On Normalcy.

The banality of banality,so to say. When you completely miss the beauty of the place because of a dull blaring monotone that makes the most outlandishly beautiful things disappear in a mirage of a resignation to life. What can even jolt us out of this reverie that we can hardly wait to go back to normalcy and walk around without noticing the fact that we are driving inside a forest in the midst of a city! No, we need to get to the place soon and leave, so let's step on it and be done with it. The banality of normalcy, I must say.

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There is probably no polished way of saying this: I went fruit shopping. The next piece of information is even more remarkable for its unabashed idiocy: I returned home with mint leaves and nothing else. As if the idea of visiting the shop for fruits on a friday night is not embarassing enough, I came back with something that I definitely did not want. Sometimes I wonder if I really have schizophrenia or some other mental disorder at some points of time in my life that makes me take disastrous and unnecessary decisions with cold and calculated perfection. I think this disorder goes the extra mile and creates an urge to share it on a public forum. So much for TGIF's.

****

I have come to two conclusions: The lady handling the billing counter gets into a tearing hurry as soon as I spontaneously materialize with my basket at that counter. She looks at me like the slug that had accidentally decided to live life and be mercilessly crushed by feet, and drags the basket with such ferocity that a terrier would have been proud of. I am not sure if they are programmed to behave this way when they spot certain meek creatures(me, yes).

Who doesn't like catharsis. 

People are extremely uncomfortable around me. I am not sure if its because of my quick searching glances towards the entrance, random smiles and facial contortions or my soliloquies which are, frankly, delightfully philosophical.  I must admit to developing a sense of extreme discomfort for the outdoors, and I have decided to not venture out during the time of the day when the entire population of scandinavia decides to go out for getting groceries in a shop the size of a match box.

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Toilets. I mean, flush, yes? There is a knob? Or, a big bucket that can fill enough water to douse forest fires? How is it difficult? It is just two steps:

#Flush

#Flush again, just in case.

Why is the world so bad at such a simple task? 

What is the point in expecting reform from a world that is filled with people who have basic difficulty in instilling a sense of self-discipline? 

In addition, some very intelligent people in the operations department of government institutions have decided to use naphthalene balls for deodorizing the toilet. This happens to be the best standing joke in the documented history till date. There is some sadistic desire to make people suffocate and understand that this is life: the nauseous mix of audio-visual obscenity that will only end when we leave. We might as well study the suicide rate with the frequency of visiting the restroom and come up with some interesting studies.(ig nobel, anyone?)

****
What is so beautiful about greenery anyway, that you are stuck by an absurd dense mass of unkempt trees and shrubs in the middle of an otherwise vibrant city? Hardly anything looks out of place here with the foliage and rough cut trees and the monkeys and stray deers dotting the roads occasionally. The roads are brilliantly laid, and not a car is in sight, thank heavens for a single place in this damned city to speed up and be done with it.

Lessons learnt the hard way.

I learnt a lot from my experience of trimming my hair today. Yes. I trimmed my hair, on my own. I think the things that I do are a little overwhelming for fellow humans or other species of the planet, but there it is. 

I am now a successful hair trimmer. No, I am not a trimmer myself, like the person who walks around in boxes in malls. I am a trimmer, by way of vocation. Vocation, is probably a strong word. Maybe not since I really can't think of anything else.

There are eight different ways of trimming hair: standing, walking, sleeping, sitting, bending, swimming, slouching, and something else. I must include a cautionary note here: only the first one is advised when you are doing it yourself. The rest can produce unexpected results, depending on how mainstream you want to be. Me, I am extremely unconventional, that I think going to saloon for a hair cut is conventional. This society has fed us doctrinaires that are so oppressive and regimented that I am going to break free from the shackles of this machine and rage against it. Rage against the machine? Get it? 

The general rule before starting to trim your hair is to stand in front of the mirror, stare hard at the imbecile looking back at you. Yes. The gloomy face coupled with the depths of despair that oozes from every single pore of the face, with eyes that have lost the will to sparkle and a jaw that has drooped from the constant fear of panic, insecurity and the complete and abject surrender to the depravity and...

Once you have done that, it is recommended that you charge the trimmer completely. In case this step is not complete, and in case your trimmer stops mid-way, and in-case your trimmer doesn't run on power but has to be completely charged to run- I mean what kind of an idiot makes a charger that stops mid-way and doesn't turn back on when you plug the charger in? What kind of delusional engineering makes these stupid lithium ion batteries run out in the time it takes for a human being to take a leak? Seriously, do you even have engineers in your workforce, or are you running the place with a bunch of eight year olds?

The way you trim your hair is to go over the first pass from the back of your head to the front, or the front to back. or side to side. or maybe the diagonals. Maybe the ends. Maybe the front, just a little bit at the front. No, now you have removed too much from the front, remove from the sides. Yes, the sides, no you idiot, not that side. That is not the side, that is the back, oh my god, are you educated at all? Are you allowed to handle knives, you could be a national disaster for all I know, what is wrong with you? What kind of a person doesn't understand the front and back?

The trimming process is now complete. It is imperative that you do not walk out of the bathroom now, assuming you are conventional and are doing it in the bathroom. Yes, we are all laughing at the extremely clever double entendre that you created with the 'doing it' there, can we please move on? So, yes, take a shower now. Forget all your sorrows, think of a glacier and the starting point of a very small rivulet that picks up steam as the ice melts more and more and suddenly becomes a deluge that is going to kill you. I mean, like, kill you completely. Where were we then?

Process improvement studies are always recommended for the completely hopeless cases who cannot do the normal jobs and have to look for outrageously stupid things to do. Other people can just go about with their jobs and stuff. I would recommend a note on the lessons that were learned during the process, because it looks like you could use a lesson or two, what with your completely tactless handling of events in your life so far, it would be very surprising since you have learnt nothing at all from your previous lessons. 

Some thoughts.
I have included some extracts from Pico Iyer's Falling off the Map(Italicized prose). The most amazing book I have read in a while. Strongly recommended, most beautiful and witty prose.

There is the loneliness of the sociopath and the loneliness of the only child, the loneliness of the hermit and the loneliness of the widow. And as with people, so with nations. Some are born to isolation, some have isolation thrust upon them.

What dante forgot to include was an additional circle for the met department officials here, who tell us that it is going to be a lovely rainy day and it turns out to be a scorcher of a day. I am quite sure he is revising his circles to include even more vile acts, condemnable in every which way like the idiot who starts honking as soon as the traffic lights are green. Actually, green is probably a tad too far from the truth in a place where signals hardly work. Its the most cruel joke of the century that we are being referred to as emerging superpowers given the nightmare we live in.

"We are now in the province of Jujuy!The capital of Jujuy is Jujuy!". This pronouncement, unremarkable at the best of times, was not made easier by the fact that "Hoo-Hooeee" sounds as if it consists of nothing but vowels"

Tortuous and sinuous are the paths that are before us. I corrected the first and the third word six times before I could find out the proper spelling with the two 'u's. Now I am not sure if the usage of the apostrophe in the last sentence is right. Now I am wondering whether the 'the' used before the apostrophe is necessary at all or is just redundant. Now I am trying to figure out if redundant is actually redundant in the previous statement. I just figured out that if I lived life this way, I would never get anywhere with doing what I originally wanted to get done. So much for introspection and retrospection.

"What would you like", a smiling waitress asks.

"What do you have?"

"Nothing."

"No eggs, no tea, no avocado?"

"Nothing. Only beer."

Apparently one of the planets that has been not so very nice to me for a while is beginning to change its attitude and is going to go easy on me for a bit. But, interestingly, another planet that has been the nicest of the nicest things(like grandmothers) is going to turn against me in the most severe way(like the grandmother-in-law). So, yes, status quo. Or, worse, ratings downgrade. Every time someone tells me that they are going through the seven-point-five planet phase, I immediately do a rating downgrade of their credit-worthiness. Actually, you might as well do a downgrade of every-worthiness. Self-esteem, already teetering on the brink of negative territory is smirking at me. Ah well, such is file. I mean, life.

Perhaps it because it is so otherworldly that Iceland leaves such an impression on the mind, because it feels so little like the planet we know;days spent there are interludes from life, sojourns in some other, nether twilight of  the mind.

We are abnormal, in that we want to feel that we would start off on a new trajectory of life that would turn our lives upside down for good, cause much happiness and abandon all our piled up miseries. Everything in this life is over-rated: happiness, attachment, love and sense of entitlement. We just cannot embrace the cold depths of the meaninglessness surrounding us, and we try to attach tags to organize our emotions, which is quite counter-productive. I don't want to talk about the cliched and done-to-death topic of dualities or other such spiritual topics which are, at best, only superfluous for the non-initiated. 

At dawn, in Thimphu, the mist swaddling the western mountains. In the mornings, the quiet tennis-ball sound of wood being chopped...At lunch, in the hotel, a team of Japanese salarymen lined up in dark suits around a large table muttering gloomily, "Muzukashi desu, ne?"(It's difficult, isn't it), as they bravely did battle with their curries.

A picture: not thinking a thought, not saying a word, not breathing a breath, looking at the never ending snow capped peaks broken only by a stream of water, harboring not a single ill-will towards anything, and this vision frozen in space-time. This is what I want. 

So, Senor Pico.

My surname actually, is Iyer.

So your father's name is Pico.

No, my father's name is Iyer.

But here it says Iyer, Pico.

No, My father's name is Iyer. 

So, your mother's name is...

Frailties. The beautifully meaningless human frailties.

I am going to plow on with my nihilistic rant. In case you do not wish to put yourself in a state of distress, it is recommended that you not go any further.

ஆணாத செல்வத்து அரம்பையர்கள் தற்சூழ,

வானாளும் செல்வமும் மண்ணரசும் யான்வேண்டேன் ,

தேனார்பூஞ் சோலைத் திருவேங்கடச் சுணையில்,

மீனாய்ப் பிறக்கும் விதியுடையேன் ஆவேனே

In what is clearly an assault on human intelligence and evolution, some of the songs these days-irrespective of language, have lyrics that would seem to perfectly justify a nuclear catastrophe on the entire planet just so that we do not have to listen to these drivelling and obnoxious little twits. It is at this point of inspection and philosophizing that I made an even more profound observation: I had grown old.

Generally, I am not one to shush the little kids with their black tees and low slung jeans at the restaurants, nor am I the one to start conversations with the nuances of the misra chapu and the thani that I had heard recently; nor do I mock the friends when they make corny observations about certain aspects of certain aspects of the opposite sex, say for instance, dressing style, etc. I do not outrage over the glossy third rate content of times of india, nor am I concerned about the many other disgusting things like sexual pervasiveness that go on in the name of sexual freedom, and so forth.

Recently, I have been doing only this. I whine. Much worse than I used to in the past, which would make my current persona quite persona non grata in any circle, even the old people. I am becoming more interested in radha kalyanam as opposed to a real radha getting married to a friend of mine. All I can talk about is theology and the absurdities around us inspite of the many beautiful things that I should actually be talking about. 

I was previously disillusioned and apathetical. Now, I am contemptuous. Of life, of love, of victories, of defeats, of money(not really), of women, of marriages, of cricket, of beauty, and of the many things that people of my age should apparently enjoy and suffer. I have begun to hate the dual nature of this life that apathy seems to be a great anodyne, when you simply do not have to react to the changes and move on and live life as if you were a great big lump of resource sucking greedy human born to live and die for some strange random reason; death seems to be the mortal cure for all human atrocities.

I am sick and tired of everything, of the stupid optimists, of the irritating pessimists, of the realists, of the pretentious pompous clowns of the intelligentsia, of the helpless bourgeoisie, of my friends, my family, of the people around me, and of my own self. Forget pot, we should make voluntary euthanizing legal.

செடியாய வல்வினைகள் தீர்க்கும் திருமாலே
நெடியானே வேங்கடவா நின்கோயிலின் வாசல்
அடியாரும் வானவரும் அரம்பையரும் கிடந்தியங்கும்
படியாய்க் கிடந்து உன் பவளவாய் காண்பேனே

ps: feels good to note that I can still write a blog like I used to, being old and all that.

Sarvam Brahma Mayam

Kunti's wisdom:
My dear nephew krishna, I want to be constantly harrowed by sorrows; for only during times of great misery do we really take comfort in your divine name...

किं वचनीयं किमवचनीयं

किं रसनीयं किमरसनीयम्  

Ah. The wind amplifies the sounds of the rustling of the leaves in this beautiful month of maargazhi, and you do not wish to wake up in the morning! Come now, get up. Look at that amma selling kola maavu. She has a scarf around her head trying to muffle out the sounds of her life and the cold from the headwinds. of her life. I have to say, the breeze sways the kovalai of the paalkaaran on the cycle beautifully, interfering beautifully with the song of the wind to produce random notes! Have you seen the newspaper boys yet? They are in a hurry, well, they should be. The winds are strong and a little carelessness can make things very uncomfortable.

किं पठनीयं किमपठनीयं

किं भजनीयं किमभजनीयम्  

The distant rumble off the densely populated venkatnarayana road slowly dissipates across the by-lanes before it reaches the kalyana mandapam nestled in a tiny corner behind a quaint and beautiful house constructed ages ago; the house retains an aura of the unhurried past, and is unflinchingly stubborn in not keeping up with the meaningless fast paced life of the present. The house looks at the people with the same disdain it has for the current generation, and mocks at us from behind the lovely thulasi plants and parijaatham blossoms.

किं बोद्धव्यं किमबोद्धव्यं

किं भोक्तव्यं किमभोक्तव्यम् 

The dazzlingly lit temple on the ekadasi of the maargazhi month is subtly inviting the chilly wind of the evening to gently comb the wasps of the arali plant that she blushes red by her beautifully blossomed flowers. Raaman looks imposing in his new attire flanked by the valorous Lakshman and the divine Sita. The parama padha vaasal conjures the image of the sight of Maha-Vishnu and Maha-lakshmi in procession followed  by a never-ending retinue.

सर्वत्र सदा हंस ध्यानं

कर्तव्यं भो मुक्ति-निदानम् 

Renganathan opens his eyes, and the illusion sweeps us, and we succumb to the maayai of his grand theatre, as he laughs at his joke and the Maha Lakshmi tries to suppress a smile that has surreptitiously gathered at the corner of her lips.

Kootu to glory.(probably the worst title for this post)

"The arc of justice bends towards something"-someone

"எப்படி பாடினரோ அடியார் அப்படி பாட நான் ஆசை கொண்டேன் "

I am simply astounded by what has happened to my life in a few split seconds. I am never the person who wants to see the bright side of things. I am quite the contrary. I am glum, and I believe human beings face perennial destruction by mutual greed and hatred and that the society as a collective only strengthens our mutual egos to dominate and outlast the others and that, ok, you get the picture.

And then, the most beautiful thing happened(The worst thing being this grammatically wrong statement beginning with 'and'). I was listening to a lovely raguvamsha sudha on the tape, and chopping vegetables, little realizing that I was on the verge of a cataclysmic change of unheard proportions, one that would change the entire human way of thinking and the blah.

I slowly lifted the lid off the pressure cooker, and poured some ghee onto the kadai, and watched the satin silky goo of moong dal rubbing off on the kadai, reluctant to leave her, lustily clinging onto her, licking her insatiably, wanting to savor every single caress, ok, what are we talking about now?

The mixture simmers to a boil.

My blood rushes to my head, and I hear the sound of my own pulse. My heartbeat, tak, tak, like that villain knocking a maiden's door at 12 in the night to murder her for no reason. I mean, why would someone be stupid enough to live all alone in a house so big and make yourself an easy target for serial killers? Its much easier to just put a bulls' eye on top of the house with a marquee going "I am alone, queer people".

The mixture, yes. The slimy thing, the beautiful slimy thing, the varnished beautiful slimy thing, the still-using-redundant-phrases varnished beautiful slimy thing...

I am in the throes of passion, tempted to taste it. It is hot, very hot. A sachin-tendulkar-straight-drive hot. A vvs laxman-late cut-hot. But let's be honest, dravid's is much better. Then again, chanderpaul has a nice variation on that one. 

I neatly touch the tip of my finger(I could have written fingertip, but no) and taste it.

Michelangelo, completed the sistine chapel and yelled 'I am extremely phenomenal'. Alan turing cracked the enigma and screamed 'Spank me hard'. Ok, maybe something else too.

I had, for a moment, stopped to understand everything and understood everything.

It was a paatum-naane feeling, when he goes 'naan asaindhaal, asaiyum, akilamellame'.

I had created the most divine capsicum poricha kootu. 

I am now burdened with the responsibility of this greatness thrust upon me. Future generations will refer to my work as the work of 'kootar'. I bow my head with all humility at this unprecedented gesture of the gods and goddesses(I didn't know how to type this word, who knew goddess had two d's?) to this simple, humble, naive, moronic, crappy, fumbling, disgusting, irritating, hmm, must stop now.

It is time for us to listen to this:

எத்தனை கோடி இன்பம் வைத்தாய்

எங்கள் இறைவா! இறைவா! இறைவா!

சித்தினை அசித்துடன் இணைத்தாய் - அங்கு
சேரும் ஐம்பூதத்து வியனுலகமைத்தாய்!
அத்தனை உலகமும் வர்ணக் களஞ்சியமாகப்
பல பல நல்லழகுகள் சமைத்தாய்!

Hallucinogens.

The child has been cajoled to sleep in the next house. The cook has been sent to keep her company. 
Two past midnight. We have all exhausted ourselves, a deep quiet has descended on us. Susila lies there under the window, laid out on the floor. For there is the law that, the body, even if an emperor's, must rest only on the floor.
We squat on the bare floor around her, her father, mother, and I. We mutter, talk among ourselves, wail between convulsions of grief, but our bodies are worn out with fatigue. An unearthly chill makes our teeth chatter as we gaze on the inert form and talk about it. The first thing to do is to send for the priest and the bearers...(extracted from English teacher, rk narayan)
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The irony of having to kill and be moved by it did not sink into the madman yet. His lust for killing and torture were way too strong for the trivial powers of premature spirituality. The blood thirsty rage to kill all the brothers  and fight a succession battle for four long years have desensitized what little mercy and human-like qualities he had had. He is now the demon, as he sizes up the enemy formation ahead. He bows down, looks at his sword, and inhales. The war, begins. His mind loosens and departs him and he sinks his fangs into his maniacal spirit, injecting more venom to the existing madness. This battle is not for his children, not for his wife, not for his hundred concubines, not for his people, but for him. All this blood sacrifice, only for his ego. 

The battle of kalinga begins.
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Forgive me for intruding. I am what you often refer to as an epiphany. Oh no, by no means trouble yourself with waking up. I am meant to show up suddenly, and shock people. Now, you wanted to know what loneliness is? Ah, a very interesting question indeed. More often than not, people are mildly amused at this introspection. 

Now, where do I begin. Let's see. You have things under control. You think you have things under control. You see things are under control. Now, one fine evening, everything you have is taken away from you, every single paisa. 

You have nothing. How do you react? What is the first lesson that you might learn? 

Would it be wise if I presume that you would begin to think that not everything is under control?

Brilliant. Moving on then.

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I am conducting a ritual of deliberate self-humiliation on the instruction of Albert Ellis...he designed it to provide a vivid demonstration of an ancient philosophy, that of the stoics, who were among the first to suggest the path to happiness might depend on negativity.(the antidote, oliver burkemann)
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He spots the blood mark on his shoulder, and thinks it is only a bruise. But then, what about a shaft that is sticking out of the wound? No, nobody would dare do that. Only a coward would. A coward who is symbolical of all that is weak and effete. This would be the work of an asura, an asura so cunning of the mind, that he had had to sink to such depths to win a war. A dishonorable person with an intention that is so low-down, that even the gods would not forgive this man.

But why is the noble prince of Ikshvahu's bow pointed at him? The personification of everything that is perfect -shoots a man in stealth.

******************************

So, now you have nothing. What can we learn from this? Nothing. It is an extreme situation that is even hypothetically impractical given the odds, but then, hypotheses are not always logical. I digress.

Going back, we see that we have been under the simple impression of a life that seems to follow a certain path to a place where there is a denouement in the form of death. When we see a trough, we expect a crest at some point in the future, because we see it as zero-sum. For something that is going up, something has to go down. But what about a loss, from which we can never recover? What about the death of our family, of a child still-born, of a mother who dotes on her child, of the husband who provides for his family? What is this abandonment, and what is a rational way of looking at this? 

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"If you think that merely reading history books would help you learn from other's mistakes, consider the following 19th century experiment. In a well-known psychology case, the swiss doctor had an amnesic patient completely crippled with her ailment. Her condition was so bad that he would have to reintroduce her at a frequency of once per fifteen minutes for her to remember who he was. One day, he secreted a pin in his before shaking hers. The next day, she quickly withdrew her hand as the tried to greet her, but still did not recognize him."(the antidote, oliver burkemann)

*******************************

Her screams wake up the entire universe. How can anybody send such a young boy, hardly of age, to the minefield? How will the little one know the dastardly tactics of the merciless mad world? Why do they go to such great lengths to kill a calf, who is not even aware of the perils of this world? Why, did the good Lord oversee this gruesome act? She curses everyone. Her husband for sending her son into the vortex of death; her brother, the man who audits the checks and balances of everyone's karma; the people around her, for sympathizing with her; the universe, for all the madness that runs around. 

That man must be tortured and must scream like her, for her abhimanyu. He must roam the earth, with nary a morsel of food, not an ounce of steel must protect his body and not one on this god-created planet shall provide him haven until compunction brings him to his senses. Yes, he must not die, but suffer.

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Is there a rational way of looking at this? Probably. The first thing that philosophy might be hinting at-detachment. The reason why we lose hold of the things we hold so dear is to learn a lesson: everything has a shelf life. Which is exactly why we tend to hold on to our grief with us in the absence of the loss. We need to siphon something into the vacuum and the only way to keep ourselves occupied is by thoughts of gloom and negativity, which had always existed. These are not something that seem to appeal to our intuition in times of joy, that we negate negative emotions to the point of calling their very existence into question. Happily, we always have the good friend optimism to cast a convenient veil and tell us all is well.

All is well. Yes. 

What goes around.

"I have always been fascinated by the law of reversed effort. When you try to stay on the surface of the water, you sink; but when you try to sink, you float...insecurity is the result of trying to be secure...contrariwise, salvation and sanity consist in the most radical recognition that we have no way of saving ourselves."-Alan Watts, The Wisdom of Insecurity

you know poonkuzhali,

All the grown ups out there are idiots. For instance, when you ask them if they had planned for things to happen this way, they would tell you that it was indeed the case. How much they underestimate the role of chance, and how much they are overwhelmed by their achievements; nobody cares, and they fail to understand this! When things go out of control, they become helpless, and only when they do go out of control, do they acknowledge their helplessness, a sense of uncomplaining resignation and acceptance. I would never do that. I live in denial. All the time.

When you tell them that the past is beautiful, they will cast a fake, longing glance and get back to looking at their cellphones. Oh yes, unabashed consumerists, not just materialists. I got a new smart  phone, by the way. That's probably why I have not written letters to you in a while. I think writing letters is a waste of time, my lovely little niece. I can spend that time staring at the phone or the computer as opposed to actually recording something on a pen and paper.

I tell them that geetha cafe is a great place, and they laugh! Bah! What kind of people make fun of rava idlis, little one?

There are so many things that I want to do like you:

Care about absolutely nothing. Nobody. Not even your mother, father, siblings, nothing. I think I am halfway there, but nonetheless.

Look at all the things with a sense of wonder. You like the perungayam dabba. I think that's quite fascinating too. Alas, I have taken a liking for the turmeric powder container. 

You eat, sleep, wake up and get attention. Ah, it is not easy, dear girl, not at all. I try that, and when I fail, I just do what you do. Go back to sleep.

You have absolutely no clue as to what the world is, or what anything is. I am trying to unlearn and go back to that. Its a very simple thing to you, this concept of enlightenment!For the old ones out there, its some complicated idea and they go on and on about all this karma and other nonsense. Boring, I know!

I usually go to a particular temple to see an old man rant about his misfortunes. I realized after writing this blog that I was a little like him, and how, every one of us, in our own little ways, are crazy.

Interestingly, talking about madness and beggars, every time I think of you:

மின்னலைப்போல் மேனி! அன்னை சிவகாமி
இன்பமெல்லாம் தருவாள்! எண்ணமெல்லாம் நிறைவாள்
பின்னல்ஜடை போட்டு பித்திப்பூ சூடிடுவாள்
பித்தனுக்கு இணையாக நர்த்தனம் ஆடிடுவாள்
சின்னஞ்சிறு பெண் போலே சிற்றாடை இடையுடுத்தி
சிவகங்கைக் குளத்தருகே ஷிறீ துர்க்கை சிரித்திருப்பாள்!

Kashaya.(astringent)

மாற்றவள் பெயர் கூறக் கேட்டு வருந்துதல் தைக்கின்ற வேல் நோக்கினள், தன் உயிர் அன்ன மன்னன், மைக்கொண்ட கண்ணாள் எதிர், மாற்றவள் பேர் விளம்ப, மெய் கொண்ட நாணம் தலைக்கொண்டு, வெதும்பி, மென் பூ கை கொண்டு மோந்தாள், உயிர்ப்பு உண்டு கரிந்தது அன்று . Hearing her man shout out another woman's name, she glances sharply towards him and casts a fiery look, but  noticing that it is not appropriate to do it in front of others, she takes a flower, looks at it and smells it, and it turns dark(burnt)!(her breath is equated to that of fire,for reasons explained above)

Katu.(pungent)


I am not usually fond of air travel. There are two main reasons for this:

#I never have enough money to travel by air.

#I have never travelled by air that much.

I was a little jittery on the plane, that my friend was trying to comfort me by talking about ailerons, rudders and other interesting things that made us be awed about the physics of flying. Suddenly, he asked me if I had seen any of the aircraft investigations on TV. Because that is exactly what you want to talk about when the plane is about to take off after taxi, and there can be no other opportune moment to talk about black boxes and death in mid-air collisions. During the course of the flight, there must have been someone who wanted to have some fun with me by testing the endurance of my kidneys and bladder. There were two things that seemed to keep the toilet sign always crossed-turbulence and someone else. I need to investigate this particular person who so kindly and involuntarily prepared me for a urine test. 

Tikta(Bitter)

He spots the blood mark on his shoulder, and thinks it is only a bruise. But then, what about a shaft that is sticking out of the wound? No, nobody would dare do that. Only a coward would. A coward who is symbolical of all that is effete. This would be the work of an asura, an asura so cunning of the mind, that he had had to sink to such depths to win a war. A dishonorable person with an intention that is so low-down, that even the gods would not forgive this man.

But why is the noble prince of Ikshvahu's bow pointed at him? The personification of everything that is perfect -shoots a man in stealth? No, this can't  be.

Lavana.(Salty)

These days my english has become so rusty, I struggled with some very primitive sentence structures. I found it very hard to string a sentence with a coherent set of words, that I could have been taken for a pre-historic man by the person at the other end. But, in the last few days, I had managed to hone my hindi skills. By hone, I mean the honing of a 'ek gaon mein' into other forms and tenses and the like. I can boldly say things like 'yahaan aao', wahaan jao, ab thoda aur and 'bas bas'. The people who know speak hindi too well and too fast that I had to actually smile and pretend to understand what they were talking about. Thank god I was not asked any questions, or I would definitely have had to lapse back to ek-gaon-mein ways.


Madhur.(sweet)


The poonkuzhali blush. 

She looks up at the sky, and tearfully lunges at the empty space ahead of her. She looks at the man, and at arms length, looks up and down the strange man. She notices a smile on the man's face from the corner of his mouth, extending up to the ears, flailing his hands as if he was inviting her! She is not sure what to do, and suddenly, from one corner of her eye, she tries to suppress a smile, but the smile wouldn't let her! She is now confused, and she is not quite sure what to do. He winks, and she thinks she should acknowledge this strange man. How? How can a woman do this? She doesn't know him! Ah, how beautiful this நாணம் in a woman! Hard to spot these days.

Amla. (Sour)
I am unusually excited over the last week because I bought a bicycle air pump. Something about that pressure gauge is causing unnecessary amount of unwarranted excitement and not even a skimpily clothed silk's image can cause this much disturbance.(Or maybe it can) This pump, its cool. Its new, and it has a really shiny dial and a plastic handle. Also, there is a new bata showroom very close to my house. If that is not going to be a cause for screaming with excitement, what else would? 
Now, where was I? Yeah, excited. So much for the little things in life. 

ஈண்டு நான் இருந்து, இன் உயிர் மாயினும் 

மீண்டு வந்து பிறந்து, தன் மேனியைத்

தீண்டலாவது ஓர் தீவினை தீர் வரம் 

வேண்டினாள், தொழுது, என்று விளம்புவாய். 

Tell Raman that even if I were to die, I would pray to be born again for him to come and touch my body.(sita to hanuman)

Cheers.

ps: 

#poonkuzhali is my marumagal(niece) as you might know. The way she blushes, I cannot  explain it in words.

#Kamba ramayanam references. I did read a bit, but the rest is just copy-paste. I think it would be wonderful to read it in entirety.

# The six different tastes-katu, lavana, tikta, amla, madhur and kashaya.

#I took liberty with the vaali story. Lots of it.

http://www.tamilvu.org/slet/l3700/l3700son.jsp?subid=1265
http://tamilnation.co/literature/kamban/kambaramayanam.htm

 From ambattur with love.

ஆனாத செல்வத் தரம்பையர்கள் தற்சூழ 

வானாளும் செல்வமும் மண்ணரசும் யான்வேண்டேன்,

தேனார்பூஞ் சோலைத் திருவேங்கடச்சுனையில்,

மீனாய்ப் பிறக்கும் விதியுடையே னாவேனே.

The stairs leading to the motta maadi is just glazed concrete. The steps spiral all the way to the top leading to a wooden door that is locked most of the time. Right next to the area in between the door and the stairs is a raised wooden platform with the pillows and mattresses. The room, when opened, smells of the 1950's.  It has black and white photos of newly weds, very little kids who now have grey hairs. The windows inside the room are directly opposite to the ti cycles ground, and the road right outside the house is next to the railway track. No sounds of traffic.

Sitting in the stairs, looking at the railways track for a long time is probably the most tiresome and counter-productive thing to do in life. No, this little fellow begs to differ. He spots the trains and notes down the time, every one of them. He nods his head as he counts the number of coaches on the goods train and becomes a little disappointed when he notices the guard cabin-the train is not as long as he thought it would be. He wonders in silent amazement as to why there are so many trains clustered around six in the morning. He is worried that the mumbai mail is a little late and he might have to see that train before he takes up his journey to the other end of the house to visit the bathroom. He looks at the unit train standing in eerie silence in the scorching afternoon sun, waiting for signal. When he doesn't stare at the trains, he looks at the chappal rack and the ammi located a few feet away from the rack, right below the stairs. Never used, he wonders why. The sound of a mixie from the kitchen doesn't seem to ring any bells for him.

The little paambu puthu right opposite to the neighbor's house is a sacred place and a scary one as well. Its almost impossible to play cricket along the length of the road. Change of plans, change of orientation. Someone would still hit the ball in that direction, and someone would still have to crawl under the thick growth of bushes and thorns and god knows what else. The open sewage licks the ball and throws it out. Now they have to pitch it up continuously up and down, up and down, and they would go ahead and play. Oh, to hell with cleanliness, there are other things in life...

The ti cycles ground is huge. But we have to cross the tracks! Even when we play on the streets, we have to be careful to not hit the ball hard, or the ball might run off to the tracks. We are not allowed there without adults."They are very dangerous, very fast trains. You cannot go there all alone."How do we even play then? One- pitch-one-hand catches, and the concept of six and out.The incredibly sweet lemon juice is here after the game. The lemon tree at the rear end of the house is huge, and it is beautifully positioned right behind the washing stone and the water tank and the well. Ah, the well.

From the one end of the house, we start to run, and we reach the kolla pakkam in to discover a whole new world of vaazhai marams and goyya marams. The lovely pendulum clock on the way seems to have forgotten about time in this beautiful house too!The creaking bed in the room right next to the clock stacks a lot of pillows one on top of the other is a delight to snuggle in whenever there are rains or too much heat. The wooden windows would blanket the entire house from the mind-numbing agony of the heat outside. The croaking of the frogs in the midst of a monsoon is a reminder to stay inside. Come october, we witness the golu and eat sundal and go the nearby temple to see little kids singing lovely varnams.

They started building a flat there. Too many houses in such a small space!That is practically not a great place to live. Functional, yes. But what can people do, it is all livelihood. They pay good money if you sell the land here. 

செடியாய வல்வினைகள் தீர்க்கும் திருமாலே,

நெடியானே!வேங்கடவா! நின்கோயி லின்வாசல்,

அடியாரும் வானவருமரம்பையரும் கிடந்தியங்கும்,

படியாய்க் கிடந்துன் பவளவாய் காண்பேனே

 Now, there are no houses in that road. Only big apartments. No lemon trees. No life.

Cheers.

ps:
#Very obviously autobiographical. I was in ambattur yesterday, and a flood of memories of the south end street. Lovely times, those.
#Tamizh quatrains are from naalayira divya prabandam. vaguely translates to not wanting anything materialistic and wanting only the lord's feet.


பெருமாள் திருமொழி-678 and 685

What are the chances?

'For there is nothing so imperfect, so helpless, so naked, so shapeless, so foul as a newborn babe: to whom almost alone nature has given an impure outlet to the light of day: being kneaded with blood, and full of defilement, and like one killed rather than born: which no one would touch, or lift up, or kiss, or embrace, but from natural affection. And that is why all the animals have their udders under the belly, women alone have their breasts high on their bodies, that they can lift up their babes to kiss, to dandle, and to fondle: seeing that their bearing and rearing children comes not from necessity but love. 
-plutarch.

This year, so far has had a spectacular beginning. There have been some tremendous changes in my lifestyle, that I am beginning to understand and appreciate and throw them into the dustbin:

I turn my bike to the right and lock it, as opposed to doing it from the left.

The wallet goes into the left pocket, instead of the right.

The quota alloted for idlis is raised from Rs 20 to Rs 25.

The message that I do not like podalanga has been very clearly, unequivocally, carefully reported to amma. (And duly rejected, but that's different.)

No more amrutanjan. Only zandu balm and iodex.

The calls I get on my phone have a significant improvement in quality-previously, they were automated voice messages from my service provider about low balance, now they are wrong numbers. atleast human.

New saloon. Same old haircut. (Let's face it, there is only so much they can do with what little is left on top.)

*********************************

I know. You are all confused. I am too. I ask myself the same question every now and then. How can something like this happen to me? Perhaps you don't know the whole story, but a long story short-I was selected to play cricket. I am torn by this sea of conflicting emotions that appear to engulf me and destroy the very person that I was, that I want to be. How, can I be selected? If we do a root cause analysis, we find that the answer is quite simple:

No one else was available.

Ok, then again, how can I shoulder so much responsibility, to be taken into confidence at such a short notice? This has raised some very serious self-esteem queries that were so dormant from all that chakkara pongal and thayir saadham, and the occasional paruppu usuli, and the paal payasam and the...oh, wait. where was I?

Anyway, I decided to go meet my destiny. I was standing there, with all the props necessary for the 12th man, the substitute, with the water bottles in had and an annoying cheering noise asking people to go for it, and god knows what that 'go for it' is.

**********************************

You would be interested in knowing about my performance. Ah, yes. we always have to know how well we do, don't we? We need some comfort in knowing that we are a little better than some, and that we fit somewhere on the normal curve-only to the right of the average line. The exceptional ones. The talented lot. Oh, no, you cannot settle for the averages, or anything less than that. That would just shatter that already fragile self-esteem and ego, that we so shamelessly and pointlessly cherish...Ah, anyway, I fielded.

Yes, I fielded at fine leg. I saved two runs. I am now short of breath from all that adulation people foisted on me for such an excellent piece of...oh, what crap.

*********************************

I'm going to give some simple answers for some simple questions:

Why did I not write for such a long time?

Because I am between unemployments, and I am walking a real tight rope. Well, not physically, a little metaphorically. Actually, not even metaphorically...So, yes, I don't understand what I am saying right now.

Why is the world such a mean place?

Because everything is based on law of averages.

Why is the mount road in such a bad shape?Or Indian politics as such?

Pass.

What is karma?

A bitch, according to a trying-to-be-hip song.

What have the people done to my beautiful madras?

Destroyed it. Its gone. 

Why am I trying to do a cho and write q&a columns?

I am bored, and so are you.

What is the point of our existence?

chakkara pongal and rava idli, as opposed to perfomance and stupid notions called 'ambition' and 'pride'.

You only say that because you suck.

Yes. ok. moving on.

Why did it take 10 seasons for ross and rachel...

Shut up. and get out of my life.

புத்தாண்டு வாழ்த்துக்கள். 


Cheers.

ps: performance, do a cho, yes. very funny. I will laugh when I am in high school again.

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.