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!!

a poem ...

this is the first time i considered writing it.. (well, if you can call it a poem!!) so here it is..

A mad rush, is the world beneath,
and she is almost a non-entity..
ah! all that is a hazy blur,
for, she is everything, vast and unbounded,
stretching on up to the horizon and beyond…

At one instant mild ochre, golden yellow the next,
and then a fiery orange, only to turn deep red,
a sudden smile, a merry laugh, a flash of anger, a dash of sobriety,
a psychedelic of colours…

What has passed, she remembers not,
what is to come, she knows not,
only a dream, a desire, that she yearns for,
a peaceful world, full of blithe and joy…

Black, grey, azure and yellow,
this changing of shades, alone is constant,
so is your life, uncertain,
but not to be feared, she tells me

Spread your wings, soar high in the liberated sky
fulfill your dreams, satiate your desires
and then come back to me,
I shall be right here, she tells me..

about cartoons and crying....

I still love coloured balloons, feel jealous when my mother pets my brother too much or makes pickles exclusively for my cousins, cry at the drop of a hat, petulantly argue with anyone who calls me a kid, love watching make way for noddy and Oswald, lick the last wisp of maggi off my plate and the sugar in the bottom of my coffee cup . I am scared of ghosts, snigger in the middle of a serious lecture and get pleased if someone gives dairy milk or just appreciates me or my work (which includes this blog too :)). So, does all of this amount to being kiddish .. yes. Is it wrong to be one when you are supposed to have grown up.. is the bone of contention.
I recently observed a cute thing. I made masala dosa one day at home and thought of giving my thatha some. My patti being very orthodox does not have anything made anywhere but in her kitchen. So she peered into it and intently watched thatha as he had it. He later said that he liked it, especially as the dosas were crispy.. my patti seeing he had liked it, started off about how easy it is to make it and explained the recipe the way she imagined it to be.. she declared that it was not a big deal on the whole and that if it had not been for her austerities she would always make it at home… what I found to be cute in this exchange was, she seemed to be slightly jealous that thatha liked something made by someone other than her.. She is 80 plus.. I did not get nettled, instead found it really cute!!
Just because one grows up need not mean that he or she should suddenly turn matured and never act stupidly. We all do funny things like a kid, so why is watching cartoons and crying for a melodramatic movie kiddish?? (so what if it is kiddish). Cartoons are the easiest way to get into a world where everything is a lot simpler. Toy land has a major problem if it is going to rain or a puppy goes missing. Noddy goes around searching for the pup or brings clouds in his helicopter. I feel like a kid when I watch and laugh for these little things. And why is crying a sign of weakness associated with children.. why can it not be just venting ones feelings.. btw, I recently found out that in shakespeare’s period it was a fashion for men to cry. And what is wrong with licking sugar off the cup (strictly at home) or being scared of spooky stuff.. well, if people can be scared of cockroaches why not something you have not seen at all..
No one can never really become fully matured.. it’s nice to have a childish demeanor,probably makes people young at heart like my mother (I loved it when she excitedly typed a smiley for the first time and clapped when she saw it animated on the screen) . It feels nice to just relapse into a world, where losing a pen or not getting to have cotton candy is the biggest problem.. cartoons and crying do not necessarily get rid of the existing tensions and worries.. but definitely help us face them with a lighter heart. So my conclusion, it is okay to be a kid (at times) :)

one of my favourite poems :)

Upon Westminster bridge- William wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

an evening in the campus....

Today happened to be the first java lab session I was attending for the semester. As the clock approached five I was already looking at the prospect of attending a programming lab with a good deal of irksomeness. My aversion to programming languages is because I don’t get it easily but well, I never admit it and argue that they are not one bit as good as biology(that’s actually true). So anyway, I ambled lazily to the computer science department and finally to the third floor, where I stood for a while relishing the picturesque view of the college and fields beyond. And finally two hours of whiling away the time, chatting, copying stuff.. and we were out.. My college as it is, never lets girls roam in the campus after six thirty and because of this readymade excuse, me and my friend decided to stall going in for a while.
We were both ravenous and decided to go to the canteen, where we greedily hogged crispy dosa with chutney and sambar. I then had this urge to go to the temple. I am not exactly a religious person and do not frequent to the temple or pray regularly. But somehow, there is this nice soothing solace that sets in whenever I go. So, we went to this little ganapathy temple that is in one corner of the campus and man, was it good! There sat mr. ganesha in a crisp white dhoti, adorned by red and white hibiscus. Beside him were a couple of other stone idols(I dunno who they are) who also likewise were in white dhoti . Some of the college boys totally unrecognizable in dhoti where chanting Vedas along with the pundit. After a very long time, I actually was able to summon the feelings of devotion today and prayed to God that everyone should get what they deserve (like they would’n otherwise). It was a bedlam of chirruping in the trees nearby. On a normal day I would not really enjoy it, but today it blended so well with the scene.. the blackish blue sky, the calm campus, chill evening breeze of the spring, dark trees, a small little temple, the chanting of Vedas and the birds chirping in their cosy nests !! I felt a strange, pleasant peace engulfing me as I walked back to my hostel.
And I realized, I don’t exactly have to go to Switzerland or Ooty or Kashmir to see the wonder that nature is. It is seen in all its splendour in every little thing around me.. the fluttering butterflies, the cuckoo singing on summer evenings, the setting sun in a shade of fiery red, the sun shining resplendently on the lustrous green fields, as its rays filter in through the tinted windows of my classroom, a lonely bus in the highway seen from my hostel window, the rainbows that stretch against the azure sky over the football ground after a brief raining spell, the smell of the moist earth freshly wet by that rain, the hazy blur that my campus becomes when it rains madly, the little lavender flowers and ochre buds in the bushes that stand on one side of the campus roads, the little flowers in a riot of colours, white, pink, shocking pink and yellow all over the campus, the rising silvery moon on wintry evenings, right over my favourite tree with dew drop like fragrant white flowers, in these does nature show her grandeur that leaves me mesmerized, speechless as it did today.. I almost feel like wordsworth as he stood admiring the London skyline at the Westminster bridge!! Ah,Life is so beautiful..

Srirangam

This is about the place I call my home town. Like about 85% of India s youth, I hail from a little town too.. a small place called srirangam, a suburb in the city of trichy….before starting off.. I wonder what it is going to be in this post that is different from all that has been written by so many people about their home towns.. should I write at all? I write this for two reasons, one- if there is anything on earth that I know best and if asked to talk about(apart from eating and myself), I can talk on and on for as long as I want to, it would be this.. second, like all other accounts on home towns there is this authentic flavor of rangam that is unique to it..something I both hate and love equally.. a place that is part of my identity.. and thus inseparable from me.. most people even if they know this place would be for the temple or probably because their grandparents or some distant relative staying here.. and tamil literature buffs would know it as the home town of the great writer sujatha… for me it’s none of these.. This is the place where I spent the first fourteen years of my life.. I still remember the day I left this place (we were actually shifting base to Chennai) in spite of knowing I would come at least four times a year as my grandparents are here.. I cried like one might have when moving to amritsar, leaving behind Lahore during partition.. Back then, this was the only place I knew and thought was the best on earth.. I loved everything about it.. friends, playing paandi(hopping), cards,the pigs and piglets bathing in the sun near the main sewers , cycling to kollidam( a distributary of kaveri) with friends on summer noons, paternal and maternal grandparents, the evening market, all the festivals, school, music classes , being asked to sing every time someone visited my house, the tall coconut trees I could see from my balcony as they swayed gently in the chill morning breeze, everything… for a long time I was convinced that there existed no better place than this and drank every word of praise as my father spoke about it. I remember the times when I tried being this obedient granddaughter of my austere weirdly orthodox grandmother, trying to show off in front of my other cousins that I had superior knowledge about rangam who visited this place only during holidays from the north talking mostly in hindi or English, who never seemed to hold it in all the awe I felt it should duly get. ( a pompous know-it-all show off yeah)
Srirangam is on an artificial island, the kaveri on one side and kollidam on the other . it has been famous for the ranganathar temple, which is one of the largest temples with the tallest gopuram(equivalent to the dome) in Asia. The sanctum sanctorum right at the center has ranganathar in anantha sayanam which means he has stretched out like one would on their bed when watching t v. It’s supposed to be really famous down south and is usually thronged by tourists and devotees (that’s what they call themselves) from all over the world (oh yeah, of late there are people coming from places like America and Europe). For me none of these mean anything. What I do love is the less known visage, something that is still pristine and untouched by the hazy blur, that is the 21 st century world outside, something that I found out much later as I commuted from here to college in the first two years of engineering and now whenever I come in holidays..the sleepy town as it wakes up to every new morning, a cool zephyr laden with the fragrance of mullai(jasmine) and pavazha malli(a kind of mogra), making the leaves of the coconuts and neem rustle and brush against my face as I amble on, in the lane immediately around the temple, parrots chirruping as the gopurams bathe in the golden glow of the setting moon, giving them a sheen mild, serene and enchanting, the jingling bells of the milk man in his cycle as women wash the front yard and make kolams..after a while as the town is up, there goes a small procession from the kaveri to the temple with two elephants with the silver kodam (pitcher) and men chanting Vedas taking the holy water for the deity..
The tamil month of margazhi is my favourite time of the year when srirangam is at its glorious best. Margazhi that coincides with phalgun, from mid December to mid January is known as the music season particularly for thiruppavai a collection of poems written in praise of Krishna by andal ( tamil version of meera), the sole female among the twelve alwars (preachers of vaishnavism). Thiruppavai echoes like the mellifluous sounds from a brook in the lonely moors in the mornings and evenings here.
I remember how as a kid I would wake up early, wrapped in scarves make colour kolams and then if possible take a quick shower and then go to the andal temple behind my house to get steaming hot pongal(khichdi) cooked in fresh ghee spiced with pepper and cumin seeds. In the evenings I would go with friends to sit and chat in the manal veli( court yard of the temple) munching roasted peanuts and cotton candies.
One evening, I decided to go on a long walk after buying vegetables in the market. Away from the colourful crowded main bazaar, at one corner of chitra veedi a bharatnatyam concert was on. The place was crowded with women clad in nine yards and men as they watched rapturously some girls dance for ‘theeradha vilayattu pillai’. I walked past my favourite house, small thatched, a patti (old woman) sitting on the pyol, the front yard decorated by a beautiful kolam and a huge tree with little white flowers hanging like dew drops, the sweet scent of which wafted through my nostrils reminding me of r.k. narayan’s books..the patti glared at a boy as he sped past in his two wheeler.. there was the jasmine entwined with the lilies in one front of one of the houses.. I gazed at the kolams which were probably made in 5-10 minutes..yet so intricate, symmetric and elaborate..it all looked like part of a perfectly painted scenery.
In the houses in this temple town there is internet and every other facility. The women gossip all day. People are extremely orthodox and conservative and look at anything other than salwar kurta or sari on a girl with a stare that can mean anything from mild amusement to ‘this is blasphemous’. Middle aged and the old starved souls seem more interested than the young men in trying to brush against women, who instead are timid and satisfied passing stupid unpleasant remarks. If a girl wears jean and has short cropped hair she is certainly of a bad sort and would show no interest in god. If someone rants off in rapid English (even if it’s a garbled version of the language) he/ she is trying to be too modern and it is simply atrocious to be seen hanging out with someone of the other gender (the word sex is tabooed). The main roads are usually crowded with tourists and impatient honking vehicles. With more of these the place is getting increasingly polluted and noisy.
But what sets it apart and makes it so beautiful is the less noticed or often unnoticed quaintness, something that gives you the feeling of having gone back in time to a period that you never knew existed. Every little town in India I feel has its unique authentic flavor, probably what Max Mueller saw when he wrote about India. It is this unscathed, pure inexplicable thing and my childhood memories that make me love it. There was a time when I had a problem identifying myself as a srirangamite. Before that, I thought this was the best place on earth. But now it’s neither!!

The magical 5 letter word

   I have always been conscious of my high levels of ego and found it very hard to control it..But occasionally I have noticed this great quality in me (oh yeah I am not modest :) ) to apologise when I feel I have to. For, an emotional person like me friends, relatives and parents matter a lot,as they give me the support without which I simply cannot be me!

So today, I felt I was acting in a petulant way, unable to pull myself together when two of my best mates got placed while I did not. There is also this friend, who has been rather good to me but has of  late acted in an irksome way. He is a little too touchy and I have been typically me, (absent minded). In the evening I met my ex- room mate and for some unfathomable reason we avoided each others eyes and walked away. I was aware that for quite some time, there had been a kind of  coldness, the reason for which I really had no idea of.. As I sat sipping my tea, I realised  I did not like it that I was not in good terms with four of my friends, especially because each of them have made my day some time or the other. So, I decided to sort it out with all of them. Thanks to technology, it makes a lot of awkward exchanges much less uncomfortable.

Believe me, saying sorry, I mean a ‘contrite apology’ is the simplest thing on earth, provided you tell your ego to f*** off for a moment. And the relief it gives you, when things are sorted out…!!

Infact, I find it okay to say sorry even if I am sure the fault is not mine. What we basically do is pamper the ego of the other person by bending a little and thus make things a little more conducive for peace talks :) . Then, by keeping our cool and discussing things out with an open mind, we can solve most of our so- called problems.

Most often, what we consider to be an issue at one instant will seem to be a ridiculous joke when seen at some other point of time.

So let us go to the gain and loss part of this. What we are not able to do is satiate our ego. It initially hurts our ego so much, to condescend and apologise to another person ( immaterial of whether the fault is ours or not..again deciding on whose fault it is, is itself contentious :) ). And anyway, what do we gain by letting our ego reign high! It only makes us more crazy, less humane. But what do we gain by apologising?? This is the best part.. the contentment we get is inexpressible. We feel so happy with ourself, especially if we have patched up .. and even if we have not, we simply like ourself for having done our best, for not having been myopic.

Today I felt, hatred, misunderstanding and dislike only negate our life. There is only more to loathe or feel bad about. But the moment we learn to be cordial, the world will seem to be a more beautiful place.. after all, we live but once, so if not for any gain, I told myself, let me just apologise to not lose!! (note: this is not an attempt to preach.. it has always worked for me so I decided to make it into a blog post:) )

an old man ponders...

Everything seemed to be at peace in that sun burnt streets of Srirangam. Somewhere, a stray dog squatted under the shade of a tree, trying to take a short nap, as an emaciated cow chewed off a piece of notice stuck on a wall. The roads were deserted except for an occasional two wheeler or a car. The majestic Raja gopuram, seemed to stand undaunted by the scorching heat, psychedelic against the azure sky. As almost all the old people of this Brahmin dominated quaint little town tried resting their aching bodies and drifting off into a siesta, at 45. Thiruvadi Street sat a short, dark nonagenarian, stoic and avid, listening to his favorite twenty year old granddaughter. What was she babbling about, he thought .The little girl, who once  went to school clutching his hand, who adamantly cried to go back home, as she hid from her teacher, behind him when he came to give her lunch, his pattu (silk), who tottered with him to the evening market, in a frock, her hair neatly plaited with a ribbon, bursting with queries and ideas about the world she was getting to know, waiting for her thatha (grandpa) to get her favorite strawberry lollypop, his dear one ,who he fed chapattis soggy in sambar, was now acquainting him with what she called “a most wondrous machine”.

She was telling him about computers and internet. The computer, she said was an electronic device that could satisfy most of the needs of the common man; with internet, one could see and chat with a person thousands of miles away, book tickets, get songs and movies, transact money…The old man looked on, unable to comprehend with this latest advancement that was a dream in his time. He asked,” so, if I  have to withdraw money from the bank how can I do it with a computer”, for which she asked, “ why would you want to withdraw” .”For buying groceries”, he said. ”That’s simple, you can just order all the groceries you need over phone and transact money online to the shop’s account”. He looked sullen. Something troubled him. All his questions got answers, but none satisfied him. If the launderer could come home to collect all the clothes to be washed, who did the washing, a machine? Then what about all the people who could have replaced it, desolate and penniless, looking for another job? And the government was talking about five year plans to alleviate poverty! What a paradox! He sighed glumly and thought of his own school days when he would walk for furlongs to his school, when food was unadulterated, when the air was clean, rains even though not perennial, satiating. Few were educated, but education was pragmatic. Individuality was praised and there was room for creativity. He then studied a science that he thought would ameliorate lives and serve mankind. But what he saw now was a suppression of the natural human instincts of spontaneity and creativity. If everything could be done by machines, then where was the scope for one to exercise the ability to think and reason that sets man apart from all other species? The technology that had evolved from science had over powered man and mechanized the world. Machines not emotions ruled man. Not being able to vent his natural instincts, man had taken up the radical path of war and weaponry. The world was torn by strife and disharmony. Men had no tolerance, for another country, another religion or another race. It was a picture of discord and pathos that flashed in his mind. A turmoil raked the frail man, as he sat blinking his cataract stricken eyes at the blur that was his granddaughter, who smiled at him, with an expression, he felt was pity. He patted her and murmured sadly, “at least I will not have to see more of this!!”

life fuzzified

                                                                                  
As a kid tottering with a bag  and a lunch box to my kindergarden, i remember being asked if  i am a good or bad girl.I was then told I am good if i finish my lunch  .Not wanting to be called bad, i would quickly gobble my lunch down.The other day, my friend asked me conversationally if she was good or bad.Queer, I thought and smiled to myself. What  exactly is 'good' and 'bad'?
    There are fundamentally two kinds of logic, that can be applied to define life, the people and happenings in it, with respect to a person-binary and fuzzy.Binary logic was proposed by one of the greatest thinkers of all times,Aristotle.It essentially is about solving a problem, by writing it as a series of simple questions which can be answered by a yes or no (logical 1 or 0) and  thus , we systematically  arrive at the solution.This is the most primitive form of logic, that has from then on been incorporated everywhere from one's personal life to technology, which is in a way all that materialistically satisfies human needs and sophisticates our lives.
   Some of the greatest advancements in engineering are all based on binary logic.Digital electronics, the foundation to all processors that make the hi- tech computers of today and control systems, an integral part of every unit in an industry, an appliance or electronic gadget (on-off controllers) are derivatives of this.
  In our life also, we like some people while we stay away from a few others.We are 'pro' or 'anti' a certain issu or cause.Even our religions preach us something along similar lines(God and satan, devas and rakshasas).But how often is it that we feel ,we definitely do not loathe a person but are not particulaly fond of either?This conception of a certain event or person as not completely positive or negative(1 or 0) is fuzzy logic.For classifying any event on the basis of a set of parameters, we rate it for each of these parameters in values ranging from 0 to 1.Today, this is one of the most sought-after areas of instrumentation, but lets look at it from a different perspective.
  The first time I consciously started thinking about this was when reading a fantasy fiction (Simoquin Prophecies, by Samit Basu).A line from the book goes this way,"There is nothing that is truly, completely evil or good".The father says this to his son( a skilled magician) who was actually in pursuit of the king of rakshas to defeat him,only to realise that, that is none other than his own father, who he had known as the great warrior his mother, crown princess of the noblest magical clan had fallen in love with in the woods.The line struck a chord with me.It made such an impact on me that i almost completely discarded binary logic from my life.
  The people i thought were vile i realised, were not'bad' after all.It was just that our outlook of life was not the same.They were not after all devoid of human company;likewise, the ones i am fond of need not be loved by all others, be it my favourite actor, literary work or  song.
Why, the ploy of the devas to distract sage Vishwamithra by sending  the apsara Menaka, to prevent him from proclaiming his status as Brahmarishi(the king of rishis and thus a king) can also be subjected to contention on moral grounds.While I might despise a terrorist and see him as  an embodiment of evil thoughts, hell bent on  disrupting a peaceful, harmonious society, there are still staunch supporters of him and his ideals
  While this logic does not really help me to obviate the world of such vicissitudes, at a personal level it  helps me stay aloof from a considerable amount of perturbance, angst and confusion.I now see the world with a fuzzy eye and no longer find black and white, but instead innumerable shades of gray, and believe me, it really helps.

SUMMER 2008:)

It really is crazy that i am updating my blog after a span of over two months...i have umpteen number of reasons for not having updated it,(this i need to give to my dear cousin in particular..for he has been badgering me for over a month now for having a blog just for namesake:)) but every single reason is as unconvincing as the other.Anyway,here is my second entry,and i shall dedicate it to my dear cousin KANNA:) who introduced me to this whole world of blogging:).

My end sem hols had jus started and if not all elated,atleast i was happy that a whole month lay ahead of me and i knew it was going to be exciting and a joie de vivre experience- the special trip that had been planned(at the cost of missing a certificate course..i thought i would slog later...)...

It was planned that I would spend a week in Mumbai,where i would see my mama ,mami,cousins,periappa,periamma..and every other relative of mine who is there and needless to say,savour the vada pavs thats a speciality of that place 

And then i was to spend a whole fortnight in korba..which is in the midst of the thorny deciduous forests and rocky hills in interior chattiSgarh...how I love that place!..all one can see there is power plants and power plants and ......more power plants!!!!(Chattisgarh is supposed to be the state that produces maximum power in our country..its self sufficent and also supports neighbouring states like Orrisa and Madhya Pradesh)...I longed to go to that little wild town..stay with my dear mama..spend long endless days watching tv,surf the net,read novels from mamis great book collection ,give tuitions rarely:) to the kids that come to my mama's place,go for long walks on the winding solitary lanes,discus every possible thing on earth with mama ,and of course pamper my taste buds with the the lip smacking road side aaloo tikkis,pani puris and pav bhaji....(my mama always takes me to this special thela...over a smelly naali (sewer)..and the guy there makes the best pav bhaji in the whole town..the bhaji is made right in front of us..putting in all the chopped vegetables,adding water,mashing it..adding spices,garam masla...and again stirring it..to make the most delicious bhaji that will literally melt in your mouth)..

And after a fortnight there it was decided that i would spend the last week of my holidays in Kolkata...now wat do I say about this city..when i went there for the first time during my 9th std annual hols..i hated the place..it seemed to be smelling of fish...the roads were nasty...so densely populated...the kali mandir maintained so badly....but then i slowly ,unconsciously,fell for the place..i thought i could see behind the veil of dirt,crowd and poverty, a vibrant city,rich in culture,art and tradition in spite of the cosmopolitan culture...i felt in no other Indian city, has our rich culture and the modern lifestyle blended better.one can find any tunic- a cotton salwar or a banares brocade,a nightie or a pepe t -shirt,kurtis or dupattas,anything an Indian woman has ever worn... jewellery,leather bags,shoes,accessories,from jhumkas to rings to hangings made of clay...if there is anyplace on earth where one can get everything that has ever been made by men to pretttify a woman,a place that really celebrates womankind, then that certainly has got to be Kolkata.

And so,I dreamt of a long lazy week,relishing my solitude(as my father leaves early to work and returns late ),experimenting with dishes,spending hours together reading newspapers,listening to radio amore on the World space network,.leaning against the grill in the balcony,watching the vehicles go by...heavenly!..i thought...

But well,things never happen the expected way in life...:) and that is how everything went diametrically opposite... I was rudely dragged back to reality,when I unexpectedly fell ill.I had a mild fever when I left Trichy,and by the time I reached Mumbai, after two tiring days of train travel,I had lost my appetite and in the next two days it was confirmed that i had jaundice..i barely spent a day in my mama's place for my cousin's poonal(sacred thread wearing ceremony)..and the same week i returned to trichy..along with my poor mother who was equally upset and worried sick about my health.Then started the gloomy,hellish period of three weeks..as i rested at home,following a strict,zero fat diet,getting calls all through the day from my father,relatives and friends....my holiday plans were shattered..and it all had happened so fast!!

Anyway,coll has now begun,and i have bid good bye to hepatosplenomegaly..my end semester holidays never went the way i wanted them to go,but on a positive note they weren't really bad either..if i had fallen ill sometime during the academic course..it would have cost me a lot more..mumbai,kolkata and korba are still out there,waiting for me and i shall probably make it to these places during my next holidays..i dunno if i would ever have thought so much about these three places if i had been there..eventhough i missed out a lot..it wasn't totally without its share of advantages..:) being at home,getting pampered,not even doing so much as dusting my bookshelf..

Summer 2008 gave me a glimpse of it all..excitement,boredom,thrill,desire,monotony,contentment,depression ,hopelessness,anger and all that is part of life!