Story.

Raja, get in here. That is going to be where you live from now on. That is your house, you like it or not.

She is hardly eighteen, he is all of twenty two. She is naive, and completely unaware of a future. He is bold, intelligent and a man of dreams. She walks quietly by his side, head bowed down under the immense uncertainty of a future. He waves to her family, head held high with all his expectations. She is clueless. He is certain.
The jutka comes to a halt outside the majestic house. As the jutka starts to crawl towards the station with the man and his woman, the woman watches her entire past come crashing down on her,slowly moving away from her: her house, her sisters, brothers, the poonai and the thinnai, the thulasi plant and her dearest lakshmi, the most innocent cow she had ever seen. She finds it hard to come to terms with a different and strange man, his close cropped hair and his smell of an after shave sitting in close proximity, and is terrified of a new place away from her home which she thought would never abandon her. She is completely unaware of the tear drop that slips out of her eye in this melee.
A hand slowly brushes the tear off. She is afraid.

Amma, he is making fun of me. He keeps tugging at my kudumi.

Sheis now the mother of three adorable children. He is busy making plans for his children. She teaches them with love. He teaches them arithmetic. She nurtures them. He sets targets. She forces herself to grow up. He cannot stop behaving like an adult. She looks at everyone around her with kindness. He makes wary observations about people. She cannot but help thinking about her old house and her family. He cannot stop thinking about the future.
She is now the queen of the kitchen. The entire place is not new. She is a woman. No more the little paavadai dhaavani rajaathi. She is not even called that anymore. All of a sudden, she is amma. Little things look at her with their cute little eyes, rajaathi like eyes. She is old. She notices new lines on her face. She can no longer run around. She tires easily, but does not admit fatigue.

Granny, you have to come and watch this tree!

She now has white hair, full of wisdom.  He is frail, and fails to make sense of the headlines in the newspaper. She caresses the hair of her grandson. He frowns at the newspaper and throws it onto the oonjal admitting defeat. She smiles, and whispers into her grandson's ear. The little boy walks across the hall and slowly pats the old man on his back.
The man looks at the woman. The woman smiles. She is reminded of the jutka and that hand that wiped the tear off her face.
Slowly, she gets up from the koodam and moves into the kitchen, as her grandson follows her-

konjam paal payasam kudu raajathi...

Ex nihlio nihil fit. Nothing, comes from nothing.

The blur of the distant headlights on the velachery main road and the screaming ferocity of the approaching E18 with hardly any passengers. The vibrations shake the ditch water in the nearby canal, that lays open to the vicissitudes of nature, lashed and rendered cruelly unmotorable by the torrential rains. The stray dog that wallows in the safe confines of the shelter under murugan motor repair works, blinking its eyes at the passers by whirring past in their cars and bikes and cycles.

The stretch on the newly created destroyer of the city, the 'IT' expressway. The million stereotypes walking in and out of the fluorescent caves filled with coffee pots, files and cubicles; missing a live-it-yourself survival kit automatons floating around. The air is laden with greed, emotion, money and a dense fog of expectation. The place is empty, but for the people who work in the nights. Survival. Or more than that. The equally barren but green trees lining the sides of the road and the barrier. The occasional transvestite prostitute on the bus stops near madhya kailash. Flesh, and blood, this cheap human life.  

The gandhi mandapam road, a visible temperature gradient thanks to the lush greenery inside the iit and the raj bhavan. The sidewalk gleams with pride at its checker board tiles, with the street lights shut off and the signals out, the image of a fresh coat of white paint on the lane dividers on the dark ashpalt tarpaulin. The bridge and the canal under it, once a pride of the city, now an unbearable eyesore, a coat of acid on the beautiful image of the history of a beautiful city.

The royally aligned mount road, stretching across the entire city, breathing madras into every one of its alleys, smelling of the night and nothin else. The dangerous traffic signals that all of the intimidating trucks and buses and cars and bikes and cycles want to ignore. The t nagar bus stop, smelling of nothing but stale urine and a hard day's sweat of the million footsteps crushing the road under the heaviness with their empty dreams and hopes.

The tiny person on a scooter, shrinking under his own insecurities, waiting for everything to empty, waiting to cross the road, waiting to see what's on the other side, waiting to get into more complications, and waiting to see what happens. All, for nothing.

Ex nihilo nihil fit. Nothing.

Here.

The curtains fall on the lone woman sitting on the recliner, the wooden easy chair, and she is as compelling to look at as the rain drops on the paarijatham flower, and as glorious as the naachiyar in procession; she silently combs the wispy tufts of dust from off the hindu on the window ledge, and places the bridge of her spectacles on that nose that would put kili mooku maanga to shame. A jet black mane on the one side, visibly greyed by her wisdom in the front near the forehead, she breathes deep and smiles at the little child on the other side of the room , carelessly playing with some gadget, completely oblivious to the rain drops, the trickling noise of the water, the  beautiful ceiling of a hundred year house, with the rusty old ralli creaking as it slowly rotates,  and the incomparable divinity of a picture of krishna accepting fruit from an old woman.

There.

Amma, Is this where you grew up?
Let me look at that. Yes, it is...
what's this place like?

Its beautiful. Its a little town. 

So, you grew up there?
A little bit.

How long?

Fourteen years.

Why are you smiling?

Here.

Slowly, she caresses the folds of the pudavai, tugs at the ends of the most delicate silk, fawns at the beauty that she is on the mirror and completely satisfied, goes into the other room to find the keys to the huge wooden box with the kolu dolls. The smell of past overpowers her. She stares wide eyed at the maama maami bommai, the way she did when was six years old, when she was preparing for the navarathri with her sisters. She puts it back, silently shedding a tear.

There.

Everything is going to be different, she thinks. She climbs into the uncomfortable denim and reassures herself that everything is going to be alright. She steps out to face the bone chilling wrath of the colder climes, and wonders if anyone would have an andal procession here for the adi pooram. She walks past the milling crowd, to see the very many similar faces braving something for what, she wonders. What part of this madness was thrust on her, she silently asks herself. Then, she spots him. Life begins. New country. New people. New customs. The obligatory trip to a temple in a foreign land, with no soul, like the barren stretches of the mad winter. The socializing festivities with not a hint of the festive air. The numerous dinners on Indian food which has found newer perversions to its meaning. The two kids who are now citizens in a foreign land.  

Here.

The rain unleashes the few remaining drops of its fury on the beautiful kolam, and the little streams of the kolamaavu is swallowed by the open sewage. She walks past the door and her pudavai hooks onto the door. Just like the way her sister's paavadai once stuck to the same door. And they all laughed as her sister cried.

ayyo paavam, pudhu paavadai gaali. amma, kizhichita...
She walks into the koodam, as she spots her daughter and her husband.

Amma is nuts, she is not coming back. She has somehow found her stupid calling after this long.
That's alright, I am sure we can manage.
Don't be naive, the kids are really hard, and I need some help.
She is your mother, and I think you have to respect her decision.
Great. Let me just quit my job then.
That's not what I meant.
what is it about this stupid country that makes you all do stupid things?
Ask your amma.
Good, you stay in this stupid wonderland with her. I am going back, and I have a job. This is not even her country. She is a citizen back there. She does not belong here.
Ah, if only I could make you understand how much she belonged here...

She walks out, and looks at the people complaining about the country going to the dogs. She walks back inside, silently taking the coffee davara in hand, and rests herself in the easy chair in the verandah and smiles as the drops of water fall off the roof onto the thulasi maadam.

Have you met poonkuzhali?

கனவு கண்டதிலே ஒருநாள் கண்ணுக்குத் தோன்றாமல்,

இனம் விளங்கவில்லை- எவனோ என்னகந் தொட்டு விட்டான்

வினவக் கண்விழித்தேன்-சகியே!

மேனி மறைந்து விட்டான்

மனதில் மட்டிலுமே-

புதிதோர் மகிழ்ச்சி கண்டதடி!

Poonkuzhali is about twice the size of your adult hands. around the size of your leg. She fits comfortably in the hollow between the legs, and in the forehands. She has eyes the size of the entire universe and her eyelids bat to tell us what is day and night. She sleeps and everything subsides. All the words in the world are not enough to explain the sight of poonkuzhali sleeping. She winks at you and you notice that you were worried about something before, but not any more. Her eyes tell us that we are human. We fail, whilst she reigns supreme. She teaches us to let go, with those tiny giant eyes.

poonkuzhali likes the idli thattu, perungayam dabba and the assorted tupperware boxes more than the monkey that makes woohoo noises and those lego like plastic blocks. She runs around in complete disdain of the world around her crawling to the ends of the universe.The thalayaati bommai of a dancer shaking her head side to side makes poonkuzhali break into a fit of glee and excitement. She likes the nail jutting out of the cupboard, and is unmindful of the people around her worried about her safety. Clearly, they have lost their minds, as to how somene who has created everything could be hurt by something!

'பெண்ணே உணதழகைக் கண்டு மனம்

பித்தங் கொள்ளு'-தென்று நகைத்தான்-'அடி

கண்ணே எனதிருகண் மணியே- உன்னை

கட்டித் தழுவமணம் கொண்டேன்...!

When she cries, the whole world bleeds and cataclysm prevails. The world enters into a state of shock, and there is cosmic imbalance, and the forces of nature struggle to equilibriate this tragedy. When mere mortals are hurt, that is natural. When poonkuzhali is hurt, it is the cosmic deluge. As she gains composure, we see the kali-gauri transition in the world around us, from the brink of extinction to fertility. From misery, to prosperity. From evil, to good.

Poonkuzhali does not eat. It is neivedyam for the supreme mother. She basks in the radiant light of the arms that cares for her, and she slowly opens her mouth to accept our oblation and to bless us, to forgive us for all our sins, and to be the caring mother, at the hands of a doting mother. She makes us understand a futile cycle of life might not be as futile as it really looks. Maybe there is reason, but then every other philosophical viewpoint dissolves in her beautiful round eyes.

சாத்திரகாரரிடம் கேட்டு வந்திட்டேன்- அவர்

சாத்திரன் சொல்லியதை நினைகுரைப்பேன்

நேற்று முன்னாளில் வந்த உறவன்றடி-மிக

நெடும்பண்டைக் காலமுதற் சேர்ந்து வந்ததாம்...

She points at us and squeals and grunts. She nods her head and claps her hands and feet, and taps the chair in preparation for a cosmic dance, which makes sense only to her. She walks around on the heads of the billion asuras, the demons and wrestles with them in a mighty tug with her big tiny hands and legs. The demons, in the heads of the adults, feeding her expectations, hope and trying to tarnish her original pure self, how dare they? She reasserts, and slaps the hand that feeds.

I don't know for how long. Maybe until she begins to understand. When things start to make sense to her, that is when she will let go of her supreme form, and become another one of us, a cheap perverted form of a splendid and blissful original.

Until then, poonkuzhali is goddess, the kanchi kaamakshi with the sri chakram, the thaayar alamelu manga of tirupati, and the mahalakshmi in vaikuntam.

மோனத் திருக்கு தடி! இந்த வையகம்

மூழ்கித் துயிலினிலே

நானொருவன் மட்டிலும்-பிரிவென்பதோர்

நரகத் துழலுவதோ!

Poonkuzhali, is my marumagal.

ps:
#Strongly recommend reading kannan/kannamma paatu of bharathi. I almost cried.
#All little kids are equally divine; this post also applies to the other little ones.

(I wrote this one a long time back, hence the title)

Poonkuzhali. October, 2011.

I managed to sneak some time with my niece yesterday in between all the noisy mawkish and unbearably excited grandfathers, grandmothers, cousins, maamas, chithis, and the entire clan. I don't understand why old people start to babble incoherently much worse than the new borns in front of them- maybe they play a game with the newborns in who gets to say the most nonsensical words or make the most outrageously stupid noises that our cave dwelling ancestors would have been proud of. I am quite sure in the entire history of human race, no newborn ever won this game. The way the grand parents talk, even shastri or gavaskar would make more sense, and frankly, there have been times when I would have gladly taken up listening to their commentary as opposed to this gibberish. Why do they not acknowledge the baby as a human being and talk normally?

My sister raises her child at a standard temperature and pressure rating of 1 bar and 294 K with the sea level of the house properly maintained, and the angle of inclination of the sun's rays in such a way that most of the UV light bounces off of the house, with a sterilizer that turns any viruses into dust for a diameter of upto 10 microns, and beyond that, we are currently involved in building a miniature Large Hadron Collider to study the impact of high energy particles to kill viruses less than 10 microns. My god, parents who have just had babies are much more painful than the babies themselves. When I was young, I distinctly recall my sister's room which was a colossal mess, and that would have been an understatement. Now, she washes the room with dettol thrice every four minutes, and dips all the other people who live in the house in a solution of  Hydrochloric acid with a strong acidic pH. We have been quarantined in our own houses, and there is just no escape. Apparently, when the temperature of the food that is being blended is a little less than 29.845 C, the nutritional value is lost. We have temperature scales and sensors in our house that Lord Kelvin would have loved to get his hands on.

If there is more than one baby, the best time to be in the house is when all of them are asleep. The probability of more than one baby falling asleep is equal to the probability that I will solve the standard model in physics in under three hours. So, it is a good idea to keep off limits when there is more than one baby in the house. My own mother, the grandmother now, has completely abandoned the kitchen in favor of talking to her yet-to-start-talking little doll. How can you switch allegiance from the vendakka saambar to a toddler with such callousness? Travesty of justice, I tell you. The other day, she asked 'avanukku pasikkardha',and I answered that I was not really hungry. As it turns out, that avan was that little brat(my niece is referred to  affectionately as a 'he'), and not me. Fuming, I went into the kitchen and ate all by myself. So much for avan.

When you see a little baby crying, you can do three things:
#take chloroform, and faint.
#panic, fuss excessively, kick up a storm equivalent or greater than the noise created by the baby in the hope that it would scare the baby into silence. Fair warning, this never works.
#Genuflect infront of the gods in your poojai room, cry and beg for mercy asking for the divine astra that can put the baby to sleep.
When I see the baby crying, I go to the next room, lock the door, drink benadryl and count to a billion, by which time its over. Before it starts again.

Some common observations on the little one.
#She gets up, eats, cries, goes to sleep. How is that any different from the rest of us?
#She has to get her way, or she starts crying. If she cannot stand when she is trying, and she falls down, she begins to heave and cry. Again, how different are we?
#She becomes very restless when she doesn't have much to do, or when she is asked to do the same thing again and again. Again, the question begs repetition.
Looks like we are genetically hardwired to behave in a specific stereotypical way ever since we are born and start to understand the things we have to understand.

Life is supposed to be interesting with kids. I disagree. Life can be interesting even without them(I suppose a lot of couples are forcibly made to accept this fact). People who don't want to breed do not exactly hate kids. I love my niece; she is probably here by no fault of hers. I sincerely sympathize with new borns. The first time I see a little kid, I cannot stop but look disapprovingly at their parents. I am being told, someday, I will have kids too. If that should ever happen, please come to my house, bring a copy of this blog post just too, frame it using the thickest wooden frame and smack me hard on my head with it. 

#I call my niece poonkuzhali, hence the blog title.

All praises to the Maha Shakti.

Tell her she has the smile that rivals the smile of the majestic Andal in the sculptures. Tell her that her hair flows down her spine the way waves caress the shore. Tell her she has the ears of the snake, as she cleverly  spots the loose tile on the bathroom floor. Tell her that she sees the things that no man can see, and understand things that he cannot understand. Tell her only she can tell why her baby is crying. Tell her she smells of the mallipoo and turmeric and an entire kitchen in the morning. Tell her she breathes life into the plants, men and children in her life. Tell her she can stand up, be bold and smack the hand that slides maliciously on her delicate body, and break it into pieces. Tell her she is everything that she stands for, and she is everything that she believes in.Tell her she cannot lose heart. Tell her she is powerful and guileless. Tell her she is the goddess. 

The first signs of blossom on the plant is the first signs of prosperity in the heart. Nothing can come close to the emotional upheaval this strange thing can evoke. The sight of something blooming into glory is bliss. The sight of the bud and the water droplets slowly clinging on to the safe confines of its beauty is the sight of a child sleeping in the dark warmth of its mother's bosom. As the flower blooms, the heart longs for peace and permanence. The flower slowly fades away, withers, and falls. Like everything else, the crushed flower pains the heart, leaves a void. A void that permeates passivity, ambivalence, indifference, and ultimately educates-nescience, and Aananda.

The stick that makes us understand the random walk. As the old man walks down the stairs of the station, he very carefully positions the stick on what he thinks is the level plane. To him, that plane is not geometry; It could well be the universe, and it could well be the head of the numerous devils he would never have seen anywhere in his life. It could be his own devil, the djinn that haunts him all his life for not being able to see, or it could be the light that guides him safely. Slowly, the stick dips into the first step. Clack. It hits the floor. It sweeps an arc to see what is around it. Enough space to stand. He slowly lowers his leg. And places it upon the djinn's head, crushing his own insecurities. 

காடோ செடியோ கடற்புற மோகன மேமிகுந்த 
நாடோ நகரோ நாகர்நாடு வோநல மேமிகுந்த
வீடோ புறந்திண்ணை யோதாமி யேனுடல் வீழுமிடம்

நீடோய் கழுக்குன்றி லீசா வுயிர்த்துனை நின்பதமே...

Forests, plants, lands with seas, cities, countries, houses-this body falls somewhere here, but you are my only solace.

God bless.

Cheers.

Story.

yendi, namba aathuku pakathaathula vaidehi irundhaalolyo? Enna panra? en ava aam ku vella edho idichi katindiruka? 

andha peran oruthan irukaane, avan idha vithutu america thirumba poitaan nu kelvi patten.

Evvalo periya veedu. ethana peru valandha anga. ella ezhu pasagalume anga dhaan porandha, enakku innum nanna nyabagam irukku. andha vaal onnu irukkume, chiru, avan peru kooda marandhu poiduthu. 

Andha payyanoda maama dhaane? Swaminathan.

avane dhaan, bayangara saettai...

21 May, 2011

My dearest vaida paati.

Its raining outside here. Thank god the winter is over, this was the most cruel year in all my time in boston.

It feels so good to write to you. I don't care about phones anymore. I don't care about anything anymore though. Janaki has started to rip my mind off to pieces on this piece of property in sholinghur. She had asked me to sell it for such stupid reasons... If I don't give in, she would probably make my life even more miserable. I hate doing this to you though I could see you ache completely over this. Its your entire life, vaida. I should not do this. I am ashamed, and I don't know why I was bequeathed this in the first place. I have had my most beautiful memories etched in my mind and all of them have this house. I cannot forget the kaaka pudi on the motta maadi, or the oorvalam of the thaayar and the garuda sevai or the paneer soda  kicha thaatha got from selvam's kadai. I have become one more of those who are keen on selling their past with utmost disregard. I remember the time I wrote to you about my contempt for these people.Maybe I could go back to the time when I did not know janaki, and you and amma were the only woman that I knew...

14 Dec, 2010

Ragu.

We spoke over the phone, so this mail is quite redundant. But as much of a mad family as we are, I am still writing this one. Sell the house. I have no problems. If it can solve your problems, please go ahead. I hope to see the house one last time and take all the photos and old vaanoli magazines and ananda vikatans from 1952! That is going to be one tough job. Vaida says you can go ahead, and she says she is not terribly disconcerted by the news, which is a bold and bare-faced lie. Selling the house is selling all our dreams. I am sorry, but the seven of us have grown up in that house, and its a little hard to take. You take care, and I will call you soon. 

Swami.

30 Sep, 2000.

Dear amma,

I am awesome here. This place is amazing! I wonder why I have never been here, and I really think it was plain stupid of you and appa to leave this place in the first place! After all that hard work, he is now almost a clerk in some stupid government organization, with its bureacratic pot-bellied paan-spitting clowns. I am astonished by the efficiency of the system and the people here! People here ask me why I have a funny middle name. I tell them that my father wanted my name to have my mother's name too, and so I am raguram valli narayanan! They do tend to have problems with the last name. 

The postal clerk just laughed when I asked him for stamps to write home. He told me, 'kids these days are smart, with all your mobile phones and stuff. You still write mails? Boy, that is nice to hear!'. I am mad, aren't I? I still am not sure about the support for my program, there is just way too much competition. 

Anyway, this weather is awesome. I am just completely bowled over by it. Did I tell you I met this nice girl, janaki? She calls me valli, which is quite irritating...

8 Feb, 1976

Valli.

I hope you are doing ok. I am off to boston next week for a conference, and I might not write to you. Its not like I wouldn't have time, its just that I am going out with a couple of people and I am not sure how polite I might have to be in front of them for me to get this tenure. I am still struggling, thanks to what is appearing to be a pointless phd, and god knows when I can even get back home. That's enough complaining, how is athimber? How is my dear nephew? I might not be able to make it to his upanayanam. I am also not surprised by kicha's decision to bequeath the house to his grandsons. Thaatha has always been weird, and I still remember people in the court halls mutter 'krishnaswamy varaar, shh' when he would walk in with that funny turban of his! Its a good thing as well, less problems for us! If you are going to go to tiruttani sometime, just tell murugan I said hi... 

12 May, 1942.

Sir,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I would like to convey a very pleasant news and seek your blessings that we have been blessed with a lovely little girl child born under the vaisakha nakshatram. Vaidehi insists on calling her valli. I am not sure how soon this letter would reach you, the telegraph office remained closed for some reason that is not quite clear till now. I am flooded with the greetings All India Telegram from all my friends and well wishers. I hope all is well in tiruchi. I am quite sure you are having much success with all your civil cases. I remember kannappan regaling me with stories about your flawless arguments in the aalavandhan case. I hope I have stood up to your expectations and that your faith remains steadfast ever since your daughter's kanyadhaanam. I am taking up only civil cases because of the amount of work, and the remuneration not clearly being commensurate now that there are many children...

Hoping to see you soon.

Sincerely,

Krishnaswamy

ps:

anachronistic errors(or errors in general) are plainly due to ignorance. Apologies.

http://www.livemint.com/2009/07/24215256/The-new-edgier-Chennai-hasn.html
(Its very difficult to make people believe that I didn't rip the idea off this article. But I didn't. I wrote this about madras way back when I had just come back from somewhere after some time)


A tribute to a very ordinary city

Ah! Here we are, the city of normalcy. 

We walk on the beach for no apparent reason, and complain about the heat in the month of april, may, june, july, august...We dread walking on the streets of south usman road or soundarapandian angaadi, as much as we love to watch the sight of the davara tumbler and rava idli oblivious of the waiter's stained uniform and the stained racks and the stain ridden walls and the stained wash basin inside the hotels in these stretches. We like the trains like we like our city, and we like our city like we like our trains. We  are cramped in broadway and triplicane, widest in the Mount road and GN Chetty road. We stare wide-eyed at our thalaivar's cut out anywhere. Most of us are dark because of geography, but we will always be made fun of. But we really don't care. 

Most of us can tell facts about cricket that no one else in this country can. Not only about India, but about every other team. We idolize and defile 'The hindu', but we can never survive without seeing the mahavishnu in the early morning. We speak tamil like the way cho speaks in bommalaatam, kamal speaks in pammal k sambandam, and we don't know how tamil evolved this way. Our autokaarans are the rude and disrespectful, but some of them give us a hand when we most need it. The slum clearance boards and the vast stretches of slums right behind is our contribution to dichotomy. Our roads are pot holed during the rains in november. We love rains, so we don't care. 

We felt bad when they took down liberty theatre, the woodlands hotel and numerous other artifacts that were revered by our fathers and grandfathers. We live vicariously across generations, pleasantly travelling across time in the pattabiram military siding trains with the steam engines chugging and  spewing particulate on the neatly starched and ironed shirts of the workers; the bangalore passengers from arakkonam at 4:15 in the morning never missed the beat either. None of us ever understands the logic behind the perambur loco works station, only a hundred feet from perambur; but we really don't care.

We are mad about brilliant tutorial idli kadai, nandanam signal traffic, the age old anna flyover, vast stretches of  haunting memories in sands and shore on the marina, vaanathi pathippagam, somasundaram ground and the raving mad cricket loving crowd, the sambar mug and the sambar in rathna cafe,  unbelievably over crowded 21 G, the twisted narrow lanes of thiruvallikeni, the temple tanks of marundeeswarar and kothandaramar, the pondy bazaar flower shops on the footpath. We wear a muffler in the december even though its not that cold, but we really don't care.

We have never been bored of telling people about our marina beach and our railway station. Cheetah fight matchsticks are more of a reminder of the lovely industrially dense chennai-gummidipoondi corridor, with the wimcos and the ashok leylands. We are also the forgotten shunmugham snuff house in thandiyarpet. The dunlop factory in ambattur is a mystery to all of us. But we don't care.


 Besant nagar beach, in close proximity to the church and a lakshmi temple, togehter with an atheistic theosophical society is our belief.  There isn't much we can do without our saravana bavan, and only in heaven will we know the recipe of that saambar. The true glory our our city lies in the early morning smell of a rich aroma of coffee mixed with an equally endearing smell of the coovum.We have one of the biggest celebrity in this country who is lionized all over the place, but who stays away from endorsing brands or giving interviews, someone who does not shirk from being who he is in public with his balding pate and kurta pyjamas. 

We  believe in living life our own way, rather than walking around behaving like someone else, unabashedly becoming cheap imitations of some other culture, and we are told we are 'conservative'.

Like I said, we don't care. 

That's why we love Madras. 

God bless.

Ps:
#I might have generalized. In a gross way. I am being told by some stupid surveys in newspapers that people prefer fair skinned people. A very dangerous notion being carelessly pandered around for ratings. Sad.

#I might have missed so much about madras. I know. I know very little about my own city. Sad.

#This post does not take into account the current 'modernization' nonsense, also a euphemism for the rape of our countryside. No IT expressways, no skimpy clothes, no rational people, and no knk roads and express avenues and unabashed consumerists that we have become(yes, yes, me too).

#I might have come off as a crackpot in the process of trying to fit my city onto a simple blog post, which is very reductive and does not really do justice to the city. Sad again.

After all this, I must say, I really don't care.

cheers.

#I am being extremely critical. of everyone. very strongly. 


through the eyes of a chameleon


asch and milgram experiment. argumentum ad populum. three men make a tiger.

I wonder if he hates us chameleons. Everyone seem to do it. These creatures, these human beings, they just belive what they are told. When they have a sufficient number of nods, they somehow assign a factual veracity to it, even when the evidence points to none.  Look at him, staring at me in disgust. I wonder if he is aware of my disgust too, at his hypocrisy- with his frayed t-shirt and poorly washed jean staring at me with his four eyes, looking at things with callous disregard, yet seemingly appearing to be concerned. This conceit in his eyes, what is it for? Why is he dull and gloomy when he is this well? I have seen the little boy with the bucket of wheat paste(gondhu) and posters of politicians and little girls posing for appollo computer education, who is happier than this well fed, well clothed little twit.

nonconsequentialist reasoning. Morally acceptable. Trying to do the right thing.


What do they want? what is your search really about? Is it about doing the right thing? Is it about the ends justifying the means? Are these humans so stupid that they don't see what they are, and keep trying continuously to become something better, ultimately complicating their lives even more?  I used to travel a lot, and I must admit, this well dressed pompous lot never seems to be satisfied, and is always in a hurry to do something else. Idiots. Them and their obnoxious consumerism. Bah, I am repulsed.

information cascade.

You ass. See what you are doing here? if you don't like whatever it is that you are doing, leave. don't do it. Maybe you might not have money to dress yourself like a doll, or to eat expensive food, but you will be happy. Keep acting like this, and the society will look at you like you look at me. Do you think anybody ever cares? Don't waste your time thinking about what other snobs like you might think. You are a little more than that. 

That's the biggest problem you all have created for yourselves is not money. Its greed. You creatures don't know the first bloody thing about contentment. You always want more. I am tired of this lot. 

Take a look at the rain drops. Look how beautiful it is. Have you noticed the little flower on a plant that sprang from the crack of the dilapidated indian bank building? look at that ayodhya benefit fund shutter, its not closed properly on one side! And that maligai kadai annachi who opens shop at 6 30 am, with a packet of marie biscuits at the front counter that is as old as the paati who sells maavudu next to the bus stand. They are people too, they have lives too. But they are normal. Its these well educated ones that annoy me, look at him looking at me. Your education should have brought humility. No, its sheer arrogance and a of complete lack of perspective, that is what your education has done to you. 

'The patterns of communication hard-wired into our brains rely on there being another person's voice, facial expressions , emotions and an associated environment of trust, loyalty and cooperation... This is an important reason why we still have teachers-why we cannot tell our children to simply sit down and read books or rely on computer-aided instruction.'-Robert Shiller, Irrational Exuberance.

All the theories that you see above have been used for explaining people's behavior in influencing markets, from the book irrational exuberance. 


Cheers.


ps:
Yes, I am another one of those obnoxious consumerists. No, I am not trying to prove a point or anything.

Nungambakkam woes.


'பிராமணன் தன கடமையாகிய வேத அத்யயனத்தையும் கர்மானுஷ்டனத்தையும் விட்டான். ஊரை விட்டான், தனக்குரிய ஆசாரங்களை விட்டான். கிராப் வைத்து கொண்டான். சூட் போட்டு கொண்டான். வேத படிப்பை விட்டு வெள்ளைகாரனின் லௌகிகப் படிப்பில் போய் விழுந்தான்...'

Look at that girl manager at the vada pav stand in that petrol bunk. How old is she? I would say 14. She would say 20. Does she even know what a man's stare means? Will she naively trust everyone of them? She cannot even understand what trust is. She looks lost in this land of strange people and strange customs, which has been forced on her with callous disregard. 


இந்த்ரிய சௌகர்யத்திற்காக புதிய மேல்நாட்டு படிப்பு, சயின்ஸ், வாழ்கை முறை இவற்றில் போய் விழுந்தான்....


Let's focus our attention now to that khader nawaaz khan road. All swanky, upscale and glittering. Gloriously modern, with those beautiful neon lights and those lovely designer boutiques, with lights and air conditioners! Ah, where are we? Is this what utopia is? The west must be so impressive, that they have all these fancy clothes and jewels and watches and look! there are salons! They also have coffee shops! How beautiful they look from outside. We are truly progressing and we will continue to shun our age old beliefs until they have been completely forgotten, or have been replaced by the new age thoughts. From now on, do not frown upon pub culture. It is a glorious way of celebrating life. Bah, what will you know about it.


பிராமணன் மற்றவர்களோடு ஒட்டிபோகாமல் தான் ஏதோ உசத்தி என்று பெருமை கொண்டடி கொண்டான். ஆகாரம் வேறாக இருந்தால் பிரமனுக்கும் க்ஷத்ரியனுக்கும் த்வேஷம் என்று அர்த்தமாகுமா? 


Beggars. Menace, aren't they? Ah. How many more! How many people can we pay? Ask the government for facilities. Even if we pay you now, you will come back for more! We have our own problems. If that man doesn't get his new belt for the price of sum total of all your self-esteem, his boss will kick him out. Who will feed his family then? You, with your lost look and your no-place-to-live monologue?


Ah!


The little kids on the side walk. Why are they playing? Your mother and father are struggling. On the streets. And for no reason, they thought it would be a nice idea to bear two lovely little children to leave them on the sidewalk and let god take care of them. After all, what are traffic signals for? 
Karma. Sidhartha did the right thing. No wonder he found the human way of life disgusting.


Are you happy to be sitting in front of your computer, listening to your favorite song, eating your favorite paruppu usili and vendakka saambar? Do you count yourself lucky? No? You have been wronged? Your friend is richer? He has a fancy car? A beautiful bungalow? A lovely caring wife? You have what?
Nothing?
A roof over your head?
Daily meal? Thrice? Atleast twice?
Clothes? concerned parents? basic education? 


Ah. You have nothing, truly nothing. My sympathies.

ps:


I am ashamed of my obscene consumerism. One fine day, I went along to nungambakkam to buy my belt, and I was revolted by the thing this place has become, and the person that I have become. I am a heartless scoundrel.


The tamil portions are extracts from deivathin kural by chandrasekhara saraswati swamigal. I have lifted certain portions of the text, but not with the intent of obfuscating/misleading.


cheers, and god bless us. all.

Random off the topic.

I don't know if anybody has really given a palaapazha kottai about this, but why is there a nutritional information column for a water bottle? I think even the most consummate idiot on the world(some exceptions remain) knows that water has just a touch of contaminants and is nothing else at all. Fats? Carbohydrates? Really? As if all the fuss that is already around dieting is not enough, we, as a society have continuously succeeded in creating a glut of utterly useless and superficial data and have completely disregarded something called 'common sense'. 

movies.

I usually don't write reviews. That's not true. I don't write well-reasoned reviews. They eventually turn into  lopsided criticism with little/no grounds whatsoever. I do like to be an opinionated ass trying to act all high and mighty. This review may not reflect the actual status of the richness/daftness of the movie, but it definitely is what I think of this movie(don't navigate to the end of the post. its an order. ok, please?)

Unless there is something on the screen that is completely abnormal/astounding, I stick to my original notion that a movie will suck, my basic assumption. This is very much like the mathematical proofs that are demonstrated via reductio ad absurdum, except that, the assumption here is likely to remain intact. 

Take a statement, take up its contradiction, prove that the contradiction is silly and that the original made better sense, and q.e.d. Watch a movie, assume the movie sucks, go watch it, and if something really different is on screen, hey! the original assumption was wrong. So. change of mind. 

I am heavily biased towards nolan, maniratnam and all the other directors who make shots in which light cuts the blades of table fans for six minutes for no particular reason(I can even lie through my teeth that I liked the seven samurai even though I managed to complete the movie across a span of seven gruelling days). 

Rambling.

I am going to write a very small review of the movie ko(in addition to the million other reviews on a very open internet). Here goes.

#There is a scene in which the commandoes/special forces/extras in green uniforms blow up a loose frail wooden door with a c4. Maybe it was to incapacitate the people lurking behind the weakest part of the house-behind the door.

#Songs. There are thirty three thousand songs in the movie. Out of them, thirty four thousand are unnecessary, painfully annoying and sap all your energy.

#Pia bajpai's lips move like the dynamic of a double pendulum (the dubbing is absolutely out of sync). Its like watching a deaf and dumb newsreader dancing to the tune of katy perry's hot'n'cold  to report the news of a death of a leader.

#The harris' template to feature a song with bombay jayashree is very repetitive. One more movie, and there will probably be a mass suicide outside his house.

#stop showing us how much fun colleges are. This is probably why we have so many colleges these days, and the graduates are becoming duller that they seem to be having only fun and are probably doing nothing else.

#Four people, with guns and bags slung over the shoulder, at the corner of an intersection with a traffic police, and with millions of people, get into a bank and create so much chaos and nobody notices this other than a photographer. Yes, thank you for letting us know that we are hare-brained.

Voyeur. 

I am scared of medical examinations, especially when they hand me that tiny cylindrical cup that has to be used to collect my urine. 

#How do I assess how much of the 'sample' they would need to do tests? I am always doubtful, that in the 'process' of collection, I constantly recalibrate my need with a imaginary need of the lab people, and I come to a compromise that I have done justice, but as I see the other samples on the tray, I understand that I have fallen short. Even in this. The only saving grace is, nobody knows the exact measure. 

#When collecting the sample, its often important to er... stop in the middle. I had to be so careful not to spill on the sides of the cup, and also actually stop 'the process'. This is probably the most significant amount of self-control I have exerted in all my life, that I was quite content with the result, given the fact that I had to do it a number of times.

#As readers, you should all be grateful that I was not asked to do a stool test. 

ஒரு குடும்பம் அல்லது குலத்திற்காக ஒரு மனிதனை தியாகம் செய்து விடலாம்; ஒரு கிராமத்திற்காக ஒரு குலத்தை தியாகம் செய்யலாம்; நாட்டிற்காக ஒரு கிராமத்தை தியாகம் செய்யலாம்; தனக்காக உலகத்தையே தியாகம் செய்யலாம்.


-extract for vidura neethi, courtesy this week's thuglak.

Love.

He was lazily eyeing the highway, looking at the wisp of hair caressing her sleepy rounded eyes. He smiles to himself, the number of times she had pushed his hand away affectionately. He slowly turns around to see her mild discomfort, squirming on the seat, and extends his hand to prod her a bit. All hell breaks-

Madness.

The rag picker,eating on the by-lanes together with the armful of beggars and louts, with food that can pass off as garbage is suddenly interested in the incandescence of the only light on the street and the girl underneath. The rag picker, watches the little girl followed by four burly hirsute men, and the girl hastens her pace-

Sacrifice.

The child was never to be. He calls the doctor, eight times. He knows the lines are dead. He knows nobody is going to help. He is not going to stop. He watches the women wipe the sweat off his wife's forehead. She faints. She gains consciousness and screams. She faints again. She cannot go on like this. And then, he hears a shriek-

Betrayal.

Listen, if you are out there, run. Run and hide. They are coming for you. Go you fool. No? What are you? A rebel who wants to get shot? You fool. Your vanity doesn't let you free even when you want to die? Go. Never turn back, and promise me this-you will never, ever come back for anything. There is just nothing here, that can-
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love.

-loose. He wakes up and gasps. He breathes hard, and all of a sudden, a hand touches his shoulder. The same way, a few minutes back, when he almost lost control of everything. Now, the hand. She is here, isn't she? She is here. He is comforted. Morphine acts very quickly. The doctors examine his pulse. Steady. Too bad. His wife looked beautiful even after she had...

madness.

-and makes the mistake of turning back. Now, fear, the one thing that can kill any good plan stalks her together with the other preying creatures. She enters a lane. Its dark. Compound wall. She is scared and looks like the driver who misses the oncoming vehicle on the highway. The only sound from the neighborhood is the muffled scream of a fourteen year old praying to god to kill her every single moment rather than...

sacrifice.

-The bleeding ends. The baby is out. The baby, is numb. Its as if she is dead. She looks beautiful, with her blood soaked body and the big eyes. Yes, she is held upside down. A smack. A shriek. What a lovely sight. Slowly, the mother's legs start to shake violently. Her eyes bulge. She breathes hard, almost like a fourteen year old being raped by...

betrayal.

-save you. The bullet lands right across the temple, and a sputter of blood. This life, ends with no notice. Too bad. He is dead. Like the mother who had to give her life up for her baby. Nothing can stop him from being here now. He is not going to leave this place. This is his fort. Vanity, yes. Vanity...

ps:

#Cloud Atlas is a brilliant book written by David Mitchell that has a lovely interwoven narrative with six nested stories. This is a very cheap illustration of that technique, mainly to show off, but also to let you all know how reading a book could be this different. Do read.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cloud_Atlas_(novel)

#Just like every other idiot, I got carried away by gloom. I promise, I will write a happy one in my next one to make up for this depression. 

psychedelics-I.

(random sights and sounds from Madras)

tamizh nadu slum clearance board amidst a circle of slum tenements.
vetri meedhu vetri vandhu ennai serum on the radio at the tea kadai near ellai amman koil.
fliers for kanneer anjali for paramasivam.
the cracked thiru vi ka bridge.
butt road masjid, silently stuck in between saidapet and guindy.
power house bus stop, and the story of silappathigaaram on the walls, in front of the government hospital.
Nei dheepams on a blackened stand outside vada thirunallaaar in giri street.
'inner ring road southern section begins here' in green and white.
Blue and white saravana bavan board.

Neon lights. Neon lights.

Philosophy. Fair warning. 

'We would all like to make progress instantly, but there are no shortcuts. In auto racing, for example, designers struggle to make lighter cars. The best way to trim 100 pounds, is find 1000 places to trim a tenth of a pound. Similarly, for most off us, the best way to improve our lives is to find numerous small ways to change for better...'-Extract from Mean Genes

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As much as I epitomize kannadasan for his

வீடு வரை உறவு, வீதி வரை மனைவி,

காடு வரை பிள்ளை, கடைசி வரை யாரோ,

I found that this is not without precedent, as I found in the text of pattinathar. He is a poet who connects with the people who are trying to seek a fundamental understanding of spirituality by way of cynicism of our discontent and futile existence. He says,

என்பெற்ற தாயரு மென்னைப் பிணமென் ரிகழ்ந்துவிட்டார்
பொன்பற்ற மாதரும் போவென்று சொல்லிப் புலம்பிவிட்டார்
கொன்பற்ற மைந்தரும் பின்வலம் வந்து குடமுடைதார்
உண்பற் றொழிய ஒருபற்று மில்லை உடையவனே...

'After death, my own mother has shunned me as a corpse. My wife has grieved as much more than she could, my sons have   circumambulated my dead body and broken the pot(performed the funeral rites). From now, it is only you I have, and only you I shall seek.'

A very simple paraphrasing(but brilliant, nonetheless) of this philosophy has provided everyone of us(familiar with kannadasan's works) an insight into the impermanence of everything else other than infinite bliss.
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It has become our habit to dilute the significance of religion, by reducing it to a mere palliative for everyday problems. This reductive approach has very little meaning, and it keeps perpetuating a dualistic tendency wherein  the important things that have to be taken away from the situations are not. A simple example of what we miss is recorded by kanchi maha periyavar in his deivathin kural, when he quotes thirumoolar's brilliant lines:

மரத்தை மறைத்தது மாமத யானை 
மரத்தில் மறைந்தது மாமத யானை

A little boy does not differentiate between a elephant made of wood and a real elephant-to him, a wooden toy is real. We are all the same, looking for meaning in a illusionary worldly elephant, missing it for the permanence of blissful elephant toy!

There are quite a few saint poets who add that no amount of worship is eventually going to stop anything from happening, or the converse. There is a casual dismissal of the events around us as mere trivialities in the search for the supreme. This has to be read in consonance with ramana maharishi's take on how we already have realized the self, and the goal is only to cast away the ignorance. 

All these concepts of a dvaita, advaita and how the jivatma and paramatma are different/same stems only after the agreement that we should rise above ego and understand the permanence of our original self. The first step is to realize that ahankaaram is the root cause of all misery. After we have risen above this, we can then decide on the relative merits and demerits of each of the philosophical theories, but until then, arguing over them seems futile, if not pointless.(from ramana maharishi's conversations, but not verbatim)
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I saw an old lady argue, fight, swear and curse the gods for taking her son before her. She had prayed to the gods all her life, and now they have made her question her beliefs. Grief is a reaction that is biological and not a product of the ego. On a contrasting note, a spiritual passage is manifest only by way of suffering. There is no pain beyond that, but infinite bliss.
Grief, though, does not accept philosophy or spirituality(on the normal plane). My heart goes out to that lady wailing in grief, trying to hold on to her belief.
Your 'vairakkiyam' has simply made my philosophy repugnant, and my skepticism cowers in front of your rage.  To you, and to the million others who feel abandoned and let down, my prayers. Ironically.

God bless.

ps:
#I am not trying to reduce kannadasan's poem's stature. Simplicity, as da vinci(?) said, is the ultimate form of sophistication. His elegance is unparalleled. Respect.
#This might not qualify as philosophy. Unfortunately, I could not fit this into any other genre. Apologies for disappointing.
#I read the blog post once, and I could sense a strong sense of didacticism with a dose of insensitivity. apologies again.
#The initial italicized extract might strike a discordant note with the rest of the blog. It was interesting, just an fyi.

"i believe that newton could hold a problem in his mind for hours and days and weeks until it surrendered to him its secret"-jonh maynard keynes, on sir Isaac Newton.

Abstinence is actually quite easy. Just try what I do. Whenever you are prompted to indulge in an orgy of spending, or something equally foolish, even though it were an absolute requirement, just ask yourself this question-

'appadi enna pudungitennu ippo enakku idhu?'

an interesting variant of the same question is,

'idha vechi enna pudunga poren'.

The first one, makes me feel guilty, about being a good-for-nothing, when it is crystal clear that I am, but I still am not comfortable walking around with a tag like that. The second one is both a deterrent, and is less annoying in that there is less to come to terms with my actual shortcomings. But this technique is only for worthless people, whose net present value would make the books of bear sterns look neat and those whose levels of self-esteem is equal to the level of water in chembarambakkam eri in the month of may.

The burkit road-venkatnarayana road junction presents a remarkable sight-amidst the heat, haze and dust of the city, there is a beautiful tree with fully bloomed flowers, white ones, coloring the entire landscape, offsetting the garish and straight-edged glass building right behind it. A beautiful piece of geometry, right in front of the perfect edges that poirot would have approved of.

Dichotomy.

Life is like that, wouldn't you agree?

Spirituality? you laugh!

The way to realization is suffering.

Come now, do not mock. Madness you say?

The cost of making a wedge-Rs 1000

The cost of material purchase -Rs 8000

look on the prof's face after he notices your blunder and realizes that everything was a waste?-priceless.

Do tell me the story of your past. Would you? No? Why are you so uncomfortable with the past? Can you not come to terms? A lot of denial is only madness. Wink, and the year is gone, the flowers bloom and fade. The lovely green fields will soon be flooded. Oh yes, there will be floods. Will there be hope?

No? randomness is a good answer!

Yes, there is something to hope for. Even the law of large numbers says that everything tends towards the average over repetitions. Human behavior must be subject to this too.

No you say?

The masala dosai, has to have a basic requirement-masala. The dosai, as any idiot would agree is the primary ingredient. Without it, it is only masala. It is like a drilling machine that is not a machine. Mysore bonda that is not bonda. Someone has to remind the staff at the canteen to stuff some masala into a dosai before I start a saalai mariyal right outside the canteen. It is not technically a saalai, just a sandhu. so, a sandhu mariyal then. Don't even get me started on the ghee masala roast.

Come now, put your ear to your heart and listen to what it says. Of course you cannot, and that is why you say No! Listen to the river, or go ask those flowers. Ask them what hope is. Ask the little girl at the traffic signal, looking at the skies for redemption. Do you see her face? Poor thing you say? But things even out, yes? God is not heartless. just a clever illusionist who deceives us into deceiving ourselves.

You see those crushed flowers on the road. Do they scream in agony?

Go on then.

i repeat, suffering is the first step towards realizing.

realizing what, you ask? Ah, now, therein lies the answer to everything.

Cheers.

'mortals, congratulate yourselves that so great a man has lived for the honor of the human race'

-sir isaac newton's epitaph at the westminster abbey.

References

http://news.softpedia.com/news/What-is-ergodicity-15686.shtml

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Law_of_large_numbers

A little kid wearing a sleeveless with an american university's logo on it in the middle of nowhere in a hamlet in kumbakonam. His face lights up when a plastic top unwinds and hits the dusty earth and spins perfectly, and finally topples to its inevitable fall. He picks up the top and tries to weave the cord around it and keeps trying again until he sees the top spin. satisfaction. happiness.

I am not sure if he would have noticed had the world stopped around him as he was wrapping the cord around. The only thing he knows is the top, and that when the top spins, he smiles.

He spots my friend's camera, comes up to him and asks him to take a picture. My friend obliges. The boy looks at his face on the slr's display, and runs back happily.

I don't see how life can get any simpler.

A bus, a mini bus, squeezes in as so many people, that all you are when you get out of it is your own pulp. The ever persistent honking is just another habit, a lifestyle statement.

A million little thaeneer viduthis and cool bars line the road at the end of the lower anaicut towards jeyamkondan and gangai konda cholapuram, with the occasional sight of the tender coconuts.

A dilapidated bus stand guards the fortress like structure of the temple. Adjoining the walls of the temple are walls of huts, thankfully not destroyed citing the words 'heritage', 'splendor', or 'glory'. Thankfully, sensibility and the interests of the people have survived. Also, a beautiful little puddle of sewer right behind the temple walls, and leaking into the temple itself, provides a disturbing vision of something poetic tarnished by reality.

have you observed, that at times, life is beautiful like the most beautiful song?

or, that happiness dawns all of a sudden for no apparent reason when everything else is going from bad to worse?I haven't. that's why.

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I used to have glasses. I wanted to wear them again, for a host of reasons, some of them being-

#to look at life in a different way.

#to make cheap statements like above.

#my life sucks(that's quite normal).

I managed to get a poly carbonate lens which cost me one half of my stipend. The other half was for the frame, which was procured by a very smart gentleman currently in chicago. I wanted something very inexpensive, and very non-flashy, and I got the complement of it. The sum of my requirement and his procurement is 0. 1+-1.

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The sight of well organized editions of magazines in the house is a very welcome sight, as opposed to a haphazard maze of flotsam and jetsam everywhere.

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The sight of my sight in the mirror is a very strong cue from the gods to direct my attention away from vanity and narcissism, because I cannot look myself in my eyes with the glasses. They don't look bad, but they look flashy and positively gaudy. I look like a street hooker trying to pass off as an expensive escort and failing miserably in the process. I am two steps short of being asked for hourly rates. I look like the women who would appear in unimportant ads trying to pass off as young mothers and in the process fooling no one. I have become the cynosaur of all the other eyes, who ask me why I am out on the streets during the day. I used to feel very uncomfortable when someone asked me to look in their eyes, because I was definitely not fit to do that morally, but now, I don't want people to analyze my eyes with these glasses.

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A vavvaal in the house in madras in the evening. I am surprised, and very concerned. A poor bat, completely lost, in a strange and possibly vengeful world. It is not there on purpose is it? It has no direction, nor has it anyone to help it find a way. It must trust its own senses, and place its life on the hands of whatever it is that runs whatever that should be run. A struggle. Fly away. On your own. Go.

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I found excellent material for explaining concorde fallacy. After having spent my entire fortune on this 'do-it-yourself-prostitute' kit, I see that I am clearly not happy with the results. Yes, I have never been happy, that point aside, I think the sunk costs should have stopped me from buying the lens in addition to an already expensive frame. Thinking about what kind of a walking philosophical human blunder that I am, I think I quite got away with it. Time to do something even more stupid and raise the stakes of my mediocrity and valuelessness of my self esteem.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunk_costs

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Witnessing something pleasant is refreshing.

A thulasi plant which silently sprouts tiny leaves at the junctions of stems. coffee at bakya's with a friend from a long time back. Music.

I would want my life to end like this. Looking out of the window at the rain drops fall on the thulasi leaves, listening to bhaja govindam. with a coffee tumbler in the hand, davara in another, and staring at the residual sugar coated with the golden tint of the coffee, the color of the sun washed by a waterfall, staring at the glorious radha and krishna on the picture on the wall, and.

Cheers.

நானெனும் பொய்யை நடத்துவோன் நான்
ஞானச் சுடர்வானில் செல்லுவோன் நான்
ஆனபொருள்கள் அனைத்திலும் ஒன்றாய்
அறிவாய் விளங்குமுதற் சோதி நான் !

Slow motion suicide.

http://thecontentfarm.tumblr.com/post/2975433444/how-to-sob-uncontrollably

#if you want my opinion(I have no idea why you would want mine), since I have a normal inclination to preach for free and not give two hoots about not practising it, here it is-don't take 12 C. you know, the bus, from saligramam to mylapore. Its meant for a different purpose, for transporting broken axles, loose seats and dust and filth across arcot road, venkat narayana road and rk mutt road. take the train.

The best part about being a loser is, nobody really cares, and I know this for a fact.

#Every place is expensive. I always thought eating out would turn out to be an expensive affair, but these days you have to sell your organs if you want to have a sumptuous lunch in a decent restaurant. also, if you want to buy vegetables or the occasional fruit, rice, pulses, anything that you might require to survive. So, we are being forced on a path of sainthood, hence, inflation is for the greater good of the masses.

You can be smart and successful, or you can be either. But if you are neither, you are as good as the next stray animal on the streets.

#i have never been a fan of those big fancy eat outs and I settled for a krishna sweets snack of poli. It was Rs 15 a week back, and they changed it to Rs 20 right in front of my eyes, even as lord krishna on a photo was winking mischievously. not at me, but at the indian population in general. more leelai would follow I suppose. Thankfully the poli was the same size, as opposed to saravana bavan, where dosai is being served with magnifying glasses these days.

hopes, more often than not, are merely false promises for some.

Ragi malt is excellent with heritage rather than arokya, and I don't know how my dead tongue could even discern the change. Probably because I drank it with curdled milk, or maybe I diluted one part of milk with 15 parts of corporation water. The next best thing to condensed milk is condensed milk. no contest. The next best thing to pooshnika verkadalai kootu is only that.

Every second of indulging in negativity is glorious. That is the only thing some are capable of.

The mind wanders in search of peace and happiness, and finds it in the most loveliest of the places. I was exhausted from all the travelling throughout the day, that when I reached thanjavur in the evening with a friend, I was completely drained of all feelings in the limbs. It is not an ordinary feeling to be dazed by something just by looking at it. At the periya koil, it is different-the temple looks at you, and intimidates you into submitting to its ferocity. I have always meaninglessly traveled for far too long now, in search of hope. I apparently have taken a metaphor far too seriously, to journey far and wide to find hope. I haven't yet. Neither hope, nor meaning.

Only the grand vestiges of an architectural marvel, which is yet to be surpassed in terms of the scale of the feat.

HR responses rejecting my application. A hypothetical response I always intended to send.

Dear Kathy,

I was shocked by your apology yesterday. You had sent me an email about how you were sorry and had decided to pursue other candidates for the janitorial engineer position. I am horrifed not by the rejection, but by how sad you had felt on hearing such a disheartening news-that a stranger who lives in a remote corner of the world with possible sociopathic inclinations could be rejected. I stood up after reading this letter, and started to cry. I have never cried in my life before, not even when I could not find my nail cutter. I am yet to understand how you could come to terms with the harsh terms of rejection offered to me, you poor thing.

I hope you have the support of your loving family and that with time, you will eventually be able to move on. My sincere thanks, as sincere as yours, for the faith you place in my abilities to wish me luck in my future endeavors. I am truly blessed for such noble people amidst; you have shown me that there is reward for faith in these testing times. I am sure I would have plenty of luck in my next opportunity, because of the very fact that you have wished it.

ps: In the absence of tears now,I am sending a bit of my blood sample to show you how much I care. I took the liberty to look up your address from your office directory. god bless.

there was an email from mathworks for some seminar i had registered for. The next day, i received an email thanking me for that. A response.

Dear priya at mathworks,

I am so glad by your heartfelt gesture to sincerely send me an email about how you appreciate my appreciation of your appreciative services, and I really appreciate this. I have to say, I have been getting up every single day in the hope of seeing an email from mathworks and their pious irreverence in thanking people for using their products. In fact, I just took a snapshot of the mail, and I have framed it on my wall just so that i get up every morning to see this mail that has made my life worth living.

However, in the last few days, I had registered for a lot of seminars, but I had got but one email only. I was depressed to the point that I had to seek psychiatric counsel and a prescription of anti-depressants to get through this tough phase of my life. I am still seeing nightmares of not seeing your mails. I would even tell my girl friend that I was more interested in making love to this email than to her. I had abandoned my life's goal of doing something meaningful when I realized that I would not be getting any more mails. I am sitting here, kneeling before the mathworks website, and pleading for the site to have mercy upon this poor soul, and send the thank you emails that I truly deserve.

Once again, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, liver, pancreas, small intestine...

I have used an american name, because Indian Hr's don't bother sending emails, as I found out the hard way.

Cheers.