Yatra - A Journey through Life.

The Forgotten Journey

2012-01-09T11:28:00.004+05:30

At vedagiri, atop the hillock
I wait and wait, where are thou ?
The wind sweeps the sand from the rock
Upon which I perch, will you join though ?

The trees whisper, that I wait in vain
The priests smile a sad old smile
Gone are the days, of soulful rain
When all hearts were pure, by a long mile.

Far ahead I see the sea, glowing bright
Empty skies, no sign of my winged friends
Won't you come and set my heart light ?
Let me relive the peace of bygone days ?

But then perhaps, you too have passed away
and for my sins, sadly let go of your lives
For mother nature's homes that I took away
What good is then, my ghee, sugar, wheat and rice ?

Sinners we are, so you do not visit the shrine
Or perhaps you are watching me from above
As I climb down the stairs, to my mortal grind
Along with all, I must say, you; we always did love.

It is with a tinge of sadness and with memories of a happy past that I recall the winged visitors of Thirukazhukundram. Their timely arrival and the feeding ritual, was one of the first eye-openers for me, as to how much nature has been a vital part of our culture and existence. It is with sadness, because today nature's mystical gifts are struggling to gain a foothold as Mankind dominates. Truly today the shrine stands as symbol of a golden bygone era.

Pic Courtesy : www.wikipedia.org

Fatigue

2011-11-01T16:30:00.004+05:30

Why am I tired ? Why the fatigue
As the world revolves and fights
Pity! Why do I simply sigh?
Why do I not seek my rights?

All oppressors have fallen they say
The greed of the wealthy on the streets
For what is right, as menfolk fight
Why? O Why do I keep my angst at bay

Seven Billion and counting we are
What shall become of my plight
For tired I am, there are mouths to feed
Setting aside for Tomorrow or afar

The corrupt are being brought to book
To pave the way for more at stake
How corrupt am I , I shalt not see
For tired I am, every corner and nook

Life is longer and longer I shall live
Alas! Longer must I save for the winters
As my tired soul fights for daily bread
Why despair, why grieve, spare and give

Have the fallen taught us more to know
Their fall was when in my eyes they saw
The sheer fatigue in my tired eyes
Of knowing all that they thought was there to know

The sheer fatigue of knowing all they got
and yet poorer than ever
and yet thinner than ever
For, to smile and cry, I might have forgot

In death, In spirit I know a tale
The old man in his lowly wooden house
He never cared about sky falling down
In his sad tired eyes, he never did fail.

Pic Courtesy : http://www.robwilson-images.com/

Simple 60% Genius

2011-06-26T11:53:00.007+05:30

Like most other facebook and twitter citizens, or should I say 'twittizens'?, I too have nearly abandoned my blog for a long time now. I guess we just keep on moving to the next logical steps and then realize that somewhere along that journey, we have started to miss what we always thought, were those simple times. For instance no one writes a letter nowadays. With the advent of email and mobile phones, the simple art of letter writing is lost forever. With the advent of social networking sites and chat, we have also started losing out on the habit of sending out emails and forwards. Everything is now on facebook, and so there are lesser and lesser active bloggers, and more people sharing quick snippets on their life through twitter. No one paints or sketches these days. Why take the trouble, when you could quickly take a snap using your latest HD camera, modify it the way you want it in Picasa or Picnik and post it on facebook /twitter, get instant feedback and make sure everyone from your closest friends to your distant family is raving about it. The whole shocking point of it is that this frightening advancement is not happening just on the internet, but rather all around you.

Today's newspaper talks about the cutoffs that colleges in Delhi have announced, about it being 100%, about how the students are under stress, about how the universities have no choice apart from that to complete their screening process. So it means we have a huge pool of young human talent, which is at 95% in their marks. Where do those students continue their studies?. What does it tell about our education system?. Have we suddenly become all cream and no milk?. As I fold back my newspaper, I realize all this news and debates have already been reported 2 days before itself on T.V news channels, where everything is breaking news. The newspapers themselves still playing catch up.

Not just in the field of education, but in global society and in politics, we are seeing massive transformation. Right, from the countries in the Middle East, like Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria where there have been huge protests for moving away from dictatorial rule towards democracy, here in India, civil society is fighting the mechanism and pattern of democracy, which has allowed rampant corruption to grow in it's midst. So why the sudden thought?, why are these voices rising suddenly right now?. In a sense it is because in a society where every rupee saved goes into repayment of EMI and loans, a new car and other amenities for the middle class, the tax levied on every Indian citizen year over year becomes a big hole in the budgets across the subcontinent. In a society which is rapidly becoming money oriented, the anger and angst against corruption is the logical normal angst of an Indian taxpayer.

In a sense money and wealth is what is driving this whirlwind of change. Therefore students all of a sudden have to work harder, because the competition is more, Better the institute, better the placements. Better the offer, greater will be the loans taken, bigger the car and home, then the children and the cycle goes on spinning out of control. The dark clouds that pervade our meaningless existence are starting to grow darker and darker.

While I read back and make sense of the vile picture i have painted, I also know that all hope is not lost. Problems are not India centric. These are problems seen across the hemisphere. Even the mighty United States, is taking a hard look at their education system, as they do not want to lose jobs to India and China. Japan is still trying to make sense of their energy crisis. Africa still struggles with it's poverty and hunger. India and China are on a race with each other, both in search of the next logical step. All of which confirms that the time is ripe for a global reformation of society and of mankind. The spiritual, emotional and philosophical inputs to this global reformation have to come from Nature and from mankind.

I was reading Uwen Akpen's "Say You're One Of Them", which talks about the social conditions in Africa, through six brilliant short stories, all told through the eyes of children making them all the more heart breaking. Apart from learning about Africa, I also have learned that the most affected and most scarred people during such times of unrest are the children. I see many children today already on facebook, already getting more than 95 percent marks, yet they are losing out on the love of a subject. We should not forget that a good mathematician might get just 60 percentile in tests put to him, but that should not be the basis for our deciding what he/she should learn. In a recent tech article, a senior technology person notes that in the Indian IT industry there are very few people who are really working with a passion for computer science or programming. Those engineers without passion cannot be blamed completely, because passion is never part of the equation for many. As a child, a career decision might not be right, but as a facebook-bred teenager, if a child says that he is interested in becoming a detective, then may be forensic science is not a bad educational option either. When passion comes in to the equation, money slowly lingers out. Then even with 60% marks, he might be a genius.!

If people with passion were to work on fuel cells and energy research, maybe we would not have to pay so much for petrol and other groundbreaking discoveries might happen. If people with passion were to work on automobiles, maybe traffic could be managed better. I say this not because I think people already working in these sectors do not have passion, but because I know of several Chemical, Mechanical and Civil engineers, doing mundane work in Indian IT companies, only because they pay more. For that matter sadly, all engineering branches today flow in to the same IT ocean.

Selflessness is a virtue that our greed for money is slowly destroying. That one virtue which can help make our world a much better place is fighting against extinction. I recently went to watch this year's National Award winning movie "Adaminte Makan Abu" and was mesmerized by it's message of simplicity. A poor old Muslim man and is wife seeking to go an Haj is unable to set off on his journey due to shortcoming of funds. Even as friends offer him money, he refuses and plans to go next year with optimism and plants a sapling in place of the tree that he got cut down for raising the money. This simplicity and pious selfless life that we had been living is quickly becoming a rarity. Needless to say, there were only 5 of us in the huge theatre.

Whatever i`ve written I hope is not 95 % correct. I would like to believe it is Simple 60% Genius.!

High on a bus

2010-11-20T19:32:00.005+05:30

What to tell of ,the magic of alcohol

Or is it the debacle of society

Of what do I cry, along shall I fall,

In the madness, do I feel pity ?.

Rushed the bus, tickets flying around

Not a gap to breathe, too loud yet quiet.

Yet there rose an unseen voice, booming sound

"Roads are bad, he cheated us, right?"

"Idiots, you listen to all", he says

"He cheats you and yet you elect him"

Scoffing at the rulers, others gaze

Some guffaw, some gape, some adore him.

"She cheated me!", then the colourful tirade

Women frown, children deaf and more blush.

A bellow of grief and the voice did fade

The bus swerved along, still in a rush.

As his stop came, the priest stood

All those who laughed, in shock!

All sober, lending a hand good

Alighting, time froze on a clock!

What to tell of the mystique of spirit

Was it pity, guilt, surprise or doubt?

What state of human plight had fit,

The silence that the crowded bus, now spout?

Pic Courtesy : The Hindu Archives (www.thehindu.com)

Got Up.!

2010-11-02T10:47:00.004+05:30

Even a simple thing like, checking email forwards, checking your facebook page requires a certain level of intelligence. Reading a book, you require to have a good imagination and build the world out of the characters you read to immerse yourself in it. To play a game, you need skill and concentration, be it cricket or a game of Super Mario on your Nintendo. You need to have some sense of Music and the taste to sway to it to listen to it. Little wonder then, that the Television came to be known as the Idiot box, which is why it became such an essential commodity. Should come with a tag line "No brains required!".

A self confessed "Idiot" and couch potato myself, I have had no qualms admitting that so far, because there are those moments when your watching the small television set, gives you it's moments. However on an unexpected long leave, when I sit in front of the television, I feel like I am one with the devil. When soap after soap gets played across every channel, I slowly started playing a game. The game, was that the moment the character in a T.V. series / reality show starts bitching or talks about killing someone, deceiving some one, I switch to another channel. Pretty soon I had exhausted all my channels, featuring prime time television serials.

Evil, as they say is the absence of good, and it is the presence of evil that makes the story interesting. The greyness of characters compulsorily lending that completion to the story arc. But all good stories need to come to an end. Here, when stories need to end good turns to evil and evil to good and the show goes on.

A tired couch potato got up and scrubbed itself!

The Fall

2010-10-26T19:27:00.004+05:30

Swaying in the breeze, gently

The evening air descending slowly

Sparrows suddenly shrieked wildly

The first blow landing heavily

At the root of my land,

I feel the pain, I feel my heart

Children in tears upon the sand

Thoughts differ and actions part

Chips come flying, my blood not seen

Hitting again at my suffering bark

To brown they turn, my paling green

Helpless and hurt, I cried in the dark

Hunger and hatred, in the air; hung

In the balance. Tales of blood forgot

Of the peaceful days, were songs sung

With passion, all an empty stomach got

Unconscious, I dangerously did swerve

Falling unto the ground, my all and whole

In fright and death, my leaves a curve

Leaves shall wither and bark to coal

Near the fall, the mind grows numb

To fate, all tamely bend, no art to defend

The voices in shock, shall all go dumb

The era of my land, reaching it's loud end.

Painting by Charles Thevenin

Courtesy : http://www.1st-art-gallery.com

From the land of Theyyam

2010-06-03T22:31:00.006+05:30

“Train No 6627 West Coast Express is running late by 2 hours!”, came the announcement. It was hardly heard amidst the noise in the station itself. The sounds of people, hurrying towards their respective platforms, the advertisements running on the huge plasma screen, trolleys being pulled and trains arriving and leaving, all contributed to the strange symphony that only Chennai Central could create.

“Well! That might be good”, remarked Raghu. “How is a train running late good news?” asked Sajani. “It’s simple. The train will then reach around 4 in the morning tomorrow, which is safer and I get to spend two more hours with you. Isn’t that good enough?” Sajani smiled faintly.

“I feel so guilty, Raghu. All these years, and suddenly now I’m going back, when the one relative that I love is probably on her death bed.” Raghu patted her on her shoulder. “Calm down. Sometimes life leads us away. At least you are going to meet her now, before it’s too late. I wish I could come with you.”. “That’s okay Raghu, Achan would be alone here”, she reassured him.

Sajani’s mind however was restless. It was thirteen years ago, that she had left from Neeleshwaram for Chennai along with Raghu, after which she had, had very little contact with Sreedevi Oppol, very little contact with the little beautiful town of Nileshwaram. It had been thirteen whole years since she sat near the perennially full temple well silently soaking in the serenity and peace of the Swarnavalli Vishnu Temple. She wondered whether it was still all the same in her own little Neeleshwaram town, the abode of Neeleshwara.

“Shall I get you some coffee?” queried Raghu, interrupting her stream of thoughts. “No. you go have one. You look tired.” she replied and watched him walking away towards the coffee stall. Raghu had been a loving husband, supportive and caring, helping her in both her career and her personal life. He had suggested that they go to Neeleshwaram a lot of times, but unfortunately due to their respective careers and raghu’s father’s health issues, it had never materialized. All she had been able to do was call Sreedevi Oppol once in a while. Sreedevi Oppol had been the one sole source of strength since her lonely orphaned childhood and now she felt so uncomfortable, that all these years she never bothered to go see her and help her out in her own life, even though she led a solitary life herself. However it was always the thought of the amount of respect and love the local people had for Sreedevi Teacher that gave her the courage and confidence that she would not be alone. And yet the pangs of separation, guilt and awkwardness continued and suddenly a deep sadness enveloped her heart.

“Nandan called just now. He’s having a house warming for the flat he bought on Old Mahabalipuram Road”, said Raghu as he seated himself beside Sajani. “You must go and convey my regards too.” Raghu noticed the weakness in her voice. “What is it?” he asked worried. “No, Nothing. Sometimes you suddenly start feeling really sad, though there is no specific reason. It’s an amalgamation of all feelings. Strange thing is, the sum total is mostly sadness, perhaps because grief is the strongest ingredient.”

“Woah! Where did that come from? Don’t worry too much. Everything will be alright”

“Train No 6627 West Coast Express will be arriving shortly on Platform number 5” reverberated the station. As they walked towards the platform, the sky thundered. “That’s strange” said Raghu. Sajani just smiled and her thoughts meandered. Rain - That strange phenomenon that was both a blessing and a nuisance.

As she bade goodbye to Raghu, she realized, that this was the first time she was traveling so far without him. The air conditioned compartment looked comfortable, yet she had a disturbed sleep, partly due to memories, partly due to the parting and partly due to the added pressure of waking up early in the morning and not sleeping off. When at five in the morning, the train slowly ambled towards Neeleshwaram, she was all groggy and red eyed.

The air was chill outside as Sajani walked to hail a rickshaw. As the auto rickshaw noisily advanced towards Jawahar Housing Colony, she looked out and tried to make sense of those old pathways and buildings, but as much as her town had retained it’s old world charm, modernity was catching up in every way and it made her recollections all the more difficult. However as soon as she saw that old brown gate, she felt a sudden inner peace and lightness of being. Her thoughts were distracted when the driver asked her for twenty rupees. She realized, she was indeed in Kerala. No way could she have paid just twenty rupees in Chennai.

As she walked towards the old house, with its deep maroon tiles and red floors, she felt like she was entering another world. And then she appeared, wearing glasses and in a white saree! Sreedevi Oppol, looked weak, but her eyes still had the same old glow, her face still glowing with the same complexion. “Who is it?” she asked. “You have forgotten have you?” said Sajani playfully. As Sreedevi Oppol came closer, her eyes widened in recognition, yet at the same time, brimming with tears. “My Child!” she let out a sigh of relief and there they stood hugging each other.

The next few days, Sajani became a child again, as she wandered the length and breadth of Neeleshwaram, with Sreedevi Oppol. She played with the flowers, the people, rediscovering her life and old friends. It was one evening, while they were collecting flowers in the twilight and when Sreedevi Oppol complained of headache and had to take rest, that it dawned on Sajani, that Sreedevi Oppol was not well.

“I’m sorry, Oppol. I forgot to ask you. You had written that you were not well. I forgot about that totally after I reached here”. “No problem, Sajani. I myself don’t like to remember it much. It’s just this terrible headache. The Doctor at Malayatoor hospital said that there is some kind of growth in my brain.”

Sajani was shocked. All her guilt, remorse, pangs of separation, everything came back to her and in that weak moment, when she could hold it back no longer, she let go and cried.

“I’m so sorry Oppol. All these years, I never bothered to come see you. Never took care of you. I should have been by your side; instead I just lived my own life. I’m so sorry.”

“What are you telling, Sajani? I never thought like that. Don’t you have your own problems?”. “Please come with me. Come to Chennai. We will get this treated.” interrupted Sajani.

“Sajani, what has gotten into you?. I cannot. I…” Sreedevi Oppol was shivering as she walked away. Sajani sat silent and confused, as she watched Sreedevi Oppol walk towards the kitchen. Outside, Neeleshwaram got submerged in the thickness of the night, the chill settling in.

Raghu called early morning, the next day. His father had taken ill again. There had been blood and vomiting and he had been shifted to a hospital. Even as raghu consoled her and asked her not to worry, she could still identify the sheer helplessness and yearning in his voice. She informed Sreedevi Oppol, that she had to leave to Chennai. Sreedevi Oppol nodded anxiously and watched as Sajani proceeded towards the railway station to book the next train to Chennai. After all the waiting at the railway station, she could get a ticket only for the next day, and by the time she reached back home, she was already very tired.

Sreedevi Oppol was strangely excited when she said that she would leave only the next day. “Then will you come with me today evening?” she asked. “Where?” Sajani replied half-heartedly. “It’s Theyyam at Thali Temple. Come, it will set everything right. Lord Neeleswaran will set your mind at peace.” Though sajani did not feel like going, she nodded her head.

As they walked towards, the temple Sajani could already hear the peculiar drum beats. The mystic accompaniment of chenda and kuzhal lingered in her ears. As they reached the temple, the Theyyam performance was already starting. There were lots of people, gathered around a tall dark dancer in a red head dress, as he along with the drummers and a few other dancers who joined him, started to recite a song. It was about one Palanthai Kannan, a local legend and deity. Sajani could not make out much of the lyrics, but she just soaked in the magic of the atmosphere and looked wide eyed.

After some time, the recital stopped and the dancers retreated. “Is that all?” asked Sajani. “Wait and see” replied Sreedevi Oppol naughtily. After some time, the dancer returned, only this time, she could not recognize him. Totally covered in red and yellow, with a colourful crown and ornaments and a red dhoti, it seemed like an apparition to her awestruck eyes. She watched as the music started and slowly the dancer started swaying and chanting and as the music and the eager beats continued, he danced like possessed. The people watched and prayed, as the performance continued and hit several crescendos creating a purely electrifying experience. The dancer was believed to have imbibed the spirit of the local deity and as he ran in the courtyard and went round the main temple, the devotees followed, chanting their prayers. Sajani just followed her mind numb and blank, stirred into silence by the magnetism of the experience. As the Theyyam completed all eight steps of footwork, Sreedevi Oppol nudged Sajani. “Come let’s walk. It will get late.”

“Do you remember the story of Palanthai Kannan?” asked Sreedevi Oppol on their way back. “No. I guess I forgot”. “Let me tell you. Palanthai Kannan was a great devotee of Lord Vishnu. He was from Neeleshwaram. Once he plucked a mango from the orchard of Kuruvat Nair. Kuruvat Nair got enraged and beat up Palanthai Kannan and drove him away from Neeleshwaram.”

“For a mango?” asked Sajani. “Yes! So Palanthai Kannan ran away to a temple in Mangalore and stayed in a temple there. After a few days, he returned with the blessings of the lord himself. He reached Neeleshwaram, and he took bath in Kadalikulam. News of his arrival spread everywhere and reached the ears of Kuruvat nair too. They came to kadalikulam and killed Palanthai Kannan.” “Oh!” remarked Sajani. “But they did not know that Palanthai Kannan had not come alone. Lord Vishnu had come along with him. Vishnumoorthi was burning with anger and he destroyed the entire Kuruvat ancestral home and their lineage. Vishnumoorthi then took rest at Vaikunda Temple and Vishnumoorthi and Palanthai Kannan are to this day worshipped here.”

“Quite a story” replied Sajani. “Sajani, its not just a story. The Theyyams of Neeleshwaram don’t just recite stories. These are our life threads. To me, you are like my Palanthai Kannan. You might have left Neeleshwaram, but I was always sure that you would come back. I don’t fear death. I am more than satisfied that the gods here blessed me enough to be able to see you, before I leave this body behind. You thought you wronged me. If I had felt so, would Vishnumoorthi have forgiven me?”

Sajani was silent, her eyes glued to Sreedevi Oppol’s face. “Sajani, out of your compassion for me, you ask me to come with you. But I don’t want that Sajani. I have found peace here. My life has derived meaning and energy out of this pure land. How can I leave it behind? Even if I recover, for how long will it be? What if I come there and could not return to Neeleshwaram. What if I could not see Neeleshwaran or Palanthai Kannan or Muthappan or Muchilot Bhagavathi one last time? Do you want to deny me this life, Sajani? ”. Sreedevi Oppol, kept her hands lightly on Sajani’s shoulder and they walked towards home.

Two months had passed since then. Raghu’s father had passed away and Sajani and he took a long leave to go to Varanasi, Rameswaram and Thirunelli to perform his last rites. But they could not return to Chennai immediately, not before visiting Neeleshwaram and paying their last respects to Sreedevi Oppol, who had passed away peacefully one fine morning.

Raghu was now a tormented soul. Death had weakened him. Sajani however consoled him and was a pillar of strength as she helped him get back to life and work. Raghu was slowly finding peace in Sajani and Sajani in Raghu. Sajani‘s peace also came from afar, from Sreedevi Oppol, from her beautiful hometown of Neeleshwaram, from the mystic land of Theyyam.

Pics Courtesy : www.team-bhp.com, www.dreamsingreens.in, (Beautiful Theyyam snap), by Eric Lafforgue(Through www.flickr.com)

Conscience

2010-05-28T22:53:00.004+05:30

Walk quickly, she cried out aloud

Wide Eyed, I followed behind.

Much have I resisted, never; her charms

carrying me amidst all the crowd.

When skies, sobbed and cried;

and the air thundered, much did I fear.

Fear not, she said, "for fear weakens

Both soul and hope, then died."

Despite all warnings, when I did wrong,

My weak soul tried to run away

Stop!, come face thy wrong, she said.

What bigger wrong, than a life of guilt.!

When I started to earn, like all boys,

I kept going for more, and still more.

How different are your riches, she cried,

From those old abandoned toys.

When all riches grew, cupboards filled,

In fear of thieving souls, my own in fear

Who do you fear, she used to mock

What is yours, that is not theirs.

When my great desires, turned to despair

Like all weak souls, I turned to hate.

Tired of me, she admonished, Lose thy hate;

for the biggest loss, you shall stand to gain.

Beyond a hundred monsoons, my body frail,

Yet she glowed, her soft hands by my side.

"Never leave me", I pleaded, she smiled;

Her gentle hands touched my burning head.

As I rose above and walked the golden path

She stood by me, and then started to fade.

Stop! who are you ?, a goodbye dont bade

Silly Child, "Inside you, I was always made".

Painting - "La Conscience", by Lionel Le Falher

The world's dump yard ?

2010-04-29T21:17:00.004+05:30

Recently several scrap metal dealers were hospitalized due to radiation exposure at Delhi. One of them lost his life due to multiple organ failure and another person is still critically ill.

And more lives will be claimed, because this business of importing hazardous waste from Developed countries, runs into hundreds of crores. It's a roaring business for both the importers as well as the exporters. It is sadly at the cost of the local population and their health.

For the so-called developed countries, it becomes very convenient, because they do not have to do the tough job at hand of recycling, and their backyards remain clean and healthy. More and more hazardous scrap parts get dumped in third world countries like India.

Having said that, recycling is a profitable business, like recycling of aluminium or stainless steel waste, which is environmentally advantageous, mainly because it can be recycled indefinitely and consumes lesser energy. However the problem with this scenario is that, the whole process becomes a facade for dumping of hazardous radio-active substances or even more infectious medical waste, mostly syringes and needles.

While India is on the one hand, the second fastest growing source of greenhouse emissions it is also being projected as a promising market for solid waste management. Therefore huge quantities of waste, be it titanium scrap or battery waste or pharmaceutical waste is imported from abroad. Unmindful of the fact that just the four metropolitan cities themselves produce around 4000 tonnes of waste every single day.!

While recycling is important, while there is a lot of scope for developing state of the art technologies for waste management and for becoming the one-stop shop for solving the world's ecological problems, we have to be as citizens aware and conscious of the fact that it should never be at the cost of our health, environment and that in the process of importing waste and scrap from abroad, we do not conveniently become the world's dump yard.

A Moment of Solace.

2010-04-10T16:25:00.014+05:30

The sun cast its glory sheath and reddish glow

Her work, half done and yet still more

Cut cane growing ripe and wrinkles grow

Day after day, her windy life she bore.

Yet every afternoon, after a lonely meal,

At the edge of the paddy fields, she just stood.

A moment of thought, she chose to steal,

And think of nothing, her tired soul’s only food.

In all his holiness, and pure air,

His duties performed and plants watered,

All deities worshipped and given their share

Little to eat, some rest, but sleep shattered.

Disturbed by dreams, by their redness

Night after night, burning amidst flames

Through the window, he chose to gaze,

At distant cold stars and their naughty games.

Long beyond the village, after the pond,

Started the river; flowing gently

And by the river, swayed the palm grove

To all secrets the river told, quietly.

In the heat of summer, for a short time

Always, the river died until sky’s end

Though burnt by lightning and no fruit to bear

The palm grove stood, awaiting his river friend.

Paintings by Baburao Painter, Anjolie Ela Menon and Indra Dugar

Courtesy: http://www.delhiartgallery.com/

Over a cup of Coffee.

2010-03-15T09:31:00.010+05:30

"You must be very happy now, I guess", remarked Jeevan, while stirring the Hot Choco Latte that he had ordered and in his eyes that naughty smile, the one he always wore, when he was about to pull someone's legs.

"About what?", replied Sanjana nonchalantly, her eyebrows however raised in curiosity. The evening was calm and breezy, and with all the day's tiring work, probably she didn't mind some of the leg pulling herself.

"You know. It's probably the year of the Women right?. With you guys finally getting 33 percent reservation, getting the Oscars and all. At least the newspapers have been talking a lot about Women Power. What more do you need.?"

"What do you mean? What more do I need? I've not really been asking for any of this. Neither the 33 percent reservation, nor the Oscars. Anyway I don't like war movies.". Sanjana, meanwhile was hard trying to remember the name of the woman director who had won the Oscar. Though not much a cinephile, she didn't want to let Jeevan get the better of her.

"Why? Don't you think the 33 percent reservation will help you ?", started Jeevan. He was rather taken aback by Sanjana's response. He had expected her to rave about these things.

"I believe reservations are an insult to a woman's capability. It is a shame that the country has to pretend that a woman is not privileged enough to grow on her own, and has to rely on reservation to get what she has rightfully deserved all this while". Sanjana sipped her coffee and sat back. She was rather surprised that when she started talking about it, she seemed to be all the more opinionated about the topic.

"Well! I've heard that argument before, but then the truth is now there will be more women representatives in parliament and that means more issues related to Women, will be addressed and probably there will be less instances of WWF inside the parliament", guffawed Jeevan.

"Don't forget there are women wrestlers too." quipped Sanjana, as she joined the laughter. "But seriously, jokes apart there were always women there at the centre of power. How has it really contributed much to the uplifting of women. There could be stricter laws, there could be more provisions and there could be more sensitivity to issues faced by women, but the struggle for a woman begins in her home, in her family, in her neighbourhood and in her society. It is a mindset change that is required, a strong urge and belief that those old norms can be broken and subscription to the belief that woman can be independent thinkers, like I read in a short story shared on Hip Grandma's blog".

"I agree, and probably that is where all this will lead. As a society where women are respected as equal starts to emerge, slowly whatever mindset you're talking about will also be seen, won't it.?. After all, think about it today there are very few families, who don't let their girls complete their education, until they have post graduate degrees in hand. So many young women have independent careers to build upon. It's been sort of difficult for my parents to find a girl for me. They have such huge demands!". Jeevan made an act of serious contemplation about his matrimonial future. Sanjana, tried hard to suppress her laughter in vain.

"Yes and that is where I was also headed. Even today, however learned and educated a woman may be and however promising her career may seem, it is at the mercy of her groom and she ultimately gets to salvage her career, with whatever little accommodations, her man will make for her.". "Not all men are like that", retorted Jeevan. "Many men have also contributed and sacrificed for their wives' careers, like many of the politicians will do now. In their places, their wives will being to rule!". "Proxy rule, you mean", chuckled Sanjana,as the cookies arrived. An ambulance passed by, and Jeevan prayed.

"Hail Jeevan, the mental saviour of wounded souls", mocked Sanjana. Jeevan smiled. " Continuing from where I left men have not always been dismissive of a woman's career." "And yet the old adage that behind every successful woman, there is an unsuccessful husband still rings true", replied Sanjana. "Hmm.. well that's a good one. Let's hope that it will become possible for both wife and husband to become independently successful.". Both of them sipped the coffee and Sanjana snapped a cookie in two.

"Hey wait, I've found a real time example. Aren't both James Cameron and Kathryn Bigelow successful in their fields?". Sanjana was so thankful that Jeevan blurted that out and more thankfully she remembered more. "Well true, but they are not married any more. Kathryn worked with Cameron, on many of his previous films, but by the time she made her film they weren't married, is what I heard", stated Sanjana, with an air of victory. Jeevan bit his tongue, but rallied on. "Ok I forgot that, but think about it wouldn't James have contributed to her career too?". "Probably, but ultimately she made it on her own but anyway let's take gender out of the equation there. She made a good film that won an award. The fact that she is a woman is just a coincidence. That's the way I like to look at it.".

"You saw the movie ?", queried Jeevan. "No", she replied. "I thought so.", smirked Jeevan.

It was getting dark, as they stepped out of the coffee shop and headed to the office. "Nothing refreshing like a cup of coffee", remarked Jeevan. "Hmm. So Jeevan, what's the ETA on getting this ship stopper fixed?. We have to start no change testing next week. Ensure that it's done today without fail.", she said.

"Shall be done today, Sanjana", Jeevan replied with a frown getting the message that Sanjana was back to playing the boss. He kept walking as he wondered where he had checked out the code, while the breeze started again and the trees of the IT park whispered into his ears.. "Man or Woman does not matter. All managers are still the same.!".

Pic Courtesy : www.juliaswartz.com

For Haiti

2010-01-19T14:53:00.007+05:30

O' Gods of the jungle,
Have you spoken thus?
While our hungry children giggle
Rocking our torn boat, with all of us.

From the wet jungles we lived in,
To the dull green of vodoo drapes
Was this our sin, for all kith and kin?
Or the desert, without snakes and apes.

Of all the power the riches have,
Life and time were never there.
Weren't the few who did save
Also in mourning, everything bare.

For Mother Earth, never could see,
the suffering of her chosen sons
She chose to writhe in all misery
And swallow their lives, all at once.

Let from the ashes, new lives rise
Let from the rubble, rise alive
All things lost, and flowers and rice
May all souls lost, come alive

As cruel as it is to still have hope
For the surviving thousands who still grieve
Let's hope against hope
That all in Haiti, shall in peace, live and leave.

In remembrance of the thousands who lost their lives in Haiti.

No More Silence!

2009-12-13T23:04:00.004+05:30

As I write this in the middle of the night, I feel strange and lonely. My parents and sister had been over for the weekend from Chennai and I've just left them at the railway station. Perhaps it is the parting that is taking me time to adjust to. No.! It's not that.! I've been away from home quite often and I know that feeling. This is not that.!

As I headed back home after leaving them at the station, I had the unfortunate experience of witnessing something. I was walking back from the bus stop, when there appeared opposite me, a fat unruly man and in his tight grip a girl of not more than thirty years of age. I could sense some tension between them, but I decided to turn away lest I be invading upon someone else's privacy. But then suddenly he stopped and wildly slapped her across the face, pulling her hair, asking her to walk ahead. I stopped in my tracks and kept watching. He then suddenly pushed her down and as she fell down and winced in pain, I turned back and slowly advanced towards them, trying to muster some courage and frame some sentence in Kannada, which I'm not yet fully comfortable with, to protest. But then, he picked her up and kept walking into the night, into the dark, while I turned back and kept walking with anguish in my heart, hoping and praying that the girl is relieved of her ordeal. What really made it all the more difficult for me to intervene was the silent admission with which the girl bore the brunt of it all.

We hear a lot about domestic abuse of women, trafficking, sex slavery and what not ?. I've never really understood the actual pain and trauma, but today when I stood witness to that inhuman act of violence, it really dawned upon me how humiliating it must have been for that woman. It disturbs me to think of how such physical abuse would be within the confines of an house. There is totally no escape route. The sheer trauma and stark horror of it all just numbs my mind.

How will this problem be addressed ? Is it through education of the masses? Is it through education of women ? But then have there not been instances of such abuse even in well-educated and well to do families.? Perhaps it is due to this whole male-dominated Indian society where we still follow dated assumptions and meaningless conventions of how a woman must be.? But then are there not such incidents witnessed even in the most developed countries.

I will have a disturbed sleep tonight. I am making a resolve today. I should not and will not keep quiet, if god forbid there is a next time. I will make my protest heard loud and clear. I also hope that no woman tolerates this silently. Women, of the world, I hope and pray that you remain safe, that you never will remain a silent victim. You have the right to stop it! In such circumstances, silence is not the key, silence is not golden!

The Chosen Path

2009-11-28T19:00:00.005+05:30

It's been really long since I wrote anything. I sometimes think it's because I am not getting inspired enough from my life, or probably it's because I have just been lazy and have not really tried to collect my thoughts and pen them down, or simply because in this metallic monotonous life, where the world revolves around money, getting settled, making a home and just going with the flow, I have learned to do the same, forgotten the simple pleasure of writing, what is there to be written.

Not every one's life has a classic plot of revenge, redemption, or love, lust, passion and adventure. Not everyone has a life that could become a bestseller if written as a book. The majority of us have been predestined to lead simple good or gray ordinary lives, which we mean to live honestly and truthfully or not to the best or worst of our abilities, until we come face to face with death. Death of either our loved ones or ourselves.

And then we realize.! We realize that the time is less. Many of us almost magically and instantly forget this simple lesson and live on like nothing has ever happened. Some of us get disillusioned and waste the remainder of our lives, and that leaves behind a small group, a small group of people who decide to seek answers to this mindless design, this endless and colourful myriad maze where no one really bothers to find an exit.

Perhaps those who forget and move on, are right. Life is to be lived in the present, but life can surely provide experiences and clues to some of the burning questions our souls seek to find. This is something that cannot be taught, for the paths are all different and unique, leading to the same great truth. Our paths have to be decided by each and every one of us ourselves. In Hermann Hesse's book, Siddhartha, the protagonist is also searching for answers and lives the life of an ascetic until he meets the Budha himself, “The Enlightened one”. While Siddhartha's friend, Govinda decides to stay with Budha and follow his teachings, Siddhartha instead questions the Budha, about his path to Enlightenment and then goes on to provide a perfectly logical explanation of why he does not intend to stay. The Enlightened one can teach all that he knows, but his followers will ultimately have to strive and find their own paths and ways to get enlightened.

The story is undoubtedly fictional, but there is an element of truth all the same. Finding out the paths, we need to walk upon and treading down those paths carefully is what life's success is all about. If one finds that gaining all material wealth is his/her chosen path, then so be it. If some one decides that total renunciation of all wealth all life's other vices is his/her chosen path, then so be it. If some one decides that helping society and human kind is his/her chosen path then so be it. And if some one else decides that simply living life as it comes is his/her chosen path, then so be it.

Because no one's idea of life can be out rightly rejected. It takes a bird' eye view to see a lot and yet one might not have seen all. When the skies turn dark and punishing and nature unleashes it's fury during monsoon, or when earth turns parched and broken due to the sheer heat, it takes again a whole different perspective to appreciate life for what life is.

When I was a child, I have always thought about success. Initially it seemed like good academic learning was success. Later I thought it was fame and riches, then I thought it was knowledge and again later I thought that turning all my dreams I had as a child into reality would make me successful. But then I started learning about relationships and how you have to invest time and affection to make them successful and searched for my own success in the same. All of this does seem to be right, and yet the emptiness and yearning for more still remains.

I have to write and keep writing until my chosen path shall appear for me to walk on, So be it!.

Those Three Apes

2009-08-22T16:51:00.006+05:30

Wet lay the road, long and far
The chill of the rain, sinking in,
As the tires, screeched on the tar
The humming of the radio, kept within.

The path, comfortably winding ahead
No urgent urge, no answers to seek
Freedom, so sweet, so hollow in the head
The hills so steep, down from the creek.

Crying would have been easier,
Fighting tears back was the hardest
But crying meant to lose, life ever
Racing ahead, to put mind at rest.

Long down the road, stood a dark tree,
Staring at the retreating sun, from atop
Arms upon each others shoulders, sat; they three
Those three young apes, put life on stop.

As the hills grew dark, two climbed down
While one sat on top, with a broken ankle,
Like those old friends, waiting in town
Their arms they held, for their friend who did dangle

Down he jumped, not a sign of fear
All smiling, conquering every height
Every danger, left vanquished clear
Into their loving arms, ever so light.

As they walked, upon their legs;four
Tears had dried, suddenly everything small
Turning back, to knock on every door
To fight back at life, and to stand tall

At all those times, when life grew dark
Those three apes did come to mind
Every one's not always happy as a lark
And yet my two apes, I could always find.

In the name of God.

2009-06-14T20:50:00.006+05:30

Recently a news item that was splashed across in the media really set me thinking about God.! What should we look up to as god?. What is the purpose behind religion and why do we need temples, churches, mosques or other places of worship?. Obviously there are reasons why things happen, but it is often, in discovering those reasons and then by applying it in our lives, that we realize ourselves, know truth.

Since time immemorial, man has tried to appease divinity in order to get what he seeks. Man has often bribed, begged and even threatened the gods, so that his needs, desires and wishes are granted. I don't see that as too much of a crime or sin, but when a person gifts to a temple, a crown of 45 crore rupees, to me frankly, it really does not make sense, why ?. What does such a person wish or desire from his deed. Is he going to get retribution for all his sins, or is it in search of something even more everlasting like Salvation.

To me, religion was an invention, born out of necessity. As man as an animal evolved, he surely must have needed a society, then an hierarchy and then eventually as life moved on, there would have been an emotional emptiness, which some wise people at that time, decided could be overcome if life was to be lived in a particular pious way, in order for goodness to pervade across their human existence. In order for this goodness to be bound by some strict regulations, there required to be some faith in a super human or supernatural force that could punish you or reward you, based on how well you adhered to the regulations. In time, there would have evolved rituals and customs, in many ways akin to how wedding rituals and customs have evolved over the years. Sounds atheist, doesn't it ? But that wasn't my intention, I have belief in this invention. I believe that it's a great idea to maintain harmony and peace, but like every good idea, this one too needed right reform at the right times in order to satisfy whatever was the initial objective.

The truth is that every religion was a particularly good way of life and the method to live and also in essence the pathway to the truth, that ultimately what was important was goodness, selflessness, peace and harmony. Every religion in some way or the other teaches this. I am not an expert on all, but let me help explain with a rare spiritual moment of learning that I experienced. Around the year, many Hindu devotees make a pilgrimage to Sabarimala, in Kerala, in the south of India. I too went along with my father, carrying all my offerings for the Lord on my head, and climbed the sacred eighteen steps. As I reached the top and reached near the sanctum sanctorum, the first thing I saw was, "Tat Twam asi", which in sanskrit means "Thou Art that", which simply translates to what I strongly believe is that god is within us. I understood my tough journey to the top was symbolic of the steps I had to take in life to know this message. As I stood, taking the meaning in, my father led me through the temple. I asked him, where our offerings must be given. He said that whatever we brought was now considered the prasadam of the Lord and we that we take it back. I realized then that everything is with us only. Religion, places of worship, religious scriptures, rituals are all simply carried out in order for us to realize that ultimately it is our goodness, peace, harmony and service to humanity and the world in general that matters.

Now having said that, I don't want to negate any belief that anyone might have had. All the stories and mythology that we have heard maybe true. No arguments on that front, because my belief in those techniques is pretty solid. I call them techniques, because to me they are all moral science lessons ultimately which will keep our soul away from all kinds of bad thought and evil. My belief in god is that god is simply that powerful quantity of energy that we find everywhere in nature, in the rising of the sun, in the colours of the rainbow, in the songs of birds and the fury of storms. I often speak freely and have conversations with this powerful quantity of energy which resides in my mental space and conscience. I speak to it about every act of mine, argue about everything, debate about what is good , what is right and what is wrong.? To do what is right and correct in life, I realize that I need to talk only to myself, debate it out with my conscience and then take a decision. Sometimes I do wrong, but am always aware that I had been informed about what is right. Eventually to put things straight, it is my persistent belief in this powerful energy within myself which is to me, my belief in god, my god.

I therefore know that I do not require to adorn myself with a crown. I do not see any need to make any exorbitant gifts to places of worship in the name of god. The more temples I go to, the more stronger my belief seems to be getting. My prayers are to myself and to nature. Many tell me that I often seem to be lost in my own world. As far as I am concerned I'm simply a praying devotee.

T.Nagar Times

2009-05-21T11:55:00.004+05:30

In the months of May and June, Chennai is like a boiling pot. The sun is merciless in the way it disperses heat and everyone dives for cover, and at times with the help of watermelon, sugar cane juice, umbrellas the people thrive, but these only provide momentary relief, because it's like a constant frying pan, and a little cold juice is not often enough to beat the summer.

On these painfully warm days, when you start sweating as soon as you finish bathing, the evening air again brings some relief with some salty breeze from the Bay of Bengal, but again it's not entirely cool, so we the people have just got to live with it.

But man's needs are never few and some recreation is always on the cards, so what does a traditional, conservative city like Chennai do, many might wonder. Do we go to the sprawling Marina beach or the colourfully crowded Elliots beach. Do we go around the temples of Mylapore, churches of Santhome, the China Bazaars.. Well! we do all that, but mainly we shop.! And if there's something to buy, then there's only one place to do it. T.Nagar!

So that's where I was headed along with my mother, a veteran shopper on a surprisingly cloudy Saturday evening in the month of May. I wanted to buy a small gift for a friend's wedding, so we decided that we had to go to T.Nagar. There were no second thoughts. As we walked from the bus stand through Usman Road, the place seemed pretty much less crowded than usual. It was around 4:30 in the evening, so many had already made their purchases and left. Amidst the strange sweet smell of all the fruits and flowers that lined the sidewalk, we just kept walking gingerly, the vehicles often swerving alarmingly close.

And then there were the handbags, the purses, clips, rubber bands, of all possible colours, and then the inner wear shops and belts and toys and sweets, and again more sugar cane juice being constantly extracted. The houseflies swarming in for a lick, they just never stopped hovering. "There, come!", said my mother suddenly and I understood that we had to turn left.

And what a left that was.! It was like a huge river that was pouring into the sea suddenly. There were so many people around me so quickly, but for the huge river, the journey was not essentially easy. Because from the sea, seemed to rise huge waves of people again trying to come out and blocking your way. And there I was in the middle of it all, The left turn to Ranganathan Street was never really going to be easy. And then suddenly I realized that I was alone. I searched for my mother, and lo and behold, she had already tamed the current, as she evaded the watch sellers and lottery ticket sellers, the puddles on the road and the other shoppers and just kept zooming ahead. I struggled as she goaded me to come quickly, so sure footed with every next step.

Our aim was to reach Saravana Stores, the panacea for all shopaholics, because you just get almost everything under the hot chennai sun. As the cold sprayed air swept my face at it's entrance, I realized, I was still just flowing from this river of humanity into a huge pool by the side.

Once inside, we walked to the nearest sales boy and he directed us to the section, where I started by looking at small silver lamps, and quickly selected one. "That's it?", my mother asked. She was not satisfied. I realized i had made my decision too quickly and she was uncomfortable with that, and I watched on as she pointed out to another one and another one. Finally out of three we narrowed down to two and then the cheaper one. At last a purchase was made. She seemed more satisfied now. We wanted to get the item wrapped in gift paper, but no one seemed to be eager to help us there. After some amount of threatening and inquiry, I lost hope, not my mother and at long last we got a supervisor to get the job done. I somehow get easily irritated when the sales people don't really attend to our needs well. They do so, when they've no business though, or if the prices are really high. Opportunists.!, I thought. But when you come to think of it all of us are opportunists, we all have our own reasons for which we do things. We lead our own small lives in our own small worlds, and yet we are ever so unknowingly part of this larger world, when we come across people of all worlds and collide and share ideas in an human confluence. While these thoughts pervaded my mind, my mother nudged me ahead.

"What next ?", she asked. Before I could reply, she replied "You drink some juice.! Mine without sugar".
We were about to go into the vegetable market near the Mambalam railway station at the end of Ranganathan Street. So there we sat and drank chikkoo shake and Moosambi juice respectively and then headed to the market, bought a few drumsticks, which went along with the more costlier goods from Saravana Stores, some more spring onions, beetroot, plantain etc. Two of the women vendors selling tomatoes were talking. "Who won the elections ?", one queried. "Yaar jeyicha namakku enna" ( How does that affect us), she replied, turning and smiling at me. I guess she was right. Because how does it really make any difference in their lives. No one really campaigns on ranganthan street. Here all were either customers or shopkeepers, all were equal and yet all had their own needs and reasons.

As we walked to the bus stand, I remembered all the times when we've come to T.Nagar as a family, ate at Geethanjali Restaurant, playing with my sister, and my mother endlessly looking at new things, and my father getting impatient and angry. Those were the times, even today it is always T.Nagar times, times when we come out of our own worlds and then become a part of a larger world. I knew that my mother was happy with the day. She has never needed more. Her dreams and aspirations have always been those few moments of togetherness and spending. As we neared the bus stand, she ran like a child, towards our bus to Madipakkam to grab a seat. I knew I was happy at heart, so I guess we're not all opportunists. We do feel happy for ourselves, our families and our world at times and at other moments, we have our own needs and our own lives. It's just that at times, we are less subtle about it.

As the bus neared home, she pointed to me a newly opened shop and told me, "You know what ?. We could have bought our things from here too". "Then why did you take me all the way to T.Nagar", I prepared to ask, but then I just smiled.

I guess, I already knew the reason why.

Gandhi's Plight.

2009-03-06T08:38:00.006+05:30

In the recent few days, we've witnessed, what can be termed as a rat race, for Mahatma Gandhi's memorabilia. It was so keenly taken up by the Indian Government and was well planned. They had to bring India's heritage back to India. It was a matter of pride, a matter of achievement as the elections near. No stone was to be left unturned.

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On the other side was James Otis, a collector of historical items, an auctioneer, who was going to auction off India's heritage. He had the audacity to dictate terms to the Indian Government, ask for budgetary increase in allocation for India's poor, as if India did not know to take care of it's poor.

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The main issue, was that Gandhi had to be brought back to India at any cost. Finally came Liquor Baron Vijay Mallya to the rescue. He brought home Gandhi's old sandals, round rimmed glasses, pocket watch, a bowl for 1.8 million dollars.

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Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi would have either laughed with sarcasm or turned in his grave with tears. There is a small message in the movie "Lage Raho Munnabhai", where Gandhi's character says, that all Gandhi's statues in the country must be demolished. A subtle message that, we have still not got over our obsession with mere symbols.

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There is a greater gift, a greater lesson, that gandhi gave us, the path of truth and non-violence, Satyagraha or the desire and struggle for seeking the truth. A non-violent means to achieve anything. In these times of terror, these much treasured gifts remain forgotten. In these times of economic depression, again gandhi's message of abstinence and simple lifestyle remains forgotten. He would have surely scoffed that his simple almost worthless belongings were being brought for such a huge amount of money.

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Truth, non-violence and simple living were all there before Gandhi as well. What was essentially an Indian epithet was transformed into a message for the world by this man, and yet today his country had to depend upon Vijay Mallya, a man who sold liquor all his life, to bring back Gandhi's heritage to India. What was essentially Gandhi's heritage, had however never left India in the first place.

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I personally have nothing against Vijay Mallya. I respect him in fact for the excellent businessman that he is, and the prosperity that he has brought. But I still cannot help sympathizing with Gandhi's plight.!

How Kuttan got just Half.

2009-01-20T18:12:00.017+05:30

"Appu Ettan has done it again!", screamed Minnu. She came running and screaming all the way from the courtyard till the well at the southern most end of the house. She knew she would find Kuttan near the well. She was out of breath by the time she caught hold of Kuttan and shook him vigorously, disturbing his research of how millipedes react to hot water.

"Appu Ettan has done it again. He has performed another Magic Trick.! Come.!", she said and kept running back, screaming again at the top of her voice.

"Appu Ettaaaa.. Once More!, Kuttan is coming.".

As Kuttan walked slowly behind Minnu, his body seemed dull and tired. His eyes looked drowsy and his face covered in sweat from loitering around in the sun all afternoon, but his mind was restless. He was eager to see what trick appu had shown now, he could almost picture Dasamama's eyes beaming with appreciation in his mind. His mind was filled with jealousy. Appu, his first cousin, who had never been to the city, always had these tricks up his sleeve, which he was never able to do. He, himself was bright at school and could also recite a poem called "Ozymandias", by heart, but still he could not fell a mango like Appu did, or swim like him. Appu`s magic tricks were something he couldn't even dream about. He wished at least this time, he could figure out how the trick was done.

As expected all were present and Dasamama was praising Appu. "Come Kutta, look at Appu and learn something", he chided. Kuttan was about to respond, when Appu started to perform with his usual histrionics. He took a piece of white paper and wrote on it "100" with a red ball point pen. "It has to be red!. Otherwise the magic wont work", he proclaimed. He then took a match box and lit a match. "Careful!", cried Kuttan's mother. "It's ok. He can handle it", remarked Dasamama. Appu then burned the paper and dropped it on the floor and stood spreading his hands, as it burned completely. After it had fully turned to ash, he crushed it and took it in his fingers. He then applied the ash on his forearm and Lo' Behold the number "100" appeared on his forearm in black.!

While everyone clapped, "I also can do it!", shouted Kuttan. He had to prove it this time. He rushed into his room and took out the red ball point pen, he had brought and rushed back. "No!, you can't ", declared Appu. "Let him try. Let's see what he does", said Dasamama, a wicked look in his eyes. Kuttan quickly wrote "100", took the matchbox from Appu and lit a match. "Careful!", shouted Dasamama. He pretended to ignore and quickly set the paper to fire. He bent and looked at it, until it burned completely, then took the ash and applied it on his forearm with great gusto. His forearm was stained black, but where was the "100", he wondered. It was not there. Dasamama roared with laughter as his eyes brimmed with tears, from the pit of his stomach, his grief bubbled upwards and out came a sob.!

Only Gowri Chechi really took pity on him. "Come with me to my home. Let me get you some jackfruits". Kuttan loved jackfruit, and he loved gowri chechi and her home which was a stone's throw away from their own house. Gowri Chechi's grandmother and Amma's grandmother were sisters. Gowri chechi always told him nice stories and fed him with mangoes and jackfruits at her house.

"I hate Appu!, I hate Dasamama", remarked Kuttan, as they walked to the house, past the cowshed. Even Nandini, the cow seemed to be laughing at him, her mouth full of cud.

"Haa Haa.. We will beat them when we go back", consoled Gowri Chechi. Gowri Chechi's grandmother was reading the Ramayana at the porch, when they reached. It was already getting dark. "Is it Kuttan?", she tried to confirm through her weak eyes. Kuttan just rushed past to the dining hall. "Why are you so angry? What Happened?", he could hear her asking. Kuttan climbed on top of the rickety wooden bench, thinking about Appu's magic trick. "How does Appu do it?. It didn't work for me", he asked Gowri Chechi. Gowri Chechi came from the backyard with a plate full of jackfruit and set them in front of Kuttan. "That Appu!, He is always up to those stupid tricks. he does it with Onions.",

"Onions?". He looked at Gowri Chechi, with a questioning glance, his mouth full, and lips yellow with jackfruit pulp. "He writes the number with onion juice on his forearm, before he does that trick.". "Where can I get Onion juice?". Kuttan was already plotting in his mind. "I'll get you some", replied Gowri Chechi. She brought him some crushed onions from the kitchen. "Do I fill it in my ball point pen ?", he asked. "No Silly. Here I'll write it for you, and she took a small twig and wrote with it on Kuttan's forearm "100", while Kuttan licked clean the plate of cut jackfruits. "Wait now, I 'll get you some water to drink", she said and went to the kitchen and returned back, but Kuttan was not to be seen. "Where is Kuttan?", she asked her grandmother in the verandah. "He ran back home. The mad little boy", she said and chuckled as usual, with her fake teeth.

All were in the dining room, preparing to have snacks and tea, when Kuttan reached back home. Appu was not there. He must have gone to take bath in the pond. "Where were you? Where's Gowri?", scolded his mother, sticking out her head from the kitchen. "I will do the magic trick again!", he announced. "Amma, Kuttan is performing a magic", Minnu screamed again at the top of her voice. "Enough now, with your magic and stupid tricks. Take Bath, both of you and come have something to eat", his mother shouted back. "Amme, please..", he pleaded.

"It's ok!, Let us see him do it". A voice boomed. It was Dasamama. Appu stood beside him naughtily smiling. They had returned from their bath. Kuttan turned his face away from them and picked up a paper and held it aloft and took the ball point pen in his had. Just before he put pen to paper. "..and now you'll write 100, and then", dictated Appu. "No!. It is a bigger magic", he shouted back, and with his red ball point pen, calling out to all the gods in his mind, he wrote neatly on the paper. "200".

Minnu, brought him the matchbox. He quickly lit a match and set the paper on fire. "Aren't you all taking bath, tonight?", Kuttan's mother asked from the kitchen. "Wait Amme..", screamed back Minnu. The paper had burnt completely. He took the ash in his hands and applied it on his forearm, where Gowri Chechi had applied the onion juice. His forearm was again stained black, but this time, slowly he could make out in black the number on his forearm "100".

Everyone roared in laughter. Minnu kept shouting "Magic! magic!". But Kuttan's eyes were already clouding. He didn't stand there. He started to run. Behind him, he could hear Dasamama shouting, "Looks like you got only half of Appu's magic powers.!!". He could hear Appu laughing aloud too. "Kuttan come back! Where are you going now?", his mother was shouting. All their voices were slowly drowned as Minnu kept screaming, "Magic! magic! Kuttan did magic!".

But Kuttan did not stop. He kept running. He had to find Gowri Chechi!.

*Ettan - Elder Brother.
*Chechi - Elder Sister.
*Dasamama - Dasan Uncle.

Accepting with Gratitude...

2009-01-20T09:56:00.005+05:30

Two awards, which were granted to me by two wonderful people Starry and Hip Hop G'mom, both wonderfully honest and brilliant bloggers themselves.

I remember how I once read this post about Starry encountering a bobcat in her beautiful garden. The whole experience so fresh, and the innocence in her writing struck me deeply. Have always followed her blog since then. The honesty with which she has been talking about all her family, her own health, sharing all her joys and sorrows is truly remarkable. Thanks Starry, for this award.!

Hip Hop G'mom has the most refreshing blog around, with her little ditties about life, family, children, social conscience, the teaching profession, grand children and what not? She brings an experience of a lifetime in to her writing.!

Thank you, again for bestowing this award on me.

Having said that, this kind of recognition from my friends here, does tend to embarrass me. Am I worthy of all this, I often ask myself. I have not even been writing much in a long time. Have not really taken the time and effort to let the creative juices flowing. I hope I am able to write more and do justice to your impressions.!

I'm not awarding this to anyone right now. I'll keep it with me for a while. (Selfish me!). Honestly speaking, I have too many people out there, who I want to give it to.

A New Beginning!

2009-01-17T19:27:00.008+05:30

In many villages in India, hardworking farmers reap all they have sown and have celebrated and are still celebrating their harvest.! In Tamilnadu, they call it Pongal festival, some call it Sankranthi, some call it Bihu, some call it Lohri, Whatever the name, whatever the customs, the fact is it is a celebration of the bounty that Mother Earth has given us. It is the beginning of a cycle, the renewed vigour of beginning work again, but not before all have partied enough.

It is the new year and we are looking forward to a lot of things, the whole world, looks forward to gaining prosperity, a clear path to what was the good times. Jobs are being done with, Markets crash and the world still needs to find a way to peace, a way in which both terror and war can be eradicated. Be it Mumbai, or be it Gaza , Palestine. Everywhere people are awaiting a new dawn, hope and peace of mind. Even as some celebrate, some suffer, and then vice-versa. Life is a cycle and with Time all pain heals. Nature and Time is the only discovered panacea that we know of.

Having said that, we know for sure that the future is not bleak. Nothing is impossible, It is just a myth awaiting demystification. Like the farmers who toiled on their fields, under the sun, ploughing hard against the ground which had dried up. Rains were always either less or too much. Whatever remained of Mother earth, was as solid as stone and yet they ploughed panting and huffing, both beast and man. There was work to be done and very little time.

Water was needed and more money to get the motor pumps running, the bullocks had to be fed. The manure had to be procured and all the government grants that had been announced when the vote-hungry rulers came to their homes were yet to yield them anything of worth. But still they struggled, sold whatever little jewels they had, took more money from Money lenders and put all they had into that small piece of earth, they owned. They knew they had to work hard, and pray to the lords, for that is all they could do. Evenings were spent massaging their bodies with oil, the pain in their knees and limbs simply unbearable, but they knew that one good night's sleep would be enough. Some, weak at heart took their own lives, some fled to the cities and either begged or merely survived, but some remained.

Then finally the rains came, it poured and poured, for many a blessing, for many a curse, because the rains caused floods, and elsewhere the clouds had passed on. So eventually very few survived, the survival of the fittest and the most blessed. It was these blessed few, who raised the food and livestock for a billion of their brethren. Their struggle is no less severe and no less traumatic than what the world has gone through everywhere, the previous year. Yet they persisted to survive, to nourish and to provide, like Mother Earth herself.

So today when they celebrate in the villages, each one of those farmers know that they have to get ready for their next struggle. All this might sound like out of a Premchand Novel. However it is as close to reality as possible. Let us hope and pray that their struggles becomes easier and lesser, but let us also get inspired as we look up to that thin Indian Farmer as he rejoices this glorious harvest season. Let us believe in the mercy of nature and the ability of time to heal all and rejuvenate.

For us, for our families, for all countrymen, for the world's population at large, let us persist, no matter what. To survive, to nourish and to provide, no matter what the sacrifice.

A Happy and prosperous new year 2009 to All.

I've taken a resolution to try to keep posting in here. For the nth time, now I'll be making a new beginning. That's so cliched! I know.!. I love cliches.

The Daily Bloom

2008-08-27T09:49:00.000+05:30

Pic Courtesy : www.russillpaul.com

Wet with dew, scented earth, swept clean
With tender shoots and gentle touch
The horizon lightens up, in a line so lean
From pure earth, life is born as such.

To the pores and holes, the wealth pours
The wealth of rice has risen everywhere
At equal distance and definite in fours
Like nature's symmetry painted fair

Across the seeds of first delight
Flashing, they come the swift lines
Every wealth, within it's boundary right,
Like light and sun and all that defines.

With wealth and limits set right
Colours; they come, of blessed joy
From the cocoon to the butterfly
From pure earth, the new baby coy.

Flowers set to bloom, and birds fly
Deities descend and tease her more
But she, looks at her mirror and then the sky
Is she the mother of nature or lore?

Before the descent, the blooms shall fade
Birds shall die, and seek solace in her reign
In the hungry stomachs of red ants, as they raid
But the sun shall rise and give birth again

Dedicated to that beautiful practice of drawing kolams, the beautiful patterns and the untiring hands which create them.!

Beauty Interpreted.

2008-08-14T13:56:00.007+05:30

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

John Keats could not have been more right!. Art as such is beautiful, be it in the form of literature, music, painting or cinema, there is a certain beauty to it, and that cannot be denied. But when a truly imaginative mind explores a piece of art, tying loose ends, painting pictures out of the dark and unknown, horizons are expanded and a myriad of colours arise like a new rainbow discovered hiding, in what was initially a simple cloud. The beauty of art is metaphorically enhanced so much in it's interpretation.

And such examples have been many indeed.! In that sense, take poetry, their rhyming and simple lyrical quality lends them a beauty, but it is when different minds absorb different things, different meanings and evoking different emotions altogether, that a few words of poetry become so surreal and heavenly. So then take the case of an epic, like Mahabharatha, which is simply speaking a story of sibling rivalry and war, but how much of further analysis storytelling, painting and other art forms it has spurned!.

Raja Ravi Varma, wondered how Shakuntala would have looked like, and then gifted us the most beautiful paintings, that seem so heavenly and out of the world even today. So many philosophers, over a great long period of time, added to and carved, a beautiful piece, the Bhagavad Gita, which beyond being about religion, gives simple facts that lend meaning to life. Like life itself, art begets art.

Recently read "After Kurukshetra", by Mahaswetha Devi, a great author, a fiery social activist and a wonderful woman. She elegantly crafts three stories, with the Mahabharatha in the backdrop, looking at it from angles, in ways, we have never looked at conventionally. What was the common man doing at that time.? How did they react to the war? What is right and what is wrong.? Was kunti's abandoning of Karna, her only mistake. Why did she not acknowledge him later.? Is that correct from today's standpoint, so then were moral values not at part then.?

While Mahabharatha remains the backdrop, she crafts three beautiful stories set upon it's fringes, which analyzes issues like social inequality, widow remarriage and freedom of women in a subtle, beautiful manner, and the irony is that through the eyes of the characters she creates, we look at the characters, we had known to be symbolic of righteousness and then realize how successfully, they have been painted gray. The irony is that in many ways we then realize that when it comes to politics and class differences, things are not much different even today. Talking about irony, wasn't Mahaswetha Devi also the person, who created that beautiful character of Shanichari in the short story, Rudaali. A woman who suffers from grief all her life, and ultimately when shedding tears becomes her profession, her tears have no grief in them. Was Shanichari, her interpretation of Kunti.? A question again, probably which will get an answer in another work of art, when someone, later looks at the works of Mahaswetha Devi in 'that' unique way.

There are questions, which arise in our mind, only when an interpretation initiates us to ask them. To look at a piece of art, from angles we've never thought about, is an exercise that really adds layers to our understanding of any work of art.

When Literature, poetry and paintings vibrate with the sheer energy inherited from one source of inspiration, can visual and aural arts like music and dance be far behind. Take for instance, Shobhana's dance drama, Maya Raavan, which also happens to sketch the romantic, scholar and poet in Ravana, the villain of the piece, Ramayana.

In that sense, nature itself is a work of art. Daffodils were there much before Wordsworth was born. When M.T.Vasudevan Nair scripts a tale like vyshali, or when keats crafts untold stories from a grecian urn or on looking into Illiad and Odyssey, we know that in the end, there's only more art, more beauty, more interpretation and more life.

The Tag with a "Spark"

2008-07-17T11:56:00.002+05:30

Tags are like a spark, in our other wise slow blogging lives. You get running for some time, take some rest and then there comes along a tag with a spark from wetspark and you get going. Reminds me of the spark plug in our old Bajaj scooter.! Mathew, inquisitive that you are, you want me to divulge 8 secrets of my otherwise highly confidential life, so here goes eight highly guarded secrets. :-)

8 things, I am passionate about.
* Books of all kinds, whether I get to read them all or not. at least seeing them decked up on the shelf gives me a feeling of pride - My only savings so far.!
* My family. My ideal family would have been a cross between the Addams Family in Cartoon Network and the one in Little Miss Sunshine, but I'm more than happy with what the dear lord gave. Love you.!
* My Country, Like they say, Mera Bharat Mahaan.
* Writing - I still remember the smile on my teacher's face, when someone showed her a poem I wrote. From then, it has just continued. Having said that, I'm passionate about blogging itself. It changed my life for me.
* Nature - Green landscapes, Lucid clear blue water and the pure music of the breeze. What can I say, it inspires me.
* Music - I love all kinds of music, mostly melodies, old romantic ballads. I get queer faces at me, when I sway sitting in my cube, listening to music. They think I'm mad.! I sure am.!
* Society - Does that make sense..? I am passionate about at least working to eradicate one social evil. Don't know which one, probably Female Foeticide.
* Cinema - I love films. Watching them, as well as the finer nuances of film making. Be it our very own Padmarajan, Maniratnam, Adoor or be it, Alfred Hitchcock, Tarantino, or the genius of Satyajit Ray. They all make my day.

8 things I want to do before I die.
* Write and publish a book. What I will write about, I do not know, but write I must.!
* Travel to the Himalayas and stand alone on a high peak and spread my hands and simply freeze that moment.. Ah..! Bliss!
* Build a beautiful naalukettu house. Now this, I know for sure is tough!
* Ride a bike properly. I know you will say WHAT?! but it isn't that easy for me. I've already failed once in the license test. It's a long drawn battle down there.
* Have a wild pet, probably a big boa constrictor.
* Sing, in front of a real audience for once. I'm tired of bathroom singing. I could have, but there is a big stage fear to overcome. Gives me the creeps even now.
* Teach in a small school, somewhere in remote Wayanad.
* Go to varanasi and spend some days in deep retrospect of life.! Grow a beard and dissolve into the confluence of life, nature and people.

8 things I say often
* "What to do? Life's like that." - Some thing I claim to have invented. To be patented.!
* I call up some one after a long time and they enquire what I'm doing. If it's in malayalam it is "Jeevichu povunnu"(Just living) , if in tamil, it's etho poguthu.(Somewhat going on).
* "Not Interested" - All banks upon earth, know my mobile number, and they wont rest until I take at least one credit card.! (*&^%$$@(!!!!
* "Sheri" - means simply ok.
* Great! - good or excellent, is not enough these days.. Life, simply has to be "Great!"
* "Hello!" - Graham Bell's mistake.
* Grre.. Hmprrh! - Ever since I saw The Incredible Hulk!
* "Hi" - It's amazing how this two letter word has taken by storm.!

8 Books I last read.
* "My Childhood Days" - Memoirs of Satyajit Ray.
* After Kurukshetra - By Mahashweta Devi.
* 5 Indian Masters.
* The Penguin Book of Indian Railway Stories - Still reading.
* The Last Mughal - By William Dalrymple.
* A Readers' Digest
* Outlook
* Unheard Voices - Stories of Forgotten Lives by Harsh mander.

8 Songs I could listen to over and over again
Now this is where 8 becomes too small a number.. :). So I'll keep two each for the four languages I know.
* Tharalitharaavil mayangiyo.. sooryamanasam
* Devasabhaathalam Classic of Raveendran Maashu
* Narumugaye - Classic from movie Iruvar. Beautiful use of Sangam Literature and lilting music from Rahman.
* En Vanile from Johnny
* Ghanan Ghanan - The arrival of rain celebrated with joy. Classic from Lagaan
* Ae Mere Watan Ke Logon - by Lata Mangeshkar ( Nightingale of India), she sings not only with her sweetest voice, but the most sincere passion and emotion. Great! - There I used it again.
* Heal the World - A Beautiful Song, from Michael Jackson. I'm a great fan! (Strictly professional!)
* When you believe! - When Mariah Carey and Whitney Houston croon so elegantly, there are miracles and you believe..! Amazing!

8 people I think should do this tag

* Alex - Alex!, In the middle of your philosophy, take a break! :)
* Starry - Long time Starry..! Get back !!
* Sreejith - My namesake friend.! you've been too busy lately. take this One!
* Dwarak - Because I know you've never done a tag before.!
* Shankari - In the middle of those wonderful stories, let's get to know you too..!
* Chitra - In the middle of train journeys, children and mobiles, do a tag too..!
* Jac - In the middle of your ever-exciting travels, how about a tag..?
* Vinay - In the middle of your poetry, let's get to know you too.!

So the spark plug, sputtered, coughed, then sprang to life. The scooter travelled for a while, before it realized no one had boarded. I was lying on the sand.!

Roads to Peace

2008-07-08T10:06:00.000+05:30

Why is there blood everywhere
On this long winding road.?
O' towering son of Kabul,
Wherein goes this treacherous road?

This road will take us to peace, my friend
But when are these blood stains washed, I ask
Pensive and grim, someday there will be peace
he says. amidst the workers at their task.

Someday, safe will be our women, they will live
Someday, happy will be our children, they will live
Someday, rested we shall all be, we will live
Live, we all shall, and doves will fly.

Insha'Allah, may your words come true, but.
No buts, Someday for the homeless, castles there will be
for the hungry, all delicacies and all free
Yes!, I say the city will be built as you see

For the homeless, castles there will be,
Every brick as strong as a painful memory.
For the hungry, all heavenly delicacies,
Eating while they talk of those old miseries.

Insha'Allah, Someday, may there peace, be.!
Insha'Allah, Someday, may there peace, be.!

In remembrance of all those who lost their lives, while taking valiant efforts to bring peace to the land of Afghanistan. We salute you.

The Legend of Mad Kokila

2008-07-01T13:46:00.006+05:30

Some souls are sent to earth, with lesser privileges, with almost nothing, but despite all barriers, they find each other, embrace each other and live on.

Gowripuram was not unlike any other village. It had it's own group of innocent villagers, mostly farmers, some lorry drivers, some mechanics and some casual labourers. Some were money lenders, some were housewives, some worked in the garment factories nearby, but all were part of Gowripuram. All were benefactors of the temple in Gowripuram, the blessed river Nelli which provided water and life for all their needs.

Like most other villages, Gowripuram also had it's own legends and folklore, that the villagers proudly related, be it the tale of the temple elephant, which brought up the idol of the goddess from the river or be it the legend of the wicked sorcerer who kidnapped the king's daughter and got punished for it, or the tale of the donkey with a vengeance, that stopped the rains.

But there was one story, that only some villagers, mostly old men or lonely women, told with a shudder, with a shivering of their lips only when prodded, for the story had occurred in recent times, and was no myth for sure. It was also believed that the legend of mad kokila was a curse upon Gowripuram's otherwise peaceful presence.

No one knew where kokila came from, Where was she born ? to Whom?. The truth was that nobody knew. The old beggar woman near the temple had called her by the name 'Kokila' once and the name stuck. She was a beautiful girl, with hazel brown eyes, long slender legs and long hair. She was always on the streets mostly playing around near Mohan's tea stall. She played all day long and when night arrived, she slept below the old banyan tree along with the old woman. It was one rainy night, when the winds howled and the sky turned deathly dark that Kokila became alone. The old woman passed away in her sleep and kokila kept crying as the villagers burned her corpse far away. Kokila knew her life would now change, that her tomorrow would be different, difficult.

The villagers, were not ready to take in Kokila. After all she had spent all her life till then as a beggar. Who knows what bad luck she might bring, but they built her a small shed, gave her food and so she lived. From dawn to dusk she roamed about, eating whatever she got and then she came back and slept, and life moved on in Gowripuram. No one noticed that Kokila never smiled, never laughed, never cried.

And then came Appu, and for kokila, life was suddenly colourful, more fun and full of sound. Where he came from nobody knew. Like kokila, appu was alone, he roamed around and slept at night in the forest. Perhaps because their lives were so similar, there was an instant connection. Kokila and Appu became inseparable as Kokila brought him to her shed. They roamed together and slept together.

Souls destined to meet, shall often meet. Maybe late but there's no doubt about this fate. Meet they shall and their lives, they shall share.

Often in the rain, it grew very cold. Kokila shivered, but Appu would cover her legs with his body and lend her warmth. In the summers, when Appu panted in the heat, kokila collected cool water in earthern pots and sprayed it on him. He would jump and keep running around her playfully, with delight always wagging his tail. Over the years kokila grew, tall and supple, full of youth and brimming with the ripeness of adolescence. A great pair they were, she and Appu, two people whose lives were full of each other.

The once unmindful villagers, in who's world kokila and appu never existed, today they kept staring at Kokila, making fun of her, jeering at her and trying to hug her. But Appu was always nearby. With his resounding bark and fierce grunt, he often set them running. Somehow Appu knew, that in their little world, outsiders brought only misery. With Appu she walked, and roamed all the streets picking at rubbish, sharing food, chasing chameleons and running helter and skelter. They spoke through their eyes, reading each others minds completely.

Days passed by often fun, sometimes tough due to hunger, sometimes due to heat or cold, but always together but one dark day kokila woke up without the soft presence of Appu's fur. Shrieks, barks and shouts rent the air as Gowripuram awoke to the violent symphony of pain and desperation. Kokila ran to the forest's edge with all the energy she had. Behind her the village gathered and stood looking at a cloud of dust, a pack of wild dogs barking and tearing at each other, running all around. Poor kokila, only she could see him, appu in the middle of it all, tired and haggard, wounded and hurt. Poor Appu.

For days and nights, she sat, beside him, beside the body he left behind, the last remnants of his soul's journey through the world, the last remnants of all hope, for Kokila. There she sat, through rain, through sun, through heat and cold.

Even souls have to part, but so often they take with them, the life in the souls of those they leave behind. The souls who remain, lose the remaining life they have, in the tears they shed until they unite, forever again.

In the dark of the night, in the silence of the moonlit night, in the chill of the cold windy night, they crept. They, the blinded poor souls who were deceived, that there would be life, emotion and womanly presence in Kokila's body, crept up till where she sat, beside Appu's departed trail. Blinded they were both by wine and lust, blinded both in body and soul.

As one of them, crept behind her and shook her shoulder, she turned back, her hair haywire, her face almost blue, her eyes blood red. She wounded him with her nails and screamed. They stepped back in fear as they saw Kokila. Frightened to move they just stood there as kokila screamed and screamed. She ran towards the village in seething rage. Screaming at the top of her voice, as once more Gowripuram arose to a violent symphony of anger, fear and blood red madness. Kokila was running fast, tearing her clothes, shouting at the top of her voice, shouting aloud, calling out for Appu. The village looked on stunned as kokila, ran in all her nakedness towards the forest, with all her madness. Gowripuram had lost kokila for ever as she was lost in the forest. No one knew what happened to her.

But the legend does not end, because the learned, and enlightened, the wise of gowripuram later came to know that Kokila was a gifted soul, her Appu had left her, but not without a parting gift, her madness. And so the legend is related to everyone who searches for more. After listening to this much they often depart, but only the wise remain to learn that for two souls to connect, to die for each other, they don't have to be human beings, they only have to be humane, only few stay back to realize that blindness is not in not seeing the sky ,or the bodies, but in not seeing the souls and privileges in life is not in all that can be relished, but in sharing with others all that you have to relish, and then they shared with everyone, the legend of Mad Kokila of Gowripuram.

Pics Courtesy : "Street Scene of Little India", Painting by Chua EkKay - www.gajahgallery.com , Pit bull pet portrait - http://paintingadogaday.blogspot.com , Jonathon Hibbert Hingston - BBC News

Colours of Life

2008-06-24T11:34:00.001+05:30

Pic Courtesy : www.indigoextra.com

“It is getting dark”, I must leave she said,
With a smile, I nodded my head
When again, we both did not know
Though sad, our faces did not show

“One last game”, my brother did plead.
“Alright”, she said, “I shall lead”.
Happy I was, for that last time
Play, we shall, like lost lifetime

Colour, Colour! What colour do you choose?
Green, it would be, like her, I did muse.
“Green!” she said and my brother fled
Caught some leaves, “I’m safe”, he shouted.

Leaves, I could have caught, but I ran
To nowhere green, did my legs slant
Fast I ran, all around her giggling sound

Yet, slow I was feeling the bare feet ground.

Ran, I did round and round and all around
If she caught me, or I got safe and sound
By touching green, I knew the game would end
As my legs hurt, I rejoiced at every bend.

Laugh, we did, at our silly game.
Confused, my brother angrily came.
“What are we playing”, he wanted to know
Both of us wobbled, like penguins in snow

Dark it was, so we had to part
Part we did, our lives crept apart
Far away, like her I could not muse
Like mine, her heart, I could not deduce.

Years and Years, we finally did meet.
Shook hands, relived all old tales sweet
With her beloved, to smile at me, she did choose
Colour, Colour! What colour do you choose?

Idiots, or Mutant Intellectuals.?

2008-06-18T15:26:00.004+05:30

I still remember, in the eighties my tryst with that marvel called Television. Those years, which even today in several blogs across the Internet, several writers recollect with nostalgia about those wonderful programs on Doordarshan, even today we have had discussions with friends and at the workplace where we've discussed Hum Log and Buniyaad and even laughed at programs like Vayalum Vazhvum ( a daily series on agriculture and farming, in Tamil.), those simple detective serials and cultural programs like Surabhi in the 90`s, they were all the staple diet of the Indian audience. The present youth and middle aged people are all people who fondly recollect, those programs and talk about those golden days. But past is past and we move on with our lives today, those experiences just memories, but yet strong imprints on our conscience and mind. So what about today`s children.?

Since the nineties, television viewing has increased, with the onslaught of Cable Television. Suddenly there were lots of channels all over, and strange dish antennas springing up everywhere on rooftops of houses. There were suddenly a huge number of channels to choose from. From movies,to cartoons, to fashion, to sports, you name it, you've got it. Then came M.TV, F. TV and more, and then to top it all, the news channels, ( those fashionable channels, with brilliant graphics, with picture perfect anchors delivering news 24 x 7 about the most sickening incidents around the world). In computer terminology, we suddenly have had an information explosion in our society, and not just that cultural shock too. Where once parental discretion was used, while Chitrahaar was being telecast, today there is a state of confusion as to which button to press on the remote.

When one form of medium, grows exponentially suddenly in it`s reach and coverage, then others have to take giant steps to keep up. In my childhood, when television was simply switched on, only for that one particular program, books were the alternate pastime. Then I remember devouring children`s magazines like Chandamama and Gokulam. So it was with some excitement that I bought an edition of Gokulam recently while traveling home, simply to relive those memories. I must say I was taken aback at the stories and information. It actually had details about inflation, Ram Setu Issue, the incident of Priyanka Gandhi meeting Nalini and what not.? The maturity and the seriousness of the topics, the letters to the editor, where different children have written in, have all undergone a drastic upgrade. It is not merely the students who get the privilege of education, but due to the reach of media nowadays even the unprivileged are more learned in their own space.

Recently at a social gathering, I somehow ended up with the responsibility of taking care of this child from the fourth standard. Amidst all the festivities, and people running here and there, I decided to take up the responsibility of entertaining him. I pumped in all my story telling skills and told him the story of two monkeys and a cat. After I had finished, I looked at his face and knew instantly that he was simply bored to death.

I started, therefore to tell a new story about the lonely princess in a castle, when I was suddenly interrupted.

"What`s the score ?", he queried.
"What score.?"

"IPL ?!". I must have seemed an alien to him at that instant, i`m sure. I was just beginning to explain, how I am not a big fan of watching cricket, when I was stopped midway again.

"Okay, who do you think will win? Delhi Daredevils or Mumbai Indians ?".

Before any more major embarrassment, "Mumbai Indians!", I managed to reply. And that is all I spoke, as I waited silently for the next one minute, listening to his discourse, flooded with statistics and news reports, and injuries, as he delivered the final judgment, the final nail, in my coffin of ignorance. "Mumbai Indians will not win."

It is with awe and admiration, that I see today`s children, their awareness of current affairs, their command over language, often English. I know for sure that I am not jealous, but there is a slight concern, whether all this smartness, this knowledge, is at the cost of their innocence, at the cost of their sensitivity. While there are things children of today should be aware of, like for example child abuse, It is also better they not know certain things. In some spheres at least it`s always better that children remain children.

With all the kind of exposure, there is, at times over exposure, would they grow up to become lazy storehouses of information, while emotionally becoming idiots, or will they become prematurely matured mutant intellectuals? Because after all, as time advances these changes will affect both body and mind. It is a well-known medical fact that young girls and boys are nowadays known to turn mature, in both body and mind at the young ages of twelve itself. Probably these are signs, or probably my thoughts and fears are totally unwarranted, unjustified and unnecessary. Perhaps, even downright ridiculous. I sincerely hope they are.

Pic Courtesy : www.missionindia.org

The Sunrise at Champa

2008-06-06T13:38:00.010+05:30

"How more long do we travel, Amma..? My whole body is aching", complained Chinnu.

"We`re almost there, Chinnu. Try to sleep". replied Seetha.

"Poor Child", she thought to herself, stroking his forehead as she looked into the eyes of Gopi, sitting across her. Gopi turned away. He could not look into seetha`s eyes. This was not the time to think of the past. Surely there`s a bright future, he assured himself. After all it was not them alone that were travelling to their new lives, it was not them alone that had left behind their roots, their homes and their hearts, it was not them alone that were leaving, leaving behind their dear old village near Champa, that small stream of life giving lucid blue water that was the source of all their joys.

"Life keeps changing, and we have to learn to adapt at God`s will", he consoled himself, a little loudly as well, so that seetha would listen. Perhaps she too would come to terms, he thought. But in one hidden glance at her eyes, he had known that it would not be as soon as he wanted it to be. Like the swaying bullock cart, life was a rocky ride, but still gopi managed to fall asleep. Chinnu kept murmuring, while seetha, looked back at her best friend, the river Champa with tears in her eyes. When would she see the sunrise at Champa..?

*************************************

The final bell rang at Vidyanagar Corporation School, and the children rushed out of the tall green doors, with great gusto. It was such a relief when the bell rang, as the boys made plans to play cricket at the nearby college ground, while the girls rushed home to their dolls, temples and games.

Amidst all the sweat and noise, Chinnu slowly walked home. His friend Raghu had not come that day, and therefore he didn`t make plans, rather decided to walk home. The exam papers had been given and he had secured decent marks. As usual hemanth had been the topper. O` how he envied him. Anyway that was not today on his mind much. The Class teacher, very unlike his usual strict demeanour had told them about the school`s plan to take them all on an excursion trip, and so all were very excited, already chattering and making plans for the trip, about the toys and snacks they would bring. Chinnu, on the other hand was worried. Would his parents give him the permission. He made a small prayer near the Ganesha Idol below the banyan tree and moved on. He had done his best, the rest was for Ganesha to take care of.

********************************

Gopi reached home early that day. His shop did not have the usual crowd and even more, his son was to come back today from the school excursion and he was eager to listen to Chinnu`s animated conversation. "It`s so soothing to see these children enjoy life", he thought. As he walked towards home, he remembered his own Childhood, his grandmother, the evenings along with friends on the banks of Champa, those endless hours, he used to wait on those same banks, while waiting for seetha to sneak out of her home. All were clouded memories, but they all had that beautiful Champa river in common, at the centre of it all. It had been eight years since they left their home behind, since those government officials walked up to their homes and advised them to evacuate the place citing some welfare project. As living became more and more stressful due to lack of rains, they had been forced to leave. Today he had forgotten all about farming, all he knew was the constant rattle of his sewing machine.

If only, he could discuss all this with seetha, he would have felt lighter, but seetha had resigned herself to life in Vidyanagar, and he did not dare bring up the past and upset her, also worried that she might not share the same feelings anymore.

"There amma, dada has come. Now stop crying", shouted Chinnu. "What Happened ?", asked Gopi, while he hugged Chinnu, noticing seetha`s teary eyes.

"Nothing. I will go and prepare something for you both to eat", she sobbed and rushed inside. "Why is your mother upset, Chinnu? How was the trip? Were you up to some mischief?", queried Gopi. "No dada. I don't know why.? The trip was real fun. There were these two giant green hills and in the middle of it, this beautiful river. At sunrise, the sun rose over a giant gulmohar tree near the horizon and the river was almost decked in gold. I was telling all this when mother suddenly started crying. I didn't do anything.", replied Chinnu between gasps.

Gopi was no more listening. "The sunrise at Champa", he muttered.

*************************

There was a gentle breeze in the evening which was soothing after a tiring day`s work. As children scrambled home, and others returned from a strenuous day at their offices and shops. Gopi was sitting at the porch looking outside, when seetha brought him a steaming cup of coffee. His eyes lit up with happiness. "Did you go to the market today ?", he asked. "No. It was really hot in the afternoon. Did not feel like going outside.".

"Forgot to tell you. Chinnu had called me on telephone from his college. He is coming day after tomorrow on vacation. He said he had a plan.".

"What Plan? Did you ask him to bring all his clothes and bedsheets..?", queried seetha. "Plan.. I don`t know. He didn't tell me. Yes he`s bringing all clothes. Don`t worry".

Two days passed waiting for Chinnu, and when he finally arrived, it was as if their home suddenly came back to life. "Amma, Dada, you remember I told you I had a plan ?"

"Yes. what is the plan?", asked Gopi. Seetha silently looked on. "Tomorrow dada, you shut down shop, amma pack everything for two days, we will go to Champa."

"But..?", seetha managed to say. "No buts, now or never amma. Let us go. I have booked the tickets and have saved enough money, from the tuitions I took, while at college. Let us just go.". Gopi never spoke, only his eyes beamed.

*************************

"No! It`s not possible. The whole place is blocked and I could lose my job. No way", shouted the watchman. They had at last arrived near Champa at midnight only to find that the way was blocked by a government checkpost. It was no use arguing with the watchman. Before Chinnu, started to fight with the watchman, Gopi consoled him and they prepared to turn back.

"It`s Ok, son, you've already done so much for us, by just trying to bring us here.", he remarked. Chinnu was still sad. As they slowly walked back seetha was again reminded of the time, when they left Champa.

"Sahib, Sahib... I can take you to Champa", they heard a whisper as they turned a bend. It was an old haggard man, with a long pole in his hand. He looked like he had been in the forests there for centuries. "Sahib, I have a boat. I can take you to the river Champa. I take many tourists often. Please pay this old man a hundred rupees, it will do".

"A Hundred Rupees! No way. and let me tell you we`re not tourists. We are people of this soil. You cannot sell us our our home." Chinnu, came from behind and took Gopi`s hand.

"Please Dada, let us go. Just this once. Please.", begged Chinnu. "But Chinnu..", Gopi started to say. "Let us go. It`s ok", seetha exclaimed in excitement. Gopi pretended to look angry, but his eyes betrayed him. They followed the old man, as he lead them through the forest towards his boat.

The boat was shaky at first, but slowly they all sat down. It was after all a ride on Champa, their beloved river. The smell of those wild flowers and croaking of the frogs, lending the whole night, it's own natural symphony. It was still dark and so they just sat silently as their old boatman rowed and rowed towards, what they could make out was a valley, between two giant hills.

And then suddenly it happened!.

From the horizon, a pink, and magenta gleam of light suddenly illuminated the sky for a long distance. Slowly the ray of light widened, and then at the horizon, the water started turning golden, like a million lamps having been lit upon the temple pond. The light reflected from the beautiful red blossoms of the Gulmohar tree on the banks, and as the leaves slowly descended upon the water, it was almost as if tiny red fairies were descending upon earth, pure earth, pure water, pure life.

"Amma, dada.. you see that..? Isn't it so beautiful..", Chinnu exclaimed.

There was no reply. Gopi and seetha were standing on the boat, their clouded eyes fixed in a trance. No more were they father, mother and son. No more were they Gopi, seetha and Chinnu. They were just three children, three children holding hands, enjoying their beautiful Sunrise at Champa.

Missing the Green.

2008-05-23T12:40:00.003+05:30

Conservation of our environment and spreading of awareness for the same is the buzzword everywhere and it is truly heartening to see the same. Everyone takes steps to do rain water harvesting, saving on electricity, recycling paper and plastic and so on. It definitely is the need of the hour and the fear factor induced by catastrophic visions of the future like Global warming, and Ozone holes have somewhat helped add a sense of urgency and alarm to these efforts. So today people buy environment friendly cars and builders or factories aggressively advertise how environment friendly they are. We have suddenly started to embark upon a mission of repair and restoration, in fear of the future repercussion nature could wreak upon us, which is all very good, but the truth is it would be more honourable and also spirited and powerful if the soul of our efforts were not just to save ourselves, but to save nature and mother earth that we once loved a lot and was effectively a part of our lives.

This love for nature and the soothing effect it can have needs to be rediscovered. Tomorrow`s generation today grows in concrete jungles, in complexes where they are used to travelling by elevators. Playing in the water, to them, means playing in swimming pools with all those rubber toys. It is for the benefit of this generation that they must rediscover the simple natural joys of the past, which their ancestor had the privilege to enjoy. You cannot venture out to rescue something, which one primarily has not loved or known personally.

Take the case of all temples and heritage sites. It is because we marvelled at their beauty and splendid workmanship and art, that we actually took steps to renovate and preserve. Similarly unless we are marvelled by nature`s beauty and comfortable in living a simple life in communion with nature, it is very difficult to relate to and understand the need to preserve and take care of the same.

It is time to head to the villages, to those remote places, where we all have our roots and absorb and appreciate it`s value and beauty and allow this love and warmth in us to permeate to the next generation, to show them that there`s a world and life outside your flat, without a television, without a washing machine, without a shower or a geyser, and yet, a place where you can learn to live, and thus provide an experience in all that they will treasure and aggressively and actively seek to maintain throughout the stretch of their lives.

My uncle, who has his own wonderful little blog here had recently written about the alarming decline of crows in Kerala. It is a startling observation, because it shows to what extent the change in our lifestyles is affecting the natural cycle and ecosystem at such a rapid pace. Crows are not just birds, they are cleaners and scavengers who are given the natural responsibility of cleaning up the place around you. It is our lack of love for the natural process and techniques, which is leading to this decline, the loss of this knowledge and hence putting us in the grave situation that is there today.

In our active and vibrant society we are used to a lot of colours. Colours of paints, colours of buses, new buildings, office complexes, food wrappers and what not. The secret to the panacea of our environmental problems is that today we forget to miss the crystal blue of the sky, the beautiful placid blue of the waters, the dark black of the crows, the sprightly green of the trees and plants. The secret lies in missing the green of beautiful mother earth.

Pics Courtesy : All pics taken at my native place in Kerala.

Ritual of Madness

2008-05-02T12:18:00.001+05:30

"Painted by The Hand of God" - Painting by Gretchen M Smith.

The sky is painted in reddish shades
Drowsy sun, seems eager to leave
Red is the sky, red is the grass and blades
My blood and vermillion, together they grieve

Bells clang, small lamps lit in a fiery dance
The temple stands witness. silent and calm
Down, down, my forehead splits thence;
They all stare, like bees, a swarm

My mind, i`ve heard, is stable not
Lively, it flows, my red head, so numb
Stability, thy meaning, i so forgot
Desires at heart, to life i won`t succumb

When, my blood dries, cure, is to come my way
The lamps take life, and light up the godly face
Her merciful eyes, wont let my madness stay
Or so they say, to my clouded reddish haze

Farewell, I bid, amidst their hymns of pride
Smeared in colours, to walk along a peering mile
At her feet, i kneel, at her lips, my eyes ride
Forgive my mind, but is that a mocking smile.?

Blog it out!

2008-04-30T16:44:00.003+05:30

Let me get this straight.! I`m not a diehard fan of Amitabh Bachchan. But I have admiration for his sheer personality and that wonderful deep baritone voice.! He is a great actor, with several hundred films to his credit and truly one of the biggest names in Indian Cinema.

But above all he is a great human being and truly an icon, so the media obviously wanted to get some tidbits about him, and provide gossip, controversy and interesting facets of his life everyday on national Television.

To have seen glaring distorted facts, and unnecessary controversies over nothing being created by the media circus and all the hype and hoopla about oneself, can upset any common man. So what do you do when you get blamed for things totally unknown to you. You go ahead and clarify things. Vent out your feeling, pour it out in public, today thanks to the internet, blog it out.!

Sir, this is one of the better decisions that you`ve made in your lifetime. As the media is at a loss on how to intervene as you communicate directly to the Indian public, you go ahead and give a fantastic final blow.

Anchors move on to the next programme - a rape or shoot out, car having run over pedestrian sleepers. Get the blood, get the relatives in various stages of shock and dismay, weeping and distraught close ups would help. Catch the cops for comment and the ambulance taking away the bodies. Didn’t get the shot ? Damn !! No problem, pick up the visual from the day before as the bus plunged into the river, patrol cars and ambulances were seen there as well.

So true..!

And they talk of monotony and lack of fresh content in our cinema. They talk of ripping off foreign DVD’s and plagiarism. Where did they get there programme ideas from ? Are any of their presenters sitting in front of studious looking desks any different from the sets of the BBC or ABC or CNN Studios. Is ‘Seedhi Baat’ not ‘Hard Talk’ is KBC not ‘Millionaire’ ?

Exactly..!

Truly dont we see an end to these irritating news channels as more celebrities and personalities, decide to finally blog it out.? Let`s get to know things in first person. Soon like there are television sets in every household there would also be computers and internet. The media might as well start behaving while there`s still time.

Pic Courtesy : bollycircle.com

Bidding farewell to the Mughals

2008-04-08T11:00:00.003+05:30

1857 is the most important year in Indian history. Many remember it for Mangal Pandey, the Sepoy Mutiny and some even call it the First War of Indian Independence, but the fact is that, above all this history captured of that period beautifully establishes how a dynasty ends, how a nation evolves and how a country beautifully adapts all these changes, through much warfare and bloodshed to the India that is today. In many ways you understand, that this is the period during which the British actually go on to completely conquer India.

If anything had changed during that pivotal year, the India we see today, would surely have been different, whether it would have been better or worse is left to the analysts and astrologers, but surely for an historian, capturing the essence of that period is the best exercise in terms of sheer scale and possibilities. In that sense William Dalrymple has done a wonderful job of travelling across the country and dissecting the Mutiny papers and letters of that period in such a meticulous and detailed manner, that he captures the stories of almost every kind of common man, Hindu, muslim or the british, taking slices from their lifetime to construct a very objective and very unopinionated view of the entire period. Khushwant Singh tells about the book, "This is how history should be written", and you simply cannot help but agree, because it is not a lecture and in many ways a collection of stories, which can effectively draw you into that era so captivatingly, that you relate to all the main characters and learn to appreciate history, culture, art and yet at the same time, the deprivation, poverty, lack of administration, of planning, all make William Dalrymple`s "The Last Mughal" a must read, especially for aspiring historians.

Having said that about the book, I must admit my initial interest in reading it, wasn`t so much in the political history, but in getting an insight into Mughal culture. I must say I was not disappointed. The Mughal Empire and it`s successive Emperors have always been an object of fascination, because though essentially foreign to Ancient India, like the British, their culture of Art, poetry and architecture is unfailingly impressive. There is abundance of historical texts which detail the life and times of Emperors, like Akbar, Shah Jahan etc. But 1857 is also best remembered for the great urdu poets Zauq and Ghalib. and their rivalry. The book provides beautiful anecdotes from their lives, how they were affected by the Mutiny and the Emperor`s closeness to Zauq and Ghalib`s representations to the Emperor to accept him in equal light. The Emperor, himself being a wonderful poet himself. That poetry, art and tradition was held in such high esteem makes us truly wonder at the lack of the poetic culture as we see today.

It is another surprising fact that Bahadur Shah Zafar was the only Mughal emperor to have been photographed. The painting above of the same frail emperor, which is also on the cover of the book, serving testimony to the fact that many of the paintings of that era were often amazingly glorified and exaggerated versions of reality comes to the fore. It has to be admitted therefore that the emperors and artists of that generation really understood the importance of history and it`s documentation, whether they were opinionated and with neutral outlook is another matter.

Also the photograph is an evidence to the emergence of technology that the advent of British empire brought about. Photography replacing Art, can very much be perceived as a result of the British conquest of India. It is not that technology is not advantageous, but the fact remains that as technology brought about comfortable changes, it also failed to keep aloft beautiful traditions of Art and paintings, poetry recitals and both persian and vedic style of architecture. In that sense 1857 was also a period of great change, when the British stopped adopting the existing culture, and turned to enforcing their culture and beliefs upon a groups of faithless infidels as they understood, mainly as revenge to the severe rage and outburst of the natives. Because otherwise it is greatly interesting how the britishers before this period had learned to assimilate and absorb the Indian customs and some had even revelled in Urdu poetry, art and tradition. So in that regard 1857 brought to an end not only a great dynasty but also several aspects of art and culture that today seem so unique and unearthly.

As we learn about the inefficiency of the Mughal generals in leading the war and collating the strengths of several armies of the Indian subcontinent and finally succumbing to the lack of administration and planning, we get the picture of a great and huge, but clumsy elephant brought to it`s knees by a sharp and agile lion. We feel sad that the great Mughal empire in it`s last attempt at glory could not find good leadership and also effectively realize that the general Indian public too could not get beyond their differences and reconciled rather weakly to the onslaught of the British, but even more sadder is that fact that even as they got ready to bid farewell to the Mughals, they also failed to keep back strong pillars of the finer aspects of their culture and tradition. Every time a dynasty changes, every time an invasion happens and a new ruler emerges there was a loser in Art, architecture, culture and traditional riches that makes delving into history and rediscovering their glory ever so interesting.

The Parting

2008-03-07T13:29:00.000+05:30

The truth was always there, in sight
In future, in my sleep, every night
The time would come, when we walk
Paths different, lonely, new and dark.

Illusions are sweet, easier to act like old
Life will move on, pain in our hearts, we hold
Things no more same, but we never tell
With vigour they lived, let our histories tell

The time will come, when I am not there
Beside you, behind you, in sight nowhere
In my mind and lonely heart, you shall be
And dear friend, in your heart, I yearn to be

Let life take us on a confusing ride
Every day , a new way, lots to decide
Yet, hope I shall, that our paths meet
Every passing day, eyes eager to greet.

In your path, I wish flowers bloom,
Birds sing and let the sun light up every gloom.
Cliched as it might seem, forget me not
For every shared moment, our life, then begot.

The Paths, we walk upon

2008-01-24T13:51:00.000+05:30

It was one humid month in Calicut, when the oncoming of the monsoon rains was eagerly awaited by everyone. Afternoons, after an heavy lunch were often unbearably hot, when most of the elders in the house stretched themselves on the floor, fans running at full speed. But my city bred mind, which spent a majority of it`s life within a flat in Chennai could not rest easy. After all there was no one to stop you from roaming around, perhaps the hope of discovering some age old treasure dug under the house or near some pond. It is in childhood, that we often bring out the Ulysses in all of us, the urge to see and conquer the world around could not subside easily.

And so I walked long and far, past the Bhagavathi Temple, stopped to look at the closed temple premises from outside, the swords clothed in red, the silent grass which too seemed to be resting, No breeze, no sound from the trees, everything taking a silent siesta, or remaining quiet, so that they did not incur the wrath of the goddess, by waking her up. My mind was now in a dilemma as to whether to proceed or not. I hadn`t ventured so far earlier ever before, To go beyond the temple, without a grown up accompanying me was like taking the first step into what surely was a big bad dark world out there. Then the brave me shouted to the child in me, "You are in the fifth standard now, Come On.." and so I took my first step beyond the temple steps. A great moment, a moment signifying the coming of age..!

The road was empty, no one seemed to be around, the trees just kept whispering around me. I had decided I would have to walk as long as it wont get too late and mother wouldn`t know. Each step was a victory, an accomplishment. And then I saw it the house, painted in white, flower pots kept before it. It looked beautiful, it was somehow reassuring to the little adventurer, the tired traveller in the desert who had just seen an oasis. I kept walking towards it, To just pluck one of those beautiful flowers, and come home and show my sister, proof of the brave journey, her big brother had just made. I was sure she would be envious.

And then it happened..!

There was a rustling sound, and I saw this big colourful bird, like a giant hen, atleast three times bigger than one, rushing furiously at me, making this thundering cackling sound. I dont remember much, only that I`ve never run so fast, in my life before. The P.T. teacher at school would have been proud of me. I ran and ran, fell down twice, bruised both my knees. Time seemed to be going on and on, but at last I reached home. It`s only then that I realized I hadn`t even looked behind even once.

My mother was drowsily standing at the doorsteps. She saw me, gave me a good glance and gave a sigh.
"You must have been upto something I guess. Come let`s get a bath, and have those new wounds plastered. Ammamma has prepared snacks for you"

I smiled and followed her. The secret remained a secret, my first ever encounter with a Turkey.

Today years afterwards, I did get the chance to walk that great path again. The house wasn`t there, no flower pots. In it`s place there was a brand new bungalow. But I still could remember that turkey`s nasty look. My heart skipped a beat.!

Truly strange are the paths, we walk upon...

Lost in a Dream

2007-12-07T10:30:00.000+05:30

He was always different, always in a dream, lost in his own world, lost in his own thoughts, his own emotions. Though seemingly cheerful, he was a sheep who`s inner self was yet to be revealed to the world.

While the other sheep were being led safely by the shepherd through the narrow forest path, he only seemed to be walking along with them. His feet led him to the forest though. The woods seemed to beckon to him, they seemed eager to embrace him in it`s long green arms, with deep dark delightful secrets to be shared.

And thus he walked long and hard, lost in himself, every leaf, every bark, every trickling of light, picture perfect, lost in his own paradise, in his own dreams, he walked and walked and after a long such tireless, timeless walk, sat down to rest under a red wood tree. As the trickling sunlight slowly started to fade and die among the towering branches and boughs, the woods grew darker and cold, wild flowers bloomed and an enchanting fragrance spread through the woods. Small creatures of the forest sprang to life and the whole forest was suddenly illuminated in the splendid lustrous presence of the dancing fireflies. Slowly the fragrance and the soothing murmuring of the beetles and birds lulled him to sleep.

And then it happened, that rude awakening, to life`s realities as he was prodded sharply at the back, barked at by the big dog as he was led along the farm. The dreams were always the best part of his life, a life he wished he could have had, a life he yearned like mad, without, which his soul remained sad. He walked slowly along with the others.

Life was short, and the world remained to be explored, but still, he belonged to two worlds in his mind, and wished to explore both, his world of dreams and the small real world outside. He let the others walk, while he slowly entered another world. In case he was lost again, there remained the shepherd, the other sheep, the whole world outside. So he walked on and dreamt on...

P.S : I`ve been missing from this wonderful world of blogs, where there are wonderful tales, wonderful figments of imagination and poetry and a wondrous utopian society, because in the hectic race in this world outside, due to reasons unknown and best forgotten, I forgot to dream.! Here`s putting in my best effort to move on...

Let the journey continue... Warm greetings to all..!
Pics courtesy : www.cumbavac.org, Painting - "Moonlit Sheep" by Susan Westwood

Frozen in Time

2007-09-18T14:40:00.000+05:30

The hand that toiled long, day and night
O` How I yearn to touch that immortal hand
To feel the warmth, love, pain and might
It`s owner had, while, he walked this blessed land.

The chariot remains, for all eyes to see,
Carved in stone, it does not roll.
Frozen in time, it remains golden history
Sculptor friend, is your name today on a scroll ?

The wheels, so round, so strong
The pillars so smooth, so elegant
Such a piece of marvel, nowhere wrong
Heavy it must be, the poor elephant.!

Had the chariot moved, it would have been lost
Lost; we would have, all beauty
All Myth, history, all dreams of your ghost.
No.! You stayed, my friend, did your duty.

Among rocks and boulders, your city stands
With silent magic, serene, all peace to thee
At night, I wander around, spellbound among the sands
Frozen in time, in magic, your work, our Hampi.!

The Indian Meal

2007-09-12T16:41:00.000+05:30

First of all, I`m sorry my friends, that I have been such a bad, bad blogger, not updating, and perhaps doing too much work. But recently there has been too little time, and even in whatever time, I could save to sit and write, there came new demands to satisfy, and my constant battle with time, has been meeting with constant failure. But excuses apart, i`ve returned, with the definite will to keep posting once in a week. Let`s see how far it goes... Jac, hope I don`t upset you.. Thanks for prodding me.! Mathew, thanks for tagging me. Will do it soon.

I`ve not been able to think much, read much, but life still throws you challenges, you experience things, about which you want to pour your frustration.! , and so here I am.!

Recently at my workplace, in the cafeteria, the following conversation happened,
Mr X : Hi Srijith.!
Me : Hi.!
Mr X : So how`re things going..? blah blah...
Me : Blah Blah...

... and then suddenly...

Mr. X : Hey..! you`re eating with your hands..? You get spoons here..!
Me ( dumbstruck, angry and confused ) : WHAT..?!!

We`ve heard and talked about westernization, about corporate culture, but this was the limit.! Eating food with our hands has always been something so intimately Indian.! Why is it that we forget to acknowledge this.? In the book, the international bestseller, "The City of Joy", by Dominique Lapierre, the protagonist, a polish priest, visiting India, tries eating with his hands, and then observes, that he, for the first time, looked upon food as something full of life, as a gift of life, and not just something dead.!

We touch food, with respect and love, we eat with our hands accepting food as a gift, we get everyday. Would we wear gloves, before accepting a gift on our birthday.? There is a spiritual and emotional relationship which we need to build with food, and above all how can one simply ignore the heavenly pleasure in eating thus.!

It`s Onam season, which reminds me of how, as children, we used to sit on the floor and eat to our heart content, mixing all the curries, breaking the pappadams and at the end of it all, pouring the hot milk payasam on the plantain leaf and wiping it clean with our fingers..! I wonder whether that experience would have even been a fraction as memorable, if I had eaten with a spoon.!

Most Indian dishes are made to be eaten by the hand, to touch, pinch and tease those naughty white idlis, to tickle and deflate those bloated puris, to twist those rotis and dip in paneer butter masala, all require expert usage of the hands and fingers. How would a mere spoon suffice in ever providing that experience.!

I must, however tell you I am no glutton, I just try to make every meal an experience. Eating with our hands, washing our hands before and after a meal has all been something so integral to our culture, that i am truly finding it hard to digest, that eating with a spoon is becoming a "trend of sorts". Either due to this IT boom, or BPO wave, whatever we call it, we must still remain Indian.! Perhaps even show the world why this Indian gourmet experience is so heavenly because we use our fingers, and promptly lick them too at times.!

Tears untouched at CRY.!

2007-08-06T13:35:00.000+05:30

A Simple Child,
That lightly draws it`s breath
And feels it`s life in every limb.
What should it know of death.?

These were the words that I first read, when I opened the book "A Poem for Cry". William Wordsworth`s marvellous poem "We Are Seven" contributed by Kiran Bedi to this wonderful anthology of poems begins with these very lines, perhaps instantly conveying the innocence of a child, and how ignorant it is of the inherent harsh realities of life, which they later go on to realize.

As we all know children are vulnerable and they can easily fall prey to a society`s cruel whims and fancies. CRY as an organization has been doing a lot, for children who were not embraced by society as should be, and apart from CRY there are lots of NGO`s as well, which takes a lot of steps to avoid and prevent child abuse, provide child relief and so on, thereby taking care of these children so that tomorrow`s society is just to all.

But as I read these lines, my heart went out to not these children alone, but also to those much younger children, children who are still not grown, children who are still foetuses , and are yet as much a living being as we all are. How cruelly they are being killed, how sadly their time in this world is brought to a sudden standstill, the facts make us truly sick. The number of incidents of female foeticide, in different places all across the country truly makes anyone, who stands representing our nation put his head down in shame.
.
Do these things still happen, in a country like India, which is on the verge of progressive development.? Do these things happen , in what can be perhaps called the golden age of India, as we prepare to lobby for a permanent seat in the UN council, as we rejoice at the economic success and celebrate the rising value of the Indian rupee.?
.
The answer is a terrifying YES.! Read this and the whole list here. Foetuses are being dug out from the ground across the span of the country. No matter whether they were aborted, or killed, the truth is, it is a great standing example of receding moral values. This is no more a practice of just the ignorant villagers, but happens even in what is touted as the Silicon Valley of India, Bangalore.! I too was ignorant earlier. I thought it happened only in villages.! Technologically or Economically we might advance, but as far as moral values, and the innocent, spiritual practice of living, is concerned, it might do good to go back a good thousand odd years. Perhaps this is applicable to all nations as well.
.
The solution perhaps does not lie in just spreading awareness.!
.
Read on the whole issue here.( A complete showcase of this disturbing social trend.)
... BTW, the book is an excellent collection of wonderful poems, something most apt for your bookshelf, from which your future generations have a lot to learn. I first read about it on Uma`s blog here.

Imprisoned yet Inspiring.

2007-07-06T11:47:00.001+05:30

Burma is a small country, so near India and culturally influenced by India. Burma has not made a great mark on the world economically or perhaps historically. But still it is this country which has produced one of the most shining modern examples of Non-violence, an ideology, a feeling which I could proudly claim originates from India.

Though she grew up in Burma Daw Aung San Suu Kyi is no stranger to India. She completed her college education in New Delhi, before moving to oxford, marrying in New York and returning to Burma.

She is one of the primary torchbearers, who is struggling to bring back democracy to her country, against a tyrant military rule, which has kept her under house arrest, for all these years even until today. Her fault, is only that she wants to form a people`s government for her nation, to provide equal rights and freedom of expression, or in other words she is struggling to provide true freedom for her brethren. Inspite of all major nations in the world requesting and even demanding her release, it has not so far been granted due to the hugely complicated military politics in this small nation of Burma.

Her story is one of those struggles and sacrifices, which only a person of great will-power and commitment can really exhibit. Her husband, in New York was diagnosed with prostrate cancer and was not allowed to enter Burma. The tyrannical military rulers told her that if she left to meet her husband, then it will be on the condition, that she must never again return to Burma. The strong woman, that she is, she stayed back for her motherland. She never met her husband later, and he passed away in 1999, in New York.

This is my tribute to this strong lady of the modern era. I am just trying to imagine what her message must have been to her husband`s departing soul in these following lines.

My dear loved one, I had to stay
Hand in hand, we walked to the sun,
But today you left me behind far away
Very Far away,my duties undone

Alone, I am in the midst of fire,
Far away, you lend me your spirit and soul
As you depart, I am not near your pyre
Tears, I bite and hold, for my goal

Wherein are my duties, I shan`t say
My mother; In me she sees light and hope
Your memories will haunt me every day
Split in soul, In darkness I grope.

My prayers for you, my beloved,
Among the clouds, i will join you soon
Will share all sweet secrets, left unsaid
Wait for me, when there is freedom at Rangoon.

In the hope that this great lady will not just secure her own freedom, but that she will continue to fight despite her 62 year old frail body and secure the freedom of her motherland as well.

The Thinking Blogger!

2007-07-03T12:22:00.001+05:30

Thinking is one thing we all do a lot, and it is a wonderful exercise for the mind. But I myself never used to think so much about life, about the world around me, and so many other things which a normal human being can think about. Either I was too lazy all this while or lacked the initiative. Today if I even think a little, my complete gratitude does to this world of blogs, all my friends I have found here, and the wonderful insightful posts you have written from time to time.

All bloggers certainly make me think in one way or the other, because it is an idea which you are sharing, a question which you arise, or a wondrous talent that you exhibit. I have been given this Thinking Blogger Award, by these two other immensely thoughtful blogger friends. Hip Grandma and Ardra. Both of them, bloggers themselves who have made me think a lot.! Hip Grandma, for her treasures, which she shares from her experience and Ardra for those musings which really can drown us in thoughts all over the mind. They truly deserve this award, and it`s great that they`ve already been rightfully awarded.!

So, going ahead, the task is to recognize those people who`s blogs have made me think a lot.! So here goes...Like I said earlier i could just direct you to my blogroll, but that wouldn`t be proper so limiting it to five.

* Priya - ( A real taskmaster for a thinking exercise )

She writes short posts with such sheer energy, energy which even I don't have to read them completely. But one thing is for sure.! Any post she writes, they are so ornamented with those beautiful thoughts, those queries about every small facet of life that one just cannot move on without stopping to think.! Keep Writing Priya!. I know you`ve already been awarded this, but you truly deserve one more..!

* Alex - The Philosopher/Economist/ Art Enthusiast. Alex writes with conviction about Life, Art, and philosophy inspired from both. We`ve had differences, have agreed on certain facets of life and overall it has been an enriching experience totally. He really sets me thinking a lot of times..!

* Marthyan ( Poet, Raconteur )

Marthyan a.k.a. Vinod pens some brilliant poems and stories mostly and they are more than often instantly thought provoking.! Many times his posts have inspired me to write some of my own.!

* Seema ( Elegant Poetess )
I reproduce some of her lines here, from her poem "In Love`s Paradise..."
Passion like a song,
Written of heart and soul,
Never ending notes,
Striking unknown emotions,
Simple and exquisite!. They are truly worth a read. Since I love poetry, I truly have become a fan of hers, making me think about how such lines flow..

and finally last but not the least...
* Velu ( An artist who paints with words and sings with verses )
His blog, the Kaleidoscope is truly beautiful, with it`s images and his writing is very articulate and lyrical in quality, but beyond all that there, are thoughts and expressions in every post, which are greatly inspiring and have acted as a catalyst for my own thought process. I remember, one of his posts, where he wrote about meeting a friend at an old age home, which made me think of it days at end.! I did eventually write this poem. The inspiration truly had to come from Velu.

There are surely names which I might have missed. Like I already said, all of you who write blogs do make me think one way or the other. So if you feel that you know of someone who has made you think, then go ahead and talk about them, because i`m sure, that as long as you`re blogging you`re making someone think.!

Do we get spotted thus..?

2007-06-27T09:52:00.000+05:30

"And today I'll tell you how to spot a Blogger at a place:

a person with absolutely no common etiquette, no inter-personnel skills, no interest in interacting with commoners (read Non-Bloggers!) and, of course, one who seems to be finding difficulty in keeping himself/herself on our mother earth due to his/her supremely inflated EGO...Common characteristics of a Blogger!"

I found this comment on IBNLive where a reader has responded to an article on the most irritating words spawned by the so-called Web Boom!

... And to top it all, "Blogosphere" comes the top second most irritating word.

I`m not going to tell the name of the reader, because we bloggers have a lot of etiquette, and I reproduce this here in my amusement, seriously wondering why they envy us so much. Why they consider us Alien.?

Looking beyond a milestone

2007-06-12T15:49:00.000+05:30

The sweltering heat of the sun is punishing in it`s might and the yearning in our minds for a drop of rain is very much what keeps us going, keeps us fighting to live, to see the splendid lightning, to listen to the magnificent drum roll of thunder signalling the arrival of the monsoons. Our hearts get light and celebrate nature`s bountiful gift with aplomb. As peacocks dance and flowers bloom, as the trees wave and the plants giggle in their greenish state of glee, we become one with nature, we complete a cycle of revival, a cycle of suffering and happiness, a celebration of life and nature.

It is this very nature that revives us when we seem to sleep, ignorant of all that we need to know. It is this nature that incites our curiosity, sprinkles upon us the innocence of a child, showering us with love and yet at the same time, creating in us the urge to discover all, to seek the truth, to seek the mystery of the universe and our very existence.

Human beings rule the earth and the skies today. This power comes to us because we are inherently born with a gift, a blessing, we have the capability to be humane. Humanity does not come from being a human, but from being humane, so it is with this love and blessing that we should keep striving to complete more cycles in communion with nature, learn more, seek more and reach where we need to reach.

It was this desire to be humane, to be of service and thus seek the truth which made a little girl born somewhere in Albania, travel far to India, to Calcutta, and serve the dying, to serve the diseased and the poor. She became Mother Theresa for the world. The freshness with which we all recieve nature`s announcement of impending rain, was not hugely different from the warmth with which she recieved the poor, sick and dying. Because she saw in them nature again, she saw in them, the plants, flowers, birds and all the other beautiful things that make up the world.

Yesterday, I saw a group of blind people walking on the streets. All of them were blind and held each other`s hands and shoulders and walked as a group. They were singing as they walked slowly along the crowded road. They sang in one voice, in one spirit, with such feeling, that they were quite a sight to watch. Even in their blindness they could see their friends, they could see the world through their collective voice and combined strength.

We are even more blessed than they, and we might not even require to hold a friend`s hand, but we can surely lend a hand, and perhaps be part of a collective voice, combine our strengths, seek truth, be humane and love nature.

I didn`t know what to write, but there was this urge to let go, to stop and reflect in this journey as i reach my hundredth post(milestone). To stop and think about how I will seek my strengths, my truth.!, so forgive me for the sermonizing tone, (if any) it happened unconsciously.

Tears of Mother Earth.

2007-06-05T14:35:00.000+05:30

It`s World Environment Day.! What`s the big deal.? So many such days come and go by. We don`t really either celebrate them or observe them as required, then why now.?

. Because this day could now be the best possible reminder for us about what we need to do to save our home, which we haven`t stopped to clean and nurture as we should be doing.

. Today I came across this page about some places in India, which have been grossly affected by our lack of appropriate discipline or sense of responsibility. This day must serve to remind us that this list must not get better, must not get worser.

. One of the most difficult and citical problems is the huge amounts of waste we produce, and our visibly evident inability to process them. At Calicut, I remember how I heard and later saw a famous plot of ground. Famous, it was because the land could no longer be inhabited. All the waste, from homes, industries, hospitals were dumped upon this piece of poor earth. The effect was simply devastating to say the least. The whole ground, and the sky above turned black, spreading a very foul odour and sickening to the stomach. How would poor Mother Earth alone bear this.?

. She`s dying, and in return for all she`s given us, like how we would look after our own mother if she was not doing well, we must look after mother earth too. In many ways this day is more important than Mother`s Day, because this is Mother Earth`s Day, a day to remind us that we must nurse the mother of all mothers back to health.

Why I Sleep

2007-05-28T13:57:00.000+05:30

Pic, by David Primer

Where do you run in such a hurry?
To the embracing arms of god,
Or to relish a feast, spread by the lord
Is there someone there to ferry?
To another bank of this mad river.

"Going Home", you say, and I stare
"What is home?", I've never known
"What do you do there?", I seek by my own
"It`s night!, I am going to sleep"
I died in laughter that day and my life long.

Slept, I have all this life, right here
On this solid ground, slept in peace.
No lack of mirth, in my hungry soul
No lack of bruises, on my lonely body
And, Slept I have in peace, right here.

"Why on the streets?", you demand to know
"Help yourselves", you seem to say
"Why, Where and How?", my eyes plead
Do you have the time to show me the way?
Poor Helpless soul, you simply walk away.

I roam by day, in search of shady trees
In between these huge palaces of stone
A shady place to sleep time and sun away
and then return to that old cold stone.
And to dream, looking at the mocking stars.

The sun slowly peeps at me, smiling
and I naughtily show my back to him
The world starts running around quickly
And tries to wake me up, but in vain
All I know and have, is my sleep galore.

These few lines, for those homeless friends, who sleep on the streets, these few lines, for our helplessness on seeing them. These few lines for their prayers and our reasons.

A Tag to Wake Up.!

2007-05-23T17:17:00.001+05:30

It hasn`t really been a conscious break from blogging, but was rather unable to find the time, to really sit and write something. When you have very little space up there in your mind, it is tough to squeeze in some time to think and write. Well!, that`s just what`s been happening to me.

Luckily, I have a tag to break the ice. Alex has just done it again.

I have to simply take a book, turn to page 123 and reproduce the fifth paragraph here. Well it`s as simple as that.! But Alas!, no book here.. Hmm.. Let`s see.. I have a lot of soft copies of books. Some well known and some lesser known.

I open one book by one. Some don`t have 123 pages, so i keep looking, which is not what the tag says. and after all books; I have many this way, so why not keep searching.

Ahh..ah. a book which has more than 123 pages. Good!. and perhaps not good enough. There are no paragraphs. It`s just one stretch of writing, something like how i used to write my exams!.

So i keep searching... and there I find another one. But the paragraph is just one line, and makes no meaning at all. Putting that up would be the most lame thing to do.. How can I do that.?

I keep opening and closing, opening and closing. Hmm.. at last, there i have it. It is not quite the 5th paragraph, but at least it`s on page 123.

The book is called "Why my wife thinks I am an Idiot", and it`s written by a genius called Mike Greenberg.
You don`t believe me..? Well then just look at what he says here...

You see, I’ve realized that the only answer is just to acknowledge defeat. Stop trying to fight it. Stop trying to say anything at a time when even silence may not save you. There is no answer, boys, and the sooner we make peace with that, the sooner we may actually find peace. The answer is to punt, even if you think it’s still first down. See if your defense can win it for you.

Now that`s what I call understanding of human psyche.!

Yippee..! A tag completed and a new post, done!.

and on my part, I also tag, Keshi, Hip Grandma, Starry, Sreejith and Kakshi

Lost, Times Apart

2007-04-04T15:44:00.000+05:30

With rounded breasts concealed by cloth of bark
Fastened at the shoulder in a fine knot
Her youthful form enfolded like a flower
In it`s pale beauty sheath unfolds not it`s glory

"Wow!. Kalidasa`s a genius!", exclaimed Sanjay. His face was bright with excitement as he motioned towards his roommate and friend Jeevan. Jeevan came over and looked at the book and read a few lines.

"No.. not really worthy of praise", he remarked. Sanjay could not hold back a frown. "You know what.? Kalidasa must have been a pretty normal guy. What is more important is that he must have had some really heavenly looking women around him in those times, and thus the inspiration."

"Jeevan it`s not funny..!. I`m amazed, by these verses", replied Sanjay.

"I`m being pretty serious here. Just think about it. If Kalidasa were in our generation, and if we were to take him to one of these malls and show him all those girls in Tee-shirts and Jeans, do you think he will be writing poetry..? He would mostly have been a software engineer rather writing code in C and C++. Haa haa..!". Jeevan was besides himself with laughter. He always had this strange habit of laughing at his own jokes. Even stranger was the fact that he went and looked at the mirror while laughing.

But Sanjay wasn't listening. He looked rather lost in another world of his own. He kept reading those beautiful words and verses, getting transported to a totally different realm.

Her cheeks grow thin; her breast and shoulders fail;
Her waist is weary and her face is pale:
She fades for love; oh, pitifully sweet!
As vine-leaves wither in the scorching heat.

It was sometime before he remarked, "You know what, Jeevan. I think I am in love with Shakuntala.!"

This time, there was no response from Jeevan, because he was already snoring. Sanjay smiled, looking at his friend and went back to reading the book. He didn't even realize that the book fell from his hand and that he himself had fallen deep in sleep.

All was silent as the night moved on over the town, concealing it with it`s cloak of darkness.

*~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~*

It wasn't night actually, though it was pretty dark. The sun was still reluctant to bid goodbye to earth and kept holding it in it`s shiny embrace. But Raja Meghanatha could not feel the pleasure of twilight. The towering trees in the forest over which different vines hung around enclosing it like a protective sheath, the light rays of twilight were cruelly denied permission from entering the ground beneath them.

Hunting had always been an excellent pastime and the king had a great reputation of being an immense power in bringing peace to the forests and the sages, ridding the dark woods of demons and dangerous beasts. However, today he had gone too far in chasing that beautiful gazelle and in time had gone very far away from his retinue of soldiers and attendants.

His tongue was parched and his body trembled with hunger and fatigue. He smiled at the irony of events that a king so powerful as himself who delivered prosperity to thousands of his subjects was today at the mercy of the all-pervading lord for survival.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of small bells. As he struggled and heaved himself onto the nearest tree, he saw that heavenly woman, who dressed in hermit clothes was tenderly plucking flowers. Her every movement so graceful, accompanied with the bells that tinkled on the girdle that adorned her slender waist. The movement so magical that he almost mistook it for an unearthly vision of the great lord`s cosmic dance. Her slender arms and that vibrant, peaceful face glowing with radiance and piety in that otherwise dark jungle evoked complete awe and fascination in his mind.

Her, very presence and gentle touch seemed to awaken the sleepy reclining plants and the trees around with mystic grace. His eyes were transfixed upon her, his mind forgetting to seek help, his body forgetting all fatigue and pain.

The cups of flowers, she has just plucked
Have not as yet sealed themselves
and these tender shoots, broken off
are still moist with their milky sap.

He could only look on as she walked ahead and soon was lost from his sight. He cursed his tongue, which failed to call out. But then, he himself had failed or rather lost himself to that holy woman. Who could he blame.?

His legs failed him, and with great difficulty, he shed himself of his headgear and bow and arrow and crawled and heaved himself in the direction, where the woman had left that prominent trail of footprints, along his path to salvation.

Upon moving himself in that painful and strange way, for what seemed to him, like generations, he finally reached a clearing. There was a thatched hut, with trees all around, with the fragrance of incense and sandalwood welcoming him. He reached up to the entrance of the hut and peered inside. And, there she sat that same woman, he had seen before. She was in meditation and he was dumbfounded again, by the beautiful picture of peace and auspiciousness, she painted upon the natural canvas of her surroundings.

After some time, he gathered himself to call her for help, but his body failed him again, his vision was blurred and in this dizzying state, he fell down unconscious.

*~~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~~~*

He felt the warmth of the morning sun, filtering on to his body, and slowly he opened his eyes. It was 10`o clock in the morning. He looked at his cell phone. There were 8 missed calls, five from his office and three from Jeevan. Jeevan, it seemed had already left. Sanjay slowly sat up and tried to stop feeling drowsy.

And then suddenly out of the blue it struck him.! He had gone up to the hermitage, he had seen her, he had felt intense love for that divine woman, he had felt the pain in his body. He remembered falling down. What had happened..? His head started aching as he tried to see that picture again in his mind, in vain.

And then the phone rung. He picked it up. It was Jeevan!.

“Get up Lazy Goose!. I've been getting royal enquiries from your office for quite some time now.. Get up, go to office and ask that teammate of yours, never to call me again.!”, barked Jeevan. He hung up sometime later.

Sanjay slowly went about getting ready, but the thought of that dream or rather experience never left his mind at ease. He folded his bedspread and arranged the pillows, and then his eyes fell on the book. He opened it and read out a verse.

Now that the moon has set, the pool of moon-lotuses
Delights not my eye –
her beauty is but a memory
The grief of women left alone when loved
ones
Travel far are beyond measure hard to bear

He was suddenly grief stricken. So that was it. He had fallen in love, with that women of his dreams. His one love was trapped in another dimension, where he could not reach, and the pain he now felt in his heart was the pain of separation, the pain of longing and the agony of loneliness.

The phone rung again. It was from his office this time. His teammate Vinay almost shouted in to the phone.
"Sanjay, you've got to be here. This release is crucial and we've got to ship it by tonight. Just be here man.!", he pleaded.

Sanjay still had the book in his hand. He kept leafing through the pages, in search of his love, in search of peace of mind, and then he saw those lines.

Required to perform duties in places
Widely separated, I am in two
minds
Like a river that strikes a hill in mid course
And forced back parts
into streams

He realized his dilemma. He was lost in two places, his soul not deriving peace from both. Putting aside the book, he slumped down on the bed, and then he bent down and cried.

The phone started ringing again. It just kept ringing.

Verses taken from translations of Kalidasa`s AbhijnanaShakuntalam by Chandra Rajan - "The Loom of Time", Arthur Ryder.

Pics - Courtesy, Paintings of Raja Ravi Verma.

3 things to let know.

2007-04-02T17:50:00.001+05:30

Yes..! I have three things to let know. First thing is of course that I`ve again been mercilessly tagged by Sreejith. This guy is just not going to let me rest..! :-)

Secondly, I have not been active on the blogosphere recently. Well!, there is currently a lot of change happening in my professional life and my mind does not have the necessary space in terms of time and energy to really post/comment. So forgive me about that.. Will be back soon and kicking..! There`s no permanent goodbye to blogging on the cards at all.

Thirdly, Wish you all a great time.. Keep Dropping by and blogging yourselves..!

... and, now the taG.

Three things that scare me

* Big Rats, Centipedes and Heights.

Three people who make me laugh

* Charlie Chaplin

* Jagathy Sreekumar

* A big group of teasing friends

Three things I love

* Poetry

* A Good Movie

* A Good Dose of Sleep

Three things I hate

* An Unnecessary Crowd

* Over the top Restriction of Freedom.

* A Dilemma :-)

Three things I don't understand

* Why good things dont last forever

* How Time moves so slow, when you want it to move fast

* Where we will reach at the end of it all.

Three things I am doing now

* A lot of thinking

* Listening to "Sivaji" Music

* Searching for a new Desktop Picture.. Everything except working..!:)

Three things I want to do before I die

* Write a book of poems and stories..!

* Speak at a public gathering

* Lend my full fledged hand to a social cause.

Three things I can do

* Dream a Lot.!

* Talk to some friend anytime

* Eat beyond my limits..!

Three things you should listen to

* Soulful Music

* Voices of Children

* Opinions of Elders

Three things you should never listen to

* Something bad about a third person

* Sycophancy

* Anything demotivating

Three things I'd like to learn
* To ride a bike

* To moonwalk

* Photography

Three favourite books

Narrowing down my favourite books to three would be injustice so let`s make it three recent books, i`ve read.
* Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts

* Godan, by Premchand

* The Argumentative Indian, by Amartya Sen

Three favourite foods

* Idiyappam with Ishtu!

* Masala Dosa

* Kadai Chicken

Three beverages I drink regularly

* Light Coffee

* Iced Tea

* Tender Coconut Water

Three TV shows/books I watched/read when I was kid

* Ramanand Sagar`s Ramayana (T.V Serial )

* Tintin, By Herge

* Chandamama

And finally I tag three of my good friends, who painfully seem to have suddenly shut off from the blogosphere, in the hope that they return... I tag,

Maya, Gaurav and Scribblez.

The Sea and Beyond

2007-03-07T11:17:00.000+05:30

In those moments of truthful silence

With deepest desires, eyes filled

Of passion, of treading the world hence

Life seems still, as courage is instilled.

Unlike an obstacle, the waves really charm

The salty breeze seems so hard to resist

Will they hug me and set my mind at calm ?

Or will I drift away, like the sand from my fist ?

Far ahead, I see a ship set sail

As the birds make a ruckus, much like the waves

From the sea, shall be born a great tale

Else the road lies dark to long forgotten graves

The lonely wave grows really tall

My thoughts they are, my life they make

In drenched glory, I yearn to see it all

Or is this just a mirage for my earthy sake ?

The ship moves afar as the sun sets to sleep

In my blindness, do I see nature taunt?

My legs in the sand, are down pretty deep

Will I conquer the calm blue sea, and everything beyond ?

Threat to Security, Or Democracy ?

2007-03-05T14:27:00.000+05:30

Naxalism, or the Naxalite Movement is heralded as the biggest internal security threat to the nation, by the honourable prime minister, Mr. Manmohan Singh. Perhaps it is, considering the brutal killings of political leaders across the nation. Newspaper headlines scream of the recent killings of M.P Sunil Mahto in Jharkand, a separate congress party leader in Andhra Pradesh, the brutality of the killing of villagers in Chhattisgarh.

Violence is never a means to an end and fighting of this kind should be against the enemies who are out to kill you, or to invade you, not against your neighbour or brother who is committing a mistake. Now this is a touchy issue, because ultimately when I write this I am aware that I have never been directly affected by those whom they are fighting against. But ultimately the truth is their efforts or struggle so to say, has not brought collective good upon the nation.

Now, there is reason enough to admit that politicians are primarily responsible for creating discontent and frustration among people. When we hear of figures like a hundred crores, being spent for the functioning of the parliament, with only 85 days in a year, when they actually sit to work there. So ideally when someone raises commotion over silly issues and stalls proceedings, the nation loses 1 crore rupees in a day. Isn't that alone enough to cause irritation among the downtrodden or the labourer community.

The 'labourer' community specifically being mentioned here because naxalism is a violent and revolutionary offspring of the communist ideology and sadly this movement is growing much more rapidly, in fact achieving more than what the Communist party in it`s peaceful version has stood to achieve in India.

Violence v/s Non-Violence

Very evidently right from our freedom movement onwards there have been conflicting ideologies. The Nationalist movement which sought to peaceful means of protest headed by stalwarts like Gopal Krishna Gokhale, followed by Mahatma Gandhi and so on. On the other hand, we had the extremist movement which had great heroes like Lokmanya Tilak, Lala Lajpat Rai, Bhagat Singh and the charismatic leader Subhash Chandra Bose. But it would be very wrong if I were to be inspired from the violent form of protest they made and justify it for naxalism today.

Both their struggles had a common goal and the welfare of the common man of India in mind. It was not a matter of whether you were doing a right thing or a wrong thing, but whether you were doing it for the right/wrong reasons. Their reasons were right, and to comment upon the things they did then is not of relevance today.

The Fundamental Question

The fundamental question, we have in minds is of course about who they are a threat to ? Is it a threat to security ?

Yes! it is.! It is these kinds of movements and guerrilla warfare that led to the devastation in countries like Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan or Srilanka for example, so it is a security threat.

So the truth is, ultimately the common man of India will have to bear the brunt, no matter which side wins.

Now to return to the question, it is an even bigger threat to Democracy or the present form of the government. It is a challenge and war cry against democracy.

Democracy should be a government of the people for the people, but the situation is sadly where we have today a government of the political class for and by the industrial class. There are reforms announced for the rural sectors, for the unemployed youth but the deep loopholes in the implementation will surely cause unrest in any nation.

It is a red signal from the red corridor that it is time, democracy seeks to cleanse itself and thereby oust such a movement. The Government needs to take stringent steps towards elimination of naxalism, but it should not start with an iron hand. It should start by first cleansing itself of it`s ills, and then seek to reform these misled, mostly tribal youth and address their concerns . The government would do well to slow down on aggressive steps such as land acquisition and granting of SEZ`s or at least take care not to do so at the cost of other sectors like agriculture or other cottage industries and by hurting local sentiments.

In a government which allocates ninety six thousand crore rupees for defence, it remains to be seen how much of it will get used to solve these internal problems. Because if it does not, tomorrow Naxalism could grow into terrorism. Civil War will not be far away.

This whole issue requires to be treated with sensitivity and an equal rate of alarm. With sensitivity, because they are mostly people of the farms and forests who have been wronged and with alarm, because their armies are recently regularly marching out from their forest hideouts.

As taxpayers and voters, we have a right to raise these concerns or to make it more pressing it is our duty to do so.

The Secret in the Attic.!

2007-03-02T12:59:00.000+05:30

In a normal young boy`s mind, anything dark and eerie is not just scary. It is also his need, his complete fantasy and the answer to his quest for adventure, for he sees in it an opportunity to explore, an occasion to become an hero and perhaps discover deep secrets of the past.

I was once this normal young boy, who often went dreamy eyed to his ancestral house in kerala, with a great craving for that discovery in the most darkest and dangerous corners of the house looking for secret doors and traps, hidden treasures, or documents with details of unknown property. There is no limit to a child`s imagination. The stories read, the tales and experiences heard from elders are often the main fodder for this great exercise of the mind and body.

In that huge ancestral house, there was a place of primary interest though. It was called the ' Thattumpuram', in other words, the attic, where there were old furniture, books, plenty of dust and above all, a multitude of stories linked to it. Unnerving stories of ghosts, murders and scheming spirits which were embedded in it`s walls and were ready to throw stones at you. It only took a gentle breeze to knock down something, and this normal young boy and his band of pirates and explorers would shriek and scream in unison and rush downstairs.

The stories and secrets remained smiling in the dark...

Years passed and time kept rolling and the once young boy was now in his college reading things much more advanced or rather suiting his age as his friends had instructed him to. One fine day, he however did walk up to the attic, just to look around. He wasn't scared, nor was he intimidated by the dark walls and once heard stories. However nostalgia is a strange feeling. One tends to relive the past, and so he kept walking around, looking at things.

And then he saw that beautiful thing, an added surprise which set his heart light. There upon a small ledge below the roof of tiles sat this wonderful creature, a pretty barn owl, with it`s cute eyes closed as if sitting in penance.

The attic had done it again, It had performed magic once again for his uninterested soul. He brought all the children of the house and showed them his discovery, happy in looking at their smiling faces, admonishing them, when they made a noise. But children make a noise and there is no known solution for stopping that, because their excitement, is something the world stops to relish.

The barn owl flew away in a few days, leaving the attic behind. Children however kept rushing there every day awaiting the visit of the barn owl. They knew he would come. Their wise big brother had assured them that it would.

Years still kept rolling, time never stopping to wait.

The once young child had by then, grown up into a young man, ready to face life in all seriousness, ready to bear the strain of all family responsibilities and prove himself worthy of his difficult upbringing. He had no time to spare and was always busy with his life, but certain encounters are preplanned by nature and there`s nothing one can do about it.

And so one fine day, this young man found himself at the same ancestral house again and as if by effect of some unearthly interference he found himself walking up to that dark attic again. He felt stupid for doing so, but like we already discussed nostalgia is a strange feeling. He found himself searching for something..

perhaps for hidden treasures, perhaps for a barn owl in penance..

or perhaps he was just seeking to rediscover the child in him, to relive the past and become that normal young child again.

I can only tell you that he left in tears...

In Style, truly Mine...

2007-02-28T11:50:00.002+05:30

Style is a beautiful word. I discovered this after I got tagged by the one and only Hip Grandma.

She has asked me to write about ten things that define my style, and it is then that I discovered that in every person`s style there is an identity, there is a self realization and a craving for one`s inherent dreams.

So I look at my self and set out on an exercise in finding out the things, which I really feel define me a lot, or rather are in sync with my 'style'.

* The Black Umbrella - I usually feel very uncomfortable walking outside if my hands are empty, so I take care to take something in my hands, and most often it is my umbrella, and a black one at that.! My friends at times even tease me, that I am being a typical Malayali, but the truth is it defines me. I never open it, but the memories of my grandfather and the other old people at my native place walking majestically with a long black umbrella in their hands, it really gives me a rooted feeling.

* Old Photographs - Old, in the sense very old. Photographs are reminiscent of a time period, a happening. They have character and stand testimony to those golden ages. They can be sad, they can be happy or naughty, proud and damp, but they retain that one value. They are true and remain so and I love them, especially, the black and white ones.

* Rain - Yes!, just rain. A rainy day, looking outside the windows, watching those raindrops trickle down from the trees and rocks. I truly feel liberated on a rainy day. In essence I feel a rain is a gift from nature and there is an element of divinity in it. The nature of gifting and blessing, the urge to help and nurture.

* Food - Now wasn't that simple.? Yes I love food. I simply cannot bear to waste a single morsel. Eating, is something which defines me. I am not good at cooking, though. Maybe that's not part of my style.

* Travel - I am not much of a traveler, but whatever small journeys I go on, I try my best to make it a great experience. After all, Man will take some time to go beyond earth and conquer space. Until then we only have the earth to roam around.

* Lonely Mountain - The lonely mountain, with no mountains nearby. Looking majestic, yet solemn and sober. Looking down at the world around, with a kind of peace and sense of total satisfaction. I think that defines my style. I would like to be like that mountain, detached yet completely near, completely noticed from everywhere silently.

* Laughter - I love to have a good laugh. To laugh hard until my stomach hurts. It is a momentary state of bliss, which I truly love. I remember how once while in college, we used to break into a fit of laughter impromptu without reason enjoying it thoroughly. My laugh is a goofy kind of laughter. I get teased about it, and then I laugh again.

* The Hare and Tortoise Story - When I first learned this story as a child, someone asked me, what I would want to be. I said I want to be both. I like both of them. I like doing things fast like the hare and the innocence of the tortoise. I generally like tortoises anyway.. and to top it all I liked the story very much.

* Water - The great scientist Ramanujam described water as the elixir of life. He couldn't have described it better. I love water. To drink, bath and swim in this wonderful elixir of life. It`s ability to purify itself is something which truly inspires. Water defines me.

* Writing - Yes, finally writing is something which defines my style and personality. I may not be good at it, but still keep going on and on. I remember since my school days I have been writing poems and stories. Most of them are downright bad. In fact most of my earlier posts on this blog are rubbish. But still I like them, because writing is something close to my heart. It defines my style.

I am going to tag Lera, Vishesh, Sunil, Sreejith and Seema for this one. Come on!, Show us your style.

A Saga of Disagreement

2007-02-21T11:14:00.000+05:30

Two born enemies may reconcile with each other, and so can two bitter brothers, but not if there are foreign interests who need to keep the bitterness strong, to keep the fire of hatred and betrayal burning.

A nation is not made by boundaries, not made by languages, or religion for that matter. It is the people who make a nation. So when the common man of both Hindustan and Pakistan have no strong reasons of enmity with each other, then how come there is this disruption every time, we take a step forward as two nations, as two brothers hand in hand.

Who wreaked such havoc upon these people`s lives. ? The train is ironically named 'Samjhauta', meaning Agreement, but there is a sense of disagreement somewhere. Where does it lie? Surely not in the minds of the common man. Not in the minds of the leaders of the nations, going by the trouble they take to have peace talks at least. Then where..?

I truly found my voice in Sagarika Ghose`s post. She has written a brilliant piece about the bonding found on this wonderful train.

The last word of our journey thus belonged to Syed Yakoob, a tele-marketing operator:

"All those rich people who go to seminars and talks on India-Pakistan peace, why don't they actually travel by the Samjhauta Express to see what India-Pakistan peace is really about?"

Truly there is peace. There is bonding, there is love and brotherhood, but where the disagreement comes from is still beyond my understanding. It is still beyond the knowledge of the common man, who knows best to silently suffer, whenever he is grossly wronged. He fights and moves on with his life, wondering when this saga of disagreement started and when and how it will end.

My Sparrow Friend

2007-02-02T12:57:00.000+05:30

Where are you, my little feathered friend?
My hands, full of your favourite grain
Fly down here, before my time will end
Fly to my balcony, before it does rain.

Twig by twig, where did you take away?
Is your cozy nest all ready and done?
On the guava tree, alight, perch and sway
Accept your share and we gladly run

So different, are the lives we lead
And yet the same, in more ways than one
With a smiling tweet, little stomachs you feed
In the small puddles, you bathe in the sun

In a rush, you suddenly come, flying down
And beckon with your hungry little beak
Amidst your meal, at my face you peep
And happily say, “Chirrup! Chirrup, Cheep! Cheep! ”

Amidst the Flames

2007-01-30T18:59:00.000+05:30

Fire! Fire! , Fire Everywhere
Hungry and at rage, my life does it seek
What is it that I fear more?
The raging fire or my loss of words to speak

In my thoughtful utopia, free birds fly
Reality has cast chains, will they ever break?
Should my duties lead me, or for my rights; cry
At crossroads, what remains is one path to take.

Learnt, I have of battles won and lost
Is it the fear of the eventual loss?
Or the mere reluctance before the battle-cry
At dusk, wherever I stand, my eyes shan’t be dry

Drowsy in gloom, yet I know that I must move
I know I might just burn up in the flames
Amidst all pain, my soul smiles and says
“I am so glad you never ran away”

Divinity on Earth

2007-01-21T16:24:00.000+05:30

There are different kinds of values, different kinds of virtues, that we see in this world. We like all of them. But there is this one virtue that is truly powerful and leaves us overpowered by emotion. That is truly forgiveness.

It is forgiveness which binds humanity strongly despite all the bloodshed, spite and violence , which we have silently witnessed and endured. When someone wrongs you, our first and most humane instinct is to fight back, but it takes a brave man or woman to let go and forgive. It is this noble virtue of all virtues that keeps the world going on and on.

Unknowingly or knowingly we wrong a lot of people. We do not really even know at times of the other person`s existence at all, yet it happens. And the most important part is that we get forgiven a lot. Both are blessed, the forgiving and the forgiven.

It was recently while reading about Mother Theresa, I came across this interesting anecdote. Mother Theresa, once while walking in the streets of Bengal, saw in a garbage dump, an old woman, with barely any clothes, left there to die. Her face had been half eaten already by ants and rats. There was just that small tidbit of life left hanging in her body with hope.

Mother Theresa brought the lady to her home for the Dying and nursed her and prayed for her. She found out that the lady had been thrown there by her own son. In those last moments, before her tormented soul left her body, she was asked to pray to the lord and to forgive her son, by mother. She, with tears in her eyes said, "I forgive my son, my child I love him, Thank You", and then passes away.

What really struck me most about the story was how the lady seemed to regain some peace and happiness in her broken heart as she became one with divinity in those moments of forgiveness. The truth is forgiveness is not at all easy. It is not practical and hence it is the most apt example of being a divine virtue. We, as humans have never been able to forgive, be it in the form of riots, or in the form of capital punishment, we seek our revenge with a monstrous passion, which is frightening.

Therefore in every moment of our life, we come across these situations, where we just cannot keep quiet, we fight with our brothers, with our sisters, our society. Our mind has not been capable of maturing with the ages. But Life always seems most colourful and full of hope in those rare moments where we witness some divine act of forgiveness. These incidents are few and far but they do exist. Let us learn to forgive. It is surely the right path towards that which we seek in our quest to completion of meaning for our lives. Forgiveness is truly a work of art. Let us become those great artists who can paint those masterful strokes of forgiveness upon our lives, thereby crafting portraits of divinity upon earth for the generations to come and learn.

To preach is not what I yearn for. Just making a mental note of those small things which I learn from life, which I hope to note down and share.

Silent Valley

2007-01-15T17:34:00.000+05:30

Like the small flowers of green thick hills

With fragrance, did her words; bloom

Wild yet passionate in love, are the tribal's

So was hers, for them and theirs

Sad was her heart, at the jungle's ruin

Starved was her pen, of any words

To the children, she lent a voice, therein

To save the jungle, her poetry and birds

While planting seeds, with hope they croon

Cast your magic, of life, dearest monsoon

As the clouds poured, and lent some life

To life, the jungle sprang, and they all sang

Like the mother herself, she nursed and cared

Days later, the deers came smiling

For lifetimes, shall the tribals sing, her praise

Her story of life, her pen; still flowing.

This is a small tribute to noted Malayalam poetess and social activist, PadmaShri SugathaKumari, who through her beautiful gems of poetry, refreshed the love for forests and also organized the Adivasi people into infusing life once again into the once dead forest at Attapady, in Kerala. These words are dedicated as a mark of respect for her efforts in bringing back the forests.

I wish to thank, noted writer and good friend, Scharada Bail, through whose book,"Icons of Social Change", I came to know of this extraordinary work of this great poetess, who has also won the Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award.

P.S: This is to inform all blogger friends, that due to a new internet usage policy at my workplace, I have been deprived of access to blogger, to write new posts and comment on other wonderful posts in the blogosphere, and also to reply to your most encouraging and inspiring comments. I shall not be capable of blogging as frequently as I had or rather desperately want to, but shall always be reading your blogs. Please remember, I shall always be there, just an email away.

Changing Identities.

2007-01-11T17:48:00.000+05:30

At times the wayside onlooker joins a group of people. The group of people, all strangers to him, but still he walks along with them, his head held high in pride, enjoying those few moments of self given importance. The group finally reaches a junction, where they take one way, leaving the onlooker at crossroads. His moment of transient importance is now over. he wanders about and becomes an onlooker again.

The onlooker in question is not on the roads anymore but, now everywhere we see them in our lives. In essence all comrades leaning left in India are in a way such onlookers or they have been reduced to that effect due to certain grave ideological differences in the way the common good was perceived. Communism itself has had a number of stages of change according to the people who patronized this struggle or revolution for "Common Ownership" of the means of production. The ideas and thoughts changed each times according to the then current need, right from Lenin to Stalin, Karl Marx to Mao Zedong, Trotsky and so on. That should only improve the basic ideology but that has seriously suffered at least in the case of India.

Take, for instance the Singur issue in West Bengal. It is an important step, which a surprisingly progressive CPI government took, for the industrialization of West Bengal which was suffering due to lack of investment, and issues of unemployment. This step which could have been a breakthrough found opposition from farmers, the very farmers who are supposed to be represented by this party, with the Sickle in their flags. With some members within the government and the party themselves opposing the move, the comrades of India suffered a major identity crisis. Either they had to be for development or upliftment of the poor, but Singur is in the very sense, a perfect deadlock.

It is at this stage that we ask ourselves why did Communism fail in India while it could catapult China`s position aggressively. Where is it that Indian Communism failed? Are there no dynamic thinkers left or is it totally in a mess. The truth is that we learned the lesson wrongly. We forgot that with "Common Ownership" there comes "Common Responsibility" as well. We forgot that work is the primary identity and that ideology comes afterwards. This is perhaps best illustrated in the situation in Kerala, which despite having the highest literacy rate and good living conditions is still dependent on rubber and tourism to make a mark of it`s contribution to the entire nation. The reason, is of course simple, because they romanticized the revolutionist aspect of Communism. The primary identity of a farmer or a labourer was pushed backstage.

Now this is not merely a political rant and neither is it that I abhor Communism. It is plainly that often the beauty of thought and ideals is lost in it`s application and Communism in India serves as a perfect example. The trend of changing or rather losing identities is seen even in the case of Social Activism. There is no more that silent persistent movement for social change as in the likes of Mahashweta Devi or Aruna Roy. Today instead we have Medha Patkar who first claimed her identity with the cause of Narmada Valley. She has been seen everywhere and has been leading these people all this while through protests and hunger strikes, but do we see a positive development of the issue?. When the media ultimately lost interest in the same, she now runs over to Singur to lead the farmers there against the government. So what will happen to the Valley and it`s people. Are their troubles over now or is it because the camera men have left Narmada ?.

As long as there are issues there are people swarming in to spearhead their campaign, but how many of them really make a difference or are they too mere onlookers who sense this sudden opportunity to shine in their moment of glory. This is again not to discourage people who have a genuine intention of making a difference, but show us the difference first, hit the headlines later.!

There is no dearth of problems in India. There are farmer suicides in Punjab, there is the ULFA attacks in Assam and the list goes on. We do not need onlookers, in search of temporary identity, we need the grass root workers. We need land for the farmers, work for the labourers. Once they find their primary identity, the problems shall disappear by themselves. On the contrary if they selflessly lose their identity to provide an identity, a claim to recognition for these so called 'activists' or politicians there shall remain no winner eventually.

A Moment of Need.

2007-01-08T15:11:00.000+05:30

Art Print By Richard Hall, pic courtesy allposters.com

As human beings part of this great truth called Life, this great reality called the universe, we are all part of a perhaps pre-planned routine of nature, where we do our duties, do our time and then wait for the truth and reality to envelope us into it`s fold, thereby making us immortal or leaving us satisfied that there has been a lending of meaning to our otherwise seemingly monotonous lives. We may have faltered, or grown strong and yet we still do yearn for that something, that something which will drive us with great passion towards a new dawn during every sunrise.

After 25 years of life on earth I can sense, my mind struggling in a state of restlessness and agitation. I wouldn`t really call it a quarter life crisis, rather a sudden moment of anxiousness trying to make meaning out of these 25 years. I realize that I need more. I need that something which can stimulate my passion for life.

What is it that I need more and why do I need it, is what I am seeking to find and discover, and the first place, I am going to look for these answers is within myself. This new year, as usual, I made no resolutions, but it`s not because I am perfect or have done wholesome things, but because I need some guidance, I need some relief from the pace of this routine. I need some dead moments in which I can plan and draw out things and travel with that soul of mine. I do not know whether I will be successful but there is this patience in me to persevere.

It is a moment of need, not just for me as an individual, but for the greater fabric of society as well, and I trace my identity in a comparison of my challenges, with the greater challenges of the society on the whole. It is a new year, but has it been happy around the world. Let us look at India itself for example, as we start this year we are already witness to the most brutal and inhuman aspect of the human mind, in the context of Noida Killing or be it the incidents of abduction or violence against children reported at several places.

Where to, we are moving together as a society is the most dreaded question rising in our minds. We might not have water, we might not have forests, wildlife, farmland in the near future, but more frightening is the situation wherein we are not sure whether there will be any kind of humanity left in human beings. We talk about economic development alone, we talk about conservation of nature, but will there come a stage where mankind has to start the process of conservation and purification of the human mind, with moral values and humanity as a virtue. Will the need arise for a global and universal social and spiritual revolution. Only change is permanent and in the hope that things will change for the common good, I continue my search for sense of completion, a quest for the meaning and reasoning of this wonderful earthly existence.

Season`s Greetings.!

2006-12-21T09:30:00.000+05:30

Pic Couresy : bigfoto.com

Wishing all of you a very Merry Christmas, and a heartwarming Prosperous New Year.! It has been an eventful year 2006. I have felt jubilant, have felt sad at times, have even felt funny or alone, but thanks for being with me to keep my spirits up. Thanks for keeping me waiting for that one single beautiful comment, which made my day every day of the year. As I prepare to take a short vacation, from work, from the world of blogs, I wish you all a great colourful time, with plentiful season`s cheers.!

Let us celebrate the birth of a new dawn, a new day, with a prayer that all may be happy, all may enjoy this glorious new year 2007 throughout this world.

Discovered Alone.

2006-12-14T19:30:00.000+05:30

Tall are the trees, they whistle and sway
Long lies the path, lonely and grey
Painful is the thirst, “Will I walk today ?”
Life keeps you strong, let us pray

The peak lies high, upon the brown cliff
Grown, I have just a foothill tall
Hungry and Tired, “Will my hands remain stiff ?”
Look at the peak, love it and forget all.

Lonely, I stand as the world moves afar
I was loved, in those days, happy and warm
Forgotten and untouched, “Will I blend again as par?”
Sleep to the tunes of time, as the world regains calm

Reached, I have far, yet struggles remain dark
Dreams uncared, elusive horizon is my fate
Hope springs alive yet, “Who are you?”, I ask.
I am your inner voice, your soul my dear mate

Scripted in Stone

2006-12-12T18:59:00.000+05:30

It was one January morning in Chennai while I was going home, that I noticed this tall statue on the side of the road. I was really impressed by the power the statue seemed to emanate from it`s body language, it`s mere stance which seemed to speak volumes, and yet, I was not knowledgeable then as to who the lady was and what she represented.

It was months later that I came to know and read 'Silappadhikaram', the brilliant epic, by Ilango Adigal. In India, everywhere we see a lot of statues everywhere, be it of old British Viceroys or be it of gallant freedom fighters or poets, but it is not often that we come across a mythological figure or rather a historically unconfirmed figure who has been honoured with a statue. In that respect the Kannagi statue is something deeply symbolic and central to Tamil culture.

The chastity of a woman, her purity, her complete devotion to her husband, these things might sound utterly meaningless today to the modern world but this story and this statue shall remain greatly representative of the ideological and social strength and regard our older society had for the fabric of a family and it`s important contribution to the society. Kannagi was a woman who fought against injustice to her husband, merely with the power of her devotion and her chastity as per the epic.

Like many may claim, I truly find it hard to see this great lady as a symbol of female oppression. Mainly because, she was not always the submissive or the oppressed victim. She stood against the whole Kingdom of Madurai with her courage and fiery eyes, and made the highest sacrifice. She forgave an adulterous husband and stood beside him, until the end. To me, she is the ultimate symbol of feminine strength. Endurance is a great virtue and woman has been bestowed with loads of it. That again does not mean that I am advocating oppression against women, but I am simply awed by it, and who better to represent it than Kannagi.

She is still worshipped as a goddess in many places, but she was no goddess, according to the epic, but an ordinary lady who showed extraordinary strength. In December 2001, she was removed from her pedestal by the beach, by the J.Jayalalitha Government, citing astrological reasons. What a sad plight!, or perhaps it was indicative that times were changing and will remain changed, but the government toppled as expected and this evergreen symbol of Tamil culture, art, poetry and tradition was reinstated by the successive government. Governments do a lot of things and they might not be representative of the people`s aspirations always, but yet whether there is an inherent meaning to this whole exercise, only time will tell.

Meanwhile I shall simply be most elated to stand, admire and feel powerless in front of that magnificent statue, a great history scripted in stone.

A Rational Analysis.

2006-12-07T15:45:00.000+05:30

It was a small room, with sunlight streaking in. There was a small table by the window and some fresh flowers in a white vase upon it. The bed looked cosy and comfortable. It was with some nervousness that Sanjana had entered the room. It was going to be her first real work of professional journalism after all the grunt work, she had been toiling with. But after absorbing the freshness of the room, she seemed to regain some confidence.

“Good Morning!”, announced sanjana with great enthusiasm in her eyes.
The dark lean girl, sitting by the window turned back and looked at her with surprise and a slight irritation evident in her eyes.

“Are you the lady from the papers, here to interview me ?”, questioned the girl, with keen eyes through her spectacles.

“Yes, I am the lady, but we are also going to be good friends... aren`t we ?”, replied Sanjana smiling at her first ever interviewee.

The girl remained quiet. She did not seem very earnest to have a great conversation. Sanjana seated herself on a chair opposite the girl with her file in hand. She took out her small notepad and her lucky hero pen , her father had gifted her, when she first filled the application form for a degree in journalism. Her father would have been proud of this moment of hers. She could almost see him blessing her.

“So Anupama, tell me how do you feel here, in this lovely…”
“Have you ever been molested before ?”, interrupted anupama, with seething anger. Sanjana was immediately at a loss of words. She no more felt confident. She was twenty seven years old and right now she had no answers to give this fourteen year old girl who had confronted her. She felt dumb and speechless, unable to collect her thoughts and words.

“Anupama, I was …”,
“Have you ever gone hungry for three days at a stretch ?”, she interrupted again. And Sanjana was done. She suddenly felt like a child who had been robbed of her ice cream. She had completed her degree in journalism and had worked hard with a local newspaper doing proof reading and the like and had at last, got this opportunity to make a report on the children picked up from the streets and rehabilitated, especially this child, Anupama, for the paper. She had gathered most of the details about the rehabilitation center, which had picked up Anupama from the streets, about many other children with similar plight.

She realized that this small lean frame of a girl had perhaps seen more of the world than she herself had, in her career and more importantly in her whole life. She could not continue and she just blurted a good bye and ran away from the place. As she reached home , she looked at the mirror. She looked haggard, with all the tears. She noticed that her arms were trembling. She threw away her file and collapsed on the bed.

The next day she woke up to the smell of coffee, her father, was boiling in the kitchen. She felt fresh and light, but the shock was still there. The night`s rest, however had done good and there was this steely resolve building up in her mind, to get over the initial obstacles come what may.

She took bath and spent some moments in front of her mother`s photograph, which seemed to give her more strength and sat down for breakfast with her father. Her father was a retired army colonel and was usually earlier than her to rise in the morning. It had always been like that, especially after his wife`s untimely death, his routine had only become stricter. She told him all that she had gone through and how she was shocked and
had returned without resuming with her carefully built questionnaire.

“Pretty evidently, you have not done enough homework, Sanjana. You have to find out about the girl. What problem she is facing and how she landed up there.”, replied her father who always spoke in a straightforward manner. “Thanks..!”, she replied and hugged her father before leaving.

She went directly to her office and met Mr. Rohit, her mentor and guide, and told him all about what had happened. “Sanjana, before you go for interviewing someone you need to do a background check, find out about them completely. Almost ninety percent of the facts for your article is ready before you do the interview. The actual interview in itself is only for that personal touch you give to your final draft. Also meet up with the coordinator of the rehabilitation center, talk to a child psychologist and try to understand how the child thinks.”

“But I don`t know any child psychologist”, replied Sanjana.
“Well!, I guess then you will have to find out.!”, replied Rohit with his trademark chuckle and left to pursue on another assignment.

She was about to leave the office, when she bumped into Mr. Dhavan, the editor and her boss. “How`s your article shaping up, Sanjana”, he queried. “Coming up fine, Sir. I was just off to find some child psychologist to gather more material.”, she replied.
“Oh!, you could meet Dr.Shantha Vasudevan, of Sunshine Hospitals. I`ll give her a call. You go meet her.”
“That would be great, Sir. Thanks a Lot!”, she answered with the happiness of a great burden having been lifted from her heart.
“Don`t thank me, just give me a good writeup with some rational analysis from your side”.

She then went and met the doctor and learnt all about the emotional trauma, children have, when they hit the streets, the angst and the desperation of having been orphaned, the things they look for, from a helping hand. The ways in which their lives could go the wrong way and how much they yearn for the happiness they see in other children`s eyes when they go to school with their parents. She also came to know how their innocent outlook of life is drastically changed when they face the harsh reality of the streets and how they are prematurely toughened up, most often spoiling their life in the process, ending up in jails or brothels or how they get hurt and end up as beggars.

Sanjana, was each minute learning that she was actually on her job, learning more and more and pursued more. She collected as much details about the girl, anupama as possible. It turned out that Anupama, had been a normal child like anyone else, went to school, had loving parents, but during some caste riots had lost both her parents and had been thrown to the streets, in a cruel moment of fate. With hunger and fear as she moved around, she was thrown against all the harsher conditions of the city. She eventually found herself in a brothel from where she was rescued and brought to the rehabilitation centre. Anupama`s story had been hugely representative of the cruelty meted out to child by an indifferent society.

Sanjana, through the course of her research realized that a newer perspective was required to the whole situation. She realized that she was not responsible for only telling the child`s story, but also telling the world that this victim is actually a child. She needed to bring out the child in Anupama and show to the world that here was a little girl who has suffered but deep down her heart, unmindful of the external picture of misery and injustice, she still was a child.

It was a week afterward that Sanjana, felt compelled again to visit Anupama. It was in the evening that she finally reached that very room from which she had run away. Anupama was sitting on her bed in silence with dreamy eyes. Sanjana today noticed how beautiful this little girl was. Sanjana smiled at her and sat opposite the girl. She did not speak. They sat in silence for a few minutes. It was a moment of peace, a moment of reconciliation, a moment of understanding.

After some time, as Sanjana got up to leave, Anupama suddenly spoke, “Can you take me to the garden outside?”. Sanjana was happy. Here was that first moment of selfless conversation between the two. They walked outside in the garden for sometime and sanjana looked on as the girl caressed the yellow flowers.

“Anupama, I am writing for the paper, a story about the beautiful child that you are.”, announced Sanjana. Anupama was silent as they walked back to the room. As Sanjana started to leave, the little girl asked shyly, “Can we write it together ?”. This was what Sanjana had all along hoped for. She laughed and said, “Yes, we must write it together. That is why I am here.”

In the days afterward, Sanjana was a regular visitor at the center and Anupama, a great companion. They explored different worlds in each other`s thoughts and words. Sanjana had started looking upon the girl as her own little sister by now.

A week later, Sanjana submitted her final draft to Mr.Dhavan with great pride. He was very happy to see a jubilant Sanjana and congratulated her on completeing her first assignment. “I hope you have put in a rational analysis as I said, Sanjana”, he remarked.

Sanjana, beamed similingly and replied, “Rational Sir!, Very much Rational!”.

Illustration courtesy – Dick Heimbold, Vincent Van Gogh and Vern Hippensteal.

Looking back, as a child...

2006-11-22T15:16:00.001+05:30

Children are the faces of the next generation. In their shining eyes and innocent thoughts, lies intertwined, the future, our tomorrow and the world`s history. Now that I realize this, I often wonder whether what I thought and did as a child has ever been a testament to this statement. Perhaps not. I have been tagged by Alex, yet again to write about the things I liked and disliked about my childhood. After knowing what it was about and reading his post, I could not help feeling obliged to do the same.

Things, I liked about my childhood

* The bird`s eye view from the apartment window – Strange isn`t it.? But yes, much of my childhood I spent in an apartment on the second floor. I did not have many friends other than those at school and life was at times lonely too. What really used to bring colour into those dull days were the panoramic view of the world below from that window through which I looked at the slums below, the children flying kites, in a ground opposite the house, the temple festivities, the bullocks which were cleaned and bathed daily. At times there used to come a street circus group or a catfight used to erupt between the women for the water from the tap. The papers or plastic covers I used to tie to a string and let fly through the window, my own version of a poor man`s kite. I can never forget those days and that long window.

* The frequent trips to nearby temples with my family. The sheer joy in running around those dark deities, praying for nothing in particular and yet feeling entirely purified of soul. The few minutes spent in the park near the temple upon a swing, or a see-saw, the anxious wait to grab the prasadam or offering and race back home on the roads with my sister.

* The occasional outing, with our father to the Beasant Nagar Beach in chennai to wade in those waters, collect shells and come home proudly and proclaim that I had a new hobby, Shell Collection!. However those shells took only a few days to lose. The packet of Maggi Noodles on the way back home, was another treat which was greatly desired.

* Those days when it rained heavily in the morning and the school closed due to rains. Those were moments of sheer ecstasy, the eagerness to look at the rain, to drink hot tea and read some stories looking at the rain used to be at it`s heights. However rain used to stop quickly and days were usual in a very short while.

* Those wonderful summer vacations and the journey to Kerala, the “pazhampori”, from the railway station, the magnificent sights outside the window, the mere presence of being on a train, where we slept and ate together. Those moments of going out with my grandfather, meeting my uncles, cousins, all have been and will remain the most vibrant and colourful memories of my life.

* Again I guess people of my age are among the most fortunate, because we are of a generation where we learnt the brilliant Indian epics Ramayana and Mahabharatha, on television every Sunday. Sunday Television was considered a god-given gift. Today however I am surprised at myself how quickly each television channel can bore me.

* Those days in school, when we drowsily listened to the english teacher reading out from those beautiful lessons, which took me to another world. A world I was not aware of, a world I had not seen yet.

Things, I disliked about my childhood.

It is not easy to compile such a list, because looking back now every single moment of my childhood seems priceless to me. They seem to be much simpler, and a much easier life, now when I look back. However as a child there were the sadder moments, things which I did not like then.

* Our school used to start at 7:50 am in the morning and go on till 2 pm in the afternoon. Therefore we always had to wake up early at 6 `o clock, something I really detested. Every day used to be a struggle, every day there used to be complaining and whining. I remember looking on jealously, while my sister acted like she`s sick and took a day off from school.

* The trips back to home, back to school after the summer vacations. These were mostly sad forlorn journeys. There used to be the sadness of parting from everyone at my native place. Added to that there was this fear of getting the exam paper results when schools reopened. I never got good marks.

* The wait until evening on the day, I receive my report card, to get it signed from my father. A most agonizing period of time, when everytime, I used to make resolutions to get better marks next time. It never worked..

* Those experiences of being ignored or neglected just because I was a child. I have had trouble getting change from a shopkeeper. Fights with bus conductors and what not. It has been a tough life even back then.

Those are all, I can think of as of now, but I am overall more than satisfied with my childhood and also today understand that many children have not had even these little happy moments, which I have most happily cherished and enjoyed.

I end this post, now with a prayer on my lips that all children should always have a smile on their faces. May they never go hungry, orphaned or sad.