அஹல்யா
நான் ஒரு கல்
வீதியின் ஓரத்தில் இருக்கும் ஒரு சாதாரண கல்.
ராமனின் வருகைக்காக காத்துகொண்டிருக்கிற ஒரு சின்ன பாறை.
என் உள்ளம் என் சோகத்தால் கரைந்தாலும்
என் கண்ணீர் பாறைக்குள் ஈரமாக என்னுள் தங்கிவிட்டது
என்னை பஞ்சகன்யாவில் ஒரு கன்னியாக உலகம் பூசித்தலும்
என் வரலாறு ஒரு கேள்வி ஆகிவிட்டதல்லவா?
பிரமன் என்னை ஒரு இலட்சிய பெண்ணாக உருவாக்கினான்
தாயில்லாமல் வளரும் என்னை ரிஷி கௌதமரின் கையில் ஒப்படைத்தான்
தந்தையாக என்னை வளர்த்த ரிஷியே உன்னிடம் என்னை நான் ஒப்படைத்துகொண்டுவிட்டேன்
தந்தையே............... என் மனது உனக்கு புரியவில்லையா?
மனதும் தாபமும் புரிந்ததினால் தான் இந்த கடுஞ்சினமா?
நான் மரபு தாண்டினேன் என்று நினைத்துகொண்டு என்னிடம் நீ கொபித்துகொண்டால் .....ரிஷியே
உன்னிடம் என் சீற்றத்திருக்கு விலை ஏது?
நான் கல் ஆக்கப்பட்டேன் என்று எனக்கு சோகமில்லை
பெண் என்று என்னை தூசித்து, என் சைகையை கண்டனம் செய்து
ராமனின் வருகைக்காக என்னை காத்திருக்க வைத்து
மறுபடியும் என்னை ஒரு கன்னியாக மாற்றி
பூசிக்க வைக்கும் ஆணே
உன்னை நீனே தாழ்த்திக்கொண்டு விட்டாய்
மரபு தாண்டியது நீதான்
ரிஷியே நானில்லை
Showing posts with label Thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thoughts. Show all posts
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Mandodari
மண்டோதரி
வீணையில் என்னவரின் சிவஸ்துதி கேட்டேன்,
ஸ்லோகத்தின் நுடிகளில் ஒரு தூய்மையை உணர்ந்தேன்,
மனசில் ஒரு ஆனந்தம்,
அந்த மனசின் வெண்மையை மனசார உணர்ந்தேன்.
ஆனால் இந்த வெண்மையின் அந்திரங்கத்துள் ஏனிந்த கருந்துளை?
முற்றும் மூன்று உலகத்தை தன் உள்ளங்கையால் ஆண்வதற்கு, ஏனிந்த பேராசை?
நான் மண்டோதரி, சாஸ்திர பூரணமாக அவரின் கை பிடித்தேன்
அக்னியின் சாட்சியில் அவர் உலகத்தில் பங்கு கேட்டேன்
ஆனால் அவர் இதயத்தின் ஆழத்தில் என் ஆட்சி செல்லவில்லையே, ஏன்?
என் விழியன் மொழி அவருக்கு புரியவில்லயே........
என் அதரங்களின் ஏக்கக்குரல் என்னவரின் அட்டஹாசதில் எங்கே புதைந்ததோ ?
என் மௌனமே அவருக்கு ஒரு ஆயுதமாகிவிட்டதோ?
அவரின் பிழைகளை கண்டு என் நெஞ்சம் பதறுகிறது
என் குரல் ஒரு மௌனகுயிலின் குரலாக என்னில் தங்கிவிட்டதே? ஏன்?
அஞ்சாநெஞ்சம் கொண்ட என்னவரின் வீழ்ச்சியை நான் உண்மையாக உணர்கிறேன்
என் உணர்வு அவருக்கு புரியவில்லயே..........
சிவனின் பக்தன் என்னவர் ராவணனின் வீரமரணத்தை நான் கண்ணார காண்கிறேன்
என்னால் ஒன்றும் சைய்யமுடியவில்லயே .....
இதுதான் விதியா ?
இதுதான் விதியின் விளையாட்டா?
நான் மண்டோதரி, ராவணனின் தரும பத்தினி
என்னவரின் வீழ்ச்சியில் நான் சமபங்காளி, கூட்டாளி.......
என்னை என்னால் மாற்றிக்கொள்ள முடியவில்லையே ...... ஏன் ?
நான் மண்டோதரி, ராவணனின் தரும பத்தினி ....
வீணையில் என்னவரின் சிவஸ்துதி கேட்டேன்,
ஸ்லோகத்தின் நுடிகளில் ஒரு தூய்மையை உணர்ந்தேன்,
மனசில் ஒரு ஆனந்தம்,
அந்த மனசின் வெண்மையை மனசார உணர்ந்தேன்.
ஆனால் இந்த வெண்மையின் அந்திரங்கத்துள் ஏனிந்த கருந்துளை?
முற்றும் மூன்று உலகத்தை தன் உள்ளங்கையால் ஆண்வதற்கு, ஏனிந்த பேராசை?
நான் மண்டோதரி, சாஸ்திர பூரணமாக அவரின் கை பிடித்தேன்
அக்னியின் சாட்சியில் அவர் உலகத்தில் பங்கு கேட்டேன்
ஆனால் அவர் இதயத்தின் ஆழத்தில் என் ஆட்சி செல்லவில்லையே, ஏன்?
என் விழியன் மொழி அவருக்கு புரியவில்லயே........
என் அதரங்களின் ஏக்கக்குரல் என்னவரின் அட்டஹாசதில் எங்கே புதைந்ததோ ?
என் மௌனமே அவருக்கு ஒரு ஆயுதமாகிவிட்டதோ?
அவரின் பிழைகளை கண்டு என் நெஞ்சம் பதறுகிறது
என் குரல் ஒரு மௌனகுயிலின் குரலாக என்னில் தங்கிவிட்டதே? ஏன்?
அஞ்சாநெஞ்சம் கொண்ட என்னவரின் வீழ்ச்சியை நான் உண்மையாக உணர்கிறேன்
என் உணர்வு அவருக்கு புரியவில்லயே..........
சிவனின் பக்தன் என்னவர் ராவணனின் வீரமரணத்தை நான் கண்ணார காண்கிறேன்
என்னால் ஒன்றும் சைய்யமுடியவில்லயே .....
இதுதான் விதியா ?
இதுதான் விதியின் விளையாட்டா?
நான் மண்டோதரி, ராவணனின் தரும பத்தினி
என்னவரின் வீழ்ச்சியில் நான் சமபங்காளி, கூட்டாளி.......
என்னை என்னால் மாற்றிக்கொள்ள முடியவில்லையே ...... ஏன் ?
நான் மண்டோதரி, ராவணனின் தரும பத்தினி ....
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Billi, my cat
Eliot sings praise to Macavity
and I sing an ode to my foolish one;
I can get away calling her foolish,
it is a pity,
as I think she does not understand me or my tongue!
she came to me when she was a kitten
abandoned on a ledge by her wanderlust mother;
we put up with her feeble cries for days and days on end
trying to feed her bread and milk
but all she wanted
was
to be adopted !
All of eight inches and eyes so wide, she pleaded and pleaded
until I relented.
we brought her home in a little basket
and how we struggled to make he eat!
not eggs, not butter, not milk she wanted
nothing but the most expensive catfood and cheese she coveted!
She brings me many gifts
dead rats to live ones and baby squirrels
snakes and chameleons and bulbul chicks
sometimes roaches, sometimes grasshoppers!
She thinks I will be impressed
and instead gets all the admonishments!
she is now my pet, companion and soul mate,
I have to accept, that to wake up twice a night is my fate,
to open and close, and close and open, the door
for her to enter and leave.
come night, all is forgotten and
nothing but my comforter
is where she loves to snuggle into
and purr and purr
in the middle of the night!
She is my cat Billi, my little grey cat Billi
and I sing an ode to my foolish one;
I can get away calling her foolish,
it is a pity,
as I think she does not understand me or my tongue!
she came to me when she was a kitten
abandoned on a ledge by her wanderlust mother;
we put up with her feeble cries for days and days on end
trying to feed her bread and milk
but all she wanted
was
to be adopted !
All of eight inches and eyes so wide, she pleaded and pleaded
until I relented.
we brought her home in a little basket
and how we struggled to make he eat!
not eggs, not butter, not milk she wanted
nothing but the most expensive catfood and cheese she coveted!
She brings me many gifts
dead rats to live ones and baby squirrels
snakes and chameleons and bulbul chicks
sometimes roaches, sometimes grasshoppers!
She thinks I will be impressed
and instead gets all the admonishments!
she is now my pet, companion and soul mate,
I have to accept, that to wake up twice a night is my fate,
to open and close, and close and open, the door
for her to enter and leave.
come night, all is forgotten and
nothing but my comforter
is where she loves to snuggle into
and purr and purr
in the middle of the night!
She is my cat Billi, my little grey cat Billi
Friday, January 15, 2010
silences
silent language
silent look
silent thought
silent talk
silent communication
silent people
silent sleep
silenced language
silenced look
silenced thought
silenced talk
silenced communication
silenced people
silenced sleep
Ah! What difference !
silent look
silent thought
silent talk
silent communication
silent people
silent sleep
silenced language
silenced look
silenced thought
silenced talk
silenced communication
silenced people
silenced sleep
Ah! What difference !
Thursday, January 14, 2010
My Hero
My Hero
Thick black hair streaked with white hair in between, plaited to waist length, draped in a navy blue sari and a white blouse she looked every inch a grandma. When I saw her for the first time in my late teens (my memories of her do not go back any further) I kind of connected with her.
Her welcome disarming smile put me at ease and at that moment, I recollect now three decades and a half later, our age difference had melted. The first question I remember she asked me was' coffee na tea a'?
In her mid eighties now, her charm and smile remain the same, though I detect a slow down in her vigour and energy in the past couple of visits. I am unable to visit her as much as I would want to as we live in different cities and my work keeps me busy.
"Life doles out different cards to people and one should make the most of what we get. I never ask 'why me' because I fear I might get the answer 'why not you'?", she once told me. And what a life she has lived !
Married at a tender age of 16, which she says was late during her time, she came to an unknown city to start life afresh. She put behind a difficult time and a grave scandal in her father's house. I think she carried the guilt of having found her pregnant sister hanging from the roof beam. She still talks of her sister "J" with great fondness and a feeling of nostalgic attachment.
Although I have never seen her talk with remorseness, she often felt she would have done well if she had studied further. And Why not? She had topped her school and secured 100% in Maths in what she calls as metriculation.
I thought her marriage was a mis-match as I found her smarter and definitely more intelligent than her husband. Her husband undoubtedly was a good-natured man, but when it came to Pythagoras theorem and wisdom of the world, she scored a notch above him :)
She braved a husband with TB, loss of his job, a schizophrenic son and financial problems with great dignity and no complaints. I have always seen her celebrate all festivals with gusto. No compromises as far as celebration was concerned- food, clothes or rituals- she follows them all to the T. I think that is what keeps her spirit going.
She made the best of rangoli in front of the little deity in her kitchen and what colour combinations ! With all demanding things going around her, she still found time for the traditional Dussara celebrations, bringing out the little dolls from the age old boxes and decorate them, inviting women and giving them gifts to take home.
With all this, she volunteered to bring up her daughter's both children during their infant years to facilitate her daughter attend office in peace in a different city.
She bore the wrath of her son as he felt it was she who was responsible for his failure in Class X.
Many times she had to be literally saved from his physical poundings. She would be bruised all over, but still manage to cook and serve a wholesome hot meal to him and her husband without a flinch of the facial muscle. Though her son has mellowed a great deal from then, he still needs care which she unfailingly gives.
She had to take care of him during his convalescence from an accident for over a year and a half a few years ago taking him to hospital, braving his orthopedic surgery, urging him to exercise and what not!
To me she was a Hero then and she is my hero now!
During her early sixties, a gentle nudge from a cyclist of the road gave her a fracture. She still walks with a limp and a walking stick. She braved this too with a smile and 'what to do'?
No excuses from her if you please. She attends all family functions with enthusiasm along with her son however difficult it may be for her. He is 60 years old and she takes him out for visits and outings when he expresses a desire to go out.
Is it mother's love or her genial attitude? I am still to understand.
It isn't over yet. A recent illness had hospitalised her for many days. She has lost sensation in both her palms and still manages half her housework. How? I don't have an answer.
Some years ago she confided to me while attending a function in a temple, "I don't understand this concept of God, and going to temple and praying", she told me. Why such frenzy? Don't we have to fight our battles ourselves? Why such emotional crutch? She asked me.
I don't have an answer.
She is my hero.
Thick black hair streaked with white hair in between, plaited to waist length, draped in a navy blue sari and a white blouse she looked every inch a grandma. When I saw her for the first time in my late teens (my memories of her do not go back any further) I kind of connected with her.
Her welcome disarming smile put me at ease and at that moment, I recollect now three decades and a half later, our age difference had melted. The first question I remember she asked me was' coffee na tea a'?
In her mid eighties now, her charm and smile remain the same, though I detect a slow down in her vigour and energy in the past couple of visits. I am unable to visit her as much as I would want to as we live in different cities and my work keeps me busy.
"Life doles out different cards to people and one should make the most of what we get. I never ask 'why me' because I fear I might get the answer 'why not you'?", she once told me. And what a life she has lived !
Married at a tender age of 16, which she says was late during her time, she came to an unknown city to start life afresh. She put behind a difficult time and a grave scandal in her father's house. I think she carried the guilt of having found her pregnant sister hanging from the roof beam. She still talks of her sister "J" with great fondness and a feeling of nostalgic attachment.
Although I have never seen her talk with remorseness, she often felt she would have done well if she had studied further. And Why not? She had topped her school and secured 100% in Maths in what she calls as metriculation.
I thought her marriage was a mis-match as I found her smarter and definitely more intelligent than her husband. Her husband undoubtedly was a good-natured man, but when it came to Pythagoras theorem and wisdom of the world, she scored a notch above him :)
She braved a husband with TB, loss of his job, a schizophrenic son and financial problems with great dignity and no complaints. I have always seen her celebrate all festivals with gusto. No compromises as far as celebration was concerned- food, clothes or rituals- she follows them all to the T. I think that is what keeps her spirit going.
She made the best of rangoli in front of the little deity in her kitchen and what colour combinations ! With all demanding things going around her, she still found time for the traditional Dussara celebrations, bringing out the little dolls from the age old boxes and decorate them, inviting women and giving them gifts to take home.
With all this, she volunteered to bring up her daughter's both children during their infant years to facilitate her daughter attend office in peace in a different city.
She bore the wrath of her son as he felt it was she who was responsible for his failure in Class X.
Many times she had to be literally saved from his physical poundings. She would be bruised all over, but still manage to cook and serve a wholesome hot meal to him and her husband without a flinch of the facial muscle. Though her son has mellowed a great deal from then, he still needs care which she unfailingly gives.
She had to take care of him during his convalescence from an accident for over a year and a half a few years ago taking him to hospital, braving his orthopedic surgery, urging him to exercise and what not!
To me she was a Hero then and she is my hero now!
During her early sixties, a gentle nudge from a cyclist of the road gave her a fracture. She still walks with a limp and a walking stick. She braved this too with a smile and 'what to do'?
No excuses from her if you please. She attends all family functions with enthusiasm along with her son however difficult it may be for her. He is 60 years old and she takes him out for visits and outings when he expresses a desire to go out.
Is it mother's love or her genial attitude? I am still to understand.
It isn't over yet. A recent illness had hospitalised her for many days. She has lost sensation in both her palms and still manages half her housework. How? I don't have an answer.
Some years ago she confided to me while attending a function in a temple, "I don't understand this concept of God, and going to temple and praying", she told me. Why such frenzy? Don't we have to fight our battles ourselves? Why such emotional crutch? She asked me.
I don't have an answer.
She is my hero.
An ode to new love
The little birdie
peeps out of the hollow
checking for unknown dangers
she is a new mother but she knows them(dangers) all
the father has bid her adieu
she knows not the father's role
and takes her job
more seriously than she can care
eyes sharp, beak poised
looking for grub
to satiate the
seemingly insatiable
burgeoning bodies
that soon will outgrow the hollow
one morning she comes back
after a long rummage
with
a nice fat worm in her beak
to see
her horde gone
her hollow void
remnants abound
worm unheeded
there is despair
serious sorties
to reconnoiter
the predestined
seasons change
esprit anew
will the birdie ever learn?
peeps out of the hollow
checking for unknown dangers
she is a new mother but she knows them(dangers) all
the father has bid her adieu
she knows not the father's role
and takes her job
more seriously than she can care
eyes sharp, beak poised
looking for grub
to satiate the
seemingly insatiable
burgeoning bodies
that soon will outgrow the hollow
one morning she comes back
after a long rummage
with
a nice fat worm in her beak
to see
her horde gone
her hollow void
remnants abound
worm unheeded
there is despair
serious sorties
to reconnoiter
the predestined
seasons change
esprit anew
will the birdie ever learn?
The unfairness of it all
the deep blue of the blue sky
the white of the white cloud
the yellow of marigold
the red of gulmohur
the pink of baby's cheeks
the green of carpet grass
the indigo of the night sky
So many colours and yet only one lifetime?
unfair. Whom to complain to?
the white of the white cloud
the yellow of marigold
the red of gulmohur
the pink of baby's cheeks
the green of carpet grass
the indigo of the night sky
So many colours and yet only one lifetime?
unfair. Whom to complain to?
Sunrise
The sunrise ! totally indescribable. Each time different.
As moods.
Fiery orange to mellow yellow.
Angry red to pleasant pink.
Take your pick each day and live with it.
As moods.
Fiery orange to mellow yellow.
Angry red to pleasant pink.
Take your pick each day and live with it.
Trees
Trees. Such beautiful creations. They fascinate me so. When I look at them I feel each one has something to say to me. They all seem to have a character of their own. They may look alike at the first glance but every single one is so uniquely different from the other. The way the branches seem to spread makes you feel that they carry their signature on them.
I have watched this neem grow for the past five years. When I saw him first he was a tiny puny one, may be just five to six feet tall with scanty branches peeping behind the compound wall telling people, I am here. Surviving. Take a look.
No bird cared for him except for perhaps the pirinia which would hop from one branch to another just to take a sojurn once in a while.
Come early summer, his leaves would turn yellow and fall off leaving him bare, bereft of whatever charm he possessed.
How many times I have wondered if he would survive to see the next season.
My heart would go out to him when his branches would be shorn off by some unknown hands for whatever reason.
Still he stood his grounds. And say, I withstood this one too.
Now he stands tall and majestic flowering and fruiting at the right time, spreading his branches wide, almost reaching up to the fourth floor. He hosts birds galore, right from the annoying koyal to the booming voiced koukal to the tiniest purple sun bird. The first 'good morning' to me comes from the red vented bulbul perching on the peripheral branch of this special friend of mine. He attracts babblers by the dozen. I have even spotted a lone shikra on him at times.
His green canopy is such a pleasure to my tired evening eyes. I suspect at times he moves his branches to say hello and calls out a silent 'buck up, keep going'!
I dread the day when I might have to move out. I will miss you then my friend, But until then.....
I have watched this neem grow for the past five years. When I saw him first he was a tiny puny one, may be just five to six feet tall with scanty branches peeping behind the compound wall telling people, I am here. Surviving. Take a look.
No bird cared for him except for perhaps the pirinia which would hop from one branch to another just to take a sojurn once in a while.
Come early summer, his leaves would turn yellow and fall off leaving him bare, bereft of whatever charm he possessed.
How many times I have wondered if he would survive to see the next season.
My heart would go out to him when his branches would be shorn off by some unknown hands for whatever reason.
Still he stood his grounds. And say, I withstood this one too.
Now he stands tall and majestic flowering and fruiting at the right time, spreading his branches wide, almost reaching up to the fourth floor. He hosts birds galore, right from the annoying koyal to the booming voiced koukal to the tiniest purple sun bird. The first 'good morning' to me comes from the red vented bulbul perching on the peripheral branch of this special friend of mine. He attracts babblers by the dozen. I have even spotted a lone shikra on him at times.
His green canopy is such a pleasure to my tired evening eyes. I suspect at times he moves his branches to say hello and calls out a silent 'buck up, keep going'!
I dread the day when I might have to move out. I will miss you then my friend, But until then.....
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