Moralists and theologians place great weight upon the moment of conception, seeing it as the instant at which the soul comes into existence. If, like me, you are unmoved by such talk, you still must regard a particular instant, nine months before your birth, as the most decisive event in your personal fortunes. It is the moment at which your consciousness suddenly became trillions of times more foreseeable than it was a split second before. To be sure, the embryonic you that came into existence still had plenty of hurdles to leap. Most conceptuses end in early abortion before their mother even knows they are there, and we were all lucky not to do so. Also, there is more to personal identity than genes, as identical twins (who separate after the moment of fertilization) show us. Nevertheless, the instant at which a particular spermatozoon penetrated a particular egg was, in your private hindsight, a moment of dizzying singularity. It was then that the odds against your becoming a person dropped from astronomical to single figures.
Richard Dawkins (from Unweaving the Rainbow)
Interesting way of showing how unique our birth is. So being a 'just a common blue rock pigeon' is by itself not so common. Very interesting Mr Richard Dawkins. I am learning. :)
Friday, January 15, 2010
Nostalgia
The city I grew up in. Was such a pleasure to grow up in the city. Wide tree lined avenues.The leisurely walk to school in light blue skirt and cream shirt. Listening to Ponniyin Selvan narrated by a master story teller en route . Ponni, Vandiattevan and Azhwar kadiayaan, all, so fresh in the mind's eye. After 40 years! Unbelievable.
The even more leisurely ambling walk back. The Sunday morning stroll in the Lodi Garden next to school. The blue bells on the compound walls. The huge lawns of the Lodi Estate houses. The mali shooing the children away from jamun trees.
What joy!
The white washed rows of houses in solid Russian design. The huge arches. The dark galis. Especially no fear of walking alone any time. The punjaabis, the gadwalis, the bengalis and of course the madrasis. Anyone beyond the Vindhyas were called so.
We happily fit into the category.
The languorous summer afternoons. Not a soul in sight. Even the crows and sparrows disappeared. 4' O clock in the afternoon and the city would come to life lazily as if it was the second morning of the day. The 'chanachoor garmagaram' wala selling his ware in paper cones would appear magically from nowhere. His sonorous song still playing back in memory. That was the indication that it is time for the much restrained kids to go out to play. The ganderriyan - neatly chopped, mouth sized, ready to chew sugarcane pieces - seller with iced sugarcane pieces flavoured with rosewater on his cart. His mound of chopped sugar cane pieces laced with pink rose petals, smelling heavenly. The lawns watered using hosepipes smelling of wet earth on a summer day.
Nothing to compensate for such sights and sound.
The Summer nights. Rows and rows of charpais spread with white spotless bedsheets. Surais-the mud pots with narrow necks- filled with water.The common open dormitory on the terrace. Tales of partition told - Oh ! so dramatically in an alien tongue- multani, listened to with rapt attention inter spread with translations for us madrasis' benefit. With, 'The news read by Surjit Sen...' playing on the radio somewhere in the background indicating that it was 9 'O clock and time to go to bed.To lie supine and watch the twinkling of the stars in the darkened sky.
Can't think of anything compensating this day at the end of the first decade of the 21st century.
Winters! The early morning chill of October, making way from half sweaters to full sleeved ones. The clicking of the knitting needles in every other woman's hand. Such bright colors ! Such patterns! The charpais under the winter Sun. The revdis and moongphalis and bers. Such treats to munch listening to cricket commentary.
All mornings and afternoons spent under the Sun in the full glare of the neighbourhood. The transistor playing vividhbharati, celebrating Lata and Rafi's resplendent voices. The 'Behnon ka karikram' at 1 O' clock that would talk on benefits of small family in a very kosher manner. :)
The 26th January Republic Day Parade. Nothing as dramatic as Mani Ratnam's version. But glorious all the same. With no barricades and only a small VIP enclosure. Any one could walk in anywhere and take the pleasure of watching from the front row with national pride brimming in
you.
One actually faintly remembers President Radhakrishnan and Panditji from those days.
Such simple pleasures.
A visit four decades later. The less said the better.
The even more leisurely ambling walk back. The Sunday morning stroll in the Lodi Garden next to school. The blue bells on the compound walls. The huge lawns of the Lodi Estate houses. The mali shooing the children away from jamun trees.
What joy!
The white washed rows of houses in solid Russian design. The huge arches. The dark galis. Especially no fear of walking alone any time. The punjaabis, the gadwalis, the bengalis and of course the madrasis. Anyone beyond the Vindhyas were called so.
We happily fit into the category.
The languorous summer afternoons. Not a soul in sight. Even the crows and sparrows disappeared. 4' O clock in the afternoon and the city would come to life lazily as if it was the second morning of the day. The 'chanachoor garmagaram' wala selling his ware in paper cones would appear magically from nowhere. His sonorous song still playing back in memory. That was the indication that it is time for the much restrained kids to go out to play. The ganderriyan - neatly chopped, mouth sized, ready to chew sugarcane pieces - seller with iced sugarcane pieces flavoured with rosewater on his cart. His mound of chopped sugar cane pieces laced with pink rose petals, smelling heavenly. The lawns watered using hosepipes smelling of wet earth on a summer day.
Nothing to compensate for such sights and sound.
The Summer nights. Rows and rows of charpais spread with white spotless bedsheets. Surais-the mud pots with narrow necks- filled with water.The common open dormitory on the terrace. Tales of partition told - Oh ! so dramatically in an alien tongue- multani, listened to with rapt attention inter spread with translations for us madrasis' benefit. With, 'The news read by Surjit Sen...' playing on the radio somewhere in the background indicating that it was 9 'O clock and time to go to bed.To lie supine and watch the twinkling of the stars in the darkened sky.
Can't think of anything compensating this day at the end of the first decade of the 21st century.
Winters! The early morning chill of October, making way from half sweaters to full sleeved ones. The clicking of the knitting needles in every other woman's hand. Such bright colors ! Such patterns! The charpais under the winter Sun. The revdis and moongphalis and bers. Such treats to munch listening to cricket commentary.
All mornings and afternoons spent under the Sun in the full glare of the neighbourhood. The transistor playing vividhbharati, celebrating Lata and Rafi's resplendent voices. The 'Behnon ka karikram' at 1 O' clock that would talk on benefits of small family in a very kosher manner. :)
The 26th January Republic Day Parade. Nothing as dramatic as Mani Ratnam's version. But glorious all the same. With no barricades and only a small VIP enclosure. Any one could walk in anywhere and take the pleasure of watching from the front row with national pride brimming in
you.
One actually faintly remembers President Radhakrishnan and Panditji from those days.
Such simple pleasures.
A visit four decades later. The less said the better.
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.
The morning ride
The morning ride.
The reds of the gulmohur
and
the purples and whites of the bougainvillea
have given way to
the yellows.
The tiny peeps of the yellow oleanders.
The soft inter-spread balls of yellow of the acacias.
The strong 'take a look at me' yellow spread of the copper pods.
The early golden cassias' yellow on the canopy tops.
Such yellow beauty.
Makes life more sunny.
More sunny? Ha...
{written on an October morning :) published now }
The reds of the gulmohur
and
the purples and whites of the bougainvillea
have given way to
the yellows.
The tiny peeps of the yellow oleanders.
The soft inter-spread balls of yellow of the acacias.
The strong 'take a look at me' yellow spread of the copper pods.
The early golden cassias' yellow on the canopy tops.
Such yellow beauty.
Makes life more sunny.
More sunny? Ha...
{written on an October morning :) published now }
Learning
After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn
that love does not mean leaning
and company does not mean security
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept defeats
with the grace of a woman
not the grief of a child
And learn to build all your roads
on today, because tomorrow is too uncertain
for plans and
futures have a way
of falling down in mid flight
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
If you get too much of it
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting
for someone to bring you flowers
And you learn that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and you really have worth
and you really learn and learn
with every goodbye
you learn
An anonymous verse that I found so true.
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn
that love does not mean leaning
and company does not mean security
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept defeats
with the grace of a woman
not the grief of a child
And learn to build all your roads
on today, because tomorrow is too uncertain
for plans and
futures have a way
of falling down in mid flight
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
If you get too much of it
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting
for someone to bring you flowers
And you learn that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and you really have worth
and you really learn and learn
with every goodbye
you learn
An anonymous verse that I found so true.
sirai
siraiyil porandu
siraiyil vaLarndhu
siraiyil vazhndhu
sirayin
kuraiyil kooda naan
arumai ondraiye kanden
siraiyin kala kattatirkuL
ennaiye naan chaduramaga
sirai padutthi konduvitten
sirayin kadhavugal
thirandhi rundhaalum veLi selvadarkku
vazhi naan tedavillai
oru naal
oru chinna
jannal
meduvaaga
thirandha pozhudhu
konjam
vaanatthai kanden
konjam
mazhaiyai kanden
oru
suryodayattai kanden
andha chiriya jannalin chaduratthill
oru muzhu vatta chandiranai kanden
aanal
andha chiriya jannalin chaduratthill
muzhu chandiranin vattam
porundhavillaye
Een?
marubadiyum chaduram!
marubadiyum sirai
vattattin
anubhavam
enakku pudhidhu
adhu oru
punnagai !!!
siraiyil vaLarndhu
siraiyil vazhndhu
sirayin
kuraiyil kooda naan
arumai ondraiye kanden
siraiyin kala kattatirkuL
ennaiye naan chaduramaga
sirai padutthi konduvitten
sirayin kadhavugal
thirandhi rundhaalum veLi selvadarkku
vazhi naan tedavillai
oru naal
oru chinna
jannal
meduvaaga
thirandha pozhudhu
konjam
vaanatthai kanden
konjam
mazhaiyai kanden
oru
suryodayattai kanden
andha chiriya jannalin chaduratthill
oru muzhu vatta chandiranai kanden
aanal
andha chiriya jannalin chaduratthill
muzhu chandiranin vattam
porundhavillaye
Een?
marubadiyum chaduram!
marubadiyum sirai
vattattin
anubhavam
enakku pudhidhu
adhu oru
punnagai !!!
Not all who wander are lost
Heard this somewhere......
Not all who wander are lost
Not till the loom is silent
and all the shuttle cease to fly,
shall time enroll the canvas
and reveal the reason why
The dark threads are as needful
in the weaver's skillful hands,
as the threads of gold and silver
from the pattern he has planned
We weave these threads together
we weave them in with light
over tears and fears and laughter
we weave the threads of life
we take the light of ages
we work them once again
And hope the colour matches
our dream without the pain
Not all who wander are lost.......
Not all who wander are lost
Not till the loom is silent
and all the shuttle cease to fly,
shall time enroll the canvas
and reveal the reason why
The dark threads are as needful
in the weaver's skillful hands,
as the threads of gold and silver
from the pattern he has planned
We weave these threads together
we weave them in with light
over tears and fears and laughter
we weave the threads of life
we take the light of ages
we work them once again
And hope the colour matches
our dream without the pain
Not all who wander are lost.......
Gracias
Hair tied in a pony with his characteristic jeans and kurta he looks every inch a rock star. We are in his studio hut.
The early morning sun is seeping into the hut making patterns on the floor. Amidst the patterns he sits on the floor kneading the clay with his large squarish hands. I am intrigued by the largeness of his hands. It kind of doesn't belong to him. He is aware of my presence I think, but does not say a word or look at me. I am supposed to be correcting my answer scripts and working on my lessons for the day, but fascinated I watch him.
He goes through the kneading process almost meditatively. I wonder what he is thinking. Or just not thinking anything at all. His clay is prepared. He gets up with an agility that surprises me. He takes the lump of clay to the wheel. I am surprised at the smallness of his feet in comparison to his hands.
He places the lump of clay on the steel plate of the gleaming yellow motorised wheel, wipes the sweat on his brow with the sleeves of his kurta and daintily switches on the motor without letting the mud blotch the motor.
He sits on the little platform giving me a half smile as if to let me know that he knows that I am watching. I acknowledge. I feel connected in a small way.
Then the magic happens. His deft hands work magically on the soft clay transforming, shaping it into a beautiful form.
He dabs water once in a while as his form takes shape. I wonder what he is making. Does he have the form figured in his mind or that he shapes that moment of calling from inside.
After ten minutes of silent movements later the form emerges as he created it. He takes a thread and skillfully draws it across the metal plate at the bottom of the pot.
He lifts his new creation with the gentleness of a father lifting a new born baby. He places his creation very tenderly on the table as if any jerky movement could hurt his creation. He looks at me squarely in the eye and gives me a full smile. I think I can see a soul-stirring deep intensity in the smile.
Much later he is talking to someone and I happen to overhear his words.
My work connect to me only as long as I don't put my creations into the kiln. They sit there on the table talking to me telling me if I could have shaped them this way or that way. I watch the flaws in them or admire if they have turned out to be as I want them to be.
Once I fire them I don't take a second look at them. They aren't even mine any more, he says detachedly.
What a fine lesson I have learnt today my friend.
Gracias mon amigo.
Betelguese my friend
3 o clock. The wind is chill. I wish there was darkness outside. The street lights make the street look eerie as if it is a scene from a ghost movie.
I look at the little patch of sky visible from my balcony window.
My Betelguese. He catches my eye. I catch his twinkle.
He looks at me and complains. You have been missing for so many days, he says.
I smile. A happy smile acknowledging my offence.
Sorry. I say. I was busy. I missed you too.
You know Betel, I tell him, I have metamorphosed into a butterfly.
I know. I know. He says. You look so transformed.
He laughs merrily chuckling all along.
Ah! You are back with your old friends then? He asks mischievously.
Yes betel. I think you will understand. You have always been there for me. Remember, the lovely moments we shared when I would sit on the terrace water tank watching all you folks and chatting with you late into the night trying to remember the names of your friends and sharing my woes? I ask.
mmmmmm…….You were a squiggly caterpillar then, he says.
I smile in acceptance.
Thanks Betel. I appreciate your eternal presence.
I look at the little patch of sky visible from my balcony window.
My Betelguese. He catches my eye. I catch his twinkle.
He looks at me and complains. You have been missing for so many days, he says.
I smile. A happy smile acknowledging my offence.
Sorry. I say. I was busy. I missed you too.
You know Betel, I tell him, I have metamorphosed into a butterfly.
I know. I know. He says. You look so transformed.
He laughs merrily chuckling all along.
Ah! You are back with your old friends then? He asks mischievously.
Yes betel. I think you will understand. You have always been there for me. Remember, the lovely moments we shared when I would sit on the terrace water tank watching all you folks and chatting with you late into the night trying to remember the names of your friends and sharing my woes? I ask.
mmmmmm…….You were a squiggly caterpillar then, he says.
I smile in acceptance.
Thanks Betel. I appreciate your eternal presence.
suryodayam
marubadiyum oru kaalai
marubadiyum oru suryodayam
vaNNangagal illai
vaNNa jaalangal illai
vakkirangal illai
iravin kanavugaLai
tan kurudiyil
toithu
suryan veLi varugiraan
naan kaathukondirukkiren
avanukkaga
avan ennai paarthu kaNN simuttugiraan
avan bale killadi
kurudiyil viLaiyatta?
naan taiyaar.
suryane nee tayyaara ? ?
marubadiyum oru suryodayam
vaNNangagal illai
vaNNa jaalangal illai
vakkirangal illai
iravin kanavugaLai
tan kurudiyil
toithu
suryan veLi varugiraan
naan kaathukondirukkiren
avanukkaga
avan ennai paarthu kaNN simuttugiraan
avan bale killadi
kurudiyil viLaiyatta?
naan taiyaar.
suryane nee tayyaara ? ?
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?
nadiyin aasai
ennakku nadiyin aanmigattil kurai terindhadu
samudrattin periya alaiyai pattu oru ekkam
unmaiya samuddirattai kaaNa oru aasai
adil en chiriya kattumarattil modakka aasai
chiriya kattumarattukku periya alaigaLai tangikkira sakti unda?
yosikkiren
periya alaiyilum aanmigama?
teriyavillai
samudrattin periya alaiyai pattu oru ekkam
unmaiya samuddirattai kaaNa oru aasai
adil en chiriya kattumarattil modakka aasai
chiriya kattumarattukku periya alaigaLai tangikkira sakti unda?
yosikkiren
periya alaiyilum aanmigama?
teriyavillai
sariya tappa ?
edhu sari edhu tappu purigiradu, nandraga purigiradhu
tappaiyum sariyaiyum naam aNugigira murai sariya?
edaiyum etrukkoLgira manam irundhal
sari engira eNNattaiyum
tappu engira eNNattaiyum
ondraga aNuginaal
sari tappagi viduma?
tappu sariyaagi viduma?
tappaiyum sariyaiyum naam aNugigira murai sariya?
edaiyum etrukkoLgira manam irundhal
sari engira eNNattaiyum
tappu engira eNNattaiyum
ondraga aNuginaal
sari tappagi viduma?
tappu sariyaagi viduma?
vakkirangal
naan kolam idugiren
en kayyil vaNNangal irukkiradu
vaNNangalil vakkirangala?
kurai en kaigalila?
en kaNNottatiila?
Alladu kuraiye illaiya?
en kayyil vaNNangal irukkiradu
vaNNangalil vakkirangala?
kurai en kaigalila?
en kaNNottatiila?
Alladu kuraiye illaiya?
Ahalya
naan ahalya illai
avan indiran illai
avar gautamar illai
naan kal agamudiyaadu - agamatten
ennil achchamillai
pachhadabamillai
kutramillai
kutra unmai illai
ennal ramanukkaga kattirukka mudiyaadu - kattirukkamatten
en raaman ennuL irukkiraan.
engo oru chinna nerudal
naan Ahalya va?
ahalya en anudhabangal
avan indiran illai
avar gautamar illai
naan kal agamudiyaadu - agamatten
ennil achchamillai
pachhadabamillai
kutramillai
kutra unmai illai
ennal ramanukkaga kattirukka mudiyaadu - kattirukkamatten
en raaman ennuL irukkiraan.
engo oru chinna nerudal
naan Ahalya va?
ahalya en anudhabangal
What Joy !
the whiff of jasmine scent
aroma of early morning freshly brewed coffee
the sparkle of a solitaire
finishing a good book
sunbeams behind a trellis
pink sky
a giant wheel ride
new slippers
a rare issue of National Geographic
What joy !
aroma of early morning freshly brewed coffee
the sparkle of a solitaire
finishing a good book
sunbeams behind a trellis
pink sky
a giant wheel ride
new slippers
a rare issue of National Geographic
What joy !
Did-you-do-it ?
8 0'clock
breakfast ready
lunch packed
bed made
cat fed
bathed
smelling lavender
starched clothes
nice dupatta
lessons prepared
no trace of last night late night chat
smile
smiling children
yellow bus
long bus ride
spotted enroute -
pond heron, bulbul, redwattled lapwing
Did-you-do-it ? Did -you-do-it ? Did-you-do-it ?
Asks the lapwing
Now what did I forget?
breakfast ready
lunch packed
bed made
cat fed
bathed
smelling lavender
starched clothes
nice dupatta
lessons prepared
no trace of last night late night chat
smile
smiling children
yellow bus
long bus ride
spotted enroute -
pond heron, bulbul, redwattled lapwing
Did-you-do-it ? Did -you-do-it ? Did-you-do-it ?
Asks the lapwing
Now what did I forget?
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.....
a common coo
mine is just a common coo
in the world of albatrosses and galapagos finches
I am a Blue Rock
peace loving and common place.
in the world of albatrosses and galapagos finches
I am a Blue Rock
peace loving and common place.
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