Thursday, 2 February 2017


I would bloom as a flower one spring,
On the long branches of a cherry tree.

The sun would kiss, the wind would brush,
And I'll slowly come out of the bud.

For all the innocent children who would jump to pluck,
I might lower my neck, but quickly glide back

For all the butterflies who would come to taste,
I might give my honey, not my colours.

And the summer would come and the sun would scorch,
But those innocent children would water my life.

Winter would follow and the snow would fall on,
But those butterflies would keep me warm always

And slowly would the autumn come,
This time but I would be carried away on a heap of fallen flowers.

Monday, 31 October 2016

When the night falls

We watched the sun sinking into the village
and fireflies etching lights on night’s canvas.
Far away on the hill top,
little huts narrowed the chimney lamps.
When the whole world slept,
we sat cuddled on our rusty wooden coffin.
The girl who held ocean in her eyes,
looked into my eyes to see her depth.
She stole the breath out of me
and blew it back into me.
Far away in a pitch dark hollow,
another night bird hooted.
We have travelled greater distance,
through time and seasons.
We have held our hands and hearts,
close, closer, forever.

Saturday, 15 October 2016


Dr. John Hamish Watson’s Diary

221B, Baker Street
9.30AM, 21-5-2015

Sherlock and I were having coffee except he had an extra shot of morphine. Good Morning.

“We have visitors.”, Mrs.Hudson open the door.

“Yes Mrs.Hudson. Another case from Mycroft?” I asked. Sherlock was still not over his drink.

“Yes John. Mrs.Delby and her brother Martin Thomson.”

Mrs.Hudson left them in our room. Sherlock was still not paying attention. I asked them to settle down and explain the case. She told that her husband was killed a week ago and when the police couldn’t solve the case, Mycroft sent them to Sherlock.

“Very well Mrs.Delby, we can help you. Want a cup of coffee?”, I asked

“No. Thank you. I don’t drink coffee.”, Mrs.Delby replied immediately.

“The murderer is in the room.”, a profound solid voice was heard from the couch at the end of the room. It was Sherlock Holmes.

Martin Thomson looked surprised. Blood drained from his face.

“Sherlock, let’s not treat our guests bad.”, I cut the silence that followed.

“Never mind. Mrs.Delby. Mr.Thomson. Give me a day and I’ll solve the case.”, said Sherlock. He walked towards us observing the guests.

221B, Baker Street
11.27 AM, 21-5-2015

“Sherlock, Mycroft has mailed the location of the murder. He sent me the CCTV footage from the street as well.”, I said.

“Let’s rush.”, I could see the delight on his face when Sherlock said that.

House No: 91/C, Old Port Town
12.04PM, 21-5-2015

The house was dusty and the furniture was misplaced.

“Sherlock, the murder took place on fifteenth around nine in the morning. The autopsy says that Mr.Delby suffered a heavy blow on his head.”, I informed what Mycroft forwarded me.

“Who were there at the home during the murder?”, Sherlock asked.

“Mr and Mrs.Delby and possibly the killer.”

“Where is she now?”

“Mycroft informed that she shifted to Down Town the day after the incident.”

Sherlock scanned the room.

“Watson. Let’s rush again.”

“Where?”, I asked with much surprise.

14CH, Down Town
12.45PM, 21-5-2015

We reached Mrs.Delby’s new residence. Inspector Lestrade accompanied us. 

“Good Afternoon Mrs.Delby, if that is the right last name.” It was Sherlock who started the conversation.

“Good Afternoon. The name is not wrong. Anything gentlemen?”, she passed a smile with much agony.

“We found the killer.”, said Sherlock

“Oh! Who? Who could that be?”, she asked in a trembling voice.

“Guess who? You. Surprised?”, said the profound solid voice of Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock, stop blabbering. Ma’am, I’m extremely sorry for this.”, I tried to break their conversation.

“Shut up Watson, let her speak.”

Mrs.Delby tried to step backward. She moved backwards rapidly. She tried to grab the vase.

“You are under arrest.”, leaped Inspector Lestrade pointing his gun at her.

Diogenes Club
9.15PM, 25-5-2015

“Little Brother. Watson. I heard you put the lady in jail? Now explain.”, Mycroft welcomed us.

“Fancy some wine Watson? Mycroft has the best.”

“We all are busy men brother. I have a few people to meet. No time for your mistimed jokes.”

“Well, fair. The murderer was obvious from the very beginning. Her eyes were restless when she explained Watson the case. She declined Watson’s offer for coffee saying she doesn’t drink coffee but had coffee stains on her dress. They were not ordinary coffee stains but they followed the pattern exactly as the one that occurs during duals. Her husband must have been drinking coffee.  She smelled men’s cologne. Acqua Di Gio to be exact. I ran a check on Mr.Delby’s rack but didn’t find the particular cologne. It might be her lover’s and she could have been cheating on her husband. She might have killed him when he came to know about the relation. I watched the CCTV footages from the street camera but couldn’t find anyone entering the house. I threw a luck game when I went to Mrs.Delby at her new residence. She lost.”

“Then why did she come to you with the case? Just to get her caught?”, I asked.

“That was a meek practice to deviate the case. She miserably failed.”

We watched Sherlock taking a bottle of Champagne from the bucket. Mycroft had a smile on his lips.

NB: The characters in this short story are originally created by Arthur Conan Doyle. This is a fan-fiction and has no connection with the real Sherlock Holmes novel series.

Thursday, 22 September 2016


My father used to make me run to the St. Mary’s old age home every morning with the tea pot. There would still be touches of sleep on Mother Clara’s face when she empties the tea pot to another. She would give me some money and I would run back to our tea shop.

During holidays, I spent good time at the old age home. Everybody there has different stories; stories of helplessness, stories of courage. The old lady with drooping shoulders called me.

“Hai ammumma. Any idea who am i?”, I asked


Another man came and asked her the same question.

“Anil”, she replied again.

I learned from Mother Clara that she was a retired teacher.

Sometimes I find the portrait of an old man looking at me from the side of stairs. He was dead an year ago. The eyes in the portrait hid some stories.

There was another old man who sings all the time. His sound was tarnished by his age. Nobody pays attention to his songs but still he sings.

One day, I saw a young man pushing a couple to Mother Clara’s room. They must be his parents. I stood outside and listen to them talking.

“We will take good care of them.”, said Mother Clara

Nobody said anything further. The young man walked out of the room.

“The best wealth you can have is a person who loves you.”, said an old rough voice.

A month passed. It was summer holidays. I saw a young couple walking to the old age home.

“More members to the home.”, I laughed.

After half an hour, I saw the young couple walking out with the same old couple I saw a month ago.

I laughed again. This time my laugh was different.

Saturday, 23 July 2016

Last Sail

The familiar smell of cheap rum filled the one roomed house. Valentine and Valeria knew their father was home. He was drunk as usual. Anna, the mother served him the last cup of porridge. Far above the village of Salsk, the full moon watched the little hut with great agony.

Valentine was a boy of six and Valeria was a girl of ten. They never had a good fortune, though they have seen great fortunes materializing in front of them as children of rich parents. Valentine’s only possession was a wooden doll of a sailor who had traveled all the seven seas. He inherited the doll from his sister Valeria, when the parents told her she was too old to play with toys.

Anna has made a swing on the courtyard. She would swing the children up to heaven and then catch them down at earth. Anna would let them paint the back wall of the house with mud and water and later would ask them clean the wall, so that they could paint again the next day. These were their little perks of being poor.

Anton, their father was a laborer. The war gave him bread and when the war ended, he became poor. “Wars create martyrs, so does peace”, he tells the children during their Sunday walk to the lake that had huge frogs.

Anna warns the children often about the man on the corner of the street. Boris, was told to be a merchant of children. “He snatches children for work”, tells Anna.

Anna poured the little porridge that was left to Anton’s cup. She went to the children and asked them to go to bed. She prepared them a bed on one end of the room. She gave Valentine, the wooden doll of the sailor to hold while sleeping.

“Are they asleep?”, asked Anton.

“They are.”, replied Anna.

“We should agree upon what we have discussed yesterday. I find no other way. We have no money.”

“But Valeria is just ten.”

“The orphanage will take care of her. She might even get schooling.”

Anna stared at the moon outside the window. The moon wasn’t white. She lowered the kerosene lamp and went to bed along with her husband.

The next morning they woke up to find a small bundle of cash on the children’s bed. Valentine wasn’t there; the wooden doll of the sailor who had traveled all the seven seas wasn’t there. It was just the full moon who had watched him walking out of the house last night, to Boris, the man on the corner of the street.

Sunday, 5 June 2016

Camelio Green


The spirit of earth strolled,
To watch her body slayed.

The trees lay dead on ground,
The last drop of oxygen given.

The fishes swam their last,
To the pool of their own tears.

The birds tried to sing a sad song,
To find their throats so dry.

The earth was mere a ghost house,
The spirit of earth, haunting.


Then came Camelio Green,
The one who knows sorcery.

The wand of life swung gently,
The earth was refilled yet again.

The trees, the fishes, the birds,
They enjoyed the alchemy.

The men searched for Camelio Green,
To learn about the witchery.

Then came Camelio Green,
To tell them he is “themselves”.

Thursday, 19 May 2016

Another Member

I woke listening to baang from the old mosque across the street. “Goodbye Muscat”, I said in my mind. The flight was silent.  I slept for most of the hours, resting my head on mother’s shoulder.

There is something enchanted with the roads of Peerumedu. The leaves on either side of the road were like little children drenched in rain. They moved on wind’s cadence. The path was muddy with tiny grasses extending their head out of the soil. The car moved to the old and fabled house of “Madathil”.

“There comes Janu and family. Its vacation.”, the family says.

“Janu, Shall we open the suit case.”, asks aunties expecting Yardley and Dove.

“Govindan Aliya, Scotch Whisky”, uncles consider my father as their imperishable source of foreign liquor.

“My kids are finally here.”, Grandparent’s wait is over..

For me, this is freedom. I can now run to the top of the mountain whose height cannot be measured. I can wait under the lemon tree until the cool breeze run chills down the trunk to make a fruit fall down. Kitkat, Toblerone, Cousins, Freedom; this is a remarkable blend.
Vacation at Madathil that year was different. We had an extra member. Towards the backyard of the house, under a roof made of hay was a long tailed, always merry, white cow.

“We call her Velumbi.”, said Vijayan Valiyachan.

I promise, my vacation had exceptionally transformed from that moment onwards. I forgot the mountain whose height cannot be measured, the lemon tree that gives fruits when cool breeze run chills down the trunks, kitkats and toblerons. It got shrunk to me and Velumbi. The good thing with her was that, she doesn’t dispute. All she wanted from me was an occasional feed of hay and water.

Every dawn and dusk, Kunjumon came to milk Velumbi. He splashes water over her breast and pulls it to the last drop of milk.

“Amma, why is Velumbi producing milk when she has no calf?” I asked mother one day. She said nothing. May be her calf was dead. Or could it be taken away from her?

Two months passed in quick time. I was sitting on the veranda with cousins. We saw a huge man entering the gates. We watched him approaching.

“Mothalaai, Im here”, he roared. He had a huge knife hanging on his shoulder.

“It’s standing inside the shed at backyard. I need the cash now.”, said Valiyachan

After five minutes, we saw Velumbi walking out the gates of the old and fabled house of “Madathil”.

Was Velumbi taken to her calf? Was she taken to another house like ours? I never knew.

Two days passed. I slept on my mother’s shoulder on our way back to Muscat.