Voice of the hounding shadow - Life of Planted Stone 4

  

Chapter 1

“I am unable to debate. If someone debates with solid logics, It occurring to me that all their points are impregnable. But once they finish their statement, I begin to unravel their speech. In few moments, this attempt would dissipate too. On my conclusive statements, they would startle as well as get hurted. They tend to believe, I am ignoring them. According to them, I am turning as dream dwelling rougue. Much worse, they think I am unbelievably arrogant. Yet, I have so much things to share with them. Foremost, dear Comrades, I have utmost respect on each one of you. I love you with unadulterated heart”

Arunchalam closing the book, massaging his eyes with the fingers, reclined back in the chair. The wall clock ticking sound alone was audible. It occurred to him, an alive man sitting in front of him who was fretful to share all of his thoughts with him. A person who was alive half a century back. A person’s face he never saw in any photographs. For a person who had no morsel of regard for him, he wrote a letter with the words directly from his heart. Those lines were exact depiction of thoughts of his mind. No other lines he read, transformed as his own internal lines like these lines ever. The humming darkness sprawled outside the window. He had read all of the pages already once. He come across some expectations and apprehensions then. But now, he completely plunged into those prose. He is unable to recompile those. He is unable categorise crucial and unimportant words. Yet, his mind was always pre-occupied with those lines. Even during the other thoughts, this thought was running in the background ceaselessly. Of a sudden, a hole in the time space appeared. With that he is could see the other side clearly. The other side is like exact reflection of the life he is living in this space. “I felt that I always kept myself in total solitude. My loneliness resulted in self-pitiness. To defeat that, I sow and grew the ego. The feel of rejection transformed into my featured ego. I lived in the care of my aunty. Uncle bought the discarded flour sacks in bundle, out of it, he stitched the three years of dresses for my use. Their sons and daughters would wear the lancer clothes. For consuming the rotten porridges in the enamel plate with the citron pickle, for wearing the baggy shorts appeared like the skirts, for having oral thrushes, scabies in hands and legs, fungal infected heels and abnormally big head in the scrawny body, for doing menial service to the cousines, no wonder the fellow kids ill-treated me casting out from their circle. I was not that sound in studies either. I never got a grip in the maths. Had I failed, my schooling would end. Had my education stopped, I would had been forced to do the farming. So I broke my back and came out as school topper in the matriculation examination. As a result, sending me to college was a pride issue for the community. The temple trustee agreed to sponsor my scholarship. I happened to study history and economics. I was not able to recollect the British historical facts. Throbbing with life lessons comprised history, filled with shedded bloods, spilled tears, trashed human lifes. The day I read the book about French revolution by Thomas Carlyle, I was moved so much, the exciting emotions could not be restrained even after night full of walking in the terrace with trembling legs. The summer sky in the Palayamkottai was spotless. By glancing towards the stars, I asked my self “What is my purpose?” thousands time. Originating from some Thazhakudi or Suseendram, leaving the butt mark in the threshold platforms of the houses, earning some surname in the lineages link, I decided not die as humdrum Vellala community man. But what should I do, then? After reading Edward Gibbon’s Rise and Fall of Rome book, in the sanctum pathways of centuries old wind blowing Nellaiyappar Temple, I walked with the bloated eyes. Civilizations are few chapters in a enormous boundless book. There is a street hidden beneath this street. Another street buried below that one. No historian depicted the nihility found in the middle of the history, that abyssal silence, as good as Gibbon. I would rate him in the lines of the greatest writers ever lived in this planet. But my historical findings never helped to get marks. While, my mind intensely debating with the history, I could not converse with fellow students, friends in normal manner. During those days, Ramasundaram came to my town. He spoke in a small meeting arranged by students. His method of evaluating the history, was a eye-opener to me. In his words, history is not the story of the warriors, instead the continuous struggle of entire humanity’s evolution. He also mentioned about the challenge of individual’s greatest possible contribution for history. Although, later I realised those words were mere gap-filler, yet on that moment, inflicting my soul like whiplash, it made me re-born. After that speech, I went on to discuss with him in person. With the beaming countenance, he invited me to meet him in person at the cotton mill office. I was not able to sleep on that night. I was anxiously waiting for dawn, peeking out the window throughout the night. The night was frozen with millions of stars. Simmering flagrance of the red sand was occasionally crossing my nostril. What do I expect? What am I going to do? It was a starting edge of a journey which could potentially change my future. Losing the patience, I went out and had a glance at the gray light glowed streets. There were seven or eight donkeys. Invertedly parked, four hand pulled carts. Streets scattered with discarded papers and banana stems. The pan-leaf bundles were awaiting to open infront of the Nayinar shop. All these were lying in the totally different world of mine. Dreamless, Inpiration-less, dull practical world. I am the idealist aspiring to create a new golden world. As If acknowledging my agony, Sambasiva Iyer’s wife, opened her door with the cow-dung pot.

Immediately, I stepped down and took a bath. I wore my dress in the shivering body. I paused when I was about to apply the holy ash in my forehead. It did not seem appropriate. Yet the empty forehand was constantly disturbing me. I was not a devotee. Yet the holy ash in the forehead was a practise. All the long lasting habits give the sweet memeories. Drying holy ash in the wet body gives enormous pleasure. The scent of the pazhani holy ash is modest, yet it capable of uplifting the mood for long hours. To overcome the missed holy ash, I took my favorite shakespeare book with me which was part of my soul forever. Like a face of the child, the front page of that book is still in my memories. Through the red sand streets where cow-dung water sprayed and the kolams were drawn, I scurried to meet Ramasundaram, relishing the cold winter climate. Cotton mill labour union was a windowless room in that old building. Four of the labours were sleeping on the nut grass mat, remaining were sleeping over the news paper made as mat. The door was open . “ Sir, Sir” I called. Some one appeared from the other side “Come in” said. That was Ramasundaram. He was wearing only the towel. He invited me inside. The room had nothing to sit. We carefully lunged through the gaps between the people who were sleeping. “Are you going to take bath?” I asked. “No, I am done with bath” he said. “ Are you asking me about my towel? My Dhoti and shirt is yet to dry” . I could not understand. He said, he did not have clothes of change. I was baffled. The countryside mind is not used to associate the book reading habit with paucity. “It was visible that you are a reader” said he. I asked “why?”. “Apparently, from the question you asked. You were trying to indirectly show your knowledge.” said He. Had some other told those words, I would have enraged. But no one could anger over Ramasundaram. He was a serene demeanor person. By taking the book, I had in my hand and rummaging through “To be or not to be” said he smilingly. I replied “To be sure”. He continued explaining about Johnson and Coleridge comments on Shakespear. I asked him about critics not accepting Shakespear as one of the greatest writer because he did not write a classical epic. He asked me about my opinion on that. I said all his plays are internally connected to each other. ‘The Tempest’ has all the must have features of a epic’s ending. So combination of all his plays can be elevated to a classical epic level. “Well said. Well said” he laughed. “Awesome” he enjoyed my reply. Initially I thought he was teasing me. Later I heard, first time T.S.Eilliot’s name from his mouth. That genius going to change the entire literary world said Ramasundaram. He said my observation was parallel to his words. One after other the fellow labours woke up. They came out after refreshing. “Do you have some paisa for tea?” asked Ramasundaram. I had only eight anas. “I have only three anas” I said. “ Awesome. We can finish our tiffin itself with that” he rejoiced. The lunch was in the cotton mill’s canteen. Without any worries, we were discussing about Shakespeare. Later we went to Ambis Cafe restaurant and had idly. Each of the labours met us, sponsored a Rasa Vada. Ramasundaram replenished that rasa vada joyfully. On that day I lost my solitude. My skill has found a fitting destination. I still could recollect the efference excitement of that day. From that incident onwards, I became communist. Yes, only this intense feeling will fill the vacuum of my solitude. Atlease for a short while, I had this notion. I worked my fingers to bone in arranging the meetings, pamphlet preparations. During those times, the word “Comrade” gave enormous ecstasy. All those excitments did not last long. The silence began to enshroud me again. Even after exhausting my energy in meetings with hundreds of people, debating with countless members, writing 50 pages, the solitude remained unperturbed. After that day, Ramasundaram never came close to me. KKK never seeped into my heart. I was in need of him, so I tolerated him. My apologies for saying this. You the reader is also unreachable distance from me. My shadow is my only companion. When I stand in the dark night, even this shadow will break with me and would take the companionship of darkness. It would merge with the dark sky sprawling above. During day time, as a pliable friend it would follow me. You must be aware that people say me that I talk with shadow. “ Arunachalam got up by closing that letter. It was late night. It was apparent with her loud breathing that Nagam was sleeping deeply. Emitting the urine smell, Gowri slept with folded fist in the chubby hands. He felt dizziness when he tried to walk. When he closed his eyes, some spooky words whirled around inside the eye lashes. All of a sudden, he felt someone is watching him. Some glittering eyes. “ Who is that?” he asked. He heard some creaking sound as a reply. Black palm tree’s snarling. Arunachalam asked “ Who is that?” in a loud tone. He switched on the lights. “What happened? What happened” Nagam got up intrinsically making sure her saree is covered her bosom. “Nothing. I heard some noise” “It must be cat. Go back to bed. Look at our little rabbit, she urinated once again. She is already 3 years old, yet” “Nagam” “No more words. It is late night” Nagam adjusting her braid went back to bed. He switched off the light. He sharpened his ears for a long time, awaiting to hear that snarling noise.

Chapter 2

“Do you have a few mins to listen my request?” asked Nagam with a tea cup in her hand.

“I am all ears” She placed the tea cup on the table “ Abolish this horrid material” “Which one?” “The one you have been reading day and night. This wicked bundle of letters.” “Dont make a drama out. I am reading this for my article work. Thats all.” “I see you immerse yourself into this all day” “I have to learn something deep” Nagam let out a sigh “Shall I say something? You should not get angry“ “Go ahead” After hesitation “ You have changed a lot” “What do you mean?” “Have you noticed? When was the last time you went to the union office?” Arunchalam was startled. “ I need to finish this piled up work. I am working on a souvenir. You know, I am responsible for that” “I don't care about that. My concern is not that '' Nagammal stumbled to find words and then gained confidence “Let us consult a doctor” said. “What are you blabbering?” “When you are alone, you talk with yourself. When you sit in idle, I clearly notice your lip movement, as if you are saying something” “What am I saying?” He put lots of effort to curtail the distress in his face. “Mostly without sound. Sometimes you say a few words. One day, It occurred to me that you said Isakki. I was terrified” Arunachalam laughed louder attempting to hide him behind that laughter. “ Don’t get frightened. I am just thinking hard. That's all” Nagamma looked at him with tearful eyes. “Listen. Don’t worry about me” “When are you going to finish this creepy article work?” “In a week” “Promise?” “Believe my words. “ “Once you put an end to this stuff, promise me that you will never touch this again” “No. I won't touch this ever” Nagammai gained some composure. “ Who is that lady Isakki?” “She? Veerbadra Pillai's wife. She is no more” When Nagamma left him alone. Arunchalam glanced at that manuscript ridden with fear. What happened to him? Has he started talking with his shadow ? It felt like, tearing those papers maniacally, he should chuck it out. Only then he would be ameliorated from this mental torment. That would be the end to the seething voice of Veerabadra pillai which he has been hearing even in his sleep. But after he set himself free from this, his life would become purposeless. It would turn torpid and absurd. The pain filled stab he gets everytime he reads those letters, makes that as inextricable. This pain gives purpose and meaning to his life. He can never lose that. He began to turn the pages. The long letter addressed to Neelakanda pillai from Veerabadra pillai. It was a reply letter to the former pillai, on his attempt to mend the relationship between later pillai and his wife. “I had thought about this for a long time. Therefore, I have written this letter with a clear state of mind. Are there any points of agreement ever existed between myself and her? Which issue is common between us to mingle and converse naturally? I could never find a single point of consensus in these four years of marriage. My comrades, I mean my former comrades would jump in and lambast me, when I say these. According to them, the above mentioned words show my arrogance. They may conclude, I am solely knowledgeable in the subjects which are my passions. They would go on and say, this is a typical example of the intelligentsia's disdainment towards the common man. Since I hear this same comment in various voices, I too started believing it. Because during early days as communist I too held this notion. In those days, for my inability to understand the mindset of the common man, I censured myself. I am no more bothered about this first impression. In the meantime, I made companionship with a lot of deeply religious yet illiterate people. In every minute of communion with them, I get endearing ecstasies. Nothing on earth, can gauge my respect and love towards them. Below the sky, I can discuss any topic with them. Doors of their gem of the heart wide open, as if waiting for my mild caressing touch. Chakkilian(Arunthathiyar - a scheduled caste) Namakkannu one of such companions. I have been conversing with him without missing a day. If my eyes notice him missing, it will be a disappointing day. I want to share each one of my failures and exciting moments with him. There is nothing in the world that cannot be shared with him. Including the discussion of greatest literature. During the afternoon sunshine, beneath the juke sack blankets, we both used to converse for hours. He can follow my exuberances without losing a drop. Tolstoy wrote about one such simple peasant. In contrast, I often felt this so-called great readers, intellectuals (I am not mentioning specific name to avoid dispute) are closed minds, unbelievably intolerables and boring personalities. For example K.R.S (Let there be a ruckus to say this name), one of the greatest reader rite? He can keep on lecture about Shakespear for days. What is the use? Before end of his first two phrases itself, his brain’s steel cogwheels would begin to creak. Whatever he lets out after that would be mere profane sounds. He would harp on the list e all the authors and their definition of the workers group. Let me say this. By birth, there are two types of humans. One side spiritual people and in the other side worldly people . Even if a worldly person manages the access and also reads all the greatest spiritual books, greatest works of art, he wont move a inch, grasping anything out of it . Not only his talks, feelings and dreams but also his body is materialistic. An illiterate yet spiritual person would keep on refine himself grasping the filtered out the spiritual moments out from the mundane events of life. Illiterate spiritual mind can soundly resonate with the Tolstoy and Shakespear’s words. These two class of people live in totally different worlds. Between these two natural conversation is not possible. They despise each other labeling others as tiresome idiots. If myself and Namakannu live in one world, K.R.S and Isakki belong to the other world. I can never naturally establish companionship with them. You may label my nature as inhumanity. Above mentioned words can be interpreted as pretext of my misanthrope. For a long period of my life, I made genuine effort to love the humans. Using my own words stimulating myself, generating a pseudo elation, elevating that to fake ecstasy, the mind games I played were just utter hogwash. Our progressive literary writers have paved a way to this itching. Fictionalized relationship with ourself (who else? we the educated middle class without doubt) with a worker or prostitute or a vagabond character. Initially the outer appearance of this character will create an extremely revolting impression over others. Of a sudden, inside that squalor character’s skin, rays of greatest humanity would be spurted out. Followed by tearful eyes and tendering heartfelt words. What a novel way of ending the story? All the credit must go to Gorky. I have no doubts in the integrity of Gorky. But his feelings are not unfeigned. He said “Human - What a wonderful word?”. He must have climbed the orgasmic of a peak, chugging himself along, to discover the above quote. It is like self-stimulation. Creating the opposite force with his own fist attaining the peak with own stimulation. End result is above mentioned words. Upon throwing up those words, hovering in the empty space for a while, losing the former vigor , filled with suspicions, his mind would have cooled down. Poor Gorky. No one is as ingenuous as Gorky in my view. He was a naive who mis-interpreted the ecstasies of his mind as spiritual expressions and manifestation of truth. He was cruelly murdered with poison in a unknown inn of an foreign land. Poor Gorky. One of the greatest creator. Yet he allowed his soul to self-defeat while facing the illuminated lies. Instead of placing himself in the league of epic creators, he become one in the line of tsar’s victory singing bard. I am about to talk about Isakkiammai. My decision to marry her chanced in a very accidental moment. First time, I saw her in the Bethlehem estate. And then, in the estate where she originally worked. She was assigned to work on mixing the acid with rubber. I was amazed to find a woman doing such physically demanding work. I was worshiping work and hard workers on those days. My sapless limps could be the reason for this worship. I fancied her as a great case in point of hard work. After that, I talked with her many times. Initially her spotless boldness, brute force and impetus energy made an impression of her as audacious, resolute yet innocent in me. Her huge dark frame of body shone like Dvarapala (Sanctum keeping Twins) statues. You cannot find any other Pillaimar community woman like her frame. According to one Comrade’s findings, this rarity was the main reason for my decision to choose her. It may very well be true. I slowly day by day augmented that intense corporeal appetite. I fapped dreaming of her. It gave me enormous pleasure. I never managed to attain the orgasmic peak when I dreamed about most of the other attractive woman comrades. By no means, they felt like woman to me . But this woman alone was kindling my lust. Therefore I found the complementary force for my body. Need of the body is direct, pronounced and solid. These decisions must be taken prioritizing the need of the body. All these were my that time of thoughts. I failed to pre conceive only one thing. In the dark room where I would be mating with her, I imagined my body as a chiseled dark stone statue. I went to see her over and again. Emitting a salty animal smell, sweating all over the dark body, she would be working hard in the field. Her mouth emits a distinct meat fragrance. Her smile was as pure as a frolicking of an animal. I had nothing but intense arousal feeling every moment of seeing her. Yes, lust is a natural phenomenon. It occurred to me that all these feelings evoked by reading the books as bogus feelings. Did I reject the books? No. I did not want to contrict myself as just a book reader. Isakki did have liking towards me. The main reason was, my liking on her fetched a big respect in her circle of friends. Her smile slowly engulfed me. Each of her visible muscles gently shaked when she laughed. Squinting her eyes, mildly dropping her head back, rocking her throat, she would laugh. Everytime she smiled, it was expressed completely, without leaving any remnant spot in her heart. Most of the Pillaimar community women would constraint the laugh, putting a break in the throat. (These may be the reason for the protruded teeth of the Nanjil area Pillaimar community people.) Her smile seemed idiosyncratic symbol of that new type of life style. Completely liberal society. Nothing needed to be suppressed. K.K.M was aware about everything unfolded in this regard. Once he asked, what was my true intention on her. The directness in his question hurted me. He was in many relationships. Those were short, trouble-free, casual sexual liaisons. K.K.K is always ready to foist the image of theoretical intelligentsia on me, who has no contact with the common people. He could casually and subtly project the outcome of all my actions as practical absurdities. Just his timely smirk would turn my efforts into wasted ideas. Much to my chagrin, I started agreeing with him. Once he grabbed the book in my hand and read the title of that “Classless Society” , “is this about schooless town?” his deliberate ludicrous comment would transform me as unfit imbecile. When K.K.K asked about her, I decided to get him back that idiot tag. I said, I decided to marry her legally. Contrary to my expectation, K.K.K did not get upset with that answer. After a few days, he brought out that marriage discussion. He assumed the role of my brother. One night, in a condescending tone, he loaded me with advice. Just because I had sex with her, I need not marry her. It is not a big deal in their community. There may not be a chance that she was a virgin. My answer was, I am not a feudal age package carrying cattle bull. He had no word to reply. Eventually my marriage happened. Isakki’s parents accepted me with half heart. They did not want to break the customs of their community. During my honeymoon days, I mated with the lady whom I fictionalized in my imagination. Her raunchy clamminess conquering my inner organs, turned those as efferversing unique aroma. When I caressed her sere hands, I got a chill sensation originating in my asshole, spreaded throughout my body. I was frolicking her around caressed her all days. My sparrow like form was never a match to her hawk like physical appetite. I was so blind in foiled lust that I could not even sense her sexually dissatisfied frustration which was vented out as bitterness on me. After a month passed, my libido on her began to crack. I landed back to earth as a normal Saiva Pillai. Her yelling like speak in loud mouth could be overheard throughout the length and breath of the street. She would respond with prattling words to the any stranger’s flirting attempt. Her version of jokes are always full of lascivious words. She could eat the raw dried anchroves. Her mud shack, dishevelled drunkard father and the goats, cattles, dogs welcoming till the kitchen life style were insufferable to me. Above all, her foul mouthed mother, always let out the stream of invectives upon my sight. She was intolerable to the meagre earning, invalid (my eye-glasses are crutches according to her), feeble son-in-law. She perennially complained her daughter on her rejection of a frequent visitor, a salubrious suitor and also for choosing to marry the scrawny haggard. Ayyappan pillai once mentioned me about Thangaraj her first love interest. She never denied her affair with Thangaraj before marriage. I met Thangaraj on my marriage day. In the party office at Marthandam, beneath the array of leaders photoes, red garlands exchanged marriage. In the red saree Isakki appeared exactly like the folklore goddess Isakki amman. Most of the comrades displayed deliberately contrived acts in order to suppress the uneasy feeling caused by the marriage. Thangraj was the only one appeared truly vibrant. I still remember it was one of the clammiest day. All of them were fumbling tumbling inside unventilated room, with sweat outpouring each of the bodies. It was like a black comedy drama moment. Our sexual relationship would be a perfect follow up scene in that black comedy drama. In the first night, in the excitement of seeing her nude black sculpture like body, I slipped my self early . The same slippery scene repeated again and again in the continued days. The intense excitement kindled by her body would shoot out my imagination to the great degree. In the very same moment, I would already be attained the orgasmic peak, she would be just begin to grind herself in the foothill steps of the peak. She will confront my stepping down exhalations filled with disdain and furious. Slowly the regular disappointments transformed into permanent detestment. After the sex, with subtle animalic gestures she started to make me feel like worthless worm. After uttering “Get of me” in a cold voice, she would turn her back. “Such a lame business” she would mumble furiously. She was capable for expressing disgust even with minute gestures like her hairdo tying, dress adjusting. The Fear caused by those deriding gestures turned out to be a cumbersome burden for me. If feel like someone who fretfully carries a glassware with utmost care and attentiveness only to break it through my butter fingers on an unexpected moment. I would turn tearful ridden with guiltiness and humiliation. My grip over that glassware would be fastened as the fear and shame sored. Gathering all the detestment I had over her from my deep, I would be at ready to cuss back at her. Upon the sight of black sculpture like her solid round bosoms, muscular shoulders, pillar like thighs I would get captivated on her once again. I would pull back my despisement, assuming those feelings just as feigning. I would imagine there is a loads and loads of love hidden beneath her apparent hatredness on me. I was accustomed to play that self-defeating puppy game in circles. Sniffing her around, waging my tails, getting permission to lick her at lost getting a painful kick in the ass. Major part of contemptuous and a tiny part of pleasure filled puppy game. She would be munching something during our sex. Once when I was on top of her, she yelled at her mother to untether the cattle. I slided beside her at once, in the fit of musle convolution. I cannot properly depict these in words. I could recollect those memories just as images. Do not disregard these labeling as repugnance stuffs. This is life. All the sublimties emerges out from this loathing base.

As days passed, I got accustomed to her body. I started to believe, when she was collecting cow-dugs, mixing the muds, visibility shaking her reeky bosoms are just the protruded dual fleshes. The sight of the bosomes when the same woman taking bath is arouses the sexual feeling. I happened to see the nudity of Isakki mostly in the unsavoury moments. Once after reaping the green fodder for cows, she was rolling the excessive sweaty dirt of her bosom. Moments after the lust gruntled, I was filled with pure abhorrence. I abhorred herself and everything about her including her house and its environment. She abhorred me more than that. She began to believe the my status in the party as just bogus and the books are the most worthless imbecile pieces in the worldly matters. My scrawny body was a wastrel disappointment to her. Her expressions cannot be put in the box of just women's unfulfilled lust. Something deep which a man can never understand. Once denoting the neighbor lady’s frolicking kid, she said “Only a vital man can give birth to such a kid”. Biological hankering of an ancient animal. She began to look for other men. It cannot be described in word, how and when I found that. From the beginning, there was nothing like limit in her relationship with men. But now a days, during her flirting with men, her voice would effuse the smoothness, her fingers would pass through caressing all the chubby parts of her body. Her body would assume a showy posture. It would be manifested in her deliberate stretching of her neck, walking flair. This was not the same body mannerisms of her during our relationship. This is hankering. Yes hankering. It evoked wet dreams to me. In my dreams, I was endowed with muscular form and adept in ruthlessly overpower her carnal cravings. Her longing moments was patching up our relationship in my dream. Once the dream dissipated, I was filled with exasperation and nauseating feel on her. Once the exasperation ebbed out, I dreamed again. We both began to live in our own versions of day dreams. I fictionlized her as a modest, compact, fearful tiny girl. Her hankerings were limited there. On the other side, I possessed the unlimited vigorous intensity. With this mindset, I deduced that Isakki is also living in her version of day dream. Aided by these complementary day dreams, we managed to enter and sustain a short lived physical intimacy for the first time. Drawing a masculinity from her and femininity in me, we mated without much ado. In the moments of intimacy our drawn pictures dissolved. We became aware of the mutual pleasures in the real bodies. After those moments passed the desolate chasm raised between us. We both felt like we were unfaithful to each others. At the end of every sexual session, I was about say, I can perceive that you did not mate me now. In the fear of If I utter that It would shatter my fictionalized day dreams, I wont say that. Once we are done, amidst the darkness, I would be picking the pieces of that day dream and try to re-draw a single picture out of it. During this process, the course of the night would bumping into something, would make a creaking halt. In that moment, there would be a spurt of massive venom which wipe out entire humanity. That venom would be as strong as Adisesha’s poison. It can blaze all the three worlds. I overly indulged in masturbation in the major junk of my life time. I must write about this elaborately. I am not seeing you some one sitting in the opposite side instead seeing you as my conscience. Like any common man, I too was habituated to this since my adolescent. Sometimes it would completely occupy my entire lonely time. This would take a break, only when I am in the course of other urges. After many days of marriage, once, when I Isakki was asleep, smelling her body fragrance and gently nudging her body, I masturbated. It turned out to be a wonderful experience. Infusing the real body fragrance of Isakki, I gave life to the fictionalized picture of Isakki of my dreams. When I mated with this synthesized image in my imagination, I felt like reached detained masculinity. Soon just her dresses were sufficient to entice this routine. From that moment onwards, all my sexual association with her turned only as masturbation. When I began to stay in the party office in nights leaving her alone in home, I got addicted to this habit like junkie. Let me tell this, Comrade. People with strong imagination attain their best sexual moments only through the masturbation. Only when masturbating with the same hand of writing, a writer reaches the peak of sexual pleasure. From my young age, I stored eye-picked indelible images of all shape of women bodies. My mind is a warehouse of infinite women images. Women, their fleshes, private part hair, body fluid leaking image, body flagrances, flesh squeezing sounds . You are about strike out these lines labeling as obscenity. Comrade, sex is not a docile domestic animal. A contraption vehicle with no speed limit and no control. Yes it has the easily accessible throttle lever. But it has no stopping lever. It would stop only when out of fuel. Imagine on how far this lust is taking the humans. Few of them, fearing lust, managed to estabhish a tight bond with some branch of spiritual tree, like Arunagirinadar. Few of them, terrified with lust, tore the hell of leather in circle only to confront the lust in the opposite side, like Leo Tolstoy. Some others, cheekily pinching the belly of that sleeping Rakshasa, only to feed generous ounces of their own blood for that Raksasa’s awaken thirst and rejoice it over, like Maupassant. There are countless various experiment models with lust. Lust is a blood exuding succulent flesh which extended from the tangible mass. Lust is a silent phase amidst the waves of efferversing thoughts. No not that. It is not the organs. When the effect of that organ, stirring the stored lascivious images, the final collage output is lust. I once had this thought when I was masturbating. What sort of air I am pumping inside me with this hand pump. Are these lump of images discharged from the dreams of millions and millions of mens? Where do these images go hide in the climatic explosive moments? On that fissure created in the climatic moments, there is just the purse space of white with no shade of these images. Kalidasha in Kumara Sambavam elaborately described about the Lord Siva and Goddess Parvathi metamorphing in animal forms, bird forms, worm forms made love jubilantly. Comrade, they are continuing the eternal mating. Our grounded mating is also an abstract element of their game of mating. Dissatisfied Lord Siva raised to bless us in the form of lingam. Over his palpitating edge of ardour, the universe is spaced cosmically. I did not fail to notice the change in Isakki’s attitude. After she completely ditched me out from her world, she gained back her fervor and laugher. My mind left with just a sloghed off blurred image of her early form. When I look back, my lust experiment was just the extended version of Russian aristocrat writer’s imagination. Sturdy bodied working class peoples world can never be perceived by Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Kuprin or Chekov. This is the world of violent friction, cut-throat competition with no empathy or no weaklinesses. The escaping excuses of the weak bodied aristocrat class people is not applicable here. Here, there is no inability induced dissatisfied dreams. Living in this world is like living in jungle. On the other side, we have created our sewage gutters in the cities, as a total contrast to the bloomish green of this forest. We live and hatch the lives in those shacks of the dense dark alleys. Those alleys in the long sight called as streets, cities and countries. Curtailing ourselves in these narrow alleys, limiting ourselves, caging ourselves, sticking on each others or at the minimal burying our heads below the soil, are the essential traits of the life here. Our ladies, yes our beloved Pillaimar caste ladies. Let me pronounce as Velladichi (colloquial term for Pillai community ladies), how delicious this term to tongues as if saying fat rodents. When these ladies christened Umayammai or Kolammai venture out in the morning to draw the kolam, their contrived embarrassment is a sight to behold. They threw their glances in both the sides. Upon realizing the sight of stranger man passes by, they run hell back into house. She peek out from the dark. She squeaks, hisses and chirps. She crawl in the edge of the wall. She posses sharp fingers and fangy tooths. With these, She keep on burrowing their space. If you happen the slither in that burrowing path, you will be traveling the entire length of the city through a warm marshy wet secret path. This has so many forked out, meandering paths, some times it may turn as unresolvable riddling path. I am so fortunate to miss the bus to marry a template Velladichi lady. Comrade, here it is endowed with long open scintillating meadows. Only the creatures with robust limps and strong jaw bones can survive here. It is blessed with sunshine, fresh air and independency in every aspects. But there is no place for weaks here. These weaklings die lamenting that there is no justness here. I dreamed to secure an abode in the shoulder of a pasterland wild animal. That animal abandoned me. Once I came to know that she started living with Thangaraj and also the news of her pregnancy, I was just booted out from the party and began to live alone. In that phase of life, I was accepting more over relishing the bumps and bruises of lifes with open arms. I was in self-sabotaging mode and in the spree to simulate the jones of agony over and again. I was in the believe that entire world despised me. I seeked the pleasure in poking that blood exuding wound. Self pitying enshrouding my entire solitude time turned as delightful game. In those days, I was day dreaming that I was crucified only to resurrected in the next day. I was forced to exile in the scorching desert and finally found by some unknown person. Yes Comrade, I identified as a twin soul of Bukharin. I earnestly longed for the very same fateful end of his. In the expectation of getting redeemed by someone from the future, I wanted to wait in the middle of a snow field. I wanted all my thoughts transpired into words which would blossome the bright colored flowers over the soils of my graveyard. But I am not Bhukarin. His memories were guarded, recollected and over and over echoed in the space above by the efforts of his young wife. Who will be there to find me in future? I will be cursed forever with no redemption. I think, there will be no conscience driven soul would find me in future. No, No, All these are all my self-loathing feelings. The future is mysterious, filled with infinite possibilities. There may be a seed already sowed which would sprout out in the right moment and find me in future. May be, I am writing this absurdly lengthy letter to touch the soft spot of that soul’s heart. Once my soul bids bye to this body, I will be liberated. After that I will not be caged in the prison of three worlds. I will leap fast in future and track down the sowed soul. Once I find it, I will water it and nurture it to bloom it and give my soul to it Aftermath of Isakki’s pregnancy news, I never saw her again. Her son may be three years old by now. Many of my former friends told me that she is claiming him as my son. I have reached the end of my life. I have nothing left in me except tinge of consciousness and the small lump of flesh. Many times, I believed that because of this fate so violently doomed my life, I can love no one in the world. But in this moment, her son, no no. I love my son. During the days I lived with her, one thought was bumbling my mind that she may not be virgin. That form, that bosoms, those thighs, those secret fleshy path, some other man already journeyed and savoured it. You may wonder when I state the disgust evoked by this thought mysteriously augmented the fervour of sex. It sounds strange. Yes thats how the human mind works, queerily. The fact that blood runs in his body belongs to some other man, amplifies the love over him is manifoldly. I fancy that my son would be a much refined version of me in future. Nothing but, my love and affection on him is bubbling from me without any barrier in this moment.

Chapter 3

Arunchalam arrived to party office in the afternoon. Swamykannu was the only one present there. Office building was whitewashed recently. The old wall photoes of the leaders were replaced by a modern art picture of Marx, Engles, Lenin collage faces. Breakages fixed, ceilings’s cobweb cleared, renovated building although appeared clean and striking, yet everywhere there was a feel of emptiness.

Arunachalam sat over the chair. He found that there was no letter pending for him to sign. All the files were orderly arranged in a new hard bound register book. He took one of the file and examined it. It was monthly expenditure report. In all those letters, Narayanan signed in the place where Arunachalam supposed to sign. Placing back the files, Arunachalam closing his eyes reclined back in the chair. He could not focus his thoughts at single point. He felt like someone anxiously anticipating some big event to unfold. Butterflies in his belly turned as invariable feeling for him. Everytime he attempted to get some sleep, this feeling got shoot up. With no other choice, he would get up and start reading those letters again. Sometimes he would just rummage through it. He would go back to sleep, upon failure, he would continue the above mentioned workflow in cycles. Only if he fell asleep by chance, this cycle would end. Oftentimes, he fell asleep leaning over the reading table with lights switched on. Irrespective of this, Veerabadra pillai’s letter’s reading ritual gave him unprecedented rapturous feeling beyond anything he experienced thus far. It gave enormous focus and zeal for his every living moment. Sleep depravation for months causing dark circles around his eyes, made him appear fatigued at all times. Most of the time his thought flow was catatonic. Upon dashing into some new broiling thought, combused thoughts would be twitched and flittered. As if got fire in the tail it would dash at full tilt through the hills, pasterland, plains, at last losing out all the energy at some location it would make a halt. During the day time his thought flow would be swinging back and forth aimlessly. Of a sudden, ashamed by this idleness, he would attempt to start writing something in paper only would end up in scribbling few meaningless words. His mind would not establish a natural flow in the course of writing. Filled with hallow feeling, he would tear the paper apart furiously. To break this mental block, if he decided to go for a walk, the thoughts about the Veerabadra pillai would begin to hound him. On discerning a hunch of some imminent tragic event, he would get terrified. On day when he was walking, he had a recollection of some annoying incidents about Nagammai’s brother. Suddenly, he felt like all those thoughts were already depicted in the letters of Veerabadra Pillai. Terrified Arunchalam peed few drops. Arunchalam losing last ounce of mental strength, squatted over the culver of the street at once, perceiving that his thighs are trembling with no control. In the effort to bring back to the normal sate, he breathed in and out hard and asked himself, what sort of craziness is this? He realized that in the recently few days, most of his mind’s thought flow have been transformed into the Veerbadra pillai’s world of words. Vice versa, the words that Veerabadra pillai’s written in the letters were transformed into his own thoughts. Otherwise why did he plan to meet Isakki and rile up complaints? Arunachalam felt horrified. Am I in the starting stage of depression? No my mind is already in disarray. Do people turn insane in this way only? When the line between the reality and imagination gets blurred slowly. At present he is capable of distinguishing between these two regions. Is his fear of turning insane actually a sign of he is really in sound mind. Isn't it? His extreme involvement into Veerabardra pillai letters, combining with his fatigness may be the reason of this illusion. With this argument he managed to set his mind back to normalcy. When he returned back into home, his mind appeared sound and clear. He again started reading the Veerbadra pillai’s letters. By constructing and anchoring immaculate self-consciousness and counter argument, he decided to establish a lakshman rekha between the words of Veerabadrai pillai’s world and his own thought flow. As a result, comburent words during last reading, now turned as just trivial words. Veerabadra pillai keep on stuffing the foamy excitement into the words. He keep on linking the supporting information to escalate the flimsy excited state. “Yes, Comrade, Man is a lonely animal. He is wresting to break the loneliness. Impelled by companionship, foeship and blood he is able to form relationships with other fellow humans. But above all, only with ‘sacrifice’ he could establish glorious relationships. Sacrifice cannot be brushed aside. Emboldened by this venturesome feeling called sacrifice, he is attempting to crack the boundaries drawn by his ‘self’. On relinquishing word ‘I’ , he is elevating himself to procure the word ‘we’ . Is this a promotion ? No it is for power. Power is the natural child the sacrifice strives to produce. “ This is his style. After the formation such statements with these sort of words, his intensity fizzles out. Followed by self-depreciation, mockery, demotivating words. Yet, Arunchalam horrified instigated with same feeling once again. The lines he read during the first time, gone missing now. Is this hallucination? He gathered his wit and thoroughly revised the letters in the bundle. Yes it is true, so many pages are missing. There is no hint of existence of those pages. In that case, are all those his own words of imagination? Closing those letters, he scurried out from home with his blood running cold. Trees and red soil floors were simmering in the hot sunshine. Yes these objects present here are real. These are definitely not my disturbed mind’s illusion. I am here standing over this warm soil. I can grab and hang on the branches of these trees. In that case, What was that illusioned truth then? All the thoughts were coursing in my mind? The name Arunachalam? My Self-concept? My labour union? Yes, I forgot union for a while. I must return back there. When that huge mechanical device with impeachable iron like protocols runs, his self would be moving sticking along with that. One character in the H.G.Wells novel drinks a potion and loses his weight. What is the name of that novel? The part of brain’s memory which stored that name is void now. He returned back. The naive man who loses all the weight begins to levitate in air away from earth, like a helium gas filled ballon. He is fumbling to grab everything possible in the earth. Gravitational effort of the sky tears his limps apart. He expresses desolate words in fear “ Dear Earth god, hold me tight. Do not lose me” . His friend gives him a lead metal jacket. With this metal jacket, he tethers himself to earth and lives like any other human. But the condition is, even in his sleep, he should not remove that jacket. In case he removes, he will be ejected out into the vacuum sky through the atmosphere. He will be floating lonely directionless in the empty space. Alas, what sort of dooming it would be? My association with the union is my metal jacket. I must never lose that. It has been a long time since I last visited there. He did not bequeath his power to Narayanan. No definitely not. One day in past, Narayanan came to his home, getting sign in a paper, he transferred the power by himself. Yes it was a conspiracy. Perhaps when he decided to go back, the union would have been turned upside down. He may be anxiously waiting outside the threshold because there would be no space for him in union. He went to Nagammai and told that he decided to go to Union office as usual. She was stunned to hear from him. Without waiting for her reply, he started to union office by wearing the shirt. When his kick ignited the moped, his memory puked two names H.G.Wells and Pyecrafts. What does this mean? Why these memories should resurface all of a sudden? There is something wrong with my mind. Someone told same words to me. Who was it? Suddenly it occurred to me that , he read those lines in the letter H.G.Wells wrote to him. Why did he write that letter to him? Who is he really ? Pyecrafts? He could not recollect the face. Exhausted Arunachalam closing that page, attempted to redirect his mind to some other place. “Comrade, would you like to have tea?”

Arunachalam baffled. “What did you say?”

“I thought, you are in need of tea now” “No. Not needed” Swamykannu stood there in silence for few mins. After some hesitation, he departed from that place. He thought about to meet Bhaskaran visiting his home. What can he say to him? Does he want to divulge that Veerbadra pillai is not really his biological father? What is use of that? His love and affection and the pending ritual he wanted to finish for his diseased father is the only meaning to his life. Why should I punish him by taking away that driving force of his life? It is like murdering his soul. So, what is the real bond between the humans? Definitely not blood. Something which is nobler than blood relationship. What is that then? He nodded his head. In a far away distance, someone is speaking with some other one in a fiery tone or someone is orating in a stage. “The earth that we live is surrounded by air. Have we ever thought about this atmosphere of air? This air runs through every single creature of the world. Like the flow of thread headed by needle stitches the wool, this air interlaces through all the livings in the world and forms a gigantic web. This air contains the breaths of our ancestors. Water is a mega solvent of millions of tons of of salts, soluble air and minerals. The fishes do not have any knowledge about the water, yet they live and breath in the water. We live in the mercy of air. It is an enormous solvent of millions and millions of dead and alive’s dreams, thoughts, believes, sorrows. Isnt it? This medium is ubiquitous all around us, sometimes it is in the state of volatile, sometimes spurmes white-caped waves, sometimes rushing towards some direction augmenting into gigantic cyclones, sometimes motionless, sometimes condensed into cold ice state. This air in any state, can reach the deepest cells of us, perforated through our blood. Spreading through the cells of our brain it emerges as our thoughts. Believe me, Comrade, Our thoughts are our ancestor’s thoughts. Their seeds are fountainhead of our imagination. We are bewitched by their personality. Their unresolved thirst kindles our concupiscence feeling. Our ancestors silently mate every woman we make love, through us. They reach our women’s womb chamber, nipple of bosoms, tender kisses. Arunachalam sprang up from the chair. He went to next room by opening the door. There was no soul except two newspapers fluttering by the air through the windows. Inviolable silence prevailed for few mins. He heard some men whispering noise from the next room. Of a sudden, he heard some strange tone. In totally different contour. It was like tingle evoking tone when someone is gossiping a third person’s personal details. “Who are these guys seep through me, during my masturbating moments? The experts who disregard them labeling as shades of suppressed subconscious images are idiots. These guys are here perennially. How vividly I can see their bodies? How strongly I sense the odour of their bodies? Sometimes strring my loneliness, they wake me up with their compassionate touch of their smooth fingers. They persuade me to masturbate. Only on those moments, they can venture towards this region unfurling the screen. Caressing feel of their sweaty tender skin nudging on my body, can be perceived clearly sometimes, in my half sleepy state. They are here always, all around me. They are not in ones, tens or thousands. Billions of souls. Countless womens. Ocean of human bodies. They are unbounded by time or space. One of the yoni gets hold the control of my hand. In Fact not only one. Through the cup of my hand, in every moment, so many yonis caresses me. I submitted total access of my left hand to them. It has travelled to the long distance into the other world. After I ejacuate my last drop in the form of my life, my body will return back from their world unsatisfied. The nose filling fragrance will be the only remnant from their world. Every human can feel this invariably. His ancestor’s libido from the other world, gets extended into this world during the first lust introduction moment of every human. Every man performs this self lust sacrificing ritual only to satisfy the thirst of his ancestors. Aftermath the first lust introduction, the meeting with real woman is just further more access to the various other body shades of the ancestors world. The sperm every man deposits in the yoni of this world’s real lady is actually, depositing the sperm in that infinite world by mating with the body image of inhumanes. The life conceived after that is nothing but transformation a pre-formed soul from that word’s to this word’s tangible body” Arunchalam got up. He felt like peeing. Some one is playing trick with his mind, randomly talking in different rooms surrounded. He went out opening the door. It seemed like evening time. He could not grasp the path. When the walked ahead he was knocked by a wall. The street appeared square shaped. His next few minutes of attempt to walk ended up on colliding with different walls. He shouted “Samikannu” in fearful tone. When there was no reply, he yelled his lungs out over and again. Samikannu dashed in and switched on the lights. Only after that, he realised it was a store room. Arunachalam startled how he arrived there. Samikannu’s piercingly glanced Arunachalam.

Chapter 4

Arunachalam sat over the chair. He found that there was no letter pending for him to sign. All the files were orderly arranged in a new hard bound register book. He took one of the file and examined it. It was monthly expenditure report. In all those letters, Narayanan signed in the place where Arunachalam supposed to sign. Placing back the files, Arunachalam closing his eyes reclined back in the chair. He could not focus his thoughts at single point. He felt like someone anxiously anticipating some big event to unfold. Butterflies in his belly turned as invariable feeling for him. Everytime he attempted to get some sleep, this feeling got shoot up. With no other choice, he would get up and start reading those letters again. Sometimes he would just rummage through it. He would go back to sleep, upon failure, he would continue the above mentioned workflow in cycles. Only if he fell asleep by chance, this cycle would end. Oftentimes, he fell asleep leaning over the reading table with lights switched on. Irrespective of this, Veerabadra pillai’s letter’s reading ritual gave him unprecedented rapturous feeling beyond anything he experienced thus far. It gave enormous focus and zeal for his every living moment. Sleep depravation for months causing dark circles around his eyes, made him appear fatigued at all times. Most of the time his thought flow was catatonic. Upon dashing into some new broiling thought, combused thoughts would be twitched and flittered. As if got fire in the tail it would dash at full tilt through the hills, pasterland, plains, at last losing out all the energy at some location it would make a halt. During the day time his thought flow would be swinging back and forth aimlessly. Of a sudden, ashamed by this idleness, he would attempt to start writing something in paper only would end up in scribbling few meaningless words. His mind would not establish a natural flow in the course of writing. Filled with hallow feeling, he would tear the paper apart furiously. To break this mental block, if he decided to go for a walk, the thoughts about the Veerabadra pillai would begin to hound him. On discerning a hunch of some imminent tragic event, he would get terrified. On day when he was walking, he had a recollection of some annoying incidents about Nagammai’s brother. Suddenly, he felt like all those thoughts were already depicted in the letters of Veerabadra Pillai. Terrified Arunchalam peed few drops. Arunchalam losing last ounce of mental strength, squatted over the culver of the street at once, perceiving that his thighs are trembling with no control. In the effort to bring back to the normal sate, he breathed in and out hard and asked himself, what sort of craziness is this? He realized that in the recently few days, most of his mind’s thought flow have been transformed into the Veerbadra pillai’s world of words. Vice versa, the words that Veerabadra pillai’s written in the letters were transformed into his own thoughts. Otherwise why did he plan to meet Isakki and rile up complaints? Arunachalam felt horrified. Am I in the starting stage of depression? No my mind is already in disarray. Do people turn insane in this way only? When the line between the reality and imagination gets blurred slowly. At present he is capable of distinguishing between these two regions. Is his fear of turning insane actually a sign of he is really in sound mind. Isn't it? His extreme involvement into Veerabardra pillai letters, combining with his fatigness may be the reason of this illusion. With this argument he managed to set his mind back to normalcy. When he returned back into home, his mind appeared sound and clear. He again started reading the Veerbadra pillai’s letters. By constructing and anchoring immaculate self-consciousness and counter argument, he decided to establish a lakshman rekha between the words of Veerabadrai pillai’s world and his own thought flow. As a result, comburent words during last reading, now turned as just trivial words. Veerabadra pillai keep on stuffing the foamy excitement into the words. He keep on linking the supporting information to escalate the flimsy excited state. “Yes, Comrade, Man is a lonely animal. He is wresting to break the loneliness. Impelled by companionship, foeship and blood he is able to form relationships with other fellow humans. But above all, only with ‘sacrifice’ he could establish glorious relationships. Sacrifice cannot be brushed aside. Emboldened by this venturesome feeling called sacrifice, he is attempting to crack the boundaries drawn by his ‘self’. On relinquishing word ‘I’ , he is elevating himself to procure the word ‘we’ . Is this a promotion ? No it is for power. Power is the natural child the sacrifice strives to produce. “ This is his style. After the formation such statements with these sort of words, his intensity fizzles out. Followed by self-depreciation, mockery, demotivating words. Yet, Arunchalam horrified instigated with same feeling once again. The lines he read during the first time, gone missing now. Is this hallucination? He gathered his wit and thoroughly revised the letters in the bundle. Yes it is true, so many pages are missing. There is no hint of existence of those pages. In that case, are all those his own words of imagination? Closing those letters, he scurried out from home with his blood running cold. Trees and red soil floors were simmering in the hot sunshine. Yes these objects present here are real. These are definitely not my disturbed mind’s illusion. I am here standing over this warm soil. I can grab and hang on the branches of these trees. In that case, What was that illusioned truth then? All the thoughts were coursing in my mind? The name Arunachalam? My Self-concept? My labour union? Yes, I forgot union for a while. I must return back there. When that huge mechanical device with impeachable iron like protocols runs, his self would be moving sticking along with that. One character in the H.G.Wells novel drinks a potion and loses his weight. What is the name of that novel? The part of brain’s memory which stored that name is void now. He returned back. The naive man who loses all the weight begins to levitate in air away from earth, like a helium gas filled ballon. He is fumbling to grab everything possible in the earth. Gravitational effort of the sky tears his limps apart. He expresses desolate words in fear “ Dear Earth god, hold me tight. Do not lose me” . His friend gives him a lead metal jacket. With this metal jacket, he tethers himself to earth and lives like any other human. But the condition is, even in his sleep, he should not remove that jacket. In case he removes, he will be ejected out into the vacuum sky through the atmosphere. He will be floating lonely directionless in the empty space. Alas, what sort of dooming it would be? My association with the union is my metal jacket. I must never lose that. It has been a long time since I last visited there. He did not bequeath his power to Narayanan. No definitely not. One day in past, Narayanan came to his home, getting sign in a paper, he transferred the power by himself. Yes it was a conspiracy. Perhaps when he decided to go back, the union would have been turned upside down. He may be anxiously waiting outside the threshold because there would be no space for him in union. He went to Nagammai and told that he decided to go to Union office as usual. She was stunned to hear from him. Without waiting for her reply, he started to union office by wearing the shirt. When his kick ignited the moped, his memory puked two names H.G.Wells and Pyecrafts. What does this mean? Why these memories should resurface all of a sudden? There is something wrong with my mind. Someone told same words to me. Who was it? Suddenly it occurred to me that , he read those lines in the letter H.G.Wells wrote to him. Why did he write that letter to him? Who is he really ? Pyecrafts? He could not recollect the face. Exhausted Arunachalam closing that page, attempted to redirect his mind to some other place. “Comrade, would you like to have tea?” Arunachalam baffled. “What did you say?” “I thought, you are in need of tea now” “No. Not needed” Swamykannu stood there in silence for few mins. After some hesitation, he departed from that place. He thought about to meet Bhaskaran visiting his home. What can he say to him? Does he want to divulge that Veerbadra pillai is not really his biological father? What is use of that? His love and affection and the pending ritual he wanted to finish for his diseased father is the only meaning to his life. Why should I punish him by taking away that driving force of his life? It is like murdering his soul. So, what is the real bond between the humans? Definitely not blood. Something which is nobler than blood relationship. What is that then? He nodded his head. In a far away distance, someone is speaking with some other one in a fiery tone or someone is orating in a stage. “The earth that we live is surrounded by air. Have we ever thought about this atmosphere of air? This air runs through every single creature of the world. Like the flow of thread headed by needle stitches the wool, this air interlaces through all the livings in the world and forms a gigantic web. This air contains the breaths of our ancestors. Water is a mega solvent of millions of tons of of salts, soluble air and minerals. The fishes do not have any knowledge about the water, yet they live and breath in the water. We live in the mercy of air. It is an enormous solvent of millions and millions of dead and alive’s dreams, thoughts, believes, sorrows. Isnt it? This medium is ubiquitous all around us, sometimes it is in the state of volatile, sometimes spurmes white-caped waves, sometimes rushing towards some direction augmenting into gigantic cyclones, sometimes motionless, sometimes condensed into cold ice state. This air in any state, can reach the deepest cells of us, perforated through our blood. Spreading through the cells of our brain it emerges as our thoughts. Believe me, Comrade, Our thoughts are our ancestor’s thoughts. Their seeds are fountainhead of our imagination. We are bewitched by their personality. Their unresolved thirst kindles our concupiscence feeling. Our ancestors silently mate every woman we make love, through us. They reach our women’s womb chamber, nipple of bosoms, tender kisses. Arunachalam sprang up from the chair. He went to next room by opening the door. There was no soul except two newspapers fluttering by the air through the windows. Inviolable silence prevailed for few mins. He heard some men whispering noise from the next room. Of a sudden, he heard some strange tone. In totally different contour. It was like tingle evoking tone when someone is gossiping a third person’s personal details. “Who are these guys seep through me, during my masturbating moments? The experts who disregard them labeling as shades of suppressed subconscious images are idiots. These guys are here perennially. How vividly I can see their bodies? How strongly I sense the odour of their bodies? Sometimes strring my loneliness, they wake me up with their compassionate touch of their smooth fingers. They persuade me to masturbate. Only on those moments, they can venture towards this region unfurling the screen. Caressing feel of their sweaty tender skin nudging on my body, can be perceived clearly sometimes, in my half sleepy state. They are here always, all around me. They are not in ones, tens or thousands. Billions of souls. Countless womens. Ocean of human bodies. They are unbounded by time or space. One of the yoni gets hold the control of my hand. In Fact not only one. Through the cup of my hand, in every moment, so many yonis caresses me. I submitted total access of my left hand to them. It has travelled to the long distance into the other world. After I ejacuate my last drop in the form of my life, my body will return back from their world unsatisfied. The nose filling fragrance will be the only remnant from their world. Every human can feel this invariably. His ancestor’s libido from the other world, gets extended into this world during the first lust introduction moment of every human. Every man performs this self lust sacrificing ritual only to satisfy the thirst of his ancestors. Aftermath the first lust introduction, the meeting with real woman is just further more access to the various other body shades of the ancestors world. The sperm every man deposits in the yoni of this world’s real lady is actually, depositing the sperm in that infinite world by mating with the body image of inhumanes. The life conceived after that is nothing but transformation a pre-formed soul from that word’s to this word’s tangible body” Arunchalam got up. He felt like peeing. Some one is playing trick with his mind, randomly talking in different rooms surrounded. He went out opening the door. It seemed like evening time. He could not grasp the path. When the walked ahead he was knocked by a wall. The street appeared square shaped. His next few minutes of attempt to walk ended up on colliding with different walls. He shouted “Samikannu” in fearful tone. When there was no reply, he yelled his lungs out over and again. Samikannu dashed in and switched on the lights. Only after that, he realised it was a store room. Arunachalam startled how he arrived there. Samikannu’s piercingly glanced Arunachalam.

Narayanan came to home and invited Arunchalam to meet Theerthamalai. Awaited Theerthamalai as always smoking the Chokkalal beedi, was reading something in news-paper. Narayanan parking his two wheeler, “ Get inside, Comrade” said. Throughout the journey both did not talk even a word. “Come in, Comrade” said Theerthamalai. He was taken a back upon noticing the physical and face transformation of Arunchaalam. “You look totally different” Arunchalam smiled. Theerthamalai noticed trumbling fingers of Arunachalam. “I heard you are in the reading spree” said he. “Yes” Said Arunachalam. He realised his lips were quivering too. Theerthamali putting his arm around the shoulder of Arunchalam and asked “ What is your problem, Comrade? Feel free to share it with me” “I dont have any problem” “Relax Comrade. I am here because of the detailed letter of Narayanan. It has been five months since your last union activity” “I plunged into work a lot” “What work?” “Reading” “Can you be specific?” “Too many different stuffs” “It is about Veerabadra Pillai. Isnt it?” Terrified, Veerabadra pillai rose his head. He felt like something forcing him in the back, when he was standing at the edge of a canyon. “Tell me, Comrade. It is about Bukharin right?” It was an investigation in real sense. But the fake friendly tone deliberately imbibed to normalize the situation. Ramasundaram’s glance through his shatterproof specs would make his eyes appear like penetrating dual sharp lights. When he turns his head to other side, those eyes would float in air for few seconds, before following up with head’s direction. Without establishing a proper eye contact with a fellow debater, we cannot have faithfull hearty conversation. During the early days, zealous Ramasundaram used to have twinkling eyes. His extensive study in philosophy, the height he managed to achieve in the party’s power ladder, innumerous stage speeches and articles he wrote, all together prisoned his efferversing eyes behind that unassailable glass doors. His charm lost eyes fighting hard to break out that prison. Now a days, when he is talking with me, it is occuring as a lifeless flesh of human body used for examination. Some lines, I read through me, was recklessly coursing inside my mind. “ Veerapadra Pillai startled with quivering body. The events which are happening there, has been recollected as written lines of some book. “What is the reason behind this suddenly sparked interest over Bhkharin, Comrade?” “No reason” said Veerabadra Pillai. Theerthamalai without losing patience “ You must open the reason with me” said in English. “I cannot clearly explain the exact reason. Suddenly caught with the desire in the mind. It engulfed me completely” “Are you in control ?” “Certainly., I do” said Veerbadrapillai suspiciously. “Truly?” “I cannot explain it further, Comrade” “Your answer is not adequate” “Forgive me, Comrade” “Listen to my words clearly. Erase everything from your memory” “But Bukharin refusing to delete me” “What do you mean?” Theerthamalai shouted. Arunachalam shook himself. “What non sense is this ?” “What?” Arunchalam startled. “There is never someone called Veerbadra Pillai in our Party. This is my stand and as well as party’s official stand. “Dont think I am unaware that. In spite of that, Bukharin is not just a name. Nikolai Ivanovich Bukharin. It is sound. It is a mantra. Many humans come alive originating from that sound perennially. My beloved humans. Despondent faced humans. So many of them are filling my horizon. Bukharin was erased from the memories of the history, Comrade. Yet, Crossing the half of the globe distance and he came to alive right in front my eyes. “

Theerthamalai continued in a restraint tone ” In 1950s when Ranadive Thesis visited Kanyakumari, thousand members broke away from the party. Three of the hardcore members who spilled their blood during the Government’s crack down operations, left the party when we officially embraced Democracy. Only handful of them, managed to survive with some dignity. Rest others perished in disgrace, losing the personality, turning drunkard. Some of them turned bourgeois. Why should we need to go that far. Recently, when the Naxalite movement attained momentum, 800 members left the party. One among them was Venugopalan, my dear friend. He was like a twin brother to me. We lived as roommates in 4 long years. Very few party members would have read the front cover page of the books he read. We believed, he had a bright future in the party state level and National level. He is now a vagabond near Petchi parai dam. Last year, When I was on my way to a seminar, blocking my car, “Good morning, Comrade. Long live revolution. Please offer me 50 rupees” asked he. I was completely shattered. What can we do for this fate? Comrade. “ In a much more pacifying tendered tone “ I can completely emphasize the storm of your mind. Party must jettison some of the misfits on its course. Sometimes readers and intellegentias who hold their ego higher than the party would be unloaded. In rare cases, mistakenly, some true loyal members would get slipped through fingers. Whoever may be, once they get evicted, there is no roll back. Because party is like ancient eras Virada Purusha, we are all just its replaceable parts. Once we decided to break away from the party, we would go to dust. Theerthamalai lighted a beedi. “ I hope you got my words”

Arunchalama with gaped mouth sat motionless. “Party is a humongous mechanical device, Comrade. Yes this is Ramasundarams’ metaphor. A mechanical device with monstrous innate energy . We all are just like bolts of it. We are relevant only until we do our duty synchronously. Once we decided to work whimsically and try to block the devices course, the creaking cogwheels of the party would break us into pieces. Understood?“ Arunchalam nodded. “A human making him part of a mechanical device is not a easy task. There is an enormous violence involved in that process. Every Comrade you meet have gone through that torturous passage. You must learn to restrain the lots of natural emotions. We must learn to suppress not only feelings like Lust, Greed, Ego, Power, Longing of Limelights but also humanity, Mercy, Self-Respect.“ “I have no qualm with Sacrifice, Comrade” “Then, what?” “I am ready to sacrifice my life for the cause. This is the truth” “Then what is your problem, then?” “In this issue, I cannot find a reason why my thoughts and minds are unrestrained, Comrade. I am not able to label Veerapadra pillai as some random former member, a third person. I feel like he is here with me and always with me. I feel that the incidents happened to him is happening to me. “ He uttered those words like deja vu in some conversation “ He is like my shadow”. “What is your intention? Writing an article and publish it in the Company souvenir right?” “Yes” “Assume that you finish write and publish that article with complete facts verified. How many of our members would indeed read that? Among the few who get chance to read, how many among them would take it as serious issue? Who cares about some one departed from party in some distant past? The leaders who were in the highest post of party for 50 long years when get evicted, no single worker cared” “I am aware about that” “Then” “This is just to answer irreppresible questions arising from my heart” “So, all these for your self satisfaction” “Yes, correct” “You have been driven by some guilty feeling” “I ought not repond to all your nonsense” Arunchalam shouted standing up, realizing his trembling thighs. Theerthamalai in unperturbed tone “ You, yourself just now told, all these are to satisfy yourself” “Yes” “So, Your personal satisfaction takes higher priority over the party and union’s motive. right?” Arunachalam in anger filled tone “ No.. but yes” . said “Party is not a place to satisfy individual’s selves.” “It is a blood thirsty evil angel rite?” “Do not lose a grip on yourself. Pace yourself and think steadily. If every party members decided to work on their whim, would this party survive? Think in this view. People who broke away from the party are relentlessly raining the slander campaign against the party. Has any one among them managed to build an alternate organization? A single group in a single year splits further into nine more of tiny groups, this is their pattern. This kind of politics they are capable. These people will never understand the relationship between an individual with an organization like party. Party is an integration of thousands of worker’s aspirations. What is common balancing point is important to party. Every individual entitled to have their own thoughts, ideas, feelings. He should not allow that to cross in the path of party’s course. On critical junctures, one must chose to relinquish his individual aspirations for party. What is appearing as an injustice to an individual, can be a practical choice for the party. Party can irrationally demand the heads of some members. How many times, we conduct our progression by knowing, that two are three heads will get broken in police lathi charge. In most of our ground level schemes, we predict and decide who are going to give their life. The movement of the party should not be validated with individuals scale of justice, conscience. Movement is not the member of the society. Movement itself a society. It is bounded only by the course of history. It will be valued only with its contribution to history in long run.” Arunachalam already read all these lengthy speech of Theerthamalai. How did he read him? He wonderingly plunged back into his memory lanes. “Soviet russia imprisoned so many of the great writers, thinkers. For the past fifty years, Capitalist regime’s compaign keeping that issue alive. Writers evaluate everything by keeping their ego at center of point. Their personal aesthetics, justice are the primary gauging scale. This scale is not fit to assess the social movements. All of these writers, without accepting any movements as abode perished as bloated ego-centric, anarchist, misprisions. No contemporary party worker should accept their views. If his personal justice contradicts with the party’s consolidated justice, then he must burn his justice without question. It does not mean he is turning injustice person, he is choosing the more higher level of justice which is considerate to the history. After this choice, he can keep his head-high in any of the moral courts and he can face collective consciences as a witness. History will vindicate him. “ Theerthalai moved by his own words. After reasling he was moved with emotions, he stopped his speech and drooped his head. He stretched to fetch a beedi and kept on rolling it in his fingers. “Nuremberg Trails are in progress. The accused Nazy soldiers just followed the orders of their own country. Dutifully responding to the orders of their Führer, they caused collateral damage to humanity. They even maintained the error-free records of the killed victims head counts. You can reject that government based on morality scale. You can hang the chancellors, leaders who were in power. On what basis, you can punish the soldier who performed his assigned duty? Comrade, this argument makes sense right? Such soldiers never punished in the history. They were killed in the action. They were captured as prisoner of war. But never punished. According to international prisoner of war rules, they must be treated with dignity. Later they may be celebrated as national heroes in their own countries. The countries accusing the Nazi soliders must take a step back and review. Even in India, the very same police department which brutally suppressed the independent activists following the order of British crown, started serving as security force in the independent india. What is the single human’s responsibility for the actions of the government he belong to? Comrade, in this modern times, every thinking human must be disconcerted by facing this question at least once. There are no simple answer to this. History has no answer. Just because he is following an organization, he is not in agreement with every actions of it. If he is not in agreement, he can resign from that party. If you think about something bigger as this society or nation or the entire humanity? Should a single human take responsibility for the crimes and sins of the society? What about the historical blunders? History itself a huge container of crimes. Once he started taking responsibility burden, would he dare to touch even a flower? Nazies were punished for their crimes against humanity. If a nation or society acts against the humanity, every member of it entitled to oppose its actions. Justice is inherently Justice for humanity. For the first time in history, Justice for humanity is accepted in the courts. Stalin, Roosevelt and Churchill can rejoice and celebrate. In case Nazi’s turned victorious, Stalin, Churchill and Roosevelt would have become enemies of humanity. Every member of American society would have been in a witness stand to answer for dropping the atom bomb over an Eastern country. The rule which is not even valid for ten years, you are saying as nature of history. Just a 10 of intelligentia in unison could completely change this fictionalised result. My heads are spinning. I cannot bore the weight of body in the nights. Beyond this debate, beyond the mind frame of an individual, I am still seeking if there is something called justice for entire humanity? I am searching it in the entire breath of history. I cannot find any answer from any pattern. After all these centuries of churning the history what the humanity managed to achieve? Yes, the resulted poison spilled all over Hirosima, Nagasaki and many more battlefields. Where is the complimentary elixir? Are there only poison resulted in the churning? I cannot conclude definitely, Comrade. I could see only darkness til the end of my horizon. Abyssal history. Darkness of Literature. As I cannot find meaning from my life. Let me find that purpose with my death. On what I could sacrifice my life? After my death, how to escape from the case of this history projecting me as a fool in future? During my heart melting solitude moments, I could hear a tender voice secreting in my deep. A voice losing its last hope, surrendered itself to the void, murmurs into my ears. Yanking the Bhukarin towards to me in a sorrow, angst filled tone ‘here, I am handing over Bukharin to you. He has no one but you. ’ pleads. Bukharin standing in front of me listless chagrin countenance. I cannot console him with any philosophy. Comrade, Your history forsaken you. You dont have place in the dramatic upper echelons. I cannot argue for you sake. I could only die for you nothing else could produce a meaning for my life ” “You can talk loud and clear “ Theerthamalai shouted those words in English in seething tone. “No..” Startled Arunachalam uttered. “You can tell loudly what you are murmuring” “No I did not tell anything” “When I was speaking, your lips were moving rapidly as if you were talking mouths closed” Arunchalam frightened on hearing it. “ You do accept what I said, Dont you?” “I am not sure,Comrade” “Stop your drama, you dick head. Do not act over smart. Bastard, am I here to play the game in your court?” ‘I am aware that the campaign over my mental distruption is working in big time. I was nicknamed slippery head during my earlier time in party. I am not like others in any moments. What do you mean by mentally disturbed ? There are some doors opened in the mind. In the backyard or in the roof. On this desire moments, he can venture out through those openings and fill his lungs with some air, get some sunshine. There is a big difference between insane person and mentally disturbed. The former one is completely out through the doors. Returning back is not easy for him. Others can brutally pull back him by the means of threatening and prison him by crippling him. He will remain as a life long prisoner here. But the mentally disturbed one could neither live here nor in the world beyond the doors. For him mind is an eternal oscillation between those two worlds. Neve ending chaos. Forgive him, Comrade” When Arunchalam realised he was riding back to home in the pillon of Narayanan’s vehicle, he realised the incessant discourse in his mind was settling slowly. Atom bomb blasted in the Nuremberg. Cluster of Robots working on clearing the debrises. Stalin’s party identify card is getting rejected. On the shore of Petchi parai dam water, someone is washing the atom bomb. Theerthamai is reprimanding that. But who is crying over there? He could smell the decaying carcass. Is that a fried meat? Some creaking door is closing. I need some books from party library. But the mentally unstables do not eat the books. Someone eternally opening and closing the creaking doors. Urine stench is wafting. Some third person is sleeping in the moving bike’s pillon. He is none other than Arunchalam. When he reached the home, Arunchalam was in deep slumber.

Chapter 5

Respected and Dear Neelakanda Pillai,

In the previous letter, you mentioned Ramasundaram. I must write a great deal about him. But let me share just one incident, as this is the right time. Among the prime party members who indoctrinated Bukharin with me, Balasubramaniam’s and Ramasundaram’s versions were poles apart. According to Balu, Russia is a big nation where the Soviet society is being constructed from the base. It is a job still in progress. “From the next beat of the bolshevik revolutions, the Capitalist media coming together in unison started hurling the cast aspersion campaigns. We should not forget the USA’s Sisson documents which fictionalized Lenin as a German Agent. Against every Soviet soldier, the western printing media has been fabricating stories. They attacked the revolution labeling it as fake. When the wearisome Russian army on their way back from world war battlefields, losing all their faith over Tsar kings, Bolsheiks made full use of the opportune situation, joining their hands with few splinter worker groups, managed to seize the capital. They said, Russian people had no role in that coup. Western regime predicted the brutal crackdown of the revolution within a week of time. They hailed the Kulaks and White army members as the Nationalist forces and Catholic rebels. When the anti-revolutionary forces were quashed, the western regime did actually send their forces immediately. Can’t we forget the landing of the Yankee army on Russian soil to fight directly against the revolutionary forces? The Capitalist regime blazed all sorts of virulent weapons like Conspiracy, Sabotage, Treachery, Divisive campaign, Economic Sanctions, Direct actions against Russian revolution. They are well aware that the revolution would consequently reach their soil in the future. It would be a dangerous situation for them to confront. Comrade, think about this. In that dire juncture when the entire world was united as a single force to dismantle the Soviet Revolution, If at all there was no Iron leader, how could have Socialism survived till today? '' Balu asked. We both were sitting near the Anandan Canal discussing this. The sun was setting. After the day of reaping, the fields were strewn with the brownish straw piles. The mournful Velir mountain was crowned with the white cloud. Flock of flamingos flying high in the pristine blue sky. I can remember that day vividly. That tension filled moments of solitude. It reminded me of something unpleasant. “I am hearing almost same words from every Stalinst, Comrade.” I replied. “ According to you, If there is no Stalin the iron man, there would not be survival of the Socialist regime. My primary doubt is whether that was truly a socialist society or not. Everytime I hear about the mass killings of civilians and planned executions of the thinkers, I get a gloomy feeling in my gut. Didn't you ever get that uneasy feeling?did you? First time when I heard about the mysterious death of Gorky, I was rattled. I could not close my eyes that entire night. I read the re-published article of a journalist who escaped from Czechoslovakia seeked asylum in London. It may not be a foolproof article. Even now, Russia’s official stand is that Gorky's death was natural. Some of them even say, it may be a suicide. But an indescribably deep part of my heart says that as a murder. A well planned one. I begin to dread the nation from that moment onwards. After that, countless trails on traitors, prisoning in siberia, capital punishments, suicides, exiles. There is neither Marxims nor Stalinism ruling that country, Comrade. Big Daddism. Big Daddy philosophy is ruling that country. Fear is the fundamental driving force.” “Being a writer, you are exaggerating the ground reality in your style. “ he replied jokingly. “ You must have closely identified yourself with Gorky. The slander campaign on his death shaken you. Naturally, you started believing the followed up news from Russia. Finally, you fell prey to the smear campaign. Do not forget that until his last breath, Gorky was the staunch supporter of Revolutionary Government. Alexi Tolstoy, Fedin, Aitmatov, Solovyov, Serafimovich, Furmanov, you name it. Why are these eminent writers gone unnoticed by you ? Is it because they are the cornerstones of the Revolutionary Government under construction.” “High likely their voice must have been repressed by threatening” “Ah, now you are saying that writers are cowards” “I will never put the writers in such labeling boxes. Some writers could give his or her life for a trivial incident of small injustice. Some writers would pass by the monumental injustice without any protest. There are many writers hanged till death for their resolute standing for truth. Yes, many others stood silently alongside the evils by tightly clasping their hands.Writers are indescribable”. “That's the end of debating with you, Comrade. After all you are open to believe the bricks thrown against the soviet empire. But you don't heed to the responding evidences from the Soviet government.” “Possibly. Yet my deep mind” “Deep mind. Bull Shit. It is all your egoist mind’s attempt to project you as an extra special creature” Those words slapped me. It made a dent inside me and instantly I believed those words as truth. “ Comrade, Just tell me, what is really happening there?” “In all possible non-violence way, a Socialist regime is being constructed.” “No principal revolutionary leaders are alive. Half of the nation's population is sent to concentration camps and labor camps. Millions of civilians are murdered. In Ukraine and Georgia, farmers are perishing in the famine. “ “Downright lies. I have been to Moscow four times. I traveled deep into Siberia. With my own eyes, all that I saw was happy, contented people. Mass goods producing Industries. A robust Railway. Electricity reached deep tehsil towns. Glorious Residential areas, Parks, Educational Institutions. If there is something called heaven on earth that is Russia. I have no uncertainty about that. I can stand in any podium and vouch for the sight I saw” “What about Murders?” “Ah, you are back to start again. Independent India, hanged Godse for the murder of Gandhi. Don't you think it was a cold blooded murder? There were few traitors punished. All of them were given due chances to vindicate themselves in the court. Their guilt was proved and even after their acceptance, the capitalist media blowing support trumpet for them. Yes, it's true, in some rare cases, civilians were killed. I am not denying that. Those were caught in the crossfire amidst the fight against third rated paid mercenary, the anti-revolutionary forces. There was no time to secure them. When you are at war and with no time for safety measures, a big nation is forced to make some hard decisions. And you said famine right? Famine in Russia? It is a joke. Russia has been importing wheat for the last 18 continuous years. I can give you the evidence from your beloved Capitalist media’s articles.” Balu is not a person who lets go of the grip in the middle of debate. Gloominess was slowly enshrouding my mind. Unable to lift the spirit from the listless feeling, the Velir Hill mountain range was slowly hiding behind the darkness. Balu is not a lier. His inherent humanity is unquestionable. As a person, he is noble without a tinge of self-centeredness. But again, although what he said was not a lie, it occurred to me that incessantly chanted doomy mantra overrode every truth in the world with the lies. No one can extricate that truth from that lie anymore. Then it was the turn of Ramasundaram. On the first day, he did not speak a word. He started at an easy pace post supper of the second day. “ I too have the same disquiet feeling, Comrade. The news of Gorkey’s death shook me a great deal. What a great Artist he is. What a great contributor to soviet society. He was murdered bludgeoning occipital bone spilling, his brain like a bursted butter on the floor. I can never forget that betrayal. Had they decided to kill him, they could have done by injecting the poison. The very same poison killed Sacrates.” We both sat motionless for a long time in the head office. “I had no clue” said Ramasundaram. “How a 16th ranked member in the bureau managed to turn as Chief? How could he passed through and overcame the arrays of glorious revolutionary leaders? How did the Red army, people and the people of the Soviet turned a blind eye on him? Ramasundaram asked in despair. “All these turn of events says, there is some higher level force working. The force which is more influential than any ideas. He knew how to wield that force. What is that mystic force?” “What could it be?” “That is the force has been questing the blood of the thinkers, philosophers. That is the force has been hunting and killing the creative minds” A fearsome feeling filled my chest. “Here, our society is another proof, Comrade. The accumulated fear, indifference, cynicist feeling that workers junta holds towards the knowledge is that anti-force. That force always chooses such a man as leader. The same force reaching one like them and bestowed all the power in his feet. “ “Do you mean Balan?” “Balan, KKM, Silvalai Pazhani samy, you name it. Sometimes I feel that this is the most fundamental force of this planet. This could be the the primary driving force of Chengistan, Bonaparte, Timur. In Goethe’s words lexeme Kraft the elemental force. We fancy knowledge as the ultimate power which is a completely falsified assumption in this angle. Marx, Hegel, Engles all these are all tools of manipulation to this force. Some tools are dumped after use. Some others perished on the use. Useless tools are categorized and discarded. What sort of tool is Bukharin among this?” “Bukharin did protest against this force” “No” said Ramasundaram. “If you obserive closely the life of Bukharin, he was one of the headman of the revolution. Great reader. Philosopher. He was in third place in the party. In 1924, Post death of Lenin, during the power struggle in the party, he neither supported Trotsky nor Kamenev. Insead he chose Stalin. He was a silent spectator, when Stalin was kicking out the primary statesmen one after another. Moreover, he was supporting some of the removal decisions of Stalin. Half of the Soviet saviors were executed under the Home ministry governance of Yagoda, a close ally of Bukharin. When onwards Bukharin started to protest Stalin? Only the after his proposal was rejected in the 1934 planning commission. He was the one eulogized Stalin’s 5-year plan, Collectivization the rape of nature and the Dekulakization as third revolution. He was part of the team which commissioned the plan along with Tomsky, Rykov and Papa Colin. He was one of the architects and supporters of that government machine. In the Initial stage, being organic part of that of that force and they are responsible for the achievements and the collateral damage of that machine. That primary force a.k.a Elemental power made use of these tools. Once their job is done, it discharged them. What a rushed sift of historical events? “ “Bukharin submitted the proposal demanding the release of farmers from the Collective farms and shut down of the labor camps. Camrade” “Yes. But, It had no effect. The damage was already done. He and his allies did not have the capability to foresee the destruction caused by Stalin’s schemes at its planning phase. Horrified upon noticing the destruction in the first wave of schemes implementation, they started deriving alternate plan. Only at that moment, they realized their ineptness. Until then their brain was blunted by the overweening pride of their intelligence. They were dreaming of constructing a heaven on earth with their intelligence. They never realized their own intelligence was used by that elemental force. When they took the first step in the cross path of that machine listlessly hoping to stop it, that force crushed them as pulp. This is the dialectics of history. It has no place of our grounded debate of justice vs injustice.” “Are you justifying the murder of Bukharin?” “I am saying, history does not mind wee little about a single persons justification. While I was shaken when hearing the death of Trosky, I did not get any mournful feelings for death news of hundred thousands of Kulaks. Because I found myself in Trosky’s image. I preconceived my death through his end. But, in this country, that elemental force will never be handed over to the communist. That would be always in the hands of the farmers. They dont have brain made of steel like the industrial workers. Their brain is made of soil. So, my head would never get bludgeoned. My brain would never burst out like butter. I will withstand like a bare tree. I will succumb only after shedding all my leafs, losing the sapless barks. That is my fate” His bare words had an effect on me. “You feel like bumped into dead end right?” Ramasundaram said letting out a mournfull smile. “Everytime, when I look back the world’s history one thing is getting more clear. There are crores of people living in this planet. The primary driving force of them is vigorous of body and its desire. The Elemental power is the integration of each of the human’s these two forces. History is nothing but the bubbles erupting moments of this elemental force. Every governments, Ideas, institutions , beliefs all these are transforms of this force. Violence is its chief weapon. Logics is the secondary weapon. In one side, it is producing the intellectuals and in the other side, it is producing warriors. But the valiant warriors are its beloved childs. Who is Stalin? Progeny of Great Peter, Caesar, Alexander , Arjun isnt it? They will be always here. They are the aggregation of the crores and crores of peoples desire. The cruelty manifested in them, is the cruelty of the people who handed them the power. Why the Stalinist of this country covering the news about Stalin’s violence. No, actually they are cherishing the violence internally. They are taking part in that soulfuly. If they get chance to post as a Siberian concentration camp’s chief Jailor, each of them would rejoice embracing Stalin for that opportunity. “ “You are painting a dark image to entire History. You forgot Budhdha and Jesus” “And Gandhi” I had no words. “What happened to them? In this Capitalist India, National chauvinist India, Militarised India, Gandhi is just a manupulative tool. All these great men are just tools” “You are using Stalinism as your tool” “No, I am trying my best to be in harmony with that. I endeavor to sustain the relevance of the Stalinism‘s service in my lifetime. The day when I turn creaking nut of that machine, it would eject me out. That would be my end. “ Ramasundaram let out a huge sigh. “You know right, My relevance in the party exists only as long as prevalance of the KKM like supporters mystic attraction. No crowd listens to my speech in the stage. Stalinists are the celebrated leaders of the Indian worker class. The workers gets inspired and gets faith in future only when a folded up Jippa Stalinist, ferociously speaks in the stage. “ “Just for these reasons, have you decided to continue project yourself as Stalinist?” “Bukharin did the same” “Bukharin was unaware of the repercussions. He witnessed the resulted destruction of his plans when he travelled through Ukraine in train. After that, he never supported Stalin for a second. Even after knowing about his certain end, he protested against Stalin.” “Ok. What did he manage to change?” “The result of his effort does not matter. What is important is Bukharin fought for the truth he believed.” “No. The result was Bukharin’s death. Stalinism is still prevailing. It would continue to re-born wearing new faces. Stalin is a historical power, like mountains. Throwing pebbles over it is a imbecility. Bukharin is an idiot who broke his head, knocking it over that mountain.” “Then, what sort of life is meaningful? Surrendering cowardice life? Supporting the force by selling conscience ?” “Yes. Living is possible only with these choices. I dont believe in suicides” “Ramasundaram, What do you want? Money, power, a name in the history books? What do you want really? You should have chose different path to achieve these.” For the first time, Ramasundaram lost his temper. He face was darkened. He was quiet by turning his face towards otherside. I was in emotional taispin“ Tell me, Comrade” asked. “I have passed over the time to analyze these” “Tell me, Comrade? What do you want really?” Ramasundaram in a stumbled voice continued “ I have lost a lot. A lot. If I began to measure the loss, I would go insane. Most importantly I lost my entire youth days. What did I get back for that loss? I could never retrieve it back with anything. There is only meaningless voidness in my front, back and left and right sides. There is no turmoil of adapting to changes, if I decided to stay as it is. I get a fake temporary pleasings in this. Still there are thousands of workers treat me with respect by calling me fondly , Comrade” “All these just for this?” “Yes. This is the only possible pleasantness I could get.” “You can do more rather than continue committing the mistakes knowingly. History has no place…” “History has no place for you or me or Bukharin, for any jackasses. “ Ramasundaram face turned crimson, breathing heavily, he cried all of a sudden. “ History is a creation of the Stalin, Hitler , Roosvelt , Churchill and Patels” “No, Ramasundaram” “Let us not talk about this anymore. Let me take a leave” “In this mid-night?” “I have to go now. It is upto you to choose Bukharin and perish clinging along with him. “ Ramasundaram took his handbag. I followed him. “Ramasundarm” I called him. He craned his neck towards me standing amidst the dark. “You are afraid of slander campaigns? Arent you?” Ramasundaram face turned grimaced like the face of a patient who is undergoing unbearable pain. He dashed down in the steps hurriedly. Eight months passed, he was the one interrogated me in the party office. He signed my dismissing letter. That letter comprised many of the lines, which are still used by Stalinists as quotes. He projected himself as a unshakable Stalinist until his end. There was no day passed without thinking Ramasundaram. He is just a another version of Bukharin. Buhkarin is not a statue made of steel which we typically depicted in the books of history. He was a man with heart beating possessing his own weakness and strengths. Due to his inherent capability of identifying the motives of the opposite side like watching through glassdoor, he was an eternal grouse. He opposed Trosky. He chose Stalin only to defeat Trosky. But in 1929 when the central bureau made plan to exile him, he protested utmost against that plan. On his failures, he turned agitated filled with tears. There are many instances of his indecisive stands. During the initial post-revolutionary time, he was an extreme support for the left party. 1918 when there was a treaty signed with the enemy, he voted for the war against Germany. In the followed of civil war shoke the country, he joined as right hand of Trosky. He believed that in order to march in the socialism path, it was imperative to economically and militarily foster the nation. He advocated along with Trosky with Lenin and made him accept his stand. 1918 to 1920 his supported he left extreme party members for industrialization and the planning commission. He wanted to control the farmers for the industrial growth. But 1921 to 1924 he changed side to support the right wing members. Suddenly he argued for the unchecked agricultural growth. There is nothing defined called Bukharism, this idea attracts me deeper towards him. Bukharin is an flitting, emotional, human with blood and bones. He could neither absolutely define his goals and not loyally stick with that forever. He could never justify his rooted stand with augmented logical arguments. By closely observing all of this action, I conclude all his actions are a justness driven intelligent mind’s expression. Bukharin took most of the decisions with his inner emotion and instincts, although he was posted in higher rank in the party, to make the totally different stand. His struggles are the typical turmoil that every intelligentia of this century have to face. His indecisiveness are nothing but culminative conscience of this century’s flittings. Comrade, Now answer me. Buhkarin was a loser. Ramasundarm was a winner. Bukharin met death, void space in the history. Ramasundaram is still a influential leader of the party. Party buildings will be named after him. Workers would christen their child as Ramasundaram. Whom should I chose? I could only choose Bukharin. In some embittered moment, It occurred to me why cannot I follow Ramasundaram. No, not at all possible for me. In that case, I have only one option. Follow the barehold of history which lead Bukharin, slipp into the other side. Yes, the other side is abyssal dark. Peaceless souls eternal claumering. There wont be a ray of light ever. Yet I have no choice. This is my fate.

Sincerely, Veerabadran

Chapter 6

Some say, they imagine themselves as bleeding Jesus in the cross or Gandhi shot by bullets. Who will sacrifice everything they have for this sort of inflated imagination? Who will give their entire life for this? A man sacrifices his entire life only for the exalted things fulfills him. Crores of Communists sacrificed their life for just for this fullfillment feeling . The very same purpose motivated me. Misunderstood people will deny this statement. What happens, If a person who has been driven by this fulfilling purpose for a long part of life and suddenly discovers that that all of it was web of faux? At some day, if someone proves that the golden dream of communism is not possible in soil and realistically concludes the end of the communism. I am doomed. My entire mind embittered. If that is true, what is the meaning of all the lives died for this purpose ? If all these are my troubled solitude and egoist mind’s whirling, what is the meaning to everything I lost? Skull cracking absurdness. I take a beeline to wine shop in the next minute. I consume alcohol, untill my thought dissipates, my body turns indisposed, until my conscious turns as a relay of unrelated images. I glance a compaign poster “Do not consume liquor”. Make me an issue based promise. I will quit liquor.” Arunachalam closed the scribbed lines letting out breath heavily. Darkness enshrouded house had only a lone night lamp burning. He could hear some breathing noises. He was not able get into sleep as he was in deep sleep entire day. Effect of the tablet. Doctor could not understand his state of mind. After asking some general questions like how is his motion routine, examining his tongue, prescribed few tablets. Nagammai was relieved. She thanked him filled with gratitude and returned back. Here, She will fullfill her timely tablet giving duty. His whirling thought process will take little rest after taking the pills. Some meaningless words would get echoed inside his ears. Some creaking and some splinters breaking. After hearing a noise sort of bee flying, he would fell into sleep. Now he is wide awake. He need to take one more tablet, for that he must wake her. He went near the radio system. Upon switched it on, it emitted an intolerable creaking noise. That noise broke his relentless chain of unrelated words relaying inside his head. He began to tune closely looking at the channel length. He felt like that tuning hand was caressing over his brain. His brain was dead and decayed, in many spots. Only few of the tissues had lifes. Some of them were palpitated mildly. Causing tickling sensation, that tuning hand was moving through his brain. In any time, one of the tissue could burst out let out a musles piercing cruelling noise. He shook his head and wiped his eyes. In the recent past, he is used to that frequent sudden eruption of tumultuous noise from his brain. No it wont come now. Now it is night. I am questing through the dark sky. No I am examining the earth from the sky. Plateaus, Greenlands, Waves filled coasts, Sleeping nations, Glittering nations. Ring, Ding, radio creaked. Someone demagogue was speaking in emotion filled tone in some unknown language. He tuned further. The same voice gained more clarity. He felt like all the stations are relaying the same voice. Baffled Arunachalam, switched off the radio. It refused to obey. It was auto-turing without his touch. One resonating, powerful voice spoke. An intensive pair of red eyes screwed on him. A communist theme song was relayed. In the rain, on a muddy street, stamping the boots with synchronized authority, army troops marched ahead. Is this a scene from the Battleship Potemkin movie? Arrays of huge Army troops filling till the horizon marched ahead. They all disappeared entering into the walls of the rain drops and appeared out in the other side. “ In this last four month of battle, we lost three and half lakh soldiers. Another three and half were disappeared. Twelve lakh army men injured. Comrade, civilians died could be ten times more than this figure. Why this destruction? Why could not we avoid this war ? This is not our war. This war was forced on us by them. There was only option of entering war thrust on us , otherwise it was to be a total destruction. We are not fighting to conquer the world. We are fighting for our lifes. We are fighting for our fatherland. “ that sharp voice caused tremors at the same time longing feeling to the listeners. My consciousness tried to figure out whose voice it was. “ Against this Germany rogues, plunderers, murderers we start our genocide. Yes Comrade, if that community choose suicide, let it be.” earth shaking thunderous clapping from the audience. Is this the war speech? Re-broadcasting ? which city is this ? isn't it Russia? No need to broadcast Stalin’s voice there. Where else is this? “Let our farmers shed their sweat in their fields. Let our soldiers shed their blood in the battle field. For our father land sake, for our Socialist society sake. We will fight this great patriotic war till our last breath. “ possessed chorus voices erupted. Battlefield chaotic noises. Fire cracking sound in the sky. Communist international theme sung. Long live, Comrade Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin. Sky breaking hail slogans. In a huge tank-like military vehicle crowned, crimson color dress cladded man raised on his feet. Is that Tar Peter the great. That figure gently shook his hand accepting the greetings. In front of him there was a meeky light glitttered in the huge marshy land. Sand wagons chugged ahead. Harsh whips lashed over pulling horses. Flocks of people carrying the sand bag along with the fire woods. They were accumulating those firewoods in that marshy field. No, those were not firewoods. Chilled dead bodies. Lips tightly closed, bluish discolored bodies. Some of their eyes were glittered as if screwing us. Lively eyes. A Dead child, from the pile of dead bodies wore a smiley. The accumulated dead bodies grew like a hilllock. Roller machines moved over that hillock. A sparkled red-field was eventually smoothened. In the middle of that red-field, Smolny Institute slowly appeared wriggling its walls. Towers of it, grow sky -high. Wax lamps begin to lit. Carriages pulled by horses moved quaking the snow floor. Heavy bodied, gaily walked, pride personified Peter the great while stepping his front foot, frozen as a bronze statue. Coach vehicles entered the scene. Faux furred Duchesses with huge feathered hats alighted from the coach vehicles. “Madame Anna Arkadyevna Karenina” doorman hailed. Duchnessse who spoke French,carrying a glass filled with red-wine strolled. The gala attained momentum. Prince Andrei in chagrin was glancing a lone path in the middle of snow, through snow flaked window in sober. Baggy coat draped, beggermen and vagrants were sleeping beneath that statue. Shield vehicles appeared and wiped them out from that place. Inside a sky like the Dome high building, the elite visitors were dancing in a ball confabulating in ears. On the arrival of the special Guest, they greeted him with self-effacingclapping. “Behold the emergence of a unsoiled society. An exemplar to the world, a new found society with no exploits. A society with no human betrays his own class. Self-governing proletariat ruling themselves. I submit my salute to this wonderful victory. On behalf of crores and crores of poor proletariats of this society, I convey my greetings” Dome cracking clappings resonated. Glasses clinking noises. Slogans emerged. Ladies whispered among themselves. Through the rows of red cheeked, cherubic school children carrying the red flowers, a limousine was gliding over the black rubberish broad street. Ambassador of a great civilisation the emperor Shahjahan made his honorable presence. The great monument he built for his young late wife is a droplet of tear in the world history’s cheek. The chest in which once the persian roses adorned, the amazing diamonds of that land are glittering now. His arrival is the dawn of the greatest friendship. Thunderous clappings. Sonya walking alone in bare foot carrying a heavy heart. Aleksandr Kuprin teasing someone blowing whistles in front of a whorehouse. Hopeless Nelly standing infront of the liquor shop with purple bluish ragged dress. Misery is a child metaphorically said Dostevesky. S.M.Ramasamy was debating. Redemption is a woman, she is an angel of Dante. Who is the man passing through the street where each woman sexing with twenty man, holding a bleeding cross in the hand? Yah That is Jesus Christ. Who is the man, praying kneeling down in front of son of God. Yah it is Tolstoy. Tolstoy, Leave the christ alone. The footprint of that son of god, is the only saving grace image in in otherwise a doomy dream. Brain is about to blast. There is an excruciating pain. Siberian snow filled the sight till the horizon. The howling of the artic wolfs is the lone voice in this white vacuum. When Shivoga opened his door of his shanty with the frozen arms, he sights only those glittering footprints, forming some order, it turned as the lines of a nightmarish poem. Where is the blue snow sky he saw immediately after the funeral of his mother? A sky loaded with the souls of the ancestors. The countless thoughts discharged in this sky space integrated into a huge discourse of musing. He is having reminiscence of Lara. Long live our revolution. Our revolution anthem will penetrating through the siberia reverberate the arctic. The song heard all over the forehead of the earth is none other than our theme. Comrade, Yuri Gagarin from the space rejoicing that mellifluent song. Our revolutionary force breaks the yoke of Siberian Laika dog from its sledge and set it free. We are the ones sent that do the space, but whatever it saw was nothing but pitch black dark. Yet why did the dog was in jubilant waging its tail in the space? It is a mysterious question, Bells of Churches ringing. For whom sake they are ringing? Farewell to arms. In this frozen white sea, what did the old man managed to catch after hauling relentlessly? A great sized human skeleton. My head is cracking. Over the no wall Church Laika is peeing. It is not urnine. It is palm mark. A symbol left for homecoming. Good bye, I am travelling into space. My dear Country. This is a dawn. Upon opening a dark whorehouse door, he saw her. My soul is resurrecting. Yes it is a sunrise. This snow will reverberate our Revolutionary anthem. Spring will arise with new energized faces. Spies of the Imperial country, Betroyers, Slander campaigners, rabble rousers, Communalists, Elitists, Smear campaign distorters, Exploiting rodents, Aesthetics enforcers, Fascists, Gigolos, Debauchees, Black marketers, Rascals, Sinners, Imperialists let us all unite against all of them. Where from the rotten stench wafting? Father tsushima. Comrade he is not saint. He is a spy. Post revolution era, disprited Raskolnikov beeseching the forgiveness. Get out from the Yaroslavl. Resurrect your soul along with Masalov in Siberia. Our red flag will be hoisted in the Moon, Comrade. Specially trained Siberian flamingos will carry the red flags all around the world. Nekhlyudov your redemption is the migilnoi railway station. Salvation in the Kulaks genocidal Siberian camp. The cutting edge tractors carry the corpses are all made in our industrial russia. The symbol of revolution is tractors, Comrade. Look at how elegantly they move over the virgin ploughed soil. Flood of steel. Let us wipe out the notes of Gambler’s underground with the blood. Comrade Davidov, We have received order from central Bureau to kill twenty Gulsarys in this night. Because this is a war. The great independence war. Grigor attempting the pull out the wheel of the tank stuck in the blood mud. Let us stop here today and come back tomorrow. The great arrow of Naga astra missed the spot. Sun will not rise as we commanded. Dark sky in the middle of the day. History will vindicate us. Total silence as the Guttusov sleeps in the middle of Parliment debates. Comrade, Ivan the terrible, a new alcohol for processed blood storage. Like rain in summer is a god luck, Gain when Karl marx with the good book. This is heaven. Mosque in the muddy field. In the Bats flitting dark night, Ivan the terrible unfurling his black coat. Protruding ears, shining poisonous fang emerging, he is flying over stefie. He is sucking, biting the neck of the eight Middle Asians. They turn as a blood thursty human bats. Fear. My body turns clammy in fear. I will get out from this nightmare. It feels horrendous. Comrade, Ivan the terrible, a freshly fried little Scandinavian country is served for your lunch. A tiny island in the caribbean is been marinated, for tomorrow’s breakfast, . This red square is a frothing glass of beer. Communist international song. This is the end. Get some sleep with these sweet memories. One Comrade undresses himself. Jesus bless us the last supper cake. Inquilab zindabad. Amen. He is closing himself inside a cold coffin. Frozen night and quiet flows the river Don. With no sound. Dead silently .