Pablo Neruda

And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry

speak of dreams and leaves

and the great volcanoes of his native land?

Come and see the blood in the streets.

Come and see

the bloods in the streets.

Come...and see the blood in the streets!

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

When a poet is born, the angels in the sky come alive from their dreams, a gush of warm water flows through the springs across the ends of the world, the tree by the river sheds a single leaf which floats in the air for an eternity, a light bulb kept in an old hut fades slowly to darkness, a few fleas keep sucking blood from the wound of the dead, hiding in a dark corner a grown man cries bleeding his heart out, a tint of wild lust is mixed with gallons of love as a woman deeply kisses the man she loves. When a poet is born the world gets ready for him, for he would soon capture in the magic of his lyrics the warmth of the water, the journey of the lonely leaf, the silence of the angels, the pain of the man caught in darkness, the passion of love, the glitter of the tear and the smell of the dark and humid drop of blood.When a poet is born he doesn't come out crying, but he comes out looking at the world with with his indifferent eyes, which will make poems out of the moments of his birth. A poet I believe is never a kid, a boy, a man but, a poet begins and ends as a poet. As if the only reason for his journey is to capture his share of the poems which keep floating like butterflies in the middle of a sunny day. A poet is born to write poems, the poems which are destined for him to write. Poems which are as unique as the waves of lines in the palm. Poetry is art of capturing the world in little canvasses. To put in words the essence of the intense moments, the art of seizing the emotions which flow through the inner walls of the being, the search for truth. Poets are not gay, they share a deeper solitude inside them which pulls them towards the words. I always wished that i may have the vision of a poet, i wished i could share the sight of a poet so i could interpret the world as he does, cos in his vision there is a search for ultimate truth, he looks at the gore of the beautiful and the beauty of what that is despicable.A poet doesn't write for his reader, he writes just to capture the magnificence of the moment, he writes a poem just like a painter immersed in painting a still life art.His poems with equal measures captures the beauty of the first drop of the rain, the last tear for the dead, the purity of the white snow which slowly melts into the mountain river, and the purity of the white liquids which are melted in the hour of making love.

Just like old friends leading you to new ones, S.Ra introduced me to Pablo Neruda, who in-turn introduced me to his poetry which more than just magic of words has become a obsession for war and peace for me. He ignites fire, he throws inside some dust, he drenches with water, he puts a knife in bleeding wounds. When he wrote he did not write to impress me or guide me, he did not write to give false hopes to people or to inspire them, he did not write to teach or to preach, he just wrote.He wrote poetry to explain himself to himself. And that brings him closer to me, i read him knowing that his poems were not written for me, when i read him I and Neruda sit opposite to each other and we discuss the poem. It has not been long since i came in terms with Neruda, say it has just been a few months. Slowly i started collecting his poems, spending my midnights to interpret its meanings. After spending time with him, now i can say he taught me nothing except to accept to life as is it, to cry when you cry. to laugh when you laugh, to let life rule over you.I wonder how gifted are the ones who read in Spanish, the language in which Neruda wrote his poems. Neruda was born in Chile, belonged to every corner street of the world. He roamed around the world in Vietnam, in Lanka, in France in Spain in Italy. The Picasso of poetry was conferred with a Nobel for literature in 1971.

Neruda love for words is evident in the way he plays with them, like the piper driving with him the rats, the words run in the back of Neruda, they drown into his pen and come out as the wet ink filling in the paper. A word reaches its pinnacle of glory when it is written by Neruda. be it the beauty of the phrase "The lemons move down from the tree's planetarium","i want to be my love, alone with a tip of your breast of snow" or the pain of love in the words "Don't leave me alone, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart". Neruda had a never ending love for words, which spoke on people, society, life, truth and beauty. But Neruda is celebrated for the poems he wrote on Love. Yes Neruda was a poet of love, most of his poems share with us heavenly peace and the numbing pain of love. For anyone who reads Neruda the beginnings would be his poems on love, his first book twenty love poems and a song of despair is a must read for people who for once knew in their life how is it to love and to be loved. When a man becomes mad about a women, all his insanities are interpreted as poems. Neruda loved women, he praised her, prayed to her and he celebrated and cursed her. Neruda was in love with love. The pure essence of love keeps flowing in all his poems. As S.Ra says young men and women in Chile and across the world still visit his memorial in groups, they stand in crowds on the shore facing his house and recite the poems of love. Neruda was a saint who preached love. In his in numerous sonnets and poems my favourites ones written about love would be Sonnet XVII which in it says "so I love you because I know no other way" and Tonight i can write the saddest lines which in it says "Love is so short, forgetting is so long".

Poetry is nothing but a vision, a state of mind that you share with the poet.My days are getting drifted in the magic of his words, I have almost done with all his poems on love and now slowly moving into his poems on life which range from communism to the struggle for social justice.Lover, political activist, the voice of the common man Neruda has had a number of faces.It is in his poems i find my reasons and my reflections. It is after reading him I found that there is no good or bad poetry any word that emerges from the depth of the soul is poetry. Now i know what to search when i read a poem, what to look at when i glance the life around me.Yes! than beauty, than gloss, than the infinite possibilities of hope, give me truth.

கோபல்ல கிராமம்

பேய்க்காற்று வீசிக்கொண்டிருந்த ஒரு மாலை நேரம். தெற்கிலிருந்து வீசும் காற்று ஒரு ஊமையனின் விசும்பல் போல் என் கிராமத்து வீதிகளை மெல்ல சூழ்கிறது. தென்னை மரத்தின் இலைகள் எதிர்காற்றில் நடந்துவரும் பெண்ணின் கூந்தல் போல் காற்றின் திசையில் நீள்கிறது. கிராமத்தின் தெருக்களில் மண்டிக்கிடக்கும் மஞ்சள் புழுதியின் துகள்களில் கொஞ்சம் என் வீட்டு முற்றத்தில் வந்து நிறைகிறது. மின்சாரமில்லாமல் இருளை எதிர்நோக்கிக் கொண்டிருக்கும் என் வீட்டின், நீண்ட திண்ணையில் அமர்ந்தபடி வானம் பார்த்துக்கொண்டிருக்கிறேன் நான். என் கைகளில் ஒரு சிறிய புத்தகம், அதில் இன்னும் மிச்சமிருக்கிறது சில ஒற்றை பக்கங்கள். ஒரு பயணத்தின் பொது, அரசுப் பேருந்தின் ஜன்னலருகில் அமர்ந்தபடி படிக்கத்துவங்கிய ஒரு புத்தகம், கீ.ரா எழுதிய கோபல்ல கிராமம்.புத்தகத்தில் ஒரு சிறிய கிராமம் அதன் வீதிகளில் உலவும் யதார்த்த மனிதர்கள் அவர்கள் வாழ்வோடு நிகழும் சம்பவங்கள், அச்ச்ம்பவங்களின் மூலம் கூறப்படும் ஓர் மறையும் வாழ்கை முறையின் மேன்மை. கற்பனை கோபல்ல்மும் என் கண்முன் காற்றுடன் குலவும் என் கிராமமும் இணையும் ஒரு புள்ளியில் நின்றுகொண்டு ஏதேதோ சிந்தனை ஓட்டத்தில் திளைக்கிறது என் மனம்.கூரை ஓடுகளின் மத்தியில் ஒளிந்துகொண்டிருக்கும் புழுதி, காற்றின் ஊடுருவலில் வெளிப்பட்டு தோள்களிலும் திறந்து கிடக்கும் புத்தகத்திலும் சரம் சரமாக கரும் பூக்கள் போல நிறைகிறது. மேலே வானில் காற்றடிக்கும் திசையில் சில பழுப்பு நிற மேகங்கள், எந்நேரமும் மழை வரும். மழைக்கும் கிராமத்திற்கும் உள்ள உறவு மிக பழமையானது, மழைக்கு முந்தய காற்று ஓர் தூதுவனை போல் மழை வரும் செய்தி கூறி கிராமத்தை அதன் அயர்ச்சியில் இருந்து எழுப்பும், பின் காற்றோடு சிற்றின்பம் கொள்ளும் கிராமம் எழுப்பும் சில தனித்துவமான ஒலிகளை. வானில் இருந்து இறங்கி வீதியில் உலவும் காற்றின் தொடர்பில் மரங்கள் எழுப்பும் ஒலி, வீட்டின் கூரைகளில் தட தடக்கும் காற்றின் இரைச்சல், இரைச்சலுக்கு பயந்து அலறும் தூரத்து வீட்டு ஆநிரைகள், தாழிகள் அவிழ்ந்து காற்றோடு போராடும் மர ஜன்னல்கள், வீடு திரும்பாத சிறுவனின் நிலை அறியாமல் காற்றை சபிக்கும் எதிர் வீட்டு பாட்டியின் பெருமூச்சு என்று சிறுதும் பெரிதுமாய் கூடும் ஓசைகள். காற்றின் ரீங்காரம் சூழ என் கவனம் மீண்டும் புத்தகத்தில் நிறைகிறது. கோபல்ல கிராமம், பல நாட்களுக்கு பின் நான் படித்த ஓர் தனித்துவமான எழுத்து. எழுத்து எனும் பெருவட்டத்தின் எல்லைகளை மீறத் துடிக்கும் ஓர் எழுத்து. இதனை தூரதேசத்தில் இருந்து இங்கே நம் மண்ணில் வந்தமரும் ஓர் சமூகத்தின் கதை எனலாம், அல்லது கரிசல் மண்ணின் ஒரு காலத்தில் வாழ்ந்த சில மனிதர்களின் வாழ்கை குறிப்பு எனலாம், அல்லது கிராமத்து வாழ்கையின் நுணுக்கமான செயல் முறைகளை விழகும் ஓர் அயுவு கட்டுரை எனலாம், அல்லது நம்மை விட்டு நீங்கி கொண்டிருக்கும் ஓர் கடந்தகாலத்தை போதித்து வெய்த பெட்டகம் எனலாம். ஏனோ இது ஒரு புத்தகமாக படவில்லை எனக்கு, கரிசல் காட்டில் அமர்ந்து மண்ணை கைகளில் அள்ளிக்கொண்டிருக்கும் ஓர் பழைய கிழவன், காற்று வாக்கில் கூறிசெல்லும் கதைகளே இவை என்று படுகிறது. ஓர் மரத்தடியில் சாய்ந்தபடி நமக்கு அவன் தன் சமூகத்தின் வரலாறு கூறுகிறான், நேர்கோட்டில் அல்ல, மையமாக அல்ல, அவன் தன் மனம் போன போக்கில் கதை சொல்கிறான், எங்கோ தொடங்கி எங்கோ முடிக்கிறான், சிறுவனை போல அமர்ந்து அவன் சொல்லும் கதைகளை கற்பனை செய்கிறேன் நான். கீ.ரா எனும் அந்த மனிதன் கூறும் கதை கால மாற்றத்தின் மேல் எழுதப்பட்டுள்ளது, நிலை கொள்ளாத மழை நேர காற்று போல அது தன் திசையில் அலைகிறது, உன் கை பிடித்து உன் வேர்களுக்கு அருகில் உன்னை இட்டு செல்கிறது. கோபல்லத்தில் கதை என்று ஒன்று தனியே இல்லை, சம்பவங்களின் கூட்டு நிகழ்வாய் நீள்கிறது எழுத்து. பகட்டுத்தனம் இல்லமைல் பேச்சுமொழியில் சொல்லப்படும் கதைகள். மேலோட்டமான வாசிப்பிற்கு இது ஓர் அர்த்தமின்மையை கூட கற்பிக்கலாம், கோட்டோவியத்தில் கோடுகளை காணும் கண்களுக்கும் கலையை காணும் கண்களுக்கும் உள்ள மாற்றுமை போல அர்த்தமும் அதன் இன்மையும் நம் ரசனையின் பொருட்டே அமைகின்றது, ஆம் மனதின் ஆழமே படைப்பின் ஆழம். A good literature acts only as a catalyst. Koballa gramam – a very little was said in the book, but it opened up a lot more doors inside me. From the day i started with the book till this second when im writing about it, Iv e been lost in the thoughts. About all that was said and more about all that was not said. The mind and the book are little stones, and in their friction shapes up a flame, the flame lights you through the darkness. நான் கிராமத்தில் வசிக்கும் ஓர் நகரத்தான், கிராமவாழ்வின் முழுமையை அறியாதவன். நகரவாழ்வின் பொய்களை கண்டவன் கிராமவாழ்வின் உண்மையை எட்டவே முடியாத தூரத்தில் நின்று ரசிப்பவன். The peace which i feel now, sitting alone and looking at the village which is getting ready to get drenched itself can never be felt tomorrow or the day after, when i will be sitting in front of lifeless computers in the huge white tombs where i work. கிராமத்தில் வாழ்வு உண்மைக்கு மிக நெருக்கத்தில் இருக்கிறது, கோபல்லமும் அதையே நமக்கு உணர்த்துகிறது. எளிமையான அனால் உண்மையான மக்கள், இயற்கையோடும் மக்களோடும் ஒட்டி வாழும் வாழ்வு, விசித்திரமான அனால் வஞ்சனை இல்லா மனிதர்கள், இவற்றை எல்லாம் மீறும் கீ.ராவின் கையாடல் என்று இந்த கோடை நேர மழை போல மனதிற்கு மிக நெருக்கமான வசிக்கிறது புத்தகம்.

மூடிவைத்த புத்தகங்களுள் அடங்கியிருப்பது அச்சுக் கோர்த்த எழுத்துகள் மட்டும் அல்ல, ஒவ்வொரு புத்தகத்தின் உள்ளும் ஒளிந்து கிடக்கிறது ஓர் வாழ்கை, காலத்தின் ஒரு சிறு துண்டு, சில மனிதர்கள், காடு, மழை, கிராமம், நகரம் என்று ஏதேனும் ஓர் நிலப்பகுதி. ஒரு பூக்கூடையை உலுக்கினால் கொட்டும் பூக்கள் போல இந்த புத்தகத்தை உலுக்கினால் அதனில் இருந்து விழும் ஓர் கிராமம், சில வீடுகள், முதியதும் இளையதுமான சில மனிதர்கள், ஓர் ஏர் கலவை, ஒரு பிடி கரிசல் நிலம் மற்றும் சில கண்ணீர் துளிகள். கோபல்லத்தில் வரும் மனிதர்களுள் அக்கய்யா எனக்கு மிகவும் நெருக்கமாக இருக்கிறார் என்றாலும், ஏனோ கழுவு மரம் ஏற்றி கொல்லப்பட்டும் திருடனின் பிம்பம் கண்ணில் பதிந்தே போயுள்ளது. புத்தக மனிதரோடு வாசகன் கொள்ளும் உருவ மிக நெருக்கமானது, அது மனிதரோடு அவன் கொள்ளும் உறவுகளை போல எதிர்பார்ப்பின் மேல் கட்டமைக்க படுவதில்லை. நிஜ வாழ்வில் அறிந்ததை விட நான் புத்தகம் மூலம் அறிந்த மனிதர்களே அதிகம். சிறு வயதில் கண்களை மூடி தனிமையில் அமரும் நொடியில் கண்ணில் விரியும் காட்ச்யில் பார்த்ததுண்டு ஒற்றை குதிரையில் அமர்ந்தபடி காவிரி கரையை கடந்து செல்லும் கல்கியின் வந்தியதேவனை, ஒரு விபச்சாரியின் வீட்டில் உறவுகொண்டிருகும் எஸ்.ராவின் சம்பத்தை, பொட்டல் நிலத்தை உளுதபடி வெற்று வானம் பார்க்கும் வைரமுத்துவின் பேயத்தேவரை, முகமூடிகள் கலைந்த நோடியில் மூலையில் அமர்ந்து தன் சுயம் தேடும் ஆதவனின் ராமசேஷனை, ஸ்ரீரங்கத்து வீதிகளில் அமர்ந்து நண்பரோடு பேச்சில் மூழ்கிய சுஜாதாவின் ரங்கராஜனை, மதுக்கோப்பையை முடித்துவிட்டு விட்டது வானம் பார்க்கும் ஜெயகாந்தனின் கங்காவை. இன்னும் மொழிகள் தாண்டி, நிறங்களை தாண்டி ஏதேதோ காலங்களில் ஏதேதோ இடங்களில் வசிக்கின்றனர் நான் அறிந்த மனிதர்கள், அவர்கள் அருகாமைக்கு செல்ல தேவைப்படுவது ஒரு விழி மூடல் மட்டும். ஏனோ இவர்கள் புத்தகத்தின் சதுர எல்லைகளை தாண்டி உயிருடன் எங்கோ எல்லைகளற்ற வெளியில் உலவுவதாகவே படுகிறது எனக்கு. இந்த மனிதர்கள் எனக்கு கற்று தந்தது/தருவதே என் வாழ்கை. நான் அறிந்த மனிதர்கள் பட்டியலில் இணைகிறார் கீ.ராவின் கோவிந்தப்ப நாயக்கர், தன் நிலை மறந்த அவரின் கற்பனைகள் என் நிலைக்கு ஒத்ததாகவே உள்ளது.

மேலே உள்ள எதோ ஒரு வரியை எழுதியபோது பெய்யதுவங்கிவிட்டது என் கிராமதிலோர் கோடை மழை.இங்கே நிருத்திக்கொள்லாம். அசைவின்றி இருக்கும் என்னைச்சுற்றிலும் நிகழ்கிறது மழையின் தாண்டவம். கிராமத்து மழை, நகர்த்து மழை போன்று அங்கங்கே பெய்வதில்லை அது மொத்தமாக எங்கேயும் பெய்கிறது. கூரையின் பழமையான இடுக்குகளின் வழி கீழிறங்கும் மழை நீர்.சாரை சாரையாக துளிகள், அவற்றை கைப்பிடித்து கூட்டிச் செல்லும் காற்று. ஈரக்கூந்தல் போல மலையில் படியும் தென்னை மர இலைகள். கண்களை மூடும் பனிமூட்ட இடை...வெளி. மழைத்துளிகள் பட்டு மெல்ல கரு நீலமாகும் வெள்ளை சுண்ணாம்புச் சுவர்கள். மழையினூடே சிலுப்பிக்கொண்டு ஓடும் தெரு நாய்.எங்கும் மெல்ல பரவி வரும் மழை வாசம், பாட்டி தரப்போகும் மழை தேநீர், மழையில் முடிவதற்குள் படித்துமுடிக்க ஒரு புத்தகம், மழையில் நனைந்தபடி சென்று ஓர் வெந்நீர் குளியல். எல்லாம் முடிந்தபின் இரவோடு பகல் கலக்கும் பொழுதில் மழை வடிந்த சாலைகளில் காலார நடக்கவேண்டும், ஈரமான தெருக்களில் ஆங்காங்கே தேங்கிஇருக்கும் குட்டை நீரில் யாரும் பார்க்காத நேரத்தில் கால் நனைக்க வேண்டும், கண்களை மூடி எனக்குள் நானே ஒரு முறை சிரிக்க வேண்டும். பின் வீடு திரும்பி, மூடிக்கிடக்கும் புத்தகத்தை கையிலேந்தி எங்கோ எங்கோ தொலைந்துபோக வேண்டும், and let it rain till then.

Fountainhead

There are hundreds of books filling in my little library, books that I grew up with, books that made me grow up, books which fulfilled my secret desires of adolescence, books those made me think beyond my adolescence, books with beautiful women on the covers, old and brown books with strands missing in the middle, books which remain as just a complex jumble of words, books through which I learnt life, books through which I learnt nothing, books bought for mere pride and books bought with the excess of money, books cutting through the interwoven lines of languages, genres, tastes and changing preferences over the ages. There are hundreds of books filling in my little library, and then there is The Fountainhead. It is not just a book , it is a soul resting in my bookshelf, a book with a mystic eye which keeps looking at me, a book which guides me, a book which threatens me, a book which parodies all my foolishness and my hypocrisies, a book which came to me in the time when I was searching for a foothold, an collective expression of my philosophies, a vision through which I am going to look at the world beyond, an inspiration, a platform on which im going to build my future upon, a hidden vault of energy which is going to help me live my life as it should be Lived. “Ayn rand” a name I never heard months back is now a name which im never gonna forget all my life.

Fountainhead is the story of this orange haired man Howard Roark, the Man,self-made, self-sufficient, self-confident architect who lives by his own rules, who is hated for being himself, who can never be hurt, who can never be influenced, who will remain himself at any cost, who has learnt the virtues of being selfish, the bench-mark of a man, an end of all ends. The story is the story of Roark’s triumph amidst the repression, the story of a man against everyone. And his love for his woman, Dominique Francon, according to me she is the perfect woman whom I have ever seen/read about, a woman matching the integrity of Roark, a woman who lives her life for herself and for no one else, a woman as a woman should be, who loves Roark so much that she sets out to destroy him. The story is about the people who connect with Roark and Dominique who from rigid frameworks of all the different kind of people who make up the rest of the world, i.e the rest of us, Peter Keating a successful architect, an example of the kind of man that the world wants, the man who could never be a real man, everything that is opposite to Roark, fake and fragile, Ellsworth Toohey,an example to the men/worms who dictate our age old rules and morals, a so called intellect, an evil who hides behind collectivist and altruist masks, a poisoned soul, a second hander and finally comes Gail Wynand a newspaper mogul, an example of the rest who are caught between the fight of the man whom you are and whom you want to become, who is aware of what he is but still who prefers to be what he is, a manipulator of the masses, A man who could have been one. Through them and the other people with whom we live in the torch lit streets of New york of the early 1900’s for nearly 700+ pages, Ayn rand in a subtle way and prepares us to question everything, every single rule that prevents humanity, she teaches us to defy and inspires us to live a life, a selfish life, a life in which I don’t I don't think of you but about myself, a life which can only be true if I live for myself.

The fountainhead, a book written as it should be, a book from which you can either find all the meanings or find nothing, a book that helps you understand you first, a inward travel through which we reach the very essence of human beliefs and standing on the peak of all our believes, you question everything, YES everything that has been said and done and when the questions fetch no answers we invent them, the real answers which are hidden deep down inside. Ayn Rand teaches you her philosophy through Roark, the philosophy of Objectivism which states “proper moral purpose of one's life is the pursuit of one's own happiness or rational self-interest by being selfish”. Living in a world that asks/pleads/threatens us to live its rules/beliefs/wishes/morals, the book opens the all the hidden fountains in the brain and there flows a rivers of thoughts, “Why should I fall prey to others peoples dreams?”, “Why should I forego my dreams myself in the name of sacrifice when im gonna regret it all my life?”, ”Why cant everybody agree that every human is selfish by nature?”,”Why should I live by every rule that were set even before my birth? Why shouldn’t I invent them?” more and more thoughts keep flowing that washes away all the beliefs that your inner mind had always awaited to break. A few days back when I was down, when I was sinking and acting crazy I saw The fountainhead staring at me from the shelves, I felt ashamed, the mere sight of the book brought me back with myself. Can a book influence so much that you fear it?, The fountain head does. The time when I spent reading the book, I was at my best, the clarity that it induced in my thoughts when I read it was like an enlightenment, I judged myself better and found where I stood and where I wanted to move from here. whenever I feel losing out with myself, I keep the closed book in front of the eye and I stare at it, some chemistry unveils and peace sets in. That is the magic that this little book has done in my life, I believe the book was written for me to read it someday. A good book has no real ending, the book never ended in me, it began in me, as a never ending search. Im still haunted with the book, ill be for a lifetime till then ill visit Roark in his little office at the Dana, ill stand by his side looking at him draw his sketches, when he is busy drawing the angular lines on paper ill be staring at the majestic shadows of New York, ill wait till the wind gets colder, ill wait till he gives an indifferent glare at me, ill cherish the moment and ill get back to my reality just to make it better and to make it mine.

Thanks Asha, for introducing me to the epic called Ayn Rand.

S.Ramakrishnan

Can a book change lives? Can an author alter all the perceptions that you had on living? Can a few printed words induce changes deep down inside your soul? Can reading someone turnout to be the most cherished moment of your life? Can a book transform you into a different entity altogether? It was some five or six years back, I was then a small time reader, reading mostly cheap English fiction.Back then I read to keep me entertained, I read for the thrills it gave me, I read to satisfy the hormones that disturbed my pineal glands. I would have easily become yet another representative of this modern generation. A generation which takes pride in reading Jefferey Archer and John Grisham. A generation which is more than happy to fill its bookshelves with Robert Ludlum and Sidney Sheldon. A Generation which is unaware of the existence of Jeyakanthan and Asokamithran. A generation which reads only in English. A generation of mere Fakers. But then there came S.Ramakrishnan(S.Ra).

It all started on a sleepless night, jobless, bored; i was looking for something to read. And ended up with an literary essay by S.Ra in Anandha Vikatan titled Thunai Ezhuthu(துணை எழுத்து ). I wasn't too eager to read it. Maybe i found it to be too serious for my tastes or maybe i feared that i can never understand such serious writing. But somehow i started reading it, and suddenly all heavens broke loose. I was losing my conscience and was traveling into a magical world created by his words. It was like reading something that the my inner soul has always tried to convey . It was like all my philosophies were acquiring a printed form. It made me visualize the world just like the way my mystical third eye had perceived it. This is no exaggeration, i went speechless. The same night i went through the archieves finding all the essays from previous issues. I read them all. I read till dawn, and soon i could sense the difference that the words had made in me. A change was underway, a change that would introduce me into serious reading, a change that would make me go in search of my roots in Tamil literature, a change that will alter my preferences forever, a change that will make the name S.Ra sound like a chant.

What is Thunai Ezhuthu about? It is collection of essays in Tamil, in which the author speaks about human lives, that he has witnessed till date as an onlooker. He writes about his experiences with life, as a wanderer, as an observer, as a kid, as someones friend, as a scholar, as a dreamer and as a normal human like the rest of us.He writes about incidents that we all face, but in a way that we have never perceived them. He brings in front the truths and hidden emotions that we would have failed to notice.He applies magical realism to normal life and brings out something very unique and special. He makes words flow like a whisper down the ear, silent and mesmerizing. Intense words written vividly to capture the senses and the soul together. Stories about ordinary lives and their plight for surviving the complexities are narrated like epics. Like a spiritual guru S.Ra teaches philosophies about living. lessons that you could take with you for a long and unending journey of life. I know people who carry around Thunai Ezhuthu just as Bible and Qur'an , it makes wonders in peoples lives. It made one in mine.

My opinions on life started to differ, maybe for the first time i started to have opinions on living. Reading was no more a pass time, it soon became one of the very reasons of my existence. I ventured into unexplored teritories, i lost the fear that i had for literature. I read S.Ra till the last drop. He introduced me to Jayakanthan, Jeyamohan, Sundara.Ramasamy and all other men who served the echelons of Tamil writing. He made me understand Rushdie and McEvan in better sense. When I then saw cinemas from around the globe i was able to relate with the humanity that it portrayed. My search for life grew bigger. I started to look out for life in everything i that I sensed. He made profound impacts on my thoughts, and in whatever i write or do I could find his influence all along. S.Ra words filled me with something that i have been missing all these years. His philosophies became my tenets for living and a more sensible human being was born out of me.Hence there is definitely a book out there which can change your life and alter all your perceptions .It lies somewhere, in the undusted shelves of a bookstore very near to your proximity.All you got to do is find it.... before its too late!


I would be really happy if the book was to be Thunai Ezhuthu. And to know more about Ramakrishnan and his works visit ::http://www.sramakrishnan.com/::

Unputdownable,

Now that is the word, that is the word that describes your feeling when you have read a book that makes you forget time, date, sleep, bath and even a days meal . The book was Life of Pi, the author was Yann Martel and the gifted reader was me. Now it has been a long time since i finished any book. I would get a book, butcher it through the middle, and then life would come calling. The book will go back safe and sleep the shelves. I have a lot of unfinished business with Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie. When I first got this book "life of pi" if was very awry of getting it through, i started it on this journey some weeks back but coming back to Chennai and going through some difficult times it remained shelved. It was yesterday I felt my mood was too somber and i needed to read something to get recharged. I took out from the cluster, and started it again from scratch. For the past two days this guy Yann Martel had cast some mystic spell on me and caught me with his magical wand, i was physically in a dusty room accompanied with an odd number of foul smelling men but in an other sub-conscious level i was living in a boat castaway in the pacific ocean accompanied by a 16 year old Indian boy and a 250 pound royal bengal tiger. Before we get into the book, lemme tell you about my wish. A wish to read all the Booker-prize winning novel within my lifetime and I am not even quarter-way through (6 of 40!!) and i would definitely say that Life of pi is one of the best and importantly the most different of the lot.

The story is simple. To put it in a single line it is the ordeal faced by a teen aged Indian boy who is castaway on a lifeboat with a huge tiger, and to put it in a book it is Life of Pi. Here is the brief. Piscine molitor patel or Pi patel is a young Indian boy from Pondicherry, lives with a happy family and they run a zoo. He is secular, when i mean secular he sporting a cross goes to a temple and prays to Allah, he is always in search of the real essence of god. But In search of better fortune the family plans to shift to Canada with their bunch of wild animals. And then trouble happens, there happens a shipwreck and the sole survivor is the orphaned Pi patel. Not for long, he soon finds a Huge, beastly and carnivorous Bengal tiger accompanying him in the life boat and together they start on the journey for survival. How does he manage to stay alive if not from the dangerous sea but from the man-eater that he has got on board?, How will he escape from the claws of death and those of the wild-tiger, in short how does he survive the extreme travail for 224 days? Read the book. maybe i sounded a bit unliterature-ish in briefing the story, but yann martel has done more than just writing a novel. He has written a survivors saga filled with despair, hope, pain, belief and not just those. That is the difference between a Booker-prize winning author and a typical bestseller. He not only tells the brave story of a young kid but interlaced with it he speaks about religion, culture, animal zoology, human zeal, survival instincts and ocean science. The novel acts in different levels, for a plain read it is just a thriller involving the confront of a kid and a tiger but a deep read might tell you its not just that, it is an intriguing travel into human psyche and its understanding of love, hope, religion, family, and the most of all the belief in god. Magical in every true sense. It is such books that raise the bar of tastes and preferences and I am happy that I got a chance!

I was able to instantly connect with the boy, he resembles any 16 year old Dark-skinned-South-Indian male and it was just six years before i was in those magical numbers. He speaks Tamil at times, speaks about Madurai- my home town,has a lust for the South-Indian shambar, the idli and the masala dosai just as me. He has a beautiful family with a mom, dad, and a energetic elder brother just like mine. So i loved being him throughout. Love you Pi Patel!. Try reading it, I highly recommend it to any literate. I also got to say about the other book which i read some years back, Thaneer desam(Water Kingdom) written by Vairamuthu, oh man.. that still remains one of my personal favorites. It has nearly the same plot, it was the story of four men and a woman stranded on a damaged fishing boat in the middle of Bay-of-Bengal, and their ordeal for survival. Written in a poetic narrative, it was one of the masterpieces of modern tamil writing. Try reading it, i highly recommend it to any Tamil-literate.

And guys there is this huge-buzz around Chetan bhagats new book "3 mistakes of my life". I gotta read it sometime. But i really don’t understand the hype behind. 5. someone was really good even though it lacked depth. One night @ was total crap, i felt really bad wasting time on it. Hope the third is at least a good read, I really don’t expect a masterpiece out of bhagat. Its really sad that a guy like bhagat is our choice for a bestseller, if some outsider reads him he would get very wrong signals about Indian talent and also the literary preferences of Indian people. We have never given the chance for Vikram Seth or Salman Rushdie to be on the bestseller list. But when someone writes a book which is very similar to a bollywood movie loaded with masala, we celebrate him and bestow him with high honors, even worse reading bhagat has become an attitude statement for many, and many have only read bhagat for their entire life. I don’t have any vengeance against him, he writes what he is good at, and it is really not that bad. He is welcome to write, lets still read him, but let’s make our hands wider to embrace more, more of Martel, more of Hosseini, and more of those guys who write real stuff. As now Martel has again brought me back to form i wish i could read more on the coming days, I am desperate to get lost into the web of words. Choices are aplenty.Your suggestions are welcome.

Links:
Life of Pi
Booker-Winning-list

The Rushdie Factor

You may not have read him,but you definitely should have heard about him. The name is Salman Rushdie. If you ask me I would say he was the guy who re-invented Indian writing in English, a man who inspired a generation of readers and writers, he not only changed the way Indians looked at literature but also altered the world's perception on Indian writing. Tats it?nope.. there's a lot more to Rushdie than writing, the fatwa issued by fundamentalists for his alleged demeaning of Islam("The satanic verses controversy")is still in tact, not to forget his occasional personal-stints with women(5ex-es and still counting... the latest to join the bandwagon would be Riya-sen who is just 35 years younger to him...hmm:-( ).He has been in the news for all the good and bad reasons,whatever the controversies may be he has always remained as the face of the emerging Indian voice.

It was some ten months ago that i found the book "Midnights Children" lying un-dusted in the shelves of a neighborhood book store. I felt my desires of reading Rushdie has finally found its destiny, i bought it,dusted it kissed it, signed on it and finally shelved it!!. For those of you who has read some literature would know that in order to read the genre you have to feel at your best, no distractions, no confusions it has to be you, the book and a read that takes you near tranquility. You cannot just like that read Rushdie . I once tried reading with my mind elsewhere, and after reading some 50+ pages i was totally lost!!Not a single word had entered my mind ... mission failed. the book found its way back to the shelves and I was back to routine.

The book was waiting for me to read it and i was waiting for that state of mind- that helps you read literature. It took a while for both the ends to meet.It takes some time for you to get acquainted with his style of writing but when you are into it, it's just pure magic. Midnights children is written as a narrative of Saleem sinhai who was born at the precise moment of India's independence, he takes you through the unending journey of his past, present and the future. It is a journey through the greatest moments of Indian history told alongside the broken physche of a gifted child. A blend of magical realism and dense writing builds an enigmatic web and catches you as its prey. It is after reading Rushdie you understand his influence on indian writing be it the other booker winners from India, Arundathi Roy(god of small things) or Kiran Desai(inheritance of loss) the influence of Rushdie on their style is clearly evident.No doubt it was chosen for the booker prize in 1981 and the booker of bookers in 1994.Considered one of the best literary works of the world till date, is the epitome of Indian talent.

But i do have my share of doubts(you may even call it as my ignorance) about the Indian English literature, the story always plays a second fiddle to the narration. I never read midnights children in a single sitting or a few days it took me months.Not that i lacked the reading poweress, but the plot was not tempting i was in no hurry in knowing what is next?. I took my time ,i lost track of time in his eloquence but cared little about the plot. It was like i was mystically-handcuffed to his writing.And this contradicts my understanding of a novel, if each author is none but a story teller why is the story taking a back seat to the narration?. There will be an instance in the novel where Rushdie would have briefed the entire content of the previous 100 + pages in just two pages, what does this mean? does it mean an over usage of his writing skill or an author forgetting his main role of a story teller and becoming a master of words?? This was the case in The god of small things(which in many ways was close to my heart and my philosophies than MidnightsChildren) and the Inheritance of loss(which i feel is not worth the credit surrounding it)This was not so prevalent in books of native writers(life of pie, Amsterdam)!! Why is it so? are we so obsessed with proving the world that we can master over our masters language? or this form of writing become our only perception of literature? I need someone to shed some light!!!

Besides all my confusions and contradictions i still believe Rushdie is a phenomenon, reading him did constitute some of my best moments and he will always remain a person and author whom i adore and finally, as i had read some where

"Not to have read an author is completely by choice,
But not to have read Rushdie is .... illiterature"!!!!

For more info refer
Salman Rushdie life and times
Midnights children-wikipedia