Amoeba Woman

The sun shone down Amoeba Town, Moe Street, Ba Resort.

Moe - not the same Moe as Moe the street, and no descendant of the said Moe either - floated by the water, waiting to take the plunge. She loved the warm soil, but needed to move into the water for her next mission.

She closed her eyes and drifted, and... bang! Her eyes snapped open at the sudden impact and she looked up in shock. "Watch where you are going, lady," said he and floated off, leaving her furious. She was wrong and she couldn't blame him. But his attitude had rubbed her the wrong way and instinct told her he was the upper crust, the ones that invaded the brain.

Suddenly she was surrounded by the amoeba of the third variety, the dumb ones who ate each other and she swiftly moved off to another side.

She enjoyed the time in the sun before she found the next home in some digestive tract. Maybe today was the day, instinct told her, and right enough, felt herself being lifted up and passing the lips into a woman's mouth and down and, "Yippeee!!!" she screamed, elated at sliding down. It never ceased to excite her.

"Shut up!" she heard someone say. It sounded like an echo and she looked around.

"Who are you?"

"Nigel. I am trying to get something done here, and you are disturbing me..."

She frowned. "Do I know you?"

"No. And you are not supposed to be here," he replied angrily.

"Who are you to say that?" she demanded.

There was a pause. "Nigel," he said, as if that was supposed to mean something.

"And...?"

"Ssh..." he shushed her.

She could feel her host's heart beat rise. "Don't shush me!" she snapped.

There was a pause. "Hello!" she called out and suddenly saw a form sliding towards her in high speed. It jettisoned her, pushed her down and she landed on soft tissue, with the form crushing her. Nigel jumped off and glared at her. "When I shush you, you remain shushed, get it?"

"How did you do that?" she asked in wonder, and apprehension.

"I told you, I am Nigel. Haven't you heard of me?" She shook her head. "Well, I can do both brains and stomach if I want to... Helps keep our species alive. And right now, I am on a mission. I don't see why you are here. You are not part of the mission, are you?"

She was trembling as she shook her head. "Well, this host we are living in - she is going to get us to someone who is trying to destroy the planet. That guy is designing a bomb and planting it in Washington DC!"

But Moe wasn't listening. "How can you do both?" she asked.

He frowned. "That's immaterial."

"You are Jel's man..."

"Y-yes. So?"

She turned away. "No wonder."

"No wonder, what?"

"You are just like him! You chew people's brains, and have become just like them - full of yourself, feeling important, indifferent!"

"Hey! What nonsense! You can't speak like that about Jel! How do you even know him?"

Moe flipped over. "I...I...never mind how I know him."

"You are just a stomach bug... How can you know about Jel?" he demanded. When she did not respond, he said, "You are Moe!"

She was shocked. "How do you know?"

"I know. No other stomach bug can know him... You left him!"

She nodded. "He was becoming too human," she whispered.

He was silent for a minute. "And you think I am becoming like him?"

She was silent. Then she glanced at him mischievously and nodded. "All that chewing of human brain - it is bound to rub off."

He chuckled. "It has more spice than other hosts. I love the human brain. And you? How do you deal with being only a stomach bug?"

"Even that is nice and spicy," she laughed.

She felt the blood flow increasing. She nudged Nigel.

"How do we save the planet?" she asked softly.

"If I can get into his system, I can stop his brain from working... I have to leave now." He started climbing up. He paused and looked back. "It was nice knowing you."

"I am not letting you go alone," she said and followed him.

"No! I work best when I am alone."

"I can't let you risk yourself. They send poison down to kill us. I can resist them," she said as she stubbornly climbed up and overtook him. She had been a brain chewer once upon a time, but quit when Jel turned into a slimy jelly. It hurt to remember him, but this mission had given her a purpose, even if it was not hers.

Together, they chewed the villain's brain and gave him dysentery, stopped him from pressing the button to detonate the bomb in Washington and saved the planet.

They returned for recuperation and debriefing. "How did it go?" Nigel asked when he met her on her way out.

She shrugged.

"So...?"

She looked at him, and felt herself splitting in two. Her heart would break if he remained single.

And then it happened. He split and their offspring swam into the pool... Moe and Nigel laughed as they moved towards each other.

(If there can be Ant Man, why not Amoeba Woman?)

Voices from the Past

"Hey! Aren't you Meera?"

How many times since I left Delhi I must have hoped to meet a friend, an acquaintance, a neighbour, a classmate who would say this to me. You can say that was the only one thing I longed for, but over the years, forgot.

Then suddenly, in 2001 or so, I was accosted by this question. The tall man in front of me looked like no one I knew, and yet something deeper connected and I knew he was a dear friend from school whom I last saw when we were 14. It was almost 15 years, and as expected of boys, he had shot up. But there is something about a person that never changes, does it?

Slowly a few more connections got renewed and the social media lived up to its promise.

But just how much, and how empty the pot still was, I realised when I was added to the whatsapp group of my batch. Initially started to connect the different groups from the different streams, it was suddenly merged. It could have stopped there and the group still would have been substantial. But even those who left in between were added, including me.

Yes, the messages flood the phone. Despite all resolutions, you end up getting caught to see who is saying what.

But the best part - they remember. In a group of 60 plus, not some one or two, but many remember and that is when the pot started feeling full. It meant being able to revive memories, of sharing snippets and laughing at nothing. It was like unraveling a thread and watching a knot come loose!

Whatever our age now (you figure it out), I feel like a teenager, nay, a child.

Sharing what a friend from another similar group sent:
Money cannot buy us our childhood. Only friends help to recreate those moments, from time to time, at no cost.

Joy in Small Things

All one needs is a friend, a few stones and a chalk to feel while away time

And if a granddaughter makes a board game, we are not too old to learn a new g

ame

Meant to be Broken…

The recent tweet by Hema Malini has many of her readers shocked. She blamed the father of the child for his daughter’s death in the accident she was involved in. Seriously guys, you are shocked? Isn’t this par course?  The road is the jungle and your survival depends on your deftness and luck for that day. Why blame somebody, anybody, for the accidents that happen?

After all, might is right and it is the survival of the fittest. It is a jungle raj on every road in India, and blame cannot be lightly placed on one party. It could be one who is speeding, or another, who breaks a rule and pays mercilessly for it.

We see it day in and day out, this mindlessness. A few months ago, I was driving down a fairly free road at a comfortable pace. I saw a car hurtling down the road – from a spec in my rearview mirror, it filled it in no time. It was to my left, I was slightly towards the middle of the left. I kept an eye on my mirror as I switched the left indicator on. The car continued to hurtle unaffected by my indication. The turning neared and yet the car showed no signs of slowing. I paused, startled, for now the man had covered the distance without slowing even once. Only near the turning, the car slowed for the briefest of seconds. It hadn’t stopped and if I turned, we would crash without doubt. No such considerations deterred the man behind the wheel.  He crossed me from left. If he had turned left, I would still have been assuaged. But he took a right, right in front of me! If I had been hit and killed, even then it wouldn’t have made news because both of us – that driver and I – are ordinary people leading ordinary lives driving ordinary cars. Considering I escaped unscathed due to some surprising presence of mind, I can only say as the potential victim, I carried out my responsibility of being cautious. Any harm would have been my responsibility, right?

A friend, for instance, saw green (signal, dumbo, not money) and started crossing when a speeding van jumped signals. Her leg was nearly severed (nearly, not actually, severed) and she was in bed for six months. Sheer madness to think green is meant for crossing the junction. It should always be amber in your head, whatever the signal in the signal post.

Take another evening last week;  a sterling example of my negligent behavior.

I parked my two wheeler – a 2001 Scooty Pep, even more ordinary than my car – to the left of the road; looked to the left (traffic was not moving on the other side of the road), then right to look out for traffic – which was nil; and stepped out on the road. Now, you may say, ‘Wonderful, girl, just the way to cross!’ I stepped on the road, thinking only of what I have to purchase when something heavy banged against my leg. Two men on a bike on my side of the road, coming on the wrong side drove straight into me, the bulk of the metal hitting my left leg. They were slow, what a blessing, or else I would be in the hospital too. But I am no lean, negligible person. Even at night, couldn’t he see me on a well-lit street?

Now, tell me, who is at fault? Me, of course! I should have known that people will come from any side – right side, wrong side, upside, downside (we see it in action movies)…. It is my responsibility to keep my person safe! If I don’t, then how can I blame others if I get hurt?

Having said that, the reverse, unfortunately, is also true. If a Mercedes sees green light and takes off and a bike or an auto or a smaller car decides to ignore the red and cuts perpendicularly, can the Mercedes be blamed for the accident? If a biker chooses to suddenly jump lanes and is knocked down by a bigger vehicle coming in the correct lane, won’t the car get blamed for the accident? If a tempo suddenly shoots out of a side lane on to the main road, and an oncoming lorry crushes it, whose fault is it?

When it is a matter of life, it does not matter who takes the blame. Big or small, vehicles carry people. We seem to value life cheap – even our own. The new rule is – drive like a king and destroy anything that comes on the way; or get destroyed.

I have learnt to use the beautiful alapadma mudra even better than in dance. When in doubt while driving, just use this mudra and have the question, ‘What?’ on your face. It will confuse victims, potential or otherwise. And you can leave convinced you are not to blame.

One Earth: Don't Mess Around!

One Earth: Don't Mess Around!: Give crow rice, it will eat neatly, not a scattered grain. Koels are fairly clean eaters too. Not much mess around their dish. Mynah, I...

Clouds of Imagination

One, two, three
Chasing each other in glee
Kick one off the list
Two replace it quick

Not a thought in the head
But subheads demanding to be fed
Stories, novels, features, blogs
Family, dance, leisure, phew, no dogs!

Work drills, heat kills
Body cries, mind dries
Like a zombie, on the mill
Up and down, and yet only downhill

Pull the reins of your life
Leave behind the daily strife
Break free from the life of ruination
Adrift on the clouds of imagination.

Floating and dreaming
Mind empty, life filled with meaning
A nice dream, till it lasted
Now let me get back, before I am blasted!

Clasped Hands

Nithya extended her hand. Sampoorna resisted. "I will manage," she said stubbornly.

Nithya pursed her lips angrily and looked at the road. The traffic showed no signs of abating. "We are not going to cross today," she complained. "I have to get back. My children will return from their classes," she complained.

Reluctantly Sampoorna grabbed Nithya's hand. Nithya was shocked at the touch, at how hard the hand had become.

She kept a foot forward and Sampoorna followed hesitantly. Slowly the two walked across, Nithya matching her steps to her mother's pace. A speeding car slowed but blew the horn near them. A startled Sampoorna clutched her daughter's hand in fear.

Nithya glared at the driver and they managed to cross. She needed to steady herself for a second as memories of her agile mother confidently helping young Nithya cross the road, holding the tiny hands in her own soft hands came flooding. Waiting patiently in the park, allowing the child to play to her fill, taking her to the doctor's, taking her to her friend's homes, giving in to every demand - memories of her mother's youth and strength. Her mother was but a shadow now, still patient, still not demanding, unable to do all that she would like to.

But even if she had demanded, who would have heard the old woman? Nithya hadn't been giving her mother time, thanks to work and family. Today had been an emergency and already the piling list of chores made her tense and upset.

Seeing the contentment on her mother's face, she dropped the list from her mind for a few minutes. They walked slowly, chatting about olden days. Even Nithya felt nice, not worrying about mundane routine for a few minutes. She took her mother to the temple and bowed before the deity with a free heart, feeling a connection she hadn't in a long while.

Maybe she would lag by a few minutes in her schedule, but she felt she needed to make time for her mother. If that was part of her schedule, it would not be a lag, would it?

Ahobila Hari, Keerthanai composed by G.Sampath

Sri Parthasarathy, a Varnam composed by G.Sampath

Sri Ramanujacharyam, composed by G.Sampath(1)

A composition by my father

The Tyranny of Success

A cute sardar boy ran howling to his parents on being rejected in the selection round of a music reality show in TV today. A voice over said, "Rejection is not the end. It is the beginning of a journey to success."

I wanted to slap the scriptwriter. It was just the kind of shallow, oft-repeated thought that sounds deceptively inspirational, but means zilch for the child whose hopes have been raised and dashed. The entire ecosystem - right from parents to the show hosts - is responsible for this. Some children who cannot hold the tune are made to come and contest. They become laughing stock on national TV. Mostly under 12, they may not even realise they are being laughed at!

A week ago, one boy literally begged the judges to give him a chance. The boy was not more than 9 years old. I watched aghast as he started crying. The judges were embarrassed. Finally they called the family. The boy said his father will scold him for losing. The uncle said some crap about if the boy worked hard then he could meet expectations, but to give him a chance. The judge stopped the uncle bluntly and told him not to put so much pressure on the boy at such a young age.

I remember this topic coming up during an interview with Sri Sriram Parasuram, the Hindustani classical singer and husband of playback singer Anuradha Sriram. He was very vehemently opposed to such reality shows for such young children. "The kind of training they have to go through is not fair to them," he said firmly.

When attending a competition at a smaller level, I was amazed at the concert-level quality of some of the young children. Yes, it is amazing. But is it needed? If they do gamakams and palukals when they are 10 and 12, instead of enjoying the pace and the beauty of a song at that age, what will they be left with when they reach 20-25/30-35? Let me put it differently, if they have to worry so much about delving into the depths of ragas at this age, when will they play and enjoy life? Is it necessary to 'create' and nurture prodigies at such a young age?

The premium of success, the definition of success, the stress on success... Or, is it short cut to fame that is being sought, vicariously by parents through their young children? Are success and fame synonymous? Are we chasing success, which comes with hard work and maturity, or fame just to be in the spotlight?

As I watch young children put through the circus, I cannot but wonder what their life would be like once the limelight is snatched from them... What happens to them when they go back to their ordinary lives?

Nature Warriors

We reached Koodalur in the foothills of Kumily Hills near Thekkady for a bullock cart ride around the fields, looking for birds of different feathers. Two youth were waiting with cameras taking photos already. We got on to the cart and one of the boys enthusiastically pointed out the different birds flying around. It was his uncle's cart and he had already done the rounds of the farms earlier. He had seen 105 birds on an earlier trip, he said with pride.

 As always, I started chatting up. The two men were from Mumbai, where they worked with Bhavan's rescuing snakes and spreading awareness about the need to protect snakes. "People used to kill snakes out of fear and I felt it was wrong so I joined Bhavan's which had started rescuing snakes," said Prabhu, a Tamilian who was born and brought up in Mumbai. His friend Hemant, was a Maharashtrian, and both worked in the same place. They had been working non stop for the last two or three years and so they were on a 15 day or one month vacation, going to different places in Tamil Nadu and maybe unintentionally focusing on the fauna around. They told us about the birds they had spotted in Kodai and Meghamalai, apart from Kudalur, of course.

"How did you get into snake rescue?" I asked.

I was stunned to hear that the two boys had done engineering, one of them in IT and the other in Civil. But as they matured into youth (they must have been in their early 20s), they were slowly drawn into rescuing the snakes, and their career path changed. They draw a salary, which they are happy with. They also do other work, but all around rescuing animals or working with children creating awareness about the need to protect the environment.

"How did your parents agree?" I asked.

"They were upset initially, but then they agreed," Prabhu, the outspoken one, said. I admired the parents who endorsed their sons' decision and are supportive. Maybe they had fights about the money spent on engineering education, but they came around and accepted it.

While going around the fields, I saw several kinds of birds and I learnt that mynah, owls and parakeets have their nests in coconut trees. I saw bee-eaters in certain kinds of fields, while some other birds preferred a different kind of greenery. They previous day, during a nature trail through Thekkady forest, the guide - a tribal whom the government had trained to be a naturalist and guide - told us about one kind of parakeets that went only for banana plantation. They had become rare to sight in between because banana cultivation had come down. But now again there was a revival it seems.

I was reminded of a story I had heard when working on a dance-play on bees - that bees in China were vanishing . I wondered if the farmers in the surroundings appreciated the rare birds that they sighted regularly. I wondered, when we cut forests to plant a particular kind of plant/crop, what happened to the birds that depended on those trees. When we replant in a different locations (if at all we do), then do we consider the need for variety? Because we cannot know which plant houses which bird and what will happen to a species if 'useless' trees are cut.

With these thoughts came the constant struggle between man and nature. Ironically, it is only men who can fight other men who destroy nature. And there will always be a conflict.

Meanwhile, we can only hope that more and more Prabhus and Hemants are created so that at some point, we can hope for the natural order to be restored.

On Romance - and Movies

Saw 'OK Kanmani' and, oh god, got thoroughly bored. I am told I am not the right age for watching this movie and that it is meant for a younger audience, and those who are still young at heart.

So I couldn't help wondering why I found it so boring. After watching Piku and enjoying it thoroughly, my thoughts went back to OKK and why I was bored.

OKK was not badly taken, the actors were pleasing, the scenes shot very well. The story too was not bad. But it was BORING! My friend with whom I watched the movie too couldn't sit through it either. And yet, it is not that being married has made us so bitter that we can't enjoy a good romance!

My diagnosis is that there were no ups, no downs. The story set out on one path, stuck to it, but so closely that the scenery did not vary one bit. What little scope there was for drama fizzled off in the 'let's kiss and make up' silver bullet the couple carried with them. On the other hand, I enjoyed the portrayal of the older couple because there was a lot that was unstated, and a lot of what was stated was done with great humour. What little drama was there came from them. It was not melodrama. It was matured, dignified and the tension was created in our minds without having the characters rave and rant or open the dam.

I was reminded of Vinnai Thaandi Varuvaaya - another movie that bored me to death though it was raved of as a reflection of modern times. Another movie where the ups and downs fizzled off into nothingness, more so because it was repetitive. At one point I wanted to slap the hero and tell him to get himself a spine if it was available.

I am worried about modern times if this is what today's youth is all about. If relationships are taken so lightly that confusion and lack of clarity except that you want to be in a relationship is all that determines who you will go with. I hope the modern youth has more maturity than that. If the anti-thesis to the arranged marriage is a trial and error method... Well, I reserve my opinion. It maybe politically incorrect.

Maybe this blog post already is.

On Mothers

We paint all mothers with one brush - loving unconditionally, nurturing, god on earth. But as a mother, I hardly think I fit that description. I am loving, I am nurturing, and maybe I am even god on earth till my children discover otherwise. But we are also individuals and come with our own quirks and personalities. So a fun look at how each mother is different from the other:

1. The Hands-off Mother - she has given birth, and now she expects she has done all that she could.

2. The Food-Supplier Mother - having given birth, she believes feeding is her prime duty. She will cook wonderful dishes, invite the child/children's friends and embarrass other mothers who cannot match her culinary skills. (You guessed it right, I belong to the 'embarrassed category'.)

3. The 'My-Child-Is-God' Mother - whether she is god on earth or not, her child is. To her. The child can do no wrong. The friends better scamper for safety if her child were to come to her crying when playing with them. The fault must all be theirs.

4. The Academic Mother - wants to see the child at the top of class, career, life. May steal the child's childhood in the process. But if the child can have a brilliant career, then they are set for life! Mom knows best.

5. The Intellectual Mother - physical nourishment, academic pursuits... they are important, but not all. Travel, books, freedom... She lets the child loose into the world and believes (s)he will come out stronger and better.

6. The Demon - yes, such ones exist too. Indifferent, feeling trapped, venting their frustrations, killing the spirit of the child. Maybe she is not evil, but doesn't know to find the god in her.

Mother - how many forms you take. And through all this, you try to live up to the image in your own way. In the eyes of the world, you may succeed or fail. But to your child, you will always be God on Earth.

Handle with Care

Shreya walked in to the party and looked around. There were many familiar faces, faces that she had avoided and run away from. But though she had made new friends and moved on in life, the tug of the old was strong.

She smiled at the first familiar face that caught her eye and walked with quiet dignity. His eyes popped out and he rushed towards her with outstretched arms. The hostess, who had met her quite accidentally, managed to tug the right strings and lure her to attend the party, also saw her and hurried to welcome her.

Shreya maintained her poise though her heart was beating very fast and she wanted to quickly hide herself again. It was wonderful to be among friends, but not all of them at the same time. She stood still as she sensed more and more people eagerly converging towards her to greet her. She glowed with warmth and at the same time she felt nervous.

A drink or two loosened her up enough to be able to chat with her friends.

"Well, well..." she heard a voice behind her suddenly and her heart leaped to her mouth. The colour drained from her face and she went rigid. She had thought she was prepared for this moment, but obviously, she had underestimated his power over her.

The person she was talking to looked discomfited and melted in the crowd as she slowly turned to face the new entrant.

She crossed her arms and looked at him defiantly. It was hard to maintain that posture. She was stunned at how her heart still went flip-flop on seeing him. But now, she hoped to use her head more.

"What have we here! Ghost or Madam Rhea in flesh!" he drawled.

Shreya flinched when Ranjan called her Rhea - it invoked an intimacy that she did not care for right now.

"Shreya," she said sharply. "Rhea is reserved for people I am close to," she added uncompromisingly.

His one eyebrow rose up a little. She set her jaw against softening.

"I thought I was one of them." He was laughing at her.

"Was... that's the operative here," she said in a low, vehement voice.

He was silent for a beat. "Can that ever change?" he said.

She swallowed, fearing she would weaken. "Trust me, it can."

She walked away, feeling all the hurt and anger returning. She was not ready yet for this. She quietly slipped into the night, heading towards the car with purposeful strides. She opened the door and heard footsteps. She paused and looked up. A shadowy form went around the car and slipped into the passenger seat. The light came on and she stared at him.

"Get out, Ranjan. Out," she said, without getting in. But he wouldn't.

"We have to talk," he insisted.

"Does your wife know you are here?" she asked, half mocking, half angry.

"If she is watching, she will..." he said carelessly.

She laughed maliciously. "She is learning fast, isn't she? Has detectives watching you?"

"Where she is, she doesn't need them."

Shreya frowned without comprehending. Intrigued, she got into the driving seat and started the car. "So you want to get away...?" she glanced at him.

He chuckled wryly but did not reply. "Where did you vanish to?" he asked instead. It was her turn to be silent. She realised she was heading towards her hideout, and did not want him to see the place. She veered the other way and drove aimlessly. "I am waiting," he said.

"You can," she said indifferently. "Doesn't mean a thing to me," she said trying to sound cool.

She heard him inhale deeply. "Yes, I know that too well. And still I come back, like a fool!" he said with unexpected bitterness.

"You didn't, I did," she pointed out.

"You left, I didn't," he retorted.

"You wanted me to leave," she said relentlessly.

He laughed louder. "I wanted you to leave, indeed... As if I could make you want to do anything."

"You were at it, all the time. Almost waiting for that moment when I would give up, would leave."

"That's just not true!" he exclaimed angrily. There was silence, heavy and pregnant. She stubbornly shut her mouth tightly, not wanting to be drawn into an argument about the past she was trying hard to forget.

"You know you are all that I cared for!" he said finally, in a voice that made her want to stop the car and hug him.

She drove with better self-control, moved to the kerbside and parked. She turned to him slowly. "What a fine way to show your care. First you came close, then you kept pushing me away, sure that I will leave, that I will cheat, that I will stop loving you. I tried not to give in, I tried to remain strong for the two of us. I knew you had your demons, your mother leaving you when you were young made you wary. When you didn't succeed, you started seeing that woman, made sure I knew about it... Pretended to be careful, but you were not, were you? You made sure I left. And now that you aren't happy with her, you are doing the same thing. You know she is watching you, and you make sure she sees you with me..."

"She is dead," he said.

She didn't understand him. "Sorry?"

"She is dead."

"Died of weariness?" she asked angrily. She didn't know what she was angry about, but she was angry, very angry. As if her death had deprived her of an opponent.

"She couldn't give me what I wanted, but she gave me something else... Assurance, which you never could."

"Because she refused to go?"

"Because she left before her time," he said. "Death took her away before anyone else could. And I realised what a fool I was. You were alive. I was alive. If only we had a chance. Before death takes us away."

She turned front, her eyes on the road. She thought of the past year, of the struggle she had gone through. She had longed and longed for this moment. And now it was here, he was here, telling her he wanted her back, telling her what she wanted to hear.

"Glass," she whispered. "Thick glass. You keep banging it on the floor, knowing it can break, waiting for it to break, wanting it to break. When it breaks, you want it back whole. Is it possible, Ranjan?" she asked softly. She turned to look at him, her eyes filled with tears, her voice regretful, but her heart made up. She shook her head slowly.

He remained silent, his breathing hard, his eyes fixed ahead, his lips stubbornly silent. He looked tired, defeated.

She started the car, wanting to leave him behind before she gave in. "Where shall I drop you?" she asked, resisting the urge to go back.


Also published at: http://heroinchic.weebly.com/blog/handle-with-care-by-meera-srikant

One Earth: No Tree Frogs, Please!

One Earth: No Tree Frogs, Please!: Nature, lovely nature. When I saw the three basic but intelligently made bamboo huts in Karadimalai Camp in Chengelpet, I was excited. We...

Mother Racketwali

She sat quietly, immobile, waiting for the attack. She offered her body for the sacrifice. But she was not going down without a fight. She was armed.

Right enough, the promise of food, the scent of blood, the sitting duck lured them from their corners. In ones, twos, almost invisible in the shadows, they emerged and reconnoitered.

She waited. She felt their pincer grip but sat still. She wanted the army out, not these minions. She towered over them, and so the damage was not significant. But it was not their bite which was dangerous. It was what they injected into her system. Even one minion could poison her system, but she was willing to take the risk.

Nothing happened for a long time. Only the minions got drunk on her blood. She was getting angry now. It was not an easy call, this decision to kill. Largely peaceful as a person, she felt that she was justified in killing because she was being attacked. It was pure self-defense.

She saw the fat ones moving up closer. She swished her weapon - the electric racket - and heard the satisfying burst of the body against the electric wires. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt another one bite. Swish, swish, swish she went. Crackle, crackle, crackle she heard the response. She smelt burning bodies.

She had promised herself, she would kill only those who came to her. And that the stream had to end. But like Raktabeeja, each death caused at least two more to emerge and strengthen the attack. The frenzy to kill consumed her. She bent low and looked far. She caught the tiny bodies in mid air and swung her arm with relish.

But it was unending. 11. 11.30. 12.00. She must go to bed now. She will resume the battle the next day.

The survivors hovered, having won another day.

One Earth: What's Your Excuse?

One Earth: What's Your Excuse?: On a busy thoroughfare near Mount Road, Chennai, on a narrow stretch between the footpath and the flyover, stands this dustbin occupying ...

The Modern Goat

It was a narrow road. Shops on one side, houses on the other, and just enough space for two cars to cross each other from opposite sides.

An auto was parked next to the shop, by the side.

There came a car, a sedan, driven by a chauffer, with a lady inside.

He parked outside the shop, next to the auto, on the road. He went in, leaving the car with the lady inside.

He bought a few things, but forgot a few others. He came out and asked the lady what else she needed. She told him her grocery list. He went back in to do her bidding. So what if the road was narrow and one side of the road completely blocked?

"There is an auto parked by the shop, that's why my driver had to park on the road," she reasoned.

"Oho, poor thing! Do you realise you can park ahead, on a side?" asked one bystander.

"Mind your business," said the lady.

The driver, coming out, his hands full of things, glared. "There is enough road on the side for your bike to pass," he pointed out.

And the charioteer drove his queen away, unmindful of the disturbance he caused. This reminded me of the Panchatantra tale of two goats crossing a bridge and dying because they wouldn't give the other way.

With No Cares

The Fort by the sea in Tranquebar (Tharangampadi) has a museum on the first floor. After a quick glance through the exhibits, I stepped out and sat on a bench facing the Bay.

The tsunami of 2004 had claimed a part of the beach. I could see the ramparts of the fort peeping over the water every time a wave receded.

There was a wall closer to the fort building and the waves hit the wall, jumped up vertically, spraying water droplets on the beach.

My eyes fell on two very young children standing safely on the beach side behind the wall, in just their underwear, urging the waves to rise higher and higher. The waves too gamely obliged. Sometimes, the waves felt tired and were more muted, just jumping enough to peep at the children. The boy, who stood in the front, would then wave his hands as if swinging a sword, and challenging the waves to get at him. Fresh and rejuvenated waves would respond with mirth and joy, making the children scream excitedly.

I watched them for a long time wistfully. This is childhood. No cares, no responsibilities, just their imagination and a friendly 'nature'.

Life - An Illusion

My heart, my belief system is rooted deeply in the firm conviction that the divine and I are separate. He, (She, if you insist - it is just a word at that level) is all pervading, and so in me, in you, everywhere. A part of it rests within me, but the larger part rests outside, like in a bank account - to be accessed when the Self is incapable of dealing meeting a situation.

The separateness is reassuring, as if there is someone watching over, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to pour the troubles into, an arm that envelopes protectively, a dark, reassuring night that soothes and cools, a bright light that guides... As if it is all not my responsibility.

So probably, 'Yoga Vasishta' was not the book for me.

Or, just the book for me. A treatise on Advaita philosophy, it is Sage Vasishta's discourse on the non-duality of the Paramatma and Jeevatma, of how it is the Brahman, the Supreme Consciousness that is manifest in every living and non-living thing not just in the universe but the various universes that exist in multifarious forms in parallel. The discourse is given to Rama when Sage Vishwamitra calls on King Dasaratha asking for Rama's help in killing Tataka.

Rama has been distressed and restless and feels a strange detachment that he is not able to explain. The discourse aims to enlighten Rama on the nature of non-duality of the world and the need to perform our duties with detachment and realisation of the true nature of the self.

Whether you are an atheist, agnost, or theist matters not; whether you go to temples or to war matters not; whether you act or not matters not. The gods are not gods, but like us, creation of that Supreme Imagination. Life, and even non-life, is but a dream. What matters is to know this Truth and to contemplate on it, be aware of it, and repose in that Supreme Consciousness.

While I read novels at least one a week, this book needed time - I took two years to complete it. It is the same idea repeated with many stories, instances and examples. Creation and dissolution of the cosmos are also mere beginning and end of a dream. There is no you, no me, nothing. We dream and think that is true and the waking world becomes a lie. When we wake up, the dream world dissolves and becomes a lie. So it is with the world.

Am I nothing? Just a puff who will vanish, has vanished and materialised again? Are you whom I love, hate, like, dislike, am indifferent to, don't even know you exist - really? Just the effect of a dream?

The mind is still struggling to understand how all that I see and experience are but a dream of some supreme being that is and is not; that life is an illusion, a mirage that vanishes the moment the dream ends. It all seemed so clear when I was reading it, but so hard to comprehend when I close it!

I love that God who stands by me. But if that God and I are a but dream...?

Yet another illusion or self-realisation?

Am I awake or asleep?

Us Vs. Them

I was probably 11 or 12. My friend and I were in a park in our neighbourhood in Delhi. I can't remember how suddenly we started talking about it, but I felt the south Indians were to be pitied more for the troubles they were facing in Sri Lanka, while she felt that it is the north Indians suffering at the hands of the Sikh terrorists that needed all the sympathy.

I am sure we did not understand the issues involved or the politics. But, we felt the need to support the underdog, to show solidarity with the sufferers, but most importantly, identify ourselves with the victims.

Today, I am sometimes worried, sometimes shocked when I see that even as adults, we seem to feel the need to take sides, constantly. That we maybe unfair to the other side be damned. That our own stance may shift with the winds is conveniently forgotten. That there are no absolute truths be overridden with one sweeping statement.

If perpetrators of so-called social crimes are evil, can taking the opposing stance be good? Isn't it only reversal of roles? Do two negatives become a positive, or are we simply tilting the balance?

If that is the way of the world, why should the past be judged? And if it is not right, why perpetuate it in a different form today?

Ironically, it also seems to be a time where everything Indian is either rubbished or elevated on a pedestal. "Oh I wish we were more like them," seems to be the tune of some, while the others seem to think "All that they know is because of us."

Education, access to technology, exposure to global thought do nothing to expand our views, open our minds. We will remain small and mean so long as it serves our purpose. So long as we can somehow show our superiority - either in aligning ourselves with the victims, or by negating our roots.

Forever, we will be forming teams to fight battles - either directly by throwing bombs or indirectly through the power of the pen.

Honouring His Word - 'Paarthiban Kanavu'

If you help others achieve their goals, even if they clash with yours, do you win or lose?

Paarthiban Kanavi by Kalki is a fast-paced read. I suspect not many of my friends have read it or plan to read it, so I am taking the liberty to liberally sprinkle spoilers.

Paarthiba Chola is a vassal of Narasimha Pallava, with a dream of breaking free and reestablishing the Chola's lost glory. But alas, the 'titular lead' of the story dies in the beginning of the tale, fighting a battle with the mighty Pallavas. Narasimha Pallava, a wise and powerful king, seeks out the body of his dead rival incognito - maybe to make sure he is indeed dead, or to honour the brave king for having fought courageously. He finds the king breathing his last and promises that he will indeed help Paarthiban's son fulfill his dream.

And then though the story was very engrossing, a part of me sceptical. Why would a king go out of his way to help his vassal realise his dream through his son?

The ending took my breath away.

Narasimha Pallava declares Vikrama Chola, son of Paarthiba, free and also gets him married to his daughter Kundavi. But the author does not end the story there. Maybe he was also labouring with the question that kept intruding into my reading. Why indeed would Pallava pave the way for Cholas to become independent?

Because, even after doing that, Narasimha Pallava's reign continued to remain glorious. In fact, it would be another three hundred years before the Cholas would regain their glory and Pallava name would vanish into the annals of history. But during his reign, Narasimha's honourable act brought him greater name, fame and, most importantly, respect. He was not insecure because he trusted himself. Whether Vikrama was deserving or not - which he was - Narasimha had the vision, the generosity and the confidence needed in a king to know that he could hold on his own purely on his capabilities. Accepting an able man as his son-in-law and a near-equal gave him opportunities to expand his vision further, probably.

How relevant it is even today! If we lift someone up, do we risk going down or do we climb higher? That depends only on us, right?