O V Vijayan Quotes

പുരികങ്ങളുടെയും കണ്ണുകളുടെയും ചുവന്ന പാതയിലെ സായാഹ്നയാത്രകളുടെയും അച്ഛാ, ഇലകൾ തുന്നിച്ചേർത്ത ഈ കൂടുവിട്ട് ഞാൻ പുറത്തേയ്ക്കു പോവുകയാണ്. യാത്ര.

മന്ദാരത്തിന്റെ ഇലകൾ ചേർത്തുതുന്നിയ ഈ പുനർജനിയുടെ കൂടുവിട്ട്‌ ഞാൻ വീണ്ടും യാത്രയാകുന്നു.

അയാള്‍ കിണറ്റിലേക്ക്‌ കൂപ്പ്‌ കുത്തി. വെള്ളത്തിന്റെ വില്ലീസ്സു പടുതകളിലൂടെ, ചില്ലുവാതിലുകള്‍ കടന്ന്‌, സ്വപ്നത്തിലൂടെ, സാന്ധ്യ പ്രജ്ഞയിലൂടെ, തന്നെ കൈനീട്ടിവിളിച്ച പൊരുളിന്റെ നേര്‍ക്ക്‌ അയാള്‍ യാത്രയായി.

നേരം പൊങ്ങിയപ്പോള്‍ ചാന്തുമുത്തു ചെക്കനെ തിരക്കി. "തെക്കന്റെ ദെണ്ണം മാരിയാ ഉമ്മാ?" "ഉം". "ഇഞ്ഞി തെക്കന്‍ ബെക്കം ബല്‌താകോ ഉമ്മാ!".

പണ്ടു പണ്ടു് ഓന്തുകൾക്കും ദിനോസറുകൾക്കും മുൻപ്‌ ഒരു സായാഹ്നത്തിൽ രണ്ടു ജീവബിന്ദുക്കൾ നടക്കാനിറങ്ങി. അസ്തമയത്തിലാറാടിനിന്ന ഒരു താഴ്വരയിലെത്തി. ഇതിന്റെ അപ്പുറം കാണണ്ടേ? ചെറിയ ബിന്ദു വലിയതിനോട് ചോദിച്ചു. പച്ചപിടിച്ച താഴ്വര, ഏട്ടത്തി പറഞ്ഞു. ഞാനിവിടെ തന്നെ നിൽക്കട്ടെ. എനിക്കു പോകണം, അനുജത്തി പറഞ്ഞു.

രവിയോര്‍ത്തു. കാപ്പിത്തോട്ടങ്ങളുടെ നടുവില്‍ കാറ്റു പിടിച്ചുനിന്ന വീട്, കുന്നിന്‍ ചെരിവിലെ മഞ്ഞ്, കാട്ടുപൂക്കള്‍, പിന്നെ അപരിചിതമായ സന്ധ്യകള്‍, പേരില്ലാത്ത നഗരങ്ങള്‍. യാത്ര. വഴിയമ്പലത്തിലെ വിശ്രമം.

Prosper, O untouchable!’ the feudal chief had said—that was a long time ago and he had meant do not prosper beyond limits.

They said a spectre was haunting Europe. 'Do you know what a spectre is?' the ideologues asked the beedi-rollers. 'We know, comrades,' Koomankavu's new proletarians replied. 'We have djinns and poothams here.' 'You are not listening, comrades.

തെക്കന് കൊട്ത്താമതി. തെക്കമ്പല്താകട്ടെ

ആവൂ. എത്തര പുഗ്ഗാണ്ടാ ക്ളിയേ

ഹൌ ഖഗമേ

ഇതു കര്‍മ്മപരന്പരയുടെ സ്നേഹരഹിതമായ കഥയാണ്. ഇതില്‍ അകല്‍ച്ചയും ദുഃഖവും മാത്രമേയുള്ളൂ.

Who had brought him this way? Whose was the unseen hand, the unseen leash?

பனைகளின் அடிவாரத்தில் அந்தி கருக்கத் தொடங்கியது. பச்சைக்கிளிகள் கூட்டமாகப் பறந்து செல்வதைப் பார்த்துக்கொண்டு அப்புக்கிளி படியில் நின்றான். “இந்தக் கிளிக்கு என்னைக்கும் அந்திதான், மாஷ்ஷே,” மாதவன்நாயர் சொன்னார், “இருந்தாலும் கூடு போய்ச் சேர்றதில்லே.” “யாருமே கூடுபோய்ச் சேர்றதில்லே, மாதவன்நாயரே.” “உண்மைதான், மாஷ்ஷே.” அப்போதும் அஸ்தமனத்தினூடே பனங்கிளிகளின் வில்கள் பறந்தகன்றுகொண்டிருந்தன.

No, not on this journey of many lives, this journey of incredible burdens. Let me reach my inn, the village called Khasak

Kunhamina’s way to the madrassa lay through a patch of woodland, where a clump of Arasu trees shed their flowers over the footpath. That day it looked as if the trees had rained flowers; Kunhamina stood admiring the floral carpet, when a flock of foraging peafowl swooped down around her. Charmed, and hardly realizing what she was doing, Kunhamina undid the package, broke the pancakes into flakes, and fed them to the peafowl. When she was done with the last bit, she rubbed her palms clean and turned to go. But the crested king-fowl hopped behind her for more. ‘Finished, Peacock-Saar!’ she said. The bird chased her and pecked her on the calf. It hurt and bled a little, but she was jubilant, she had something to tell them at the madrassa; she had been pecked by a real peacock! She told Kholusu and Noorjehan.

Ravi sat on his cot, leaning on a stack of pillows, and looked out of the window. The sun was setting. The grazing herd of clouds was gone. Soon it was dark, and the fantasy returned, the fantasy of the journey. The seedling house became a compartment in a train, and he the lone and imprisoned traveller. Dark wastes lay on either side; from them fleeting signs spoke to Ravi—a solitary firefly, a plodding lantern. The wheels moved along the track with soft, deceptive thuds. Then he heard the far rush of another track racing towards his own, the sorrow of another, futilely seeking comfort. The rails met for one moment, tumultuously, to part again. To race away into the many-mysteried night.

The rains were over, the skies shone, and Khasak readied itself for Onam, the festival of thanksgiving. Children went up into the hills at sunrise to gather flowers. For ten days they would arrange colourful designs in their yards with flower petals to welcome the deities of the festival. Ravi heard the children sing on the hillsides, and for a fleeting moment they touched him with the joy of a hundred home-comings. The moment passed, and once again he was the fugitive. A fugitive had no home, and a sarai no festival. Ravi sought to share his fears with Madhavan Nair—the Onam recess would last a fortnight. Would the children come back to dreary routine after that spell of freedom? ‘If I were their age, I wouldn’t !’ Ravi said. ‘You lost your childhood somewhere along the way, Maash. I hope the children find it for you.

Meanwhile Appu-Kili had caught a dragonfly and with nimble fingers slipped a lasso round its tail. Abida looked at the dragonfly, into its eyes of a thousand crystals. The eyes shone dully with the chronicles of the dead. If dragonflies were memories of the dead, as they believed in Khasak, whose then was this memory? Perhaps it was her mother’s pining images of sin and regret and drowning. The crystal eyes fell on her.

The journey into the vast unquiet universe, watched by faces in railway compartments, tolerant and incurious. In the nights Ravi curled up on luggage racks and slept to the soft beat of the rails. The names of railway stations changed, their scripts changed. Then on the road, up the high ranges, past hairpin bends in gasoline-perfumed buses. The roadway dust changed colour, sunrise and sunset changed places, directions were lost in an assailing infinity. The journey took him through cheerless suburbs, through streets of sordid trades, past cacti villages and lost townships of lepers, and ashramas where, in saffron beds, voluptuous swaminis lay in wait for nirvana.

On either side of the footpath, tree and shrub and crag seemed alive in the thinning mist, like breathing embryos ...

Beyond the mountain lay untrodden tracks. Great unseen rains fell on those timeless springheads and the waters avalanched down muddy and turbulent, leaving the silt of age on the enfeebled pilgrim.

Ravi listened to the ballad of Khasak in her, its heroic periods, its torrential winds and its banyan breezes. There was no death but only silver anklets and her eyes sparkling through the surma. Ravi looked deep into those eyes; the story would have no dying, only the slow and mysterious transit. He began in the style of the ancient fabulist. ‘Once upon a time ...

Then would he share his sorrow with her, the placental sorrow, generation after generation; as he thought this, the sorrow spilled over to become the sorrow of karma, it was the scar of the sinner, the orphan’s pining, the despair of the one who thirsted for knowledge.

She began to sob. Ravi received her sorrow like a desert does the rain. ‘What are you running away from Ravi?’ asked the despairing voice. I wish to escape nothing, Ravi answered from within his silence, I want to be the sand of the desert, each grain of sand; I want to be the lake, each minute droplet. I want to be the laya, the dissolution.

.. Long before the lizards, before the dinosaurs, two spores set out on an incredible journey. They came to a valley bathed in the placid glow of sunset. My elder sister, said the little spore to the bigger spore, let us see what lies beyond. This valley is green, replied the bigger spore, I shall journey no farther. I want to journey, said the little spore, I want to discover. She gazed in wonder at the path before her. Will you forget your sister? asked the bigger spore. Never, said the little spore. You will, little one, for this is the loveless tale of karma; in it there is only parting and sorrow. The little spore journeyed on. The bigger spore stayed back in the valley. Her roots pierced the damp earth and sought the nutrients of death and memory. She sprouted over the earth, green and contented ... A girl with silver anklets and eyes prettied with surma came to Chetali’s valley to gather flowers. The Champaka tree stood alone—efflorescent, serene. The flower-gatherer reached out and held down a soft twig to pluck the flowers. As the twig broke the Champaka said, My little sister, you have forgotten me!