‘Poomaram’ – The seeds of spring.

The tears were not a reflection of mere sadness rather it was the zenith of a feeling, a feeling that would gradually erode the individualist inside us, the teary eyes will look at everyone and everything differently- with a more tender and soft gaze of affection and affinity rather than with the scepticism and cynicism of millennials.

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I took my bag, wrapped it around my shoulder and travelled to all the dark corners of my mind without fear or anxiety. Now I had a lamp, a glorious fire ball capable of bringing forth the power of thought to any deep and shallow dark sinister part of my inner world. I derived that fire from ‘Poomaram’.

It is a Malayalam film that I watched recently. It entrenches us in one of the most fundamental, yet most rewarding product of civilisation – Art. Yet when the curtain falls, our mind is filled with an unspeakable joy, an unfillable void, and you understand why there is something called art. We flawlessly reach a vehement understanding about humanity, the emotional catapult that film brings in derives its strength from the same higher pursuits of a human being – the sense of being and life itself.
Poomaram is an intriguing journey of different colleges (prominently two colleges) to champion the University art festival. The film starts with a sculptor explaining to his kid about art- traditions, innovation and understanding. The ripples of the scene just reflects along in the entire film. The director slowly engulfs our mind in the meticulous planning and effort of students to claim the coveted championship. There are rousing speeches, but the exquisite emotional heft the characters lend to these moments magnetically pulls us into the film. There is no fourth wall, the film is the fourth wall. As a painter slowly unwravels his painting with broad strokes and simple lines, as the legato and staccato unwinds around these characters, we seem to forget the primitive nature of the films we are used to. We are driven to a meditative trance, often facilitated by poems, songs and visuals right out of an artist’s canvas. We close our eyes, let the film plant it’s seeds in our mind.
The honesty of the characters in certain scenes, the ease of portrayal would render us speechless. The tears that filled up my mind and eyes never dried up during the entire course of film. The tears were not a reflection of mere sadness rather it was the zenith of a feeling, a feeling that would gradually erode the individualist inside us, the teary eyes will look at everyone and everything differently- with a more tender and soft gaze of affection and affinity rather than with the scepticism and cynicism of millennials.
As the final moments draw close, we open our mind to welcome a more deeper and philosophical understanding of ourself- humanity. We might stop the marathon to prove the survival of fittest. We might even stop waging wars among ourselves, We might join hands, light candles and pray for a better us, a better me,a better you, a better world and then a smile visits the corners of our lips- we understand the meaning of title of movie- Poomaram.

The story of pretty things – 1

It would contain the deepest thoughts of men and women,which would wreak havoc among the thoughless schemers of civilisation.The lads were often plunged into deep thoughts questioning the sheer meaninglessness of their living and would be feeed only when life knocks on their mind with matters of survival.

Shelly was wrong. The winter was indefinite, the snowy floors were infinite. The initial welcome had soared to an indifferent cry for spring. The flowers were white, yet the trees were blank, but several rooms at Pete and Duke Inn emitted the stepping sound of typewriters, making sure the minds of people were never empty. Every week, a group of young lads would climb the third floor of the gloriously tired inn to deliver loads of white paper. Their sweaty smiles were never reciprocated but rewarded with serious glances and silent exchange of money. They were no conflicts, there were no debates on the quality of paper, but lads felt their buyers had a magnetic or rather intoxicating urge to resume their handicraft on the typewriter, to make sure the white paper would never be white again. It would contain the deepest thoughts of men and women,which would wreak havoc among the thoughless schemers of civilisation.The lads were often plunged into deep thoughts questioning the sheer meaninglessness of their living and would be feeed only when life knocks on their mind with matters of survival.

Until then,the young lads on the door would straighten up their hips, pull up their body on their heels to see the miracle that has been an off putting joke among themselves – the working of a writer’s mind. The meek bodies of writers were not strong enough to stop these lads, but the dry eyes and twisted posture was enough to stop the lads from spinning their attention to the interiors of the enchanted room.
On any such day, a lad just delivered a stack of paper and curiously climbed down the ladder. As with every hour of every day, a maid was cleaning the 2nd floor. The lad asked the maid – ‘ Excuse me, Do they eat madame? Do they speak like us? Do they hate us?’
The maid replied with a coy smile dripping off her lips ‘They do all sort of things boy. They are creatures far above us, or the very least they seem to think so’ He was astonished, but the skeptic inside him asked her again ‘Madame, forgive the arrogance of mine. How are you so sure?’ The maid continued ‘I am a maid boy, I am the maid.’ She walked past the lad in calmness and hallway was silent again except for the sound of thoughts on typewriters.
The boy waited there, and then he began to listen to the sound of typewriters. He closed his eyes and stood their thinking about the spring of his life in rhythm with the typewriter. Once or twice, he had seen the magic machine, one that would emit sound and reflect words on paper. He began to jog his memory and began to trace sound with words. He stormed his intelligence to trace the symbol from its words. The solitary yet strong spirited lad stood there without any sense of time and space. The other lads pulled him out of the state he was meddling his mind with. While he moved away from the inn, he felt a anomalous pull from the deep corners of his mind to get absorbed into melancholy of the 3rd floor. Yet he knew he was in streets now.

The Invisible gardener parable

Once upon a time two explorers came upon a clearing in the jungle. In the clearing were growing many flowers and many weeds. One explorer says, “Some gardener must tend this plot.” The other disagrees, “There is no gardener.” So they pitch their tents and set a watch. No gardener is ever seen. “But perhaps he is an invisible gardener.” So they set up a barbed-wire fence. They electrify it. They patrol with bloodhounds. (For they remember how H. G. Well’s The Invisible Mancould be both smelt and touched though he could not be seen.) But no shrieks ever suggest that some intruder has received a shock. No movements of the wire ever betray an invisible climber. The bloodhounds never give cry. Yet still the Believer is not convinced. “But there is a gardener, invisible, intangible, insensible, to electric shocks, a gardener who has no scent and makes no sound, a gardener who comes secretly to look after the garden which he loves. At last the Skeptic despairs, “But what remains of your original assertion? Just how does what you call an invisible, intangible, eternally elusive gardener differ from an imaginary gardener or even from no gardener at all?”
– from ReasonReason and Responsibility: Readings in Some Basic Problems of Philosophy by Antony Flew

The gamble

Look to this world or look to thyself,
mock the lamp of civilisation breeding the darkness around our soul,
while being lambed down,
soaken in blood and sweat ,bland words and blank eyes
smitten over the markets to fill our void self,
of tomorrow’s smile, while silent to break the sile of theirs,
none to be kept or given, everything to be lost in today’s gamble,
until the day something is left to cry about,
Oh baby, I am resigning, on a fate never found and confined,
Yet I resign, to fill myself with despair and pain,
For it is only the worth now.
To have immense and yet feel so heavy in oneself.

കാത്തിരിക്കുന്നു ഞാൻ

ഒരു വേള എന്നിലെ നിന്നെ ഞാൻ ബലി നൽകിയില്ലെങ്കിൽ,

ഒന്നിനുമില്ലാതെ നിഷ്പ്രഭം ആകുമെന്ന് ,

തളർന്നിരിക്കുന്നു ഞാൻ, കിതയ്ക്കുന്നു,

ഒഴുക്കിന് എതിരെ ഓടിയില്ല, ഒടിയുമ്പോഴെല്ലാം നിവർന്നതുമില്ല,

പിന്നെ ഒടുവിൽ എന്റെ ഇരുണ്ടമുറിയിൽ, കണ്ണുനീർ പൊഴിച്ചതും ഇല്ല,

കരുതുകയാണ് ഞാൻ, കരുത്തു നേടുകയാണ് ഞാൻ,

ഓർമകൾ അടുക്കി വെച്ചു, എന്റെ ആത്മബോധം നിവർത്തുകയാണ് ഞാൻ,

വിറകുകൾ അടുക്കി തയാറെടുകയാണ് ഞാൻ,

അഗ്നി ഒരല്പം പകരാൻ നേരം കാക്കുയാണ് ഞാൻ,

നിസാരജന്മമെങ്കിലും അനിതരസാധാരണമല്ലെങ്കിലും,

കരുതുകയാണ് ഞാൻ, കാത്തിരിക്കുകയാണ് ഞാൻ,

ഓർമിപ്പിക്കുന്നു ഞാൻ – നിന്നെയും എന്നെയും, കണ്ണിനെയും കാതലിയെയും, ആണിനേയും പെണ്ണിനേയും, പ്രകൃതിയെയും

കാത്തിരിക്കുന്നു ഞാൻ, കരുതിയിരിക്കുന്നു ഞാൻ,

മനുഷ്യനാണ് ഞാൻ, മല്ലിട്ടയുദ്ധങ്ങൾ ഒക്കുമേ തോറ്റിറ്റിട്ടും,

തോൽകാതെ, കാത്തിരിക്കുന്നു ഞാൻ, കരുത്തിയിക്കുന്നു ഞാൻ,

ഈ വിശ്വപ്രപഞ്ചം ചാരസാദ്രശ്യമാക്കാൻ,

ജീവനവീഥിയിൽ കൈകൂപ്പിനിന്നു, എന്നിലെ എന്നെ, നിന്നിലെ നിന്നെ ആഹുതി ചെയ്തു,

പിന്നെ ജീവാത്മാവിലെ ഒരു ബാഷ്പാകണമായി,

ഒടുവിൽ സംസ്കാരസഞ്ജയ മോഹനകാവ്യമാകുകിൽ,

സദയം എടുത്തുകൊള്ക, സദയം ക്ഷണനം ചെയ്തുകൊള്ക,

കാത്തിരിക്കുന്നു ഞാൻ,

ശൂന്യം. മൗനം.

എന്റെ ഏത് നിമിഷവും നിനക്കു എന്റെ ഹൃദയത്തിൽ നിന്നു അടർത്തിയെടുക്കാം, അതിൽ അർത്ഥവും അർത്ഥശൂന്യതയും ഉണ്ടാകാം. ആ അർത്ഥം നീയും ആ ശൂന്യത ഞാനും ആകുന്നു.

ഉരുക്കിന്റെ ബലിഷ്ഠത ഇല്ല, ആർദ്രമായ വാക്കുകൾ പോലും പറയാൻ ഇല്ല. എന്റെ മൗനമാണ് നിന്നോട് ഉള്ള എന്റെ പ്രണയം.