April 2nd 2019, Journal, Memoir, Autobiography,

It's a Journal

The morning was littered with flowers. The sky became a booming canopy.  Tiny poems glided in the sky. The poem rose with the pulchritude of good humor. I feel so contented and happy. I thank Jehovah Jesus for soul talking to me.

I have started reading the gospel of Mark. The fact that Jesus being spiritual and mortal fascinates me. Yes, the Lamb became a lamp that was lit. Spirit enmeshed itself with flesh and lived a life on earth.

In the morning I had to go to Allepy also known as the Venice of the East. Alleppy in God’s Own Country is a tourist paradise. One the one side is a poem of tranquil backwaters and on the other, lush paddy fields.  Birds of all hues and shapes flourish in the paddy fields. The famous Siberian Crane comes to Kerala when it is winter in Russia. One can cruise along the backwaters by renting a boat. My friend Libardi an anthroposophist remarked that the backwaters are the remnants of the sunken continent Atlantis. Is the legend true or a fancy of the mind? We can accept his opinion with poetic license.

All along the way I saw remains of an election campaign. I was made into posters, sprawling cutouts, and to my viewers hands bowed in Namaste and dripped with a cosmetic smile. I can’t imagine that India being a poor country, millions are wasted for elections. Many in India don’t have food to eat, many live in slums and the irony is the Governments voted to power rarely keep their election promises.

A strange incident happened in my life. I was standing outside a shop drinking coffee when the election candidate in our constituency passed by me with bevy of followers. I thought that he will look at me and smile but nothing of that sort happened. He walked passed me totally ignoring me. I am having two thoughts about voting for him.

Now I want to tell a strange legend. It had dials which keep on moving. When it reaches one hour, it chants a rhyme and then chimes. When it is 2 it rings 12 times and when is 1 it rings 10 times. It is highly erratic and eccentric. Still I love it so much. I keep it as a precious objet d’ art.

It is a connoisseur of art. It tries to live many lives. It is in a confused state of being a fictional self and real self. It tries to novel epiphanies and it also plays with the language of meaning. It is literary and philosophical. It travels to continents and places. Sometimes it says to me: hey mister, you are  a poem, you are the many women that you have loved, you are the incense of cloved cigarettes of Jakarta, you are grilled Indonesian fish that you have relished with sumptuousness, you are the aromatic sambal (a mixture lime, chilies, tomatoes to be eaten with rice), you are the winning moves made in a game of chess, you are the disciple who has fondness for Christ, you are an allegory and an epiphany of a self in wonder.

It lies in the living room. One can settle on it with luxury. One can also lie down on it and relax. When lying down on it, it becomes a muse of serendipity. New thoughts violate the privacy of the brain. The mind welcomes them with eagerness.