Monologues

24

2011-12-11T06:43:00.001+05:30

Once in a while, I feel the urge to come back here. I like doing this, putting words on paper. There was a phase when I thought I was going to be 'a writer', a real one, publish books, all that jazz. And then, I did the only thing I could, I kept writing for as long and as much as I could. There are some pieces I like, but those are few and far between. Most of what I have written seems to be just a lot of I-take-myself-too-seriously.

There is this line I read somewhere today that good poetry has layers, and as you evolve, you start uncovering the deeper layers. Most of my poetry/prose/words isn't 'good' by that measure because it was written to relieve an immediate angsty itch, and my evolution as a person has failed, for the most part, to uncover anything deeper in those sets of words. Just like the sets of sentences written so far, they are merely stating the obvious. However, they are invaluable to me, the person, because it is a measure of my progress.

Therefore, when I write today, I write with some certainty that the stuff I write here isn't relevant for much longer than the present. It's a great realization to have, because it prevents me from taking all of this stuff too seriously. For sometime now, writing as a means to record thoughts or emotions has not made much sense to me, because my evolution as a person seems more important to me than taking a snapshot of what I think is running through my head at every millisecond.

This year has taught me, more than anything else, that there is so little I know and so much more that I can learn.Given that I feel like I know so little, talking or writing about it doesn't feel great. I neither have the clarity nor the vision nor the expertise to write about most topics, and be read. I don't have the language to describe a few experiences I have had. Life seems fuller with fewer words.

There is a sense in which the prose I liked to write - the stream of thoughts, the poetry - the emotional flux, or the short stories - weaving the streaming thoughts and the emotional flux as a narrative - are all yearnings, yearnings for Life as I thought I wanted it, Life as I thought it wasn't but it should be. Part angst, part yearning, part ecstasy in the 'anubhavam' of life, part childish dissatisfaction - it was my snapshot of Life with a capital 'L'.

Somehow, Life has won in the end, and I am not complaining. This slow, potent realization, this gradual yielding to the loving arms of Life, does not require the dissecting minutiae, the constant control. There is belief, nay certainty, that one is on safe shores.

I have learned to 'let go' more this year. To be child-like. I have let go of the last of my pent-up cynicism. That is not to say I believe that A.Raja is a selfless saint. There is a certain comfort is seeing the world for what it is, yet 'knowing' that the best is to come yet.

I have been uncommonly lucky to have had a few extremely good friends and family, who have stuck with me through the years. These people, even if they are not numerous, make up in quality what they might lack in quantity. You know who you are; if you are reading this, thank you. Thank you so very much.

Since I have started rambling and using inappropriate semi-colons, I am going to stop here. Last year was wonderful. This year, next year, and all the years hence - hope the wonder sustains. Hope I sustain the wonder within me. That's my yen for the 24th. Happy birthday, Suchitra.

PS: Yen for the 20th birthday: http://suchithewriter.blogspot.com/2007/12/asking-for-too-much.html

And, nah, you weren't asking for too much :-)

And other things

2011-05-22T08:23:00.000+05:30

Despite the emptiness of words or whatever, words are useful when you actually have concrete bits of information to convey. So here are a few bits of information which might be interesting, amusing or time-passing enough to be considered amusing.

This morning, a rare sunny day in my parts, I was sitting under a tree listening to the Anil Srinivasan-Sikkil Gurucharan album Madhirakshi. It is a beautiful album and the song playing was their rendition of the Sangam poem 'Yayum yayum yaaragiyaro'. It is a beautiful poem, whose meaning translates to 'My parents and yours are not related, nor do you and I know each other, but in our love, we have mingled as the red earth and pouring rain'. So there was this song, and a tree over my head, and I thought that just like in the song, I did not know about the tree's (presumably) North American parentage, not could the tree know anything about me, yet there we were, sharing a quiet little moment.

That was when I remembered someone telling me about an iPhone app called LeafSnap. All I needed to do was download the free app, take a picture of a leaf from the tree, and the app used a cool visual recognition software to figure out what tree's leaf it was. I soon knew the tree's history, geography, psychology etc. Given that I am in a new place with all these new flora and fauna, it is absolutely fascinating to be able to know about different trees and plants around me.

There's another cool iPhone app called Bebot. Check out the video on the site. It is perhaps the closest dirt-cheap alternative to Rahman's synthesizer (yes, the one he used in the last parts of Rehna Tu). Since the iPhone's screen is small, it requires a lot of dexterity to get the notes placed exactly right, but hey, I can play 'Happy birthday' and 'Twinkle twinkle little star' on it. I have got a few basic Carnatics ragas figured out. Give me a few years and I might actually be able to coax out an entire RTP out of it.

And. Pet peeve. Wokai, one person writes like this and gets 500 comments means all of you will start writing like this-a? What ya, if he jumps into the well, you will also jump? Leave originality, why this mindless hero worship? Next you will want to go and pour Aavin Paal on this guy's cut out. Go, go, make your little kids study. (Yes I realize the meta-ness inherent. If you don't know what I am talking about head over here. And if anyone wants to actually get this guy's (or girl's) cut-out, I will contribute a paal packet.)

Oh. And Steig Larsson's 'The girl with a dragon tattoo' makes a good read. Recommended inflight book.

That's all.

A word addict's wordlessness

2011-05-22T07:55:00.000+05:30

What does a state of wordlessness mean - does it mean that the experiences that I might want to put into words are too sublime for words, or does it mean that I do not have the right vocabulary to narrate or describe those experiences?

Does it herald a realization - that words are only as good as the thoughts they represent, and need not translate into action necessarily? Does it mean that words may sometimes be hyperbole in comparison to thoughts - not representing a clearly defined thought, nor intended action, but a mere passing fancy, a bright illusion that seems fancy for the moment?

Does it reflect a state of mind, one that realizes that words are empty, poor constructions of enormously more precious things, yet in their very emptiness, containing more possibilities of the infinite, unheard melodies than what is finite and known? Is that the allure of words, and is that what I have discovered - that it is allure, nothing less, nothing more?

What is it about some words that drives people to do things above and beyond ourselves? A soldier hears his leader's words and kills men in a frenzy. A reader of a play might be Desdemona today, Macbeth tomorrow. Yet why is it that words never take us closer to ourselves, so close that we are us? Using words, it feels like I have a little circle drawn around me, a ring of fire I cannot tresspass. Describing, thinking or talking about myself, or hearing words said about my self, only seems to hold me back from my self. What then, are the use of these words, if they only serve to alienate me from myself?

What is the use of semantics, endless repetitive hyperbole, beating around a bush, flogging a dead horse, what metaphor you will.

Maybe comfort? Maybe words take the sting away, dull the pain for the time being? All that beating round the bush and flogging the dead horse tire us out till we don't even remember much about the original reason for starting to talk in circles?

Even while dealing with wordlessness I seem to seek words. Then does it mean I am addicted to words? Good. I feel better already.

2011-05-06T00:15:00.001+05:30

Rough draft.

you men, who make much of dying,
die once! and see
that there is no pleasure in death
your fantasies of voids and absences
of eternal peace dressed up as eternal death
shall make no difference to 'you'
for if 'you' are gone
'you' are the void
'you' are the absence
'you' are the peace
yet there is no 'you'!

you men, for whom life holds no charm
you philosophers, always sighing on the evanescence of life
drooling over death, enchanted by promises of eternity
always dreaming of a divine 'consummation'
you men, shame on you!
for thinking you can buy beauty
with the currency of 'your' death...
beauty has no price! the leaves, the raindrops
the mushrooms, the vixens
are free to you as to me!
how dare you buy my beauty!
and fritter it away with talks
of 'thousand natural shocks'
and 'வீடுவரை உறவு, வீதிவரை மனைவி'
shoo! better die, y'all.

You Hamlets of the world, you men of thought
embrace your skulls, absorb your eternal truths
sit back in your coffins with your cobweb festoons
and lord over the rest of us -
may you stop brooding long enough
for your quest of eternal peace to find you.

and the rest of the world, shall swing past
in one gay-colored caravan
festive lights shall wait
for you to find your paths home.
Buddhas and Bharatis - your peepal trees and your wisdom
doth they not teach you
that the highest of all wisdom
is not to 'seek it',
but to 'forget it'?

That your perpetual musing misery
About the fate of the cliff, the tiger and the snake
Makes you blind
to that one drop of honey's sweetness?

you atheists! you disengagers of belief!
you men and women blind to the beauties of the world!
Tis wrong of me, agreed.
To tempt you with visions that I see,
and songs that I hear
that you have decided to close your senses to.

Hamlets of the world, this is my soliloquy.
Not my lot to rue over rosemary and thyme
And turn up glassy-eyed in river beds
For I am no Ophelia.

The forgotten face of the beloved

2011-04-17T21:50:00.001+05:30

Chellamma went to Ranganayaki's house that morning to borrow a padi of rice. Chellamma did not even need to explain the cause of her visit. Ranga was a sympathetic woman. Even as she welcomed Chellamma into the kitchen, she went into the store room and measured out the rice, throwing an extra handful in. Chellamma gratefully sat on the floor as Ranga's son Venkittu ran around her in circles, periodically puffing out imaginary smoke from his chimneys.

"Did you hear anything from the lawyer yet, Chella?" asked Ranga, handing over the rice.

Chella sighed deeply. "Yenga, Ranga. This man will not keep quiet even in prison. I don't think he realizes that he has a wife and two daughters depending on him, starving here. Yedho, you are so good to me. Else we would be on the streets." Chella wiped a stray tear."Alright, I had better get going. That stove is not going to light itself in there."

Chella crossed the street to go to her dingy, pillared house.A little boy hopping on the street pushed a seal-broken piece of paper into her hands. "Maami, the postmaster asked me to give this to you," he said, running off. Chella sat on the modest mutham of her house, and squinted in the sunlight to make out the letters. The handwriting was her husband's.

Dearest Chella,

I am writing you this letter hoping that they will not confiscate it. If you get this letter, know that I am well and more importantly, the British in this prison are already sick of me. It won't be long before they let me go! Every morning I wake up at 4 o'clock and wake everyone else as well.And then we start to sing, and how loudly we sing! On the second day I came, all the officers who were sleeping woke up and came running! We refused to shut up. They must now know that they cannot make us shut up any longer.

My cell mate is called Kanniappan. He is from Ramanathapuram and he has been in prison for 12 years now. He killed a man in a fight, he says. I have been teaching him some of my songs. Oh, what a good voice he has, you should hear him sing. Life inside the prison is not very different from life outside, Chella. Maybe you should also join me in here."

Chella laughed ironically.

"Enna ma, you are laughing?" asked Kannamma, her daughter, pausing in her skipping game.

"Appa's letter, dear," said Chellamma.

"Oho," said Kannamma, going back to the game.

"Chella, if you do get this letter than can you do something for me? I don't know why, but of late, I have been thinking of my mother very often. Sometimes I lie down here in the late afternoon, after the day's work, and there is a single shaft of sunlight that comes down the roof of this cell here. I lie down next to it, and sometimes I remember her like a shadow. I was very young when she died, you know? I only remember her footfalls, her metti. She once took me to the Nellayappar Temple in Tirunelveli. We travelled in a horse cart with a thatched cover. The sunlight danced inside the cart just like it does in here. She held me close and her bangles went jing-jing-jing. Can you imagine it Chella?

There is an old picture of her that they took just before she died. Chella, I have a yearning to see her face. Can you please send me her picture by the return post? I will tell you where it is, I don't think you have seen it either. Go into my room, and in the third bookshelf from the right, in the lowest rack, there are two old dhotis. Under that there is a black file with a side pocket. Look in that pocket, I am sure the picture is there. If it is not there, then search in the books in that shelf. Mostly those old Tamil ones. I might have placed it in one of the books in the rack. They used to say that placing a peacock feather in the books would make it double the next day. Maybe I thought that putting my mother's picture in a book would give me two pictures.

Much love to the daughters. I am attaching my latest poem. Read it to Kannamma.

C.Subramaniya Bharati.

Chellamma folded up the spiky scripted sheets, without reading the poem.

_________________________________________________________________________________

That afternoon, she opened the rusty door to her husband's study. She never went in there, either when he was in the house or when he was not. The study was his, the kitchen was hers. Their spaces were never shared.

The door opened with a creak. A fine cloud of dust rose as she entered the unfamiliar space. There were books all around, tall dusty rows and shelves full of books in all languages. A staid writing desk on one corner, piled with writing paper and scribbled sheets. There was a pen with its cover only half screwed on and an open bottle of ink. A peacock feather, a few round shiny pebbles, a bird's nest behind the clock above the window.

Chellamma located the bookshelf mentioned in the letter. Though it was messy, it was exactly as the letter said - two dhotis ('torn', thought Chella, examining it critically, 'might be useful in the kitchen') and a black file falling apart beneath them. Silverfish swarmed about. There were expired documents to long-relinquished property safely guarded in the file. ('Maybe I should show them to Kannamma,' thought Chella) There was a side pocket, something hanging by its threads. She slid her fingers inside. Was the photograph in there?

A thin, grainy black-and-white picture came out with her fingers. The woman in the picture, young, thin, stared absently into the distance while the photographer had clicked the picture. This tryst with a dead woman, her husband's mother, was unnerving, yet oddly liberating.

"Your son is in prison, we are starving, and all he can think of are his songs, his poems and now you," said Chellamma out loud. "Other women's husbands care so much for their wives. Why, Ranga's husband got her a silk saree and gold for the last Deepavali. Why me! Curse you! Why did you have to die early? Maybe if you had been around you could have knocked some sense into him..."

The photograph answered by fluttering into her face. There was a gust of wind from the open window, and before Chella's eyes, the old brittle picture disintegrated slowly. Chella tried to hold it up in horror, but it slowly turned to powder. The young woman's vacant expression disappeared. All that remained of Bharati's mother was a pile of ash.

Chellamma stared at the ash in her cupped palm for a little while. Then she rose and grabbed one of the papers lying in the little waste basket on the bloor. She shook off a young roack from it and slowly transferred the powdered photograph in her hands into the paper, and packed it neatly into a secure bundle. She placed the bundle on the table and then went back to the old books in that rack, methodically thumbing through the pages. Maybe the picture had doubled in one of the books.

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

The bundle of the photograph's dust went out the same day with a letter in Chellamma's handwriting.

Thank you for the letter. We are fine here. The photograph was very old, it crumbled when it touched it. I have sent the crumbled dust, that is all there is now. I read your poem to Kannamma as I promised.

The house rent is due on the 2nd. We have exactly two rupees left. I don't want to borrow money from Swaminatha Aiyer again. Maybe start waking up an hour earlier and sing louder, the British may release you sooner.

Chella.

It was probably cruel, she knew, sending the crumbled remains of the photograph. A vindictive part of her saw the measly food on their plates and her daughter darning her only skirt in the dark, and argued, "Let him suffer too." Then she thought of the man's sickly constitution, his innumerable coughs and chills caught during lonely sojourns at odd hours in the hills in the colder months of the year. He would clasp her fingers and sleep when he was fevered, his hands absently jingling the glass bangles on her hand. Poor man, what must they be feeding him in prison. "Certainly more than what we get here," she thought, staring at her sour buttermilk. Maybe he was right. Maybe she should join him in prison, like Kasturbha.

There was no word from the prison at Cuddalore for the next two weeks. On the evening of Karthigai Deepam, she lit two lamps out by the front door, because she could not afford oil for any more. Her brother sent her money as was the custom, and Chella put it by for the month's rent. Ranga gave her a few puffy appams for the occasion which Chella accepted gratefully. Shame at not being able to reciprocate the favour had flown out of the window long ago.

Another week later, Chella woke up one morning to realize that it was her husband's birthday. There was no letter yet. Thanks to the money from her brother, she was able to get some jaggery and some extra milk. Kannamma, Ponnamma and Venkittu had payasam that day. Chella had the mandatory archanai done. That evening, she received a visit from their family friend, Swaminatha Aiyer.

"Did you hear the news? They have released your husband!"

"What? Muruga, finally. The prayers today have not gone in vain!"

"Yes, yes, did you not hear from him? He said that he had written to you, maybe the letter got delayed. I met him after he got out this morning, but he has proceeded directly to Pondicherry. He does not want to miss out on getting out an issue of his magazine even now!"

"Did he say when he would come home?"

Swaminatha Aiyar smiled at the disappointment in her voice. "You know how he is.He was excited after coming out of prison and immediately wanted to write an article about his experiences in prison, who he met there and what they said. He wanted to write to Gandhi and Tilak... look, he has written some new poems while he was in prison. In fact, he specifically asked me to give you one of them. Here..."

Chella took the manuscript disinterestedly. "If you meet him again, could you please ask him to come home soon?"

"Child, do you need any money?"

"No, no, uncle. Thank you. My brother sent me some money for Karthigai and that should be enough for this month. Next month Pongal comes and we might be sent some more then. Hopefully by the time the festival season goes, he would be back here and might even have a job..." she sighed. "If he squandered money on alcohol or visited brothels like other men at least that is understandable. All this dreaming and poetry, that's my rival...what good does it do!"

Swaminatha Aiyer said a few consoling words, and left Chellamma to the manuscript. She opened it, and read Bharati's letter.

Dearest Chella,

You must have gone to great lengths to obtain the photograph for me. Thank you. Knowing you, when the photo was gone, you would have looked around for another copy of the picture. There was only one in existence. Maybe I should have cared for it better. But sometimes I lose track of these things.

The memories of my mother have been coming and going for the last few days. Maybe it is because of this claustrophobic cell. Maybe it reminds me of her womb, and maybe the light from the skylight is the light of life. Maybe she is calling out to me from the Other world. You know what it is like when you hear a song in a language that is not your own? You don't understand the meaning, but the music propels you forward, sucks you into its world. It compels you to search, to attain that meaning, to experience the fullness of that song. Chella, I want my mother like that. I really wanted to see her picture, it has been a yearning in me, a quest. I want to remember again her form, her features, her smile, her expression. Was she short or tall, thin or plump, beautiful or plain? Was she smiling, was she thinking of me in the picture?

And then all I got of that one photograph that remained of her was a pile of ash. The day I received your letter, I sat and wept in my cell like a small child. Even Kanniyappan could not console me. It was not the loss of the photograph that made me so sad. it was the loss of her memory. How could I have been so remiss as to lose even her memory? I felt like Radha, like a woman whose lover has been remiss far too long that she even forgets his face. Then I wrote this poem...I hope you like it.

C.Subramaniya Bharati"

Chellamma read the first few lines of the poem. The ridiculous mustache, the jaunty turban, those mad eyes and those endless bills. Was there nothing else left to remember? She wept.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Author's note:

'The forgotten face of the beloved' is inspired by one of C.Subramaniya Bharati's enduring poems, 'Aasai Mugham Marandhu Poche'. The title is in fact a direct translation of the poem's first line. I have the poem scripted and translated at the end of this passage.

What's fact and what's fiction here? C.Subramaniya Bharati was imprisoned for three weeks in Cuddalore, shortly after which he passed away. He did have a wife called Chellamma, they did live in penury. 'Aasai Mugam' is believed to have been written by Bharati as a means of expressing his anguish following his inability to locate his long-dead mother's picture. So much is fact.

The characters of Ranga and Swaminatha Aiyer are fictional. The instance of the disintegrating photograph is also fictional.

Translation is a notoriously finicky business. This one is something I tried, I will not vouch for either accuracy of word-for-word translation, or the translation of the inherent emotion.

ஆசை முகம்

ஆசை முகம் மறந்து போச்சே -இதை
யாரிடம் சொல்வேனடி தோழி
நேசம் மறக்கவில்லை நெஞ்சம் - எனில்
நினைவு முகம் மறக்கலாமோ (ஆசை)

The face of the beloved is forgot - my friend,

To whom shall I lament?

The love is not forgot, but then

How could I not put a face on it?

கண்ணில் தெரியுதொரு தோற்றம் - அதில்
கண்ணனழகு முழுதில்லை
நண்ணு முகவடிவு காணில் - அந்த
நல்ல மலர்ச் சிரிப்பைக் காணோம் (ஆசை)

Lo! A figure comes to mind, but

No! It is not all the beauty of Kannan I see.

If I see the contours of the face

Oh! I have lost His flower-like smile!

தேனை மறந்திருக்கும் வண்டும் - ஒளிச்
சிறப்பை மறந்துவிட்ட பூவும்
வானை மறந்திருக்கும் பயிரும் - இந்த
வையம் முழுதுமில்லை தோழி (ஆசை)

Is there a bee that forgets honey?

Or a flowers that loses taste for the light?

No, the paddy does not forget the sky

Such things are not of this world, my friend!

கண்ணன் முகம் மறந்துபோனால் - இந்த
கண்களிருந்து பயனுண்டோ
வண்ணப் படமுமில்லை கண்டாய் - இனி
வாழும் வழியென்னடி தோழி (ஆசை)

If Kannan's face is forgot,

Then what is the use of these eyes?

There is not even a picture of Him, my friend,

Now tell me, how do I live on?

The excellent version of this song by Sikkil Gurucharan and Anil Srinivasan

Sitamma

2011-04-11T03:24:00.001+05:30

Once upon a time, I dreamt about a woman called Sitamma. She was 70 years old, living alone in an old house called Parrot's Nest ('Kilikkoodu' was the given name). Sitamma has a grown-up son who lives abroad and calls her once in a while. Otherwise, she is alone, dedicated to her routine, on friendly terms with her few neighbours, a regular at the local temple etc. Her walls are decorated by Calender Gods and those tiny Sai baba wallet pictures random relatives give her. She has a phone she uses only to receive calls. She keeps her spectacles perched on the statue of Ganesha by the door, and uses it to read the periodicals late in the afternoon. The story goes on, changing track when a 30-something single woman moves in with her, taking a single room she lets out. She is an engineer who has been commissioned to build a dam for the village's river. Sitamma does not want the dam built, because it would obstruct water flowing to the back of her house, where she bathes every day. And so on. I promised you to tell her story, but I never did. I am not sure what happens to Sitamma or Vasuki (the engineer) as the story goes on, because I woke up from Sitamma's dream too soon. That story was never written.

In another age and time, the promise I made to tell Sitamma's story stayed forgotten. Instead, we talked about other things, thoughtlessly, frivolously, only as girls can. Like carrot cake and brownies and bubble tea. Like random family stories, friends, trends, this, that. Senseless giggling, instantaneous happiness. The stories we make up in our minds do not intrude upon the spontaneous joy of the day-to-day. We had that.

And then seasons changed, dams were built. But Sitamma's story still waits. Maybe I will tell Sitamma's story one day. For you.

Twilight zone

2011-04-07T20:03:00.000+05:30

The past holds on to my ankles like dredging sand in the wake of the tumultuous waves.
The waves are promises of a dreamy future, buried Atlantis in a land of coral reefs and wistful mermaids.
I stand here, sandy-feeted, with burrowing crabs and smooth shells
Moon above, twilight robbing the sky,
Whether to shun the waves for the sand's gritty hold
Or leave the known, safe shore for the mystic promises of the waves.

The Idealist - Part III

2011-03-25T07:34:00.002+05:30

The first two parts: Part - I & Part II
Anger

A single flare lit the scene. Rama sat at the edge of the pond, staring at the reflection of his face in the rippling waters. A cicada chirped. A snake slithered in the undergrowth. A bird woke up, noticed that it was still the middle of the night, cried out in confusion, and then went back to sleep. Rama sat, unmoved by the regular sounds he would have listened to and taken delight in otherwise.

He had been all but fifteen years old when that incident had happened. A young solider in training, he had accompanied his teacher, Viswamitra, to help him drive out some miscreants who were apparently disturbing him. Like an obedient student, he had helped his teacher restore peace in his abode. As they were walking through the forest along with Lakshmana, an old hag had come on to the path and fallen at Rama's feet.

"They say you are the most noble man alive," she had wept. "You, son of Dasharatha, the scion of the Sun Dynasty. I knew this day would come. My sins would be wiped out if I repented at your feet. I have been waiting for you, son, please forgive me, please do!"

Rama looked at his tired, aging face in the lake, lit up only by the flare he was holding. He remembered his fifteen-year-old self, spine upright, hair thicker and blacker, eyes brighter, but lips trembling, as he saw the mad woman clutch his ankles and weep. Unsure what to do, grieved by her emotion, he had looked at Viswamitra, bewildered. At one glance from him, he had bent down beside her, and in the gentle manner that was Rama's hallmark, he had comforted her. He did not ask her what her troubles were, because he did not think it was necessary to know. But her grief, her age and her regret moved him.

Later, Rama had stretched himself out under the stars with Lakshmana by his side, long after their teacher had gone to sleep. "How satisfied she looked when I grasped her shoulder! How peaceful were her eyes when I held her hand and said that she had done no wrong and everything would be alright! Wasn't I lying to her, Lakshmana? Why, I did not know anything about her! Nothing I said to her was true - her sins did not go away -"

"But, Anna, her regret did! Did you not see how peaceful she looked as we left? Why, did she not say she felt as free as a statue that had suddenly been brought to life?"

"But who am I? Why did she have to elevate me to some dizzy height and then think of herself saved for falling at my feet?'

"Because, you are you, Anna," Lakshmana had said simply.

Rama remembered pausing for a long time. In that silence, he had thought about so many things he had come across in his youth, some things he could not agree with, some things he had to see changed. But, Rama had thought, what can I change if I don't change the only thing I am capable of changing - myself? Did it not follow that all the idealism in the world he expected and missed should first start with himself? Indeed, what had he done for an old woman to fall at his feet? Could he ever be that man, worthy enough to justify that woman's action?

"Lakshmana," he had said. "All I know is that it takes a very, very noble man to be compassionate towards faults in others that they see in themselves, let alone forgive another human being. Lakshmana, I know I am not that man, so all this adoration feels unjustified and hypocritical to me. But what if I try being that man?"

"You mean be good all the time?"

"Be good, do good, speak only the truth, never harm anyone, do one's duty, be fair to others. Everything that makes sense to me as a good deed, something that makes life better for myself and everyone around me."

Rama remembered Lakshmana asking - "Anna, but isn't that a difficult thing to be? All of us slip. All of us make mistakes, or do things that we regret. No one can be ideal, Anna, no one can be perfect. You are good and brave and kind and generous, but could you be perfect?" Lakshmana was an honest, practical fellow, thought Rama, and smiled.

"It may not be, dear brother," the young Rama had said. "But why should I not try? If I do a mistake unknowingly, than I shall try to set it right. But I am going to try never to get passion, anger, envy or laziness get the better of me if I can help it. I should try it though, don't you think?"

Lakshmana had warmly clasped Rama's hand and sworn, "Anna, how many people on the face of the earth have either the faculty of thought to think this way or the steadfastness of mind to follow it through? I am happy to be your brother, your confidant, to know the workings of your mind, your thoughts and troubles. I assure you, I will never leave your side no matter what, and in my own way try to be a good man."

That day had sealed their friendship, mused Rama, staring at his face. That day had also seen a new resolution born, one where Rama had vowed to shun small thoughts and keep to his code of goodness and grace. He had known as much as Lakshmana did, that it was not an easy choice. But he had persisted.

It is not difficult to be good and do good when you are happy, Rama knew. For the first few years after that, he had been the happiest man alive. He was not King, he was the beloved Prince of the People. He went out of the way to attend to his people. His friendliness and gentle demeanour, one that knew no malice, won their hearts.

He married a woman, and he closed his eyes to force back the tears as he remembered the most loving wife that any man could have. For all their bold glances and silent eye-talks that the poets ran amok with, he had not known whether she was a woman after his heart when he had married her. He had seen his father trying to handle the moods and fancies of all the women he had married. He knew enough about women to know that an incompatible one would make him unhappy, and he would make her unhappy by forcing himself on her. He had decided, after seeing his father handle the jealousies and politics among his wives, that he himself would torture neither himself not his wife with such an unnecessary arrangement. But he hoped that the one wife he hoped to marry would be someone he could relate to.

Sita had been that very woman. When Rama had told Sita about his ambition in life to always do the right thing, Sita had not reacted like his mother, by asking "What mad talk is this?" On the contrary, she had listened to him speak, and had said, "If that is what you want out of life, then follow your heart."

When she had heard about his decision to go to the forest, she had gathered up her essentials in a neat cloth bundle and asked, 'When are we going?"

"But you are not going. I am," Rama had said. It was not fair to subject his wife to the harshness of the forest, he felt.

"This is what I want from my life. I am going to follow my heart," she had said. "I am going with you."

It had been mad talk, all their talk of following hearts. She should have remained safe in the palace. Why, he should have, himself. He had thought it was the best thing he could do, the right thing, for what was more right than not being greedy for the sake of the greater good? There had been tears and unpleasantness at home. His step-mother had threatened them with suicide.He had decided to leave. After all, he bore Bharata no ill will. He did not want Kaikeyi taking an extreme step. What could possibly be gained by a woman's death?

"Except maybe my father's life?" rued Rama.

Actions come with consequences, Rama know. One could not commit oneself down a path without having to face what the path entailed. Maybe his father's death was a consequence of his action, however right he thought it was, he rationalized. Maybe his father was meant to die at this time and this was how it had to come about.

These were things that Rama could not control - neither his father's death, nor the abduction of Sita. But he could have very well helped what he had done today. The murder of Vaali. Rama shivered at the thought of that arrow flying out. Rama stared at the lined face in the lake as if it was a stranger's. The spectre of the fifteen-year-old Rama in his mind scorched him with a look of anger, alternatively casting his eyes down with shame.

Their search for Sita had lasted for five days so far. Five painful days. A man on the way had told them that he had seen Sita being dragged away by the evil Ravana, emperor of Lanka. They had walked in the general direction of the south, hoping to reach the ocean, cross it and get to Lanka. That was when they had stumbled upon the mountain kingdom, with its ruler Vaali and his weak brother Sugreeva.

They had happened to meet Sugreeva's minister, Hanumantha first. Hanumantha had seen Rama sit down, vexed, and shed a few tears. The pain and sorrow on his face had moved Hanumantha. He offered to help Rama, by introducing him to his master, Sugreeva.

What had followed was political tact. Sugreeva agreed to help Rama, provided he got his kingdom back. For that, he needed to vanquish Vaali, his brother. Desperate for help, Rama had agreed. He wanted to fight Vaali himself, but Sugreeva would not agree. "How would my people respect me then, if you kill Vaali in combat?" he had reasoned, with a wry smile and a hiccup.

He thought about the ugly words that had passed between Vaali and Sugriva before the start of the match. "What good brother I have," he thought gratefully, thinking in particular about Bharata. The particulars of Vaali and Sugreeva's ugly history came out now. How Sugreeva had thought Vaali dead and taken over his kingdom. About how Vaali was not really dead, and finding Sugreeva on the throne, threw him out and stole his wife.

Stole his wife. Just like Ravana had stolen his own wife. So what did that make him? Sugreeva? Was he as weak and impotent as this monkey of a man? Vaali had smartly brought his mace down on Sugreeva's toes, and grinned broadly, while the man howled in pain. Rama thought of Sita with a similarly grinning monster looking over her. He let his arrow fly. Vaali had turned back to lock his eyes with the man who had fired the arrow.

What happened was unfair to Vaali, unjust to him. Whatever his faults be, he did not deserve this. I killed him because of the anger I felt for myself, for Ravana. It was unfair. I was unfair. Rama jumped into the water, his reflection merging with himself.

(To be continued)

The Idealist - Part II

2011-03-20T08:41:00.000+05:30

Lust

Lakshmana retired to bed early that night, after saying kind words in parting to the lost men of the mountains. "Do not be afraid," he had said, with his trusting smile that won the men over. "With Rama on your side, you have nothing to worry. We are your friends, and we need your help as much as you might have needed ours. Tomorrow, everything will be sorted out. Sleep tight!"

Lakshmana refused offers of a room in Sugriva's house, instead opting to camp outside. "I am waiting for Rama to get back from his walk," he had said by the way of an explanation. "I prefer to stay out here and wait for him."

After the men left, Lakshmana lay down on the mossy rock and stared up at the sky. It was a clear night. Mars is unusually bright*, he observed. There was no moon. Only the bright, clear stars of the Milky Way stretched across the sky.

"Sita, if you are looking at the stars too, do not worry. We are coming for you as soon as we can," he mused. He said a quick prayer prompted by his memory of Sita.

It was not Sita's face he remembered so much as the low timbre of her voice. Her polite, slow accents, her high pitched laughter. It was a smile that lit up her face, from the creases in her forehead to the brightness in her eyes to the dimples in her cheeks. He had seen that smile in its full glory only once - the very first time that they had met.

How could he forget that day? Wasn't it destiny that had willed their meeting? Why, why had he and Rama gone to the garden that day? Did they get lost? Perhaps, but that was not important. They had just turned a bend when a young woman tossed a ball made of a string of flowers towards their way, laughing like the full moon. She paused in her play to look at the two of them, and he had looked at her too.

He looked, she looked, but who could not look?

That face, that cheek, that brow. That little ball of flowers she held in her hand. Looking at her, Laskhmana was reminded of all the descriptions of the Mother Goddess he had been taught to recite. That Lalita, Mahatripurasundari, Mother of the three worlds, wasn't she captured in this one smile of this girl's? This one low voice that begged their pardon and walked away, her hair swaying in the breeze like a dark cloud?

"No, it was not attraction," Lakshmana had reasoned to himself many times over since then. "How does it make sense for me to be attracted to my brother's wife? That is wrong on so many levels, and God forbid that I be guilty of such treason! She is my brother's wife, I shall not so much as look at her ankles, let alone her body or her face."

But the fact remained that Lakshmana adored Sita, for what reason even he could not say. The fact that she had maried Rama, the brother he adored almost as much, made her perfect in his eyes. He adored her like his mother, worshipping the ground she walked on. When she quarreled with Rama, Lakshmana would always take Sita's side, acting as her counsel and friend. Lakshmana indulged Sita's most whimsical desires, laughed over her quirks, listened to her bursting with warm praise over Rama, ate with her, kept guard while she slept. He was Rama's deputy and Sita's knight, and no knight could have adored his lady more than Lakshmana adored Sita.

Which was why Lakshmana had been so deeply hurt when Sita had accused him of lusting for her. Even voicing the thought to himself made Lakshmana squirm inwardly. Really? Was that what Sita, the Sita he worshipped like a Goddess think of him - that he wanted her in a cheap way, like that cad Ravana? So she had noticed his attentions - but had equated them with lust? How could she possibly say that Lakshmana was capable of even thinking about Rama's wife? No, Sita should not think of him like that. He would do anything to prove her wrong. He would go after Rama and the golden deer Rama was chasing, even if it meant leaving Sita alone.

Lakshmana could not stop beating himself up over Sita. Why, oh, why had he let her drive him away? Even if she had said really mean things to him, why had he let that get to him? Why had he stalked off in a huff, to prove a point? It was not like what she had said was true in any way. Then why had he cared?

But no, he could never own up to Rama that Sita had said those things to him. "It would break my brother's heart," thought Lakshmana. "She must have been vexed about something, else she would not have said such preposterous things."

"Have I ever acted in any way to merit her displeasure? Have I ever overstepped any boundaries? But I have always been so careful, taking care not to offend them...I knew when I was coming on this journey that I was going to be their helper, their servant, their bodyguard...what happened? I must beg your pardon when I meet you, Sita. As I know I will...I know that you are safe...To think of you housed by that monster Ravana. Fear not Sita, we are with you tonight and always. You shall come to no harm. You shall come to no harm. You shall come to no harm."

(To be continued)

*A bow to one of my favourite fiction writers of all time :-)

The Idealist - Part I

2011-03-20T07:01:00.001+05:30

Guilt

It had been quick and clean. A single arrow was all that it took. Rama relived it all in slow motion. The arrow flying. Sugriva moving his head back in reflex, although the arrow was anticipated. Vaali's legs buckling down at the knees as he still managed to aim a vicious swing at Sugriva, and twisting himself in agony to pull out the fatal arrow from where it had struck him at the nape of his neck, blood spurting from the carotid artery. And the fierceness in his straight eyes, as he turned around to look at the man who had struck him in the back.

They sat around the fire on the darkening mountainside, each of them lost in his own thoughts. Rama, with the quick eye of a man in command, noticed that he, and his fair brother Lakshmana, were seating on a ledge, slightly higher and apart from the rest of the crowd. The others were men of Vaali's and Sugriva's tribe, huddled together. These men were unsure of who was in command, who they owed their allegiance to, in the light of recent developments. Were these fair, soft spoken gentlemen going to lead them henceforth?

"Anna, I believe these men are waiting for you to speak," reminded the observant Lakshmana, always his brother's eyes and ears.

Rama bit his lip and looked at Lakshmana. "What do I say to them?" whispered Rama, his voice muffled by the crackle of the fire. "Come with me, die with me? So that we can all go and shoot men in the back and kill them, wipe out homes and hearths?"

Lakshmana blinked. "Anna, please. Whatever you decide must be right. You cannot lose heart now," Biting back a choke in his thorat, "we need to get to Sita."

"Whatever you decide must be right..." Rama was sick of that phrase now. Whatever he decided had never been right, yet people had kept telling him that all the time. Whatever he decided was right. He had decided to honour his father and walk out of Ayodhya with his wife, and look at where it had lead them. He was a man who could not even take care of the one woman he had vowed to stand by. And now, murder. Murder! Let me call it by it's proper name, thought Rama to himself. It was murder. And for what reasons! What reasons! Rama shivered, his stomach churned. Would the Gods be looking down on him and spitting on him? He deserved every spit, every curse...

"Anna, what you did was reasonable, it was not wrong," insisted Lakshmana, reading his brother's troubled thoughts. "That man was terrorizing these people. You liberated them. And now they are prepared to trust and help us find Sita. Look, they are under a weak king," Lakshmana lowered his voice, in order to make sure he did not hurt Sugriva's feelings. "They need you. And who else is more qualified to look after these people than you?"

Lakshmana's eyes were filled with frank, boyish admiration towards his older, wiser brother who could do no wrong. There must always be a reason for whatever Rama did. Who else would do what Rama did - walk out of a kingdom that was offered on a platter to him just because, of all the people, his step mother fancied her son on the throne? "That day," thought Lakshmana to himself, "That day, I had started revering Rama more than one could revere a brother or even a father." He remembered the enormous sense of lightness he felt with Rama at his side, as if just walking in the shadow of such a man raised his own stature. Why, he himself was not capable of such a gesture. Would he have given up a kingdom for Bharata's mother, of all the people? No, he would have knocked some sense into her, right away! But Rama? Not only had he obeyed his father's will, but he had also shamed Kaikeyi in the process! And not out of malice, but just out of love. Oh, why, why must my brother suffer so!

Lakshmana's expression filled Rama with more dread than he could put into words. A clammy feeling in his chest seemed to choke him. His mind went back to every decision in his life that he had screwed up. His thoughts went back to haunting that one incident that he had tried to block out, repeatedly, never quite succeeding. With Sita at his side, it had been easier. Now, the ghosts came back, putting the vague, shapeless ugliness into words.

"I murdered my father."

"But I only wanted to do what he said!" another part of Rama's mind screamed. "It was his will that I go! I only wanted to avoid strife in the family! I thought it made things easier for everybody! No, no, I did not walk out to act noble. I thought that was the best thing for everybody..."

But nothing could block out the memory of Bharata with tears in his eyes, eyes cast down, sobbing, "Our father is dead, Anna!". The dreadful coldness that his words had brought on. He had murdered his own father, and he had murdered another man today. One had been a passive murder, the second was active and intentional. At least he was not actively instrumental in the first. The second...but he could not let himself think of the real reason for the second. It was so ugly that...that it was not he himself that had thought those thoughts, or let that arrow fly.

But right now, he had to be strong. With an enormous swing, he brought his mind down from the dreary thoughts that never gave him a rest, and made up his mind. "Lakshmana, tell these people that I will talk to them tomorrow.I need some time to myself now. It has been a long day."

Lakshmana understood. Yet, a little troubled, he asked Rama, "Anna, I know you are worrying about Sita. Please don't. I am sure she is fine. I know it," he said. His smile was innocent and infectious.

Rama smiled too, but was suddenly assailed with a spasm of guilt. All this while, he knew, he had not been thinking about Sita at all. He had been thinking only about himself.

(To be continued)

White swan, Black swan

2011-03-20T03:34:00.004+05:30

I am a voyeur, I see things that other people miss, but only because I look. And I know, she is not what she makes herself out to be. She has a vet of black dye sitting in a corner of her room, and that is the secret of her success. Every evening, she steps out of the shower, leaving a trail of water droplets everywhere. She ruffles her white-as-snow feathers. More drops stud the mirror, looking like pure diamonds, glistening in the pale light from her lamp.

She glances at the mirror every day for a long time, plucking out stray feathers, trimming this, touching that. And then, she dips into the dye. A generous daub, and her arms are turned black. Then her legs. Then her body. Then her face. And then her hair, from ash blonde to brunette in a few quick strokes. She makes her eyes blacker, drawing their rims like coal. They seem to smoke. The fire that slumbers in them shall be stoked, and shall consume many fainter and whiter hearts. The granite-like hardness in her eyes is not a disguise - the blackness she surrounds herself with demands it. Her pocketbook, empty when she goes out, shall be filled with cash at the end of the evening. Her smiles are costly, her legs are insured. Even a condescending flicker in her eyes is not free.

She does not survive, she prospers.

"Tell me, one thing about your life as a young girl that you miss now," someone asked her once during an interview.

"I used to love walking in the rain," she replies, flashing the million-dollar-smile that one regularly saw in her pin-ups.

But she does walk in the rain sometimes, prancing, dancing even, shaking branches overhead. No one gives her a second glace, though. It is almost as if the tumbling bumbling girl, ruffling her white feathers, showering droplets of water everywhere, with a smile for everyone, does not exist.

(Inspired by the movie)

Swing to the music, O mind

2011-03-20T03:00:00.000+05:30

Swing to the music, O mind!
Rock with the lilt
And fly and soar with the song.

You don't have long,
Dance, O mind! The song
Swings through the heavens
Floats on the ocean
And takes you down to Earth
Journey with the music, O mind!

The music commands you, O mind,
She wills you to please,
Be one with her.
Swing to her whims, O mind
Go where she takes you,
All the peace on earth she stores,
O mind, all the joy on earth
She spills.

Swan song

2008-12-15T13:31:00.007+05:30

It is a little less than three years since I started writing on this page, and I believe its time has come. The decision to wind up this blog has been on my mind for the last couple of months. The reason, if I need to express it, is nothing more than a realization that I have done all that I have wanted to do with this medium. I don't think I have anything more to learn here.

Anything else I say or do here will be superfluous.

I do not want to comment on what writing here over the last three years has meant and means to me.

To my people, the people who have followed My Journal - Monologues - OneBlueSky, my fellow bloggers whose works have influenced me in many subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways, all you people who shared your opinions with me on my comments section (even if I had not commented on yours :)), the people who mail me about what I write, the friends and not-friends, I have but one thing to say to you.

It is a big deal to me that I have got to know you, solely because of the fact that I write. That my writing, my thoughts, that's the only bridge between us. I consider it a compliment, and I am taking it, without thanks this time!

In the event that you wish to follow what I write on the web, you can do so at the blogs listed in the header.

My last post 'Mukta' follows. Please click on the name below to view the pdf file.

~Suchitra
12/12/2008

___________________________________________________________________________________

Earth like water

Vine like wind

Life, my heavy-hearted gift

Listen to my swan song.

Mukta.

My Madurai

2008-12-11T19:30:00.000+05:30

Madurai, I hate you.

I have lived in several places, but you are the only place that I have lived with. So, I can tell you, without doubt, I hate you.

You are small. Did anybody ever tell you that? You are small in a very obvious way, and it just does not help that you have this spirit, the spirit of looming bigger than you actually are. In your heart, you are just that village, that intimate dwelling of not more than ten families, all around the temple square. Where they knew each others' domestic secrets and public lies. Where not a soul could escape from the black hole of the lands bordered by a river on one end and a fierce mountainous thicket on the other. Do you think you can ever be anything but what you are? In your glass-topped buildings, in your wide divider-layered roads all the way down KK Nagar, in the digital numbers that flash across the boards outside the railway station? All this modernization business, it is like the wreath of jasmine flowers your women wear on their unwashed hair. I don't mind the unwashed hair, but I do hate the reason you wear the flowers in your hair.

I hate you, I always have. My first glimpses of you was a place that was not home, where the TV was never as good as the one back home, where it was always hotter, where there was no beach. I hated having to live with you; I was forced, I should say. The narrow roads, the bumpy rides. The buses which smelled of animals. The people who spoke strange accents, the raw,earthy Tamizh sounding harsh to ears bred on the fluid accents of brahminical English and Sanskritised-and-anglicised Tamizh. The people themselves; brown skinned and white hearted, quick of finger and eye, deeply intimate, probing into details, ready to kill for you at the drop of a hat, or hatchet. Where else can you find such blind people, such love? Oh, I hate you.

Have you walked down those uneven stone pavements of Nethaji Road and West Masi Street? Wet pavements, slimy with spinach and egg white from markets down unsuspecting corners leading to lanes you never knew could exist in that tiny space. Shops, cheek by jowl. Fleshy mutton hanging down in one stall, and mounds of sandalwood paste and rose water bottles lined up on the next. Women squatting with raw mangoes spread on white sheets in front of them, completing their trade by the time the policeman arrives to shoo them off. Hordes of people. Hordes. Black vested pilgrims. Tourists, that bulk majority which stays in the three-star hotels and strolls around the temple square, accoutered with camera and map, in the evenings. What ghastly costumes they wear! And a few natives; bare-bodied men, housewives in nighties, nine yards of saree draped between the legs and over the right shoulder. The ubiquitous salwar-kameez. The women of Madurai, I specially reserve hate for this lot. I can be indifferent to women all over the place, but not you. You make me look up and notice you. And it is not that you possess any extraordinary traits of charm, grace, beauty or accomplishment. I think that's why I hate you.

Down these roads, with these people, entangled into a lumpy mass. You are one with this lot, this ancient lot that laughs as one soul and cries as one soul. You cannot resist this spell; from Therkuvaasal to Simmakkal you are with them; you are them. The tiny shops, the small people, the buildings, housing a thousand offices in their tiny cubicles, but never scaling beyond a couple of floors. Looking high, but timid to look too high. To really fly. The result is all down these roads you can see a solid wall of building, not more than three floors high at the most; a solid wall blotting out the sky. The sky is visible only if you tilt your head up a full ninety degrees. I hate that most about the 'town'.

I hate West Masi Street; that long road from Periyar Bus Stand spanning the railway station to the Post Office. The buses circling the two bus stands like vultures. The mad traffic. Traffic in Madurai is unique. If you have two legs and you are using them to navigate across the roads, you can do practically anything. You have greater license if you have four legs, a tail and a couple of horns. Coolly walk in front of a car at 40kmph, and who cares? Not the person driving, whose left leg is perpetually on the brake. Certainly not the person walking. It is a crazy system, but it certainly is long since I have read accident reports of pedestrians having been hit in the city.

The railway station. My pet peeve. Really what's with that fountain? Two bronze fishes; water coming out of one's mouth entering the other's. WTF? Without water on the hot summer mornings, the creatures bare their mouths in a silent open-mouthed scream. hate, hate, hate. Red tiled pavements, shining with excrement. A blind man sitting on the same pavement a few feet away, playing Shubhapantuvarali on his flute, one rainy evening. Tears running down, quite literally.I bought a flute from him, a vain attempt to pay for the music and stem the sadness. Not happening; the city was getting even.

The TVS buses. Yellow for the schools, white and blue for the factories. Sundaram Fasteners, Sundaram Brake Linings. A city growing around a manufacturing economy. An economy burgeoning out of rubber and tyres. A school filled with too many memories.

That is what I hate the most about you, the memories. Every corner saying a story, event turn bringing up a fresh, bright reminder; every passing sight pulling something from me, one stone in the mosaic glowing. "I'm not you, I'll have nothing to do with you and never will," I growl, trying to walk faster away from you. Down Simmakkal, past Naveen Bakery, turning into Chitrai street (named for me, I tell myself) , past Pudumandapam, I walk. I hate you, after all, and I am walking away.

A short walk through the temple doors (designed to guard like a fortress), I am in the wide Adi veedhi, where the pigeons flock by the hundereds, where sunlight streams into the walls uninhibited, where if I only raise my head a little, I can see the endless blue sky, strips of white clouds like bits of cotton candy, and a rising temple tower rearing to meet the open sky.

Awakening

2008-12-11T18:58:00.001+05:30

An awakening
Dispelling sleep
Also
Disrupting dreams

Premarital Genetic Couselling

2008-12-09T20:59:00.001+05:30

My friend and I were discussing about premarital genetic couselling (PGC). It is a part of her coursework (she's studying to be a human geneticist) and she tells me that a lot of people she talks to in her clinical sessions do not have adequate awareness about this feature that's available. However, people who do know about PGC are all not in favour of it either.

Basically, we have two copies of each gene in every cell that makes us up. One gene comes from the father and one from the mother. If both the dad gene and mom gene in us are 'good' genes (which work fine, do what they are supposed to do) there is no problem. If either of the genes is 'bad' and the other one is 'good', the good gene does the work and there is no problem again. However, if both the genes are 'bad' copies, they do not work, and the person with the 'bad' genes acquires genetic disorders. (It is to be noted that having a 'bad' gene for one type of disease does not necessarily mean you are predisposed to other types of diseases.) Genetic disorders can also be caused by defects in the chromosome; a higher level organisation of genes. Some of them can be really awful; Down's syndrome is a popular example. Down's affects 1 in 1000; getting on the bad side of such a probability is really, really rotten luck. Or is it?

It is only when people, both with 'bad' genes for a particular disease procreate, does a child with the genetic disorder come into the world. In PGC, the geneticist tests whether the people who are going to get married, the to-be parents, are carriers of faulty genes. The geneticist compares the genomes of the two people, and tells them how good a 'match' they make, genetically speaking. How high or low their probability of making babies with genetic diseases is. PGC thus aims to reduce the probability of kids with genetic disorders being born (though the defective copies of the gene persists in the population)

The subject of our discussion was, how feasible is this process on the social scale? How many people would agree to be tested for genetic diseases before their marriage? Should PGC be made mandatory? Would it hurt people's self esteem to discover that they are carriers? There is a certain amount of (real or imagined) social stigma that will be attached; "your kids might have cystic fibrosis or Huntington's chorea, so there's something wrong with you" The operative word is, of course, might, but we seldom focus on that. This could probably work fine with arranged marriages, with PGC being a step to filter out potential partners at the initial stages of the bride/groom search.(Refer the links listed below for more information on the DY program) Our discussion, of course, veered in the opposite direction. What if two individuals like each other, decide to get married, and then discover that they are both carriers for a rare genetic disorder during the PGC?

On the flip side, do we have a responsibility to make sure we don't pass on bad genes and make lives miserable for our kids if we can help it?

So I am throwing this question open for discussion. What do you think about premarital genetic counselling?

I am providing a couple more links for people who are interested to know more:

This one is comprehensive and this one provides preliminary information about the DY model.

Hues

2008-12-07T07:56:00.000+05:30

The heart's language is punctuated with shrill laughter that makes you want to weep with joy and sad tears that you smile at in spite of yourself.

The mind can only speak silence.

"But I want it. Give it to me, I want it, and I just cannot to without it." This is the Heart.

"Why?" This is the mind.

Conflict and harmony, in conflict, in harmony.

Thanksgiving

2008-12-03T19:31:00.003+05:30

One of my favourite American concepts is Thanksgiving. Traditionally, it was to celebrate the first full year of the Pilgrims' migration to America; thanks were devoutly given to God Almighty whom they credited with responsibility for their good harvest and relatively disease-free year and celebrated with a delectable meal. It is a concept (not the meal) which has been looked at with disfavour from some quarters; why thank God for the efforts of Man? Whatever the belief systems involved may be, the act of giving thanks, the feeling of gratitude, that is what I am going to talk about in this post.

Thank you is one of my favorite expressions. Like a friend once said, "Thanks is the only thing you can give and take without any ego clashes whatsoever" When I thank you, I am acknowledging you, your identity as an individual. I am acknowledging you time and your efforts. Your time, your efforts, which you generally use for your profit, are now being used to do something for me. (Even if you helped me not 'for me' but 'for you', it still remains very much 'for me' for narsicisstic me!) Thank you acknowledges and appreciates that. It is a beautiful expression that can be used for many things, all occasions. You can thank even for unintended gifts, criticisms, and criticisms which turn out to be unintended gifts. It is ego personified, because Thank you assumes that everybody is the world is a friend, everybody who does what they do does it for them.

One criticism I have heard against Thank you is how formal an expression it is. People alternate between awkward embarassed silences and a shrug of the shoulder with an 'It's ok, why bother' when I thank them. To most people, saying Thank you to friends is a sacrilege. You can say it to a stranger who picks up your kerchief, not to the friend who lends the assignment for you to copy. But then, to me, if you thank the unknown stranger for a service unwittingly done, you should thank the friend with double the sincerity. After all, they give their assignment to you, and not to every next person.

I do not really know whether Thank you is, then, a compliment or an insult. I have always meant it to be a compliment that is to be warmly and sincerely shared. If it is perceived so, well and good. If not, well, *smile*

For all of you
Given to me
From all of me
I thank,
Thank you.

Red

2008-11-30T16:09:00.001+05:30

dear

gun-and-bullet wielding

killer

who are you?

who am I?

do I know you?

or you me?

how did we meet?

your father

and my mother

knew not

the other.

and yet...

we mingle

like red earth and pouring rain

a red melange

pools of blood,

yours and mine.

Note: The verse above was inspired by the immortal poem from the Kuruntokai, a poem celebrating love.

யாயும் ஞாயும் யாரா கியரோ,
எந்தையும் நுந்தையும் எம்முறைக் கேளிர்,
யானும் நீயும் எவ்வழி யறிதும்,
செம்புலப் பெயனீர் போல,
அன்புடை நெஞ்சம் தாங்கலந் தனவே.

-செம்புலப் பெயனீரார்.

What could my mother be

to yours? What kin is my father
to yours anyway? And how
did you and I meet ever?
But in love our hearts are as red
earth and pouring rain:
mingled
beyond parting.

There does not seem to be much difference between love and hate.

Columbus

2008-11-28T22:31:00.003+05:30

'You will fall off the edge! There is another land, a new and very different world there! You will never be able to find your way back home! You are doomed if you undertake this journey!"

Columbus shrugged his shoulders, and set off on his long journey.

He traveled for days on the end, across what seemed a never ending white expanse. There was thankfully not much chop, it was smooth sailing. But there was no end in sight.

One day, Columbus espied a break in the white before his eyes. It was an edge, the edge of the world like his countrymen had predicted. He shivered, but moved ahead. He wanted to see what lay beyond the edge.

The edge was a sharp turn, but he skillfully maneuvered his way across. There was no difference in the world on the other side. Another expanse of white stretching away to eternity.

He turned back and went over the edge again. Another eternity.

He stood on the edge, and laughed.

It was then that someone shut the book they were reading and Columbus the silverfish fell off the edge he had been standing on, laughing.

His friends, of course, thought that he had been doomed to eternal perdition.

On social responsibility

2008-11-25T19:13:00.006+05:30

Alternatively: 'Why are we like this?'

I have often been asked why I don't write posts with social relevance. I have tried explaining what I think to the people who ask me that, that I believe that it is a pointless exercise given that most of the news I get is second hand, I have no background whatsoever in economics or political science to write intelligently and defend my ideas, and basically, I consider posts whining 'Why are we like this' pointless. It is not that I don't care. It is just that I don't care so much that go down there and do something, and I believe that when I can't do anything, I have no right to talk about it.

These thoughts came out very well in an online forum today, when I composed a really lengthy reply to a person's post, titled 'what do you ppl think' . My response really captures what I have been wanting to say in response to the social activism question. Hence, I am making a post of the person's query and my response here.

Let me call the person P. Their question was:

----quote-----

what do you ppl think?
When will india get an obama??
The day young, charismatic, ambitious people enter politics...we're all there to vote...i.e we youth ,who are desperate to see change come to india!!...but we all know what the truth is...all we people want to do is study well,settle down with a secured, a more lucritive job...far away from the world of politics...

again...india has all the potential to become world power...looking at the growth rate india has shown in the last decade,it definitely can come out of the tag its got, a "developing country"..!!

when are politicians going to understand that india's growth is a far more important issue to be concentrated on rather than rioting...using divide and rule policy...!
terrorism is a far too serious issue by itself...lets not name it hindu terrorism or muslim terrorism...politicians need to stop manipulating with sensitive issues of the same sort...this is just a fraction of the complex problems india is currently facing...not to mention the problems faced by America at moment which only adds on to india's problems....
at times i feel INDIA should have accepted capitalism ...India would have showed a better economic growth...but at same time ,as Nilekani says, co-chairman Infosys, the huge population of india which was once called a problem to india ,is going to prove to be an advantage ....with 1 million students from various fields graduating every single year, india will definitely see a better tomorrow...

my qs is when will india become an America????
are my views right?

-----unquote-----

And this was my response:

P, congratulations. You are Indian citizen #5,19,68,757 to come out with the 'Why is India still like this' line. While it is not particularly original (people go this way after every election in newsrooms, near water coolers in the office, tea kadai bench, everywhere where jobless people congregate) I assume that this has come as a result of concerned pondering on the state of the Indian political and economic scenario, as your post shows. So, congratulations.

The day young, charismatic, ambitious people enter politics...we're all there to vote...i.e we youth ,who are desperate to see change come to india!!...

I could easily ask you the wise-ass question in reply ‘Why don’t you do it yourself and change the world instead of talking/making posts on forums about it?’ But then given that we are equally jobless; you, making this post and me typing out a reply, I dare say it would make it bullshitting squared. The thing is intentions, good, bad or ugly, in the end count only for so much. People are interested in concrete results, and why not! Thinking, talking, theorizing does not put a roof over the heads of the homeless or improve the per acre yield of rice on Inidan soil (whether I do the talking or you do it) I understand where your emotions come from, but like you say in your next line:

but we all know what the truth is...all we people want to do is study well,settle down with a secured, a more lucritive job...far away from the world of politics...

So these emotions are fleeting at best. They will resurface when you read about another riot elsewhere in the country, or when another slew of farmers who fed us a year back die of starvation. You will write posts in online forums, talk about it to vent your grief, wish there was ‘something you could do about it all’ and if you have a blog, maybe write an angry column about it. These emotions will fade out with the next season of cricket/celebrity wedding/American politics.

I have a theory on how this works…there ARE people who have felt strongly about things in their early youth. They enter politics, or the administrative service to find that one person’s voice is not really strong enough. You need to work your way up a party in order to have your say, and you need to be corrupt in order to work your way up, because everyone else is, and that was exactly what you wanted to change when you got in. If you don’t feel strongly enough about your ‘cause’, you are prone to get stuck in the quagmire, either not wanting to yield, and thus perishing, or yielding, and defeating the cause. I believe the operative word is ‘feel strongly’. I am yet to find a leader who was one, without personal experience to inspire and back him up. Like Bapu. If he was not chucked out of the train in South Africa, if the incident had not made as deep an impact on him as it had, I dare say I would not be referring to him as ‘Bapu’ today. When you don’t feel strongly enough to hold on despite all odds, I believe you tend to compromise on quality at some level, and really, it is better you stick to studying well, settling down, and getting a more lucrative job, than try o be tempted by carving a more lucrative career for yourself in politics.

Besides, don’t feel too guilty (not that I think you need it ) It is not such a big sin to want a lucrative career and money and playstations and Gucci handbags.

again...india has all the potential to become world power...looking at the growth rate india has shown in the last decade,it definitely can come out of the tag its got, a "developing country"..!!

This is one of my pet peeves. What is a world power? *flex muscles* Look-at-me-I’m-so-much-better-than-you? Really, if that’s what we mean by super powering ourselves, we need to have a drink of Complan and grow up. And by the looks of it, that is how it is projected. We compare ourselves with the US and UK(?) and China and plot our ‘standing’. Like Kamal Hassan desperately trying to convince the Academy Award committee to give him a statuette. I might be wrong here, but my current understanding leads me to believe that when a country, or any organization tries to better itself, it should focus internally rather than in relation to all the other existing similar structures. Because, the needs of India, are something which only India knows.

If however, being a ‘world power’ is meant to direct India to self-sufficiency, and development, I’m all for it.

when are politicians going to understand that india's growth is a far more important issue to be concentrated on rather than rioting...using divide and rule policy...!

terrorism is a far too serious issue by itself...lets not name it hindu terrorism or muslim terrorism...politicians need to stop manipulating with sensitive issues of the same sort...

Well, they won’t. It is because most of them are too busy settling their own scores and accumulating hoards to actually care. It is not that they start out at five in the morning with a prayer Lord let my riot be successful today. It is just you cut down my tree , so I cut down yours. In the end we land up without the forest.

...this is just a fraction of the complex problems india is currently facing...not to mention the problems faced by America at moment which only adds on to india's problems....

You left out global warming? Enna panradu. kali muththi pochu.

with 1 million students from various fields graduating every single year, india will definitely see a better tomorrow...

Reminds me of a group discussion I once participated in. It was about ‘Impact of brain drain on Indian society’. Most people spoke about how ‘brain drain is draining us of the best brains’. One student made a different point. He said ‘At least the guys getting out for good are self sufficient. They don’t leach on the country’s resources, they don’t bribe and encourage corruption out here, and even if they do have an American or Australian citizenship they don’t really mind it if we lay claim to their achievement because they were ‘India born’ Plus, they bring in foreign revenue. Fair enough I say’.

my qs is when will india become an America????

Well, it won’t. Unless apples become oranges as a result of genetic mutations.

are my views right?

Does not matter. Hold on to them as long as you think they make sense. I might have ripped it apart here (because, naturally, I hold on to my views with equal tenacity ) but that does not mean they are not valid. But, please, don’t labor under the delusion that some mahapurush is going to come down to effect changes. It is frankly painful to listen to a question like ‘When will india get an obama??’ We badly need good leadership, yes, but instead of emptily wondering about it, we need to feel more, act more. (And, frankly, what’s the brouhaha all about? I don’t think the gentleman’s really done anything yet except win an election. Yes, he is inspiring, but like I said a while back, action we what we need. We need change, not a promise of one.)

These posts may strike you as being painfully cynical, but I believe I am being realistic. If you and I don't have any intention of wetting our socks getting down to politics, or atleast taking a day off to have a look at how the average Indian lives, we have not much right to complain, nor much to ask for change. I believe in shutting up, going with my sense of righteousness guiding me, and waiting. Till either lightning hits me and I decide to be the change I want to see, unequivocally, or till I see that happening to you. Or till I die, and my kid pays a bribe to get a death certificate issued. (assuming I am in India then that is)

So in conclusion, like I said, I have nothing to say!

----end of rant----

Inside, Outside

2008-11-24T12:38:00.002+05:30

-child's play-

-a fantasy, a dream-land, an imaginary story-

I am on the outside,

Untouched.

I am standing in the rain

Shivering in the cold

Wallowing in the darkness

Steaming in the sunshine

Falling in love

And rising in it...

Untouched!

For I am not in the inside;

I am on the outside!

Hunger gnaws

Moneylenders knock

A thousand fears

Tearing me apart

Doubt and disbelief

On centre stage

Shock and tears

Flaccid thoughts, placid rage...

But mine, happiness!

For I am not on the inside

I am on the outside!

Moments of passion

Searing wrath

Words, blows, hasty kisses

Elevating emotions

Depressing depths

Fires, consuming me

From within...?

But,

I am not on the inside,

I am on the outside!

Curled up in the womb

Stretched out in the coffin

Struggling with hypocrisy

Haggling with happiness

A love affair, with the Life

Passionate, steamy, a thousand fireworks

Exploding inside? Satisfied?

Whatever.

I am on the outside!

-child's plea-

-reality, on the inside-

Inside, it's hot

Inside, I'm warm

Inside, there's everything

The good, the bad, the ugly

Inside, I'm suffering

Of too much beauty, too much pain

Inside is heaven

Inside is hell.

Outside,

I am untouched.

Unattached.

Untainted.

Unsoiled.

Can I go out? Please?

Bookish musings

2008-11-22T21:11:00.008+05:30

PI has tagged me again, this time it is something I am looking forward to. She wants me to list 7 quirks about myself, with respect to reading. I do have some idiosyncrasies when it comes to the books I choose...er, the books which choose me. So here I go. I may be lengthy with my responses, but if you are a book lover, I bet you will enjoy it :)

1. With books, everything matters; the touch, the feel, the print, the scent. A freshly bound book exhibiting youth and exuberance can be excelled in her sensuality only by her old, faded, brown aunt with silver hair...er, fish. And I hope I mentioned, books are 'he's or 'she's. You can know a million things about a book without waiting for them to open their mouth; you can discern from the weight, the covers, the paper, the print and how old and thumbworn the pages are, many things which the writing in them won't tell you. Some books are so attractive that it is love-at-first-sight. Some give you a clue, a hint of what they hold by a few well chosen words on their back cover, a stunning opening line, or best of all, a random quote from a random page. Like an anonymous act of kindness of a stranger's, a sample from the book tells you what the book is. Though I have experienced disappointment at times, when a book does not deliver what it promised (or at least what I thought it promised), in the end, it is still a book, and I got to know one more of their breed. There is no such thing as a book bereft of beauty!

2. I feel extremely comfortable in libraries and bookstores. I don't mean just the Landmark-Higginbothams type bookstores with fancy lighting and beanbags; any bookstore, anywhere where people care for books, anywhere where books are loved. Bookstores, of course, should allow browsing. I have had nasty experiences of being shooed out of bookstores where I had apparently spent a lot of time browsing. It is not the icy language of the bookstore owner that puts you off, it is just the fact that you are not able to finish the conversation with the book currently in your hand. Like being asked to get off the table mid-meal.

Libraries are another affair altogether. There is no question of being shooed out of a library, or at least for me, unless they are shutting shop for the day. But with some libraries, especially those I went to regularly as a child, I would have finished all the books in the racks, and would be wondering which one to check out for a second time!

Favourite bookstores and libraries, no particular order:

Prabodha Library, Vijayawada (dusty shelves - creaky fan - under-12 section that I always avoided - mosquitoes - Cane uncle - greeting card business with pictures of Christ and incense)
The first TVSL library, spanning the whole of the first floor, right above the Craft Hall. No words.
Turning Point, Madurai
Rajeswari Lending Library, on Kutchery Road, Madras
Fountainhead, RK Salai
Landmark, anywhere!!
The second-hand book store opposite the Hyderabad railway station...no idea whether it still exists. It used to, in 2000-01.
Those mounds of books near the porn theatre opposite Town Hall Road...mostly textbooks and 'naavels', but you can find stuff for throwaway prices if you dig deep. I have got five books for a hundred bucks once, including a Feynman.

3. I hate browsing through a book, and then checking the back cover for the price, and then putting it back. I feel like I am grossly insulting the book. But then, would it not be even more of an insult to walk past a book which is waiting for you to pick him/her up and read? I'm wondering. (A friend tells me, I need to treat people with at least half the respect I give books!)

4.Most of the books which possess me (I believe that your books possess you and not the other way round) have my name written on the front, with notations like Suchific and a numerical entry alongside. It is a remnant from the days when I sought to regularize my book lending and borrowing operations, so as to at least track down where my lost books were. Suchific referred to my fiction books, and Suchinf, the nonfiction. For a while it went well, but what with constantly moving, I lost a lot of books in transit. At any rate, I like knowing that all those 'lost' books are somewhere out there in the world, on somebody's bookshelf, perhaps, or in their attic, waiting to be discovered by loving eyes sometime. Or at worst, read by careless eyes after eating the peanuts wrapped in the pages from my lost books :)

5. For a very long time, books were my only reality. At ages five and six, I believed that Suppandi really existed, and wondered why I never got to meet him on one of his errands on my way to school. I thought the Wishing Tree in those Enid Blyton books was really out there somewhere in Great Britain, that a man called Abhimanyu had really walked the earth...well, perhaps he had, but I'm sure he won't be as real to any of us 'grown-ups' as he was to little Suchi. I wanted to meet Nancy Drew someday and join her on one of her adventures, I wanted Kapish the monkey to live with us, I thought Hanuman in the temple near my house, was real, and 'playing statue' whenever I visited him. I would have a loud conversation (which was supposed to be a 'secret'!) with whichever character I was with at the moment about overbearing Raji miss at school. Even when I grew up, I liked the retreat of the bookish world better than the 'real' world with 'real' people. Still do, actually.

6. Books make awesome gifts. As it turns out, very few people gift me books, and very few people appreciate it when I gift them books! Given the slight disdain with which book-gifts are recieved by a lot of people, I have made it a point not to gift books unless I am sure of a warm reception on the other end. Also, I have a habit of making a gift of my own (often sole) copies of books I treasure. My copy, replete with underlinings, notes and page-corners folded. The rationale is, I am gifting not only the bookish matter which made me wiser, but I am bequething the physical entity of the book that defined my relationship with the 'bookish matter'. I have made gifts of my copies of Gitanjali, Little Women, The Oxford English Dictionary, Ramayana, Bharatiyar Kavidhaigal, Pride and Prejudice and The Prophet in this manner.

7. Re-reading books. The best books are those which give new meanings everytime they are read. But of course, the books most-read are those which give the most pleasure...the Archers, the Agatha Christies, the Crichtons, the Dan Browns. After a while you lose interest. Those eternal favourites, Tagore and Rumi, the Ramayana and Mahabharata, remain eternal for a reason; the cater to the soul. Right now, I'm with Herman Hesse's Siddhartha, and I'm loving it!

I have been writing this post for an hour and a half straight, and I must say I had a lot of fun and satisfaction doing it. Thank you Priya! I am not tagging anyone, but this is something good to take up if you really want to write.

The songbird

2008-11-21T18:17:00.007+05:30

A voice, I heard
Echoing through eternity
Answering a yearning
Filling a void
Creating me, anew...
From me.

Your song threaded
Its way through the bustles
Of the ordered chaos
Making up my mundane life
And spoke to my soul
Spoke a new voice
Unheard, not relished
Hitherto

It was a song
Composed and sung
Only for me
And heard
Only by me.

Song bird, oh songbird!
I sought to possess
You, your song.

Not knowing I had it
And had made it mine
The moment you sang it
The moment I heard it.

Songbird, I searched you out
And robbed you of your voice
Your voice, alone

And bade it sing
My own songs
For me, for ever.

O, songbird without the voice
Flitting along in silence,
You lost not your song!

Voice without the songbird
Imprisoned in my cage
Your silence is without song!

My cages are powerful
For they cage me in.
Spinning in circles
Chasing my own tail
Caught in my perceptions
And conceptions,
I play a game of blind-man's-buff
With myself
Lonelier now...
Without your song
(Imprisoned, by me, in me!)
To relieve, to sustain, to liberate.

Out you go

Voice of the songbird
To be mine.

Flit among your trees
Scale the yellow peaks
Speak in tongues
Of the people you see
And the places you go
Far away from me...

Begone,
I shall hear on.
For you sing, songbird
For me, and for me only.

My thumb

2008-11-20T22:29:00.004+05:30

Five fingers
Of different lengths

The little one;
The stately holder
Of the ring;
Tall middle finger
With her nails of aspiration;
And the useful pointer
Long and slender.

Four fingers
Pointing to the heavens.

Leaving behind
The ugly dwarf
The grasping thumb
On the sidelines...
Ignored, her presence
Noticed, her absence.

People,
Little pinkies
And dignified ring bearers
And tall middle men
And all-rounder pointers...
All of you
Are replaceable.

My thumb,
You teach me
By the sliver of your presence
By the ghost of your absence
What a thing it is
To be somebody's thumb!

~Suchi
To my thumb, 56
20.11.2008

lingering

2008-11-18T20:59:00.006+05:30

I am
a wave of no return
a breeze diffusing into nothingness
a single burst of perfumed fragrance
a whiff of memory
and nothing more...

I am
on the sidelines of your dreams
watching the dramas you create
in your whimsical mind
with folded arms
and half smiles of suppressed delight

I have
no colour
no flame
and no texture
A fleeting impulse I am
not to be confused
with your waking hours
of insanity.

I am
a solitary tear
shed in a forgotten haze
over reasons, trivial
only a dull memory
of sympathetic heaviness
happily abandoned
in the smiles of the moment.

I am the dawn's moon
I am the dewdrop
I am the poet's thought
I am the woman's lot
And I come, to go
And I shall be gone...

Fare you
well?

Lifeless death

2008-11-18T20:02:00.005+05:30

They talk of two kinds of blindness. One, where you lose sight, but still retain some memory of sight. The features of the things you have seen, the people you have known come readily to your mind when your memory commands it; only, you cannot actively see it anymore. It is like seeing someone who is not physically present in your mind's eye. The other form, is when your brain's visual center is damaged. So that you not only lose your sight, but also perception of sight. Things don't really have a 'what-it-looks-like' dimension anymore. You are dead to sight as far as you are concerned. You might probably remember that there was something called sight, but you would not remember what that was.

Death. Death as we know it now is the endless cycle. Life in death, death in life. Like Life has no end, neither has Death. Infinitum continuum. The other type of death. Eternally dead. You are born...never to die. What if you die...never to be born? What if there is no recycling, no law of conservation of mass or energy, but creation jumping off the metaphorical cliff to...death? Like the blindness without even the memory of sight, death, without even the shadow of life?

Butterfly thoughts

2008-11-18T18:22:00.007+05:30

seeds of thought

birth like eggs

incipient

fragile

little white ones

everywhere

and then a few hatch

crawling all over

the white and grey matter

feeding on you

eating you from within

killing you

growing fatter

all consuming

running all over

speaking its needs out

clamoring for more

'food for thought'

till it can take no more

no more

and goes to rest

in a tiny corner

hidden

away from prying eyes

no more a worldly glutton

but answering only the self

caring no more

about what 'the world' thinks

introspective

in my own cocoon

waiting and watching

and growing and hatching

waiting, mostly waiting

till grotesqueness of form

and weirdness of thought

become acceptable reality

become me

till the thought births

over the night

through the dream's dictionary

of slow, halting, illegible words

till the thought

finds its freedom

in newer horizons

of the same old world

till the eyes grow

to accept the light of the dark...

when the butterfly thought

flits and flies

and becomes one with the space

that created it

that created me.

-Suchitra-
18.11.08

To the one that lived and to the one that I killed.

Sorting things out, with a shot of testosterone

2008-11-17T20:46:00.006+05:30

There is a place in Madras that apparently grooms people who are supposed to help us maintain justice in society. Some justice, seeing how these people took law into their own hands. Not just law; from the looks of it, clubs, knives and hack-saws.

Conflict resolution, they say. I am not going into the reasons for conflict; after all, they are available a dozen for a dime. All I am bothered about is the reason for choosing such a way to resolve a conflict.

A male friend I spoke to about the incident, justified it. I stress on the gender because I don't think the reaction would have quite been the same had it been a 'she'. He says it is a 'guy thing'. That any self-respecting male cannot really stand on the sidelines and practise ahimsa when he has been insulted and his authority/pride/manhood/honour has been questioned. He went on to say that violence as a response to provocation is something that is built into our genes, 'else who will protect the women if we are not instinctively programmed to do it?' So law college students bash each other up because their internal program instructs them to do so, so as to be chivalrous to women. Lovely.

Vaaranam Aayiram showed a sequence - the sixteen-year-old son gets roughed up for one of those adolescent reasons that makes guys pump adrenaline and get violent. The father notices it and raises an eyebrow 'He hits you and you don't hit back?' The sequence is apparently there to show what a supportive father he is; teaching the son the ways of the world. One of the 'guy things' anyway. So when you bring up a boy, you tell him that violence, is a way. Whether or not it is actively programmed in your genes, it is nurtured. And an idea handed down the generations to be incorporated in the young one at each level, might be as good as a gene in itself!

I have never been able to understand what a 'guy thing' or a 'girl thing' or a 'transgender thing' is. Sure, our gender does make a difference to how we process information and react to events, but the whole thing of 'It's how we work. This understanding is exclusive to individuals with a Y chromosome. You won't get it' is an escape mechanism. It is avoiding the responsibility to think. But thinking about it made me realise something: violence as a response to conflict, is a guy thing. Not in the 'women cannot understand it' sense, but just that it is something which is exclusive to the male sex.

Conflicts occur in any human sphere of relationships. But it is an exclusively male domain that seeks to resolve conflicts using physical violence. Biting, kicking, scratching, hitting, punching. Skill in manufacture and use of equipments which can cause bodily harm. Toughness, in being able to control your emotions, keep your mind uncluttered, to be able to withstand pain. Proficiency at these techniques make you a 'man'.

My cousin, who is eight, likes to boast about what a 'tough little man' he is. He tells me about the bully in his class he hit once. His greatest highs are from winning video games which involve (virtually) shedding blood. The bloodshed may be virtual. But then, I'm thinking, isn't the gratification for the same reason? Let me put it this way; the brain circuitry leading to the activation of that pleasure centre is the same, whether the act is a real or a virtual one. Maybe, it is his 'internal program' at work.

The problem I have with violence as a conflict resolution technique are the reactions. I strike, you hit back, I hit back for that and you hit back for that. A blind world in the end. Plus you never walk into a fight without some risk to your life and limb. Why play a game where the risk of loss is greater than the gain of the payoff?

I have not even got started on the peripheral effects; the previous paragraph just talked about the risks of violence on the people directly involved. Take war for instance. Men start wars; women don't. A woman's method of conflict resolution is very different from a man's, and does not involve active confrontation in the nature of wars. (Yes, involves lots of talk!) But we live in a male dominated world and we have a war torn society. Osteniably to protect its women and children (the 'geneology'!), but actually, putting those women and chldren to greater risk than themselves. Wars are fought for hope; you fight hoping that life after the fight would be better than life before it. It might be; but the reason is seldom the war itself.

Fights at any scale are testosterone driven. Neurobiologists have shown that generally, little boys like playing with stuff like toy guns which are hard, cold and make a lot of noise because it fuels the testosterone in their little brains. The rush of chemicals in the brain actually makes them feel good about it, and it can even be an addiction. There is a reason why Fred Flintstone guzzled beer and watched baseball on TV and attended the caribou conventions; they rose his testosterone levels and they made him feel good. (I'm digressing, but it is for precisely the same reason that generally, women love stuffed animals. The soft teddy bear with big eyes and out-of-shape limbs trick the female brain into thinknig she is holding a baby and raises her oxytocin levels. It's a drug fest out there!)

To return, my question about violence now has a twist. You are programmed to be violent in the face of conflict. Indulging in violence raises your testosterone levels making you feel good. So, is there not an active probability that you make up conflicts in order to indulge in violence, in order to feel good? Which, in all probability, is exactly what is going on out there. Now that, is food for thought, isn't it.

Daddy cool?

2008-11-17T10:13:00.004+05:30

Vaaranam Aayiram is superficial.

For some reason I can actually watch a Perarasu movie comfortably, than watch a movie like VA. Movies like VA, with a good, solid theme, but with a shoddy execution, so shoddy that they look more like a parody than anything else, irritate me to no end. Gautam Vasudev Menon, why-o-why-o-why? I am not even disappointed with the movie; it was yours after all to do what you would with it. But I certainly am disappointed with the cavalier way in which you presented a wonderful theme like that, one which you claim is close to your heart. Funny!

VA is one of those coming-of age stories; a boy becoming a man, and the role the father plays in his life in the process. Now, that's a brilliant theme to take up. It is something that finds resonance in all of us; even those of us unlucky enough not to have had a fatherly influence in our life would ideally love to live it all on screen with the protagonists. Men with good fathers grow up to be good fathers themselves; just how this transition comes about is an exciting theme to explore. ('Thavamai thavamirundhu' did it, and did it well. )

The movie could have been anything; the dad on screen could have been anything. A strong character who just IS, a rock, a pillar of support, a fountain of strength. Inspirational people in life are seldom extraordinary people; it is just that they do some extraordinary things in the face of adversity. Inspiration seldom comes to you in words. In fact, I can hardly recall inspirational words; I am a firm believer in the canon that an action speaks a thousand words.

What is so inspiring about Krishnan? The fact that he fell in love with a woman and married her? Okay...and? The movie doesn't really have answers. Does standing at the door from time to time and saying 'Things will be okay', 'Life will go on' and 'It's ok, kiddo' really make such a big difference? We don't know what he does for a living. All we know that there are creditors at his door, and he tries to shush them up 'because the son will hear'. Very inspiring, indeed. The father has a drink en famille, alright, that's all cool, but what does he really do when the son turns out to be an alcoholic? There is a difference, I guess, between a glass over dinner and gulping by the bottle. Daddy cool? Daddy ghoul!(Incidentally, awesome performance by Surya as the drunkard; reminded me of his dad, 'Thanni thotti thedi vandha kannu kutti naan'!Guess the dad-inspiration was there somewhere!)

The lesser said about the romance, the better. It had enough cheese to stock Pizza Hut for a good couple of years. What could have been narrated with a lot of subtlety and nuance to make a point about how Krishnan was a 'different' father were loud and pathetic sequences, consequently making no emotional impact whatever. Like they say inTamizh, ottave illai. Too much emotional garbage killed all the feeling in me. :P

And, this was just the 'father-son' part.

There was the 'finding himself' part, involving a kidnapped kid, a scene inspired from 'Life is Beautiful' (fingernails on chalkboard!!!), the army, the second woman, and a lot of other bullshit. Avan enna solla varaan?

The movie is called 'Vaaranam Aayiram' (from the Andal paasuram, meaning 'A Thousand Elephants'. ) You are left wondering why. And just why half the movie is in English, with no Tamizh subtitles :P

The good part? Well, yes, there was a good part. The characters were horrible, but there were some brilliant performances from Surya and Simran. Surya excelled in all his roles, all those facets. The actor shone through the weak characters. Simran was mind-blowing as the mom. Not much scope, but she was good. Really, GM, you should have made a better movie to live up to such acting. The visuals were good (they show the Berkeley campus in the movie :P), the music was fine, but that was it. Like a teacher of mine used to say, there is no use having fine zari, if your dhoti is torn.

There is a thing a person like me who claim to be driven by individualistic values claims: that we do any creative work we do 'for ourselves'. I guess this was Gautam Menon's way of doing something 'for himself', a dedication to his father. So in a way, I really cannot question the execution of the movie (no pun intended!) But there again, there is a difference between a blog or a book, and a movie, though they are all creative media. When you make a movie, involving the efforts of so many people, one that is specifically made to reach millions of people across the world who actually buy tickets to listen to what you have got to say, should there not be an element of responsibility involved?

Or maybe, there was, and this was Gautam Menon's entire 'element of responsibility'; that is, this was exactly how he wanted a dedication to his dad to be framed. This movie was the limits of what his dad meant to him, the limits of his inspiration. Somehow, I don't want to believe that!

தாமரையின் முக்தி

2008-11-14T20:31:00.006+05:30

நான் சேற்றில் மலரும் வெண்தாமரைப்பூ.

வெட்கி நாணி கோணி சிவந்து தலை குனியும் என் தோழிகளுக்கு நடுவிலே பளபளப்பாக வெண்ணிறத்தில் தோன்றும் நான், ஒரு கருப்புப்புள்ளி.

நான் மட்டும் ஏன் இப்படிப் பிறந்தேன்? சிலர் சொல்கிறார்கள், சூரியனுக்கு என் மீது வெறுப்பு என்று. என் பக்கம் அவன் பார்க்கவே மட்டேன் என்கிறானாம். அதான் எனக்கு இந்த நிறக்குறையாம்.

நான் உங்களுக்கு உண்மையை சொல்கிறேன். எனக்கு தான் அவன் மீது வெறுப்பு. அவன் என்ன தான் என்னை பார்த்து பல்லை காட்டி இளித்தாலும், நான் மசிய மாட்டேன். என் வெண்மையும் பெண்மையும் யாருக்கும் விட்டுத்தர மாட்டேன். அவனை வேன்டும் என்றால் என் தொழிகளிடம் சென்று பேச்சு கொடுக்கச்சொல்லுங்கள். இல்லையென்றல் இருக்கவே இருக்கிறள் சூரியகாந்தி. காத்திருக்கும் கன்னி.

"இதுவா பெசும் முறை?" தாய் என்னை அதட்டுகிறாள். அவளுக்கு அடிக்கத்தெரியாது ... இதமாக தடவி கொடுக்கிறாள். தண்ணீரின் ஸ்பரிசம் சுகம் தான். அவளிடம் பிறக்கவில்லை என்றால் நான் எப்படி இப்படி? இவ்வளவு சௌந்தர்யத்துடன்? "உனக்கு தலை கனம் டீ அம்மா!" அந்த குரல் என் சிந்தனையை சிதறடித்தது. சிரித்தேன். "ஒரு நாள் இல்லை ஒரு நாள் என்னை விட்டு போக வேண்டியவள் தானே நீ." அம்மாவின் பாசம், மறுபடியும். அலை அலையாய்.

நான் போய்த்தான் ஆக வேண்டுமா? அப்படியே இருக்கட்டும். என்னை இங்கேயே
வாட விட்டு விடாதீர்கள்.

ஒரு விண்ணப்பம்.

போகும் போது என்னை ஒரு குடம் தண்ணீரில் போட்டு எடுத்துச்செல்லுங்கள். அம்மாவை பிரிய அவ்வளவு எளிதாக மனம் வரவில்லை.

உங்கள் வீதிகளில் என்னை விலை பேசி விற்று விடாதீர்கள், கல்யாண சந்தைகளிள் உங்கள் பெண்களை பேசுவதுப்போல்.

என் நிறத்துக்கும் நறுமணத்திர்க்கும் மதிப்பு இல்லை; அது என்னுடன் வரும் இலவச இணைப்பு. எனக்கு விலை கிடையாது.

உங்கள் தெய்வங்களுக்கு என்னை காணிக்கை ஆக்காதீர்கள். நான் அழுதுவிடுவேன். கல்லுடன் எனக்கு பேசவும் சிரிக்கவும் தெரியாது, அது தெய்வக்கலே ஆனாலும். சாம்பிராணி புகை எனக்கு ஒத்துக்கொள்ளாது; நான் சீக்கிரம் வாடிவிடுவேன். ’ப்ரசாதம்’, என்று பெண்கள் என் இதழ்களை சுருட்டிக்கொண்டு தலையில் சொறுகிக்கொள்வார்கள். ஈருக்கும் பேனுக்குமா நான் முத்தம் கொடுப்பது? கோவில் வேண்டாம்; எனக்கு அப்படி ஒரு சமாதியும் வேண்டாம்.

கலைமகளுக்கு உட்கார்ந்து வீணை வாசிக்க வெறு இடமா கிடைக்கவில்லை? மடி வலிக்கிறது. கலைமகளை மடியில் சுமத்தி, என்னை அவளுக்கே தாய் ஆக்காதீர்கள். சின்ன பெண் நான்.

உங்கள் பெண்கள் கூந்தலுக்கு நான் அலங்கார பொருளாக இருக்க முடியாது. அங்கு நான் இருந்தாலும், நீங்கள் "உன் கூந்தல் அழகு" என்று அவளைத்தான் புகழ்வீர்கள். ஓரு பெண்ணின் முன்னால், இன்னொரு பெண்ணின் அழகை பாடிப் புகழ்வது அநாகரீகம்; உங்களை அந்த அநாகரீகத்துக்கு உட்படுத்த நான் விரும்பவில்லை.

பின் என்னை போன்ற அடங்காப் பெண்ணை என்ன செய்வது என்று கேட்கிரீர்களா? நான் வாடுவதர்க்கு முன்பு என்னை உங்கள் ஊர்க் கவிஞன் வீட்டிற்க்கு அனுப்புங்கள். அவன் உணர்விர்க்கு விருந்தாக, ஒரு நொடி நான் இருக்க வேண்டும். அவன் கவிதைகள் என்னை புகழ்ந்தாலும், இகழ்ந்தாலும், கண்டுகொள்ளாமல் இருக்காது.

அது போதும், என் முக்தி

Note: I am getting better with the software usage these days, but I still don't know if my spellings are perfect. I checked a lot of times, but you do get tired of reading the same thing over and over, especially when you have written it yourself. Please let me know if there are any spelling errors. On a related note, is there a spell check software for Tamizh writers?

Evanescence IV

2008-11-07T14:47:00.001+05:30

Now,

Evanescent,

Eternal.

Thanks for the picture

Evanescence III

2008-11-03T10:04:00.005+05:30

Proof by contradiction: ~ Permanence of nature

There is a planet where the air is non existent, the soil is barren, the 'water' nothing but noxious acidic fumes.

The life giving sun shines on, dawn to dusk.

~

There is a mountain where stands a lone tree, sprouting red leaves, shedding them in the autumn and bearing fruit year after year.

No one knows of its existence.

The fruit fall to the earth, ripened and uneaten. The seeds cannot grow in the barren rock; accidents of such nature cannot happen twice. The leaves change colour with the fashions of the season.

The tree endures.

~

The people in the busy city immure themselves in glass-and-concrete structures soaring to the sky.

They stand closer to the heavens, but walk with their eyes to their feet.

She, of the fourteenth night, is rankled that her splendor goes unnoticed, and draws herself into her veil. But it is her nature to shine and sparkle, and, all forgiven, she peeps her way out again. She's gracious.

The people still walk, admiring the beauty of their feet.

~

The flowering bush sparkles in the morning dew, eyes moist as she beholds her creation, the beauty at her behest. Little white children, still half curled from their first sleep, sparkle in the first sun's light.

The maiden walks up with her basket, and robs the young mother of all her children. They will adorn and scent her hair and be offered at the feet of her gods. They will find their way into strange pockets and their scents will drive human hearts crazy. Those little ones capable of such tremendous feats, have not the power to stay with their mother.

The bereft bush weeps not, but dryly waits and births over the night, to give her children up to the maiden's service. She is an eternal mother.

~

The monk saved the drowning scorpion.
The delivered scorpion, safe ashore, stung the hand that saved it.
The monk only said
"'Tis only the nature of the scorpion to sting
But is it not the nature of the monk, to save a dying creature,
When saving, well within his power?
I acted to suit my nature
And it acted, to suit its."

~

Truths are evanescent.
Truth, is eternal.

Taare Zameen Par

2008-10-26T19:11:00.007+05:30

Man is a perverse creature. He is also a stubborn one. And let's face it, he is powerful too. In a way. And well, too emotional. Just a little change, just a little something 'wrong' with his world, and he starts fretting. Plotting. Scheming. And usually gets his way too. Oh, Man, you are so human. And that is probably why you are being written about on my paper, with my pen.

Like take the day for example. It has been raining for the past few days. Torrential rains. I think Surya decided to take a break for the Diwali holidays and go home to visit his people. Poor Indra is working overtime, and his thunderbolts have become fiercer because of all his pent-up resentment. Varuna Deva also puts in attendance; we are wading through knee deep water here for a while now. In a part of the world where we are graced with Surya's ardent attention for most part of the year, a break is actually welcome in a way. (Shhh! Don't tell him! ;))

But then, when he goes away, faithful Chandra also follows him. I might not miss him, but I miss her. She is the kind of person who you count on to be there always, and even a day's disappearance when she is under the veil (her 'days off' in the month!) is hard to bear. But on the day of the New Moon (what a phrase! Blackness, a 'New' Moon!!) the stars stay on hand to whisper to her, and if you listen hard enough, you can hear her laugh from under the veil.

But when Surya and Chandra have packed their bags and gone away on vacation, what business do the stars have, staying up all night in an absent friend's horizon? They have gone away too. And man, perverse, stubborn man, hates that. When the clouds blot out the sun and moon and stars, he cannot bear his loneliness. He decides to put stars in the sky, his own stars.

He makes his stars, not from hydrogen and helium, but from glue and sulphur and coloured paper. Women in Sivakasi cover their noses with cloth, and roll the acerbic powder into colourful balls of fire. Each one a promise, to imitate a star, to hopefully create one. Children make fire, and watch in wonder as they burst over the skylines year round. When the time of the year marking the disappearance of the stars rolls around, man is ready to launch his rockets. His stars dance and draw fiery images in the blackness. Images, of evanescence. His rockets put men on the moon, but they cannot put stars in the sky. His shooting stars fall back into the earth, and he stares at them fall back, too tired to wish on them. His horizons remain barren and black. His hopes are dashed. The vast night sky above him lights up with a thousand temporary lights, but there is no steady, dependable, eternal flame.

His lofty stars have disappeared, his pathetic efforts unavailed. Exhausted, he returns home, to plot new ways of restoring the stars in the sky.

The night before Deepavali finds him too absorbed in his failed experiment. The crackle of fire outside his window makes him look up. There they are, his parents, wrinkled faces still not without the spark of life. There she is, the wife, her face lit up, not by the crackling fire she holds in her hand, but by a smile, a smile fuelled by a fire within. There they are, the children, images of joy, permanance. They are veritable stars on earth.

A lamp on every ledge, a candle in every home, a smile on every face, a hope in every heart. Taare Zameen Par.

Evanescence II

2008-10-21T09:39:00.005+05:30

Buried lives
Broken lives
Burned lives,
Blossoming death.

Red foliage
Turning green
Green fruits
Ripening yellow
Yellow leaves
Browning, come autumn
Brown earth
Mothering the foliage
In her ruddy womb.

Life, yielding naught but death
Death, birthing new life-a-day
When neither is true,
Only but deceiving imposters
Is the Lie, True?
Evanescence, a Law?

Adrift, I am
Like a paper boat
Caught in a desert-storm
Like a paper kite
Wantonly caught
In a tree's embrace.

Prayer

2008-10-21T08:56:00.005+05:30

Lost, without an answer

A riddle, with no solution
Faith, betraying me
Betrayal, strengthening my faith
Adrift, I am, a paper boat
Fine sight in a dry desert.
It rains in the desert, my heart overflows
My sails a-wet, my oarsmen abandoning
I steer, without the Pole Star
Without a destination.

I flew above the clouds
A paper rocket
With the waxen wings of Icarus
Burnt? No, for the love of the earth
I fall down
Clutching at branches of tall trees
Eschewed for the excitement of flight
Above the clouds...
Long scorned!

No harm.
For my God is non-existent
But I always have the succor of prayer
My raising hopes
Pinned on a falling star.
I pray, then
For fortitude, for sense,
Mine.
For peace,
Yours.

Evanescence

2008-10-18T20:27:00.001+05:30

Dawn's gold
Darkness's hold
A walk in the rain
First waves of pain
Sunny shadows
The highs and the lows
Evaporating flecks
On the tips of your nose...

People. Thoughts. Memories. Names. Colors. Hues. Melodies. Music. Darkness. Sorrow. Moonbeams. Pain. Gain. You. Me. All evanescent. All beautiful. All living. All too human. And good it's that way!

PS: No, MA, am not depressed. Maybe just a shade too happy! :)

Motion

2008-10-16T05:03:00.000+05:30

A single testimony

To the rolling wheels of life...

Perpetual motion

In static, in silence.

-Suchitra

14/10/2008

Love letter

2008-10-13T18:00:00.005+05:30

How is it that everything seems right when there is a bit of rain in your horizon? Sunshine brings dawn and life and hope, but how can it be that its obliteration is a source of ever greater joy? What is the pleasure that the earth takes when the sky bursts into fits of anger and rumbles and flashes and bursts into tears splashing onto the sidewalks, falling like discarded petals, not knowing, not caring? Why is it that she looks most beautiful when she is crying? Why is it that one can never understand her caprice and her moods, however much one might try? Maybe what they say is true. Maybe there are certain things one should not question and analyze, but experience and be thankful for.

But then why is it that a drop of rain can make you glimpse heaven in a matter of seconds? Here I am, grumbling, crumbling, a hundred rants jostling with one another to be heard like women in a fish market. Not satisfied. Wanting more. More and more. No idea what's 'more'. But not satisfied, no. And then, plop. A single drop from the heavens. A single sample of ultra purity. Shaking the heavens out of you. I look up. Wanting more? :)

Raindrops are yours. Mine. His. Hers. Never ours. Never to be shared. Rainbows too. What's so beautiful about a rainbow anyway? All those colours. The symmetry. The anomaly. The exaggeration. The hope. The fact that you know not when they come. And when they go. Their evanescence. Maybe that's it. Rainbows are testimonies to the fact that the best moment is now, the best place is here. That something which is not going to be yours forevermore, is, strangely, yours. Forevermore.

Rainbows, like the drop, like the moment can never be ours. What else can never be ours? Er..what else can be ours? Why are we 'we'? Pardon, are we 'we'? Am 'I' not your 'you' to you? Are 'you' not your 'me' to me?

I cannot share my raindrop, not the fragrance of my nameless-white-drooping-flower, not the memory of sunlight's kiss on some evening, nor my despair of my loss, nor the exquisite taste of vanilla ice cream melting in the depths of my throat. I cannot share the rainbow, I cannot share the moonlit dances, I cannot share my random walks, I cannot share my plentiful thoughts. I will not share the songs which bubble forth, I will not share the seedlings sprouting life, without, within. I can maybe share the jingling bracelets which, like they wrap around my wrist, shall wrap around yours...but I shall not insult you by offering to share my femininity, my grace, my me. I will not share the memory of waking up on a Saturday morning listening to the dragonflies murmuring at my window and later, in half a daze, listening to the rousing patter of the raindrops on the tiled roof. I dare not put my dreams to words, I dare not move lest my bubbles burst. For though you are my me, though I may desperately want to show my bubbles to thee, I am afraid. What has more power, the love I bear for thee or the love I bear for the brittle bubbles? Or the my fear of them breaking? What do I fear more; my love, or my fear? :) Hmm.

Shall I then, proceed to tell you what I share? Nothing but what I have tried to share so far, in my poor missive. A glimpse of my joy and despair, a taste of my orgasmic pleasure and racking pain. Not shared, even, unconsciously bared...this little girl was lost in the rain, that she did not notice that she was hidden, no longer; clothed, no longer; sheltered, no longer. That she was past sharing, past caring. Take it, then, if you want, if you can see.

For, my dear, I, am mine.

---Suchitra---

Poetry ~ Resurrecting my self, a little, every time...

2008-10-01T20:24:00.004+05:30

Someday
I
Will understand
What drew me
To the reality of a dream world
In the print, in the words
In the scented lights
Of Landmark and Fountainhead
In the unheard voices
Of Rumi and Neruda

To cataloged books
Of forgotten poetry
Sleeping in dusty racks
Amidst old volumes
Of Springer journals
Mathematics Today
and IEEE Reviews

The poetry
(Perverse though it may be!)
Bringing with it
Like the dawn's gift of light
And life...

A sense of calm
In the tea(r)cup storm
Of my wretched heart
A wave of cheer
In the measureless melancholy
A thread of excellence
Waving red flags high
In the burning rage
Of mediocrity
A knowledge of belief
In a sublime God
In the purgatory
Of pseudo-atheists

When poetry
Birthed and nourished and saved and delivered
And resurrected and lead and gave me up
Into the loving arms
Of eternity.

Thanks be to you,
Poets known
Poets unknown.

This work is dedicated to the poets, who have allowed me a peep into 'their' worlds, through the windows of their words. Whether they write or not, whether what they write can be called poetry or not, I consider them poets, because they have the eyes of the poet which create alternate realities, some of them so beautiful that I can drop the prefix 'alternate'. Writing poetry is probably just about the most useless skill to acquire, but then, to the poet, it is their most priceless attribute. Thank you, poets known, poets unknown, for the measure of sanity, for making life brighter, bigger and better.

The perversion of poetry

2008-09-20T23:29:00.002+05:30

"Poetry is emotions expressed as words"

Ah.

I see.

You strike out
Your own words of passion
You make calm footnotes
Of the snaking thoughts
Surging, without, respite...
You introduce carets
Interrupting your own rants
You full-stop your flow
You comma the heaviness
Into lighter, bearable bundles
And stifle the cries
Into drawing room expressions
Of politeness
And bracket the emotions
Into the poor pillowcase of words...

Poetry?
Perversion.

PS: My 200th post.

மின்னல்

2008-09-18T21:24:00.001+05:30

தும்பிங்க வந்திருக்காக...
மாப்பிள்ளை மேகம் வந்திருக்காக...
மற்றும் மழைத்துளிகள் எல்லாம் வந்திருக்காக...
வா மா, மின்னல்!!!

Tagged - 20 q

2008-09-14T17:01:00.000+05:30

Priya Iyer tagged me, and here I am answering her 20 questions.

1. If your lover betrayed you, what will your reaction be?

நீ கொடுத்து வெச்சது அவ்வளவு தான்...better luck next time :) (PS: The lover betrayed, but does love betray?)

2. If you can have a dream to come true, what would it be?

Flying, without parachutes or gliders. Just...flying.

3. Whose butt would you like to kick?

I need to think...that's a long list!! For starters... maybe J K Ritheesh. (அவர் என்ன JK Rowling மாதிரி வரணும்னு இப்படி ஒரு பேர வெச்சுக்கிட்டாரா??? ) Fans, you don't want to miss this

4. What would you do with a billion dollars?

Assuming I have earned it, I would probably use it to build a school. With a well stocked library, of course :)

5. Will you u fall in love with your best friend?

That is why I prefer not having 'best friends' or even 'friends' :D

6. Which is more blessed, loving someone or being loved by someone?

Depends. The latter is a reaffirmation of the recognition of your ego, the former is pure ego. So, it technically depends on whether you look for external recognition of your self, or make your love the highest expression of that self.

Besides, what is love after all but a huge wave of positivity? It is one thing being hit by the wave, but think about being that wave. At the risk of sounding cliched and trite...in sharing love, you are loved a thousand times over, by yourself.

7. How long do you intend to wait for someone you really love?

Flawed premise. 'Really love' is a comparative state. Varies over space and time. Someone you 'really love' here and now might become North Pole cold to you in a few years' time. So no point in waiting too long...I believe in just having a few basic criteria to clear and then working on the details over a lifetime.

8. If the person you secretly like is already attached, what would you do?

'Secretly' like?

9. If you like to act with someone, who will it be? your gf/bf or an actress/actor?

I should not like to 'act' with a significant other, any sense of the word. I would like to act with Kamal Hassan, Amitabh Bachchan, Aamir Khan, M.Karunanidhi, Nandita Das, and Prakash Raj, mainly for what skills in acting I can learn from them.

10. What takes you down the fastest?

Gravity;) Everything else pales in comparison!!

11. How would you see yourself in ten years time?

I don't.

12. What’s your fear?

Flying cockroaches and scorpions. Losing my calm, acting in a moment's passion. Elevators with mirrors. Bangalore roads. Most of all, fear.

13. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?

Everything I am not!

14. Would you rather be single and rich or married but poor?

Why are they mutually exclusive? On the whole, I would go for single and rich...companionship does not require holy matrimony.

15. What’s the first thing you do when you wake up?

Smile, and look at the moon, if there's one. I wake up at 4 AM !!

16. Would you give all in a relationship?

What is 'all'? Can you really give 'all'? Aren't relationship but tangents to our circle? How can I be X's 'me' to Y?

17. If you fall in love with two people simultaneously, who would you pick?

I don't belong in a Karan Johar movie, sorry.

18. Would you forgive and forget, no matter how horrible a thing someone has done?

Forgive, depends. Forget, never :)

19.Do you prefer being single or having a relationship?

I have never been 'in a relationship' to compare, but I believe that people come and people go, but you go on for ever. (Thank you, Tennyson!) You are always single. Always! :)

20. Tag 5 people
As usual, I tag nobody. If anyone's interested in taking it up, you're welcome.

The Monk

2008-09-13T14:56:00.015+05:30

The monk who knows
The world's a farce
Drenches his self
In the illusion of romance
With the flight-birds of thought...
Sculptured evanescence.

The monk loves illusions
Like the child gazing
At the sleight of hand
Marveling at being made
An ass and a monkey fool
Open mouth, mock dismayed.

The monk has his business
The monk rolls in money
The monk on the golf course
Hits the ball on the tee
The monk wears wool and leather
And drives his own Ferrari.

The monk has a woman
Or, the woman has the monk?
He has fathered two,
Their mother is a nun.
Who said monks and nuns
Cannot have their fun?

The monk is a heretic
No religion has he
No power he calls God
Nothing to revere, nothing to hate
This monk has no rituals, nothing to please
For no destiny has he, and no fate.

The monk befriends sun and star
The monk rubs shoulders with death and pain
The monk burns with fire and flows with water
The monk dreams, of treasures to attain
The monk loves like loss is but a fairy tale
The monk loses, yet has his love to gain.

Loves every morsel of food
Revels in every glass of wine
Delights in sleep and rest,
Pranks and plays, tinted feminine
Son of the earth, enjoys
Every pleasure here, divine! ;)

In worldly wisdom, second to none
The monk knows to have his fun.
No one laughs louder than the monk
And no one grieves more than he.
Lives, like there's no tomorrow
Lives, just like he'd like to be.

But then, I hear you ask
What difference between man and monk?

Ah, the difference there is
In the monk's life lived
Through the vagaries of the world,
Loving, hating, giving, taking...

The monk lives on the edge
Playing a funny game
Waiting to get just bored enough

Waiting to jump into space.

Man,
Lives (?)
In perpetual fear
Of vertigo.

Note: Inspiration, acknowledged.

Flight of my Muse

2008-09-13T10:25:00.004+05:30

one day
green grass
became greener
the blue above
soothed my blueness
the browns
became gold
in the first light's touch.
this day of hope
dawned
because I was thinking of you
my Muse.

same day

turns dark
damp
drab
brad
unlovely
barren
fallow
spring becomes autumn
in the turn of an eye
just because
my Muse flew away
light as a dove
taking the magic of the moment
with Her flight!

மௌனம்

2008-09-13T08:52:00.003+05:30

மூச்சு ஒன்று மட்டுமே
என் வாழ்வுக்கு காரணம் என்றால்
அந்த மூச்சை நிறுத்தி விடு

பேச்சு ஒன்று மட்டுமே
நம் உறவுக்கு அர்த்தம் என்றால்
அந்த பேச்சையும் குறைத்து விடு

கனவுகளின் வரிகளிலே, கனியே,
எங்கே, ஒரு கதை எழுது!
மௌனத்தின் மொழியினிலே, கனியே,
எங்கே, ஒரு பாட்டு படி!!!

Tears

2008-09-10T20:48:00.005+05:30

I asked for a room
Shrouded with screens
Enveloped by the blackness
Which would edit out
A part of me
A part of 'I'
The one that chose
To choose this room
To pour her tears in.

You gave me
An open field
With faithful sunflowers
Not heeding me
But gazing ardently
At all the light
And told me
To offer my tears
To the grass at my feet.

You showed me
The top of the mountain
Drenched in the moon
Where the shadow of the peepal tree
Falls in a slant
Where I sit curled
Waiting for the tears.

"But I cannot cry
In Their presence."
You smiled.

~

The tears,
When they came
Were not step-children
To be locked away
In the dark room...
But myself
Unseen
Virgin
Now
Discovered
In the Light
Around me.

Vulnerability sometimes is the best teacher. The Self it shows you is incapable of wearing masks. There are no frills no ornaments, no nothing. Just the plain, stark, naked Self. Acceptance, appreciation, satisfaction, satiation, comfort, confidence...ego.

Metaphor

2008-09-01T20:12:00.002+05:30

The Sun said,

"I make it rain

Only for you."

And I clapped my hands

The water on them

Evaporating.

When two women get together...

2008-08-20T07:40:00.002+05:30

A couple of my friends are singing a duet for a competition. For the last couple of days, they have been badgering the rest of us in the class for a song that they can sing. They want it to be a female duet, a song sung by two female singers, relatively new, and in Tamizh.

It was only while making the list that I realised how few Tamizh female duets there actually are. Our list looks something like this:

Kannan varum velai (Deepavali)
Kaatril varum geethame (Oru naal oru kanavu)
Malligaiye malligaye (Ninaithen vandhai)
Yaaro yaarodi (Alaipayuthe) - though not strictly a duet
Vandhen vandhen (Panchathanthiram)
Radhai manadhil (Snegidiye)
Devadhai vamsam neeyo (same movie)
Punnagai mannan poovizhi kannan (Iru kodugal)
Kannum kannum kalandhu (Vanji kottai valiban)

and a host of other black and white numbers, which the singers were reluctant to pick up.

This brings two questions to my mind:

1. Why is there a dearth of female duets in Tamizh cinema? It is not like we have a dearth of talented singers. One possible reason could be that a situation involving two female protagonists is seldom encountered in the scripts here.

2. Most of the songs listed above, and almost all of the old songs I have not mentioned have something in common. It is either about two women talking about a man they are both in love with, or going a step ahead and fighting over the aforesaid man. Social perception of a woman's mind! Male duets do not have such a narrow range of thought, again social perception. So men talk about history, science, politics, philosophy, art and technology. Women talk only about men. Fitting, indeed.

My womanhood - IV - சமூக சேவை - Social service

2008-08-14T21:29:00.004+05:30

Dedicated

To all the women who are strong enough to compromise neither family nor career for the other.
To the women who have the grit to work, even if they don't want to, because they have to.
To the women whose day starts with the wound up alarm clock screaming at four in the morning.
To all the women who make it to a seven o'clock or eight o'clock office after cooking, cleaning and packing.
To all the women who travel on crowded buses and trains in the peak hours, for whom a car or a two wheeler is a luxury or a dream.

To all the men who make them 'social workers'.

PS: For those who can't follow Tamizh or have trouble reading the language/script, I have translated the poem; please scroll down to access it.

அப்பனுக்கும் அண்ணனுக்கும்
கண் உண்டு என்பதால்
தாவணி போடும் நாங்கள்
பேருந்தினுள்
உங்கள் கிறுக்கல்களை தாங்கும்
கரும் பலகை ஆகின்றொம்
மௌனமாக.

தாவணி பொடுவது
அப்பனுக்கும் அண்ணனுக்கும் தானே!
நீங்கள் அப்பனும் இல்லயே! அண்ணனும் இல்லயே!

நீங்கள் வெளியில் சொல்லவும் கூச்சப்படும் ஆசைகளை
நாங்கள் ஒரு வார்த்தை கூட சொல்லாமல்
நிறைவேற்றி வைக்கிறொம்.

உங்கள் சமூகத்திற்கு
எவ்வளவு பெரிய சேவை இது!

’வலிக்கும் வரை கொடு’ என்றாள் அன்னை தெரசா

தாலிக்கொடிக்கு தாரத்தின் கடமைகளை செய்து
தொப்புள் கொடிக்கு கணக்கு பாடம் எழுதி கொடுத்து
மாமியாருக்கு மாத்திரையும் மாமனாருக்கு மருந்தும்
முதலாளியின் கொபத்திர்க்கு புன்னகையும், தொழியின் அழுகைக்கு ஆறுதலும்
கொடுக்கும் நாங்கள்
உங்களுக்கு எங்கள்
உடலையும் கொடுக்கிறொம் - மனதின்
வலியையும் கொடுக்கிறொம்.

அன்னை தெரசா என்னவோ
தமிழ்நாடு அரசுப்பேருந்தின் கூட்டத்தில்
கால் வைத்தது கிடையாது.
அன்னை தெரசாவையும் நாங்கள் மிஞ்ச
காரணம் ஆனவர் நீங்கள் தானே!

எங்களையும் சமூக செவகிகள் ஆக்கியதற்க்கு நன்றி.

குறிப்பு: எங்கள் சேவைக்கு கட்டணம் ஏதும் செலுத்த வேண்டாம்.

Translation (by the author)

Social worker

Because
Our fathers and brothers
Have eyes
We wear the 'daavani'.
But in the bus
We are blackboards
Bearing your whimsical scrawls
In silence.

After all, we wear the daavani
For the father and the brother!
But you are neither the brother nor the father!

We fulfil those desires of yours,
Wordlessly,
That you hesitate to even speak of.

What a great service this is,
To your society!

Mother Teresa said, "Give till it hurts."

Fulfilling the duties of matrimony
And those of motherhood
Giving the parents their medicines
The boss a smile for every sarcastic remark, and the friend a supportive shoulder
We give you
Our body
And also
The hurt
Of our heart.

Mother Teresa has not seen the insides
Of the Tamizh Nadu State Transport Bus.
Well, sir, you are the reason
That we are better social workers than Mother Teresa!

Thank you, for making us social workers.

PS: We do not wish to be paid for our services.

Ideal, deals with I

2008-08-12T20:52:00.003+05:30

Ideal.

Nothing better. No more improvement. Nothing needs to be done on it. Nothing to be worked on. The best of the best. 100% efficiency.

Scientists and engineers talk about the Ideal gas, the Ideal machine, the Ideal efficiency. That is what is chased in every new invention...ideality. So much so that saying something is 'ideal' in scientific parlance is saying that it is not possible. Not achievable. Even Santa Claus is an ideal by these standards.

People talk about ideals. Mahatma Gandhi was a martyr...he died for his ideal. So did Joan of Arc. And Martin Luther King. They held something so pure and sacred that nothing could touch it. And that became their ideal, that became them.

We have our own ideals. What to say, what not to say. What we are, what we would like to be. How life should be and how it should not be. The ideal society...Utopia. The ideal country. The ideal citizen. The ideal job. The ideal spouse. The ideal house. The ideal parent. The ideal kid. The ideal boss. The ideal workspot. The ideal death. A person I know even has an ideal toilet.

What is common to all these 'ideals'? Quite simply, they are expectations. All of them. When we say we want something to be 'ideal', it is like we have a set of clothes designed in a particular fashion, and we expect every next person we meet to fit those clothes, like it, and flash a grateful smile at us and maybe even throw in a word about our great fashion sense. If we think something like that is even remotely going to be happening, I'm sure we are going to be in for a major disappointment.

Reason one, too much randomness. Any average person who has ever aspired for 'control' in their life would know that you can have as much control in your life as the wife has over a car her husband is driving...you have the right to speak, but don't ever expect to be heard. You can work all you like, or do all the right things (things you think will push you in a particular direction) but in the end there are factors outside your control. If ever translated into a mathematical equation, I can visualize a huge constant 'K' which accounts for all those extraneous factors. Ideal surroundings and an ideal environment are non existent, if ideal is going to mean something you want.

Reason two, I need to talk a bit more about ideality here. You start off somewhere. That is to say, you are born, you grow up, and you tag along the racecourse like the rest of us not knowing what's going on. You look around you, you judge, you form opinions, you say 'this is good' 'that is not' 'I like this' 'I don't like this' and based on this you make a collective aggregate of all your 'likes' and call it your ideal. (Even if you throw in a dislike here because you want it in as a part of that ideality, it is because you 'like' your dislike!!)

But how can you know that the sum pool of what you have seen, your experience, is the best that there is? How do you know that there can be no improvement on what you think is the best? In other words, how do you know that an ideal IS an ideal?

Exampli gratia let us consider the following case: I have a friend who wanted to be a doctor. It had been her childhood ambition, and there had been no other ambition save that in her case. Unfortunately for her, she was not able to clear those tight cut-offs to a medical school in Tamil Nadu the year we got done with our boards. She skipped a year, slogged at one of those improvement schools (ironically, its name was 'Ideal' :D) and got through to a good med school. Three years down the line, she's telling me she wishes she had taken up engineering. The reason? According to her med school was nothing like she thought it was going to be. And that's when I realised it. I could say the same thing about my course too, and so could every person about almost anything...what we think things will be and what they are, are two different things altogether most of the times, aren't they? Most lives are born and dead in the head, but why is it that we live so much inside that we forget to see the beauty of the outside, of the what IS as opposed to the what could have been?

This is something I have come to realize the hard way; not that it was not worth it: every time I have been hurt, as in emotionally scarred, it has always been because I thought my faith in some ideal was betrayed. Some larger than life picture had just crashed at my feet. What hurts is not that people are like that or things are like this...what hurts is that what I thought was the best, the ideal, the highest, actually does not exist, or was betrayed. I question myself; is that even fair? To expect ideality in a non ideal world? To expect the dumb to speak and the blind describe the colours of the sunset? Not that it would not be nice; but if it does not exist, it does not. Going against nature just because you want people /things to work a particular way for you is like trying to rotate your head 180 degrees just because you cannot see what is behind you.

In the end, every ideal is a means to happiness, peace of mind and satisfaction. But those are not the things to be found outside oneself; they are to be found within oneself. It is nice if things go my way, but just because they don't, it does not mean it is any less breathtaking or any less ideal. 'Vaazhada vazhkai enru eduvum illai'. I don't need the ideal school, so long as I can be the ideal student, my ideal. I don't need the ideal job, so long as I can work to my ideal perfection. I don't need an ideal husband so long as I can be the ideal wife, my ideal again. I don't need the ideal kids, so long as I can be the ideal mother, my I, my ideal. I don't need the ideal life, all I need is me, and I have it, my ideal life.

Ideal, deals with I.

Thalaivaaaah! (Alternatively, what makes Mr.Shivaji Rao Gaekwad 'thalaivaaaah'!)

2008-08-03T08:55:00.015+05:30

Disclaimers:

1. No, this is not about Kuselan. I have not watched and possibly will not be watching the movie.
2. I have taken the liberty of using a lot of Tamizh phrases all over the place without translations, given that it is a thalaivar post.
3. This is a rather geeky post, almost like the transcript of a lecture, so please stay away if you know that such stuff do not go down well with you!
4. Much too much rambling as usual, apologies!

The beginning

Naan eppo varuven eppadi varuvennu yarukkum theriyathu...aana vara vendiya nerathula correctaa varuven... (Muthu, 1995)

Sometimes the weirdest things give you that spark to write, and this post is no exception. I was researching for an assignment about authority in management, and wikipedia kindly directed me to pages about what is directly connected to authority, namely power. The literature I found was exhaustive, and amazingly thought kindling. The best thing about thoughts is how they have the ability to jump, leap, trip and literally transmogrify your perspectives. How else would you expect a dull assignment on line authority to inspire a post on Rajnikanth?

One of the pages I stumbled across talked about Referent Power. Wiki defines it as the power or ability of individuals to attract others and build loyalty. People are powerful because they can exercise an authority, or at least hold sway over other people's thoughts, actions and words simply by being what they are. The person is the heliocentre, holding the masses in its invisible solar system by the gravity of his charisma. What with all the 'Kuselan' hype you cannot blame me for thinking of Rajnikanth immediately.

Power...what I have vs. what I am.

'Yenunga andha paambu puthu kulla kaiya vittingale, paambu kadikkaliya?' (Padayappa, 1999)

The thing about referent power is how attractive it is, and how little investment it requires. Other power holds typically requires the creation of a heirarchy...you have something that the other person does not have, and that something is in demand. Therefore, you have power over him.

That 'something' could be

knowledge - think of the power a lawyer holds over you because he knows legalese and you don't
authority - don't we always say 'saaringa aapicer' a la Goundamani to the guy who issues the driving license? Or humour the prof who plays with our internal marks like the mallu vEtti minor playing with a string of malli poo?
or maybe just the fact that he's just holding a Kalashnikov to your head.

Referent power needs none of this. You just need to be you, and the you that you are should be endorsed by the masses. To quote Rajini (or was it Vijay? :o), "Idhu panaththukkaga sErara kootam illa. Anbukkaga sErara koottam." You are such a nallavan, vallavan, naalum thrinjavan, and people flock to you for just that.

The Superstar path

En Vazhi Thani Vazhi...seendade. (Padayappa, 1999)

If you read that carefully you might be able to observe a paradox there. You being you is something all of us are capable of being. Then, what is it that gives Rajini that extra sheen that he, and he alone, is thalaivar? What is the key to the Superstar path? After all 'Shruti bedham' Rajnikanth in Apoorva Ragangal can hardly qualify as a superstar. It is the endorsement that counts. And that endorsement happened to Rajini as his career progressed. My question is, did that endorsement happen because of what Rajini intrinsically is, or did that happen because Rajini tailored himself to the moods, whims and fancies of the Tamizh population? A corollary to that question is, did the Tamizh psyche influence Rajnikanth, or does Rajnikanth influence the people? On a broader note (since we were talking about referent power before this happened) are people who hold Referent power (Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Barrack Obama(?)) sincere individuals popular because people like what they say, OR are they sycophants mouthing what people want to hear, gain their popularity and then push in a little bit of what they want to say along with the usual platitudes and pithy statements, like pushing a pill in with a glassful of milk?

The Evolution

Nethu naan coolie.. inniku naan nadigan.. naalaikku... Silaper solranga naan ippadi varuven appadi varuven.. naan eppadi varuvennu andavanukku mattum thaan theriyum..(Uzhaippali, 1993)

Let me put that on hold for a while and talk a bit more about Thalaivar. Thalaivar's career started off as a character artiste. Like Vivek says, we learnt our rudimentary lessons in cancer biology from early black-and-white Rajinikanth movies. So after a few frames spitting blood, Thalaivar evolved into the suave villian (Parattai!) in a number of movies, usually with Kamal Hassan playing the hero. I can quote some fine examples of acting from this period, my personal favourites like Mullum Malarum (1978) and Thillu mullu (1981). But that does not count, he was a good actor, but that was it. No superstar, no referent power. Not yet.

Now comes the era of the Angry Young Man, Amitabh Bachchan inspired. Priya. Billa. Anbukku naan adimai. Johnny. Polladavan. Murattu kalai. Netrikann. Most of these movies portray the protagonist as a man who takes the wrong path because of the pressures of society. Newton's Third Law is always the justification...society was the action, I am the reaction. At that point of time, maybe that was what people wanted. Someone who could set things right by taking the law into their own hands. The rich capitalist (Vinu chakravarthy or Jai Ganesh usually) was always the villain. He would spend his time and money building his business making unethical deals, and spend his leisure with 'Silk' Smitha. The poverty stricken hero is the champion of the masses. Usually it is his mother/sister who gets insulted by the villian. So he plots, schemes and deals with the ugly villain, makes off with his beautiful, but thimuru-pidicha daughter and goes back to his hovel where the afore mentioned daughter makes meen kozhanbu for him and they live happily ever after. Not for him the sinful pleasure of money. Please make note of this point: Money was a sin. Poverty was good. And people liked that. So, that was what they were sold.

Up the ladder

Naan solrathaiyum seiyven.. sollathathium seiyven...(Annamalai, 1992)

There was a slight overlap at this juncture, with some movies of his where he played the righteous cop as well. (Eg. Moondru mugam.) Even if it was not the cop per se, he was a man in the right...some role like a farmer or a college teacher where he comes to harm just because he speaks out against the bad guys. That there's usually a double (a brother, a son, a twin separated at birth) who exacts revenge is where the plot takes us...but the point I want to draw your attention to is the perceived social status of the character. No longer the village bumpkin or the conscientious worker, Rajinikanth's character was a couple of rungs above. Not any more than a 'couple'...it would be what you would call 'lower middle class'. Money, still a sin. In fact, in movies like Thambikku endha ooru the character is born rich, and according to the fashion of that era, is by default a wasteful spendthrift. Hence to teach him a lesson his father makes him go work his rear off in a village so that he gets to know the value of money.

Rajnikanth in this era must have played every version of the misunderstood, downtrodden youth that there is. The loving brother cheated, the illegitimate child seeking revenge, innocent village bumpkin who's actually the heir of millions...he plays a gamut of characters. The common denominator for all this was that people identified themselves with the role. How can one person be simultaneously all that without carving a space for himself in the hearts of people? A star was born.

The Shift

Adigama aasai padara aambalaiyum, adigama kova padara pombalaiyum nalla vaazhndada sarithrame kidayadu (Padayappa to Neelambari, 1999)

Now if you analyze later movies like Annamalai, Mannan, Yejaman and Uzhappali one thing is obvious. There is a shift in the character. He's not Robin Hood anymore. He is something like the 'padikkada medhai'. The unskilled labourer makes the transition to the skilled worker. He can be the capitalist's son or son-in-law, but his sympathies are all communist in colour. We are talking about the mid 90s here...I am not an expert in the political milieu of the period, but I realise that people now wanted to see their hero wear coat-suit and drive around in a chauffeured car, but still be 'their' friend. It's like this: Rajni rose from amongst us, but even if he gets money (which according to his earlier films, is a corrupting influence) he is not going to let that corrupt him. He's still 'one of us', no bs. This is probably the HEIGHT of pedastalization, but hey, that's thalaivar for you.

The Boss!

Naan oru dhadave sonna, nooru dhadave sonna madhiri (Baasha, 1995)

If you are with me so far, you might remember that we started talking off talking about power. Rajinikanth, at this point, is a powerful individual. The reason is that people adore him, they have given him the power, because he tells them what they want to hear. He is one person who stands by what is rightly right...he may be a super duper multi billionaire, but he still likes Tamizh kalacharam and panpaadu in his women. Referent power.

We have a turning point now.The nature of Superstar's power is going to change with Baasha and Padayappa, Chandramukhi and Sivaji. No more of plain influence over the masses (though that still exists)...the new Rajni is educated. Knowledgable. Rational, even. Money's no more a sin...in fact, people like to see how Rajni spends 3000 crores in 30 days. 3000 crores la evlo zero irukkunu theriya vendame adukku! This has actually led to an ironical situation where thalaivar has brought about a 180 degree shift in the perception about money. So, in a way, it is he who has shaped public opinion! Thalaivar does not smoke cigarettes any more, he chews gum. He can afford to speak about his pet theories of spirituality in his movies, even if he gets bombed at the box office for that. He can make his characters mouth absurdly sexist statements and get away with it. Power, in a word.

Nallavangala aandavan sodhippan. Aana kai vida mattan. Kettavangala aandavan sodhikka mattan. Aana kai vittuduvan. (Baasha, 1995)

Now, with Kuselan, where I hear that Rajnikanth plays a Superstar, have we come a full circle? Have we, as a unit, finally come to accept a Superstar for what he is, just Superstar? But think about it, had Superstar started his career playing Superstar, he would not have become Superstar. Hell, there would have been no Superstar standard to make a comparison with. If Superstar is a formulation then only Mr.Rajnikanth holds the patent to it. Rajnikanth's a living example of how the mechanism of referent power works, worthy of building into a model. Once that is established then maybe, we can have other people trying to ape Superstar. Adu varaikkum, Little Superstar, Ilaya Dhalapathy, and their ilk had better keep their fingers crossed (literally :|) and try to read the public pulse and fit in.

Last word

Katham..Katham.. Mudinchathu mudinchu pochu.. (Baba, 2002)

Being Superstar is not about trying to be God Almighty. To influence people. To take power. It is about acting in asuch a way that you are given power. To lose your individuality to represent the collective aspirations of the multitude. To be a nobody in order to be everybody's darling. And that ain't easy, baby, that ain't easy at all!!!

My womanhood - III

2008-07-27T19:08:00.005+05:30

Unfaithful

The promises we made
At the last meeting
Are vilified now...

I know
I swore you eternal fidelity.

But Sun of my life,
Burning the eternal fire,
You have never known, what
The first raindrop of the season
Can do to you!

My womanhood - II

2008-07-26T22:36:00.003+05:30

The morning after

Struggling sunlight
Trying to wake up,
I woke up
Last night
Before you!

Waiting earth
My patience was rewarded!

Long fingered trees
Rustling with the quietest morning winds...
Hush! Now! Lest you awaken the sleeping dead!

My anklet!
For one of two, you talk so much.
Where's your pair? Lost with the night's tryst?
The moon has not even gone yet...
Do not clamour so.

Waking calves, I was your playmate yesterday
I can't play anymore; I am a woman.
Motherly cows that fed me their milk
Share with me your secrets now,
For I am a woman.

White clouds on the horizon,
Vines in my yard,
Flowers on the greens
I am a woman!

Morning rain
Red earth
I know your joy, now...
For I am a woman.

I am a woman, rising Sun
So ask me not, to wait for you
Through the darkness of the nights
You bequeath to me.
I have other suns now!

My womanhood - I

2008-07-25T21:19:00.007+05:30

Twenty minute ties

Sun drenched darkness

Inside the bus.
I, you,
He, she, it...
There's no difference.
One mass,
One flesh
Almost, one soul.
Standing, jostling, pushing, pulling
Cussing, huffing, sleeping...
Sleeping. In the midst of the sweat and blood.

Thank you for your dreams

Shed on my crowded shoulder,
Making me the wedded wife
And the unwed mother
All in a day
All in twenty minutes
In the sun drenched darkness
Inside a crowded bus.

The knowledge of death!

2008-07-24T05:01:00.005+05:30

This is probably a very morbid thought for a few of you reading this. But this was something I was musing about, morbid or not, and thought I would share. Have you ever noticed that you never come across the carcasses of birds, monkeys, dogs or cats in the event of their natural death? This is especially true if you live in cities with high rise buildings and fast cars; you will be lucky to find any of the mentioned creatures in their living state. But even a country dweller like me finds it surprising that animals seem so invisible in their death.

I have a legacy in my family - dog stories. Most of my people are dog lovers and any family conversation goes back to one of the numerous dog stories that any of us can recollect at will. One of them involve a dog that my mother's grandfather reared, called Caeser. The Caeser story I want to quote here is the one about the day he died. The gentleman had taken Caeser with him in his car on his usual ride, finding Caeser behaving strangely that morning although he was a very well behaved dog generally. Ceaser was in the back seat, subdued, when granddad decided to fuel the car. He turned into the petrol bunk, and was talking to the attendent with his back to the car. As they were talking, the attendant gave a loud cry. "Sir, your dog!" Caeser had bolted right out of the open window. He was running for his life (!), the last of it anyway. Grandad fueled his car and drove home. All that he told the people at home when they asked about Caeser was 'Caeser poyiduthu' (Caeser is gone.) And that was that. People back then credited a dog's intelligence, and respected its right to death (yup, exists). They believed that the animal knew when it was going to die and removed itself from human surrounding to die in seclusion. Maybe even solitude.

So animals know when they die, what about human beings? Another family story here. A maiden aunt who died sometime in the 1970s was known to have urged everyone in the house to get done with their dinner as fast as possible the night she died; in that place and time, when a person in the house died, no food would be prepared till the corpse is suitably dealt with. So perhaps she had an inkling of her own death!

My theory is that human beings might actually know when death is approaching, but they are so afraid of owning up to it that they don't pay heed to it. I wish human beings were able to face their own deaths as stoically as the animals...makes things easier for the kids at any rate. Funerals are a gross human invention; they are an advertisement of of our humanness, also an advertisement of our fear that we bequeth lovingly to our young.

The Secret

2008-07-19T12:19:00.004+05:30

I am an actor. I never set out to be one, you know, but I find that I am an actor and a very good one at that. Come in, I want to take you through my house. The house that I built with my acting money. Safety, security, happiness. That's what a house signifies, right? A patch of the earth to call your own. In the end it is all 6 feet by 2 feet, as Kabir said. Not even Bharati's 'Kani nilam' is really yours. But this house, I shall call it 'my' house, because I like the lie. Some lies are better than others, some illusions more friendly than others. This is one of them. A house built on my skills of acting, by being everything but what I am. What does this house house? That malicious missionary? That pious prostitute? A fortress of security built from my deepest insecurities. How ironical is that? But the structure is still standing, and you are walking through my house. You see the marble floor, the polished banisters, the pictures on the black walls, the tiny flowers in the glass bowls, the newspapers on the stand. But I do not allow you to linger. I pull on your arm and we mount the stairs. We pass the door to my bedroom. You push the door to peep in. You find a neatly made bed, a neat desk, stacked neatly with books. Everything disturbingly orderly. But no, this is not what I want to show you. Come, come on. Let's go. There's the other door. Plain white one. I have the key. I am the only one with the key, no one else is allowed to go in. The 'Chamber of Secrets', the servants call it. The Secret, of course, is not going to be one anymore. Wait. Let me open it. I fumble. Shall I try? you ask. No. I want to open it. It opens. It is kind of rusty, because I open it so rarely. We step in. Our eyes have to get accustomed to the darkness...the cones shut out and the rods light up. And in the semi-darkness you perceive our surroundings. Curtained windows. Plain walls with shapeless shapes on them. Nothing at all in the room, save a mirror. A huge one. I throw a switch. Light floods the room. Blinds us. I close the door. You walk around. Examining the masks. Each one is an exquisite copy of every role I have ever played. The subtleties of expression are resplendent on each one. I can sense your admiration. How can you be all that, you ask me. I say nothing. I am staring into the mirror.

I am pulling them off. The other masks. One after the other after the other. I arrange them in a neat circle on the floor around me. You stare. In fascination. As each subsequent mask comes off. And then when the circle widens on, your fascination turns to horror. I say nothing. There are more of them. and I do not rest till I pull the last one off. Now I turn to face the mirror. I see your face in it, reflecting the horror. I see my face in it, red, raw, shiny, naked, vulnerable. Inviting the blows. No more shields.

The Secret. The actor, the shell that dons different paints for different situations, is reduced to the shell. This room houses that shell. And that is the Secret. What should be flaunted proudly on my bosom, is after all, a Secret for me. But that's who I am. Finally I own up the Secret to myself and reduce the Secret to nothingness.

Your expression softens. You smile now. Perhaps, you understand. My heart skips a beat.

You laugh now. You take my hands in yours. "What an actor you are! I'm sure what you did just now is something absolutely no one else can even attempt! What a mask! I admit, I was taken in for a moment! Come on now, a cup of coffee or something?"

"Oh yes. Wait up." Normal voice. The one inside says, "Wait. I need to gather all my masks."

Dasavatharam - My two cents.

2008-07-09T18:13:00.005+05:30

It is more than a month since the movie got released, and it is more than a month since I watched it first. Yes, I watched it more than once. The first time was also a personal first; I watched this movie on the first-day-first-show; thanks to a friend who arranged for the tickets. People warned me that I would not be able to get any of the dialogues, being first day and all that. I might catch the paal-abhishekam (a bath with buckets of milk?) if I was lucky, I was told. Well, the crowd turned out to be a well behaved one, and the reason? The movie. Well, there is neither attendence nor discipline deficiency if the class is good, what say?

I have been trying to write a 'review' of some sort over the past month, but the attempts read worse than my SOP. The reason is that there were so many dimensions to the movie that it was more of an experience than a movie. For someone who went into the movie hall with no expectations whatsoever, it was a brilliant experience and that is an understatement. I loved the first watch that I watched it twice more; one with my parents and another time with another friend. My friend was surprised when I turned up with a torch, notebook and pen; she could not digest the fact that someone actually took notes in a movie hall. But I found Kapilan's poems compelling.

Some thoughts on the movie...yeah, plenty of spoilers ahead. I'm sure most people would have watched the movie, and judging from the blogs and chain mails circulating around everyone has an opinion about it, regardless of whether they have watched it or not.

First a few words on what I am NOT going to talk about:

The miserable graphics
The Iyer-Iyengar politics...don't make an adiga-prasangi out of a twenty-year-old like me, asking all you mamas and mamis to grow up.
Chaos theory and butterfly effect.
The theist-atheist angle. (Honest!)
'Aascar' films
Mallika Sherawat

Now to the nitty-gritty, scatterbrained as usual.

Admit it, Mr.Hassan, the make-up looks ludicrous. Admit it people, it requires enormous patience to sit through whole sessions of that gruesome make-up.

People told me they saw 10 Kamal Hassans in the movie. I did not see even one, how come?

What was Fletcher's motive in trying to get the vial? And why did he have to die such a gory death in the end? I appreciate the stoicism, Christian Fletcher (get it?) but what was the reason?

Talking of the vial-in-the-idol, don't you think Mr.Hassan loved his Dan Brown?

Asin's character (Andal! For the love of God! (Sheesh! Andal did love God!!)) was nothing like a Dan Brown heroine...not even remotely close.

Talking about the books/movies I got reminded of as I watched the movie, Fletcher reminded me a lot of The Jackal in the Frederick Forsyth book. And Mallika Sherawat's character (Jasmine...Mallika) was obviously modelled after Mata Hari.

Rangarajan Nambi dies for the faith he had embraced and whose insult he could not stand...puts himself and his faith above others, his family, friends, people. Vincent Poovaragan dies for a different kind of faith; a faith that makes him put other people before himself. I loved the symbolism!

One of the worst marketed films ever. Now, how many movies have a USP like this movie's screenplay and dialogue? I mean, forget all about the butterfly, but this is sci-fi, comedy (not kaamedi), and philosophy rolled into one. The sequences were logical and they blended into one another if you see it as a story and not just a thread to connect the 10 'avatars' of Kamal Hassan. Some of the dialogues were fresh, witty, pointed, deep or just plain whistle-able. They have all this pucca movie formulations, and then they go and advertise Kamal Hassan's 10 different roles and Mallika Sherawat. What if they had just made the movie as it was made and released it; and then let people realise that ten significant characters in the movie were played by the same actor?? Now, that would have been original.

Poovaragan is dark-skinned. He appears in a flash of light when the molested lady (I prefer the Mother Earth angle :|) screams for help. His people are brought over by drink. He dies when his foot is injured. Any guesses as to the 'avatar' that is alluded to here?

The Kamal-Jayapradha chemistry. That angle, by the way, is something I have read in a Readers Digest special edition, called 'Drama in Real Life'...a stage actor loses his voice because of a similar circumstance. But the cancer-cure-because-of-bullet...ellam romba over. Might work in a Vijayakant movie, maybe. People pay to watch such crap.

The songs were somehow not very appealing when I heard the track. But they synced very well with the video, a rare case. Usually it is the other way round. "Mukunda' especially. And no words about 'Kallai mattum...'

As my mother said, 'If anybody ought to take offense against the movie, it is the Americans!' The lampooning of Bush was awesome (NaCl? What's NaCl? Why don't they just use an atomic bomb or something?)

Admittedly the science of it was a little corny. Especially the tons-of-NaCl part. And I had no idea that scientists at the University of Pittsburg use Tamizh as a medium of communication in their meetings. Looks like I should brush up on my Tamizh before getting anywhere near the Atlantic.

Balram Naidu. KUDOS! Only Kamal could come up with a character like that. All the puns that are characteristic of the Crazy Kamal combo were in full swing here...Rao, RAW, raavoda-raavu. :D

The analogy between a satellite that revolves around the earth and keeps watch over it and a God who was supposed to inhabit the same region and perform the same function...too good. (So man did create God after all? ;))

Faith was the central theme of the movie, I felt. It brings me back to one of my favourite beliefs; that a man with faith, any faith, is definitely not a-religious. That was all the movie spoke to me about...or maybe it was just me.

Shit-damn-bram? Or was it Shit-tam-bram? Maybe it is just me reading too much between the lines, but I do know a couple of people who took offense!

Yuka, the medallion, Shingen Narahasi (Singam? Narasimha?)...the oriental touch. And the Fletcher-Narahasi combat is at dawn, bare handed, neither on land nor on sea...get the drift? (See, this is why I say the screenplay is awesome. You have all these subtleties woven beautifully into one strong plot. Pity we cannot see beyond the lousy makeup and Mr.Hassan's apparently bloated ego.)

Finally, the part I loved the best: Kapilan's poems. Transliterated in English.

Manal

Manal, koozhan-karkalin kuzhandai.
Neengal mannai vettuvadu, engal mazhalayai vettuvadarkku samam.
Thirutti thozilai vittuvidu, thirudiya mannai kottividu.
Inimel thiruda ninaithal ivanai irandu thundaai vettividu.
Manal karaiyai neengal maamisama kadithuth thindral
Paavaadai-chattai kaarigal engey paandi aaduvaargal?
Engal mazhalaigal engey manal kovilgal kattuvaargal?
Agadiyaai pona paravaigalai yaar azhaippaargal?

The eulogy

Manal thirudum mathavana pozhaikkavechu
Pathini thaai petha pulla othayila seththu pochu.
Aazhip peralaiyil aalamaram saanjidichi.
Manna paada solli manasaala kettiye - ayya,
Onna paadum podhu usuroda illiye...ayya!

The fullness

2008-07-05T09:56:00.007+05:30

The cup of my life is full.

Overflowing.

Colourful. Fragrant.Almost intoxicating in its fragrance. Makes me dizzy.

Makes me want to cry, the copious tears my childhood has left behind.

I am searching. For the tears.

My sorrow overwhelms me. I smile for it.

To know so much pain, is ecstasy.

The cup of my life is full.

Give me! I open my mouth to ask...

And flowers of unbearable scent rain on my head.

I tear them apart, dissect them, try to find the source of that scent that is driving me mad.

It is not in the flowers any more; it is in my fingers which tore that flower apart.

Oh, the cup of my life is full.

I can only stare

In dumbfounded wonder

My mouth a little open

Askew

Slightly foolish

At the fullness that exists.

Like clouds

Pregnant with rain

My life breaks into a flood of tears

Reminding me of fullness she holds.

The warmth of each tear

Envelops me

In mother-like comfort.

Time

2008-07-02T20:55:00.003+05:30

Waking up in the sun's face
Light flowing down his thousand rays
I smile to myself and say,
'I have all the time in the world today!'
Time to eat, time to play
Time to while the day away
Time in school, time at home
Time to learn and time to roam.
A hundred things, I want to do
Make a kite, paint it blue
Fly it in the sky, and fly away too...
In my dreams, where time is no issue.
And here I am spinning colourful dreams
My time flowing by, like dancing streams
And before long, it is noon
The sun is overhead all too soon!
Here he was and gone so fast...
Time is fleeting, it does not last.
'Make the most of me', says he,
And with all that I have to do, I do agree!
Not looking at the clock, I work
So little time, but there is nothing I can shirk!
And at the end of the day, I do know
That time waits for none when he's on the go!

~ Suchitra R
2.7.08

Written for a twelve-year-old girl who needs to write a poem on the mentioned topic for her English class as a part of her yearly assessment. Her teacher wants to test her wards' poetry writing skills, it seems. I can't think of a better way to kill all poetry writing instincts in anybody!

The right to screw up

2008-06-26T21:57:00.008+05:30

Note: If you find the language of the title offensive please do not read any further and cause unwanted hurt to your good self. Thank you!

It is the earnest wish of every parent that their children should not suffer too much. And like every bit of us knows, suffering is usually something that we bring upon ourselves; it is like we give ourselves sanction to sit and wail about something we will look back to with cynical disdain. And so the parent effectively trains the kid to 'not do' those things which they know by experience, brings you suffering. In other words, they make sure their experience, their life stories, go to the next generation. 'Learn from our mistakes!' they say.

When we wish people, we wish for their happiness. Either by the fortunate combination of happy circumstances, as in hopes that they attain things they wish for and so be happy. Or by hoping they would retain the memory of happiness in the face of all that life throws at them. We hope the people in whose lives we have some interest in don't really suffer all too much, we care because I guess we identify too much with them. And that is where all the advising tendency comes from, maybe. The fact that we care so much that we don't want them to be going through through the kind of shit we ourselves went thorough. Advertising our concern.

So much has been said about happiness. Chimera, state of mind, blah, blah, blah. What the eff? Who on earth decided that eternal happiness is what we want? It sucks when something bothers you so much that you lose sleep over it. So? Have you ever realised that no one, NO ONE is really bothered about the state of your finances or why you will lose three marks in yesterday's ABT test or the way your work is spiralling downward or what your spouse said to you this morning except your own self?

It would be awesome if there was a perfect recipe for happiness. Then, we could tell our kids: DON'T put in more than 250 grams of Epsom's salt. Else Happiness won't come out right. The thing is, there is not. If you are happy, I guess it is as much of a coincidence as it is when you screw up. Don't really pat yourself on the back and feel all glowy because you are happy today...you just decided to, that's all.

Don't feel so bad that you screwed up, you are probably doing yourself a favour. It's all right to screw up once in a while. It's okay to feel like kicking yourself. It's even okay to kick yourself. Seriously.

My king's English!

2008-06-26T21:31:00.013+05:30

They has a truck development gambaany there. You see the truck develop in pick fermenters. They made of thee paambus. Interesting, no?

Yeah. Very interesting.

Incidentally the person in question was talking about 'big' fermenters where they develop drugs. And nothing to do with snakes, ('paambu' is Tamizh for snake), they apparently construct the fermenters using bamboo.

Humour is one thing I never seem to lose stock of.

Random thoughts

2008-06-17T20:51:00.003+05:30

I have been writing a journal for a couple or so months now; this is a compilation of some thoughts from that book that I wanted to share!

Being buried in the past does you no good, ever. Being the assiduous planner I am, I did what I learnt from history; that is, take history at its face value, and remember constantly that history repeats itself. I thought I needed to be 'constantly vigilant' (Thanks Moody!) if I wanted to escape the clutches of my past. I find myself studying my actions, hoping they are as connected or disconnected to the past as I would like them to be. But a unnatural obsession with the past, even if it is to escape it, does not quite serve the purpose, does it? It is like saying 'I don't see the chocolate, I don't see the chocolate, I DON'T see the chocolate' while all the I am sitting with my fingers inches away from it, already devouring it in my mind. Won't the best thing be to just move away from the place, if I REALLY don't want to eat it? Hypocrisy, bah!

The future is truly way overrated. I mean, why go bother your head over something that will never happen? The future will never happen, you know, because when it happens it becomes the present. The future is just a present we would like to see in...um...the future. And if this present is lost thinking about that present, am I not giving reality a ride in favour of illusion?Today might shape tomorrow, but tomorrow can never be a substitute for today.

Sometimes, the best way to start working, is to do just that.

Beauty is only skin deep. As some one said, what 'inner beauty' are you talking about, an adorable pancreas? Pain, is also skin deep.

Sometimes it is not enough to know what you don't want, it is important to know what you DO want. Elimination only goes so far; wanting, really wanting something puts a new perspective on the whole issue. It actually makes the thing more personal, makes you more liable to get hurt, more vulnerable...stuff we pretend we would rather forgo because strong (wo)men don't cry. But we crave them all the same, it is perhaps the only thing that reminds us occasionally of the best within us.

What would I say is the ONLY thing that really matters? Having balance. Internal equilibrium, and equilibrium with the people and places around. Nope, don't make this a goal in life, does not work, I know by experience!! :D Rather like the chocolate analogy I mentioned earlier. This is more like Rajnikanth's girlfriends; he never makes any effort to impress, is just his own stylish self. And the ladies (apparently, I cannot go into the dynamics!) flock to him for just that. Harmony, calm, balance, is something similar.

Why equate being married and being wedded?

I think I am the luckiest person alive. Despite the uncertainties; actually, because of them. (PS: If you disagree, please go and allow gravity and air resistance to fight it out over you as you lose your footing.)

Why do we have the phrase 'To err is human?' What is this 'erring'? Why do we 'fall to get up'? Why is falling, falling in the first place? Why is the getting up in any way more significant than the falling? Um...

Do I think the things I think, or do I tell myself to think the things I think? Scary thought...

Can powerful, positive vibes really make a difference? Can 'good thoughts' clear the air and really twist the scales of probability? Can your thoughts influence your actions? Well, 'illa-nu sollala, irunda nalla irukkum nu daan sollren' ;)

Things get bad. They get really bad. They get rotten bad. And then, just when it's like you cannot take it any longer (or at least think so) the pendulum swings back. There is always a safety net, something to catch, some last vestiges of hope, a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on. (oh, and just sometimes, the same hand might lift you, only to throw you down with greater force :D) At any rate, makes life interesting.

Am not asking you to trust me. Just allow me to trust you.

Lost, lost, lost...glad to be!

Thank you

2008-06-16T06:30:00.005+05:30

To a girl, who I know because I don't know her
To a stranger, strange because she is only much too familiar

For deeds, undone,
For secrets, spilt...
For a life, built in the clouds
For lamps of hope lit

For the realization
Of the 'I' that will always be
For pointing out that path
That I could never see

For being you
For your selfishness
For everything you are not
For everything that I am.

So far, yet so near...
Thank you, stranger!

NB: Picture, courtesy Mara

Still tagging...

2008-06-12T20:01:00.005+05:30

Matangi wanted me to answer a couple of questions as a part of a tag:

I confess, I'm bored and cranky at the moment, so I am typing the first thing that comes to my head.

10 things I miss in life right now

This is my answer; could not really be anything else!

Pagalil nilavum
Iravil avanum
Nittiya kadalum
Nirandara mounamum
Swappana koottinil
Arivinir chudarum
Murpona kalamum
Varum nalla vasanthamum
Vazhvin vinadiyil
Vazhaamal pona ekkamum
Illaye endru azhuvadarku
Ennidam illada kannerai
Thedugiren!

A rough translation:

Daylight, moonlight;
Him, at night;
Everlasting love
Eternal silence
The light of reason
Burning in my dreams
Memories of the past
Beautiful future paths
Living for the moment
Regret, for the Life,
I have none of all that...
And that is what I miss!

10 things I want to achieve within a decade

I have somehow never been an 'achiever' of any kind, at least consciously. There is a finality to tat word, achievement. It makes you huff and puff like you climbed some mountain, and now you have to fuss about how to get down. But yeah, there are lots of things I want to do within the next ten years, assuming I get there in one piece.

Practice and perfect my Tamizh, English, Hindi, French and Sanskrit. Possibly make a start on a couple of new languages; Bengali being one of them!

Solve crossies so well that it becomes a tea time pastime, instead of the middle-of-animal-biotechnology-under-the-bench-activity that it is at present!

Properly learn how to respond when people ask you 'How are you?'

Learn to keep my temper, not let the uppermost thoughts on my mind run like a film on my face; smile more and frown less; stop screaming like a banshee when a cockroach runs over my foot in the bathroom.

Do that PhD!

Build my own house (I hate apartments) ...small house, large garden, lots of trees, swing, pond, french windows to let the sun and rain in, one big library, comfy armchair, CLEAN kitchen (yeah, I'll keep it clean, promise!), hopefully share it with a couple of people and call it 'home'.

Publish my first book and be known as a 'writer'.

Adopt a kid and a homeless dog

REALLY understand high school and college calculus, learn economics, read a lot, lot more!!

Understand what I really want out of life, and do what I have to do to go to that; at least make a beginning.

Thanks Mat, for getting me all hopeful ;)

Senseless

2008-06-10T18:31:00.010+05:30

A grain of sense

That floats in now and then
(Don't ask 'from where?')
Tells me this:

Sometimes,

I am blind
To your black beauty
To the wild spark of fire
Glinting through your eyes
To the symmetry of your randomness
To the certainty of your uncertainty.

I am deaf
To your silences
To your subtle harmony
To the melodies echoing through the mundaneness
The sharp staccato rhythm
Unperceived in the blur of noise.

I am dumb
For I avoid all conversation
Believing I am all alone
Forgetting to voice my fears
Failing to cry out loud
Swindling my laughter
With false claims to unfounded sobriety.

Olfactory challenges
To the fragrance of the lily in the swamp;
I am no bee.
Failing to smell the food,
I claim hunger.

No tactile perception
Of either the softness of your breezy touch
Or the sting of your powerful blows.
Neither your stroking fingers
Nor the seal of your kiss
Really touch me. Sorry. (For me.)

No 'sixth' sense
(As if the first five are intact!)
To understand the mocking pain
In the dryness of your voice,
The wryness of your humour,
The puns and the wits.
The metaphors pass on
With longing backward glances.
Am imbecile, a half-wit, an idiot...
In a world that claims
To comprehend people and emotions, actions and reasons,
I wish I could understand, I.

No sense, none whatsoever.
I rant, I rave, I want, I crave.

Having everything,
Yet having nothing.

Gifts abounding...yet,
Searching
Methodically, mundanely, patiently, painstakingly
For...whatever.

Put up with me, please.

Put up with my imbecilities
Put up with my insecurities
Put up with my mood-swings
Put up with my senselessness
For your love of me
For mine, of you.

rain. lonely tree. nothing more. everything complete.

2008-06-04T18:55:00.005+05:30

some day, today.

blue sky. rain. scrunched up rainbow.

earth and sky...matrimony.
some drummers!

mountain. molehill.fancy. flight.

kites in the sky.

monsoon song.
autumn leaves, months too early.
drops flecking into hair...free diamonds.
wet lenses.

smiles, hidden.
tears, bidden, recruited.
wet roads.
journey on a boat.

some day, it was, today.

Me: "Do you see that tree, over there, growing out of the bare rock of the mountain?"
You: "I do"
Me: "There is not a single other tree here."
You :"No"
Me: "Don't you think it is a lonely tree?"
You: "No."
Me: "Why not? There is not a blade of grass growing it to keep it company."
You: "But won't the mountain be lonelier if the tree were not there?"

The 'C' word

2008-05-24T16:03:00.005+05:30

A hypothetical situation. You are in the middle of the ocean in a rowboat. You are all alone, and it is the middle of the night. You are fishing for pearls. You cast your net forth into the ocean and draw it out, and you get some oysters which you pile up on one corner of the boat. As you row further in, you discover a spot, where, when you throw your net into the water, you get an enormous quantity of oysters. This part of the ocean seems to be like the proverbial Akshaya Partam...it seems inexhaustible. And you keep drawing the oysters in. At one point, it becomes expedient to jettison some of the cargo in order to keep your boat afloat an d take in more of the oysters.

You know that it is almost a one-time trip. You know that you may never locate this very spot again, and that if the chance is lost, you may never see so much gain all your life. So, you need to throw something out if you want to get more oysters home. Now, what do you throw out? Let's say you have...Ropes. Tins of food. A wooden plank to sit on. Extra nets. The oar itself. What do you throw out? What do you keep in?

Compromise.

Now, that's a word that I've often seen evoking mixed responses from people. Every thing from "Me? Compromise? Never...I want everything!" to a sad, philosophical "Well...but...yeah...sometimes one has to compromise to maintain peace." to more stoic claims of "You can't move without compromise" But like it or not, I believe that there cannot be any relationship that can be maintained without compromise.

Now, why is this so? Easy enough if you skin it. In all our dealings with people, we expect something from them. The truth is that all of us get into relationships, any of them, with expectations. We don't get into a job, get a significant other or make a friend unless we are sure that they have something to offer us. It could be monetary benefit, companionship, a break from (perceived) drudgery, whatever. However, the bottomline is there is some selfish gain perceived always.

Now, this expectation and exchange works both ways. Fair trade. I give you what you need, I get what I need. And when our needs from the relationship are satisfied, I think it is smooth sailing for most part. It is only when there is a conflict of needs between the people involved, do we have a cause for alarm, a need for compromise.

Let's say there's a writer who's commissioned to a publisher. If the writer's goals in writing his books and the publisher's goals in marketing those books are both satisfied by the books the writer writes, then it's a win-win situation for both. If, however, there's a conflict between the writer's need to keep up his professional integrity and the publisher's need to make money? Either, the writer has to compromise his ideals or the publisher has to compromise his gain...each being their own specific 'needs' out of the relationship. Does this scenario not remind you of the pearl-fisher who decided to throw his oars out of the boat to load it with more pearls?

What I am trying to say is this: compromise to save a relationship can work, if the compromise is not on the major needs that the relationship is built for in the first place. Because once that is compromised, there is no more reason to keep the boat afloat. You may have all the pearls in the ocean with you, but you can realize the gain only when you get it to shore. Similarly, your relationship might be saved at the cost of what needs you thought you could fulfill from it, but it holds meaning only because of the reason for it, which lies in the need, the want, the wish.

Therefore it seems to me that the most important thing that we can do to be successful in our dealings with people, is to know for certain (a)what we need, (b)what we want, (c)what we cannot compromise, (d)what, if obtained, we might be willing to compromise for, and (e)what we might be willing to compromise given the circumstances.

The Inspiro-Music Tag

2008-05-22T19:03:00.004+05:30

Of late, a lot of people have been tagging me with fairly interesting tags, and this one by Priya is no exception. This is what I am supposed to do:

Think of THE song that most inspires you to write, whether it gives you an idea for a story, script or just puts you into a better frame of mind AND/OR peek into the lyrics and find a verse that sums up the theme of whatever project it is you’re working on. If possible, post a video of the song to convey to readers the full context of the song and the mood it puts you into.

Alright, to be very honest, songs put you in an ethereal frame of mind, you feel relaxed, rejuvenated, uplifted, and you do fly in the sky at times with the song. But does it make you write? To write, the seed needs to be in your mind at the outset; it is a frame of mind that, when suitably triggered, pours out as words. Music can augment, I don't think it can be the prime mover.

When I write (or do almost anything for that matter) I have music in the background. And especially when I write, I like listening to instrumental classical music...Baroque, Carnatic or Hindustani. Sublime ragas like Sahana, Kalyani, Bhairavi and Kapi, or even melancholic ones like Subhapantuvarali are, well, heaven on earth!

However, I would like to post a song that I love as such, and listened to just prior to writing The Story of the Heart and Mind

This song has spirit, sublimeness and subtlety. And the refrain 'Sandangal nee aanal sangeetham naanaven' (If you be the poetry, I'll be the music) echoed the refrain (the theme) of the post mentioned!

Lines on the back of a peepal leaf

2008-05-19T09:34:00.000+05:30

It was under the blue sky, yes, the same blue sky that roofs yourself and myself, the blue sky under which we have spent so many happy hours unmindful of its very existence, it was right under the blue sky that I got your message written on the peepal leaf scroll.

I was in the brown walled courtyard opening up to the sky, and I found your scroll when the wind put it into my arms. What I was doing there, why I was given the scroll, how I knew it was from you, I cannot say. I am describing a dream, you know. Like it is the way with all the dreams and the nightmares, the details are tweezed out with almost a cruel perfection, leaving only a blur at the edges. And the blur is perhaps the only reason that the essence is embossed upon the memory, and haunts the living daylights out of one. Which is why I attempt to capture the essence in the poorly shaped container of words...like trying to trap a gas in a liquid.

The peepal leaves I held in my hand were brown, fading, but almost perfect in its state of preservation. As if they had been curled and born on the bark and died and withered and windswept into your arms, just to bear this message you had to write to me. Stitched on one end, the broad upper curves. Stitched neatly too. You never told me you could stitch? But then there is so much more that you never told me. Not that I ever asked, of course. It was an original idea, I agree, making scrolls out of peepal leaves. You know I like leaves and trees and earth and soil and such abstractions. Was it why you had chosen to write that last message of farewell on leaves and give it to me? So that when the leaves fade, my memory of you would fade too? Or when the leaves wither into the everything-ness (as opposed to nothingness) of the earth as we know it, my memory of you would also move, expand and fill the earth with itself? So that there would be no memories left with me, I would bequeath them to everything and everywhere?

Don't make me laugh, please, I am trying hard to cry over you. When the Sun torments the Earth, it is best that the Rain comes in to quench the pain. For whatever I may say about the nature of things being such and such, it is the Sun's nature to burn merrily, and the Earth's to bear with patience and fortitude, that there is peace in that, I am afraid that we may be taking things too far. Even the sharp reality of the dream only succeeded in making my heart, yes, Heart, heavy, heavier than I have ever known, but I could not weep and grieve, either for you or for me. Your calm denouncement of your Death, the suicide of our 'I', my sense of having 'lost' you, only gives me a profound sense of Destiny, of heavy rivers swelling and taking their course, bypassing the long roots from the wayside trees dipping into it, drinking from it. Not a thought does the river spare for the bystanders!

But then why does your water sweep the leaves off my arms and take them downstream to show them the salty oceans and the sunsets there? Is it on one of these leaves that you write your message of farewell and send them over, from wherever it is that you are? So that it is a double punch…one message of eternal farewell with the words in the letter, and another in the leaf, my leaf that bears the message, now returned to me? So that I cannot even deceive myself any further with illusions of you having them as a keepsake?

You know me. You know that I cannot dream of denying you the right to your Life, the right to a lack of it, if only you wish it. You also know that you cannot deny me a right to mine. Whatever interaction we have had, whatever relationship we share, whatever prompted you to write a message of 'farewell' to me because you have gone away, forever, is all based on this unspoken fundamental. With such an understanding, what is the meaning of the lines you write to me, on the back of a peepal leaf? What farewell are you referring to? I know that you always fare me well, but must you underscore that in red ink on the back of a peepal leaf and let it flutter across the courtyard, under our blue sky, just because your Life as you know it is lost to you? Are you telling me, trying to tell me, that is, that you are forever lost to me and I to you, just because you are dead? Don’t I still have you, here, with me, now and forever, whether you live or die or hang between heaven and earth?

I do. And now, now, I realize what the farewell was all about. Maybe it was not that you were bidding farewell to me at all. You are just taking leave of that part of you that you have left behind in me. And when I let this peepal leaf flutter back with the wind, telling Him to take it where it wills, I am saying goodbye too, another goodbye, to the part of me that shall forever be yours. We are characterized by the losses we have suffered, only my loss is not you, it is myself. And with that loss, that goodbye, I welcome a new Me in me. The Me with the permanent citizen, You. Welcome, friend.

God

2008-05-17T11:30:00.000+05:30

Volumes have been written with this single word as the focus. Starting from books expounding the knowledge of Him (knowing Him, as well as instruction on how to know Him) to the rivers of ink that have run dry exploring the philosophy of religion, the need for a religion, life without a religion, life without a particular religion et al. Not to mention the 'n' number of preachers and teachers who have found the Way (which goes to say they were as lost as the rest of us are, so at least we are in the 'right' lost path!!!).

The whole course of arguments about the nature, existence and need for Him (or is it Her? If there is a Him must there be a Her?)
Discussions from religious and philosophical forums to internet chat rooms to dorm rooms.
The staggering logical claims the athiests make, hard to refute if one has even the slightest twinge of reason twanging in one's nerve endings.
The same mind, crying over the poems of Rumi, the verses of Kabir, the Sowndarya Lahari, the Nalayira Divya Prabhandam, Tagore's passionate songs about the Gardener, Bharati's Kannan and Kannamma, wonders, what madness, what method, drove these men and women to write thus? Did they make these unassumingly selfish declarations of love to "fictional constructs invented by clever humans for purposes, a variety of purposes, ranging from psychological comfort to entertainment"?

I should say I am amazed, either by the capacity of the human mind's imagination, or by the capacity of the human heart for love of such proportions, if I can scale either, that is. In either case, I seem to have more affection and respect for the Man than his (or is it His?) God.

Theism, Atheism, Agnosticism, any other -cism you might bring up on the table, all seem to be foolish 'roots' (as in beliefs...rooted in a belief, you know) to me, unless you tell me what it is we are talking about. When four people sit around a table and discuss their belief systems, more often than not, the discussion is no different from one about the sights and scenes of New York after a verbal lecture about the city, which none of them have visited. Each man has a different mental visual picture of what Fifth Avenue or Wall Street looks like, partly gleaned from the lecture, partly from the images formed from what he has read or already heard about, partly what his mind chooses to provide. So, assuming none of them have seen a picture of the Statue of Liberty, how different would each of their perceptions be about the monument? Is it possible for them to come to a consensus on, say, the colour of the Statue unless it was explicitly mentioned in the lecture? Think of the complexities involved when we are going to discuss a concept as abstract and as fundamental to our existence (perhaps holding the key to the 'other' questions like 'Why are we here' 'What is the meaning of existence' 'What is the purpose of life' and the other stuff we spend the nights before exams ardently discussing) as God. Add to it the fact that this concept is something that has been drilled into our heads in some form or the other since our most impressionable ages by the people who make maximum impression on us. Garnish it with the tangy spice of fact that at times the religion we claim to profess might actually have a say on whether we have guarantee on our life or not, or at least the quality of life. So is it not important to know what we claim to have faith in before we announce that we are 'believers' or 'atheists' or whatever?

In this piece, all mention of ‘God’ goes by the following definition: ‘That in man which can know the highest it can know, and recognizes it for what it is’. It is more in the spirit of what Ayn Rand said: “The highest thing in man is not his God. It is that in him which has the ability to conceptualize a God’”

They say there in 'One God'. I'll say nothing could be further from the truth. If God were a distant star in the sky that we have set our sights on to discover and unveil, it would not be all this difficult actually. Because, since there IS only one star that we are reaching towards, the goal becomes objective! With an objective goal, all the appurtenances we have come to associate with religion such as a social set up, morality, the purpose each religion affords also become disparate objective goals. But think about it, isn’t God more a reflection of whatever it is that we hold highest and purest and greatest in each one of us? Isn't that what the teachings of almost every religion want us to do...'REALIZE' God?

The God is not in the chiseled features of the stone idol, the God is in the emotion the sight of those serene features brings out in me. The God is not in the stone, the God is in that feeling of imperturbable calm I sense when I behold the stone. The God is not in the atoms of silicon and iron that make up the stone, the God is in the sense of wonder and awareness of precision one feels as they realize just how the world around them, probably a serendipitous accident, probably not, is still organized like a jigsaw puzzle, with one lock functioning as a key somewhere else. To yet others, who don’t see your God in idols and conceptions of virgin births, what is the sense of peace when you see the smile fleeting across your sleeping daughter’s face? To the sculptor, is his God in the statue of God, or in HIS work that made the statue? To the scientist, what emerges out of the objective, rational column of figures that he writes in his notebook, but the truth that he pursues? Whether one calls these emotions that strike root in us, ‘God’, (from whatever source they may be from), one cannot deny the fact of their existence.

The ‘oneness’ of God lies in the fact, in only the fact, that there is no man alive who does not have a conception of something that brings out a sense of beauty in him, or a sense of awe and reverence, or a sense of sanctity. Something that he can hold apart from the rest of the mundane-ness in his life to visit whenever he wants that metaphorical breath of fresh air. It is as customized as he wants it to be, as wide and broad as the limits of his imagination, as much cherished and loved as the contours of his ego stretch. It is what makes him play a particular song when he is down, revive a particular random memory on a starless night, or return home to set eyes on a particular face. So long as a man has that, I don’t think I can call him God-less.

So, each one of us has a ‘conception’ of God, if you will, an idea, an ideal. And what that God is, to each one of us, is as different as each one of us is. My God needs me to exist, and in some strange way, I need my God, to be. When my God is as personal to me as my toothbrush, how religion can be something that is an en masse ritual is beyond me. The term ‘organized religion’ seems to be as much of an oxymoron as ‘Valentine’s Day’ or ‘Friendship Day’.

Organized religion seems to be nothing more than capitalizing on the capacity of the human mind/heart to ‘feel’ a God and use it to inculcate a sense of oneness and brotherhood among human beings. A necessity for survival. Capitalizing on perhaps the strongest and most mysterious of human emotions; selfish love and the pleasure of giving of oneself.

Sure, God is a unifying force. 'Sab ka malik ek hai'. Since we work for the same master our solidarity and sense of brotherhood increases, the probability of human beings (of the same religious ilk, at least) slashing each others' throat for the pettiest reasons goes down because, in the end, we report to the same Master with a cane who presents our all-important report cards to us. Sure, God is better than your psychiatrist's couch. If your God can take you to it, He can take you through it. Sure, your God gives you a purpose to life. When all else fails you can look at your guiding star and believe that as you live, even if you 'Stand and wait' as Milton put it, you are still moving towards Him.

But these ‘functions’ man has attributed to God is not what makes Him great, the fact that you can actually attribute all these functions to Him and only Him and none other, is what makes Him ‘God’. Remember, the ‘Him’, even here, is not the ‘One God’ of your so-called ‘organized religion’, it is your God, the you of you inside you.

In most cases, atheism seems to be outrage, not against the concept of the abstraction of God, but against the unrealistic expectations and ‘extra fittings’ attached to that God that the rational human mind cannot accept. It is not that God does not exist. It is just that the kind of God who, if benevolent, is powerless, if powerful, is unwilling to exercise His will, the ‘omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent’, apparently benevolent, mostly tyrannical, usually just, sometimes unjust, random God, this bundle of contradictions, it is this kind of capricious, illogical God that every atheist refutes and denies. Organized religion needs ‘such’ a God if it has to make that God functional. By denying such a god, I think the atheist is proving that there can be no truer theist than he is. By equating one’s own God, THE God, with such inanity, the so called ‘theist’ is championing atheism with amazing alacrity.

Of movies and 'meen'ness!

2008-05-09T20:04:00.006+05:30

Fellow biotechie, huge fan of ARR, shadow pictures, Tagore and gol-guppas, my fellow writer who gets high on life (and smileys :)), the Inane Isis Nithya has me tagged...she wants me to write about “What are the things I like and don’t like when it comes to watching movies?”

Movies should either make me forget myself (ex. Lagaan), or intensely aware of myself (ex. Anbe Sivam, Kannathil Muthamittal). Ultimately, that's all I look for in a movie...the ability for it to create an alternate reality, either outside my head or inside it.

Movies with a great soundtrack/bgm/music score are always welcome. A movie is, at the end of the day, a package; there's a story, there's it being acted out for you on reel. The music brings the emotions alive! There are a few movies where even if the story was crappy one could just go ahead and watch it just for the music. 'Guru' being a recent example.

The best way to actually 'watch' a movie: go alone. Yeah, you read that right. No company, no cell phone, no reviews. Just walk in, get the tickets and the popcorn, sit and get right into the movie. Or even better, get a 35 bucks DVD and watch it at home. A movie, like reading a book or working or for that matter anything else I do, is a personal experience. More often than not, I find that company spoils the experience of the 'movie' for me. It does not matter if it is just one person who tags along, who can keep silent when they should; the kind of friend whose presence is felt even when they are absent and whose presence does not intrude upon your solitude. But 'movie treats'? Thanks, but no thanks :)

I love watching old Tamil/Hindi classics. The kind where people speak proper Tamizh until they have to make an earnest, emotional appeal when they switch to the chaster (?) version. "Prananadha...thangal viruppam ennavo, appadiye nadakkattum...indha abalai pennai paarthu ungalukku irakkame varadha???" :D The heroes those days were actually better looking (not to mention better histrionic skills) than many of the 'Chimps' (yeah, pun intended :P) twisting cigarettes in their fingers these days. I find Gemini Ganesan and Guru Dutt attractive, no, am not funning.The heroines were plumper (read healthier, not anorexially thin) and actually beautiful and not just pretty faces.

There was a time when I used to scout the papers for the mention of K.Balachandar's movies on sleepy afternoons when I would be home from school. The best part about the KB movies were easily the cast; give me a KB movie with Nagesh and Major Sundararajan in it, and I guess the next best thing would be a MR-ARR combo movie or a Prakash Raj venture. Of course, KB handled lofty themes, but his execution was shoddy at best. Too much drama and stating the obvious. I should have enjoyed a little more subtlety given the themes!

Sujata's dialogues are an honest asset. Roja, a fine example. I will miss his dialogues.

I love the Crazy-Kamal combo movies. Man, what puns! Even if the heroine every time is called Janaki/Mythili.

~'I mean what I mean." "But they cannot be so mean!" "Enna ellarum meen meen ngaraa?"
~ 'Bheem boy, bheem boy, andha locker (lOcker, with a Mallu 'O' :D) lendu 6 laksha roobai eduthu indha Avinashi nai mogathula vitteri!
~'Don't put word in my mouthsssssssu'
~'KAILASH..nee en kaila ASH!!!'
~ 'Palanikannu, break pidikkala!' 'Aama onakku ennaye pidikkala, break pidicha enna pidikkalana enna?' (Sathi Leelavathi :D)
~ "Phone la yaaru?" "Friend. Aambala friend. Engine problem. Male engine. Adavadu plane la upper part la irukkara engine." (Amazingly funny movie, even if quite risque!)
~ "Onga ooru?" "Palakkadu pakathula oru kukgramam" "Oh, gramamum 'kuk', neengalum 'cook' :D
~ "Neenga window aanalum naan ongala kalyanam pannikaren" "Window-a?" "Adan, vidavai!"

I watch any movie of late if it has the 'Prakash Raj' tag to it.

I like Rajnikanth movies where he's done a comic/character role. He's actually a good (if underused) ACTOR. Thillu Mullu and Mullum Malarum come to my mind. Pity such a fine actor became a 'Hero'.

If a movie is going to take physically/mentally/emotionally/intellectually challenged people to make a point about the Hero/Heroine's go(o)d-ness factor, I'm sorry boss, that's one thing I can't take :)

I don't read reviews before I watch movies. After all, a review is someone's perception of the movie, I have ended up liking movies which have had lousy reviews. Which is all that matters :D

I prefer movies which have good acting in them than well known / good-looking-by-common-consent actors. 'Jillunu oru kadhal' had Surya and Jo and ARR in it, and almost nothing else. 'Chennai 28' was a better movie, even if I had not seen any of the faces in the movie before.

I hate word-by-word recapitulation of the story some of my pals at college are wont to do after watching a movie...such a post mortem is just not worth the effort. Unless the movie IS crappy in the first place; then you can get to know the reasons for why you need not spend time watching the movie!

Languages no bar; subtitled movies are actually welcome! Perhaps one of the best movies ever made 'La vita e bella', an Italian movie, was something I watched subtitled. Not to mention Satyajit Ray's 'Charulata' and 'Apur Sansar'. Incidentally, I am looking for DVDs of Ray's movies, can anyone help?

There is nothing more irritating than watching a movie at a theatre where a couple of people sitting behind you have already watched the movie, and give a running commentary about what's going to happen next. Libraries are not the only places which should have 'No talking' signs. No comments about the souls who bring their family problems, cigarettes and wailing babies into a dark, closed movie hall.

I get bored of movies very easily. I have walked out of movie halls/ switched off the TV mid-movie quite a few times. You can't exactly walk out of a class even if you know it is not worth a pound of...whatever. But I have exercised my...'free will' with movies loads of times.

Books are books and movies are movies. It's best to keep them disparate entities.Why should every novel that's written be made into a movie anyway?

I enjoy TR movies.

Spare me the sentiment...Amma sentiment, Thali sentiment, Paambu sentiment, all that.

Good cinematography is something I like; Veyil, Ayutha Ezhuthu (Amazing tints; the greens and blues and reds :D), TZP, KM, Swades had it.

Kadaisiya naan patha English padam Sholay. Nope, I'm not that bad :), I catch a movie occasionally on Star Movies or HBO and watch it if I don't get too bored. But there are all these movies that people keep telling me to watch that I never get around to watch.

I can take romance in movies. Even the running-around-the-trees routine, I like watching the trees. But, please, no mush. (I actually liked KKHH when I watched it some 10 or so years back; I think it was only after watching Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna that I realised what a monster we had unleashed in Karan Johar!!!)

Sometimes, life's better than any movie, what say? Even if I am the one that ends up singing...

I tag (Not the price tag!)

Smilie
Ramya
Pushy
Shruti
Priti
Vatsn

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand

Srikar!

Essence o' Randomness! ~ Jaage Hain...

2008-05-07T08:05:00.000+05:30

Random tag I took up, it was fun!

Rules:
1. Put your MP3 player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what. No cheating!

IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY?” YOU SAY?

Into Your Arms - Lemonheads

(It depends on whether it IS ok or not, na?)

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?

'Janani Janani' - Illayaraja's voice :D (Really beautiful song, set to Kalyani. 'Jagath karani nee, Pari poorani nee'...and my personality? Good joke!)

A song that I can identify with..'Kaatrukkenna Veli, kadalukkenna moodi' - Avargal - MSV (I think) I identify with this song more than it being a description of my personality, I guess.

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?

Maramkothiye - ARR.

(Yeah, woodpeckers! Whatever!)

In men/women, it does not matter which, it is always 'Nimirnda nannadai, ner konda paarvai'! Not a song, I know, but I can't think of a song :D

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?

Oru Murai vandhu paarthaya - Manichithirathazhu (Nothing like a demented split personality of a dancer...no!)

Actually more on the lines of 'Ilangathu veesude' - That Vikram-Surya combo movie, forgot its name :| Illayaraja and Shreya Goshal :D

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?

"Sri Ranga Ranga Nadanin padam vandhanam seyyadi' - Mahanadi

:) I wish...

More like 'Ezhu Swarangalukkul ethanai paadal'...'Yen endra kelvi orndu yendraikkum thangum, manidan inbathunbam edilum kelvi daan minjum!"

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?

Azhage Sugama - Srnivas. Another beautiful Sahana.

"Vazhkai oru vattam endran mudinda idathil thodangada?"

Motto? :|

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?

Thanga thamarai magale - Minsara Kanavu

(Now, this is fun, even if it is a lie :D)

Have no idea, actually, and I really am not bothered. They would not stick around if it pains them, would they?

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?

Indha Veenaikku theriyadu idai seidavan yaar endru. One of the most beautiful Sahanas I have heard. The lyrics...no words!

'Sondam bandam renbadu ellam solli therinda murai daane'!

Sheer coincidence!

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?

Kanne kalai maane, Moondram Pirai.

A lot of people I talk to find this movie depressing.It however happens to be one of my favourites. For two reasons, for what it makes me feel, the pathos, the joy. And what it makes me think. Change is the only permanent thing...and we are quite resilient, we get adapted to changes and make the change our routine, but when our boat is rocked, we still try to get the 'Aadu ra raama' mood back.The time is gone, past long morphed into future, but we still linger, not wanting to change. Because if we imitated a monkey even to amuse a mentally challenged girl, even if the girl does not need monkey imitations anymore, even if we don't need to be a monkey, we still *want* to be a monkey. Slaves to routine? Known devils being better than unknown angels? Fear of the unknown? Fear to move on? Apply the monkey concept to the life changing situations that we worry our heads over...academics, career, relationships, shifting bases, whatever...don't we want to keep playing the monkey loads of times? Not that we can do anything about it...actually, it's because it's that we don't WANT to do anything about it! One of the strange beauties of life :)

Right, now you know what I think about often! :P

WHAT IS 2+2?

Kombula Poova suthi...Kamal Hassan in and as Virumandi :D

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?

Vennilave...velli velli nilave...pogum idam ellam kooda kooda vandhai! Awesome! And how true... Not that there are many 'friends', let alone 'best' ones.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?

Breathless, Shankar Mahadevan "...meri saari duniya mein geeton ki barkha hai, khushboo ki aandhi hai..." :D

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?

Tanha Dil, Shaan.

Tanhaayee tho sab ki manzil hai, 'chalna akele hai yahaan!' But being alone is not the same as being lonely, is it?

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?

'Adisaya Ragam' - Yesudas, MSV, Kanandasan, a beautiful Ragamalika of Mahati and a Bhairavi interlude! I don't know if I am 'grown-up' now, but I do know that I am an 'adisaya ragam' :D "Isai enum amudinil aval oru banam, indira logathu chakkaravagam"

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?

'Iru vizhi unadu', Minnale.

I swear, no manipulations here!! :D Though there are no 'Ore nyabagams' :P

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?

Kaiyil Midakkum kanava nee - Shrinivas :D

Heehee...'Nuraiyal seida silai'....'Un palingu mugathai paarthu kondal pasiyum valiyum theriyadu'... Hahahahaaha!!!

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?

Kekalayo kekalayo kannanadu ganam -some movie whose name I can't remeber

A beautiful song actually, but dance? Not really, thanks.

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?

Endaro mahanubhavulu, andhariki vandhanamulu (Maharajapuram Santhanam) :) I hope they really play this at my funeral instead of sitting around crying! (I assume someone will be there crying for their 'loss' :|)

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?

Thirakkada kattukulle pirakkada pillaigal pole...ARR, a very scenic picturization, even if it featured a near-bald paunchy Arvind Swamy.

You must try listening to this track 2000 m above sea level with mountains on one side and Beas gurgling over rocks below as you can see the blue sky in the distance...did that some 9 years back. It was...perfect!!! :D

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?

'Anthaangam Yavume, Solvadendral Pavame' - SPB :D :D :D

(Honest, that was what I got when I clicked next!!!)

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?

Saamikitta solliputten, unna nenjil vechukitten.- Some random movie. Lovely song though.

WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?

Jaage Hain - Guru - ARR

Perfeuto!

The story of the Heart and the Mind

2008-05-03T08:36:00.004+05:30

It was an alliance that raised many eyebrows. 'The Heart? And the Mind? Are you sure this will work?" Every auntie and uncle of their acquaintance made known their bespectacled experience of matches gone seriously wrong for the lack of compatibility.

Nevertheless, the Heart married the Mind.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Mind remembered Heart's only desire. As she had agreed to marry Mind, Heart had said, "Please don't ever let me cry. This is more for your sake than mine. If I cry, you won't be able to stand it, you know!"

Mind knew that there was more truth in the joke than even Heart could possibly mean. After all, he was Mind, the absolute logician. Mind knew what he was (at least he thought he knew what he was), but he did not underestimate Heart.

But can Mind persuade Heart not to cry if she wanted to? Mind, did not know.

Heart knew, in her instinctive way, that she was indispensable for the well being of the Mind. After all, what does one get by peeling layer after layer of the onion, like Mind was wont to do, except stinging tears in one's eyes?

But Mind had been peeling onions all his life. What if the countless peeling exercises had already left Mind blind to what she would try to point out in her world?

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Heart looked up at the crescent moon, half hidden in the shadows of some deep momentary sorrow. White moonbeams danced on her sensitive face and she wished for eternal beauty in her life like the spirit of the moon.

Mind looked at the moon and saw a white orb, a reflector, a rather poor one at that, half hidden in the earth's shadow. Then, he looked at the reflection of that reflector on his Heart's face, and Mind found his Heart in the moon's shadow on her face.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Heart was in a bad mood today.

"Nothing's going right today. Everyone and everything is out to hurt me." she complained.

Mind cupped his chin in his hands and stared silently across the table.

Heart rose her heart-shaped face and there was anguish clearly written in the eyes.

"Let me see...I started early to work today, and today of all the days they had to have a rally. And the worst part was, it was not my fault that I was late! I was out of the house at seven thirty today, you know, you saw me. And my boss, he said I was 'habitually late'. Just because he was off his colour today. Can he take it out on me like that? Do you know how lousy I felt? K from HR was looking on with a smirk! I felt like melting into the walls of the cubicle. Sniff!" Heart brought out a tissue and wiped her nose with it. "This horrible cold. I have been snivelling all day. Technically I should have taken the day off, but I slog for them and sit through a meeting for four hours straight...do you know at what temperature they run their ACs? I felt like I was expatriated to Antarctica. I could almost see the penguins flapping their wings and waddle towards me. I could not even take a bathroom break. When all I wanted to do was get back home, I was caught in a traffic jam...there was an accident on the road. I hope those people are ok, it was terrible. A car and a lorry. I could not stand the wail of the ambulance. I could almost smell the disinfectant and the hospital smells, and you know how much I detest going to the hospital...and my Ipod had to run out of charge today...what? why are you so silent? You won't talk to me either, now?"

"Even if I talk, you won't listen. So I thought it is best if I keep my silence."
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Mind was reading a textbook of mathematics.

Heart asked, "What are fractals?"

Mind explained, precisely.

"But this is music!" exclaimed Heart.

~

Heart was playing her violin.

Mind stood listening.

"Shankarabharanam, Bach, and some devotion." said Heart by way of explanation.

Mind was already lost in the logic of the music.

______________________________________________________________________________________

"For you, logic is music." said Heart once.

Mind thought about it.

"True. And for you music is logic." said Mind.

Heart laughed in knowledge.

Mind laughed in understanding.

____________________________________________________________________________________

"You look at the world with my tints." said Heart with some satisfaction to Mind.

"You feel the world with my interpretation." said Mind to Heart.

"But I can confuse you. Do not deny it. I am the only master you have, Mind."

"Only because I choose to be your slave at times, my dear Heart."

"Do you choose? I enslave you.You cannot stand to see me cry and you give in to my whims."

"I think, when you cry. So that when you are done crying, I can take over."

It was one of their thousand petty quarrels that made Life worth living.

_____________________________________________________________________________________
"You are inconsistent. You are fanciful. You can never know one truth, be one thing. You have no idea what the word 'integrity means." said Heart. "At any rate, I follow what I am, though I be impulsive."

Mind said, "True."

_____________________________________________________________________________________
"What will you do when I die?" this was the Heart.

"I will blissfully follow my Mind! No interference from you, you see! Completely heartless, that's heaven!" said Mind.

Heart said, "No you won't. If I die, you will follow your Heart into the grave."

Both Mind and Heart burst into laughter.

____________________________________________________________________________________
Footnote:

I'm sure all of us have experienced this Heart-Mind divide at some point of time or the other. One person I know calls the 'worst situation in life' as 'When the Mind knows, but the Heart is not willing to listen.' While we can successfully argue that the Heart and Mind are nothing but the emotional and logical parts of the brain respectively and it is impossible to go on without either, what I wanted to portray here was the apparent conflict between the two, and the communion that exists in that conflict. It's the Heart's perspective of the Heart-Mind divide, fueled by the Mind, if you will! ;)

In a nutshell, the needs of the Heart and Mind are as follows:

Heart longs for Beauty.
She pines for what she calls the Spirit of Life.
She looks for the romantic in the mundane, and makes enormously complex webs of connectivities, where none might exist, because that is her idea of perfection.A world of inter-connectedness, a single spirit of existence.

Mind wants Sense. Order. Meaning.
He scrambles everything he sees to make fresh Order out of the Chaos.
He looks for Order even in the most random of things, because randomness implies that there is nothing Mind can really do about it. Whatever 'sense' minds makes out of things, it is still a 'local sense' only, a one time affair. It is like a mathematical formula that can be applied to a specific case only, under the most nit-pickiest conditions. So, it makes the Mind obsolete.

Mind thinks Heart's yearning for Beauty puts his things in a different Order and defeats his purpose.

Heart thinks Mind's cynicism and exactness robs her of what little Beauty she is able to perceive.

The truth, I think, is that both Heart and Mind are after the same thing. What is that 'same thing'? Whatever they want, whatever they choose to call it... Beauty, Order, Sense, whatever. his is because what we perceive as 'beautiful' innately has some coherent order in it. And a system, an order, if it is rational and in sync with our belief system, can never fail to awaken a sense of Beauty in us. And it is only because their fundamental needs are the same, that Heart and Mind are able to co-exist. Rather, Heart and Mind in a human being are two representations, two divergent ways of searching for the same end. Hence, rebelling against the Heart's impulses saying that they are not rational, or keeping the Mind at bay because there is absolutely no way the mind can 'understand emotions' seems to be a fallacy to me. We learn from our emotions. And we learn by thinking them through. We feel our thoughts. A healthy understanding of our emotional nature and a thorough study of the faculty of reasoning can give us a better idea of what we are, I guess.

Truth

2008-04-26T18:53:00.006+05:30

Question: What is this?

Answer 1: A spade. Or more precisely, a picture of one.

Answer 2: It is a collection of molecules, mostly iron and carbon, arranged to give a structure that seems similar, structurally and functionally, to what human beings call 'a spade' in the English language. As seen in the figure, it consists of two parts, a handle made of wood and a shovel made of iron or some compound that is an alloy of iron. The handle without the metal part, or the metal without the iron, designed even slightly differently, cannot by itself be called a 'spade' by accepted definitions and standards. Hence it is the particular structural configuration of the two compounds that come together to perform a particular function of digging, that we call a 'spade'. Because the given structure seems to satisfy the criteria that popular definition of the word 'spade' demands, we can safely call the structure a 'spade' till any evidence to the contrary is unearthed.

Satyameva jayate!

Right to suicide.

2008-04-15T05:18:00.009+05:30

What makes a person want to take his own life? As far as I know, none of us have complete knowledge about what happens to us when we die, if there is an 'us' then. Thinking of dying is effectively a step into the dark, from the safety of the land into the murky ocean. Yet, there are people who think things are so bad that the unknown seems actually better than the known life. They would rather prefer dying and finishing things with a bow, rather than amble on uncertainly.

The element of uncertainty persists like a law of nature. In a way, the charm of life is the constant tussle between what we want to happen to us and what happens to us. My favourite analogy to expain this goes something like this: life is like playing a piano. As we think of a tune and start playing it, there is a person behind us who, maybe just to tease us, keeps hitting random keys on the piano. The music of the moment is lost, but we laugh and try to integrate the anomalous notes into the spirit of the music that we want to play. It can become frustrating after a while, when the notes that we are forced to play to adjust for the 'abaswarams' changes the spirit of the theme that we set out to play. But in the end, all that matters is the music; the glorious music the two of us composed together!

But what happens when I grow so frustrated with the guy behind us trying to mess up my scheme? What if I decide that it's going to be my way or the highway; that you are messing up the tune so badly that I don't care whether I play any longer or not, that I don't want to play a tune that is nothing like what I want it to be, that I cannot think of playing a tune that is not what I envisioned? What if am tired of the whole pointless exercise and bang the piano cover down, turn to you and say 'Ha!' and point to the heavens with one finger?

The music was mine to make. Agreed, this is not a solo, this is an orchestra of tremedous proportions. My playing is closely linked with the performances of a few others; my parents', my siblings', my spouse's, my kids'. But the guy who keeps hitting the random keys knows better than to let the performance starve for the lack of a player. The show goes on, come what may. In the end, no one really cares whether you were around or not, what you played, or how you managed to overcome the guy-behind-you's manipulations. In the end, my playing, or my not playing makes almost zilch difference to anybody, except myself.

Therefore, does it not make sense to let a person take his life if he wants to?

If the music I play is my choice, why can't I choose silence?

Suicide is cowardly. It is morally wrong to deprive sons of fathers, wives of husbands and mothers of daughters, and that too for purely selfish motives. What is so wrong with life that you want to escape from it? Don't we live? As if any of us are in any better position than you are! There are some of us who are without limbs, our senses of sight or hearing or faculty for speech gone and lost. Can't you derive inspiration from these people and keep at life?

The thing with statements of these kind and the sort of thoughts that inspires them is that they fundamentally consider life as a bed of suffering , something that has to be silently borne and endured for whatsoever reason. A sort of negative view of looking...'an ideal life is the lack of suffering'. It is a duty to tussle with the guy behind us and keep at the playing, no matter what. 'Vaazhkai oru porkalam, poraadi vendru jeyikka vendum!' I cannot think of a place more specifically (self-) designed to perpetuate suffering than a 'porkalam', a battlefield.

But what if a person does not hold these views? What if he wants to live, not for battling, but just to lie on his back and watch the stars? And if that kind of a peace is denied to him by the circumstances of life? Why should he suffer if he does not want to? Euthanasia of the self? If I can show my mercy to others, why not start the charity from home?

Well, the sole reason why 'suicide' is looked at with such horror is that it inspires guilt. When a person I know and talk to takes his life, I am racked with guilt, because I keep wondering why he felt so bad about a triviality (other people's reasons for suicide are always a triviality to us!) and why I had not called him up the night before he took the leap; maybe I would have been able to make a difference! It is like watching someone cry their heart out, you know heart of hearts that nothing you say can help him feel better until he makes up his mind to feel better, but you hate to watch him cry, so you say something for the sake of saying something. Because our innate natures rebel against suffering and tears and actually deem them unnatural. It is our fear for our own guilt that makes us frown upon suicide; why should I suffer on the account of your taking your life?

I have personally known three people who took this decision; a close friend in middle school, a classmate in high school, and a junior in college. And all three were 'successful' in their attempts; your interpretation of 'success'. Their reasons seemed trivial to me then, as they do now; the usual ones of being turned down by a girl, being scolded by parents, scoring low marks, being insulted in front of a class by a figure of authority. And the guilt was something I could not help feeling; how much must they have suffered, even on the account of the seemingly 'trivial' reasons, to actually think of and do something like this? You see, the reason holds no significance in the end. Some people can stoically endure a spouse's paralysis, penury, yet bring up six children and die peacefully in their beds. Others experience the same amount of suffering when they miss out on getting a centum in mathematics. But who is to judge these things?

Suicide, selfishness? The heights of it. Indifference? Make that supreme indifference. Lack of concern for the feelings of others? When I am beyond feeling, what do I care whether you can feel or not? It is not that your feeling can make mine better; why do you care? When my music is so sacred to me that I hate whatever is happening to it, why would you care if I stop playing? When I am incapable of loving my life enough to keep it, or rather, capable of loving my life so much that letting it go would be the kindest thing I could do it it given the circumstances, what does it matter to you whether I keep it or not?

On disagreements

2008-04-13T04:13:00.004+05:30

Often, when we disagree on any point with other people, it is not that we cannot come to a compromise that is best for both parties concerned. More often than not, we refuse to compromise, or even put it out on the table to talk it over. We like to cling on to our point of view with tenacity, and this we do by turning a completely deaf ear to what the other person might have to say.

I am a firm believer in the fact that anything can be talked over, that suffering on the account of forced silence over an issue is not only unnecessary, but foolish. Yet, that is what we do at times, make that a lot of the times. When there is an issue at hand, we keep a silent face of grimness over it and sulk, not wanting to go any further till the 'other person' approaches.

Why is this so? I think it is because anger, or the feeling of being wronged, whether justified or not, gives us a feeling of supreme righteousness. Strange as it may sound, we derive a peculiar pleasure out of misfortune and being the victim. It gives our fragile egos a boost to believe that 'we' are right and 'they' are wrong, yet we 'suffer in silence'.(In case of mothers or mothers-in-law, complete silence is impossible; pots and pans banging in the kitchen accompanied by a string of muttering under their breath is their approximation of silence!) Suffering, by default, gives us an air of injury, the 'right' being 'wronged'. The compromise, or talking about the issue, would dissolve that nebulous web of self-righteousness.

It seems all of us like to don the suit of Lord Ram, who was unjustly banished from his own land, yet kept up the percepts of 'dharma' till the end. It seems that even with the gods, we cannot analyze and understand the spirit, but only blindly copy the outward appearances!