My daily visitors.

The swiftest visitor ...squirrel

The green filigree that greets me every day.

Ageless .Has been always around on the walls ,where ever I have resided, at all ages and times!Gecko![balli]A pigeon from neighbouring perch..

In a trice.

Within the space of 3 minutes and 3 yards ,my 3 decades of past life unfolded and vanished in a trice.

The anxious mother in her nightie waving to her rosebud like junior peering at her through the windows of the school van. His face ,fresh as well as a bit downcast at the the thought of the few hours of separation and then hastening to wave at her with his tiny hands as the van pulled on.

A school boy in early teens with satchel on his back walking to his school looking and kicking at everything on the road side with interest as well as disdain.He was followed by a college student in late teens in jeans , looking unconcerned and casual as he sauntered disinterestedly towards the bus stop.

Just behind was a young adult in formals, face glowing with a early morning shave and shoes shining with layers of polish striding with the keeness of one readying for a battle .

Not one of them gave me glance. Each of them , in their own worlds.

In between these different worlds was a foursome of giggling girls in uniform , lugging their burdensome books to school. Was I once like them? Carefree! Unattached! Happy at the sheer joy of living with rosy dreams ?

I was , 4 decades earlier. The cold fact is that it is nigh well impossible to revive and relive those feelings once again.It seems so ,so long ago.

Secured.

I was busy in the kitchen when the loud cooing of koels , very close by drew my attention.

There were 2 black koels with eyes as red as coal embers, sitting side by side on the branches of the gulmohar tree,,whispering to each other . A whisper so loud that it could be heard a mile off!

This coo some conversation lasted for quite some time ,till it was thwarted by the resident crow, chasing them away , guarding its precious thorny nest.

The territory was succesfully secured by the crow for its cawing clan.

Photo.The crow's nest.

Some memories remain fresh.

The utter despair, writ large on the bearded grieving father, revisited me , filling my eyes with silent tears.

Thiruvizha.

The annual festival was on in honour of Amman in nearby temple very recently.

A mega event . To which all the residents of the street were personally invited with an invitation the size of a laptop! The first 3 days are filled with religious fervour. Abhisekams of the presiding deity with milk. Venduthals [vows] performed by men and women by piercing their cheeks with long spears,thin and thick, mostly men and some of them dragging the auto , car or vans that they use and ply, by securing its front by ropes to metal hooks digging into their loose flesh on their shoulders and back , followed by women getting into trance and swaying and dancing and finally wrapped up by free lunch and dinner-- annadhanam.

The next 7 nights are devoted to entertainment. Dance, drama, music, mostly filmy variety and cinema.

The traffic is blocked [ not this time though], garbage piles high and my flat trembles and shakes at the loud blast from huge stereos.

This goes on every year, has been for the past 35 years ! An outlet and escape to all those labouring all year around with which I have no quarrel, even watched some unique dances like snake dance and the courageous dance of a one legged man but do have with the high decibel of the sound systems.

Photos :The lighting of the event.

To some, memories donot fade.

We were sitting in a circle listening in rapt attention to a middle aged Tamilian relate his horrifying experience at the site of the bomb blast at SriPerembadur , the very place and the very instant Sri Rajiv Ghandhi was killed.

This narrator was a young reporter then and was very near the dias , covering the event and taking down the speeches delivered at that election campaign.

Suddenly he heard a ear splitting sound and saw huge flames leap up on the stage, before he fell down senseless.When he came around ,shortly, he saw utter confusion and mayhem . There was smoke every where . His clothes were singed and tattered and covered with grime. He slowly sat up and saw several pieces sticking to his body. They were warm, soft and sticky and when he brushed them away his fingers became stained with blood. With a shock he realised that they were all pieces of human flesh! Not his. He passed out again.

When he woke up next, it was in a hospital . He opened his mouth to speak to his anxious family surrounding his bed, but no words would come out . He couldn't move his body . He could hear and see every thing , but couldn't respond.

He was in this state for two years One day he came out of it but was still confined to the hospital bed as he felt excruiting pain in his back. It took him some more years to overcome this as well as the relentless questioning by the police, to finally walk out of the hospital.

He was taken back by his original employers . And when he was sent on assignments memories of that terrifying day always flooded back making him shudder and shake in fear . He just couldn't take down notes.

Then it took another couple of years to overcome his pshycological trauma ,through therapy and finally face the world, a full 10 years after that event and start working to support himself and his family , to clear the medical bills and to settle down to a normal life!

I heard this tale, a real one not in Chennai , but in a nondescript dabbha tucked in the Himalayas ,near Deva prayag, where we, a bus load of pilgrims en route to Badrinath were forced to stay put on that spot for a whole day and night, owing to the blocking of road traffic by land slides., last year.

Why am I relating this now ? The debates currently raging on in the media on the merits and demerits capital punishment has made me to do so.

That genial public figure has long since faded and evaporated from my memory so has the revulsion I felt for the prepetrators of the act. But to that man an unwary and unintended victim ,who was relating the intimate details of his traumatic experience to total strangers , it has not.

A red rose.

The blast of stench that heralded the arrival of the garbage truck made me reach swiftly for my hanky to cover my nose , when I was walking on the pavement.

Two young men [garbage collectors] were hanging from the two sides at the rear of that compactor lorry ,totally oblivious or rather immune to that horrible stink. No scarf around their noses or mask.Nothing!

One of them was cheerfully waving a red flower ,he had picked up from the dump ,to some one across the street.I turned and saw that the recipient of this extraordinary attention was a young woman with long flowing hair , who was solemnly wheeling her small garbage collecting trolley ,with its spades and brooms! I couldn't but help laugh at this.

I have seen glossy Romeos climb ornate balconies to offer a red rose to their object of attraction and desire on films . Or offer bunch of flowers to beautifully turned out heroines in glittering , rich and romantic backgrounds.

This unique scene from real life how ever far surpasses those usual ones from reel life in its novelty and poignancy.

This burst of youthful exuberance was at once ironical and comical.

Class.

I have seen this morning walker on and off all through these years .Today she was in a mood to talk. And it was full of lamentations. How the woman flower seller robbed her shamelessly ,hiking prices 5 times , fully aware of the demand for flowers on festival days and observed vengefully that they ---vendors, have stagnated in their lives due to these deceitful practises and their abusive tongues.

A long time resident , that walker , was unable to tackle other long time residents , lower in class and scale!

I too have experienced their heckling but chose to ignore it and never felt so deeply hurt ,the way she was.Those hawkers have fought for survival since birth .Though better off now , old habits do die hard.And an important factor is that whilst this woman a housewife is dependant on her husband for doles these flower sellers are financially independent and are probably giving their husbands doles!And they can spot a wimp a mile of and go in for the kill.

Now I didn't explain all this to her as she was too distraught but not that distraught to make personal observation on my appearance [ I reminded her of her maths teacher] and gave me a parting advise to read such and such a book authored by some tips giving fellow[ probably because my smile in response to her'leer passing of as greetings wasn't wide enough] .

Well , now ,the heckling by low class vendors , jeering at my economic status that is not shelling out money to please their inflated demands hardly bothers me but this free advise giving trait of some middle classes coupled with personal comments does.

PS.I too plead guilty to this discomfiting practise of my co class.

A blade of grass.

The sky was blocked by various shades of green. And the air was cooled deliciously by the jade green spread ,artfully like a huge Japanese fan.Within the blades of lush green grass the gurgle of water bubbling from untended faucet , reminiscent of the companionable sound of springs dancing and chuckling over pebbles and stones in a deep and strange forest ,could be distinctly heard by me and it was as companionable as those distant streams, amidst the cacophony of sounds in this park ,in urban jungle .

Four years earlier I couldn't bear to see life dance gaily even in the tiniest and smallest of creations. I hated that blade of grass, a measly thing , lowest in scale of creation , enjoying so shamelessly its life and displaying it by swaying salaciously ,with every fibre of my being!

With a start I realise that I am allowing and am willing to be comforted by mother earth !

I have again started to appreciate the rich green colour of that blade of grass and am participating in its lively dance.It also sends warning bells peal within me .It is going to be difficult to leave when the time comes.

Oh! The trap laid by this sensory world is relentless in its pursuit.It waits with the patience of a vulture and then quietly closes in .

Sorry.

Sorry doesn't make a dead man alive when it is tendered by lips and not by the heart.

The person dubbed as .... ka saudagar is tendering it from his heart . So says my heart.

The week that was.

I never considered myself as a political person.Politics involves a lot of manipulation that is simply too much of a burden for my simple and idealistic mind set.

The intro to net introduced me to politics.When I started writing what most of us talk in our drawing rooms or in parks or in a social gatherings amongst yourselves with no one person agreeing with anther's view. on social and national matters only to be forgotten the very next day or even the moment , started assuming a totally different meaning .

Except for politicians can a person be strictly left, centre or right?I doubt it.We keep moving from one position to another.

It bewildered me that blogs which I felt were only a vehicle to express one's views and thoughts , could be so highly politicised!

One is either this or that.Iam definitely not.I want to express myself on what I feel on a given point of time.That is all.

Well the week has been very eventful.

First the impeachment of a judge. The judge smartly turned out stood out amidst the faded kurta clads and looked like a CEO. He argued his case very well . Then the rebuttal by the leader of the oppsn point by point on the spot itself , shows the mental calibre, poise, and intellect some of the political leaders are endowed with.The impartial analysis of the constantly expanding frontiers of corruption was truly enlightening . Leaders do their home work pretty well.

Then the tamasha at Ramlila maidan.It looked like one , but the chief player started looking increasingly pathetic and worn down by his fasting that at one point i felt mighty guilty whilst taking my food. Here was a simple old man forgoing his meals for out sake and no one seemed to be much concerned about it.It looked like as if every one was waiting for him to die ,live!A ghoulish desire that I couldn't stomach.

I know first hand how precious a life is. And how it can be lost due to selfishness, indifference and hatred.

If not for the non stop coverage by Macaulay putra's I wouldn't have seen for myself the fast detoriation of a person, a stranger just a fortnight ago and felt keenly his predicament.

Then the gracious appeal from PM and his amazing speech! It has left me speechless! He has finally found his voice ! And how! The collective appeals from the parliament shows that beneath the layers of hardened sensibilities a warm heart does tick in every politician.

I could sympathise with the anger of the regent [ but not with the bogey of communalism] delivered with a flourish in his speech [my, my the amul baby has come of age] against the team.I too felt it when they turned down the appeals of leaders with a paranoia that makes me wonder whether they , the swelling crowds aided by tv visuals are covertly abusing an elderly man for their ends. Honourable or materilistic. Whatever.

When i sat , eagerly to watch the debate in parl next I was totally dismayed by the speaker'allowing some other matter totally unconnected with the current burning issue making me wonder whether it was by design. Were the team justified in their fears? And the opposition right in their allegations doubting the sincerity of the ruling party?

The games politicians play. Is there a award for those?

Today[Sat]a blow to my plans to entertain myself with the eloquence of our netas in real time and not in the mock parli---tv cahnnels was delivered by the EB.They have thrown a spanner in the works by choosing this day to cut current exactly at 10 am till now .Hmm that is life.

PS. A word about the ex cops mimicry on the Dias.[I think she was mimicking the entire political fraternity and not any single party.]

It was top class. .Especially the part where she covers her face with a scarf. De talli! Sorry all you political folks and the prim and proper ones , I thoroughly enjoyed it and am looking forward to some more , preferably in celebration of ending the fast , soon.

Dil ho to aisa!

The peal of appeals from the well to take meals.

Anna take anna.

'O' Anna your not partaking anna makes me feel that I am a Huna,whenever I have my anna.

Huna or Huns----cruel person or tribe.

The suburban train.

I have passed the Thiruninravur railway station several times in the past decades on my way toTirupathi . I was aware that it was host to an ancient temple and my decisions to visit it was like an oath taken during labour pains--prasava vairagyam.

Today the moment had actually arrived . And there I was boarding an suburban electric train .The second class seats are hard . There is no cushioning here but the fare is soft , only 14 Rs for a 30-40 kms trip! The floors were littered with empty ground nut shells and mausambi peels. The seats were crowded with young mothers with infants returning home either after shopping or after paying social calls.There were also groups of college students [mixed] who were pulling each others legs and whiling away the time taken to reach home[ it was 5 pm] by playing with mobiles that crackle to life by a mere touch.

It seems a eternity since I first travelled in a electric train.Was i rubbing shoulders with the great unwashed?No.Most commuters were neat and well fitted out .

The only specimen from the past parade of poor were the incongruously dressed Kurathi's---gypsy women selling beads . They have preserved their past to perfection . Their wares , that is the beads have however become chunkier keeping in tune with current trends in fashion!

Visually impaired men were selling mobile covers.In all probability they are graduates who are making the ends meet till they are appointed as teachers by the govt.

What amused me was a fierce looking vendor of mausambhis ,who had plonked his huge basket on the way and his glowering and hurling abuses at two young men who dared to step over his cargo and obstruct his business for those few seconds!That those strapping young lads took this bullying meekly ,really surprised me.

After visiting the temple I boarded the ladies compartment ,for my return journey.Ah! This was totally a new world altogether.Most women who were returning home from their work as clerks,IT workers, teachers,and lower staff's had stretched out their aching limbs comfortably on the seats accommodating each other s limbs . Some were dozing and others chatting on their mobiles. One woman in particular was shrieking over her phone disrupting everyone's peace. Thankfully the recipient of this blast on the other side cut it off after some time and became unavailable.

If you thought that only adolescent boys stood on the rocking and swaying entrance of the train for thrills you would be surprised as I was .There were several women balancing themselves near the open doorway though there was no dearth of vacant seast ! They were enjoying the wind streaming from the speeding train .And there was a woman with a infant too.

All in a days work!

Anna ,manna and sapna!

Anna is the manna to many a munnas and is a simha sapna to many a manaa's.

PS.In Tamil manaa means ruler.

Agandaiya ? Vindhaiya?

Vellai roja pondra malarndha mugam ,kulirindha parvai , menmaiyana pechchu!

Yen varanda vazhvil sugamana thendralai, inbha idaivellaiyai valam vara seidhu,

andha anbana mottu malarum munbhe parrithu vittai .

Yen? Yarrukhaga? Yedharkaga?

Meendun palaivana mana vazhkaiyil puthagangalai thunaikondu khazhippadarka?

Yennaal indha ulagam siridhenum payanura yen maganin uyir thaan mooladhanama?

Yidhu yen agandhaiyin villaiva? Alladhu Vallavane idhu vun vikaramana vindhaiya?

Little white rose---Birthday remembrance--14.8.1983

Though the scent of my life was cruelly smothered the fragrance called memory has escaped and lingers on .

In my memory you still reign as a little white rose.

Little rose, my little white rose , not so white yet whiter than a white rose, wherever you might be , memories are for me to keep.

Translations.

Of late I have taken to translating Tamil poems into English.

My toughest customer was Bharathiyar.A translator either tends or has to get into the mind set of the original author . And I found Bharathiyar's turbulence of emotions and his anger very difficult to negotiate.

I think a woman can never experience such turmoils and churning's and scale such high emotional peaks . And this was no ordinary man! At least I couldn't and extricated myself by putting a full stop to it.

Aazhwars hymns in comparison are easier to translate.Their pleasing poetry and simple but deep devotion ,is very refreshing.

I am again encountering a problem ,that of deficit of intellect whilst translating Desikan's slokas or hymns.His intellect ,creativity and optimistic faith is so high that it leaves me flabbergasted.I have been scared stiff of his poetic skills . I daren't venture further and translate his other scholarly works,like philosophy and so on.

My translations are few , just scratched the surface. The energy I encountered flattened me to the ground.I can't even begin to imagine the magnitude of the energy that prompted these great poets to spin forth inspirational poems in hundreds and thousands, seemingly effortlessly!

Petition.

The only wealth my street is accumulating day by day is garbage.

The sole occupation of all in here is swatting mosquito's that seem to multiply 10 fold for one taken!

'O' Devas unlock your hard hearts and grant us lowly beings the boon of cleanliness.

PS. I am looking forward to the day when I need never petition the lord with this prayer.

Discovery

The other day I saw a few men clambering through a dark and mysterious looking caves with their flash lights held high , its light reflected by the river flowing silently below.. This kindled my curiosity and I watched on , in one of those animal channels.

Thise was either in Laos or Cambodia i forget the exact country , but have not forgotten the explorers excited exclamations about this vast network of caves being hidden from view this long , as well as their obvious pride spilling all over at their magnificent 'discovery'.

Their excitement was contagious and I gripped my chairs arm rest . Then I saw a local ferrying these Westerners across the river on his boat.

So now where is this great discovery? Those boats men seem to know the maze of tunnels and caves like the back of their hand . It was obvious that they had been in this new found discovery 100's of times before.And here are these Wn jumping in joy at their discovery.

All that they have done is to photograph it well and bring it to the drawing rooms of Westerners and people like us , interested in their antics.

What ever a wn finds before another wn it is a 'discovery', How limited is some Wn's view of mankind and how amusing is their very bloated sense of self importance. It reminds of the frog in the well syndrome.

America's, Australia and Newzealand had human habitations and civilisations for 1000's of years but only when wn land on these continents it is ''discovered'..World according to them revolves solely around them and every thing in it is theirs and is only for their advancement and amusement.

Now why do I see these irritating and yet fascinating channels time and time again? Now why do I see anchors spewing, stuttering, patronising, cutting and hectoring time and time again?

There is no other go.

A single grain.

Recently I read a compilation of short stories translated in English of 2 greatest Bengali writers , thinkers philosophers scholars all personified in the much respected and idolised personages of Rabindra nath Tagore and Bankinchandra chatterjee.

I really wished that I knew Bengali when I read Chatterji's stories to appreciate and savour the word picture he brings to mind more fully and deeply.

I had no such feelings when I read Tagore.He also conveys the exact settings as it was but without the poetic description of the former . But what he says goes straight to the heart and doesn't require one to be familiar with the nuances of his mother tongue ,the medium of his expression.

I am ducking in anticipation of the stones that are sure to be pelted at me by Bengali scholars. writers and thinkers for daring to to voice my opinion on their icons [ as well as Bharat's ]after reading just 2 books.

Well blogging is all about expressing one's views how ever crass it may be.

There is a saying in Tamil 'Orru sorru orru pannai sorukku padham '. I t is enough to test a single grain to find out whether the rice in the pot is cooked.

Books read;'She' by Tagore,

'Kapalakundala' and other stories by Chatterji

The sunset club.

If a person can live up to 95 years which is by itself a remarkable achievement and further writes book at that age which most of us would never reach and those who would surely be doddering and senile, kindled my curiosity to read the book Sunset club of Kushwant singh.

I quit reading his novels long while ago when I found them short of stories and long of lurid details of unnatural relationships.

I reasoned that a person edging swiftly to his final tryst will have something to say that is truthful. Hence I picked it up from the library's shelf.

He has retained the knack of not allowing the readers interest to flag despite his very old age.Politics and religion are the topics of discussion along with his trademark digressions.

This brings to my mind young Rama's desolate cry when confronted with the harsh realities of life in the treatise Vasishta suktam,discomfited by old age" How terrible it is to see a danseuse well past her prime and charm insist on dancing like a young woman".

Did some one say old age is second childhood? And may I add it is also an age obsessed with bowel movements. This is the general hang I got after reading this authors latest book.

The charade of life.

The koel's calling each other from the darkened silhouettes of mango and palm trees is the final call of the day!

It is preceded by the piercing screeches of parrots flying in groups to their nightly shelter.

Before them are the pigeons racing each other to wherever their perches maybe,for the night.

Even before them ,when the sun starts dipping in the west the crows turn restless ,circling , diving and assembling on roof tops.

All these daily rituals , preparations for a good nights rest is in synchronisation with the sun's sleep.

But the sun will rise every dawn without fail. Can one say that every bird going to sleep will wake up the following morn?

My son too slept with the sun as a child and did the same anon.

This charade of life is going on since aeons and will surely go on for some more to come . For whom and for what?

Sea--snaps

The sea at Thirupullani in the morning.
The sea near Dhanushkodi .

None.

There was none like you ,my son,before, now or will be hereafter,

This is brutal finality,
Life's reality,

Scant is my temerity to face this enormity.

27.7.11

The night that passes never returns.
The Ganges discharges her waters into the great ocean but never turns on her back. ---- -- Ramayana.

Offerings.

I find this collective gasps, pants and drools over the 'treasure trove' unearthed from below Sri Padmanabha temple absolutely distasteful and very obnoxious.

They are not the spoils of war but the tearful and joyful offerings of devotees , overwhelmed by their devotion either in seeking the fulfilment of some boon or the thanksgiving for the succor received from the almighty enshrined as the deity , down the ages.

Barring a few aberrations even the poorest Hindu will not touch these priceless offerings not out of any fear of the wrath of the god but due to 'Dharma' ingrained in all of us that one does not steal from the all knower, enshrined in the deity.

We may feel envious of our neighbours wealth ,but none of us are envious of a richly decorated deity. The splendour is accepted and appreciated as a matter of course and considered sacred, by one and all.

According to me it is the prerogative of those managing the temple affairs and the king who is said to be the owner to decide on the matter. Since every other person is voicing his or her view onTV,dailies, weeklies and in letters to editor,so am I.

I find even the tabulation of the jewels and so on under full media glare ,itself sacrilegious. Well it is being done and nothing can be done about it.

The ornaments are for adorning the deity ,to add to the majesty and beauty and not for exhibition in glass cases.. Why not simply do that? I mean the former.Like at Tirumalai.

Other offerings like coins and so on can be invested to provide amenities to pilgrims visiting the temple, like free accommodation, food and water, in training priests, taking up renovation works of temples that are dilapidated and crumbling and boost the finances of those temples that are starved of funds and in building prayer halls.

Kulasekara aazhwar the Vaishnavaite saint ,8 th centAD who was also the king of Kerala then,gives equal if not even more respect to devotees of Bhagwan and says clearly in one of his greatly venerated hymns ,

'My eyes have not truly served their purpose unless they see those' devotees'of Vishnu thronging in the percinicts of the temple and praying in total devotion! ..PerumalThirumozhi .............658.

Does one need a better example than he , to follow and emulate ?

Sughadhara dhagam

Indha aganru virindha bharatha kandathil yengu thirindalum,kootadha kuppaiyum ,agatrapadadha asingamum azhukkum, yen kannil padhughirade'!

Yella idahthirkum sigaram vaitharpol ith thupuruvatra veedhiyil, thupuketta madhiyaal irrukka vidhikapattene'

Yendru thaniyumo yen sughadhara dhagam?

Meella puddhir

Meellaa dhukathirku meellaa thookhathinal meella, mayan, yeppodhu meellavaipano?

Crowning glory.

I met a few relatives after a long pause . Though older than me by a decade or so , one of them stood out amongst others of her age by her jet black hair.When others in the group marvelled at her retaining the colour of youth ,disparaging their own whitening locks,she broke the myth about her youth by letting it slip that she dyed her hair without fail.

Sensing the disapproval at the artifice employed to dodge and mask old age ,she reasoned that grey hair elicits no respect in society but only contempt and that people on the road donot bother to show directions , a small request, when it comes from a person whose hair has turned grey and white.

At this juncture I must mention the popular sports commentator with a shining bald pate and smiling face who suddenly sprouted a thick crop of black hair. I rubbed my eyes several times in disbelief , wondering whether his younger brother had taken up his job! However with this sudden acquisition of a youthful appearance his observations and comments though same as before seemed to have lost their edge ,-- profundity and wisdom.At least to me .

If you think that this yen for youth by coloring hair --a fancy word for plain old dyeing or transplanting hair to get a thick mat, is a fixation only of the middle and well to do classes you have one thing coming.As i got to know today.

Early in the morning I saw a group of men and women labourers squatting on a mound of sand getting ready to start work at the nearby construction site. From a distance a middleaged woman of that group , whom I took to be,of combing lovingly her daughters hair , was actually brushing with great care a Savuri---wig! Presumably hers, to add thickness to the thin strands of her crowning glory!

Fresh!

I chided myself for taking the wrong street on my way back home , as the sun had risen quite high and its rays would be direct and intense in the street i had in my preoccupied state ,taken without debating beforehand the consequences of a walk down the sparsely tree lined street in this summer heat.

I was too tired to make a detour and sauntered onto the street that is defined by the left and right ,having their regional HQ's side by side. Incongruous but commotion less neighbours.

I was glad that I didn't head away to the other.The sight that greeted me made me miss my camera . So many beautiful sights pass by in life without it being clicked and stored and shared . This was one such. A photo can convey more than ,all my vocabulary can.

Though sparse in tree cover ,the street does not lack in trees. As I cut the corner the sun rays lit up the red flowers covering the branches of the gulmohar tree arched winsomely , into red lanterns , with magenta bougainvillea flowers at the background adding further to the splash of colours.

Under this magical setting came walking ,young school girls dressed in lehenga, half sari and jackets ,in all harmonious shades of pink. Their faces fresh and innocent , with gentle smiles hovering,their movements languidly graceful ,walking in an unhurried manner ,yet in a good pace. The rhythm of youth !

They were followed by small kids in red shorts and skirts , faces that exuded the freshness of early morning breeze ,were however downcast with the typical Monday morning blues!

The fragrance of some highly scented flower growing within a nearby compound wafted by and a koel cooed softly above signing in its presence in that youthful serenade, begging for recognition!

An piece of life , played out in that corner , the sight,smell and sound of which is sure to lift the most dampened spirits of a mortal .As it did,of mine.

A wonderful contrast to seeing only blase faces with grimaces , bulges and burps , the part of life that I actually and unfortunately belong to.

Insult.

Never insult an alligator until after you have crossed the river!

[Courtsey..........bhavans journal.]

Tamasha!

What a 'tamasha'!

The word 'tamasha' which I used just for 'tamasha' seems to have caught the fancy of many a Bhadhushah's that it is peppering their bhasha's, on prime time 'Tamashas'!

Alm's takers.

Yesterday's, sharp summer showers ,at night, has thrown a wet towel over the burning embers of mid June heat and has carpeted the city with a pleasant coolness.

Hence the morning , was tantalisingly inviting for a stroll. The short and brief songs of the koel's bravely trilling in the withering heat , was today in tune with the quiet and cool weather , long and lilting !

A perfect weather to be out to savour the sights and sounds of early morning and could I let such a golden opportunity ,to slip by?

And there I was, outside the entrance of Balaji temple , satisfied by a fleeting darshan and on my way back home.when a feeble voice saying 'Narayana' caught my attention amidst the milling crowds devotees dressed in their Saturday best and equally milling crowd of beggars [or should I call them 'Alm's takers' like 'home makers' for house wives,]all out , seeking the blessings from god and humans.

A very thin unkempt man sat sandwiched between two parked motorbikes ,with out stretched arms.

I dropped few coins in his palm ,which he greeted with the word 'Narayana'.

As I walked on ,2 middle aged alm's takers decently turned out clanged their stainless steel tumblers at me , which I chose to ignore and thereby invited their wrath.

They called out aloud in a teacher's voice to my retreating back,

''Hey, you are dropping coins to that sod who is going to spend it on 'Sarayam'---arrack

and not to deserving people like us" and added few expletives for effect.

Tempted though I was to get into a wordy duel , I decided against spoiling the unspoilt freshness that still lingered in the air and kept my thoughts to myself.Whilst these' deserving' women were hectoring and letting out a volley of abuses at the sacred precincts the sober, 'drunk' was mumbling and repeating only god's name !

To me only the latter, matters.

Summer showers.

The transparent curtain that can never be drawn, though it flutters in the wind,

The thrill is still there , it is yet to be quelled.

The blinding spot light on the temple ,an eyesore assumes a different wear,

it transforms the rain drops on the boughs to twinkling sheaths of diamonds,

it is only during rains that I donot mind its glare!

Barely footed.

I was admiring the red bunches of flowers that have sprung overnight like a deftly shuffled pack of cards into an arc by a cardsharp,on Gulmohar trees lining the street and picking my way through delectable looking neem friuts littering the road in their transparent yellow peels, disguising the bitterness they held within ,when my early morning rambling ,accosted only by a steady stream of ragpickers, on morning duty,and by stray walkers , was disturbed by the loud and angry voice of a man giving a dressing down to a younger , on the matter of loading rubbish from the pavement on to a mini lorry.

As I passed them ,his voice had risen higher and I could clearly hear his furious threats ,that if the younger man refused to budge he would remove his chappals and beat him!

His fury arrested my attention so , that I stopped to take a look .Now what do I see?

The man bellowing in rage was barefooted!

Mum..

Thanks to Amma, my, chumma chumma' hecklers mouth's have been stuffed with upma.

PS .In Tamil' ChummaChumma' means 'niggling'- persistent.

If I had a daughter.

If I had a daughter ,I don't and can't,but if I had a daughter and like girls of these days chooses her life partner whilst studying abroad or working in some multi national company would I able to stomach her choice , if the boy speaks a different language ,belongs to another caste and worse is of another religion?

I am no Neta to take a statesman like view and brush away caste, language and religion as irrelevant.And smugly reiterate that we are all Indians and that is what matters.

Does it Honestly I have my qualms .

What if she chooses a Punjabi? Their brashness---eat,drink and be merry is so scary , I' ll surely be wary.

What if he is a Bong?She will have to eat fish early in the morning to be a 'suhagan.' Very fishy.

What if he is a Guju. Ok all of them are vegetarians but have a fetish for cleanliness .Ponchoving--mopping the house thrice a day.An ocd in the bargain?How can I ?

What if he is from the Hindi heartland?Their over attachment to Rashtra bhasha will leave me tongue tied.

What if he is from North east?The dark and unknown part of our sub continent. Aren't they all chinkies with head hunters thrown in? I donot fancy becoming a dish on the table.

Now coming down South, what if he is a Andhraite? Though a love marriage he may demand dowry beyond my capacity and in the process of paying up, though being a woman I may become bald.So impossible.

If he is aMallu , aren't they all matrilineal and won't he escape to gulf dumping my daughter on my head?

If he is a Kannadiga there would be no language problem ,just substitute 'ha' for 'pa' , but if rains fail and Cauvery isn't flooded ,deadly clashes will break out within the family.

What if he is a Muslim . My house will be flooded with burkhas . Unthinkable.

What if he is a Christian I would have to redeem myself often for being a sinner.No ,never.

What if she marries an orthodox Brahmin. She will become a touch me not, bathing thrice a day.Better be away.

What if she chooses a non brahmin tamil? She will pierce her delicate cheeks with needles and tiny spears on festive occasions ,get into a trance and beat me with bunches of neem leaves . No way.

Ok I got married in a goody goody arranged marriage with 10 similarities in the horoscope but the gap between our families was like the one between Tetrayuga and kaliyuga. A clash of civilisations.

To click what is needed is luck.Maybe a blue blooded Chinese [eating snakes and all] would turn out to be a better husband for my imaginary daughter.Who knows?

Ps.What about Africans or westerners? My flight of imagination is stultified to India and Asia and refuses to spread its wings beyond.

PPS. Now don't you all get het up .This is only a flight of imagination ,intended to hurt none .It is just for fun. In fact there is a mini India within my family and extended family!

Photo.River Cauvery at Kallanai dam, when not in spate, near Trichy.

Bitter sweet.

Back to the blistering heat,barnacled dirt and badhboo,
Back to bickering auto's , bad mouthing vendors, bandaged beggars,bugs and back alleys,
Back to bright lights,bustling buggies,bristling buses ,broad ways,broad avenues, bright sunshine, brisk Gen's and big brown beach,
Back to the beaten track, butterflies ,bees, boisterous,backslapping,back harping, belligerent budda's in Bermuda's and bhavishya [life,religion etc] bhashan brokering, bloated , boot legged, bhabhi's and benumbing blast of bombastic laughter by a balding yoga instructor and his back bending band, in the Baagh,
Back to balcony, black crow's companionable cawing,blackish brown myna's clucking and black koel's soulful singing,
Back to bagful of memories and Balaji,
Back home.

PS : Donot have me wrong.Despite some deficiencies Chennai is the best city in the whole of SouthIndia.I am sharpening my vocabulary to pass time.

Art of governing.

Un roll the red carpet in a hurry,

pull it away in a jiffy!

Solar city.

As the day express chugged into the Bengaluru railway stationI couldn'tbut help thinking that I was entering into the state that witnessed an astonishing parade of vote of confidence and the govt winning all of them, a record of sort ,in a short span of time.

For being touted internationally as 'silicon valley 'of the east and conferred with the honorific 'Bangaloored' the state of the roads was a rude let down .Nothing international about it.Narrow,potholed,congested and some constructions or the other going on with its attendant hurdles to smooth flow of traffic .They are no patch to Chennai roads.Really Chennai roads and flyovers win hands down.

The weather is however is simply wonderful.And people are very courteous.A centrally air conditioned city with flowers growing riotously in every garden ,on road sides and in vacant plots.
A cool,clean city that is green by nature and is also being made to go green as is vouchsafed by the presence of solar heaters on each and every roof top!

The fast that didn't last.

Lunatic 'lila' at the dead of the night, at Rama's maidan.
Poor, Baba! PoorBhakth's !

Puzzling.

The net is littered with twitter and every drawing room has non stop nonsense beamed from its corner,
Yet the only 'Anna' known, south of Vindhyas [TN] is Annadurai and the only 'Baba's' widely known are Shiridi and Puttapathi Saibaba's!

How very puzzling!

Temple codes.

I read a piece of news on the front page of a daily that a Dalit boy was slapped by a Brahmin priest for helping himself to 'vibhuthi' from the untended aarti plate,and that the priest has been booked under IPC and may be booked under stringent laws relating to untouchability.

I am a Brahmin an Iyengar, supposed to have descended from one of the 74 disciples of the foremost preceptor Sri Ramanuja, who systematised all the temple rituals. My great grand father was a Mahamahopadya in Visishta dwaitam. Yet I dare not venture into the sanctum sanctorium .My lineage has no doubt impressed some priests who were patient enough to lend their ears , but that wasn't persuasive enough to to make them open the gate leading to the sanctum sanctorium , to me or to the male members of my family, even in those temples where I have given generous donations.

My colour[ light] or my attire --sungudi saree with diamond ear pins the sign posts ,alerting any one even a mile off, to my caste status or my age 50 plus carries no recommendation to my entry into the sanctum sanctorium of even the smallest temple of the remotest areas in here.

I have been shooed away rudely , like a stray cat by some priests , half my age when on such occasions I unwarily and emotionally entered the sanctum . Their brusque attitude was unsavoury and has pained me also.

This is the mind set in here. The priests are the guardians and keepers of the purity and sanctity of inner sanctum , idols and all the puja utensils and materials and most of them are fiercely possessive and protective about this.This is how it is!

Ps. i am neither condoning the uncharitable and mindless act of violence nor overtly censuring the lack of knowledge and sensitivity to temple codes but relating my own experiences.

Survivors

I spied a pale green parrot, dive into the black bole of a huge tree beak first , early in the morning . This tree isn't in a temple compound in some remote village , where the traffic is only a stray dog or a passing cycle or buried in groves and glades in the country side with very little human habitations,but in the heart of the city where the roar of traffic is like a sonic boom and the pollution level that is measured in suspended particle etc, etc, that goes beyond my head , is one of the highest in the country!

Groups of parrots were creating a merry racket over tree tops,audible only because traffic is light early in the day, whilst squirrels scurried across the busy road scampering precariously over branches describing long arches over the tumultuous street below with the leaves forming a shimmering green brocade jacquard canopy.

And honey bees hovered around pink panneer roses , white Sampangi's and aromatic jasmine flowers , strung into garlands by flower sellers at the temple gates at the same road, undeterred by the risk of being squashed or transported away to places far from their hives , along with the flowers packed into plastic covers and handed over!

These tiny animals so pleasant to the eye are perfectly at home in these thunderous envirionments and have been raising families in succession dating from and lasting to several generations without any apparent mutations!

The wonder of life!

sun-- rest

I saw you set as a huge mellow red ball in the western sky after painting the sky for hours in gorgeous slashes of hues. Now you are up, barely after 12 hours ,rising as a orange ball and slowly becoming a dazzling golden one , slipping reams of golden threads through tender green leaflets!

My body aches, my mind is dumb and my spirit is numb and I 'd like to linger on in the womb of my bed. Tiring of my routine.

Aren't you ever tempted to linger on in your bed amidst the velvety night sky with diamonds as your night light, just a few minutes longer, to roll and loll ,savouring the lassitude and the well deserved rest after the punishing work you are called to do day after day , for eons?

Al the books I have read haven't a single record of you ever playing truant, even once! 1000 years hence[3011] some one would look up and wonder in the manner I am so doing now!

Dear sun have you no rest?Is there no one to relieve or substitute, you?

Are we humans so selfish that our longings will never let you skip your beat?

A stab of shame. [ sujataism]

The streets were deserted as ,it usually is on a Sunday.Hoping to beat the skin scorching heat of the day to come before my usual morning beat I walked on savouring the deliciously cool breeze rustling through the avenue trees, a surprise of a surprise in mid summer,masking the heat that lay ahead that would turn water flowing from taps,too scalding hot to touch!

As I hurried on with my exercise I saw two tiny coal black puppies , nudging each other and snipping at one another on the pavement.Few feet away was their mother , absolutely black , licking four more identical sooty puppies behind their ears as they fed.The golden brown dog, obviously its mate, that usually stalks this road, lay sprawled next to it, enjoying its nap undisturbed.There were no passing vehicles ---two wheelers or rag pickers or dogs to engage its attention and challenge its dominance.

Seeing this large litter of puppies I couldn't but help thinking that the corporations claims published on the dailies that they had sterilised all stray dogs on the cities streets,was after all only a tall one.Just then the black stray looked up at me.

Its eyes were not fierce or angry at my long and hard stare but sad and pleading with a look that appeared to have divined my thoughts and seemed to say'"Like you , have I also not the right to experience motherhood, at least once?"
A stab of shame rent through me and I quickened my pace dabbing my eyes.

None.

If a woman loses her husband she is known as a widow.If a man loses his wife he is known as a widower. If a man or woman loses a child there is no name to denote this. It was and is simply too awful even to contemplate such a situation.

Age.

Blue and white is a beauty sight!

Blue sari and cotton like white hair ,is a sorry sight.

Who may have once been a feast to the every ones sight,

Is now like a stray beast wandering on the street!

Unnoticed , uncared for and a sore to the sight!

Aura.

Revelling in adulation and acclaims for an act done by another , the aura that is donned by default ,

Is like the illusion of flowers blooming on a leafy shrub , incapable of producing flowers , fallen on it by the over hanging branches of a flowering tree!

Eternal mystery.

'Immortal 'I am thinks, always the' mortal' man!

Craft.

Is the draft on the craft of graft , daft or is it the raft?

Gloating!

Voting is over ,after counting the gloating will begin!

sms.

I generally go through the noted writer of yester years articles as I had admired his writings in my college days.


His article a jangled twisted mass of words in sms was simply beyond my comprehension and I gave up deciphering it after first few lines .

How ever the comments it elicited were very clear and are as follows---


I got a head ache half way!

Toi I need your do not disturb sign!

Dear sir it is now very clear that you have lost it completely. I am your own age. Remember the old saying ,'Deliberately breaking one's horns to look like a calf will not work'!

Sir did you write this article when your AC was off due to power failure?

Please spare us , the state of the nation is already driving us nuts!

Who the hell wrote this , for whom ? What is he trying to say?