‘The Every Artist Manifesto’ button

Hi,

I have been asked by a few of my friends to let them embed “The Every Artist Manifesto” on to their blogs. The following is the HTML:

<a href="http://kaber.wordpress.com">
<img src="http://kaber.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/the-every-artist-manifesto.jpeg"
 alt="The Every Artist Manifesto">
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The Every Artist Manifesto

Hi,

This is a rhyme I have been working on for quite some time (pun unintended)

The Every Artist Manifesto

by Kaber Vasuki

I will capture your imagination,
As I let free my own.
I will make you love or hate,
Someone, no one, will know.

Everything you see through my eyes,
In a new light, will be shown.
These are my objectives,
This is my Manifesto.

You can take refugee from your world in mine
When you are bored, I will help you pass time
And when you least expect it,
I will expand the reaches of your mind.

If reality is a statue carved,
In beautiful, shining stone.
My art is the shadow it casts,
And my mind, the light’s source.

Everything you see through my eyes,
You will be pleased to behold.
These are my objectives,
This is my Manifesto.

If I ever fail to live up, to what I just declared,
If I fail in your eyes, and your judgment is fair.
I will try again, because perfect art,
Is something to yearn for, but never to have.

Cheers
Kaber

The Song of Happiness (a guest post)

Hi,

I discovered Nishant Agrawal’s blog a couple of weeks back. He write poigant short stories. There is a certain sadness in all his stories. The endings always offer a consolation, yet they are never happy. This is among his best. Read on.

The Song of Happiness
by Nishant Agrawal

The waning sun found the seven-year-old Radha sitting under a streetlamp, eating a chapatti with half-baked potatoes. She saw a fleeting shadow on the yellow-lit road. She turned her head and saw a brown-coat puppy walking the along the edge of the road, sniffing the plastic cups, paan-spits and ice cream sticks.
Radha leaned towards it and said, “Hey little doggie, have you lost something?”
It turned its head and looked at her. It blinked and then began sniffing the trash again. She picked it up and said, “Please tell me little doggie, I will also look with you.”
It uttered a low mewl and then tried to spring down from her arms.
“What happened, you look so sad.” She loosened her grip, but it didn’t spring out. It turned absolutely still and looked solemnly at the leftover morsels of potatoes on the newspaper.
“Little doggie, are you hungry? Why, you not eaten anything?”
Radha took out a piece of dry chapatti from her pocket; the puppy grabbed it and hurriedly ate it. She put the puppy on the newspaper and placed another dry chapatti near it. After eating all of it, it sat down and wagged its petite tail.
“You liked it, little doggie? I cook it. Mamma also said I cook well,” Radha said, patting its head, “Okay, now that your tummy is full so you should go back, your mamma will be looking for you. If she sees you here, she say, ‘You bad bad girl! You are trying to take away my little child from me!’ My Mamma also got very worried when I come home late. Now go home little doggie, it is very late.”
Radha stood up and went down the twilit road, dancing on the notes of a song which, her Mamma used to say, a very old lady sings every night, while she sits on the moon, gently rocking in her chair, spinning something. Radha always wondered what the lady looked like, how many grand-children she had, whether she knew any stories, and what was she spinning. She looked up at the moon: it was round, white and calm, like a bowl of milk kept on a paper. Radha couldn’t see her, but she could hear the song: it was soft and clear; one could touch and smell it; it seemed to fill the air with happiness: if you listened to it carefully, you could feel happiness; and if you stretched out your hands, happiness stuck to your fingers.
Walking along with Radha was a shadow, short, with four feet, oblivious of the song, but trying to match with the rhythm of her dance. She turned around and saw the puppy. She stooped and said to it,
“Why are you following me, little doggie? Go back to your Mamma now, fast!”
She gently pushed it. “Come on now, go.”
She started walking again. The puppy stood there for a moment, silent, its sober eyes fixed on Radha. It followed her again. Radha had just walked a few steps, when she saw its shadow again.
“You silly doggie! If Pa sees you he beat me! Go away.” She picked up a small stone and threw at it. It hit him but failed to produce an effect more than a blink in its eye. She threw a larger stone. The puppy looked down and whined, and went away with sulky steps. Kali walked away, her steps faltering with the weigh of guilt. She could still hear the song, but she didn’t dance now.
She was soon inside the open ground, where she could see her shack standing among the squalor of gullies and gutters. She took a scrubber and squatted next to a bucket of clothes immersed in soap water. The mother Earth embraced its children with a soft kiss of breeze, covered them in a blanket of darkness and sang a lullaby of soporific silence: wailing babies, hitting husbands, crying wives, urchins and beggars—all went to sleep; except for Radha, who, seven-years-old, ugly, smelly, with dry hair, torn clothes, running nose, squatting near a drainpipe, scrubbed and washed the clothes.
Minutes later, it started raining. Amidst the clamour of rain, she could hear muffled whines. She stood up and went towards the ox-cart. She stooped down and saw the puppy, wet, shivering, looking at her with its black and still eyes. Then it looked down and tried to hide its face among its paws.
“You bad doggie! I knew you had not gone! Now it start raining and now you will catch cold and you mamma will blame me.”
She picked up the puppy and sat down leaning against a stack of hay. She softly slapped its head and said, “Now, tell me, why do you not go back to your mamma, hmm?”
The puppy looked down and hid its face in her arm, and mewled.
After a minute she spoke,
“You don’t have a mamma, do you?”
She took out a torn cloth from her pocket and rolled the puppy in it. It stopped shivering. They both—the little girl, clothes torn, hands rough and blistered, squatting besides a stack of hay, and the puppy, little, sad, rolled up in a cloth, under warm palms—, looked silently at the road as the drops poured upon it. Radha spoke,
“I miss Mamma. She was a good human. She never beat me. She even bring me clothes on birthday. Before she went to live with God, I play with other children. But now I don’t, because Pa send me to beg, and everyday I go to bus stop and beg, and I don’t have a bowl also. People there do not treat me nicely. I don’t like to beg. People curse me and push me and some even take my money and run away, and then I get home with less money and then Pa beat me. And I even wash clothes all night. Still he beat me. Mamma never ever beat me. Never. If Mamma were not live with God, she would not allow me to wash clothes or beg or Pa beat me. I miss Mamma. You also miss your mamma little doggie, huh?”
The puppy turned its head and looked into Radha’s eyes for a moment; and then looked back at the rain drops as they fell on the road and died. Rain drops don’t beg or wash clothes; they don’t have a bad father also; they just fall and die.
“I don’t have one friend also. Little doggie, you want to be my friend?”
Radha took out its paw from the cloth folds and gently shook it.
“Now that we are friends, I am sorry I hit you with a stone.” She held her earlobes and said, “Very very sorry. I wanted you to go away, because if Pa saw us, he beat us both. He won’t tell why, but he still beat us. He is bad human. I don’t like Pa. He always beat me and never tells why he beat me. Mamma said he is a bad man. Your Pa is also a bad man little doggie, huh?”
She bent her head and searched for the little being in the folds of the cloth roll; it was asleep, the peace and calmness on its face resembled that of the baby who, having cried all night, falls asleep when the morning suns rises from the ocean bed and comes out to greet him. When Radha looked at it, she felt what the mother feels when she wakes up and sees her little baby lying asleep next to her. A smile flits on Radha’s face. The puppy moved its head slightly and rested it against her palm. The warmth of its skin created a lovely feel; it thawed the coldness of her arms. She slowly moved her palm away, in case the blisters of her skin hurt it.
After a minute, she noticed something moving near her feet. She looked down and saw a mouse nibbling at her clothes. The puppy woke up and looked at Radha’s eyes; they were fixed on the ground, still ghoulish with the fear which had failed to come out in form of a shriek. With puzzled eyes, it looked down at her curled up toes. The sumptuous feast of the mouse was brought to a standstill, as it heard the loud bark of a big creature whose head was emerging out of a cloth roll. It was terrified, and would have had a heart attack, that is, if mice did really have them. It jumped several feet in the air—the puppy and Radha shrunk back with amazement—and fell in an old shoe nearby. It didn’t come out of it that night. The puppy looked at Radha. She said agitatedly, “No little doggie you should not, you should not! Mouse can harm you. They bite you. They once bite my ear while I sleep. You should not.” The puppy paid no attention; it fastened its paws around her palm and dozed off. She caressed its head with her fingers, and looked at the soft falling shower. Behind the translucent curtain of rain, she saw a tall and large-built figure coming towards her. She carefully placed the puppy behind the hay stacks and rushed towards it.
“Pa, Pa, I was—was washing—rain came—Pa I—”
He slapped her and showered curses. She fell down; he kicked her in the stomach with his army boots. Radha lay curled up on the wet road. She didn’t shriek or shout. She just counted the seconds that passed.
“Where is the money?” he asked, “You bitch! You are late, and I won’t be able to go today! You’re good for nothing, you bitch! Why didn’t you just die with your mother?”
Radha took out a sack of coins and notes from her pocket and handed it over to him. Before he could start counting them, he felt a pinch in his leg. He looked down and saw a puppy, with its teeth trying to dig inside his flesh. “This bastard!” He kicked it with his other leg. The puppy fell at some distance, and tried to stand up. He went near it and pressed his hard sole over it. It uttered low squeaks, whose audible range was not beyond its own breath. By this time, Radha was holding his boot, trying with her flimsy fingers to lift it off, uttering, “No Pa no! He is small—don’t don’t, it does hurt him it does, he is very small now I will get more money tomorrow, don’t hurt him he is small now Pa don’t, Pa—”
I remember how, five years back, a similar incident had occurred: she was trying to lift off Pa’s boots from her Mamma’s neck.
He said, “You bitch! So this was why you were late! Playing around with dogs!” The puppy stopped wriggling, and its squeaks slowed down and then ceased. He slapped Radha and walked away, towards the infamous iridescent streets whose glitter first attracted, and then blinded.
Radha crawled towards the puppy and whispered in a low voice, “Wake up friend, wake up, fast! He’s gone he’s gone, wake up, friend.”
It lay still; still as the road; still as the moon; still as her doll.
She shook it and said, “Wake up bad doggie, wake up, I not talk to you, I not, I not ever ever, wake up—
But no, it would not wake up. And she soon knew why. Five years back, when she shook her Mamma, who lay on the floor, absolutely still, she knew why she wouldn’t wake up. Mamma had left her alone and gone to live with God; and five years later, her little friend did the same. And she knew it, but she never understood it. She looked at the dead puppy for a minute, and then hit it with her hand, just as she once hit her dead Mamma. People didn’t have the right to leave her alone again and again, and live with God. She hated God. He always took the people she loved.
She picked up the puppy and ran, without crying, to the cemetery. She knew that she had to do the last rites, as no one from its family was there (her grandmother had once told her what to do with those who go to live with God). She dug a small hole next to the wall of cemetery, between the drainpipe and a sapling, and buried it there. As last rites, she joined her hands and prayed for it. She felt content.
She quickly bent her head down and whispered, “I forgot to tell: say to Mamma I’m fine.”
She was too tired to go away. She lay down next to the gutter and placed her head on a stone. She picked up a small caterpillar that was trying to make its way up a plant, and fondled it. Suddenly, her hand stopped and her smile faded: she realised what had just happened; she realised that little doggie had now gone to live with God, and so she won’t ever be able to see it again. Five years back, the day Mamma was cremated, she woke up at three in the night to cry because she knew she won’t ever be able to meet her again. She cried now also. All the beetles and worms hid under the wet soil. The caterpillar curled up and shivered. Radha flung it in the air and uttered a loud wail. For an hour, she turned her head left and right and cried and pounded the soil with her fist, talked in low whispers to the grave. And then a breeze blew: cold, shuddery, with a sharp whistling sound. Along with the breeze flowed the notes of the song which a very old lady sings every night as she sits on the moon, gently rocking in her chair. As the notes passed by, happiness fell from them and stuck to her arms, legs, mouth, hair and eyes. She stopped crying, as Sleep took her in her arms and sang a lullaby. She entered the world of dreams: her Mamma and her little doggie and she were playing ice-water in a lovely garden with pink chrysanthemums, green green grass, big big clouds, a smiling and happy sun, and fluffy rabbits jumping up and down. They all were laughing. No one was crying. They all were with her. No one was with God.
I perched on a branch and looked at her, and cried, just as I had been doing since seven years.

Cheers
Kaber

Friendship (a guest post)

Hi,

If you’ve read Hues of the Heart, before, you would have noticed the style of poetry that Anu R.Krishnan writes. She decided to write another poem for my blog, here it is.

Friendship

by Anu R.Krishnan

I run down the path,out of breath

There you stand,with arms outstretched

Remaining,forever the same.

I’d caught a glimpse of you from far away

Nevertheless you make my feet run and my heart sway

Finally there I am,beside you

At once I flop down,giving you no cue

I lean back and rest my head against you

It is fall and the leaves are all around us

In shades of orange,brown and yellow

A breeze blows,soft on my face,mellow.

So darn mellow,it makes me poetic.

In a flash,I take pen and paper

To jot down something about my mid morning caper

I look up at you for inspiration

But then you are lost in your world,swaying with the wind.

I think of days I’ve lain on the grass at your feet

In sublime silence.If I’d listened

I would have heard my own heartbeat.

Some of my best works ever

Have been in your presence,here.

I’ve sat engrossed in my thoughts,in a time freeze

Grappled with ideas,fought with theories.

Through it all,you’ve been there.

So,This one is for you

My chestnut tree

You have grown with me.

A better friend,I never did see.

Nothing beats the rustle of your leaves.

You stand,proud and tall,the epitome of my beliefs.

Of a world of dreams and endless possibilities.

You have given me the power of imagination

Through you ,I see,the wonder of creation.

Nature,at her best.

This is my tribute to you.Kudos!
Cheers

Kaber

New Header Image

Hi,

I change my header image from time to time, and thought I would make a fuss of it this time.

I found this particular image somewhere on flicker. It’s actually two paintings side by side on some band’s show.

Here is the link to the page where I found it.

The previous image was Da Vinci’s Battle of Anghiari, the famous “Lost Leonardo”, it might have been found.

And it seems like WordPress has added a poll option for each post. Yippee!

Cheers

Kaber

The Walking man

Hi,

Another short story

The Walking Man

Walking down a street, there are houses on either side. One of them is abuzz with construction activity.

I am afraid of bricks. I was hit by one when I used to work in construction sites as a teenager.

There is a motorbike parked outside another house. It is one of the commercialized kinds, cheap and fuel-guzzling.

I am afraid of bikes. I once fell off a bike. My friend had one and offered to drop me home. We met with an accident and I broke a leg.

Walking on, the sun is hot, summer is always hot.

I am fond of the sun; I even arranged to paint it on the facade of my house

Dogs are running around, two male dogs snarling at each other. One of the dogs had probably come into the other’s territory.

I like dogs, though I don’t know much about them.

The push button springs back up. There is a sun painted on to the front of the house. The button is connected to the electric bell inside the house.

I can hear the electric bell ring. Someone must have come to visit me. I open the door, it takes me a few moments, but then I remember: it is Nahses, and old acquaintance of mine.

Cheers
Kaber

P.S: If you like this, you’ll also like these.

The four sons of the never-sleeping man

Hi,

This is another epic rhyme along the lines of “Rose tinted spectacles“. I think it is very simple to understand.

The four sons of the never-sleeping man

I am half asleep in the daytime,

I am half awake when I, sometimes, sleep.

I am half dead as I exist now,

I hope I won’t be alive when they bury me.

I think my blood mimics caffeine,

And my eyelids defy gravity.

Am I insomniac? No,

I have lier’s disease.

I may not be great now, but

Maybe tomorrow.

As I try to start my work,

A fascinating notion seems to grow.

A thousand new thoughts surround me,

As the old ones let go.

I forget myself now,

I am my new dream’s whore.

Most times I am angry,

Sometimes guilt does come.

My conscience can’t argue,

When a thousand excuses abound.

Why really care for moral thoughts,

When I can banish the guilty ones?

I life my life at another’s cost

Yes, I am the third son.

I am pregnant with an idea,

Which I hope to show you soon.

I don’t want to jinx it by letting it out,

Though I have hopes, yes, I do.

I shall nurture this idea,

In my mental womb.

I’ll fall asleep only when,

My toil has given fruit.

Cheers

Kaber

P.S: Enjoyed this? You’ll love these

My poems

Hi,

This is a little poem about my style of poem writing.

My poems

What I write are rhymes,
Like the ones you were taught at school.

Or like songs, yes those words you sing,
Though mine are set to an unknown tune.

But never mind, who’s reading,
Except me and maybe you.

Cheers

Kaber

P.S: You might want to read these other poems I wrote.

Flowers on the floor (a guest post)

Hi,

Kumutha Chandrika is a photographer from Coimbatore. I was really impressed by her pictures and decided to feature her favorites here.

Flowers on the floor

Blurb from the photographer: “Pavazhamalli” (in Tamil) - one of my favorite subjects. These flowers used for prayer must be picked from the ground and not plucked from the plant… I had to practically lie down flat on the floor to take this picture. Shot early in the morning with the sunlight washing the floor with some fill-in flash.

Cheers

Kaber

Hues of the heart – poem (a guest post)

Hi,

The following is a very interesting poem, by Anu R.Krishnan. Read on.

Hues of the Heart

by Anu R.Krishnan

The wind blew on my face;stung my eyes

No tears came out despite the pain

Speeding at seventy kmph,zipping through hairpin bends

Ain’t nothing like the thunders of pain ones’mind sends

He was at his racers’best,the smooth serpent of tar

Burning up beneath the tyres

Yet there I was,seated

Battling with emotions,defeated.

At last we reached the peak

I got off the bike,trying,pleading to myself,

To imbibe the ambience’s harmony

All this while,he hasn’t spoken a word.

One single word.

I bristle at his cool profile

Finally,I break out,lashing away in fury

Charging,accusing him of deeds;both done and imagined.

Every dart of mine is buffered by those eyes of his

Those puppy eyes I am so mad of.

There are few and measured answers

All of it seems so true and open to the skies

Alas! I’m chained to the past;my heart is closed to reason.

He stands there like the calm before a storm.

The fury has now flowed out of me,my rage abated.

He still stands,hands crossed,undaunted

Slowly he turns,facing the setting sun.

A slight chill creeps into me as I lean back against a boulder

There is no movement except for the slight shrug of his shoulder

I am rooted to the spot by remorse

Is everything merely a farce?

I brace myself for the backlash

I put my hand on his shoulder

Frightened,hesitating

All Is still.And at that very moment

I glimpse,the tear that rolls down his face

Ripping my heart.

I see,at that very instant,the love

I see the child within

I see pure,unbridled passion

I slip my hand in his

As the sun goes down,peace reigns.

Cheers

Kaber

P.S: If you liked this poem you might want to read these too.

Lord of the Rings – poem (a guest post)

Hi,

I came across this poem on Anisha Kamble’s orkut profile. She’s from Mumbai and wrote it about 4 years back. Its a very, for want of a better adjective, ‘cute’ poem, about the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy. Check it out, I was smiling when I finished reading the poem.

Lord of the Rings

by Anisha Kamble, Mumbai.

There lived a little hobbit,
Bilbo was his name,
He lived in a hole like a rabbit,
Adventure was his game.

To slay a dragon he went one day,
And found a precious ring,
He took the ring and went away,
And in happiness did sing.

Little did he know, this ring,
Was full of evil power,
He loved it more than anything,
He wore it in the shower!

At last one day a wizard came,
And knocked on his door rat-tat,
Gandalf the Grey was his name,
He wore a silvery hat.

He told his little hobbit friend,
That the ring was a great danger,
And that its life must soon end,
Or Middle Earth would waver.

Bilbo gave the ring, against his will,
To his youthful nephew Frodo,
Who went with Gandalf o’er the hills,
To the dark land of Mordor.

But they were not alone, these two,
They were joined by seven more,
Merry, Pippin and Sam too,
Had added to the score.

And elves and dwarves and men too,
Joined the five on their adventure,
Legolas, Aragorn and Gimli to name a few,
Went on the journey together.

And all this time there was a man,
Planning the death of our friends,
Saruman, Sauron’s right hand,
Wanted to see their end.

Saruman made creatures of evil,
And sent them all away,
He wanted all of them to kill,
He wanted them to slay.

Orcs and Nazgûl and the Witch – King,
Formed armies all together,
They set out to find the ring,
And kill all the others.

And so they met the Fellowship,
And whipped out their swords,
They fought against the Fellowship,
And in anger, they swore.

They fought bravely, the Fellowship,
But one in the end perished,
Boromir, from the land of men,
His memory will be cherished.

Frodo could take this no more,
He couldn’t keep running for his life dear,
He sat in a boat and took the oar,
And set out to face his fear.

But Samwise Gamgee would not let,
Mr. Frodo carry the burden,
He made a promise that he could not forget,
That his duties went beyond the garden.

And so they set out, these two,
To destroy the ring forever,
Soon a third had joined them too,
Gollum – old name Sméagol.

Sméagol was a hobbit,
The ring had made him bad,
The ring was his beloved,
Without it he was sad.

To get the ring, he joined the two,
He wanted to save his precious,
To kill them, he was planning too,
He was ready to be atrocious.

And on their way they met more men,
Goblins and elves as well,
With some they indeed made friends,
With some it wasn’t swell.

Soon they met up with the rest,
And Ents had joined them too,
They destroyed Saruman and now was left,
One more thing to do.

And then the Great War began,
The War for Middle Earth,
They battled on with the bad and,
In the end they won.

And all this time Frodo and Sam,
Were at the heart of Mt. Doom,
“I’m going to destroy the ring, I am”
Was Frodo’s final tune.

And destroy the ring he did indeed,
But he suffered a loss too,
As Gollum gave his life to greed,
Frodo lost a finger too.

Joy and peace had once more spread,
All over the land,
The ring was no more a thing to dread,
It would never be in anyone’s hand

Aragorn, son of Arathorn,
Had married a fair maiden,
Arwen Undómiel was her name,
Together they ruled the people.

Now Frodo and Bilbo had to go
To live in the land of the elves,
Rivendell it was named,
They bade goodbye to their friends.

And so ends this tale of an evil ring,
Of how it once ruled and how it was killed,
Goodbye dear friend,
Alas our adventure comes to an end.

Cheers

Kaber

P.S: If you enjoyed this poem, you might want to check out the other ones here.

Who?

Hi,

Below, is a short story I wrote.

Who?

Let us assume that we are meeting here, in your head. I can hear you thinking “my head?”. I am a voice in your head now, anything you read is a voice in your head. Of course, if the guy who wrote me was a better writer, he would have painted with words, and your head would have been a swirl of colors, places, people… He didn’t. I am a voice in your head, and we are meeting now. Good day.

Can you hear me? I’ll describe myself, my accent is neutral, you find it hard to place me. My tone is heavy, almost masculine. My diction is clear. I am all around you, both your ears hear me harmoniously.You feel bound and locked in position as if there are ropes tying you to your chair. To be a bit more descriptive, your mouth is gagged and your eyes are covered with a velvet cloth.

Now read the previous passage again. Did you? I know you didn’t. Every question that you come across while reading, you skip. You don’t answer, or think about it. You expect the answer to follow the question. If I were talking to you though, you’d probably answer my questions. You’d seize the opportunity to talk. That’s why I gagged your mouth. I’ve covered your eyes because sight can be a distraction to thinking, you’d want to look around your own head if I let you see. And you’re tied up because that way you can’t fight me, you can’t protest, and you can’t move. Now, every question that follows, is really a question. Think of it, try to answer it, before you move on.

Why are you listening to me? You know you can stop anytime, but you’ll continue till I’ve finished saying what I have to say. You’re probably putting off something more important than listening to me, you are promising yourself that you’ll do it later. The promises you make to yourself are the easiest to break aren’t they?

Did you hurt anybody today? Something that you’re regretting now? You must have. I am not saying this because every one does bad things all the time, or because everyone attaches morality to what they do, but because of your karma.

What is karma? Haven’t you heard of the concept yet? Karma is what you get and what you are. It’s a theory, that says you get what you deserve – in a more sugar coated way. Karma also says that you’ll be born again, to repent for your sins. Karma says that you’ll be born to satisfy your wishes. So you’ll be born to do whatever you wanted to do, but couldn’t in your previous life, and also to repent for all the sins you committed then. If I am never going to remember my previous life, why would I repent? I would probably blame luck or fate. (Curious isn’t it, how you call bad destiny- fate and good fate- destiny?)

Karma made you read this. If God can control time, why should we be born again? Why can’t he just adjust our karma by changing what happened in our previous lives. Weird?

Religion is “Listen to what I say, don’t think”, you can’t write fan fiction for the Ramayana, or the Bible can you?

Morality is very queer. If it weren’t for morality, we’d all realize that doing helpful things to other people makes them reciprocate. Morality however blurs this perspective and removes a little bit of relativity. Doing “good” becomes a chore while it could have been more enjoyable.

Speaking of Karma, Kalki runs into my head, white horse and all. Why would God want to destroy the world that he built. This common thread of God taking revenge on us can be found in popular thought. If there was a God, he would be responsible for evil. Maybe God said “I am going to rest on the seventh day”, and secretly created evil. Sinister?

If ever God returns (was he here before?), he’d probably help us understand religion. He won’t be judging us, or punishing us. He’d tell us all to stop talking, and think. What ever he wants to say however would have already been said. God needn’t create a new religion anymore. He can just rip off a the best thoughts from around the world and give it to us. He probably destined google to help him.

Abstinence is another concept that is absurd. Why should you shy away from pleasure. What is the point? If you really want to enjoy yourself in heaven, why won’t you do it here?

I know I’ve been talking quite fast.Your thoughts are muddled now. In a couple of hours you’ll find yourself thinking about what I said. I’ll release you now. I ‘ll free your mouth and remove the velvet cloth covering your eyes. I’ll untie you and let you free.

You will get up, and be my prophet. I am God.

Cheers

Kaber

P.S: If you liked this short story, you will want to check out these too

Metaphors about Ideas

Hi,

This is a poem I wrote recently.

Metaphors about Ideas

Some Ideas have wings,
All of a sudden, they fly into your head.
Although if you wouldn’t respect them,
They’d fly away instead.

Some Ideas are from seeds sown,
By an incident, word or thought.
They spread roots to all you learn,
And lay invisible till they sprout.

Some Ideas are embryos,
Like a pregnant mother your bear.
Your experiences add to what they are,
Till they are grown enough to share.

Cheers

Kaber

P.S: If you like this poem, you must check out these too

Maanda Mannan Kaviyam

Hi,

this is my latest song, in tamil

The lyrics (in Tamil), with translation are:

nanum oru veeran than (i am also a warrior)

varthigal en kol (words are my device)

en pinnay paday therandal (if an army gathers behind me)

en munnay pore (i’ll wage a war ahead of me)

acham oru varthiya (is ‘fear’ a word)

theriyavae illay ( i never knew)

en athiry ootamum (why my enemy retreats)

puriyavaey illay (i never understood)

amarntha edathil irunthu (from my seat )

puratchi thuvapaen (i’ll start a revolution/war)

en mugam konda kodi gal (flags with my face on them)

ooruil naduvaen (i’ll plant around the country)

ayiram ambugal (a thousand arrows)

vanaey kizhikum (will tear the sky)

en peyarai solli paru (just tell them my name)

katril medhakum (they’ll start floating in air)

nan muga kanadi parthal (if i look at the mirror)

pazhya arasan thoundrugiran (the old king appears (in it))

en anava kurallay kettal (when i hear my proud voice)

avanum sernthu oilikeran (he too echoes)

en vazhvil ovoru notiyilum (in every second of my exsistence)

maanda mannan kaviyam (the dead king’s legacy)

porkalam sendru vanthu (after returing from war)
seenum koondayan (i was angry)

naday alla asai koondu (with the desire to rule the country)

manan kondraen (i killed the old king)

nan muga kanadi parthal (if i look at the mirror)

pazhya arasan thoundrugiran (the old king appears (in it))

en anava kurallay kettal (when i hear my proud voice)

avanum sernthu oilikeran (he too echoes)

en vazhvil ovoru notiyilum (in every second of my exsistence)

maanda mannan kaviyam (the dead king’s legacy)

cheers

Kaber

P.S: If you liked this song, you are going to love these

Idi Da

Hi,

This is a song called Idi da, which I wrote in Tamil.

Hope you liked it

Cheers
Kaber

P.S: If you like this song, you will like these

Amma

Hi,

I write songs, poems in Tamil too and my sister, Kirthana, liked one of them. We recorded this one twice.

A very interesting thing is, the solo riff that I played in this song, sounds vaguely like Coldplay’s famous Strawberry Swing riff, but as you would see if you go to my channel, I recorded it a few days before the album (Viva la Vida) released. (In case you want to learn to play the strawberry swing riff, I have put up a video lesson here

The original recording:

and the re-recorded version:

Hope you liked them both

Cheers,
Kaber

P.S: You are going to love these songs

‘Affirmative’? yes, but not enough ‘action’.

Hi,

Below is a post I wrote on reservation for the ‘Youth Forum of SASTRA‘ blog.

Read on…

‘Bhrat Ratna’ B.R.Ambedkar did not anticipate reservation to become this big a debate, in my opinion.

We all know his oft repeated rags to riches tale. Bright, lower caste student becomes a barrister , fights for the so called ‘un-touch-able-s’ and participates in the freedom movement, goes on to chair the Constitution Drafting Committee, becomes the first ever law minister of Independent India and does all this while he opposes Gandhi and the India National Congress.

The Indian constitution proclaims proudly that all citizens have the right to speech, the right to protest peacefully, the right to say anything against anyone. I don’t think these are guaranteed anymore. Forget politics, try cursing at Rajinikanth in a movie theater- I won’t be surprised if you have a broken nose after that.

So in a country where the universal laws of the constitution are itself not properly implemented, an affirmative action policy going wrong is expected.

In which-ever country reservation exists (most countries call it affirmative action), it exists as a means for a minority people to come up socially. Reservation in India however, helps the majority of the population. In fact right now, near about 70% of the population of Tamil Nadu is eligible for reservation under some category or the other.

Enough of blasting away against this policy, lets look at it from a different perspective.

Reservation was supposed to be a policy that would allow “historically backward communities” to come up. In fact reservation does not work properly (like many of the government’s noble schemes), because it is not advertised well. The people who require it most, don’t even know that it exists and, the people who know that they are eligible for it, probably do not require it at all. So anyone who says caste politics is the only reason for reservation’s existence today, is clearly not looking at the full picture.

Now setting a time limit for reservation, to act on its own and bring people up?

1. It didn’t work before
2. The idea is very passive.

In fact reservation itself is very passive policy.

The creamy layer policy looks like it is our best solution, but tell me, in a country which has a per capita lesser than the annual consumption of colas in the U.S, how do you define a creamy layer. Moreover, if people can get their caste status changed, naturally they’d find means to evade income tax, which is the main factor in calculating the ‘creamy layer’.

My point of view for a long time has been this: reservation will never work on its own, it needs another policy or action to be successfully implemented. So how do we resolve this?

Government funded universities/colleges, is my reply.

Queer? Well here is the situation today. The money that the government allots to these universities is from the tax we pay. What happens to it? It goes to work in I.T or goes abroad – ‘thank you tax payers’.

Instead what should we do. We should mobilize the students. If students from every university there is in India, would contribute (say during their course of study) to the development of villages or towns, and spread the message that eduction is the most efficient means to climb up the social ladder – viola we have a solution.

Not just government funded institutes, even private institutes should adopt this plan.

SASTRA has a set-up similar to this, so do a few other colleges. We’ve all heard about it. And what are the NSS, NCC for ?

The problem with the existing plans is, they are sporadic efforts, inconsistent and even if consistent, small scale.

I would suggest large scale implementation, every student should contribute to the development of at least one socially backward child.

Reservation should be locale dependent. If you’ve lived in a village or a town all you life, you should be given first preference for reservation.

I know my idea is a bit rough and needs to be contemplated upon. At least that is a start. Instead of saying I’ll give you so many seats, the government should say I’ll help you so much, and reserve a few seats too.

Reduce reservation, increase out reach and active propagation. That’s my idea.

Your welcome to disagree or build upon this idea. After all what are youth forums for?

Cheers
Kaber

P.S: More articles by Kaber Vasuki here.

Strolling into the Sun

Hi,

This is a more recent song of mine. Check it out

The lyrics are:

You are looking at the sun through polarized lenses
You think you know what’s going on
You’re trying something no one has dreamed of,
Your walking all the way in to the sun

You don’t want to listen to anybody
Because you think that you are on your own
But you wouldn’t have reached so far today,
If you had been walking on your own

But someday you will be king,
Some day you’ll have your throne,
And till that day finally comes,
We’ll all stroll with you into the sun

Its okay if you cant make it on your own
Its okay if you fall at times
Its okay if you cant ask for help
Cause we’ll just walk behind

You are waving at a crowd in your head
You are forgetting that we are around
You are shy cause we have helped you so many times
But soon your time to help will come

But someday you will be king,
Some day you’ll have your throne,
And till that day finally comes,
We’ll all stroll with you into the sun

Cheers,

Kaber

P.S: You will love these songs.

Gloom

hi,

I’ve been posting my old poems, so I thought I should post my old songs too.. Here is my earliest attempt at Rockstar-dom

The lyrics are:

Fire flies, falling skies,
In your eyes I see gloom,

Simple lies, it began,
Like all good things it went too soon,

Tears pour, still I ignore,
Searching for a flowery bloom,

Gloom, Gloom.

Hmmm, a very juvenile effort in my opinion.

Cheers,
Kaber

P.S: You will like these songs too.

First Love

Hi,

This is another poem of mine, which I don’t like now. I think I grew out of it, but another friend of mine asked me to put this up, so here:

First Love

Maybe it was meant to be this way,

Maybe we can change it if we try,

The future is to you and me,

Like I was-

Life is pregnant, it is the child.

Maybe history will remember,

Maybe that will be too late,

Maybe we will be for ever,

Locked inside the gate-

But remember.

My shoulders wait for you to lean on,

My ears are there to listen.

My eyes to behold the beauty you hold,

My heart for you will glisten-

With love.

Make a wish, tell it to me,

I‘ll grant you not one,

Even more than three.

Share with me, and go on-

About yourself.

If it were not for you,

Since birth and now,

Not for you and

All that love-

I wouldn’t be here.

Oh mother can you hear me?

Should I be louder.

Should I come closer

Should I bother-

You with my woes.

Oh mother can you hear me?

I cry with you,

I pray for you,

I care; I do-

Every moment now.

And I know a time will never come,

Where you and me alone shall be,

Like we were in those ten months,

Alone just you and me.

I cry for that and I say,

Where ever I go which ever place,

I’ll think of you all the while,

Even if I can’t,

I‘ll always be your child.

Cheers
Kaber

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