Of the voices...

How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live

~ Henry David Thoreau

A year since May 2nd 2008, a year since Amazwi.It all started with this. It happened as a matter of minutes, the decision to blog, the name, the theme and things. I had no clue that this little space on the web is going to become my address, an identity which has almost became synonymous with my existence. Amazwi is not exactly me. It is my reflection, a blurred and inverted vision of me on the water. Like many i stand on the edges of the well and I look at my own reflection on the water. I started it as just another blog but soon got it ornamented with my character, Amazwi imbibed my passions, from books, movies, to the essence of my lonely moments, what you have read here is what i think and what i believe,what you read is what i am.No wonder why Amazwi remains a loner in the blogosphere. I wanted to blog, but it was this post which pulled towards the magic of writing, which i believe is the most profoundest of activities. To write is an end by itself. When you get to the mode of writing you don't write for people, for their words, you start writing for the genuine pleasure of it. I dont blog, I write.Nothing can equal the moments when you sit alone and try capture the million abstract thoughts that flow all across your soul into a few selective words. I was good, i was bad, i was happy, i was sad, i was biased, i was absurd, i was funny, i was tiring, i inspired, i depressed, but all along i was myself. Reading back Amazwi you can decode everything that had happened in my life for the past one year, every single mood of mine.I wrote when i stood a few feet above the ground with brightness filling in my space, i wrote when i was crumpled in dark room with no air to breath, i wrote when i walked indifferently with my legs firmly grounded on sand. Writing has become a companion, a window in my room through which i see the world and the world sees me.Amazwi has taken me a step near all things i dreamt of, amazwi introduced me to a new world of people where most had a voice of their own, amazwi earned me a few people whom i treasure for life, amazwi kept a mirror very close to me and let me explore all the pores, Amazwi made me a self obsessive monger, it paved a way for me to travel all my life, it gave me a hope to look forward, it gave me a platform on which i stand and voice myself even if there is no one to hear.Amazwi has been a voice of mine, times like a roar, times like a groan, times like a cheer and times like a cry. All i did was to voice out. After a year now I am grateful to the few readers who made it a habit to visit Amazwi and those who criticize and praise from the heart. It has been quite a journey from Vignesh to "Amazwi" Vignesh. But still there is a distance between my words and my life just as there is a distance between the lyrical getaways of poetry and the binding truths of reality. I will live to cover the distance, and all the noises i make in the way can be heard here at Amazwi -the consortium of my voices.

Finally like a few of you out there, Im too really glad that Amazwi happened.

Flames, Ashes.

It was dark when we stepped out of the house.I was walking with the crowd just behind the white vehicle carrying her corpse, the air was being filled with a wave of whispers and cries. Her youngest son walked with a burning pot, his eyes were wide open, i heard her daughter far from behind, she kept shouting Amma and her mother never responded. The womb they both shared is going to get burned in a few minutes from now. I was searching in all the nook and corners of my mind, to find all the memories associated with her. I was hitting at days that spawned through decades, the heart grew heavy with the load. I walked silently with the crowd. We walked through the mud paths with a few torched lights guiding us, to the funeral ground far away from the village.We crossed the groove which once belonged to her family.She would have been here- in these roads as a kid, a girl, a woman, a mother and now for one last time she walked with her feet above the ground. The corpse leaves behind a wet trail on the streets just like a drop of tear does. Following a corpse was like following a huge drop of tear.She was my Grandmother's sister. I had not cried much for her demise, not when i first saw her lifeless body, not when my aunt hugged me and said "vicky, nammala anathaya vittu poiduchuda patti", not when the north Indian doctor informed me that the "body" is decaying and its not advisable to keep it for long,not when i saw my grandma fall on her dead sisters feet and cry loud making a sound that echoed their sisterhood for nearly 80 years now, but a tear kept growing inside me.

I saw my brother walking with the crowd, he had flown from a distance to get a final glimpse of her. We embraced our hands, they were wet. When we reached the place there were a few lightnings that interluded the night sky. The vehicle then stopped.She was brought down, the body was there, where was she?. They lied her next to the bed of woods.They removed her jewellery, they tied her head with the neck, they covered her face with sandal paste. People placed rice on her and gave their final respects. they took a final glimpse of her face which can only be seen in grey memories after now. Her body was then bundled in a piece of cloth covering her from top to toe, they made a little wound on her face with a knife. They lifted her body and placed it on the woods. Women started hitting in their chests, the men were idle. The final goodbye to the departed. She was covered by conjoining loafs of wood. She was buried in wood. I saw all the women of my family reduced to tears. The men who loved her were broke in their insides.When the cries got harder her son started walking around her carrying a pot which was holed thrice and broken. When he took the torch i realised that she in every literal since will be "no more".A body which lived through the years, a mouth that spoke till the last day, a frame inside which she preserved all her memories and pain will be eaten by flames. The legacy that her life was, comes to a literal end. Her son placed fire and slowly it started eloping the body. The body became just another block of wood. There were flames and there will be ashes.Slowly, people started leaving.I stood there staring at the fire, I searched for her inside the fire. Through a gap between the woods I saw her. I saw a fire slowly removing the red cloth, inside it i saw her legs slowly emerging from the burning cloth. The legs on which fell before i left for my job to Chennai, the same legs which shivered when i touched them, when i fell in her legs she had said "nee enga ponalum nalla irupa sami, unakku entha korayum varathu". The voice kept echoing all around me. tears kept flowing from the eye. She was burning inside my eye. My brother stood near me and he too was wiping his eyes. In the distance i saw her son and daughter hugging each other and both cried aloud. It was their mother, losing the mother is losing like loosing everything that connects you to life.We stayed there for sometime and when we left it started drizzling around.

I walked with my mother through the drizzle. I embraced her around her shoulder and we walked back through the deserted mud roads. Amma then said to me something which i had never forgotten. When i was a kid i had sat in the same grandmothers lap and said "patti nee saavanu ennala nenakave mudiala ana nee settha naan bayangarama aluven, naan aluguratha paathu ellarum aluvanga"(I cant imagine you could die someday, if that happens i will cry aloud from my heart and seeing me cry everybody will cry with me). No one would have noticed the tears which kept dropping from me when i walked through the darkness of the night. Her death was in a way the best thing that had happened to her. She suffered with cancer for nearly a decade, little by little she was destroyed by it. She fought it with all her might, even on the death bed she believed she would get back to normal, but she died. She died a peaceful death.வட்டமான இலை மேல் மெதுவாய் வடிந்து மறையும் நீர்த்துளி போல், பறக்கும் பறவை அறியாமல் பிரிந்து செல்லும் ஒற்றை இறகு போல்,வெம்மையான மதியத்தில் காற்றின் திசையில் தனித்து அலையும் காகிதம் போல், சலனமில்லாத நீரில் விழுந்து மறையும் ஓர் ஒற்றை பனித்துளி போல், அல்லது ஒரு புத்தகத்தை ஆழ்ந்து படிக்கும்போது அச்சாகாத ஓர் பக்கத்தை காணும் மௌனமான திடுக்கிடல் போல், இயல்பாகவே, மிக இயல்பாகவே நிகழ்ந்தது உன் மரணம் .Like a morning dew thinning out on a lotus leaf, like a feather which leaves the bird on the fly , like a paper which floats alone in the summer winds, like a drop of winter snow which drowns in motionless water, or like the shock that occurs when finding a missing page in a long book, you died.

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.

The computer is personal again!

Winter of 1998. I was a school boy then, a little boy with a small face, smaller frame and a wide and innocent smile.That year the rains had come in a bit early, and my house was flooded with relatives. I fell ill just like i did in any rainy season. I still remember the day, it was a sunday and the visitors were packing home. I was ridden on my bed with no excitement to play or to bid them goodbye. It was then when dad came to me and said "It's coming home today". I forgot that i was ill, i forgot i was only wearing my brief, i jumped from bed stood near the gate for hours, waiting for the new visitor to our house. The visitor which had kept me excited for a few months then. I stood in the place for hours, refused food from mom and ignored the tease of my brother, and sometime in the evening there came an auto carrying the visitor. My visitor came in boxes, in huge and heavy cardboard boxes. I wanted to shout. "We have got a new computer". I wanted to shout hard, to make sure that everybody in my neighborhood heard the news mainly i wanted Iyer aunty to hear it cos she already had a PC and whenever i went to her house she stopped me from touching it saying i was small to handle it. Now i wanted to shout at her face "Aunty, now i have my own computerrrr". I walked in the room where they were assembling it, i stood behind the door fearing to go near it. It was white all over, it had a few boxes here and there and a bunch of interlinked wires and cables. After the technicians had left and after the house went to sleep, sometime in the midnight i woke up in the darkness, sat in the huge chair and pressed on some buttons. The computer, my new childhood friend came to life. The screen glowed and Windows welcomed me to a new world of possibilities. At that midnight started a very personal relationship between me and my computers.

1998 was a time when personal computers first started invading into our homes, the time when Intel sold its Pentium II processors and the name Bill gates and windows was slowly becoming household. In the summer of my 7th grade i saw a PC at a relatives home.For someone who only knew pc's had a dark screen with white fonts, and ran MS-Dos, looking at a modern PC was quite a shock. I remember shivering to touch the mouse, i almost fainted looking at the million colours on screen. I almost died when i was said that this thing could play games, songs and even tamil movies. My dad being a man ahead of his times wanted to have one for us. But remember it was nearly a decade back, so we pre ordered and waited for months to get it imported from singapore. We paid 65000 to get our first PC. It was configured with a 32Mb RAM, a 4GB HDD, a pentium II processor and a floppy drive :) (CD drive came later and it cost us a hole) and it ran on Windows 95. For me and my brother the computer became our world. I became a star in the neighbourhood i skipped my street cricket. After school i was immersed in the white box, changing wallpapers, opening ms paint and try painting, changing the screensaver to float with the name Vignesh, writing files to the floppy disk and fighting with arun(bro) over who plays the car race next. The PC literally became our world. At school in a batch of 140 only 2 had PC's the third one was me. We became the elite of the lot cos we knew how to handle the mighty:). When our school got new and modern PC we were in the team who taught our peers to click and drag the mouse pointer. I felt so proud when the girls said "hey how do you do this so easily" .Man i was in ninth heaven.

The games were moved indoor, life revolved around the room. Arun brought in games, of huge and mighty cars and trucks. We secretly raced on them after people went to sleep. We borrowed movies and the PC became our little theater. That summer all my friends denounced the streets and after mom left for work. We had friends flock in and tournaments held in the touch of mouse. The prince of persia, Soccer 96, Brian lara cricket, tomb raider, carmageddon.Arun and I became the heros of the "area". It was tough to imagine the house without the PC. Back then i din know what was meant by an OS, a processor, a kernel, motherboard, handlers, threads processes nothing. All i knew was with the touch of a button a whole new world opens before the eye. I was just a kid who was ignorant of the fact that computers and life were complex by very nature. Years passed and the PC worked, played and it grew with me. Arun left for college and now i became the new master. We had got Internet by then. i went online. created mail-ids, visited porn sites, got hooked to chat. Life became dependent on the machine when i left for college for the first time i knew its not just the company of humans that you miss, at times a box of mere circuits and boards becomes more human than humans themselves.

And then after a hiatus of a few years i got my Lakshmi. Yup my cute little, Lakshmi. Summer of 2006 was when lakshmi entered into my life, this time i hand picked her and decorated with all that i liked. This time there was no arun to quarell and Lakshmi was all mine. I dont exactly remember when i named her lakshmi, but till date i could say lakshmi is one of the best friends i ve ever got. Its always "Lakshmi, boot up", "lakshmii hate you when u get hanged" "hey lakshmi wats the next movie?" "Laskmi im bored what shall we do today?". I speak with my PC and it responds, yup its the one with whom i spend the most of my life with it almost became a companion. It knows me more than any human does, it has inside it all my passions, from the movies i like to the designs i have done, from the mails i ve typed to all the posts that i wrote, from a few memories to savor to a few photographs to cherish . Lakshmi or my own PC has been there with me for years now and if it were a human it could almost recite my everyday life. For me a computer is just like the rest of us, it comes home with the excitement of a new born, it comes to life with the flow of electrons over its nerves, it accompanies you in all the good and the bad times, it shares your memories and it knows what exactly you do when you are alone, it sings for you, it plays for you, it teaches you everything under the sky, its there for when you need it, it grows old with time, it tries hard to cope up with the times and someday it gets obsolete. Then you go for another one.

Oh lakshmi you heard it?, oh its not you. Don cry now, you are still young, hip and very very sexy.I swear ill not ditch you, I swear at no cause, believe me.

I "Pee" L

Scene1: A bachelors room in Velachery Chennai Date: 28.th April 2008. A dozen men sit beside the television. Its Chennai super kings vs. Bangalore royal challengers. We sit with our fingers crossed, We want Chennai to win over Bangalore, not just because of cricket but for a thousand other reasons. Chennai wins by13 runs. We win and the room erupts to joy, not just there we hear the shouts of victory all our the streets, all over the city and all over the state.We head back to dinner and a friend of mine calls me from Banglore. He says "Mams, we were in the stadium today, u guys should have been here, nothing has made me so happy, we won over these ass holes. We sat in a stand which had more banglore fans, n we shouted to our peak voice, when we won i raised my middle finger and showed to all those who were dressed in red, i showed my middle finger to all of Bangalore, i don't even care if we loose the series, we won over these people at their home that's enough, its Chennai, its US".There were hi-fives all over and some beers then everybody went to sleep with the sense of victory from vengence.

Cut to scene 2: A crowded pub in Scotland Date:11.th jan 2009. A friend of mine visits the pub for a drink and the inmates eyes are fixed on the huge televison display boards. its Man U vs. Chelsea. Football fans dressed in red and blue sit in opposite corners of the pub, the silence after the screms look even more disturbing. ManU wins over chelsea by three is to nill. The men and women dresed in red erupt with joy and from somewhere comes a broken bottle flying in the air and piercing the head of a ManU fan. Blood dribs all over the floor and the angry blue mob gets to an ugly fight. the disturbed alchoholics fight like animals and many are left with the hands broken or the heads split open. My friends runs to escape for his life and all over the streets he sees the same sight, young men carryig their respective club flags flock the road they break the windows and urinate infront of their "enemy" fans house. Some face fatal injuries and the scream and slogans are heard all over the streets and the nation. The club culture which has almost divided England into hundreds of tiny nations. England is not the same before and after the invention EPL.

India is just years behind to what we read above.My question is to a nation which loves to divide itself based on religion, castes, sub-castes,inner-sub-castes, culture, language, dialect, locality, skin tone, aryan, dravidian, and a thousand more criterias, do we really need something called the IPL?. We call ourselves a nation built on unity but we cling to our diversities not moving an inch from them. We are happy do divide into sub-groups to the most minute level.Tats not a problem cos that is the way we are, but IPL? First the teams competing in it are not the identity of a city as they promote it, a cricket team owned by a few greedy businessmen can never be the face of a city, but they market it and will make us believe that Chennai is what the Superkings and Mumbai is what the Mumbai Indians are. Secondly as an event its intentions are nothing but to keep the cash machines ringing, not to promote the real spirit of the city or its culture but to earn out of peoples love for their town, so they build something called team loyalty in the minds of people to make them spend. IPL is just another face of consumerism where the consumer spends even without knowing that he intends to. IPL and its concept of city based teams owned by men for their own private cause should not lead to become the face of the city. How can a team containing random people (who don know how to go to tambaram from guindy) become the identity of a city like Chennai which was grown by the blood and sweat of local men and women? I have no problems boasting over the supremacy of Chennai over Bangalore, but do i need a cricket team to prove that?. Looking back at the history of clubs all over the world, the path that lies before us is already defined. Moving forward the clubs will be fiercely marketed, mainly in the minds of the teens as in the long run they are going to spend on the brand name(super kings juniors, king club are just a few tricks) , then as it happens in English and Spanish clubs and all over the world the rift b/w a few teams will be blown out of proportions, the historic misunderstanding b/w cities like Chennai and Bangalore will be made use of and the these matches will be indirectly marketed as a fight between two cultures., the loyalty you show to the team becomes the loyalty you show to your culture and your loyalty translates as money to busty men like Mallya and blondes like Shilpa. After the match we fans will be fighting for the team raising curses,  throwing bottles at each other while Preity, Mallaya and Shilpa will be drinking from the same bottle at the post match parties. Evil isn't it? The truth is more than cricket, more than entertainment, more than city loyalty IPL is pucca business which tries to capitalise on the new wave of spending amongst the urban Indians.IPL is bound to become the face of Indian sporting, no one can stop it, but what do we get in return except to fall prey to an artificially created loyalty. All thse are bound to happen in the near future cos IPL is business and business can go to any level to earn. After decades when we look back we can find that there is one more split added to our already existing bundles of divisions, an artificial split imposed on our people in the name of cities and cricket. They split us to sell their beers, cements, newspapers. They split us to earn money and all these happen invisibly, they say its sport but its business in its most collective and meanest form. Feeding on peoples love for their city. And also when compared to the social structure of England, we as a society are still immature, we are imbalanced and we are filled with regionally biased emotions. When something like IPL comes our way its obvious that an average Indian is going to take it to the heart, and he being a fanatic by birth will get confused with the identity of the team with that of the city.Unlike in the English clubs, clubs here are built based states, which are in turn divided based on Linguistics, so mostly a tamil ends up being a Superkings fan, a Andhrawala as a chargers fan, a kannadiga as a Challengers fan, a bengali as a Riders fan. Where does it take us? NO-WHERE. It only adds oil to the fire. Everybody in India is someway attached to the region they live, i see nothing odd in a Tamilian identifying him self as tamil or a kannadiga as himself. But when that comes to a game which united this nation for years, when the fan finds the game as a way of venting out his regional emotions? what happens then? the split becomes wider. I had no issues when IPL season 1 happened, i was as much into it just like any other cricket fan of this nation. I observed everything from how they branded the teams to how the event was marketed and had comments on everything. I went to chepauk dressed in yellow, dancing and waving inside the crowd, shouting insane over the teams victory. I enjoyed every minute of the entertainment. But now i feel IPL is not just going to be entertainment, its a business and there is no business without blood and greed. Beware of IPL, i really mean it. Lets just love the game, lets not attach our emotions to it. Lets not be fooled by it. Seriously, Or lets just bunk the games and let our granny's watch their soaps.

The Pianist

Once there lived a butterfly, a little one, a beautiful one, its wings were filled with colours and shades that were rare to find as if nature hand picked its hues and contours, It was an innocent little butterfly which swapped its tiny wings to fly around the greenerys of the woods, it stood on top of ancient tress, it flew amidst the morning mist,it kissed the dew filled grass, it drank from the yellow flowers covering the floors of the river bed, it befriended nature and where ever it flew it carried with it a beautiful melody which was heard in the air, its wings wrote a fable on the unending pages of the sky, when it flew on top its little eyes always fell in awe with the beauty of its mother nature,one day a wild strom changed its path,caught in the wind it flew in unknown directions, it travelled across landscapes to reach a war field; the little butterfly had no clue, like a drop of blood woozing from the eye it flew in the forbidden land, it sat on top of glittering swords,it flew amisdt the raging bullets, it saw men fighting with rage and anger, it saw people killing each other, it sat on top of corspes, it sat on top of bleeding wounds, the innocent little butterfly which knew nothing but the beauty of the world was confused, it was distressed,it observed people killing each other, it obeserved the soil turning red, it tried to flee from the place but a sharp knife scissored its wing: the wing which was once filled with a million colours now fell on the ground and was filled with red blood, the wing kissed the ground and slept with the corpes, our little butterfly which was hurt and bleeding, flew away from the warfield fighting the air with a single wing, its little eyes dropped a tear which evoporated before it reached the earth.Now replace the butterfly with a pianist and the warfiled with thestruggling city of Warsaw of the 1940, what u get is a movie in return.The Pianist(2002) a polish/english movie by Roman Polanski is the real life story of an innocent pianist a jew who underwent the worst days of his life living in Warsaw during the German invasion of Poland, a movie which portrays the sufferings that innocent men undergo during a war, a movie which teaches u the ill effects of war like a slap on the face, or in simplewords The pianist is the story of a butterfly caught in the battle.

Władysław Szpilman is a famous Pianist in all of Poland and all of Europe, a man who is made up by music, a polish jew by birth he lives a contented life with his family of 6, untill terror strikes, the German forces invade Poland and the city of warsaw is under siege the family which lived a peaceful life till then is made to undero struggles they could never imagine, along with other jews they are made to vacate their homes and are made slaves in their own land, they are tortured by the nazis and finally are taken to an extermination camp, Szpilman escapes as his entire family enters the horrific mouth of death, then the movie travels with Szpilman in his plight for survival in the holocaust, A man who knew nothing but music is made to undergo pain and torture which almost breaks him into pieces, a pianist by soul Szpilman is made to work as a slave, he is made to walk on corpes, eat rotten food, drink dirty water, he is beaten to death, he hides behind closed doors, suffers from illness with no one by his side to take care, he grows beard and roams around like a lunatic in the demolished streets of warsaw with the memory of his lost family haunting him for an eternity.Finally when the war is over, he survives and all his struggles end up as a brilliant tune which he plays for his land, his people and for his survival.

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Adrien Brody as Władysław Szpilman won an academy award for his performance in The Pianist, I was mesmerized watching him perform as a naive young man, in a particular scene where he is caught in a room with a piano but he cant play it because any sound may bring troops up there, so he plays the piano on the air without touching the keys, the minute emotions he shows as a Pianist who is denied his play shows that he is legend in the making. Described as Polanski's best film till date the movie takes us to the streets of Warsaw, where life is living on the edge.The movie is no-sugar coat when it comes to depicting the pain the torture that the world underwent in the hands of the Nazis is visually translated on the screen.The movie doesn't compel any idea on you it has a very detached view.What we see at the end is a movie which is so honest, bleak, and powerful that it disturbs you more than a live wound.The cinematography is a high point depicting the past in hues of green, brown and grey and the final scenes which dwells on hope takes a slight variation in the colour tone,a master work.The movie considered one of the best films made on Holocaust and struggle of Jews won high credits at the Oscars and at Cannes.

In the defining moment of the film, when a German official asks Szpilman to play a tune in the piano when he is caught inside skeletons of demolished buildings,sitting in front of the piano in a place which is void of life, Szpilman's hands tremble to touch the piano, then he plays a tune, a tune from the inner depths of his heart, a tune which conveys his pain, solace and all his anger, the sound keeps violently filling in the space like a prodigy of the suffering he faced. His hands travel across the black and white blocks of the piano, and that single tune conveys the soul of film, after all what can an innocent and musical pianist do, except to play his tune? I am not a very compassionate person by heart, but moments in the film did make me shed a tear, my mind was thinking about all those butterflies caught in the Battle, in Lanka, in Israel, in Bosnia, in Iraq, in Palestine and in every other place where children, woman, elderly suffer for no reason of theirs, how many more musicians, poets, authors would be suffering right at this moment? please leave them alone their beautiful hearts was not made for war, let them enjoy the beauty, let them walk in breeze, there are still millions of butterflies those who loose their wings in unknown battles, they too were meant to live like the rest of us, please spare them from your ugly wars, after all the beaks of the butterfly was meant to drench in honey not in blood.

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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.

On the edge of night...

Like little drops of ink filling a clear glass of water, the night is filling in the sky. The front yard of the village house is empty and the glitter of the moon is reflected on the land, on the tiled roofs, on the wide green leaves of the banana tree, on the fillings of water, and on the corners of my pale eye. A gentle breeze blows from below the earth, the chill on the feet travels across and ends as a smile on the lips.I stand here in silence,I stand here in the darkness, I see no vision but i could feel the universe. I look up till the head becomes perpendicular to my frame, i look up till all the earthly visions disappear, and then there is only the distant moon and the thousand stars, and then there is only the sky in sight, i feel as if there is nothing in-between us, between me and the sky, between me and the craters of the moon, between me and million stars, I float in the sky, my fingers reach for the sky. They try to play with the clouds, they try to steal the moon, they try to write a lovely name connecting the stars, my legs are not grounded on sand, I don't feel my body, this is something else that i feel, as if becoming a part of the truth, the truth of existence, the truth of the universe, a single truth that connects a star thousand light miles away with a man standing somewhere in the streets of a sleeping village.I keep looking at the sky above my head, if everything above the land is the sky then I stand in sky and I stare at the universe, and in these moments i feel that time is standing still, it is waiting for my word to start ticking again, time is relative; it is the human desire that keeps pushing the hands of time,let time wait for some more time, till then it will be the sky above and a soul below.

I wake up looking forward the night, I believe my day begins to take me to my night.The best moments of my life happened to me in the midnights, I became a bibliophile with the moon leaning across my back reading with me all my favourite books, I became a graphic designer creating images with colours when the world around me went grey, I invented my philosophies of life carelessly lying in the lap of the night, I searched for a million truths in the dark walls of the midnight making my soul as the candle of flame, night gave me lessons, night gave me peace, night gave me emotions, night gave me a shoulder to cry, night gave me a reason to laugh, night gave me solace, night gave me a chance to hear angles speak like women, night is where i belong and the day is where i un-belong.You can boast all through the day, but you have to be humble in the night, because night is a mirror placed in the dark, in the darkness we see ourselves, we laugh for ourselves, we cry for ourselves, night lets you be - yourself.The real emotions come out when we are rest assured that no body is there to watch, night gives a chance to be you and to invent you. Night is where we remove the masks, the masks spotted for the sake of the society, for the sake of people around, below every bed you could find these invisible masks scattered across, night is where all the hypocrisies fade out, night is where the conscience gets awake while the body gets to sleep.The real person can be determined with the last thought that he has before going to sleep.The hidden vault of the mind gets open when we lie idle before sleep and inside it lies our deepest desires, our most beautiful memories and our intolerable sufferings.

They say the brightness of the stars depend on the darkness of the sky.The sky is dark, pitch black with some grey scattered near the clouds surrounding the moon.The clouds keep colliding above my head, like hiding the most beautiful princess they try to hide the moon from sight.The moon, the tajmahal of the night sky.Moon has been with me for years now, I remember the day when i was a little kid.I had to travel between two cities in the midnight and when the journey started i saw the moon above the grilled window of the train, as the train went to sleep i kept staring at the sky and the moon kept following me, I alighted from the train to find that the moon is still following me.I started crying fearing that the moon is here for me, to abduct me to space.The fear of the childhood became the friend of the adulthood.The sun belongs to all of humanity- the sun is a collective entity, but it is the moon that belongs to each human- the moon is an individual entity.You can be intimate only with the moon, the moon is a friend for some, philosopher for some and the hidden source of love for some.The moon is a silent observer, you can laugh at it, you can make love to it, or you can keep staring at it for no reasons.The moon doesn't complain, it stays there where it is and sends out a sense of belonging.For me the moon is the source of selfless love, and then there are the stars, my best friends for life.I count the stars till i run out of numbers, I gaze at them one at a time.These stars above my village sky remain my companions when I'm alone, i share all my pain, i share all my dreams, I share all my secrets with them.They send out a silence which can't me matched my any spoken word.

Im in the middle of the night, I decide to climb over the wall to reach the roof of the house,I climb into the night reaching the tiled roofs of the age old village house.I walk without making a fuss,I reach the middle and I look around.The village is asleep, a few dogs bark at a distance, a few lamps remain lit in the temple below the tree, I remain the only man there, i feel like im the only man alive in the whole wide world.I see the village getting drenched with the silver light of the moon, this is how the world really looks without the borrowed light of the sun, I share the sight of the first man when he was awake on the very first night, this is the real world, the darkness is the glow of the world.The mind dwells in calmness, the mind dwells in peace.I imagine travelling into the sea when the sky is dark, the sea looks like flowing landmass in the night.I imagine travelling in a little boat across the dark sea on a dark night, mind flows with thoughts like the fishes swimming near the waves, I throw a huge net across the sea and i catch the thoughts which swim deep inside and the scattered thoughts- i present them to you as words.Standing on the edge of the night the mind travels inside and the calmness you feel needs a new language to express.This moment, with the stars looking at me and the moon adding to the serenity, this moment, where i stand on the top of the village house starring at the sky,may be a moment of no specific importance, but i feel it is these little moments that make up my living.It is these moments that keep me alive and keep me going.I stand here on the cliff of the night, on top of the dark rocks, below me flows the yellow river of the day, i shall soon jump from this cliff gliding and colliding into the yellow, swimming across the day to reach the bottom of another cliff and to climb the dark rocks towards the edge of another night.I may leave in sometime.
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But the night will still be alive outside my window.