Will My Dream Come True?

The world has in its expanse ocean, mountains and terrains. Men, animals, and reptiles occupy that available space both in water and land. Along with them trees and plants exist extending a habitat to insects and birds. A conglomerate of living organisms defining Existentialism to the word.

Literature is the one which is dear to my heart. The reading expands my thoughts and the writing extends my beliefs. Culture is the twin of Literature. Both grew in the past and grow now hand in hand. Their repository and depository enforce a travel to the realms of imaginative regimes.

Well, I dream of culture. Not only a dream, but an obsession which gnaws me with such a composure that I do not sleep without thinking of the cultural paradigms I experience knowingly or unknowingly.

I own a land of twenty-five acres on the outskirts of my city. It is with me for three decades now. In my prime years,  I manufactured yarn. Had to wind up when the industry was hit hard by the recession.

The land and the building lie vacant. In my travels abroad and during my visit to places in India, I saw many outfits where they promote culture. I really want to do one such project on my property.

The dream haunts me for years. I hatch propositions not once but a hundred times.The pity of it, they never see the light. It is not due to the deficiency in execution, but because of the paucity of funds I confront. I am not able to mobilise. I pause and drag.

In my dream trail, I start a school, being not a regular one, where the children learn by rote and write the examinations. It is a school where the children are let to play, chat, discuss and create. My school will not follow a curriculum, will not have a timetable , and books. Classes will not be segregated All the children irrespective of their ages assemble ,pursue their interest, read the book of their choice, go out , explore and then sit down to pen of what they went through the whole day.

Next , I want to build replicas of the homes of our ancestors.The Tharwad and the Nalukattu of the Kerala Namboodiris, the Mutham, and Thinnai of the Nattukottai Nagarathars of Chettinad, the Goan-style architectural homes and the Agraharams of the Brahmins.

The traditional arts are losing grounds. I like to revive them , bring out their significance  and place them in the entertainment programmes. I propose a schedule-  training on the folk dance of each state,  teaching the martial arts and  the culinary expertise of the communities in my Puradhana- the name of my dream project.

The age old method of pounding rice, sieving them, and the cooking utensils like the brass utensils, big and small, one used in the household and those needed for weddings and festivals should be displayed.  Thrilled would be the present generation.

The practice of extracting the oil by installing chakku or oil machines. A pair of Oxen is tied to the wooden frame and made to go round impelling the machine to rotate. As the rotation gains momentum the coconut filled in the chakku yields and the oil drips. A slow way but certainly a proven method which will ensure a freshness and the longevity of the oil. It is free of chemicals.

The Vedas, a treasure, passed on to us by the ancients are not taught. The Western influence dominates. Sanskrit is a divine language. It is dying. Catch them young strikes me at this juncture.
The younger kids with their memory fresh and enthusiasm overwhelming would in no time master the language under proper guidance.

Cultural Renaissance is my dream. It is not a one night dream but one of a decade.


I am blogging about my dreams and passions for the Club Mahindra#DreamTrails activity at BlogAdda. You can get a Club Mahindra Membership to own your holidays!



Conjugate The Verbs

a burly woman with thick glasses
punctual at 6 a.m.
I,with half-closed eyes
sat in front with my exercise book.

Straight away she opens Wren & Martin,
bids me conjugate the verbs.
I miss not many but wrote ‘putted’
as the past tense of: put.
and ‘cutted’ for: cut. She looked daggers, [a cliché but apt]
explained to me that a set of irregular verbs
do not change, they maintain the base one.

In retrospect.
I see Mrs. David caning me
when I misspelled.
twisting my ears when I faltered in tenses.
It may seem cruel. To me, it was not.
She was tough. Expected perfection.
I learnt the hard way. The pain still lurks
but prevents me from making mistakes.



Twenty Years Ago.

The event
dates back
to the late 90’s
being the day of Pongal,
Shreya reminisces.

She and her kids
were  decorating the house,
her boys helped her in hanging
maavilai thoranai.

A call from her brother,Anil,
shook her complacency.

It would lead to a turbulence later.
Did Shreya Know?

He spoke in haste
asked her to rush
to her mother’s place.

He said “the situation is grim”,
expects  it would turn into a disaster soon.

She reached the place.
Stood dumbfounded.
Saw, panic.

It was  pandemonium.
The inmates were  jostling in a frenzy
trying to escape  from unwanted  associations

Right, there she was in the midst of hell.
Little did she  know that it would be her last  visit.

Whom should she  blame?
Could she point her finger at  her mother?
No, she looked so desperate.Pathetic.

She fixed her eyes on her father,
an accusing stare.
He looked daggers at her.

Shreya turned towards Anil.
He looked demure. Feigned innocence.

His eyes
gave out the deceit.

That day remains
fresh in Shreya’s  mind
even today.


The Rainy Evening: A Tercet.

The day heads off to a close
more or less the work is over
it is time to wind up and close.

For a while Ramu hovers
runs to catch the train
seeing the  sharp showers.

It is a heavy rain.
he is caught in the downpour
misses the train.

The rain lashes in a roar
Ramu is stranded
cannot run as before.

He stands
in the rain for a time
then walks in the marshy land.
The temple bell chimes
he enters the shrine
into the Hundial he inserts a dime.

The deity shines
resplendent in its gold kavasams
Ramu is on cloud nine.




Too Many Cooks Stir.

Six Degrees By Blogadda -A New Technique.
 It is an  innovative attempt: Eight bloggers  put their heads together and write. Three teams have conceptualized the three  stories. It is an amazing effort. Teamwork has its drawbacks as well  found at random in places.
“The Awakening ” is a science fiction. The Earth’s Ozone is endangered by human greed.
 The Gray Aliens wish to destroy the Earth. The Peacekeeping Aliens who are in the crowd, have forgotten their mission. Their memories are revived by inserting a metal, galladium  on their forehead. They chant before the 3 D image of the earth and save the land from destruction. Shekhar Dutta personifies greed.
It is an exaggeration unbelievable.
“The Entangled Lives”  makes big of the Disassociative Identity Disorder.The revelation, the murder and the surrender lead us to a despair. The incidents haunt  us  for a while.Then they fade. It is designed that way. The plot is built around Shekhar’s let go attitude. He deserts Rekha, after having fathered Cyrus.Vengeance is the theme
There is a missing integral of veracity in the characters in general and the plot in particular.
 A resignation dawns that it is but  a story, anyway.
“The Missing journey” misses its way halfway through. The  struggle of Gays both physically and mentally is seen at length.
The medical anomaly of Duodenal Artesia found in children which subsequently leads to Down Syndrome: a reference  brought in seems strained. The characters, DR Ahuja and DR Padnis  take us for a ride.
All the three fail to engage  and capture the attention.
Happy endings are those of Fairy Tales .
These three entries conclude on a cheerful note. I smile.
Not much can I express?
6 Degrees – Game of Blogs Book Review.

Man and Birds–A Study.

It was a morning
I was watching the birds.
Fascinated by two of them
I followed their moves.

One was white
had a red beak.
The other was pitch dark
with a yellow beak.

The two:
kept company all through
flew together always
landed in style.

The one tweeted
the other replied
hoo, hoo.
They made merry
all throughout.

The black and the white
lived in peace.

On to Humanity:

Men shoot each other
Colours play the card
Status marks the distinction.
Religion divides.

Won’t we learn forever?
from the birds
or from the animals
the value of unity

Never will we?
We kill, hurt
torment and destroy.

Hatred and vengeance run deep.
Peace is not in sight.


The Release Of Kabali

A call
woke me up in the morning.

It was  my maid
who complained of chest pain.
She wanted to stay at home
needed permission.
I said “take care”
in all good faith.

I lay disturbed
the day ahead
has turned difficult
not knowing much more
would follow

The phone rang
the gardener called
“amma, I fell down
have hurt my right knee
I cannot move.”

I advised
“rest your leg”
with a concern.

It is going to be hectic
I said to myself
and walked to my kitchen.

While preparing my tea
I heard the phone ring.
The driver’s number flashed,
amma, he addressed me
coughing terribly,
I felt it is better to
grant him leave
for a day.

Oh, hell, a tough going!
I sat down with the newspaper
while sipping my tea
the phone rang again.
A faithful man, my watchman
who seldom
takes leave greeted me
vanakkam, amma
I asked him appa,
what is the matter?

He replied demurely
amma, my son has taken
my bicycle. I cannot walk
all the way. So, please
excuse me.

What has happened?
Why do all of them
want a holiday?.
I sat wondering.

it was the release
of RajniKanth’s Kabali.
They would flock to the theatre
to watch the premier show.

I smile all knowinglyKabali
What a hold the actor has?


Old Natham Road- A Snapshot.

The cows cross  the road
eat from the dustbin
 a healthy diet.
 The bikes speed
with more than two on the pillion
wearing no helmets.
 The buses ply up and down
 tens  hanging  on the steps
unaware of the danger.
 The cars race
to catch an appointment
a great going.
 Hawkers walk,
looking around for buyers
a selling technique.
None follow  rules
nor think of others
 that be the hub
 all through the day
a snapshot of my road
throughout the year.

The Cuckoo Coos.

A cuckoo coos
from dawn to dusk
similar to a truce
hailing her mate.

I open my door in the morning
walk through the garden
hear the cuckoo singing
a song of love.

I stay there for a while
mind, not the chill air
the melody is in style
classical in a stretch.

The Cuckoo pleads
expressing her desire
from the reed
sighing intermittently.

It is heart-rending to hear
the ecstatic rendition
impregnate with emotions
one of a lovelorn anthem.


Life is A Dream

The taunts
do not dissuade Veda.
The hurt deep
leaves not a scar.

Veda extols a confidence
outstretches not too much
accepts the good with grace
and the bad with equanimity
faces humiliations with a fortitude,
comes out of struggles unscathed.

Her inimitable drive
to acquire knowledge
clubbed with
her passion for writing
has earned her a reward.

The way Veda sees life
differs from the rest
she looks at the stars
when others ride through the dust.

An ever hopeful girl, Veda
never loses heart and cheer
laments, not for the lost
cherishes what is at hand.

She accepts life
with a twinkle in her eyes
” a bird in the hand
is worth two in a bush.”

Nice to have her as a friend
great to hold her hands and run
fun to be with her through
thick and thin.

She sings with blithe
Lewis Carroll”s
“Life is but a dream”!
in full-throated ease.