Wanderer

Sisters and their wives...

2010-12-22T17:15:00.000+05:30

My sister is a strange creature. She alternates between calling me "tublet" and pulling my cheeks to actually getting pissy when I can't spend enough time with her. (The latter I don't quite blame her for since it has been a while). She gets highly buzzed on a single sip of coffee while I invariably end up snoozing after a nice, tall, steaming cup of my Mom's filter nectar. She giggles when she uses what she calls "big" words like 'nuanced' and then goes on to critique the cut, colour and fabric of a particularly nice jacket I want to acquire in terms that even the most hardened fashion critic would be hard pressed to follow. She drives like a seasoned F1 driver when drunk and manages to keep falling off stairs when sober. Once she pulled me down with her on of these sober sojourns up her stairs and we both ended up in a tumbled heap on the floor below laughing our collective behinds off at her mom's amusedly shocked expression. She and my mother talk about my sex life when my mom doesn't even ask ME about it (imagine that!) and she has a decidedly uncanny knack of knowing when the men in my life are utter idiots. She also has the ability to make me lose all sense of perspective which has resulted in life changing experiences such as contemplating strawberry tart and upending a half bottle of a really beautiful full bodied Chianti into pasta sauce. (The recipe said one or two tablespoons, I said, "what the hell...")

She has a wife, who calls her Wifelet.. (now I know where she gets the tublet idea from!!!) who is as different from her as she can be. My sisters wife (also my best friend by the way) doesn't wear any other colour other than indigo, shades of black, duller shades of brown and white and carries around a gorgeous deep purple hued leather bag that her wife gifted her. She survives on tea and her 2 kg (brand new!!) weights and an everpresent book ( a trait I share with her). She also has the most beautiful sense of aesthetics when it comes to poetry and a most acerbic tongue which completely disappears when she's with us, and makes quite a seminal appearance in public interaction. She and I discuss Lacan and his definitely misplaced sense of jouissance while my sister bops to Susheela Raman while cutting my hair. (My sister has a great affinity for cutting people's hair.. She's quite good at it too.. Look at me:))

Together they are the most dissonantly perfect people I have ever met, together or separately. And they make life worth living. I love them dearly even when they threaten to dump their children on me so that I can raise them with some 'discipline' *Muttersgrumblessnarls: "Discipline my ass!!muttermuttermutter* To my sister and her wife... what strange beautiful people.

Love

2010-12-06T20:02:00.000+05:30

life
go cage others
do not bother me

death
i’ll follow you
till eternity

An old man
at gloaming
face turned towards
the dimming sun

unabashedly weeps
-pain twisted wrinkles
play hide and seek
in rayed shadows-

speaking of love,
loss
death.

Dangling conversations...

2010-11-27T22:28:00.000+05:30

I haven't written a prose piece in a very long time. It seems strange to be writing in full sentences instead of the truncated verse line that I prefer. But there's a completeness to the form that poetry cannot have. To live and breathe and be re-born again, poetry must be open, flowing like the desert winds that unexpectedly bring the ocean to your lips. A touch of salt moisture and its gone- dust in your eyes and flies in your mouth. Prose is simple, straight. Some would say blunt but I'm not quite sure.

For the past month I have been working with poetry in endless iterations.First it was incomprehensible Sindhi, then slightly (a word or two) more comprehensible, intelligible Hindi, followed by (to me) completely unintelligible English and it just goes on. I thought the English would be easy. Its the language I think,write and speak in. Hell i even dream in it. But that turned out to be the most difficult language of all. The translations were messy, incomplete, lacking any semblance of rhythm and read like a 2 year old putting together a sentence for the first time.

I was appalled. I thought I had completely lost touch with my writing but then I discovered something fascinating.I discovered that, I was thinking and writing far more comfortably in Hindi than in English. Which is nothing short of a miracle considering the fact that my grammar was equivalent to a firang's interpretation of Hindi all through school to 2 years of Hindi during my BA, and that all I was taught during said 2 years was how to write "tippaniyan" or notes. Not just any notes mind you, but notes in strict adherence to governmental standards of Hindi note making. I have nightmares still about that book and those lists of Hindi words for banking terms, aforementioned, above, aforesaid and nautical terms. (Nautical terms!!! Why on earth... ?) That aside, it got me thinking as to how much we take our language skills for granted. Leaving them rusting in some forgotten doorways of our mind, not even bothering to check for rats, mice and other sundry forms of life that tend to chew great big holes in our memories. And I also realised that if not for this particular assignment, I would never have bothered to check these alleyways out and never to discover how much one had actually learnt all those seemingly futile lessons ago.

That being said, the conversation with Bhitai is still happening. It doesn't seem like it's going to end anytime soon.. So thanks Latif for our very own dangling conversation...

Reminders

2010-11-22T23:40:00.000+05:30

He wasn't you.

No.
Definitely not.

Flashes though,
a turn of phrase,
an expression,
that half admiring half quizzical
not quite sure glance.

He wasn't you.

No. Absolutely not.

Burn

2010-10-17T21:40:00.000+05:30

Watch the fire
burn through the rain
turn to smoke
concentrate
pool and dip
cover my ankles
swathe me in wool
Block the flames
I burn.

Leave Taking

2010-07-26T16:24:00.002+05:30

There is
Nothing left to say
Do, die for.

Tears have been
Shed, dried, and stored
For future use.

The commiseration,
Smiles not quite sure
Of where they belong
Hanging fire, and then some.

Its all done.
Over with

Whats left is
Curiously inconspicuously
Lurking
Alleycat that doesn’t yet
Want to come and play
Catch.

Homecoming

2010-07-13T23:30:00.002+05:30

Home
I am home again,
Rainwashed, purpled
Strung jewelled squirts
Whitepinkfuschiaorangerustturmeric
And green- the emerald vividness of
Bevelled facets, the moss of velvet teasingly spread
Spikes and fronds and umbrellas and curtains
Pot paths disappearing into pools of cloudsky
And thousand hands, tugging me in
Home.

Jogi

2010-06-23T17:12:00.000+05:30

There's something in his eyes,
A wandering, a path not taken
Looked upon, pondered.

The moment is now.
Will he?

There's a waiting on his lips,
"Piya..."

I strain to hear the faint...

Wind whispers
tanpura whirls away.
Desert settle
The little sandwhirl

Never had a chance.

Poetry

2009-10-15T17:57:00.000+05:30

Its been waiting
shadow puppet strings,
its been waiting a long time
Eon flexing space,
gathering stardust
Oldest to young,

till space is no more a time,
no more a past,

only perfective..

written.

2008-08-20T21:54:00.000+05:30

Tell me something my love,
Did you see the dew today?

lasted all morning in the leaves
of the bottle brush,

Nah, thought you wouldn't have.
You don't look
at all.

Did you see me smile at the dog,
the one outside your window,
white with splotched eyes
rabid, diseased?

no you wouldn't have.
You don't seem mad.
not one bit.

Today

2008-08-20T21:48:00.000+05:30

The sun rose today,
and it set.

The wind whispered today
of rain and warmth, your warmth
and it died on me.

The sand shifted today,
slip tide rise of sorrow
and it sucked the world in.

Courage came calling
succour saviour sleep time muse,

It hasn't left
yet.

Breaking

2008-03-27T20:13:00.000+05:30

The darkness creeps in
mist-silent, light-sharp.

Doors groan under its
unrelenting weight
bar bent iron
drumming slow tattoos of sorrow.

The jungle rushes in
Crushed velvet swathes
glinting in the black-bluing heaviness
Silent tide
rip
tide

over.

Dawn

2008-02-29T20:16:00.000+05:30

It stops suddenly. All around you activity ceases. No sound of breathing, no whirr of some neighbour's creaky table fan. No recalcitrant child throwing tantrums outside your window. Even the computer has decided to show mercy on you and not gasp and moan as it prints out your documents for tomorrow's assignment.

The music swells slowly, sweetly. In your head at first, then gathering courage and painting sun patterns on the wall. Poorvikalyani soaring out to greet the dawn, shaking the sun out of its slumber. Stopping my heart with its haunting memories.

In gold and crimson tones the sun strides into my room and stops for those infinite minutes to listen. Just..listen.

The notes fade out as the raaagam decides to move on to someone else. Leaving me alone in a vacuum. Filled suddenly by the resumption of the whirr of the cranky fan, the screams of a colicky child and a groaning world embarking on an another day-chivvying me along.

Rain in a desert

2008-02-27T23:41:00.000+05:30

I talked to him today. A random call; out of the blue. Very unexpected like a shower in the middle of the desert. Refreshing too, to be honest with someone. Is it easier being honest with someone you don't know all that well? I think I know him a bit better now. He's fascinating, strong, and reserved.

He keeps a lot bottled up. That is not a good thing. It can't be for someone who is so passionate about his life. Or maybe i'm just being presumptuous. I hope not. It's not nice to be presumptuous. It means one is impinging on someone else's integrity. THAT is not a nice thing to do.

I think integrity means a lot to him. It structures his life. I am not so sure about that myself. Yes I have to be true to who I am and what I do, but who am I and what am I supposed to do? if those questions remain fundamentally unanswerable where does integrity step in? Strange logic if I may say so myself.

He needs to be held. Close and compassionately. He feels compassion is a sign of weakness. I cannot think so. It means being vulnerable yes, but, it also means a certain strength of mind and heart that allow one to give unconditionally. Don't fight it when someone gives you the space in which to break down and cry. It gives you strength.

Don't fight the sharing someone offers you. It clears your mind, takes the weight off your chest. Don't be afraid to feel. It IS hard but it's worth it in the end. You atually see the world in technicolour..I can vouch for that. And to behold colour in this world is marvellous, a gift. Don't deny that gift. It comes with love.

Loving is not easy for you and me. It takes courage and the humility to take great pain and grief. But it's a kaleidoscope for us when we love and THAT makes all the difference in the world. No I will not be a single parent because of you. Because I have seen others like you, and I will not allow my children to suffer. Because I want to reach out and heal you.

Wounded man, at a cross road in life. Succour awaits.

The "Knot"ty Question of Marriage.

2007-10-20T19:55:00.000+05:30

My mother was here, talking about marriage. For the first time in a long time, she seemed very insistent that I really think about marriage and getting married. It started me thinking( not something I have done for a long long time.)

What does it mean to get married? In a world of feviquik solutions, where divorce and estrangement are pretty much the norm, what has marriage come to mean? Who will I choose to spend the rest of my life with? and...why would I want to do something like that?

Is it to have children? To experience motherhood in all its glory and its frustrations? Is it to share a life with some one you trust? Is it because one is afraid of growing old alone, or growing apart from your partner? Is it because one wants a lifetime supply of free sex(no guarantee it's going to be good anyway)?

I can have children without getting married? Adopting a child is not such an issue anymore. Plus I don't think I would mind being a single mother! harrying yes, but still...I trust my parents and I have a lot of good friends who understand me and love me for who I am. Why then do I need to get married? I will not grow old alone because I know for a fact ( given the examples of my predecessors) that I will never lack for companionship. I like people too much. In anycase it is far more agreeable to me to have lots of people in my life rather than having to centre it around just one person.
Free sex? Yup can do. Not a problem.

Then why marriage? I have never been one to follow social convention blindly and I will not do so only to create havoc in my life.

I suppose I have too many expectations.

I can live with that.

Star

2007-06-28T22:05:00.000+05:30

To touch a falling star, shrieking havoc
As it plunges through a fragile atmosphere
-keening, blazing, incandescently running amok,
Until, rending protesting oxygen, it falls clear-
Is suicide. Madness! Creates one helluva shock
It screams up your arm, your brain, fear
Fully yelling,"Duck you idiot! Duck!"

You dont, of course. It would be sheer
Stupidity on my part to think of you as wise
Woman you never care to look out
for yourself. It's become a game
Charades. Russian roulette cannot exercise
As much attraction as this, there's no doubt.
It's become your one way ticket to fame.

Blank

2007-04-17T21:35:00.000+05:30

Where does it all end? The pain, the sorrow, the bleak notion of tomorrow...where does it all end?

What causes it all to explode finally, in a rainbow of flesh and gristle, raining down on blind men who can only smell the fear but not see it reflected in those blank eyes? What gives this rabid fear birth in an expulsion of life-breath? What causes it all?

Where does it gain momentum? In the heart, in the scurrying mind or in the jumpy nerve endings behind the knees and eyes that cause the body to spin and fall in nervous anxiety?
Where does it come alive?

Mnemosyne

2007-02-19T22:00:00.000+05:30

"Aasai mugham maranda poche idhai
Yaaridam sholvenadi thozhi"

I cannot remember your face. I cannot remember your face! It's...lost, blurred, undefined now.After all these years of carrying you with me-my very own taveez-you've relinquished your hold on me. Your death grip has loosened and I can breathe again.

But I cannot remember your face anymore. Your laughter haunts my ears, resounding waves in a conch, the soft sussurations of foam on the sand, but your face eludes me. Your silences are a part of my breath, structuring its beat, controlling my life but your face...is gone.

Your touch remains embossed on my skin, against my shoulder, a finger caressed in passing; that fire has not died down yet. Your face, though, is now submerged under a tide of forgetfulness, sweeping shores clean of broken shells luminescent in the dawn light-heartlight.

Love's driftwood, becomes stone in the end.

Arc Lights

2007-02-05T19:37:00.000+05:30

The lights came on, washing the wooden stage in a shimmer of violet and indigo, lighting up the spires of the cathedral-making them glow. All of a sudden, the stage turns to stone and the lights stab out into the darkness-searchlights, strong, unwavering, waiting for its next victim.

A girl all in black, steps out from the arch and stands there, right in the middle of those twin beams. A half murmur, half gasp runs through a rustling hall. Her face is hidden by the shadow of a man.Abruptly all murmurs cease, switched off by the simple motion of her now uplifted face. Pale, pure and proud she stands, unafraid and unmoved. Only she knows of the telltale beads of salt dotting her knees and back, pulsing with the restrained thunder of her racing heart.

There were no microphones, that first time. Just her voice.Ringing out true and clear amidst the misty shadows that wreathed eager faces in white scarves of fog. Her voice, rising and falling with cadences as old as stories. It talked to them about pain, grief and despair-the eternal human condition- and they could not help but be caught up in the retelling of their sorrow.

They watched her hands weave another world for them, where the mountains rose so high they shut the sun out from her world. They watched her eyes weary of dreams being trampled under the dusty boots of travellers to her inn. They saw her body crumple under the weight of her thwarted ambitions and then...the lights went out.

But she stood there, glowing now under the light of the applause shimmering over her, radiant face in its hues of ivory, now pink, now smoky gray .....now iridescent purple and blue, absorbing and reflecting the shadows of the audience intensity.

For her, the arclights don't ever fade out.

Meeting

2006-12-03T10:46:00.000+05:30

Shuttered light spills gold
Banked-afterglow spins web-light
Lovers greet the night.

2006-08-24T14:58:00.000+05:30

Still pools of memory
reflect
gray visions-
death, defiance
silence.
Burst out-black
explosion mute-
engulf, gulp down
Peppercorns burn
in my veins.

Reflections

2006-08-24T14:41:00.000+05:30

Still pools of memory
reflect
gray visions-
death, defiance
silence.
Burst out-black
explosion mute-
engulf, gulp down
Peppercorns burn
in my veins.

The Bear

2006-08-17T17:33:00.000+05:30

I was waltzing down my street, oblivious to the curtains of rain that were seemingly intent on wreaking havoc on my shirt and my fav pair of loafers. Just for the record, I hate loafers. I loathe loafers.hey! The alliteration worked.
Anyway, as I was jauntily strolling down certain half deserted streets, of 'insidious intent' a sudden cascade of water descended with all the force of a sudden torrent released by the opening of a gate and struck me square in the face.
Left gasping like a landed fish, I couldn't help but stare at the beast that emerged briefly from the shadows cast by the flickering light of the sodium lamp, gently creaking in the wind.It didn't help that my eyes were watering so I valiantly tried to wipe the water from my face. That didn't help either because the wind picked that moment to veer in my direction and pound my face with stinging pellets of crystal.
I choked as a rather large hairy appendage detached itself from the gloom and wrapped itself firmly about my waist, picked me up and swung me out of the path of an oncoming spray of murderous brown sludge thrown up by a malevolent specimen of a maruti 800. I was too bothered to scream or even shriek out my gratitude like I usually do. So I had to content myself with trying to determine what manner of creature lay under the layers of hair cascading around its face and neck.
It looked very much like a bear albeit one with a rather adorable pair of spectacles molded to its shaggy head.
Ok he wasn't a bear. Pity. I would have enjoyed my first encounter with an animal.Never met one before in the flesh so to speak you see.
He looked at me and rumbled in a pleasant sort of baritone. I couldn't hear. Too used to my own ultrasonic frequencies I presume. I asked him to repeat himself.
I think he looked rather put out at my lack of comprehension, being a friendly sort of bearish man he patiently rumbled again. I gathered he was asking if I needed a lift. I could only nod, being fascinated by the way his beard seemed to waggle when he spoke. No, not waggled but rather coiled and roiled around some fascinating muscles in his jaw. I wanted to reach out and explore them but instinct warned me he would bite and not gently either. I decided to be prudent and keep my distance. Hopped onto his bike. A nice bike, not overtly male but gleaming with a shine that bespoke of many hours of loving attention from a pair of big, gentle hands. It leaped to life with an oddly satisfying growl that reminded me of my bear man's rumble. Subdued and very sexy.
It moved..smooth and sleek. Predatory almost.
Dammit. I don't even know his name.

Free Fall

2006-07-15T20:07:00.000+05:30

Swoop, feather down-float
whisk, twirl
pirouette in
light cream puff swirls

Stop.
weighty, wait.
Feel resistance
tear...
tearing
then plummet

Thump.

Attraction

2006-05-22T22:08:00.000+05:30

"Sparks fly, Instant chemistry"
Cliches all
Something happens,
violently sweet, brief,
An eruption of confusion
longing, craving
-fades into a glow
embers stoked to last
a little longer,
warm, content.

Plea

2006-05-02T21:10:00.000+05:30

Solitude. It’s a highly underrated feeling these days. There seems to be no space to take time off and listen to the sound of the rain falling in my backyard, on my roof, on my skin. No time to stop and feel the wind rushing through my hair, winnowing it and setting it free. I seem to have no time to stand on the road and watch the traffic whiz past, off to unknown and often disinterested destinations. No time and no space to watch people walk by and wonder where they are all running off to.
No space to stretch out my arms and embrace the stars wheeling overhead in patterns as old as time.
I stopped one day. Just stopped and refused to go any further. They wondered what I was doing. They even stopped and stared but no one had the time or space to ask “why”. The question was unimportant to them. It held no value for them and had no meaning. “What” and “how” were still possibilities but ‘why’ seemed non-existent
He was one of them too. He stopped and stared like everyone else.
They moved on but he remained…looking, watching, assessing.
His eyes were all I noticed-dark brown, deep down shot with golden lights that whirled around and asked me “why”.
A curious smile tilted his lips forward and made him ask “why”.
This is my answer to him.
‘ I stopped because if I hadn’t I would have disappeared and become Everyman. I would have been a motley addition to the rest of the crowd and would have walked into the same rut as everybody else. Another lost soul in the same damn fishbowl as everyone else. If I hadn’t stopped I would have lost my soul and not noticed it was gone… the emptiness would have swallowed me.
If I hadn’t stopped I would have died one kind of death. I would have been dead to the trees, to the wind, to laughter, to your smile. I would have died without tasting intelligence, without tasting love, without feeling your touch on my lips. It would have meant the death of feeling in me.
I cannot go on living without feeling. I cannot go on living and partly living. If I don’t stop the holes will be to deep to be mend again. I need the silence to scar in peace. I need the halt to make sense again. I cannot continue without thinking. I have recognized the fact that my integrity has nothing to do with morals and everything to do with the truth. I need to find that truth again-the truth I see in your eyes, in the way you smile…innocent.
I need to reclaim my innocence. I need you-more than life, more than death, more than pain or joy-only you, your love.’

Musings On Eliot

2006-04-13T17:44:00.000+05:30

It has been a really long time since I posted on my blog.I realised that I had no inclination to write something and put it up.I think it is because of general Exam sloth that seems to take over every time I hear the word'exam'.
I woke up in the morning and the first thing I did was to pull out my poetry file and what do I see?
Eliot's "The Wasteland". I have to confess that Eliot is one of my favourite poets.He wasn't just a poet though.A critic, philosopher and dramatist par excellence,his writing appeals to me not only at an intellectual level but also a deeper, atavistic level.So I decided to put down some of my favourite from a selection of his writing and try and see why these lines appeal to me.
The first piece of writing I ever read by Eliot was "Macavity"It made me laugh like nothing else had ever done before.The line that captured my imagination was "His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare".I guess it was because of the Indian connection that I really liked the line. I went back to it many years later and was struck anew by the ease with the which the lines meshed together and the very subtle wit that laced the poem.I had to read the rest in the collection too but no poem in Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats ever came close to the magis that Macavity created for me.I might mention that this poem is where I first came across the word suavity and since then have grown to love the way it seems to slide of your tongue.It is so smooth.
What captivated me next was his verse drama "Murder in the Cathedral".Based on the murder of Thomas Becket, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the play explores what martyrdom means and what place religion holds in the context of this day and age.A verse drama, Eliot captures the dark and terrifying sentiments of a man who knows he will soon be killed on the orders of his sovereign and one time friend.
There are two aspects of this play that stand out. One is his revival of the tradition of the Chorus and the use of the four Knights as the four Tempters.
The Chorus was an integral part of the Greek dramatic traditon and eliot revives this tradition in this play.Where his chorus differs from the traditional chorus is that they are a character in themselves and are comprised of the women of the town of Canterbury.They mark the passage of time, set the mood and tone of each scene and closely mirror the spiritual evolution of the Archbishop.The play opens with the chorus asking what presentiment of doom has bought them to the steps of the cathedral. They say,"We are forced to bear witness...For us, the poor,there is no action/But only to wait and witness."
the Choric lines in this play are some of the most powerful lines I have ever read.
A sampling:"You come with applause,you come with rejoicing,but you come bringing death into Canterbury
A doom on the house,a doom on yourself,a doom on the world...
But now a great fear is upon us...A fear like birth and death,when we see birth and death alone
In a void apart."

"God is leaving us, God is leaving us, more pang, more pain than birth or death.
Sweet and cloying through the dark air
falls the stifling scent of despair;"

I have smelt them, the death bringers; now it is too late
For action,too soon for contrition.
Nothing is possible but the shaned swoon
Of those consenting to the last humiliation.
...Am torn away, subdued, violated,
United to the spiritual flesh of nature,
Mastered by the animal powers of spirit,
Dominated by the lust of self-demolition,
By the final uttermost death of spirit,
By the final ecstasy of waste and shame."

"Every horror had its definition,
Every sorrow had a kind of end:
In life there is not time to grieve long.
But this,this is out of life, this is out of time.
An instant eternity of evil and wrong."

You can sense the rising hysteria of the Chorus and the lines come at you with a hammer punch.The sense of despair and misery keep building up until the murder is finally committed.After that it is like the lancing of a boil from which all the fear and frustration is released and with this release comes a sense of acceptance of their fate and a certain rejuvenation of the spirit. One can go on and on about this play as it has so much to offer both in terms of intellectual appreciation of technique andsheer mastery of form and in terms of sheer enjoyment and empathy.
Any appreciation of Eliot is incomplete without a reference to his Preludes, The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock and The Wasteland.All these poems have certain themes of threads that link them. Preludes is a collage of images that depict the monotony and the humdrum quality of modern life.More than anthing, there is a quality of rooltlessness, a feeling that there is no centre in the world or in the lives we lead.
"The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o' clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days."
There is an immediate sense of dreariness and lethargy inherent in this line.There is also a sense of griminess, as if something like soot was stuck to your hand and you can't get rid of it.
This feeling is heightened by some other lines from this poem,
"The morning comes to consciousness
of faint stale smells of beer
...One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms."
The best lines come at the end of the poem where the poet declares
" I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling
The notion of some infinitely gentle,
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hands across your mouth and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant parking lots."
These lines send shivers down my spine every time I read them. The cynicism and the weariness that comes through makes me wonder everytime if this what my life has been reduced to.
Prufrock and The Wasteland echo these sentiments only to differing degrees.
My favourite lines from Prufrock would have to be
"Let us go then, You and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky,
Like a patient etherised upon a table."

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."(How can a man have such genius to be able to compress the sense of the frivolity and inanity of life and social mores in one single image?)
"I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."

"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me."( this is the line that makes me cry.The lonliness and despair leap and grab me by the throat)
I will not dare speak of The Wasteland as I feel I will do it injustice by not giving it enough space.
But there is one poem I must mention as a personal favourite and that is Marina. Written as part of the Ariel Poems, it is based on the story of Pericles and his search for his daughter Marina.
The poem is related from the perspective of Pericles himself and opens with the epigram,
"Quis hic locus, quae
regio, quae mundi plaga?" which loosely translated from the Latin goes something like this
"What palce is this, what region,what quarter ofthe world?"
The opening lines of the poem echo this statement.
The best lines according to me are,
"What is this face, less clear and clearer
The pulse in the arm, less strong and stronger-
Given or lent? more distant than stars and nearer than the eye

Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying
feet
Under sleep, where all the waters meet."
This is the place where he sights his daughter after a long and arduous voyage and in her rcognises a symbol of hope and rejuvenation of the spirit.Marina and the voyage then become symbols of a journey from despair and loss of hope to an acceptance of the situation, a rekindling of innocence and an affirmation of hope and faith.

I do not possess the credentials to even attempt an appreciation or criticism of Eliot.Forgive me if this piece sounds pretentious.It is meant to be an attempt at explaining the fascination Eliot holds for me and has always held for me.

The Rat Story

2006-03-27T16:16:00.000+05:30

I am Tar 239to the power of 298. Well maybe not all that much but then I have lost count. I am not a young one anymore am I now?? Many seconds have passed since I was considered a prime specimen (not by my own kind of course.) according to our laws I will an elder only next mensem (there I go again talking in that other tongue). Sometimes I wonder whether my being the chosen one was a blessing or a curse. Too many things have happened to let me live my last days in peace here in Egabrag. It amuses me and frightens me too that I am held in such reverence and esteem by the young ones here. It’s their tails that give them away. You see they begin to whip very slowly, not back and forth, but up and down in a sort of swishwa. There, Athram is telling me to explain that word because it is too archaic. Archaic! Humph, I suppose she could consider me archaic then. What swishwa means is a kind of undulating; I think the word is, movement. That means they are excited and don’t want to or are not supposed to show it.

There she goes again, shriller than a whole mob of tars out to get fresh, mouldy, saccharine saturated, caffeinated doughnuts, and that is saying something. What is she saying now? I’ll tell you what you can listen to her yourself and then tell me what you think she is shrieking there.

“You’rewanderingagainIcanhearthewayyourtailthinkswhenyouarewanderingIamsuretheydon’twanttoknowallabouttheyoungonesTheyhavecomeallthewayforyouandgivethemsomeproperandthewaythingsactuallywentwhenyouwereupthere…”

Can’t make sense of it can you? I thought not. Anyway for once I will listen to her and tell you everything. All the way from the start.

I was born here, as anyone and everyone in the street will tell you. Seems to me that they know my story better than I do. So if you want a, what do the others call it, a. …biography, that is the word, go to any young one and it will tell you. In a terrifying monotone that reminds me of the hum of those machines (funny how words come back to you when you most need them and least expect them) that the others had in these huge white spaces that seemed to have no end. I will start from the very beginning.

It all began on the day my progenitor approached me on the can only at that time I had no idea he was my progenitor. He (or she) said, “ you are to come to the Supreme Commandura right now” in a terrifying monotone. He (or she) caught me by the point of my tail, which is what any one of us would do if we wanted the other person to come along without any delay (which is always possible in this beautiful city of ours. So much window and street shopping to do here. The lemon rind for the staircase and the yellow mould will go so well together). So I was forcibly marched all way up to the Dil*, which is our centre of power. I was ushered in to a large and well-lit eloh. There I was told by a squeaky voice with no visible source, “youareherebycommandedtowithdrawtothecommunityofotherswhoserveintheholysanctumcalledrowantechniologiesandwillhavetoreportbacktothesupremecommandurainsixmonthstimean…” To cut a long and squeaky story short I was to be sent as a (shudder to name it even now) lab rat to a place called Rowan Technologies as part of an ancient spy system that allowed us to keep tabs on the others.

I was of course thrilled, as I had no idea what I was to encounter there. I won’t deny it was fun but then it had its moments too. Some were quite bad. In fact most were downright horrible and I lost count of the number of time I came close to ascending to the paradise I was told awaited me if I was ever privileged enough to die in the line of duty. That most did apparently ascend to this most marvellous of places did not bother me much then. I in my youthful zest for life love and food, not necessarily in that order mind you, I considered myself a non-believer. I am of course a convert to our credo, which is “ whatever might happen to the rest of you guard your tail with absolute faith for it is the source of all life and all sadness.” Not that I know what it means even today but one thing I do know for certain I will never ever let my tail be insulted in the manner in which it was in the world of the others.

I know I am jumping again but then what is the point of my telling you anything if you want it all your own way.

I thought that would shut you up. Now stay quite till I finish the tale. Hehe pun intended.

The Beginning

My first encounter with the others was memorable to say the least. I had to let myself be captured by them in an elaborate chase that spanned more than half a day across the considerable floor space of the local shopping mall.

They absolutely refused to give up and in the end I had to let myself graciously surrender as per orders from the Commandura. I have to admit they were quite good though there were others in later years that would exhibit greater skill and fortitude (not to mention craftiness) than these ones. I was then transported in what was called a cage I think. You must have seen pictures of it in your textbooks. Obsolete now, what a pity. I almost miss the wires and the small squares that limit your view to one perspective rather like your TV’s.

So where was I? Right. I was taken to this laboratory. Amazing how much of there equipment was redundant and useless. They were and still are amazingly backward. They used generators to power their machines. Generators generate electricity dunderhead. Don’t you learn anything in that pathetic excuse for a school they have here. This is what comes of adopting the other education system.* Useless, absolutely useless.

Alright, alright I’m getting on with it. Women! Nag, nag, nag that is all they ever do. Especially this one.

I fascinated them. Called me a fine specimen. Specimen humph! I’ll show them specimen.

So I was put in a “controlled environment”. Just a fancy way of not calling a cage a cage. They had a wheel in it for god’s sake. I was supposed to run around on it like some kind of moron. Unfortunately I was under strict orders to give them full satisfaction and cooperate with them. That, young ones, is bureaucratese for “don’t screw up or we’ll have to dump you permanently”.

Anyway we had been studying them for quite sometime and the local skrinsh had told me all about programmed responses and behavioural patterns. I followed their instructions to the ‘m’ and of course gathered all the data I could on their responses.

The most common one seemed to come from the female of their species who had a particularly disgusting habit of bending down and shrieking (into my ear no less) “ Oh! How adorable. Isn’t he just the cutest mousie wousie you ever saw?” To add insult to injury they would the brush those two appendages that are always flapping open at the slightest notice over my (shudder) head. I would have red streaks or pink on my head for days after. Disgusting!

The first of the experiments was simple-devastatingly so. I was trained to salivate at the sound of a whistle. They made sure that every time I saw food a whistle was blown. I was supposed to salivate every time I saw the food and hence they assumed I would automatically do so every time the whistle was blown. Well that truth of the matter is that-I did. God! They dangled strips of mouldy doughnuts in front of me. What was I supposed to do about it?

Then I decided to have some fun with them. I never could resist messing around with their carefully laid plans. More than that it was an excellent chance to lead the higher ups on a wild goose chase.

The next time they blew that whistle I salivated so much my cage was half full of goo. I regurgitated the previous days dinner, lunch and a few unmentionables. (I never knew how good deodorant tasted until I was introduced to Revlon.)

Well I pretended I had drowned in my own spit. You should have seen the uproar it caused there. Hoo boy! It makes me feel twenty moons younger to think of that. They pulled me out and one nut even tried CPR-from human to rat. One of his colleagues wondered whether I would survive the onslaught of his co-worker’s halitosis. What they didn’t know and still don’t know is that we tars survive on halitosis.* I was naturally “revived” to the fullest by the smell and in order to investigate where that delicious olfactory sensation was being produced I decided to track down the source. Of course that meant having to wiggle into the other’s cavernous mouth. The fathead actually went into convulsions and in the end his overburdened heart went in to hyper drive and he.. Well he warped out straight into the next dimension. Personally, I think it was because of all those chocolates he used to stuff himself with and not the sight of himself with a pink tail hanging out of his mouth and a furry sensation inside it. It still is a lovely tale-I mean tail.

That wasn’t quite the end of it. I was (as usual) told in the strictest possible terms that if I did not behave myself my supply of fresh, mouldy, saccharine saturated, caffeinated doughnuts would stop. Now that was a warning I had to take seriously considering the fact that it was enforced by a shrill squeaky aggravating female enforcer who sounded (and looked) like she meant every word of it. That she stills threatens to do that to me today is only because it’s become a habit with her. She hasn’t even changed the wording since the time we’ve been married.

Yes, yes that’s how we met. She was my “watchdog”. At least that’s what those others would call her-if they had known of her in the first place. Believe it or not, she was the one who dragged me to the Supreme Commandura to get married. All that other talk of women’s lib really got to her in those days. She claimed it was for my “protection” and that it would be easier for her to keep tabs on me that way. Women, I tell you, have the funniest notions at times. She actually thought she would be able to keep me in check. Hah! She soon learnt that wasn’t going to be possible… “ Yes dear! Yes dear I took out the banana peels…yes I dumped the leftovers for the cat outside…yes I had my milk and cheese…”

Where was I? Ah yes…we had many adventures together Athram and I. There is so little time to tell you all about them. She insists that I get to bed now…there she goes again. Nag, nag, nag. Women …can’t live with them; fool enough to want to live with them.

Goodnight then. Maybe some other day I will tell you all the adventures I had topside. Maybe I’ll even call them “The Tail of the Tar”…has a nice ring to it. Don’t you think so?

* The rats in an attempt to distinguish themselves from the Homo sapiens species (whom they felt they were imitating to an alarming degree) decided to adopt human words but in the reverse order to ensure that no human ever found out that the rats had such an advanced society. Rats have always been fiercely protective of their interests and their territories especially after a particularly nasty incident wherein a dyslexic rat was sent as a specimen volunteer to the laboratory. He wrote all his communications the wrong way round (for the rats that is) and in the process allowed the humans to catch a glimpse of what their intentions actually were.

* The tar’s dislike for all things human are well documented. What they particularly loathe is the human education system. They believe that this education is actually a form of brainwashing and shudder to even think of putting their young ones through such a grinder of a system. One well-known experiment with human educational systems saw an entire generation of tars throw themselves in front of a speeding 16 wheeler. Research scholars have still not found the motive behind this unusual instance of mass suicide.

* Rats are well known for their attraction towards foul smells and all kinds of rot. One of tar’s illustrious forbears categorised halitosis into 298.769 types and categories. His work is regarded as a masterpiece and is believed to outstrip any research done on the subject by human medical specialists. There is an ongoing movement to publish this seminal work topside so that adolescents can work towards that elusive dream of finding a partner for prom night.

2006-03-23T18:43:00.000+05:30

The First Story

So in the beginning there was nothing. Narada (who lived right at the edge of the nothingness) was bored of looking out onto the …well nothingness. There wasn’t anything else he could look at you know. He had been banished to the edge of the void because like all other fourteen-year-old boys, he had taken his dad’s vimana out for a spin on the Milky Way (not the chocolate by the way) and had gotten caught for speeding. So he had been banished (temporarily of course). And he was bored.

“Just gotta getta aaout, just gotta getta raight aout of heeare”. He had a very funny accent-a cross between an aatchi and some uptight English kaaran- a precursor, some say, to Freddie Mercury. If you don’t know who that is, ask your dad. And if your dad was one of those not influenced by the hippie movement, then …well find someone who was. Actually you could ask your mom too but then she might not want to admit that she was one of the pot smoking, free thinking, …you know what they were like back then.

So he decided to do some exploring. He went out and explored and then gave up after some time as he soon found out that you couldn’t really explore nothingness. So he clomped back to his house, sat at the window and stared…and stared…and stared.

And jumped up, rushed out of the house and scooped up the shining ball from the edge of the void. It was round-as all balls should be. It sparkled and shimmered and pulsed with all kinds of colours. It was also warm to the touch, which was really surprising, as you know how cold the void can be. That did not occur to Narada because he, like many other children of his age, had not been paying any attention to his physics classes at all.

He looked closely and saw that the ball was made of hundreds of iridescent streams of colours that seemed to flow into each other and not stop flowing. They mixed and moved like the chutney in a mixie except the ball did not make any noise.

He was puzzled and intrigued by it. He turned it this way and that and this way again but no, he still couldn’t figure it out. Then he saw something even strange. In the midst of all that colour he saw something black. A little, black pointy tip kind of thing, you know the kind that just begs to be pulled and poked and twisted. So he did exactly that and then…there was light.

Narada was flung several light years away and thankfully landed on what was to become the Oort cloud-you know, the nebulous thingamajig from where the comets come…right you don’t know. Well, it suffices to say that he landed in a softer part of the galaxy. He was still recovering from that outpouring of incandescence when he was rapidly hauled up by his ear. I am sure you must all know what a painful experience it is to have your ear pulled, even in fun and this was not fun.

He saw or rather squinted at a tall, handsome man with a pair of very fancy shades wrapped around his head. No this is not Cyclops…wait won’t you! This tall man with the shades had a furious look on his face, to put it mildly. “What have you gone and done this time, you young rascal?”, he thundered. Narada looked really terrified now. “By my formidable father’s beard, I have had it,.” he thought to himself. He put on a look of injured innocence and started to shake his head when a voice like the chiming of a thousand temple lamps boomed out across the now rapidly filling void. “Look Oh beings! Look! Our hour of reckoning draws near. We must retire or die.” With this rather gloomy pronouncement, the world as we know it began to take shape. There did you see that? That was the first volcano and that BHOOm was the first sea coming into being. By the way all the water spilled out of the lota Shiva was carrying, as he was so surprised at the turn of events that he dropped the vessel with a clang. It later went on to become the Big Dipper.

Everything was in fast-forward or so it seemed to the beings that stood silent spectators to this once in a lifetime act of creation. They saw small little things crawl out of the sand live and die in a few precious microseconds. They saw planets die and form again in the rapidly increasing expanse of the galaxy that filled the void. They saw many, many things but the strangest of all was the emergence of a creature that looked like a miniaturised version of the great beings that stood watching this process. Naturally they were most shocked at this development.

You see what had happened was that Vishnu’s youngest child had lost his ball. Now that ball was very special because that sphere contained the essence of all life. So you see, that is why it was so necessary to have the contents of that ball constantly being churned up so that in the end you would have a perfect mix, rather like the perfect dosai batter, to make the perfect world. Vishnu’s youngest child was supposed to grow up to become the guardian of this perfect world but as things turned out; the ball was unravelled at the wrong time. So the world that was created wasn’t perfect- not by a long shot.

Vishnu realised what had happened and so banished Narada (again) to the edge of the universe. Except this time, he made sure that Narada could not get out of his house at all.

Meanwhile the gods watched in astonishment and surprise as the world evolved into a planet unlike anything they had ever conceived before. More than one admired the sheer diversity of life and intelligence on the planet and even went so far as to say, “This has got to be the greatest miracle of all”. Truer words were never spoken. You guessed it…this world was what we call Earth today. The gods really didn’t have a name for it then so they just called it Srishti, which means creation in some old, obscure language. Little did they realise what the creation of this new planet actually meant for them.

They watched as these strange creatures did stranger things to the planet they called home. One of the species suddenly took two random sticks, rubbed them together and made ahhhh! They made fire…that’s right, Fire. The gods looked around in wariness now wondering which one of them could have given the formula for this most sacred of elements to these uncouth animals. Then something even more terrifying happened. They suddenly started speaking…intelligible sounds that even the gods could understand. Worse, they were speaking in that obscure language the gods themselves used. Then things fell apart. These creatures became civilized and started doing all the things the gods used to do. From predicting the weather, to writing about the existence of other life forms, even creating new materials from the resources they had on the planet…and all without external aid. This really angered the gods. One of the braver gods volunteered to go down to the planet disguised as one of the creatures and find out exactly how they managed to gather so much information in so little time. Before he could do that they heard a startling pronouncement from this new planet.

“God id dead”, said a small, tinny voice. There was absolute silence for a heartbeat. Then the entire universe seemed to convulse with laughter at the absurd statement. Everyone knows that the universe would not exist if the gods had not thought it up in the first place.

Wait a minute! What was happening? The gods were fading away as if …no it was not possible. There was no way they could be fading away just because of one silly, presumptuous statement made by some anonymous creature. But it was true. The gods were fading away, slowly and then faster and faster until there was nothing left of them at all. They just vanished as if they had never existed at all.

The universe thought it was just some prank that they had decided to pull. But it waited and waited until it realised that they weren’t coming back ever. No gods at all, would the universe dissolve into chaos? The answer to that seemed pretty obvious when a pert little star commented, “I don’t see why we have to worry so much. We have managed not to dissolve into chaos for quite sometime now. Who says we can’t do without the gods? And oh yeah…in case you have forgotten, Narada is still alive somewhere on the edges of the known universe. He would qualify as a god, wouldn’t he?”

The universe nodded its sage head in agreement and managed to get Narada out of the house he was not supposed to leave. Narada was nonplussed and very confused. He had no idea about what had happened during his confinement. When he found out that all the gods had vanished because of that one statement he took a trip down to the new planet.

He found that not one of the inhabitants of that planet had any clue as to how they got there in the first place. What was even worse was that, all they had were some nonsensical scientific theories about the beginning of time and absolutely no stories. He couldn’t believe it. They had no stories anywhere at all, no way of telling their children what their heritage was all about.

He had to do something about it. He owed it to his parents and the memory of the other gods. So he sat down and started writing the story of how the world was created by accident and not because some particulate matter had collided with some other random material floating about in the void causing a Big Bang. See that is exactly why he had to write a story to explain the creation of the world. He wrote, and wrote, and wrote and after many, many solar months, he finished it. He put it down on a comet just so that he could stretch his arms when the comet suddenly whizzed away and his story went flying all over the universe.

It whizzed away so fast that he had no time to catch it. By some strange coincidence (for which the universe is known), the story finally fluttered down to this planet now known as Earth. It fluttered gently onto a pile of books in a small dusty little bookshop, in the middle of a little village with an unpronounceable name. A little boy came wandering in. It was his birthday and he had some money to spend so he wandered all over the bookstore trying to find a book that he liked. A thick pile of papers on top of the used notebooks pile caught his attention. For some reason he felt compelled to buy the book, though it did not look like any book he had seen before. The storekeeper himself was puzzled as to the origin of the book but then why should he bother with it as long as he gets the money. So the little boy took his new book and sat down to read it. He opened it to the first page and saw, “In the beginning, there was nothing. I mean absolutely nothing. I can’t tell you it was dark or bright or empty or full because….there was nothing. Ever tried to describe nothingness? I thought not.”

So that is how the first story came into being.

2006-03-23T00:54:00.001+05:30

It's midnight. Or rather midnight has passed on and the first phase of the day has already started. Its is rather funny to say day when the view outside consists of darkness and more darkness punctuated by pinpoints of flickering light; the last bastions of humanity in a world going slowly but surely insane. This is reminiscent of a scene from Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand where Galt stops the motor of the world and all that lights go out except for one constant flame that is Wyatt's torch waving in the distance. There is a curious mix of anticipation and dread that courses through me at this point in time. I have never stayed awake this late. It feels strange and not a little bit exciting; a bit like sneaking out of hostel to take a walk to Cave rock just so that you can slip past the watchman. Except here there is no one to outwit and no one to cock a snook at. That does make the entire exercise a little disappointing. Funny how the mind seems to insist on reasoning out the consequences of such adventures. I have class tomorrow...So what? It isn't as if I will be doing much there anyway. The year has come to an end and which self respecting student will want to study when you know holidays are just around the corner. I am a self respecting student and no, I don't want to go to college tomorrow i.e. today.
I also detest having to stick to deadlines as a friend of mine would cheerfully attest to. I wonder what my journalist pal has to say about this. Maybe he hates deadlines too...Who knows! Deadlines are the punctuations that liberally checker my student career and have always spelt doom for me.I have either lost my drafts or placed them somewhere so carefully that i have forgotten where exactly i kept them in the first place. Or else I just take the easy way out and not to do it at all. That, in my opinion, is the easiest and hardest way to get out of assignments and tamper with deadlines.

2006-03-21T17:10:00.000+05:30

of Dreams and Laughter

2006-03-21T15:40:00.000+05:30

I just finished a production with the Madras Players and Just us Repertory called Rural Phantasy. I can't begin to describe the incredible joy that this production engendered for me. The initial reservations looked to be quite insurmountable and I wondered what in the world was i doing? It took a lot of convincing and a lot of midnight rambles on the parapets of my terrace to finally figure out that i wanted to do this play. Initially there werejust two factors that absolutely impelled me to take part in this:
a) T.M.Krishna-whom I revere, adore and place second only to my guru. The man can sing and boy does he know it.
b) Gowri akka...that is what she is to me now but before i met her I adored The way she wrote and had heard enough and more about her talents and her genius. Add to that the fact that she is steeped in music was enough to pull me in.
Looking back on those early days, I can see how reserved and cautious I was. There...I can almost hear the rest of the gang saying,"Namboodri, you! cautious! hah!"Their voices echo in the inmost recesses of my mind, I do not think they will ever go away. I don't think I want them too.
So i gave it a shot and fell in love...with the most amazing bunch of people i have ever met.Eclectic would describe them to the T...different walks of life,different age groups and none of it made the slightest difference at all.I, the eternally hungry one, just sat on the sidelines, munching away on channa bun and puff, and watched them enjoy themselves. That, to me, was the most astounding phenomenon i had ever seen...a whole bunch of people just enjoying themselves.It didn't matter if you had a rough day or had fought with your better half, everyone seemed hellbent on making you smile.
There was Andrea wafting all over the place as if a puff of air would blow her down and then you saw her wolf down those deliciously sinful, ghee laden sweets Ramnarayan uncle got us from Grand Sweets. Sundar usually waltzed in on her arm doing his own version of the St.Vitus hop. I heard thunder one day wondered how it was going to rain on a fine, humid Chennai day when Mathi comes thumping in on his brute of a bike. I have a serious crush on the bike.
Karthik would walk in, moving to his own version of 'Zombie'...he added depth to the term Dead Man Walking or should I say Stoned Man Walking?
The women were the highlight of the day. All of them were equally gorgeous and equally bright. They were graceful,delicate and... oh boy!I can hear the howls of denial flying in from the ether and crashing into my head here...as i was about to add, the craziest bunch of women i have ever met.We have had some downright crazy times together...Manasi, remember our inside joke on vaadyar saar and the unmentionable part of his life? That , I must add, was all thanks to yours trulyi.e.moi
For me , the most unforgettable experience was watching vaadyar saar bob up and down, and up and down and back again while he walked around in the dances. Whatever he might say, he is not an execrable dancer, he is merely deplorable. He should have been a vaudeville performer...he is that good.
The people-they are the ones who made this come alive for me. Without them, i don't think this play would have worked. But then, I am just a wriggly,sqiggly infinitesimal part of the entire 'ensemble' and what i know about theatre would fit into the smallest stitch, at the end of the little toe of a baby's sock(just so that you all know too).
I miss them and miss them terribly. Now i know why they call it withdrawal symptoms. We all wander down our chosen paths, now to meet and now to part. One of those turns was this play and now i wish it were the road instead of just part of the way.

2006-03-21T14:26:00.000+05:30

ok here goes an experiment I hope will be successful..to say the least.There is so much to say and so few pointers. I guess it is nice to wade through uncharted territory. A little frightening, very exciting and wholly satisfying.
I can't even pretend to be bored by this phenomenon. I am not ashamed to admit that i am technically challenged...anyone who knows me knows that. So it's exciting to hop onto the blogging bandwagon and just have fun. that's what life isabout ....having fun. All the time and every second. To just ride on the happiness that seems to pull you along with it and take you to places you never dreamed of knowing. At times like this, the world is at your feet and i feel like Alladin on his first magic carpet ride. A whole new world it is and i intend to keep exploring.