For the Sweetest Song Ever!

O! Sweet song,
This moment,
Ask me who I want to love.
I would look at you,
Unhesitatingly!

You sound to me like
the sweet voice of my lover,
ringing constantly into my ears,
ever so mellifluously.
Look at the irony:
I've begun to listen to you dutifully,
though you sing in a language
that's a little strange to me.

And as I take you in slowly,
you dribble me in a shower,
raining not of water, but honey
I declare, I'll never be sane again.

When I make sense of you,
my love sees no bound
I'm in a constant state of ecstasy
I dance and float around, like
I've never been on ground. By now,
you've held me in your sway
And, I realize to my dismay
my senses have gone astray

O! sweet song,
This moment,
Ask me who I want to be.
I would point to you,

Unflinchingly!


~ Nov 05, 2020

Today's Moon Story

No blinding lights to pain my eyes
No buzzing mosquitoes to hug my elbows
A pair of white birds doing a ballet
on a night sky flooded with mindless clouds

Appreciating the perfect-half milk-moon
I listen to a playlist that makes me sway
and throw my arms up in the air, unawares.
With a spirited feeling song after song,
I levitate and feel like I've reached the skies.

Now, my fickle mind dances to its tune.
It looks hard at the moon,
and at the impulsive heart,
concluding that the eye calls it perfect
only when it sees more.

Quickly, the mind's resident debater retorts:
No way! It's the seventh day.
It is as perfect as the slashed half of
a swiftly darting ball approaching the sword
in the grips of a doubted warrior.

By now, the moon sinks low.
It let the wicked clouds engulf it.
Perhaps, it heard my fickle-minded words?

A disheartened me looks again longingly...
Soon, the clouds shrink and become
the moon's brilliant soft halo,
and revealing a perfect half
of shimmering gold.


~ Oct 23, 2020

Artist's Hope

I write, time and again,
about the sun,
and the moon and rain
like the incessant waves
caressing the sands
of the familiar shore
I write in the hope
that I can go on

But I still hesitate
to give it all, and
to take
that leap of faith,
the artist's hope,
of making a life
by creating art.


~ Oct 23, 2020

Breakdown Moon

The last few days, I've been
at the brink
of a breakdown.

Every night, I catch just a glimpse
of you from my terrace.
I shy away from you...
you, the red moon,
you, the fury face of night earth.

You try to goad me steadfast
out of this cruel mental slumber.
I can't help ponder, why, everyday,
I evade you, like
a desire I ought to have forbade.

All I seem to wish for, is
to forget to remember.
I stay glued to my inertia,
and grow the indifference,
like it's some indulgence.

The day I forsake
and shook me awake, I come
to see you a little longer.
I search you in the clouds yonder,
to tell you that I owe it you. Alas,
your fury face is not seen.

I persist and pace the night terrace
and feel each of the thirsty red roof tile
that I drenched hours ago,
waiting to sing an ode a mile.
I wonder, about how quickly, you dilute,
from fervent red to a radiant white.

But, today, your fury face is not seen yet.
Tell me, the shining,
when will I see you again?

~ Oct 08, 2020

I Witness

Our mind is an invisible organ that accounted for the sixth sense. It functions by taking inputs from the other five visible organs, that perceive and learn the world around it. And, we are complete, learned beings, if we witness the world with these six.

And, as I recollected the words of a scholar, I saw a shadow play today.

On a blanched sheet, there were images
of the crumbled, tanned tea leaves
brewing in a hot pot, and
letting the sweet aroma out.

These churning of wild thoughts
of the belligerent protagonist,
was as distasteful
as the bratty bile in the stomach.

It instigated the cool and the calm
to turn rogue and act rude
to those resting nonchalantly.

Out of the blue, amidst the rumbling,
emerged the roars of a hundred
angered ferocious lions.

And there were merciless episodes
of flashes that won't hesitate
to leave the eyes blind.

What started in one corner, spread
like thick butter smeared on bread.
In quick succession, dread tore down
the resolve of the disciplined, and 

instigated them to turn the scene 

into a messy riot.

Well, now I see it clearly.

Pregnant clouds have sprawled all over.
And just then, it broke it's waters, and
showered us down its beautiful babies.

They were welcomed into the world,
amid all the prevailing chaos, with
such a spectacle and drum rolls.

Thanks to the thundershowers,
for such mindful revelations!


~ Jul 15, 2020

Love and Separation

Love and death are two topics that I have lived with most, more by imagining than by experiencing it. I replay or think about it either intensely or immensely. Yeah, I agree that the usual combination is birth and death. But I would prefer to couple love and death, rather than birth and death. Though birth and death are consequential, in a way, love supersedes birth. As in, the event of birth is replaced by an emotion called love; and death by separation. 

Death, as an event, wields more power than birth when you weigh the consequences. You can prepare for an event called birth, but you are never prepared enough for death. However prepared you are and wait for it to happen, it always comes as suddenly, and leaves the shock of a slap on your face.

Love lies in a metaphysical plane, and can transcend time and place. Words of love can feel as real as the feeling of touch. And so can death be. You can very much love a person separated by years and thousands of miles. 

And with death, you can very much imagine and feel death and it's consequences, right from the time when just the thought about separation is implanted or etched in your mind. I mean, someone can live with you everyday, and yet, be gone and make you unsure of their existence.

~ Jul 06, 2020

The Illusionist

The sky's an orangish-red
Birds fly in time-lapse
Clouds float in slo-mo.
A stone's throw away, I see
silhouettes of tree-tops
fluttering in glee.

I ask, 'what about you', and
you persist me to tell...
'Imperceptible', I say and settle.

In actual, 'inaction' is what it is.

You make everyone move, yet,
you make everyone think
you are the one movin'
at every blink!

That's by far,
the greatest illusion ever crafted.

And, to say, you are the one
who rises in the east
is certainly, the biggest farce
in the entire universe.


~ Sep 20, 2020

Panacea for Oblivion

I am in oblivion, and
almost in a state of delirium
letting a world of suffering
be poured on to me

Now, there are two paths:
To go down the spiral
or to shake it off.

Though I have seen enough,
and know the cause and effect,
the pessimist streak in me
is urging to take the
path of self-destruction.

By now, I was ambling in the dark,
deciding which road to take,
whether to grow the flame, or
to let go of the hurt and blame

Enter the piano man!
Think it's going to change
the course of my fate...?

He was playing Beethoven's
Moonlight Sonata, followed by
Pachelbel's Canon In D Major,
and over to Grieg
with his Morning Mood
and the beatific Anitra's Dance.

Just when I was settling in
came Schubert and Chopin
chirping the Swan Song
and Nocturn No. 2, and
I was surprised to change:
the pallor went to blush from pale
Just listen to Bizet and Bach 

play their Carmen and Badinerie!

By the time Mozart played
his Turkish March and
Piano Sonata No. 16,
I went home brainwashed
and feeling sanctified. Ironically,
Beethoven's closing piece,
Pathetique, wasn't so bad!

Rightly so, it was called: piano forte!


~ June 30, 2020

Your Voice

Pleasant as a chime
without fail every time
Clear as mountain stream
Real as a lucid dream
Crystalline as the evening sun
Calming as the gentle breeze
Divine as camphor
Sweet as honey

~ Oct 08, 2020

The Teacher

All through in our life
we have sides--of our own self
and see those of others

We take sides,
and want people on our sides.
We decide to stick with people
who happen to us by chance, and
when we were too naïve to decide
someone decides for us instead.

Strangely, these decisions make us...
like favours being returned

There are relationships in our life
that effortlessly define itself a path
and flow like a river.
And, there are the ones you pursue.

All said, the love in us, eventually,
leads us through our life.

Thank you, teacher!

For seeing the shades in the faces,

For having made those decisions,

For being too sweet and sticky,

For mending the cracks and filling the crevices

of all those troublesome years,

And to have tended to my growing pains,

For your wide-open arms,

For flowing into my life,

For having spent time on my side,

And,

For all the cheer and love you still give!


~ Oct 22, 2020

Patterns

Invisible by the day
Revealed by the night
Insider being the light

Some lay afar numb and still
And some tell stories that
don't I dare say!
Some sing songs
and some spurt secrets

Some are cross, and
some are curvy
Some look gothic
with its curls

Some have blinds
and some have frills
Some are clothed bare
and swing and dance lively
to the mood of the wind

Though cold and cross,
you guard and breathe,
But it's funny how folks
conceal you and get choked
with no clean air to spare,
only to say they do
for the fear of night...

Anyways, thanks all
for the pretty sight.


~ June 28, 2020

A Mood for the Song

This one was a strange experience for me. Given the strangeness of every aspect of my state of being these days, I am both surprised as well as not too surprised. Surprised, at the range of emotions this one has brought in me, when the mood for this is song is very binary. There are no two ways about the mood for this song: it is devotion, surrender, hope, sadness, and a kind of prayer. And I am not too surprised that these kinds of things are happening to me because I have become so vulnerable; I guess everyone has been conditioned so, with the experience we are going through now.

Anyways, it is 'Sun raha hai na tu' sung by Shreya Ghoshal.

The most likely event of occurrence arising out of listening to it in loop whenever circumstances permitted me to, would be to be engulfed in the mood of the song. Despite knowing the consequences, I went about listening to it like a desolated lover in search of her lost love. And this went on for a number of days. For quite a while, I was obsessed, beyond reason, by the voice, that apart from a few other obviously apparent highlights of the song, I could not realize and appreciate the finer aspects of the song, which I would usually be able to do for other songs that are ingrained in my life. So much that I have slept off listening to it, and have awakened realizing some silence, because it faded off when it was finishing and getting ready to play the next time in loop.

And then, when the space and time came about for me to write about it, like some spirit's handiwork, it all disappeared. I sit to write and the feeling that swept me off my feet is no longer hitting me. It wasn't like I felt indifferent to it or something, but that longing feeling was no longer there. It was like I followed it like a religion, and now, I suddenly became an atheist. The strangeness and weirdness is because an atheist usually has a reason or at least an indifference when he turns away from his beliefs. A religious fanatic turned into an atheist. Just like that.

Yet, I am still in love and completely awestruck by the voice and the emotion that it evokes. It was like I was possessed and now liberated. Like a constricted pipe that was released. Not that I was suffering earlier and now relieved... But, somehow, it felt strange to have gone through this thing, and now to have a feeling that the entire experience felt meaningless. Was I supposed to infer anything out of it? I do not know. But then, it was some un-named kind of feeling.

Now, I can listen to the song with a familiarity of having known someone long enough, without having the urge, impulse, and eagerness of wanting to know more. No longing, no desperation. Just bliss. A feeling of satiety, and no hunger.

I am holding the song like an unworried child

perched on its mother's hips

clutching her robe for its comfort

Like a playful lover gripping the wrist

of his departing lover

For its part, the song too reciprocates

like there is assurance for the barren

The grip is effortless, and

there’s no desperation to hold her back

Neither is there a display of resistance

There's no questioning on the intent

and there's no illegitimacy in the act

There is neither contempt nor weariness

of having known it well enough

Limitless

Musician with seven notes

Painter with three colours

Wordsmith with twenty six letters

Sprinter with two legs

Migratory bird with a pair of wings

Atom with its three parts

Watchmaker with three pointers

Wanderlust with four directions

Dressmaker with a needle

Locksmith with a hole and a key

And, thief with none

Swearer with just one tongue

~June 26, 2020

Words

Sometimes like paste 

smoothing out of a tube

At times like a baby 

labouring out of womb

~ June 19, 2020

Glowing Faces, Pissing Pots

Glowing faces, holding devices

walking boundaries, slowing pace

unnerving statistics, changing dynamics

revealing rumours, feeling faint 

merrymaking brats, chiding parents

Cut to scene ii:

Pissing pots, germinating glory

calming plants, clinging stalks

helping tendrils, soaring alacrity

saving seeds, growing greed

experimenting life, exchanging notes 

passing clouds, raining sometimes

surprising turns of events

blooming hearts, feeling great

sowing hope, reaping success

learning lessons

rooting back to basics

being down to earth

~ June 18, 2020

Wet

We get beaten up

until we come clean

We are tumbled around

until we kick out the dirt

That's the rule all around,

no point negotiating...

But then,

it's worth even if we are hurt

because when we get wet,

hung and hooked, and

lie high on tight ropes,

all day long, we get to flirt

and flutter with our folks,

and it's still OK to be

downed and left low and dry

because everyone's on 

a cycle of low and high.

We are the clothes 

hanging high 

on the clothesline 

and hooked

by the clothes peg.

~ June 16, 2020

Mind's Eye

A moment came when,

on a moonless night, with

a bunch of ambling clouds

patching the dark blue sky,

I could have aimlessly 

peered through the vast

expanse of the darkness 

so deathlike, dull and dry,

but looked skyward to spot 

a twinkle or two, and

some anonymous birds

darting with a sideward gait,

and just then, 

just over my head

on a patch of clear 

deep blue canvas,

I glimpse a fleet of 

white ethereal beings

fly past with such grace.

I cannot help but ponder...

For once, 

I do not have to bother 

to look at a wonder

the second time

through my camera's eyes

because this moment 

hidden afar in darkness

cannot be frozen with 

such detail, depth, and clarity

by anything but 

my mind's eye.

~June 13, 2020

Flavours

Cows are lazing around, and leaves are shining brightly, under the street light's glow. They are swinging merrily by the branches' arms like there's no tomorrow. There's orange, vannila, mango, ready for a perfect tango. And, there's berry flavour too... Strawberry and black currant. All seen from a distant, these are flavours of pastel colours peeping out of the windows. Out of greed, I decide to buy one of each. My eyes devour some instantly, and freeze the rest as words. Time passes by, and words become verses. The night deepens, and houses' night lights begin to shut. One by one, the flavours disappear, as a reminder for my slumber. ~ June 09, 2020

Words by the Window

On an uneventful Saturday evening, I was about to start on another planned session of reading. This time, it was the book Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. For me, the books Unbroken and The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks (by Rebecca Skloot) share the similarity as that of Andre Agassi's autobiography Open (actually by J. R. Moehringer) and All the Light we Cannot See (by  Anthony Doerr). Like how I saw J. R. Moehringer's praise for Anthony Doerr, I was surprised to see Rebecca Skloot's praise for Laura Hillenbrand. Certainly, a coincidence wrt Coincidence!

A few lines into the first few pages of Unbroken, and a commotion breaks out, which makes me look out of my window. Outside my window is my house's backyard, if there's one at all. Well, that is the park's small stretch of barren land, sparsely dotted with malfunctioning children's playing equipment. The same park that was swarming with humankind of all age groups is now a deserted parcel of land, devoid of all the trampling (my heartfelt thanks to corona!). For the same reason, apart from hearing the cawing of crows, I can hear the continuous short squeaks of the shy squirrels, the longish flute-like cooing of the cautious cuckoos and mynahs, shrieking parrots, and the other sweet voices of unseen and unheard of birds and animals. Listening to them gives the thrill of sitting in a silent cinema hall, witnessing the demoing of the state-of-the-art sound effects. Or rather, I must say it gives me a kind of a blissful feeling. 

Beyond this land stretch is a huge expanse of school campus that houses a lot of trees and spaced-apart classrooms. A few decades ago, there were apparently a lot of mango trees, and so the school was pseudonymously called as maanthoappu school. This huge expanse served home for these numerous birds and animals. With the current undisturbed and silenced set up, the fauna seems to be feeling like home and living in their natural state of habitat. That would explain the variety of blissful voices... birds and animals talking and singing freely in all its glory.

Amidst this, when I hear the cacophony of alarming cawing, I cannot help wonder if something is amiss even though it is beyond my capacity to reason or help. I see a congregation of crows flying in and out of a particular spot in a tree. These crows looked like they were conniving and waiting to find that five-second window where someone guarding a place nodded off, and they all convened at this particular branch in quick succession one after another to see this secret code being shared. And their entire mission depended on knowing this code. They flew in, accomplished their mission, and quickly departed. Though they all were cawing together at the same time, there was hardly any cohesion. There was no harmony, but only pandemonium and discordance.

A Late Evening Walk

Moonlight caressing my head

Music filling my ears

Lightness levitating my heart

Clarity infusing my thoughts

Positivity shining in my soul

Ecstasy soaking my spirit

Burdens evaporating like ether

Confusions shattering like a mirror

Ideas shaping like pearls of mercury

Having tamed my troublesome today

I am awaiting my bedtime like a baby

To slay tomorrow's slothfulness

~ Jun 03, 2020

Red Silt

The next morning,

We see Red Silt...

On the road and roof tops, 

flat as well as slopes

of the poor and the riches.

In all the cracks and crevices.

On the drying clothes,

and the helping handrails.

On all of the resting vehicles.

Beneath our feet and

as part of our breath.

As part of our emotions...

Of expressive neighbours, 

few full of curses, and

a few of logic aplenty. 

Of unexpressive silence, telling 

of neither apathy nor empathy.

And some visible silence, 

either out of helplessness 

or of forgiveness.

The house that stood so tall

has now scattered itself

as dust, silt, and other forms,

after trying its best 

to resist two days of 

purposeful bulldozing.

~ June 04, 2020

Heil, lockdown!

Stiff ankles, locked knees, 

gloomy outlook, glum mood,

longing hours, counting days, 

unmet plans, forgotten places, 

rope walk, invisible tether, 

fake enthusiasm, irrational fear,

chained spirit, conditioned mind, 

spaced queues, rationed supplies, 

bare minimum, handful children,

shrinking world, houseful terrace,

hopeless nights, bleakly days, 

ruthless sun, prickly heat,

dry mouth, wry smile,

blanched face, fleshy neck, 

wrinkled skin, unkempt look,

unspent fun, nowhere to run.

blinking cursor, blank space, 

withering words, cautionary tale.

dark mode, need a jailbreak. 

down the lockdown!

dot.

~ May 27, 2020

.

Fan in Four

Of the things that I hate the most 

tell me about 

the whirling fan in four... 

of the monstrous whooshing noise, 

and of its mechanised gusty air.

But then, when there are 

these weightless bloodsuckers 

hanging around 

like they are on a vacation 

with free food 

on the mercy of your tired legs

while you are working like a maniac...

Just imagine what comfort it is

on a sultry night, after a long day 

to just hang up your feet 

at the edge of your working table

letting them nod to the music, that 

the snug-fit earplugs deliver to your ears,

and with a good book in your hand... 

Now, you savour the satanic pleasure, of 

seeing the parasites suffer from starvation 

from the corner of your eyes...!

High-five to...

The fan, in speed four!

Sunshine of my life

It has not even been nine hours

since the time it rained, and

just about twenty hours

since I last saw you.

And yeah, I agree...

there was the night in between.

Though you have been scorching,

and there's much more to see,

I already am missing you.

You know, I am that desperate lover

losing sight of his new-found love.

I rejoice and am filled with

a pleasant feeling of fullness,

in seeing just a glint of you...

The faintly shine of a famished sun.

Like that sweet, divine moment,

when the love of my life

returns to my arms

after a brief desolation.

My New Super Power

It is almost 3 am.

I count 3578, 3579, 3580... inside my head.

I have already come two full circles.

From being supine, to my left, 

to my right, and am now on my back.

Rewind to 1 am. 

I start on an hour-long self-inquisition, 

and write down my to-do list.

Satiated, I hit the bed.

Innumerous ideas and action items

related to unconnected threads

continue to pour in.

After a few minutes of restlessness

I remember the sleeplessness tip:

count one to hundred

and you would be asleep by 99.

Seriously! Whatever...

Anyways, here's how I discovered 

my new super power:

As I start to exercise and 

count my reps, 

I get drifted away and 

begin to reflect very lucidly 

about all the strangeness of life.

And yet, surprisingly I realise 

when it's time to change the rep...

Like there's some timer 

running inside my head.

Untitled

I imagine the letters d-e-a- being written in slo-mo and in a calligraphic way. Hoping that the next letter would be ‘r’, I wait. But no… it turns out to be ‘t’ and finally halts at ‘h’.

Death… here and there, now and then. Can we certainly say where, how, and when? Or, in some cases why…!

I imagine, or rather, there are certain events that happen which lead me to or indicate the inevitable and impending death of a dear one. I sit and wait for the day to come, and then, I wait long enough only to forget it amidst the other unemotional worries of everyday life. And then again, there’s another one such event. Nothing happens. My hopes, or, should I say, hopelessness, shatter.

How is one supposed to live in a continuous ‘let-go’ mode when it is not past tense yet. The problem is that it is present continuous tense. Or a future tense, but without the mention of the prefix ‘near’ or ‘distant’. You know it is going to happen for sure, but you are just not sure when. Of course, we all know that there is no point wondering about when something bad is going to happen, or how, and all the other gory details.

It may be very practical for a surgeon to talk about the patients’ death or life that depends on the surgery they perform. However, ask the practical doctor to talk about the dear one’s death, even if they know it is just a few years away. No way…! If we look at death objectively, yes, it is the presence or absence of a life. But we are not designed to look at it that way.

We don’t worry about death everyday, even when we all know that everyone’s going to die one day. And it is not that we love our kin and kith always hoping every minute that they will not die. I mean, you don’t consciously have that thought about life or death, right?

So, how easy is it going to be if you are kept reminded about it on a periodic basis?

It is torture.

Well, these gloomy thoughts are not entirely about my dad, aged 74, who is determined, or has determined that he will die at 75. But partly yes. In fact, he and I discuss about death… no, it is not a discussion per se; it comes and goes as a passing comment in some random conversations. You know, a kind of mockery about the probability of his deterministic statements becoming true. It does not ache, even a bit, when we do so. But honestly, it aches when there are indications of the event happening soon.

I believed that I was far better than the surgeon who would not mention death even as a passing comment or as a matter of death, or better than the folks who have not realized that, in a few years, the eldest ones are not going to be around. But then, I realize that it does not help in any way or prepare you to face it bravely… Even if you are or not practical about it, it is still going to hurt the same way.

This writing may look a lot like an expression of the fear-of-death concept—thanatophobia.

But no... Just that it is a little intriguing how we all love and live happily when we know that people are going to die. So, it just turns out to be that you can be so, as long as you are certain or forgetfully uncertain about death. There is an area where you are neither here nor there about when and how it is going to happen.

Well, that’s the danger zone that we need to be aware of... that zone of hopelessness.

A note about notes

I think I sold Rahman a little short in "Of Opera, Train Tracks, Rhapsody, and A Gentleman in Moscow" when I briefly touched upon his usage of Carnatic notes in his compositions. It brings such a ravishing feel to the songs, no denial about it. And yeah, the mention of Carnatic notes in a song tends one to slow down the conversation, sink into the current state of being with eyes closed, with swaying of heads and the four of your fingers count and group portions of the song by repeatedly contacting the thumb. But no, we are not anywhere closer to this state of being in most of the songs where Rahman uses the Carnatic notes. There is a lot of tempo that the notes bring to the songs.

I had mentioned about Yaakkai Thiri from Ayudha Ezhuthu, Mangta Hai Kya from Rangeela, Dil Se Re in Dil Se, Kannalane from Bombay, and Thee Thee from Thiruda Thiruda. Perhaps, it was a thoughtless list. So, here is some thought to it.

Like the 'seeing red cars' phenomenon, I could not help but pay attention to the ones that had Carnatic notes. Of songs in that category, I must not miss the titular song in Bombay Dreams (yr 2002). While the female chorus does have some notes, it is not until Rahman pitches in with his strained tone that the song picks a considerable pace, especially in the last minute. 

Well, the album was a bit of a let down for me, primarily because part of the album is a medley of songs from movies such as Taal, Mudhalvan, Dil Se, and Minsara Kanavu... the ones that came out in the last three years of the 90s. Be that as it may, a few of the original pieces do exhibit Rahman's genius. Take the How Many Stars song; it has such a beautiful stature, in both words and composition. Or, Salaam Bombay or The Journey Home for that matter. Through the Ganesh song, one cannot stop and wonder about the fact that the Ganesh Chathurthi festival in Bombay is nothing short of a celebration. And the second song in the Bombay Dreams album to exhibit the magic of notes is Wedding Qawwali. 

One more with notes is the Kariye Na song in Taal. It is a folk-themed song with more emphasis to the verses. And in his own style, Rahman would play down everything and keep it to a bare minimum. Add to it, the Noor-Un-Ala-Noor song from Meenaxi. While Taal was overrated and lived to its expectations, Meenaxi's songs are those that exhibit Rahman's passion and repertoire. Thankfully, I have listened to Meenaxi's songs over a thousand times in these 15 years and not seen the videos until today; even Mangta Hai Kya's video for that matter. Certain things (do not) happen for a reason! 

A few other notable songs with Carnatic notes are Luka Chuppi from Rang De Basanti and Tere Bina from Guru. 

Anyways, now to the closing notes: though my desperation to reach out to Rahman's new songs and familiarize them has died out, I still cannot stop being amazed by the fact that, by hook or crook, the songs end up reaching my ears.

Of Opera, Train Tracks, Rhapsody, and A Gentleman in Moscow

With Amor Towles' Sasha aka Alexander's intriguing narration of Sofia's presence filling every inch of his lonely but made-to-be-lively life, can I ever imagine being distracted by anything at all in this world! No... absolutely not. But then, I am human; more importantly, a music-loving rahmaniac. So, you must have guessed what happened. In fact, I started reading "A Gentleman in Moscow" sometime in mid-December. Though it took quite some time to get used to Moscow's terrain and the Count's whereabouts in Hotel Metropol, it took a really good pace until mid-Jan, then I lost my rhythm midway of the book, and while attempting to pick up the book, I must have re-read the same chapter at least ten times, and then, finally one day in April, I surpassed the oft-treaded road (chapter named Absinthe), and finally moved on to Addendum and managed to hop from 1930 to 1938! Can you imagine, in about all of the 40 chapters of the book, all chapter names start with the letter A (the only exceptions being the chapters named 1930 and 1946)?

So, if I have been at it, failed so many times, and have managed to carry on, then imagine the persistence I must have had when I set forth myself to read, and especially with Amor's writing being just so stellar in the Adjustments chapter...!

Anyways, coming to the topic of distraction and that led to my subsequent suffering from migraine for the next 3 days... I left you hanging at guessing what happened, right? You may have guessed it right. But I am not going to let you walk away with it that easily. Yes, it is some song, but you must also guess which one of Rahman's distracted me from my sage-like stance and set me into an unimaginable state of trance. So much to talk about... and I am not sure where to start.

Let me start with Rahman's love for the sound of the trains on the tracks. How many of them! Mangta hai kya from Rangeela, Chaiyya Chaiyya from Dil se, Chikkubukku chikkubukku railae from Gentleman, O Saya from Slumdog Millionaire, Mental Manadhil from OK Kanmani. Of these, let me talk about an under-rated but one of my top favourites--that is still, even after 25 years of its existence. Yes... the Rangeela one--Mangta hai kya. What more can I talk, and how else can I describe, more than what the title has already said! This is Rahman's first song that he sang in Hindi, and so, it still is a little rustic and inexperienced. And, even though the song credits read Rahman and Shweta Shetty, I am sure that it is Unnikrishnan who sang the Carnatic bit in the end. And that again is one of Rahman's trademarks - the usage of Carnatic notes in songs. Dil se re in Dil Se, Yaakkai thiri from Ayudha Ezhuthu, Mangta hai kya from Rangeela, Kannalane from Bombay, Thee thee from Thiruda Thiruda. Now, I have traversed so much.

So, let me go back to the Gentleman. In fact, I was wondering a few days ago on how relevant is the theme or setting of the book to our current times. The indefinite house arrest of the Count and our similar plight these days, only hoping that the prevalent virus does not keep our company. Yeah! the one named 'Corona'. Of course, Count Rostov's pursuit is so much longer than ours. A long elaborate post just on the invasion of Corona into our lives much later.

For now, more than me talking anymore about Amor Towles's amazing book, a few lines in his own words that can vouch for his work.

The twice-tolling clock: A student of both the Stoics and Montaigne, the Count's father believed that our Creator had set aside the morning hours for industry. That is, if a man woke no later than six, engaged in a light repast and then applied himself without interruption, by the hour of noon he should have accomplished a full day's labor.

The Juggler: With the fruit in his hands, he stood perfectly erect. Or rather, he stood at a slight tilt induced by the wine, a sort of 12:02. ... For Andrey's hand had been crafted by God to juggle. So deft was his touch that the oranges moved of their own accord. Or better yet, they moved like planets governed by a force of gravity that simultaneously propelled them forward and kept from flinging off into space, while Andrey, who was standing before these orbits and releasing them a moment later to pursue their natural course. ... And when he set the four knives in motion, Emile leaned back in his chair and with a tear in his eyes, watched as his trusted blade tumbled effortlessly through space, feeling that this moment, this hour, this universe could not be improved upon.

Sofia: Retreating to the safety of his washroom, the Count took off his shirt, bathed his upper body, lathered his cheeks, all the while muttering the principle riddle of the day: “She is no more than thirty pounds; no more than three feet tall; her entire bag of belongings could fit in a single drawer; she rarely speaks unless spoken to; and her heart beats no louder than a bird’s. So how is it possible that she takes up so much space?”

Over the years, the Count had come to think of his rooms as rather ample. In the morning, they easily accommodated twenty squats and twenty stretches, a leisurely breakfast, and the reading of a novel in a tilted chair. In the evenings after work, they fostered flights of fancy, memories of travel, meditations on history all crowned by a good night’s sleep. Yet somehow, this little visitor with her kit bag and her rag doll had altered every dimension of the room. She had simultaneously brought the ceiling downward, the floor upward, and the walls inward, such that anywhere he hoped to move she was already there. Having roused himself from a fitful night on the floor, when the Count was ready for his morning calisthenics, she was standing in the calisthenics spot. At breakfast, she ate more than her fair share of strawberries; then when he was about to dip his second biscuit in his second cup of coffee, she was staring at it with such longing that he had no choice but to ask if she wanted it. And when, at last, he was ready to lean back in his chair with his book, she was already sitting in it, staring up at him expectantly.

Gratification

You are looking around
to find your way back
And only later realise
that it's the same street
you drove past a while ago...
'cos you're on the other side.

How about the feeling
of being greeted by an analogy
just when you are waking up?

How about the feeling
of longing to put your legs up
after a hard day's work,
And your thoughts light up
just when you've lain yourself?

Delayed gratification!
Or, is it instant,
because you get back up
And finish working on it?

Oh! You must be wondering
about the analogy...

Try running your finger tips
over a blade of bamboo...
From the hilt,
through the forte
to the foible and back.

Worth the wait?

My Trees

There are trees in my head
some stumped, some blooming
And some far away
and long forgotten
by distance and time.

Of the stumped ones, some are
oozing blood and suffering
Some stoic with closure,
and some stumped ones
still showing signs of life
with trifoliate, one or two.

Of the blooming trees,
some are verdant
with joy and no misgivings.
Some with varied hues, of
pink, green, yellow, and brown
telling of moments of
being born, fully matured,
and some
wishing and withering away.

I like my trees however they are,
and am thankful
for reminding me to practice
acceptance for who they are.

~dated: Feb 03, 2020

Abuse

I am pushed to a corner
I crash and crumble.
I clamber, and
pick and own myself yet again
I charge myself and grow
an appetite for destruction
I contemplate and finally settle
for Departure
as a means to avenge
the attempts to inflict harm
on my esteem and stature.

But no...
I decide to deviate.

I take stock
and check on my composure.

I sit with my grief, and
pore over a complicated pattern
to color its sting on paper.
A few hours pass through,
but there's nothing but failure.

I drench myself
with music on loop
Thinking that its cheer
would reverse my gloom, and
I only end up discoloring it.

In vain, I try all means to
squelch the burning rage
and simmer it down...
Until it translates itself
into these words.

Underground

When the numbers sprouted,
did you all not try to convene
and talk about a revolt
against this insanity and greed?

Or, was it that
you happened to feel
the need to love your captor?

I know...
You squirmed and dodged
when they were boring you.
But then, they had the final say.
After it was all done,
they were trying to drain you
at a really rapid pace.
Now, that you were never used to...

You were even fine to serve them
as long as they went slow on you.

But then,
those inhuman things!

...

Your thoughts, dear water?
The one whose seeds are above
And roots below!

The RainTree

What can those tiny drops 
do to you, you wonder...
Those that lived on the edge
and remained on the brink, of the 
myriad leaves of a raintree?

After the scheming invisible rain 
added enough dope
to the ready-to-shoot drops,
One by one, 
they darted towards me... 
The me, lying supine 
under the gigantic raintree.

Imagine those sparkly silver bullets,
Falling with force, and
Growing in size as they dropped!
The ominous steel-grey blobs, 
I thought, 
were going to pierce through me.

But then, here's all they did...

In succession, 
they splashed on my face, and
on the pathway's icy railings.

They caught me unawares, and
Shattered my resolve to dodge, 
Sprinkling euphoria on me.

Rain, Road, Adversity, and Life

When it rains, 
you lucidly see the scratches 
and pits, on even the most-familiar 
and oft-taken roads.

The adversities in your life
expose your weaknesses to you, 
making you realize how equipped, and 
prepared you are.

Now, it is up to us, whether to
see the weaknesses as a threat
or as opportunities in disguise.

It is up to us, on how 
we plan to maneuver our pitfalls;
whether we mend our path, or
complain of our shortcomings.

Translation of Nanbane from Mankatha

Melancholy of Voices

Woman:
Why, my dear friend,
did you have to fool around,
and pretend to be so hapless?
Now, you've proven to me that
you are the greatest histrion,
the one that the world has ever seen.

A woman never falls in love
after testing the waters,
of a man's goodness and evil.
Oh well, what is the point,
of realizing, a tad late
that it isn't the Ganges but a mirage?

Man:
Love is a dream castle
Learn about it, my lady love...
I search for true love
in the realms of love; but,
never have I ever seen one, my love.

Woman:
I fell for you, on the twist
of my bangled arm...
And I yearned to cling to you
and travel around...
I scripted an epical love tale
and etched it in my soul.

Alas, only to realize so late that
the epic was flawed from A to Z.
And tears flowed down my eye's path.
I owe all of it on you.
Is this all that you have for a reason?
Why should all the hurt belong to me?
Indeed, you tore apart
an endearing love-scape...

If the Tamil lord has six faces,
the man has a hundred,
each showing a different colour.
Why, my dear friend,
did you have to fool around?

Man:
Will love win or will it fail?
No one ever knows its fate,
my lady love.
Are you sad that the love-scape is torn?
Why do you worry, 'cos even this will pass.

Woman:
I recollect that you bosomed me.
But, little did I realize that
you were just trying to shun away
the light of my love-sunk soul.

The tree becomes a withered log
when the wind slays it down.
Would you even realize...?
That you threw thunder on my heart
and pained my fragile being.

To My dear ladies of the world...
listen to my golden words!
Love is a dream castle
and all of it is an illusion
and full of hallucinations.
All is well only when
you live with caution.

Man:
Love is a dream castle.
Learn about it my lady love...
I search for true love
in the realms of love,
never have I ever seen one, 
my love.


This song is another beauty from Yuvan! Wish he comes back with a bang from his hiatus and gives such amazing gems to the music world. On my experience of translating this song... To start with, this song is really close to my heart, and another song that took a really long time for me to translate. Again, like any of my other translations, I am in two minds on whether I did justice to it or not.

The Human Eye

I walk on the road,
looking at the passersby
I glance at a human in black,
who appears suspicious to me
We lock our eyes long enough
to be convinced,
of the innocence.

Now, I pass and let go.


~ by The Dog

All Of It

What would a kid choose:
an umbrella, rainbow-colored
or black?

We know it without doubt.
The one coloured with 'all of it'
All the colours of joy!

What would I choose:
a day, of joy or of gloom?

Who would I prefer to be:
a person, bursting with spirit
or full of dreariness?

I know it right away.

A person full of joy, and
A day of joy, filled with

Music, reading, and writing
Learning, teaching, and creating

Food, water, and sleep

Exercise, fun, and laughter
Nature, sunlight, and sport.

All of it.

Proxy - A sequel to Pleasure

Piano Sonatas
from the 'Best of Beethoven'
playing in the foreground.

Rhythmic whirring sounds,
of the fan blades in motion

My unaccomplished 
'100 days of...' chart
tethered to the wall, swaying, 
and trying to catch my attention.

The clip holding the world map
to the wall calendar,
tapping itself against the wall,
clapping for itself for its feat!

Beyond these,
outside the night walls,
the wind play sport
and proxies for the rain;

Its sound duping me
into believing that there's 
a repeat act,
and nudging me to write.

Pleasure

Thunder sounds
gentle and muffled

Rain sings
like in a trained choir

Lightning streaks
of soft-toned hues

All three take me
by their arms
Making me yearn
to get my skin wet

But then, here I am...
Not out, yet,

All-absorbing
already soul-drenched
and my pleasures quenched.



Dated: Jul 24, 2019

Purpose

At times,
I feel the seconds,
of the time given to me
ticking and toking
I feel it as visible as...

the throb of the heart
caged inside my chest

the pensive chair, rocking
back and forth

the trickling drops
of a leaking tap
that cannot withhold itself

the one-eyed blinkers of vehicles
raring to head left or right

the blinking series of tiny lights
hung outside on name boards,
outside of shops

the waves on the beach shore
marching ahead and receding

the alternating shriek of
the red-blue sirens, belonging
to a speeding ambulance

the dripping glucose lining up,
waiting to be infused
into my recuperating bloodstream.

I lucidly see the purpose
of this feeling...
and yet, I fail to act, to do, and
deliver with all my might.

Yours Lovingly

Here, now... 
I feel your dead weight on me.
Don't you worry
I'll take care of thee.

I am your sounding board
when you are all alone
You can lay on me
and take a stroll, out 
in your dreamy starry world.

I'll lend my ears
and listen to your murmurs
I'll show you the morning light
until your darkness is out of sight
When you have troubled thoughts, 
O dear,
I'll let you soak me with your tears.

You can count on me
all through your life.
I'll be by your side, and
give you a calm and clear mind
even when you are full of strife.

Now that you've heard what I said
come let's sleep tight...

This is your loving bed.

Today

How much I yearn to say
'I missed you today,
after you left!'

I have second thoughts, and 
stop my flow of thoughts.
I want to validate and 
re-validate, and 
want to test if it would
fade and die.
I repeat the words in my head,
and with a deep sigh,
I check if it would feel
wierd to say so.

I ask myself, 'so what'
and then ask
'will it stay if I say it aloud'
I tell myself
'it is better to stay sad
than to feel sorry'
I also ask 
'are they fleeting thoughts', and 
'what if I do not miss 
after a while'

Well, well...! 
We all know well enough, essentially, 
that is what happens...
We miss people, and then,
we get used to it.

~Dated - May 02, 2019

Bitterness

I've tried...
Enduring you
Being indifferent to you
Tried to avoid you, and
Ignore you.
Confrontation just doesn't work!

You come back, fall back,
and persevere.
And leave a bad taste 
in my mouth.

Like an ocean of bile
in my stomach.

I

The deafening thunderous applause
you give yourself
after you bend and break...

Wish I could learn from you,

Oh! Waves...

Bad Definition of Karma

Knitting together events that gratify your sadistic vengeful self.

Suicide

Autumn was almost done, and
I was at the park bench
lying supine.

The trees exposed the bare blue sky
through the loosely knit mesh
that it weaved, from
the remains of the paling green leaves.

As a gush of wind swiftly blew
the last few hurriedly fell off
severing itself from the cords, which
nourished them for so long.

They came down
like lovers in disappointment,
falling off a cliff.

Brown: Our Marriage

We are mostly brown
but then,
you are Khakhi 
and I am Beige

That is where we 
intersect and bifurcate

The Music in my House

Oh! the voices...
Of the dramatic cello
the sad violin, and 
the mellifluous flute.
I am not trained in them
yet
I can play them well, when 
in my act
I am not too cautious or slow

My heart is calm and still
my mind is unoccupied, 
and
I can hear the occupants 
of my house
play the note equally well
with precisely,
the same tone and pitch 


Three cheers...
To the dear, creaking doors 
for bringing music into my house!

Mosquitoes and Butterflies

If you come to think of it
butterflies that sip the nectar
from the flowers
do not deserve 
to be considered as divine
When,
the sinister mosquitoes
do the same job.

Both are equally devoted.

And yet, we yearn to hold one
by their arms
And, with the other,
we gnash,
and vengefully smash, and squash
between our palms.

Inference
One: Looks can be deceiving.
Two: As long as mankind is not bothered,
he would pass any harm and discomfort
as poetry.

The Clothesdoctor

I've known this puny guy and been seeing him for over three years, I guess. And, he is probably the only person to whom I have spoken far less than he has spoken to me. But then, I don't have any feelings of him stalking me, or something. I have never had feelings of indifference as well, so, you cannot attribute or imagine that to be the reason. I meet him every weekend without fail. He addresses me fondly, says a meek 'hi', checks on me if I've not turned up for a long time. He remarks that I am early or late, if I turn up so. In return, I just smile at him, or just say a word or two... at the max, I have given him warm courtesies. Despite such limited acts of reciprocation, he even advises me to take it easy on myself if I look tired and worn out; he has asked me to try lighter acts like yoga, which happens in the park nearby, at almost the same time I end up on the road, for my sprightly morning runs.

Don't bother guessing... He is the clothesdoctor stationed at the bunk in the street corner, ironing out the clothes and bringing them out of their mess.

My Writings

My writings:

At times,
too long for poetry,

yet,
too sweet for prose.

My growing love for lists

Friends who lend time, unjudging ears
Stillness that accepts things and moves on
un-yearning heart
serenity from listening to a piano
faith in God, hopefulness
the sustaining spirit
being self-sufficient, complete, and enough
feeling of confidence in your stride, and
unwavering determination
awareness of what is right, and
knowing what to do
patience implanted by a good book

Warmth of food on your palate
pleasure of smooth chocolate
sprightliness from cold, tangy juice

Heart that spells, mind that listens, memory that retains
impulse to leave the job at hand and start writing

Compass

Babe,
You are the compass
How would you get lost?

Salt Puddle

I was sitting on the park bench,
my retreat after the refreshing run
With my head drooping down
arms affixed and shank hanging loose

Not bothering to wipe my brows
I let the sweat drip down
And one of them lands itself 
on the edge of the bench

One or two of the curious, playful
small black ants
check on their new-found puddle

Time ticks away, and 
a lot more swarm around it
Now, I realize that they were sipping
like it was some nectar

After a while, the pool shrinks to half
disappearing imperceptibly
alike a sinking sun,
that you cannot see descending

Dead End

When we look for on-the-go directions to a destination,
a dead end also indicates direction.

Move on.