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One Sweet Piece of Advice to My Friends

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Image source: shutterstock If your organization isn’t there for you in times of crisis, it’s time to consider leaving. If they aren’t truly supporting you, what’s “organic” in the organization? Everything then becomes mechanical. If they only reach out when they need something from you, it means you’re just a tool to them. Never prioritize the organization’s interests over your own dignity. If they don’t care about you, realize they don’t deserve you. Obviously, this does not mean you should boycott them when they are fighting for a greater, worthwhile cause. This advice isn’t directed solely at leftists but especially to ABVP members. I’ve noticed a trend in our school: students who join this organization often stop attending classes and neglect their studies. Many of these students were previously active in class and frequent visitors to the reading room before joining the organization. Friends, trust me—never place blind trust in an organization. They may abandon you eventually. Ins
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Are we really 'Politically Correct?'

A few years ago, opinions given by self-proclaimed secular scholars on issues involving religion were widely accepted by our society, almost as if the secular perspective was considered the most unbiased. However, nowadays, a scholar from a different religion or caste who speaks about another religion or caste often holds more legitimacy and acceptance than one from the same background who discusses the same topic. You see this fascinating funda ? Okay, let me make it clearer. For example, if you are a Dalit who researches Dalit perspectives, society tends to impose the label of a "Dalit scholar" on you, restricting your academic freedom to discuss other subjects. You may find that you are only invited to speak on Dalit issues, even by progressive student organizations—a trend I've observed in places like JNU. In contrast, a Brahmin who researches Dalit issues might be considered authoritative not only on that topic but on any other subject as well. The upper-caste schola
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Old Clothes

[ There are more critics than defenders of 'Modern Poems'. It was my late realization that poems should be relatable, understandable, and written in easy language. I adore modern poems with all their imperfections, whether it's the lack of a strict structure, the lack of uniform rhythm, or lack of usage of complicated words. ]  In that village,  in every home,  there was a separate basket reserved for depositing old clothes; a basket deliberately kept for throwing in their memories ; the memories waiting for its abandonment along with the old clothes. In some homes,  these old clothes were used for cleaning the mess in the kitchen or mess created by children.  In some homes,  these old clothes were not even seen as worthy of any use.  In some homes,  these old clothes were considered an extra burden or a waste of space.  From some homes,  the residents sent these old clothes to an orphanage.  From some homes,  the members abandoned these old clothes in public places and ran
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രണ്ടു പൂമരങ്ങൾ

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[This is a small satirical poem that I've written in reaction to Benyamin's comment on the picture of Divya Ma'am hugging Radhakrishnan Sir.] മുസാണ്ടപ്പൂവും നന്ത്യാർവട്ടവും പൂമരങ്ങൾ,  രണ്ട് പൂമരങ്ങൾ.  ആ വീട്ടുമുറ്റത്തു രണ്ടു പൂമരങ്ങൾ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നു,  പരസ്പരം കെട്ടിപ്പിണഞ്ഞു കിടക്കുന്ന രണ്ടെണ്ണം.  നീ എന്നോ ഞാൻ എന്നോ തിരിച്ചറിയാൻ പറ്റാതെ, അത്രമേൽ,  സ്നേഹത്താൽ കെട്ടിപ്പിണഞ്ഞു നിക്കുന്ന രണ്ട് പൂമരങ്ങൾ. ഒന്നാമത്തേതിന്റെ പൂക്കൾ ചുവന്നതായിരുന്നു.  അതിന്റെ ഇതളുകൾ ചുമന്നു തുടുത്തു,  മനുഷ്യന്റെ ചെവി പോലെ തോന്നിക്കുമായിരുന്നു.  രണ്ടാമത്തെ, പൂമരത്തിലാകട്ടെ, നിറയെ വെള്ള നിറത്തിലുള്ള, കുഞ്ഞു കുഞ്ഞു പൂക്കൾ.  അതിന്റെ ഇതളുകൾ ഒത്തുചേർന്ന്, കുഞ്ഞു നക്ഷത്രങ്ങളെക്കണക്ക് മരം നിറയെ പൂത്തു നിപ്പുണ്ടായിരുന്നു. അങ്ങോട്ടും ഇങ്ങോട്ടും കെട്ടിപ്പിടിച് അവ രണ്ടും,  തിരിച്ചറിയാൻ പറ്റാത്തത്ര വിധം ഒന്നായി തീർന്നിരുന്നു.   ഒന്നും ഒന്നും ഒത്തു ചേരുമ്പോൾ വീണ്ടുമൊരാന്നായി തീരുന്ന പോലുളള, സ്നേഹത്തിന്റെ അപൂർവ മാന്ത്രികത.  ചെമന്ന ചെവികണക്കെയുള്ള മുസാണ്ടപ്പൂവിന്റെയും,   വെള്ള നിറത്തിൽ കുഞ്ഞു നക്ഷത്രങ്ങളെക്കണക്ക് വ
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On A Fever Day

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  We three- Inshal, Insha and Inzam [This is something which I started as scribbling my childhood stories, but I ended up writing an amalgamation of self-experience, a story, and a poem by using technique of time travel. I ended up in an imbroglio position wherein I am not able to categorize this piece into any of the above.] Fever days were always creative for me, at those times, I assume, I overthinks a lot. Whether it is dog's barking, full moon's charm, or it is tutti fruity on the top of a bun in red, green and yellow colors, or People's ‘blablabla’ outside your window, every miniscule sound and pictures attracted me as if I am a magnet. I kept tried to sleep, by hugging my cute pillow, by rolling this end to that end of my bed, by trying to blur lights on my cornea, but I failed shamelessly. Yet body pain wasn't sympathetic towards me, it kept tried to eat me from head to toe. Meanwhile I made a 'B-plan' to escape consciously from my room, as a corolla
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