அடங்கா மனம்...

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

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

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.

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...

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...

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

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

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

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

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!

-----

*தேவதாரு - pine

ஒளி உனைச் சூழ்கிறது

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

``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.

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

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...

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.

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

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?