A Tamil Kannadiga

Every day I thank you Mother
for I'm Tamil;
kin to Barathi and Kamban.

And yet now every day
I curse you Mother
because Akka is not my sister
nor is she my Devi.

Oh mother Cauvery
You flow through the lands
Of Tamil and Kannada.
Why then am I
the son of just one land?

Bastard

I wish my mother had been a whore
and slept with men of all lands

So that I might have drunk the nectar
of Basavanna, of Tagore, of Basho
of Kalidasa, of Victor Hugo
of all the poets
from their own hands

instead of going about
with the begging bowl
of my unsullied birth.

The Sun and the Moon

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?

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

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

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)

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dusk's sun glows mellow

Your face yielding nascent smile

Who paints this eve gold?

Passion

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

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"