Wednesday, December 09, 2009

by the beach...

A seaport has always been the grandest of gateway to literature. I have read over a hundred stories from ports all over the world. Symbolising life's struggle; of pain, suffering, hope and joy. 

I do live in the city with a seaport, and by the beach. The city, though, rarely wakes up to the charm of the beach or the grandeur of the port. Sadly, there are not that many writers. Those inspired by the sea, port, and the beach must be very few. May be, these writers are littered along the northern shore of the city, lying undisovered. 

Somehow, the port has failed to fill the veins of the writing class. There's not much of writing on the working class also. Or are they not part of the mainstream literature? Sadly, a city of rich culture (call it coffee, carnatic, bharatanatyam) has far less to boast in terms of  literature. May be, all the writers missed the port, and thereby the city's soul. 

I have been dwelling here for a decade but there is only one place where the view of the sea port strikes you in face. As you drive from the northern parts of the city to the collectorate, there is a bridge (under which they used to sell heroin). On top of the bridge, the port's view is dramatic. Sturdy, energetic and vivacious. 

I too have missed the port. At least, I'm happy to drive along the beach on weekdays watching the sea in its myriad hues. Emerald diamond, brilliant black, whale blue, shark grey, bluish green, bleached blue, and at times pale brown. Somedays, the sea waves to you and the beach beckons. 

After the torrential winter rains for five days, the city's skyscape, for once was deep blue, with spongy clouds suspended between the horizon and the lazy sun of a late afternoon. My feet followed the soul to the shore. 

The sea was draped in a deep black spread.  The ships were anchored miles away shone in splending lighting. Very rarely, the ship's contours are visible from the beach. I had to be content with the camera in my mobile. As I took a picture of the distant port, this crow flew into the frame, and lent it the poise. The dyeing waves though were touching my feet,  murumuring the mysteries of the bay. 

The beach has a hundred stories to say, the port a thousand, and the sea a million.The fisher folk, the guardians of the sea, know it better. Catamarans cruise through the bay. On the coast, the crows fly around. As they land, the crows freeze in flight. Time stands still.  

Fly. If not afar, at least, to the beauty of beach. 

Bach's baroque. 

Sunday, December 06, 2009

tip toe...

There are two things that maketh a man. Travel and writing. As you pursue this paralell path, that intertwine all the time unlike the train track, you subtly open the windows to a world of wonder, as the secret chambers of a self-centric heart wakes up to the true passions of life. On the way you learn to have an observant eye, an alert mind, a radiant heart and discover that free spirit. 

After three years, I tip toed back into the passion called travel with my not-so-dirty shoes. Why had I not traveled? What was stopping me? Where was I? 

Nowhere. May be, I was self-indulgent in my own stupid ego around reams of paper in a concrete jungle and bound by the love of a few dotting girls at home. Self-inhibitions can be killing. This truth, you will keep discovering time and again. Till you take the time to travel. 

Without knowing, I subtly stepped into my travel canvas a few months ago. On quite a few enchanting journeys. I was back in the blue tube wearing my blue shoes treading varied landscapes, on the rickety buses to the mountain slopes and a couple of boat rides on the blue expanses. 

As usual, the rains unleashed the spirit for freedom. A valiant port renewed my vigour to life, then the rainforest embraced me in her lustless bosom, a silvery stream stitched a distraught soul, a church and choir sang lullabies in a garden city, an emeraldish bee eater in a paddy field reminded me of rare beauty, and a pelican in penance amidst million golden droplets on a high noon set me free. From my faintest of ego. 

Come, let's walk the path together. 

Stories From The Soul Town

There lies a magical land. Surrounded by the green ghats to the west, gurgling great rivers on the east, the valley with the very blue sky. A temple town of the tamils. Sitting on the dancing rock on the highland overlooking the valley, the writer procreates the lives of the people of this lesser known south west. Full of strange yet simple souls.