Dressing Whispers...

 

Deliberately Thoughtless

 പ്രായത്തിന് ചേരാത്ത വേഷം എന്ന് പറയുമ്പോൾ…ഈ വേഷത്തിന് പറ്റിയ പ്രായമാണോ എന്ന്  പുച്ഛിക്കുമ്പോൾ… നിങ്ങൾ ഒരിക്കലെങ്കിലും ആലോചിച്ചിട്ടുണ്ടോ വേഷത്തിന് പ്രായം നിശ്ചയിച്ചത് ആരാണെന്ന്? ഏത് റൂൾ ബുക്കിലാണ് പ്രായത്തിന് ഒരു വേഷം എന്ന് പറയുന്നത് എന്ന്? എവിടെയാണ് ഓരോ പ്രായത്തിലും ആളുകൾ ധരിക്കേണ്ട വേഷങ്ങളെ പറ്റി പരാമർശിക്കുന്നത് എന്ന്? ഏത് പുരാതന ഗുഹാചിത്രത്തിലാണ് “40 കഴിഞ്ഞാൽ sleeveless taboo” എന്ന് എഴുതിയിരിക്കുന്നത് എന്ന്? ഏത് രാജാവാണ് “60 ആയാൽ border sari, gold chain, low bun is the de facto dress code” എന്ന രാജപ്രമാണം പുറപ്പെടുവിച്ചത് എന്ന്? അല്ലെങ്കിൽ അത് പഴയ ചായക്കടകളിലെ പരദൂഷണ കമ്മിറ്റിയുടെ resolution ആണോ? 

16 കാരിക്ക് crop top ok. 60 കാരിക്ക് സാരി mandatory ആണോ? അപ്പൊ 30 കാരികൾക്ക് എന്താണ്? സാരി+ടോപ്പ്+ജീൻസിന്റെ emotional combo? Existential crisis! എങ്കിൽ 16 തൊട്ട് 30 വരെയുള്ളവർ സാരിയും സെറ്റു മുണ്ടും എടുക്കുന്നത് ശിക്ഷാർഹമല്ലേ?

ജീവിതം ഒരു ഫാഷൻ ഷോ ആണെങ്കിൽ, പ്രായം വെറുമൊരു സ്റ്റേജ് മാനേജർ ആണ്. നമുക്ക് വേഷം ധരിക്കാൻ ഉള്ള മാനദണ്ഡം ഇത്ര മാത്രമാണ്… ബോഡിക്ക് fit ആണോ, മനസ്സിന് hit ആണോ…. ഫിറ്റാണെങ്കിൽ ധരിക്കൂ, ഫിറ്റല്ലെങ്കിൽ… ഡോക്ടറെ കാണുക. അകറ്റേണ്ടത് ഫാഷനെ അല്ല...

പ്രായം പറഞ്ഞ് ഫാഷൻ കണ്ട്രോൾ ചെയ്യുന്നവർക്ക് ഒരു ചെറിയ മെസ്സേജ്: വേഷത്തിനാണ് പ്രാധാന്യം. അല്ലാതെ വയസ്സിനല്ല. ഇല്ലെങ്കിൽ സൂപ്പർഹീറോ മൂവീസിൽ Iron Man ന് ലുങ്കിയും Wonder Woman ന് സെറ്റു മുണ്ടും വേണമായിരുന്നു!

ഇത് എഴുതാനുണ്ടായ ചേതോവിചാരം എന്താണെന്ന് മാത്രം എന്നോടാരും ചോദിക്കരുത്.... ഞാൻ പറയൂല്ലാ……………..

Twinning Whispers

 

Deliberately Thoughtless…

I was not born alone upon this earth. Fate, with a wicked sense of humour, gifted me a twin, Laziness. From the very first lullaby, we were partners in crime. I gurgled, she yawned. I tried crawling. She suggested, “Why not just roll?” Together we perfected the noble science of sitting still. We carried with us the noble art of postponement as our family legacy. We grew up hand in hand.

Years passed. When I got married, my poor unsuspecting husband thought he was getting one perfect bride. But alas! Destiny handed him a two-in-one offer. In front of the the ageless flame that bears witness to vows, my sly twin also tied her invisible knot. Along with me, he was compelled to welcome my twin into the household. And believe me, she came with no dowry, only endless naps and a talent for creative excuses. 

From that day on, she became the invisible third member of our marriage. She ruled our house. Whatever I attempted to do, be it cooking, cleaning, or even deciding whether to water the plants, I would turn to her for advice.

“Should I cook?”, I would ask. “The stove looks tired; let it rest.”, would be her reply. “Should I clean?”, I would whisper. “Dust is but history settling peacefully. Why disturb it?”, she would whisper back. Even when I thought of waking up early, she would drape me in the golden chains of sleep, declaring, “The sunrise can manage without you.” Cooking shall be optional. Dust shall be viewed as vintage decor, and naps shall be observed thrice daily.

Her opinion for all my questions will always be the same. “Why hurry? Tomorrow is standing right there, waiting patiently!”

In every battle of life, my twin fights by my side. While my husband wrestles with deadlines, I and my twin float like queens on a cloud of procrastination. He would always shake his head at the two-for-one bride deal destiny handed him. Thus, our household is a kingdom where Laziness reigns supreme, and I, her eternal accomplice, remain loyal to her throne, declaring to the world: “Procrastinators unite… tomorrow!”

Isn’t life too short to rush? Why today, when tomorrow still exists?

So here we are again, my twin and I, celebrating the birthday of that valiant soul who shares our kingdom. The man who, with saintly patience, endures not one bride but two. Me and my ever-drowsy shadow. As the day tiptoes toward night, let this belated wish rise like incense before the weary gods. Happy birthday, my brave companion. May you be blessed with endless strength to tolerate your two-for-one destiny, a wife who dreams more than she dusts, and her twin who naps through it all.

 

Deliberately Thoughtless…….

 

ഇടം

 

എനിക്കു വേണം, എനിക്കു മാത്രമായി വിരിയുന്നൊരു ഇടം…

സ്വപ്നങ്ങളെ വിതറിവയ്ക്കാനൊരു ഇടം….

സ്നേഹത്തെ നെഞ്ചോട് ചേർത്തു വയ്ക്കാനൊരു ഇടം….

ആത്മാവിൻ്റെ രഹസ്യപൂന്തോട്ടം പോലെ

നിശ്ശബ്ദമായി എനിക്കായ് വിരിയുന്നൊരു ഇടം…

കാലത്തിന്റെ തിരക്കുകളിൽ നിന്നും അകലെയായി

എന്റെ ഇഷ്ടത്തിന്‌ ചവിട്ടുപടിയിറങ്ങി ചെന്നെത്താനാകുന്നൊരു ഇടം…

ഹൃദയത്തിൻ്റെ ചിറകുകൾക്ക് വിശ്രമം കിട്ടുന്നൊരു ഇടം…

ചിന്തകളുടെ കുരുക്കുകൾ നിശ്ശബ്ദമായി പൊളിഞ്ഞ്,

മണൽക്കാറ്റുപോലെ പൊഴിയുന്നൊരു ഇടം...

 

പുറത്തെ ലോകത്തിന്റെ തിരക്കുകളും ശബ്ദങ്ങളും

കതകിന് പുറത്ത് അടഞ്ഞു കിടക്കട്ടെ.

അകത്ത് കടന്നുവരുന്നത് ആത്മാവിനെ നനക്കുന്ന പൗർണ്ണമിയുടെ മങ്ങിയ വെളിച്ചം,

മഴത്തുള്ളിയുടെ മണ്ണ്‌ഗന്ധം, കാറ്റിന്റെ മൃദുവായ സ്പർശം എന്നിവ മാത്രം.

വാക്കുകൾ വേണ്ടാതെ, ആരും കേൾക്കാതെ, ആരുമില്ലെങ്കിലും, ഒരാളുടെ സാന്നിധ്യം നിറഞ്ഞു നിൽക്കുന്ന, ഒറ്റപ്പെടലിന്റെ കടുത്ത ഇരുട്ട് കടന്നുവരാത്ത, എനിക്കുവേണ്ടി മാത്രം രഹസ്യമായി വിരിയുന്നൊരു ഇടം….

 

ആ ഇടം… എന്റെ ആത്മാവിൻ്റെ കവിത, എന്റെ ഉള്ളിലെ സംഗീതം,

അതൊരു പൂന്തോട്ടം പോലെ അങ്ങനെ …

അവിടെ ഞാൻ മാത്രം അറിയുന്നൊരു മധുരം…

അവിടെ ഞാൻ മാത്രം കേൾക്കുന്നൊരു സംഗീതം….

അവിടെയാണെനിക്ക് വിശ്രമം…
അവിടെയാണെനിക്ക് അനന്തമായ തിരിച്ചുവരവ്….

 

Thoughtless whispers… Deliberately….. Thoughtlessly Thoughtful whispers…..

Snackish Whispers...

 

Snackcidentally Overfed…... A bite too many

By an Overfed Soul, Starving Spirit

Ladies and gentlemen, gather round.

For tonight, I have an announcement.

A serious one. A tragic one. A deeply personal one.

I... am going to kill myself.

No, no — not with rope, not with poison, not with poorly written poetry.

I'm doing it the old-fashioned way:

With butter.

And willful neglect.

You see, I am my own enemy.

I am also my manager, my life coach, my worst critic, and unfortunately... my personal chef.

And boy, do I cook with love.

By “love,” I mean ghee, cheese, and enough carbs to sedate a horse.

I pamper myself like a spoiled royal pet.

I feed me like I’m trying to win a cooking show judged by my own stomach.

I give myself rich food.

Creamy food. Food that jiggles when I breathe near it.

Food that looks me in the eye and says, “This ends badly, darling, but it’s worth it.”

And rest? Oh, rest!

I give my body premium rest.

Not just sleep — Olympic-level doing nothing.

My sofa knows the exact shape of my soul.

I do so little, the word “lazy” filed a copyright complaint.

Even my muscles have sent me a formal resignation letter.

“Dear Sir/Madam, we no longer feel needed. Sincerely, your glutes.”

I make me fat. Proudly. Consistently.

Not by accident, no. By strategic overfeeding.

I make me lazy —

By convincing myself that every day is “self-care Sunday”

And that walking to the fridge counts as cardio.

If health were a video game, I’ve been pressing the snooze button since long.

So yes. Technically, I am killing myself.

But slowly.

Painlessly.

And with dessert.

Honestly, if I ever disappear, don’t look in dark alleys or deep forests.

Check the couch.

Lift a pizza box.

I’ll be under there... with one eye open and a packet of chips for company.

Because I’m not dead yet.

I’m just... extremely well-rested.

Unwinding Whispers...

It’s such a long long time... and I sit, shelving my tumbling thoughts, tossing away the unwanted, nurturing the sweet ones, and staring at the blank screen of my laptop, waiting... waiting for words to gush out. My ink had been on strike.  Words were flying afar. Thoughts were beginning to crash. Mind had become standstill. I was worn out… the aftermath of a hard labour. I know not from where to start... what to write… After the new birth, how can I be my old self? There were some realisations and some confusion… I had lost some things… but gained some others.

 

Often I am stumped with something I wish to write. It is not that words don’t come to me. They do. It is not that the muse never drops in on me. She does.  They come uninviting, looking coyly at me, footing themselves at an arm’s reach… I can see them. But I am powerless to feel and fondle them. They are a bit timid to come near me. Like the cup of coffee that is still to reach the lips… Like the book that is yet to finish… Like an unfinished conversation... Like an incomplete mating…. The pangs become agonising.

 

I want to be that young girl again. That little girl, who was shy to talk, but always eager to smile. That girl, who was waiting to be accepted, but scared to come out of her chrysalis. The one who always wandered dreamily with a book in her hand. That little one who was so eager to do many things, but was afraid to open her mouth. The one, in spite of her inner fears, pretended that she was bold. Strong. Stubborn.  I want to go back, and start living again. I want to do those things which I had kept aside so that I didn’t have to open my mouth to ask for it.... The things which I had suppressed so that I will not hurt my dears and nears...

 

I have to get up. I have to start living my life. I am going to make a wish list... the things to do and experience before I leave this earth. Why should I be imprisoned by my circumstances and let it affect my life? I am not going to let any situation  decide who I am going to be! I am not going to be limited by what others have said about me or what is expected of me.

.

I am going to live honestly in the present moment, bravely facing what lies ahead, complete with new understanding of what lies behind me, though no longer subject to the past. I am going to become all that I am meant to be...

Unwinding Whispers...

It’s such a long long time... and I sit, shelving my tumbling thoughts, tossing away the unwanted, nurturing the sweet ones, and staring at the blank screen of my laptop, waiting... waiting for words to gush out. My ink had been on strike.  Words were flying afar. Thoughts were beginning to crash. Mind had become standstill. I was worn out… the aftermath of a hard labour. I know not from where to start... what to write… After the new birth, how can I be my old self? There were some realisations and some confusion… I had lost some things… but gained some others.

 

Often I am stumped with something I wish to write. It is not that words don’t come to me. They do. It is not that the muse never drops in on me. She does.  They come uninviting, looking coyly at me, footing themselves at an arm’s reach… I can see them. But I am powerless to feel and fondle them. They are a bit timid to come near me. Like the cup of coffee that is still to reach the lips… Like the book that is yet to finish… Like an unfinished conversation... Like an incomplete mating…. The pangs become agonising.

 

I want to be that young girl again. That little girl, who was shy to talk, but always eager to smile. That girl, who was waiting to be accepted, but scared to come out of her chrysalis. The one who always wandered dreamily with a book in her hand. That little one who was so eager to do many things, but was afraid to open her mouth. The one, in spite of her inner fears, pretended that she was bold. Strong. Stubborn.  I want to go back, and start living again. I want to do those things which I had kept aside so that I didn’t have to open my mouth to ask for it.... The things which I had suppressed so that I will not hurt my dears and nears...

 

I have to get up. I have to start living my life. I am going to make a wish list... the things to do and experience before I leave this earth. Why should I be imprisoned by my circumstances and let it affect my life? I am not going to let any situation  decide who I am going to be! I am not going to be limited by what others have said about me or what is expected of me.

.

I am going to live honestly in the present moment, bravely facing what lies ahead, complete with new understanding of what lies behind me, though no longer subject to the past. I am going to become all that I am meant to be...

Lunatic Whispers

“Madness in great ones must not unwatched go” sang the bard. Some are born mad, some achieve madness, and some have madness thrust upon them. I fit in the first breed. I have a streak of madness in me... and I savour those splashes. In between I get some sparks of sanity too. I tried to bring in more sanity in my life, but then I got sick of it. Living a normal life, sticking to those rules and regulations.... Huh! soooo boring and suffocating!!! I have always felt that I am a misfit, and that I see things differently from others. I hate rules. I hate status. I hate getting orders. And I hate people judging me. With my tinge of insanity, I can fly free. No one dares to question me. “Ah,she! She’s a bit mad” sums up my actions. And I am safe. They don’t try to understand me. And I don’t have to open up to anyone. I like to remain a secret, a mystery. I like to talk to myself, I like to play with myself and I enjoy my company. 

I live in my own world. A unique secret world which is outlandish and out of reach to most. In that impenetrable terrene, I can live as a poet, as a writer, as an artist, as a princess, as a ruler.... Hey, no!! I am not schizophrenic. (Well, people who are mad won’t admit it either, do they?) I prefer to call myself a day dreamer. Now don’t try to find out what went wrong inside my head. It’s just a manufacturing defect.

So you think that you are absolutely normal and I am mad? Look around.. Think hard. Haven’t you ever done anything inappropriate? Illogical? Have you always been abiding the hidden rules? Then I pity you.. You would be having the most boring life you can ever imagine. Most people are mad in different ways. If you observe closely, you can see some interesting bouts of madness in everyone. But they hide it well. We are all insane. Those who say otherwise are delusional. How can you dream if you are not mad?

One is always considered mad when one perfects something that others cannot grasp. Actually insanity and imagination are twins. They are the twin children of dreamers.  Just try being insane. It’s so much fun. You would realise what you missed all these years, and would think that you should have gone mad long before. As Aristotle said,  “No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”