Infinity

[Kanthalloor, Kerala]

Infinity

where road ends
infinity begins
earth meets heavens

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Morning Cuppa

 

Morning Cuppa

a drop of sun

a cup of shine

daily decoction

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Samalkot Station & Other Stories

Prose, or poetry, or something beyond?

Title: Samalkot Station & Other Stories
Author: Sindhoor Varkoor
Genre: Short Stories
Publisher: Notion Press
Stores: Amazon, Flipkart, etc.

The sea spoke in murmurs only the heart could hear, wrapping me in its rhythm.

In those moments, I moved like the mermaid – as though born from salt and story. [p.83]

Sindhoor Varkoor’s Samalkot Station & Other Stories hover somewhere between prose and poetry. If at all you have to give them a name, you may call them haibun. Let me confess, I have just a smattering of the Japanese formats of writing. That being said, is it essential every piece of writing is categorised or labelled as one genre or the other? No, not really. Not when you are thoroughly enjoying the read anyway.

There’s something about wood that I have always loved – it smells of forests, of damp roots buried in rich earth…That old almirah wasn’t just furniture; it was memory, magic and meaning all woven together. [p. 14]

The short verse that follows every story carries the entire spirit of the story in a few lines. Varkoor’s prose has the feel of poetry. It touches you like a cool gentle breeze on a warm summer afternoon. Her poetry stirs something inside you so you want to read it again, and again. And then it settles you, soothing your soul. The reader doesn’t realise when the prose transcends to poetry.

flowing stream
stones settle
down
unsettled [p.36]

The stories sound personal – personal not only to the writer but also to you as a reader. Not that you have gone through similar situations as her protagonists, but because you feel you belong to their world.

alarm…
her anklets
wake up the household [p.46]

There’s something personal for me in the above poem, though. This reminds me of my own childhood days when my Ammamma’s click-click of her flip-flop, as she busily walked down the central corridor of our home, woke us up as we tried to sleep in on Sundays. Her story and poetry renditions still ring in my ears like music. But enough of that. This is about Varkoor’s stories. But you get my point. This author’s stories resonate with the reader. There is something in them that may sometimes evoke a memory and sometimes echo your thought.

This is Amma’s world – the mango tree, the neighbour’s woes, the gate, the creaky chair, the echo of footfalls that no longer return. [p.17]

The story “Amma Maatalu” brought tears to my eyes. And so did the concluding poem. There’s more in the poem than its words.

death anniversary
crows gather as
mom folds
dad’s black coat
into silence [p.17]

The author uses common threads of ordinary life to weave enchanting narratives. “Shraddha Extension” is a subtle story set in as commonplace an environment as a busy (probably kids') store.  The setting could as well be a slice from anybody's life. But the magic of the author's storytelling brings out the emotional impact of the moment.

Varkoor’s way of writing appeals to all your senses. The music of the sea, the fragrance of freesia, the flavour of tea, the vision of the "shreds of peacock-blue silk hanging like wounded feathers" – you can experience them all and suchlike in her writing.

The book, with its illustrations, looks charming to say the least. Viswaprasad Raju’s sketches have captured the soul of Varkoor’s narrative. As with the poems, there’s more in the pictures than their lines.

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'Art of the City

Today, I chanced upon a snatch of an article I had begun writing some time back and left halfway through it, and some old photographs which brought with them a rush of memories. Memories of a short trip I made a couple of years ago. A whirlwind of a holiday. Or call it a dream. A dream of a holiday. Because it was like a dream in every way. It came upon me out of nowhere, when I was least expecting it. Like a dream, it was beautiful. And before I knew it, I woke up at home, on my own bed, to my regular routine of a life. But whenever I reminisce this surprise of a holiday, the memories never fail to bring with them a rush of joy. A holiday to a beautiful city where art throbs in its heart.

Art can manifest in different places. An artist’s mind is a canvas, their home an environment of art and artists. A street can be an easy space for art. A place can be home or a memorial to an art or artist. An event could be a dedication to art. But for an entire city to look like a single, extensive work of art! And that’s Paris. The colours and the designs, the art and the architecture, all seamlessly blend with each other. The roads are like an unravelling of a story without an end. The city, from every angle, is picture perfect, and its people merge into the picture. Any shopping street looks like a page out of a fashion magazine. A sidewalk might as well be a ramp. It’s not for nothing that Paris is called the world’s fashion capital. The city far exceeds your expectation.

Art can co-exist with the business of life. Paris is testimony to that. Art not only co-exists, it lives and thrives even with the mundane day-to-day existence of its people. In fact it mellows the monotony in the mundane. Art breathes beauty into every activity in the city. Paris is proof that it is possible to have art in every square inch and around every nook and corner of a city. It is possible to have art in every phase of its evolution. Art can nourish and nurture civilizations, and carry the spirit of the times through generations. Again, Paris proves it.

Every region has its history, its dark pages and golden ages. Throw light on them, expose them, or celebrate them. Accept them for what they are and/or leave them. But let not go the art of those times. Preserve it as it has always been. The art will speak for itself the history of its times, its journey and its evolution. For every piece of art we celebrate today, we are indebted to its past, our past.

Time and tyranny could have destroyed or defaced the works of art of a region. But why not restore them if you can, and preserve them anyway. Let the art narrate the stories of your land. Let the stories be told in all their truth. Stories of love and loss, wars and battles, victories and defeats, conquests and invasions. Stories of repression, revolution and redefinition. Let nothing destroy the art of your land, let nothing spoil the aesthete in you. 

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Ceasefire

pc: pngtree.com

 

Sue & Rue

Sue: Now, about this ‘ceasefire’, Rue...

Rue: Now, cease talking about it, Sue.

Sue: But why?

Rue: ‘Cos it’s lost all its fire.

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