Mango Chutney/’The Creation of Love’ by Deepti Menon

 I feel the promos/teasers triggered for the Chutney now seem to be much ado as the book tries to be a damp squib. Stories are not tasteful besides being soaked in rank mediocrity. Out of the 27 short fictions, only a few pieces make the grade; others have fallen in midway and failed in the race. I see the bulk of the stories has platitudes for plots. Authors of such unreadable stories – true, they’re a bunch of greenhorns – seem to be having no familiarity with the traditional formulae of how to write a short story and, pitifully, they lack the gift of writing flawless English. While some of the writers could not avoid maiming the Queen’s language, a handful of others crucified it rather unknowingly or, shall I say, with a know-all air. That’s the reason why the Chutney is spoilt and littered with much extraneous stuff like grammatical goofs and typographical errors.

Apart from ‘The Creation of Love’, the book takes in many interesting stories having appreciable interiors and exteriors. The fact that only such of those stories give the Mango Chutney its worth and make it stand out in the world of books need to be acknowledged. Ms. Menon weaves her story – The Creation of Love – with a distinctive plot and makes it a splendid read with her amazing writing skills – her style unique and the language breezy.

A budding playwright is the protagonist of this tale. He visualizes a perfect love story of an artist and a poor girl of exquisite beauty. He roams about in search of such a girl in real life. He, soon, meets one living in squalor. He quenches her hunger, makes her live decently and pampers her with gifts. When he finally decides to take her into his life, he finds a widening, inexplicable chasm between him and her.

A well-penned story, it adheres to the established principles of the craft. It has a distinct beginning, a buildup and a dramatic end – characteristics of a well-crafted short story. Budding writers may find this story more inspiring as it has a remarkable plot and displays how it can be flawlessly presented.

 I like the following lines just because of their literary beauty:

‘His breath came in a whistle, as he willed the chill to clear the cobwebs in his mind’

‘Would he have to throw away his passion to nurture this little, fluttering flame?’

‘He walked, a new spring in his step’.

‘She stood up, looked at him with her heart in his eyes’.

 [I would shortly write about my other favorite stories]

Look at the Ocean, not at the Waves

We fail to see the Ocean for the Waves

That ‘true love triumphs’, a time-tested belief accepted by the human race from the days of Adam and Eve, still stands tall giving testimony to the power of love. Love has many connotations; many hues and colors like the working of human minds. Well, efforts put in by etymologists to define the term love go flat since it is not defined by words but by one’s feelings and emotions.

But then, our shimmering passions for love only make us look at its pinnacle since most of us are not able to reach it because of varied reasons. ‘Love is God; love is divine; love is bliss and peace; and love is blind too’ are some of the emotional outbursts we indulge in all through our life without experiencing or feeling all the dimensions of love or without our being able to reach its crest.

To many of us, love is the foam crested waves that are lashing at the shore. We always look at the waves only and not at the fathomless depth of an ocean. It is so easy to look into dots and miss the sight of the picture. Our mental vacation is so crude that it happens without our knowing it.  

An ailing, but obstinate child nags her mother for a cup of ice cream and cries her head off when it is denied. Seemingly, the mother has a heart of stone in not yielding to the demand of her child, but truly she is the incarnation of love as she is more concerned with the health of her daughter than her crying for ice cream. A father is too revealing his concern and love for his teenage daughter when he reproaches her for speaking on her cell phone at midnight. Such a father and mother are on the crest of love since they think their mollycoddling of their children may spoil their well-being and safety.

Sometimes, you may see a man, with good physique, standing at a street corner and craving the passers-by for alms. Instead of giving him a few bucks as your counterparts are doing, you may get him a job and make him live decently. Through such an admirable action you show your love for the society. Sure, your noble act makes you reach out to the pinnacle of love where the Angel of Love welcomes you with a curtsy as she is happy with your displaying of a rare gesture and responding to the unexpressed needs of a beggar.

Lee Kuan Yew, the former Prime Minister of Singapore, showed an altogether different dimension of love for his country when he brought forth a host of capital punishments to rein the occurrence of crimes and to make Singapore a heaven of peace and one of the developed nations in Asia. He did this with an iron hand for the well-being of the people.

It is not uncommon in life to see a person make the other suffer. But, if the cause for making others suffer is to see them happy ultimately, then such an action can be called love … love in disguise. Lee Kuan Yew did this to his country and god, too, is doing this to many of us quite often.

There are people with questionable characters who get things done for others by dubious means: from a drunkard by making him tipsier and from a crazy woman by giving her gold and diamonds. This is always done in the name of love. But, love can never be manipulated. It must never be used to make others do what you want. When you love someone, you must never ask them to sacrifice even a part of themselves in the name of love. This form of manipulation contaminates our love for others.

Eventually, love is the name of the relationship we are trying to have with someone who are closer to us. Rather, it’s a sort of fine feelings … an intention to serve the well-being of others, which may, sometimes, get crowned or crucified. Just read what Kahlil Gibran has to say about love:

“When love beckons to you, follow him/ though his ways are hard and steep/and when his wings enfold you, yield to him/though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you/And when you speaks to you, believe him/ though his voice may shatter your dream as the north wind lays waste the garden.”

Image courtesy: Google

Let the Day Come …

Let the streaks of Dawn seep

thro my window blinds, driving

out the darkness to those hearts where they belong.

 Let the godly ‘ushath ‘hour come, spilling

solemnity and warmth over the universe, and cleansing

the Earth off its sins and impurities.

Let thick plumed birds of morn light

chirp in chorus from somnolent trees, making

the awful silence of night to vanish.

Let someone switch off the dull moon

and whitewash the grey sky. Let the

indolent night wind awakens in the scorching sun.

Let from my memory go off all black dreams I'd

the night before. Let the sun come,

burn out my fright and brighten up my hopes.

Let women wake up with a bang, hearing

temple bells, covering their bareness with hands

 looking impishly at their sleeping hubbies.

To wake up my love, to look at her cherubic

face in the daylight and to re-kindle my sagging spirits

let the Day come.

If the demon of night hugs you again, don’t

be afraid. For, the Angel of the Day will

soon bloom around you and take you back

in her gleaming golden lap.

[This poem just tries to mimic Jane Kenyon’s ‘Let Evening Come’]

Image courtesy: Google

For Whom Should I Cry Now?

“Alas that love, so gentle in his [Romeo’s] view 
should be so tyrannous and rough in proof.”- William Shakespeare

Back in time, when young was the moon 
speechless we stood in a train station. 
Holding hands, we’d wept for our failed- love. 
Pale went your face as you fought tears, 
concealing wounds in your heart. 

Shrieking horns came then a blue train and 
home it carried you… your marital home. 
There under new skies you’d become 
a wife, mom, and grandma. 
Stupefied I still watched the train 
running over my love heartlessly. 
The moving devil now looked red not blue, 
showing the color of my tears. 

Leafing thro my Memory Book, 
your pretty face I oft look. 
Can I ever forget your elegant eyes? 
that spoke volumes and volumes once. 
Seeing your bubbling dimples when you laughed 
rainbows bobbed up in my heart. 

All sweet kisses your rosy lips gave me then 
still remain moist in my mouth, tasting like nectar. 
The perfume and fragrance you’d wafted when hugged 
still remain spread in my body, making me ever balmy. 
My love! 
To keep your memory ever green in heart and soul 
I had to fight with Time, a heartless Monster. 

When waves of time brutally wrecked my life boat, 
I struggled like a fish in a hook. 
Void and emptiness grew thick in heart 
as I wished to see the face I’d lost to Time. 
Leaving me in a limbo you’ve gone 
to the wind to make a wind, 
to the moon to make her more shining, 
and 
to the grey sea to make it green. 

Shocked, I felt like falling into a cauldron 
when your demise I knew from a tabloid. 
I smothered my sobs and fell into my knees. 
But… but… 
Amidst sorrows, I felt a drizzle 
drenching my soul. 

For, in the ‘obit’ column of the paper 
I didn’t see an age-ravaged, time-eaten 
face of an ol’ lady.’ 
The photo therein was the one 
you gave me long back when 
we were in the spring of love 
breathing for each other and 
praying for each other. 

Now- 
Straddling relief and sorrow, asked my broken heart: 
“For whom should I cry now? 
You or your failed- love or your dead lover? 

Squares and Circles!

SQUARES in CIRCLES
and
Circles in Squares;
no sleazy matter to be frowned upon
or
to be wondered about.

It’s only a state of mind
with shades of laden thoughts.

Are you a circle or a square?
You can’t answer.
For, in the cave of your minds
you always grope for structure, not substance.

Is love a circle?
A heaven sent garland?
If love is a circle,
squares are lovers, their attire being dreams.

 The body may be a square.
But the soul is only a circle.
For, when the body decays and drops dead
 the soul goes out rolling.

My bed before birth was
a shapeless semi-circle
or a circle.
But, why I’m now a square,
leaping out of the ordained format.

Get rid of your fantasizes.
Get rid of cloudy thoughts.
For, the light of life is lit only by the realities,
not by make-believe thoughts.

It’s to be known therefore that
the lines that draw circles also
draw squares.
It’s no sleazy matter
To be frowned upon
or to be wondered about.

[Image courtesy: Google]

Whom I should cry for?

Back in time when in tatters was our love

speechless we stood in a train-station.

Holding hands, we’d wept for our failed love.

Pale went your face as you fought tears,

but feigned a shoot in your eyes.

Shrieking horns came then a blue train.

Home it carried you from me to a world

 Where you’d become a wife, mom and granny.

Stupefied, I was still watching the retreating train

that went running over my dreams.

The rolling devil now looked black not blue,

the color of my crying heart.

Leafing through my Memory Book,

your pretty face and mien I oft look.

Of course, the sparkling elegant eyes too

that spoke once volumes and volumes to me.

 Seeing your bubbling dimples when you laughed,

pits and wholes bobbed up in my heart.

All invigorating kisses your rosy lips gave me then,

still remain moist in my mouth, tasting like nectar.

The perfume and fragrance you’d wafted when hugged,

still remain spread in my body, making me ever balmy.

My Love!

When waves of Time brutally rock my boat,

on life’s sea I struggle like a goat.

Void and emptiness grow thick in heart,

as I wish to see the face I’d lost to Time.

My wishes … Oh!

Broken dead they go as no more you’re.

Gone you’re to the wind to become a wind;

to the moon to make her more shining.

to the grey sea to make her ever blue.

Shocked, I feel like falling into a caldron,

when your demise I know from a tabloid.

Bursting sobs I smother, breaking nerves I gather.

For, sorrows apart, there arise

a little relief in me, a cruel one at that.

Relieved I’m,

as I don’t see you time-torn or age-ravished.

For, your photo in the ‘obit’ column is

the one you gave me long, long back

when we were in the spring of love,

breathing for each other and praying for each other.

Now-

Straddling relief and sorrow ask my splitting heart,

‘Whom I should cry for?’

You or your failed love or your dead lover’.

*

[This is my first blog post I wrote for a site two decades before]