Be an answer to those unanswered questions
Be the breeze that dries my sweat off
Be the cloud that provides me shade
Be the danger that makes me bold
Be the enigma for which I search an answer
Be the fire that keeps me awake
Be a goader who pushes me to reach the destiny
Be the horizon towards which I keep walking
Be the innocence that saves me from trouble
Be that joy in my life for which I pray
Be the kiss that wipes off the pain
Be the love that makes me humane
Be the mild sunshine that gives me light
Be the night that provides me sleep
Be the orchestra that makes the music for my life
Be the pain that I can bear when I am hurt
Be the quote that stays in my mind forever
Be the rain that blooms my life
Be the song that will cool me off
Be the time that sees every second of my life
Be the undertaker who buries off my worries
Be the victory that I crave for
Be the water that flows through my throat
Be the Xanadu where I can live in
Be that BIG 'yes' I say after every triumph
Be the zenith on which I must always be...
That is me unedited... a few years ago: to be precise, I wrote it sometime in May, 2001
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
scrambled!!
A strange thought occurred to me in two consecutive days. This is about the two ladies at my office food court counter. The first day: one looks like an unforgiving teacher; the next day, the other lady looks like a doctor.
The teacher behave-like with her grim face, questions people with her eyes, listens with her ears directed towards people and shrinking one of her eyes, right hand punches the keys of the billing machine, the left reaches out for the money, the right hand now tears the printed note and hands it over, picks the change and places it on the billing machine with her palm turned inside.
The doctor behave-like has a pen in her hand, converses to people with her eyebrows, listens to the people with a nod, scribbles on a chit, circles the numbers, issues the chit and then receives the exchange, smiles, and expects the next one in the line.
The teacher behave-like with her grim face, questions people with her eyes, listens with her ears directed towards people and shrinking one of her eyes, right hand punches the keys of the billing machine, the left reaches out for the money, the right hand now tears the printed note and hands it over, picks the change and places it on the billing machine with her palm turned inside.
The doctor behave-like has a pen in her hand, converses to people with her eyebrows, listens to the people with a nod, scribbles on a chit, circles the numbers, issues the chit and then receives the exchange, smiles, and expects the next one in the line.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Those were the days my friend...
When we blew our first big bubble out of the clandestine chewing gum; learnt to neatly roll the string around the ridges of a top, and swiftly flung the top from the tethered end of the string; first felt a thoroughly used prohibited catapult from a group of nomads who were ruthlessly aiming at the dogs, stretched the catapult to the maximum and splayed a mango off its stem; teamed up together, and contested with our next-door neighbors for wet-and-throw where we drew a circle on the wall, wet the tennis ball and threw it on the wall, inside the circle, and exchanged smuggled goods for the points we won; collected crystalline green marbles from our roadside friends, rolled it over the muddy roads and played aim-and-hit, and sometimes rolled ourselves over the mud, fought with them over a missing marble that fell into a nearby gutter, and when the rains gushed in and left us in solitude, we gazed at the small green marbles that had innumerous frozen air bubbles inside them.
Those were the days my friend, we thought would never end...
- Mary Hopkins
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Translation of Minnale Nee from May Madham
Oh Mirage!
What's the reason for your past presence?
Why did you inflict that pain in my eyes? - and
How did you disappear from my soul?
The few seconds that you came in
burnt away the warmth in me.
Oh Mirage! My thirst is looking for you...
My dreary eyes saw the vanishing act of your myriad colors,
And all that I have, as memento, is the little warmth and sanity
that I managed to salvage.
My bosom shattered owing to bereavement and pain - and
the innumerous shards reflect nothing but your absence.
Having blossomed at your faded footsteps,
I am waiting for you…
with fear and a fervent flame in my tears.
Doesn't the earth wait for the rich rain, and
doesn't God wait for the festive gaiety?
Doesn't a poet wait for his words in pain...
so, won’t my love endure, if I wait?
Having blossomed at your faded footsteps,
I am waiting for you…
with fear and a fervent flame in my tears.
Oh Mirage!
What's the reason for your past presence?
Why did you inflict that pain in my eyes? - and
How did you disappear from my soul?
The few seconds that you came in
burnt away the warmth in me.
Oh Mirage! My thirst is looking for you...
Certainly yes! This translation/redendition is for sure the proof of the indelible impact of the song in my previous post!
What's the reason for your past presence?
Why did you inflict that pain in my eyes? - and
How did you disappear from my soul?
The few seconds that you came in
burnt away the warmth in me.
Oh Mirage! My thirst is looking for you...
My dreary eyes saw the vanishing act of your myriad colors,
And all that I have, as memento, is the little warmth and sanity
that I managed to salvage.
My bosom shattered owing to bereavement and pain - and
the innumerous shards reflect nothing but your absence.
Having blossomed at your faded footsteps,
I am waiting for you…
with fear and a fervent flame in my tears.
Doesn't the earth wait for the rich rain, and
doesn't God wait for the festive gaiety?
Doesn't a poet wait for his words in pain...
so, won’t my love endure, if I wait?
Having blossomed at your faded footsteps,
I am waiting for you…
with fear and a fervent flame in my tears.
Oh Mirage!
What's the reason for your past presence?
Why did you inflict that pain in my eyes? - and
How did you disappear from my soul?
The few seconds that you came in
burnt away the warmth in me.
Oh Mirage! My thirst is looking for you...
Certainly yes! This translation/redendition is for sure the proof of the indelible impact of the song in my previous post!
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Minnalae...
minnalae! nee vandhadhaenadi?
en kannilae oru kaayamennadi?
en vaanilae nee maraindhupoana maayam ennadi?
sila nazhigai nee vandhu ponadhu,
en maaligai adhu vendhu ponadhu.
minnale! en vaanam unnai thaeduthae...
kan vizhiththup paarththapoadhu kalaindha vannamae - un
kairaegai onru mattum ninaivuchchinnamae.
kadharik kadhari enadhu ullam udaindhu poanadhae - ingu
sidharippoana sillil ellaam unadhu bimbamae.
kanneeril theevalarththuk kaaththirukkiraen - un
kaaladiththadaththil naan pooththirukkiraen.
paalmazhaikkuk kaaththirukkum boomi illaiyaa,
oru pandigaikkuk kaaththirukkum saami illaiyaa?
vaarththai varak kaaththirukkum kavignar illaiyaa...
naan kaaththirundhaal kaadhal innum meelumillaiyaa?
kanneeril theevalarththuk kaaththirukkiraen - un
kaaladiththadaththil naan pooththirukkiraen.
minnalae! nee vandhadhaenadi?
en kannilae oru kaayamennadi?
en vaanilae nee maraindhupoana maayam ennadi?
sila nazhigai nee vandhu ponadhu,
en maaligai adhu vendhu ponadhu.
minnale! en vaanam unnai thaeduthae...
This is a song for which, for years together, I have truly felt, and have still been feeling the emotion behind each and every word in the song. For sure, this is yet another song that has left an indelible imprint in my heart and mind.
en kannilae oru kaayamennadi?
en vaanilae nee maraindhupoana maayam ennadi?
sila nazhigai nee vandhu ponadhu,
en maaligai adhu vendhu ponadhu.
minnale! en vaanam unnai thaeduthae...
kan vizhiththup paarththapoadhu kalaindha vannamae - un
kairaegai onru mattum ninaivuchchinnamae.
kadharik kadhari enadhu ullam udaindhu poanadhae - ingu
sidharippoana sillil ellaam unadhu bimbamae.
kanneeril theevalarththuk kaaththirukkiraen - un
kaaladiththadaththil naan pooththirukkiraen.
paalmazhaikkuk kaaththirukkum boomi illaiyaa,
oru pandigaikkuk kaaththirukkum saami illaiyaa?
vaarththai varak kaaththirukkum kavignar illaiyaa...
naan kaaththirundhaal kaadhal innum meelumillaiyaa?
kanneeril theevalarththuk kaaththirukkiraen - un
kaaladiththadaththil naan pooththirukkiraen.
minnalae! nee vandhadhaenadi?
en kannilae oru kaayamennadi?
en vaanilae nee maraindhupoana maayam ennadi?
sila nazhigai nee vandhu ponadhu,
en maaligai adhu vendhu ponadhu.
minnale! en vaanam unnai thaeduthae...
This is a song for which, for years together, I have truly felt, and have still been feeling the emotion behind each and every word in the song. For sure, this is yet another song that has left an indelible imprint in my heart and mind.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Mrinmayi and Malathi
A circular beam zoomed from the eastern skies and created a private sun on the wall. This miniature sun steadily sank in front of her, as the sun at the east rose behind her. Sweet child of mine, rocked heavily from the blaring speakers. Malathi looked at the apparent slow movement of the sinking private sun and her usual ironical lop-sided smile appeared thinking about the underlying paradox.
A few kilometers away, at Mrinmayi's house, the sun sneaked through the opening that she missed to seal last night and it basked her pale foot. She wanted to sleep endlessly night after night like how she found pleasure in swinging from one link to another on the web. She was clambering from the floor to the bed; she didn’t know when she had fallen off.
After Mrinmayi sprawled on to the bed, she started frowning as her mind recollected the closing lines of their last conversation. “Does it not hurt you just because it is your finger nail?” Repugnant assails never seemed to cease. Each one badgered the other with questions and remarks that only created conundrums for which these two would never be able to find a solution. Mrin didn’t quite know what went wrong in the lovely relationship that they had shared when they were in the same college.
Was it distance or was it that they knew each other too well that it had started to hurt? Theirs was a simple relationship and though everything between the two was so lucid, it never ceased to cause envy among their common friends.
Malathi, the plain and sarcastic lady, would pass off for any normal uncomplicated girl. But she was the kind who would appeal to a select few. Though she had often wondered what made a few people like her a lot, she never got an answer for it and each time, at the end of the analysis, she only ended up laying false definitions of herself.
Now, after about a year after college, they worked for the same office. In fact, they really wanted to get into the same organisation after their college. But the stars were not in favor of them, and Malathi took up a job in a small concern and Mrinmayi in a relatively bigger company though she got offers from bigger multi-national companies, she refused them for the sake of higher rate of growth.
Though their offices were poles apart, they always made sure they met each other in the weekend and exchange thoughts on mundane topics, small talk, stocks and shares, happenings in their streets, in the world—basically anything under the sky. It was something really simple that they had shared and they knew each other’s limits, dislikes, hate, sorrows and happiness. More than anything what worked for them was the respect that each had for the other, despite each other's anomalies, differences, and shortcomings.
Well, after a few months there were a few vacancies in Mrin’s concern and Malathi for her unmistakable intelligence, she did crack the hard nuts and landed in the same place as Mrin’s. Things were sailing smooth and looked pretty neat, until the day when Mrin's organization had asked her to travel abroad for a high-valued assignment.
A few kilometers away, at Mrinmayi's house, the sun sneaked through the opening that she missed to seal last night and it basked her pale foot. She wanted to sleep endlessly night after night like how she found pleasure in swinging from one link to another on the web. She was clambering from the floor to the bed; she didn’t know when she had fallen off.
After Mrinmayi sprawled on to the bed, she started frowning as her mind recollected the closing lines of their last conversation. “Does it not hurt you just because it is your finger nail?” Repugnant assails never seemed to cease. Each one badgered the other with questions and remarks that only created conundrums for which these two would never be able to find a solution. Mrin didn’t quite know what went wrong in the lovely relationship that they had shared when they were in the same college.
Was it distance or was it that they knew each other too well that it had started to hurt? Theirs was a simple relationship and though everything between the two was so lucid, it never ceased to cause envy among their common friends.
Malathi, the plain and sarcastic lady, would pass off for any normal uncomplicated girl. But she was the kind who would appeal to a select few. Though she had often wondered what made a few people like her a lot, she never got an answer for it and each time, at the end of the analysis, she only ended up laying false definitions of herself.
Now, after about a year after college, they worked for the same office. In fact, they really wanted to get into the same organisation after their college. But the stars were not in favor of them, and Malathi took up a job in a small concern and Mrinmayi in a relatively bigger company though she got offers from bigger multi-national companies, she refused them for the sake of higher rate of growth.
Though their offices were poles apart, they always made sure they met each other in the weekend and exchange thoughts on mundane topics, small talk, stocks and shares, happenings in their streets, in the world—basically anything under the sky. It was something really simple that they had shared and they knew each other’s limits, dislikes, hate, sorrows and happiness. More than anything what worked for them was the respect that each had for the other, despite each other's anomalies, differences, and shortcomings.
Well, after a few months there were a few vacancies in Mrin’s concern and Malathi for her unmistakable intelligence, she did crack the hard nuts and landed in the same place as Mrin’s. Things were sailing smooth and looked pretty neat, until the day when Mrin's organization had asked her to travel abroad for a high-valued assignment.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
An morning in Mrin's life
Heaps of mud decorated the road of the potters. For a change, they were not to make tiny pots that shelter the grains or water from pelter. They were to be used to create edifices, where the object of over-confidence, who thinks he is the GOD, is to take shelter. In fact, the structures would themselves be ashamed of their skyscraping.
Joys of innocence spread warmth on Potters Street. The bundle of joy was from the kids who were apparently happy about discovering the wetness in the fine sand in their feet and hands on a hot morning. Four kids surrounded the mound, started digging from the four directions, dug in deep till the first two found each other's hand. Several sets of four were waiting for their turn. The winners would then team up together to play a bigger game.
Several minutes of dedicated patience was being spent on repairing a watch that stands a proof of something irreversible--a horologer was repairing his customer's watch with his object-magnifying monocle on.
Mrinmayi was aware of all this while she was still contemplating whether to attend the eleventh-day function of Satthi Amma's demise. It was a bountiful Saturday and the one that Mrin was waiting for a long time. She was to meet her friend who had just come back from Jaipur. She never knew when she grew fond of his beautiful hazel eyes and his very non-apparent dimple that other people would have to search for on his cheeks. Perhaps, even before she became aware of him. People who knew his lineage would know from whom he had inherited those beautiful eyes. It was his mother who had those lovely glowing eyes that spoke a language of its own. Like an add-on, Mrigank had an additional charm in his eyes that would make you say hi, even if you have just met once and were a reticent person.
They had studied together till their class ten, and they were neighbors too. The fact that, the school roll call had Mrin's name immediately after Mrig's made quite a significant difference in the rate at which they got to know each other. But then, as fate would have it, Mrin's dad had to come to Madras owing to his occupation. Mrig and Mrin were the best buddies in the whole world till then, and even after they had departed, fate had them meet at least three years once, somehow, till before college and quite often during college days. Mrigank got an admission in a college in Madras aka Chennai. He had to keep reminding himself of the name change because he was so used to the name, Madras. It is certainly true for the number of times he would have referred to the place with that name, on quite a few dozens of envelops. They wrote to each until the advent of internet and other communicate-on-the-go type of mechanisms such as sms, mobile etc.
Just as Mrin was immersed in those lovely hazel eyes, she jolted with her eyes wide open and sprang towards the wooden table where the cell phone was present. The sense of urgency was quite apparent to the fact that she was expecting a call and also to stop the tremors that the cell phone was creating thereby disturbing the clam ambience.
The cell phone displayed ‘M’. It was Mrigank.
In a jubilant voice Mrin said, “Hey!!”
Mrig, in an elaborately long intonation said, “Hi!”
The interval between the ‘H’ and ‘I’ seemed so long that you could finish speaking one long sentence in the style of disclaimers that appeared on the stocks or insurance ads on TV.
So what are you up to in Madras?
Oh! Nothin much, just trying to recuperate a bit.
“Recuperate...? Why? What happened?”, asked Mrin in a worried manner.
“There was a small accident while I was trying to get off the plane.”, said Mrig in such a nonchalant tone that you would want to shake up the person and remind them of taking the responsibility of being a bit serious in life.
And you are saying that as if you went and got a pair of casual trousers?
Hey, Mrin!
Mrinmayi just loved it when people called her ‘Mrin’, despite the fact that one of her friends made sure that she called Mrin by her full name, because of the fact that the name sounded very Russian. She was indeed right, because there was a small village called ‘Mrin’ in Ukraine, a country that shared borders with Russia.
“It isn’t a big deal, just a small scar near my eye, and on the cheek.”, said Mrigank in an amused intonation.
Oh, man!! That is bit too much. What do you mean? And now, because of your nonchalance, I am getting a bit suspicious on the adjective that you used to describe your scar. Did you say ‘small’? I am afraid it is getting a bit serious here.
Hey! No you don’t have to worry to the details of the inch of the scar. I am perfectly alright.
No, Mrig. You are staying at Shruti didi’s place, right? I am coming over right away. Don’t take this as a chance and run away from the house. I will be there in another thirty to forty minutes.
Mrin’s call ended with a ‘Stay-right-where-you-are’, in a purposely americanized and threatening intonation.
Before Mrig could say an elaborate ‘Yes Madam’ in a rhetorical manner, he heard a distinct silence at the other end.
Mrin had already hung up and had started her vehicle to leave to Bose Nagar—the place where any hermit would love to settle down in his meditation. It was such a clam place and it would be an ideal place for an early morning walk or a walk at any time of a cloudy day. She reached his place, wished the elders, and Shruti didi, Mrig and Mrin collaborated into a long pending raillery of each other and there was no ending to the roars arising from the house.
Joys of innocence spread warmth on Potters Street. The bundle of joy was from the kids who were apparently happy about discovering the wetness in the fine sand in their feet and hands on a hot morning. Four kids surrounded the mound, started digging from the four directions, dug in deep till the first two found each other's hand. Several sets of four were waiting for their turn. The winners would then team up together to play a bigger game.
Several minutes of dedicated patience was being spent on repairing a watch that stands a proof of something irreversible--a horologer was repairing his customer's watch with his object-magnifying monocle on.
Mrinmayi was aware of all this while she was still contemplating whether to attend the eleventh-day function of Satthi Amma's demise. It was a bountiful Saturday and the one that Mrin was waiting for a long time. She was to meet her friend who had just come back from Jaipur. She never knew when she grew fond of his beautiful hazel eyes and his very non-apparent dimple that other people would have to search for on his cheeks. Perhaps, even before she became aware of him. People who knew his lineage would know from whom he had inherited those beautiful eyes. It was his mother who had those lovely glowing eyes that spoke a language of its own. Like an add-on, Mrigank had an additional charm in his eyes that would make you say hi, even if you have just met once and were a reticent person.
They had studied together till their class ten, and they were neighbors too. The fact that, the school roll call had Mrin's name immediately after Mrig's made quite a significant difference in the rate at which they got to know each other. But then, as fate would have it, Mrin's dad had to come to Madras owing to his occupation. Mrig and Mrin were the best buddies in the whole world till then, and even after they had departed, fate had them meet at least three years once, somehow, till before college and quite often during college days. Mrigank got an admission in a college in Madras aka Chennai. He had to keep reminding himself of the name change because he was so used to the name, Madras. It is certainly true for the number of times he would have referred to the place with that name, on quite a few dozens of envelops. They wrote to each until the advent of internet and other communicate-on-the-go type of mechanisms such as sms, mobile etc.
Just as Mrin was immersed in those lovely hazel eyes, she jolted with her eyes wide open and sprang towards the wooden table where the cell phone was present. The sense of urgency was quite apparent to the fact that she was expecting a call and also to stop the tremors that the cell phone was creating thereby disturbing the clam ambience.
The cell phone displayed ‘M’. It was Mrigank.
In a jubilant voice Mrin said, “Hey!!”
Mrig, in an elaborately long intonation said, “Hi!”
The interval between the ‘H’ and ‘I’ seemed so long that you could finish speaking one long sentence in the style of disclaimers that appeared on the stocks or insurance ads on TV.
So what are you up to in Madras?
Oh! Nothin much, just trying to recuperate a bit.
“Recuperate...? Why? What happened?”, asked Mrin in a worried manner.
“There was a small accident while I was trying to get off the plane.”, said Mrig in such a nonchalant tone that you would want to shake up the person and remind them of taking the responsibility of being a bit serious in life.
And you are saying that as if you went and got a pair of casual trousers?
Hey, Mrin!
Mrinmayi just loved it when people called her ‘Mrin’, despite the fact that one of her friends made sure that she called Mrin by her full name, because of the fact that the name sounded very Russian. She was indeed right, because there was a small village called ‘Mrin’ in Ukraine, a country that shared borders with Russia.
“It isn’t a big deal, just a small scar near my eye, and on the cheek.”, said Mrigank in an amused intonation.
Oh, man!! That is bit too much. What do you mean? And now, because of your nonchalance, I am getting a bit suspicious on the adjective that you used to describe your scar. Did you say ‘small’? I am afraid it is getting a bit serious here.
Hey! No you don’t have to worry to the details of the inch of the scar. I am perfectly alright.
No, Mrig. You are staying at Shruti didi’s place, right? I am coming over right away. Don’t take this as a chance and run away from the house. I will be there in another thirty to forty minutes.
Mrin’s call ended with a ‘Stay-right-where-you-are’, in a purposely americanized and threatening intonation.
Before Mrig could say an elaborate ‘Yes Madam’ in a rhetorical manner, he heard a distinct silence at the other end.
Mrin had already hung up and had started her vehicle to leave to Bose Nagar—the place where any hermit would love to settle down in his meditation. It was such a clam place and it would be an ideal place for an early morning walk or a walk at any time of a cloudy day. She reached his place, wished the elders, and Shruti didi, Mrig and Mrin collaborated into a long pending raillery of each other and there was no ending to the roars arising from the house.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
An evening in Mrin’s life
It was just another day in the life of Mrinmayi—tall, fair, pretty, intelligent, and 28 years old. If you think that she is the protagonist of this story, you would soon learn the truth. The workload was pretty lean those days, due to the recent increase in staffing at her workplace. After many days, she got a chance to return home in that hour of the day. She decided to walk the few kilometers from the station that is situated nearest to her house.
The roads were pretty dusty due to the early evening breeze. The flowers on the floor stood as a proof of the breeze that blew and axed the flowers from its root, or rather, from wherever the breeze could spot a weak link between the flower and the tree. The fact that it was not breeze, but gushy winds that did what she saw in front of her, was slowly dawning on her, because, there were also a few fresh leaves that the wind managed to execute. The flowers from the trees decorated the road with pink, lavender and mild-orange and with strange patterns. A few yards away, there were huge, dead, ugly leaves on the road. There was constant rustle as the road was quite busy. And as she went past it, she enjoyed every moment of the rustle she heard.
Apart from all these scenic observations, she noticed that a few men, even at this time of day, were indulging in revelry after heavy intoxication. That brought a scowl on her face and transported her back to reality. But, within a few minutes, she reached home. She removed her shoes and as she was about to enter her house, she realised that her dad who was sitting in the veranda of their house was attempting to tell her something. She turned back and saw him just complete a few words.
"What did you say, dad? I didn’t quite follow you.” asked Mrin as a response.
"Satthi amm... Satthi Amma has..." he tried to say something, but she could just witness the tearful expression and hear her dad, as if he suffered from an infected larynx.
"What happened to her?" questioned Mrin with her eyebrows coming closer and thereby creating a crest on her forehead.
"Satthi Amma has passed away." broke down her dad.
OOPS!! What happened?
"She was well until today afternoon. She had her lunch and complained of being a bit uneasy. The tenants then asked her to take some rest and put her on to the bed and a few minutes later she breathed her last breath." replied Mrin's dad. She could sense that the composure claiming its way back into his system.
What was her age?
85. Almost the age of your grandma. But when compared to your grandma, Satthi Amma was pretty healthy during her last few days.
Did you go and visit her house?
Yeah, I was there the whole day, trying to set right a few things for the funeral.
Memories of the old lady flashed her mind with her overall face appearing first, then the diamond nose stud that constantly shimmered, and then the mole on her face. She was the only person who remained with the same intensity of white shade on her hair and seemed like she never grew older than that. Mrin had identified symptoms of Satthi Amma ageing, probably, only when she complained of difficulty in climbing their two-storeyed building to meet her dad. In retrospect, she was reminded of the gap in between the front teeth, her slanted walk, the summer holidays, her grand son kaarthi, his mom—the english teacher, the long and broad wooden bench by the side of which she use to sit in the earlier part of Mrinmayi's life. Her memories then darted across to the days when she used to just wave and smile to Satthi Amma who sat at the doorstep of her house, perhaps her way of catching up with the world, whenever Mrin went past her house on the bike.
Mrin was carrying out her routine and then when her mom came back from office, she broke the news to her. Her mom was pretty much composed and took the news pretty calm as compared to her dad. Her mom asked as much the same set of questions that Mrin had asked her dad, when she first heard the news.
Her dad being the proactive narrator in their family, started telling tales about Satthi Amma. Mrin learnt, both from her mom and dad, that she was the one who first held her when she was born and that she had taken extra pain in helping him admit her mom during the day of her birth. This and a lot more stories rolled by after that.
A few minutes later, Mrin and her mom left to Satthi Amma's home, to pay homage to her. "She had borne eleven children, of which a few died and made sure she saw that every one of her children buy their own house and settle comfortably well." Mrin heard her dad's voice resound inside her ears. "She had borne eleven children and brought up the ones that survived, with utmost responsibility." Just imagine the patience and experience she would have developed in all these years!, she told herself when she heard her dad say 'eleven children...'. She knew that Satthi Amma was called so because of her last son's name Sakthi. Of all her children, she knew only a few of them, Narayanan, Giri, Vijaya, Palani and Sakthi.
Satthi Amma was staying in Kumar Street, whereas Mrin's family was staying in Ganesh Street. Theirs was supposed to have been a single street, if not for the slight bend in the place where the two streets met. Somehow, the other streets lying parallel to theirs were all just one street.
In two or three minutes, they reached Satthi Amma's house. Satthi Amma was kept in a freezer box. She saw Vijaya and Palani standing beside the transparent box, and chanting aloud some sacred verse along with some others who Mrin was not able to identify. Like how, sometimes we identify a complete song on hearing just one or two words of the song, Mrin though she was a North Indian, she soon identified that they were chanting Thiruvasagam. She felt happy that she could at least identify what was being sung, even though she wasn't able to quite empathise with those who were mourning on the loss of their aged mother.
Mrin again fell into the retrospect mode and was reminded of Vijaya Coffee, Narayanan's own coffee shop, where Mrin's mom often bought coffee powder. She remembered that ever since she has known, Mrin's mom had been grateful to Satthi Amma for having introduced coffee and teaching the art of making absolutely amazing coffee to her. She would often instruct Mrin, “Ask Narayanan uncle to grind the coffee with two and a half portions of chicory.”
She stood there, retrospected for a few minutes, heard one or two people discuss Sathhi Amma’s life and their experiences with her, and prayed to God for her sons and daughters. After a couple of minutes, Mrin and her mom left the place, each one lost in their own thoughts.
The roads were pretty dusty due to the early evening breeze. The flowers on the floor stood as a proof of the breeze that blew and axed the flowers from its root, or rather, from wherever the breeze could spot a weak link between the flower and the tree. The fact that it was not breeze, but gushy winds that did what she saw in front of her, was slowly dawning on her, because, there were also a few fresh leaves that the wind managed to execute. The flowers from the trees decorated the road with pink, lavender and mild-orange and with strange patterns. A few yards away, there were huge, dead, ugly leaves on the road. There was constant rustle as the road was quite busy. And as she went past it, she enjoyed every moment of the rustle she heard.
Apart from all these scenic observations, she noticed that a few men, even at this time of day, were indulging in revelry after heavy intoxication. That brought a scowl on her face and transported her back to reality. But, within a few minutes, she reached home. She removed her shoes and as she was about to enter her house, she realised that her dad who was sitting in the veranda of their house was attempting to tell her something. She turned back and saw him just complete a few words.
"What did you say, dad? I didn’t quite follow you.” asked Mrin as a response.
"Satthi amm... Satthi Amma has..." he tried to say something, but she could just witness the tearful expression and hear her dad, as if he suffered from an infected larynx.
"What happened to her?" questioned Mrin with her eyebrows coming closer and thereby creating a crest on her forehead.
"Satthi Amma has passed away." broke down her dad.
OOPS!! What happened?
"She was well until today afternoon. She had her lunch and complained of being a bit uneasy. The tenants then asked her to take some rest and put her on to the bed and a few minutes later she breathed her last breath." replied Mrin's dad. She could sense that the composure claiming its way back into his system.
What was her age?
85. Almost the age of your grandma. But when compared to your grandma, Satthi Amma was pretty healthy during her last few days.
Did you go and visit her house?
Yeah, I was there the whole day, trying to set right a few things for the funeral.
Memories of the old lady flashed her mind with her overall face appearing first, then the diamond nose stud that constantly shimmered, and then the mole on her face. She was the only person who remained with the same intensity of white shade on her hair and seemed like she never grew older than that. Mrin had identified symptoms of Satthi Amma ageing, probably, only when she complained of difficulty in climbing their two-storeyed building to meet her dad. In retrospect, she was reminded of the gap in between the front teeth, her slanted walk, the summer holidays, her grand son kaarthi, his mom—the english teacher, the long and broad wooden bench by the side of which she use to sit in the earlier part of Mrinmayi's life. Her memories then darted across to the days when she used to just wave and smile to Satthi Amma who sat at the doorstep of her house, perhaps her way of catching up with the world, whenever Mrin went past her house on the bike.
Mrin was carrying out her routine and then when her mom came back from office, she broke the news to her. Her mom was pretty much composed and took the news pretty calm as compared to her dad. Her mom asked as much the same set of questions that Mrin had asked her dad, when she first heard the news.
Her dad being the proactive narrator in their family, started telling tales about Satthi Amma. Mrin learnt, both from her mom and dad, that she was the one who first held her when she was born and that she had taken extra pain in helping him admit her mom during the day of her birth. This and a lot more stories rolled by after that.
A few minutes later, Mrin and her mom left to Satthi Amma's home, to pay homage to her. "She had borne eleven children, of which a few died and made sure she saw that every one of her children buy their own house and settle comfortably well." Mrin heard her dad's voice resound inside her ears. "She had borne eleven children and brought up the ones that survived, with utmost responsibility." Just imagine the patience and experience she would have developed in all these years!, she told herself when she heard her dad say 'eleven children...'. She knew that Satthi Amma was called so because of her last son's name Sakthi. Of all her children, she knew only a few of them, Narayanan, Giri, Vijaya, Palani and Sakthi.
Satthi Amma was staying in Kumar Street, whereas Mrin's family was staying in Ganesh Street. Theirs was supposed to have been a single street, if not for the slight bend in the place where the two streets met. Somehow, the other streets lying parallel to theirs were all just one street.
In two or three minutes, they reached Satthi Amma's house. Satthi Amma was kept in a freezer box. She saw Vijaya and Palani standing beside the transparent box, and chanting aloud some sacred verse along with some others who Mrin was not able to identify. Like how, sometimes we identify a complete song on hearing just one or two words of the song, Mrin though she was a North Indian, she soon identified that they were chanting Thiruvasagam. She felt happy that she could at least identify what was being sung, even though she wasn't able to quite empathise with those who were mourning on the loss of their aged mother.
Mrin again fell into the retrospect mode and was reminded of Vijaya Coffee, Narayanan's own coffee shop, where Mrin's mom often bought coffee powder. She remembered that ever since she has known, Mrin's mom had been grateful to Satthi Amma for having introduced coffee and teaching the art of making absolutely amazing coffee to her. She would often instruct Mrin, “Ask Narayanan uncle to grind the coffee with two and a half portions of chicory.”
She stood there, retrospected for a few minutes, heard one or two people discuss Sathhi Amma’s life and their experiences with her, and prayed to God for her sons and daughters. After a couple of minutes, Mrin and her mom left the place, each one lost in their own thoughts.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
little things...
you are completely hard-pressed for time,
but still manage to succumb to your urge to write,
wanting to drink an amazing cuppa
even if the burns are still hurting your tongue
well past two days since your last sip,
wary of the staircase that tumbled you,
but still enthusiastically perform acrobatics
on the same fleet of stairs the next day,
knowing that you are gonna be badly hurt
because of another helping of a cup of custard,
but still venturing for another one,
rubbing your tongue against the upper jaw
acknowledging the numbness created
by the betel leaf that you munched in a wedding,
you know you are too tired
and it is almost brunch time,
but you still over-workout yourself
for that extra serving of custard you had last night,
you are traveling a long distance bus journey.
and you are irritated by the discomfort it may cause
due to loss of sleep.
and all of a sudden you wake up and feel happy
to realise that you have been sleeping all along,
...and so runs the list in the recharge package.
Friday, January 27, 2006
after a long time...
i felt grateful to my friends,
i lazed around doing nothing,
i felt wasted after watching tv the whole day,
i have lost interest in someone,
i wanted to write,
i wrote using my personal computer,
i dozed off while i was attempting to think hard,
i kept the food wastes
on the secluded corner of the parapet wall,
i despised and feared a copious insect
that has been ruthlessly cruel to me,
i was about to slip into an unwanted
theme of character analyses.
i lazed around doing nothing,
i felt wasted after watching tv the whole day,
i have lost interest in someone,
i wanted to write,
i wrote using my personal computer,
i dozed off while i was attempting to think hard,
i kept the food wastes
on the secluded corner of the parapet wall,
i despised and feared a copious insect
that has been ruthlessly cruel to me,
i was about to slip into an unwanted
theme of character analyses.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
life is beautiful... again, is it not?
the bed of pale frosted grass, the bright green footsteps on the frosted grass, the gleaming sun in the east,
the shimmering reflection of the sun-gold on the melting dew, the mix of the warmth of the basking sun and the morning chill, the inexpressible feeling when the baking sun sprawls on the skin,
the bright early evenings, the sprightly light and crisp evening air, the sunset that you perceive but not see,
the vacillating twilight,
the defeated dusk, the vapors dying to deform as dew, the rising vapors falling as dew,
the dark deep shivering nights, the clothes that snug you, the freezing ice needles around the ear lobes,
the deserted dazing roads, the warmth under the thick covers, the requisite respite,
the fresh feet that feels the cold floor tiles, the hot ablution, the vapor on the mirror, the words on the glass, the rejuvenated life,
the rediscovered passion, the regained love, the resurgent sprightliness, the words revelatory of good omen.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Wen Raey is here!
Exertions taught me new lessons,
making me muse all the way to glory.
With Wen Raey,
Hope I see more Monday mornings and
more trucks that gush the dust.
hOpe I remember to...
accept paradoxes and recharges gracefully, and
tackle the blocks that eventually give bliss,
be grateful to the wondrous ensembles and
the pecks on the cheek,
hoPe I encounter more silhouettes
that make me see life, sleep, and death, all in one.
And, HOPE to have more memories
that give me a feel that life IS beautiful.
Wish you all a happy new year!
Friday, December 16, 2005
exertion
physical exertion becomes an antidote to ennui
when there is
no time to think—think about people, plans and pains
no time to apply rationality and sensibility
no time to learn and unlearn and relearn
when there is
disgrace, disgust and hopelessness,
and your soul is seething with anger
to prove to the world of your capabilities
when there is
this world that, you think, is looking at you
as an anathema.
I know it is a bit too acerbic and hopeless. I guess, writing brings the worst and the best out of me. How coincidental, somehow the thoughts in the previous post seems to have been like a forerunner to my way of life—especially the last statement! Sincerely hope I revert to my normal mode soon.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Hope, Dream and Sleep
Hope is the dream of the waking man
Dream is the hope of the sleeping man
Sleep is the dream of the working man
Such an amazing quote!! I was stunned when I saw this yesterday, at my client's office. In fact, stunned is not the word. I am still being captivated and amazed by it. It is a beauty! Would surely rate it somewhere close to Separation by Merwin.
I had googled to find who the author was. Seems like it is an anonymous quote except for the first line of the quote.
The first line of the quote is by Aristotle.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Lessons
The night was chill and calm.
I took refuge in my private music source
to bring myself out of a burgeoning bedlam.
There were big ugly frogs hiding in the pipelines,
scaring me and running a chill down my spine,
a petite beautiful lady chatting with her boyfriend,
construction workers returning from the day’s amends,
and, maintenance boys changing shifts after mends.
Farther from where I am,
a naive adamant kid was refusing to listen to a grownup kid.
After her repeated efforts, patience, and hurt,
she threw her hand, up in the air and broke down,
“Am I here to teach protocols to people?
Won’t it just listen and play with me?”
By now, I had walked closer to them.
The kid’s mother kindly said,
“The kid is still learning, or maybe,
it didn’t know that the lessons were supposed to be learnt.
Or maybe it wouldn’t just learn under you,
however nice you are.
Give up on the kid. It will find its way,
in due course.”
Monday, November 07, 2005
SEPARATION
Your absence has gone through me
Like a thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
— W. S. Merwin
Sources:
Merwin, W. S. "Separation." The Moving Target. New York: Atheneum, 1979. 9.
This is a beautiful poem. I fell for it the day I read it at Melancholetta, sometime in April. Separation has been haunting me for quite a while now.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Story Tree...
...contd from meera
He thought it would be an ordinary journey. Standing behind the pillar he watched the train snort arrogantly into the station. With each snort he was reminded of his grandfather's words "You will fail in the city and return penniless"; with every heavenward whistle, he heard his cousin, "Don't worry. Come here and I will get you a job at the construction site." Now he had a 34-hour journey to prove one of them wrong, and he expected the excitement at the end of the journey. He looked at his ticket once again: compartment S9 berth 23.
He would preserve this ticket. When he would succeed, he would frame and hang it for all to see, as a reminder of the fact that greatness had humble origins, of the day when he set out to seize his destiny. His lips quivered with emotion as he carefully counted the money in his wallet, yet again. Four crisp hundreds and two crumpled fifties. At seventeen, it seemed like a fortune to him. He would carefully plan his expenses. He felt as energetic as the strong breeze that hit his face. He stumbled backward, as the wallet slipped from his hands.
Turag watched it fall, with the fingers of both his hands curled—one gripping the steel bar and the other gripping nothing but air. The wallet settled, the second time it touched the greased stones. It was diminishing in size and moving away from him like an open-mouthed balloon propelled by the gushing air. He knew, well enough, the events that would follow if he pulls the stop-chain. In fact it was a stop-chain that brought a wind of change in his life. Getting off from the thought-train that the stop-chain had evoked, he rushed towards it, with uncurled fingers.
___
i pass the baton to sensibly stoned, s m i t h a and the sun dew
---------------------------------------------------------------
(Everything below the dashed line above should be copied and pasted with every accepted tag)
This is a Story Tree and is best nurtured as follows:
1. A blogger can add only 90-100 words (not more or less) at a time.
2. All previous snippets of 90-100 words need to be copied before the new set of 90-100 words are appended.
3. Each entire snippet should be linked to the respective author (and not just the first sentence or so)
4. Characters, scenes, etc. can be introduced by an author
5. Bizarre twists, sci-fi, fantasy sequences are best avoided.
6. A tag must be accepted within 7 days else the branch is a dead branch
7. After appending 90-100, the Story Tree can be passed on to at most 3 bloggers.
8. If more than 1 branch leads to a blogger, s/he is free to choose any one of them but cannot mix the snippets of the individual branches.
9. The Story Tree is best left to grow than concluded
10. Please attach the image of the Story Tree below with each accepted tag (the link address can be copied and used).
He thought it would be an ordinary journey. Standing behind the pillar he watched the train snort arrogantly into the station. With each snort he was reminded of his grandfather's words "You will fail in the city and return penniless"; with every heavenward whistle, he heard his cousin, "Don't worry. Come here and I will get you a job at the construction site." Now he had a 34-hour journey to prove one of them wrong, and he expected the excitement at the end of the journey. He looked at his ticket once again: compartment S9 berth 23.
He would preserve this ticket. When he would succeed, he would frame and hang it for all to see, as a reminder of the fact that greatness had humble origins, of the day when he set out to seize his destiny. His lips quivered with emotion as he carefully counted the money in his wallet, yet again. Four crisp hundreds and two crumpled fifties. At seventeen, it seemed like a fortune to him. He would carefully plan his expenses. He felt as energetic as the strong breeze that hit his face. He stumbled backward, as the wallet slipped from his hands.
Turag watched it fall, with the fingers of both his hands curled—one gripping the steel bar and the other gripping nothing but air. The wallet settled, the second time it touched the greased stones. It was diminishing in size and moving away from him like an open-mouthed balloon propelled by the gushing air. He knew, well enough, the events that would follow if he pulls the stop-chain. In fact it was a stop-chain that brought a wind of change in his life. Getting off from the thought-train that the stop-chain had evoked, he rushed towards it, with uncurled fingers.
___
i pass the baton to sensibly stoned, s m i t h a and the sun dew
---------------------------------------------------------------
(Everything below the dashed line above should be copied and pasted with every accepted tag)
This is a Story Tree and is best nurtured as follows:
1. A blogger can add only 90-100 words (not more or less) at a time.
2. All previous snippets of 90-100 words need to be copied before the new set of 90-100 words are appended.
3. Each entire snippet should be linked to the respective author (and not just the first sentence or so)
4. Characters, scenes, etc. can be introduced by an author
5. Bizarre twists, sci-fi, fantasy sequences are best avoided.
6. A tag must be accepted within 7 days else the branch is a dead branch
7. After appending 90-100, the Story Tree can be passed on to at most 3 bloggers.
8. If more than 1 branch leads to a blogger, s/he is free to choose any one of them but cannot mix the snippets of the individual branches.
9. The Story Tree is best left to grow than concluded
10. Please attach the image of the Story Tree below with each accepted tag (the link address can be copied and used).
Monday, October 17, 2005
musings
There are withered leaves of yesterday,
pale and dead;
executed and lain bare on the green floor
by the martinet, gushy evening winds.
There are pigeons that enjoy free rides, down and up,
stepping out from its man-made pretended nest,
and landing ladylike on the outer ceiling of the elevator,
saving its shoulder's strength for other worthwhile journeys,
There are white-haired cranes that walk on the grass,
delicately, leaving the floor unhurt,
freezing and pretending to be nonexistent,
as I walk past it.
There are clouds that threaten
to drench the dehydrated earth,
waiting to close the deal
and induce new life cycles.
And there are also,
frozen tears that never saw beyond bay,
eyes that forget to remember the once thought-locked face,
rehearsed words of confessions that never saw its way,
mind-numbing thoughts of innumerous affrays,
faded memories of moments of dismay,
memoirs evoked by the disjoint rails,
and
persistent jubilant tunes of victory tales.
Now,
I see from a distance,
a whining kid that wants to see the chocolate store,
and select the ones that appeals to its eyes,
waiting to learn a new lesson in its life.
And here I am, amused by the kid,
cognizant of the kid's state of affairs,
But still,
yearning to see what life has in store.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
The one that stays longer and stronger...
The tough-minded
optimist views
any problem
as a challenge
to his intelligence,
ingenuity and faith.
He keeps on thinking,
praying and believing.
He knows there is
a solution and
so he finally finds it.
The title was for another write-up that I started writing; but I have been held up with other things. I liked the title so much. And the one in quotes is something that I have been telling myself quite often nowadays. Believe me, it’s quite an amazing thought!
Monday, September 26, 2005
Wondrous AR
Yes, I am talking about Rehman!! I am literally spellbound by the ‘Mayiliragae’ song. It is certainly one of the most beautifully woven spell in the air. It falls under the simple songs genre—simple in terms of usage of the orchestration. It’s an amazing blend of North and South. And, I never imagined Tabla and Thavil would compliment each other so well.
Even the non-apparent but significant cymbals (jinggu cha) are a treat to follow! I am sure each of the performers would have been on cloud nine when they were performing for this song—especially the rise in the tempo of the Thavil and Nadaswaram bit just before the second half of the song. In fact, the Thavil and the Nadaswaram are the inseparables—like the letters ‘Q’ and ‘U’ of English.
Talking about the vocals—none other than Rehman can use Madhushree’s voice in a better way. Be it the song from Aiyudha Ezhuthu or this one in Ah Aah. It is just the perfect example of how good or bad a voice can sound when in the hands of different music directors. And except for a few places, even Naresh Iyer has also mellifluously sung the song.
The pallavi of this song, ‘mayiliragae mayiliragae vardugirai ennai…’, which in the broader sense means that the touch of his or her beloved is similar to the magical and the lovely feel of the caress of a peacock feather. Believe me, the tones in their voices evoke similar emotions on the people who listen to the song!
I shouldn’t be talking about the ‘Maramkothhiyae’ song on this occasion, but I am compelled to as this is an amazing concept per se. Again Rehman excels in the remixed version of his own wondrous slow-tempo song, ‘Mayiliragae’. Each of two songs is unique but still each song is as dependent on each other like the steps of a ladder. Together they act in tandem to elevate the listener to a higher plane and both the songs compliment each other well in its characteristics.
Rehman for sure has craftily created a musical treat—at least for me!!
Even the non-apparent but significant cymbals (jinggu cha) are a treat to follow! I am sure each of the performers would have been on cloud nine when they were performing for this song—especially the rise in the tempo of the Thavil and Nadaswaram bit just before the second half of the song. In fact, the Thavil and the Nadaswaram are the inseparables—like the letters ‘Q’ and ‘U’ of English.
Talking about the vocals—none other than Rehman can use Madhushree’s voice in a better way. Be it the song from Aiyudha Ezhuthu or this one in Ah Aah. It is just the perfect example of how good or bad a voice can sound when in the hands of different music directors. And except for a few places, even Naresh Iyer has also mellifluously sung the song.
The pallavi of this song, ‘mayiliragae mayiliragae vardugirai ennai…’, which in the broader sense means that the touch of his or her beloved is similar to the magical and the lovely feel of the caress of a peacock feather. Believe me, the tones in their voices evoke similar emotions on the people who listen to the song!
I shouldn’t be talking about the ‘Maramkothhiyae’ song on this occasion, but I am compelled to as this is an amazing concept per se. Again Rehman excels in the remixed version of his own wondrous slow-tempo song, ‘Mayiliragae’. Each of two songs is unique but still each song is as dependent on each other like the steps of a ladder. Together they act in tandem to elevate the listener to a higher plane and both the songs compliment each other well in its characteristics.
Rehman for sure has craftily created a musical treat—at least for me!!
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