Never recreate from your memory. Always imagine new places.
– from the movie ‘Inception’

Zanirza was spotted by many camera lenses, showed the world the meaning of gorgeousness.

Zanirza smiled and was asked to smile, sometimes only plastic smiles. But it was a beauty, beauty of innocence. Becoming disseminated and the shadows on magazine covers. Sometimes, times had pushes to run towards the edge of felicity and estrangement. High heels were changed each times without any warnings. Learned to walk slowly in bare foots. smooth toes felt the wetness of earth. Need a deep breathe to understand the power of pause. Lacrimal glands taught the silence of time. At a time, only the pillow was the companion. Moving inside the wheels, there is a world unseen that made to explore new spaces. Was in love, in love, will be in love are in some strange meanings that really made to arrange deep thoughts. Lime lights were more rude to melt the skin, it opened the eyes to see many faces. The obliterated corners were laughed at her to pull all her unknown past. In Safer hands, thanking hands, caressing hands, blessing hands, this world is still breathing fresh air with smiley faces. Holding each others hands and dancing around the bonfire.

‘Caesura’, another short story of Zanirza.

She accepted the blood and never screamed for it. Her reddish hair allowed the doctor to handle her skin. Always skipped to count her wounds. She slept with her boyfriend. Sucked his organ to make him sleep, always. She again read the same book to get some sleep at that night. she teared some pages and cried a lot and tried to find the reasons. She wrote some poems and got published it. She received letters and awards and kisses. She sold her words again to buy her pills. Looked for hands to hold, looked for shoulders to rest, looked for smiles to share. She wrote new theories. She laughed at outdated constructions. Fascist government planned to slit her wrist and cut her vagina. But she always fly away from her nest to find another land. It’s easier than before to get out from the door. There is no lock neither keys. She knows about her felicity and its extends. It’s not important for her to contact others wishes. Her words are made up of candles. As she burning herself to create words, it’s melting without her conscious. Her smiles are very expensive that no one can buy unless they are seekers. She always laughs along with innocent meanings, though she is investing her smiles too. She is not she, but she is symbolism of her views. She saw her body was hanging on the roof garden. Not an illusion but a vision. Vision of framing the shadow of sun in the pond water. Sun is not rising and stars are falling, that is the reality. Her rough skin have started to spread all over the space, but the moon have burnt again and again in her sky.

The world war, poverty head lines, hidden genocides from history, Cuba after Castro, Pablo Neruda poems, Naxalism, someone is smiling from somewhere, accepting the touches of raindrops through a window, a lonely old person in a park, a teen girl staring at the mirror worrying about her look, black and white forms of scenes has made to construct a castle inside the heart with strong walls. How could we react if someone says that they born in this day? Mostly we contribute our smile without any meaning. I do always. Here I am sitting with a person who has the same of name of another girl. She is in the same skin and eye color is light brown. Staring at the table really made me run to find a person to make her laugh. Thinking about another girl, then the pain helped her to have a smooth transition to see things, but not so obscure. Spoon had accepted my fingers to have a tasteless food with tasteful people. Many things are merely anything in any structures. Trying to heed the mind’s debris, not ready to feed the love, like prises. Eyes have been closed to see the libertine. She got the third hand to ruin the serpentine, always hard rain inside her sun that is increasing the heights of her sky. Spending time to find the factors and some new chapters.

There is a fear in me, it always passes faces to me, How could I ask, “Would you like to have sex with me?”. How many have we lost the secret times? Kisses all are burnt by our silence. We don’t believe in adherence to soft touches. It’s a good theory to have a pause all over our meanings. Sometimes I would like to stay in frozen times. Frozen times are constructed by an inevitable situations. The clear pitch can also be absorbed if we really open the uncountable reasons. Thus it is vary from different minds, it could be contaminated by the unreal self. Though the thoughts have been revolves so fast during the frozen times. Closely observed parts were hidden by new meanings. Some words are totally scared to stay and listen to the real meanings. Every pixel of time were already tuned up to different sounds, because the potential parts were also lost its capacity to continue with different meanings. In the time when I switched off the light in my room to go to sleep, the words are crying like a new born. So I always sleeps in light to avoid word cancer. This is what I called as frozen time. A pencil treat in the dark is a new suggestion made by my mind. Unwilling parts are to accept the same color of dead words. Like an emotional penis or breast nipples which are allowed itself to get dominate by the facts. The facts that are really developed by the real frozen times. Meeting points were cheating, silent touches were loosing its grip, forgotten the taste of time, let the gorgeous things be gorgeous. Let the dreams be dreams. Time is an illusion in dreams. Touches and smooches and kisses and sex and smile and laugh and ‘and’ things are all illusion. A glass is filled up with sunlight, he pulled all his strength to pour it into the sea. Sea is slowly melting inside him to take him to the unreal world. The beautiful stones were already demolished by his smooth fingers. Am I dreaming in someone’s subconscious?

Zanirza’s ‘One of my death’ was published in a magazine.

The sound of broken glass had woke me to think about the shadow war. Living in this city, a lovely dusty city, a dark and light city, caressing my eyes by lies and truths. And this city is running from my heart and it clears all my expectations. City of dying insects inside the rotten eggs. City of lipsticks and designed belts and shoes and masks. Nude legs are walking on the air and ghost smiles are peeling my skin very slowly. Have you seen this city at midnight when the owls and wolves are hunting each other? This city, is a, was a, as a, like a city. Cat walk, smelly cat walk, was it skin or fur? It has rubbed all over my face. My tongue licked the toes and ate the nails. Someday you might smile at the pieces of my body. My smelly fleshes will teach you the aroma of death. Have you ever stand between the scattered bodies? That will show you the essence of death. Smiley face of death.

My angel! Let us betray this night along with fire beetles.

Zanirza’s last few lines from her last short story “Back to my lines”.

In this story, Mola passes many comments on her dream experience. Her dreams are more into forming a new world. Introducing new colors that can be determined by any minds. Her thought were polished and sharp nails were not the exact start to draw the lines, until to get the distinct. Length of the mind has to follow the steps, but it occurs due to the forward watch. Bewitched symptoms were already dissolved not to connect with polymer. The literary attention always termed as slant, as I think so. Heartening is to rewrite the programs to sip another name of coffee. Wondering and appreciating them for the invention of binary codes. Ventured into the world of silicon chip and random access memory to find the exact evaluation to get the result. Driven by the syntax to enrich the lines and to occupy the space in points. Never seen by dancing doors to agnize the dilated seasons. Mola! There is a room inside a waterfall, no questions are inside any dying bubbles, charisma chromes into the bulb of wicked spleen, double side mania sick with the echo lame. A pinch of sound sliced in a violent validations. Sucking the thumb in the sweetness of saliva tempted to grow another sky. Forced water makes to feel the chilled touch of day time ghosts. The picture of pirates burnt to lock the neck of rhythm.

Mola’s constant dream:
Constant voices are floating on my mind, unspecified methods are melting, cruel touches were stopped. Warning my mind to stop spitting words on my dreams. Pinching kisses and ragging lust developed to form another episode. Lazy geek I am to fly over the clouds. Changing rhythms in my music notes, no one yet realized. I am crying and crying and crying, and stopped to wipe my tears. Heights of happiness, the feathers are growing day by day. Designs of face changing at its own choice. Met the time at first time to manipulate the lines. I am laughing and laughing and laughing, and stopped to wipe my cheers. Painted the shadows of lights, my gills are waiting for poison water to lie inside the colors. My sweet poison dragged me to the edge of mountain to show me the light inside the stone. Caressing strange fingers, unknown doubts trained to pull outside the colors from me. It obtained to be nothing. One last time the mountain invited me to pass the truths and ruthless truths. I wish I could talk about the another meanings, but I am not revealing it. One animal’s blood stains on my face. Aroma of pain in my mind. Peel the hard skin of my mind, stick it on your body, laugh like thunder. Never free my soul, tie it on your leg, spit on my face and give me that rational look. Slice my sound by your vicious nails. Can you? You can carry my fleshes to feed the animals inside you and me. Their tongue, hungry tongue, smelly tongue, felt the heights of lusty tongue. That’s my bone, my tough bone, made up of hard metal bone. No dog teeth can bite it, crush it, chew it. It’s a shining bone, no boner can hold it, laughing at those boners. It’s not too late to swim from this world, water world. Filled up with green leaves and white clouds, floating above my head. Dead heads are grinning at me to bribe me. One last chance, if not, there will be some one to continue from somewhere. Calling moods, chanting the same names to remember, that is waiting for the day to forget. Splitting the minds to find the different paths, in fact, it has to be done. In the time, in a specific time, is there any specific time to call? No is ruling the questions. The situation is pouring all the essential decorative acts and makes it more dramatic than before. Here, consolation of preparing the ends. End of all in a cerement.

Mola waiting for the first line:
Waiting for the first line, waiting for the words to shine. Sitting alone on the grass I am waiting for the first line. I heard a voice behind me. I didn’t turn to see who it is, that voice is taking a chance to make me happy. Tomorrow the inner face may change to make me shabby. That voice is asking me to go right away. Now I felt the voice fade. I know it’s leaving far away from me. I can feel the paining shade. I can think my life without that voice. I can’t think my love without that voice. I turned back. I saw the nature’s tears in the tip of the grass. Let it be there, to see my real face. Looking for another touch that will be the last breeze. I am not turning my eyes to see the lost breeze. I will never give up, ready to talk with the voice. But I am waiting for the first line, waiting for the words to shine. Sitting alone on the grass I am waiting for the first line, always.

Mola’s celebration of missing:
Deeds are interrupting in a small room and your calls were missed by my pathetic ignorance. Not intend to hear your defensive voice again. It gave me a lot of pain that you can’t notice it in any time. Time is nothing, our ‘isms were all ruined already before ages. It is the only presentation of our pessimism. As an anti-altruist the point of my mind pointed out not to spend. Burnt over ninety-seven books after reading with biliousness. They are all lying by arranged truths with some manipulated ‘happened’. All the days has its own successful lies, it will take a lot of time to realize it. Playing only with my insiders by my corrupted, disgusting, filthy mind. It would continue up to the level of natural possession. Our words are still burning, let them. Dear Fishing Mind, There will be a chance for everyone to overcome someone without knowing the moment which is always against us. Still we like to elaborate our scenes with some slight distance and with political correctness. Can you remember the time when you acted like a head-shrinker to measure the brightness of my eyes, my acting, my artificial intelligence? Anyway you do always. Your waxed legs really tempted the savage inside me. Then the promised knowledge of mine taught me that you are a waxed genius. Dear Comrade, Fame is the mate for us. Killing all the glittering stars. Sometimes it is not easy for me to propose my rusted offers to help you or share or care. Sticky mosquito, will stick on your body if you try to kill me. My bad blood would spread on your body, it might grow day my day on your belly button with lots of black and orange words. A day is keenly waiting to ask you to say my dialogues. Like every day you will melt your smile, you might write or read an unfamiliar poem, you will crush your dead cigarette by your sexy toes. “Fleshes are floating on the island, there is no ersatz trees. The place is covered up with calm clouds and birds are in different colors. A miniature volcano is melting into the beauty of orange. Children are playing with stars. They are trying to catch the light to trap it in their pencil boxes.” This is how my novel starts. Elaborated with palindrome theory. Have we discussed about the possibilities and lineament of ancestry? We should discuss that subject next time after ordering a pitcher in that smokey place. But don’t compel me to take more than one mug. Beer is only to extract a large content of urine from our body. Last time, without conscious that particular situation dragged me to have one and a half pitcher and my body became so tired running to rest room for several times. Remember, it’s not a calculated mail. You can easily observe the tricky shots of it. Consider “This is one of the” or Smile with “I know you, dude” or stare at my words and correct the errors or decide to say “You are not up to my mark” or remember my weight or borrow a book or ask a question that you know the answer already or tie up your hair and go to sleep and try to skip the question, “Are you talking to me?”.

Mola hates ghosts:
The same sea, still heard the voice of that dead person. Here it is, this was the place where that person committed to death. Smiling at that place to feel a smile on my face. Full of salt water, washed my face, my legs are trembling in that cold water. It’s so wet, so cold to get through my scary heart. Slowly walked into the sea to bury me. Tough for me to believe that I am standing in a place where that person died. Blood from the nose, that eyes were laughed at me, long hair floating upon the water, fingers were very short and beautiful. When that gorgeous body was floating on the water is like a kite, a pinch of silence killed the peaceful act, a genius circle in hard head. Ghosts are the only link between the parts of notes. Staring ghosts’ eyes were clear edged versions, double cut motivations due to the simple method to run. It’s a great sequence to consider some delicate positions. In the sunset, ghosts were sitting along with their lies and some truths. That orange sky never taught anyone to fly to sketch the clouds and birds. Decorated frames and finger prints ate the dust to spit stars once in a while to find some partners. This ghost stories have been wished by the plants not to be in secular state.

Mola’s lime tea with honey:
Whence the poem lost between my muteness! In the midst of the silent watch, between the touch of leafs, between the pinch of light, those all dissolved in naught. Went upon the hill along with an old witch to taste the cherries in the mood of nights. The days and nights are watching our breathe, sound is crucial to win over the cruel sound. Rising towards the end of silver lines, that is not really enough. Bubbles, it’s all bubbles on the steps, where all the drops were kept. Waiting for a wet touch of yellow rain at the left.

You are right where you left me.

Alenka (Pronounce, Aa-le(a)n-ka), whose husband is working as a security guard in a place about 6923 nautical miles from her country. God doesn’t gave much importance to their relationship and there is no acquisition of each others expectations. Alenka was thinking about the directions of love towards her husband and predominantly of a non-ethical attitude. All corners has its different meanings in their conversation, their conversation doesn’t have any particular kind of intentions. It showcases their way of thinking, it’s melting on their ability to link up each other without understandings. She didn’t try to pull him into her circle, her circle is still growing and glowing. She was scared noticing her circle is growing and glowing. Only she can understand the corners of her circle. No one can debate with her, pointing out that there is no corners in circle and it’s totally preposterous. But only she can explain about her circles and corners, as much as possible she tried not to explain about her circle theory. Alenka’s birds are flying inside her circle, waiting for the kitchen window to open. The aroma of her cooked words invited all her friendly birds from different parts of the country. Every birds has long feathers with different logo designs on it, some are usually unusual and unusually usual, its green eyes reflects almost everything. She touched them, caressed them and kissed them. Birds that will never fly far away from their limits. It will come back and knock her kitchen window to open. Knock, knock, knocking on Alenka’s door, she smiled for the song of birds. Preserved smiles shouldn’t exchange to other hands.

Zanirza finished reciting passages randomly from the novel.

“Chef-d’oeuvre, Chef-d’oeuvre”, auditorium applauded. Zanirza didn’t expect not to expect this recognition.

Zanirza books aren’t best-seller, but it has created a strong waves between some particular readers.

Zanirza has been called as writer’s writer.

Zanirza’s recent book, “On Alenka’s Thousand Ice Cubes”, a new style of writing and it has been followed by many new writers. Zanirza’s recent book has won the Nobel, and this book has already translated in many languages from Gzhizlokian (Pronounce, Ghea-low-ki-un) language.

This novel is expanding the reader’s imagination into different levels to understand Alenka’s journey. One of the rumor has denied by the author that it isn’t a true story based on Zanirza’s life, and added that there is no plan to write an autobiography. This controversy is still hanging between many articles about Zanirza.

In this novel, Alenka is traveling to different parts of the world to spread a new religion called Qelvabaini (Pronounce, Kel-wa-bay-nee). Powerful people with powerful friends made her to do what they want to do. Alenka started to obey the powerful people with powerful friends. She started to babble about her new-god. The powerful people with powerful friends are slightly worried about her weird imagination and they are confused about her new-god. Do they really need a new-god? That’s the question which is dominating everyone in all seasons. But she never stopped talking about her new-god. Seasons are slowly changing its colors to listen to her speech on her new-god. The powerful people with powerful friends have decided to choose her as their new leader to take over the new religion and its new-god. Alenka’s new ideologies are spreads by her new followers from all over the world. This novel isn’t easy to understand, lots of neologism were used to create a new style of writing, lots of characters used in this novel, one of the crucial character is Kangaroo, it’s a metaphor. Kangaroo is flying in many places, it flies between many beliefs, conscience, cultural communications and complex expressions. The crucial part in this novel is the conversation between the new-God and Alenka. Zanirza was much appreciated for her narrations and detailing each characters. There are accurately thirty-six characters in this novel.

Zanirza’s works are seen as technical writing, more into forming words, decorating the edges of meanings, more new characters with new artificial incidents, shock values, critical terms. Middle-east literary reviews had a strong negative opinion on this novel, but later this novel that has recommended for college thesis and literary analysis. They received more marks from new teachers and less marks from old teachers in another part of the country. Author strongly believes that the language is to form mistakes, it has its own description to describe the method of meaningful choices. Author didn’t show any interest to sit for a novel discussion and ignored all the invitations. But this novel has been seen in different ways in different places. Lots of online discussions, created online forums in different names, different topics, different opinions. A Hollywood production company has decided to take a movie based on Zanirza’s On Alenka’s Thousand Ice Cubes. 200,000 copies of the second edition of “On Alenka’s Thousand Ice Cubes” has sold out. 27,149 likes for Zanirza’s fan page in Facebook. Emails, letters, gifts, online comments made Zanirza rethink the next novel.

Comment 1: Dear Zanirza, You are a kind of writer I’ve ever seen. Your novel has changed my life. Thank you.Heather Thomas, LA.

Comment 2: Zanirza, Your writing has inferior quality. What’s the difference between your writing and mills and boons? According to my opinion, it’s deceptive. Please enlighten me if I’m wrong.
Andrea Llosa, Peru.

Comment 3: Bonjour Zanirza! vous avez manqué l’essence de la vie. Votre roman est peu médiocre. J’ai perdu mon temps.
Algernon Jean Pierre , Toulouse.

Comment 4: Respected Madam Zanira, How are you? I am fine. How is your family? My family is good. Yesterday my friend bought your book from a store near by his home. He told me that he loves your novel. I’m expecting more stories from you. Madame, Are you married? Do you have kids? What is your husband’s name? Just I am curious! I didn’t get any information from Google and newspapers. Thank you.
P.S. I thought that you are a man writing under a woman’s name. ha ha ha ha. check out my blog if you are not busy.
Yours obediently,
Mr. Asheesh Kapoor, BBA, MBA, PhD., India, Haryana – 122071.

Comment 5: Dear Zanirza, I have read your book before couple of weeks. The novel made me to read it again, I found the second story from the same novel. I didn’t try to read it third time, I hope that I could find the third story from the same novel.
Antione Liu, Manchester

Comment 6: Zanirza, On Alenka’s thousand ice cubes, I think that you are trying so hard to convince the readers, and there are lots of techniques only to gain shock values. There is no much information on Alenka’s husband, is it a metaphor? You killed that character for nothing. The poems in between the novel are very much inspiring. I really enjoyed your writing style. Waiting for your next work. Thank you.
P.S. I support transgender.
Bianca Marie George, Romania.

Comment 7: My dear Zanirza, I really LOVE your novel. I love the way you love everything in this world and words. I would really love to meet you. I LOVE to hear from you soon.
With love, Randy Augustine Love, Australia.

Comment 8: Hello, Big blah small blah bigger blah smaller blah biggest blah smallest blah…

Comment 9: Dear Sir, blah blah blah blah…

Blah 10: Intellectual blah…

Blah 11: Innovative blah…

Blah 12: Confused blah…

Blah 13: Modernism blah…

Blah 14: Post-modernism blah…

Blah 15: Post-structuralism blah…

Blah 16: I think I can understand, so you think that I can understand, both of our understandings would create a third dimension of understanding and blah…

Blah 17: blah…

Blah 18: blah…

At a point, Zanirza stopped reading them.

“Zanirza’s life and works”, a documentary film, narrated by Morgan Freeman. It has nominated for Cannes 2071.

Later, Zanirza’s rare poem “The Fourth Wall” was published in a monthly literary magazine after author’s death.

Zanirza (2016-2064).

Do you know Frida?

Frida is living next door. She is single and likes to play billiards. Sometimes she writes poems too, we can read them on literary website online. Remember? She isn’t gorgeous like her poems or the way she plays billiards. She isn’t tall, but she always creates an image of being tall. Walking is her hobby and believes that it helps her imagination. You might have seen her sometimes in the crowded places where the people are in rush to buy what they don’t want to buy. She always rolls a blue color shawl around her face to avoid pollution, staring people and licking dogs and her eyes are covered by her big sunglasses. She never get tired of watching moving black clouds from her balcony. Still you couldn’t remember? For more reasons, no one can see her ugly face. She is having negative thoughts on her look. One of her friend is working in a spa. Frida received more tips about the look of a woman, look of eye brows, falling shoulders, structured hairless legs, about self shave, about waxing armpit hair. But she didn’t have any interest to hear those tips. She sat in front of the mirror and checked her pimples. She touched it and felt that those are there for a reason. When she published her picture on a website she received a comment from an anonymous. That comment says, “Your pimples are more beautiful than you”. She laughed at that comment and then she realized that this comment must be from a man. Only men can pass such cheesy lines without being honest, but she suddenly felt it could be a true comment.  She slightly touched her pimples again. Her spa friend cursed her for doing it. She told that she is trying to make her a good looker. And moreover it is an opportunity for her spa friend to deal with critical cases. So she can learn more about skin. Frida’s skin is partly smooth. She felt that the mirror in front of her is laughing at her reflection.

Have you seen this Frida before?

Frida started to read her mails. All are forwarded mails. Her inbox requested her to delete those mails. Her delete button felt so happy this time for feeling her adamant fingers. Delete button is regarded for sad news before, and it can be rewarded for removing the unwanted. But Frida never allows the deleted mails  to stay in her trash folder. She always kept her trash folder empty. The differences between the reasons of this inbox and trash folder are based on contradiction. She had decided to treat them equally. But she thought about the important mails. There is no important mails to convey. How come these buttons are becoming so important in her daily deeds? Her minimalist smile don’t know or not interested to find the reasons.

This girl?

Frida looked out through her window, there she saw the people rolling an abandoned car. She couldn’t see the brand name of the car. Its black, pure black. One guy is searching for a right place to throw the burning bottle. How will his face look like? Handsome? Is it crucial at this moment? Frida never thought about that thought. She used her delete button this time. Frida is so happy for reading her spam mails. Sometimes spams are so funny and she read it again and again. She don’t create any links between spam and delete buttons.

She hate her delete button sometimes. “I hate you delete, I hate you, seriously, I hate you so much more than I love you, my dear delete. Don’t ever hate my favourite spams. Don’t abuse my inbox, it has all my secrets. Delete! my dear delete! You saved me from those strange mails, that really disturbed my real world. You are something, I don’t allow any mails to stay in my sent mails. I always need your help to protect me. Stay here with me and don’t forget to stay away from me.”

Have you seen her before?

Still we are pretending to not listen to her. See, Frida is watching us, and decided to use her favourite delete button. Don’t ask her reasons, she might not have one. So, delete her from your mail. Sometimes she might living inside between your spam mails and laughing at you. Have you seen her grin? She had collected many grins and marked them as important. Still you don’t remember her? Her name is Frida. Frida likes buttons. She started to live with her buttons in the time when she started to hate her pillows. She started to put more words into her drafts.

“Frida! Will you marry me?”

Delete.

“Frida! You are a savvy writer”

Unread.

“Frida! Are you happy?”

Delete.

“Frida! Happy new year!”

Draft.

“Frida! Do you need any help?”

Reply.

“Frida! Would you care to help me out?”

Forward.

“Frida! My chubby rabbit! How are you? Miss you! Miss me?”

Manage labels.

Delete.

Reply.

Spam.

Spam.

Spam.

Manage labels.

Reply.

Reply.

Delete.

Reply.

Draft.

Forward.

Draft.

Reply.

This Frida? Have you seen her before?

My other poems
And then I…
No Poems
Her cigarette
The naked words

A movie inspired by a movie
We’ve watched several movies which was inspired by another movies. It always happens all over the world. Here again I like to talk about my another favorite movie ‘Lolita’. The first version was directed by Stanley Kubrick and second one was Adrian Lyne. We can see there will be reasonable difference between the two versions. The reason is the matter of time. America kind of conservative country wasn’t much advanced to touch the taboo subjects like European movies. So there were mild treatment on wild side of mind that has been treated up to the level of Pseudo-subtlety. Personally I liked the second version, even though I’m the fan of Kubrick. An Indian film ‘Dev D’ is one of the best modern version of the retarded story(yes, it is) Devdas. Anurag kashyap’s screenplay is pretty entertaining and the way he uses the character designs are quite acceptable. But it’s not a full movie, can call as a musical genre.

Pseudo-Inspiration
Producer might bought the rights to remake a movie from any other language, but sometimes we don’t get the honest parts from the remakes. One of the best example for worst remake is “The Departed”. I have watched the original version from Hong Kong movie. I’m pretty inspired. But the English version has lost the gist of original. Very mediocre, melodramatic, and we can’t blame the cast but the director. Music? Sometimes felt like I was watching Godard’s movie because the high tone of music in between the conversation. Scorsese was in hurry to prove his speculator side. And the worst part was the Oscar. Can’t help it sometimes.

Recently seen best movies,
1) Last Train Home (2009) – Mandarin
2) I Am (2010) – Hindi
3) The Ledge (2011) – English
3) Adaminte Makan Abu (2011) – Malayalam

Offstage:
1 cup soya chunks
chopped mixed vegetables – green peas (your choice)
1/2 cup chopped onion
1 cup chopped tomato
1/4 tsp turmeric powder
1 tsp chilli powder
1 tsp cumin seeds
1/2 cup coconut paste with 1 tsp fennel seeds
3 garlic cloves
4 green chillies
1 tbsp refined oil
2 tsp salt, few chopped curry leaves and chopped coriander leaves.

Onstage:
Soak 1 cup of soya chunks in hot water for 15 mins.Then drain the water completely. Squeeze the water out of the soya chunks. Keep aside. Heat kadai and pour refined oil and add cumin seeds, chopped onions, chopped tomatoes,curry leaves and turmeric powder. Fry the vegetables until the tomato begins to melt and oil separates from the mixture. Now add soya chunks with enough water and salt.When the vegetables are half-cooked, add ginger garlic paste . Also add chilli powder and mix well. Let the gravy simmer well till oil separates from the masala.

Don’t be so hurry to fill your tummy. Keep the cooked soya curry for 10 minutes inside the hot box. Let your mind struggle to experience the yummy tummy.

Have it with chapatti or your choice.

Other recipes:

Unniappam

Ragi puttu

Jack Fruit Aviyal

Appam

Channa Masala recipe

“Your name is Rosetta. My name is Rosetta. You found a job. I found a job. You’ve got a friend. I’ve got a friend. You have a normal life. I have a normal life. You won’t fall in a rut. I won’t fall in a rut. Good night. Good night.” – movie “Rosetta”

Rosetta is not alone, she lives with her hope and strong believes. She tied all her wishes to get in to the world of survival. She is under an obligation to breathe and make her life steady as normal. She walks so fast, her legs almost forgot the pain. Sometimes her lower abdomen will not allow her to think about her dreams. Her dreams were dead. Only her old hair dryer helps to warm her skin. Her skin is very soft and cold, like her mind. It was created by the affairs around her. She again started to run to find a drop of water for her thirsty. She don’t know to dance. Once her boyfriend invite her for a dance and she was surprised to understand him and his world. She went along with him for his boots, so she can walk through the woods. Her paths are full of bushes and trees. She can hear the sounds of animals and insects. She learnt to understand the silence between the lines and she do always. No one can find anything in her eyes, its like a stone, a hard stone that is burning in a fire. Her mother standing on Rosetta’s legs, Rosetta lends her breathe to her mother. Her mother living in a deep rut, deeply with her scars. She asked her mother to comb her hair. She resisted and ran away from the room. Rosetta again fell inside the rut, as usual she slowly came out to reach the normal space. And again she tried very hard not to join with any crowd. She is not interested to fish, scared for the broken glass bottle. Boots helps her toes from mud. Later she borrowed another boots from her friend with whom she hesitated to dance. Rosetta can be understand by some minds who lives her life. Sometimes her smile seems intriguing towards the mind. Changing the paths is easy for her. She knows those hands moves towards her breast to squeeze her little hopes, she knows those cunning thunder might fall on her, she knows every minutes are like dead cells. She went to bed and fell asleep.

Je t’aime, bonne nuit, Rosetta!

Painting version

A Patch

Filed under: Ambiguity, Painting, poem, Structuralism Tagged: a green patch, interpretation, painting, poem ]]> http://linearlines.wordpress.com/2011/07/01/a-patch/feed/ 0 Rama A Patch by Rama apatchbyrama http://linearlines.wordpress.com/2011/06/07/art-official-intelligence-%e2%80%93-3/ http://linearlines.wordpress.com/2011/06/07/art-official-intelligence-%e2%80%93-3/#comments Tue, 07 Jun 2011 10:26:12 +0000 Rama Lekshman http://linearlines.wordpress.com/?p=8478 Continue reading →]]> He is sure that no one will find the secret. Even though he is not sure about it. So he walked slowly between the crowd. The crowd hasn’t shown any importance to him. He felt very comfortable to cross the place. The place is always shows an ignorance and tremendous individual stupidity. Waves like voices, drilled each others hearts. Someone suddenly hold his hands tightly and asked him the reason for his nervousness. He gave the answer of silence. A silence which no one can easily find the meanings. Useless meanings are filled up in the stranger’s hands. It was so hard and so esurient to find something. I am rendered to do things as I like. Damn! It is slightly acceptable without any ones presence. Oh! great separations had been eaten away all his past truths. There is a future, call it as great future, shan’t be unavoidable. But he pushed his steps in to a new room with new faces with new words. That room was filled up with many boxes. He stared at those boxes and hesitated to open to spoil all the secrets inside in it. He is a box of secrets. This woman is totally fed up by her alcoholic husband. She worried about her cute little kitty. Beautiful flowers she is. She is a budding pianist. She plays Michael Nyman’s The Promise in sparkling colors. Everyone must see her fingers dancing. Such a cute magical fingers. Only the magical fingers gives hope to her. Sometimes she call her secret well wisher who came in to her life. She has been tied by his love past couple of years. Distance which makes all the call to connect the endless conversation. Nowadays their Euro lines were making thick difference between the works. Very very hard time to bear with all those files and bills. Snakes, snakes, snakes, all around her, to taste her matured blood. Let the vampire angel grab only her painful fleshes. Let the zephyr caress her.

Her click on wondering heights

M.F. Husain – Messenger of art

M.F. Husain

He was humiliated and disgraced for the only reason was his religion. Personally I strongly believe that he was a deist. I have seen few people really observed the essence of religious books. He is the one of the observer till date through his paintings. In the time when the mob had started to harass him through many ways, he was the iron artist who stood there on his thoughts. Finally Europe minds were welcomed him to understand his idea of art and the intellectual reflection. He had started to color the phenomenon parts of human minds. His creations creates many creators. Art is ambiguous, we should elicit changes at many ways, that would lead us to a new journey. His creations will continue to enamour the world. That journey never stops.

Another Year

I have smelt the aroma of rain in my heart when I was watching this film. Mary need someone to stitch the torn parts of her life. Her hesitation and extreme expectations stands in front of her to delay the magical moments. Gerri and Tom are the only space where she can pour all her dreams. The border of privacy always there in any kind of relationship and it gives us lots of message when we are not there at the right moment. She felt that her immersed inception will never come back. The predictions on our retention that falls apart to give us new meanings. Watch it.