The Word

The Sun and the Moon

2011-02-09T10:13:00.000-08:00

The poet sat with eyes closed
his penance spanning
a thousand days of the golden sun
and a thousand nights of the ambrosial moon

The Goddess appeared!

The light of a thousand seers
condensed into an iota of a spark
glowing in the dark furrow
between his termulous eyelids

With his sealed lips
stilled breath
unwavering thought
worldess silence

He asked
'Whence cometh wisdom?
Wherefore is there love?'

With her sonorous music
ornate tones
multitudinous songs
endless tales

She replied...

'The Sun
is the cloud of wisdom.
At night,
he hides in the thoughts of the masses
and sucks silence from their ignorant dreams.
When at dawn, my clarion calls
he rains forth golden rays of truth.

Thence cometh wisdom.

The Moon
is the cloud of love.
In day,
she hides in the hearts of the poets
and sucks tears from their woeful souls.
When at dusk, I enter my garden
she showers silver nectar of love.

Therefore there is love.'

And the poet opened his eyes
and he saw the sun
and he saw the moon
and he saw them entwined in lust
and he closed his eyes in bliss.

Comment tu me trouves?

2011-01-19T10:50:00.000-08:00

Oh toi poète détourné,

Toi escrocs des mots

Toi pollueur de sens

Comment tu a perverti mon esprit

avec tes idées...tes imaginations... tes images...

Comment ta seule encre bleue tache la vie avec couleurs infinie

Comment tes pensées coulent dans mes nerfs comme sang

Me voir!

Je suis perdu entre la naissance du mot et la mort du sens

Je ne me souviens pas la vérité d'hier

Je ne sais pas le mensonge que je vais créer demain

Je ne suis pas content

Je ne suis pas triste

Je peux seulement saigner

Parfaitement ignorants nous

2011-01-07T11:25:00.000-08:00

Nous pensons,

nous avançons vers la perfection...

quand...

la perfection était le début.

Pense bien ... pense bien...

Le vêtement parfait, c'est la peau.

La maison parfaite, c'est une grotte.

Le travail parfait, c'est la mort.

Le sommeil parfait, ce l'est aussi.

L'amour parfait, c'est la lascivité

La peur parfaite, c'est la vie.

Le plaisir parfait ,c'est la faim.

La douleur parfaite, ce l'est aussi.

Le mot parfait, ce n'est jamais vrai

La phrase parfaite, un fleuve des larmes.

La langue parfaite, n'est pas parlée.

La conversation parfaite non plus.

La danse parfaite, c'est la lumière du soleil.

La peinture parfaite, c'est le noir de la nuit.

Le poème parfait, c'est le silence.

La musique parfaite, ce l'est aussi.

et...

La femme parfaite, c'est une salope.

L'homme parfait, c'est un bête.

Les enfants parfaits, ils sont des cadavres.

Le Dieu parfait y compris.

Où je me trouve? - Une proposition philosophique avec les prépositions

2010-12-27T21:46:00.000-08:00

Dans le silence qui est

Dans le vide

Dans le fleuve de la passion

Devant la vie

Derrière la mort

près de mes rêves

loin des autres misérables

à côté de mes dames

(à gauche de la dame Langue

à droite de la dame Amour)

sur le ciel

sous la terre

en face du soleil

seul

Au bout de tout

est mon être

Une petite analyse de La Tulipe Noire - un roman historique de Alexandre Dumas (père)

2010-12-26T22:40:00.000-08:00

Note : C'est ma première effort dans l'écriture francaise. Si vous trouvez des erreurs, dites-moi et je vais les corriger avec plaisir.

"La Tulipe Noire" est un roman typique de Dumas. Il a de l'action, de la romance, de l'aventure et une connexion forte avec l'histoire. C'est un voyage dans un autre temps... un temps chevaleresque, de l'amour et de la passion.

Il commence par une déscription dramatique et intense du lynchage des frères de Witte. C'est un vrai incident à partir des pages de l'histoire. (Ref : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johan_de_Witt et http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cornelis_de_Witt). C'est une ouverture très rapide et est très intéressante. J'etais sous la charme de cette déscription.

Après cette déscription graphique et violente, le roman va dans un paysage calme et tranquille - la ville de Dordrecht. Ici vit Cornelius van Baerle, filleul de Cornelius de Witte. Il est amoureux des tulipes. Et maintennant nous savons pourquoi ce roman s'est appelé 'La Tulipe Noire'. Cornelius van Baerle essaie de créer 'La Tulipe Noire' que l'on pense impossible. Il vient de s'approcher son succès, il est emprisonné en connexion avec des activités de son parrain.

Dans la prison il rencontre Rosa, une fille Frison, qui est la fille du geôlier. Ce rendez-vous chanceux le sauve d'une mort certaine et aussi ses drageons de tulipe noire.

Mais à partir d'ici commence un voyage de danger et d'amour. Parce que le voisin de Cornelius est jaloux de sa tulipe noire. Il joue un jeu dangereux qui met la vie de tous en enjeu. Vont-ils pouvoir unir, les amoureux? Quel va être le destin de Tulipe Noire? Trouvez toutes les réponses dans le livre.

L'histoire est très belle et il y a beaucoup de descriptions des villes, du paysage et des personnages historiques. La déscription de la ville de Dort est comme une peinture. La romance entre Cornelius et Rosa est comme un poème.

Mais ce roman n'est pas le meilleur roman de Dumas. Il n'a pas la profondeur de 'Le Comte de Monte Cristo' ou la charme de 'Les Trois Mousquetaires'. La caractérisation du héros et de l'héroïne sont très simple. Vers la fin, le roman est très prévisible.

Mais, on peut dire Dumas ne nous deçoit pas. C'est un bon roman pour passer du temps dans le pays fantastique et romantique.

Merci à ma professeur de français pour les corrections!

Brahmin By Convenience - A few thoughts on carefully crafted hypocrisy

2010-12-24T05:44:00.000-08:00

I am a Brahmin...

in wearing a sacred thread around my torso, primarily to scratch my back easily.

in expecting my wife, my sister and my daughter to wear only traditional attire like saris and salwars.

not when I roam about in Jeans, Cargos and Shorts myself.

in visiting a Perumal Kovil every Vaikunda Ekadasi to reserve my ticket to paradise.

not when I try to get a special ticket by bribing someone in the temple, to convert my normal reservation to a tatkal reservation.

in not eating non-vegetarian food out of compassion for all living things

not when I carry a leather wallet, wear suede shoes, a leather belt or drape myself in a saree made of the skin of dead insects.

in eating a Satvic diet designed to keep my temperament right.

not when I gulp more ghee than was poured into the sacrificial oblation or when I eagerly take another serving of Veg. Pulao with Panner Butter Masala.

in not having any bad habits or addictions.

not when I am addicted to filter coffee, pure ghee sweets, sleeping pills.

in refusing to take dowry for my son's wedding.

not when I lay down sovereign terms for the jewelry - anda, gundaa, taxes, etc exclusive.

in making sure my daughter sings Carnatic music or dances Bharathanatyam.

not when I expect her to get married to an insensitive rich brute...to ensure her happiness.

in getting married, with a 3 day traditional wedding as per the scriptures.

not when I blindly utter mantras asking for many male children even in this day and age.

in living with one spouse all through my life, a tradition of bonds celebrated in our Shashtiabthapoorthi.

not when I do it rejecting love, the one thing that can hold two people together, without actually binding them.

in shaying that the shong was shuper ensuring I speak my Brahmin Bashai perfectly.

not when I repeat every word that the priest says without knowing a letter in Sanskrit.

in completing my engineering/medicine and duly travelling abroad, maintaining the great Brahmin tradition of knowledge seeking.

not when I diligently pursue only material goals, not doing Sandhyavandhanam (or Sandhi, if you will), or any of those other unnecessary traditions that have crept into true Brahminhood.

in praying to the million Gods in my prayer room, trying hard to realize that truth is beyond the three natures, formless, attribute less, nameless...and so on.

not when I encourage discrimination in my own family in subtle ways by gifting fairness creams or commenting on people's height.

in chanting 'Asau adityau brahmaiva brahma aham asmi bo'.

not when I say that within the four walls of my posh prayer room, where there is no Adithya, no Brahmam and no Aham either.

in practising equality amidst all castes and religions, by talking to my neighbours and sharing with them the treats of my festival so that they can sample my skills.

not when I have a separate tumbler from which my maid has to drink her coffee, after she enters the home via the back door, or when I subtly push aside treats that come back from my non-brahmin neighbour's house

in working very hard to attain that bliss of union that sheep attain by belonging to a herd.

not when I constantly run away from the bliss that the sun feels when he embraces the universe with his million golden arms.

So...

Aham Brahmasmi *

* - Conditions Apply

2010-05-10T09:31:00.001-07:00

It is not love that moves the world. It is neither wisdom. It is not truth that is the breath of the universe. Nor is it beauty. The universe did not spring from joy. Nor is it the seed of silence. It does not culminate into death. Nor does it unite with One.

It is I who moves the universe. It is I who am the breath of the universe. From me springs the universe. And unto me it recedes.

2010-03-16T10:43:00.000-07:00

This fire of the summer evening,

if it glows like burnished gold

in faces of strange women,

what light must play on Her face!

The koel's song with plaintive notes,

if it pierces like a spear

the hearts of those who are strangers to love,

how deep its wound in My heart!

A quilled evening

2010-03-15T07:11:00.000-07:00

Summer clouds gather and gossip

Sordid secrets of a sultry sea.

Wanton wind wanders mad

in search of sweet petrichor.

Golden trees gasp in eternal pain.

Mute Atlases holding up the primal silence.

Dulcet evening smears her golden glow

on every stranger's beautiful face.

Sultry sweat trickles down

flirting with the breeze and skin.

Dusty roads raise dusky sighs

fading into empty footsteps.

All of this stays painted still

in the ripples of my quill.

The Lady Afloat

2010-02-24T10:43:00.000-08:00

I sat once upon the mute stone
that stares cold by the river bank
I sat ere the sun had shone
hailing a day so morbid dank

I sat in hush in deathly still
I saw the pale moon softly die
I saw those empty hours fill
the chasm of an undead sky

Then a dawn; a pallid dawn
of feeble rays with fading glow
Casting charnel shapes upon
the dying mist's fervid brow

And with that light of dreary gloom
She came in like a painted boat
A flower faded in its bloom
Asleep in death a lady afloat

Her nightly hair was led astray
By wanton weeds in the water gray
Her closed eyes they seemed to say
'Alas this is my only way'

Her breasts did swell with tears unshed
Of silent grief of hidden shame
And a thousand pains that love hath fed
To a thousand souls that have no name

What vow unkept what heart was broke
What vile soul did play deceit
What word delivered that deadly stroke
that crushed her heart with dreams so sweet

Perhaps he died a hero's death
in battle that waged in lands unseen
Perhaps he fell in foreign earth
ere she could count moons sixteen

Did she give her heart in vain
to some Adonis set in stone?
Did he tell her in words so plain
that his heart was his alone?

I stare as the hours rolled
She drifts so still like a painted boat
Her tale of woe stays untold
She fades away the lady afloat

Ithaca

2010-02-14T12:12:00.000-08:00

O Ithaca, fair Ithaca when will I see
Your gold hemmed coast skirting the sea
Where Poseidon rests his wrath asleep
Where mermaids gambol, frolic and leap

O Ithaca, fair Ithaca farthest out to sea
When will I rove like the wind free
kissing with lust your ears of corn
drink from your streams and be reborn?

When will I ravish your bountiful groves?
Delve and hunt through your delightful coves
Impale wild beasts with my steady spear
Your sighs whispered by the wind in my ear

When will I drink the crimson wine
aged sweet in thine secret shrine
When will I gaze on thy endless skies
as they blush in brazen sunrise

When will I suck your nectar raw
from golden buds that spring did thaw
When will my plough with oxen pair
Till your fertile fields laid bare

When will I slake my thirst ablaze
in yonder stream that runs and plays?
When will I lie sated in joy
and yet hunger, for you do not cloy?

When will I sleep a dreamless sleep
one that thy breast's lilt alone keep
When will I wake to thy doting smile
sans base cunning sans beguile

O Ithaca, fair Ithaca should I not see
Your gold hemmed coast skirting the sea
Inter my lust my love in thy breast
And death would be than life so blest

Lost

2009-09-03T13:53:00.000-07:00

Where is that river

that flew swift, unfettered

in a stream of crystal eternally

towards the ocean's infinity?

Where is that song

that rang clear, unabashed

clad in naked innocence

setting flight to notes of truth?

Where have I come

in my own countless journeys

that my bare feet

are stranger to their beloved land?

Worship

2009-08-14T09:19:00.000-07:00

A thousand times I wet my head

with water from the holy rivers.

My silken robes ply softly

folds of purity tucked in my body.

With steady hands I draw

your sacred marks of graveyard ash.

The lamp glows calm

A golden drop, the conscious' shine

Your fragrance swells and overflows

as my breathing slows of its own will.

I chant the chants with utmost care

wincing at every word that comes imperfect.

The water flows unburdened

nectar it is, nectar flows.

And yet my Father...

Sans effort that yellow flower

has reached your feet already.

Orphaned Words

2009-08-09T10:46:00.000-07:00

I pray to you my love;

Free these orphaned words of mine.

They come to your world,

innocent and blind

with no hand to hold.

Protect them, my Goddess;

From the viles of reason.

Let them not pursue ideals,

truths and praise,

for their weak feet will tire soon.

Bind them not, my Goddess;

In harsh fetters of grammar.

Let them not be stifled with craft,

genius and order,

for they have no discipline.

Free them, my Love;

Set them on a song, light and gentle.

Let them play in the sand,

dust and the streets,

for they can amount to nothing more.

Bless them, my Love;

So that they may sing

of your dark face like the mango leaf

your smile like the jasmine

for that will be their salvation.

Let them go no further My Love,

but just sing of you,

your home by the river under the mango tree

Of evenings, gilded sunsets,

of birds returning home

then...

fade gently into your night.

The peacock and the dragon

2009-07-15T10:25:00.000-07:00

The mountains of the Madhmadh ranges stretched like a giant yawn across the sleepy plains beneath. Far in the distance, the peak of Soma rose like a sated sigh, capped with alabaster snow. That very same sigh echoed in the emerald green peak of Manas, shimmering with the dew on the leaves of its jungles.

Nestled secretly between the folds of these two peaks lay the ever drenched valley of Anga. The monsoon ravished this valley forever, leaving it cloaked in soft ruby red moss. Jasmine creepers entwined the sturdy unyielding trunks of trees, yielding forth virgin buds that eagerly professed their passion to the breeze with an effulgent fragrance.

Charmed by this enchantment of lust and desire, beasts and birds from far off lands gravitated to this valley and filled it with sounds.

The monkey drunk with the sweetness of the mango that he plundered jumped from branch to branch his crimson bottom flashing like wounds on the trees. The blue-throated koel sang with abandon entreating the waterfall with plaintive cries. Serpents entwined on the soft moss, setting the foliage aflame with their passion. The uncouth honeybee incessantly buzzed around in mad circles around the mango blossoms, infuriating the silent lizards who hissed menacingly. The eager rabbits chased each other in frenzied pursuit startling the grasshoppers.

One monsoon when the clouds hung low kissing the fluttering leaves of the tress, there came a peacock hatched out of its egg. It shivered at the first touch of the cold breeze shedding sapphire gems on the emerald moss. It blinked as a lightning tore the sky. A sudden unsaid desire welled in its heart as the thunder of the skies heralded the arrival of the debauched rains. It cried a hoarse utterance and spread its emerald-azure plumage. Its body shimmered with the youth of innocence. Every feather in its plumage bore a thirsty eye that was unsullied with any sight. It stood there for an instant pure in soul, young at heart and supple in form. Its curves slid of its body with the celerity of warm blood. This warmth and life made it dance around slowly.

As it turned round and round, its thousand feathered eyes drank more and more of the valley's frolic. And every sight, every sound sent a shiver down its spine, that gathered as tiny sliver in its crown. The crown soon curved sensuously as a question. Its head now bending and aching with the wait of the question, the peacock ran eager to find an answer.

It rushed to the coiled serpents with its crown drooping and its tail unfurled. The serpents however, were lost in the heat of their desire, merely replied in fumes of hisses and sighs. The peacock walked on confused.

The impassioned monkey screeched and shouted seeing the golden curve of the peacock's crown. It jumped from the higher branches to the lower ones and eagerly thrust its hands to pluck that jewel. The peacock afraid ran away.

In fright, the peacock ran into the mango grove. The buzzing bees all now gathered in raw hunger circling the luminous crown of the peacock muttering to each other in abrupt hisses. The lizards disgusted with this excessive show of passion slithered away muttering curses. The peacock stayed awhile basking in the admiration of the bees. But it soon grew wearied with their empty buzzing. Its head still aching with the question of its crown it trudged along.

Its weary walk brought it to the dark woods that swallowed whole the clandestine union of all beasts. It stood there, mesmerized by the koel's song. It's feet tapped gently to the rhythm of the waterfall. For a brief time it forgot the question and stayed enraptured. But suddenly, the eager male rabbit pounced on his female with such a fury that he startled the koel who flew far into the woods taking her song with her. The peacock now sad at the loss of the song, walked on aimlessly.

Soft, hesitant steps brought the peacock to a dark cave amidst the valley. The cave was inhabited by the great Dragon. The Dragon was a silent ascetic, who had taken a vow of silence. Forever tormented by the pull of desire and fear, he fought an enormous war with the peak of Soma for forty days and forty nights. With no victor in sight, Soma yielded a draw to him, giving him the gift of his Great Bow and his nectar tipped arrow. In return, the Dragon yielded to Soma his ever burning fire. After this fight, the Dragon withdrew to this secret hidden cave of the valley. There in the cave, he set the arrow upon the Great Bow and buried the arrow in the ground with the string till taut. Then he climbed on the bow string and began his penance. He woke from his reverie only once every monsoon and uttered one line of verse. He did not care if anybody listened, noted it down or it merely echoed of the walls. After uttering this verse, he would end his fast for a brief time before relapsing into meditation on the bow again.

Into this cave, the peacock walked, gazing along the damp walls of the cave, its heart beating slowly to the dripping of some underground river. It suddenly came upon the Dragon and gazed at it in awe. At that very moment, the Dragon opened his eyes and prepared to break his vow. The peacock's crown, burdened with the question so far, found a voice and sprang out of the peacock, like the light of dawn.

Why should it be?

What end does it see?

Whither goes this life?

Where ends this strife?

The Dragon smiled as these words spurted out of the peacock's crown like blood from a fresh wound. He removed the bow from the ground and held the strung arrow between his fingers. He paused for a second and uttered

The arrow flew and hurried

Till in the target it is buried

His fingers let go of the arrow. The string quivered shattering the silence of the cave. With the swiftness of its thirst, the arrow plunged deep into the peacock's full chest, drawing out the blood of life. The peacock slipped softly into the ground, went limp and died.

Portrait

2009-07-10T06:54:00.000-07:00

Dusk's sun glows mellow

Your face yielding nascent smile

Who paints this eve gold?

Passion

2009-07-07T10:19:00.000-07:00

Bent

drooping with lust wanton

Soft

heaving with desire brazen

Sweat

running like the river in abandon

Sighs

heavy like thunder distant

Hands

gripped firmly on shoulders

the cloud made love to the mountain.

Tamil

Solace

2009-06-18T11:56:00.000-07:00

Life, a fickle companion

runs and strolls

one step ahead

one step behind.

I close my eyes

and breathe some in

breathe some out

life hides somewhere between the two.

T'wixt this perfumed garden

of bleeding roses and silent jasmines

of cold ivory and nectar fruits

of lilting flute and lotus eyes

T'wixt this raging fire

of burning passion and placid peace

of heartfelt love and wanton sin

of flaming heat and slain ashes

One thought runs soft

a refuge, a familiar nest

"All life's thralls shall fade soft

When death my love seals her kiss"

Sultry summer

2009-05-03T22:09:00.000-07:00

My tired arms sigh

as your summer sweat is drunk

by a jealous sun

The summer bird

2009-03-10T06:36:00.000-07:00

Summer bird I beseech thee

teach me a song as free as thee

lend my thoughts your wings, your sky

make my words light and spry

Colour my soul with your sight

mango blossoms and a sun so bright

Fill it brimming with a thousand blooms

of colours and light and sweet perfumes

Lead me through summer's lust

through heat and breeze and swirling dust

Tell me what secrets spake

the pigeon cooing to his mate

Hide my mind in a jasmine's breast

drown my heart in manna blest

Take me deep into her cove

take me into her sceret grove

Show me there her throbbing soul

Sloping valleys and sylvan knoll

Show me there in that single flower

A thousand blooms that live forever

Take me then on a butterfly's lips

humming through a hundred trips

to roses, violets and others untame

a thousand hearts for us to claim

Rest me awhile on a blade

of grass asleep in banyan shade

A dreamy sleep of sweat and heat

drinking noon sun's passion sweet

Carry me then on a sunbeam bent

to some sweet land with pastoral scent

of placid cows and cowherd's song

where evenings stretch languorously long

Fold your wings and sit by me

as dusk dies softly by a tree

Teach me silence that your heart holds

as the orange glow gently unfolds

Then take me home to a sylvan hutch

half asleep in the full moon's touch

Lay me there on simple earth

and let me sleep a sleep of death

2009-03-01T21:20:00.001-08:00

How subtle a net do we weave

How swift our mind leads us on

Threads of thought twist and cleave

in fingers of words deftly con

How we tread with dreamy feet

Seeking roads that our desires take

How does the mind ooze deceit

the spider's mouth that web make

How we toil in empty sweat

Hours that run in joyless drone

How the heart does worry and fret

piling with filth its own throne

How we speak sans respite

shedding words that wither and die

Empty branches that take delight

in eternal autumn always nigh

Away

2009-02-13T07:11:00.000-08:00

Dead she sleeps my lover true
A blossom of spring that summer slew
Dead she sleeps all so still
Sans breath sans will

Her eyes don't shine nor her face
It seems she has gone another place
Her heart lies tombed in folded hands
Her garb is greyed like time's sands

Her bosom stays no longer heaves
Her voice is mute no magic weaves
Her lips are parched split apart
like barren land, a broken heart

No tear nor smile decks her soul
No fountain flows nor passion dole
The river has dried; the clouds have left
The bird has flown; the nest bereft

Here I stand; stand and see
The dead half of a living we
I stand and gaze and stand and gaze
Finding no life not a trace

Then...

Dusk does fall; day fades away
cool summer breeze traces a way
I sigh and sing and walk away
My heart grows quiet...

I

walk

away...

Inebria

2008-09-29T02:47:00.000-07:00

Drink me this cup of eternal delight

Flowing forever my lovely lover

Drink me this wine sparkling and bright

Moisten they lips, my jasmine flower

Drink of this nectar and fold in my arms

I'll take you floating to my magic bower

Clandestine cove of cavern and charms

Far reaching trees and fine morning shower

There be some birds koels and crows

There be some buds, wild for your tress

There be some dew diamond that glows

I ask your heart and you whisper yes

Secret a lake, we shall espy

Waist in the water nestle in my chest

Cast off thy garb, that doth belie

Thy swelling charms, sweet treasure chest

Kiss me once, O! kiss me again

One bright as day, ten dusky nights

Kiss me an end forever but vain

Feed me thy love that subtly delights

High burning sun, spent passion sweat

Lie by my side, sweet noon's rest

Like sapphire in gold is set

Idyll and still a well painted nest

Then we shall brew us some ancient spell

Wake up some fairies to make us a dream

Fill it with dusk's glow sweet to dwell

Gilt it with morning's rare golden beam

Come, my angel, come to my land

Simple and soft a sylvan knoll

Untouched ever by foul human hand

Flung faraway from terrene toll

Come we shall find us a gray flock of sheep

Sing us a song of enchanted breeze

And in the eve a sweet home to keep

A lamp that is lit and time doth so cease

Sequined dreams

2008-07-22T06:33:00.000-07:00

Begone ye pallid skies
Here in my palm a dawn
of tremulous gold lies
Into the void ye begone

Begone ye leeches of thought
Thy breeding broods lie waste
Long has this battle been fought
Flee now lest my blade you taste

For, life's river has flooded now
flowing with her thunderous roar
Beauty runs her oaken plough
Tilling my soul's dusty core

Here she has come again
Lovely Cora to my dying Hades
Beauty my Goddess truth plain
Dressed in life's painted shades

Here she smiles in vixen trance
Casting her spell of Asian bloom
There she plunges a scarlet lance
softly dying by the Gothic tomb

Heed her pipe soft and low
Tunes of a bronzed even Ra
Leading the soul to silent glow
Charming it there in mellow awe

How she veers, with toxin lined
Spring's poison mixed with wile
Into the goblet of a roue mind
Circe bearing her bubbling guile

How she bathes in tears borne
in the moonlit pool of a broken heart
Curing her soul in ancient mourn
love that death has done to part

There she shines in forlorn eyes
of Ophelia floating white on the brook
In Shalott Lady's half sick sighs
Cleaven dreams, that fate did crook

Here I suck her crimson lip
Burning in passion's yellow fever
There I die in her violet grip
Trembling in fancy's morbid horror

Baroque notes of the undead organ
In those she bares her pearly fangs
The wretched Count, the heir of Gorgon
The Phantom genius with burning pangs

How she shines in wisdom's realm
Thoughts bound in genius' cement
Evolved grammar in reason's helm
Sans a stain sans a dent

How she burns in virtue's dais
Rising in Bharata's flaming vow
How she soars above worldly ways
In the seers' flattened brow

Softly she treads with Japanese feet
Lilting and swaying to Chinese strains
Bamboo steps printed on snowy sheet
Dreamy mountains in yawning chains

Anew a thousand times she comes alive
Spring's seed, joy's sleeping storm
Breathing life doth in her bosom thrive
Flowing with blood of dreams warm

Breathe unto me a fresh life my muse
A thousand times and then once more
My thought, your will may they fuse
A thousand times and then once more

Conversations with silence

2008-05-14T03:06:00.000-07:00

Nigh is the afternoon sun
blazing down on earth white.
Foreheads are wet.
Throats run dry
Hunger burns a dark flame
keeping sleep just at bay.

Then she slides
into half closed eyes
wearing the garb
of morning light.
The compass of truth;
the ocean of order
Goddess silence.

In language that was
never conceived
I speak with her.

Tell me, O Goddess
What is thy form?
Is thee of light
divine and flowing?
Is thee of flame
still and austere?
Is thee of beauty
brilliant and benign?
The divine nymph
closes her eye.

Tell me, O Goddess
What are thy signs?
The throbbing unrest
is that thy coming?
The thirsting ennui
is that thy flag?
The raging desire
is that thy herald?
The serene sylph
sits cross legged.

Tell me, O Goddess
Who are thy kin?
The spoken word
is it thy child?
The divine music
is she thy sister?
The breath that is drawn
is she thy love?
The queen of present
stopped her breath.

Tell me, O Goddess
where dost thou live?
The hills that are lofty
are they thy seat?
The sea that is deep
is that thy abode?
The still moon in the lake
is that thy perch?
The woman with one eye
shimmered in space

Tell me, O Goddess
what is thy path?
Thus did I ask.

The great arms of the wind
blew the needle away.

Armoire

2008-04-08T20:37:00.000-07:00

When you wear your dress
of sheer white
pure and spotless
I sit in silence
seeing knowledge that is great.

When you wear your dress
of dull grey
jaded and insipid
I lie in ennui
breathing death that
seems immortal.

When you wear your dress
of brilliant blue
infinite and azure
I look in awe
feeling the stretching ocean
in a single drop.

When you wear your dress
of abundant green
I stretch my soul
laying its weariness
like a dewdrop on the grass
for your sun to drink.

When you wear your dress
of glittering gold
I toil and sweat
matching my work to your
immediate glory,
beads of pearl on your shimmering dress.

When you wear your dress
of transparent crystal
I open my arms
receiving and giving
all that is forever
a flowing river.

When you wear your dress
of crimson red
Then I take my pen
dip it in your blood
Then creation kneels
in awe before the poet.

Dusk and lust

2008-03-20T03:04:00.000-07:00

Evening has lit up
with a copper sunlight.
Southern breeze
kisses all in an infinite mercy.
The golden glow
spreads in Man's smile.
The frenzy of day
has reached his orgasm.
Soon he shall turn over
and sleep covered in night's blanket.

Awake

2008-03-13T23:18:00.000-07:00

Tarry no longer my heart
weary and arid is this land
arise! this is the moment to start
come now take my hand

words are but trifles
meaning too deceives
Alas how it stifles
all that the ear receives

Why in the corner we hoard
thoughts that belong to the pyre
Murky footprints that have long trod
Ashes crumbling from a dead fire

There see the morning sun
the fresh breath of life anew
Dawn has come with the sound of One
The path is shown, open and true

Obligatory post

2008-03-02T22:13:00.000-08:00

The Eccentric City (Although, I really could not capture the weirdness.)

Loneliness

Prose on a cold dark night

2008-02-19T11:51:00.000-08:00

I'm a poet trying to write prose
A blind eye that cannot see
I'm the lovely red rose
that knows just to be

What do you do, when your true love, the flame that burned in the solitude of your soul, goes silent? When you know all the notes that make up the most perfect music, but your mouth refuses to sing? When there is a river flowing in your heart...but she flows quietly on a soft bed of sand?

I have written, in pangs of desire, longing and sorrow. My heart was the sacrifice I offered to the idol I worshipped. In the dull light of hunger, I sat in front of her cruel form, cutting my burning heart and bleeding words to appease her. She never heard me. My thirst for love, beauty and truth grew coiled like the incense I burned. But the idol was silent.

Yet, I took a perverse joy in the whole affair. In bringing my heart to her and let it die a slow death in the light of her cold stare. I felt myself rising with each sacrifice. I felt I was somehow higher and more evolved compared to those who never saw the idol. I magnified my own dark shadows with the flickering light of my intellect and my imagination. I rejoiced as I saw them throw fantastic shapes on the walls.

And then, one day, the hot air from the plateau reached me. My heart stopped aching, and I was confused. I threw my idol in ager and shivered at the shadows on the wall. The sweltering heat fuelled my soul, making me sweat...beads of salty perspiration, pearls of truth seeping out from my very skin. I was alive. Alive but confused, like the newborn who doesn't understand that it has come to this world.

I had dreamt of this very thing all my life. To experience and to feel what I have seen reflected in the many words that I have read. To feel in my heart the light that shined in the heart of every poet and every lover. To see with my own eyes, what the eternal lover sees forever in the night sky. And yet, now that I had it in my hands, I wrote no more.

I always believed in a love that was blind. Light, the only teacher we have to help us see, is himself blind. To see like him, our eyes must seek blindness. And it is thus that my love came to me. But what I did not expect was that, truth is not seen by just blind eyes, but a blind soul.

I see now, everything, every single sensation that a man could experience in a lifetime. I'm at once happy, sad, thirsty, satiated; I'm in harmony and in chaos at once. What I see is not an overwhelming spectacle, it is a simple heart, that silences everything.

So, I bleed words lesser now. Is it because my love has been fulfilled? Is it because my muse has left me? No. It is because I do not write to impress, to tempt or to share, to bare. I do not write in the pangs of hunger nor in the joy of satiety. I put pen to paper not for you, my reader who is reading this; not for her, who makes me writes this; not even for me, who sees it all. I write with no intention of influencing. I write with no influence.

I write, because it happens. I write, when it happens. I write, like my pen - picked up when it is time and sealed when it is done. I do not imagine or create a world - they merely appear.

Like the rain cloud, I gather my nectar in silence and when it is time, I pour it all out. Like the rain cloud, I do not pour at the will of any God or man - especially mine. Like the rain cloud, I do not shower a drop of false water, even if the earth shrivels in drought.

When the idol is broken and the Goddess shines in the poet's every living moment, he speaks only truth. And most of the times, that truth is silence.

The house of words

2008-02-04T21:28:00.000-08:00

Through the many doored house
My song walks through,
One
door
at
a
time

It knocks on an ivory door
and opens it with laughter
A word comes out of it
Pleasure.

It knocks on a silver door
and opens it with a smile
A word comes out of it
Wisdom.

It knocks on a sandalwood door
and opens it with pride
A word comes out of it
Elixir

It knocks on a golden door
and opens it with silence
A word comes out of it
Truth

It knocks on a glass door
and opens it with tears
A word comes out of it
Love

It stands in front of an open door
Laden with all the words
No word comes out
No
word

The unstrung bow

2008-01-28T13:38:00.000-08:00

Timid thoughts, do not be afraid of me. I am a poet. - Stray Birds, Tagore

These silent thoughts,
ruffling behind my closed eyes
like pretty feet
running behind closed doors...

Where do they go?
Whence do they come
What do they say
in their footsteps of silence?

How do they stand
and stare at the sky,
while i scratch my head
in the grind of the night

How do they dream
of dreams and sleep,
while i stroll along
listening to the street lamps

How do they run
over the hills; under the dale,
while my feet stay
grounded to the clay

How do they speed
arrows to an unknown target,
while my mind lies
an unused bow

Arrows have sped.
The bow lies on the ground.

The valley of dreams

2008-01-28T12:15:00.000-08:00

Illusions are sometimes the most safest of refuges. A refuge which we would never move, if only reality did not pull us away, like an angry mother pulling a child away from the delicious earth. Like a play acted out behind closed curtains, they unfurl, the dreams...in different colours - red passion, white love, saffron games, violet fears. And in all those dreams, there is a single thread. The crystal thread of hope. Hope of a union, a touch, a look. Hope of you.

Perhaps these dreams are mere aching of the limbs; chemicals in the veins fuming at their inability to vent. Perhaps these dreams...are mere aching of the heart. Emotions raging through like a kid lost in the fair. Or, perhaps these dreams are mere aching of a soul. The thirst of the simple joy that one finds in the unspoken word. Perhaps, these dreams and the pain of separation can be explained. But then, the chirping of the sparrows, too could be explained.

Love is an enchanted forest. Today I have lost my way in the chasm of separation. With closed eyes I hear, the murmur of dreams, a stream not faraway. Sometimes, in these dreams, I look back. I see the distance that spans dream and reality. It is the width of an eyelid, but what a chasm lies between the two. It is two inches between the hills of hope and death, but if the valley stretches to infinity under them, would you jump?

Dedicated to JAB and the Pied Piper of Hamlin!!

2007-06-06T04:11:00.000-07:00

Where is this chap?
Not seen him no sign
Is this what you wonder?
Then let me tell you tender

Off I'm gone
off to a wedding
And I got no cause to whine
Cause the wedding is but mine

So if you feel like it
and if you feel so good
Then what I would suggest
is that you become my guest

10th June 2007, Seshadri Mahal Coimbatore
1st July 2007, Belson Taj Hotel Coimbatore

Born again...

2007-05-21T07:19:00.000-07:00

I was pretty young when I began this particular journey. Almost underage, for something like this. I remember almost all incidents that pushed my life in a particular direction. But this one I can never recall.

But it is this that made me write, write truly and passionately. It is this that made my life living. It is this that burned as the fire in my soul. A simple philosophy, an ideal, not entirely mine. Borrowed, a bit from Bharathiyar, a bit from Guna, a bit from here and a bit from there. But it has now become mine.

It was not easy following this path. I have never got a word of encouragement - for everything else that I tried, I have received some encouragement, but for this, there has been nothing but dissent. Friends, foes, relatives, everybody. Even from those who were once the idols in this journey.

To love a woman, to love and worship Her. To hold Her as the living Goddess, the muse who will grant the boon of immortality. To find one, who shall fulfill the prophecy in the words 'kAthal manaiviyE sakthi kaNdIr kadavuL nilai avaLal eythal vENdum'.

It seemed a simple quest - most of my close friends corroborated it. Women after all want to be a muse, want to belong to a man who has passion. But then it wasn't that easy.

My wrong decisions, failures, disappointments were many, I will say unashamedly. I've made decision that were blatantly wrong. There were some that seemed like the morning sunshine before they turned dismal. Rudeness, indifference, warm and sad denials, heartless desertions...all of it. Of course it is not like I'm some honourable martyr either. I too have for my share played with hearts, been wicked, stony. After all its a full circle.

And every time I was broken and beaten, I heard the same ideas. "Why do you keep getting hurt?" "No woman is worth so much." "Your parents will find you a nice pretty girl anyways." "Maybe you are not cut out for it..." Sometimes sympathetic, sometimes indignant, sometime angry, sometimes sinister. I never could answer any of them. I listened as if I agreed and in a few months, it was the same old story again.

And then, one day, I had to travel, to Hyderabad, a pilgrimage. Even on the eve of that day, I heard the same old lines. "You should stay away from women, you tend to get hurt invariably. I'm telling you its nothing very great...in a woman." But I walked on.

And I never looked back. Today I can stand here, from this blog and say to each one of my friends, who with whatever intentions dissuaded me and to the few who are still skeptical - "I believed and was rewarded. and I shall be rewarded even more." Even as the bhattar's words were made true by Abhirami the night She threw Her ear-ring into the skies, my own faith shines true as the full moon on a new moon night. Defying logic and convention. Even as the rules were bent that day because of Her infinite love, so they are bent today.

For what I hold in my heart today is not a precious gem, but a pure and simple drop of the rain, the smell of the fresh earth, the life of the wild breeze, the light of a brazen sun. A single drop of life, fashioned by chance, crafted by time into a fire that burns in me, keeping me alive. What I hold in my heart today is not the stony, stiff, fixed idols that now lie broken in their false temples, but the Goddess of dust and sand and rain and life. A true Goddess, who does not sit in Her high throne, but instead dances and plays and sings and frolics. A Goddess who has no false bearing or grace but laughs at Her own faults and creates a new world of shimmering joy everyday.

Now I bow to you, my Goddess, my love. I offer to you all my thoughts, my heart, my life, my soul and blood in a single kiss that shall stretch from the beginning of time to eternity. I offer to you all that I have in this single simple kiss that is pure as a dew and is filled with nothing but the sunshine of your love. I seek no more knowledge, no more wisdom. I do not seek words or art or the ways of the wise. I seek no more absolution, no teacher, no path, no truth. For I have gained you now and here...and I shall gain you with every living moment of mine.

Life

2007-02-08T21:37:00.000-08:00

Tiny plant in pot
Has two new yellow flowers
And dead leaves below.

P.S. First post from Hyderabad! :)

Varali

2006-11-06T02:02:00.000-08:00

Dark convoluted locks reaching out like night's fingers. That is how she first appears. Utterly dark, dark like the shadow of a moonless night. Only hair, copious waves of it. They screech against the void like dark nails against a darker board. At the same time, the cascade of locks echoes the melody of a violent sea...noiselessly.

And then, a gentle hum, a drone of the bee - the kind of bee that occupied the imagination of Appar[1] and the Lord Sundareshwarar Himself [2]. A gentle hum, of a bee that is seeking the honey.

And then in a flash, the locks fall back and her face breaks out like a thousand suns. Its the face of a queen, a regal face with a royal nose. Her smile is like twin serpents - coiled in mercy and contempt at the same time. The forehead bears a mark, a dark crimson circle. It’s a spiral, the dark locks, then the refulgent face and then the dark kungumam. She mesmerizes, not by her living features but by the dead signs.

The hum again. Here the bee is a queen drinking from the divine lotus; there a dancer giving life to an imaginary bee with her hands and eyes. The hum dances wildly, one feet grounded in reality, the other raised to illusion. And yet, the grounded feet seem to hover and the raised feet firmly ensconced in the sky.

The lips now come to the center stage. They shine in the hypnotizing red of a bride's hand with too much marudhAni. Look now, they are repulsive, repulsive because of the desire that is worn ostentatiously. Now shut and open your eyes, they draw you, with their regal command to do their bidding.

The bee rises now, the queen bee. The queen of the honey bees, the dark ill-tempered blackbee. Say it now, slowly, roll your tongue over the words - karuvaNdu, ka-ru-vaNdu, an involuntary quiver just as you say vaNdu. That is how the queen rises, from the eyes of the brilliant face with a quiver when you least expect it.

She flutters near the eyelashes, takes a fancy to the dark locks and merges with them before being enticed by the dark lips. There is a quiver again, this time the quiver of desire, a tremble as the blood rushes through her body. In one flutter, before you could blink your eyes, she lands on the lip.

Then there is a gentle sigh, a sigh of relief, of satisfaction. And then, after she has been satiated, she unfurls her thin proboscis to drink the nectar. The queen bee drinking nectar from the lips of the queen... reality filling its void with illusion.

~~She can be seen here.~~

(Corrected after Viji's comment)

She can be seen here .

[1] - mAsil vInaiyum mAlai mathiyamum/vIsu thenRalum vInggiLavEnilum/mUsu vaNdaRaip poigaiyum pOnRathE/Isan enththai iNaiyadi nizalE - Appar's thEvAram
[2] - konggu thEr vAzkkai anciRaith thumbi - 1st song in kuRunthogai written by iRaiyanAr or God Himself.

P.S. I couldn't find a picture to go with this post...maybe I can get a sketch done someday, of a dark bee sitting on a darker lip.

Ever seen a prettier sight?

2006-11-01T22:27:00.000-08:00

Click here for more

இது ஒரு புது விடியல்!

2006-10-18T23:49:00.000-07:00

A tamil BLOG upon Parvati's suggestion! Please update your links and give some publicity! :-)

2006-10-15T22:24:00.000-07:00

கல்லொன்று தடுத்து காரிகையின் சாபம் கொன்று
வில்லொன்று ஒடித்து வைதேகி காதல்கரம் வென்று - மீட்டும்
வில்லொன்று ஒடித்து வன்முனிவன் தவம் வென்று - தந்தை
சொல்லொன்று எடுத்து சுடுகொடுங்காடு சென்றானே கதிநமக்குு

ஒன்றே சொல்லாகும் ஓடிவல்லவன் உயிர்குடிக்கும் அம்பும்
ஒன்றே வாசமலர் கொண்ட மார்பில் தான்கொண்ட அன்பும்
ஒன்றே அவன் பெயர் ஒன்றே அது இராம இராம இராம
என்றே சொன்னால் எழுபிறப்பும் அன்றே அற்றதே

Spiral

2006-09-24T23:17:00.000-07:00

Gentle night comes in
Songs awaken from my desk
I write some silence

And then...

Morning walks through doors
Shadows sleep shrouded in light
My pen smiles dryly

And then...

Gentle night comes in
Songs awaken from my desk
I write some silence...

Life, Colour and Woman

2006-09-21T05:19:00.000-07:00

******************
Dedicated to J.A.B.
******************

Have you noticed how some ideas pop up at you when you least expect them, like a hunter jumping at his game from the bushes? This is one such idea. It jumped at me yesterday night, when I was snuggling in between the sheets reading a Mark Twain story - 'The diary of Adam and Eve'. It just shot at me out of the sheets like a cork out of a pop gun.

This idea gave me the queer suggestion that colour came into existence only after women were created. Maybe the world was colourful before women came in here, but noone could recognize that without a woman. So the world was as good as colourless, the idea suggested. It slowly unfurled itself, the idea, spiralling and turning in my mind's eye before it had me in its thrall completely. Not one objection could I find to the suggestion. No woman, no colour! The world must have not even been black and white, just colourless like water. The idea began to charm me. I trusted it.

How could man have possibly recognized colour ever? How could he even create it? It takes a woman's coyness to paint the evening sky in shades of crimson. It takes her dark tresses to daub the entire world with the shades of night.

How would spring burst forth in all her splendour if woman did not laugh her silvery cascade? How would fall bring out her rich shades if no woman lay curled in crumpled sleep? Where would the raging forest fire dance if not for a woman's passionate kiss?

The deep oceans, don't tell me they with their teasing waves can get their blue hue if no woman lit her eyes with the light of love. Where would the cascade get her silvery sheen if not from a woman's tears? The lush green fields would not shine so if no woman became a mother. The rainbow! We would have no rainbow if a single woman did not clip her nails and cast them away.

The idea went on thus. It twirled and twisted into coils, coils that enchanted the mind into trust. It spoke the truth. Woman brought colour into this world. Just like she brought magic into life.

And life...life has its own colour as well. A colour that is different for each life. A colour that is not seen by eyes. A woman gives life that colour.

The name of my life's colour is that of a new-born calf. A calf that has a new colour everytime it is born.

So what colour has a woman brought into your life?

Completely Wrong

2006-09-18T22:58:00.000-07:00

I wonder what is wrong with me...besides me of course. That there was something wrong with me...no, not the first wrong with me about which I was wondering but the second one, that is the actual me that is wrong I mean...oh well, figure it out for yourselves, let me get back. That there was something wrong with me being me was known to me for long. I knew this when I choose the fool's day to be born. That would mean I knew I was wrong before I was born and further mean that I was conscious before I was born. That would of course mean that I was born before I was born. There is something definitely wrong with me.

Getting back to what I was trying to say, I feel that there is something wrong with me now otuside what is usually wrong with me. Now that is unsually wrong. I don't mind what is usually wrong with me, but unusually wrong needs to be looked into. The idea here is that, if you are usually wrong, then over time it becomes right to you and then only the part that becomes unusually wrong becomes actually wrong.

So I started by checking my head. I reached up and was mortified when I realised my head was not where it was supposed to be. My head for one might not look decent or respectable but it is a decent and respectable part when you see that it has been staying where it must stay (I guess it is over the neck, though sometimes I also feel it might be under the spine.). Decent and respectable heads don't walk off your neck just like that saying "OK pal, I'm tired of doing all the thinking at least whatever was there to be done now you try doing it!" It took me 15 minutes to realise that my hand was searching for my head about 5 inches higher than where it actually was (the head, I mean). The problem was I did not have my spectacles on. My hands are blind without the spectacles. With the spectacles they are still blind, but they don't see it then (see that they are blind).

The landing of the hands on my head was not exactly pleasant. This is due to the fact that my hair had at that moment got into a rather heterogenous composition of quite a variety of variegated stuff like hmmm...stuff. Listen, in simple words, my hair had the sort of stuff that Calvin would look at and say "Eww" before applying it all over him and grossing out his mother. Having thus confirmed that my hair was wrong as usual and not unusually wrong, I proceeded to face (rather hand) the face.

My face is something that has been very much wrong for an unusually wrong time. But that doesn't make it unusually wrong, in fact it makes it most usually wrong, if you can look at it the way I do. I have wasted a good deal of shaving razors, foam, water, keratin, blood and the other things that usually go wrong while shaving in an attempt to make it right, but it usually went unusually wrong so often that it ended up being most usually wrong. I reached upto my eyes and realized that they had suddenly turned into glass eyes. Then I read the previous paragraphs and realized that I had realized I did not have my spectacles on and so wore them and so I now have them on. I removed the spectacles and poked my eyes gently. I let out a small whimper and tears flowed (Why should the past tense of flow be flowed? I would have asked for flew.) from my eyes to my mouth tasting salty (the tears tasted salty, my mouth tastes...I digress). So, sight, touch and taste OK.

I reached upto my nose, up if you look at it from my point of view. The nose if it had a point of view (I don't mean a point from where you can view the nose), would possibly have an entirely different point of view about this whole business. When my fingers were about 30 cms away from my nose, my nose sent a panicky message to the brain saying "MayDay! Mayday! Make this bloody nitwit wash his fingers once a year." My fingers on the other hand (other hand in the metaphorical sense) sent this message to my brain "Paralyze me so that I don't have to enter into a mucus pit." In other words, the mucus was mutual!! But somehow I managed to check my nose through a set of complicated (pronounced obscene) procedures and made sure it was OK (usually wrong, that is).

Then came my ears...actually, my ears came long ago, almost about the time when I came, but they came now in a figurative sense. Messages similar to those with the nose ensued between the ear and the fingers. The ears however gave in sooner (actually it was the fingers that gave and went in) because they could not smell. It is a different issue that both the ears and the fingers smelt (rather stinked), but they could not smell. At first I could not hear anything. At first nobody heard anything (till somebody got tired and made the Big Bang), but this was not that very first...I mean the first in which I started checking my ears. Then I pulled my fingers from my ears and was able to hear. I put them in my ears (the fingers that is - I think I am suffering from a rather profound pronoun problem here.) and found that I could not hear again. I did this four times and was satisifed.

I then proceeded so on and so forth to check every other part - armpits (smelly and wet), back (smelly, wet and dirty), chest (goes in when I breathe out and goes out when I breathe in, very interesting) and bottom (position not changed with head as of now). I realised nothing was wrong with my physical self, unusually that is. I then started thinking if there could be something wrong with my mental self then. I thought for about 30 minutes with absolute concentration and concluded that it is possible for me to have a mental self. In fact, it is very much possible for me to have a mental self so mental that it might imagine a physical self. Now this got me thinking further. If my mental self was simply imagining my physical self, then my physical self might just be a mental self. This might mean that my physical self which is now a mental self has been imagining a mental self which was the original mental self which imagined the physical self which is now a mental self. To present the same idea in a brief fashion, I am now physically mental and mentally physical. I believe this is one of those metaphysical states, but you can never be sure.

And so here I am in a totally mental state which I mentally believe to be physical wondering what can be wrong with me unusually. Then I realise it - what is wrong with me unusually is that there is nothing wrong with me unusually. All that is wrong with me is usual at least as far as I am concerned. They might be unusual for some Tom, Dick or Harry, but I am not Tom, Dick or Harry and so it is usual for me. Now this is a very unusual thing for me. Unusual outside the usually unusual of course. Ah well, I guess it is just like me, as usual unusual!!!

P.S. Yes, I've completely lost it!

Mera kuch saman - a rerun

2006-09-06T02:41:00.000-07:00

Mera kuch saamaan
chod ke aayaa hoon
us ghar pe

Ek toote hue ainaa
jisse dekh ke kisi ne nahin sharmaaye

Deewar pe lage hue kaajal ki daag
jisse kisi ne galti se nahin lagaaya

Bandh hui kidki
jiske paas kuch vaade nahin kiya

Kaagaz pe likha hua ek naam
jisse kisi ne aaj tak nahin chuna

Anar ki ek phal
jiski gulaab jaisi kisi ki chehra nahin tha

Dho simit the hue aankhen
jis mein kabhi bhi aason nahin nikhla

Thadapke kuch aahatein
jis ko kisi ne dhyaan se nahin suna

Na dil ko choda,
Na pyaar, na gham,

Bas,
meraa kuch saamaan

To the most beautiful pair of eyes in the world

2006-07-31T03:35:00.000-07:00

Frightened black bucks run
fearing the cruelly bent bows
though they aim away.

2006-07-27T23:34:00.000-07:00

Sun smiles from the pond
Branches reach for the water
Whom does the pond love?

P.S. I guess the cuisine is going to be Haiku and photos for some more time!

A Poem. A Picture.

2006-07-24T23:19:00.000-07:00

Spring begets flowers.
Cold winter gives them coffins.
Tree always stands there.

Children bring their pain.
Father smiles in silent bliss.
The Mother is born.

Birds fly in the sky
The temple stands on firm earth
Where lies our freedom?

Goa + Kodagu Installment I

2006-06-26T02:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, that's where I've been hiding the past few days. :-D And obviously, every blogger is expected (or every blogger expects that he/she is expected) to post all the details of his/her vacation. :-)

There are four facets to this trip of mine and hence four installments to this series of posts. They'll be presented in decreasing order of mundanity (No, the word mundanity does not exist). So on with the post.

A resort is a hotel located in a resort area. I wonder if a resort area is an area with a resort hotel. One of those deep philosphical questions that can lead to Nirvana. The simpler way to Nirvana however is the

Swimming Pool

Be it a hot and humid sun or a mild caressing drizzle, there is nothing to match the feeling of soaking up in a pool of cold water. The swimming pool can at the same time provide both relaxation and gambol. The gambol comes from having a family that doesn't mind getting dunked and returns the favour with equal enthusiasm. Try getting into the pool with a mild drizzle immediately after you've been treated to a sensual

Massage

The massage to me was a slightly embarassing pleasure. I was reduced to a neanderthal state right at the start of the proceedings, in terms of attire that is. The thing that strikes you most in a massage is the masseur's hand (Sigh, how I wish I could put masseuse's hand! ;-) ). All in all a pleasant experience, but give me a plain old oil bath at home any day. Might have felt good if it had followed the

Steam Bath

For the first time in my life I was able to empathize with Idlis and Kozhukattais. But then my pain was more pronounced as I'm not as rotund as an Idli (or Kozhukattai). Perhaps I can add this to my exploits under the title 'Sixty Steamy Seconds'. Sounds like a B-Grade movie title. However this was much better than the

Sauna

I don't know why I entered into this contraption. I don't know why I'm writing anything about this at all. I should be better off writing about

Table Tennis

I wonder sometimes if I don't get enough of this in office. The animal inside you shows up often when you go for the totally unsolicted smash and end up hitting the ball right into the net. I never learn. Right now I don't know which is more boring - me going through all this in the trip or me writing about it. Well, one thing I do know is I better shut up now and put some serious effort when I write

Goa + Kodagu Installment II, Coming very soon

Cruel Poetry

2006-06-14T02:46:00.000-07:00

Sunken eyed beggar
Begs my poet on the road
Then a poem came

P.S. I'm off for a week now. Will be back with updates to make up for the time. In the meantime comments on this poem are welcome.

2006-05-30T04:00:00.000-07:00

An ant is possibly half an inch long and maybe a tenth of an inch wide, by a wild guess. A normal human foot would be, say a foot long with the footwear, twelve inches that is and about three inches wide. Approximately, the surface area of a human feet should be 1000 times more when compared to that of an ant. And when you think how many humans can attend a concert in an open air auditorium, it is a pretty dismal state for an ant.

And yet, there is this ant, not more than a few centimetres away from my chair that scuttles along with some very obvious purpose known perhaps only to itself. In a given interval of say a minute, at least 10 people walk through that area, each of them coming perilously close to squashing the ant.

And yet the ant scurries. The ant might not know mathematics and probability, but the odds of it getting squashed are very high. But it does not get squashed. Beyond mathematics and physics, the ant (and the world around it) obeys a superior set of laws. The law of purpose.

This ant here has a definite purpose that drives it to scurry from across my chair towards the post. It might be a basic survival urge of hunting for food. It might be that there is an ant doctor living on the other side who has to be fetched for an emergency. It might be that the movement of this ant might cause a disturbance in the atmosphere that might in cascading cause climactic changes. It might be just that the ant has to go pick up its mother-in-law from the other side failing which it'll be eaten by its wife. But there is a designated purpose for this movement, no matter how small. And till that purpose is not completed, the ant shall not be squashed. Even if there were meteors, glaciers, avalanches, SUVs and nuclear explosions running amock all over the place, this tiny ant here shall survive it all. And that survival shall be done in a plainly explicable fashion - no miracles.

Now, if suppose the ant knew for every action of its' this is the rule that governs it - if the action has a definite designated purpose, no matter what obstacles might come, the action shall be completed. Even if the ant by itself gets obiliterated, the action shall be completed in one way or the other. Destruction therefore does not limit the ant in its actions. With this knowledge, would an ant then have fear? Fear of failure/death?

The ant is free with this knowledge. The knowledge that death would not lead to its failure and neither will failure mean death of a purpose. It is clearly aware that there is a Mother, a Sakthi who is behind this universe driving every iota of action in it for Her purpose. It is aware that this Sakthi will never let even a tniy insignificant ant fail in the purpose it has been given. While this Mother is immensely benevolent when guiding the ant to its goal, She is also equally impassive in removing the ant once its purpose is completed. It's in fact not even cold justice on Sakthi's part. In fact nothing could be more merciful because even to an ant, life without a purpose would seem infinitely ardurous.

If such be the case with an ant, then so be it with everything in the universe - the Sun, the Moon, the rivers, the fields, the crows, the pigs, the tigers, men, women, children, knowledge, love, hunger, pain... everything, living, non-living, abstract, concrete obeys this single law. They exist for a purpose and they shall do so till that purpose is served. Their existence till the purpose is served cannot be affected by any means, however perilous their life might seem.

How different am I from this ant? I too scurry along hunting for food, protect my loved ones, procreate, have my pain and joy and then one day be squashed. How many vehicles come close to running me over on the road? How many bombs/shootings happen in very close proximity to me? In the air that I breathe, in the water that I drink and food I eat, how many fatal diseases almost enter me? In the given 24 hours of a day, how many possible ways are there to end my life without my even trying to do so? How many children are born dead? How many children never see the spring of youth?

I have seen much more in this world in a day than possibly many will see in a lifetime. From some perspective, perhaps, it makes no sense for Sakthi to continue this existence of mine. A loose nut in the bike that I drive, a loose electric cable in my path, an open gas regulator in my house - it is really easy. And yet, I do not die. Because there is a purpose to this life which has not yet been completed.

The ant might not be aware of its purpose. But it scurries on, in what might appear as a mechanical fashion. So too shall I scurry on with this life of mine. The entails of my actions, the purpose of this life might never be revealed to me. But that is not of consequence. A goal exists and the goal shall be achieved by what I do in this life. The goal is true, the path that leads to the goal is equally true, though the exact nature of the goal and the path can perhaps never be understood or described.

Life in effect would be a charted journey. A happy adventure through blossoms of spring and the winds of winter. An adventure just like those that come in children's stories, where the children always end up happily ever after. Death in effect would be a joyous end. A moment of repose in Her embrace after having completed the task. And yes, children, be it in stories or in life always live happily ever after.

That is because they do not know of death in the sense we adults know it. To them it is perhaps father not coming home from office for a long time, pAtti's chair being empty for a long time, Lakshmi no longer running with the cowhand chasing her. It simply means to them something that had been happening for quite sometime now is not happening anymore. It might be because father's office got shifted to the skies, pAtti has gone to have a private interview with her Krishna, Lakshmi has found a better store of hay and milk in some paradise. It is because, something better has happened to someone, because they finished their game and are now playing a better one in a better field.

This then shall be the mantram, the truth, the Holy Word. That we shall live as long as we desire, as long as our purpose is incomplete. That we shall achieve this purpose in spite fo how much we are deterred because our Mother, parAsakthi is abundant in love. That our actions, our immediate need might change by Her will because it does not take us close to our desire, our purpose. That She and She alone shall guide and carry us through Her love. That our servitude and allegiance is only with Her will. That She is the path and the goal laid out as truth. And this above all, that we shall move on once our goal is achieved.

The Man, The Legend

2006-05-26T02:56:00.000-07:00

Yesudoss, the singer is only well known to us. Most of us have grown up listening to him waking us up with 'Adithya hrudyam punyam' in the morning and going to sleep with his 'kaNNE kalaimAnE'. But at the concert in Coimbatore last week, he showed why he is much much greater than just a singer. Let me recall certain incidents.

We had a rather irritating compere at the concert - the modern RJ/VJ kinds who make more noise and attempts to hog more attention than the actual performer. (For heaven's sakes she actually hooted twice after Yesudoss finished a melody piece! Sigh!) And as is the norm today, she shouted and crooned for more applause every time someone came on stage/every time Yesudoss finished singing ('Come on Coimbatore, ivvaLO thAnA Coimbatore applause, etc.,). The second time she did that, Yesudoss with his dulcet voice said 'amma, athellAm appdi kEttu vAnggak kUdAthu ma. avangga mansAra ennai pArAttindu thAn irukkA. antha vibration illainAA ennAla paada mudiyAthu. athanAla appadi ellAm kettundu irukkAthE.' Brilliant! (Of course the compere hooted for this as well..)

Yesudoss at the start of the concert (which was being held for a noble cause) mentioned something about how there were no beds in the hospital in Cochin where he was born and how his mother suffered at birth. In the middle of the concert, the sponsors came with a cheque offering that it be used for getting 10 new beds at that hospital. Our man did not as much take the cheque in his hands and said that he will speak to the hospital officials and ask them to collect the cheque directly.

Then again, there was an anecdote about how he was almost offered the AsthAna gAyakan of Kerala state (Again, when the compere asked the meaning of AsthAnam, you should have been there to see how he explained it.). Following this, the organizers again offered him a gold chain and the title of konggu AsthAna something (don't remember). Yesudoss, did not as much put the gold chain on his neck before saying that the chain should be used for the cause for which he came and that he only intended to sing for this cause and would want nothing more.

The clincher however came later. Our beloved compere by now had lost all sense of shame and when Yesudoss finished one more beautiful song, she hooted at the top of the voice that ‘She loved and desired him’. Let us think of this. This man on stage is a 66 year old man who has led a career without a single mark or blemish. The way he treats music and life and his principles are very very noble. Wouldn't someone's tongue tremble before they make such audacious statements?

But our man gently replied saying that 'You are pretty courageous. I'm glad for you that my wife is not here.' Following this, the compere once again babbled some mindless stuff before saying, 'Ok, I'll go back stage now.' Our man simply said 'That would be the best thing to do.'

But it was not over yet. The following piece was a rendition of iLaya nilA pozigiRathu by a member of the orchestra. The guitar for this piece was played excellently by a girl of about 11-12 years. After she finished it, Yesudoss got the mike and, 'ungga ellArukkum oru periya artistai introduce panna poREn.' Gets the girl in forward. 'ivangga thAn intha pAttukku guita vAsichAngga. adakkamA kai kAl sEshtai illAma guitar mathiram vAsichAngga. guitar vAsikkarathai thavira vera ethellAmo panni attention create pannalai. ippadi thAn vAsikka veNdum.'

Of course the compere as usual hooted ignorant of what was happening.

Some other highlights

1. Yesudoss never allowed anybody (other than very very small kids) to fall at his feet on stage.

2. While the rather unnecessary felicitations where going on with the wives, sons, brothers, brother-in-laws and onnu vitta chiththappAs of various dignitaries, Yesudoss waited patiently backstage. He did not come forward and join the mutual flattery on stage.

3. When Yesudoss appreciated and gave compliments to the young child singers on stage, he did so in a manner that made the kid feel happy while at the same time making sure that it didn’t get into the head.

To summarize the whole thing, I've been to a few concerts, both light music and classical. I've listened to a few excellent pieces that mark as sheer genius in terms of creativity. But here's a man who shows us that it is not just music or not just art, but beyond that sincerity and being true to what one believes.

I bow to you sir! Hats off to Yesudoss!

She's all ready!

2006-05-21T23:30:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the late post.

But Alvibest is all ready and dressed up! I'm sure most of you guys must have already looked at Her. In case you haven't, then maybe you need to send a mail to subscribe.alvibest@gmail.com!

Mohana

2006-05-15T04:08:00.000-07:00

She is a shy timid girl, not more than fourteen years old. The first bud of youth's spring is just about to peek from her eyes. Her body and more importantly mind is opening to ideas, passions, pleasures and pains which had hitherto remained unknown.

She opens her timid doe-like eyes and looks at the world with anxiety and anticipation. Her eyes grow wider with the eyelashes entwining like lovers. Her lower lips quivers often, a bud that shall soon blossom into a flower and ripen into a fruit. The celerity of puerility is replaced with the grace of puberty.

She looks at her own reflection in the mirror with awe. Everyday she gazes on with pride and desire as spring lends her colour, charm and gaiety to her body. She admires the buds that someday will gush with life someday. She stands there in front of her mirror and everyday a new secret, a new mystery is revealed to her.

She charms, entices and lures without her knowledge. She looks about with the innocence of a jasmine washed in the summer rain as the bees hum around her softly. When she does realize her power, the attraction she wields, she blushes a crimson red. Her blood rises to her cheeks filling it with life and passion.

She stands at the threshold of her youth. The garden of passion lies open in front of her eyes. Her feet however linger behind in the playground of maidenhood. She stands there like the evening, neither here nor there. A little shadow, a little light. A little innocence, a little desire. A bud on the threshold of blossom. That is what she is.

She is the Sandhya, the twilight. She is Mohana - the innocent and seductive Mohana who is on the threshold of blossoming...forever.

She can be seen here.

P.S. Thanks to V for inspiring this post.

எந்தன் அன்னை

2006-05-04T22:35:00.000-07:00

கதிரே எந்தன் அன்னை - ஞானப்
புதிரே எந்தன் அன்னை - அசைவின்
சதிரே எந்தன் அன்னை - எந்தன்
எதிரே எந்தன் அன்னை

ஒளியே எந்தன் அன்னை - விரியும்
வளியே எந்தன் அன்னை - வாழ்வின்
அளியே எந்தன் அன்னை - சாவின்
களியே எந்தன் அன்னை

சுடரே எந்தன் அன்னை - பேரின்பப்
படரே எந்தன் அன்னை - வலிதரும்
இடரே எந்தன் அன்னை - உடலின்
குடரே எந்தன் அன்னை

தழலே எந்தன் அன்னை - பேராசைச்
சுழலே எந்தன் அன்னை - வினையின்
உழலே எந்தன் அன்னை - கருணை
நிழலே எந்தன் அன்னை

தேவை

2006-04-24T22:56:00.000-07:00

மழை போல் கவிதை
மலர் போல் காதல்

ஒளி போல் பார்வை
வளி போல் எண்ணம்

கொடி போல் வாழ்க்கை
கிளை போல் ஆசை

இருள் போல் உறக்கம்
ம்ருள் போல் கனவு

நதி போல் செல்வம்
மதி போல் கருணை

கதிர் போல் ஞானம்
சுடர் போல் காமம்

கவி போல் கருவம்
கனல் போல் ஆற்றல்

தழல் போல் ஆத்திரம்
நிலம் போல் பொறுமை

வானம் போல் உடல்
கானம் போல் உயிர்

குருவி போல் இன்பம்
கூடு போல் வீடு

அருவி போல் கண்ணீர்
பிரிவு போல் துயரம்

இரவு போல் ஜனனம்
மாலை போல் மரணம்

Lover's night - a poem with two Windows and a door

2006-04-17T09:27:00.000-07:00

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

The Door opens

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

Behold behold tis the lover's night
Summer showers cool moonlight
Nectar here nectar there
nectar nectar everywhere

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

Window I

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

Hooting owls and croaking frogs
Crafty cats and fighting dogs
Gentle songs of silver streams
Satin sheets and jasmine dreams

Shining knights and smiling dames
Lissome steeds and magic flames
Golden locks from fairy tales
Underneath her lovely veils

Silent roads and distant trees
shining stars with window breeze
Cradles rocked by rumbling snores
Goodnight kisses and closed doors

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

Window II

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

Wicked hair and wanton sight
lying by the candle light
Goblet of some ancient wine
and tonight she's only mine

Slender neck and hungry eyes
Ripened lips sweetened twice
Now this touch now that kiss
Now a gasp and then a hiss

In my arms her slender waist
Tapering thighs and bosom raised
Lost in pleasure and in pain
Souls together bodies slain

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

Behold behold tis the lover's night
Summer showers cool moonlight
Nectar here nectar there
nectar nectar everywhere

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

The Door closes

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

The Shy Morning

2006-04-16T23:48:00.000-07:00

Morning glows in a virgin blush
Trembles there in the silver dew
A teasing song calling the thrush
Golden face blooms anew

A tremulous flame this orange dawn
A golden crack in the sheet of night
Peeping here like a frightened fawn
A modest maiden with feet lily white

Oh how she quivers a face so shy
How she waits on the threshold of day
How she longs to embrace the sky
Oh how she longs to merge with the grey

Over the hills on the singing streams
Gently she walks feeling her love
Shyly she hides all her dark dreams
Like a fair nymph hiding in a cove

Soon she'll grow, soon she'll bloom
Soon she'll smile like a new spring flower
But now she's shy a virgin in her room
Waiting with desire for her secret lover

(P.S. Yes, I'm back!)

And the journey continues..

2006-02-24T01:50:00.000-08:00

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet,

And whither then? I cannot say.

- J.R.R.Tolkien
(The Lord of the Rings)

And so my journey continues..a man in search of the universe,and the universe in search of a man.And the journey began exactly a year ago,with my BLOG "Saadhana".My BLOG is one year old!!!

Here's me wishing my blog a very happy birthday!!

Have fun!

Bombay

2006-02-15T21:48:00.000-08:00

0:00

The bells on the cows. Thats where it begins. Slow and almost silent... can be missed easily. Placid cows chewing the lush green grass, shaking their heads to ward off the occasional flea. Thats when the bells chime. Thats when the cowherd looks up.

0:07

Its a bell after all, a ding here a dong there. Ding dong perhaps is too loud for the bell on the cows. They are much more hushed and inobtrusive. And yet, that is luring enough for the cowherd...and his flute. A soft note coming out of the flute. The cowherd's breath turning into early morning music, wafting with that strange cold and warm dawn breeze that frequents forgotten hamlets. Mesmerizing the performer, audience and the backdrop alike. The coconut trees sway to that lilting melody. The paddy stalks wave their heads as well. The whole scenery moves back and forth resonating with the music - the music of the cowherd's flute playing up against the backdrop of the cow's bells.

1:06

The flute pauses, sighing, searching for a companion. A wanton longing takes shape now - you can see it, with your ears...the notes clinging to the flute and stretching their languid fingers to the scenery...beseeching the unseen companion. They speak words of shameless desire with a grace that cannot be matched. Their call is desperate and yet princely. The cowherd's eyes look towards the horizon as the magic weaves on him as well.

2:03

And there in the horizon, a lone heron spreads its wings. Its pristine white wings set against the placid blue skies evoke images of a tranquil God sitting with a benevolent smile on His face. The bird against the sky...a strange union...ethereal.

2:15

Just as the heron sets its foot nimbly between the arched horns of the cow, a farmer sets his foot on a distant field. Is it harvest time? Or is the land being tilled? You can't make out at this distance...not when you are hypnotized by music and magic together. Its just a farmer, with his long sinewy arms lined with pearls of sweat making love to his field. You don't know if he is kissing her or is being kissed. Close your eyes and let them be, let them all be - the cow with its bell, the cowherd with his flute, the heron from the skies, the farmer and his field. Let them all be.

3:57

Now open your eyes. Its a magnificient painting. The skies smiling down, the sun gracing the scene, the cow chewing cud ignorant of the sun, the bell that chimes occasionally, the heron sitting placidly on the cow, the cowherd with his flute and closed eyes lost in his own magic, the farmer with his field lost in mad passion, the young paddy stalks that blush seeing this, the breeze that seems to stroll along the fields, the canal that runs gently murumuring its dissent at being ignored by the poet...and the serene spirit of dawn soothing everything around this forgotten piece of creation.

5:15

Close your eyes. Open them. It is dawn here.

The obscure title and the numbers that appear in the post will become clear when you click here.

Thoughtless words

2006-02-13T21:42:00.000-08:00

Muthamizh. That was the word that got into his mind when he opened his eyes. The sun played on the paddy field making it glisten like a huge emerald. He stared at the field. The occasional heron that landed made the picture more vivid. There were sounds, noises all around and yet a gentle note of silence seemed to run under all of them. The sounds were like the gentle breathing of Shiva in deep meditation.

The breeze was playing gently with his dhoti. Araikaani he thought suddenly. That must be the dimensions of this land, half a kaani. Half of what Barathi wanted. He smiled gently. There were coconut trees lined in distance. The banana plantations however were close by. His gaze then shifted to the pump set. Water was gushing from it in a hurry. Nobody was bathing in it today. He approached the pump set. Drops of water sprayed on to his face. He was reminded of those rose water sprinklers in marriages. He moved away and wiped his face with the dhoti.

A vague shout came from the old man who had been eyeing him suspiciously earlier in the day. He looked up and saw. The old man was making agitated gestures and shouting a lot. The makeshift dam that was controlling the water flow had broken. The old man was trying to simultaneously plug the hole and keep himself from being dragged with the water. Visai he thought. His eyes were now fixed on the canal running next to him. There were crabs scuttling along. Then a water snake came around. It regarded him for a minute and then lost interest.

He sat down now in the shade of the tamarind tree. There were women sowing paddy in his view. They somehow looked like cranes bending low and fishing. He felt there was something wrong in this comparison, but he was reminded of nothing else. There was mild chatter between the women accompanied by gentle laughter. They broke into occasional songs.

The women then started for the Banyan tree for lunch. He noticed one of them. He noticed her when she climbed to the Varappu from the field. She put her right foot up and her sari pulled up revealing her calf. What the cloth failed to cover, the mud did. She lifted her hands to brush the sweat on her forehead. As she did so he could see her slender waist and the droplets of sweat on it catching the sun. She brushed her forehead removing the sweat and leaving a thin layer of mud in its place.

The women had now gathered at the banyan tree. The sounds from them now felt like Thillaanaa. His eyes were closed. The breeze had lost interest in his dhoti and was instead playing with his hair. The sun stole through the leaves and warmed the behind of his neck in a pleasurable manner. His hands were playing with fallen leaves and twigs. Maiyyal was the word that caught his fancy now. But the word did not stay for long. Almost suddenly his thoughts went to Valli. He felt like he was on some hill in a hunter’s attire chasing Valli. He had never heard Valli speak, but somehow felt her voice must be very sweet.

When he opened his eyes he saw the green paddy again. Nel he thought. Then in an unexpected manner he went on rhyming Nel, Sol, Pal, Kal, Vil, Nil and so on. He was walking along the field quickly as he did this. Then as though tired from the effort, he started breathing heavily. Nellamma is a quaintly beautiful phrase he thought. The paddy is the mother. Muthu Nellamma he thought. He bent down and picked a fallen leaf. By the time he rose again, he had wandered on to Kannamma. For the first time since morning he spoke aloud. He said Kannamma. He said it aloud twice. Indeed, it felt sweet in his tongue.

The sun’s last rays were coming down like desperate warriors of a losing King trying to stop the armies of darkness crowding in the west. The women were now moving homewards visible only as silhouettes. He closed his eyes once more and opened them. He turned around slowly towards home. A single butterfly which he had not noticed since morning flitted in front of his face. Vannam he thought…Vannam, Thinnam, Munnam, Ennam…he walked on.

Muthamizh – A single word denoting the three facets of Tamizh language namely drama, poetry and prose.

Araikaani – A measure of land

Visai – Force

Varappu – The elevated pathway in a field

Maiyyal – Desirous love

Valli – Lord Murugan’s consort

Nel – Paddy

Sol – Word

Pal – Teeth

Kal – Stone

Vil – Bow

Nil – Stop

Muthu – Pearl

Alvibest

2006-02-06T05:52:00.000-08:00

I had mentioned in my new year post about treasures found in BLOGGER. Alivbest is one of the most precious amongst them. It all started with this post.

Eroteme was then an unknown BLOGGer to me. And it was by sheer chance that I came across this post. (You may notice that I have the first comment there! :-P) So thanks to Anu and to Eroteme, I was introduced to Alvibest. And today I'm proud to say I'm part of Her Editorial Team and that I have a small share in Her February 2006 appearance. And yes, I do have one more proud claim - I'm amongst the few contributors who have their contributions in all the three issues of Alvibest so far.

So why this sudden post? Alvibest has matured beautifully - from a shy, bashful maiden to a graceful courtly Princess!! And right now She is looking to conquer more domain...more hearts. I know there are quite a few readers of my BLOG who subscribe to Alvibest and there are quite a few who don't know about it yet. For those of you who are subscribers already, I ask the favour of spreading the news - family, friends, Internet community anybody at all who might be interested in quality Art and Literature.

And for the uninitiated, Alvibest is a quaterly Art and Literature magazine which paints the beauty of life with ink (digital ink, currently ;-) ). You can subscribe to the magazine by sending a mail to subscribe[dot]alvibest[at]gmail[dot]com and you can find snippets of the magazine here.

Besides subscribing and spreading the word, we are also looking at help in the form of reviewing, editing, design and just about anything. Briging up Alvibest is no different from bringing up a child - there will be more than one person's involment in shaping Her up. And anything that helps Her in Her growth would be very much appreciated!!

On the personal front, I have always wanted a daughter...three rather. Never thought the first one would be a Magazine, that too so lovely a Magazine!!! Thanks Eroteme!!! Thanks Anu!!! :-)

Rama Rama

2006-02-02T22:15:00.000-08:00

The morning sun waits to spread light on the world with eagerness.

Dawn trembles with curiosity on the eastern sky.

The birds stretch their wings and look skywards with expectation.

Jambhavan looks with pride and awe at the giant Hanuman.

He repeats Rama Rama aloud seeing victory already.

Sampati takes up Rama’s name and dances about Hanuman’s feet with ecstasy.

Lakshman in some far off forest seeks evidences of Sita bearing in his mind Rama.

The Vanaras behind him chatter in confusion but their hearts murmur Rama.

Baratha washes the sandals with his tears muttering Ram Ram instead of the Gayatri mantra.

Vibhishina wakes up and looks into his palm as he utters Rama.

Ravana stirs in his sleep and sighs in a musical note that resonates with Rama.

The winds strike the mountains whispering the name - Rama.

The ocean stretches ahead with waves that chant Rama Rama.

The air is tense and expectant with the glory of coming days.

Hanuman folds his palms and closes his eyes.

He intones Rama Rama Rama as his right foot takes off the ground for the leap.

Sita sits in penance in Ashokavana.

The leaves in her garden prison gently rustle as Hanuman leaps.

Sita does not waver.

She glows in her austere penance like the morning sun.

Her lips move repeating Ram Ram Ram.

The name is taken up by the wind and carried to the sea.

The universe reverberates with Rama Nama.

Ram opens his eyes as the sun rises and sighs ‘Sita’.

And yes... the bride of spring has come out!!!! I'm glad to say I've played a part in decorating her!!!!

2006-01-04T08:00:00.000-08:00

Just popped in for a (belated) New Year Post. 2005 definitely gave me more than one treasure, and almost all of its treasures were found right here on www.blogger.com - so my lifetime gratitude to BLOGGER!!!! Happy new year then and hopefully I should be back before 2007!!

Tiruvalampozhil - III

2005-11-14T05:28:00.000-08:00

So what kind of place is this Tiruvalampozhil? It is your standard unknown village (something like the South Indian Charanpore from Swades) with huge paddy fields along which the hero in a khakhi half trouser runs screaming "aaththaa naan pass aayitten". The aaththaa in question will have an uncanny resemblance to Kamala Kamesh. There are minor deviations though - there is no aala maram (strange, for Tiruvalampozhil) where a couple of elders sits with a sombu and conduct a panchayathu!

Just to set the record straight, I've never worn a khakhi trouser and never ran across the fields crying "aaththaa naan paas aayitten" owing to the facts that I don't have a khakhi trouser and that I've never had the drive to pass exams! And yes, my mother does not bear any resemblance to Kamala Kamesh.

Places like Tiruvalampozhil have a strange effect on you. You come to the place year after year, every year you change while the village remains the same. Its the same old kids with leaky noses, the same old geezers with their soiled loin clothes, the same old ladies with bad stained teeth. The house remains the same, so do the million odd mosquitoes that show a particularly strong affection towards you when you are in the toilet. The place is like some reference point, some fulcrum around which your life revolves. Its like some sequence in a video which is always in a still mode, a backdrop on which you lead your entire life.

In fact it is the perfect backdrop for a lifetime of romance. A open terrace looking towards a golden sunset, rains peeping in through the muRRam, the pungent smell of the cow shed, the feel of the fresh earth on your naked feet, wonderful symphony orchestrated by the birds, the lone lamp flickering by the temple late in the evening...it would be a sin to not find love in this kind of a place.

Finding love...sometimes, life makes me think - do you find love or does it find you? Perhaps love is a sentinent being while we are its puppets...

P.S. And sometimes I'm left wondering how an outrageous movie like Austin powers has such lovely songs!!!!

Tiruvalampozhil - II

2005-11-10T01:17:00.000-08:00

Reposting with corrections thanks to Padmasani

ஆலம்பொழிலினிலே ஆத்தோர சோலையிலே
மாலைப் பொழுதினிலே மனசெல்லாம் மயங்கையிலே
பாலோடு தேன் போலே பக்கத்தில் நீயிருக்க
காலம் மறக்குதடி கள்ளெல்லாம் ஊறுதடி

வானஞ் சிவக்குதடி வயக்காடு சிரிக்குதடி
சாணம் போட்ட மாடு ஒன்னு சந்தினிலே சுத்துதடி
கானம் ஒண்ணு நான் பாட கூத்தொண்ணு நீயாட
ஞானம் பொறக்குமடி நல்லதெல்லம் நடக்குமடி

பொன்னியவ கோயிலிலே பொங்கவச்சு பாட்டெடுத்து
கன்னி நீ கையசச்சா கனவெல்லாம் தோணுதடி
பின்னி இழுக்குதடி பம்பரமா உன் கண்ணு
எண்ணி எண்ணி என்மனசு ஏங்கித்தான் போகுதடி

வீட்டிலே விளக்கு வச்சு வீதியிலே கோலம் வச்சு
பாட்டிலே மனசு வச்சு பச்சகிளி உன்ன வச்சு
ஏட்டிலெ ழுதாம வச்சு எனக்குள்ள பத்திரமா
பூட்டி புதச்சு வச்சா பூபூவா பூக்குதடி

மாட்டு வண்டியில மயிலு நீ வாரையிலே
ரோட்டில தான் என் மனசு ராட்டினமா சுத்துதடி
காட்டுக் களத்தினிலே களையெடுக்க நீ போனா
காத்து வந்து வீசியே உன் கண்டாங்கி மயக்குதடி

மேகம் கருக்குதடி மல்லியப்பூ பூக்குதடி
மோகம் தான் மூளுதடி மாமன் பெத்த மரகதமே
தாகம் எடுக்குதடி தண்ணியூத்த நீ வந்தா
சோகம் குறையுமடி சொகமாத் தான் இருக்குமடி

To be continued

Tiruvalampozil - I

2005-11-09T06:49:00.000-08:00

If you were to take the road that is directly opposite to the Kandeeshwarar temple in Kandiyur, you will hit one of the worst maintained (if there is any maintenance being done at all) roads in Tamilnadu. (If you don’t take it you will obviously not hit one of the worst maintained roads in Tamilnadu – I like making my point clear). It was as we hit this road that my mother proposed a murderous attack on one of cousins. This suggestion was not exactly unrelated to the condition of the road that we had just hit…actually, it was the road that had hit our car and the car had hit back at us; that is hard hitting. The cousin in question had in a moment of over-enthusiasm (perhaps under some alcoholic influence) announced authoritatively that the road to Tiruvalampozhil has been improved – ‘jumnu irukku’ were the exact words he had used. I don’t blame him though – we had forgotten to ask the meaning of what is jum.

So, we reached Tiruvalampozhil with the road testing my father’s driving abilities to the maximum (not to mention the occasional surprise test popped by the drunken cyclist) and my brother now joining in the macabre plot to assault the prevaricating cousin. I did not speak. It was an emotional moment for me (Ok, please add the violins, the chorus humming and other sentimental effects that normally appear in Cheran’s movies.). I was coming to this place during Diwali after a break of two years, the first time after I had got my job (a major portion of which involves typing my BLOG).

It is surprising how little a place changes and how much a person changes in the same given time, especially if the place is a hamlet. The ponniamman temple which has seven ammans carved in the same stone has not changed one in the many years that I’ve seen it. Nor has the well opposite to the temple or the torn trouser clad kids who play in the sand nearby.

The car was parked in the familiar lane opposite to our ancestral house. I don’t remember a single time when the car was parked in a place which kept it safe from the perils of street cricket. And just as we were getting down, our illustrious cousin came with a beaming smile unaware of what perils awaited him as well. After my mother and brother had meted out the planned treatment we entered the house. Once again to my knowledge, we have never entered the house before one of the aunts rebuked one of the cousins – a loving family.

Some facts : Tiruvalampozhil is the abode of athmanathar and gyanambal. It is one among the padal petra thalangal. Appar has sung 10 songs in his thiruthandakam on the deity here. Download the entire thevaram from www.tamil.net/projectmadurai and search for songs 852 to 860. The 10^th song has been lost.