Swantham Kaaryam (Own Business)

മറക്കാനേറ്റം എളുപ്പമേത്?
സ്വന്തം കാര്യം തന്നെ.
ആരോടും സമാധാനം പറയണ്ടല്ലോ!

Theology of the Cheated (Patikapedunnavante Daivasasthram)

പറ്റിക്കപ്പെടുന്നവന്റെ ദൈവശാസ്ത്രം!
അതിനെന്താണിത്ര മേന്മ?
പത്താം തവണയും പറ്റു പറ്റും എന്ന്
അറിയുന്നതാണതിന്റെ മേന്മ.

മുറിവേൽക്കാനൊരു ഹൃദയം ഉണ്ടെന്നതാണ്
പറ്റിക്കപ്പെടുന്നവന്റെ ഇല്ലായ്മ.
ഓരോ മുറിവിലും നിന്ന് പഠിക്കുന്നതോ?
സ്നേഹമാണ്, പ്രതികാരമല്ല വേണ്ടതെന്നും.

സ്വന്തം ചോര കണ്ടറപ്പു മാറിയ മണ്ടന്മാർക്ക്
ചതിയൻ ചന്തു ചൊന്നപോൽ ജന്മമിനിയും ബാക്കി!

ഒരു ചോദ്യം അവശേഷിക്കുന്നു...
ഈ ശാസ്ത്രത്തിൽ ദൈവമെവിടെ?

വിദ്യാഭ്യാസവും സംസ്കാരവും (Education and Culture)

അറിവാണ് മനുഷ്യനെ മുൻപനും പിൻപനും ആക്കുന്നത്. ഡിഗ്രി ഉള്ളവന് അതില്ലാത്തവനെ പുച്ഛം നിറഞ്ഞ നോട്ടം നോക്കാൻ ഉള്ള അവകാശം ഉണ്ടോ? വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം ഇല്ലാത്തവൻ അതുള്ളവനെ  ബഹുമാനിക്കുന്നത് ഗതികേട് കൊണ്ടല്ല, മറിച്ച് സ്വന്തം മഹത്വം കൊണ്ടാണ്. അത് മനസിലാക്കാൻ കഴിവില്ലാത്ത, സ്വയം അറിവുണ്ട് എന്ന് അഹങ്കരിക്കുന്ന വിവരദോഷികൾ സ്വന്തം ഡിഗ്രികൾ കൊണ്ട് കോർത്ത കയറിൽ തൂങ്ങി ചാവുന്നതാണ് നല്ലത്. ഹല്ല പിന്നെ!

വയലിൽ പണി എടുക്കുന്ന കർഷകൻ അനുഭവങ്ങൾ കൊണ്ട് മെടഞ്ഞ് മേഞ്ഞെടുക്കുന്ന വിവേകം ഡിഗ്രികൾ കൊണ്ട് നേടിയെടുക്കാൻ പറ്റില്ല. വിവേകിയായ കർഷകൻ സർക്കാരിന്‍റെ ഗ്രാന്റ് വാങ്ങാൻ ക്യൂവിൽ നിൽക്കുമ്പോൾ കൌണ്ടരിന്‍റെ അപ്പുറത്തിരിക്കുന്ന അഭ്യസ്തവിദ്യർ സമ്മാനിക്കുന്ന പുച്ഛം നിറഞ്ഞ ചിരി സൂചിപ്പിക്കുന്നത് അഭ്യസ്തവിദ്യർ എന്ന് അഹങ്കരിക്കുന്ന എല്ലാ വിവരദോഷികളുടെയും സംസ്കാരം ആകുന്നു. ഒരിക്കലും സംസ്കാരം വിദ്യാഭ്യാസത്തിന്റെ കൂടെ സൗജന്യം ആയി കിട്ടില്ല. സംസ്കാരം ഉണ്ടാക്കി എടുക്കണം. അത് വീട്ടുകാരുടെയും, നാട്ടുകാരുടെയും കടമ ആകുന്നു. സംസ്കാരം ഇല്ലാത്ത തലമുറയെ പടച്ചു വിട്ടതുകൊണ്ടാണ് അഞ്ചു വയസായ പെണ്ണിനുപോലും നമ്മടെ നാട്ടില്‍ ധൈര്യമായി ഒറ്റയ്ക്ക് വഴിനടക്കാൻ പറ്റാത്തത്. വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം കൂടി പോയ മാന്യ പുരുഷന്മാരും പൊങ്ങച്ചക്കാരികളും കൂടി ചെയ്യുന്നത്ര ദോഷം വേറെ ആരും ഈ സമൂഹത്തിനു ചെയ്യുന്നില്ല. അതുകൊണ്ട് അഹങ്കാരികളായ ഏതെങ്കിലും അഭ്യസ്തവിദ്യർ ഈ പോസ്റ്റ്‌ വായിക്കുന്നുണ്ടെങ്കിൽ ദയവായി ഒരു നിമിഷം ചിന്തിക്കുക. വിദ്യാഭ്യാസം നേടിയതുകൊണ്ട്‌ സംസ്കാരം ഉണ്ടായി എന്ന് അഹങ്കരിക്കരുത്. യഥാർഥ സംസ്കാരം പ്രവൃത്തിയിൽ കാണണം. ഇല്ലെങ്കിൽ നല്ലത് ഡിഗ്രികൾ കോർത്ത കയറിൽ കെട്ടിത്തൂങ്ങുന്നതാണ്!

 NB: ചില ആപ്പീസുകളിൽ മുണ്ടും തോർത്തും അല്ലെങ്കിൽ മുണ്ടും ബ്ലൗസും ധരിച്ചുവരുന്ന, പ്രായമായ ചിലരെ പരിഗണിക്കുന്ന രീതി കണ്ട് ആത്മനൊമ്പരം പൂണ്ടാണ്‌ ഇത് എഴുതുന്നത്. ആരെയും മുഷിപ്പിക്കാൻ ഉദ്ദേശിച്ചിട്ടില്ല.

'Lost in the Grey Clouds'

M. Mathews Sajit

Grey fields. To the edges of what he knows to be the world. Grey fields spread across the breadth and width of his world. Grey fields were all he could see. And of course, rising dust pulling together all it could, forming a pillar of wasted fabric. It well represented the predicament of the story teller. A pillar of waste, held against the background of grey fields. His writing pad and paper would say the same. He hadn't written anything for the last two years!

He couldn't bear it anymore. From his window on the first floor, he could see the wasted village. A village full of people with no dreams left! How inspiring is it? From his writer's chair, he could see almost everything in the village- the deserted church, the once-lively market, closely built houses, the village school... all covered in dust. But he could not see a single bit of inspiration for him to write.

For once, he felt that his career as a writer has come to an end. May be, like the life of a man, the life of a writer also has to come to an end. He has written about everything in the village. By the time he was on the peak of fame as the village story teller, he had exhausted all the realistic themes and had already started treading the fantastic world of philosophy and the transcendental. Using symbols and images, he wrote epics about the life of the village. Everyone identified themselves in the stories of the story-teller. He could relate his letters to the lives, dreams, disappointments and despair of the villagers. What they were and what they couldn't be appeared in the story-teller's themes. They loved him, and he wrote about them in return.

It was since two years that he began to feel this dryness. He couldn't write a word. He looked into the village through the window of his house day and night. But he couldn't spot anything that he hadn't written about. He had exhausted everything. When he realized this, he wanted to jump off the village's highest hill and kill himself. He felt that meaning had escaped his being. He couldn't think of living without meaning! Meaning was all he searched for in all his writings. “And now, see what has happened to me?” wailed the story-teller.

This was a standstill. He couldn't bear becoming a character in his own writing. He remembered writing the story of a man who sold the meaning of his own life just to buy food. That was a story that won him much acclaim. Writing that story was a great struggle for him. How could one sell one's own life's meaning to buy bread! For days, he couldn't eat or sleep because he couldn't understand the meaning of what he was writing. He denied the meaning of what he was writing. Yet he couldn't stop writing. Long after writing, he gave it to one of his priced readers- the village cobbler. He was wonder-struck by the simplicity and transparency of the story. He found himself in the story and believed that all could find themselves in it. It was he who popularized this story and won him great fame.

Now, sitting at his window, with the empty writing pad, he realized that his own character was taking life in himself. May be this happens to every writer he has heard of a few other famous writers who died as they imagined their characters would die. He no longer was able to write meaningful stories. “Does that mean that I am selling the meaning of my own life? Am I taking my own essence into the stall of this dilapidated village market?” He couldn't bear the thought.

Taking a stroll across the room, the story-teller took a sip of his favourite wine from the red bottle. That was the last one left in his house; may be in the whole village. That wine has given him inspiration to author many stories. Now even that wine is finished. The stroll with the wine, instead of consoling his doubts about his existence, deepened his anxiety. The image of his empty red wine bottle, along with the dusty grey village was enough to put him to greater despair.

He stopped at the window, struck by surprise. “What am I looking at? How did this...”

Suddenly, he was full of new sprouts, shoots and green leaves. He looked like a spring-bound tree adorned with the joy of hopefulness. He felt like getting new ideas. They perched onto him like birds on a fine spring day. He stared through the window and slowly sat at his writing desk, grabbing his old pen. He began with a heading- 'Lost in the Grey Clouds'.

He never looked up from his paper. He began writing a story. It was the story of a village. In the story the village lost all its glory and joy when time sprayed dust over it, slowly through the years. No one bothered to dust their houses or books or faces. No one swept their courtyards or backyards. Gradually over the years, everything turned grey. Houses, books, faces, courtyards, backyards, … everything turned grey.

Strange things began happening in their village. First, animals started dying together. Birds disappeared from the village. Water in the wells and the stream tasted and looked different. Some of them found it difficult to open their eyes because eyelids stuck due to dust. They lost track of time since all their clocks stopped working. Some woke up in the evening and some went to bed in the morning. Since sky was grey, they couldn't tell when was day!

Villagers did not realize anything until one fine morning when the priest's daughter died of no reason. When the village apothecary cut her open on the postmortem desk, he was shocked. Her blood was grey. He had never seen a thing like that. So he cut her heart to know why. It was also grey. Her lungs, kidneys, intestines, bowels, and everything was grey in colour!

The news about village priest's daughter's grey inside spread like wild fire. Soon, the village gathered in the Churchyard to discuss the issue. Most of them kept quiet as they didn't know what to or how to discuss. The apothecary explained what he saw. He also explained that he could not explain what he saw. The priest was asked whether his daughter had turned a witch. The priest replied saying he had never seen a quieter and more virtuous girl than his own daughter in ages.

The village wondered why the priest's daughter turned grey, not realizing that all of them had turned grey long back. That not only the body, their minds were also grey.

It was then that the blacksmith's son tripped into the forgotten pool in the churchyard. The blacksmith jumped into the pool to save his child. While everyone was looking, he emerged with his child. “oooh”, exclaimed everyone simultaneously. The blacksmith and child looked different. Uh, clean so to say. They looked fair and glowing.. and.. clean! Everyone looked at themselves and again at the blacksmith and his kid. They touched themselves and saw that they are covered in dust. They began dusting themselves. Some jumped into the pool to clean themselves. In a few moments, dust rose from the churchyard, like from a race course.

“My little daughter! What has befallen you...” wailed the priest. It was then that they realized why his daughter died. It was then that they realized why birds had fled the village, why animals were dying, why water tasted and looked different. It was all because of dust! By the time they decided to clean their houses, books, faces, courtyards and backyards, the priest was already dusting the church.

For the next two days, sun did not rise in the village. The sky was covered with clouds of dust and they could 'see' the wind. On the third day, there was great rejoicing at day break, because sun rose and there was clear blue sky. The priest wept and prayed in the church remembering his dead daughter. Others came to the church with thanksgiving.

The village was restored to its original joy. From that day onwards, the dust became part of the book of legends of the village. Grannys began telling their little ones, the story of the days of dust- how they were all covered in dust, how the priest's daughter opened their eyes, how they restored life in the village, etc. In some versions of the story, the priest's daughter was an angel, sent by god to save the village. But in all the versions, the priest's daughter still visited the village on cloudy days. She would appear in the form of a grey, dusty cloud and look down into the village with a sad smile. After all, she was lost in the grey clouds.

The story-teller stopped writing and looked up through the window into the village. He saw what he wrote. A village covered in dust. He looked at himself. He too was covered in dust. He rubbed his hand to see if it was a hallucination. No it wasn't. Dust rose from his hand. He jumped up in fright. He tried to wake up as if he was in a dream.

Suddenly he stopped and looked at what he wrote. There on his writing pad was the story, “Lost in the Grey Clouds”. Pages fluttered in the wind and showed him two words- 'priest's daughter'. With a shudder, he realized what the story meant. He looked at the sky through the window and imagined his face in a dusty grey cloud. And in the memory and imagination of a hundred generations of grandmother stories. He lied down on his bed and fell asleep. Clouds were already taking his shape. And of course, grey colour.

Outside? Inside?

What makes the difference? What one expresses or what one has within? What is inside or what is outside?

This is a good question. Especially when the world around judges people based on what it sees of their lives.

Consider the life of an ordinary family. The husband and wife work, children study in schools, parents stay at home. They have enough food to eat, enough money to take care of all basic needs, enough space and time to live and be happy. All of them go to the temple once a week and offer prayers and sacrifices. They believe in goodness and god's grace. The husband likes the wife, children and parents. Parents like their sun, daughter-in-law and grand children. But the wife doesn't quite like the parents! So there is an imbalance in the family.

What happens to all the prayers that they make? What happens to all the sacrifices they make? If the family doesn't love, how can they ever be content? The children who live among them will absorb the vibrations of hatred/lack of love from the mother, and unknowingly will take it out on their parents. Like the Bible says, 'will get back in the same measure they give'. 

Who is to blame? What is the problem?

Now consider another family where the father doesn't know how to express his love. He loves everyone in the family, but beats the children up on little mistakes. Because he cannot bear them going wrong, he cant forgive them. But he spends his entire life to save for them. He loves his wife, but for the sake of giving her the best, he finds fault with her and tries to correct her. He does everything in love, but all that comes out is finding fault, scolding and beating. How can the family understand what is within the father? The family has no peace if it doesn't understand the father inside out. If it does, it can have peace. If it doesn't, it will never be peaceful, and will blame the father for all they are, all they lost and all they don't have.

What happens to all the sacrifices the father makes for the family? Are they all for nothing? How can the mother and children account for their lack of peace?

Who is to blame? What is the problem?

The question is, what makes the difference? What one says or what one feels! What is inside or what is outside!

Urakkathil Nashtamayath

അത് നഷ്ടമായി!
രാവിലെ ഉണര്‍ന്നപ്പോള്‍തന്നെ അത് എനിക്ക് ബോധ്യമായി. കിടന്നപ്പോള്‍ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്ന ഉന്മേഷവും ഉണര്‍വും ഉണര്‍ന്നപ്പോള്‍ ഇല്ല. അല്ലെങ്കില്‍ തന്നെ ഉറക്കത്തില്‍ നഷ്ടമായതിനെ ഉണര്‍ന്നപ്പോള്‍ അന്വേഷിച്ചിട്ട് എന്തുകാര്യം? കട്ടിലില്‍ നിന്നും എഴുന്നേല്‍ക്കാന്‍ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്ന എല്ലാ പ്രചോദനവും നഷ്ടമായി. ഇനി എഴുന്നെല്കുന്നതില്‍ എന്തര്‍ത്ഥം? ഉണരലിന് ഉറക്കവുമായി ഇനി എന്ത് വ്യത്യാസം? അല്ലെങ്കില്‍ തന്നെ ഉണരാന്‍ ആര്‍ക്കാണ് ഇത്ര താല്പര്യം? നാലക്ഷരം എഴുതാം എന്ന് മാത്രം വിചാരിച്ചാണ് എന്നും ഉറങ്ങാന്‍ കിടക്കുമ്പോള്‍ ഉണരണം എന്ന്  ആഗ്രഹിക്കുന്നത് തന്നെ.
ഒന്നുകൂടി പുതച്ചുമൂടി കിടക്കുമ്പോള്‍ ഉറക്കം വരുമോ എന്ന് സംശയിച്ചില്ല. പക്ഷെ കുറച്ചു കഴിഞ്ഞപ്പോള്‍ ഉണരലിലെയ്ക്ക്  കുറെ അധികം ദൂരം നടന്നിരിക്കുന്നു എന്ന് മനസ്സിലയി. ഇനി ഇപ്പോള്‍ ഉറക്കം വന്നു എന്ന് വരില്ല. ഉറക്കത്തില്‍ നഷ്ടമായതിനെ അന്വേഷിക്കാന്‍ അവസരം നിഷേധിക്കപ്പെട്ടിരിക്കുന്നു. കഷ്ടം തന്നെ.
കട്ടിലില്‍ നിന്നും എഴുന്നേല്‍ക്കുമ്പോള്‍ മനസ്സില്‍ വല്ലാത്ത കല്ലിപ്പ്. അനുവാദം ഇല്ലാതെ വലിഞ്ഞു കയറി വന്ന ദിവസം. അവസരങ്ങളും അവകാശങ്ങളും നിഷേധിക്കപ്പെട്ട ദിവസം. പണ്ട് ഒരു സുഹൃത്ത്‌ പറഞ്ഞത് പോലെ 'ബാഡ് ഹെയര്‍ ഡേ'. എന്നാലും ഉറക്കം വരാത്ത സ്ഥിതിക്ക് ഉണരുന്നതാണ് നല്ലത്. നടുവ് നിവര്‍ത്തി എഴുന്നേറ്റു.

ഒരു ചായ കിട്ടിയിരുന്നെങ്കില്‍ നന്നയിരുന്നു...
ആഗ്രഹങ്ങള്‍ ആഗ്രഹങ്ങള്‍ ആയി തന്നെ തുടരുന്നതാണ് നല്ലത്. കാരണം, അവയ്ക്ക് വളരാന്‍ കഴിയും. ആഗ്രഹം യാഥാര്‍ത്ഥ്യം ആവാന്‍ എപ്പോള്‍ ശ്രമിക്കുന്നുവോ അപ്പോള്‍ മുതല്‍ അതിന്റെ ജീവന്‍ നഷ്ടമാവും.