The Ballads of Gravity

I know this: I am also a repetition. A continuation of forces older than my name, patterns that moved through generations and found their way into me. I do not carry them as burdens alone; I carry them as proofs. What has been tried before me did not end—it arrived. And I stand where it converges. I have never been lost—only moving through complexity. I have questioned, delayed, circled, cried but never diminished. Even when direction dissolved, something steadier than certainty kept me upright. What others call confusion was often preparation. What felt like stillness was alignment in motion. I was not failing to become; I was becoming without spectacle. There were moments when desire thinned, when the world stopped asking for urgency. Not emptiness—clarity. Noise fell away. False appetites dissolved. What remained was gravity, and gravity always tells the truth. I learned then that not everything needs to excite in order to matter. And so the world narrowed—not into loss, but into gr...

Nothing was left untouched. Every stone was overturned, every grain of sand displaced. The monstrous beauty of the Earth transforming into a perfect haven for living organisms was a grand saga of evolution—an orchestration by the Unknown. As a child then, and an adult now, my timeless reverie has been to envision this orchestration—to witness how the Earth journeyed from the most hostile to the most hospitable. I have, time and again, tried to comprehend evolution and the mysterious forces that harmonized to weave the very fabric of life. As I grew, I found myself entangled in the same fabric of evolution—fulfilling its purpose. I began to see how I, too, evolved through the people who crossed my path, the events that unfolded, and the moments that shaped me. Everything seemed to work in silent precision, scripting the being I was meant to become. Should I resist it—or embrace it? I find resistance meaningless, for everything appears perfectly programmed by time and space. Can I truly ...

എന്റെ പ്രണയവും ഉപാസനയും ആയവൾക്ക്, എന്റെ തലമുറയുടെ മാതാവിന്,  എന്റെ ആകാശവും, ഭൂമിയുമായവൾക്കു, താരതമ്യങ്ങളില്ലാത്തൊരു സ്ത്രീയ്ക്ക്,  എന്റെ  പൂർണ്ണതയുടെ അവസാനമാകുന്നവൾക്ക്, എന്റെ കണ്ണുകളിലെക്കടലിലൂടെ  ഒരു യാനം പോലെ പ്രയാണം ചെയ്യുന്നവൾക്ക്- ഞാൻ നടന്ന വഴികളെല്ലാം നിന്നിലേക്കായിരുന്നു. നിന്നിലത്രെ ഞാൻ തീരുന്നതും.

He asked me for my heart. And I gave it — not carved by hand, but cut open with the knife of time. Every year, every silence, every wound had sharpened that blade until it passed through me like inevitability. What I placed in his hands was not a symbol, but the raw, burning weight of my life — a heart heavier than the stars, heavier than everything I had ever carried or lost. He weighed it on a scale — my heart on one side, the universe on the other. And the universe bowed, its gravity faltering under the magnitude of my grief. Then he asked for my tears. I gave him a single drop — not just water, but molten sorrow distilled from years of silence. He let it fall into the waters of the world, and it struck like fire on the sea. Waves surged outward, devouring the land of my certainties, drowning the shores I once stood upon. Even the mountains of my strength bent beneath it. When he looked at me then, I was a man standing in the cavern of darkness, my life torn open, my hands empty. My...

“Why did you do that?”  he asked. “That wasn’t me,”  she replied. “You lie like a sunset — beautiful, fading, certain. But you know I see it every time. Every flicker of your voice betrays the truth.” It hadn’t been that long since he left her behind. Yet somehow, she had found the trail. “Why are the traces still here?”  he whispered.  “We walked that path lifetimes ago. And still no dust has settled. No memory has spoiled it. How do they remain untouched?” She stood there, silent. Then finally, her voice — soft, searching. “What are you doing here?” “I’m looking for Anand,”  she said.  “He left me here ages ago. I’ve been following the shape of his shadow ever since. Have you seen him?” He looked at her, hollow-eyed. “I’m lost,”  he said.