Chapter 1

To beloved Proletrate class,

This is an open letter by a man who was indignified as coward and traitor in front of you all. By organizing hundreds of conferences and countless meetings, our Comrades successfully wrote me off as low life. No stage was provided for me to argue for my side of truth. In court trail, even the man who killed his own mother will get a chance to express his side of reasoning. No Proletrate heeded to my pleadings. The proletariat class gave me the maximum punishment It could give. Every worker I met, spit on my face. With no job, no one to help, I went to the dog and was woefully left alone to die in hunger. In a few days, my body will begin to decompose with no one to care to dispose of. I am not worried about all these since I choose this path willingly. Not one or two times, more than fifty times, I was dissuaded to change my mind. Some of the Comrades implored me to relent. Few of them threatened me. I did not yield. Why was I firm in this stand? The proletariat class must know that reason. After knowing my reasoning, you may deny me or you may even denounce me. Whatever may be the response, you must know my side. Because it is about the future of your child. It is about the society they will live in the future. I must write elaborately about that. I thought, my account will be a great historical record. I am holding my last few breaths after enduring the ganged up only for this purpose. But as a lone man without power or pelf, I could not make any difference. So I decided to write this letter.

Comrades, As a graduate, I could have easily opted for a government job. That decision would have fetched respect among my family and relative circles. Instead I decided to hoist the Communist Red flag, to face the disgrace. Throughout my memory lanes, I toiled through inflaming hunger . I worked my fingers to bone for my unconditional love towards the proletariat class . I worked so hard to achieve the dream of annihilate the hunger and poverty from earth. No party member had any doubt on my integrity and commitment to that dream.

What is the society we strive to achieve here? Why do we work hard shedding our last ounce of sweat? Soviet Russian society is put forth as the specimen of such a golden society. “There is a great country called Soviet Russia. To born there, is the greatest gift a man can have” every Comrade would have atleast once recited these lines from the poem of a Malayalam communist poet. In the glorious day of realization of our dream, our venerated red flag will be hoisted in the Red-fort of Delhi. A noble society with no exploitation and no injustice. Comrade, Is Russia really the exemplar society as claimed by our leaders? Are these leaders deceiving us? Or they themself believing the lie wrapped with deception. Our worker class has been betrayed for thousands of years. Should we again fall pray to a new ploy? Let me disclose few facts to you.

Two of the letters wrote by Lenin to Nadezhda Krupskayam( wife of Lenin) in 1924 January 21st, posthumously published. In the letter wrote by Lenin 1923 December 24, he stated about the power struggle among the top leaders in the politburo. He warned specifically about the infighting between Trosky and Stalin would end with unsavoury result. In the second and last letter Comrade Lenin wrote on 1924, January 4, he mentioned “General Secretary Stalin’s was accumulating unlimited power. I don't foresee him to use it prudently”, added to that “ He labeled Stalin as a brutal Military general. He must be deposed from all his posts he holds in the party without further delay”. These letters were sent to the politburo members of the party. Yet, only in the recent past, the letters reached the hands of the world communists.

The warning of the Lenin was ignored. The tussle of jockeying for the position among head members of the politburo was the reason. Stalin watered and then manipulated the jealousy induced fear the Kamnev, Zinoviev had towards Trosky for accentuating his own influence. Stalin’s propaganda successfully instilled the minds of the politburo that If Trosky becomes successor after Lenin, it will be a disaster. To prevent Trosky’s taking over the power, Bhukarin supported Stalin. As a result, the central bureau, rejecting Trosky, selected Stalin as General secretary.

Trosky, in every aspect a designated successor of Lenin. Eulogized by Lenin as “Greatest intellectual” and “Unassailable Philosopher”. The great architect who built the revolution, travelling nook and corner of Siberia, assembled the Red army hand picking member by member. He was the true people leader of revolution. Stalin moved his coins scrupulously to sink him from reaching power. Kamnev and Zinoviev actual acolytes of Trosky, defecting him, joined hands with Stalin turned the Red army and Party members against him. The philosophers along the lines of Trotsky, Bhukharin and Rykov scripted the anti -Philosophy which disarmed Trosky. Trosky was so fascinated about the concept of world revolution. He believed only if the revolution exported to entire world, it would attain its full potential. If Russia remains the only revolutionary country, then the western capitalist countries aligning together would soon destroy it. Russia would be forced to expend its entire energy just to fight against this singular belligerent force. Russia is a bowl of enormous resources. For the first time, thanks to revolution, these resources are accessible to the proletariat class. Our task is to transform these resources as weapons of world revolution. The proletariats of the whole world are ready in the front line to fight for the revolution. Government’s armed forces of Germany, Britain, France are struggling hard to contain this Proletrate’s power. According to Trosky, If Soviet Russia attacks these countries with its massive marshaled army, the revolution will inevitably begin to flame throughout Europe. Aftermath, It would be a tangible task to form a Europe level international Revolutionary organization. Militarization of Russia with the help of rapid large scale industrialization should be the first step. Whether this plan was right or wrong is a different question. Even today, a great degree of Russian resources are spent to guard the Western arm race.

Bhukarin who was hailed by Lenin as a “Proletariat Class’s valuable gem of Philosopher” came up with a opposing idea to the Trotsky's plan. He was ranked third in the Party. During the nascend days of the Red Army, he was like a right hand for Trosky. He too believed large scale industrialization and militarization are essential to build the communist society conceived by Soviet Russia. But in Post-Revolutionary years, reckoning with the farmer class of Russia, he changed his stand. As per Lenin’s wish and guidance, he proposed a National Economic Policy. He named it as New Economic Policy. Giving exceptions to artisans and farmers in the Economic scheme, it targetted only on state ownership of the large scale Industries. He argued if state acquires artisans and farmers properties, it would a catastrophe . They must be allowed function freely to some extent. Private ownership mode should be continued for some time, since the art and farming would be profitable only when they are allowed to function freely without rein. On the other hand, on relinquishing the private ownership, if a worker gets some instant profit, cherishing on his recogniztion, he will work more participative in the public ownership transition. It is imperative for the communist society to run the agriculture and art industry profitably. Bhukarin said, If we force the hair-brained policies, it would be an impediment to the building of Soviet society. Lenin was in agreement with that policy. New economic policy was truly fruitful to great extent during the 1917 and 1924.

Trosky opposed the New Economic Policy in two front. First, principally it is against the Communist philosophy. It promotes the private ownership and free market. Even in case agriculture turns as profitable, it would foster only the private ownership and free market, it wont contribute to communism. Secondly, It would alienate the farmers class from the fundamental communist force. World revolution would not be possible without inclusion of this farmers class . The Great October revolution was possible only because soldiers joined hands with the workers class. The role of farmer class was insignificant. Farmers yet to accept the communism subjectively. Worker class trained in Marxist philosophy should lead from front on moblising the all other classes into the revolutionary movement. Those are the words of Marx himself. Thus, we cannot allow the farmers to function freely.

Let us examine the crux of these philosophical discussion. In barefaced words, the amount of blood has to be sucked out from farmers class is the main question here. According to Trosky, profit should be produced by exploiting the farmers to bone with the help of Army force. Only by directly converting this surplus profit into weapons, Russia can emerge as a military super power and can sustain its belligerent western opposition and become a pioneer country for world revolution. Bhukharin debating against this idea claimed, if military force used to exploit the farmers, it would end in disaster. Irrespective of nation or region the world farmers spiritually bonded with their soil. He will fight with his life protesting against state taking the ownership of his land. His passive resistant to this exploitation would result in agriculture catastophe. So, Bhukarin suggested, farmers to continue keep the private ownership of their land and allowed to free farming. Only on their acceptance, they can be exploited in minimum level, step by step. This limited profit can be invested in the other industries. The fundamental pillars of the agriculture will stay relatively stable. The other industries will grow gradually. As a next step, gradually educating the farmers in Marxist philosophy, we can gain their support for the revolution. For Trosky’s work revolution, the resources of the Russia should get exploited ruthless manner. The farmer’s last ounce of blood has to be sucked out. Bhukarin opposed Trosky’s idea in this principle. After bolstering the socialist society in the Russia, we can step in to the process of exporting the revolution to the world countries. We will get chance to analysis the challenges in the practical process of socialist society evolution. In philosophical context Trosky was in the same frame with Marx. He principally opposed the private ownership in any format. By closely examining the functioning of Marx’s mind, Trosky wanted to function accordingly. Evolution of Feudal society to Communist society must happen through the Capitalist society. Russian formers has been living in the Feudal mentality for centuries. He is a serf. His only dream is to own a piece of land. This dream should be realised atleast for some period. If you force him to function under public ownership mode, he would think it as a different type of serfdom. The revolution shall wait till the subjective evolution of Russian farmers.

In the middle of this philosophical debate, Stalin played politics by moving his opportune coins of power. Stalin supported the anti idea of Bhukarin. He argued for the private ownership of land and socialism in one country policy. Soon, Trosky defeated in the central bureu in 1927, was exiled. Later, he seeked Asylum in Mexico. He was murdered by Ramón Mercader an agent with an ice axe, cracking his skull. Aftermath, the agent’s mother received award directly from the hands of Stalin in a military parade. Every suspected supporters of Trosky were hunted and purged one by one by leaving none. Trosky was charged for treason against Lenin and Red Army that from the early revolution days itself. He was proved to be a German agent. This smear campaign is still continuing today.

After the assasination of Trosky, Stalin suddenly revoked the New Economic policy. He ordered the convene the large scale industrialization immediately and the mode of Agriculture should be adapted to the state collectivization. One side, His motive was to murder all the political enemies. In the other side, we must understand that Stalin was like Trosky a Army general. Weaponries and the loyalty of the soldiers are the two pillars of their power. Military will be more powerfull only with large scale Industrical growth. The unchecked fodder for Industries is agriculture. So he put an end to New Economic policy. Forcefully seized lands from farmers, integrated into collectively controlled farms. The protest of the farmers suppressed ruthlessly killing them in thousands. Small scale landlords were identified as Kulaks. Further labeling them as obnoxious weeds Stalin started propaganda to drudge them out from their roots to eradicate. All our great humanist leaders of this country, have been repeating the same propaganda words of that Kulaks as anti-revolutionary forces and have to be purged in cluster. Lakhs and Lakhs of farmers were exiled to siberia and forced to work in the labor camps under the surveilance of the army men. Many of them perished in the exterme cold weather. If I state that there was a total war unleashed over the farmers class during the Stalin era, it would not be an exaggeration. Farmers were prisoned, killed. They were driven out from their villages to settle in the suburbans of the developing cities and forced to labour until their last droplet of blood sucked out. I have attached an article written by an Norwegian reporter giving inside picture of one such a camp in the Magneto Kursk city. Agriculture production was plummeted and the system imploded. The foods gathered by thrusting the bayonet in the chest of farmers, sent for the city’s workers. The resulted famine wreaked havoc many parts of Soviet russia. In 1933 as many as four lakh people perished due to food shortage. The many more people died than the great Madras state famine of 1876. To prove the whole world that there was no famine and Russia was sustaining its initial industrial growth, the food was continuously collected from the famine hit areas. The end result of this so called “Reformation” is perishment of almost one third Russian population.

Most of the state released statistics were all about the self-serving victories in the Industrial department. The profit made by industries instantly converted into mass weapons. Russia is still one of the two military super power of the world. People crediting this victory to the Soviet policies. Some of them attribute it as an individual success of Stalin’s mind. These people don't consider the crores of farmers' lives perished for this victory's sake.

Dear Comrades, When I started writing a book on the great history of Soviet Russia and the victory of communism in that nation, I accidentally bumped into a letter about the death of Bhukarin. I have no idea how it reached my desk from the bundle of official letters from Russia. That may be an inside work of a whistleblower, a Russian farmer who is still faithful to Bhukarin.

Bhukarin realised his blunder when he saw the farmers getting killed in clusters in front of his eyes. In 1934, Politburo members Kamnev and Zinoviev who were in the side of Stalin, charged as anti party members, dismissed from the party. The state machinery unleashed a huge slander campaign against them. Their supporters’s base was dismantled. They were prisoned, alleged sedition against nation. Court trail conducted on the charge of attempt to murder Stalin following the order of Trotsky and murdering the party member Kirov. Breaking their will in the torture camp, getting their forced confession, submitting it as evidence, procecuting them in the court, hang them untill death is how the judcial system of the Stalin’s era nature of work. The replica of 16th century church bishops who burned alive the rational thinkers on the allegation of committing the blasphemy against religion. The great leaders and intelligentias sacrified their soul for Russian revolution, on the basis of confessions retrieved under the brunt of torture, purged mercilessly. The leaders of our country justifying their killings or they reject as if no such events happened. They even went on to say, there was no such a person ever lived. For them, all these were the capitalist forces anti campaign against Soviet Russia. Every penalized comrade will be linked with the another active comrade of party. This is the style of Stalinism. This linked chain of sedition charges followed by murders will never cease. When torturing Kamnev and Zinoviev for confessions on poisoning the Gorky and Killing Kirov, Bhukarin’s alleged role in those crimes were also included in record.

But the central committee refused to prison Bhukarin on those charges questioning the validity of the evidence. Stalin booted out the Yokoda who was the people commissar in the central committee and appointed his boot licker Yakov in his place. After Yakov’s appointment there was no one to resist or protest Stalin’s authority. Unprecedented events of hunting down also known as Great purge let loose. Stalin named it as repression - the weeding out. Sabotage charges on one victim and then linking the charges with another active member was a trend. In the atmosphere of doubts and suspicion, no one knows when or how the allegations will happen, every one started suspecting each other. Not only opposing Stalin, the notion of someone may oppose turned as life threatening. Prominent political rivals were purged after the due conduction of fake trails. Leaf level party members were shot down. No one would have slept peacefully fearing the knocking door sound for detainment. Dear Comrades, Almost half of the old bolshevik cadres were killed in the great purge. Most of the new cadres enrolled in the 18nth party congress were aged around 30s. Then, what happened to the old Bolsheviek members, Red army soldiers who fought for the October revolution? If that was the fate of the commissars, what happened to the common civilian?

In 1938 Bhukarin, Riko and suspected associates friends of Bhukarin all together arrested. They were accused for attempting to disintegrate soviet. Later their infamous trail known as Moscow show trails. We can deduce the level of “interrogation” Bhukarin would have underwent. To save the life of his young wife, he must have false confessed his allegations. There was news that after another fake trail, his wife was exiled to siberian prison and eventually killed there. If not, she may be still alive. I managed to collect these information through various news agencies. All the possible evidences are attached in this article. The lakhs of helpless common people sensing their bleak future must have collected these small evidences and sent through various possible channels. The fearless journalist must have collected putting their life in danger. All these news are rejected outright by communist media’s world wide propaganda stating these as capitalist western media’s slander campaign. All the people tried to divulge these truths are eradicated, casted as anti-revolutionary and capticalist cats paw. Imagine, countless number of intellectuals, creators, writers , social workers’s underwent character assassination in these last ten years alone. Whoever duly doing these are not the maniac anti-social elements. Most of them are innocent, rectitude, humane, educated Comrades. The fall of the philosophy does not need any more evidence.

What a catastrophe!! The statistics would give jolt to any man. Barring Lenin, all the Red army cadres who were integral part of revolutions purged casted as enemies of soviet. All their family members are murdered. Out of 139 prominent members of party during Lenin era, 98 were killed in the Stalin’s great purge. 20 others were exiled. Remaining members were just 11. The half of the party members were killed. One fourth of them were sent to labour camps. If half of the original revolutionaries were punished as anti-revolutionaries, what was the meaning of the original revolution happened? Can someone explain me this ever flowing lunatic blood of river ? If a society purges half of the population and sent the majority of remaining to the labour camp, how can that be called heaven on earth society? How it is related to the term socialism, communism?

Timur was a product of History. There were Gengis khans. Yes Hitler too was a man lived in fresh. None was distant closer to the cruelty of Stalin. No tyrant accumulated absolute power built over terroristing the entire nation. No leader proportionally purged the common men who was so faithful to him. Is this the exemplar society we are dreaming? Is this socialism? Is this the land built for equality?

I asked these questions standing over the evidens I collected. I intended to register the name of Bhukarin in the records of the party. I was told that there was no such a human, it was a conspiracy of capitalist countries. From the party reports, official history records, even from the photographs, the presence of that man was completely removed. Removing the name and records of such a punished and perished man was a strategically active movement in the Stalin’s government. There was a group of expertise ran such department. I diligently collected the backing evidences for my claim. Party stopped me, threatened me, pacified me, implored me. But I was captivated by the barefaced truth. When party came to know about all my collected evidences, it kicked me out from party. The slander campaign was all rained over me.

There may be a chance that all my evidences are not genuine. Yet the fixed mindset of outrightly rejecting these news without care to review and sanctifying Stalin as a sinless God, ruffles me. Let us have an open debate over the evidences. Let us scrutinize the evidences. If required, we can send a committee formed by party to Russia for further enquiry. Let the party announce its stand on this issue, based on the public debate. These are my proposals. Dear Comrades, Please let us analysis it closely. All I want is to know the official stand of party. Every individual member entitled have their own views. Some of our Comrades say, there was no tragic events happened and no such men ever existed. Some others says, the meagre number of civilian loses are inevitable in the course of society building. Kulaks and Cossacks are enemies of revolutions. The dharma of the war is killing the enemeis in the battle field. They asked me to show the part of the world where common people are not killed. Abolishment of America’s slavery system demanded lifes of more than 5 million people. The riots of Indian partition killed more than 3 millons peoples. My question to them was, are we equating the lives of the people sacrificed to the lofty purpose? If yes, on what basis it was justified? why cant we discuss these in front of the entire worker class? Let the people give their collective opinion on this. Why should not people own the right to choose their own fate?

Dear Comrades, as a listless soul humiliated by the party machine’s relentless smear campaign, I ask one simple question directly your conscience. What was my crime? Please plod through my experiences and answer from your heart. What is happening in Soviet Russia? How to confirm the veracity of the news coming from there. Are we accepting the incidents of purges? if yes, how to stop these incidents exporting to our nation? Comrades, The responsible proletariat class must raise these questions here. If there is something called revolution, the goal of it must be putting an end to exploitation and injustice. It must happen for true social reformation. If social equality is motive, it should not cause destruction of lives, humongous sins as side effect. If there is an alternate society put forth, all the merits and demerits of it should be debated and scrutinized.

Comrades, We have been exploited, suppressed for thousands of years. Since justice was always in our side, we held our heads high. After losing our sense of justice, event If we manage to conquer the entire world, everything is vain. We will be standing as accused in front of the next generation childs. It should not happen. My fore-warning. Comrades, My red flag.

Yours truly

Comrade M. Veerabadra Pillai

Chapter 2

Comrades,

In 1917 when our glorious revolution was in ascend, one sinister slander was unleashed. Lenin an agent of Germany. The backing evidences were also released. It was not the first attempt. From the moment the seeds of revolution sown in Russian soil, the world bourgeoisie society been bombarding the slander campaign. The accused schemes and conspiracies lost count, which attempted to turn the worker class against the farmer class, Red army against worker class. In 1915 America launched a department under the leadership of Sassan, solve motive to concoct the bogus documents against the Bolsheviks. That department is still active in the name of Soviet external affair department. The cooked up documents of Sassan committe was ludicrously proved fake in front of entire world. Every Imperialist intellectuals’ attempt to sabotage the unity of soviet have been thwarted. They yet to feel embarrassed over this disgraced defeat. Thanks to their thick skin which lost sense in ruling aspirations. In these days, huge number of world wide defamation campaigns been released unfettered. They claim crores and crores are civilians are murdered in Russia. Half of the former Bolshevik party members are assasinated. Shameless claims like farmers are totally eliminated are propagated. They duly release the fack supporting documents along with these claims. A man who knows the history of the Imperialism would just need a duck soup effort in understanding the motive behind these conspiracy campaigns. Russia is undergoing an unprecedented massive society change. For the first time in history, the worker class suppressed for centuries, breaking their shackle, dumping out their masters from power. A society without exploitation has been built step by step. No one claimed that social change is happening in a non-violent way. It is not a secret that we don’t believe in the non-violence path. What to say about someone expects a darshan of benevolent face when the red blooded worker class suddenly flared up from the centuries of toiling and lashing by poverty, suffered in hunger, killed in groups in the famines. Anti revolutionaries, hoarding pack of rats, traitors are undergoing the prisonment deservedly. For the frist time, they are forced to empathize the worker’s hardship lives in the labour camps. People who did not comply to that penalty been eliminated. If this is called murderes, if that is called human right violation? Let me ask one question from the history, which country is not blood stained? Total abolishment of slavery is yet unfinished in Americas. The people lost their life in the American civil war is five lakhs. British people sacrificed 3 lakhs life for the sake of insubstantial liberties promised democratic government’s ascend to power. Napoleon’s imperial French dream was built by bulldozing as much as 8 million people’s lifes. 3 lakhs people lost lifes in the Indian independence and the follow up partition riots. All these lifes lost to form the inanition and imbecile scarecrow governments. On this side, in the process of building a society with justice, if some peoples lifes are sacrificed, the people with the knowledge of history would have no qualm about it. Capitalist society which carries the loads and loads of sins baggage, critising the communist society’s pitfalls with its magnified glass, is a joke. In Soviet Russia which group is undergoing the imprisonment? Cussacks community which rejecting revolution decided to take arms against government. Kulaks reluctant to relinquish their lands for the collectivization. The group of inside traitors attempt to sabotage the politburo. All of these anti-revolutionaries are put under the proper trail after the arrest and sent to siberian prison for punishment. They are allowed to live on the condition of experience labouring in the camps. Distortionists are clamouring this as torture camps. Yes It is a torture. Torture for some descendants never had wee little experience about the hard-work. But in this government of worker class everyone must experience the labouring. Comrade, labouring is the best suitable punishment for the capitalist loyalties. It is upto you to identify someone, who states the labour camp as the torture camp. We have no difficulties in identifying these distortionist. The Revolution democratizes the hard-work to everyone. No one should be sparred. If this is anti-humane, yes we are proudly anti-humanists. In Soviet Russia, the group of people advocating the trashy individualism, opposing the worker class government causing the distruption, are segregated and exiled to labour camps. Let the elite people accuse the worker classes as reckless brutes and headless idiots experience the hard-work of the process of every grain gaining and transforming to bread. There is no other way to teach them the lesson of truth. Proleterates do not have the time to debate with them. You must understand the motive of the collective brain behind this enormous anti campaign. There is no unemployment in Soviet Russia. Every citizen’s hard-work is not betrayed. Prostitution, bribery, theivery, beggery, slavery are abolished. Soviet Russia produces world’s 40% of the steel. 18% of worlds agriculture are produced in Soviet Russia. It is the only country where food is accessible without discrimination to each and every citizen. It is ranked 2nd the production of oils and coal. These statistics from the pen of the Capitialist scholars, gives the pristine picture of enormous success the Comrade Stalin achieved through the growth of Soviet Russia. Does the member of this nation where one third of its citizens goes to sleep in hunger, have the right to criticize the leader who catapulted his war savaged nation into world super power? In 1940s, the Soviet Russia’s success statistics on the leadership of Comrade Stalin are listed by none other than the American Economic scholars. In 1939 after the completion of third five year plan, the agriculture production is doubled. The coal production increased 17 times. Oil production 14 times. 16 Sovereign countries annexed independently themself with Soviet Russia. Half of the European countries joined the world communist organisation on their own will. The followed up five years plan accelerated the development manifold times. Comrades, On contrary the Capatialist societies are gradually caving in. Former Colonist countries Britan, France, Denmark, Holland, Spain are on the verge of collapse. America managed to sustain the stablity by exploiting its resources, yet it was ridden by famines and draught in many parts. The Captialist forces of these countries are frightened over the growth of Soviet Russia. They are ruffled over the eventual raise of world worker class in the success path paved by the Soviet Russia. These Slander campaigns are evidence to their fear for future.

Capitalist countries dreamed to destroy Soviet with the help of Hitler. That elusive dream was thwarted by the worker class. The very same forces dreaming today to curtail the growth of the Soviet. This dream will also bit the dust. The unity of world worker class will be prevailed. The day of this wonderfull world reaching the palms of the worker’s is nearing. The cast aspersion campaigning third rated traitors will be hanged. We will send those stooges to transform the Rajastan desert into green forest. Yes, this is the punishment of the word worker class. It wont eliminate the enemies, it only knows to reform them.

Indian Commnuist Party.

Long live the Revolution,

Long live the Social Justice,

Long live the raise of the Worker class,

Inquilab Zindabad,

District Committee,

Indian Communist Party.

Chapter 3

To Pillai with enormous respect and love, I grasped the abstract satire in your letter only after several reads. The truthfulness of your letter made absolute sense to me. To be honest, Your letter had a disturbing effect on me. The monumental facts disclosed by Khrushchev did not have any major effect on the World communist parties. In India, it was brushed aside like a mosquito sting on Elephant’s skin. Without a doubt, I was an idiot to shout in the cannon blow deafened ears. I experienced the same absurd feelings caused by your letter long time ago during my self-tormenting insane days. I should have committed suicide at the peak of those moments. Emotion filled epic climaxes are not possible outside of the epics. Thats why with no fervency, with no coherence, the bare faced real life is coursing. May be human decided to produce Literatures and epics to escape from the cowering worthlessness caused by this reality. In the pact of trading in this gambling, I lost everything gained sacrificing my each morsel of youth moments. The moment the screen of this stage play unfurled, I realized the utter meaningless of it. My objective mind tried to discord the bitter end even after my subjective mind completely acknowledged it. You wont believe my acts to sustain the intensity of that game. I would restlessly scamper around the streets to hear each of the slandering news against me. I would hear it until my brain fogged by its intoxication. It was a torture to notice the preponderance of that compaign and the attention I gained as a result was waning down. My subjective mind well aware of the meaning of it. At one time, I began to fabricate and spread the rumors about me through others. As a lone man, I could not stop that inevitable end of that play. As if a self obsessed mono actor continues to emote without realizing the stage is closed, I spreaded slanders on me. That mono acting had an end too. One day, when I was wondering in the cattle market, only to bump in to porter workers union street meeting where Chellappan Nayar was speaking. On noticing my presence, he elicited a smile kind of reaction. Without even a pause in his current statement, he continued his speech. There were a few heads from the crowd craned their necks to see me and started observing the speech without any sign of noticing me. Once my fluttering mind settled down, the truth rose high above me like unpassable hillock. My existence is remaining here merely as a name from the past. That was my first day of emotional melt down. Drinking till my last paisa in my pocket, puking in the street, I spent my whole night in the street. Eight months passed, Khrushchev released the secret reports in the 20th Congress of the party. It jolted the hearts of the millions of the party members temporarily. On the same day, Ember Estate secretary Raju Nadar came to meet me. He had a secretly distributed rotary printed pamphlet in his hand. (A defected faction of the Delhi party made copies of the pamphlet and distributed across India as full time job, what an audacity, what a motive, what a believe, Poor fellows). I was resting in my room with mild fever on that day. I was not expecting anyone that too Raju. I welcomed him in. His face appeared sour. It occurred to him that he might have drunk. On those days, my nostril could pick that smell from miles away. He was sitting avoiding eye contact with me. He flung the pamphlet copy towards me. It is hard to believe my instant reaction at that moment. Enigmatic path of the mind’s journey could be analyzed only after it is over. I was expecting the words of my re-appointment into party from his mouth. My imagination was let loose in all different pathways and settled back. As If I will fetch my lost identity back, no more lonesome. At once, there was a repugnant feeling erupted. I must hurt them badly by rejecting that offer. I needed a moment to ferociously spit on their faces. My body turned warmth flared up by that emotion. My mind was stopped when I started reading that pamphlet. The printed words refused to comply with my thoughts. I had a severe quivering throughout my body. It ended as if I had an electric shock. As If I lost all my vigor in body after a running for miles. I folded it and threw it back in ground, sat in silence. Only months after, I realized the reason behind Raju’s visit. He was hoping to vent out his guilty feeling, confronting my scalding questions and swear words. His agitated soul must have cooled down, had I slapped in his face or spit on his face in anger. He could not bear the sight of my silence. Slowly he tried to put a puncture in my calmness dam. “All are betrayers, They made us fools out of ourselves. ”. I nodded. “Comrade, Every one of the words you tried to convey, came out in the officially printed words with ten fold of evidence.” It must have occurred to him that those words might have made me rejoice. But on the contrary, I felt deep betrayal and a listless feeling at that moment. Those reports nullified the importance of being a rebellious follower of my own unventured path. In case, Party accepting the facts in those reports takes expiation acts publicly, all my sacrifice would lose any meaning. To suppress the exasperation beneath the cruelty caused by this feeling, I gathered anger and guilty feelings. Pent up anger will find a target, mostly a person standing in front irrespective of who they are. I swore Raju as an Agent of the party. I am not surprised now, how even in those scalding moments, I was making meticulous calculations to find the soft spot of Raju's mind for attack. Raju came to meet me to swear at the party stand, joining with my feelings, in that way, to find a vent to his guilty feelings. He was expecting approval of his angst feeling from me. My surprise verbal attack cornering him made him speechless. Whatever he would say, will be projected as an act of an Agent. I came back to a stable mind only after he left. Party can neither accept nor reject Khurusev’s report, since both has no meaning. That report had no importance to the Party and its members. Party cared the issue not more than how the opposite street’s Colombo Sivanu Nadar grocery store business cared for the issue of Stalin. Ambitions, Principles and Philosophies just for the coated lip service of the higher bureau members. Sivanu Nadar wrote “Hail the lord Kadhirvel Murugan” all over his shop. The same Sivanu Nadar who seeks “Kadhir Muruguan’s blessings” in every balance sheet , would not give quarter KG tamarind to free even when Lord Murugan comes alive and demands standing in front of his shop. Within a month the reports of the Khrushev went straight into trash. When the entire world was debating about Stalin, P.T.Ranadev’s letter was recognised as the party’s official stand. No more questions asked. No big shots broke away from the party. No major shocking incidents happened. On the contrary, few of the ruffled minds were compromised with the consolidated rewards. This is how the Raju Nadar emerged as District level secretery. What was the fundamental drawback of the Khrushev’s reports? It is not driven by the justice, it was a politically driven move to sustain the power. It was intended to disassemble the great power established by the Stalin. Accepting the allegations over the Bukharin and Trosky is proof of my claim. Because Khrushev did not want re-emergence of Troskies and Bhukarins back to power as a result of this. He did not obtain the alternative justice. He produced the alternate viewpoint in the worldly aspect. He accused Stalin for orchestrating the genocide for his personal gain and promoting his cult of personality. If at all those genocides happened for the benefit of the party, he would have justified the reasons in the committee. Khrushev’s thaw reports were totally true. But the malicious truth is a lie. In the resulted debates all over the world, justice and conscience were never discussed. It gave the excuse for the world communists to sustain their loyalty on Stalinism and reject the Khrushev’s claims due to this angle. Logics will be defeated only with the justice. Now, I can hear your questions. Have you not defeated by the defamation allegation in the fight against the power? No, I am not defeated. Only when I accept my defeat, I am defeated, not by their words. After all these bombardment of self-reprimands and self satirizing, without losing its vigor, there is a feeling of justice remains in me. Every anti-debates, every anti-logics, every bitter truth viewpoints, every solid evidences, waters my unassailable justice. That is my core. That is my seed. I am the dormant plant filled with the seeds. As a lone fighter of my justice, I open my heart filled with this personal pride and saying this. I am not the fallen tree. I am a buried seed. You may accept this. You must accept this. Your denial means nothing but you are already a dead soul. Or rather it means you are in the already decaying body and the soul.

Sheer words isnt it? But the logically ordered words never reveals the truth as much as the sheer soul filled words. Yours, M.Veerabadra Pillai 18.8.1955

Chapter 4

You would not be surprised, If I say, in most of my day time, I contemplate hunger rather than thinking about Justice, Dharma. What we call hunger is not a homogenous feeling. It can be a pleasant invitation, for a person who has a confirmed meal ready. After a physically exhausted hard working day, hunger originating from guts permeating throughout the body, could be a relishing feeling. It is a measuring gauge, when someone walks. A gauge which shrinks in every step. When sleeping alone in a room, it is an endless frigging knock. While waiting it is a nagging neighbor. When there is no food available, the horrendous hunger is an unrestrained, growing leaps and bounds, lethal fear. At first It would approach as if crouching silently behind. Our ears would pick the sound of its paws scratching sand from the distance. We may think we are handling the situation ably by neglecting it. We may pick up a random book and start reading with intense countenance. We try to enter into the fantasy world which has all types of plan of actions for a hungerless flourishing society in the next century. If there is no access to books, we turn our focus to windows to enjoy nature. Soul ambushes the flesh and takes it into captivity. Gather yourself. Peace through strength. Alas. I can easily single out a hunger panged yet the fake courage contrived person half a mile before. But I would not dare to talk to him. Completely ignoring him, turning my head in the other direction, I would walk away. The sight of that pitiful animal gives me a nauseating feeling. The nauseating feeling is because of the compassion he evokes in me which reiterates that I am one among them.

From my experience, the best tactic to tackle hunger is to plunge into the sexual daydreams and chain masturbating until the nerves lose its any vigor. Upto 3 hours I managed to delay the monstrous hunger with these methods. Soul can never defeat flesh. Those two are two different worlds that could never converge. Only flesh is capable of challenging the flesh. The erstwhile monks used hunger as a weapon to fight against sexual desire. Famine stricken tramps do the reverse. The biggest misery of hunger is, it does not allow you to divert your mind into any other thoughts. We can do anything facing it, we can react whatever we could confronting it. But all of these efforts would turn into feigning acts. After managing to avoid hunger, the sudden moment when we decided to face upfront, the immediate eruption of dreadful quivering sensation and the resulting doomed feeling, is the real hunger experience. We attempt to flee away from it. We scatter around the streets. To have a palmful of food, we would go to the extent of straggle a child’s neck. We would rummage the sewage in search of food. Yes, the belly has no conscience. It was a Sunday. I was wandering, stricken by maniac hunger in each cells of my body. Nothing but my inner hunger animal was wide awake. Eyes, Ears and mind were joining in a line incessantly buzzing. I had a rush of images of so many plans and calculations to fetch some food. Shops were shutdown due to holiday. No one was in the street, not even a single beggar. It was drizzling mildly. The entire street was clammy. In the raised platform near shops, bedsheet covered array of humans were in sleep. There must be a benevolent, merciness personified Raju or Nanu in that flock. He can donate his last paisa for some random alms seeking hungry vagabond. But I did not dare to wake them to find such person. I may be waking up same animal in ravaging hunger with burning eyes. There was an ubiquitous unforgiving clamminess. The entire city was decaying like corpse. I could see the hunger frenzy in the eyes of a psoriasis dog. I roamed around all the eight corner streets of the city. No one was there. Losing all the energy, I sat down near the threshold of “Manikandan vessel world”. There, I found an used Beedi and a match box. What relation does a beedi smoke has with the hunger. Incoherent paths. Yet the hunger class of humans manage to make a connection of these two paths. The notion that in every exhale of the smoke, we discharge some abstract negative feelings from us, may be the reason for smoking. As It was sunday, there will be some people in Mother Mary church. When the idea of begging occurred to me, it was embarrassing. Occasionally I beg in the market street. It was not begging in real sense. The routes that mind takes to pick a less hurting word even in these circumstances is surprising. Before begging, I will scrutinize the crowd. My target would be middle class men and labors. They are the true generous angels. For some reason women do not give alms to me. My appearance does not invoke pity feeling in them. To grab their attention, I had to be an invalid or crippled. Most of the men donates for pride not for benevolence. My approach would be to invoke their private attention. Suddenly behesting them closer, with the pity and self remorse filled face, I would cry, it has been two days since I had food. If he is a labor, I would call him Comrade and demand in commanding voice. If he is a clerk, I would mix some english words. What an elite language, it never allowed anyone to donate no less than 2 anas. There are some animals in human form with effluent soul. Upon noticing me, internally they will be filled with rejoice. Yet with the feigning tendered face they would ask something like “Why did you choose to throw yourself in this self-tormenting state, Comrade?” Turning his head to the other fellow creature, “ Do you know about , Sir?” he would ramble some bloated praise on me extending that torturous moment for mins. I get used to the pleasure generated by that reeking soul. The process of seeking alms, in the beginning was like an never ending nightmare. Later it occurred as if I am dying and coming alive every begging time. In one of those restarting moment, I recalled the glimpses of my mothers image. I never seen her face. I weeped for hours. After such skunky attempts, the money managed to get, would taste like sweet pastry. Today I did not have the idiotic recurring emotion. Why should I be embarrassed? Everyone in marthandam knows about me. They are very well aware of the state of my life. Upon realizing that, I would be shaming myself to the extent that the feeling would coerce me to commit sucide. But later I understood that it was just a frame of mind caused by the strain in the gut flesh. Now a days this feeling is re-occurring frequently. It gives some sort of meaning to my life and was like wrenching tool to push the time ahead. So I deliberately contrived those feelings. I must share the incident of my first day of begging. The day last of my small dose Comrades abandoned me, I was driven out from the rented room. In the streets after spending the last paisa I had, upon underwent insufferable hunger, with no way to survive, one mid day, I decided to beg. At once that idea struck me, I had a liberating feeling. Yes the survival instinct of human being is so formidable to propel your mind and body to any direction. I postponed it for sometime, just to get clarity about about where, when and how to start. The practical difficulties were the initial hurdles. I sobbed uncontrollably thinking about my state. Once I stopped sobbing, the resulted embarrassment feeling fueled the hunger exasperating it exponentially burned like flame. I unleashed that blazing flame to the literature, philosophies all that I read and over Bukharin who has been hounding me unrelently. It occurred to me, that with my act of begging, I am spitting over all my foe’s face. As if scratching the pus leaking wound. As If repeatedly banging someone’s head over the wall, his fleshes tearing apart, putrid bloods squirting, smacking him down all over, I get the fulfillment feeling. When I look back, while writing this line, all of these were like deranged images. Are those scenes of fiction that the mind played to force me to cross the hurdles of my first attempt. I entered into a random street in Nattalam road. It was a merchant street. Row of women were taking rest in front of their threshold. Some of them helping each other to clear the lice from their free hair. Why did I chose women? In hunger we naturally pulled towards women. Nature bestowed those generous goddesses with the benevolent organ called nipples. Those mothers are the ones attain true fulfillment in the act of assuaging others hungers. They are blessed with natural process of transforming the blood into milk. A women is a being anchored around the bosom. I was moving forward, approaching few, hesitated for few mins, then avoided them. Every woman possessed some repulsive feature. Either their body language or their sitting pose. The strange accent of their speech. The way they screwed their eyes in suspicion. One of the lady, was flossing her tooth with the safety pin. No one was sitting alone. The woman in the crowd cannot be a mother. At last I picked a lonely elderly lady. She was darning a basket from palm leaf fiber. Spitting the betel leaf, she had a glance at me. Which of her feature made me to choose her? I foolishly mistook her striking countryness as merciness . When I look back, I wonder myself. Middle class educated men are the culprit to propagate such foolish derivations. I was captivated towards her like a hungry infant seeking his mother nipple for milk. I was expecting nothing less than motherness filled invitation calling me “my dear son!!” and the bowlful of stomach soothing porridge placing in front of me. “Mother!” I called her. My voice sounded tender. She nodded her head as if asking me what do you want?”. I could not find right words “I am starving, It has been two days since I had any food”. Her eyebrows lowered. “So?” She asked. I felt like balls of fire bombarded over me. I scampered out from that place. Only after reaching the main road, I stopped for gasping releasing sweat through my each of my pores. Yes Sir. That single word hunted me for a week. I could not override my mind with any other thoughts as it was spiraling around me. “So?” what a daunting word . You are starving. You are going to die. You are in torment. You and your hunger human class are dead men all together. Let it be. I don't care. Yes that is true. No one cares about fellow human’s despondency. When Stalin was exterminating the farmer class in crores, the fellow humans in crores were having their daily supper by duly thanking Jesus. They could sleep peacefully on that same day after praying for the next meal. This is the nature of human. Yes, human donates food. Not to tend a fellow creature treating equal to him. He dontes only because the recipient is an inferior human. Single bowl of food, single piece of coin substantiates that disparity. I don't have wee little affection or gratification towards my donors. It is just a small game or instance of trading. I receive the single coin as payment for satisfing his ego. On that day, I was sitting disconcerted whether to seek alms from Christians. Being a Saivaite Pillai, begging in front of Mother mary church is a shame. My belly burned as If I consumed a concentrated acid. Soon, the burning sensation settled as constant pricking pain. Liquor deprived body felt heavier. A scumbag child was sleeping nearby. He was in worryless deep slumber. He must have had his dinner. Lucky boy. His warm body grabbed my attention. The feminine natured soft skin. Author Vyasar in Mahabharata illustrated Bheem cracking the chest of Dushasana drinking the blood as if he was drinking the fermented toddy maniacally. What is stopping me from biting the chest of that kid and drink the juicy blood? Oh god, What a spooky imagination. It is coursing as if a ferocious wild animal, sniffing carefully, placing its paw silently, generating goosebumps moving forward. Draculas can fly because he relishes the blood. I feared that at any moment, I would be pouncing over that kid. I got up and took a beeline to Mother Mary church. A tumor in the skin would be aching. That would not allow us to sleep at night. Off a sudden, we would scratch over violently to tear it off. My act of begging would start like abovementioned event. Mass is over in the church. Empty chairs. Big stone statue of crucified Jesus. The row of trees outside fanned the breeze through the windows. I stood near the offertory box. If I manage to grab a stick, I can fetch some currency notes from the box. As it was quarter past since the prayer was over. The church with no humans around, pushed my plan into action. Which is the best opening to insert the stick? Suddenly, there was a bursting wind. The vacant hall resonated with the Om mantra. It occurred to me that the souls which are not visible to my eyes are sitting in those congregation chairs. In fear, I dashed out from church. I bumped into Siva Ramakrishnan on the way. Midichal Estate clerk, member of the another Union. “What are you doing here, Sir” He asked looking at me. “ I am famished, Give me eight anas” I replied. He appeared shocked to hear that. “Sit in the backseat Sir. Let us go home and have lunch”. I sat in the pillion. I began to ruminate about food. Pillaimar house’s special meals. Nothing else just the boiled Samba rice and Tamarind broth flavor is sufficient. I should not feel hesitated or ashamed. Grab the chance to stuff in as much as I could. Chow down for the next day too. Cycle seemed to be moving slowly. As the road was ascending from the Unnamalai shop road, he could not peddle fast. Nagging him incessantly, I made him buy arishta a spiritous medicated liquor and gobbled it. I could sense the liquor permeating through nerves. His house was deep inside a street in the Unnamalai shop road. Looked like there was a family function. His parents, wife, brother and his wife all gathered in the house. My desperate state, did not allow to me enquire about the function details. He asked me to take bath. As I did not have other dress, he gave one dhoti and Kurtha shirt bought long ago. I realised the ragged state of my old dress only after wearing the new dress. My old dress caused intolerable disgustion. I washed my hair with the soapnut power and took a bath from the well water. There was a single banana leaf was placed for lunch in the house. Others must have already finished their lunch. The leaf was filled with array of vegetable side dishes including a banana and papad. Silver coin and few scutch grasses were placed in the corner, evoked suspicion. I asked “what is this?” . Before he was about to disclose, his mother chimed in and said “offering food for his grandfather”. Only then I realized the reason for that cold food. Raging blood rushed inside my head. I must have got up and yanking that leaf and fling it over the faces of all their family members. I must have lambasted them maniacally. But the uncertainty about the next day's food stopped me there. The pleasant smell of the food pulled strings from my rumpled stomach. I took a dumpling and ate me. Sober emerging from the chest, turned as tears. That forbidden food was a offering to a departed soul. “Eat you corpse, you are a dead corpse already. Aren't you?” I reprimanded myself. It was a torturous moments to finish that food. Cold and shriveled food. By gulping water for each take, that food floatingly ingested into me. When I got up finishing the remaining food, the elderly lady asked me to keep that silver coin. I complied. Arista started making my head swirl. While washing my hand, my legs started losing control. I had a unrelated rush of images in my thoughts. The Church and the Bell. Am I started hearing the voices of the restless souls? Are they attempting pass some messages through me? Church, so It must be the ghost of Bukharin. In toilet, from the soap holder, I found a wrist watch. I snatched it and went out. In Nagercoil Greatest bakery I bought bread and butter. As could not find the meat shop, I bought a cooked meat from a restaurant. The mortgage amount of wrist watch was over, when I purchased shirt and few miscellaneous items. In every chance of break, I gobbled liquor. Finally I bought a bottle of dram whiskey. Had I stolen gold jewel Instead of wrist watch, I would have money to buy a pair of snow leather boots. I returned back to Marthandam at night. Mother Mary church was in dark. Security guard was missing in his room. It was pitch dark. I went to backyard. Church appeared like a black color filled line drawing in a dark blue paper. Rain was just stopped, the roof of the church dribbling with rain droplets. A lightning lighted the sky for few seconds. It occurred to me that nature is trying to converse with me. One big tamarind tree was intimidating. The fear made me to empty the remaining liquor bottle. Mustering some courage I shouted “Bukharin” . The tree quivered for a few moments as if it sighed. “ Comrade Bukharin, I can feel your presence”. There was silence. My heart felt tendered, my eyes turned tearful. “Comrade Bhukharin, Your disciple is standing here, in front of you. According to Sastra, a disciple can offer food to his master. I beseech you to accept my offering.” In a banana leaf, I placed bread and butter, cooked meat and a new dress in order. I lighted a candle and prayed for him. The shaky candle light made the alive the surrounding wet bushes. “Peace to Nikolai Ivanovich Bukharin” . I repeated those words several times like a mantra. Lightning like clustered branches of white root, spreading across the whole sky, lighted up wet bushes, a distant tree, a lone farm house and a stream for seconds and then went back to hide in dark. My overwhelmed eyes refused to comply, as it was enshrouded by all colors of images. The candle was finished. Calming down from the excited frenzy state, I returned back to normalcy. What sort of insanity is this? At that moment, I heard the sound of someone breathing close to my ears. It was not a dream. Again the gasping sound of the same creature. Am I closer to some wild animal? Is some animal breathing in my ears? Yes, those glittering eyes are that of dogs. The street dogs arrived captivated by the smell of the meat. The flock of dogs began to snarl. I shouted “Run away! Get lost!”. When the snarling coalescing together came near me. I sprang over the nearby short wall. They began to fight ferociously among themselves to grab that meat piece. Their paws scratching the floor sound was distinctly heard. They were howling. Rolling on the floor. When the next lighting struck, I could not believe my eyes the image I saw. With Pristine white manned, textured neck, dhining red eyes, blood smeared tooth, wagging its tail, a flock of Siberian snow wolves appeared. All of them entwining together emerged as a single animal with many many heads.

Chapter 5

I received a letter from Subbaiah of Nagercoil. Only when a dearmost friends turn foes, such scalding letters are written. My wounded mind is not letting me sleep. I am having the reminiscences of pleasant days I spent with him. Why such a vengeance spewing letter, what is the root of this? We per se never had any quarrel on personal matters. Party and ideologies just laid a platform for our friendship. Now he chose to reject me just to retain his attachment with party and ideology. Morever, he is opposing me, despising me. He may be deeply contemplating about me. Sometimes it is hard to believe that the party and ideology are the only reason for his rejection. Only after scrutinizing my mind deeply, we could find the real reason. Politics, party or Ideology based personal friendships never exist. Even morality and common virtues go to the back seat in long running friendships. The matters of concern in my relationships are totally different. Fear to sustain my image and the resulting expectations are my primary concerns. My image and with that how long and how deeply I can influence others are the fundamentals of my relationships durability. I forge, establish and reinstate most of the relationships only to water and grow my image. They are the saving grace on my bad days. On those days, I fully depend on this image. I hate the same relationships on the days when I feel independent and free. I try to ditch them out. While self examining the root cause for my dependency weakness, when I hit into my loathing self image, I try to hurt these relationships as much badly as I could. If they interpret my hurting attempt, as if a mischievous calf trying to reach the fodder, I would be raged to tear them apart. There are rare relationships where I surrender my ego totally. Once I realize that total submission, trampling over their heads, rising above them, I try to look down disdainfully at them from the top. Yes, it is a game played in my brain. All my relationships are in the mix of these three aspects of shady lights. Apart from these aspects, I don't feel any personal bonding with any human. Yes, it is worrisome. Yes there are a few faded faces reflected for a few seconds in my deep soft part of heart. When I try to look deep into that spring water to match the name of the faces, I fear that it would get dissolved immediately, refectling my own face. So I would delay to avoid it. Now I realize that there is no other face. At the peak of my self-tormenting state, I found that, in every angle of my deep mind, one and only my face is carved. Even If I show the entire universe, It would reflect back only as my face. It is just a magnifying mirror which reflects just my face alone to whatever level I would want. I won't complain, If you label me as egomaniac. I am vouching for the ancestor who invented the word “Ego” which was derived from the word “I”, as personification of that word. What is my relationship with Subbaiah? I sold revolutionary dreams to him. He paid back with his time as friendly debates in Tea shops, Road side platform, Park seats and again in Tea shop continued banters. When that relationship turned void, he took the role of victim as if it was an injustice to him. This letter and the resenting words in the letter are nothing but the evidence of his efforts to preserve his revolutionary image and pull me back into that murky dreamy world again. Perhaps this objective is driving him unbeknownst. He may be assuming himself as an exemplary warrior who is unbounded by the grounded friendships or humane relationship chains. This may not ever be true. A man with self-confidence will not behave in such impetus intensity. To fill the vacuum in the mind, humans cry and get angry. That vacuum between his projected image and his real self can never be filled. Every logical debates is happening in that warranda. Marthandam 12-5-1955 I wrote a letter back to Subbaiah today. A 10 pages lengthy letter. I composed that letter with the cruel satisfaction and well calibrated words. That letter was intended to sabotage his sleep for weeks. He would restlessly keep on retorting the questions raised in my letter by confronting my imaginary self in his mind. Once he manages to figure out the best answer for my questions, he would write back to me. He would be counter arguing to restore his revolutionary image from the damage caused by my letter and at the sametime he would invite me to tread into the poisonous thorns he laid in the form of words. In my reply letter I brute forcely ramming through his image, and sent back the collected rubbles. When I began to write the letter, I kept on recollecting of, the instances of his weaknesses and unmasking of his fake projections. I wondered myself, how I managed to spotlessly stash these incidents in my memory in the my close days with him. I casually mentioned the moment he turned tearful during his daughter’s hair offertory function in Kumara temple festival. Those words were directed to bruise the soft spot in his heart. I had a smile when writing those lines imagining his immediate reactions in my mind. ( Someone watching me writing the letter must be thinking I was into writing a love letter. Perhaps the love letters were full of such abstract hurt intended thorny passages). The entrance of the temple, his brother who disrespected the hair shaver, the miser uncle who counted the remaining coins every time settling the bills, Sandalwood powder paste overly applied ladies, Community pride banters, his father-in-law who weighed the gifted golden earrings from the palm to measure its accuracy, I was able to recollect all of their meeky acts immaculately. I can elaborate each of these memories into 10 pages of poisonous words filled letters. His wife was a stout, short, big eyed, dark lipped, rounded face lady with a few straps of hair swaying in her forehead. She kept on preening her daughter’s new frock and her jewels. It occurred to me that she was silently trying to grab my attention over her. Upon noticing her reaction realizing the intention, Subbaiah turned restless, disdainfully shushing her at every opportunity. He lost the grip on his image maintenance in front of me, and started showing true colors. After I happened to meet the wavy eyes of his wife, Subbaiah's attitude subtly changed towards me. His shaky eyes refused to meet mine directly. I was kind of excited by her action and his reaction. I did not dare to see her directly again. Yet, I could feel her eyes screwing me during the entire event. She dropped the brass tumbler from the palm leaf basket while stepping down. “Butter handed idiot lady” her mother abused her. The jaggling sound of tumbler and her mothers swear words must have upset him. Suddenly, he slapped hard on her cheek. While her brother was shocked in fear, his brother pulled his shoulder to pacify him. “What have you done, Subbaiah?” his father shouted. Eliciting an accomplished gesture in entire body, his mother paced ahead. That embarrassing moment settled back to normal in an unbelievably short time. Barring his wife, all others restarted their casual conversations. When I was about to start back, approaching Subbaiah “ Bye, Subbaiah” I said. He appeared dull with feverish eyes. There are so many such incidents I could pick. Now when I look back, it occurs to me that I continuously monitored him in even those good old friendship days. This letter is evidence that he reciprocated the monitoring of my behaviors detailedly. My mind was continuously vigilantly searching for the defects in his projected revolutionary image. Because it was a copy of the image that I projected on him. It was like minutely examining in front of the mirror to pick a single gray hair.

I wondered why my unsettled mind was expecting a reply for my second letter to Subbaiah. I crafted my letter to abstractly re-establish my image to prove his sabotage attempt was an utter failure. I didn't plan it while writing. But only after completion I clearly realized how instinctively I composed those lines. What do I get If at all I successfully sell my image back to him? At present, he is the least considerate fellow human in my world. Yet various facades of my image, I elaborated in that letter. In a line I wrote that I was not an ideologist, martyr, or historical figure, at the same time, I imagined myself as a rejected historical figure, a lone warrior who will be dug in the future and my true value will be venerated by some future generation. As if, I am a great man who is performing his rightful duty even though the entire world is against it. I wrote without any remorseful words yet with the quivering hands and rush of images of myself as dying in the street without any support, what an epic climax for my life. Am I playing this game just to augment my image beyond belief ? I know that no human lived ever, inextricably bonded with fellow humans. Human mind tries to erase the memory of every departed soul. Bereaved human expresses condolence, eulogizes the expired human only to dispel their memories and to overcome the mysterious guiltyness they cause. I will also be forgotten. No one will remember me or the pain I suffered. Having read, my detailed barefaced pretensions and dissimulations, no chance of it. Because these pretensions and dissimulations are the frothy layer of entire humanity. Every human can relate to these cynisms in the first glance itself. The moment dropping all the cynicist pretentious shields when a man merges with the clamoring average people, he is defeated in the game. So what is the meaning of my victories? With these small victories, am I trying to cover up the meaninglessness of my life? Why am I insistent in selling my image to this Subbaiah, a simpleton, a novice, who wanders in the middle ground of revolutionary image and worldly affairs. Future generation waves will produce one such an average man, who will wriggle out, make a headway to find me. So If I manage to sell my image successfully to him, I am victorious. For this victory, I am ready to die. What sort of skunky thought, what sort of absurd notion, even my solid parts of nerve is ashamed. If I could find a hub far away from this cowardness, cruelty, cynicism without a tinge of fickleness or desire, if I could attain enlightenment dissolving my ego spotlessly, only from that day onwards, I would live earnestly. Marthandam 16/05/1955 Your conscience is nothing but a self-stimulative act. His written words caused inflammation even in the deepest points of my gut. He went on to write, I took this Bukharin issue in hand, only to instigate the guilty feeling to others, to square up my failures ridden life caused by my inabilities. I cannot rewrite his caustic words. I wrote him back “Your revolutions are nothing but the act of homosex.”. It was well directed to his weakest part. This metaphor has been hounding me for a long time. Homosex is ubiquitous among the party members, as if indissoluble water content in cucumbers. In the personal friendly banters among comrades, it will be mocked symbolically in shushing tone. Sometimes mild throwing of teasing bricks would turn into physical scuffles. It would to suppressed only after escalated into higher bureau level. In a plain ground level, most of the cases would appear like a normal micro loaning related issue or meeky egoist clashes. If you track it to the next deep level the real issue of homosexual cases would stumble on. Keezha muzhachal estate’s Raghavan’s brother one such a case. There was a complaint raised over Achuthanandan on unsettlement of the lended 1000 rupees. According to his version, he never received any monetary. Once the first of the evidences were investigated the jury bumped into the classic homosexual case. The money was loaned without receipt vouching on their homosexual friendship. Now Achuthanandan fell in love with Ramaswamy chettiyar, so Ragavan was infuriated with the possessiveness. Upon his attempt to separate them failed, the loan lended long time ago emerged as issue for friction. In the scuffle Ramaswmy’s head was broken. Ramasundaram himself had to visit site for settling that dispute. In that night, I asked Ramasundaram what was that all about? Initially Ramasundaram was hesitant. Later he broke the ice. Homosexuality is an inevitable natural issue in every closed organization. The extreme cases can be found in every perilicious, underground, revolutionary militant groups and war mercenaries. It is a psychological phenomenon. We cannot understand the reason clearly. Then I went on discuss this issue further with Balu. He stated that the main reason was in such groups, women's participation is rare or close to none. For men members, maintaining affair with the outside woman is a dangerous. Secrets will be leaked out. Possible deboucherous life style may lead to disintegration of the group. So for safely purpose liaisons with the fellow men was accepted. When I went back to share this with Ramasundar he let out a laugher and said “Only Balu can talk this topic to face. Fortunate bloke” . I insisted him to share his thoughts over this.

“In our society young men do not get much opportunities for physically intimate relationships ” said Ramasundaram. “Men live lonely life. No one fondly touches his body after his puberty. Body needs cuddling. Caressing is a phenomenal event. Humans express enormous love to fellow humans through touch. Why it is a primary medium for love? Words could never give the exhilarations of touch. Because knowledge siphons off the love expressed through words. There is no such a obstruction in touch. Only through the touch, human feels connected to the world and gets epiphany that he is just a droplet of the entire world. This is the reason for that wonder feeling. Even the birds, animals once we cross the initial fears and abhorrences, they open a different world of love through touch. In such closed organizations, men share their aspirations privately. When two humans exchange their ambitions and dreams like the other side coin, they also share their weakness and dark shades of their heart. This personal sharing of dreams naturally goes to the next level as exchange of their body. Body craves for the fellow body. It has unquenchable thirst for losing itself inside fellow body. So the immense force which hurls it to connect, entwin, embrace, melt into the other bodies is appalling. Yes this fear emerges from the self truth seeking model of our culture. As Ramakrishna Paramhasa quoted “A fear of salt doll at the edge of the coast”. This fear dwarfs the pathway of pleasurable firmement into the shaming possessive scuffles. It spoils that into jealously and resentment. All sort of psychological problems starts at that point.

“As if Freud is in homosexual relationship with Marx” I said. Ramasundaram laughed his heart out. (What an amazing person. What a spotless laugher. Only a man who relinquished all his pretensions is capable of laugh like this. I wonder Ramasundaram of present can laugh like this.). Your thought is extreme ideolgy, and Balu’s version is extreme practical. Truth lies between these two levels. “ I continued. He laughed again.

Why women rarely take part in the impassioned ideological movements? This question can be contemplated along with the above questions. Lust would become the base of the organization where there is a sizable female participation. Only by exchanging his/her body, human feels his/her knowledge sharing is consummated. Why every ideological men is in the need for an ideal significant other who shares his dream without any resistance. Almost all of the ideological men would have that unfulfilled longing dream. The issue is result of willful suppression of a body’s natural cravings. Every human earnestly wants to share his feelings and dreams with a faithfull fellow human. It is a gender agnostic feeling. Yes the findings are getting absurd and disgusting. Let me stop here. But..

There may be one more issue. The great men and women relationship itself a ever evolving metaphysically dialectical movement. It is the fundamental force of the universe’s course. Men, women are forward, complementary forces, pursue each other, copulate with one another, and create a new life on earth. For every form of creativity these two forces are essential. In the Militant and revolutionary movements, only this forward force is present. Integrated erected phalluses. It may happen to meet its complementary force only at the climatic moments of war or revolution. Copulation, Climax and Creation will happen as the natural serial steps. The greatest alluring fact for the war is that it is nothing but a kind of sexual intercourse. Perhaps this is applicable for violence also, where the climatic meeting of this forward and complimentary forces occurs. In most of the world languages war and sex are depicted in similar words. War itself could be monstrous mating of a chimeric male and female formed in the amalgamation of thousands human’s bodies. In the war and peace novel, the marching of the gigantic armed regimes is described aesthetically. From the bird’s view of Napoleon over a hillock, the french regime and Russian regimes fusing with one another. Life liquids are mixing. The surrounding snow smoke adds the erotic texture for the volcanic colloidal of thousands of human bodies. Each of the participants in that event performs their act in a sustained orgasmic feel. They get ecstatic feelings. That intercourse flow is natural. It complied with the mystical commands of nature. We could only observe its destruction. The creative outcome we cannot perceive.

In that case, the homosexuality is symbolical representation of the Army which is at bench waiting for war. It is a preparation action to war. Are the forward forces in wait frictioning among themself losing its vigor? The long days they wait for war, their homosextual desire intensifies. I baffled when I conceive the thought that this suppressed feeling is vented out like slanders, Chorus slogans, sorrows, angers, trechearies. It is occurring to me that the heated words exchanged inside among our revolutionary movements members are nothing but the mega foreplays of the suppressed lust. Flock of sperm leaking breeding bulls confined between fences.

What will happen if this homosexuality crosses its limits? Instead of leaping over the wait on expectations of the future climatic copulation, if they started relishing this proxy actions, what would happen? The organization which performs these actions for generation would begin to justify these actions. Then it would come up with some rules to regulate it. Once the aesthetic angle added to this actions, it would come to full circle. The homosexual act would soon renounce, reject, despise the actual men women sexual act. Centuries past, the normal sexual act would become abnormal due to this head over heel change in course.

Marthandam

17-6-1955

Yesterday, I met a strange creature “Isakki” the editor of the Trivancore Nesan daily. From Isakki words, Nesan took the burning issue of Linguistic state demand in print zealously(dropping its original goal of gossiping the celebrities private affairs). Bulbous head in the scrumpy body was dangling. What a strange adams apple, no one could avoid eyeballing over this throat when conversing with him. “Write some pipe hot stuff about the language issue, Sir. Let the article generously sprinkled with the revolutionary spice and pepper. ” I said an over spiced article will spoil the party” . He laughed like a big fish swallowing crane making waverly motion in his entire throat. “ Language is our life line Sir. If we fail to defend it in this critical juncture, our next generation will curse us' ' . I asked “ You are the one who arranged dharna to save a neem tree right? ” The crane quivered its throat once again. Of a sudden, stopping his laughter, with his corner eyes, ensuring no one is surrounded “ What did we end up with ? Did you notice that Malayalis and Muslims are the first ones to abscond from the protest spot. That was why Nesan took this issue in hand. “ He closed his eyes as if he was meditating.

Finally I managed to sell my 3 articles and a translation work for 6 rupees and 80 paisa by signing voucher for 11 rupees. At your convenient time (which never going to come) please visit Nesan office which is not far away from your house’s backyard to collect the balance amount. The pulp fiction paper status of the Nesan all of a sudden shooted up to national level after it sensationalizing the two language theory of Kanyakumari district. Soon it would publish articles about future of Isenhower and catastrophic effect of atom bomb. The dick heads publishers would steer the political discourse, democratization of art, the direction of the cultural course.

Society is a perennial power struggle happening play field. In every social issue this relentless struggle among all the communities, would get reflected symbolically. Political struggle of Kanyakumari district in a barefaced ground level, a hegemony struggle between the Nayar- Nadar communities. ( Only formidable opposing community in this area is the Malayali group, Comrade. Let us crush them. All others would have no other choice of joining us. - Isakki) What will happen finally? Trivancore would be bifurcated. Kanyakumari will become part of Tamilnadu. In every angle of the political calculations leads to this undoubtful destiny. Who would reap the most? Few handful politicians, Trivancore Nesan ( There is a plan to shift the headquarters of Nesan to Tirunelveli. We should not let Nesan slip out of hour hands, Comrade). Apart from this angle, it is just a proxy war. Winners and losers are decided in a place where we have no idea.

My soul is inextricably connected to this soil. Every Metamorphic change this land goes through will inherently affects me. Yes, upfolding events causes me chagrin. In this land, If Tamil overrides Malayalam, or vice versa , both the scenarios are feral violence over it. Who is here to hear my thoughts? I am amazed how quickly people switch their sides in these situations dropping their progressive masks.

Marthandam

19-8-1955

I happened to rummage the Trivancore Nesan in the Pachupillai’s Tea shop and found that K.R.S vowed in podium to capture the power of Kerala state. Very well. In 1950s Stalin sent a secret letter to this leader to prepare the direct action against the Governance in streets. K.K.M passed a crackpot, we training enough only to hide our heads in the bunkers. Alas, K.K.M has forseen his right spot in the future.

When the Left parties announced to their future course into the democratic path, without a clue on that, I was scurrying near the very same stage. I saw Isakki walking straight towards me. Sun was scorching. Yet he appeared like a moon walking Kandarva in the green forest. No one would fail to notice his attention seeking walk. On meeting their eyes, he would expose a blissful gesture of accepting their greetings. He would assume himself as a Maharaja who is procession through street. His eyes squinted on seeing me. His countenance turned serious. “ It is a dawn, Comrade. It is a dawn. A watershed moment” said he. “You moron, mid-day sun is scorching hot. Where is your dawn? Leave that lone. Gimme 2 rupees. I am famished since morning” I said. It is a daunting task to make him hear the second part of the last statement. By looking up at sky, quivering his throat to emit a laughter. “ Don't be silly, Comrade. How can a writer starve? After all you are blessed by the right hand of Goddess Saraswati” . “ Skip it. Hand over two rupees now”

“What is your future plan Comrade. It is a demanding time for intelligentsias like you” said he. “Have you turned Nuts?” I said. Isakki looked serious and said “ Have you not read todays Nesan?” . “What is pressing issue? “ said I. “What a shame. Don't you know our Party’s decision is the talk of the nation? “ said Isakki. “ Oh they successfully imported the revolution?” I asked. “Yes Indeed, Comrade, not a red revolution, the democratic revolution. Party is going to venture into electoral polling” he exclaimed. “It is their time to do the funeral and scavenging jobs” he continued. “ Who are them?” I asked. “ The first three varna class people” said he. “You belong to the same class right, dont you?” I asked. “Don't crack jokes in this sensitive issue you wicked writer. Ha ha.” he continued in a subdued tone “ Nesan always misses the Red shaded articles” . “So be it. Gimme a rupee, quickly” demanded me. “Do you want money? Come to office” said he. He displayed his empty packets comically. I managed to take out a rupee hidden in his folded shirt of right arm. “Comrade, leave me alone, people are watching” he cried. “I am one of the world famous intelligentsia writer, I need to show the naked truth about remaining 4 rupees hidden inside you. “

K.R.S needs just a slipping quote in his interviews to rout Isakki. Isakki will pay back by fabricating gossipy stories on him. He would fictionise K.R.S’s image to fit in to his frame of in few years. Compilation of these personal egoist fights is called Democracy. When we look back this from the 50 years of future, democracy will remain as millions of quotes and news bites. This is the only endless profit of this people’s business. History filled with empty words. Yet it is far better than the history written by the knuckle headed historians.

Marthandam

1-5-1956

Yesterday night, When I was with the company of liquor glass, the glass and the half filled alcohol glittered for a few moments in the passed by car’s headlight. It was scintillating as if eyes. Animals have such feral eyes. What is that animal? On Then I realized, I was sitting in the people thronging business place of vessel merchant Kumarasamy’s shop threshold, I cannot stay longer. Moreover the reeky smell of sewage. I departed from the place mind full of thoughts. What is this liquor? Just a distilled drink. On its unavailability, at first it induces the feel of voidness in my throat, then in my guts finally in all over my body. This vacuum can be filled only with the liquor. The feeling of the first sip of the liquor sensationally permeating throughout the body reaching the finger tips is unparalleled. Thus far agitating my internal organs and surrounding objects would slowly get settle. Buildings letting out a sigh would rest back at its foundations. Losing its stiffness the bristling branches of trees would begin to sway gently. Clamoring noises forking out started would start emit as distinguishable sounds. The mild breeze causes the goosebumps in the body. As a first impression it would give solace to pass next few hours without worry. I repeat to myself that I must control the disparate course of thoughts. But thinking would be cumbersome, however hard I try only the dispersed thoughts would emerge. Unrelated meaningless thoughts. Thoughts must fuse or collide with something. The resulted storm would wipe away all sorts of debrises, soots and smuts of minds. Once the storm is passed nothing would remain. As if a floor drawing under a rainfall. Only the gradient color mix would remain on floor. Part of it would be real , rest of them would be dreamy. The worst thing about the drunkenness is the meaningless morning. Realization of the days passed would slap you hard in face like a heavy loss. Quivering hands would cause fear. Inflammation in some corner of the body would soon would turn a life threatening . I would extend my left hand to examine, the moment I thought it is under controls it would start to quiver maniacally. I would press my belly to examine the lever. Someone said a dying lever of a drunkard would be heavier like a field hockey ball. My lever would play hide seek with me appearing sometimes heavier and the other times feather light. If it appears heavy at first, I would keep on massaging it until it gets back to lighter feel. If the first impression is lighter lever, I would feel exhilarated. My lever is not damaged. If I stop drinking now onwards, I will be redeemed. I can save some more days in my life. All that excitement feel would lost just for few hours. Constipation is another heavy load to bear. The lower belly would feel heavier, at the same time the upper belly would be dry and patchy. On irritating lonely time, nothing would seem interested. The life prisoned inside the body frame would attempt to break away free. Millions of people, allow their parts of the body to die deliberately. Through that dead part, their lives finds the route to escape the body. Sorrows, Despondency, misery what else is there in the life of human. Step by step journey towards death. I don't care about how I would die. Extreme exhilaration or helpless doomed feeling, oscillation between these two feelings are the drunkards daily morning routine. All these till the first sip of alcohol. Then starts the same old story. Same old pattern.

What am I injecting into me through this liquor? A kind of antidote. It impairs the relationship between my thoughts and the real space and time. It destroys the steel rows of everything which I could never change and arranges that into some graspable logical row. What is the soul of this yellowish liquor? The frenziedly sucked out bewilderment of quivering black palm trees from the empty the dark night. May be the poison of the snake like appearing palm trees in the scorching sunshine. People add the dead lizard while preparing the country liquor. I happened to see a lizard over a fence. It craned its head mildly. Skin of it turned into soil color from the initial green. I met its pitiful eyes. Descendant of feral dinosaur. Do you still remember your forefathers who walked rocking the earth? Is this creature successfully survived postponing its extermination by dwarfing its size and camouflaging color and sacrificing its major part to this meaningless empty space ? This liquor is just a silent prayer towards that empty space. Bless me to survive by off loading my major part of soul in this empty space. Bless me to overcome the torment feeling of losing that major part of my soul. In some other planet ib the space rivers of liquor is flowing. The brownish frothy ocean is bubbling. The fishes swim in that ocean with the eyes without tinge of worrisome. Yes those fishes are the soul of the drunkards who died of incessant drinking. Yes, the liquor is a silent prayer towards that planet. This is a poison. All poisons are prayers.

Marthandam

8-8-1958

Man who cannot feel the pain of a fellow human who is lashed in back, is not a civilized one - Leo Tolstoy (After the ball - Leo Tolstoy). When does a man feel the sufferings of fellow man? When he puts himself in the other man mind and body. When he expands his self circle including the fellow man. Most of us include the blood relations and the friends in our circle of compassion. The tribal man expands his circle including his entire clan. Nationalists draw even a bigger circle which includes all the members of that nation. A humanist would go further feel for entire human race. A wise man wold feel the entire livings creature and the entire universe’s pain as his. As a side effect of expanding the circle, the ego is also grows leaps and bounds. How to handle the ego which expands along with that empathy circle? This ego is the root cause of the supremacy feeling. I am humanist, I am a wise man, I merciful, a man self proclaims himself standing on top of that paramountcy. Apologies Tolstoy. These self-proclaimed reformists violently deform the world. Yes it is the voice of Stalin, voice of Lenin, voice of Marx. Every monk’s every intelligentsia's, every armed solider’s voice. My Guru Tolstoy, allow me to say, your voice is also belongs to the same category. When you stepped out from Yasna palyana palace for the last time, what were you thinking? Did you think that, I am sacrificing everything I owned for this entire world. Why did you assumed the tone of “Listen you world” oftentimes in your writings. Arrogance is the end result of the merciness. I see your merciness personified statue in the Red square. I seek your presence, as a destitute with ragged dress, as a despised drunkards, as a scoundrel, as fraud in this coldest snow falling night. I fling a stone on you with curse words. Let that stone fall over me too. That is the blessings of your words.

Marthandam

10-8-1958

There are handful of well-wishers advise me to stop drinking. On realizing their genuine care, I feel shuddered. I feel infuriated. I reciprocate by hurling my anger over them, with the same intensity of their care. I don't know why I do this. Sometimes I feel like they are standing over the pedestal justice and point the finger on me. They are healthy. They have sound mind. They can afford to advice entire world. Why my fellow drunkard is not advising me? In case a fellow drunkard genuinely advises me, I would have a melt down sobbing resting over his shoulders. Or I may ridicule him. My self-pride would cringe on the sight of a self claiming teetotaller who starts unleash venom of caring advice over any drunkard.

The non-drunkard junta may not aware that, even on the day I don't drink a drop of liquor, I am a drunkard. A drunkard in a day off. Thats all the difference. On those days, I feel heavy like a stone statue. My consciousness unable bear that perennial realization of heaviness loaded body. Only If I could focus the entire energy to my legs, I can chug ahead a inch. In few mins, I lose all the energy. I stop moving. Re-realising my growing heaviness, my incapability to move an inch ahead, I reprimand myself severely. Mustang some energy, I will take a beeline to liquor shop as if trying take revenge on myself. A full glass liquor would turn heavy stone ogre as a flying kite. This is a sort of few respite feelings amidst ever lasting rancor feeling. I would long for a real peace of mind. My feelings would always oscillated around. I cannot explain that feeling even in thousand of words of letter. In short, doomy drinking feeling is lighter, manageable, passes faster than the doomy feeling when I was not drinking.

Marthandam

12-8-1958

This world is filled with dead peoples. Every living human is surrounded by the thousands of dead peoples. The tears, unfulfilled desires of these dead people’s is slowly finds the refuge in living men. This force is the prime moving force of every human. If this is not the case, then how can we explain the mystic functioning of the world. The world functions as if a malfunctioning gigantic industrial plant where its parts completely gone berserk. The broke away steel parts shattered by frictioning, creaking, banging, with each other moving in all possible directions. Chaotic violence. If we observe closer, there is an order. Every steel part is steered by a dead soul. You can perceive that dead man’s souls eliciting a cruel smirking, glittering eyes and in a resolute order drives the living body. You will not be surprised by this catabolism. Oh wise man, oh intelligentsias, oh God please rescue human from these dead people’s spirit. Let him live in freedom at least for a second in this world. You are also dead ones or driven by the wise dead man, dead intelligentsia or dead gods. Your words and acts dilates this world. This small planet is enshrouded by the dead people’s souls.

There is a escaping plan. Human can relocate to a new planet, dedicating this world for erstwhile dead people’s souls. A new soil, under a new space, filled with fresh air and lights. Over there, the light will be light and the air will be air, green will be green. Let us rename those, purely based on our sensorial experiences. Let us redeem them by giving fresh meaning to this. Let us open our fresh heart and introduce ourselves to them. Yes I am in the effect of the Marijuana. I am not denying it. This is not blabbering. This is the voice of my soul. I stand up and say this to the whole world. Yes there is such a planet exist in our universe, where there is no past. Every moment will leap ahead from the present to future. Humans would live together cherishing one other and die without any unfulfilled desires. Behold that awaiting golden world which could bless us with undying youth, fertile fruits filled green forests, sky high silent mountains in the horizon. In this decaying street, the sky appearing like the colloidal glass liquid. Yes there is one planet awaiting for us.

Marthandam

10-9-1958

As a Literary critic when I read the life book of man, alI I can say that highly overrated one. 90% of its part is redundant. Remaining finger-full pages seems considerable. Only few lines are remarkable. When I examine a typical man’s life events, I see only the rudimentary events such as monthly receiving the salary, having uninterested bi-monthly sex, constipation worries, monthly installments of loans, occasional meetings with the relations in the funeral and marriage functions. Without none or rare captivating moments, I am plowing ahead turing of the life pages, only to disappointed at the end. All man do is wrestling hard throughout the life, only to earn few breath taking moments. For this purpose, he made his life extremely complicated and gloomy. He goes to the extent of ruining his life. When he was a hunger hunter in stone age, when he was being hunted by feral animals in forest, he must have cherished in fulfillment feeling throught the moments of in life. Aftermath he must have sustained cherishment, in feudal era, being constantly at battlefields, pillaging the enemies town, later the conspiring for power struggle. In the enlightment era, questing through art and literature he must have sustained the intensed fulfillment. How to carve out some meaning from this life? Forced to answer this question he must have invented the gambling. ( Did he derive gambling from the uncertain moments of life or he derived his life moments from gambling?) What could be that wonderful discovering moment? An ecstatic man who managed to return back to life from the brink of the death, must have invented it. He would have tried to simulate that joy at the edge of that precipice. He must have yanked the tail of a sleeping lion to re-savour that moment again. Putting all his chips in the gambling , a man waiting for miraculous victory, makes his each morsel of living moments wonder. Each seconds he waits for the unbelievable result makes his life joyful. He is having the enlightenment of the great mystery of universe on that moment. Who else match the the rejoiceful moments of that of a gambler? Who else can gain the wisdom of a gambler? On one side, the world full of rules, protocols and personal attachment to belongings and on the opposite side universe of volatile, ever transforming, ever chanced fortunes of gambling. By holding one side in this fist, he tries to walk through the other side. It is a tug of war. The force in both sides tightens his wrists. He is struggling hard to keep hold of both the sides. Atlast he explodes attaining the enlightenment. Complete enlightenment is the opening gate of the heaven.

When he was at waiting, by putting all his properties and vouching the last drop of life in gambling, he gets the darshan of cascading opening of doors of heaven. When the last door wide opens, the brahmam welcomes you with a beaming face. Brahmam says, my dear Friend, I tried to greet you several time standing behind this screen. In that moment of epiphany, man attains Nirvana. Worldly man even in his wildest dream cannot feel the single morsel life moment of a gambler. If he chanced to face, his spine will be shattered.

Marthandam

16-9-1958

I heard the news of KKM defiled me calling as a hookworm in stool. I was an abnormal bowl movement for the party. Now party defecated me. Squatting down, dropping my head I am closely examine that stool worm. It is squirming restlessly to break away from the body. Human rub their ass hole to suppress the relentless itchiness it gives. The larvas of that worms, sticking in the finger nails, begins to spread. They proliferate. Isn't that the same innate palpitating profiltration attempt of the universe? What is the singular purpose of it? I will multiply and fill this world. I am the axis of the universe. This tiny creature does not think. It does not have consciousness. It dutifully performs its single purpose as per the command of the nature. That command is the reason behind this ever expanding palpitating universe.

Marthandam

18-9-1958

Oh human, who open your window and throws a disgusting glance towards a scoundrel, Listen to me. This home is not safe heaven to you. It cannot cure your fear baggage and silly feelings. Apart from stuffs gets older in each second and your constipation, it has nothing to offer to you. Do not curse a street man. You can never understand him. You are incapable of analyzing and emphasizing everything does not have any boundaries. Time, space, light, water all of it. As a proud family leader title holder of ration card, you are doomed to live in this home prison for ever. The breeze is insisting you to break away from the other of your window. That pure air would bring death to you. Shut your window.

Kuzhithurai

21-10-1958

I recently realized that, by projecting oneself as a low life and despicable man, human cherishes undescriptive happiness. Foremost reason is that a betrayal feeling that his awareness of real sense he is not a low-life as perceived by others. Behind these pretentious veil, self awareness of one’s original loftiness. This makes him feel desired soul and a selected one. Mix of irritating bitterness and pleasant happiness. He laughs his ass out on watching humans juggleries to solidify his made up self identity image. The foremost vexation of human, is realization of his self-image is nothing but indefinable shapeless water or air. In every, attention seeking moments of life demands him to change his behavior, manners and speech. He fabricates the self-image for this purpose. Half of the Human do this by practise, rest of them put lot of momentary efforts to maintain the identities to project as Humanist, Philosopher, Comrade, Boss, Monk, Scavenger. It is ludicrous to see the efforts turns him as Impetus rogue, hoodlum, unsatisfied soul. When he divulges his true face through the openings of this identify mask, he gets anxious. He tries to cover up or ran out to find a place to hide his head. Later, when he self suspects if his true identities are those masks, he gets infuriated on himself to disprove it . Internally he indeed gets liberated when his actual self reveals out through crack of these identity masks. I happened to watch an English movie “A story of an unseen man” . One man loses his eye sight in a radioactive accident. As a liberated man, he rejoices every life moments of a blindness. But he loses his social life. He forced to spend time alone. Soon He longs for love and being loved by someone. He realizes that not only seeing others, being watched by others is paramount aspect of human life. For that, he purchases nice coats and hand gloves and hats. He preens his face with cream. Even though these are disposable identities, without that he is liberated, Yet he cannot live without these masks.

Look here, there is a man, swaddling his dhoti, keeping his moringa leaves containing bag aside. I wait for him and with utmost servility gesture I approach near him. He is a clerk creature. “Sir, Could you donate me for permanent revolution? “ I asked pitiness filled tone in a pristine english accent. He is jostled “ Yes. Yes” and mumbles. He is rummaging his shirt pocket, gives me a one rupee note. His bus fare might have slipped through his hands in agitation. By rubbing my buttock, I return back to the place and squat. That clerk screwing his eyes at me a in a fear filled, disgusting glance. I did not intend to invoke any emotion in him. In his view, I am a null, just a thing. I am an unseen man. Being alive is better than departing. Whatever may be the unfit lowlife identify.

Kuzhithurai

21-11-1958

Yesterday, without any reason, I contemplated Tolstoy. When I think of Tolstoy, my every senses bow downs instantly. Vivekananda is a fountain of motivation. Gandhi is spotless truthfulness. Marx is ocean like knowledge. Buddha is profound silence. Jesus is zenith of merciness. All these paths are are one way. We are forbidden to examine their lowliness. They are protected by steel like venerable shields. On the contrary, Tolstoy is a heart-beating soul. Every lowliness, every weakness, every lapses of human will find adobe in Tolstoy. He is a son of spirited soil. Would he accept me, as I am in this state? Yes. Without a question. He died at once he left Yaspana palayana. May be Russia’s climatic condition is not suitable to live without roof. Had he lived by chance, he would have become like me. But he would not have buried himself into lowliness like me. Grinding through the lowliness, he would have discovered the essence of human goodness. He must have become a eastern Sidhdha.

Kuzhithurai

24-12-1958

Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, every seasoned literary reader must have faced this question. If someone chooses one of them without any questions, I would doubt their literary crediablity. They did not read deep enough to understand both of them. This is a fundamental literary question. They are the two sources of basic spiritual inquisitions troubles every human’s mind. After long contemplating session, deep quest into their minds and only after self-critical explanation one could choose any one of them. That too only tentatively. Not the answer, the journey leads to the answer is more important.

Tolstoy unassailable believer of human goodness. Taking human goodness as starting point, passing throughout all possible evilness of human, he takes the 365 degree in scrutinizing human. Dostoevsky’s firm believe is that evilness is the fundamental human’s nature. But he is not ready to accept. In various discourse of words he is talking to his self to deny that stand, yet finally he accepts it. As a man suuffering from social ostracism, with rugged and dirty, puss and blood stained clothes journeying inside these great couple of literary legends minds, I can corroborate this findings taking specimen of their female characters. Pure hearted, lofty Natalia in War and peace novel, succumbing to temptations, finally rose to a motherly figure. Anna is also a fallen and then risen angel (Anna Karenina). On the contrary, Dostevesky’s female characters Nellie (Humiliated and Insulted), Soniya (Crime and Punishment) raises from the lowliness and tarnishment, burning their soul emerge as a pristine flame. In Tolstoy’s world, angels become women. In Dostvesky’s world, women elevates to angels.

Which side is closer to the truthfulness? Dostoevsky is like fire. Ferocity is its only nature. Tolstoy is like water. Droplets to sea waves, it has countless facades. I agree, Dostevesky wrote more earnestly about the despondent souls and its quest and solitariness. But he ignored the inextricable bondings that human minds, spirits have with nature. There is hardly any description of the external world in his the stories. Again and again he describes narrow airless rooms, cold snowy streets, liquor shops. Even these are external projections of human inner minds. Dostevesky sees each human with distinguishable soul, unsoiled by any external force or nature. Like fire arrows, they self-immolate themselves, arching through the dark space. In Tolstoy’s versions human is a tightly bonded organ of the nature or universe. Even an armed man marches along with his regime through a green forest, is a part of the nature. There are no idiosyncratic characters in his stories. His wisdom is his consciousness of every character of him is a response to nature or fellow characters. In future, western world taking lessons from eastern philosiphies will go next deeper level in inquisitions of subconscious mind. In that day, Tolstoy will make a supreme form. Dostoevsky's characters transformation happens by fanning of their inner soul ferociously. Only in that flame’s light, we chanced to see the external fictional worlds. Tolstoy’s characters consciously responds to their fellow characters or the nature during the life course. Sometimes they are in accord with everything. Sometimes they clash with self ego. In that angle, Tolstoy does not differentiate Pierre with a dog in the battlefield. His characters step by step, slowy transforms by responding to the fellow characters. Although it is his palpable vision, the traverse sketch of the character is an unparalleled literary experience. That is his greastest contribution to literature. No one came closer to Tolstoy in describing Impercitple, inextricable, thawing transformation called evaluation. The dramatic events in a literary work, pivots at single focal point, warrants readers complete attention. A creator licensed to raise the inquistions about life in that dramatic moments. Dostoevsky is a play writer. Although he never wrote plays, he is essentially a play writer. Their literary works happens through the friction the opposite characters. ( Happy to mention that myself a play writer. I am fond of writing the plays). But the writer who depends on the dramatic moments is one level inferior. Only the writer capable of creating impacting literature fictionising life in its natural unhurried phase is a great literary legend. Tolstoy achieved this. Thats why he rejected Shakespeare. But Dostevesky accepted Shakespere just out of courtesy.

Narration of melt down moments of solid framed individual characters in the Dostovesky’s world is appealing to Western world in this current era. As their contemporary generation could relates themself with them. The dramatic rivalry moments of goodness vs evliness captivates their reading sense. In some future, they will realise that mountain like stoicism is greater than the ferocious restless waves of Dosteveskly. Had Dostevesky lived little longer, he might have added a soft natured smiling moments in his work. From that moment, he might have elevated to the same level of Tolstoy? Every object is here but nothing is substatial is the wisdom of Tosltoy’s discoverted . Thats why everything is important to him. Sky, Soil, Stone and grass all are important to Tolsoty. His elaborated settings narration is the evidence his wisdom.

Again come back to the question. Who is greater? My mind reverbates the question swinging between Stoic Wisdom and ferocious waves. Dear Friends, not the conclusive answer. In this moment, I feel Tolstoy is the one. Yet my mind fidgets to completely inhale Dotevesky to inquest further.

** Unpublished short article wrote for Tirvancore Nesan. Later it is attached as the preface of Saints and Humans play***

It was an accident. There was a pool of blood on the road. The moment mind cognised it was blood, it got stirred up. I could not make a move from there. If passion can be depicted as colour, it must be red. Gradient crimson red colour. The meandering edge of that pool was shining like red wax. Fusing with soil, it was rolling on the floor. It occurred to me that there was a thin layer formed over it. It turned like wrinkled skin of aged human and started parching. Blood evokes deeply suppressed mystical memories. Blood is a primitive exhilaration. Exhilaration without fright is not complete. It has salty base reeky smell. It also has smell of meat. Smooth blood unbelievably entices the taste buds of nerves. Blood’s quietness is like a squirming celestial creature which found a path to creep in this world. Blood is an submission demanding attraction. Whose blood is this? I chopped his head with a sword. His trunk squirted enormous degree of blood. Oh that is my son. When I take the cold headless body, embrace it with my chest, efervesomg blood is flowing through my body. As if a private feeling of warm liquid of teardrops or sperm squirts out in half sleep. Blood is a sweat, sperm, teardrop, saliva or musth. In Mahabharatha battlefield Bheema gobbled the blood of Dushasana. It streamed as sperm in him , permeating throughout his body. It streamed as tears penetrating inside to his tissue, swelled him. No, No, This is not a human blood. This is blood of an animal. What is the difference? It cannot be labeled until we know which animal’s blood it is. Crimson to dark red it is the same color. Why blood is red coloured? Flowers are red to entice the bees. Fruits are red to entice the birds. Whom does this blood entice? It is the supreme color of human’s aesthetics. Among all the feelings this red one is the most impassioned. Among all the tastes, it is the sweet. The touch of it is pure alleviation. Blood is color of sacrifice. If that is true, then it is the color of murder. Color of viciousness. Color of excruciating pain. Yes it is the color of fire. The fire streams inside every vein of the human body. Yes Indeed, it is the colour of fire. Blood is a fire in fluid form, throbbing stream throughout the body of human, isnt it? Agni found adobe in the body. Holy fire which relentlessly pursues the space. The fire in the guts burns the food. The hot fire catalyzes the feelings in mind and thoughts in brain. The body comes alives in the warmth of this bloody fire. You can never repress blood. Body is a firewood, blood is a blazing flame. When in active dance mode, blood fire gains the name called flame. This pool of red in the soil is not blood. Comforting ember. It is in the process of normalizing. It would turn as charcoal. You can consume the piece of charcoal. You offer it as sacrifice for Angels. You can never ever touch the blood. You cannot collect it. You moron, it is a blazing flame. Touch my wrist and feel the ferocious pulse of it. Look at my eyes and savour the colour of it. Feel it’s pipe hotness in my words. Blood is like an unyielding eternal fire, burns this entire world hiding inside the millions of animal human bodies. The celestial energy from space fired it towards the earth. Earth is a Yagna bowl. The lives in the earth in the frothy fiery flames. Who is incensing it by fuelling it with loads of ghees? Who is vanishing in the dance of the fire in this bowl? What does this fire earnestly plea from space by extending its hands, tougues? Oh sunsetting space, in the glorious reflecting moment of this game, do you know the secret?

Marthandam

2-1-1959

In a nightmare I had, I was a boy who lost his directions in the Idakkaveli festival. In the sudden moment, when I woke up, I was in the pool of sweat in fright. Once my heart beat got settled, I tried to peek through the surrounding darkness. Rummaging my packets, I grabbed a beedi and lighted it. The dream was crouching beneath my eyelids. It occurred to be , it was ready to pounce all over me , if I close my eyes. I was horrified to close my eyes. But my mind wanted to rewind those images as a third person view. Yet I was afraid, if I go back to that dream again, that shady fire would capture and engulf me again.

Festival day’s last event was the blood sacrifice ritual. Woman and kids are forbidden. After ensuring father was in deep sleep, I opened the door noiselessly and stepped towards the event field. Soothing breeze was flowing from the east where the full moon made alive the sites till the horizon. I followed the direction of the resonating chenda percussion instrument’s sound. Post harvest farmfield was covered with coconut tree leafs, cow dungs and red clay pastes. Neeli the goddess sanctum was built over that field and her blue hair was embellished. The scattered fire torches and petromax lights illuminating the entire area made it active like a new world swarmed with the black human bodies. Bright dresses. The dust covering the atmosphere appeared like enshrouded crimson layered veil. It was like underground red world formed beneath the dark black world. Human shadows was like the closely placed country deities. It seemed like the Katakali dance stage. Countless artist with various characters makeup amalgamated in some strange order. Chenda’s resonating sound.

From a high plateau, I claimed down and hurried through the head drooped ripen paddy fields. he fertiliser was placed in the urine smell emitting damp circular field. Row of the temporary sheds for shops were erected using the coconut leafs. All of of them are closed. These were busy shops for the last 10 days which sold sweet candies, wooden toys, vessels and the artefacts. All of them were shut with the black screen. In the bench in front of the shop, one owner was sleeping in order to secure the goods. The stall where six armed lady, Death well, Electric women were displayed was empty just with a lone flambeau. Throughout the shop street, amidst the smoke emitting flambeaues, array of women were sitting over the wooden boxes. Reeky country liquor drunken, palm wine consumed man were haggling in whispering tone with the woman. They kept on spitting on the floor. Their voice echoed like the sound of metal vessel. One of them coughed aloud. Another one’s face appeared red for few seconds in the lighted matchstick, then went back into dark. The edge of the matchstick took the shape of bird’s bill, shrunk into single red dot. After few seconds, that single red dot made a circular fire and sparkled as red dots. It appeared like cluster of stars. Beneath the row of the fire torches, swarm of strong hairy legs with swaddled dhoti was undulating. One of the call women laughed a loud which caused a sassy feeling in entire crowd. Everyone was overwhelmed with the amorous feeling.

In front of the fiery Neeli goddess’s open sanctum, a huge tamarind tree’s stump was placed as altar. Over the green smell emitting fresh new wood turmeric powder was generously applied. Red oleander garland was decorated over it. It was embellished with the shoot of the palm tree. Goddess’s statue was placed in a huge conical shape. The silver eyes of the goddess was shining in the light of the dual fire torches. Opened free blue hair appeared surreal with the trident nearby. Basketful of Areca palm flowers was offered. In front of the goddess, boards were placed over the heap of sand forming like a table. Holy tray filled with the saffron powder was placed over it amidst glittering scattered coins. No soul was around. Eyes of the Goddess were blazing alone. When I turned back, I noticed a pronounced tooth sword planted in the sand. Antiquity, heaviness and prominence of it was perceivable at first sight. There was a blood smear all over it. When I examined it closely, I realized it was a reflection of the flambeaues surrounded.

In a makeshift bamboo shelter, a flock of goats were squirming nudging each other around. The goat’s poop smell and the cacophony of bleating was the first impression about that place. The swarming house flies came to sight in the surrounding lights. When I went closer to the shelter the eyes of the goat were shining like countless dual green insects. By slamming hoofs against one another, they wobbled. Their ears were quivering.

Stopping of the chenda percussion, frightening the goat flock made a perceivable change in their bleating. Sengilai percussion’s metallic sound emerged. People started gathering around the temple. The scattered flambeaus converged towards the temple. The entire crowd centered around the goddess sanctum. Peoples cacophony slowly subdued. Keezhkarai Ramakaniyan appeared near the altar. Crowd seeked his blessing falling in his feet. He offered the saffron powder free handedly. His entire broad shoulder smeared with the saffron colour, spilled along mixed with sweat as droplets. His biceps was tied with the talismanic brass bullets. His open dark mane covered his whole neck. Crimson colour bandana tied around his waist. His apostle was standing closer to him. When he rose the teeth sword his hand, there was a total silence. Every eyebrow was raised widely focussing on the sword.

Holy fire from the holy tray was offered to the Goddess and to the altar. That holy fire was offered to the shelter and then to the Komban the Alpha goat from the flock. That goat appeared prominent with dangling wattle, rotund heavy scrotum, sharpened horns. It shook its head. Letting out a huge sigh, it was scratching the floor with its front leg. Orangy offering power was applied over its forehead. There followed the goats one after another following Komban . There was a strain in the crowd since everyone wanted to seek blessing from the Komban goat. Those two eyes of Komban terrified me. Those were not eyes, it appeared like dual metallic knobs. Sengilai’s sound begin to break the sky.

One man showed a moringa leaf bunch in front of Komban. Excited Komban, jumping up grabbed it all over with its teeths. It chewed it rapaciously with quivering lips. When the man moved ahead, unbeknownst Komban followed him. In the other side of altar, moringa leaf bunch was hanged over a bambo stick pole. Stretching out its neck over the altar, Komban tried to fetch it. Sengilai was let loose. Ramakaniyan wailing “Amme, Devi”, swung the sword right over its neck. Sword shakingly rested over the altar cutting the head. Beheaded Komban, stirred for few seconds, taking few steps back, wagging its tail, stood for few seconds. Then fell down shiveringly. It was throbbing on the floor raising its leg and waging its tail. Stench of blood. Priest took the blood leaking head of komban and placed it on the board nearby the goddess. It occurred that the prominent sharp eyes of the Komban was staring at the crowd. Although these events happened in real time, It occurred vividly inside me much slower laid back motion . The next goat was nudged ahead. The goat mildly shaking its tail, kept its head on altar uninterested and duly beheaded. It merged with the alpha goat’s trunk, kicking its leg. Its head found a place next to Komban. With the opened mouth, it seemed like smiling face. The third goat appeared as if possessed was sacrificed. Rest of the goats realised there was no choice of avoiding it , so they followed without any guiding. They abided the behest of some celestial energy. Untouched leaf bunch was shaking in the mild breeze. The altar turned like a huge single piece of meat. There was a pile of dead goats laid side by. The heads in the board appeared in the mixed feelings of solitude, sorrowful, frightened, fraught, disinterested. Goddess Devi herself calling those goats and place them on her feet is the legend. The surrounded people filled with tears. “ Amma, Mahamaye.” they cried. Some of them sat down in silence with possessed face. Some others were throwing up. I realised the goats did observe neither Devi nor the crowd. Every goat could see only the back of the goat in front. Otherwise they appeared catatonic in the magnitude of the moment and could move only its feet that too without its control. Those legs moved ahead in a steady phase. It was like a dream. That dream was slowly engulfing me. In some moment, I lost myself and It transpired to me that I too became an extended part of that squelchy meat piece. Of a sudden, I aligned with that line. I could not extricate myself out from that line however hard I tried. I felt like a someone struggled for breathing, who does not know the swimming was forced deep inside a pool. No one is noticing my agony. I could sense each tickling moment. I could not figure out whether I was closer to or far away from altar. I might have only few seconds, or hours or may be day, year left. Yes I have loads of time. Oh no I am moving forward in the line. My time is ticking. I beseech someone to rescue me. Please someone pull me out from this cold pond. I am moving ahead amidgt morbid, macabre filled starring of the crowd. A thorn in the soil, pricking my sole, reached all the a way to my spine finding a way through my butthole. It further cracked my skull through my backhead. My legs froze like wood, my heavy body became unrelated to my legs. Of a sudden, the altar arouse in front of me. It was covered with the red silk fabric. My body stood at that point, yet my consciousness moved ahead crossing the altar. The mild chain which connected suddenly broke free. When that sword was swung towards me, I sprung up in front to dodge it, only to realise that my trunk cut away and fell down grotesquely. My fingers raised and rested as if it is counting something. Away from the pool of blood, we closely observed the frightened crowd filled with bitterness, vengeance, derision. I tried to turn towards other side when I felt nauseated, only then I realised, I could not take my eyes out of that sight. Our dual eyes were tightly fastened towards those events in the air. When my mind filled with self pity, I realised my legs touched something warm. Oh I am wet. I did not venture out. As usual, I urinated in half sleep. Oh know, Mother will blast me severely in the morning. I have to wash this mat , pillow and the floor. No, it is a pool of blood. Yes, nostrill filled with nauseating fresh blood stench same as I smelt near the Goddesss sancrum.

I woke up wailing on that moment. Only after finishing one bundle of beedi, I could realize that I was sitting in the darkness. What a vivid dream. How meticulously I could sense the smell, sound in that dream. I could never attain that same vision in the real time. My body was quivering for long time. Magnitude of the event shooted to leaps and bound mixing with the different type of feelings. When I tried to recollect it back, It slowly dissipated as disoriented images. My lips longed for beedi, Yet I was afraid to venture out in the dark. My mind turned as perennial bitter liquid secreting fountain. I excavated it out by spitting over and again. My heart appeared hefty holding the grudge against some unknown. After few seconds, it settled back venting it out as a self pitiness. I did not realise that in actual sence, I slept over the my blood. Only when during the defecating I noticed my toe nails smeared with the dried blood. On that whole day, every time recollected that, I kept on washing my legs. Using the small stick, I cleaned the gap between the nails. I habituated to clean my hands everytime I touched my legs for a long time. Yesterday night, in the dark, being alone with my legs was horrendous experience to me. My legs seemed like an undefeatable macbere enemy.

Marthandam

4-2-1959

Today I made an attempt to suicide. I could not succeed. In the Kuzhithurai road turning, the lorries would race ahead in break neck speed. I just had to jump over the road in a calculated moment. Thats all, it would be an end. I am coming here daily and waiting for that moment for hours. Yet I could not resolve my mind to finish the task. I would rehearse the jump over and over and again. I jumped so many times as I could not figure out whether my body or mind jumped. After self defeated in eht attempt, losing the resolute of mind, I take a beeline to liquor shop. After waking up the next morning, Same old story. I would think again the same process. It would occur to me that that day be my last day. I would be overwhelmed with content and restless feeling. I would rejoice every unfolding seconds of sun rising by sipping the tea. I would lose myself in walking in the dawn breeze side by the Kuzhuthurai stream. In the moment when the wind, light and water confluences, I would pray for my last day in ecstasy. Every inch of nature surrounded me would turn seraphic attaining a new meaning. The greeny branches of the trees in the pathway, footprints filled red sand road, reddish dog which walks tugging its tail between its legs, a woman drenched just taken bath walks with the swaddled wet towel, making circles with its tail a springing cow heavily tramping ahead, its owner who spits the red betel in each step, this world is filled with visual spectacles. Every moment of immersing in these visuals piece of arts, a treat to eyes. Yes our mind should be trained enough to differentiate that. A mundane sparrow sweeps our mind which is drawn as a art work in a canvas. During a leisure trip, detailed beauty of every trees we come across excites our mind. This is called ““Sangalpam” in buddhism. May be in my last living days, I am having the recurring Sangalpams. Mind boggling instances of Sangalpam.

Yes my next attempt too dusted. I knew it well, I could never succeed in committing suicide. Yet, why I am doing over and again? To relish the enormous new meaning that life gives on the brink of the death.

Kuzhithurai

6-3-1959

How Bukharin bewitched me? After this long journey I turn back and ask this question. Bukharin like a evil spirit seizing me, became like my shadow. He is relentlessly talking to me. I am driven at his behest. Sometimes in a known tone only to me, he is beseeching me. In rare occasions he breaks down in tear. Most of the times his words confluences with my thought process. In this way, he steers the direction of my thought at his will. He laments along with me on running out of money for liquor, having insistent excruciating inflaming bloated gut, unbearable hot weather. Now I am in a situation where could not live anymore without him. Sometimes I feel like, am I the shadow who is hounding Bukharin? Soon I will find a place next to him in the world above. We both will merge as one soul. The same intimidating spiriti of Bukharin at nighttime, would diminish into to fellow compartirate level only to take a cover from the sunshine, in day time. I argued oh his behalf sake with the scorching mid day weather. Just few more days, after death there wont be any barrriers between us. Our souls will not have distinct languages. Same language, same consciousness and same griefs. In the huge dark space we would be a palpable dual heavy dark spots. Now a days Bukharin losing his patience day by day as he had enough in this world.

Kuzhithurai

8-3-1959

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Rendering-Endeavors

Voice of the hounding shadow - 5 - Companion of Teardrops

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