Storm in the teacup

It all started, just a drizzle,
like the breeze through a thistle.
Vapors rising, oddly calm,
a shroud of pallor before the storm..

But what unsettled the tea cup?
The tea was probably brewed wrong?
But so it was liked, now for long..
was it the milk, or the new sugar tub?
not sure what unsettled the tea cup..
Maybe the leaves boiled too long,
or was the aroma no longer strong?
Not sure what unsettled the tea cup..

Whatever the cause, for the tea,
it surged and fell, a tyrannous sea,
incessantly it lashed, oh so tall,
till into shards broke the wall..

Then in silence the tea dripped,
on the table, a pool placid...

Her story

 She would have to do another night with gruel and chilies. “At least Mani can have something”, she thought.

There had been an abominable lull that summer. Potatoes and tomatoes got sold as always. But who would buy snake guard and drum sticks. There wasn’t an alternative though, was there?

Ravi anna transferred the cluster beans into a sack. She stared gloomily into the flickering flames of the kerosene lamp that danced on those dry, jet black eyes which were passive, like the calm after a storm, like the butt of a cigarette that glows brighter than usual before it finally snuffs out. The lamp had now extinguished and darkness prevailed. It would be hard, she reflected, this night, the one that would follow and the ones after that, indefinitely. It all started when he left to the town, to look for some livelihood.

 “It is getting late dear. Pack your stuff, your amma must be waiting.”

She transferred the vegetables into a yellow cloth bag, put it on Ravi anna’s cart and followed him silently.

It all seemed great in the beginning. There was a drought and farming was no longer possible. A job in the town with a decent income and she would then be able to resume her studies. So would Mani. Her asthmatic mother would not have to toil at the construction site too.Bearing the hopes of three thumping hearts he set out on a starless wintry night.

They waited anxiously to hear from him. Days passed, months went by and one day they got to hear that he had started living with another woman in the city. They were shattered. She wept bitterly. A dark shroud seemed to have engulfed them for eternity.

In that darkness a beast within stirred from its stupor, spitting fire, spurting flames. She resolved to fight to keep her family alive- If not for her, at least for Mani, to make him study. Her ill mother would not be able to do much. The money from selling their land could do for a year. Selling vegetables, working in some households, she would manage to run things till they found another viable option, she thought.

The tinkling of bells and her mother’s wheezing brought her out of the reverie. Kutty staggeringly stood up. A faint curve stretched on those dark lips as she absently stroked its back. The emaciated calf had seen it all and borne it with the family. They could not feed the mother and so sold it. But she could not bear to part with Kutty. It had strayed into their lives at twilight and they hoped to see through the night into dawn with it.

Mani came eagerly. “What did you get me akka?”

She ruffled his hair, handed him the parcel of food she had bought on the way. Her mother was lying on the pyol on a frayed mat. She handed over her earnings and walked in to have the frugal meal that awaited her.

The phone rang. “Hello Sudha here”

“Greetings madam, very glad to hear from you madam, tell me”

“Rama, all your prayers are answered. We have got a volunteer to sponsor your daughter’s education, after looking into her illustrious record. Please let her take it. You can work at the school too. We will be able to help your boy as well.”

Elated, her mother stumbled into the thatched hut.

The bowl of gruel lay in front of her. The last drops of water dripped from the pitcher, drenching her patched, faded skirt. Those jet black eyes in the sunken sockets were still. The fire within had died. An odd peace seemed etched on those dark features as they shone in the dim light of the lamp.

Ramblings....

  India is one hell of a country. A diversity that is so baffling that almost 98% of Indians would themselves not realize the magnitude of it .The other 2% are the government servants, IAS officers, people in the military, and public health officers who scout remote unheard unseen corners of the country ;). This India, has rushed in headlong into the new century, to compete with the super powers of the world, injecting into its veins, the trends of the west, and yet seems to be lost somewhere in identifying its own self, searching in the shards of broken mirror, each of which reflect something different about it- A million dreams for a future, where it commands the position it once held in the past, a past so profound and prolific that it will always remain an inseparable part of it, the growing sense of modernity, the urge  to compete in terms of technology, resources, man power, while starkly contrasting it are the issues of rampant corruption, crime, female foeticide, farmer suicides, terrorism, insurgency and others one sees on a daily basis, so much so that we have accepted them as a part of life in India.

  With all this complexity, that is unique to this country, I intend to understand to the best of my ability who the quintessential modern Indian is. How does he identify himself? Is there only one such image, or does difference creep into this as well, like every other thing in India? Is it different in the cosmopolitan cities from the little towns and villages of interior India? I intend to pen down my observations, conversations with people I come across, maybe these could give new insights, which will help understand better my country today. In this process, I intend to discuss issues we all can relate to, what we see on a daily basis…

  In the past two months I had to shuttle between three cities of India – Chennai, Bengaluru and Mumbai, several times. I shall now write what I observed about these cities, their differences and finally the one common feature I saw.

  I shall start with the garden city, which was once truly a garden city, when it was still green, picturesque and an exclusive hub for the southerners and the MNC’s had not yet identified the one major destination they choose to transform (Now what kind of transformation, we shall see!).

  At first sight this city seems to be refreshingly less ‘metro’ish- tall gulmohars with the flaming crimson heads and the dense foliage of the banyans line on both sides of the sprawling roads beat the summer heat. Even as I enjoy the trees whizzing past my autorickshaw, tall buildings suddenly seem to sprout out of nowhere; malls at every street corner leer at passersby selling brands, (many of which one would not see even in most other metros) like Chanel and Calvin and Klein, luring the city’s rich businessmen and corporate honchos and other not so big people who yearn to live that coveted lifestyle of parties and night clubs. Pizza and coffee joints are just as many as the slum dwellings, that have mushroomed here, there and everywhere. The population seems to be cosmopolitan. Sphagetti tops and garbled English are as much a part as are the city’s rich tradition of carnatic music, fine arts and rava idlis. It reminds me of a dainty, bashful girl suddenly made up, adorned by ornaments and heavily embroidered brocades, beautiful, opulent but gaudy.

  The next in line is Chennai. ’Singara Chennai” it once used to be called. But with unchecked growth and industrialization, the adjective sounds good only on a T shirt. The land of filter coffee, dosas and idlis, retains its identity, only, it seems to be aping the other big cities which have already fallen prey. The Koovam, which lent beauty to this once scenic capital of the state of Madras now carries waste of every imaginable kind to the Bay of Bengal. The ‘Parakkum rail’ from beach to Velachery is a clever move to camouflage the dumping grounds and the numerous slums.

  Chennai so totally seems to love the English names of roads, a fond memory of the colonial period they do not want to erase, (probably because it adds to the effect of a modern city??). Five years back, eating out in a restaurant was for a middle class south Indian family a monthly affair or even rarer. But today I see people flocking to restaurants at every street corner, so much so that there are queues outside most even at 9 pm. thankfully, the temples in Mylapore and Triplicane are still popular and the city still comes alive with divine music in the month of Margazhi.

  Both these cities Chennai and Bengaluru represented the authentic south Indian life - Conservative, peace loving, rule abiding and hard working. I know these words still bear a lot of relevance; but with words like development, infrastructure and technology doing the rounds; I fear they will soon lose that.

  Mumbai, the city of dreams, the inspiration to many writers, movie makers and artists, inspired me too. Life is on at a pace that even the clock seems to run faster. The richest of the rich and the poorest of the poor all live together. This is where one can see an Indian from any part of the country juggling, to make a living. Unlike Chennai and Bengaluru, which have visualized change in the recent years, Mumbai has been this way for ages and hence easier for me to digest. There are rambling buildings, slums, sabzi mandis, and suddenly a sky scraper. They all seem to be snugly fit in a bizarre maze, that only they understand. People like me will miss a temple, mistaking it for a mall, as it is right next to an office complex.

  The roads are dirty, the people living on them dirtier. The sea seems to be there everywhere. The city in itself is on a little piece of land floating on the sea. The fast disappearing mangroves and forest reserves are a matter of serious concern the locals feel, but who would care for these when terrorist attacks happen once in a while and the people have learnt to live with them.

So that was a brief account of the cities I have been to in the recent past. They are all different in their own ways, and yet, there is one aspect common to them all, that saddens me. Growth, expansion, development, these are good things. Liberalisation and globalisation has changed the course of post independence India forever. I am no economist to analyse the impact and give strategies. But somewhere I feel, these cities are forgetting what they stand for, their originality in the process of all this change that has engulfed them. The west has its own model, but that fits them best. For a country like India, no one model will fit appropriately. So, blindly aping the west, be it a sprawling secratariat to be only abandoned by the next chief minister or shops selling things people do not need in the first place, is only pushing us closer to our doomsday. I am not against malls or branded clothes. I love the experience of a movie in a multiplex and the aroma of cheese melting on the pizza. I love weekend dinners and cruising on a car. But not to the extent that I forget the Ganesh ‘visarjan’ procession, mysore pa or the fragrance of malligai poo(jasmine). The new generation at times, seems to be running exactly on the wrong track. But well, I hope I am wrong!! What say???

 PS: the central question, 'who is the quintessential indian' is lost in all the rambles. . Am really tired now to consider it and write about it!.. so long.... zzzzzz....

Whatever!

On I walked, past many a river, valley and hill..

Villages, woods, farms and a mill

On I trudged, through roads I knew not..

towards the misty mountain I sought

Sometimes I could see it clear,

as it stood resplendently white

and at times only a murky mire..

but on I went on the relentless ride..

There were the black riders

who made a shiver run down my spine,

and the village folks

who tempted me with food and wine

But unyielding I was to this bargain,

for As it blushed a fiery red

I wanted to see the misty mountain, 

 when the lord kissed its snowy bed

It glistened like a bejeweled bride

refulgent in warmth so soothing,

As the mother’s lap to a  child,                                          

the beloved’s letter , to the warrior fighting

So on I went, my legs weary,

to behold that sight, dearest of all,

on horse, on caravan, foot and a  ferry

to feel that feeling, most blissful of all..

Finally I reached the zenith,

as the lord ascended the cerulean throne,

and felt my heart brimming with blithe,

radiant in the crimson my soul shone.

But as I breathed, aware of every breath,

a shroud of fog it seemed engulfed

the madly thumping heart beneath

as slowly into navy the azure turned,

And I realized this quest was but a moment in eternity,

And there are more to come in this vagabond’s journey

Behind the dark brown veil..

As someone helped him into the train, the first glimpse of him, I caught..

With filth his faithful friend, to a corner he crawled,

An emaciated body, deformed legs, unkempt hair and dark sagging skin..

A battered bag and secluded solitude were he all he owned.

On the nondescript puckered face below the layer of grey,

Intriguing me the most, in the deep sockets, a pair of dark brown eyes lay..

As secret glimpses of him I stole, wondering what his story was,  

Hasty glances of pity and revulsion others cast.

May be with a family to feed, he was once a healthy man..

Or was born a beggar with the privileges exclusive to that clan.

How I wish I could see through that dark brown veil!

Was it profound sadness for having been deserted..

Or palpable excitement about where he was headed?

Was it inconsolable sorrow for having none to love..

Or sublime satisfaction that comes only when there is nothing to lose?

Was it utter despair or a glimmer of hope?

Wish I could fathom the mystery behind that dark brown veil..

Of the beggar on the train I caught glimpses of…!!!

My first critique

I recently read a blog and was so appalled by it that I simply had to write a critique!! So here it goes..

The art of knowing/ mastering something and using it only when required, demands a degree of self restraint which is seen in a matured artist, which was totally lacking in this blogger.

There were lines like “ a gentle zephyr laden with the fragrance of jasmine” or “ mellifluous sound like that of a brook in the lonely moors” what was she trying? Compete with Tennyson?. Looks like the writer only just learnt these words from Norman Lewis’s ‘Word power made easy’ and was anxious to use them before she forgot them (It was a she yes!). “a gentle breeze laden with…” is just as good as zephyr!! Ostentatious and unnecessarily flashy!!

Also she seemed to love food and colours too much.. There was this so- called poem that she had written, which did not have the most important feature of a poem (rhyme and rhythm), where a whole stanza had nothing but colours..no thanks, we learnt about basic colours in our first grade!!

Our Ms. Mother Teresa seemed to love giving advice for free.. I would recommend her to start a general counseling portal. That would anyday run better than this.


To top it all, the poor thing had added herself as a follower of her own blog!! The levels blogging has come down to!

After having read this if you still think you can endure it, please click on the link below http://www.supriyamadhavan.blogspot.com

good bye sastra!!

A couple of days from now, I will pack my bags, and bid good bye to the hostel..This post is intended as it is very difficult to guess, about my days in college, not that I will never study after this. But well, life in an engineering college is just one of its kind.


I profess I am the emotional kind you see in bollywood movies, ( for the ones who know me, duh!!), so I felt there had to be a write up at least, plus am done with my project report and exams for now and hence jobless. So here it goes.


I never knew there would ever come a day when I would say, gosh! I am going to miss this. But well, I am! The first year was a hazy blur. I whined, was a show off and did nothing. Came the second year, I had new friends. Except for bunking classes and coffee and samosas I did nothing much. Then came third year. I moved into the hostel, and still did nothing. And now the final year, I am about to leave and suddenly i realise, I loved it all! Till almost a semester from now, I would have gladly taken the degree had they given it to me anytime. But at the very fag end of these amazing four years, I only yearn for all that magic to come back!!


The hostel, the mess food however bad it has been, the gym that I always wanted to go but never went to, the Sunday magazines, watching movies back to back, samosas at eleven ten break, endless cups of coffee, making maggi, sniggering between lectures, mocking professors, bunking the first hour to get some extra sleep, finishing a novel in a day, the afternoon naps that never were naps (they would eventually last for atleast two hours), chatting with friends well into the night, studying for mid semesters, eating during classes, sleeping during lectures, blankly staring at the board, reading the newspaper from under the benches, texting, the slang I picked up (gaandu, gethu, appatakkar, machi)….
Never again will I be so jobless, get away with being rude, go with barely twenty paise balance in the mobile or borrow six rupees for a coffee or samosa. I have had coffee when labs got boring and I didn’t get the output, when I was hungry, when I was happy, when I was sad, when I was simply bored, when I was excited, whenever I got nervous, well you get the idea!


Here is an interesting observation by a parent who once visited the hostel. Any time in the day, except between 3 am and 6 am, there will be at least one person talking over the phone, sleeping, watching a movie, eating, washing clothes or bathing. That sums up life in hostel.


I literally got away with everything in college, special thanks to my department, I took everything for granted. The marks, the subjects, the classes, the labs and the grades!


With all the fun that I had, I also learnt some hard lessons that I shall always remember. I am much better off than what I was initially and I owe all of that change to this place. It taught me to be tolerant to differences. Everyone need not like what you like. And just because they don’t, doesn’t mean they are dunces and you are better. I have met such amazing people, prodigiously talented and yet perfectly down to earth. The amount of talent that pools up especially during the technical and cultural festivals is mind blowing. If you are the jack of few trades, there are people who are masters in more than one. College humbled me. It taught me to see beyond just marks and prizes, that there are qualities much more priced than all the talent that is there. I do not know how much of the instrumentation I learnt in these years I will remember, but these are some things I learnt and will never forget.


So, thanks to all people who have tolerated me, known me and the ones I have seen but not known  in these four years!! Good bye!!