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.