the object) itself, by employing a skill or a craft, with the intent of creation being solely one of expression and not the need to impress or influence. Another interesting and intriguing perspective on art, in terms of recognizing it, is that 'real' art is 'infectious' in the response it generates and it creates within the person who is perceiving it a false sense of ownership (that of creation not possession) and it blurs or erases the boundaries between the consciousness of the artist and the audience.

Now applying and analyzing that rather comprehensive meaning to my life and it's context, I find inconsistencies at several key points.

I started sketching and initially, even painting, from a very young age and was told by the tall people that I was, in fact, an artist. Purely by virtue of my fortunate birth and in no small part, the wicked play and unseemly influence of what I'm assuming is my 'heredity', I soon realized, much to the joy of my emerging narcissism, that I could manipulate, to an extent, sounds and words too. A proud and consequently nurturing and fostering environment helped keep these traits and skills alive and to a point flourishing, in my life and in turn, I developed a keen and admittedly overpowering appreciation for the aesthetics in and the intelligence behind the creations of others as well.

I'm also forced to consider the cultural and social aspects of the unselfish intellectual admiration and at times, selfish, emotional resonance people look for and so find, in their search for personal and collective identities, in recognizing and displaying art and the artist as something to be praised and protected. It has a tendency to paint your unformed image of 'self' with complementary features and add deceptively arbitrary attributes to your otherwise undefined identity in the minds of others.

I have no qualms about admitting that I did consider myself an artist and in spite of rational denial, still do, as it's carved somewhere dark, in to the walls of the twisted and uncertain catacombs of my capriciously but defensively manufactured visage. 

So it falls on my conscious and outwardly visible mind to shape in to communicable thoughts, my epiphany regarding my possible role in the larger scheme of personal and worldly affairs. No, I'm not an artist.

Looking back on the hundreds of pictures my steady hand breathed life in to- on the cheap pages of notebooks in the classroom, designated art books, chart sheets and ambitiously, sometimes on canvases- it becomes clear that my drive to create was not born of a sheer need to express powerful, confusing emotions but more of a product of my overwhelming need to communicate what I observed and saw out there and within me. To be more clear, it was intellect that drove me and not emotion. Communication by definition involves the need to modify that which is being conveyed, to impress and influence the audience, whatever its objective maybe. Art does not.

This is becoming more and more obvious as I browse (by memory.. I never kept them) through the pictures I created. It is and has always been in pursuit of 'realism'. I never felt the need, nor did I have the inclination to venture in to the abstract or the colorfully imaginative. The nature of my work leans toward the descriptive, not expressive.

It is because of this, that I haven't felt the desire to draw in years, instead I switched to language and its manipulation to paint pictures. And it is painting pictures that I do. My narrative and style of articulation relies heavily on descriptive adjectives, long sentence construction and attempted clarity of semantics. The modification of this to appeal to the transcendent aesthetics of skillful wordplay does not interest me. Besides, as far as I'm concerned, to an artist, that should be effortless and instinctual, not resultant of academic yearning.

As I now read the words penned down by my peers, without any intended desire to impress, I'm hit by the subtle and often magnificent articulation of sublime emotions and otherwise incommunicable, elegant imagery.

As admiration turns to introspection, it dawns upon me that this is not what I do, what I can do or what I want to do.

I am a seeker of ideas. Whatever form they take on their course to my cognition or in what shape or through which medium they leave it, doesn't matter to me. And ideas fall within the rigid and fiercely territorial analytic and logical framework of the mind. I simply use the skills handy to convey it.

This makes me a bad student of literature. I'm fundamentally incapable of appreciating the inarticulate joy in eloquent articulation. And as literary analysis deals mainly with the 'whats' and the 'hows', my stubborn obsession with the 'why' can be counterproductive. It dissects the subject matter into pieces and then keeps going deeper and still deeper in to abstractions until I find myself far outside the accepted rules and fluid boundaries of language, stumbling and falling on the profound but intellectually and emotionally unforgiving, practically unanswerable questions of the pointed philosophical kind.

So what am I then? Carefully resisting the urge to go off on a tangential journey in to 'I', let me just say that I believe I am a craftsman and a thinker. Nothing more, nothing less.

The Sixth Lord & Me

These days, quite uncharacteristically, I find myself watching older Malayalam movies over and over again, and I had to admit that my sensibilities when it comes to entertainment, at least the kind that moves me, seems to have shifted more towards the cultural context of my childhood, especially when it comes to admiring the fictional 'heroes' and 'heroines' of cinema. This, of course, says volumes about my preferences than an artistic or technical analysis of the wonderful craft of film making. With that rather insolent disclaimer, let me also add that I have been, for most of my life, an avid viewer and appreciator of movies and shows from multiple industries and cultures, with varying levels of indulgence and pursuit in numbers in each - Malayalam, Tamil, Telugu, Hindi, Hollywood, British, Hongkong, Japanese and Korean. But why write about this now?

It just occurred to me that while movies are almost a culture by itself in India, I don't remember having a discussion with any one I know, about the characters in these elegant and tastefully etched out stories from a literary point of view - in terms of the whys and the hows.

Also, at least among my peers, I don't remember any one (at the time) focusing on some of these movies as great 'romances', in fact, by virtue of our youthful views or superficial temperament I do not know, we saw only the humor, depth and magnificence of the characters and the sheer impressiveness of the eloquent dialogues and colorful plot structure. Now, seeing these movies through a different color of shades, I find  the romantic relationships in some of these movies emotionally resonate with me as well. My tremendous admiration for the subtly handled acting performances and visionary direction of these films are, without a doubt, an influencing factor too.

The movie, in particular, I have in mind is Ranjith's Aaraam Thampuraan (1997) starring Mohanlal and Manju Warrier, masterfully directed by Shaji Kailas. The movie, of course, was a huge success and took its rightfully earned and well deserved place in the pantheon of great works in the industry, and in the hearts of the Malayali movie fans. No small feat considering the masterpieces that came before and after.

Another reason I want to analyse this movie as an ethereal romance between two memorable characters is that there are almost no real 'romantic' scenes between them on camera, with one powerful and delicately captured exception which served as an overt declaration of commitment.

What follows is a free, condensed and personal interpretation of the aspects of the characters and their intertwining lives with regards to their love story and not to be taken as any kind of  an educated or authoritative opinion on the complete story or the movie.

Jagannathan

The transformation of Jagannathan in to that of the Aaram Thamburan, is in no small part due to Unnimaya. In the beginning we see a man who declares that he wants to own nothing and be attached to nothing - live life as a nomadic monk who revels in its pleasures without developing a craving or yearning for them. The vices and general disregard for societal regulations he displays seems to hide a fundamental, deep rooted fear of losing love manifesting itself as a "own nothing, lose nothing" philosophy and the tendency to put on masks in life, even to those closest to him, combined with an act of delusional self assurance (എല്ലാം അറിയുന്നവൻ ഞാൻ). We see this psychological defense faltering in many instances in Unnimaya's presence. 

The first time this happens is when he first sees her in the temple, and as she walks towards him he struggles and then succeeds in turning his initial slack jawed expression back to his normal, defensive self. One has to wonder how much of the taunting dialogue that followed revealed his actual perception of her (കാവിലേ ഭഗവതി നേരിട്ടു പ്രത്യക്ഷപ്പെട്ടതാണോ). This moment of fleeting indecisiveness on the part of Jagannathan in the beginning takes prominence when you consider how much, throughout the rest of the movie you are made privy to his colorful and exciting history and resulting strength and decisiveness of character (കളി കുറേ കണ്ടവനാ ഞാൻ ).

It is after this scene, that Jagannathan's intentional and unintentional armors go up and he tests and needles Unnimaya in many ways until the scene where she displays her softer, vulnerable side by crying about not knowing but loving her mother and again we see Jagannathan's mask slipping for a second as he decides to stop and take stock of his feelings for her (ഗോവിന്ദൻകുട്ടീ, കുട്ടി കരയണൂ).

It is however, when a third character shows up in the mix in the form of an old friend who arrives with serious romantic intentions as Nayanthara Devan (Priya Raman) that Jagannathan is forced to confront his emotions for real, in subtle ways at first and then overtly. The notable scene is where for the first time you see the revealing, awkward smile of comprehension that appears on his face when Unnimaya shows her anger and jealousy at the abrupt end of the impromptu thiruvathira performance (ദേ ഉണ്ണിമായ വിചാരിച്ചാ നടക്കുംടോ).

Finally, when put on the spot with Nayanthara's rather practical and endearing marriage proposal, Jagannathan reveals his true feelings and his intentions regarding Unnimaya and in a way, it's the first true words his character utters in the entire movie ( I'm madly in love, Nayan). It's interesting when you think that Nayanthara is not just a convenient catalyst in the story but also a clever component in painting the depth and nature of the Jagannathan - Unnimaya story as in every other sense she is perfect for him because of their close friendship, mutual respect, common world views, love for family (for the father- parellel to Jagannathan's own theme) , knowledge of and on various relevant matters and most importantly her willingness to compromise her individual sensibilities for the sake of a committed relationship (ജഗൻറെ ഇഷ്ടങ്ങളെ ഇഷ്ടപ്പെടാൻ എനിക്കു കഴിയും). 

Unnimaya

First of all hats off to Manju Warrier for her indelible performance. It's hard to believe she was just 19 when she elicited the necessary depth of emotion and sub-textual understanding of the character.

Unnimaya's transformation is sudden and more evident than Jagannathan's but is paralleled in many ways in terms of themes and events. The sheer elegance of Unnimaya's character is to be applauded - kudos to Ranjith.

Unnimaya's armor which shields her from her depressing reality manifests itself intentionally as a sharp tongue, blunt straightforwardness and overwhelming confidence which is often perceived as unfounded arrogance (അഹങ്കാരത്തിനു കൈയ്യും കാലും വയ്ക്കുക എന്നിട്ടു പെണ്ണെന്നു പേരും ). However, in her private moments, she reveals her fears and helplessness before her fate. It is to be noted that even in the face of losing her home and identity, she displays her righteous self respect by referring to herself not as a tenant of the ancestral home but it's mistress (കോലോത്തേ തമ്പുരാട്ടിയാടോ മാഷേ).

Her mask firsts briefly slips unnoticed by everyone except for Jagannathan when he first reveals himself as the new owner of the home and she perceives the true Jagannathan for a second. However, like him her defenses go up immediately and she reverts back to her normal, angry self. Her love is reserved only for the one man who has always been there for her and loved her unconditionally - the man she calls her father and quite cleverly, the other Thampuran in the kovilakam.

Her hatred and contempt for Jagannathan is genuine until the moment she sees the great artist in him during the classic monologue before the song Harimuraleeravam (മധുമൊഴി രാധേ നിന്നേ തേടി...). The depth and strength of Unnimaya's devotion to the arts, which she held on to for a livelihood and as her only true identity is revealed here when she tears up and bows before him and at the end of the song, touches his feet and quickly runs away unable to show her vulnerable and now respectful self before him.

In a story that heavily paints a picture of forgotten traditions and cultural and hereditary pedigree, Unnimaya's immense love and respect for the arts that transcends her defenses and ego brings one word to mind - കുലീനത. One has to wonder if Ranjith is trying to say something about the unanswered question of Unnimaya's parentage (ഏതു തരക്കാരി ആയിരുന്നു തള്ള എന്നു നിന്റെ പ്രകൃതം കൊണ്ടു അറിയാല്ലോ).

Unnimaya's jealousy rears its head when Nayanthara shows up and it is then that Unnimaya herself might have realized that the nature of her feelings for Jagannathan had grown beyond just awe and respect, in to something more possessive. For the first time, we see subtle hints of her questioning her worth which comes out as vehement spite at Nayanthara's worldliness and daring which had made her an equal in Jagannathan's eyes. Gave her freedom to call him affectionate nicknames when Unnimaya herself still only dared call him Thampuran (കാശിന്റെ ഹുങ്കാ കൊഴഞ്ഞാട്ടക്കാരിക്ക്).

When she overhears Jagannathan decline Nayanthara's proposal and declares his overwhelming affection and overpowering love for her, her initial reaction is one of shock as she faces the prospect that for once in her life she could be happy and how blessed she was, she stands still with her fists clenched at her sides and tears streaming down her face. As she then, once again runs away, her joy and happiness is portrayed beautifully through the song 'paadi' written simply but eloquently describing her emotions.

The Only Scene

The only scene of any kind of intimacy between Unnimaya and Jagannathan is after he tells her stepmother that he will never leave her or betray her, emotionally or physically, in two simple words. It is again of paramount importance that this happens only after the stepmother tells Unnimaya that she always thought of her as a daughter and that for all intents and purposes she was her mother. This resolution of the major crisis of identity being resolved in Unnimaya's life is sub-textually significant for Jagannathan to commit overtly before her mother and serves almost as an engagement of sorts between the now overt lovers. The tearful, short hug between the two is the only time they actually touch each other in the entire movie apart from the time Unnimaya touches Jagannathan's feet in respect. Elegant symbolism. (ഞാൻ കൈവിടില്ല).

The news that sixteen years later another Mohanlal - Manju Warrier- Ranjith project is in the works is happy tidings to any Mallu movie fan. So as I'm wrapping up, let me just say "Welcome back Manju Chechi! Bring it on.."

Underneath The Mask (Fiction)

DISCLAIMER: Purely academic and fictional attempt at gauging a disturbing human psyche.. It's dark, so be warned..

His breathing was growing heavier now, more rapid and labored.. It always did afterwards, the act always calmed him. In fact, in all his, somewhat unreliable, memories of his short life (has it only been 30 years?.. it seems so much longer), those where the only moments of stillness he could remember. Moments when he almost felt like himself.. in control of his thoughts, his careful and meticulous actions, his mind calm and serene, like the algae infested blue-green waters of the small lake near his childhood home on the windless, grey winter day.. untouched by troubling, excruciating emotion or helpless, pathetic sentiment that kept him bound down to mediocrity and ugliness day after day.

He was so much more.. so much more grand and beautiful than what they saw.. what he let them see. Their stupidity and silliness drove him to near insanity, when he would listen to them rant and rave pitifully about their insignificant troubles and problems, he would try to elicit from his bored and exhausted mind some kind of appropriate emotion to display on his well defined, aquiline face. He sometimes had trouble finding the right reaction or there would be an inevitable delay in response, and he would have to spend the next few seconds or minutes looking for clues as to whether they noticed.. they saw or suspected for a brief moment who he was.. what he was.. For a fraction of a second he would almost wish he could see their eyes open wide in amazement and adoration at the recognition. How stupid would they feel then? That thought often amused him, even into uncharacteristic chuckling when he was stuck in traffic, bored as he waited in line patiently for the sheep to get on with their 'important', busy lives..

The woman who came to clean the house was the worst. She came every other day, he had made sure of that.. he couldn't handle her on a daily basis but this way she appeared just when he would get bored.. Oh, the incessant noise that came out of her fat, disgusting mouth as she narrated and explained in painful detail how her son no longer cared about her feelings, how he doesn't remember the blood and sweat she had shed toiling away for decades for him, how she had dreams when she was younger too, how being a mother changes you.. then she would move on to praising him, explaining how it wasn't entirely his fault, how he never had a strong male influence in his young life..blah blah blah.. The day before during this cacophony he started playing with the humorous fantasy of how her high pitched, uneducated, ignorant voice would change if he slowly cut into her voice box as she was chattering away... would it go higher or deeper? He toyed with the idea of doing it then and there. The surgical scalpel he had bought last week would do. Where had he kept it? Oh yeah.. in the bottom drawer of his bedroom desk. How her rancid mouth would fill up with her impure, dirty, dark blood and how her flea bitten tongue would taste it in shock and embarrassment(?). How it would run down his palm and forearm as her flabby jowls would shake and shiver at the mercy of his powerful physique. Wait.. did he have enough liquid hand sanitizer left? It would be disgusting to keep that kind of sticky fluid on his person for minutes. Yes! He had bought a new bottle three days ago. So nothing actually stopped him.. technically.. The thought made him smile. He snapped back to the colorless reality when she smiled back. Apparently, she had been narrating some endearing incident from her or her filthy son's childhood. The sudden realization that she had misunderstood his smile as sympathy or enjoyment or compassion or one of those things, to her useless tale made him feel sick and revolted inside. He had to quickly turn away and walk in to the bathroom. As he washed his face, over and over again, he screamed a thousand curses inside.. at himself for being so careless, at her sheer nerve for considering him.. him.. an equal even if it was just for a second, at the magnificently cruel world that wept and fought for all the worms and maggots - their futile rights and moronic freedoms, when they wouldn't let something as awe inspiring and elegant as him scream at the top of his lungs in to their deaf ears - "LOOK AT ME!! THIS IS WHO I AM!! THIS IS WHAT I AM!!"

She was still outside, waiting to complete her unending saga of woe.. or was it joy now? It took him a few minutes to make a decision regarding her.. not yet.. not here. Too many variables not under his control. He looked for a second in pride and self adulation at his restraint. How many people could boast of such will and determination? He decided it was better to pretend to do some 'work stuff' on his laptop. She would shut up out of 'respect' for his important work, which he was sure, she had no clue what was about.. The main thing that annoyed him about her was the stench she brought in to his home.. After she left, he would have to open the windows for it to clear.. And that meant letting the noises in..

A hint of a smile crept across his face as he imagined her reaction if he had made a different, more reckless, albeit daring, decision. Once, a few days ago, while she was sweeping the floor near his feet, she had accidentally touched him and he felt something he hadn't felt before.. For a fleeting instance he tried to comprehend if this was what the others had meant by attraction, but then he decided against it.. This couldn't be it.. His senses had sharpened and his muscles had tensed, his teeth clenched and he had involuntarily let out a low, audible growl.. The fat sack of nothingness had looked up and he had to disguise it as a cough.. Is this what men felt around women? He had never figured it out completely. He had learned to be masterful in disguising that fact though.. around the others..

His breathing was slowing down to its normal, steady, even rate. Today was not the most interesting or productive day but it was definitely better than nothing. He lifted his head that was resting on the head of the couch and he leaned his slouched torso forward to look at his work. What breed was it? The stupid kid with the ridiculously unruly hair and thick glasses from two floors down had mentioned it the day his family had bought it, something about... what was it.. not having a pet or the one before dying or....whatever.. He tried to sort though his memory of the excited, inarticulate monologue the kid had delivered on the subject- there had been a fly buzzing around his unwashed face at the time.. what was it that he squeeled.. it was a Pomeranian/ Labrador mix or.... something..  Anyway, it was medium sized, had an impressive musculature.. didn't put up much of a struggle though..

His throat was getting dry.. His stomach was growling as well. Acidity had become a real nuisance because of his unsteady and irregular diet. He hadn't had anything since last night. It was 11.25 a.m now. If he hurried, he could get something from the breakfast menu at the vegetarian hotel two blocks down. The thought of changing first, and then walking all the way there to sit in the unhygienic, badly lit dining area listening to the customers whisper and laugh out in loud bursts of uncontrollable hilarity at some idiotic story, irritated him. That would definitely ruin the mood and bring down the overall tone of the day so far. Besides, he was drenching in sweat, he really needed a long, hot shower.

He looked at the mangy, blood coated thing before him for a few seconds and then thought with a certain incipient excitement.. Well, it's always interesting to try new things..

I am a Chettan

DISCLAIMER: Giving due consideration and respect to credible opinions of knowledgeable sources, I'm venturing outside my literary comfort zone in to emotionally introspective,  autobiographical analytic prose.. bear with me :) 

Malu S. , 1991

What is she to me.. practical and theoretical nomenclatures imposed on my very heart, soul and thought by those who knew or should have known since that fateful day in December, 1990, are few and simple - little sister (aniyathi), my best friend, my confidante... Is that all she is? An assortment of definitions that can be built and torn down by the sheer narcissistic 'strength' of my self serving mind or by the unrepentantly churning waters of tumultuous and vociferous experiences of an unpredictable, apathetic life?

A title or position created and defended by a campaign of powerful instinctual emotions perhaps.. protective ones, affectionate ones, possessive ones.. How did I feel when one temperamentally ordinary and historically insignificant day she suddenly existed in my consciousness as a living, breathing being in a clean, white, sterile bassinet in that thoughtlessly colorless room of that small town hospital? Did I feel anything profoundly change in me or was what changed in me was so fundamentally human that my yet forming, fickle mind hardly realized it? If so, is it possible as a self proclaimed, marginally mature adult to remember or impartially and intellectually dissect those first pristine moments? The moments when a 4 year old whose life revolved solely around himself and his impulsive attempts at joy and gratification, allowed and fostered by a protective cocoon of loving, tall shadowy figures by virtue of his innocence and helplessness, saw something more fragile and precious than his limited awareness of his own self, enter into his life for him to play with, to love, to call his own..

What fleeting thoughts raced through his jubilant mind the next morning as he looked forward to the small pleasures that felt like tiny victories over life - the taste of the soft, custom shaped uzhunnu dosas his grandmother might make, the grand stories to be told and heard during the crowded, noisy ride with his 'friends' in the compact, back engine autorickshaw on the way to the new found adventure of school... the possibilities of fun things to be done with or on behalf of the new thing in his life - the personality less bundle of flesh that was being pampered and cared for by all the tall people.. Did he feel the need to do things differently that day since now as everyone kept pointing out with a knowing and incomprehensible, albeit slightly condescending, smile that he was a 'chettan'?  What exactly did that entail as to the routines and events in the day of a kindergartner? What does a child know of 'responsible' love and how to possibly 'protect' the tiny, occasionally loud being that now occupied a pivotal position in his small and gloriously 'eventful' world?

Memories are deceptive images that are colored in various telling shades and distorted by the events that follow their accidental birth.

After 22 years of  'life' and everything that goes with it, do I know her? Will I ever? I doubt it.

I have to fall back with humility on the tragically overused and often justifiably misunderstood word, as I realize that lassoing in the appropriate, descriptive words demonstrating my control over language and articulation will fail me miserably in this instance of introspectively decisive expression, the word that characterizes and signifies maybe nothing or possibly something or perhaps rather optimistically,  everything about how I feel about her - love..

Whatever the steady current of tempestuous youth and eventual maturity and resolutions of adulthood brings, I know that, without the aid of naive but convincing self assurance or now restraint-fully tasteful arrogance masquerading as self confidence in my emotion or intellect, I know that... 

I always have and always will... love my little Malukkutty..

Men are from Mars.. Women are from..

On a whim or persuasive intellectual turmoil, I do not know, but I'm venturing a little bit into unknown territory as far as my knowledge on the matter goes... so nothing new then. :)

A dear friend of mine, Juney Ann Thomas, who completed her Masters in Eng. Lit and is a talented poet and literary analyst in her own right, pointed me towards an essay she wrote during her course work regarding Ecriture feminine theory in modern literature.While my ignorance of literary theories in general and my uncompromising lack of patience to delve completely into something I'm fundamentally unfamiliar with, prevented me from drawing the comprehensive and authoritative meaning behind her words, I, therefore, finished reading the essay having developed, through my clumsy attempts at grasping the literary implications, some profound questions about some rather ordinary things.

The theory (please look it up) deals with the issue of women being depicted and understood in literature from strictly a male thought process and how women should write women for the structure to change. It has an interesting point about how male thinking is always a single path process or phallocentric where you understand and analyze something by direct and linear methodology which can be connected even to the ancient and original scientific Greek mentality of dissection and analysis of the subject matter to reach the underlying truth. The theory declares that this is not the only way to understand or admire the world and that women are capable of thinking non-linearly and it can sometimes be more effective in aesthetic and analytic description of the tangible and the intangible.

Now my friend is a self proclaimed worshiper of words and I came to the conclusion that my strong left brain sensibilities make me a seeker of ideas behind the words, hence my stubborn fascination with direct, analytic prose and why ethereal, beautiful poetry (including hers :) ) is often wasted on me. 

So naturally, I came out of the reading with the idea that surely this linear thinking which I, by virtue of my gender, social context and education, abide by must also mean that I do not perceive the world like a person (not necessarily a female) who is capable of non-linear thought or analysis does. 

But sticking to the framework of the theory, I applied it to the pop culture rant about how men will never understand women. Is this the reason? Do women see the world in a different light, not just because of social or gender based biases, but as a result of a more fundamental approach of thought? Immediately, a joke from the stand up routine of Chappelle (I think) came to mind where he pointed out that men tell stories as a series of facts whereas women tell stories by employing a method of highlighting their emotions causal and resultant of the facts and events of the story.

Juney also mentioned the difference in the fluidity of signifiers in male and female discourse, i.e, the relationship between the word and the meaning being rather 'fixed' in male discourse and its more fluid nature in female ones.  Her exact words were "Remember the age old adage about women saying one thing and meaning another?" My limited knowledge of semiotics kept me from probing the issue further.. Check out her site www.juneythomas.in

I then recapped various conversations with girls where I tried to understand something relating to usually aesthetics or a general sense of wonder from their point of view and failed, leaving the topic of discussion clinging to the rather intellectually complacent explanation that it must be an individual subjectivity issue. However, I come across these issues in smaller amounts when dealing with my own gender. Could the unseen battle between linear and non-linear cognitive philosophies be the problem?

My flimsy footing in the disciplines of gender studies and feminist theory (or just a female perspective) prevents me from going any further but I invite your comments and arguments on this paralyzing suspicion that I now have, in order to put to rest any future misgivings I may have when talking to someone from the opposite sex. :D

Ineligibility Criteria for Applying to Join the Moral Police (Mallu Version)

നാട്ടിലെ സദാചാര പോലീസുകാർ അറിയാൻ വേണ്ടി ഒരു ഇന്ത്യൻ ചെറുപ്പക്കാരൻ ആത്മരോഷത്തോടെ എഴുതുന്നത്‌..

ആരൊക്കെ ഈ പണിക്ക് ഇറങ്ങരുത്......

1. തല്ലു തിരികെ കിട്ടില്ല എന്ന ഉറച്ച വിശ്വാസത്തിനാൽ മാത്രം തല്ലി പഠിപ്പിക്കുവാൻ മുതിരുന്നവർ.

2. പ്രായത്തിന്റെ വില പെരുമാറ്റത്തിലും കാഴ്ചപ്പാടിലും അല്ല സ്വന്തം ജന്മവർഷത്തിനു ശേഷം ഭൂജാതരായവരെ എങ്ങിനെ എപ്പോൾ അടിക്കാം എന്നതിലാണ് കാണിക്കേണ്ടത് എന്നു കരുതുന്നവർ.

3. കൂടെയുള്ള ചങ്ങാതിമാരുടെയും പിന്തുണക്കാരുടെയും ശരീര ബലവും തന്റേടവും അനുസരിച്ച് സ്വന്തം ഉദ്ദേശവും അതിനു പുറകിലുള്ള പൊരുളും മാറ്റിക്കുറിക്കുന്നവർ.

4. ജന്മന ഉള്ള ശാരീരികവും മാനസികവും ആയ ബലത്തെയും കഴിവിനേയും അതില്ലാത്തവന്റെ നെഞ്ചത്ത് കേറി അഭ്യാസം കാട്ടാൻ ബ്രഹ്മൻ ഇഷ്യൂ ചെയ്ത ലൈസൻസ് ആയി കാണുന്നവർ.

5. നിഷ്കളങ്കവും ബാലിശവും ആയ കൊച്ചു കൗമാര പ്രണയങ്ങളെ മുളയിലേ നുള്ളി തല്ലി കെടുത്തിയിട്ട്‌ വൈകീട്ടു സന്ധ്യാദീപം കൊളുത്തി 'രാധേകൃഷ്ണ' ഭജൻ പാടി ഈശ്വരനിൽ അഭയം തേടുന്നവർ.

6. രാമായണവും മഹാഭാരതവും എഴുതിയത് വാൽമികിയും വേദവ്യാസനും അല്ല രാമാനന്ദ് സാഗറും ബി.ആർ.ചോപ്രയും ആണെന്നു തെറ്റിദ്ധരിക്കുന്നവർ.

7. ചെറുപ്പത്തിലും യൌവ്വനത്തിലും ഉള്ള തെമ്മാടിത്തരം മുഴുവനും കാണിച്ചു കൂട്ടിയുട്ട് ഒരു പ്രായം കഴിയുമ്പോൾ സ്വയം ഒരു കാരണവരായി മുദ്ര കുത്തി കുറിയും തൊട്ടു മുണ്ടും മടക്കി കുത്തി ഭാരത സംസ്കാരത്തിന്റെ നന്മക്കായി നാട്ടുകാരെ പറഞ്ഞും വേണമെങ്കിൽ ഒന്നു പൊട്ടിച്ചും നന്നാക്കാൻ തുനിഞ്ഞിറങ്ങുന്നവർ.

8. ഗീതോപദേശവും വേദവാക്യങ്ങളും ടീവിയിൽ കണ്ടിട്ടു പിന്നീടു അതു പശ്ചാത്തല സംഗീതത്തോടെ ഓർമ്മിച്ചു ഭഗവാൻ സ്ലോ മോഷനിൽ വരുന്നതു മനസ്സിൽ  കണ്ടു ആത്മ നിർവൃതി കൊള്ളുന്നവർ.

9. പുരാണത്തിൽ ദ്രൗപദീ വസ്ത്രാക്ഷേപകഥ വായിച്ചറിഞ്ഞപ്പോൾ കൗരവ സഭയിൽ നിസ്സഹായരായിരിക്കേണ്ടിവന്ന മഹാരധികളെ തഴഞ്ഞു ശ്രീകൃഷ്ണ ലീലയ്ക്കു നേരെ കണ്ണടച്ചു ജീവിതോദാഹരണമായി എടുത്തു പാത പിന്തുടരാൻ പോന്ന കേമൻ ദുശ്ശാസനൻ തന്നെ എന്ന് തീരുമാനിച്ചവർ.

10. ഭാരതസംസ്കാരം ജീവിതം മുഴുക്കെ പഠിച്ചാലും അനുഭവിച്ചറിയാൻ ശ്രമിച്ചാലും തീരാതെ അങ്ങിനെ പല മതങ്ങളും ഭാഷകളും സാഹിത്യ കൃതികളും കലാരൂപങ്ങളും ആയി നിറഞ്ഞു കവിഞ്ഞൊഴുകുമ്പോൾ അതിൽ മുങ്ങി തപ്പി തനിക്കാവിശ്യമുള്ളതു മാത്രം ചൂണ്ടയിട്ടു പിടിച്ചു പിന്നീടു  താൻ പൈതൃകമുള്ള ഭാരതീയൻ എന്ന് ലോകത്തിനു മുന്നിൽ സ്വയം വിശേഷിപ്പിക്കുന്നവർ.

ധർമത്തിനു വേണ്ടി മാത്രം ശസ്ത്രം എടുക്കേണ്ടവർ അതു ജന്മാവകാശമായി കണ്ടു അഹങ്കരിച്ചു സംരക്ഷിക്കണ്ടവരെ ദ്രോഹിച്ചു തുടങ്ങിയപ്പോൾ ആയുധം കയ്യിലെടുത്തു ഈശ്വരകോപത്തിൻറെ രൌദ്രവും സംഹാരതാണ്ടവവും എന്തെന്നു അറിയുച്ചു കൊടുത്ത വൈഷ്ണവാവതാരം പരശുരാമന്റെ പേരിൽ അറിയപ്പെടുന്ന മണ്ണിൽ ജീവിക്കുന്നവർ എങ്കിലും ഇതെല്ലാം ഓർക്കേണമേ എന്ന് താഴ്മയോടെ അപേക്ഷിക്കുന്നു..

എന്നു സസ്നേഹം ,
ഒരു സാദാ മലയാളി