To my beloved poet and story teller

When you started seeing death behind your face wrinkles, we never thought it will come to you so soon. When neermathalam started falling, we experienced the poetry, the inexplicable beauty with which you delivered each word from your womb of poetic wisdom. Now you are no more there and Malayalam seems so shallow, without that words of love and affection. Love for you was everything, the spirit, the emotion, the very existence of your being. You passed on that energy, a soft touch of warmth to us, who scanned through each of your words with never-ending enthusiasm.
The pain of your loss is beyond words. As you said once, the limited vocabulary of the present generation will search for an appropriate word to describe this sense of loss for many years to come. Still you will wear that innocent smile on your face and will laugh at our efforts to describe your loss or may be your achievements. After the `bald' universal story teller from Vailalil bid adieu to this world, the world of literature, at least in this part of the continent would not have experienced this kind of a vacuum. When Basheer left, you were there, with your unmatched passion to live, and that too to live it in style.
The titles of your stories does not make any difference to me, it was the sense of belonging, the spirit of unbridled rebellion that you courageously displayed in your works that made us sit and take notice. I always wondered you had the hands of a magician to weave each word with another as no others could. They all began as a drizzle and then poured down on our hypocritical conscience and we remain drenched.
You will continue to poke our hearts with those questions of romanticism, the unconditional quest for love and most of all with your wild world of imagery. We have nothing to return but a few drops of tears of love for you Kamala.