From the Patria of Palmyras.

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"I am too fond of the stars to be afraid of the darkness".....

Dear Readers.
A warm feeling of homecoming overwhelms me when I address you. I was turning the non existent pages, that so appropriately arranges the random thoughts that rain down from the tempestous abysses of my mind.I rewind to my last post - 'Kaleidoscope'. I find it amusing how our minds are so much similar to the quaint device.We keep turning a kaleidoscope and when and stop only when we see an unusually attractive pattern ignites our fascination.Similar to that, we keep tossing and turning our mind our efforts give rise to a thought that sets our imagination ablaze. It is at moments like those when I come to my blog to spill these thoughts,to prevent them from diminishing into mere fading reminiscences.

As I sit in the balcony,the dusk is slowly dying ,bleeding darkness.The last of the light was scattered in the sky. A scarlet and lilac hue now took over. I heard thunder in the distance.Petrified parrots and crows,with a look of vigil in their deep set,beady eyes,swiftly flew back to their nests on the 'vaga' tree on the other embankment of the jet black road. The 'vaga' tree rose high and spread wide.Branches dividing an innumerable number of times,now a dark silhouette against the bloodshot sky.


What I like about Kerala is that it has a coveted serene silence that is the most congenial atmosphere for me to delve into books  and art. A cocoon of peace

I spent many days living in the worlds of books like 'Sherlock Holmes' and 'The Legends of Khasak'. The first is one of my all time favourites while the latter flung me into a very different world and taught me arcane philosophy through utmost simplicity. The author beautifully conjures a humble village of Khasak whose inhabitants lead extremely simple and detached lives,yet their actions and lives make the reader stop and wander off in a chain of thought. Every line oozes the starkness of Palghat. In Khasak ,time seems to run slow. Ravi,the protagonist is a restless young man in his fiery youth who suddenly enters the slow paced life of Khasak. This clash ,like that of an immovable object with an unstoppable force,teaches the reader many things. Ravi represents us all. Restless,inquisitive and in search of a sarai.

 The author, O.V Vijayan,conjured Khasak from a real village called Thasarak which is not more than a few minutes drive from my place. My father and I decided to visit Thasarak. The drive took us through serpentine roads ,caked with the dust of summer. The roads wove through villages whose virgin  azure sky and green paddy fields lay untouched by the monotonous grey shades of industrialisation. The simplicity was enough to warp back time,hold it still. 

We reached Thasarak .The place was not seem unfamiliar to us.It is not a place of extravagant beauty ,but those who see it from the perspective of Khasak,will see beauty in the harshness and heat of the sun bathed soil.The palm,coconut and green palmyras were a striking contrast to the arid feel the terrain radiated. There stood a small,modest house which housed the author and his restless soul when he wrote 'The Legends of Khasak'. The minarets of the Mosque of thasarak towered above the humble dwellings.As we  wandered,trying to absorb the rusticism,the lens of my camera buzzed frantically in an effort to focus on the fleeting frames.





A faint drumming from a distant temple resonated through the chill,thin night air,incongruous to the quiet of the night.  Its rhythm seemed to rock mother nature into a deep sleep. The night darkened. I pictured the Sultan's fort standing in all regalia,dark and masculine against the night sky. Its foundation strengthened by the legends of yester year.

The stars descended down from the heavens in the mortal form of fireflies and made the environment look like as it if had been lifted straight of a fairy tail. Their incandescent ,translucent bodies mesmerized me.

Playing cricket with my cousins is another thing which draws me towards Kerala. The satisfying clicks and clunks of willow on rubber is music to the ears. The dust unsettled by hurried feet ,the morning sun shining down on us and our small adventures to retrieve the ball after a successful lofted shots are memories that I will keep locked in my treasure chest of nostalgia.

For years ,I had the suadade to feel the mimosa plants ,which I used to so heartily play with when I was young. My quest ended this year when I saw the whole ground teeming with the shy plants. Cowering away graciously at the slightest touch. A great feeling of satisfaction filled me for some unknown reason. 'How is such a small plant making me joyous?' I thought. 'A bond between two insignificant beings' an unknown ethereal voice answered my question.

 Beyond the seemingly unending paddy fields,small vehicles and trucks traversed slowly on the narrow road like nomadic wayfarers searching in the darkness with  torches.

The festive drumming had not stopped.The whole night was inebriated with the rhythm.My eyelids grow heavy too. Retiring to my bed, I gaze once more into the blue- black infinity above me. The whole sky seemed like a grainy movie. Scenes changing rapidly. Pictures of people from nostalgia. The stars seemed like pixels of this paradisaical picture.
Clouds grazed like sheep, blocking the silky moonlight intermittently and plunging the surroundings into dreary darkness.
As I close these pages , a zephyr brings the faint aroma of chrysanthemums.The Neem trees are still swaying.The song of silence sang me to sleep.
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By Sreerag Praful

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