Summer Dreams

A blessing came and rested
On my shoulder
A feather that once
Had spanned the vast skies
That had kissed the clouds.
It brought a companion along
A poem it was
Written in thin strands
Of wet rains and sunbeams.

A summer morning opened itself
Like a fragrant fresh page
In the fronds of a thicket
A lonely black cuckoo
All summer he had lingered
Waiting for his mate
With tunes of forgotten songs
With the blowing rose
And its fading petals.
Calling from dawn to dawn
In hope of warm feathers
That would descend on him
Like nests lined with down
Like food down his throat
Like mother’s plumage
That once smelled of crows.

With warm afternoons
Perched in mango groves
Uttering many a lonely note
That often sounded cacophonic
Drowsed by flowers and bees
Slept his mate.
She knew not of his presence.
Over miles of windless noons
She had heard his voice travel
Like the touch of first raindrops
Later bursting into torrents.
When the trees had unabashedly
Erupted with passionate flowers
She had waited in silence.
His voice sounding redolently
Painfully like tomorrows.

Soon, the pangs of separation
Had grown to a longing
That stayed like a rhythmic ache
Heaving with love
The heart brimming with need
Warm feathers too far away
With uninvited prospects
From eager trespassers
She pined.
Other friends had found
Songs that suited their souls.
Somewhere suffered her mate
Calling like an empty cloud
His soul scattered in the breeze.
He was near at hand..
She could have
Lifted her droopy lids
Dragged her broken heart
To his threshold.
She knew not what she was waiting for
Neither did he.
He felt the south wind for traces
Of her fragrance.
Some aeons ago
He had known it.
He had greedily dragged at it
Like a craving for sadness.

It was time.
They had to begin a life.
A distant tree had waited
For their arrival
For many, many summers
All hearts had sensed
Their lurking unseen love.
They met.
It was only cooing and warmth.
Cuckoos cry songs not tears.
His melodies and her impatience
Mingled into a happy harmony
Seasons evolved to make home
For love and new feathers.
They traveled to a distant tree
Where a home they would make
The tree would nest their joys
The offspring of their togetherness.
The tree and its roots
Would hold them through ages.
Through seasons of rain and cold
Its branches would kiss their heads
Fondling them to her bosom.
There would be baby cuckoos
And stammering songs.

He had seen other birds make nests
She was full of his future.
He knew he had to love her
Guard her
From rain and angry eagles.
He had seen twigs, cotton and leaves
How nests were lined with layers of love
He had to make her one.
With swift time fluttering off
On fickle wings
There was no nest
No linings of love
No twigs to nuzzle the nest.
But she was there and so was he.
So was their future
Dangling by a filament of love.

Now there were nests
Of many many birds
In crannies and hidden holes
And eggs and baby birds.
Now their future was
A hazy bewilderment.
There was pain
She paced in agony and instinct
Nest after nest
She laid them to sleep
Fragments of their togetherness
Fragments of their future
She forgot.

There was no tree now
Concrete twigs had melted
Merging into nothingness
All leaves fluid
Had run into one another
Like water colours.
There was clouded memory
That held all hues intact.
In restlessness and pain
The cuckoos saw
There was no tree
All branches and boughs
Flowers and pollen grains
Leaves with slender veins
Had evanesced in the rains
There had been no tree
With a feather and a poem
They had only been dreams.

Twisted Brush

Autumn Night…

A dream spot..

Some girl..

Wild…

Lonely…

These are some drawings I created using a program called Twisted Brush. This program is a must-have for digital artists!

Back!

I was on a vacation to Madurai. My last visit to Madurai was areally short and was about five years back. The longer visit before that was about 12 years back. My grandfather lives in Madurai. So does my uncle, aunt and their two kids.

My hatred for Chennai, its noise, its people and traffic has increased after this visit. I should probably live in a small city or a town in the future. I figured I would never be happy in a big metro. I almost feel lost and harassed in Chennai.

In Madurai my daily routine consisted of waking up late, eating, sleeping, reading, playing computer games, sitting on the pyol and watching the rain while listening to music, chatting to my best friend over the phone for hours and playing with my friend Gopi a.k.a Tommy, Tiger, Romie, Ronnie and so on. He is a brown dog with the brightest of eyes and the most restless tail!

I also happened to attend the farewell parties of two batches of American students who had to complete a semester specializing on Indian culture. One of them belonged to the centre for cultural studies called SITA. The other batch consisted of the students from the Wisconsin University. I saw some interesting performances in Bharatnatyam and Carnatic Music by these students. They can speak Tamil and a couple of them had made amazing Rangolis and Batik pieces. I was very happy to see their enthusiasm in learning some of these art forms. I have previously learnt to create Batik pieces and let me tell you it is no easy job.

There was a girl named Marcie who did an excellent Bharatnatyam piece on Ganesha and Kyle who rendered some popular kritis on the veena. There were others too but these two deserve to be mentioned. Apart from this, they hosted skits on their experiences in India which included a sequence of an American retorting in Tamil to some kids who makes fun of her and another where Kyle struggles with his “vaetti” (a white piece of cloth draped around the waist by men in Tamilnadu)… It was hilarious when he said “En vaetti keezhe nazhuvikitrukku!” (My vaetti is slipping down) yet the language was impressive. Kyle and his friend Rian lived upstairs to my grandfather’s place so we knew them quite well. They are very friendly and nice people.

I read a creepy story by Walter De La Mare called “The Recluse” which psyched me out quite a bit. I read “The Purple Sea” by Ambai and “Selected Works of Kahlil Gibran”. My cousin finished the fourteenth level in a game called “Claw” which also happens to be the last level. I need a mention here coz I asked a friend to google for an important cheat code as there was no internet at home.

I ate a lot of good stuff like coconut thogaiyal, arisi upma and thenkozhal. I spent most of my time lazing at home. Did not visit any of the usual places like Meenakshi temple. Shot a couple of cows, Gopi, the rain and other useless things on my camera.

There is a lot more..just that I am too tired from the journey and wanna sleep!

Millions of Me

I walked down that road among hundreds and hundreds Of wayfarers moving in gaiety towards what they believed was a fair.We all walked.We walked for three days and two nights not knowing any weariness, for, at the end of the road the cheer of a fun fair beckoned. We spent all day talking, laughing and holding hands of this and that. All conversations seemed meaningful. “There is a purpose.” we thought.

“There would be glass bangles,” said a coy young girl to her husband. He marched on quietly beaming like one who would buy her the world. The children ran ahead hopping and skipping. They had been told a thousand tales of the fair. Anxious mothers kept watch over every move they made. At midday, we stopped under vast banyan or tamarind trees and unpacked our lunch. Some could afford expensive spices. The rest of us ate a square meal. Some of them cooked on clay stoves. All along the parents kept warning their children on how to conduct themselves.”Don’t touch anything!”,”Don’t go anywhere!”,”Don’t talk to anyone!”,”Don’t eat anything!” The children sulked and walked on with their heads hung low. Some children never understood the implications of these rules. Some broke free for fun and ran ahead laughing at strangers and stuffing mouthfuls of raisins offered by gypsies. Off with nagging parents. Evening sunsets were beautiful on our dry arid landscapes. We saw no need to rest our feet. On and on we walked.

Soon, someone raised a doubt. “Are you sure it is this way?” There was a murmur of discomfort. He was a clever man – the one who raised the doubt. Some other men dismissed it with a laugh. “We are on the right track alright!” said a man with a big moustache and a red turban. Men with big moustaches and red turbans could never be wrong. So they continued walking. The doubtful man was still skeptic. He managed to spread the doubt among a few others by pointing to various landmarks. He said, “Look there! That hillock…it must be in the south! Where are we going fools?” None of them knew for sure and so they halted. The red turban called this guy aside and said, “What is your problem? Why don’t you just be quiet?” The skeptic said, “No! We are all walking aimlessly. There is no fun fair at the end of this road. I am going back.” Some others said, “Where are you going back to? There is nobody back at home to cook your food or wash your clothes. Just walk along!” He walked along but nobody ever knew when he would cause some confusion again or when he would walk back the way they came or if he would choose a different path at every crossroad or if he would drag some others along. Thus walked the doubter and others in doubt about him.

There was a singer in our band. There was nothing that did not inspire him to come up with songs. He only had to see a stork flying and he would break out into song, and then it was a flower and then a bull and then a crow and then a girl. In the beginning people sang along. They played their drums as accompaniment or they clapped and appreciated him. Some girls eyed him through their veils. Then, as he continued with his singing, people began noticing that he repeated the same words in every song. It was always a kind of beat out of the five odd beats he knew. It was the same highs and lows. The same voice. The same emotions. People grew indifferent. Some of them thought he was a pain and should be left behind. His songs made them uneasy. Sometimes they seemed so pure and childlike because he cared not for what they thought. And one day he saw a red flower. It was the reddest of flowers and he stayed. He refused to move away from the place. People got impatient. They cannot have someone lagging behind. Said the red turban, who had by now had enough of the singer and his antics, “See! If you cannot march along you have to stay and die. Nobody is going to stay back with you till you finished admiring your flower and made up a hundred songs all sounding the same” This hurt the singer immensely but he did not show it. It only brought another song to his head. He laughed at his own helpless creativity. He said firmly, “I am staying! I am not interested in your fun fair..I am sure it is not half as inspiring as this little red flower. You can leave me behind.” There were a few who were anxious for the singer and they left some food by his side. They said, “Don’t tarry too long..catch up with us somehow or you will die!” He only smiled. He knew that his inspiration would die that very evening and he knew all of them were only marching towards what they thought they were running away from.

As we walked on, the singer was forgotten. Somebody said as a consolation, “He would have found his way back home!” All of us knew he could not have but none of us said anything. The fun fair seemed to be too far away. Now the doubter began to say, “See? What did I tell you? Now what has happened.. we have been walking down this arid land for days. There is little food left and energy, none. The children are looking up to us to guide them and we give them false promises of fun fairs and drag them all over the place. Fools!” This caused a great lot of commotion in the crowd and the red turban had a tough time explaining to everyone that we were indeed walking towards the fair. He himself was doubtful at times but he confided in nobody.

Soon our water supplies dwindled. People began worrying and there was a lot of discord. The doubter gathered his own supporters and there were constant clashes between the doubter’s group and the rest. One day, there was a big banyan tree under which sat a holy man. He was naked and had holy ashes smeared all over his body. His beard was long and white and he could have been a million years old. There were anthills around the tree where he sat and this man had managed to find devotees in this god-forsaken place. They had provided him with enough to eat and drink. Unfortunately for us, he refused to share the food with us. He only said something uselessly philosophical, “Each man must find his own fruits.” Some of us were too tired to take this in. A hungry man has problems in hearing. A man with a full stomach can go on philosophizing for days especially if he had a million years at his disposal with other people to forage for his food. However, the doubter took to this man. The doubter was an emaciated fellow who hardly had the need for food. Yet, he saw an opportunity here. He thought he would die of hunger and thirst if he were to walk along with what he thought were a bunch of fools. He had gotten into this whole business unwittingly and he had to find a way out as soon as possible. He began coaxing the “Swamiji” to take him in as a disciple. The million-year-old man smiled through all the white facial hair and many thought they saw an aura around his head. Most of them were hungry.

Now, came the biggest task for the red turban. He had to convince the people away from this unexpected distraction of an old man, and take them to the fun fair. He slowly began elaborating on the various objects that would be available at the fair. “The last time I had been there”, he said, “there were heaps of mangoes and apples,” “One man was making the sweetest jalebis and served them piping hot. Ah! And how can I forget the dancing girls. They were something!” The truth was that nobody from our parts had ever been outside the boundary of our village, let alone to the fun fair. The doubter laughed loudly at the red turban and asked him to keep his bluffing to the rest of us mindless fools who had been following him for days. He said that he had had enough and was not falling for this fellow’s temptations. Most of us liked to believe the red turban because it sounded so true. I mean, all our lives we have heard of fun fairs and they always had mangoes, jalebis and dancing girls. This doubter has been trying to create discord from the beginning. Who could even suspect the red turban? It was blasphemous. He was absolutely correct. Off with this doubting Thomas and we would reach the fun fair in a while. We will have everything to indulge in while this fool will remain here with the million-year old man eating raisins and dates and drinking goat’s milk. We willingly believed the red turban because he painted to us an image of whatever we wished for. However, the doubter and few of his supporters remained behind with the old man and his disciples. The doubter remained for the food but who knows,he thought, the old man might even know the right direction to the fun fair.

The children had now grown docile and listened to the parents. Sometimes they played games. These games were called “Rule games” There were no winners or losers but everyone had to follow the rules. Whoever failed to follow the rules was sent out of the game. The children even meted out harsh punishments to the rule-breakers. Mostly the child who came up with new ideas or thoughts was called “mad” or “stupid” and was pushed to the ground. The other children kicked this child and refused to talk to him. The parents appreciated this game because it meant that the children were learning discipline, obedience and self-control. The mothers of the children who made the rules were proud and the mothers of the rule-breakers were ashamed and refused to acknowledge this.

When nobody was watching, the unhappy mothers slapped the misfit child. This caused some children to grow timid, some others began to stammer, some of them rebelled and bit everyone but all of them were branded “misfits”. The misfits began to gel and formed their own groups, where they thought they were inventing some phenomenal games to play. They said “Off with all the rule games. We will play the no-rules games.” In these games one had to do sacrilegous and blasphemous acts of breaking rules and the more one was non-conformist, the better respect he gained. Some of them claimed to have invented various things. Some others said they had discovered this and that. All of them were mere hypotheses and a bunch of other misfits said “Hear..Hear!” It only seemed like they were consoling each other. Nobody noticed them.

As time passed, people began talking less and less about the fair. Some imagined that they should have stayed back with the doubter. Still others said that the singer was indeed a wise man. The red flower was only an excuse. That cunning fellow had outwitted them and stayed behind. Now, they mistrusted the red turban. Yet, they knew that they were too far away from home to walk backwards. Some of them suggested that they settle here and there and forget all about the fair. That was when the young women would come up with their requests for bangles, vermilion and mirrorwork saris and the children would look up into the eyes of their parents pleadingly. They had a million dreams for balloons of many colours and for candy floss and slingshots. Above all, everyone, young and old harboured a passion for this invisible fair. By now, the large group had split to several smaller groups and many had gone ahead. None of them came back to tell us what the fair was like. We imagined that they were too happy there that they had no mind to return. Rumours floated in the air that they had all turned too tired to walk back and they had just started begging for food from the other travelers. We dismissed these talks as rumours. After all, why would they beg for food when there were enough jalebis for all three worlds at the fun fair.

One evening, I myself saw some light glimmering in the distance. I was too taken up with it to notice if others had followed. I did not even feel like telling the others. I began walking towards it and slowly broke into a run. A mad frenzy. I ran ahead tears streaming down my cheeks. Hahaha! Piping hot, juicy jalebis here I come! Hurrah! Merry-go-rounds here I come! Giant wheels here I come! Dancing girls here I come! I noticed my wallet falling off and then my bag too fell off. Why was I not stopping to pick them up? I was running ahead. Something there made my head spin in sorrow and pain and joy and what I thought was the overwhelming “truth” of it. As I got closer, I stopped dead on my tracks. There was silence. There were no lights. This cannot be a fun fair. Am I in the wrong place? Oh God! Where are the colourful tents? Where is the gypsy woman with her crystal ball? Where are the dancing girls who whirled and whirled like dervishes in my dreams all night their mirrored skirts swirling around? Where are the fragrant yellow mangoes succulent, with juice that trickled between my fingers? Where are the orange jalebis full of sweet syrup that nestled between my teeth before melting into nectarine bliss? Where are the merry-go-rounds with dizzy music and colourful horses? Where are the giant wheels that would take me close to heaven and swing me back to earth?

But..There was something. There was something shimmering in the dim light. As I neared it my heart throbbed to my mouth. It was a grotesque creature stuck to a shiny wall. Realization dawned on me. It was me. It was a mirror. I was the grotesqueness on the mirror. I was all skewed and out of shape. I seemed to have been poured into a hundred different moulds. I was only a child. I had been one among the misfits. I had been slapped many many times…punished too. I had been twisted and turned. I had become something else..someone else that I am not and someone else that nobody is. I had become awkward and alone. I was shapeless and then was a million shapes. I was not identifiable. My face was a twirl. My arms were two ripples. My body was a huge balloon with wavy edges. I ran away from that horrible mishap. I ran and ran as fast as I could only to realize that I had nowhere to run from that horrible memory of the image I had just seen. I ran through the crowds of people walking towards what I just seen. I shouted to them but they were too smug to listen. I ran on to the children and told them to stay where they were and continue their games..rules or no-rules. They all threw stones at me. I ran to my parents. I asked them what they had done to me and they only gave a knowing smile. Had they seen this before? Had they? I ran through the gypsies who seemed to walk on with no fears. I tried clinging to them but they shunned me. I was a stranger from another world. I was a nobody with a million shapes and colours, none of which I had asked for. Nobody asked me before painting me these colours. Nobody asked me before carving me into these shapes. Someone told me something that I heard like a distant echo, “The mirror is not reality.” What is reality then? That I had been walking towards what they said was a fun fair and came upon a silent place that showed me a grotesque image of myself. Is that all? Is that all?

As I ran on and on through marshes and stones and crags wounding my legs and bleeding I knew I had to die. I had to crumble and die. I had to break and burn before I died. The singer would die but he never came here. The doubter would die too but he never came here. The million-year-old man would die but he never came here. I came here to see what had been made out of me while I had watched like a fool. All you wayfarers traveling towards the illusion of a fun-fair, there is none! You cannot return because it is a one-way journey. There is an exit but nobody knows when and where. All are liars and nobody knows anything. There are actors and there are hallucinators. There are evil robbers and cunning politicians. There are skeptics, singers, dreamers, philosophers. Some walk longer some walk lesser. All have an exit and it is the same old one. Walk on, stay, dream, delude, believe in lies, break rules…but

..never, never ignore the fun-house mirror and the reflections on it!

Of cloudy skies and struggling suns…

What is my business with sadness?
When eternity stretches ahead
Like a blue canvas…

Hubris and Hamartia

It is just awesome how things work themselves to impossibility in my life. Again and again. Considering I have an exam tomorrow, one of the deciding exams of my life, something like this was bound to happen. Exams and Maligning Forces of Conspiracy. I remember in my last semester, before the final exams I was exactly in the same situation, begging for mercy from someone infinitely bovine when it came to someone else’s problem, and ruthless.

What do you say about someone who hoards good will and would not go that extra millimetre to set things right! …and I will be royally disciplined (the most decent word I could come up with at this point) for many many days to come, for daring to express myself like this. I am supposed to be the eternal sufferer who never complains. Bullshit! I quit. I know you’re reading this..but I have a helluva lot of it to handle as it is.

If you will open your third eye or your only eye, you might be able to see precisely what is happening to me. The same old story, the same old plot, the same old characters, the same old tragic flaw, the same old climax, the same old catharsis. I just rock because I am studying my life like “Antigone”…I have the damn thing for my exam.

Now I’ll begin imagining I am Elesin Oba, Antigone, Odysseus, Anowa, Kannagi, Daphne and every other afflicted soul in the tragedies I read. Hmm..it is damn good in a way..I am gonna rock in my exams..

Looks like there is some fate after all. Now I have wheezing too. I woke up like breathlessness. Perfect! This was exactly how I wanted to feel, a day before exam.

Ah…but I am not going to give up, unfortunately for all the forces that seem to be plotting against me. Wait and watch ye conspiring powers, I shall come out like a phoenix, just like last time, and every time.

As an add-on I would like to mention I won a proficiency prize in my M.A. Well, I am doing an M.A. in English Literature and this is my last semester. Wish me luck for my exams guys!

Like a compromise…

Though the poetry in me is dead
And decomposed
Like dry leaves floating in puddles
Of rain.
I need it.
It heals me and my dreams
I had been writing for others
All along
All the words
That strung themselves together
Had been hand-picked with love
Someone walked by indifferently
Not knowing their fragrance
The petals waited in the scorching noon
Waiting to be picked up
And held close
They knew they were wilting
Alas! The world scorns desperation
I know my life is ending
With each day
It only gets closer
The exit.
When the edges turned shameless brown
The petals whispered to themselves
It is an experience
Death; A process.
All my life I live my death.
The conjurer’s wand weaves my life
Patterns flow from thin air.
Dreams and disappointments
Enact themselves like they have audience
The empty amphitheatre resounds with silence.
All doors are closed
Except an emergency exit.
A borrowed thread called life
Refuses to snip off.
The giver waits in patience
The debtor scrambles for disappearance.
Some are born
Some achieve
Some have life thrust upon them.
My pages are not for the insensitive
Go away!
My tears are not for the cold-hearted
Leave me alone!
My love is not for the indifferent
Let me live!
To me words are not costumes
Worn for applause
Nor are they infinite decadent rants
To me they are sustenance…
What would you know?
There is one soul that listens
My own.
There is one heart that throbs
If unwillingly.
Mine.
There is one mind that grapples
With bitter truths.
In me.
There is one life that holds me
That embraces me with warmth.
Myself.
Till death do me apart.
I wish to turn cold and stiff
Like my mother’s turmeric hands.
I wish to remove the oxygen mask
From my own god-forsaken breath.
I wish to burn
Into a bowl of ashes
With pieces of copper and a bone.
I wish to turn cold, cold as a stone
Till all the fire in me turns blue
Like yesterday’s night.
I wish to go dead
Like you.
I wish to beat to death
All the passion
That shamelessly tries to believe.
I wish to stop being.
I wish I could only live
If like a compromise.

Age of Innocence

Categories for Blogger using Del.icio.us – Updated again

Hey all.. I found a nice method to create categories on blogger. It involves some hard work especially if you have a huge blog already because you have to manually put each post in a category. I’ll tell you how I went about it. I certainly got inspiration from
some material I read but I kind of improvised on it.

Get an account at Del.icio.us

Install the small application called del.icio.us extension for firefox.
You can get it here
Del.icio.us Extension for Firefox

Click on Install V.1.1 now. (Firefox 1.07 or newer required)

After installation, close your browser and open it again. Now open your blog. Right-click on each post link or permalink (most blog templates provide title links to a post). If this is too tedious go to Google site map generator and generate the links for all the posts on your site. It generates permalinks for the posts in the month from the archive links too. However, this involves typing the titles of the posts again.

A new option named “Tag this link” would appear on the right-click menu with a delicious icon. Click on it. Add a Tag according to the category.

Accordingly you can create tags named Mathematics, Art, Literature, Books and so on. Remember to keep this delicious account specially for your blog posts alone. You can tag every post in this fashion.

Another method to tag them would be from the “View” option in your Blogger Dashboard list of posts but it is difficult because this too does not add the post name automatically. You have to type it out. Instead you can tag them from your blog itself. I used the search option in the blogger nav bar for quicker access to what I remembered would belong to a certain category. Accordingly I accessed all my poems from memory for the “Poems” category(tag) After tagging all your posts you’ll have all the tags on delicious with the number of posts mentioned next to them.

Go here – Tag rolls
and choose the number of tags you want to display (size) colour and size of the fonts. Select the tag count check box.

I have removed the title from the script and added my sidebar heading instead.(title and icon)

The above method works for Firefox users. I am not sure if there is a tag tool for IE.

Try it on your blog.

Technorati tags: Categories+for+blogger, Del.icio.us+tags, Blogger+tips

To my Silent Love

It is strange how a colour you have never seen can fascinate you. I have seen nothing of you except your smiles and your childlike pouts and your downy hair. I am in love with your smile. A hard day must always end with the brush stroke of your smile..Your voice. I wonder how many many hours of connecting with life does not give me so much energy as a single word from you does. I have good reason to be obsessed with you. I often try to substitute other voices for yours but they only seem like cackles. With you Daffy Ducks and Dexters fill my fragile heart with joy. I only need to laugh with you. I don’t see any other particular reason to live.

I am not ambitious for fame or money. All I need is a gentle breeze breathing from your direction always. Listening to immortal songs from your lips I need to only close my eyes and sleep will heal me.

I seem like a shadow to you. I have no identity of my own. I am always following you through crags and hills, up and down. I seem to be invading the walls you have around you just like a good shadow should. There is no armour to cover myself from you. I am out in the open hoping even hail storms from you would only feel like drizzles.

I over-react. I tend to feel life ten times more intensely than others. To me sorrow has become beautiful. My insecurities spring from past failures and past hurts. I snatch at each day with hunger because I die to live. I want you to punctuate every day with some aspect of you. With you around insecurities become unwarranted. I must only smile, right? I must relax and let your warmth envelope me. I must yawn like a toothless baby and sleep like there is no tomorrow.

Hurts will heal. You help me shed tears that cleanse my broken heart. Your love sets me free. I am complete. I love you intensely and only you know how much.