Space God

here we are

2011-10-17T03:24:00.000-07:00

The poll rhetoric is over. the debate was on. the vision of the wannabe mayors is to create e-mail ids and providing helplines. in essence, they are keen on serving the public. but there is little to suggest what the city really wants to move forward to take its rightful place along the great cities of the world. it is obvious that the Chennai Corporation, even if it is Greater Chennai, will not be able to accomplish everything the city needs on its own. the state must have the vision to take the city truly a place to live and cherish. the geography of the city has it in that it has the ability to expand and assimilate to be the true cornerstone of rapid urbanisation that has swept the state in the last two decades.

This is a city full of promise yet has fallen short on expectations repeatedly. There is no place to begin describing the life of a city than garbage that touches the life of every dwelling. Despite a Supreme Court directive to implement solid waste management some five years ago, the city, like most other cities in the nation, is still clueless even to the idea. Majority of the city is still to have two dust bins for seggregating waste - the first step towards effective waste disposal system. the whole process is mired in bureacratic and legal tangles. then the dump yards. even if city's two shame pits at Perungudi and Kodungaiyur have been brimming over and above for years, the corporation is yet to even think of decentralising garbage disposal. identification of one garbage disposal site, without affecting the locals in anyway, along every road that goes out of the city and carrying the city's muck to create wealth (which is possible on a smaller scale) is not a distant possibility.

Plastic is another toxin plaguing us. Ten years ago, the same ruling government was about to pass an order banning the plastics in the city which was scrapped an evening before. This time around also, the intent is there and one has to wait for the level of enforcement. The city itself, on its own, could curb the use of plastics by taking that old-world cloth bag or wire-baskets with them but unfortunately, the city's elite prefer paying for plastic bags in malls and shops. And there are cement manufacturers waiting for the corporation to transport the plastic to their factories to burn them without a trace of toxins reaching the atmosphere.

The state's top bureacrat, before he became that, once told me that unless the city's waterways are cleaned up, the city will never be able to make it as a great city. The government he works for is not talking about the previous government's efforts to clean up and restore the Cooum river, matchless in its shame. Of course, it has been the pet project right from the first time the five time chief minister M. Karunanidhi assumed office first time. The vision has always been there. May be, there was intent too. It still is a pipe-dream. On the other hand, Adyar offers opportunities for the city some scope but here the city lacks vision. Remember the crores spent on National River Conservation project? The city's Buckingham canal looks beyond redemption but the canal along the OMR has a lure that is yet to be tapped. Urbanisation on that IT stretch could also contaminate the canal clean as of now. Are we aware?

There has been debate on metro rail and mono rail but no one is saying openly that metro is a necessity to take people in suburbs like Ambattur, Avadi and Sriperumbudur as well as vast stretches of North Madras where the public mostly use public transport. The circular corridor in the first phase of metro is unlikely to make much of a difference within the city whereas monorail, by its very design, could crisscross and decongest the heart of the city. Another circular road corridor, with BRTS as an inherent part, is still in its foetus. No one knows how long or how many governments it would take to deliver. Sample this, MRTS stations stand as the ugly testimony of the vision of the southern railways and failure of the state to effectively integrate urban transport system for which a bill was passed a few years ago.

While the world's city's breathe green, our own city has gone earth. Rapid urbanisation and rise of apartments and multistories, in essence, jungles of concrete and glass, could turn out to be our nemesis in the long run. A far sighted move brought Cauvery water to the city some years ago, but the thirst is still there and growing. Again rain water harvesting, at the micro-level, has proved to be effective in charging the ground water table. The triumph, though, will be in painting the city green, again, and as fast as possible.

A thousand stories are waiting to be written about the inadequate infrastructure in suburbs to be integrated into the city limits. Mogappair is the classic example of how a locality thrives on its own in a big city despite no help from the government, literally, from the government. It is time the chief minister drove through this Anna Nagar neighbourhood, where the state's many top bureacrats have houses.

Yes, housing is an issue concering everyone. It is time they made the right to shelter a fundamental right. The IT sector, and with it, the rise of a modern, growing India, meant a majority of the middle class could only dream of owning a house and another majority ending up paying most of their salary to the banks for owning the house. The less said about lower middle class and poor. Hear this from a woman who lives in a rented house by the Buckingham Canal behind the Secretariat. "Every year, the owner increases the rent by a thousand. Now, I am paying four thousand. All my earnings are spent on rent." Hers is the voice of millions. Previous governments have more or less focussed more on allotting its housing board flats and plots to coterie than try and genuinly address the housing of the majority. Private housing? Never mind, it is under the control of market forces.

There are a few places where the free market has no role _ public offices where corruption rules. The rulers, alternatively ousted, tend to think a lot into the reasons for the defeat. Corruption at the basic level - the hospital, ration shop, offices of RTO, tahsildar and the like - is a major cause for anti-incumbency wave to spread fast. The anger of a common man left to pay everywhere he / she goes, that is the failure of basic governance, is still a cause for concern.

Sample the quality of Chennai city schools in a State which is considered to be the IT industry's HR capital. Why has the government failed to make these schools sought after? Is anyone thinking of neighbourhood schools or the RTE provision to be inclusive and admit 25 per cent of poor in every school?

Pollution is an issue. When was the last time any of us went and checked at the emission centres which are next to non-existent. What is omnipresent is inflation? Well, that is something to be tackled by the Centre and the State, forget the City, has no role in it. And there are a whole lot of other issues like saving Pallikaranai marsh or Nanmangalam forests or a flyover in Vadapalani junction or closing down a few factories in Manali or building houses for fishermen or proper rehabilitation of displaced slum dwellers or shifting of coal handling to Ennore port so on and on.

The rhetoric never stops. The debate rages on. The city has to vote. And it has.

The crossroads

2010-11-06T01:53:00.000-07:00

It is twilight. I stand there at the crossroads. The bridge to the right will take you to the city. The road to the left takes you to the labour lines and the railway colony. I live the street straight opposite. It has a mosque, church, temple, a copper pod lined garden and a childrens park. Its the heaven of the middle class.

I am all alone. Inhaling my daily dose of sanity, I try to figure out my life. I am truly at the crossroads. I am not sure what I have done all these years and I have no clue as to what I will be doing the rest of my life. I have no clue as to whos, whys and hows of me.

I am here. Thats all about it. Surprisingly, my job looks secured till my retirement for the first time in my life. Its quite unsettling you know! To do the same job all your life to retire and die. I have never had permanency of mind. Its always been fleeting. I must step beyond journalism.

The lonely attraction at the crossroads is the banyan tree. It looks like the tree is about to truly step into middle age in a day. Like me. The striking feature of this banyan is its branches. It looks like the tree has only branches as its trunk. I need to branch out.

I can clearly see the shades of green. The tender greens towards the road, parroty greens in its breast and the forest foliage on top. There were also yellowish green leaves lit by the sodium, the city's neo-light.

The roots are visible from a distant. Partly paved and partly peed. There are a dozen framed pictures of gods and goddess hanging on to the tree. The city is truly secular. Mary's portrait is easily visible. And as Alla is invisible, they had hung copper plated quotes from Quran. There are even bangles tied to the bottom. This tree is a healer. Am I? I'm a soother of souls.

A few days back, a tv show of a water falls near the soul town showed a `smoking saint'. The devotees to the temple by the falls present him all kinds of fags. The saint never speaks. He only smokes. And sometimes eats. What a life! When I told to my father sitting by my side that some day I would also be a saint like him, my father looked bewildered. Fathers will never know sons.

I walk around the banyan. There are two rain trees to its left and right. The youthful and the baby. Like my wife and daughter. The rains in my life. They wash all my impurities, cleanse me of my sins and breath my life pure.

Oddly, there stands a metal box looking like a post box from the time of world wars. There is this tri-wheel full of colourful pots. Then the puncture shop. The post box sure should have brought warmth and greetings to thousands and the pots must have quenched the thirst of thousands and the puncture shop (and its owner presently sprawling on the platform after a deepavali binge) must have helped the bikers to carry on a tiring journey. All useful to people.

I just wonder what about people like me? Have I ever been useful to others? I don't know. Definitely not to my wife. Or was to my mom. Compared to the service of those lifeless things, me (read we), the one with a superior knowledge and a clear conscience, have to admit my lesser being. What am i doing here then?

I went around. There was trash and muck behind. That nobody knows at first sight. The front is all show. Filth lies beneath in heaps. No one has to tell me this. I know it very well. What else is there?

At the back-corner where there are two mutton stalls half-a-dozen dead goatskins are hanging from hooks of crooked men and tens of hens hemmed in cages cry aloud, a young banyan tree is fresh and flowering. Despite the smell of the omni-present death (at the hands of the butchers who have different times), the tenderness from the banyan tree pervades the air.

I circle around as the smell of biriyani wafts through the air. Hyderabad Biriyani! A crowd is waiting to take home in parcels bones, legs, livers, hearts and brains. As I am not a meat lover, my thoughts munch `cheeni kum!'

Time has no meaning. Twenty years will roll by. Just like that. I may not open a restaurant. May be, I will own a small bookstore in soul town. Ilayaraja will be there. With his lasting melodies. And I will wait. For Nina. Not El.

;-x

Tara...

2010-11-01T11:13:00.000-07:00

That sensuous smile sat naturally on her face, an ocean of compassion. His melancholic soul erupted with joy for he was slowly freeing it from his clutches of memories caged in pages. There was no pride in it though. For, the writer in him merely wrote verses. Without any affection or self admiration. For he had that heart of humility. Strung to the soul.

That same heart of humility hung around her neck like a pearl necklace. And her charismatic soul was strung together like colorful beads from ancient beaches.

"Tara"

"Hmm"

"A kiss can make a man immortal. I may die, decay. A kiss will etch me in eternity. I will dwell in the dust of this book shop till they shut it down. Then, I will hang on to the badam tree. If they knock it down, I will take a walk and sleep my nights on the sands of the beach, chasing my dreams of you, amidst a trillion stars. Forever.

...

அடங்கா மனம்...

2010-07-27T00:44:00.000-07:00

வறுமையில் உழலும், இருக்கும் இடம் தெரியாத இன்னொரு இலக்கியவாதி தோழர் தேனி செ. சு. வாசி எழுதிய கவிதைகளில் சில.

"அடங்கா மனம்" தொகுப்பிலிருந்து...

***

உண்மை தெரியுமா?
------------------

தினம் தினம் காலை
யோகா பயிற்சி
மனம் விரும்புதே
அமைதி புரட்சி
அயல் அடிமை வாழ்வில்
மலர்ந்த மகிழ்ச்சி
ஆடிப் பாடினோம்
ஆனந்த மகிழ்ச்சி
கொடிய கையூட்டு
கொடி போல் படர்ந்து
கோடானு கோடி மக்களை
கொடுமை படுத்துதே
சட்டமியற்றி சாதனை
படைத்த மனிதா
பிரிந்த சாதி மத
சாக்கடையில் தவழ்வது
சரியா...
கல்வி பல பயின்றாலும்
ஒழுக்க அற நெறியில்
மிருக சாண மனம் வீசுதே
பொய் மனிதா பொய் மனிதா
உண்மை உனக்கு தெரியுமா
பேசிப் பார்...
பிரபஞ்சம் தலைவணங்கும்

***

கானல் நிலம்
------------

காணி நிலத்தில்
களைஎடுத்து
சேற்றில் உழுதுளப்பி
வீரியம் நிறைந்த
விதை விதைத்து
பயிராக பாடுபட்டு
வெயிலில் வெந்து
வந்துள்ளோம்....
எனக்கும் அவனுக்கும்
இடைத்தரகன் - நீ
எள்ளளளவு போதுமென்று
நெல்அளவை தேடுகின்றாய்
மடை கட்டி
மருகா வெட்டி
பகல் இரவெல்லாம்
நீர் பாய்ச்சி
நெஞ்சுரம்
நிறைந்ததைய்யா
....
இது தானா விலை?

***

வளர்ச்சி
--------

நட்புறவும்
விடுமுறை நாட்களும்
அறியப்பட்ட
நாம்... காதல்
சொந்த பந்தங்கள்
பகை மறந்து
ஒன்று சேர்ந்து
வாழ்ந்து இருப்பது
எப்போது?

***

யதார்த்தம்
---------

உழைப்பே மூலதனமென
புரிந்தவர்கள்
மாய்மாலம் பேசி
இலவசமாகப் பெற்ற
உழைப்பில் உயர்ந்த
முதலாளியை பார்த்து
ஏக்கத்தோடு....
அவர் உயர்வுக்கு
நான் தான் காரணம்
என்கிறார்கள்
தொழிலாளர்கள்

***

தேச துரோகிகள்
--------------

வேட்பாளர்கள் வீதி வீதியாக
கையோசை எழுப்பும்
கூட்டங்களுடன் - வாக்கு
சேகரிக்கும் அன்றே
வெற்றியின் யுக்திகளை
வழிவகை செய்கிறார்கள்
விலை நிர்ணயிக்க முடியாத
சொத்துக்களை, குடும்ப
அட்டை அடகும் வைக்கும்
வழக்கத்தில் உள்ளவர்கள்
மக்களின் பிரதிநிதிகளாக
வெற்றியடைய முயற்சிப்போரிடம்
மறைமுக கையூட்டு
கரன்சிகளை பெற்று
தங்கள் வாழ்விட சொத்துக்களை;
அதிகபட்சம் ஐந்தாண்டுகளுக்கு
கேள்வியுரிமைகளையும்
வசதிவாய்ப்புகளையும்
அன்றாட தின கூலி தொகைக்காக
அன்பளிப்பும் பெற்று
வாக்களித்த மக்கள்;
அதுசரியில்லை இதுசரியில்லைஎன
குறை கூறுகிறார்கள்.
தேசிய சட்டத்தின்
முதல் குற்றவாளிகள்
மக்களே....

Memory Box

2010-05-15T05:20:00.000-07:00

I am sure, we all have our lives. We tend to forget what we have done over the years. There sure is some sort of a record of your life. I am not a good record keeper. My wife sure is. Last night, she was putting the papers back into the greenish-grey suitcase. The only suitcase in the house.

The memory box. Full of paper and pictures. Of my half-life.

Rummaging through the bits and pieces, I was able to piece together my past. Not splendid but simple. Most of us lead simple lives. Some of the events of the past make you smile within. I learnt that I used to be a poet once.

I found quite a few more stuff. A certificate from college proudly called me the captain of the winning team in inter-department cricket tournament. That was the only time, I captained a team. We beat the English department that had 9 players representing the college team with three of them playing for the university. It was a victory as great as India's 1983 worldcup victory. A few other certificates told me that I used to be an athlete who played hockey, football, tennis, badminton and a few more games.

All my offer letters were there. I never thought I will ever earn a five digit salary in my life. The first few jobs gave me less than 2k per month. May be, I was destined to be a journalist. I'm not sure. Then there was this picture of my first editor sitting stately in his usual white attire. On March 26, 1998, he gave me the job with a salary of 3k per month. It was too much for someone who was walking to the office and back home smoking beedis. He gave me the break. He gave me the faith.

Then there was a letter by my first publisher written in foolscape paper. After reading a story of mine on snail mail, she actually wrote to me in plain paper after ages. All my short stories published by her was there, except the snail mail story. If not for her, I may not have discovered my writing skills. ``I like the way you write your stories in simple, short sentences,'' she wrote.

Another photograph of two lanky girls hugging each other with a small note that said ``We will miss you like hell'' made me remember the days when i shifted out of the big city to the textile town. Another picture showed me with two of my close friends by the side of vintage cars in front of the first sports club of Madras where Express Avenue stands now. The young, fresh faces did have an idealistic look.

Then there were the travel photographs. The shola forests, grass lands, water falls, tribals, wild elephants, tahrs, langurs, breathtaking landscapes, conquered peaks, fellow trekkers. Those rare unions with the lonely planet inspire me to report on environment and forests. For, we have very little left with us.

Moments of personal fulfilment were aplenty. My marriage invitation with a neolithic painting of a family inside a hut in Lakhajor in the Vindhyas, walks of my daughters through a tree-full garden, her first paintings and my wife's letters to me before she became my wife. Sadly, my first and only letter to my wife was missing. It was one of the finest love letters ever written. She has the letter secret. As I forget my past, always, as a habit, you have to ask her.

Me and my memory box. Get yours, don't forget.

parivarthan - be the change

2010-03-10T06:37:00.000-08:00

We all know that change is the only constant in life. And we take it for granted that change will happen and we do not have to worry about it. I learnt about a small group of women who sincerely believe in contributing to change, albeit in a small way. The group has named itself `Parivarthan'. Aptly so.

All these women, working online to teach the world, wanted to contribute to the real world. So they discussed during luncheon meets and coffee breaks the ways they can change someone's lives.

Well, these committed class first organised an exhibition cum sale of things produced by mentally challenged people from the banyan at office complex. The response from the kind-hearted was quite heart-whelming. The banyan thanked profusely.

I am not sure where the spark came from. We may not be able to discriminate between the hearts of women as to which one radiating love better. It could be the girl with a social bent of mind, volunteering herself to those in need, especially in dire need of the bloody blood, which we have so much but still reluctant to donate, every now and then.

Then they wanted to give free meal to the inmates of an orphanage. And I went, along with one of those real beauty, to the home. They were all children. Very special children. Looking into the vacant, introspecting, smiling, wandering nowhere, but still communicating.

One little boy showed me the teddy bear in his t-shirt, the other was wondering why this ugly one was sitting in the middle of the verandah, then came she. Anu. She fell all over me. She wasn't interested in me. She touched my sunglasses. She saw herself in the glass. `kannadi,' she said.

`yes. do you want one? i will get you one. don't worry'.

`moonu venum (want three)'

`She has two friends. They are real close' said the ayah.

`ok. adutha thadava varapo moonu kannadi vangittu varen (will bring three sunglasses next visit)'

as i know myself, am not sure when i am gonna honour my commitment.

what is sure is that these wonder kids will have more free lunches.

now, you know what parivarthan is all about.

its about 11 working women. plus 2 boys.

its not about free lunches.

its not just the heart.

i have a good one.

its commitment.

lush, lust, up close.

2010-01-19T06:21:00.000-08:00

Eye. Speak.

In slow motion, she walks alone in a crowded street. How can you miss her? I fell in love with Mathilda in Leon. Ms Portman. In Closer, she walks with crispy red hair towards journalist Dan. Jude Law. Eyes locked. Love at first sight. Screech. Bump. Down. On the road. ``Where am I, stranger?'' A bleeding knee. Green chairs. Hospital. First Flirt.

On the double decker. ``I write obituaries,'' Law says. ``I am a stripper,'' the waif says. Suddenly, the couple walk into a memorial garden. Of people who died saving others. ``My name is Alice. Alice Ayers.''

A year later, Dan writes the story of stripper who sleeps with him. Hers is an unconditional love. For publicity of the book, he walks into Anna's (Ms Roberts) studio. She read the book for the portrait waking up till 4 am. Asks him to title it `Aquarium'. Love. At first sight. The pretty woman she is, Julia's shutter captures up close their kiss. First kiss.

Anna is in an aquarium. Larry, a doctor, asks her for a night of orgy. ``You promised me in cyber chat.'' ``Me? That must be Dan. Faking me on net.'' By the river. Leica clicks again. ``Not me.'' ``Today's is my birthday.'' He walks a few steps, buys her a blue-balloon fish. Love. First Sight. Natalie cries. Leica. Tears.

Fuck. First Night. Every Night.

Exhibition of strangers. Natalie's teary eye in a huge black and white frame. ``Portraits look beautiful. They are all sad creatures.'' Larry gets to know the stripper. Natalie leaves in a cab. Dan can't wait anymore. Argues with Anna. Fuck. Larry senses it.

A year later. Dan's confession. Alice disappears. Anna's confession. Larry is lost. ``How long? ``Opening (of exhibition).'' ``Why did you marry me?'' ``I'm sorry.'' ``Did you come?'' ``Yes'' How many times?'' ``Twice.'' ``Is he a better fucker?'' ``Gentler.'' ``Does he tastes better?'' ``Sweeter.'' ``Thanks so much for your honesty.''

Concert. Dan and Anna. Hugs and kisses. Rewind. Coffee shop. White Tables. ``Sign.'' ``Come to my clinic. I want to fuck you for one last time. I will not disturb you again.'' Fuck. ``Sign.'' ``Don't go. He's a loser.'' ``Sign.'' Larry.

Dinner. ``Did you sleep with him.'' ``He will not disturb us again.'' ``I can feel him all over you.'' Rain. Larry's clinic. Knock. Knock. ``You can go in.'' ``You should leave her.'' Silence. ``I liked your book.'' ``Thanks. I'm obituary editor.'' ``Alice lives here.'' Scribble. Address. Door opens. ``Dan, I fucked Alice. A whole night.''

A hotel room. Smooch, smooch. ``What did I say when you picked me up?'' ``Stranger.'' ``With whom did you go to the memorial garden?'' ``My father.'' ``What was the color of the chairs in the hospital?'' ``Hmph.'' ``Green.'' ``I kissed you on the forehead.'' ``Give me your passport?'' ``I never allow anyone to see my picture in the passport.''

``Did you sleep with him?'' Silence. Walks away. Lift. Comes back. ``Did you sleep with him?'' ``It is no longer there. My love.'' ``Did you sleep?'' ``Yes. One night.'' ``Why?'' ``I liked the way he talked. Leave me.''

Larry and Anna in bed. Top angle. Anna. Lights off. Dim. Blue light. Anna's heart is bleeding. Dan, she cries. Solitude. Dan walks into the memorial garden. Stops for a moment. Name board. Alice Ayers. Saved three children....

Airport. Looking at the red headed woman in passport, the customs official stares at Alice. ``Welcome home Ms Jensen.'' A crowded street. She walks with that rare gait. Of a waif.

I am not sure how I fell in love with Patrick Marber. Apparently, the world fell for the play a decade ago. Only I din't know. I must read the play. A crisp screen play, chiseled dialogues, angles tight and up close, light radiant and glowing, emotions pure and raw. Taut.

The story of two love-locked couples. You doubt casting of Clive Owen as Larry. Actually, you don't realise he carries the film with his honesty. Consumed by passion for love of the two women, Law portrays subtly the self-doubt plaguing a loser. Julia looks lovely but is an understatement. Natalie, the waif, walks through the film like a stormy breeze. Lush.

Fish. Marber. Mike. Fuck.

A modern classic.

by the beach...

2009-12-09T02:38:00.000-08:00

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.

tip toe...

2009-12-06T05:28:00.001-08:00

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.

FAMILY TREE

2009-09-10T06:59:00.000-07:00

I am trying to remember serenity of my small town far away from thechaos and confusions of a crowded city. A town on a hillock on the leeway side of the western ghats. I always think of those mountains to be purple in colour under a clear blue, breathtaking sky. Here on thehills, a few gentlemen began building houses in the late 1960s. Every town has its own character. My town's character is in those single-storied, semi-circular houses with a pillar or two in front anda grilled, large semi-circular window, with a long glass panel runningthe length of the house. My grandpa, one of the founders of the town,had one such airy, lovely home in which most of us lived ourchildhood.

Apart from the lullabies of my aunts and my teacher mom, my child'seyes must have browsed through a daily and a magazine to which mygrandpa subscribed for decades. I began my career in journalism withthe same daily `Dinamani', an anti-establishment paper, steeped inethics. Now, you know that I was initiated into journalism very earlyin life. Surprisingly, I have seen that magazine only by my grandfather's bedside. It had the title `Dharma Chakra'. After half-a-life, I am more or less certain that Dharma is not to be found easily anywhere or in anyone. As a boy, I have read a few passages from that magazine. I think there were articles on goodness of being, the beautyof life, eternal thirst for spirituality and the more importantly the moral code of conduct for a man. I feel grandpa kept reading that mag till it went out of print as there were not many subscribers. That morality though is still shining in him for us to follow.

There are few other traits of our grandpa that many of us must haveinherited knowingly or unknowingly. To me, `Thaneer Pandal' is one of the noblest act of my clan. This makeshift `pandal' is laid on the road to the temple on the local festive day and as children we revelled in the coconut groves and found happiness in giving water,butter-milkand the chocolate coloured sweet drink called `panakaram' to thepassers-by. In simple words, we discovered the art of giving under that thatched pandal.

What do you do as children? Chat, talk and yell, all the time. OnSaturdays, grandpa had this habit of observing the silent penance. Itmeans he will not talk the entire day. As children, we found it funny. It even gave us the freedom to dare him, a stoic. We would run for cover and at times out of the house whenever we saw anger in his eyes at our stupid, childish pranks. Only later in life that we realized the power and magnificence of silence, the self's key to realization.
Another door opened.

Even now, my generation cherishes its unforgettable images from thatornate home. The festive seasons, especially the deepavalis, breakingthe windows at will playing cricket only to see a red-faced grandpa chasing us out of the house, the big, black-eyed girls learning bharatanatyam, the countless hours of television watching, the elaborate arrangements of toys during navarathri festival, and the moonlit dinner nights at the courtyard behind the house and the starry, singing nights on the terrace. We never knew we lived in perfect happiness, bordering bliss.

Then there are the other images like my grandpa doing his morning pujas, his apple-eating style, khadi dressing, the stoic way he sat athis textile shop, the pride with which he drove in a blue Fiat to manage a college, his near death experience before the brain surgery, his morning walks, the scare on his head, not to forget the radianceof his spirit.

There are many, many images from that blessed home. Nothing will endure the image of a frail looking woman, his compassionate partner in life, sitting somewhere and silently observing the happenings in the house. Not many would have credited her with the way the family members has succeeded in many fronts. If no one knew, she is the secret of the family. I am not sure if her very own daughters know it as they, like the town, are in awe of grandpa, a classical example of rags-to-riches story. My grandpa may know all about success. She seldom shows happiness. It manifests itself in her face whenever shesees her grand-children. She is the source of life. She is the soul of the family. My grandma (avva in telugu and patti in tamil), sure knows all the crevices creeping toward the doors of happiness. In her are the rich traits of an anonymous, under-rated Indian woman who silently prays and cares for everyone in the clan. Tell me, why will not a man succeed if his wife has never ever questioned him but has accepted him as he is.

Ageing though is a loving treatise of life. Watching my grandma telling her respected husband for six decades to shut up or asking himto stop watching news to allow the great-grand children watch cartoons and him tending to her needs by giving her the required pills to put her to sleep, taking her hand in hand when she is weak for a stroll inthe house, in essence, living a new life, contrary to the previous life from their prime, you are filled with a rare warmth and tenderness to life as a whole.

Of late, I think I was the first one to be born and brought up ingrandma's new house in the early seventies as I always dream of owning a spacious, well-lit house with a few trees breathing into it with children playing all around. Often, I long to go back to my little town to settle down for a peaceful life. A life not mechanical but with memories and melancholies to liven up the soul. This particular saying keeps resonating in me. There is nothing morebeautiful than being in your own home town, to sprout like a banyan tree, with the aerial roots feeling the winds of seasons, a light heart so pure that it looks up to the limitless expanse of the blue sky as the actual roots breath beneath the moistness of earth, spreading out and sprouting all the time. In our home, we have this peepal tree, the sacred fig, intertwined with the banyan tree.

Blessed, naturally.

இன்றிரவு நான் எழுதுவேன்

2009-09-03T08:36:00.000-07:00

இன்றிரவு நான் எழுதுவேன் துயரமிகு வரிகளை

எழுதுவேன், உதாரணத்திற்கு, `இந்த இரவு நட்சத்திரங்களால் ஜொலிக்கிறது

அந் நட்சத்திரங்கள் நீல நிறத்தில் நடுங்குகின்ற்ன தொலை தூரத்தில்.’

இரவின் காற்று வானத்தில் சுழன்று இசைக்கிறது.

இன்றிரவு நான் எழுதுவேன் துயரமிகு வரிகளை

நான் அவளைக் காதலித்தேன், சில நேரங்களில் அவளும் என்னைக் காதலித்தாள்

இதைப் போன்ற இரவு நேரத்தில் ஒரு நாள் என் கைகளில் ஏந்தியிருந்தேன்

அவளை முத்தமிட்டேன் மீண்டும் மீண்டும் எல்லையற்ற வானத்தின் கீழ்.

அவள் என்னைக் காதலித்தாள், சில நேரங்களில் நானும் அவளைக் காதலித்தேன்

எவ்வாறு ஒருவன் காதல் வயப்படாமல் இருக்க முடியும் அவளின் பெரிய, சலனமற்ற விழிகளால்.

இன்றிரவு நான் எழுதுவேன் துயரமிகு வரிகளை

அவள் என்னுடன் இல்லை என்றெண்ணும் பொழுது, அவளை இழந்துவிட்டேன் என்றுணரும் பொழுது.

அவள் இல்லாமல் விரிந்திருக்கும் இவ்விரவைக் கேட்கும் பொழுது

கவிதை விழுகிறது ஆன்மாவில் பச்சையை நோக்கிப் பாயும் பனித் துளிபோல்

எது முக்கியம் ஏன் என் காதல் அவளைக் கட்டிப்போடவில்லை

வானம் வின்மீண்களால் ஜொலிக்கிறது ஆனால் அவள் என்னுடன் இல்லை.

இதுவே முழுமை. தூரத்தில் யாரோ பாடுகிறார்கள் வெகு தூரத்தில்

என் ஆன்மாவில் திருப்தி இல்லை அவளை இழந்து

என் விழிகள் தேடுகின்றன அவளை அருகில் அழைத்து வந்துவிடுவதுபோல்

என் இதயம் தேடுகிறது அவளை ஆனால் அவள் என்னுடன் இல்லை.

அதே இரவு வெண்ணிறமாக்குகிறது அதே மரங்களை

நாங்கள், அன்றிருந்தது போல் இன்று இல்லை

இன்னும் நான் அவளை நேசிக்கவில்லை, இது உண்மை, ஆனால் நான் அவளை எவ்வளவு காதலித்தேன்

என் குரல் காற்றைப் பிடிக்க முயன்றது அவள் செவிகளைத் தொட

வேறு ஒருவனுடையவள். அவள் வேறு ஒருவனுடைய்வளாவாள். என் முத்தங்களுக்கு முந்தியிருந்த அவள்

அவள் குரல், அவளின் வெண் தேகம். அவளின் முடிவற்ற கண்கள்.

இன்னும் நான் அவளை நேசிக்கவில்லை, இது உண்மை, ஆனால் ஒருக்கால் நான் அவளைக் காதலிக்கலாம்

காதல் மிகச் சிறிது, மறப்பது மிகப் பெரிது

இதைப் போன்ற இரவு நேரத்தில் அவளை என் கைகளில் ஏந்தியிருந்ததால்

என் ஆன்மாவில் திருப்தி இல்லை அவளை இழந்து

இதுவே அவளால் துன்புற்று அனுபவிக்கும் இறுதி வலி

இவையே நான் அவளுக்கு எழுதும் இறுதி வரிகள்.

காலை முழுமையானது

2009-02-09T06:59:00.001-08:00

புயல் சூழ்ந்த காலை வேளை

முதுவேனில் இதயத்தில்.

விடைபெறும் வெள்ளைக் கைக்குட்டையாய் மஞ்சுகள்

பயணிக்கும் காற்று தன் கை நீட்டி வழியனுப்பும்.

எண்ணிலடங்கா இதயம் தொட்ட காற்று

நம் காதலின் மவுனத்தின் மேல் துடிக்கும்.

ஒழுங்கும், புதினமும் கலந்து, மரங்களினூடே தெறிக்கும்,

போர்களும், பாடல்களும் நிறைந்த மொழி போல்.

வேகவீசி, உதிரும் இலைகளைக் கையிலேந்தும் காற்று

பாயும் அம்புகளான பறவைகளைச் சற்று திருப்பும்.

நாளம்இலா அலையாய் அவளைத் தள்ளாடி விழச் செய்த காற்று

சீரழித்தது பொருளற்ற சாரத்தையும், சாயும் தீக்கற்றையும்.

அவளின் மொத்த முத்தமும் தகர்ந்து, அமிழ்ந்து

கோடைக் காற்றின் வாசலின் எதிரே நிற்கும்.

ஆ! எல்லையற்ற தேவதாரு

2009-01-20T07:24:00.000-08:00

ஆ! எல்லையற்ற தேவதாரு, அலைகள் முணுமுணுத்துச் சிதறுகின்றன

ஒளிக் கீற்றுக்களின் மெல்விளையாட்டு, துறவியான மணிக் கூண்டு

மாலையில் மயக்கும் ஒளி உன் கண்ணில், பெண்மையே,

நிலவுலகின் முதல் யாழ், உன்னில் நிலவின் இன்னிசை!

உன்னில் பேராறுகள் இன்னிசைக்கும், அவற்றிலென் ஆன்மா பாயும்

உன் ஆசைப்படி, உன் விருப்பம் போலதை நீ செலுத்தலாம்.

என் பாதையை உன் நம்பிக்கை வில்லில் வை,

வெறியில் விடுவிப்பேன், என் அம்புகள் அனைத்தையும்.

சுற்றிலும் மூடுபனியான உன் இடையைக் காண்கிறேன்

உன் மவுனம் என் அல்லலுற்ற நேரத்தை வேட்டையாடும்

உன் படிகக் கால் போன்ற கைகளில், என் முத்தம்

நங்கூரம் இடும், ஈர வேட்கை கூடு கட்டும்.

ஹா! காதல் மணி அடிக்கும் உன் புதிர்க் குரல்

மறையும் மாலையில் எதிர் எதிரொலிக்கும்!

அர்த்தமுள்ள அந்நேரங்களில் பார்த்துள்ளேன், வயல்களின் மேல், .

கோதுமையின் காதுகள் காற்றின் வாயில் கண்டா மணியடிப்பதை!

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*தேவதாரு - pine

ஒளி உனைச் சூழ்கிறது

2009-01-16T07:21:00.000-08:00

ஒளி உனைச் சூழ்கிறது, அதன் மானுடத் தீயில்.

அறிந்த, தெளிந்த துக்கவாசி, அவ்வழி நின்று

மறைத்தான் காலமெலாம் உனைச் சுற்றிய

மாலை நேரத்து மங்கல் ஒளியை.

பேச்சில்லை, என் நட்பே,

தனியநானேன், இறந்தவர் நடமாடும் நாழிகையில்

உள்ளம் முழுதும் வாழ்வின் கனலுடன்

அழிந்த நாளின் உண்மை வாரிசாய்!

சூரியனிலிருந்து ஓர் பழக் கீற்று

வீழ்கிறது உன் கருப்பு அங்கியில்

இரவின் நீண்ட, நெடிய வேர்கள்

உன் ஆன்மாவை உயிர்ப்பித்தன

உன்னில் ஒழிந்தவை வெளியேறின

வளம் பெறவே; உன்னில் உயிர்த்த,

நீல, சலனமற்ற மக்கள்

நீ! மகத்தான, உயிர்ப்பான, ஈர்க்கும் அடிமை

கருப்பு மற்றும் தங்கத்தை மாற்றிச் சுற்றும் வளையத்துக்கு:

எழு, வழிநடத்து, புதினத்தைப் பற்று, வாழ்வின் நிறையுடன்

உதிரட்டும் பூக்கள், சோகத்தின் முழு வடிவாய்.

---

மீண்டும் மன்னிப்பாராக!

நெருடா

2009-01-11T06:35:00.000-08:00

``நீங்கள் நெருடாவை மொழி பெயர்க்க வேண்டும்.'' இரு வருடங்களுக்கு முன்

கவிதை சொன்னது இது. இப்பொழுதுதான் வாய்த்திருக்கிறது எனக்கு. அம்

மாபெரும் கவிஞன் எழுதிய கவிதைத் தொகுப்பின் முதல் காதல் கவிதை இது.

அவன் என்னை மன்னிப்பான் என்ற நம்பிக்கையுடன்.

****

பெண்ணின் உடல்

பெண்ணின் உடல், வெள்ளை மலைகள், வெள்ளைத் தொடைகள்

பூலோகத்தைப் போலிருக்கும் நீ, என்னில் சரண் அடைந்தாய்.

என் கடிய உழவனின் உடல் உன்னுள் ஆழப் பாய்ந்து

பூமியின் அடியாழத்தில் உருவாக்கி எழச் செய்யும் மகனை.

நீண்ட கணவாய் போல் தனித்திருந்தேன். பறவைகள் பறந்தன

நீள் இரவு எனைச் சூழ்ந்து பரவி ஆழ அழுத்தியது.

எனைக் காக்க உனை நான் ஆயுதமாய் அணிந்தேன்

என் வில்லின் அம்பு போல, கவட்டையின் கல் போல.

ஆனால் பழி வாங்கும் நாழிகை நெருங்கி விட்டது. ஆம், நான் உன்னில் காதலுற்றேன்

உணர்கிறேன் உன் உடலின் சதையை, பாசியை , அதன் ஆர்வம் மற்றும் தடித்த பாலை.

ஆஹா, மதுக் கிண்ணம் போன்ற முலைகள்; ஹா, வெறுமையின் விழிகள்,

ஆஹா, பெண்மையின் இளஞ் செவ்விதழ்கள்; ஹா, உன் மெலிய, சோகக் குரல்.

இது என் பெண்ணின் உடல், நான் உன் நளினத்தில் வாழ்வேன்

என் தாகம், என் அளவற்ற ஆசை, என் மாறும் பாதை!

இருண்ட நதிக் கரையோரங்களில் தீராத் தாகம் பாயும்,

சோர்வு எனைத் தொடரும், உடன் அளவில்லா வலி.

An Officer & A Gentleman.

2009-01-02T04:43:00.001-08:00

This One Is For The Family
--------------------------------

A year has passed by since we last saw him in person. How true is that we all tend to forget people within a year of their death. It has been a year since the youngest of my fathers was framed and garlanded in our ancestral home overlooking the once great river.

In a nation corrupt to the core, this officer was one of those rare gems. He never took a paise in spite of serving in over a dozen villages for twenty-five long years. Even voluntary donations were diverted to pay school fees for the deserving children in the village.

He always did his duty to perfection, even writing the registers. When we went to obtain his death certificate, my brother-in-law pointed out with pride the four lorries parked inside the collectorate which were seized by beloved `chinna' (father's younger brother) the week before his death.

He was not a man of many words. In fact, he hardly spoke even to us, the family. But his heart must have been full of unbridled love. For, when we opened his secret box a day after performing his funeral, we were in for a surprise. That small squarish tin of a box had nothing but photos. Of every one of us. As children, adolescent, at the time of marriage or with our children. A collection of hearts, always kept very close to his chest. Never expressed.

Can words ever take us closer to truth? It may not. Still, dear daddy, this is an extract from the small tribute that was penned to that invisible yet shining truth that dwell in you, and that troubled you, perhaps.

----

Then came the much-awaited group of simple spiritualists. They are part of one of the largest groups in the country believing in the words of one of the saintly man to have stumbled upon a profound truth that space is god. He was a scientific spiritualist simplifying yoga and perfecting a set of standard exercises for healthy living. He taught his disciples, mostly simpletons, powers of blessing.

Without hatred, hurting anyone, helping a few on the way and blessing everyone on the way. It was his mantra. He had died about a year ago but had ignited in thousands of souls a quest for spiritual well-being. Here, there were three. Two women teaching the yoga in that locale and a man, another uncle, initiated personally by the saintly man.

Only, the woman, seated in the middle, spoke in a calm and clear ringing voice.
``We are here to mourn the death of a dear one. A life has been lost.
It must have been a wonderful life. Unfortunately, it had to come to
an end. It is inevitable, we all know. In this case, Mr Raman had died
young apparently. It is all the more sad. But there is no point in
mourning forever. We are here to give him a happy farewell.''

The small hall listened in intent silence. Only two kids were fiddling with a torch light. Outside, tranquility was descending on the skies of the temple town as the sun was setting deep into the dry-river. The day's rustle and bustle had died down in the town and the four towering gopuras stood in silhouette.

``As you all know, man lives his life in emotions. Like everyone, Raman uncle could not have been perfect at all times. He was a good man who behaved differently with different people at various points of time. We will have both good and bad memories of him. Let us leave the ugly images and hurt feelings behind in this hall itself. Please, think of him as a smiling, kind man. Imagine that face of him within you.''

Obviously, that evening's spiritual teacher was unaware of the self-sufferings of his wife and daughters in their childhood primarily due to his alcohol addiction. Not every alcoholic is a bad man. There is a strand in the spirit that stimulates good men troubled by the vice allaround them to take to drinking in a state of helplessness. They want the world to change and see beauty of living but as the skewed society is hard bent on being selfish, these heavy-drinking good men are also branded drunkards. Uncle was one such tormented good man. He was the ultimate gentleman within the family and Mr Clean in the world outside.

``We can't allow him (the ghost) to hang around the house as he might have unfulfilled wishes. The soul has to take its place in the vast ocean of truth. It should not be allowed to surf the surface of the earth forever. It is our duty to guide the departed dear soul to its real home. Please, focus and impress his smiling face in your self. We are about to begin our journey.''

There were a few practitioners of that particular form of yoga in that small hall. As they had already been initiated, they could relate to the sequence that followed. Others followed it word by word, blindly but blissfully.

``Now, hold dear uncle hand-in-hand. Let us lift ourselves and float in the atmosphere. Mind has the power to travel anywhere. So, let us begin a long journey. Imagine that we are leaving behind the earth. If you look back, you can see the blue planet. Now, we cross the moon and drift farther away from all the planets in the solar system and into the Milky Way. Expand yourself and let us drift along the galaxies of the universe. It is called Sakthi sthal. Remember that our universe is feminine. Stretch your mind and reach out to the borders of the universe. Now, slowly step beyond those borders. It is pure bliss. Let us leave Mr Raman there in that pathless land. May his soul rest in peace. Let us all return to where we belong.''

During their return journey, the mourners flew past the galaxies of the sakthi sthal, float around the moon and come back to earth's atmosphere and back in the small hall. It was unbelievable. The small hall had traveled where the world would not travel ever. ``Let peace prevail. Om Shathi, shanthi, shanthi.''

The small hall relaxed and the chattering began. Anand climbed the balcony facing the river. On the banks, a few age-old trees, witnesses to both the birth and death of Raman uncle, were murmuring to each other. Chanting mantras, the priest in the nearby temple was beginning the evening prayers. The Sleeping God, the presiding deity of the temple, was awake but still. Fragrance from flower vendors by the roadside filled the air. The tall temple towers resonated with chants and hymns of evening poojas. In silence, the river sang a melancholy.

***

Uncle, as you can see, will keep smiling from the frame, from both the visible wooden and the invisible cellular one. One word, though, might sound meaningful. Love.

cat and mouse

2008-11-21T06:17:00.000-08:00

the grand old man and his grand nephews continue to play the cat and mouse game.

Like a bolt from blue, the old man wrote a cover story in his party organ today lamenting the betrayal of two little boys who used to walk with him holding his hand from the time he was chief minister for the first time.

his grouse is that the brothers continue to tarnish the image of his party. the latest episodes being the near total recast of the campus violence near the gate of the grand old government law college in the high court premises and the targetting of none other than the dalit minister who has come as a replacement of the younger brother and escaping unscathed in a supposedly huge telecom scam with navika going back to what she was doing late last century, pulling out documents from DoT.

As usual, the old man had written the piece the morning before and stayed at the daily's office till noon proof reading the copy. No one is sure why he chose to write the piece titled: `kodiya vethanai - kumurum nenjam' roughly translated by our political correspondent as `cruel agony - anguished heart'. Elaborating how the Maran's cheated by sharing only 100 crore from sun's shares, the old man gave a clean chit to his elder son in the attack on the office of a daily owned by the brothers in temple town killing three and signed off uncharacteristically by releasing pictures of broken walls, windows and dirty toilet left behind by the brothers when the left the party headquarters to move into a new office for the number one television channel of tamils for the first time since its launch decades ago.

It was an incomplete article and everyone expected the old man to follow it up with a second part. Meanwhile, the elder brother, the media baron who shies away from media, issued a statement through his younger one, pleading innocence, accusing a few in the DMK camp, read azhagiri and arcot veerasamy, of pushing him to write such malicious article tarnishing the maran pride.

As the blabber-mouthed younger maran told a motely gang of media, the statement was self-explanatory. It told the old man that it was him who asked them to buy the daily, whose survey that threw marans out of the first family, as the party needed a mouth-piece. Stating that he was willing to sustain crores as loss, the elder brother reminded that the daily, however, will never be a mouth-piece to be a profitable venture in future. The shrewd man he is, kala has not said anything about the origins of sun satellite channel, the bete-noire of the tamils. Sometime back, when someone asked the elder brother if his channel was floated from the funds of the party, he jumped to his feet and before the reporter could come back to his office, he had called up the paper's chairman. The story was killed and the bureau-chief pulled up for his mis-chief!

The statement shows that the brothers are yet at work in fueling fire within the first family. According to it, the survey to the political heir of the old man was published thinking that he will be happy as his smiling son got the lion's share of votes (followed by others - read as the younger brother).

When the government bus was burnt in the temple town, a phone call from chennai, perhaps the duke of darkness, told the agitators to attack the daily office if the daily had carried the survey and not target government property. The elder brother also states that if the old man had wanted the cabinet post in the centre, the younger would have resigned from office immediately, thus indirectly bringing in the sister into the picture as well. It shows that the brothers are at it again, and unrelenting. The media savvy younger one was not interested in answering questions.

``do you want a controversy?'' he said when asked what next before disappearing through the front door of his white-washed house by the riverside in the poshest locality in the city.

Guess, what the old man is doing. he will be scratching his fertile brain to write a fitting reply sooner or later. while the party is intact, the image of the first family has taken a severe beating in the feud that involves the nephews.

think of what is in store when the silent war waged by the old man's sons spills out into the open. there could be lawlessness and violence within the party. as my ex-boss said this is a party with an inner democracy.

Till the sons fight, the old man and his nephews can continue playing cat and mouse as both still think, even if it is slightly, that they need each other. Of course, you can't expect politics and business to have mutual respect. Both play the game, dirty.

untitled...

2008-11-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

another unpublished one... for the fear of arrests...

-----

``It is for you to tell me.''

Thus he replied thus to a question about how he viewed the functioning of the 14th Assembly in an interview marking his 50 years as legislator. Taking this as a cue, Team TOI, a year later, takes the courage to tell the people that the present Assembly has a long way go to fulfill its duties and responsibilities to the people through meaningful dialogue.

Definitely, the Government has been highly democratic as time and again the Opposition gets more time to talk on issues than the ruling party but the dialogue, meaningful and purposeful, has been highly lacking in the proceedings. The members take time to thank their leaders, reel out a set of demands for the people of their constituencies and mostly finish it in style by taking on the opposite side. Suggestions are hard to come by.

Somewhere, the need to resolve issues on urban and rural infrastructure, demand for housing in cities, lack of minimum support price for the farmers, rain water harvesting and a great irrigation network, failure to improve the quality of higher education, social equity and cultural revival, and many more critical issues, go amiss. It is true that the populist, welfare government is doing its bit in everything but collectively we are falling short.

Here are the characters that add colour to the house.

Philosopher King

Fifty years and still young, at heart and at the assembly. After keeping away from the assembly for five years during the previous rule, Karunanidhi, reclining in the comfort of his seat, enjoys the proceedings with pride and joy. Like a judicious king, he intervenes only when necessary and at other times keeps to himself, especially when there is a discussion on the Tigers. Likes to retreat into the confines of the Spring Hall (Vasantha Mandapam) to rest, do a bit of personal work. Of course, he will be listening the house all the time and sends notes now and then clarifiying and keeping the facts correct. A veteran in the house, the chief minister probably is the only legislator to have known and read from Plato's Philosopher Kings to Karl Marx's dialectical materialism. We presume, he also has read Jeremy Bentham. For, his government strives to bring ``the greatest happiness to the greatest number''.

Conscience Keeper

As floor leader and as the finance minister of the welfare state, the oldest member of the house sits dignity personified. More than the rules of the house, he knows the conventions like the back of his hand. Both he follows and expects, with eagerness, other members to adhere to the customs of the house. Another veteran, the man fondly called professor by his partymen is humble enough to admit in the house that he was only an assistant professor. Only under extreme provocation will he utter a word wrong, that too, in his, characteristic, measured voice.

School Teacher

From Day One, the Honourable Speaker has been a bundle of surprise. In fact, not many thought that this no-nonsense lawyer from down south will occupy the Chair and conduct the proceedings of the prestigious assembly. True to the democratic spirit of the house, the Speaker has been tolerant to a great extent. At times, he finds it difficult to handle the Opposition and orders the security to evict them en masse.
Again, true to the expectations, the Chosen One has carried on like a strict school teacher. At times adamant but largely good-hearted.

Word Juggler

The house has very few wordsmiths. One is the deputy speaker. In the absence of the Chair, this friendly and jovial personality takes over the house and conducts the proceedings in a lighter vein encouraging everyone to speak up. He knows his language as well as the rules of the house. The members also get a minute or more to reel out their demands with this affable man acting as Speaker. May be, sometime in future he will sit in the Chair full-time.

One day Wonder

She visits the house for one day a year. She steals the show. All said and done, the Opposition leader is the most articulate and powerful speaker in the house full of orators. On that particular day, the Opposition MLAs, usually a riotous lot, go deaf and dumb. In a clear, ringing voice, she puts forth her arguments for an hour (credit should go to the ruling party for allowing her to speak herself out). She could do a great public service if she comes to the house regularly, participates in the proceedings, and lends her valuable constructive criticism. Forget it. She has this habit of leaving the house as soon as she finishes her speech.

The Yes Man and No Man.

Both can be brilliant but have been on the sidelines in their respective parties for long. Alliance whip is a voracious reader. With a good understanding in many subjects, Alphonse's pointed speeches, punctuated with arguments and reasonable evidence, in the house have delighted the ruling combine, specially the chief minister and at the same time the ire of the Opposition. More than the Ministers, the Opposition has repeatedly revealed that Congress whip should not talk on certain issues knowing that it could be under fire.

The Opposition whip, on the other hand, can be very adamant to prove a point or keep the assembly records straight when it comes to critical issues concerning the image of the party. One can find an unrelenting him, egging on deputy opposition leader, to stand up and raise the issue till the Speaker settles it amicably and favourably. If not, expect him to lead the party on one of those frequent walk-outs.

Back Benchers

The House has its set of back-benchers and the wannabe ministers from the Opposition. They do follow the rules and regulations of the house but could not be contained in peace for long periods. Now and then, one of them will air a comic comment around pretending that the house did not notice. Knowing well their tantrums, the Speaker, magnanimously, keeps it going. There are times when these former ministers would continue to speak, at times, even without the mike to prove a point or two. Invariably, the comments will have to be expunged and the commentators pardoned.

Sleeper Class

It may sound harsh to call the second row of the treasury bench as II-nd Class Sleeper. Like in any train journey, the travellers of this class mostly talk to themselves and are happy travelling together and being part of a delightful journey. Only when there is an enquiry, they give a reply. Gold Southking is enterprising. The Beauty Doll can ridicule the Opposition. The Shoulder Man can be pricky and the Wrestler, funny. Others are by and large silent companions.

Peacekeeper

He is the minister with the power. Apart from holding the power portfolio, Brave God, the party strongman, keeps the alliance in good spirit and answers to most questions in the absence of the Chief Minister in the House. He sounds soft but is very firm. Patiently, he would listen to the arguments and charges of the Opposition but makes sure that his is the last word. By his polite talk, he, sort of, convinced the house that there was no big power failure last winter despite the truth being that the State, barring Chennai, sweated it out during an unprecedented power-cut.

Smiley

He is not just the rising sun but also the smiling son. He sits there with a rare calm not in the tradition of his party. In the House, he speaks less. Basically, he is a listener. It is this trait that makes him superior to most and that allows him to stay calm under pressure (that is verbal attack from the Opposition). With a smile, he would take it. Meanwhile, the secretaries would be hurrying through piles of paper, calling up districts and in general running around to get the details so that the minister could give the reply the same day itself. Always, he gives his reply in the same session. Mostly fitting.

Unstoppable

Son's trusted lieutenant, the Higher Education Minister is the firebrand of the ruling party. In the previous Assembly, only he had the guts to take on chief minister Jayayalalithaa. He was often evicted for his plain speaking then. In power now, this daring (former) teacher literally spews fire on the Opposition and can't take anything beyond the tolerable limits. In fact, he has a special liking for the former education minister and has subdued him into silence in the last year or so.

The Ticklers

The trio, Uncle, Big God and Butter Wealth, have been there for quite sometime as the second line leadership of the ruling party and second time ministers now. Even if they are not the best orators in the Dravidian sense, the trio often help the house slide into a lighter vein while answering queries of the members individually. Whenever any one of them stand up to give a fitting reply, expect a round of laughter going around.

Me, Mr Perfect

The Food Minister, who has had a meteoric rise in the ruling party, likes the members to believe that his ministry is run perfect. Only there are not many believers as each member has a first hand experience of the functioning of the ration shops and the open secret that is rice smuggling. Neverthless, he never gives up and comes up with proof, often statistics, as soon as possible to counter charges.

Picture Perfect

The Left is largely left alone to speak on issues concerning labour, patta for the poor, manual scavenging, in essence social issues. On any day, expect the CPM leader to talk on Tirupur's plight and the CPI leader on delta farmers. The Left has a one point agenda. Let us be pro-poor to make sure they are not left out of the development process in the liberalised economy. That sentence probably sums it up.

True Followers

With the legislative party leader CM's erstwhile Krishna unable to attend most of the sessions due to his health condition, the MDMK camp works rather silently. Often invoking the name of DMK founder Anna and his ideals, the MDMK MLAs stick to issue based support for policies. But whenever the AIADMK stage a walk-out, the MDMK, its only ally in the house also walks out for some reason or other. Strange.

Springstein

``Speaker Sir.'' No one else in the Assembly takes to his feet and calls the Speaker more than this Congress MLA. Anything related to power sharing, government action (rather inaction) on LTTE, Hogenakkal water scheme, taking a dig at the previous government, more privileges for the members and many more. He is there. On his feet. To speak on any subject.

The Planter

The Hillside MLA may not like him to be called a planter. For, he is against the planters. This dark and dimunitive man has been raising the issue of wages for lakhs of plantation workers paid lower than those working few miles across the border in Kerala. Often, he brings the tea packets to substantiate his speeches and at times brings the labourers as well to the chamber of the Law Minister. Till now, his demands have not been met. But he always takes delight and pride in another achievement of his. Giving the most number of questions in every session. No one has beat him on that score till now.

the list can grow….

wild, wild west.

2008-10-02T07:29:00.000-07:00

On the second day of the world wildlife week, I thought of writing a series of stories on wildlife renting the forests of the state. Some of them are incredible, some imaginary. Well-told wild stories could delight children. This first one is a favourite of my daughters…

The Black Panther.

This is an interesting story of a forest watcher’s encounter with a black panther in the wild, wild west. In the Tamil country, west is the western ghats, one of world’s biodiversity hotspots, is truly an abode of wildlife.

Top Slip is a tourist hotpsot in Anaimalai, literally meaning Elephant Hills, in the Indira Gandhi Wildlife Sanctuary. It was from here, the British used to roll down teaks that would drift in the rivers and carried to Cochin to be exported to England.

Apart from the elephants, tiger, leopards, and Nilgiri tahr, the state animal, Anaimalai is home to a host of tribes. Anyone visiting the isolated village of malai malasars will think they are in the Dark Continent for these tribals share the facial symmetry of the First Ones.

Of the tribes, Irulas are the most common and mainstreamed. Natarajan is a favourite for wildlife enthusiasts. He is a born birder. When he was a young child, he used to stand below the sky-reaching trees staring at sounds of birds. The tribe thought that he has lost his mind. In fact, he had, in a sense and in essence, lost his body and soul to the wild.

It was up to the greatest birder of the sub-continent, Salim Ali, to discover the birder in the tribal. When Ali visited the sanctuary, he sought the company of someone who knew the habitat well. Natarajan was the chosen one as he knew the season and places where most of the 250 species of birds nested, including the hornbills, the pride of the sanctuary. Ali presented him a binocular. His prized possession till date.

Nataraj went on to be the field guide to nine research scholars tracing the life of reptiles, amphibians, birds, fishes, elephants and big cats. Whenever we were there, he was our guide too. To have him as a guide, there is only one requirement. One should walk non-stop for miles and hours.

One night, when we decided to climb the karian shola, filled with fear, he shared the story of his encounter with black panther and how his elder son saved his life. It was his school going son, Murugan, named after the Hill God, and perhaps the only native of Tamils from the pantheon of gods of the country. In the nearby hill, the child god stood in penance with only his underwear on. He could be one of those primitive tribal shepherd boy performing heroics to save his smallish community and venerated later by saints and poets.

Murugan climbed down the hill in a clattering bus to study in high school at the foothills and took the same bus back home early in the evenings. As he has seen most animals in pictures in the museum nearby his thatched house, Murugan was surprised to see a big black cat wriggling into the bushes at the first bend up hill. He told his father that he had seen a really big, black cat in the dry, thorny bushes.

Overcome by curiosity, Natarajan told his wildlife warden that he is going to keep a watch on the big cat and sought permission from his job as a watcher for few days. From the next day, Natarajan started spending his evenings near the first bend waiting for the big, black cat. On weekends, his elder son will also wait with him till darkness set in. For twenty two days, they had no luck. Only herds of elephants crossed the stretch on a few days. In the second week, a leopard was spotted. In the third week, they saw a tiger and a group of lion tailed macaque. But they had seen them all before. Finally, the father decided to call it quits but the son persisted and persuaded his father to stay put till the fourth weekend.

There they sat, on a stone by the side of the narrow, bartered, winding hilly road, leisurely without any expectation, breathing in the winter wind, when lightning struck on the western sky. And then walked the big, black cat, actually a black panther, lazily from under the silk tree, and, on to the bumpy-grumpy road.

The rattling last bus had climbed uphill half-an-hour ago and the forest was still. The father-son duo could neither believe their luck nor their eyes. They were the first ones to spot a black panther in the history of the sanctuary. The black panther watched both sides of the road, like a school boy trying to cross the road on an evening, and started stretching himself. He looked sleepy but sober and unsuspecting of the human presence.

Before lying himself down on the middle of the tarred road, the panther growled briefly. Watching the black panthers growling could chill ones blood. It can be one of those most frightening sights in the wild. On that tranquil day, the panther’s growling came as a pleasant surprise. It then yawned for what seemed to be an eternity and the big, black cat started sleeping peacefully as the setting sky drizzled down golden drops. With the wild within, the father and son wanted to have a closer look at the rare visitor.

The father and son split up. The father moved up by the side of the road crossing the panther and came back on to the road. The son was on this side of the road. Talking in wild language, both took the sleeping position like the panther on the middle of the road and slowly rolled towards the panther from either side.

``When we were ten feet close on each side, the black panther, smelling different, jumped up from sleep. We were terrified. I asked my son not to move and be still. The panther was not looking at him. I lay there before its eyes in my watcher’s khaki uniform. The big cat slowly stepped towards me growling. My heart stopped for a moment. Holding my breath, I lay there in prayer. When the panther came close to me and started sniffing around my body, my son jumped to his toes and started shouting,’’ a terrified-looking Natarajan told us.

Murugan shouted aloud: ``De, karum chiruthai. Nee enna periya evana? Un vala pidichu thooki adichuruven (hey, black panther. I will take you by your tail and throw you away).’’

``Caught unawares by a strange sound from the other side, the black panther looked confused. Now, I jumped up and shouted: `De puli, enna dhairiyam irundha en kittaye vaal attuve (hey panther, how dare you wag your tail to me). With commanding sounds from both sides, the black panther, sensing danger, vanished into the bushes under the tree in a jiffy.’’
Natarajan and his son walked back to the seven kilometre up the hill singing and dancing in unbridled joy. They had not only seen the big, black cat, but have even terrified it no ends.

Postscript: Try telling this story to your sons and daughters by you playing the role of black panther and them as the father-son duo, you sure will have a great time, especially when the black panther sniffs, they hold the breath, and when it runs for cover into the dark, they can’t stop giggling for a long time and everytime. By the way, when you take them on a trip to Top Slip, do show them the bushes near the silk tree at the first bend and the brilliant white eyes of the big-black cat watching them over. They will be delighted.

flowing silver, sea of sponge

2008-09-22T10:49:00.000-07:00

For months, I have been thinking of this particular post. Four of us escaped from the newsroom to landmark. Amitav's reading session of his latest poppy. I have heard of him but never read him. The other three have enjoyed his prose thoroughly. I was promised a book to read by two.

We found him at the doorway. Dressed in white kurta, he stood there slantingly talking. His spongy, silvery hair stood out. I have never seen anything more spongy or silvery.

The man was as soft as the sponge with hair steely as silver. He read passages from his new book and took questions from a sea of admirers. The last time, I heard about him was at the time of launch of Hungry Tide. It was sunderbans that attracted me to read the reviews, mostly favourable. I did not get a chance to read the book. On hearing him read, it was evident that this man was reading from the forgotten, rather unknown, pages of the subcontinental history. Here is one writer working to enlighten the socio-cultural history the historians have not focussed on. Of course, his is a work of fiction. The canvas being history. Like him, I was more interested in knowing the history of those brave men and women who sailed as far as the west indies than the works of naipaul.

His reading was not impressive. It was a session to make people meet him. His readings will not sell even a single book. His writings will. In several thousands. I learnt it after reading the glass palace. It was one of those books which you finish without bothering to do anything else. I took three days to finish the book. From the time, Rajkumar said the British are bombing to toothless octagenarians' naked-hugging at the end of it all, it was time worth well spent.

Irawady river, Mandalay palace, the fort, beach and cemetry of Ratnagiri, the floating Rangoon, Morningside jungles, Calcutta culture, the chilling war, the flight of refugees, the siege, all written evocatively and the unsaid anninhilation of an egalitarian culture by crooked colonialism. The characters too remain deep inside. The King's distant eyes, the uncompromising Queen, the making of a feminist from a collector's wife, a little girl's thirst for the supreme state, a producer husband and a loving wife, all chronicled through the life of a poor boy rising to be a prince.

It was after a long time a book rekindled my passion for filming. The last time was while reading the city of joy. The story is tailor made. Only, one has to visualise. The creeking teashop on a treetop, a young boy presenting a jewellery to a bright eyed girl, the king with a binocular on top of a crumbling fort, the coach rider with his pregnant princess, two young men recruiting in andhra for work in burma, the capsized boat and the death of collector, a young liberal woman sailing in the pacific, the wooded house at morningside estate, the first photograph of a naked lover, the first officers in the army, a young producer hugging a wannabe actor in a cal studio, the bombings, the killings, the cruel images of the war, the interluding delight in wine and woman, the trampling of elephants, the mother sinking into the river, the fight for faith, the photograhper and his wife within walls, that peaceful face from being the prison gates, the train to ratnagiri, not to forget the naked-hugging and kissing of two old people, who hated each other for six decades, at the end.

The images are countless and the canvas breathtaking. Well, will me ever get to make a film?

Saving a crow, Raising the bar

2008-08-20T10:43:00.000-07:00

This happened a month before the much awaited launch of Times of India in Chennai.

***

Timeless In Times.

It has been a week since we walked into Times House on Chamiers Road with the mandate to bring out a liberal paper, a great paper, an editorially flawless paper. One that would be both loved and respected, by the culturally conscious citizens of Chennai.
Late one afternoon, Sooraj D. Singh walked into the office looking for Priya M Menon, the person who cares for the voiceless, who has received awards for saving scores of soulful animals.
When he told her there was a crow was dangling from a kite string on a tree outside, she refused to take him seriously. "Come on stop bothering me, I have work to do," said Priya. "I tell you, it's hanging from a tall tree," he insisted. Then she realised that Sooraj was, for once, not telling tall tales. She went out to have a look and to her horror, she saw a crow hanging from a kite string from a coconut tree beside Times House.
It was close to five in the evening. Over the next hour, she was seen striding round the office, making calls, trying to find help. Some of us went out to look at the poor creature, some of us were too insensitive to even listen to her.
"One of its wings is caught in the string. It is a pathetic sight. I don't know how long the poor crow's been dangling there. It has to be rescued,'' she kept repeating.
Finally she tracked down Daniel -- the man who gave up eating chicken after becoming an animal rescuer -- of the Blue Cross. Priya waited nervously for the rescue team to arrive but it was past five and her son would have come home from school. She had to go. She went. With her heart dangling with the crow.
When it was getting pitch dark, a four men from Blue Cross arrived at our second floor office and asked for a torch. By this time, most of us, the insensitive, were leaving office, only to feel bad at home for not caring for the crow. As we trooped in the next morning, we all wanted to know what had happened to the poor crow.
Daniel tells us: "I was asked to come to Times House and oversee the rescue operations. I had three more persons to assist me. The crow was hanging from a very tall coconut tree. One of them tried climbing the tree but gave up as it was slippery from last night's rain.
He says the owners of the house allowed them to set up a makeshift tower on the terrace. "We used a big iron pole to untangle the crow from the kite string. The pole was heavy and two had to balance it. There was a chance that the rescuers could also fall from the terrace.
"Finally, we tied a stick to the pole and managed to rescue the bird. The crow fell to the ground. It looked dead but was barely alive. The doctors at the Blue Cross attended to it all morning." Daniel ends with, "I am sure, the crow would have died if we had not rescued it that night."
That crow's heart must still be beating. Our hearts too.
We care. Love.

PS: I thought this was page one anchor for launch!

swiftly...

2008-08-17T07:42:00.000-07:00

Now and then, the soul of your story goes missing when it appears in the paper.

When the Indian Institute of Technology - Madras, IIT-M, celebrated golden jubilee in the cool comfort of the students activity centre, only a few realised that the doors have been closed, forever, to a few swifts that had made the centre its home.

In fact, a professor in charge of the nature club in the campus wrote that change in architecture of the centre could endanger the swifts, an uncommon bird, in the guindy national park. Swifts do not nest everywhere and look for places like chimneys. The student centre in the IIT-M suited them perfectly and appealed the administrators not to interfere with the architecture of the building.

When I called up her for a feedback, she said: ``For the golden jubilee celebrations, they have air conditioned the students centre. I think, the swifts have lost their home''.

Needless to say, the story of technocrats shutting the door of the swifts went untold. Till now. A few days later, a deer drowned itself into death in an open tank. Technologists sure need to think hard about clearing the forests for construction. They should go vertical or underground :)

its all happening.

2008-08-17T07:26:00.000-07:00

It has been a while writing real stuff, the heart's feelings and desires. Journalism can be pretty difficult a profession as many of us are discovering. Demanding and painful. The three months, however, have been eventful.

First: After years, my friends think me working. Page ones! Second: Sri Lanka discovered Mendis, not Duleep's son. Third: Federer loses wimbledon, Nadal is No 1. Fourth: An Indian wins an Olympic gold. Fifth: Bolt from the blue. It is time the 9.6 sec barrier fell. Sixth : Phelps wins eight gold medals.

I sure want to write about everything but its past.

Things not happening: My wife still has no mobile. Asthmatic children. Congested traffic. My mom's mutterings. Stalin's dream. My laziness. Litter.

kuchu turns 1

2008-05-20T08:11:00.000-07:00

For those few kindred souls who prayed for a faceless little boy born last summer in chennai, here he is. kuchu turned 1 few days back.

As you read this, he is spending his summer holidays in the cool climes at his father's home in kodaikanal. His mom is still anxious as to how he will adjust to the chillness of the hill station. This is the first time, he is travelled up the hills. All these days were spent at the windy town that happens to be the constituency of one of the corrupt lady of our times.

Of course, kutchu knows the grand-old hero, now dead, who stands as a statue right in front of his home. His grandpa, the quintessential doctor, has been his teacher as mom and dad are busy treating hundreds of patients at the government hospitals in the hinterland. Achu, who goes to school in the district headquarters, is a strong man now.

Leaving the big city, kuchu has had his difficulties, specially in eating, but has slowly swallowed it. If you ever visit him, you can see him speed up and down the long, narrow dark corridor a hundred times a day in his car (see the pic). Simply unstoppable.

kuchu's aunt delivered a baby girl just before he cut his first cake.

;-)

passion vs programming

2008-04-24T08:42:00.000-07:00

Of late, the transsexuals have to, often, straddle between passion and perfection.

On one side is the raw desire to live a carefree life. On the other, there is this programming by the NGOs wanting to transformthe life of transsexuals. Wednesday's fashion shows at Villupuram, organized on either side ofthe KanyaKulam Road, by the locals and an international agency, were reflective of the two entirely different worlds of the present day*aravanis*.

Ms Koovagam, organized by the local *aravani* welfare group with networks in major cities in the nation and the world, was that of the old world, full of flesh, glitz, high decibel and all chaotic. The who's who of the *aravanis* in the state were there. Along withtheir companions (One of the badmouth was beaten up by the localmedia). And they were all honoured on stage by the organizers. Thedancers were not great but their enthusiasm was infectious. At least,one dancer was asked to the item number again.

The fashion show, as elsewhere, was mostly boring. The cute as well asthe intelligent never reached the final stage much to thedisappointment of the crowd. Ms Koovagam went to Ms Mantra. She hadglamour but importantly she was from the right gang. Governmentofficials being the judges, the third prize went to a transsexual whowas dressed as, of all things in a fashion show, *Bharat Matha*.
``Education is the most important thing,'' said Ms Koovagam beforerushing out of the hall and flew off in a car. Once the hall was empty, the organizers were finding it difficult to get back to normal life. ``We have spent over a lakh of rupee. The government has stoppedfunding. Now, it gives it only one NGO. First, the NGOs have to bethrown out of the lives of transsexuals,'' said Radha, president,Villupuram District Aravanikal Nala Sangam. She has been organizing the fashion show for sometime and now suddenly she has no funds from anywhere.

Bang opposite, the Tamil Nadu AIDS Initiative (of Bill & Melinda GatesFoundation), has a parallel fashion show. A well organized one. Onlythe perfume was too much. There are no gangs but there are teams of*aravanis* (SHG members). The team spirit and bonding is evident. Theyhave dressed up in folk, classical and modern and perform at ease the respective dance forms.

The group monitors, female facilitators, are with the members, givingthem tips. And an Australian team is documenting the event from startto finish. The crowns went not to the glamorous but to the diligentand intelligent. Noori, Chennai's 59-year old veteran, got the secondprize for her service to the community. Malavika, the winner, was all in tears. She never thought she was beautiful and so never thought she will win Ms Koovagam. In both, only one thing was common. The fashion shows were evidently fixed.

The transsexuals, true to their style, straddled both the worlds with ease.

times launched...

2008-04-13T10:20:00.000-07:00

``Hey,'' said Jojo. Almost a shout.
Vikas, with his greenish meditative eyes over the monitor, has just cleared the front page.
Many of us shouted aloud. It was the moment. The magical moment the city has been waiting for years now. Tomorrow, the city will wake up to a new paper. An aggressive, intelligent, proactive paper.
As an afterthought he said: ``Let us hope that the other papers don't come up with something special.'' Like him, the editors of other papers might have gone through sleepless days. It has been a dream come true.
``Ok guys, lets start work on tomorrow's new edition,'' Derek says, with a laugh. Sunil gets a pat from everyone around. ``You owe us a big treat,'' he is told. Everyone is relieved. The past one month has been spent for this moment.
``We will read other papers tomorrow,'' says Priya and Ayyappan. ``I am sure the others will have special stories for tomorrow,'' says Suresh. Hundreds have been working day and night for the past 20-odd days. It will be some of the most memorable days in their career. No one is interested in leaving the office. Everybody wants to stay till morning. May be, we will go to the press to see the first copies despatched while the city is sleeping. We are awake.
The city will have to wake up. Tomorrow will never be the same.

Srirangathu sci-fi mama

2008-02-29T04:11:00.000-08:00

Sujatha @ Rangarajan

It happens that I am paying a tribute again. This time to a writer.

Sujatha is a familiar name in the Tamil country. Of course, the girly name has its own phonetic beauty and I always thought that girls withthis particular name were beauties as well. I remember readingsomewhere that it was a girl named Sujatha who first fed the enlightened as he walked through the paddy fields in Gaya afterself-realization under a peepal tree two millennia ago.So, the name is as ancient as the Buddha but the man who popularised it is no more. S Rangarajan has achieved something that no otherwriter has even dreamt of in the language primitive than the Buddha.

In fact, by the time Buddha was born, Tamil text had its own set ofsyntax.Yet for two millennia, it was a language rich with literary, musical, poetic and philosophical notes. It was this writer who popularised science to the masses. He introduced his language-loving countrymenrobots and holograms. Not to forget the haiku.

I was fortunate to be introduced to his writing in my boyhood itselfwhen he was at the peak of his writing career. My *chithappa* was abook seller and my *chithi* would gobble anything and everything in print and had in binding all the serialized novels appearing inpopular weeklies. It was at her home-bound library, I took to books ina big way. After Kalki, it was Sujatha who delighted me with his intelligent and tehno-rich writing. Holding my breath on most occasions, I would flip pages waiting for the young lawyer duo of Ganesh and Vasanth to unsolve one mystery after another.

To say the truth, a studious and legal genius in Ganesh and a flirty and intuitive Vasanth, went on to capture the imagination of a young generation. I'm sure that girls of 70s and 80s were in love with either Ganesh or Vasanth. The good ones with the formers and the liberatred with the later. It is sad that till now no one, including the writer himself, has translated the spirit of his writings in screen, may be with the exception of *Karaiyellam Shenbagappu*. In the small screen,Ganesh and Vasanth have been captured quite a few times but mostlydisappointing and at times disgusting.

Afterwards, whenever and wherever I came across the name Sujatha, I spent time reading with my whole intellect hooked. Otherwise, Sujatha could be difficult to understand, more so for a person with unscientific temper like me. Even now, I remember vividly the serialized novel in which Nila, a young girl as the lead character,with a small dog as advisor, dethroning a dictator in the age ofrobots. Sujatha possessed quite an extra-ordinary imagination and hissuccess lied in translating the technical jargon in simple language.

It was he who introduced archaeology and space science, aesthetics and appreciation, haiku and holography, romance and robots, folksongs, fiction and a whole range of subjects to millions of middle class boysand girls growing up in small towns across the State. Most of them had the habit of abandoning books mid-way as most of the literature wasserious then. Perhaps, Sujatha was the first fiction writer in Tamil to have hooked to the masses. He was the man who opened the windows ofthe small minded showing them new vistas in the realistic frontiers of science and technology, all the time stretching the horizon.

He must have been a man with an in-depth and rare knowledge of theTamil language. He was also the master of modern prose. Combining them eloquently and evocatively, he captured the imagination of hisreaders. His simplified answers to scientific questions for years havebeen the cornerstone of science education in the state. He was awardedby the Centre for such a special contribution.

Soon, I went to college and graduated to RKN, Ayn Rand, Tagore,Dostoevsky, Gibran and Gorky among others and by this time Sujatha had stepped into screenplay devoiding a new generation the pleasure ofreading his fiction. Working with many of the big names and best mindsin the industry, he wrote both the screenplay and dialogue. He couldsense the pulse of modern middle-class families and came up with crisp, chirpy dialogues. It was an extension of his experience withrealistic theatre with lively dialogues. He was one of the rarewriters to establish firmly in celluloid. Director Shankar's *Robo*will be his last contribution to the film world.As an engineer, Rangarajan has had a distinguished career. A formercolleague of him says that he has quite a few inventions andinnovations to his credit. The Electronic Voting Machine (EVMs), thetouchstone of Indian democracy was developed under his leadership at Bharat Electronics Ltd. Not many know his engineering skills but itwas while working in his office room in Bangalore in the earlyseventies, Rangarajan took to writing in the name of his beloved wife Sujatha. In these thirty years, that name has become his.

In his autobiograhpy of his boyhood, Rangarajan fondly remembers thefirst time his name appeared in print. Playing cricket in the holytown of Sri Rangam where he grew up, he scored a twenty whereas at theother end his friend scored a whirlwind ninety or hundred. Both the names appeared in the ``prestigious paper''. ``I have seen my name(Sujatha) thousands of times, but I will always cherish the first timeit appeared,'' he would recall fifty years later. In the last literarymagazine he edited, Sujatha predicted a golden age for writers inTamil. His friends reveal that he continued to write in the hospitaltill his death.

It is sheer coincidence that the missile man, APJ Abdul Kalam, studiedwith him in college in Tiruchirapalli. After a distinguished service,Kalam, as Peoples' President went on to ignite millions of young mindsto science and technology throughout the nation two decades later.Unfortunately, the two great men were not great friends at college butboth went on to accomplish their mission, of popularising science, with utmost sincerity and devotion, in their respective ways.

Sujatha will be special. For, he will be lying in print, littered orhidden, somewhere in the cupboards and bookshelves of millions ofhomes in Tamil country. Someday, in Space Age, some boy or girl mightpick up the book and begin to read with ease. I am sure, they will straightaway identify with the sci-fi writer from the age of primates.

``its a heaven down there''

2008-01-11T08:43:00.000-08:00

tribute to the first man to touch the sky, standing on top of the world, yet dying a modest man

- sir edmund hillary, the man, the mist and icy mountains loved to take care of for over fifty years -

For years, the world thought tensing was the first one to climb the highest peak in this known world. The sherpa, for whom the himalayan peaks were his backyard, showed the way. Till this date, the defining moment in adventure sports is the moment when tensing and hillary conquered the peak for the first time fifty years ago.

The first photograph taken on top of that icy peak showed the short man with a flag. Naturally, people thought that he was the first one to set foot on top of the world. Only years later, hillary, with his modesty, told the climbers that it was actually he who reached there first. ``The last 500 mts was the toughest climb. I decided to take it. Tensing and others followed,'' he recalled.

Early this morning, he died. with all that modesty at a hospital near his home in new zeland. his countrymen called him their greatest son. Not because of he climbed everest, ten other himalayan peaks, and innumerable others. ``He was the humblest,'' said a lady, on mike in a street corner.

of that glorious moment, he had said: ``We felt quite satisfied. Even surprised.'' In the lesser known kingdom of the sherpas, the small community mourned the loss of their saviour. hillary had built two dozen schools and two hospitals for the community, guiding the world climbers to the upper reaches of the snowy kingdom.

as the world condoles his death, the flags fly at half-mast in antartica, the artic mourns the departure of a dear one deeply, and the snowy peaks of the himalayas keep shedding tears, slowly in silence and the icy winds along the peaks whisper the world the bravery of a man. the deep blue sky, the frozen snow, the peaks in penance all stand still. in salute of a friendship.

those touching the sky in the years to come might walk through two friends, wearing the snow, jumping the peaks effortlessly.

The Spanish Conquest.

2008-01-06T05:12:00.000-08:00

Tennis can't get any better. On a calm, late winter night, two champions from the Spanish country captured the hearts of thousands of feverish fans in a magnificient display of, possibly, the best tennis ever to be played in the city.
As the Chennai crowd cheered for close to four hours, the game bordering between unbelievable and out of the world, reminded us once again that tennis, at its best, is pure magic.
The stadium was filled with excitement even before the start of the second semi-finals. Everyone was saying that this should have been the final. The stands, for the first time, were full. It stayed the course, cheering all the time.
Moya, the two time champion and the darling of Chennai, had a large contingent of loyal fans shouting Moya, Moya, Moya. The young Nadal, lacking in charisma, had only the support of the tiny-toddlers to begin with.
There must be something orangy about Mallorca. Both the guru and shishya had a tinge of orange in t-shirts, trousers and even the shoes. While Rafa wore a ``sweaty'' bright orange shirt, Moya only had streaks of orangy on a white shirt. The crowd, though, was thoroughly colourful.
All the three sets went to the tie-breaker. In the first set, the players went with the serve. At 4-5, Moya was serving to save the first set. Ahead 30-0, he did somethingthat even Federer fears. Volleying against Nadal. Moya could barely watch the screeching passes on both sides. Break Point.
The champion character he is, Moya volleyed himself to win the game taking it to the the tie-breaker. A few forehand winners down the line gave him the first set. Even the cheer girls were jumping with joy as the crowd hailed its champion.
While the lenses were whirring towards his girlfriend at the stands often, Moya dint even look at her side once in the first set. He did look at her mid-way in the next set, lost concentration and lost his serve. Not many in the crowd knew, he had a delightful kiss with his girl at the players lounge in the afternoon.
Up a break, Nadal was now hitting the ball frighteningly fast. By now, Moya also had a measure of Nadal's game and was dictating terms with his fierce forehand firing on all cylinders. After a couple of delectable drops, Moya broke back with a lob. It was one of several play(s)-of-the-day. What a tie-break! The linesmen had stopped calling and the chair umpire had to cry `fault' a few times. When Nadal argued over a line-call, the crowd, showed its character, by booing for a few seconds. Perhaps, the crowd pumped him up.
Nadal, Mr Never-Say-Die, saved four match points to send the crowd into a frenzy. The last point was unbelievable. Tiring his friend out, Moya dropped a volley down. Sitting with the photographers, I was closest to the ball in the entire crowd. The ball was dipping and was millimetres above the surface, when the feared backhand whipped it to Moya's backhand that found the net. The crowd went mad. In disbelief, Moya could only sport a smile. Two more backhands equalled the scoreline.
Into the third set, the Spanish conquerors were fighting point after point with gladiatorial spirit. It looked like they were playing to find a place in eternity. The photographers were tired and had stopped clicking, waiting for the winning moment. Even the linesmen were aching. Only,
the crowd continued to cheer. To silence the crowd, the chair umpire had to call a hundred-odd times. `Thank you. Players are ready.'
With Moya literally dancing on the court, dictating terms with a flowing forehand, the crowd, for the first time, called `rafa, rafa; rafa, rafa'. They wanted a third set tie-break. By now, the world number two had clearly won over his share of supporters. It was a touch volley that gave Nadal the break as Moya was serving for the match.
Perhaps, the only let off in the game followed as Moya's forehands went long or caught the net in the third set tie-breaker. As always, Chennai stood up and clapped for Moya, as he got the obvious trophy, the very special player of the tournament.
``It was unbelievable,'' the Sapniards said at the post-match press conference. Of the tennis they played. Of Chennai crowd. Without any transport arrangements or public transport, many in the crowd, after giiggling at Nadal's cricketing skills, walked home after midnight.
Is someone thinking of shifting the venue somewhere else. Hey guys, its time to fly down the Fabulous Federer next year. Chennai deserves it. Or to say the truth, tennis deserves this city, a connoisseur of sports. All sports.

bbbbrrrrrreeaaaakkinnnnng news...

2007-12-21T06:08:00.000-08:00

the rumour mills in the corridors of power at the fort st george have started churning out the latest. as promised, the dmk patriarch, is likely to crown his son, the heir-apparent, on his return. not as the chief. but deputy chief. with finance and industries, i suppose.

the prodigal son, is holidaying in the backwaters, musing from a house-boat along the still waters of kumarakoam, when heavy rains have claimed 49 lives in his own state. the poor chap, who has had a whirlwind tour of the state, is relaxing with his family. with wife, son, daughter and playing grand-daddy.

the son's close confidant, for a change, a male, once-upon-a-time teacher, with a foul mouth, is likely to take up the local administration stuff. the genial, the gold, once-upon-a-time, an engineer, with mild manners, is likely to take care of the higher education as well.

its confirmed, the wind says.

Ram and Rich

2007-11-08T20:57:00.000-08:00

Ram Leelas...

If you thought, it was only Tamil Nadu chief minister M Karunanidhi who is a (lord) Ram baiter. you are mistaken. MK, who excercises control over the state press, clearly had no clue about satellite channels breaking news all the time. or else, the veteran dravidian leader was shrewed enough to have used them for the purpose of propaganda of his old-world dravidian ideals.

Reading William Darlymple, I was rediscovering my fondness for the printed pages. `At the age of kali', he quotes Laloo: ``Ram should punish these murderous fundamentalists - if he exists, that is. But he is nowhere. If he was there, so many poor people would not have died, there would not have been such poverty, such fights...''

In a country obsessed with religion, both MK and Laloo have demonstrated their ability to attack the saintliest of the hindu god, or his avatar, and continue to win elections. If it was dravidianism for the former, it was casteist pride and criminal power that helped the later.

But both, inspite of the personalities they are, can take pride in plunging the polity of the nation towards new lows. Of corruption and criminalisation of politics. While Laloo wears these two traits on his sleeves, MK prefers it to be an open secret.

Rich Ragas ...

Consider these two numbers. 358 and 2,500,000,000.

First, the audience at a preview cinema theater and the second almost half-the-population of the world.

The World's Rich and The World's Poor. UN 1996 Development Report: the riches 358 people in the world have the same aggregate wealth as the poorest two-and-a-half billion.

In other words, as Ambanis get richer, it is likely that millions of poor will get poorer.

This is a fact. Infact, it is globalisation. The modest, but neverthless historic, reductions in wealth and income gaps during the most of twnetieth century are being reversed under gloalisation.

Interestingly, it is intriguing to note that the two binding forces, both exploitative to the core in nature, religion and feudalism, continue to thrive even in the era of globalisation. Studying the political systems and predicting the State responses to these all powerful and all pervading forces could be an exciting profession for future social scientists.

Wither socialism and the welfare state? A friend said yesterday that the world is no more innocent. May be, the world is no more just as well. The planet is already paying the price for rampant industrialisation with its, and our, survival at stake. Still, the rich want to be richer. The poor will always be poorer.

Let us hail stock-markets but don't mistake brand and equity with brotherhood and equality.

its a pleasure... and pain

2007-11-08T20:35:00.000-08:00

it was a pleasure driving on the roads of good old madras the day after deepavali. it seems all the migrant population has gone back to their native towns and villages and only those who really belong to chennai were moving around leisurely.

it was similar to the pace i witnessed when i migrated a decade-and-half back after which the city has also become too mechanical like any other teeming metropolis. it is time, the state thought of decongesting the heart of the city and take development truly to the suburbs by providing the required infrastructure.

it looks like an extended weekend and the city is at peace with itself. with easy mobility, you feel relieved and relaxed. after the wasteful extravaganza, that is diwali. i spent last evening in a park and the sky was littered with brilliant sparks.

here were a thousand blasts from all over the city every second. think of the level of pollution the city inherits in a single day of celebration. its like undoing a year of good work. its not just about the pollutants. its about the purse as well as the city has come to be gripped by the vulgar consumerism, a global culture.

i live in a home by the side of a shopping district and the last week has been terrible with lakhs and lakhs trouping in and out of all sorts of shops. people would have spent crores on buying sweets. forget that we are the diabetes capital of the world. it was a mad rush for plain consumerism.

you may ask what do people earn for. only to spend at times of festivals. i remember deepavali from my childhood, which may require another post. its no more the same. that culture is gone. today, the festival is celebrated in front of the idiot box romancing the stars. dont forget the first day first show madness and the all powerful dressing.

the skyline was lit up till late in the night. i was having a headache after having watched the sloppy indian team losing it to arch rival pakistan in a humdinger. the image, i carried to my dreams was that of a small boy, made to be a beggar, with her mom with the little sis on lap, begging for alms in front of the crowded sweet shop on the high road.

is narcisst and narakasuran the same? i wonder.

sometimes...

2007-10-16T07:55:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, sinners become saviours.

It happened that the sinner, a minister in tamil nadu, wanted to destroy 40 hectares of shola rain forests in the fragile eco-system of kolli hills, and lease it out. Believe it or not. For mining.

Already battered by uninterrupted mining for bauxite for over 40 years, kolli hills, in the eastern ghats, with not many even visiting his pristine beauty, has been languishing for long. The predator, the mining company, wanted nothing other than the rain forests this time, and applied.

the forest department said a firm no. rightly so. which forester will ever accept to the destruction of shola? but the file was sent back to the forest officials by none other than the minister asking it to be reviewed in the positive. the file has been sleeping in the forest office for five months now.

now the minister piles up pressure on the top conservators to keep the file moving. inspite of the fact that the file have to travel a long way, till the supreme court's central empowerment committee to get the nod. he was confident of taking the file till that committee as his partyman happens to be sitting in the chair that seats the man who matters most for the environment and forests that are under threat.

he failed to realise that there is one paper that can spoil his designs. the paper carried the report. not the one it wanted to. in an effort to protect the sources, the sinner had to be shown as the saviour. never mind. another time will come to fix the minister. for now, the shola forests are safe.

the battle is by no means simple. think of the fragile habitat under pressure from development. the melting glaciers in the upper reaches of himalayas, the unabated pollution of the rivers, the thick, smoky urban air, mining in most of the forests, and the list could go on.

if the tribals are to be believed, the mining company, that has about 70 hectares in possession, has applied for rights over 650 hectares, including that 40 ha of rain forests. mind boggling. we may save the shola. but can we save the companies digging deep into the heart of the hills?

hope, eco-terrorists start surfacing soon to send terror along the spines of the mining managers.

dancing in the rain ...

2007-09-27T09:42:00.001-07:00

i haven't watched people dancing spontaneously for a long time now. in my early twenties, i used to dance for hours in a small town below the ghats, my soul town, by the western ghats, as it rained for hours.

yesterday, the nation rejoiced as bombay was seen dancing in the rain to the tunes of chak de for five hours with a band of boys on a historic march. most of them have not seen the sweet home for three months. they have been away, in the land of whites and then in the land of black and white. breathing cricket all the time. well, none of us even dreamt of winning a world cup. but the band of boys had a rare self-belief. like, the kapil's devils.

at hindsight, the boys, it looks, had the right willow. shewag, gambhir, yuvi, robin, dinesh and dhoni. everyone likes to hit. they all crave to get after the bowlers, each one in his own characteristic way. shewag, square of the wicket; gambhir, driving down; robin, scorching and scooping; dinesh, always innovating; yuvi, the thunder bat and dhoni, straight cutting! given an option, they will attack all the way. twenty overs suited these daring batters perfectly.

on sep 24th at johannesburg, gambhir was dancing, not in the rain, but down the wicket to caress the cherry to extra cover and mid-wicket boundaries, in an expedition of elegant batsmanship, on a slow pitch.

to start with, walking in for the injured shewag, yusuf, when a nation was wondering on his identity, hoisted asif for a straight six. no one expected such ruthlessness. it was plain disdain. robin floundered again driving a rising delivery. tactical and shrewd, shoaib brought the spinners on straight-away after seeing yuvi's scintillating form against pacers.

at times, the most indisciplined attack, the pakistanis were on target. they knew that their record against india in world cups. not even a single win. this was the final. umar gul had measured the pitch well and the indians faced the music. the one length delivery he bowled landed on the scoreboard. he had the last laugh as gambhir's scoop was gulped by asif at short fine-leg. gambir had showed the world that even in the shortest format, batting is not about breathing fire but is also about craftsmanship.

if we look back, the team dancing started with the brutal aussies wanting twenty from two on a cool night in durban a few days ago. harbhajan doing a banghra at deep mid-wicket. the team was a minute away from eliminating the champions.

but one billion started dancing at the same kingsmead as yuvi carted the cherry over long-on for a sixth time in six balls at the kingsmead ground to the delight of one billion. having seen the same faces and strokes for fifteen years, sachin, dravid and sourav, the india had something anew to celebrate.

the little fellows were not the masters. they knew little about reputation. they are not purists. they had no respect for opposition. they had a plan. and the plan had a place for a young boy named rohit. hardly a hitter of the cricket ball, the little chap has a brilliant cricketing brain that rescued his team twice taking the total to respect and thereby giving the bowlers a chance.

ah! the poor bowlers, in a baseballish version of cricket. there were two reinventors in the bowling department. it was remarkable for pathan and bhajji to have found the lost rhythm when the nation had finished them off. the cup is as much a tribute to the duo who were nowhere in the cricketing horizon as much it is to the young guns rudra, straight and swinging, and sreesanth, wayward but wicket-taking. after a long time, the nation delighted itself to the constant clatter and cart-wheeling of stumps.

i am not sure if joginder can dance. the televisions did not show his true emotions. well, those bowling at the death, the very death, can't have expressive faces. by design or by choice, the wary-looking joginder was tossed the ball to bowl the last over. twice, that too in the semi-final and final. remember, sandhu's inswinger licking the off-stump of greenidge. like that ethereal image, joginder's run up to bowl the last over, and misbah's lone mishit and sreesanth's near spill, will remain etched in the memories of at least two generations.

thats the emotion, the game of cricket has on the lives on the people of the sub-continent. while an entire nation erupted in joy and dis-belief, another nation went into deep mourning across the borders. that is a nation that never forgets, especially the defeats. on the field or on the front. it always looks to hit-back. on the cricket field, we can always hope for another fairy tale final, like the wanderers.

i wonder if there could be another world cup final as dramatic as this. from the first six to long on to the last six over long-off, it was thrilling all the way. with ups and downs at every corner. think back on the pak innings. imran freeing arms, hafeez edging and kamran missing, the out-of-place younis khan, and the run-out of imran. then irfan's three dismissals. shoaib mistiming a pull, the stupid-slog by afridi, no one knows if he will ever mature, and the rattling of tariff.

you think you are home. misbah is still there. taking it to the very end. wonder how the pak selectors took these many years to unearth such cricketer, cool as a cucumber. he is thirty three. he also represents the raw cricketing talent all over the sub-continent, mostly undiscovered. the last six off a full toss brought back memories of chetan sharma's full toss at sharjah two decades ago.

thankfully, the band of boys were too small at that time and probably have no memory of it. the rest is history, including dancing in the rain. it is nice to have new generation, dancing all the time, not caring for the mumbai rains.

briefly, the boys will be back in the homes, in small towns, by the villages, shouldering the soul of the nation. these small town fellows have truly emerged from the shadows symbolising the spirit and soul of the nation to a whole new generation.

this is an unprinted page in the nation's cricketing lore. myself waiting for the day the small town fellows will make it big in print. To imprint the simplicity of soul truly on the literary landscape.

lets keep dancing in the rain, even if its a hailstorm!

Gram Jyoti aka e-Exploit

2007-09-23T09:07:00.000-07:00

Ericsson, BSNL, Airtel, Apollo Hospitals, Edurite Technologies, Turner Broadcasting and an NGO Hand-in-Hand are partners in reaching out to about one-and-a-half dozen remote villages around the
ancient sea port Mahabalipuram.

Pioneered by Ericsson's WCDMA/HSPA technology (basically 3G), the Gram Jyothi scheme would ensure that these villages are connected to the world through broadband for e-health and e-education. It may look like a programme of combined Corporate Social Responsibility, though in reality, it is the roll out of a fantastic business model to leverage cutting edge technology to tap the rural economy. Not in lakhs or thousands but in installments of one or two rupee per family per day.

Each partner provides a service and has his share in the business. After a visit to Vadugambadi panchayat to have a taste of the pilot project, an Ericsson boss said the 3G technology could be rolled out simultaneously in the villages along with cities once the government grants license for the technology. Using the existing GSM towers of the operators, Ericsson could roll out broadband to lakhs of villages with no landlines across the country but connected through GSM network in a cost-effective manner. Offering 3G using existing GSM network could cost about 25 percent more, said Ericsson's director for 3G Programme.

Radiating 3G signals through existing telecom operators, Ericsson would have business partnerships with like-minded service providers to offer services like e-health, e-education and e-governance for the benefit of the local community. At the office provided by the panchayat free of cost, the staff of the concerned agencies and a few trained village youth help doctors from Apollo Hospitals in Chennai to diagnose the illness of the villagers through a detailed discussion and prescribe tablets or syrup for common ailments. The medicines are also given to the villagers free of cost; for now.

``There is no free lunch,'' says Prof K Ganapathy, president, Apollo Telemedicine. For the system to be self-sustaining, there has to be business in it ultimately, he emphasised. Apollo has a plan to collect 50
paise per person in the panchayat that roughly has about 3,000 inhabitants. The panchayat is yet to accept the plan.

Once the deal is through, Apollo will earn about Rs 50,000 per month from the panchayat. ``If we can offer the e-medicine service to thousands of villages, then it is blue chip,'' Ganapathy said. Insurance companies also are in the loop. We presume that there will not be thousands of patients to be take care for serious illness, Ganapathy reveals his heart. With his experience in tele-medicine for over seven years, Ganapathy feels the 3G platform to be stable. So, the technology is there. Will the villagers accept? Giving away a rupee or two will not be a problem, says an elder adding that the men spend hundreds in bottles.

Simultaneously, a teacher sitting in Chennai starts lessons to three schools around Mahabalipuram. As the technology was being tested, the teething troubles are there. But the video and animation are quite good.
Again, e-education comes free of cost for the first three months, the trial period. ``We will offer lessons in Tamil as well,'' assures a technician from Edurite. It will come at a subsidised rate. Wonder, why the state that distributes television sets to houses is not giving it to schools and have the best teachers take classess. Vikram Sarabai thought this fifty years ago. Still, the governments are thoughtless.

Services on e-governance like obtaining birth and death certificates, paying bills or tax among other things would also be offered in future, for a nominal rate. As e-governance is still in its primitive stages not many villagers have a taste of it. The internet kiosks are basically for kids to play karate and car race. But we are talking about private companies here. Ericsson, plans to have partners for information, entertainment are also
in the loop.

Theoretically, the business model is possible through unwiring and cross-subsidy. Just a reminder. It is not a service. It is purely a business model. It might work but the question is will it work wonders for the rural folk?

Left, Right, Left ...

2007-09-06T07:19:00.000-07:00

At about 9 am on a damp, sultry morning in front of the port of chennai, the march against new imperialism was to begin. As always, the Red Flags lent majesty to the air. Sadly, the crowd was so sparse that it could have been numbered within minutes.

None other than Karat was to lead the march. Chennai has a huge chunk of CITU members. It looked like the comrades were asked to work for their families and not for the nation. For now.
A couple of spirited Communist cadre were shouting anti-imperialist slogans. As Manmohan Singh thinks, the voice of the proletariat sounded shrill and meek.

Only a stern-looking Karat and the resolutness of CPI national secretary Raja gave some sort of credibility to this historical march for sovereignty through mass mobilisation. Raja explained why chose the city that had hosted the US flagship carrier Nimitz that bombarded Iraq not so long ago.

Chennai was one of the cradles for communist movement in the nation. In fact, the first May Day parade was marched on the streets of this very city. Till the 1980s, soviet literature was part of the reading habit.

We have conveniently forgotten all of it. The new generation will not even know. Times have changed. This is the New Age. People are no more idealists. They have turned to commercialism in a big way.

For once, it looked the Left was not without allies. The State Agriculture Minister, the DMK strongman, Veerapandi Arumugam and PMK president G K Mani were at the venue. Not to lend solidarity to the Communist struggle but to pay tributes to VOC, a true swadeshi who sailed ships on his own fighting the old-world (British) imperialism. While Arumugam arrived before the Left leaders, Mani came after the march had left. It looked deliberate as the DMK and PMK, share power with the Congress at UPA. They want more money.

Moving on, the Left leaders were accorded warm reception at several points enroute Vizagapattinam. It was off the coast of Vizag, the joint naval exercise was taking place.
It was evident that the Tamils had not cared about the Left's fight against imperialism or they did not care to come out in support. The convoy led by Karat in a Tempo Traveller, a few vans and comrades in motor-cycles, stopped at Sulurpet, Gummidipoondi and at few roadside points.

A dhoti-clad Karat, sweating profusely and shying away from the crowd, spoke as sternly as he could, warning the UPA Government not to take the Left for granted. ``The UPA's commitment is to the people. Not for George W Bush,'' he remarked.

Raja warned the UPA not to deviate from the common minimum programme or face the consequences. ``We mean what we say,'' Raja kept reiterating at all the points.
Into Andhra Pradesh, the Left leaders were happy to see more crowd. At the same time, their hearts must have been gripped with melancholy at the sight of poor peasantry gathering around them. To see if the socialist leaders can give them a cent or two to be sheltered in a hut.

There were many farm women as the landownership was a issue in those parts of the state. The children with thin legs and vacant eyes were there. They are there like that in the rural countryside all through this nation. Not many notice nor care.

When the educated Chennaiites could not comprehend the Left's zeal for sovereignty, the poor women folk visibly had no clue as to what the leaders meant by joint naval exercises or nuclear agreement or even 1.2.3. It was a sad commentary on the times we live in.

The march went on.

poetry of the past

2007-08-26T08:08:00.000-07:00

I must confess that I am amazed at the language skills of the young writers, mostly girls. Reading blogs of these girls, in their early twenties, has been a pleasurable passing time.

I was wondering what all things I wrote when I was in my early twenties. I know that I penned down two of my most memorable poems ever when I was 22. Titled `Framed Forever', on a lost sister and an untitled one about a young man watching his very own funeral. Both lost. I have been searching 'em for years. Yet to find them.

I stumbled upon two other pieces of paper. Here are they. The first one was written the night, I had a glimpse of two unknown women, in the same crowded market place, where we reside now. And the other, on an introspective birthday.

Little bit of editing has gone into it. Not all that bad, I think.

***

An ode to feminity

Walking along crowded market street
I saw the lady-little, yarned in yellow

Radiant was she, ransacking my heart
it was evident 'at she was collecting hearts

She had a poise to carrying objects
and lashes to filter animated subjects

Fortunate was I, for the twin stars
illuminated dark holes of this avatar

The creative colour had crossed me in a flash
consoling a humiliated heart heaped all in ash

A rare glimpse to cherish from a dark night
but 'at was not to be the end of that lone night

I saw a girl warped in white as
i climbed down from a complex story

Serene and simple her soul was
stranding me in a moment of victory

Creative was i before, complete i 'came
at that graceful glance of girlish purity.

Years of forlorn vanished, with 'at mind insane
planting in an untamed heart at once morality!

Away from realities of darkness and time
Light pure and new hath entered my mind

Hail the women of this world
the benign bonds of lasting love
and charming chains of continuity

Pray, my soul rests in 'at vast ocean
Of cosmic love. Called compassion.

***

Happy Birthday

On this day you 're born
Now seem to feel forlorn.

You wish you were not born
for the life has revealed thorns;
In the span of wishful years
that have gone concealing tears.

New rays alight the endless horizons
of earth where we all will be buried soon.
The cloudy mayhem of illness surround
the reality of existence present all around.

When there is an inner ever glowing flame
Why then seek wealth, power, place and fame?
When there is so much of light within the self
Why seek comfort in the murky, egotistic self?

Nature seems to be the only solace
relations deter the mind of its peace
Free you are to give everything in nature
attachments demand things giving pleasure

You never realise the truth within
and search for eternal liberty - wherein
you forget the beauty of being born
on a planet 'ch is being continually torn

You are the person, You are the planet.

When will humans understand this facet?
Even if you are a miniature cosmos by yourself,
Hope seems to be the only saviour of soverign selves.

the neighbourhood series...

2007-08-20T07:39:00.000-07:00

It was while crying upstairs for a lost friend for long, I got to know my neighbour number four, five and six. Dovely friends. As I sobbed uncontrolably for having not been in touch wtih a very good friend for over a decade, a whitish dove, in all radiance in the evening light, landed on the stairs outside.

The iron gate was locked. My cries stopped for a moment. Then the other two friends flew down. An ash smeared and a grey necked dove. For a moment, I was caught in between crying and smiling. Even a cellphone camera could have captured the thriving vitality of the birds. Life couldn't have been stranger than that second.

To lift my soul, the three walked in a slow, measured, procession in front of me. This way and that way. Unmindful of my presence. I sat still. Smiling inside. The birds kept on picking the grains on the floor and ambled across, leisurely and lyrically. The terrace has been home to a dovely clan. I dint knew it before.

Birding can be levitating. For humans have long desired wings. Poor creatures, they are bound by the laws of gravity, all the time. The human flight is confined to the realm of imagination. Forever. Forget the steel birds. I am talking things natural.

Then this morning, I kept watching through the window. Three butterflies. True Blue, Mellow Yellow and Gorgy Green wafted through the sultry air one by one around the mango tree. I lost myself watching the beauty and carfree creatures. The Gorgy came by the window, the Mellow drifted wide and wide in semi-circles and the True kept licking the little leaves.

It was 12.30. The kutti kingfisher flying from the western side perched himself at the same place when i took that picture a few days ago. Almost, the same time. Not to be missed. Jawa was there. Stupid being, he said the bird could not be captured better.
Wonder why they have lenses like that? Told him straight that he cant be a photographer, if he was not willing to take even a shot. Grumbling he went.

By now, the birdie flew the same way he did few days ago. So, he must be a regular.
Then the squirrel came as well. On the same branch. Today, he was not lazy and kept climbing up and up. Like me, they too were at work as well!

Sat there expecting the shikra to drop in. He never came. A long parrot, out of the mango foliage, flew around in a circle, and disappeared. Parrots must be there in plenty. I could hear their constant conversation loud and clear.

As I stepped outside, someone climbed down from the terrace. Up there, there were hundreds on a flight around the city's skyscape. On the high-rise apartments. On the ground. They were everywhere.

A wonderful world waiting for me. Back by the window, I saw a squirrel (is he the same?) chirping at the branches and a piece of paper tangled looking for food. There was no need for a camera. He was so close. Watching him that close, you also could free yourself.

I was hungry. A pot-belly brewing with acid. Yet, I lingered on for few more minutes. I think I will have to dedicate a post to the crows criss-crossing my window. For now, I leave my window. Back to my home.

``What is the purpose of writing the same things again,'' Tangled had asked me last night when I told her that a column on natural world in a concrete city could be a good idea. I had told her that columns could contain the message of conservation. I am not sure, if there is any in this post.

I remember the wife of an ageing but agile photographer telling him this. ``For forty years, you have been photographing the same tiger, the same leopard, the same elephants, and the same butterflies. For what joy?''

Well, any answers?

neighbour number 3

2007-08-15T06:43:00.001-07:00

After shooting the squirrel for sometime, I was content watching Lilian typing her story. I was not expecting anything more to fall into my favourite eye.

Closing the windows, I sat there silently in the chillness of the aircondition. It was early in the noon and it was quite hot and sunny outside.

Suddenly, something caught the corner of my left eye. I sensed something strong and powerful. And there he sat like this.

He or She, I have no clue. It looked like a falcon. It was also like an owl. I shot about five pictures and then realised that the glass window was between us.

Slowly and silently, the window had to be opened. He was patient and sat there posing for me. Only his head was moving side to side. Few more pictures later I realised that I could level the lens straight at him and shoot.

With the 200 ED Nikor lens, it was kind of eye-to-eye. The bird was hardly a hundred feet away. And this is the picture. It looks ferocious in the eye and claws. Otherwise, he looked a soft bird with a round belly with brown stripes and greyish wings. Two pictures later, he dived down into the dense foliage of the mango leave. May be, he caught something.

None of us in the desk had no clue as to what the name of the bird is. Later, Kumaran told that in Tamil it was called `vairi'. To him, it was the most ferocious (falcon) kind in these parts. ``It is deadly. Look at the beak, it can rip apart the soft bellies of the victims in a single, swift attack.''

``It is rare to catch him in the camera. Splendind job,'' he said. From what you have read above, I think it should not be a tough job for seasoned, wildlife photographers. Has luck favoured me? I was not sure. One lensman said the bird visits often (for lunch).

Then I googled up for a hour. Still, I could not fix his name. It looked like Northern Harrier but those birds live in North America. Tropical harrier. Google did not give correct pictures. One Dravidian language site had compared it to white headed kite. Again, Google was not of help. Someday, I will have the answer when my IFS friends come home for dinner.

As I type these words late in the night, hundreds of birds, may be, even thousands, rest in the shades of the handful of huge trees, behind my glass window. Leading a silent and content life. Lend your ears, it is the quietest neighbourhood in the city.

neighbour new

2007-08-15T06:43:00.000-07:00

I have never seen a squirrel standing upright. There is another picture that showed his ``white'' side. The side untouched by the legendary Rama who was fond of squirrels and who used to caress them in the back. And so, the three long lines along the body!

That was a long time ago. But I believe, the squirrel, as a species, has existed even before the time of Rama. This fellow is a good fellow for he gave me pictures of a life time.

I have read an account on squirrel by the first naturalist writer M Krishnan in which he had said that squirrels used to sleep on the branch of guava trees looking into the sky with the legs hanging on the sides of the small branches. I have not had the patience to watch him do that.

In the `House of Insects', I have seen them sporting around all over the guava and mango trees. The squirrel eating rice from our courtyard is etched in my memory.

Here in this quiet, huge garden, amidst towering high-rise apartments, this little fellow was having fun, climbing up and down the huge (athi) tree. Satisfied, I dint pursue him much. May be, I will have to walk around the garden with the camera dangling around. I will love that.

PS: Jawa has come back and started complaining already. I hope the other cameras also come soon. This fellow can be incorrigible.

the neighbourhood!

2007-08-15T06:09:00.001-07:00

I have been away from the animal kingdom for a year now.

From the time, I came back to the big city, from the forested city nestled amidst the western ghats, I have been longing to return.

To the woods, to the streams and to the winged world. Life has been rather hectic. Even if you are a leisured life, the other world is nearly invisble.

Then the miracle happened. The paper after years chose to buy cameras for the photographers. I got to test the first piece. A Nikon D200 with an 80-200 ED lens. Jawa got it. Someone who has never allowed me to touch his own camera (reluctantly) allowed me to use the office piece.

On an afternoon, the camera dangled from my neck. Raju fixed the 200 ED and gave it. As I opened the backwindow, this bird came into the picture. I had no time. I knew that it could fly away anytime. I took the first shot. The result is what you see. A bit out. As I tried to place myself better, the bird, sensing my urgency, flew low and out of the frame.

As I always do, I kept looking into the trees. Raju spotted the squirrel. He was resting on a huge branch. The eye was visible in the lens. After a while, he got up moved around, scratched himself, all around, from the nose to the tail. It was fantastic watching without him aware of the lens.

I took quite a few pictures. I wanted to go back to my `House of Insects' where squirrels are the lead actors. I had to be content with what I had. The lens rolled. The distance and his dancing movements left most of 'em shaking. Then he strestched himself to reach out to the leaves or else small fruits and the camera delightfully took him in.

மழை, மாமரம், மறந்த காலம்

2007-08-08T00:48:00.000-07:00

வெகு காலத்துக்குப் பிறகு, மழையெனப்
பெய்த மழையை ரசிக்கும் வாய்ப்புக் கிடைத்தது

ஆனி மாதத்தின் இறுதி வாரத்தில்
மாலை நேரங்களில் பெய்தது பேய் மழை

நிற்காமல், நீண்ட நேரம், நினைத்து
நினைத்து மனம் திறந்தது வானம்.
என் நல்மனமும்.

அமைதி தவழ்ந்த அலுவலகத்தில்,
நீலநிற நியான் ஒளியில் நின்றிருந்தேன்,

கண்முன் நீண்ட கண்ணாடி சன்னல்கள்,
வெள்ளி முத்துச்சரங்களாய் மழைத்துளிகள்.

மனதினுள் ஈரம் படர்ந்து,
நினைத்தது நினைவுகளை,
மறந்த காலத்தை.

பின் சன்னலைத் திறந்தால்
மாமரங்களில் மழையோசை,
முகிழ்த்தது மனம்.

நீண்டு உயர்ந்த மலைகளின் அடிவாரத்தில்
மஞ்சளாறு பிறந்து, பாய்ந்த என் ஊரில்
மனதுக்கு இதமான மனிதர்கள் மத்தியில்
வாழ்ந்த அந் நாட்கள் மறந்தே விட்டன.

நகரத்தில் வந்து நானாகவே நிற்கிறேன்.

மாமரமும், மரப் பொந்தும்,
மண்வாசனையும், மழைநீரும்,
மருதமும், மாணவப் பருவமும்;

இன்று பெய்த மழையில் நிழலாடின.

காற்றின் கீதமும், தாகூரின் கவிதையும்,
காகிதப் படகுகளும், காதலியின் கண்களும்.

ஆம், அது கனாக்காலம்.

படரும் இருளிலும் பார்க்க முடிந்தது,
ஆங்காங்கு தங்கியிருந்த நீர்ப்படலங்களை.

இன்று பெய்த மழையில் ஏனோ நனைய விரும்பவில்லை,
நகரத்தில் மழை பெரும்பாலும் சலிப்பைத்தான் தருகிறது.

முன்னர் ஒரு நாள் மாலையில், கண்கவர்
கானகத்தில் கால் பதித்தபோது,
இதேபோல் இடியுடன் கூடிய மழை.

மலைகளின் மேலே முகில்களை முத்தமிட்ட தருணமது
மறைவதற்கு இடமுமில்லை, மனமும் இல்லையன்று,

பச்சைப் புல் படர்ந்த மலையில்,
நெஞ்சம் நிறைந்த நிலையில்
படுத்திருந்தோம்.

வரையாடு வானத்தை முகர்ந்து பார்த்தது;
கோணலாறு கண்ணாடி போல் பளபளத்தது.

வெளிர்நீல வானுக்கப்பால்,
வெளி விழித்துக் கொண்டிருந்தது.
மௌனத்தில் மயங்கிய நாங்கள்;
மோனத்தில் ஆழ்ந்திருந்தோம்.

நனைதலை விட சுகமொன்றுண்டோ?
மழையை விட அழகுமுண்டோ?

ஆனால், அது மறந்த காலம்.

நானோ நகரவாசி,
வாழ்வைத் தொலைத்து,
வாழ்க்கையைக் கடத்துபவன்.

மழை சற்றே ஓய்ந்திருந்தது, வீடு
நோக்கிய நெடும் பயணம் தொடங்கியது,

விஸ்தாரமான வீதிகளில்,
கலங்கிய குளங்களைத்
தாவி, தாவி நடந்தேன்.

மரத்தின் உயிரை வழித்துச்,
சொட்டிய அப்பனித் துளிகள்
நனைத்தன என்னிதயத்தை.

இன்றிரவு நான் பாடுவேன்,
என் தனிமையின் தாகத்தை,
பின்னிரவின் சோக கீதத்தை.

ஆம்.

இது,
மரித்தவற்றை
உயிர்ப்ப்பிக்கும்
மழைக்காலம்.

the blue pencil ...

2007-08-02T08:30:00.000-07:00

i am not sure what title i should give to this post. it is about the man who gave me the opportunity to be a journalist. he is dying. slowly. surely.

the last time i met him, he talked for a few hours about the paper he edited. how bad it has become and how worse the editor-in-charge was. it was in his air-filled house under a whole lot of trees in a quiet neighbourhood in besant nagar.

he had just come back from library and a stroll in the nearby park with his wife. he thought he was fine and that the cancer has been completely cured. i thought so. he was filled with vitality, as ever. he wanted to know how my parents, wife and daughter were.

with half-a-century of journalism behind him, he wanted to work in a newspaper till he breathed last. he had another regret. he had never owned a newspaper. he had only been an editor.

however, he had to fight cancer after retirement. i am sure, if not for the cancer, he would have lived close to 100 years. i am not sure now. i just returned from seeing him in a bed, deathbed. with wires running all through his body, and he, can you believe, unconcious.

those who have visited the desk will always remember this tall, energetic man, in whites, with a pen in hand, commanding the newsroom. once he had told me. ``you remind me of my young days as a reporter, therefore i like you a lot''.

that was one of the reason he allowed me to work inspite of the numerous mistakes that appeared in print because of my stupidity. when it comes to criticism, he can be more than harsh. he actually hurts. sensitive people will never be able to work for him. those who take it in the positive sense, as part of a learning curve, continued to work with him.

the legend has it that he has made many, many ordinary reporters into great reporters and on the flip side, he has killed the hopes of equally the same number of aspiring journalists.

my father still thinks me that only because of my editor, i have been a bit useful to myself and to the people around me. i think i should have to accept it. i was an aimless, arrogant and an addict.

the first time i met him, he asked me if i can write in tamil. and gave me a test. he threw my certificates to a corner of the desk. he dint care for my masters. after corrections, he loves doing that, he asked me if i knew what it meant by *otru pilai*.

son of a tamil teacher, i had no clue. still, he gave me the job. in his style, he said. ``stick around for a few months. if you are good, we will take you. otherwise, you go home.''

and thus began my journalistic career. in another six months, i would be completing a decade in journalism. what i have achieved, i don't know. perhaps, like him, i can take pride that, i have introduced many youngsters to journalism.

unlike him, i plan to write a lot, provided there is space for serious stuff. and if i am not lazy, he was one man who had the courage to ask a rookie like me to write edits for the most prestigious and authentic language paper in the tamil country. i am not sufe if any other editor will allow a reporter, just three months into the profession, to write edits.

my editor had the courage and a rare belief in the power of the youth. he taught us sincerity and how not to be corrupt. even to this day, the english daily, for which i work and for which he served really long, is the least corrupt.

his wife tells me that he often says that he wants to survive. in the hospital bed, he looks pale. with a white veshti around his waist, he is induced to sleep. that broad, always thinking, forehead is smeared with ash. this man was known to have associated with the reformist and dravidian movements.

he has a mask. his wife tells me that he often bites his tongue. those who were bitten by the harshness of that tongue can take delight in that. when someone visits him in the hospital and calls him saying that he has come, he murmurs long, acknowledging it.

is he conscious? his wife says that the doctors plan to open his skull and remove the clot in the brain. she is not sure if he will survive surgery. even if he survived, he already has lost the ability to walk. he hates pity.

his wife is in a dilemma. she has never taken a decision in her life. he takes them. in a moment, always. has he been kind? i think it will be debated for long. personally, he has been kind to me.

whether he learnt or not, he always wanted journalists, young and old, to learn and improve everyday. ``only self-improvement will help.'' that tall man would stand there from 11 am to 11 pm. commanding and communicating. those who dint communicate, lost favour with him. there are scoundrels around to spoil others life everywhere, you see.

for my editor, work was worship. when he breathes last, editing would have reached an end. only temporarily. i pray editing gets sharper and sharper. and he, hale and healthier.

we have thousands of things to write. the society is selfish and stinking.

Gift of Life

2007-07-19T08:02:00.000-07:00

Well, this could be really interesting. Last night, we walked with three childhood friends, a photographer, a writer and a journalist.

The last time the three had met they were in school finals. The journalist used to sit in the front bench, pretending to be studious. The writer, in his very own imaginary world, right behind, will be watching the world through that green window. The photographer, in the third row, was the innocent fellow, who liked to be himself.

Years have passed. None of them ever thought they would travel this far in life. How far is difficult to say. For, we are not talking about the distance between the city and their hometowns nestled in one of the fertile valleys in the tamil country. It was truly a countryside. A hundred kilometre stretch of green carpet, gurgling small streams criss-crossing the fields, a string of small town gods along the narrow reddish roadsides, a radiant sky littered with purified clouds.

Nature, in its pristine beauty and godly glory. The abode of simple souls. They too were simpletons in childhood. The world was very limited then. Like anywhere, they were taught to dream of becoming a doctor, engineer or an agricultural scientist. Professionals, in short.

The journalist had no great ambitions, we know. The writer wanted to be a writer. We had no clue as to what the photgrapher wanted to be. Last night, we were there, with them together. They were a bit surprised at what they were. All three had come to occupy a respectful position in the society and a bit known, and even prominent (the writer and lensman) in a wide circle.

Over to the party. The journalist quit drinking. He still likes liquor and smoke. His system rejects though. The other two friends had a hearty drink after a long time. They had only few minutes in between all the introductions and hand-shakes to be friends again for a few moments. In childhood dreams, we can see that journalist, with his vacant eyes, wanted to be with women, all the time. If we read the semi-autobiographical stories of the writer, then we will know he was waiting to fall in love with any girl, anytime. The lensman never said or shared such things in life then.

In the party we spot the photographer's father whom we recall from childhood. We overhear the friends tell him that his son has succeeded in life. He feels happy and extremely satisfied. Later over a drink, we listen to the photographer whishpering to his friends. ``I owe most of what I am today to my wife.'' That is nice of him. Even before meeting his wife, he was successful in modelling, his chosen profession, definitely not a male domain in this conservative city. At the party, we could see his wife. Full of life and energy, dancing to any numbers. We could not speak anything to her as she was busy all evening. We could sense her in him. She looked like life's gift to him.

Well after midnight, the journalist went to drop the writer at his home. As he has never been to his friend's home, he walked up with him in one of the first apartment to be built in the city. We may not be able to comprehend how the writer creates characters staying in one n'th floor of a bare building, seemingly without any life.

``My wife is not at home. So it will look like a bachelor's,'' the writer said, taking his friend in. As we enter, we, walking with the friend, can't miss the framed photograph. The writer, looking calm and composed, and his wife, revealing her warm heart in a rare smile, stare at us.

Opening one of the doors, the writer shows the sprawling city's skyline. ``You jump from here. I promise you heaven,'' he tells his old friend in the balcony. Within the walls, the writer shows us the world he lives in. The world of words. We catch a glimpse of J Krishnamurthi's translation in Tamil. Truth is a pathless land, reads the chapter's title.

Knowing not that we, with his friend, already have seen his wife, he gives his friend the marriage album. The city's whos who were there. They will be there for him. His words have the power to take them to millions of homes in the tamil country. In his heart, there is only one.

``I fell in love with so many girls. She was the only one who fell in love with me. My lovable girl.'' The writer went on to tell us the wonder his wife is. Brilliant, intelligent, caring. Simply, out of the world. We will have to agree to him. Seeing her in photograph enough could be a testimony to all that the writer said. To know her in person, we, like his friend, will have to wait till September when she will return home from United States.

``She is life's gift to me,'' he confides. Later, we hear the writer telling his old pal how to reach out to the climb the tallest mountains and reach out to the peak or how to look beyond the horizons and travel that far, letting the world know that we were masters in our profession and to be helpful to those in need.

At the end of it all, the writer said, the friends should go back to our valley of streams and sit with a meditative mind to contemplate the cosmos and sleep staring at all those stars littered along a clean, deep blue sky, resting in the shades of eternity, where words will be the winds and rhymes, the rivers.

By now, the journalist was thinking about his wife. After a bear hug, the journalist drives home in his half-broken bike as it drizzles. At home, we see the journalist's wife waiting for him well after midnight for her half-stupid husband had failed to inform her of his late coming. Totally disorganised, this fellow has this habit of coming home after midnight regularly.

Neverthless, the wife waits for him. We can't ask her to sleep and not to mind his stupid being. She will not listen. She will be there waiting to prepare food for him. We premise that it is not about the food. It is all about her feelings for him.

The journalist has never confided before that his wife is his life's precious gift. Well, he has!

sea, sorrowful

2007-07-10T07:56:00.000-07:00

for a few fortnights,
melancholy visits often;

the wandering waves,
wash ashore wantonly;

the sea, sorrowful,
groans and mourns,
the death of two:
born and blossoming.

the first, a baby, of,
almost an angelic sister,
still nursing lost little one.

then this distant friend,
known for the first time,
sadly, after she lost breath.

the answers are not known,
that vain search though is on.

words, like wavelets,
wash my worried soul.

the sea, sorrowful,
sinks into the silence,
of simple looking sky.

when will we know,
what depths we go,
when we wear out.

welcome to this harbour,
where love plays valour.

dears depart to distant shores,
yet your ship has to be anchored,
not to be drifted deep into the sea.

the sea, sorrowful,
waits without waves,
with deep blue waters.

let me untie the knot,
let us drift against waves,
to be that sorrowful.

when will we know,
what is with this death,
when we sail itself.

sorrow visits me often, by the seaside;
thinkin of those two, travelling through;
troubling my heart, cleansing the soul;
deaths do purify, mending the mind.

the sea, sorrowful,
wavers, then waves,
wanting me,
you.

Nimitz has Nukes.

2007-07-04T07:24:00.000-07:00

Well, USS Nimitz, the lead ship of the United States's aircraft carriers, has nuclear weapons on board as it is anchored peacefully three nautical miles of Chennai's coast.

No more. May or may not. To the media, Rear Admiral Terrence Blake and ship's Captain Michael C Manazir have confirmed that they were heading back to the Persian Gulf. For Iraqi Freedom. The ship has come to the city from the Persian Gulf only.

It is sheer common sense for anyone to infer that the largest warship of the United States, infact of the world, in an assignment as volatile as the Gulf, must have nukes on board. It will not have nukes, only if it had transferred the tactical weapons to USS Princeton, the destroyer accompanying it. I am not sure, nukes would be handled like other cargo.

There is another possibility, Nimitz could also have dropped its nukes at Diego Garcia, if it respected India and her sentiments. And might pick 'em up again. But the world knows that, the Americans have no respect for anything and believe in only their audacity.

Tonight also, Chennai will sleep without the knowledge that there is a warship, with about 80 F-16 and F-18 fighter aircrafts that can reach even Delhi and beyond, could actually be armed with nuclear weapons. The city is happy looking at the crew having fun.

Of course, India can be proud of United States's clean record in handling nuclear facilities, including its 9 aircraft carriers, led by none other than the USS Nimitz.

Now, Comrades step aside. Welcome Nimitz!!!

Gogol's Overcoat.

2007-07-03T00:50:00.000-07:00

I wanted to write a review for Mira's Namesake. Without reading Gogol's `Overcoat', I thought I was not in a position to write that.

For my friends who watched the movie and who couldnt come to know of the complete cycle.

Here's The Overcoat:

From that time forth, his existence seemed to become, in some way, fuller, as if he were married, as if some other man lived in him, as if he were not alone, and some charming friend had consented to go along life’s path with him—and the friend was no other than that overcoat, with thick wadding and a strong lining incapable of wearing out. He became more lively, and his character even became firmer, like that of a man who has made up his mind, and set himself a goal. From his face and gait, doubt and indecision—in short, all hesitating and wavering traits—disappeared of themselves.

It is interesting to learn that Fyodor at somepoint had said: ``All of us (Russian Realists) were born out of the overcoat.''

Ship, eh?

2007-07-02T03:19:00.000-07:00

My first trip to a warship. It happened that I landed right on the lead ship of the nuclear powered aicraft carrier of the mighty United States _ USS Nimitz on a sultry Sunday. The namesake had listened to sea stories from his grandfather at a small German-like town in Arizona and on seeing a Captain in uniform one day turned a sailor and led the Pacific Fleet after Pearl Harbour.

The warship, in the eye of the storm, was sailing towards the city. And we were to fly to the ship somewhere near Sri Lanka. ``There is a 99 percent chance that you will be back here,'' said Capt Gillis of US Navy, on introduction. Briefing about the ``flight'', he asked us (a dozen scribes) not to expect the ``luxury'' of airlines.
``You will be flown in a C2 - Greyhound. It is a military aircraft. It is bare. You will have to sit backwards''. Thumbs Up.

The bus took us to the tail of the runway where the two greyhounds were humming. A soldier stepped in to hand over the helmets and life jackets. Posing to the cameras, we boarded the flight through the tail. The 20 seater was truly bare. There was nothing except the twenty seats and belts. And the cockpit.

I took one of the two small windows in the aircraft. Jet Airways had to take off. The tail was closed and we sat sweating for thirty minutes. ``We are waiting for ATC clearance. Will leave shortly,'' said the other officer with a moustache. ``We will be flying over sea. In case of emergency landing (on the sea), you will have to open the door on the top and get out one by one,'' he had said earlier.

Finally, we took off. As the Greyound climbed up, the pressure went up the body felt so light. Thought of Sunita for a moment. Outside the window, there were houses, fields and lakes for few minutes. And then the East Coast. I was not sure of the location. A 90 degree small cut of the coast could be noticed. Then over the sea and soon above the clouds. By now, most were tired and sleeping.

After thirty minutes, the descent started. The sea was a brilliant blue with sparkling silvers. The other Greyhound was flying to the left below. It would land first. Landing on board Nimitz is a ``trap''. Flights at 150 miles per hour speed coming down from three storey height would catch any of the four ``steel wires'' on a massive flight deck, spread over 4.5 acres, to come to zero speed in four seconds.

``Here we go,'' said the officer on mike. With a thug, the flight came to a joltering halt. A smooth touch down. Stepping out, we saw a busy airport. F-16s and F18s were taking off every other second. Men in ``dirty'' blue, maroon and yellow were all around guiding the flights.

Straight away we were led into a VIP room. It looked like a Five Star Hotel. After the customary briefing by the Admiral and Ship's Captain, we were given a separate set of jackets and were back on the flight deck. ``You can be thrown into the sea. Don't step the lines. In case you are in the sea, pull the four buttons. We will get you before the sharks.''

The thirty minutes thereafter should remain as an unbelievable sequence in space and time in my memories. The Hornets, Super Hornets and Prowlers line up one by one for take off in a runway of 400 metres(!). The engines are on. The wings flap. The signs are shown. The pilot salutes. The tyres screech the runway. There is this silent thud in your heart. At the edge, the rockets fire and the flight takes off. In two seconds flat.

A little later you realise that the other runway in the aiport is also busy. It was amazing to watch two jets taking off and flying away in different directions. Time to move on and clear the runway for the flights to land. They did. One by one. About 20 of 'em. Except for the first one that caught the fourth (last) wire, all others were trapped in either the second or third. We are told that the flights land with full throttle to be air borne again if the tail fails to catch the wire.

Once the flight comes to a stop, the tail releases the wire. The aircraft is parked. The pilots walk past us smiling. There are girls too. ``We do it out of adventure, challenge and love for our country,'' said a girl pilot. They take out sorties in the nights also. Stunning Souls.

We are shoved in. Time to leave. It was a short trip. As you come out the cabin with the old life jacket and head gear (hurting the ears) and as you climb the stairs, you see water below. Only then you realise that you are actually in a ship. Occasionally, you feel the floating and a huge wave crashin on the walls of the 23 storey ship!

On the deck, you sense the enormity of the water around on which this mini-city is floating. To know more, visit the US Navy wesbite. Thrown back into the Greyhound with a warning, we perspire again. ``Wait for Here We Go. Sit Tight. In one-and-half seconds, we will be airborne,'' the radio in the ear-piece warns.

You can feel the full accelerator. The brakes are released. You feel like being hanged for a second. And then you are off. On air, leaving the ship and sea behind. It was like a giant eagle plucking you up by the collar, flying away, in a swift second.

``Hang on guys,'' the radio says. And you hang-on to the experience. Tired, most sleep again. I think the Greyhound is designed to sleep. Some sort of smoke comes from the sides. You sleep. The landing at the airport can't be smoother. In fact, those on that Sunday afternoon flight will never be afraid of landing or take-off in any of the airports around the world.

Shaking hands with the US Consulate officers, we salute the Greyhound's young (22 years!) pilot for flying us down. Looking very relaxed and calm, he said, ``Hope you enjoyed the flight.'' For him, its child's play. He does that day and night.

``Come again.''

Cheran's poetry

2007-06-23T04:35:00.000-07:00

by the sea, three notes

1
Rising as
tides high and above
dies as bubbles
Water
2
She walks ashore
me still
within waves
3
Sea swallows sun
Splits bloody red
Spraying the clouds

In the shore
day dries
Slowly
night fritters

waves sorrowful
will be shriller.

***

past tense

a desolate street
in the rain,
under sirissa tree
suddenly

to see you coming
was unbelievable;
yet it happened

after lengthy days,
i saw trembling fingers
holding tight
a book bunch and an umbrella
and battering eyelids
like a butterfly;
you were shocked.

face,
can't look away
rain;
leave,
can't walk away
rain

`let day dawn and rain go'
that heart of yours
prays i think

my little girl

mine,
that day's sun
died that day
itself.

- Urudhiramurthy Cheran.

Note: Cheran is one of the foremost poets of Sri Lanka. These two have been selected from Kalachuvadu's - Nee Ippozhuthu Irangum Aru (You, Now The Downhill River - Cheran's Hundred Poems. Hope I am able to translate many more.

Shame, Mr President

2007-06-20T08:18:00.000-07:00

Shame Mr President for wanting to continue to be the President.
Shame Mr Vice President for working backdoor to be the President.

When the whole nation was expecting Kalam, i don't think he needs respect anymore, to turn down the ``tired'' third front's offer of Presidentship again, Mr President has asked the front for ``certainity''. Jaya did not go. Naidu asked the nation to infer for herself what ``certainity'' meant.

It means. Show me the numbers so that I feel confident that I will win. I will contest then, Mr President has said. Has not this young nation adored your silver flocks and scientific temper? It has come as a shocker to many, like me, that Kalam, caught in dirty politics, would behave like a politician. Unwilling to let the chair go.

He looks all the more stupid as the nation is waiting to have its first ever Woman President. We are not sure when History will present another opportunity to the womanhood, tortured to the core in every nook of this country. May be she looks frail and old. She, definitely, has a will. And, most likely a soul.

Kalam, who quotes *thirukural* often, after all may not have a soul. I was expecting him to come back to Anna University and live out of those two 10x10 rooms to design devices to help disabled children. Or may be head to Thumba to inspire more rocket scientists. But Mr President wants to sit at Rasthrapati Bhavan. His vision looks narrow.

Pray, Kalam is not thrown away from the chair. That would be a national disgrace. There's still time for him to step down. With all his grace and welcome our first lady Prez. Then, the nation can rejoice. And, at least in paper and in position, free the Indian woman!

Sivaji, The Stunner.

2007-06-15T08:04:00.000-07:00

Rajni fans can't ask for more.

Sivaji has turned out to be a perfect blend of Rajni style and Shankar story-telling. The story is simple. As Shankar would like it, Sivaji, a senior systems architect, comes back to his own country, to serve his people.

He has 200 crore. He wants to build universities and hospitals to serve the needy free of cost. Essentially, the Good Soul. Right in the beginning of the film, he comes across, Adhi, the educationist-money-spinner, whose interests would be affected by the ``free for all'' idea.

Shankar's ability to leverage the corruption in the minds of the Tamils comes handy. Against his wishes, he pays till the Minister. Adhi, the criminal, changes the Government itself. Buildings are sealed and Sivaji is on the streets.

Adhi gives him a one rupee coin and asks him to beg thereafter.

There is this sub-plot, the love-comic story with Shriya. Wanting to marry a Tamil-cultured girl, Rajni falls for this frail woman, working in a music store, at a temple. His family and friend barge into the girl's home. After funny, funny moments, as can be expected of Rajni, they decided to marry. The other villain, astrologer, warns against the marriage. It could make Sivaji a pauper and even kill him.

On the streets and facing death, Rajni starts starring. Has not Rajni has this habit of standing in the street in most of his films to emerge victorious at the end? Here again, Rajni treads the same path.

With that one rupee coin in his hand, he calls up Adhi and informs him of the IT raid next morning. The foolish villain packs his docus and sends it to his farm house. The hero picks them up and blackmails the villain. Rs 100 crore for Rs 200 crore (black money).

That was only the beginning. Of the 20 lakh crore in the black market, Sivaji squeezes 46,000 crore from educationists and politicians to realise his dream of serving the poor. He converts all the black money into white money by changing them into dollars and asking the NRIs to deposit them in his bank accounts. He builds hospitals and colleges. The villains are sent packing to the jail. How can villains trust the Hero?

Coming out, they devise a plan. Meanwhile, cornered by the CBI and fearing for her husband's life (they are married now), Shriya reveals the truth to the CBI chief. But there is a hitch. The laptop recognises only Sivaji's voice and password.

Cool. Tmrw, the Tamils across the globle would be uttering this same word. Cool. Sivaji ishtyle.

In between, the chief villain wants to kill Rajni. He devises a plan. Caught in camera by one of those souls whose relative was treated in Sivaji's hospital. No constable wants to cane Sivaji in police custody. They are also benefitted from the private government run by Sivaji.

So, Adhi beats him up. The hero counts to pay them all back. When everyone think Sivaji is dead and go out seeking a doctor, Sivaji electrocutes himself. Flashback. During construction of the Sivaji university, a boy goes unconscious after stamping on a live wire. Dr Raguvaran kisses his soul and brings him back alive. So Rajni remembers that.

Now, when they take him to be killed. Dr Raghu and Shriya ``mastermind'' his escape and save the super star's life. If you expected Shriya to kiss Rajni's sould to bring him to life, you are in for a disappointment. Actually, two iron-boxes do it for him.

Meanwhile, CBI could not open the documents in the laptop and the data goes into self-destructive mode as set by the systems architect. Sivaji is dead and his accounts are gone. Unlike Indian (thatha), Sivaji is not flying abroad. He wants to live and serve here.

So, Sivaji makes a comeback as MGR(Ravichandran). I think the film should have been titled MGR instead of Sivaji. For MGR had perfected the art of taking it from the rich and, apart from keeping most for himself, give it back to people (remember the currency notes at times of his campaign).

The chief villain meets his own end. Shankar is most visible in the last scene. The poor student whose parents were squeezed for money for his admission at the villain's medical college stamps on the villain's throat.

Shankar's touch. Apart from this and few other scenes like taking the money in bullock cart, the anguish at the corrupt, the visual appeal of the songs and importantly the main plot, Shankar is completely overshadowed by the phenomenon called Rajnikanth.

K V Anand, Peter Hayne, the supporting artists, the visual effects, all have chipped in. Only A R Rahman is missing, especially in the songs.

From start to finish, Rajni, looking young and great, rules the roost. Should I say more things about Rajni's acting. We all know that the superstar can tickle the funny bones of even the tiniest in our houses and break the rib bones of tens and tens of villains with his steely wrists. Here, he dances too. His fans will be surprised. It can't be more delightful. Rajni fans have plenty of reason to celebrate.

The film is strictly not for the intelligent or artistic filmy fellows. It is better they stay at home. The film is for those who want to enjoy cinema purely as an entertainment. This is the film for you. A comical first part and an action packed second part. Only, the climax is bit boring. Only after you walk out of the theater, you realise that the film was 3 hours long.

Have you booked your tickets? It is likely that the housefull days will stretch a bit farther. You may have to wait. A word of caution. Don't waste it by watching at home. It is of no use. AVM has spent money. Of course, the cash is gonna flow.

One last word to Mr Shankar. Why don't you make films that are real and not just cash in on that deep rooted thing called corruption in this country? Sivaji is truly a reel story. They say it in the beginning that nothing in this film is actual. It will be sometime the society will have a real Sivaji. It may not also!

Till then, the Tamils' superheroes, Rajni and Shankar, will be cash-richer, basking in glory.

The First Lady.

2007-06-14T07:58:00.000-07:00

As I was driving to the office this afternoon, I was thinking why not a woman as the President. I was thinking that Congress would think about Sister Nirmala. In honour of The Mother. I could not think of any other person, considering Kalam is vacating the highest office, after inspiring a generation, inspite of his comical gestures.
Here we are with this woman likely to be the first President of The Socialist, Democratic, Republic of India. The picture must have been taken decades back. She is quite old man. Nearly 3/4ths of a century.
Seasoned, non-controversial, and above all a woman. By the way, she is also a shekawat by way of marriage. So Rajputs are fighting it out. Pratibha is expected to beat Bairon easily. Now, can Jayalalithaa, the unofficial third front leader, argue and articulate against a woman candidate.
Congress thinks its a master stroke. I think, the nation has become uninspiring and political again.
I am not sure if she can walk around the Mughal Gardens.
Oh man! I think she looks so tired of life.
May she rest in Rahstrapathi Bhavan.
They forgot this is a young nation.

life and death

2007-06-02T06:40:00.000-07:00

i wondered,
how can life come out of concrete?

in the crowded chennai,
i live in a cement jungle.

walled on all sides,
amidst narrow dusty lanes.

i see light through the window,
that has flowers on an orangy screen.

then i noticed life breathing,
it was a plant out of the brick-wall.

it grew and grew,
to be life giving greenish.

then came my sister,
to give birth to a baby boy.

at the peak of summer,
she suffered from exhaustion.

had to fit an air-conditioner,
like every other house in the city.

it was really cool inside,
outside it was hotter than before.

while we felt chillness at home,
the plant was struggling to survive.

may be a week from now on,
mom and little sons will go home.

then the hum will stop sure,
and i hope the plant lives long.

only the seed will know,
the difficulty in giving life,
amidst bricks and cement.

may be,

for every baby born,
a plant sacrifices its life.

how long?

home, sweet home.

2007-06-01T03:37:00.000-07:00

thanks for all the souls that read the previous post yesterday and for the prayers.
this is to say that *kuchu* came home this afternoon.
spats is delighted to have him home.
like you all.
:-)

baby, come home soon

2007-05-31T03:43:00.000-07:00

All of us are waiting for him to come home. Life sometimes is lifeless. It has been thirteen days since he was born. He is still in the hospital. For the first 12 days, he was like this. Under phototherapy to get his bilirubin count reduced.

In the peak of summer. Under lights for 22 hours. For two hours everyday, he was with his mommy. We haven't named him. As his big brother is *achu* we have christened him *kuchu*.

They were pricking him and sucking out blood to be tested on a daily basis. Inspite of 11 gold medals in medicine, his doctor mother could not stop crying. ``He may not feel it like us,'' she said often.

The big brother and their grandma take the auto to the hospital everyday to be with his mommy and spend time with his little brother. Grandpa and daddy take alternate turns to travel the 500 miles to be with the dear ones.

Inspite of visiting the hospital daily, I could see him only on the tenth day. The little one at home hasn't seen him yet. She keeps asking us when will *kuchu* come home. I am not sure even the doctor knows answer to this question.

``His count is neither high for procedures nor low for him to go home,'' said the doctor. On the 12th day, mommy found him pale, apart from being yellowish. So they tested the haemoglobin level.

Soon, he was shifted to the neo-natal where his brother breathed life four years ago. He had a total transfusion. Two strangers had saved his life then. For his little brother, some stranger has been kind to lend his life-fluid. It was an ordinary transfusion. Nothing was taken out.

This morning, the little fellow was pinkish. Mommy and daddy looked happy. The count has gone up to 11. By tomorrow, the doc expected it to climb up to a safe 15. Pray, *kuchu* comes home this weekend. Even if you don't, pray for those half-a-dozen beauties under lights in a warm room, plugged with wires, connected to life-monitoring systems, and breathing hard.

Yet, Smiling.

the light of life

2007-05-21T00:11:00.000-07:00

Fathers!

I am still not used to this particular word. In half a life, I have not really been fascinated with my father. I liked him a lot when I knew that he was a Communist during his college years. As he turned a businessman, he has never really interested me.

A few months back he had said. ``My whole life has been a failure. I may not last long.'' He was referring to his uncle, my mother's father still healthy at 88. Past sixty, my father has breathing trouble. He has very poor lungs. His heart has 11 percent problem and he eats tabs everyday.

Worse, he, who loved everyone, and who passed on that particular trait to his sons and daughter, is limiting his love to his ``own'' children and grand children. ``Others are not of use anyways,'' he feels.

Poor man, he never succeeded in his business. Everytime, he started something he only lost. Never profitted. And so he kept on spending lakhs and lakhs and has not given anything in cash to his children. You can't say he has been kind too. For he has always been authoritative and dominant. And disciplinarian.

With grandchildren, he has been absolutely kind. You can watch the little ones jumping and climbing over him and doing all sorts of naugty things on him.

My brother always told him that fathers should fund the education of children and not just preach morality. My father never paid the fees. In my memory, he used to give a couple of ten rupee notes when he comes calling to his sons' colleges.

However, he was there. All the time when the sons were in the small town. He always sent the sons off to college or to different destinations when they started working and when they went as a family. He always thought about the safety of his sons. Then, when he had money, he bought the tickets to the big town also.

The family, especially, his wife thinks he has wasted money. Not saving or giving anything for the children. For neither of her sons have any home on their own. And have nothing in bank also.

She is worried. Of late, my father is worried too. They keep fighting with each other over the wasted money. If there are a few things that can't be stopped in this world, its the family fight. Sometimes, it can hurt the children. But mostly, its a war of words. Nothing more than that.

Even now, my father spends the thousands he manages from somewhere. And the fight would resume. Thinking about all this, I was trying to sleep last night. I was sleeping near my father after a long time.

He was a shadow in sleep. With his medical kit by the pillow, he was swaying in his dreams. It was dark, if not pitch dark. I was thinking of all things past. Of my father and his family. Of course, materially speaking, my father's life has been a big failure.

The world and wives think that way. Sons should not think like that. To me, money and all those associated with it never have mattered. I have always wanted peace. Inside and Outside. To my knowledge, my father, despite a troubled life, has passed on his inner peace to us. My sister also feels that way.

His elder son is yet to realise peace within. He continues to live like his father, taking all the pain in the earth upon himself. Yet wishing the children and the world to live happily. Of all things inherited, this second son still thinks that moral inheritance to be a virtue.

It may be non-sensical to even talk of morality in this world. Yet, from his experience, this son states that his father's moral preaching has given him the peace, even if it was momentary and fleeting, that otherwise would have eluded him for life.

Friends often ask this son why was not he fully exploiting things material and sensual, inspite of life presenting opportunities in a platter at work as well as in the bed. The son always says to himself: ``My father has asked me to go by the book.'' This book has never been written. It has always been passed from fathers to sons, mostly unspoken.

In darkness, the son could see the light in his father's soul. Amidst the darkness of life. So pure and radiant. The great, guiding light of the family. Who said fathers are a failure? Let them waste all the money they want. Sons are here not for comfortable homes or crores of rupees. Only let them not drink.

Sons are here to pass on the light.

The light of life.

all allies !?!

2007-05-10T23:18:00.000-07:00

In the assembly, the allies of the DMK, talking about madurai violence, wanted stern action. For some reason or other, the allies did not point the accusing finger at Azhagiri, the chief minister's madurai based son. It was a shame on them that they did not even record his name in the assembly.

For, the violence on a newspaper office, that too owned by the chief minister's family, was set fire on broad day light, killing three innocent people. Everything is on record in the pictures and videos. Still, the allies failed to mention Azhagiri's name. ``It might hurt the chief minister, that is why we did not mention the name,'' reasoned a leader, later. Of course, to the alliance leaders, public and press come only after karunanidhi. For the first two are not going to benefit in anyway.

Later in the day, the leading and sensitive journalists met together, as usual whenever the attack on the press happens, a day later, to condole the death of three and condemn the violence on ``press freedom''. Speaker after speaker spoke. I am not sure if it is diplomacy or lack of courage, none of them even uttered the name Azhagiri. The same fellows had carried his name in titles in the newspapers published early and later that day. Beginning with the bearded veteran whose marriage was solemnised by karunanidhi.

It was Ram, not liked by many serious and sensitive journalists but respected for his forthright views, who actually had the courage to seek an end to the extra-constitutional authority of Azhagiri in southern districts. Poor papers, none of them gave it in the title for the articles carrying the report of journalists protest.

Are the papers spineless? Blame it on the corruption, like elsewhere, deep-rooted and destroying the fourth pillar also. And the slave mind-set. Or as an agitated friend of my often says, ``You have to be sucking up to the fellows in power all the time?''

That's politics for you.

ignoranz.

2007-05-05T00:26:00.000-07:00

Ignorance rules at every level. Everyone is ignorant of innumberable things. I left the temple city to the conservative city in that same blue bodied train. Midway, one lady, a legislator from the Opposition, accompanied by her husband took the train.

She has seen me a few times in the assembly. I am seated second in the reporter's gallery. After recognising me, she asked why was I absent at the assembly. I told her that I was in the temple city on deputation.

I was not sure she understood it. Then she told her husband, ``These reporters are all on our side. (The press gallery is by the side of Opposition!). On the other side, the reporters are all the ruling party's supporters.''

Turning to me, she said, ``Am I not right, brother?'' ``Whenever the old man, read chief minister, comes all of them stand up. So I think they are all their reporters. None of you stand up. So all of you are good reporters.''

I had to tell her that those sitting in the other gallery were not actually reporters but actually IAS officers, representing the government, out there to help the ministers answer the queries of the Opposition.

You can't find fault with her. She's a first timer to the legislature. Many of the ex-ministers from the Opposition are ignorant. Politically and Rationally. All, leaders of the self-respect movement of the Dravidian culture in the new age!

Is India ignorant of its politics?

commerce and communal harmony

2007-04-27T09:43:00.000-07:00

Kallazhagar, the stone beauty, descends down in the Vaigai river during Chithirai festival. Azhagar, the incarnate of Lord Vishnu, is on his way to his sister Meenakshi's wedding with Lord Sundareswarar, incarnate of Lord Shiva.

Therefore, Madurai, the temple town, had Saivites and Vaishnavites. Basically, in conflict. Saivites should have come before. For Thiruvilayadal Puranam has scenes from this temple town during Sangam age (I am not sure of the history. Pity me and you for not knowing it).

Vaishnavites must have come later. I presume there was a bitter rivalry between these two major sects of Hinduism in those days itself.

If you dont know, Madurai and its surrounding areas have artistic as well as literary evidences of the massacre of the jain saints. Imaging piercing the jain priests straight on a spear of sword to kill them one by one. In Tamil, it is `kazhuvetram'. So, the fight between the two dominant communities must have been bitter.

When Thirumalai Nayakkar ruled the city, he desired the union of these two warring sects. A case study for communal harmony in the medieval history. He wanted to the commerce of the city to flourish. And conceived, the 51-day Chithirai festival. Celebrated till today.

Azhagar who was being worshipped in Cholavandan, 10 miles before Vaigai enters the city, was taken around to 353 mandapams to be brought to a specially constructed mandapam in Vandiyur, located at the tail end of the river in the city.

Madurai is still a large village, the market for produces from the south, west and east, comprising mainly of a well-oiled network of villages. During the 51 day celebration, at the end of harvesting, during the dry months, when farming will not be taken up, the villagers will gather in the city to bargain, barter and business.

How do you bring in communal harmony. The presiding deity Meenakshi's marriage was the only way. Azhagar was made her brother and was invited to come to her marriage. As he has to come down from the hill and cross the mighty Vaigai river, it takes a few days before which the marriage gets over. When he is half-way, crossing the river, he is told that the marriage is over.

Knowing not what to do, he loiters around and around the city. I am not sure where he goes back. May be back to the hill. There is nothing special to this whole thing. A brother is disappointed for not able to attend his sister's marriage. The speciality lies in bringing the two communities together.

It has to be mentioned that there is a *thulukka natchiar* (a muslim lady) and many other characters in the festival. I don't have the details now. I am sure there is still a lot we can learn from the past. From our great rulers.

Wonder-struck?!

bombing a village?

2007-04-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

It was the first ever show by Suryakiran jets in this temple city. I just walked down to the virahanur dam for the show to begin. A day before, I had watched the rehersal from the bridge parallel to the dam and knew that the dam site offered a closer look.

Few women came with children in an auto. They were quite excited to see the red and white painted Kiran Mark II jets performing aerobatics in the sky.

A middle aged woman said, ``You know what? Yesterday was the shock of the life. Three planes targeted our colony repeatedly. When we saw it first, we were happy. When the planes that climbed up came down straight towards us, we were terrified,'' she said, still in a state of shock.

About forty women in the colony had no clue as to why the planes were targeting them. ``We thought some enemy planes were coming to bomb the village,'' said another woman. ``As the planes came down at high speed, we ran away from our homes to the shades of trees outside. Even there, the planes would not leave us. We kept running between our houses and trees,'' says a woman wearing a green saree. Now smiling.

``No one told us that the planes were rehearsing. I watch Sun News also. They also did not say anything,'' she rues. Later, as the planes did not bomb, the women said they came to a conclusion that the government was spraying mosquitoe repellent from the air to prevent chikungunya. ``There was a lot of smoke from the planes that filled our houses,'' a woman recalls vividly.

``For hour an hour, we were so terrified,'' said the green saree with big eggy-eyes. ``I would have even died of heart attack. How could we know that they were practising?,'' she asks, in all her ignorance. ``We have been watching planes (the descent to the airport begins over their village). But these planes were really fast,'' she said, now fully smiling.

The next day, for half an hour, yesterday's terrified villagers, watched the show with their wards, amused and amazed. In fact, the Surya Kiran's aerial ballet thrilled the residents of this temple city, still considered to be a large village grounded in nativity.

For one day, Madurai, that also worships film stars, came to knew the real heroes of this nation.

This land, with a brave cultural past, thought the daring pilots to be super-humans.

shocker...

2007-04-19T02:54:00.000-07:00

I walked into my college again after a decade. As a visitor now. The entrance to the college itself has been changed. Now, the students have to enter through the sides. A banner reading `College Sports Day' warmed my heart after a long time.

As I walked in, I was looked as a stranger. The competitions had just been concluded and prize distributing ceremony was to begin a hour later. Boys and girls were talking to each other, freely. It was a common sight. During my college days, it was a rare sight. Most of the time, we used to speak only through the eyes and our smiles. Friendship flowered only in silence.

I just walked through the college. Went to my department and I remembered my first day in college. And the last day in the department. I could recognise some of the faculty but I did not want to talk to them or write about them now. None of them had inspired me in college.

Then I went around the swimming pool, our favourite jaunt, and went around the small campus and came back to the red-soiled smallish ground with two goal posts, with the principal's office and zoology department as the boundaries.

It was here my greatest moment in cricket happened a decade-and-half ago. Chemistry, captained by me and English, were to clash in the finals. In English, ten players, other than me, were in the college team. Four of them in the university! It was truly a match between Aussies and Irish (i like irish and scots, by the way).

We had a rookie paceman in a rameshwaram boy. With a fierce spell, he cleaned up the top order. I was fresh with the memories of the previous year, when a fine willow had despatched my offies to all the corners of the ground with disdain. This year, I was leading the team. I sized up the middle-order and we had a match on our hands.

When we batted, I dropped anchor as others cross-batted to the required run rate of six per over. My opening partner in college, keeping wickets, kept telling that I can be the hero of the day. The college, especially the girls, was there on the ground as cricket was popular even then. I was not fortunate to hit the winning runs.
I was bowled by my best friend with three runs to score in the last over.

The captain of the college, and the university, bowled the last over. Five dot balls. It was almost over. Then he made the mistake. He brought in the third man and bowled a bouncer. The dusky, lefty hooked it and the top edge flew to the third man boundary.

We had won. Not my team. That win gave Chemistry Department, the Championship for the first time in forty years of the college history. I had played my part by winning in tennis, badminton, table-tennis, hockey, soccer, high-jump, four into hundred relay. That rookie boy from rameshwaram and a muslim boy from arasaradi both bagged championships in athletics by winning golds in three events.

As a sportsman, that was the most memorable day in my life. On behalf of Chemistry, I received the trophy.

The first thing you will notice about me now is my paunchy beauty!

Not just women, also the men here most often fail to keep 'em fit.

A national shame.

flower flagrant

2007-04-14T08:55:00.000-07:00

When I travel, I miss my camera. Eye can capture. Only for me. Not for others. I am back in the soul town, to the essence of living. I was wondering, as I kept travelling in busses between towns in this hillock-filled valley, how much I missed *malli* (jasmine). The fragrant flower.

There were this bony, blackish women looking fresh with a bunch of *malli*. They have always fascinated me for the freshness in their faces inspite of the innumerable household and farming work they do from dawn to dusk. When they come out of the homes to the towns, they are all cleaned up bright faced, eager, filled with enthusiasm, with an infant clinging on, spreading the fragrance of feminity.

I have failed to notice *malligai* in the mechanical life of my conservative city. Back here in the backyards of modern civilisation, I am back to my senses. As I took the ``dangling'' bus to the Village of Gods from my wife's Good Blacky hamlet, there were two women in the front seat. One with four strands of *malli* and the other with few strands of *malli*, a strand of *kanakambaram* (the orangy flower sans fragrance) and a fresh pink *rosa*.

Back in madurai, the home of malligai, typing these lines, I, with a 100 percent block in left nose, and 90 percent block in the right, still smell the fragrance. For those not part of the soul town, think of having a honeymoon here. With a bed full of fragrance and for a full life thereafter.

;-)

PS: The picture is not indicative of the beauty of malligai.

free at last

2007-03-22T08:39:00.000-07:00

Parameshwaree as released Thursday at 10:00 a.m..

Discharge papers to release Mawbima journalist, Munusamy Parameswaree, 25, who was arrested on 22nd November under Prevention of Terrorism Act (PTA), and held for nearly four months, on suspicion of "helping the LTTE and a suspected suicide bomber," were sent Wednesday morning, by Harshika De Silva, State Counsel representing the Attorney General (AG), to Colombo chief Magistrate Court.

Parameswaree's friend, Ms Thambirajah Susanthi, is still in jail.

Few Definitions

2007-03-22T02:12:00.000-07:00

Chris forwarded this to me... Not bad ... If you wonder who this Chris is, i will tell you someday...

Life Insurance: A contract that keeps you poor all your life so thatyou can die Rich.
Nurse: A person who wakes u up to give you sleeping pills.
Lecture: An art of transferring information from the notes of theLecturer to the notes of the students without passing through "the minds of either"
Conference: The confusion of one man multiplied by the number present.
Father: A banker provided by nature.
Criminal: A guy no different from the rest....except that he got caught.
Politician : One who shakes your hand before elections and your Confidence after.
Doctor : A person who kills your ills by pills, and kills you by bills.
Classic : Books, which people praise, but do not read.
Smile: A curve that can set a lot of things straight.
Yawn: The only time some married men ever get to open their mouth.
Experience : The name men give to their mistakes.
Atom Bomb: An invention to end all inventions.
Philosopher : A fool who torments himself during life, to be spoken of when dead.

-Dr.Bagirathan

__._,_.___

Age of Innocence

2007-03-20T09:11:00.000-07:00

Of late, I have developed a desire to move away from this conservative city to a new city and new life. I feel like reaching the stagnation point at work. No inspiration at all. It is all too mundane and murky.

Then I will have to leave my loving ones behind for a few years. For we are not sure how the little one will adjust to new climates, be it bang or bomb or del. I would love to live in Cal, but may be later as I age. Not for now.

I will have to set out on my own. Whenever I am free from family, I have always worked hard and true. Still, the family lingers in me making me reluctant to leave them to work far away from home. But again, If experience is life, I have no new experiences.

I sleep with these thoughts.

Early last morning, I awoke to innocence. As it dawned, the white light seeped in with the wind through the flowery-curtained window with deep brown frames. The little one was fast asleep, in innocence.

I have the habit of looking at the faces of little ones all these years, especially early in the morning. I am not sure if I should post a picture here. May be my loving one will object. I am sure many of you, particularly the parents, have experienced a similar sight in your bedroom.

Baked in that white soft light, I have watched sleeping children for hours till the glow gets yellowish. I look at the mirror and I see no innocence. I take a look at others sleeping in home. It is not there.

Where have we lost our innocence? In the daily struggle for work and money or by living along wicked and greed; by thinking triviality or by consumerist senses; by forgetting the child in us or by the sheer hatred the humanity has accumulated. I am not sure.

And then a thought gently flowed into me. I imagined the soft light bathing the earth as it revolved ceaselessly. By now, the sun was bathing the sub-continent with his soothing light as it dawned early. For ages, the mornings have dawned on us in perfect innocence.

Our elders woke to it. May be, we are sleeping over that blissful innocence (of the morning). Are most of us not living in the darkest corners of our minds, living our deepest desires (not necessarily known to others) strung together by that ticking time? If you want to see the beauty of timelessness, watch the little ones sleeping blissfully in the mornings.

Then, I slowly sensed time. Vaguely, I think time too is innocent.

Eternally.

partying with salma hayek

2007-03-18T07:57:00.000-07:00

When I told my father that I am off to a party, he was surprised. He knew I quit drinking long time before. And he happens to be the one who bailed me out twice before for street fights after a hard drink when in the university.

When I said I will be in the company of girls (drinking), he was kind of bewildered. I did not realise what was in store for me. As with most partying nights, it was a disastrous start. Few feet before the pub, the cop caught me talking over cell while driving.

No papers, no wallet. I had only the jean, t-shirt and mobile. No wonder my mom, wife and now my daughter call me absent minded prof.

Stood stupid for a short-while. Called salma as well as Sush to bail me out. Salma spoke to S, chief, T. ``Ask your friend to leave the vehicle and produce the documents and take it later.'' It did not work. With all respect to him, you cant expect him to call a constable! We had to apologise.

Somehow, sush got the local inspector to bail me out. I walked up the stairs. The burly (burmese?) guard before the pub stopped me straight. ``Shoes are compulsory for gentlmen, Sir''. This is not the Tamil country where lakhs walk bare foot. This is the new world.

Big B, the host, promising to show the changing chennai, came down to help. B's business card helped. Enter Z. It looked awful at first. For someone who hates girls smoking, there were many, many of them. As I sat down, a punjabi girl, dressed in pink, lighted a fag. Behind, to the left, a lean Iyer girl, slightly stoned, drew it in deeply and to the left, a saree clad young lady, was smoking in style.

It was a smoke filled room. It has been years. For someone who revelled in smoky rooms, this one was a bit different. Here, women were smoking harder than the handsome young men, looking little foolish. They were happy to hug the girls. I was not sure about their thinking talents.

Opposite, Salma was sitting with her vodhka and Big B with gin.

I switched side to have a better view of the whole room. Far right, two lovers were living to themselves. To the left, the man with one eye was helping the others in his table over the next drink. Apart from the smoke, the crowd was swinging to the beat. ``Pink Flyod,'' said Salma, once. I had no clue to the composers but the beats were swerving everyone of them.

It was an enjoyable evening in the company of changing culture. Only, the group opposite, the cultureless software pros, were shouting over their pharynx. Smoke, drink and music. A heady mix for talking sensitive and sensual things. Sounds spoil.

The cricket match on the big screen was another spoiler. It took away the companionship but gave way to loads of laughter and cheers as we and our sworn enemies were losing it badly. By now, the Lord has joined. It is amusing to observe his eagerness for a drink or two. I haven't seen his face lighting up often, except when he is offered a drink. For the record, he went home to wear a pair of shoe to dash down to the pub.

They had two drinks each. Salma was forced into the second. And swerved a lil bit at the end. I drank pineapple juice! Predicting the changes to come to this conservative city, Big B asked what will I do as a father (of a daughter). ``Will I police her?''

``I have no problems. As long as she doesn't hurts herself.'' I was not so sure later. For I, as a father, am not for my daughter to smoke or drink. From my experiences, read as mistakes, I am quite sure that there is no need for anyone to smoke or drink. But if life is a big party, why not a few times?

All four felt fine. Down, I saw Salma's friend hug a bearded bear a dozen times in half-a-dozen minutes. I have not been hugged a dozen times in all my half-life! And someone actually hugged (a reluctant) Salma. It is time to party, guys!!!

PS: Inspite of the fact that I was stinking of smoke till next morning, I loved the pub for one thing. Something precious lost quite a long time ago. Above all the smoke, smell and songs, what i loved last evening was the ambience. for friendship.

and may be for love, i suspect. for bold and beautiful symbolise change.

beyond boundaries

2007-03-15T07:37:00.000-07:00

it will be interesting to know how governments work in irony.

beyond the boundary.
when the sri lankan navy continued to fire on tamil fishermen, the tamil government, led by the dmk, oranised a massive protest rally and gave a memorandum to the lankan government's representative in the city. we can't tolerate this human rights violation any more, he said. across the seas, there are thousands and thousands fighting for survival, all along he said we want india to help out. he has been saying this for ten months now. human rights violations continue to happen in the island nation non-stop. of course, it has been a long time we have heard someone terming mk as the leader of world tamils.

down here in the city. he has been talking about airport expansion. only talking and of course promising not to demolish constructed houses. where will come the green field airport then. oragadam or sriperumbudur? why not take up the land of the rich and politicians in the old mahabalipuram road. if you are going to have a six lane super high-way over there, then why not have your airport on that stretch? if the government is not for destroying the homes of the poor, then it is also not for taking over the land of the rich worth crores and compensate in lakhs. that could be for more dangerous than shifting the poor and lower middle class. wonder where will development come from.

you are free to spend my girl

2007-03-03T08:12:00.000-08:00

It is now very clear that Chief Minister M Karunanidhi has given a blank cheque to his daughter Kanimozhi for the Chennai's folk festival Chennai Sangamam, that concluded amidst controversy.

The Government Order issued hurriedly on Feb 13, a week before the festival, virtually granted the Special Commissioner of Tourism to fund the initiative of Tamil Maiyam, of which Kanimozhi is the co-ordinator.

The GO No 20 allows the Tourism Special Commissioner to spend ``beyond the ceiling (of Rs 3 lakh)'' and send a statement of expenditure for an ``after-issue sanction''. Meaning, the government has directed the special commisioner approve of all the costs incurred after the event is over.

At the press meet, as well as afterwards, the organisers have been defending that the government only took care of the logisitics for the event and as such did not spend any money. Can MK order an audit?

Very unlikely. For the tired soul, as a father, can be proud of only his daughter to have his literary skills and his love for Tamil language. It need not be mentioned that the three sons are known rogues.

Sea of Serenity

2007-03-03T07:17:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading Vikram Sarabhai - a life -

I am amazed. I expect you to.

First, we all know V was the inspiration behind our space programme. Last fortnight, Madhavan Nair, one of the rocket boys, talked about V's vision. Kalam's ignited mind will vouch for it.

Two, V founded the Physical Research Laboratory. Of which not many of us have any idea.

Three, V founded IIM-Ahmedabad. Ironically, to train managers for our own country.

Four, V founded ORG. The first market research group.

Five, V founded ATIRA (I guess i am right). It is the research body for textiles in Ahmedabad.

Six, personally he created the Sarabhai Chemicals from scratch.

I think I have forgotten one or two.

Virkam was the first one to talk of using television for education (not entertainment).

And, Till now, V seems to be the only one in DAE to have resisted the temptation for n-bombs.

Truly a visionary. Like many, I also thought why he died early. We missed out.

Salutes to the Sarabhai spirit.

Hope such spirits haunt a new generation.

By the way, a huge crater in the Sea of Serenity in the Moon has got Vikram Sarabhai's name.

agri universities...

2007-03-03T06:40:00.000-08:00

ha!

No one expected the national budget to be such a stupid one. Headlines scream Advantage Farm Inc. It is truly suggestive of things happening here. Slowly, the Inc-s are going to take over the farm lands.

The small farmers can committ suicide. The marginal farmers can sell their land to the big farmers and may be to the corporates. Already, the corporates have started eating the dry lands (waste lands). Reliance and Co are into the retail chain.

Paddy cultivation is going down. The farmers want only money and so are happy to go for cash rich crops. Or they are prepared to use whatever prescribed for better yield. There is no fixed price for the produces. The markets determine everything. And now we have the online commodity exchange!

And the states are subtly inching towards GM rice without strictly following the bio-safety rules. The water wars are becoming acute. No national river policy in place. And the budget's thrust is on agriculture, aam admi. Pure politics.

Hope the government comes up with support structures to really reach the farmers and lift them up. Meanwhile, agriculture is a state subject. And the states will waste money like the water wasted by the farmers.

And TN Agri University has got Rs 50 crore. VC feels that they should have given 50 more. Two years ago, I spent time with few deans of the varsity. Except the extension guy, the other two easily accepted that they were working in the interests of the big farmers!

Uday's transfer...

2007-02-22T05:15:00.000-08:00

It has come as a surprise. All of a sudden, Madurai Collector T Udayachandran has been shifted to Erode. Uday was the man who was solely responsible for the successful elections in the three reserved panchayats in the last decade.

Fittingly though, one of the presidents said he would self-immolate if Uday is transferred. But Uday has been replaced by Erode collector Karthikeyan. The panchayat presidents have been pacified.

But why was Uday transferred? It should be recalled that Uday, as the MD of ELCOT, was the one who refused to sign in the Singapore real estate deal in Siruseri IT Park when AIADMK was in power. Put under compulsory wait, Uday got married and waited till the DMK returned to power.

Collectorship of Madurai was to appreciate his honesty. The only problem in the posting was that the collector had to deal with the CM's uncrowned son of the south. Inspite of it, Uday survived, solely for the reason he was able to reintroduce democracy, even if it is farce, in the three reserved panchayats.

Predictably, Uday got close to the Communists, without whom it might not have been possible. It started irritating the CM's second son. Secondly, Uday was the only officer in the temple city not to greet the second son on his birthday. Even the CM came down to wish him. It was then, the present transfer was decided.

Of late, Uday was also not signing in papers sent by the second son. So, the shift. Uday, away from the hot seat, will be happy to move into the quietness of Erode in the days to come.

hey girl, i'm sorry

2007-02-22T04:05:00.000-08:00

This is the latest joke going around in the Anna University campus. The Dean of Guindy Engineering College, a softspoke man, was irritated as the sweeper lady was not doing her duty properly for sometime. Few days ago, he tore her apart for not keeping the place clean. As an afterthought, the Dean apologised to her. She was surprised. He said: ``Sorry, Who knows, may be you will become the vice chancellor of the university soon!'' Now, the Anna University vice chancellor D Viswanathan, also thought to be an extremely uncapable fellow for the job, also knows the joke. Only he may not smile.

the common university bill

2007-02-10T07:48:00.000-08:00

So, the Pro Chancellor, the State Education Minister, has drafted a Common University Bill, 2007. (CUB7). The Tamil Nadu State Council for Higher Education, a toothless body, with retired academicians, as the head has drafted CUB7. For administrative convenience.

Remeber that it is about higher education. Page one says we need to change the system. Ok. And it says the bill talks about seven things. First, it will be subjected to periodical updation. Fine. The next six points talk about appointments. Appointments only. From vice chancellors to almost the peons. It has a place for a new post, pro vice chancellor now. Remember that the Pro has failed miserably to make money out of VC appointments till now.

Academic council and senate will be merged into academic senate. Tom, dick and harry, meaning politicians, journalists and panchayat fellows find representation in it. I cant think of these fellows, nominated, contributing to the cause of education.

Syndicate will no more be elected. Already, they are the puppets of the vice chancellors. In the new act, there will be only two elected representatives. all others are basically nominated by this or that.

Besides, the TANSCHE has the over riding powers to take any university as it likes by making inspections. As far as I know, it only has that good old member secretary dusting off the files, with a couple of clerks, as and when he likes.

Moreover, the university professors can be booked under IPC (some section, i think its 21) and may be arrested in the premises and jailed later, I suppose. There are many more sections. All about administration and appointments.

Not even a page for curriculum development, faculty improvement, introducing UG courses at the universities, enhancing the sources of funding, research impetus and so on. Are these the criteria that a state has to look to in terms of higher education.

The verdict is: The CUB7 is not about education per se. It is all about control.

vice chancellors!

2007-02-08T22:48:00.000-08:00

The new government in power has got it terribly wrong. All the vice chancellors appointed till date have been political postings.

The first to get the post, in Bharatiar University in Coimbatore, paid Rs 41 lakhs. Through the chief minister's first son. Now, wherever he goes, he proudly recalls how he fell at the feet of chief minister, who was kind enough to give him his tamil books to be translated. Foolish, he also admits that he felt stupid when the President asked him about the books, in linguistics, he had presented to His Excellency.

The one at the varsity celebrating 150 years has paid half C. He got it through the union shipper and the state planner. His ultimate aim is to get into that maritime university. That is something of a money at 100 C. For that half a C is peanut.

Again, the latest to have been posted as the technical vice chancellors have also rumoured to have paid big. The personal secretary, who was the ``doctoral guide'' to several eminent personalities like the governor's personal secretary for 11 years, the president of the self-financing engineering colleges, who's stupid enough to flaunt his fluency in spoken english, to name a few, has paid a cool 1 C.

all in the name of education. Poor pro-chancellor got nothing for him. So he has a plan.

Continued Tomorrow...

Things That Never Change

2007-01-26T04:04:00.000-08:00

1. Parents will never change. My sis-in-law had come down with her son. She said to us and must be to everyone down here, ``Shakti will study in Hardvard. Right Shakti?''. Never mind that MIT is close to her house also.

2. Many ask me why women like me. May be, there are very few to listen to women, relate to their feelings and basically respect them for what they are. As often I used to, I think women, inspite of their intelligence and intellect, are still foolish.

3. I think I will contiue to be lazy and at times concerned, not abt me, but abt others. I watched Bharathi this afternoon.

Conquering Cricket - The Case of Shane and Glen

2007-01-26T03:51:00.000-08:00

I have for long wanted to write cricket. I think history can't present me with a perfect opportunity ever.
For Warne will not be walking up to the crease to tweak and twirl the cherry, teaching valuable lessons in orbital motions to space scientists.
Likewise, Glen will no more measure up gently towards the popping line to send 'em down straight with an ever-upright seam, a real-time simulation in parallel physics.
After Sydney, the world, and not just the Aussies, will miss two of the greatest bowlers to have born Down Under. Two simple cricketers with the simplest of actions and the simplest of mission. Bowl them out.
If not for Glen and Warne, Australia could never have dominated the cricketing world for a decade-and-half.
Of course, the batters were always there led by the indomitable Steve, the sulky Taylor, elegant Mark, powerful Ponting, one hell of a Hayden and Gilly, the thunder-bat. There were a few more like the lusty Langer and meditative Martyn in a line up so dominant that redefined the very essence of batting into one of aggression and attack. In fact, 400 runs on day one has become so common with these villainous willows being wielded around across continents.
But batting is not all that counts. Winning lies in wicket taking. And Australia relied primarily on wily Warne's magic to make the cherry turn by more than fifty degrees, even on flat tops, and magnificent Mc Grath's single-minded devotion to a single-line, searching an invisible fourth stump.
Two great bowlers with two contrasting styles, yet yielding the desired result. Victory. A word synonymous with Cricket Australia. Like all, they were also rookies to start with.
I still remember Warne's debut against India in his home turf Melbourne. Ravi Shastri clobbered him around the huge park. The blonde leggie, feeling the big stage for the first time, with the vaseline on his nose, showed that he had a huge heart. The 18-year old's face clearly showed the frustration in failing to nail his first victim. After making a double century, Shastri stroked one gently back to the blonde. Warne was born.
No one watching that match then must have thought that Shane, the blonde, will be the first to reach the 700 wicket mark, unimagined in those days and unbelievable even now. Speedsters like Hadlee, Kapil and Botham all would have settled somewhere around 500.
Even now, any bowler in operation will settle with 500, extremely satisified. Not Warne. And his spin-twin, Mutiah Muralitharan, the one and only offie, whose wish is to have a thousand of 'em in the bag.
Warne firmly believes and has admitted openly that Murali will be the first and perhaps the only one to achieve a thousand in test cricket. I sincerely feel that these two great spinners of all time to come, with a very bad habit of wanting to see the backs of batters, have elevated themselves to a plane higher than even the extra-ordinary. Their's is a league of super-naturals. Reminded of Pistol Pete and Roger the Romancer playing in an entirely different planet of tennis?
Not to be left behind by the spinners, the machine like McGrath has been tirelessly trail-blazing the cause of the faster kind in cricket. Glen is more special than the two spinners. For I feel, No batsman has ever conquered the Pidgeon. Save for the Laxman – Dravid partnership in erstwhile Calcutta for a whole day.
Even the greatest batsmen of our time Sachin and Lara have not had the measure of his line and length even after nearly two decades and after close to fifty thousand runs in cricket. Glen is in a league of his own with discipline as the first and last word.
We will write about Murli when time necessitates. But Warne has been conquered. For he has had trouble in the sub-continent. While he has foxed Pakistanis, a master class in tackling spin, the Windies, the Kiwis, the Africans and not to forget the English, his bunnies, Warne will have nightmares when he lands in the sub-continent of spin.
Indians, save for Rahul the Wall, have somehow retained the psychological advantage against the versatile spinner by beginning to attack right from the word go. Images of Sidhu, Kambli and Jadeja going down the track to nullify the spin are there in our memories. So are Tendulkar's cross-sweeps and pulls, Laxman's wristy flicks and on-drives to Warne's frustration.
Only occasionally, Warne will feel that off-stump pitching it in leg. May be, Warne tried too much to spin in the land of spinners. We will know more about his agonies when he comes commentating sometime later.
The burning desire to take on the best batsmen all around the world and the will to conquer as a part of an invincible team has made the duo legends in international cricket. It is straightaway saddening to think that we will no more be watching the two in action.
Glen will be there till the world cup wanting to sign out in glory. I just had a look at his debut picture. Cricinfo has it from Getty Images. He is not that. He has travelled far but on a very straight road.
But to watch Warne, we will have to go back to the footages. Especially to that ball of the century when Gatting watched it all mutely. And may be, he is still watching it even now with disbelief.
Or may be, take the flight to Hampshire and watch Warne lead and bowl them over after over in those county grounds, radiant in rays of a late summer noon, with a gentle breeze flowing, sipping a very English tea.
May be, Warne wanted to end it all that way. Away from the media, away from his
femme fans and away from his own proud self. A flamboyant spinner's splending
farewell to what they call the game of gentlemen. In innocence and bliss.

Tailpiece: It is not fair to talk about the personal lives of these two great bowlers. I have to here. For there is a lesson for everyone. While Warne's fantasy for love goes on breaking hearts all around, especially of Simone and three children; Glen will always be by the side of Jane, of whom cancer cells are very fond of. A foundation of love.

over dinner...

2007-01-12T04:09:00.000-08:00

It was over dinner that a few doctoral students revealed us the reasons for the lack of scientific temper among the youth of today. They were all pursuing Ph.D in bio-technology in Universities in North India.

The conversation started with the simple question if the distinguished fellows were at the Indian Science Congress to present papers. ``It will take twenty years for us,'' the reply shot back from one of those girls. All their professors were presenting papers, of course.

The girls, and the one boy, were highly respectful of their professors. ``Without them we are nowhere,'' they said very clearly. They were not presenting papers but were putting up posters. I am not sure what poster presentation could Ph.Ds in bio-technology make.

Inspite of the highest degree in a high-end technology, the girls were not sure of a career in the nation. ``The companies start with a salary of 25 k. Which is nothing but stupid,'' said the girl from Delhi university. That's what a fresh eng. grad gets in an IT company.

Not many of them were interested in moving out. They all liked this country and want to stay back. But will they? It is likely that they, even if reluctantly, move out for greener pastures. Because there are neither the labs, both public and private, to put their knowledge into practise nor a rewarding system in place.

We still can boast and believe in that the next R&D hub of the world is India. Leaving the professional aspect, the highly matured girls said they have to counter personal problems like late marriage. ``By the time you finish doctorate, you feel you are too wise to marry,'' said the girl from Patiala.

The question is: ``Why is it that it always takes at least 4 years for a Ph.D in India?'' In my mind, not many academicians have looked at this simple question. We still have a system in which a student has to go to college for a decade to obtain a doctorate in any discipline.

At least these girls were priviledged to have good professors. There are thousands of girls tortured by the very learned men guiding them in their thesis in this very same nation that often proudly states that it respects women very highly.

Back to the point. If research in life science is gonna be the key to future, including the markets, what do we have to keep these girls who wanna live here. The scientists are there. Only the system is not there.

If the problem can be identified over dinner in a sultry southern town, then it can also be simple to set the system right. I am not sure how many dinners it will take. Or may be, we may just be happy eating dinners.

Planet Earth

2007-01-02T06:06:00.000-08:00

Even if you have never learnt science or really understood physics or for that matter chemistry, the subject you graduated from, it is possible for you to cover a science congress. To top it, two nobel laureates in Chemistry are going to give public lectures. And I am to report them for the people. I think I should have at least made an effort to listen those chemistry lectures a decade ago.

So, here we are, two of us, who seldom care for themselves, to write about the 94th edition. It started with a press meet in which the speaker will not answer specific questions. As everyone could see that, it is another science congress. Neither the youth is there nor the funds are there. For two years, the nation can't have a tsunami warning system in place. This is a nation that knew about tsunami after the tidal waves claimed thousands of lives.

So, Science has never been in our genes. We can be proud to possess spiritiual genes, of late a bit mutated, if you will agree to that. The theme though is going to be the talk of the century. It is pretty much difficult to say if talks materialise into actions.

Let's face the fact. One by one. With one or at best two instances to explain each one.

Energy Security:
Only recently we have mortgauged ourselves for nuclear energy. The United States has at last set its foot on the sub-continent. Unlike the commercial colas that came first, the nuke deal should be considered as a strategy of Uncle Sam in South Asia. Is it another victory for Pak diplomacy or at last a victory for Indian diplomats? Pretty tough to tell. Accepted that Oz will also supply enough nuclear fuel for us for a century to come. If the West is finding it difficult to dispose nuclear waste, what about us? Where will Planet Earth, here Mother India, do?

Mineral Resources:
I have no idea of this. This is the land that sold thorium from its western sands for a long time without the knowledge of it. Now, Orissa will be mined in and out. What will happen to the original tribals? When we talk of Planet Eart, or we not talking about its children. Related to nukie, when the west was looking to improve its coal usage efficient, why are we turning nuke?

Water Resources:
The Ultimate Question to us. Wheter to interlink or leave the rivers to run their natural course. Let us ask why have we never thought of nationalising water resources? May be we are waiting for a civil war by the middle of this century.

Ocean Resources:
Ocean is there around the peninsula. Not one effective desalination plant! Not many know of the marine biological park. And not many cared for fisherfolk, till the tsunami came calling. Shrimp culture is spoling the coast. The chemical industry is slowly moving in for the kill. Science has never been put to good use here.

Monsoon Forecast:
The joke of the summer monsoon has always been that whenever the MET says it will rain it will not and whenever it says it will not, it will certainly.

Natural Hazards:
I have no idea of this. I only wonder how nature can be a hazard. If we are talking of disaster managements, then we probably are the worst in the world.

Waste Management:
Supreme Court fixed March, 2003 as the last date for corporation to implement solid waste management. Here we are in 2007. Have we?

Education:
From this same university from where i type, five lads came to my office. M.A in English. They can't speak the language my daughter in KG could speak. I have nothing more to say, except to tell you to go back to the first para of the blog.

to be continued...

Dear Bala Annai,

2006-12-16T05:12:00.000-08:00

This is the text of what LTTE chief Pirapaharan wrote on Anton's death. More than anyone else, he is the right to person to mourn the death of the ideologue of Eelam, still a distant dream.

----

Head Quarters
Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam
Tamil Eelam

A source of unwavering strength in the political and diplomatic efforts of our freedom movement, and the light of our nation is extinguished. Bala Annai, from whom I sought advice and solace, is no more with us. It is an irreplaceable loss for our entire nation and for me.

Bala Annai’s life has been much too short. His death comes at a time when we needed him most, as our freedom struggle intensifies. I cannot find words to express my grief and loss.

From the beginning of our struggle, when we first met, there was a deep mutual understanding. The fondness that rose from that understanding developed into a rare friendship. We thought and acted in unison. Our friendship grew in strength through our shared day-to-day experiences. This friendship stands apart from ordinary human relationships. It matured with time and was shaped by our shared history.

I was deeply fond of Bala Annai. In the great family that is our movement he was its eldest son and its guiding star for three decades. That is how I looked up to him. During the time we lived together as one family, I came to realize that he was no ordinary human being. He was strong and unshakable even during the illness that threatened to take his life and the severe pain that illness brought him. The strength of his soul was inspirational. I grieve for him.

Bala Annai has a permanent historic place in the growth and the spread of our movement. He was its elder member, its ideologue, its philosopher and, above all, my best friend who gave me encouragement and energy. He shared my sorrows, my anxieties and my travails. He was with me from the very beginning of our movement, sharing its challenges and hardships. He was the central figure in all our diplomatic efforts.

Saluting the immeasurable service he rendered our nation in the political and diplomatic arenas and the efforts by which he put our national freedom movement on the world stage, allowing our nation to stand with dignity, I am proud to bestow the title of ‘Voice of the Nation’ on Bala Annai.

Bala Annai has not left us. He will live permanently in our thoughts.

The yearning of the Tigers is Tamileelam!

V. Pirapaharan
Leader
Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam

The Future President?

2006-12-13T02:04:00.000-08:00

The Hindu has carried the story of Obama today. On Hampshire and the next US president. The million dollar question is will the US have its first woman president in Hillary Clinton or the first black president in Barrack Obama?

It was an interesting article. The leader of the new generation. He is 45 and 14 years younger than Hillary. I went through couple of his speeches. I personally feel this guy is a future President. May be after Hillary. Already in the United States, the media is crazy about him. Apart from writing endless columns, the investigative journalists are also scrutinising his life till now to lay him bare. (Will politicians ever be stripped of their personal secret lives in India?)

Obama started as a community leader and was the first African American to be the president of Harvard Law School. Will he be the first African American president?

Some day a Black has to become the President, right. Like a Dalit becoming President here. In that Indian democracy is far superior. America gave oscars to a whole lot of blacks only after 9/11. Hope sense prevails in that nation and this fellow gets presidentship without the need for another 9/11 or worse.

To know and read more of him http://obama.senate.gov/speech/

let me

2006-12-10T23:59:00.000-08:00

I am passing this way,
Let me do what I can,
To my fellow beings,

I shall not delay,
I shall not pass this way,
Again.

pinochet's children

2006-12-10T23:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, that dictator Pinochet died of a heart attack after ruling Chile for more than a decade, suppressing his own people.

I first heard the name Pinochet in a short film festival in a college about two years ago.

When General Pinochet seized power in Chile on September 11, 1973, Alejandro Goic was sixteen, Enrique Paris, twelve, and Carolina Tohá, eight years old.

During the coup Alejandro and Carolina lost their fathers, and all three lost their innocence and their youth. And eventually all went on to become powerful student leaders in the tumultuous eighties.

With thoughtful, emotional interviews and rich archival footage, the film was a remarkable film that beautifully portrayed three people's course of life against the background of the socio-political developments in their homeland.

Directed by Paula Rodriguez, in Germany, the 83 m documentary is one of the best I have seen. For those Che-fixed youth of today, wearing the revolutionary in t-shirts or flashing his face in the mobile, Alejandro can make an interesting study. The Che look-alike left politics to be a theatre personality and even through the film he was able to evoke revolutionary emotions, rare to find in these parts.

Enrique, after being a businessman for years, returned to active politics after two decades. And a succesful one at the time the film was being filmed. Carolina might one day even become the president of chile. For the film clearly revealed her intelligence, courage and skills in real politik.

Is not a film to be screened in our institutions of higher learning. Is not among the students, the seeds of change are sown? If politics here is so dirty, how are we going to clean it up? Is it not that only students can change destiny?

The film is a mixture of rare archival footage, thoughtful dialogues, up-close and personal views on politics of once upon student revolutionaries in search of freedom, and the ones who want to change Chile for a better tomorrow.

Here is a film to watch and think.

Don't miss it.

The return of the train

2006-12-10T07:12:00.000-08:00

I was back on the tube
Homeway bound, happily;

Four years have passed by,
Stting by that rusty window;

They ’re the same passengers,
I grew up familiarizing with;

These are the interiors,
Fertiled by flowing rivers;

Most of them are dry today,
After the deluge of monsoons;

The fields though are green,
A long stretch of dancing carpet;

As always,

That feeling of lightness came,
The mind was a floating feather;

The train was bluish white,
And the sky a bluish black;

A couple were returning home,
And a lean, dusky girl travels alone.

As always,

I remember those days,
When I used to go home;

To see a young girl,
Bonded to me in love;

This was the noon train,
That took me home by night;

To be with her,
To hug and kiss;

To be in love,
To give myself;

Those were the early days,
When eternity visited often.

As always,

The same train came to a halt,
At one of those discreet stations;

The blind-beggars rhyme,
A group of bad boys sing along,

The tube has always been musical,
The terrain outside forever mystical.

As always,

It chugs past a cement factory,
Where people eke out for a living;

Littered ‘th lights in silhouette,
It moves past the right window;

The fields of fantasy fling past,
Flying comes a little winged bee;

Resting on my thigh for a while,
Before flying itself out of the tube;

Knowing not where to go next,
I watched it disappear into dark;

`life’s like that,
a flying journey’

`fleetingly fragile,
and full of fantasy’

`a dive into darkness,
dwelling on dreams’.

As always,

The tube tricks me to think,
Like the tracks that never meet;

Of the lives of those poor,
Living in hut-filled hamlets,

So deary to live with, yet
Unnoticed and uncared for.

Always,

Will I take the noon train,
To travel toward my home town.

all my girlfriends!

2006-11-29T06:16:00.000-08:00

Last week, I got a telephone call from a friend of mine. She happens to be a girl. I am not sure of the definition of a girl friend, especially in a conservative city. Yet i am writing this piece, within my own definitions.

The flower that she is, she was all set to bear fruit as a mother. Enquiring about few other girls who worked with us, she said, ``Poor boy, all your girl friends are pregnant now...''

I was stunned. It was true. Three girls, who liked me or whom I liked, were carrying. Three women, I should say. If I am to use those oft repeated words, bold, beautiful and brave _ not so widely used word for women.

I was happy for them, their hubs and the to be born wonders. For I loved them so much.
One was dominant. She had a liking for bad guys like me but always ended up with big bullies. The other was truly a goodie but branded bad in company. Surprisngly, she got only softies.
The third one was a puritan spirit, a bit confused about living. Truly in love with the One.

I miss them all. Living far away, nursing their babies, in turn nursed by husbands. My latest girl friend's question set me thinking. ``Don't you feel bad?'' she had asked. I told her that I definitely was not feeling bad. For all the three have got wonderful husbands and will have wonderful babies. I will be happy to be the uncle.

For, I have a daughter myself. And I married before these girls became friends. It is just a question. Would they have married me? Did they ever think of me as a life partner? Would they have wanted to have children with me?

I am not sure. What I am sure about it is that they loved my wife and respected my marriage. If I chose to not to think moral, I would have loved to have children with my girl friends. Not for the sake of union. May be, for the kind of children we would have given birth to.

Adventurers, intellectuals and sanyasins, in that order.

May be in singluar. For I have only a daughter with my wife.

Going back, we chose to be moral in traditional terms or were conservative in modern parlance, and continue to be friends. There is just this thought. Was there a longing inside all of us to think and act beyond friendship?

The longing was certainly there. I have seen it in their eyes. They must have seen mine.

Over the years they must be slowly replacing me with their dear ones. Soon, I will be visiting the babes longing for their babes. It will be just wonderful.

I have a longing to travel back in time and re-live all those moments of togetherness filled with warmth and radiance. Of those handshakes, hugs and kisses. The strolls to the tea shops, the time spent in book shops, the close to fist fights in office, the hand-in-hand walks through the nights and those pulsating seconds when we almost broke the barriers...

ah!

I must mention here about one more girl, who offered her fully for the love she had for me, and who might anytime go the family way. As I type, she will be waking up in a city of lakes, far, far away. Thinking of me? No, I am pretty sure.

My part in her life must have passed. She will remember me, now and then, for the joy she found in my company, and may be, the occasional pain due to my stupidity.

time to type

2006-11-29T04:48:00.000-08:00

i was supposed to have written for her a long time ago. that was the first time i failed to sooth a girl with words of comfort. she was feeling pretty bad about life. being very young and intelligent, she has an existenial problem.

with so much to do, like and love, she still was suffering. she asked me why things were not happening her way. why the relationships she wanted were not working out as she desired. i said i will reply in few days.

i failed. for i knew she is smart enough to come out of it on her own. and that the other person in relation, from what she said, looked matured and sensitive to her very life. i was sure they could manage without me or my takes on their lives.

i havent known her really. i know her barely for a few months. she is emotional and attached. like most of the women. yet she is different. may be, she shows them not. what attracted me towards is not her intelligence or her (mostly wasted) writing skills, but her thirst for love.

she likes to be all on her own. still she likes to be loved. not outwardly, but deeply. for now, i have no words. life has already been cruel to her. and the only man she loves most is ill. i doubt if words would comfort her. may be not even warm hugs can. knowing the strength of the man, he soon will be back in home caring and cooking for her.

for now, i don't know what to write for her. except that, the road ahead looks lonely. she walks with a freedom, like her father walked years ago, to new shores, to be a professional, to have daughters like her.

and that, there's a friend and family to fall back.

poems from past

2006-11-28T07:26:00.000-08:00

Self, The Sovereign

Greetings to myself,

On this day you were born,
And now seem to feel forlorn;

Wish you were not born,
For life revealed thorns.

In the span of wishful years,
Which have gone full of tears;

Nature seems to be the only solace,
Attachments demand things pleasure.

Relations deter the mind of its peace,
Free are you to give everything in nature.

Sad, you never realise within,
And search for eternal liberty;

Forgt'in the beauty of being born
On a planet being continually torn.

Even if you are a miniature cosmos,
Hope is still the saviour of sovereign self.

you are the person, you are the planet!

***

Ageing and Angels

Of all things on travel and tranquility,
i learnt a few in a blue bodied train last night.

With wife on the lap and dew drops dripping by,
i sat silently thinking of the unknown journey ahead.

I 've seen never ageing at its best before,
in my hilly hometown below the blue sky.

A brave woman, bestowing and blessing,
was in the bed 'th beautiful beneath her wrinkles.

A battered body she wore with a belly
brimming to the brink with cancer cells.

Divine was her hands in giving,
Serene was her soul in grieving.

Never was she afraid;
neither for illness, nor for nothingness;

Beloved she remains;
by the sick bedside, beyond believes.

Aged is she, an angel, ain't not.
if not today, tomorrow, then.

***

Convictions, Common

Convinced I am,
At corrupt not continue,
Governing people Present.

Commoners we are,
Confused collectively,
Condemned to Custody.

Convicted they are,
On charges corruption,
Criminals yet Commanding.

Clear we are not ,
On civility & councils,
Clinging to Corruption.

Confined they are,
To cosiest confines,
Culprits yet Crusading.

Clever are they,
Chiding & cheating,
Commoners Carnivores.

Che, Come Again.

half-way

2006-11-07T06:10:00.000-08:00

The Meditative Mind said:

sis and her hubby left to london late in the night. it was still raining. seeing them off, we came back. was sick for forty hours or so. unusually, went to bed before the deepest of darkness creeped all over the house around that midnight every day.

was woken up by a voice from the room. ``come in,'' said the loving one. ``the little one wants to talk to you.'' i merely went in and switched on the lights. the little one was not looking at me. the loving one went out. she switched off the lights as she came back with a cake. ``happy birthday, bava'', said she (bava in telugu means hubby). it was another birthday.

i have no memories of me celebrating my b'days. i did not even cut the cake. but sliced a piece of cream and gave it to the loving one. the little one will not wish me, though. they wanted to light the candle that will light the entire house. ``i am going to sleep,'' i said and slept.

stupid and insensitive, i should admit. poor girls. they looked patehtic. they love me so much. yet i cant give them the way they want love. light a candle, blow a few kisses, talk to them of a future, full of comfort and a horizon beyond that. but am i not an utopian rooted to reality.

throughout the next day, i received a very few calls and was left pondering all day if people have forgotten me and my age. the little girl will not wish me even now. ``only if you cut the cake,'' she kept repeating. i was not for it. for i wanted her not to eat it. she just has come out of another boot of asthma. i willingly played the villain card. she never minds except for that moment.

it occured to me that i was half-way through. i am not sure if i will live to see the thousandth moon, the finest moment in one's life as rkn wrote in the uncle's diary, a short story. taking into record the health registers of my ancestors, i have come to the conclusion, that if not tripped in an accident, i could live at least this long. and am half-way.

it has not been quite a life. it has been a quiet life. basically below the blue skies and green ghats in childhood. by the riverside in college. by a hillside in university. by the beach while working.

like any other life, my life has had its moments of glory and pain. of sufferings and happiness. of agony and joy. of treachery and tranquility. madness and genius. emptiness and thoughtfulness. victorious against total failures. of greatness and utter stupidity. i have lived it all. there can be any number of opposites added to this list.

there are two words i like most. love and compassion. i think i have not lived a life of hatred. half-way through. i am sure i will not live a life of hatred ever. even if i am born again, and again, a million times.

never with a heart of hatred but will full of love. all encompassing love. have you ever heard the great one say, ``Open your heart and love the whole world.'' that, i suppose, is compassion. can there be any great feeling other than that for a human?

i am human. those words of a disillusioned pilot in razor's edge is still there in me. ``i wish to be born human a thousand times. it doesn't matter where i am born or to whom i am born. i want to be born human. life is to live (and love).''

As an after-thought, I thought, if i should have mentioned about two more words. sex and seduction. Oh! that is another part of a life. the unconquered sense. i read a lunatic-looking poet write, ``the one who steps beyond *kama* (lust) and *kanneer* (tears) is on his way to enlightenment''.

half-way through, i think the tears have dried up. i feel it to be a wasteful exercise. lust. it still lingers on. on contemplation, it looks it can be easily crossed. is not life wonderful? ah! it really is. yet i wonder why i am still a stranger to myself!

it reminds me of two more words. self and soul.

thinking 'em, i mayn't sleep even after a million births.

this life, i have to be content with two other words.

self-less and soul-ful.

That Tall Smoking Fellow

2006-10-23T00:27:00.000-07:00

Poetry!

It has been years since i thought of a rhyme. May be my soul has missed the rhythm caught in the mundane missives. Pre-occupied with laziness, and with not many new experiences with the human kind, i have been wordless for years and years now.

I was at my poetic best, ten years ago. In school, as a teacher. Students might differ, and likely to recall and refer me as That Tall Smoking Fellow. It was an interesting episode in my life. I was smoking heavily for five years. Doing nothing but to smoke, drink and think hard, really, really hard.

I am not sure what I was thinking all those years for an answer that still seems so simple but too complex, beyond comprehension. I was sure, then, that it was all fake, the being, the father, the mother, the family, the attachment, the love. I was not seeing truth anywhere. Farce were the faces.

Everyone Was Eternally in Expectation. In despair, I used to smoke to fill the air above. I had given up on life till a smoke filled afternoon when I was asked to teach Economics. Even now, I have no reason to believe that I have any knowledge of the subject. I have no clue what the definition is.

It was the awakening. There were five or six girls in that classroom. Many teachers, including the vice principal and principal, had tried teaching them. Only to the disapproval of the girls. I walked in straight. Told them that I knew nothing about any-nomics, let alone economics.

They sat mutely, looking at a self-proclaimed stupid. I read a few pages and explained what I intuitively learnt as I read and intrepreted it to them. Wondering at the plight of students at the hands of teachers like me, I walked out down to the meadow after the class and smoked till darkness, with wry smiles in between, smiling to myself.

Tragically, the girls approved of me. I was sure it was not for my knowledge of economics. My friend blacky told me that the girls need not go outside to look at a handsome fellow when they have someone at the classroom itself. I had a charm. But was too bony for any girl to be interested in. Besides, the town knew too well about me and my friends. In fact, the three women who ran the school had to convince a community to send me to teach a bunch of girls!

I think it was one girl in that class who changed my fate forever. She had told the correspondents that I was extremely intelligent. I was their teacher for a month as they took the eleventh exams. She joined some other school, the next year. I have never heard of her after that. Poor me, I don't even remember her name. It started with S.

The year that followed in school transformed me totally. It was then that I discovered poetry. It was then that my heart sang songs of joy amidst a sea of sorrow. It was then that I lived in abundant love, saoking in the radiant light of unadulterated love of the little ones. Soul, the stranger, showed me the mercy. It was then I started living again.

Awake to love, life and longings, poetry pursued me. Attachment had a new meaning and definition. The then children liked that tall smoking fellow, their teacher, for a year. And I suppose, fondly think of that lanky fellow even now. For, he introduced them to many, many things, other than the language and sciences. Including poetry and philosophy. I will know, tomorrow. For I just visited them living as a community encircled in the web.

It is raining outside. It is raining in me.

that familiar feeling...

2006-10-19T04:28:00.000-07:00

last night came that feeling again. i had spoke my mind out to some stranger calling me up for something a day back. she had stirred my passions for life again by asking what will you be doing if you are not in journalism.

``filming,'' i had said without winking.

``Wow!'' was her reply.

i am not sure if i ever will be able to do filming. it has been a life long passion, like literature. i have very little knowledge of both. i feel these are two of the most interesting things in life, sex apart. these professions required an observant mind sojourning in solitude to tell stories to people of the simpler, smaller and beautiful worlds around us, poetically and philosophically _ the endangered.

the journalistic life is more of an emtiness or about efforts on a daily basis to fill the empty spaces. very rarely, the mind reaches out into its own empty spaces to discover the beauty of self, or rather selflessnes. journalism has turned more selfish than societish.

with my wife, tired from working all day, and the little princess, tired of playing all day, sleeping by the side, that feeling came back. for long i have resisted and to say the truth, i had forgotten that feeling for years, till it returned a month ago.

it visited the mind last night also. that feeling of what will happen to me. from where i came and where am i going. the feeling thats there in all of us, in the deep crevices of the mind, supreme, visiting time and again, at intervals depending on the urge to know the truth.

for long i have left truth to live alone and in peace by not trying to think about it or trace its origins or the present status. somehow, truth has a liking to me and loves to play the hide and seek game. it was doin the same last night too.

while i was not keen about my origins, what was i before. i definitely was not there. somehow i am here. a being. a living creature. living. living. living. with all my senses and feelings, from the sexual instinct to the desire to enlarge my heart and love the whole world. i feel happy.

the sadness comes when, i, with a sense of stiffness, thought what will happen to me. perhaps, i should have more children. then there will be few more people to remember even after death, the only absolute one can ever get to, with the mind, even if it it happens to be the supreme. but can i give them comfort while living. may be thats why i am satisified with my girls. they will think of me, then and now, till they live.

thats it.

for a sister...

2006-10-18T03:43:00.000-07:00

i see a
gentle wind,

its not a cloud,
it neither has force.

it just sweeps through faces,
gently, soothing the stupid senses,
bored 'th outward objects of beauty.

in effect,
and in a sense,
it stirs the soul,

in all of us,
tired and desparate.

this gentle wind
named `venil' in tamil
happens to be my mom's name.

my so called sister's name is shyama
may be i should accept her as she is

do winds have colours and names?

is shyama, space?
only krishna knows

theres no wind
up above the earth

there's silence,
there's stillness,
there lie simple souls.

of yours and mine
minus the timid mind

beyond the window,
the wind flows gently.

i feel love
all around me
and within self

a rare calm,
resonates round,

soul sleeps,
with it shyama.

me says sorry,
feelin sleepy.

the think tank.

2006-10-11T23:15:00.000-07:00

It drizzled the entire evening. After filing my reports, I rode back to my sister's place in Mr City. On the third stop, I stopped my bike. It was still breezy. The sky was still leaking over the city. I took a stroll on the third Street. I badly wanted to smoke.

For days, we have walked the street smoking late in the night, early into the dawn. Sudha used to live here. On the third house on the third street on third stop. His ancestors were kallars before becoming christians.

Therefore, born to a christian family, he, the eldest, was the brightest of the three children. We need not step into his home to stay at his room on the first floor. We were like ghosts. No one in the house knew we existed.

Up there, there is an overhead tank. The Think Tank. We will climb over it. Smoke all night. Think all night. It was here we drew plans to kidnap film stars for ransom or asasinate politicians, including the great dame. We wanted to be the cleansing force.

The Purifying Spirit. Most of us believed in violence. With people becoming all the more selfish, we believed that violence to be the only way to clean up the system. None of us had studied Marx or The Revolutions, excpet in text books. We have heard stories, read quite a few war stories. We were fascinated with secret service, specially the KGB and the SS.

We wanted to be just that. Don't hesitate to kill to earn your living. The thought process sure was induced by substance addiction. The objective though was for the common good. We will have some money to spend and operate. The rest will be offered to others.

As we talked for hours, the dark blue sky turned darker only to change into a lighter hue of blue and then truly blue before it dawned by four o'clock. Staring into the bluish sky and into the stars, we wanted to be stars. Not the filmy kind but like those twinkiling from the sky.

We wanted to guide people who had lost direction. We were a gang of good guys. Drugs are a cruel kind. They killed all of us. Not fully, but effectively. Like all those brave sailors, we were also shipwrecked.

Time can be cruel also. Here I walk, all alone, thinking of my friends. It is midnight. I walk into the third street and stand in front of the third house.

The Think Tank Is Still There.

Above All.

musings .

2006-10-10T04:08:00.000-07:00

my best friend ever?

it was a decade ago i met my best ever friend for a last time. as i was walking on the road perpendicular to the road with the bus stop where i last saw my first girl friend 17 years back, mahesh jumped down from a running bus on seeing me.

``Can you give me five rupees?''.

i gave him mutely. Taking it, he walked away from me. i just stood there watching him till he disappeared.

as i said before, it was the last time i saw him. i have heard him over phone a few times thereafter. everytime, he spoke, he would talk of our days in college, always. we always felt that the college days were our glorious morning.

i will have to give our gang a name bfore i start writing `my friends'. he was the master charmer. students of the college in those three years invariably knew him. full of energy, he was a vibrant soul, exuberating radiance and warmth only one in crore will be bestowed with. with a spring in his walk, he walked around the campus making friends all the time.

i was lucky enough to be in his close circle of friend, inspite of betraying him once. perhaps, that was the reason he walked away from me on that day. he never liked betrayal. but on the phone, he was friendlier than ever. again, perhaps, he was without friends.

now he lives without friends. he lives in memories. i drove till his home. i have lived there for days and months. inspite of new houses everywhere, my memory guided me and i parked the vehicle under the neem tree in front of the house.

i waited there. twice before, his parents had denied entry to me.

``don't disturb him anymore,'' they did tell me.

i had to return then. i wanted him to live in peace. after that, twice now, i have returned after waiting under the neem tree, trying to be as close to him, for few minutes. he was under rehabilitation then.

may be even now. for the twelfth year.

in between, he must have died, at least thrice by word of mouth. sudha actually died. siva vanished. prem was inching towards death when i met him five years ago.

after dying twice, i still survive. like my best friend, i too live alone.

musings from madurai

2006-10-10T00:46:00.000-07:00

my first girl friend...

nearly a decade after, i slept for three nights in this temple city. for years, i have wantedly refused to visit the town, inspite of fond memories filled in me fully. it was this city, i discovered myself, amidst darkness, pain, self-suffering and friendships.

i got out of the bus and walked through that street again. nothing much has changed in the street. it was a broad one with pedestrian pavements, uncharacteristic of the city. the bus stop was still there. without the shelter. seventeen years is a long time but i still remember her warm smiles and inquisitive eyes.

she, perhaps my first girl friend, surprisingly lingers into my mind as i walk. it was by chance that i arrived at this bus stop on my way to college. two girls, school students, were waiting for the bus to come. i found one of them attractive. perhaps, she too felt the same way. for i can see her liking to me from her eyes.

she looked matured beyond her age. she was beautiful. besides, she looked kind and caring. as characteristic of that generation, we never spoke to each other but only exchanged stares in silentce, in mutual admiration and affection.

from now on, i deliberately started taking this route to my college even if it meant spending a few rupees more from my always pocket, with a permenaent hole. my fortnightly allowance was a mere twenty rupee note and by then i had learnt to smoke also.

it was waste of money. but i preferred it for my friend. for a year we were friends. at least once, we came to very close to talk to each other. her friend warned against it. but could never really introduce ourselves, physically.

walking past the very same bus stop, i think of her. i suppose, she also thought me sometimes when she walked past that wide street, littered with memories of two strange souls.

civility: from politics to public.

2006-10-02T08:49:00.001-07:00

I am not sure of the exact definitions of civility. my definition of civility here relates to the civilisation or rather culture of civic bodies in the state that present a pathetic state.

Elections are coming. Curiously enough, Tamil Nadu, especially its capital Chennai, was the only big city in the nation to have a system of direct elections to the post of Mayor. The present DMK government has done away with it, inspite of opposition from its own allies.

It is a well calculated move. The ruling party, with a strong alliance, believes in sweeping majority of the local bodies, esepcially the corporations and muncipal corporations. Then it will have power at every level.

It is accepted that karuanidhi's government is a performing one to that of Jayalalithaa's total inaction. For example, take the city of chennai itself. Except for the dozen parks, the previous government has failed to improve the infrastructure in all aspects, may be she can claim to have successfully finished new veeranam scheme. Her claim will stand exposed only at the time of an overall drought when the city develops a crisis for drinking water.

Coimbatore is the next big city. I have been there for three years. The infrastructure is nothing but pathetic. Neither the state or the district administration has an idea of the growth potential the city has and the level of insufficient infrastructure at present.

The previous Mayor was nothing but a clown. A flower merchant in the past, you cant see anyone more stupid than him. Of course, he made lot of money. The previous commissioner, insiders say, earned about four crores. I am not sure about the charges. But money sure can be made out of every signature. It saw three scams. None of it has been uncovered so far. No one resigned also. Cases have been registered.

I also had an opportunity to know the amount of money spent on panchayats through the district rural development agency. About 50 crores every year. May be more. It is all political. The ruling party gets everything on its own, for its own. Of course, others do benefit. But, only a bit.

Politics has a strong hold over panchayats. Effective panchayati raj system can remain only a dream. Seriously speaking, there needs to be an analysis of the fund allotments to local bodies for which there is no audit system is in place.

There are quite a few panchayat presidents, really good. In fact, they are national models. But the majority are selfish and greedy. The official machinery is 80 percent corrupt. It all, especially the delivery system, depends on the boss. The new regime has sent the right signals by posting young IAS fellows as collectors in most of the districts.

Mention should me mentioned here about the conduct of the last local body elections. It was totally rigged. We were witness to a state social welfare minister pa valarmathi going around with goondas capturing booths in alandur one by one. At the counting for mayor elections, no one was allowed. Stalin was to be defeated. However, he won.

It was violence everywhere. Democracy was murdered. Not many wrote about it. It only indicated how big a dictator Jayalalithaa will turn in the next four years. Ruthless can be the only word. No discussions. Only rule of (her own) law.

We will have to see if rigging will be there this time. The two phased elections sure has raised doubts. DMK is known for electoral rigging, especiall in elections conducted in two phases. Expect them to do it scientifically.

Jayalalithaa does everything with fanfare to earn a bad name. Karunanidhi does it all in silence and of late to others' praise. Comparatively speaking, k is better than j in all aspects. especially in governance.

What kind of civic culture are we expecting. Solid waste management, for which source seggregation is the key, has not been implemented in any of the corporations. For the people, it is not even an idea. When are they going to buy to bins? When are they going to be supplied with two bins?

It is a long ask. Tough task. The corporators, or the councillors, majority of them also have a role to play. But they are all keen in taking the cuts. Share the spoils. We will allow you to sign. Otherwise, council will not pass any resolution. This has been the case with most of the civic bodies in the state.

Should we make elections to local bodies non-political. Few nights ago, I heard C Rangarajan, talking about the need to keep SHGs out of politics. He remarked how politics has ruined the co-operative movement. It is time we think on these lines.

For, the present elections are going to serve mainly the elected representatives and not the general public. The time has also come to provide space for public personalities to enter politics. If we don't we will continue to be ruled by a nexus of politicians and criminals.

the pitch?

2006-10-02T08:49:00.000-07:00

it was an intersting debate on 24x7 channel last night. the marriage between cricket and entertainment.
ajay, suhel seth and kadambari murali - sidhu plus mandira bedi. i missed the start. i presume shewag will spend sometime in the studios two hours before he steps into the field. ``inviting controversy'', ajay said. ``sony and mandira built a brand. fine. they shouldn't overdo it,'' said suhel. ``pre and post shows are fine. as long as they are not gender specific,'' rued kadambari. ``we succeeded in getting more women audience to cricket,'' mandira defended.

of course, it is a sticky wicket. ajay might have made a prediction. shewag, in terrible form with the timbers rattled frequently, will find himself defending off the pitch as well. still uneasy with bouncers, the fast balding man will have to bat out quite a few, may be many, beamers at him. if he fails with the bat, he may even be risking his cricketing career.

what was interesting to learn that the viewership went up to 35 percent, especially the women audience tuning in, claimed mandira. for all that we know, she still is showing the cleavage. even the night before, she had the dimples in her cheek and, should one say attractive, cleavage, made famous in the finals of last cricket world cup in johannesburgh. more than ponting's historic ton,. indians were stunned by mandira's cleavage. she did hide major part of it later in the innings. everyone accepted that she was representing the commoners and asking their questions.

is it not that the players themselves have no answers. it all happens in the field. if you fail, you fail. if you win, you win. its a game played there in the middle. not in the press box or the expanded media room where the extraas sit and stupidly talk.

the channels have already killed or overkilled cricket. commercialisation and as seth said bimbo cricket control of india have mesmerised the massess into making cricket an opium aka religion and making cult figures out of many ordinary men with a few extra-ordinary.

cricket is no more a gentle game. it still is played on green grass and a delight to watch but with too many add ons, before, after, inbetween and so on, Cricket, watching in an idiot box, is beginning to be tiring.

those wanting to enjoy a good game of cricket will have to walk into the nearest grounds, that are always empty, to watch future cricketers sweating it out in those million blades of grass that are still pure.

drunk!

2006-10-02T08:33:00.000-07:00

it will be a surprise to see me blogging again. it is just that i have time or i am not lazy or i want to say something. i was reading a tamil book few days back in my native. it was about a sleepy, dry village stepping slowly into modernity till the nation got independence, a sequel to the first part that actually traces the telugu speaking families, like mine, setting out somewhere in andhra and settling in and around madurai three to four hundred years ago.
while it made an interesting reading all through, there was a particular passage to which i was drawn to. for quite sometime, i have been wondering, why the state (tamil nadu) government has taken over the liquor trade. it gives you good revenue. in fact, one third of state's revenue flows from liquor. the book said something more and said it was nothing new. all through history, one can find examples of rulers feely supplying liquor to the residents. the objective is simple. kill the rebellious mind. get drunk and get lost in darkness. perhaps, whats happening in the state is the same. caught between two organised looters of public money, the men spending crores and crores on spirit are spineless. there are no rebels here. they are all consumed by the spirit and have nothing to protest.

extremely happy for the fact that they have plenty to drink. for men here, life is an enjoyment. but for millions of mothers and children, life is turning terrible. may be the women will have to revolt.

news broadcast

2006-10-02T06:19:00.000-07:00

it all seemed impressive. i havent been watching the news channels regularly. but have been reading reports in broadsheets of how channels continue to break news all the time. i happened to sit before television to watch shah rukh, the star, present himself . it was a nice interview. the headlines for the day, however, was the dengue, a disease that killed one resident doctor in the country's premier medical institutions aiims. it was not yet an epidemic, said one channel. it looked as if they wanted an epidemic. or was it a warning to the establishment. others were running it as the lead story. as usual, it was the blame game. aiims was not willing to accept the prevailing unhygienic conditions in and around the hospital. the news channels carried the news, everyone's point of view. except the preventive aspect. may be not many of them knew that it was a mosquitoe that breeds in fresh water collections and that bites by the day. we all have seen the channels urging people to lit candles for the lives lost in terrorists attacks or natural calamities. prayers for the souls. now, there is an urgent need to tell people to look around themselves to prevent from a deadly disease. it is simple to stop dengue from spreading. but the channels were still talking about an epidemic. may be they are breaking news. news first. lives next.

fear for ...

2005-10-19T04:26:00.000-07:00

i thought i should start writing about a primoridal phenomenon killing all of us even while living. there is this old man who might die any time. i think he is not afraid, for his disciples feel he is god. but the man called god says space is god.

it just stuck to my mind. for he said space is everywhere and has everything. in fact, space will be there even in hundreds of universes. it sounds true. i am not his disciple. in a way, i am afraid to be a disciple after reading `k'.

but this idea of god looked simple and straight. therefore, its there in my blog. back to that primoridal feeling of fear. fear is natural, anyone will accept. may be like sex, creativity, gift and kill. it is inherent in humans passed on through generations of gene.

we may have to fear a lot of things in this increasingly violent world. i felt i had conquered my inner fear a day ago. it came again last night. how do we end fear while living? is it possible? let me find out in future. is not freedom from fear, true freedom?